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Mark picked me up and we meet Phil Hoskins at the moko pod at 9 AM, Beautiful day, great view over the land to the Waiwhakaiho River.

Mark and Phil set up the pod for tattoo, and the shoot.

When Rangi arrived, he talked to Phil about what came next, gave him some tips, like a true teacher, and left Phil to it.

Phil had me stand on the tattoo table, and from Rangi’s sketch of the night before, he drew the right thigh tattoo in detail. First dividing the leg into vertical segments to keep track of his lines. He drew carefully in two different colors for half an hour.

When I got off the table so he could check it out, I was amazed: so precise, so much like a finished tattoo. Phil got Rangi to check it out, who was as impressed as I was. Rangi left to work next door, while Phil got ready to ink.

Before I lay on the table, Phil set an intention and a desire: that he would make a beautiful moko for me, and that it would the exact moko I needed for my journey.

Tears welled in my eyes.

I lay on my back on the table, Phil to my right, with my right leg bent and turned out, so Phil could start on the inner thigh, right by my junk. As yesterday, I was in back trunks, whose legs were hiked to give him access to the upper leg.

With his hand on my leg, Phil chanted a karakia in Maori, something often said at the beginning of ceremonies, a karakia to petition the spiritual realm for support and guidance, and to lift fear and anxiety, to bring strength and clarity.

Then he turned to me, asked, “Are you ready.”

“Yes, I am.” I’d prepared for this moment for a decade.

He dipped his compact inking gun in the small black ink well. The gun made a quiet hum. I felt pressure, a bit of wetness, a bright central pain—something between a slight electric shock and the feeling of a blade nicking the skin. Although it was sharp, it was also somehow muted enough that I thought to myself, “Oh, that’s not so bad.”

To the room, I said, “That’s manageable.” They all knew I’d never been tattooed before.

The pain moved as the gun traced line after line, interrupted only when Phil re-dipped the pen in the ink. Phil was focused and precise.

I breathed deeply, sank and relaxed on each exhale, stayed in a Zen-like space. Paid attention to Phil’s interaction with my body.

Getting a puhoro tattoo is incredibly intimate, but not just because of its location on the body. Phil’s hands rested on my leg—one with the gun, the other stretching the skin, holding the towel to wipe—but his forearm was also on my body, steadying the pen. A lot of physical contact. Without Aric Spencer’s prior work on my body, this might have been difficult, but now it just felt comforting, soothing.

Phil worked for about two hours, while I breathed, looked out over the pastoral view, paid attention to the work. While Mark moved around, shot from every angle.

Rangi came in at one point, put his hand on my shoulder, looked down at me with a re-assuring expression. He leaned over my body to take a close look at the thigh tattoo in progress.

“Good line,” he said to Phil.

He sat down by the door, and we talked about Maoris, their connection to the land. Talked about what happened north of Aukland, where Maoris were able to retain enough of their whenua (feh-nua), or land, to maintain an intact culture, a sharp contrast to the total confiscation of the lands around Taranaki, which completely disrupted his iwi.

We talked about anger and what to do with it. How anger could drive a purpose, but how anger could get so out of hand that it destroys your life.

Other men from his hapu, who are working to restore the land by the river, dropped by to watch for a while, visited with Rangi.

After that, Rangi took off for the day, knowing, as I did, that Phil completely had this. Rangi will be there again tomorrow at nine to sketch the design on the back of my thighs, below my butt, connecting through the inner thighs to inking on the front we are doing today.

Phil kept inking, and Mark kept filming, and I kept breathing. Phil moved from my inner thigh to the top of my thigh, then around to its outside, where the pain increased significantly, particularly towards the top, where there is little flesh. I got up to pee once, walking in my underwear around the building to the porta-pottie.

At noon, Phil finished the last line. And I breathed a sigh of relief.

I stood so he could check his work. He cleaned my legs with alcohol, rubbed balm on the moko, had me lie on my stomach on paper towels for ten minutes, to compress the moko. The paper towels peeled off easily, soaked with plasma. After that, he wrapped my right thigh with clear plastic wrap, tight.

Phil took some photos of me outside.

Mark took off for lunch and would return towards the end of our afternoon, since the same process would unfold for the front of the left thigh.

Phil and I had quick snack lunches on the front porch of the moko pod. I found out his kids are 7 and 11 (he must be closer to 35). He is a part-time teacher of Maori culture in the public schools. His wife is also a teacher. He plays base in several bands, his hobby really, but another source of income. And he does his moko work.

During the afternoon moko session on my left thigh, which unfolded pretty much like the morning, I found out he and his wife have a gay roommates, a couple from Canada and Malaysia. Andbthat when one of his brothers came out to him, Phil said to the brother, “Well, that’s all right, but you’re still an asshole,” non-plussed and teasing.

The afternoon moko was significantly more painful than it had been in the morning. Remarkably so. I struggled to breathe and relax, but tension crept into my body, as though an electric change had been accumulating. And, towards the end, as Phil worked on the outer thigh, it was almost unbearable.

I asked when the endorphins would kick in, and Phil said, “Maybe they ran out.” Mark shot close-ups of the grimacing face. When Phil stopped, I shouted “Fuck!”

I was ecstatic to be off the table. When that second thigh was wrapped in clear plastic, it felt like a sunburn.

Phil sent me home to rest, said I should take a warm shower in an hour.

Which will be my very next move.

I’m tired and drained, although not utterly spent.

I’ll save that for tomorrow, when the back of my legs will be more painful, Phil said. One in the morning, one in the afternoon. Fortunately with much less area to be tattooed, since the hamstrings stop below the butt, while the front of my thighs went above my junk.

Thank the Universe for small mercies.