Tragus – Conch Piercing in Mallorca.
At A Glance Author Jaz_knos Contact Jaz_knos@bme.anon When N/A Artist Unknown Studio Colors Location Palma, Mallorca The trip had been in the planning for over 6 months, two and a half weeks of climbing in Mallorca; the last week of June and the first week and a half of July. Timed so we had finished our exams, and missed the main tourist inrush that would mark the school holidays back in the UK. I was looking forward to the trip over, as I'd never been on a plane before. I was looking forward to the experience, as I'd only been out of the UK once before, and being 21 I was sure I was missing out! Most of all, I was looking forward to the main reason we were going. 17 days of living in a hammock, with really bad food, not really enough water, and some of the best climbing to be had!
Arriving in Palma was fun, getting to the hostel where we were to stay the first night was less so, buses being about my least favoured form of transport at the best of times, not least when you don't understand a single word being said by any of the other occupants. After getting settled into the hostel we decided to have a trek across the city and have a look at the local climbing shop. Passing through a maze of small streets in a pedestrian only zone that marked the centre of the old town. Passing shops that looked like they hadn't changed since the Victorian times, nestled up against shops of shining metal and plastic, not that it gave any indication of what they were supplying.
My first encounter was to the right, a small shop on the corner packed from floor to ceiling with display cases of piercing jewellery, everything from sparkle to black was covered, along with most everything in-between. Being moved along by my fellow climbers, the thoughts of the Tragus – Conch piercings that I had been thinking about over the preceding weeks came back to the fore, along with a very loud and stern thought of "You CANNOT get pierced before spending 2 weeks in the middle of nowhere, that is not after-care!". Realising that, as usual, common sense really should prevail, I moved onwards, only to find another piercing and tattoo shop on the left only a hundred meters or so along from the one I'd just left. Large posters showed pictures of piercings and tattoos they had done (or had they?) along with various famous persons with their own weakened PC versions. As we moved through the streets, I noticed several more piercing and tattoo places. The thoughts of getting my new piercing done while I was there kept circling around in my head, but reason won out. Deciding that it would just be inviting infection I passed them all by on the way back without too much disappointment.
While travelling between the various climbing locations, by coach, at least not as unpleasant as the damn buses but far too warm anyhow, I noticed many more piercing, and more often, tattoo shops. The business they did with the tourists must be phenomenal, but with the number of drunken parties of young people, not surprising. On returning to Palma, the thoughts returned to the fore; "I'm out here, I want to get it done anyway, why not?!". The plan I settled with was simple; get to the hostel, get a shower (as the facilities half way up a mountain are not the best available) then get back into the centre and see what's available!
The route to the centre was easy; follow the road at the back of the hostel, across the green expanse of park and fountains, then down the small back streets and up the steps with the water running down either side. This was when someone else was giving the directions..... and had a map! Getting to the park was easy, and various landmarks meant I got to the maze of small streets without getting too lost, that was where luck ran out. The network of small streets took me in generally the right direction. Forward and right were the main thoughts, and then the steps should be in front of me. No such luck! After another half hour of walking, getting lost, walking back, seeing a set of stairs and bounding enthusiastically up them on the figuring that up was always a good plan and finally deciding better of my original thought I found a large, and very neat looking tattoo shop on the corner of two larger streets.
I went inside and was instantly glad of the air conditioning, the heat of Mallorca being one of my least enjoyable points of the entire trip. The staff had a laid back attitude, and a fair few body mods, content to let me browse at my own pace without trying to pounce on me. After looking around I talked to the woman at the desk, whereupon I had an abrupt realisation; I didn't speak Spanish beyond ordering burgers and beer, and her grasp on English, whilst putting my pathetic attempts to shame, was nowhere near enough to converse in. I managed to communicate to the woman what my interests were, and she seemed to understand, asking a price for what I wanted done I was given the scarily small amount of €30, with exchange rate and the like taken into account around £20, not even enough to get a lobe done back in the UK. Having wondered through all the cabinets of barbell related items once already, I said I'd think about it and come back shortly. I wondered out of the shop, back into the oppressive heat of the outside world, fishing a lolly pop out of my pocket as I went, a short term addiction I'd picked up the week before. I'd had trouble with my body reacting badly to being pierced before, and I wasn't in the mood to be passing out in a piercers chair where none else spoke the same language as me.
I returned about 10 minutes later, full of apple flavoured lolly pop and definite interest in getting pierced. I ran it past the woman at the desk again, before being referred upstairs to a late 20's guy in flip-flops, shorts and a slightly lurid looking shirt. Hearing a run of Spanish go between them, along with some gesturing, he seemed to know what I was after, not that there was all that much I could do to confirm it. He checked over my ear to make sure there was nothing that would pose problems with the piercing, then passed me back to the woman downstairs to get paid, instructing me to come back up when that had gone through. Upon my return I was presented with an ice cube in some kitchen roll, and told to sit with it on my tragus for the next 10 minutes. While sitting there I got increasingly nervous about the entire event. While €30 was a ridiculously good price to get this done for (in the UK it would have cost a minimum of £60, probably more) the lack of any English going past made me feel quite alone, much more than I would have done anywhere else.
After my ice cube had melted into a small blob covered in some very wet kitchen roll, I was ushered into a piercing room. More Spanish flowed between the guy and an older lady in gloves and apron. Getting more worried that my piercing was changing places the more people got told about it, I sat down on the bench. The lady proffered me a pen, something that gave me an amazing sense of relief, and held a mirror up so I could mark the entry points for the bar. Happy I'd got it lined up level with the rest of my ear, I passed the pen back and smiled happily, glad that things were going well once again. I was instructed to lie down to make it easier for the both of us, and watched as she got a fresh needle out of the container, unwrapping it deftly as she went.
Without much warning the needle was lined up on the entry point of the tragus and pushed through. It was quite a shock, I'd been pierced without numbing before, and I found it to be less painful that it was with numbing. Either way, the needle going through my cold ear was disturbingly painful, and I was not much looking forward to the second hole as she lined up on the second entry point.
The pain from the second one was very similar to the first, although not as bad as it could have been, even without an ice cube! The bar was threaded onto the needle sheath and drawn through my ear, the ball being tightened up quite firmly. I was left to lie in peace for a minute, then moved through to the waiting room again, on the way my other bit of badly acquired Spanish made it's self useful "Gracias". She smiled and returned the sentiment.
Back in the waiting room, I got through several cups of water, much to the guy's surprise. Then went back downstairs and found some small blackline cones, picking up a spare one because the price was rather good. I thanked the lady at the desk, and the guy who'd helped me, and made my way back out into the heat, knowing roughly the direction for home, or at least hostel.
A month on and the piercing is healing very well. Crusting up a little, but no more than is expected from an open bar piercing. Swimming in the mornings seems to be rather good for it, and less damaging than scratching at it when I'm absent minded.
Overall a good experience, even if it was a little worrying at the time. And the piercing looks excellent!