Nick, Julie, and I have already celebrated Easter this year, though it was a bit different than usual. Instead of little eggs, there were massive stone heads scattered around. Instead of just one day, we got four. Instead of being home, we were out on the world’s most remote island: Easter Island.

The native name is Rapa Nui, but, as is often the case, the explorers who “discovered” the island changed the name. They considered the day that they arrived to be a better title. Some time ago, Nick and I had seen a documentary clip about the mysterious sculptures, and, with no further information, had a longing to check them out. When a friend asked, “What’s there to do other than stare at the heads and wonder how they got there?” we had no answer to give. We didn't know how big, how many, and we thought the island was just a twenty-minute boat ride away from Chile. We were shocked to hear (the day of our departure) that it required a five-hour flight. As we began our descent, the screens in the airplane were completely blue. “Easter Island” was written in the middle, but the plane symbol obscured it entirely. We were landing on a speck in the Pacific Ocean.

Within our first hour, a journalist approached us at lunch. She wasn’t supposed to tell us she was writing for a travel magazine, but she was simply too curious why three young Americans had decided to come to such a random spot. Why not Acapulco or the Caribbean? We told her the truth - that the big heads we once saw on TV seemed cool. She scribbled our eloquent response on her notepad, and told us it was a relief to see fresh blood out and about, especially after days of talking with snooty 60-year old couples that don’t take a step outside their package tours.

As my trip has progressed, I’ve lowered my expectations for indigenous cultures. I’ve seen the power and scope of tourism, and it has slowly chipped away at my romantic views. Easter Island was an exception. It has done a remarkable job of incorporating tourists while preserving its roots. We felt like we were seeing a place that only a fraction of the world has ever heard of, let alone visited. There’s an airport, but flights only come every few days. There are paved roads, but no stoplights. The locals don’t haggle foreigners and often couldn’t care less about them. At the discotheque, there were more horses than cars parked outside. At our first lunch, Julie asked the waiter if the tuna in the empanadas was canned. Based on his reaction, you would’ve thought she asked him “is this the island with the big heads?” He was both offended and amused, laughing as he pointed to the ocean just a few yards away.

The island has an active spirit, and the locals have pride. I was so captivated by it all that – for about 15 minutes – I debated getting a tattoo to remember the island and my trip in general. My parents’ reactions? Dad: “No. Get a necklace or something to remember it by.” Mom: “Absolutely not. You’re Jewish and Jewish people don’t do that.” After laughing about it on the phone, I bought a necklace.

Nick and I may have known embarrassingly little upon arrival, but we’re practically experts now on the island and its roller coaster history. At one point, there were over 16,000 Rapa Nui people. A bit later, there were less than 120. They killed one another (and ate one another) in civil wars. They were enslaved by outsiders and became victim to their diseases. All Rapa Nui nowadays are descendents from survivors.

Although they’re often just called “big heads,” the rock sculptures are called “moai.” The platforms that they were somehow erected upon indicate that around 1,000 once stood, though many have since been destroyed by clan warfare and natural disasters. The central questions, however, even Nick and I can’t answer with full confidence. Where did the original islanders come from and how did they get there? Why giant heads and how did they move them from the quarry? Why do only some have penises?

We went to Orongo our first evening, a volcanic crater with a chip in it like a bowl that was dropped on the floor. Nick, Julie and I slowly made our way around the rim, for we constantly stopped to take photos and marvel at the vast ocean. Staring at the horizon, we could actually see the curvature of the planet. We understood why Rapa Nui is called the navel of the world. A guide then led us around ancient rock houses and petroglyphs, where he repeatedly pointed out vulva carvings when he realized Nick and I are immature.

The island is the perfect size. The exact measurement is roughly 73 square miles, but that doesn’t say much. More indicative, I think, are comments from two people we met. Fred came as a tourist years ago, but fell in love with the island and has now lived there for two years. After two years, he said he hasn’t seen even half of what it has to offer. A French tourist staying in our guesthouse, however, had a different perspective. When we asked her how long she would be there, she responded, “I will stay until I know everyone on the island – a week and a half perhaps.” It’s endlessly fascinating and instantly intimate at the same time.

For our first day, we rented ATVs (quad bikes) and explored the natural and manmade wonders of the island ourselves. An Easter Head Hunt. We sped from one site to the next, only slowing down when we neared wild horses. We caught sunrise behind the fifteen imposing moai at Tongariki and sunset behind the chipped ones in Tahai. At Anakena, we lounged on the beach next to five moai that were buried in the sand for hundreds of years. The island is an open-air museum. There was no way we were going to see all 5,000 of the archaeological sites, and that was part of the fun – to know that we were racing past countless ancient treasures.

Our favorite spot was the quarry at the Rano Raraku volcano. There was no entry fee, no information pamphlet, no ropes around the moai. The rocky slope was left the way it had been, with carving tools on the ground and unfinished moai resting in alcoves. Different sizes of moai at different stages of progress seemed frozen in time. Some stood completely straight, some tilting forwards, some leaning backwards, and some were buried up to their eyes in the ground. They looked like crops, harvested out of the mountain. It was too crazy to think that they were carved and relocated.

If you know Nick and me, you could guess that we spent most of the day goofing around with the moai. Putting our heads in the nostrils, pretending to hold them up, climbing on each other’s shoulders to reach the mouth – photo opps at every turn.

We did a guided tour the following day, and the island continued to exceed our expectations and make us wish we had more time. It’s too bad that this Easter doesn’t happen every year.

This entry was posted on Monday, April 3rd, 2006 at 11:22 am in XIX. Chile. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.