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At sunrise, on mega-mysterious Rapa Nui, neon violet skies backlit 15 tiki-like huge-headed behemoths who possibly “walked” miles to this grassy plain centuries ago.
The extraordinary hand-chiseled stone moai sternly stared from gouged-out eye sockets, their jutting jaws and furrowed brows shooting out supernatural vibes. Oh, did I feel the “mana” spiritual life force.
To the left of these Tongariki moai, an ancient volcano marked the spot where two human groups — the low-class Short Ears and upper-crust Long Ears — waged a grisly battle that culminated in burnt flesh.That conflict preceded the kooky Birdman cult, which required long clawing fingernails and an insane lethal competition for an egg.
Tiny in size but gargantuan in legend, Easter Island — called Rapa Nui by locals — is one of the world’s most isolated inhabited islands and epic enigmas.
Nearly 1,000 iconic moai statues have been discovered throughout this Polynesian island that is plopped in the South Pacific Ocean and was annexed by Chile in 1888.
If the multi-ton moai weren’t stonewalling us, they’d dish all the secrets — how they were created, how the heck they magically traveled distances, why they were deliberatel y clobbered.
“The more I read and learn about our history, the more questions I have,” said my informative Rapa Nui-born guide Otea, who is also a traditional tattoo artist and a stage show Polynesian dancer.
Indeed, for decades, scientists, scholars, archeologists, 3-D models, drone photographs, and DNA tests have tried to unlock the puzzle with no firm consensus. Despite its dizzying history, Easter Island is a serene and mesmerizingly beautiful island, some 2,300 miles from Chile’s mainland.
The Easter name derives from a Dutch explorer whose fleet briefly landed at Rapa Nui on the Christian holiday in 1722.
This was my second trip here after first visiting 11 years ago and amazingly the triangular 63-square-mile island seems unchanged; waves fiercely crashed against black volcanic rocks, brilliant green pastures stretched everywhere, horses freely roamed, and cows wandered.
And yes, it’s an island but you don’t come to swig umbrella drinks and sunbathe; with tourism strictly regulated, you come to totally immerse yourself in the moai and a heritage that will boggle your mind forever.
Even my hotel, the shaman-blessed very cool Nayara Hangaroa lodge, was constructed to resemble the Birdman cult’s ceremonial village with grass-roofed circular buildings to keep the good mana flowing.
In my suite, I bit the head off a moai (it was an artisanal candy) and admired my other welcome gift, a moai keychain fashioned from recycled plastic washed up on Rapa Nui’s shores. Outside, a large replica moai hovered over Nayara’s ocean-view swimming pool.
My real moai meet-and-greet occurred when I watched the pre-rain sunset dip behind the silhouetted statues at Tahai right on the coast. As my guide Cecilia explained, all of Easter Island’s moai were carved from compressed volcanic ash around A.D.
1000 to the 1650s. Initially, after people died, the Rapa Nui natives made simpler moai that would house their deified ancestor’s spirits and stand about 3 feet tall.
But egos exploded and the moai grew more humongous; before death, chieftains and other elites commissioned their own moai, reaching up to 33 feet and weighing over 180,000 pounds. “The bigger the moai, the better that tribe or spiritual leader was supposed to be,” Cecilia said.
Meanwhile, a bottle of chilled sparking wine and a cheese plate awaited in her jeep for my surprise post-sunset snack. Excursions with Cecil ia and Otea were part of Nayara’s all-inclusive package (you need a licensed guide to go to most sites).
Days earlier, I had been at sister hotel Nayara Alto Atacama in northern Chile relishing that lodge’s adventure tours.
From Chile’s north and Andean culture, I flew to capital Santiago, overnighted, and then took a nearly six-hour flight to Easter Island’s teeny airport where a large sign greeted, “Iorana,” and a floor turtle mosaic, wooden whale sculpture and strumming ukulele player added to the delightful aura.
For sure, I was utterly entranced way before a fragrant flowery lei was draped over my head while wild chickens cutely ran amok in the baggage claim.
Plus, I witnessed a hot commodity: dozens of passengers hand-carried boxes of Dunkin’ doughnuts bought at Santiago’s airport; crates of Dunkin’ doughnuts also emptied onto the carousel with checked luggage.
Rapu Nui has no chain stores, so Dunkin’ ring-shaped pastries — such as glazed or strawberry sprinkled — are apparently like crack for locals.
Since the moai were ultimate guardians, almost all had their backs to the sea so from their hallowed platforms (ahu) they could watch over inland villages for as many as 18 trib es.
The later moai wore 13-ton red hats (pukao) symbolizing how the superior class tied their lengthy hair into topknots and painted the ‘dos with red dirt. Back then, the statues gazed out with white coral eyes that when inserted supposedly sprung the moai to life.
Around the 17th century, tribal warfare erupted, partly due to depleting natural resources. Opposing factions knocked over their rivals’ moai face-first, breaking them, “which was the highest form of disrespect,” Cecilia noted.
Eyes were dug out and shattered, further zapping the moai’s power. Interestingly, none of the island’s toppled moai stood upright until archeologists started restoring them from the mid-1950s on.
One of the goriest battles, according to Rapa Nui folklore, happened between the underclass, oppressed Short Ears and the privileged, dominating Long Ears who may have worn heavy ornaments in their lobes.
The Long Ears lit a ditch ablaze planning to kill the Short Ears, but the Short Ears snuck behind and flung the Long Ears into the fiery pyre, incinerating almost the whole clan. Cue the Birdman cult.
After the moai purge, to bring peace and select an overall island leader, wannabe rulers picked athleti c proxies to win a treacherous race held annually for about the next 186 years.
“These guys were crazy,” Otea said, describing how each contestant had to scramble down a sheer 1,000-foot sea cliff, swim a mile in shark-infested waters, camp out until he obtained the migrating sooty tern’s egg, swim back with the unbroken egg fastened to his forehead, and ascend the perilous cliff.
If he survived. “It was like the ‘Hunger Games,’” Otea said.
“And why did they do this? For political control.” We were ambling in the misty rain through Orongo, the cult’s ceremonial village of squat, elliptical stone houses.
These were the honchos’ quarters for feasting and praying until the first competitor brought back an egg to his chief, who was then crowned Birdman, shaving his own head, painting it a sacred mana red, and plunking on a human hair wig.
Anointed as the reincarnation of creator god Makemake, the Birdman went into isolation for a year, not bathing or cutting his fingernails.
The cult eventually collapsed after Peruvian slave ships captured roughly 1,500 men — nearly half of Rapa Nui’s population — who were forced into brutal labor in Peru. The few who returned brought smallpox and by 1 877, there were only 111 inhabitants on the island.
I tried to sort this all out in my eco-stylish room at Nayara, furnished with polished cypress tree pillars, a volcanic rock sink and a handmade clay bathtub baked in a special oven. Sometimes a neighbor’s sweet, graying black Lab slept outside my door.
En route to my breakfast, mother hens and their darling chicks pecked along the pathway to the hotel’s Poerava restaurant across from the Pacific. At the entry, a decorative wood-whittled moai supervised muffins and a fruit bowl on the enticing buffet.
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