Easter Island Odds and Ends
Easter Island Scenery and Ecology
“To be an ecologist is to live in a world of wounds,” observed Aldo Leopold. Easter Island is so wounded, it’s hard to find its ecological pulse. All the native trees? Gone. All the native birds? Extinct. One of the world’s largest seabird colonies? Wiped out. A couple of lizards? Forgotten. Soil? Eroded away. There never were any native mammals—this is, after all, one of the most isolated places on the planet.
Why did this ecological disaster happen? The mystery of Easter Island has haunted scholars for decades and spawned numerous and often contradictory explanations. The latest can be found in Jared Diamond’s Collapse (“not his best book” says Claudio, our archeologist guide). Whatever the ultimate causes—war, overpopulation, little ice age, runaway moai building, rats—the ecological and human disaster was complete. Then, in the ultimate ecological insult, the Chilean government allowed the island to be used as a sheep farm, which is the end stage of degraded landscapes all over the world, from Greece to the Scottish highlands.
Which is what the scenery actually reminds me of. Stark, austere, forbidding, harsh—these aren’t words that usually apply to Polynesian paradises. Yet a drive across the island or a walk along the cliffs reveals an island mostly covered with volcanic rock, grasslands, the occasional plot of Australian eucalyptus trees, and other alien species from everywhere but Easter Island. I saw just three species of birds—a small hawk and a small finch from Chile, and pigeons. I saw more rainbows than seabirds (one albatross). I did see a couple of mammal species—cows and horses, still grazing freely.
“Much of the damage inflicted on land is invisible to laymen,” added Aldo Leopold. But the damage inflicted on Easter Island is obvious to everyone, not just ecologists. Easter Island teaches us all that land can be pushed just so far. Ultimately, my visit to Easter Island is tinged with great sadness—for the people who created such wondrous monuments, and for the land and its creatures. Both are gone forever. Will we learn the lesson?
Easter Island Dwellings
I should have paid more attention to the guide. After all, he’s just the guy who restored the sights he’s showing us. And he knows more about Easter Island than just about anyone in the world. Perhaps a little too much. In any case, I (along with some others) tended to wander off and explore. So most of what I know about Easter Island is from Wikipedia.
Which says that the Rapa Nui had three kinds of houses—grass huts with elliptical stone foundations, round stone houses, and stone versions of the grass huts. The last are found at Orongo Ceremonial Village, home of the bird man cult, which islanders followed after the end of the moai building period. The stone houses, at least, have very low ceilings (as does the unnamed cave I explore). Although the Rapa Nui were presumably shorter than most of us today, I certainly hope they spent a lot of time outside.
Easter Island Heads IV: Ahu Tahai Complex and Ahu Tepeu
Easter Island is rimmed with ruined ahu and moai, hundreds in all. Most are inaccessible except by walking. Fortunately the dirt road from Hanga Roa, where I’m staying, winds easily along the ocean’s edge. Just outside the town is the Ahu Tahai complex, consisting of three restored ahu with moai, including one with restored eyes. The restoration was completed in 1972 by archeologist William Mulloy, who is buried on the site. The road meanders through an austere, even bleak, lava rock landscape broken up by pasture. It’s not very well traveled; I see only a half dozen cars in two hours. After ambling about three miles from Hanga Roa, I come upon the unrestored complex at Ahu Tepeu, including ruined dwellings and a large ahu. At first I have a hard time telling the Rapa Nui work from the natural lava stone, since it’s all the same color. Almost overlooked on the seaward side of the ahu are two broken moai. Only a relatively small head survives of one; the other is quite weathered and broken into three pieces. I’m alone at the site for a good 30 minutes, time for a solo lunch—except for the silence and ghosts, of course.
Easter Island Heads III: Anakena Beach and Ahu Nao-Nao
Anakena Beach is the legendary landing place of the first Polynesian colonists to find Rapa Nui, but today it feels like almost any other warm tropical beach on a Saturday afternoon. After the peace and serenity of Ahu Tongariki, the bustling crowd (by Easter Island standards) at Anakena comes as a bit of a shock. In addition to Easter Island’s biggest sandy beach (of two), beach lovers can enjoy buying souvenirs and food. The palm tree plantation is also a shock, but presents a picturesque backdrop for the restored ahu bearing seven moai in various stages of repair. The water is chilly by tropical standards (this is a subtropical island in autumn), but refreshing. I’m wondering if the people enjoying an afternoon at the beach are locals or tourists. Whichever they are, it’s the most crowded place outside of Hanga Roa, the main town, and there are only a handful of people here. But Anakena today is a place for recreation, not living. Now, only silent moai bear witness to the forgotten settlement of those original colonists.
Easter Island heads II: Ahu Tongariki
Before 1960, the scene at Ahu Tongariki was similar to that in much of Easter Island—toppled and broken moai, and wrecked ahu (ceremonial platforms). Then a tsunami washed over the entire area, spreading all of the stones over several acres. Although archeologists painstakingly labeled and identified all the stonework, that seemed to be the end of the story.
Then in the 1990s a Japanese crane company decided it wanted to help out a restoration project in Easter Island. Claudio Cristino, our archeologist guide, is telling us about the night he got a call from his boss. “Where do they want to restore?” “Ahu Tongariki!” “Who’s the idiot who’s going to lead that project?” “You are.” Several years later, the project was completed, with the largest number of restored moai anywhere on the island, including the largest individual moai (over 75 tons).
The site is magnificent, with towering cliffs and crashing waves and deep blue ocean surrounding it. Rano Raraku rises in the distance. Here we can see the complete statues, not just heads. Although stylized, they’re not identical. Did they reflect real people? Moai supposedly reverenced ancestors. Did a village leader have that particular expression? Our guide has theories, but no definite answers. Something about that very lack of definite answers makes Easter Island particularly frustrating and yes, haunting. And, in the end, silent faces reveal nothing.
Easter Island Heads I: Rano Raraku
I first heard about Easter Island when I read Aku-Aku, the popular book by Thor Heyerdahl (and follow-up to Kon-tiki), as a kid. Heyerdahl theorized that South Americans reached Easter Island and taught the Polynesians how to carve. Although his theories have been definitively refuted, his book fired the imagination of millions with his story of enigmatic statues in the world’s most isolated inhabited location. I’m one of those millions. I can’t believe I’m actually here.
Everyone wants to know three things about Easter Island: Why did the inhabitants start carving the giant statues known as moai? Why did they stop? And how did they get them from the quarry to their destinations around the edge of the island? Unfortunately, although theories abound, definitive conclusions are scarce. Fortunately, simply standing among these amazing works of art is an esthetic and spiritual experience unlike anything I’ve ever experienced.
The most famous images from Easter Island come from Rano Raraku, also known as the quarry or the factory. The volcanic crater is the island’s only source of “tuff”, hardened but easily worked volcanic ash used by the Rapa Nui to carve almost all the island’s moai. The heads, variably buried in the soil, stare into the distance. For such a famous spot, it’s surprisingly easy to get away from the modest crowds and stand alone among the moai. They seem on the verge of speaking. I’m remembering that teenage boy, and feeling the wonder of discovery. Although Rano Raraku is indeed haunting and enigmatic, ultimately, it’s the ineffable silence I’ll remember.
Santiago, Chile is Los Angeles. It’s near the mountains and the ocean, has the same climate, nearby vineyards, even smog. A two hour plane ride south is Puerto Montt—Chile’s Seattle. It rains a lot (hence the temperate rainforest), is a seaport exporting a lot of timber, and is an outdoor playground. It’s also got volcanoes. And Vicente Pérez Rosales National Park—Chile’s first. The park includes Lago Todos los Santos and Rio Petrohué—tinted blue-green by runoff from glaciers on Volcan Tronador, on the border with Argentina. Its pride is its share of Volcan Osorno, a perfect snow-capped cone (apparently it erupts from outlets around its base instead of from the peak).
They say that Teddy Roosevelt, on his last post-presidency travels before his death, visited the area and pronounced it more beautiful than Yosemite. Whatever the truth of the story, his visit is credited with inspiring the creation of the Park. The Petrohué Lodge, on the shores of the lake, has been run by the same family for a century, and provides a good base for boat trips on the lake, hiking, climbing or fishing for (introduced) trout. It’s not far from extremely popular Petrohué Falls (chutes through the lava rather than a classic waterfall) with an almost clichéd view of Osorno in the background. A rare clear day, a boat ride, a visit to the falls, a lunch at the lodge—a perfect day.
It’s impossible to nurse a pisco sour. I’ve just not nursed two of them. I’m sitting in a bar/restaurant in a mall. I could swear I’m in Los Angeles. The mall is open to the evening air, which is cool and dry with a hint of smog. I’ve had to walk past McDonalds, TGI Friday’s and Tony Roma’s to get here. I even had to walk past the same two goddamn PF Chang’s lions that we have in our mall in Columbia, MD. The speakers are playing “I want Candy” and “Hungry like the Wolf.”
I’m here in a mall because I’m a man on a mission. I’m tired from my red eye, I’ve walked all over old Santiago, I don’t want to talk to anyone, I just want an early dinner and early bed. I had all the seafood I could ask for at lunch. What else is there in Santiago? It’s not Peru, or Brazil, or Mexico. Plus I’m in a hotel with a few expensive foreign restaurants, near a mall, and not much else. It turns out Chileans can now get great food from around the world, just like we can in the states. Only I just want Chilean. Three things: pisco sours (I can get those anywhere), a pork sandwich, and a famous “completo” hotdog. They’re supposed to be everywhere.
But mostly at lunch. I’m about to give up in the maze of the mall (mall Peruvian perhaps?) when I see the sign for the Tip y Tap (since 1970 something?). Success! I can get my completo, my lomito con paltas (roast pork and avocado ). Along with my pisco sours, it’s more than enough food. (A completo is a hot dog, sauerkraut, tomatoes, and mayo. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it.)
I’m ruminating on the odds of getting well prepared food at any mall in the states. I’m chuckling at the fact that I’m getting classic bar food for dinner, after getting classic hangover food for lunch. But mostly I’m enjoying the surprising pleasure of eating good food surrounded by happy Chileans also enjoying a lovely fall evening—in a mall. It’s not somewhere that will ever be on tv, or in a guidebook, or that I’d ever seek out to go back to. But right here, right now, in this moment, soy muy contento. 
The Mercado central is about half seafood restaurants, ranging from white table cloth, black tie waiters trolling for tourists in the center, to more modest operations around the perimeter, to overgrown counters like this one. I followed the generally good advice to find a crowd of locals and join them. This place was too small for a crowd, but I snagged the last seat. I also used the essential phrase “what’s good today” to settle on locos (Chilean abalone, famous to fish geeks all around the world and the most expensive item on the menu) and paila marina, a seafood soup with things like barnacles and sea squirts, along with the more usual mussels, clams, and fish (reineta). I was almost ready to go, when I decided I had to have the ceviche, since everyone else had ordered it, including one couple who got it to go. I got a half portion. The loco was meaty and shellfishy and delicious. The soup was basically just cooked in its own juice with a little vegetable flavoring. The first bite was fishy and salty. By the end I was using the bread to make sure I didn’t leave anything behind. The ceviche was also sublime. All together with a couple small tumblers of house white (served from that red container you can see in the photo) it was 11,000 pesos, about $23.
