Tongariki at sunrise. These statues are
memorials to the ancestors
his camera. ‘I just saw something in the
grass—it had feathers’. Sure enough, the
sedge parts for a second and a Chilean
Tinamou Nothoprocta perdicaria scuttles
through the thick steppe brush. This
ground-dweller, with its penchant for
running, is akin to the Ratites, a fl ightless
order of birds. Although, on the surface,
the Chilean Tinamou resembles Old
World quail and partridges (often hunted
as game), minus a fl ouncing plume on
top of its head, it sports what I call ‘a
teardrop pattern’ on its rump feathers
and fl anks, which is great for camoufl age
in the scrub. This makes it almost
imperceptible in a thicket of pasture
grass—Paspalum spikes and brown
fl orets. Gustavo is only able to capture a
fl eeting photo of the Tinamou—it is fast—
as it scavenges for dormant seeds hidden
under the reddish stems struggling out of
the substandard soil.
We have arrived at the quarry. Relatively
plush and mossy-green from Sorghum
grass, ti plants, and endemic ferns, this
extinct volcanic crater, the rock source for
all of the statues, is now just a graveyard
where all ‘unfi nished moai have gone to
die’. We pause beside one of the massive
stone effi gies, buried up to its chest, to
have our photograph taken by one of thelocal park rangers. She clicks several great
snapshots and we fall in line behind the
throngs of tourists.
As we ascend the hand-hewn rock
stairsteps, we see abandoned moai
everywhere, in various stages of
construction. Colossal-sized rectangular
heads without sculpted eye-sockets lean
at uncanny angles on the volcanic incline.
Half-interred faces, with the familiar
pouty lips and aquiline noses, litter the
Polynesian landscape. Some are still
connected to the bedrock, including the
largest moai ever carved—almost 22m
long and weighing in at an estimated 270
tonnes. Still others lie desecrated and
broken, their visages pushed downward
into the hardened volcanic ash.
We amble along the quarry trail,
which makes a loop around the lower
slopes of Terevaka, Easter Island’s largest
extinct volcano.
Lost in thought, I nearly fail to notice
the sudden appearance of a tropicbird
gliding overhead. Its twin scarlet tail
feathers drape like streamers at a Chinese
New Year’s festival. So elegant in fl ight,
the seabird fl aps its predominantly white
wings with rapid beats, propelling it ever
skyward; its black webbed feet plastered
up against the undertail coverts.but rudimentary tools, these herculean
memorials to ancestors past have
weathered the test of time.
Though eroded by the constant battering
of salty Pacifi c spray and the unyielding
winds, the restored moai continue to
guard the Rapa Nui people from enemies
who might arrive by sea. First, they were
toppled during the tribal wars in the 18th
and early 19th centuries. Then, in 1960,
the world’s most powerful earthquake on
record (registering a 9.5 magnitude on
the Richter scale) fl attened the Chilean
port city of Valdivia and spawned a
dangerous tsunami which breached the
Hanga Nui Bay. Waves over 3m (10ft)
tall swept vegetation, lava rock, debris
and these fallen moai a good 50m inland,
to the soccer fi eld in downtown Hanga
Roa. Through the efforts of Chilean
archaeologist Claudio Cristino and a
private Japanese fi rm, 15 of the original
23 monuments were hoisted onto their
recreated ahus where they greet each
dawn in perfect alignment with the
summer solstice.
RANO RARAKU QUARRY
Gustavo and I leave Tongariki en-route
to Rano Raraku Quarry. My husband
suddenly slams on the brakes and fetches
T iki t i Th tt White-crested Elaenia albiceps,
a species of tyrant fl ycatcher