Easter Island, Rapa Nui to its own people, is a volcanic triangle 3,500 kilometres off Chile, and it carries some nine hundred stone ancestors, every one facing inland, over the villages they were made to watch. They all came out of the same hole in the ground. Rano Raraku is a crater of soft tuff, and nearly four hundred moai are still in it, leaning into the hillside at every stage of the work. Some are buried to the neck, only the heads showing, some abandoned half-cut from the rock. A looped trail takes you in among them. How the finished ones crossed the island, eighty tonnes of stone with no wheel and no draught animal, was argued over from outside for centuries. Rapa Nui tradition always said the moai walked, and that is the plain description of it: the road statues have wide, D-shaped bases and a forward lean, so a crew with ropes can rock them along.
Most days start at Ahu Tongariki, fifteen moai shoulder to shoulder on the island's largest platform. You get there before dawn, while they are still flat silhouettes, and stay as daylight reaches the faces. They were not always upright. A tsunami in 1960 swept the platform inland, and setting them back took a crane shipped eight thousand kilometres from Japan. A few moai wear a cylinder of red stone, not a hat but a topknot: hair in a bun, cut at another crater on the island. The best-kept stand above the sand at Anakena, the one beach where you can get into the water on a coast of hard black rock. On the rim of the Rano Kau volcano the stone houses of Orongo cling to the cliff, crater lake on one side of you, open ocean on the other. From there the birdman contest sent champions down that face and across the water to an islet for the season's first egg. The oldest question about the island has the island's own answer: eighteen people with ropes have walked a four-tonne copy a hundred metres in under an hour.