Rapa Nui National Park
I met a Rapanui man named Julio who pointed to the Moai and said, “That is my great, great grandfather.”
Julio works for the Rapa Nui National Park on the northern end of the island most know as Easter Island after Europeans named it when they landed there on Easter Sunday 1722. Between the beach of Anakena where the first king landed and the strands of swaying palms, five moia, rock sculptures stand tall. Julio imitates their posture. “It makes me feel proud.”
I believe that the tallest and biggest Moai that Julio pointed to was his great, great grandfather despite spending time at the museum learning how Europeans killed off 90 percent of the Rapa Nui population with viruses. Then the Peruvian slave trade nearly brought them to annihilation. Only 36 Rapa Nui people survived. The Chilean government bought land for next to nothing. The ancient Moai had been knocked down and in many places piles of boulders littered the hillside. In 1900s archaeologists began to rebuild the Moai.
Even though I know how much of the history of Rapa Nui people was lost during these series of traumas, Julio is so emotionally connected to these stone statues that I am certain he is telling the truth. He tells me about how he comes every morning before he drinks his coffee to talk to the Moai, how he tells them about his life and takes them in his heart out to the ocean when he fishes. He works here every day, protecting the ancient stone from curious tourists’ hands. Julio shows me the petroglyphs etched on their backs that I hadn’t noticed. One represented the life forces— the sun, rainbow, rain, and wind.
He’s worked there for fifty years, and tells me how people come from all over the world to see the moai. Some of them pray. Some chant. Some cry. He has no idea why, but his best guess is that their ancestors didn’t leave moai behind and they carry a sadness for not knowing their ancestors. Disconnection from that wisdom can make a person feel lost in the world, unsure of a path forward.
Listening to him, I’m awed at how different his perspective is from mine. From as early as I can remember, I’ve wanted to have more than my parents, to create a better life. It never occurred to me that a good life could come from emulating ancestors and seeking their guidance.
Julio tells me about living in a nearby cave during the hottest summer months, December and January, because he doesn’t have a fan. When I ask if he likes living in a cave, he tells me it is close to work. That if he’s hungry, he takes his harpoon and spears four or five fish. He washes his work uniform and while it dries, he eats his fish and watches the ocean.
“Just listen” He closes his eyes and leans his head back.
I imitate him. In the shadow of the moai of his great, great grandfather, we listen to the waves. My shoulders loosen the near constant grip on my neck. I can’t help but smile.
Julio tells me to go swim in the sea. “Go meet the ocean.” He sings something beautiful and tender in Rapa Nui.
I float in the cobalt waves, exhaling with the trough and inhaling with the peak of the swell.
