Easter Island, Rapa Nui to its people, is a triangle of volcanic rock 3,500 kilometres off the coast of Chile, one of the most remote inhabited islands on Earth, and it carries some 900 stone ancestors, the moai, all carved from a single crater quarry and set on platforms facing inland over the villages they were meant to protect. The quarry is Rano Raraku, a volcano whose soft tuff was cut into statues for five centuries, and nearly 400 moai still lean into its hillside in every stage of creation, some buried to the neck by soil so that only heads show, some abandoned mid-work, one 21 metres long still attached to the rock; the trail through them is the walk that explains the island. For centuries no one could say how islanders moved statues of 80 tonnes without wheels or animals, and the answer, tested with ropes and a replica, is that the moai walked, rocked upright from side to side by teams of people, which is what the islanders had always said.
The picture is Ahu Tongariki, fifteen restored moai standing shoulder to shoulder on the largest platform on the island, with the Pacific sky igniting behind them at sunrise; a tsunami threw them inland in 1960, and putting them back took a crane shipped from Japan. A handful of moai wear a cylinder of red stone, a pukao, a topknot carved in a separate quarry, and at Anakena, the island's one true sand beach, they stand on their platform with their backs to the surf and palms behind. On the rim of the Rano Kau volcano the stone houses of Orongo cling to the cliff, the village of the birdman cult, whose champions raced down the sheer face and swam to the islet of Motu Nui for the first egg of the season, a competition that outlived the moai. After dark the Milky Way pours over the statues under one of the least light-polluted skies anywhere. Rapa Nui is an island that carved its ancestors and set them watching, and they are still looking inland.