During its two-year pandemic closure, one of the world's most isolated islands revitalized its culture and traditions.

The first time I laid eyes on the moai was after sunset; they seemed like gigantic, golden-armored soldiers presiding over Easter Island's (Rapa Nui) coastline. As I approached these extraordinary beings, which stood against the Pacific Ocean and averaged 13 feet in height and weighed up to 14 tons, they seemed more human-like. They were both serious and wide-eyed. Up the hill, their neighbor looked charming. 

Moai, meaning "statues" in Rapanui, are about 1,000 strong and located on this Chilean territory. The Polynesians, who sailed to the center of the world's largest ocean in quest of uncharted territory, likely carved them out between the 12th and 17th centuries after settling on a fertile, uninhabited island. As the islanders endured captivity at the hands of Peruvian raids, rising civil instability, and sickness in the 18th and 19th centuries, manufacturing of the moai came to a halt. In the early 2000s, the moai had sparked a $120 million tourism business, drawing in over 150,000 tourists annually from all around the globe. 

Until March of 2020, when action ceased. Mataveri International Airport is the most isolated commercial airstrip in the world, and the island's mayor, Pedro Edmunds Paoa, requested that LATAM Airlines cancel all flights into the airport out of concern that the island's sole hospital, which had just three ventilators, was unprepared for the pandemic. Since the first propeller flights crossed the South Pacific from Santiago in the late 1960s, this virtually severed the island's connection to the outside world. Nearly three-quarters of the island's 7,750 people had jobs related to tourism back then. There were instantaneously few supplies and no one to speak with. 

What came after that? The ancient Polynesian practice of tapu—restricting access to a specific location or object—is thought to have been the inspiration for the English word "taboo"—and Paoa commanded the entire community to adhere to it. No dining establishments, motels, or conference rooms were open. Umanga, or solidarity, was another policy that the island government pushed for its residents to adopt. It meant helping out neighbors in need and not taking anything from them in return. People helped each other cultivate crops, took turns visiting the elderly, and donated old clothes to a donation center. For twenty-eight months, locals rekindled customs that had been vanishing at a rapid pace. 

The area eventually ended its self-imposed seclusion after nearly 2.5 years. My plane was among the first to land in Rapa Nui again after a few months. 

Nayara Hangaroa, a lush 18-acre resort on the island's southwestern point, was my first destination. The island is only fourteen miles long. I was elated to be a part of the receptionist's enthusiasm for the new age of guests as I spoke with her. A pisco sour was provided to me by the staff, who then led me to a light villa with a view of the coast and a wreath of fragrant frangipani to greet me. 

Even though I had been to Rapa Nui twice prior to the epidemic, something was different about this trip. A beautification initiative during the COVID era had resulted in an abundance of newly planted flowering trees, but there were other subtler ways in which the entire island was blossoming. Intricate wooden street signs were commissioned by artists to be hung among the bougainvillea and palm trees in Hanga Roa, the capital and sole settlement of the island. Ten tons of rubbish had been gathered from the coastal seabed by unemployed dive guides and another ten tons had been retrieved from the beach by hiking guides, all thanks to government-supported labor initiatives. 

The pandemic also produced Nayara Hangaroa, which is a positive development. After the island of Hangaroa closed in 2020, the former Hangaroa Eco Village & Spa became a Nayara resort. In addition to a newly renovated property with a well indicated walking route, the new owners have included guest appearances by local singers and artists in the guest experience lineup. 

One of the most significant archaeological sites on the island, Orongo village, served as inspiration for the circular volcanic-stone building that my residence is modeled after. A lush carpet of grass covers the top. On the next day, I embarked on the fifteen-minute journey to the location, which is situated on the edge of the Rano Kau volcano crater. In Orongo, the "birdman" competition known as Tangata Manu took place from the late 17th until the middle of the 19th century. An annual ritual involved men scaling the 1,000-foot cliffs of the volcano and swimming out to a nearby islet in order to collect the sooty tern egg before anybody else could return to the settlement. The chief of the victorious clan would subsequently assume control of the island for the subsequent year. 

Round buildings with grass roofs and stone walls to keep the inside cool are common in today's Orongo, which is dotted with well-preserved homes like mine. Near the village's outskirts, I beheld petroglyphs depicting a hybrid of man and bird carved into a basalt cliff, which revealed the significance of this ceremony. 

When it comes to global isolation, Rapa Nui is right up there. Pitcairn Island, a British colony with just 50 permanent residents, is its closest inhabited neighbor, located around 1,200 miles to the west. It is over 2,200 kilometers to the east of Rapa Nui to reach mainland Chile. Maybe that's why the locals see the sea more as a route that brings people together rather than a barrier. 

On the third morning of my stay at Nayara, I got up bright and early with the hopes of hiking up Ma'unga Terevaka, the highest point of Rapa Nui at 1,673 feet. The triangle shape of this island was formed by the eruption of three volcanoes, one of which is Terevaka, about 100,000 years ago. According to legend, the Rapanui elders imparted the skill of night sky reading—an essential talent for marine navigators—to their children atop this mountain. 

Looking out over the Pacific Ocean from the windswept peak was a sight to behold. The low clouds appeared to blend into the lake, which was azure blue and glistened with sunlight. I thought I could make out the Earth's curvature as I stood behind my guide, Alberto "Tiko" Te Ara-Hiva Rapu Alarcon. 

Tattooed Alarcon, who performs Polynesian dances in his spare time, commented, "You had to be a survivor to come here and make a living in such an isolated place." "It can make you feel incredibly alone" when you look at an empty horizon, he continued. 

The island's richest soil sits at the base of this dormant volcano, but urbanization displaced farms in the late 1990s as locals shifted their focus from agriculture to tourism. As a result, I was taken aback when Alarcon and I descended Terevaka and came upon fields that had just been planted with taro, sweet potatoes, pineapples, and bananas. Countless family gardens were visible when we returned to Nayara. I noticed six merchants selling fruits and vegetables in Hanga Roa's main street, Atamu Tekena. 

Vegetable shipments from mainland Chile were erratic and the local supply was almost nonexistent on my most recent visit to the island in 2017. Approximately 1,300 gardens were planted during the epidemic, and now, after nearly two and a half years of self-sufficiency, the islands were consuming food from their own crops. 

Olga Elisa Icka Pacarati informed me, "My mom used to have a beautiful vegetable garden here," as I watched her collect radishes in front of her Hanga Roa residence. "Then she became ill, and our gardening days came to an end — until April 2020." Through a government initiative known as proempleo, Pacarati was able to get free training and support in order to cultivate her little plot of land. She and the other new gardeners give 40% of their harvest to a food bank because the mayor brought back the umanga principle. Eventually, some of it makes it to local eateries, where it can be proudly displayed among other dishes made with ingredients from the area. 

That night, I dined at Te Moai Sunset and had tiradito, a raw mahi-mahi fish served in a spicy coulis made with mangoes from the area, which was similar to sashimi. On a different day, I dined at Te Moana, where the menu included fried taro, a spongy baked dessert called po'e made with coconuts and bananas, and cucumber and tuna ceviche served in a conch shell. 

However, my greatest meals were enjoyed in the second hotel I stayed at, the exquisite 30-room Explora Rapa Nui, located in the island's interior. My first meal here was a crisp green salad with sweet potato gnocchi; my second was a lamb loin with sour pineapple chutney and mashed taro. The three-course meals were mostly composed of swordfish, ceviches, carpaccios, and fresh-caught tuna served raw. 

Speaking with chef Marco Guzmán, he informed me that, prior to the pandemic, over 50% of the ingredients had originated from the mainland. The more opportunities there are to collaborate with island producers, the more we're attempting to employ only locally grown ingredients in our cooking. 

In the time between meals, I accompanied Explora's guides to see the island's top attractions, such as the moai, in Rapa Nui National Park. The Ma'u Henua Indigenous Community was established in 2016 in response to inhabitants' desires for more sovereignty over ancestral territories. In early 2018, the Chilean government transferred full management and conservation of the park to this organization. In an effort to encourage tourists to spend a full week rather than the typical three, the Ma'u Henua have increased the price of the 10-day admittance permit for non-locals from $60 to $80. To make sure that ancient sites are protected from damage, the organization also required accredited local guides or hosts to accompany all visitors. 

Going to the park with an expert changed everything for me. I learned about chief Hotu Matu'a's legendary arrival at Anakena, the island's main beach, at some point around 300 AD, when he bravely led a daring trip across an estimated 2,300 miles of open ocean. (A celebration honoring this day was brought back to life on the island in 2021.) Later on, I accompanied Explora guide Esteban Manu Reva to the adjacent Rano Raraku volcanic crater, which the earliest Rapanui people primarily utilized as a quarry and carving workshop for their gigantic sculptures. Although over a thousand moai were sculpted, not all of them reached their final resting place on their stone bases, or ahus. There were about 92 that fell while in transport, and about 400 that were still in the works. (Many of them remain in their fallen state, and tourists can still see them today.) Academic "explorers" removed at least a dozen more off the island, and most of them may be found in museums across Europe and the United States. 

No one knows for sure how the ahus supported these enormous moai, which weighed as much as two bull elephants each. The moai supposedly "walked" to their plinths, according to Rapanui oral traditions, although scientists generally believe that they were held upright by ropes. As I followed a path leading to Ahu Tongariki, a stone platform over 700 feet long on the eastern shore of the island, I was able to locate nine of the fallen sculptures. On top of it, fifteen moai face inward, away from the water. 

The moai that can be seen on Rapa Nui today were all knocked down during interclan violence that occurred towards the end of the 19th century. This, together with the effects of sickness and slave raids, caused a significant decline in the population. Tragic tales about the massacre have become ingrained in cultural history, despite government attempts to have the sacred engravings restored in the second part of the twentieth century. 

“Rapa Nui has been cited as an example of a place that self-destructed" multiple times, classical musician Mahani Teave remarked. She is someone I met at Toki Rapa Nui, a group that emphasizes cultural and environmental stewardship to youth. "It is my belief that we should endeavor, if feasible, to create an island that is completely self-sufficient," she remarked. 

When the island's first piano was brought to the island by a retired violinist when Teave was nine years old, he began to acquire a talent for music. Eight months into her piano studies, the artist returned to mainland Chile, bringing the instrument with her. Teave likewise departed Rapa Nui, captivated by the instrument, to pursue further instruction in Valdivia, a city in southern Chile, before traveling to the United States and Europe. She brought two pianos back thirteen years ago to launch the Rapa Nui School of Music and the Arts. Then she went ahead and added ten more. Traditional music (including the ukulele and a singing style called Re o Riu) and classical music (including the piano, violin, and cello) are both provided as lessons. 

Included in the eco-friendly Toki Rapa Nui center is the school, which is built in the form of a flower from repurposed materials such as 2,500 tires, 40,000 cans, 25,000 glass bottles, and 12 tons of plastic. The building follows the Earthship architectural style. In addition to music lessons, students have the option to learn traditional carving, cooking, and dancing techniques. 

The institution offers bilingual instruction in Spanish and Rapanui, a language spoken by only 18% of islanders younger than 18 years old. "We run the risk of erasing our language if it's reduced to a performance for tourists," Teave said. "When we fail to comprehend the lyrics we're singing, the narratives we're dancing to, or their origins, the culture becomes theirs and not ours." 

A concert by Toki teachers at Mana, a gallery devoted to local artists, later that evening gave me an understanding of what she meant. Floating white robes fluttered onto the stage as the performers swooped down. In Rapanui, Teave greeted the audience, who were all islanders. On top of her head rested a garland of ferns, while shells hung loosely around her neck. An old Rapanui ballad called "Ko Tu'u Koihu e" was played after some classical music by Bach and Brahms. The motivation was so great that Vairoa Ika, who not only cofounded Toki but also oversees the island's environmental initiatives, got up from her seat and danced on stage. 

Even though there was no more room inside, it seemed like the whole island had shown up, with some people even peeping through open windows. The musicians weren't performing for an audience; at last, they were performing for their own enjoyment, and it brought me immense joy to sit in that gallery and watch them. 

On my last day, I visited the outgoing Mayor Paoa at his Hanga Roa office, which was sheltered by palm trees. Inquiring about his thoughts on this historical event on the island was my goal. Had he any optimism? 

As he handed me a cute, little banana that he had grown in his backyard, he said, "How can we reset ourselves for the future?". "It all begins with making sure that the locals here believe that their actions now will have an impact in twenty years." 

Paoa sees groups like Toki, which promote agricultural practices and values like umanga and Rapanui culture, as stepping stones along that path. Fewer flights and longer trips might be part of the reset for tourists. They might also participate in more varied and high-quality learning experiences, such as astronomy, scuba diving, and hiking. Hopefully, tourists will no longer have to fly in for a couple of days only to pose for a selfie next to a moai. 

He reasoned that the pandemic should serve as a wake-up call to examine how humanity is managing its culture, resources, and sustainability efforts. "We can get ourselves organized this time, and we can do a better job." 

Paoa compared unregulated tourism to an obsessive-compulsive disorder, which had come to rule Rapa Nui prior to the epidemic. Life on the island, he believes, should be shaped by other values, such as strong agriculture and cultural pride. Although the magnificent moai are a major draw, they are only one piece of a much bigger and more interesting story. They will stand vigilantly, witnessing whatever happens next, regardless of what the future brings.