Polynesian tango

Every February Easter Island hosts the Tapati Festival, consisting of numerous Polynesian cultural performances and competitions. It's Easter Island's single biggest tourist draw (en route, we noticed the festival schedule and brochure were placed in our airline seat pockets). Luckily we had made our hotel reservations last July: almost every room on the island was booked for the month.

Competitions (surfing, turtle races etc) were held during the day, but in keeping with Hanga Roa's semi-nocturnal lifestyle, dances and performances didn't take place until well after 10pm. I fought my latenight exhaustion and wandered down to the fairgrounds on two separate nights. The main stage was decked out in classic Polynesian kitch (and anyone who knows me, knows I'm a complete sucker for Polynesian kitch). Looking very Ferdinand & Imelda Marcos, the two emcees arrived with great fanfare. Imelda was decked out in a glowing chartreuse mumu and feather boa; Ferdinand wore a classic tropical combo of white slacks/hawaiian shirt with a massive feather headdress. Throughout the night they addressed the exuberant crowd first in Rapanui, then in Spanish. A few cursory sentences in English were offered to those of us gringos in attendance.

It was impressive seeing dozens of people on stage, drumming clapping and stomping, performing variations of the Hakka in perfect synchronization. It was also interesting seeing the degree to which South American music had influenced the local culture: the island-wide tango competition(!) was a big deal to the locals. The dancers' moves were formal/traditional tango, and though the music's tempo and rhythm were perfect for the tango-dancing couples, the instrumentation (guitar etc) was explicitly Hawaiian. Islanders had also adopted the bandoneon; this accordion-like instrument gave a strange zydeco feel to many of the dances and musical numbers.

Relaxed in the middle of nowhere

The flight from Santiago to Easter Island takes a little over four-and-a-half hours. Compared to the many long-hauls we've been on lately, it didn't seem like much time at all: eat, nap, watch a movie, and we're there. No problem. It was easy for me to imagine Easter Island somewhere right off the coast of Chile, the same way Hawaii is always shown just west of Tijuana on US maps. But it turns out Rapa Nui is a long way from South America--it’s halfway to Tahiti, and it’s supposedly the most remote inhabited island in the world.



The first impressions we got were of a pristine, primitive Hawaii. LanChile is the island's sole carrier, and it only operates a twice-weekly flight (as a stopping point between Tahiti and Santiago); the airport is all of two large rooms, including the open-air baggage claim. The tourist industry, such as it is, is pretty low profile. Though there's a luxury hotel somewhere on the island, every other hotel is of the informal family-owned variety (ten rooms or less, eat breakfast & socialize with the owners in their kitchen, etc).

Our small hotel was owned by a Rapanui woman and her Australian husband. I mentioned to them how I felt like I was in a Polynesian time capsule; they told me they have many Hawaiian visitors who believe Easter Island closely resembles the pre-WW II, pre-statehood Hawaii.

The Rapanui language, similar to both Hawaiian and Maori, is in common usage and seems to be preferred to Spanish (both Rapanui and Spanish are official languages). Most streets here are potholed dirt roads; walls and fences are made of lava rock; corrugated metal roofs are red with rust and obscured by giant palm tree leaves. Chickens and horses wander the streets (we saw a few near-accidents between cars and horses); the horses are relaxed and obviously well cared-for; everyone knows which animal belongs to which ranch so nobody seems to bother locking them up.






The island’s only town, Hanga Roa, shuts down during the late afternoon heat (they've happily adopted Chile’s "siesta schedule") but comes alive later with bustling cafes and restaurants, busy till way after midnight. The monumental moai heads are everywhere, in various states of decay or restoration. They're an incredible & intimidating sight, an unexpected presence as you come around a corner or over a hill. But they soon become strangely comforting and familiar, like benevolent sentries looking out over the island. Each one takes on it's own personality; they're endearing mascots to the locals.