Easter Island: In Search Of The Birdman
By Meggan Dwyer

Keep the coast to the left and the sea in mind. Measure distance by how long it will take to walk. Balance on the edge of a soft-boiled volcanic crater. The grasses are long and autumn pink. Basalt pocked faces lie about - cracked noses, broken cheekbones. A feral bull snorts in the tall grass. I am very aware of my position on the globe. I am way down there, way out there. I have lost my way.

Here on Easter Island, 2,000 miles from any other land, the anthropologist Thor Heyerdahl felt compelled by a thousand Moai, the birdman and albino virgins. Walking on the jagged edge between ocean and Orongo crater, I am fixed by the minor chords that whistle through rock cavities, the hawks that leap from the cliff face, the promise of the tern’s egg. A bull in the grass eyes me with unfocused aggression and scrapes his hoof on the gravel. I measure with my finger against the legend of a crude map how long it will take to walk around the island. I am in contest with the sun itself to see who can complete their circle first. I am in contest with the island itself to see who will survive isolation best. Quadriceps pulls calf upward repeatedly like the shark swims endlessly to keep a constant flow of water through the lungs. Keep the sea to the left and try not to look too far ahead. I cannot see another land mass anywhere. It makes me feel tall. It makes me feel lost but at peace.

Hanga Roa is the sole town. It spreads out over bare rock like a tablecloth. In a makeshift pub here, I play a game of cards with Pablo, the bartender, who helps his aunt run the hostel where I am staying. He plays the game over the counter with me while serving the other customers tinny, Chilean beer. He is from the mainland. His smooth, black hair and lanky height stand out among the shorter red-tinged heads of the Rapa Nui islanders. His Spanish has the loops and flourishes of his Italian heritage. Often, I can’t understand his words at all, but the game is simple – a mixture of rummy and go-fish. After a few hands, I pick it up.

In the middle of the village is a soccer field that overlooks the ocean. A woman runs out of the food concession parked on the side to kiss my cheeks and yell, “Hola!” a little too loudly. I buy a hotdog and soda from her and settle into the stone benches that serves as bleachers. An older man with black tattoos covering his legs and hands joins me to watch the game. We talk about the island, as his team arrives at the field on horseback; they all have feathers in their hair.

He tells me, at one time, only the Birdman wore feathers. Each year in spring, men would gather at the Orongo crater for the competition. Compelled by the wind, the feathers, the promise of the albino virgin, they would climb down the cliff face and swim a mile to the nearby rock islet of Moto Nui to collect one Sooty Tern egg. The first back with an intact egg was Birdman for the year. His head and eyebrows shaved, he wore ceremonial headdress and was awarded a virgin girl whose skin was made pale by months of isolation in a ritual cave. All island decisions for the year went through him. He was half man, half god and revered until the next contest. The man tells me this part amused, part awed. He seems content to drink orange sodas with me while his team warms up.

Outside town, the island is plateau and volcanic cone. The native land birds, plants, lizards, and stands of palm are all gone. Left are tall grasses, imported eucalyptus stands and planted bougainvillea. These days, no hands take up mallets to chisel rock, no massive logs exist to groan under the weight of slowly advancing heads. Modern fishing boats replace reed rafts. The bounty of the Chilean navy ships supplants the need to guard chickens and hunt rats. The Birdman has lost his power. But the Sooty Tern still survives in small colonies on the tiny rock of Moto Nui.

Pablo takes me to the shanty disco on a Friday night. There are eight men to every woman on the island, and the loud music and cans of beer loosen their reserve. One grabs me and we dance the ancient war dance of the Rapa Nui. The others laugh at my awkward gyrations. I need tattoos on my hands and feathers. As the night progresses, strangers ask me to marry them and their beery breath paws my face. Pablo tells them I am his wife and pulls me into his silky, yellow soccer jersey. The local men discount this information and continue their advances - Pablo cannot dance; he does not speak Rapa Nui; he is nobody’s husband.

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