Easter Island, remote and magical, alive and changing  I step onto the tarmac at Easter Island’s minuscule airport, holding a copy of “The Separate Rose” by Pablo Neruda in my hand. Shortly before his death 40 years ago, the Chilean poet visited Easter Island and wrote this slim volume of bittersweet ruminations on travel and mortality. As the American, Chilean, European and Japanese passengers from the plane funnel into the one-story airport terminal here, I recall the words that I’ve just read on the five-hour flight from mainland Chile: “We all arrive by different streets / by unequal languages, at Silence.” Details: Easter Island Yes, my fellow travelers and I arrived from different walks of life. But where is the silence that Neruda promised? As the aircraft’s engines whir, I follow the excited chatter of the other travelers to the airport’s arrival hall. Easter Island may be famous for its unique and enigmatic stone statues, but the scene at baggage claim is no different from what I’ve seen at many a tawdry tourist destination around the world, with touts trying to outdo one another to lure me to their establishments. I came all the way here in search of complete solitude, naively fantasizing that every moment on Easter Island would be like poetry. I’m crushed. In the beginning “We get 70,000 visitors coming to this island every year,” says Sergio Rapu Haoa, the amiable owner of my hotel, as we chat in his garden. That number may sound negligible compared with Hawaii’s 7 million. But Hawaii has nearly 1.5 million residents, Rapu points out, while only 6,000 call Easter Island home. That means that Easter Island gets more than 11 visitors per resident every year. To provide for the tourists, Rapu says, Easter Island has to constantly bring in cargo ships full of supplies, making the island all the more dependent on the mainland. Rapu fascinates me with his seeming contradictions. A U.S.-trained archaeologist who has made a significant contribution to unearthing the island’s history, he eventually served as provincial governor of Easter Island, which is a special territory of Chile, in the 1980s. But now, at 64, he runs the modest Tupa Hotel overlooking the main town’s cove. I ask him how he reconciles his ambivalence toward tourism with his choice of career as an hotelier. “Very easy,” he replies. “It’s a matter of humanity. You cannot appropriate your culture as only yours; it’s everyone’s to share. In both archaeology and tourism, you’re dealing with conserving heritage.” Easter Island, or Rapa Nui as it is known in the native language, certainly has an intriguing heritage that needs to be preserved for posterity. It remains a mystery how humans came to set up the world’s most remote settlement, although according to local lore, a Polynesian chief named Hotu Matu’a, inspired by his priest’s dream of “the navel of the earth,” led his family and crew to this 63-square-mile landmass more than 2,600 miles east of Tahiti. Of course, as an archaeologist, Rapu has a different take: The superb seafarers of the South Pacific could have easily traversed the Pacific in their wooden outrigger canoes, reaching Rapa Nui around 400 A.D. (though some estimate the date as late as 1200 A.D.). The islanders prospered on the pristine speck of volcanic land, eventually developing a dazzling civilization capable of carving, transporting and erecting the island’s famous moai, stone representations of ancestors entrusted with protecting the living. Until Dutch explorer Jacob Roggeveen named the island after a Christian holiday in 1722, Rapa Nui remained a secret to the outside world. But I like this myth, which appears in William O’Daly’s English translation of Neruda’s book: A deity named Makemake created humans out of red earth. Wouldn’t it make more sense that, instead of sailing thousands of miles of uncertain sea, people simply came to be, as an antidote to the desolation of this secluded locale? Ancestral images I can not only imagine but actually see how human forms sprang from the earth at Rano Raraku, the volcanic slope where nearly all the moai were quarried before being transported to their final resting places on every corner of the island. (How they were moved is another mystery: The most prominent theory is that, harnessed by ropes on two sides, the structures were rocked forward to “walk” to their destinations.) No fewer than 397 moai still lie here in various states of completion, as if all the workers had simply vanished at once. Some are mere sketches, their silhouettes barely etched into the rocky slopes. A few lie on their backs, their elaborate fronts finished except for the eye sockets; others have already been cut from the bedrock, ready to be pulled upright, while many seem ready to start descending from the hill. Made of tuff, or hardened volcanic ash, many of the gray statues have been largely obscured by centuries of erosion and landslides, with only their heads and their stoic faces exposed to the merciless sun. Their sheer size, which can reach 33 feet in height, is hard to fathom until I walk up close to an upright one and realize that its nose is about the size of my whole body. Though Rano Raraku is one of the most visited sites on the island, all the tour buses have already left. As I amble up and down the slope, the statues obscure the few other visitors. At last, exactly what I came to Rapa Nui for: To be alone with the monoliths and take in the mystery that Neruda called the “kingdom / of the vast solitude, vertical / ruins.” But instead of feeling joy, I panic. What if everyone else, like the stonemasons who abandoned the moai, really does disappear, leaving me stranded here by myself? Before coming to Rapa Nui, I wondered how prosperous and lavish this Polynesian society must have been to leave behind these engineering legacies. But as I gaze out at the ocean horizon, which stretches to no end, I begin to understand that perhaps it wasn’t excess but desperation that led to the creation of these artifacts. How lonely it must have felt, isolated by thousands of miles of sea, with no certainty that other humans existed beyond the craggy shores. Wouldn’t I, too, spend my life carving eternal statues to keep my soul company? Out of the darkness The stone statues weren’t considered to possess mana, or spiritual power, until their eyes were carved and they were erected on the sacred platforms called ahu. I’m not particularly spiritual, but the largest ahu, at Tongariki, is such an awe-inspiring sight that I begin to feel something stir in me. It’s 4 o’clock in the morning, and the full moon casts the shadows of the 15 colossal moai toward the sea. As I circle around Tongariki’s 720-foot podium, I’m reminded how small and inconsequential I am. I realize that what I’m feeling is not mana, but just humility. I could never build anything of this scale or permanence with my hands. But no matter how grand they may be, all human accomplishments are fallible, and history hasn’t been too kind to this largest ceremonial structure in Polynesia. The islanders stopped revering the moai, and sometime during the 18th and 19th centuries, they toppled every single one of the nearly thousand on the island — an undertaking that must have taken as much effort as erecting them. Then, a 1960 tsunami swept up Tongariki’s fallen moai and scattered them about the island and into the surrounding sea. Now, restored to their upright glory, the 15 moai at Tongariki are a magnificent sight. As the horizon glimmers, the statues’ silhouettes glow in pink and golden hues. This must be what made Neruda rhapsodize: “Statues that night raised / and threshed in a closed circle / so the ocean alone would see them.” It is as if the moai have risen out of the darkness, slowly succumbing to light. Yes, perhaps this is mana at work. I’m ready to believe. . . . And then someone’s camera flash explodes, jolting me out of my reverie. As the sun rises, I realize how numerous we are. Eleven tourists to every local sounds about right — well over 150 people watch the sun climb above the 15 moai. Into the future Not that Rapa Nui feels crowded. Far from it. I don’t see a single stranger while I take in a violet sunset at Ahu Akivi, the island’s only moai that face the sea, or exploring the four miles of chilly underground caves at Ana Te Pahu. Not one sunbather dots Ovahe beach when I descend onto its pink sand, and I don’t run into anyone while walking the rim of Rano Kau’s crater for an hour. Even the road remains mostly empty, save for the herds of wild horses that rule the island. Yet tourism seems to permeate every part of Easter Island. Take Merahi Pate, a stout 29-year-old whom I meet when I try to ask for directions in the hinterland, far from the paved road. Covered in fine dust on her porch, she says that she’s been carving souvenir moai for 12 years now. She’s eager to have a picture taken with me, because she wants to start a new business teaching tourists how to carve miniature statues. A photograph with a foreigner would come in really handy for the ad she’s planning to take out. Then there’s Andrea Tuki, a young shopkeeper in the main town of Hanga Roa, who surprises me with her flawless English. She returned home after studying early childhood education in Valparaiso on an academic scholarship. She seems to be the kind of bright young talent that Rapa Nui needs to educate its young people. So what’s her dream? She wants to start a bike tour company. But as I talk to more people, I realize that there’s more to Rapa Nui than tourism. When I inadvertently trespass on Titaina de Pont’s family ranch, she invites me to sit down and have coffee with her. She tells me that she, too, worked as a tour guide — for three months. “Then I realized it’s not the tourists who need to be taught about our culture,” she says. “It’s our children.” Today she works as a radio producer for educational programs in the native language. She recognizes that tourism is an inevitable part of Rapa Nui’s present. She just wants young people to know their heritage before facing the avalanche of outside cultures. From magic to reality As far as airports go, I can’t imagine a place more pleasant than Easter Island’s outdoor waiting area. I sit on the grass and the sea breeze teases the palm tree above me, sending a kaleidoscope of shadows flickering over my legs. I take out my fatigued copy of “The Separate Rose.” My return flight won’t start boarding for a while, and it’s a short read. “Goodbye,” Neruda bids Rapa Nui, “let the great sea protect you / from our barren brutality.” But now I must respectfully disagree with the Nobel laureate. The people of Rapa Nui don’t need the sea to protect them: They’ve already beaten the odds by surviving in this inhospitable location, nurturing an inimitable civilization and rebounding from a dark era when forced labor and smallpox reduced the population to just 111 in the late 19th century. I came ready to exalt a magical place that’s completely cut off from the rest of the world. But while its past may remain shrouded in mystery, Rapa Nui is very much a real place, alive and changing. I’m no longer disappointed that there are other visitors. It comforts me to know that no matter the geographic distance, we’re connected in our flawed but cohesive world. It just feels much less lonely that way. 游客们抵达复活节岛的微型机场 拿着巴勃罗·聂鲁达（Pablo Neruda）的《孤独的玫瑰（The Separate Rose）》，我来到了复活节岛的微型机场。四十年前，在他去世前不久，这位智利诗人游览了复活节岛，写下了这本苦乐参半，沉思游历与人性的薄薄小书。 来自美国，智利，欧洲和日本的游客们聚集到这个只有一层楼高的候机楼。看着他们，从智利大陆而来的我想起了在这5小时旅程中读到的一句话：“穿过不同的街道/通过不同的语言，我们到达了宁静”。 是的，我和其他游客们都从世界各地慕名而来。但是，他所承诺的宁静在哪儿？伴着飞机引擎的轰鸣声，我随着其他喧嚣的游客来到了入境大厅。复活节岛或许因其独特神秘的石像而闻名世界，但是在行李认领处，兜售者们想尽一切办法来打败对手招揽顾客，这与我游历世界时见过的庸俗景点没有任何区别。 我不畏艰辛来到这里，只为寻找一份不带一丝喧嚣的宁静，天真地幻想着在复活节岛上，每分每秒都是诗情画意。 我的期望破碎了。 29岁的Merahi Pate正雕刻着要卖给复活节岛游客的石像纪念品。 开始 我和我那和蔼可亲的旅馆主人，Sergio Rapu Haoa坐在他的花园里聊天，他告诉我：“每年我们要接待七万名来此游玩的旅客。” 与夏威夷的七百万游客相比，这个数字可能显得微不足道。但是Rapu指出，夏威夷有将近一百五十万居民，但是只有六千人在复活节岛安家落户。这就意味着，每个岛民每年要服务超过11位游客。Rapu还说，为了满足游客需求，复活节岛必须一直通过货船补给物资，这样一来就加深了对本土的依赖。 Rapu的矛盾身份吸引了我。作为一位曾在美国深造，并为这座岛屿的历史发掘作出过杰出贡献的考古学家，他最终在上世纪80年代成为了这片特殊的智利领土，复活节岛的省长。但是现在，已经64岁的他却经营着这家俯瞰城镇小湾的楚帕旅馆（Tupa Hotel）。我问他，心存对旅游业的矛盾情绪又选择了旅店老板这一职业，他是如何和解当中矛盾的。 “很简单啊，”他回答道，“这关乎人性。你不能独占你的文化；它属于世界人民。不论是从事考古学还是旅游业，你都在保护着遗产。” 复活节岛，在当地语里又叫拉帕努伊岛（Rapa Nui），确实有着一份值得为后人保留的迷人遗产。根据当地传说，一位名叫Hotu Matu’a的波利尼西亚酋长受到其神父的”世界肚脐”之梦的启发，带领着他的家人和部落成员来到了这块面积63平方英里，距离塔希提岛（Tahiti）东部超过2600英里的大陆。但是人类究竟是如何在来到这个世界最偏僻的角落安居落户的，这仍是未解之谜。 当然，作为考古学家，Rapu有着不同的见解：公元四世纪左右（虽然有些学者把时间推后到公元十二世纪），南太平洋的优秀船员们利用他们的桨划独木舟可以轻而易举的穿越太平洋来到复活节岛。肥沃的原始火山岩土壤让岛民们得以繁衍生息，并最终孕育出灿烂的文明。繁荣使得人们可以雕刻，运输，并竖立起岛上著名的摩埃（moai）石像，它们象征着为后人提供荫蔽的祖先。复活节岛一直不为外界所知，直到1722年，荷兰探险家雅可布·罗赫芬（Jacob Roggeveen）以一个基督教节日将其命名。 但是William O’Daly’翻译的聂鲁达英译本中的这个神话，更讨我的欢心：一个名为Makemake的神用红土创造出了人类。相比穿越上千海里的无常大海而来，人们仅仅是为了填缺这座孤屿的寂寞而来到这里，这是不是更能让人信服？ 先人肖像 若非亲眼所见，我实在无法想象那些人形塑像是如何从拉诺·拉拉库采石场（Rano Raraku）的土地里冒出来的。采石场在一个火山坡上，几乎所有石像是从这里开采然后运到岛上的各个地方并最终竖立的。（人们如何搬运它们又是另一个未解之谜：流传最广的理论是，这些石像被两根绳子从两边绑住，然后通过滚木“走”到了目的地。） 仍然有超过397座完成程度不同的摩埃躺在这里，似乎那些石匠们都忽然间消失了一般。一些还处在草图阶段，石坡上仅有它们的轮廓。一些仰面躺着，正面已被精心雕琢，只剩眼眶还未完成；一些已经被从岩石里挖了出来，就差被竖立起来，还有一些已经做好下山的准备了。 这些灰色的石像由凝灰岩，即硬化了的火山灰制成。经历了几个世纪的风吹雨淋，山崩滑坡，许多石像已经变的模糊不清，只剩下它们的头部和坚忍的表情在无情的太阳下曝晒着。它们的体型能达到33尺高，这很难体会得到。直到我走近一座笔直的石像并意识到它的鼻子有我一个人这么大时我才感觉到它的庞大。 虽然拉诺·拉拉库采石场是岛上最为热门的景点之一，但是所有的旅游车都已经离开了。我漫步于山坡上下，石像将其他的一些游客遮挡。最终，我终于达到了我来拉诺·拉拉库的目的：和这些孤独巨石们独处，并且领悟聂鲁达所描述的神秘：“王国/由那些巨大，孤独，垂直的废墟/构成。” 但是，我感觉到的不是喜悦，而是恐慌。要是所有人真的都像那些抛弃了摩埃的石匠一样消失了，把我一个人孤零零地留在了这里，我该怎么办？在来到拉帕努伊岛之前，我曾思考这一波利尼西亚社会该繁荣奢侈到什么程度才会留下这些工程遗产。但当我眺望着那无边无际的海天交界时，我开始明白，或许不是繁荣让他们建造这些石像，而是内心的绝望。被千万里的海水孤立于这座小岛之中，不知道在那蜿蜒的海岸线之外是否还存活着其他的人类，这种感觉该有多么孤独。 换做是我，我也会倾尽一生来雕琢永恒的石像，以陪伴我那孤独的灵魂吧。 脱离黑暗 在石像被刻上眼睛并被竖立在名为“ahu”的圣台上之前，它们是不具备马那（mana），即精神力量的。我并非虔诚的宗教信徒，但当我看着Tongariki最大的ahu时，敬畏和惊叹涌上了我的心头。 时值凌晨4点，满月将那15座巨大摩埃的影子投向大海。当我围着Tongariki那720英尺高的墩座墙漫步时，我发现自己是那么的微不足道。我意识到，我感觉到的不是马那，而是谦卑。靠我的双手，我是永远无法建造如此雄伟永恒的建筑的。 但是无论它们多么宏伟，所有的人类成就都免不了衰败。对待这些波利尼西亚最大的仪式建筑，历史也毫不留情。在十八世纪和十九世纪之间的某一时期，岛民们不再信仰摩埃了。岛上一千尊左右的石像，几乎每一尊都被他们推倒——和竖立它们相比，这一定耗费了人们同样多的精力。后来，1960年的一场海啸冲走了Tongariki的那些倒下的石像，将它们散落在岛上的各处以及周围的海里。 现在，这15座被重新竖立的石像重获了昔日的光辉，成为了Tongariki的壮丽美景。当海平面上露出微弱的晨光时，石像的轮廓闪烁着粉红和金黄的色调。这一定是聂鲁达曾经激昂吟诵的景象：“夜晚独自竖立/并打磨石像/所以唯有大海才能将其欣赏。” 这就好像那些摩埃是升起于黑暗之中，慢慢屈从于光明一样。是的，或许这正是马那在起作用。我开始相信……然后，某人的闪光灯一闪，把我拉出了沉思，拉回了现实。 随着太阳升起，我才意识到我们的人数是多么的庞大。每个岛民要服务十一位游客，这听起来没错——太阳在超过150人的注视下爬到了15座摩埃之上。 走向未来 拉帕努伊岛远不拥挤。不论是当我站在岛上唯一一个面朝大海的摩埃，Ahu Akivi旁边，感受那紫罗兰色的落日时，还是当我探索Ana Te Pahu的那些总长四英尺的寒冷地下洞穴时，我都没有见到任何其他的人。当我下到Ovahe海滩的粉色沙滩上时，没有一个人在海滩上晒日光浴。而当我行走于拉诺廓火山口的边缘时，我也没撞见任何人。就连公路都几乎是空的，除了那些在岛上纵横驰骋的野马们。 但是，复活节岛上的每一个地方都弥漫着旅游业的味道。就拿Merahi Pate作为例子吧。她年龄29岁，身材健壮，是我在一个远离道路的小岛腹地问路时认识的。她坐在自家的门廊处，浑身都被细小的灰尘覆盖着。她说她从事摩埃纪念品雕刻已经12年了。她很想和我照张合影，因为她想开展教授游客雕刻微型摩埃的新业务。一张和外国人的合影对她即将开始的广告宣传能起很大帮助。 还有Andrea Tuki，她是大城镇Hanga Roa的一名年轻老板，说着一口让我惊讶不已的完美英语。她曾靠一笔学术奖学金在瓦尔帕莱索（Valparaiso，智利中西部港市）学习幼儿教育，之后她回到了家乡。拉帕努伊岛需要年轻人才来教育青少年，而她看起来正是那样的人才。那她的梦想是什么呢？她想要开一家自行车旅行公司。 在我与更多的人交流之后，我发现拉帕努伊岛并不只有旅游业。当我不小心走入了Titaina de Pont家的农场时，她邀请我去她家坐坐，和她一起喝喝咖啡。她告诉我，她也曾经做过导游——做了三个月。“然后我意识到，需要学习我们的文化的并不是那些游客，”她说，“而是我们的孩子们。” 如今，她是一名负责用本族语录制教育节目的电台节目制作人。她承认旅游业是现在的拉帕努伊岛必不可少的一部分。她只是希望，在遭受外来文化的冲击之前，这里的年轻人能够了解自己的文化遗产。 从神秘到现实 机场周围，我想不到比复活节岛的露天候机区更加讨人喜爱的地方了。我坐在小草上，海风抚摸着我头顶的棕榈树，在我的腿上投下千变万化的光影轮舞。我拿出那本已被我翻旧的《孤独的玫瑰》。离我登机返航还有好些时候，我就读了一小会儿书。 “再会吧，”聂鲁达与拉帕努伊岛道别，“就让这无垠的大海保护你/免遭我们那无情恶行的摧残。” 但现在，我必须满怀崇敬地表示，我并不同意这位诺贝尔桂冠诗人的想法。拉帕努伊岛的居民并不需要大海来保护他们：他们已经收获了意想不到的胜利。他们战胜了恶劣的环境，孕育了独特的文明，即使在十九世纪晚期，在那个强迫劳工和天花恶疾导致人口减少到只剩111人的黑暗时代里，他们仍然坚持不懈，自强不息。 我怀着对这片与世隔绝的神秘土地的赞美而来。虽然它的过去仍被谜团包裹，但拉帕努伊岛仍是个非常真实的地方，充满生气并不断变化着。我再也不因其他游客的存在而失望。地理的距离并不能阻隔身处这远不完美，却紧紧相连的世界的我们。明白这一点，让我身心舒畅，让我不再如此孤独。 |
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