But we lost. The strongest evidence of the defeat is encircling: sepulchral silence resting over our homes. Today, February 16th, is the last day of the Tapati and the coronation of the Uka and ‘Aito, and the crowns will land on our opponents’ heads. Today half of the island will be bacchanalian in celebration, the other half—ours—in mourning.

As I sit in my cabin, I realize that for months I have been in the sonic center of a seemingly endless party, huddled in the corner of an acoustic pandora box. For six months, I have lived at the core of Tapati preparations, adopted as a Rapu Tuki. For six months, I woke up to and went to sleep lulled by a mix of chainsaws, chicken crows, guitar playing, children’s laughter and cries, radio songs—ranging from 70s disco, to 90s feel-good songs, to ancestral Rapa nui chants, to modern Tahitian electronic music— and unfaltering dog barking matches. It was an inexhaustible and exhausting feast also including food and friends and fiascos and family drama.

Today, I woke up confused and lost. There was no conversation in Rapanui from the next door neighbors—my morning compass as I exited the land of dreams and entered the navel of the world. Today, there was no chainsaw— confirmation that the sculptors were not working on their tree trunks, ceasing to be the bane of my existence on mornings and afternoons when a migraine would set in. There were no cries or laughter from infants or adults, no singing or yelling or fighting. Even the dogs understood that today was different. The Tapati is done, and for the first time in decades, the Rapu Tuki family has lost. Only the birds sing as usual.