Before I left to Rapa Nui, I wanted to get a watch. There were weeks when I day-dreamt of a self-designed wooden one, whose fine needles would be comforting and compassionate as they pillowed anxieties and reminded me that the length of the second stays the same no matter how nice or horrific I could feel. I forgot to get it, and landed on the island watch-less.

Living in the island without a watch turned out to be a non-issue, as I became used to other parameters of constancy. The crowing of the hens and cocks every morning has been the opening number of my days, which usually end with a barking match by the neighborhood dogs at around 12.30am. I can generally tell its either 10am or 1pm when I hear or see the daily plane. Throughout the day, the church bells—which can be heard from anywhere in town— clearly remind me that time is passing, and that I could have been confessed and saved during the last 60 minutes.

Every evening, at around 7pm I begin to hear the orchestra of drums, slightly distant but sharp. The kari kari show, “the cultural ballet of Rapa Nui”, plays on Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays at 8pm, a couple of houses away. I was already acquainted with the schedule of their drum show before I finally went to see it 2 months after arriving— I had cooked countless dinners to its soundtrack. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays a different show, Varu’a O, plays their pieces, also elevated by drums. On Sundays I don't know who it is that plays, but some spirits bang around those drums 7 days a week. At first I would sharply notice the drums and wonder if I would be able to concentrate on anything until the show was done. But after a few weeks the beat started to blend into the collective familiarity that enveloped me without having to acknowledge it. After watching the show and seeing those beautiful people move their bodies to the sound I had dwelled in superficially before, I came to hear the beating as more in tune with my heart’s.