438 | ANNUAL REPORT SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION, 1944 
We saw Easter Island for the first time on a rainy day in winter. 
It was also my first sight of a Polynesian island. I did not expect, 
of course, to find the classic coconut palms and hibiscus, for I knew 
that the island was without trees or shrubs, but I certainly had not 
imagined that this outpost of the sunny islands in the South Seas 
would remind me, as it did at once, of the coasts of Sweden and 
Norway. When the cruiser on which we had made the voyage 
anchored off Hangaroa, the only modern village on the island, 
memories of Scandinavia came even more vividly into my mind as I 
examined through my field glasses the frame houses of the natives, 
which are of a type common in northern Europe. The capital of the 
legendary Easter Island looked, for all the world, like a humble fisher- 
men’s hamlet seen in a fog on the Baltic. 
I shall never forget that first day when we were anchored just off 
the little harbor. Gusts of wind drove long rollers against the shore 
with such force that they broke amid spouts of spray with a deep 
pounding. In front of the sandy cove, the waves piled up over a bar 
that, it seemed, nobody could cross. The natives gathered on the 
beach did not appear very eager to meet us, but the aranga, the cries 
which announce any important event, had sounded in the village, 
and from everywhere, on all the paths leading to the sea, we could 
see men on horseback coming at full speed. Near the boathouses a 
palaver was held, and on the outcome of that everything depended. 
The commander of the cruiser had decided that on no condition would 
he put us and our 90 boxes of equipment ashore. Our only hope for 
an immediate and safe landing lay with the natives. 
Suddenly we saw them rush to the boathouses, drag three canoes 
toward the sea, jump into them and disappear in the surf. We held 
our breath, expecting the canoes to capsize in their attempt to cross 
the bar. But after a short time, one, two, then all three surged up 
from the wall of water and headed toward our ship. The men were 
received with cheers, a well-deserved tribute to their courage and 
skill. 
When the canoes reached our ship we saw that they were full of 
natives wearing the most surprising disguises. The majority were 
dressed in old uniforms of the Chilean navy. In one canoe there 
were, it appeared, lieutenants, admirals, surgeons, and engineers. A 
few had also put on feather headdresses, similar to those in which 
their ancestors had received Captain Cook, but they wore them merely 
as an advertisement of the native wares of all kinds which they wished 
to trade for shirts and sailors’ caps. 
Each time I find myself using the word “natives” for the modern 
inhabitants of Easter Island, I have a hesitant feeling, just as hesi- 
tant as on that day when I first saw their faces over the railing. I 
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