They were mute sentinels, erect and precisely positioned, and yet cartoonish with long faces and pouty lips. Chris posed with one. I hugged one. Windows down in the equatorial heat, we drove the entire island to see as many as we could, barreling over grasslands and fiery terra-cotta soil, braking to avoid the freely roaming stallions and pregnant mares. Of the 887 moai, estimated at 600 years old, only a third ever stood upright. Most slumber in the Rano Raraku quarry, a graveyard of honored ancestors who never made it to seaside pedestals.