The ocean surrounding Easter Island is vast and great, so large it seems impossible that one could ever sail away and find a home away from home. Trees and animals fill the land to the very coast, a paradise, a home. This is where the Rapanui reside, a great Polynesian people, a great nation. They built great Moai to their gods. They ripped the trees from their roots, used them for rope, homes, fire and boat. Their people reached in the tens of thousands, vast and great. This is where the Rapanui reside, in their island, in an ocean so far from anything, so alone. They did not take notice to the consequences of destroying their land, they did not notice that the destruction of nature was the destruction their home, their paradise. For many generations they lived taking what they wanted from the island, and despite the changes their home had gone through they still did not change their ways. The droughts, the famine, the changes, in their home happening too slowly for them to notice in time. The lack of food, the starvation of the poor, the absence of other life. Even if some of them had known what was to come if they stayed their course it did not matter, and once the very last tree on Easter island was slain their fate was sealed. The death of an entire people, an extinction. This is where the Rapanui reside, in the dirt, in their tombs, lost, forgotten, the only thing left are their great Moai, and one day they will be gone too.