Wild horses, white sand beaches, world-class scuba, and even a high-end hotel or two? Jennifer Finney Boylan reports on the making of a most unlikely global hot spot: Easter Island

It was just before sunset on the rim of the Rano Kau Volcano when my guide, Senga, told me about Red Bull's designs on the ancient birdman cult. We'd hiked here to check out the village of Orongo, where back in the day the men of Easter Island would gather to perform a peculiar ritual—part sacred ceremony, part Amazing Race. The hopu (birdman candidates) would run down the side of the volcano, plunge into the sea, swim one and a quarter miles out to the little island of Motu Nui, retrieve an egg laid by a tern, and return to Orongo. The first contestant to cross the finish line with his egg unbroken would rule for the next year as tangata manu, the birdman of Easter Island. What an unusual system for selecting a representative government, I thought. But then I considered America and wondered if a birdman competition was really any worse than our electoral college. That was when Senga told me how Red Bull figured in the picture.

"You know of it?" he asked. "Energy drink."

I told him I knew all about it.

"They came out last year," he said. "They are testing to see if they can bring it back."

"Bring what back?"

"Bring back birdman competition—as extreme sport. Gather men here, have them swim out and get egg." He smiled. "Sounds exciting, eh?"

"But this is a sacred ritual," I said. "What do you think of an energy-drink company coming here and starting it all up again for the publicity, as entertainment?"

"I don't know," said Senga, a good-looking, fierce young man with a tattoo of a lizard on one leg. He was staring at Motu Nui.

"If they do this, will you enter the contest?"

"Of course," he said, with a huge smile. "I will be the first to enter! And I will win and rule as birdman! Have the virgins! Drink the Red Bull!"

Senga gave me the thumbs-up sign. And at that moment, it was clear: He would make an excellent birdman. He'd get my vote, anyhow.

I'd first heard about Easter Island (more properly known by its native name, Rapa Nui) as a child, when I came upon a copy of Thor Heyerdahl's Aku-Aku. It contained astonishing photographs—guys in caves surrounded by skulls; volcanoes, their craters filled with lakes; and, on the cover, a giant stone head, or moai, protruding from the earth. In the photo, the Norwegian Heyerdahl is looking up at the head in amazement.

"Hey, Mom," I said, pointing to the pictures. "I want to go here someday."

"To Easter Island?" she asked. "Why?"

"Because it's so strange," I said. "And because it's so far away."

Last spring, as I boarded a 767 in Santiago, Chile, bound for Easter Island, I couldn't believe that there were other people on the flight. Like everyone else, I'd been exposed to images of the island over the years—so many that at times I felt as though I'd already been there. Most recently, I'd read a book by Jared Diamond that cites Easter Island as an example of what happens when a society exhausts its natural resources. The title says it all: Collapse.