Anna gripped the sides of the motorcycle as it rumbled beneath her, the warm Pacific breeze tangling her hair. The bike, a sun-faded red with a license plate that read “LOCAL,” weaved along the winding roads of Easter Island, or Rapa Nui as the locals called it.

Her guide, Matías, wore a weathered leather jacket and a wide grin. “Hold tight!” he called over the roar of the engine as they crested a hill. The ocean stretched endlessly ahead, shimmering beneath the afternoon sun. The stone moai stood along the coast, silent and timeless, watching their journey

“Why does your plate say ‘LOCAL’?” she asked as Matías leaned against the bike. He chuckled. “Because here, ‘local’ isn’t just about where you were born. It’s about knowing the land, respecting its stories.” He gestured to the moai. “These faces have watched us for centuries. We’re all just passing through.” The engine growled to life, and they sped off, the “LOCAL” plate catching glints of sunlight as they became part of the island’s endless story.