There must be more birds here than on whole continents. They’re perched side by side on branches like church choirs or warbling solo from mossy mounds like happy drunks in an alley. They seem to have no fear at all of humans, and as we walk, parakeets and hummingbirds land on our shoulders and twitter encouragingly in our ears.

“What is this place?” I ask Eko in an awed whisper.

“I don’t know,” she admits. “The People of the Forest don’t have a name for it. In their legends, the spirits of the rain forest have lived here since time began.”

Perhaps those spirits once had physical presences, and were worshipped by ancient forest dwellers. That might explain the dozens of imposing statues that look down on us as we press forward.

They remind me of the stone statues on Easter Island—humanlike faces on pedestals that resemble torsos. Each face is distinct, as if the ancient artists were striving to capture personalizing qualities like strength, courage, and compassion. The smallest of the monoliths are ten feet high; the largest must be thirty feet and weigh fifteen tons. I can’t fathom the work it must have taken to carve and transport them. It seems impossible for humans to have done it without modern technology, but then I recall the pyramids of Egypt, built thousands of years ago.

The shaman, the old woman, and the warriors pause each time we come to a statue. The warriors seem bewildered and frightened and bow slightly as if in obeisance. The medicine man scrutinizes the carved faces and sings softly to them, perhaps reciting prayers. And the old woman simply smiles up at them like they’re long-lost friends.

Near the center of the island is a stand of giant trees, with trunks so thick that two-lane roads could be cut through them. I look up their straight, spiked trunks to the top where majestic crowns of branches explode into color with green leaves and creamy pink flowers.

“Are they redwoods?” I ask Eko.

“Kapok trees,” she tells me. “Thousands of years old and sacred. The Mayans called them the trees of life, and believed that their roots reached down to the underworld, and their branches supported the heavens.”

In the center of the stand of kapok trees sits a statue that is much larger than all the rest. It could almost be a rain-washed hill or a wind-chiseled crag. I look up and study the gaunt, shadowy visage. The hollow eyes and angular nose and mouth somehow manage to convey an impression of both strength and kindness, and also a sort of tolerant melancholy, as if this great forest spirit is resigned to the foolishness around him.