Day 2. Orongo.

7am start. Finish the translation, then wander to the main part of Hanga Roa – the island’s only settlement, a spread out, dusty village. Do some map work, adding new restaurants and internet cafes to my existing map; the detailed reviews of eateries and accommodation will come later. Discover that while the internet café near the church does not have wi-fi, I can hook up my laptop to a cable in order to work. I notice that they charge the people who bring their own laptops exactly the same price as the customers who use their computers. Cheeky.

While I’m picking up some water at a nearby ‘supermarket’ (small shop that stocks some wilted vegetables, the ubiquitous Spam, and an impressive array of alcoholic beverages), I’m approached by a rumpled middle-aged guy who becomes really animated when learning that I’m from England. “Are you from London? My grandfather is from London!” This makes him a mainland Chilean, rather than an islander. Many Chileans have British ancestry; last year I was talking to Alan Bannister, the administrator of Parque Tantauco on the island of Chiloé, and he told me he gets upset when people mistake him for a gringo because of his appearance, even though he’s a Chilean born and bred. Anyway, this unshaven, scruffy ‘George Edmonds’, with stained teeth and one particularly pointed canine, then tells me that he’s a tour guide and that he would be happy to show me around the island. “I don’t want money,” he assures me. He only wants to offer ‘friendship’ to a ‘nice lady’ like myself. I tell him I’ll think about it and write down his number. When he asks where I’m staying and whether he can call me there, I’m dubious. I think that one of the reasons why I’m not yet dead in a ditch somewhere is because I trust my instincts about people, and there’s something a bit off about this guy.

This kind of reminds me of a time on Union Island in the Caribbean (population: one thousand) when a young Rasta wearing a string vest and reeking of B.O. approached me on the island’s only street and wanted to know which place I was staying in, and which room. I was really put off by his aggressive manner and told him: “No. If I want to, I’ll find you.” My impression was later confirmed by another Rasta, ‘The Lion’, who told me that Mr Smelly once had a Swiss girlfriend and that he beat her up badly, so she left him. I was just surprised he could find a girlfriend in the first place.

Maybe I’m wrong, or maybe I’d find myself in an uncomfortable situation where ‘Mr Edmonds’ will try something on and I’d rather not have to deal with that. If I had to be approached by an older man wanting to ‘make friendship’ with me, why couldn’t he have been an attractive one? Besides, I rather like the idea of seeing the moai at sunrise, with no one else there, so that I may appreciate the Easter Island civilisation in peace and try to imagine what the island was like in its heyday, before the islanders used up all existing resources for building and transporting these incredible stone statues, and overpopulation and lack of food led to war and ultimately the collapse of this unique civilisation.

On that note, I try to find transport for tomorrow along Atamu Tekena, one of the main streets, only to be told that my driver’s license will allow me to rent a Jeep or a quad bike, but not a scooter or a motorbike. Go figure. It looks like I’ll be exploring the island by quad bike.

Grabbing a seafood empanada (savoury filled pastry) from a bright green shack on the corner of Plaza Policarpo Toro, I rent a bicycle and head for the Orongo ceremonial village, up the Rano Kau volcano. Pedalling along the coast past huge Pacific swells breaking against black volcanic cliffs, I make a detour to check out the Ana Kai Tangata cave, down some steep steps by the crashing surf. The rock paintings of sea birds are remarkably well-preserved. A little way along the main road, a nature trail branches off into the undergrowth, leading up the volcano. It’s a Heritage Route, part of the Sendero de Chile – an ambitious project, the goal of which is to create a series of linked trails through parts of particular natural beauty, so that eventually people will be able to walk the whole length of the country along the Sendero de Chile. The well-marked trail wanders up gently through fields and eucalyptus groves and it would’ve been an even lovelier walk if I didn’t have to push my bike and if I weren’t so woefully out of shape. Collapsing in every available bit of shade, I hope that by the time I come to do the Inca Trail in two months’ time, some of this fat will have turned to muscle. The volcano certainly seems a lot bigger when you’re not driven up it in a 4WD.

Last time I was here, my two friends and I had the Orongo ceremonial village to ourselves because we came later in the afternoon. This time, I actually have to pay the national park entrance fee, and the CONAF ranger tells me that it’s his dream to visit Liverpool and Wales. Why? Because of the Beatles and Tom Jones, of course.

The village clings to the side of the great Rano Kau crater, with a reed-choked lake below. Where a chunk of the crater wall is missing, you can see the vivid blue of the Pacific. I admire the village houses made of closely overlapping stone slabs, with tiny entrances at the front and grass on the roofs. I’m tempted to try and crawl into one of the entrances just to see what the houses are like on the inside, but there are people around and it’s against the CONAF regulations. In the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, during the height of the cult of Tangata Manu (the Birdman), this is where the Birdman would have lived in complete seclusion for a year. Beyond the petroglyphs, depicting Tangata Manu, I can see the tiny islets of Motu Nui, Motu Iti and Motu Kau Kau. Each year, contestants would send their representatives to scramble down the cliff face from Orongo and then swim to the islands, using small reed rafts, braving the shark-infested waters. Rumour has it that they even tried to stab each other along the way. The man whose representative was the first man to find the egg of a Manutara (sooty tern) would then become the Birdman for a year – a position of great prestige.

Whereas it had taken me an hour and a half to ascend, the descent consists of an exhilarating, skull-rattling, bone-jarring, wind-in-your-face ride, which is murder on the wrists because the dirt road is pitted and had several potholes the size of Cumberland. I’m down in fifteen minutes, and that’s only because I was delayed by stopping at viewpoints to admire Hanga Roa and the coastline from above.

Later, a gaggle of visitors, including myself, are gathered just north of the village for the greatest show on the island: the sun setting behind three important moai sites. It really is quite something; I'll see if I can do this again on my last day. My favourite is Ahu Ko Te Riku – a solitary moai with a topknot and coral eyes, staring inland.

I cycle back past the picturesque cemetery. If my (formerly) favourite restaurant, Mehari Ra’a, had tuna ceviche (raw tuna with lemon juice and chilli), my day would have been complete. But no – I have to satisfy myself with tuna steak, even though I don’t understand why they couldn’t just turn it into ceviche rather than grill it.

The right pedal breaks off my godforsaken bike as I go to return it; just as well I didn’t keep it to do the inland loop tomorrow.

I walk back home along the ocean, listening to its terrific roar. There are no street lights there. Above me is the Milky Way and the stars are the brightest I’ve ever seen.