Day 3 - I'm put in charge of a small motorised vehicle.

Inexplicably wide awake just before 5am. Decide to do a bit of writing. When I wake up a second time, it’s 9.30 and way too late to do the inland loop like I originally planned. The last time I was on Easter Island, I went in the middle of the day, without a hat, with an inadequate supply of water and a map which was way off with its timings. It was a long and miserable bike ride under the burning sun (the lack of shade on the island being a serious problem), after which I collapsed in a pathetic heap under the only bush by Ahu Akivi – the only inland moai site - watching enviously as tourists emerged from their air-conditioned minivans and by the evening I realised I had sun stroke. Determined not to repeat that mistake, I was planning on setting off early. Never mind. Change of plan.


Renting a bike from Make Make Rental on Atamu Tekena, I ride around Hanga Roa and make adjustments to my map. I discover that what I’d erroneously labelled ‘cinema’ last time is in fact a screening room, which is still showing “Rapa Nui”, directed by Kevin Costner, three times a week.

I also take this opportunity to do a spot of shopping; I’ve been asked to bring back a moai kavakava – a wooden carving of a gaunt man, thought to represent a spirit of the dead. It’s not the most popular souvenir; most people seem to prefer moai carved out of anything – from soapstone to flimsy wood – but I do manage to find a couple that fit the bill. The sellers offer me discounts if I pay with cash, and direct me to the new Santander bank on a bend in the coastal road. It’s about time! Last time I was amazed how an island that receives 30,000 visitors per year did not have a cash machine that accepted Visa; only Mastercard. Queuing for hours to withdraw money in person was not my idea of a good time.

The Santander cash machine rejects my card. I find a call centre and have another, rather more expensive chat with Nationwide. They claim it’s not their fault this time and, funnily enough, when I try the cash machine again, it works. I am now the proud owner of an emaciated-looking male figure.

Lunch – tuna ceviche at Café Ra’a. There are few things better in the world than well-seasoned raw tuna in lemon juice with chilli, onions and peppers. Bliss. And the watermelon juice is the best fruit juice I’ve had since Thailand. This one’s going in the guide.

Siesta time.

When I rent my quad bike from Oceanic on Atamu Tekena, I’m quickly shown how to operate it and then I’m on my own. There’s no insurance on the island, so it’s in my interests to drive carefully; if I crash, I’m royally buggered. Am off to a shaky start; have to get used to hooking my left foot under the pedal to change gears, and the whole thing doesn’t seem very stable, but as I pick up speed on the road leading across the island to Anakena beach, I’m soon able to tell from the roar of the motor whether I’m in the correct gear or not. I deliberately didn’t want to rent a car because I didn’t want to be isolated from my environment and I’m certainly not in this case: a strong gust of wind almost blows me off the road.

The lovely paved road to Anakena meanders through eucalyptus groves, along pastures, past the odd hamlet. Towards the other end of the island a large hill, that looks like a giant green breast, has tiny wild horses grazing on it.

Anakena is one of two proper beaches on the island – with pristine white sand, palm trees, shacks selling chorizos in a bun, and two important ahus (ceremonial platforms) with erect moai. I’m there at the wrong time of day; the faces of the moai are in the shade, and I want a better photo opportunity. Must come back tomorrow.

The other beach, Ovahe, is practically next door, though it’s smaller and ridden with dangers; the last time I was there, I fell into an underwater pothole and almost twisted my ankle.

I carry on to Ahu Tongariki – the largest moai site sporting fifteen moai which were re-erected with the help of a Japanese company in the 1990s. Only one of the moai wears a red stone topknot, though there are more lying around. Historians still don’t know how the islanders managed to place the huge stone topknots on the heads of the huge stone statues or what exactly they represent. It may be headgear or a hairstyle and they may have been roped to the heads of the statues. My timing is spot-on; the setting sun bathes the moai in a lovely golden light.

You may think: you’ve seen one moai, you’re seen them all, but it not so. They may look similar – elongated ears, aquiline noses – but each time I’m impressed just how much work and effort it must have taken to chisen them our using nothing but basalt chisels and transport and erect them without the help of modern machinery. They were an obsession that lasted eight centuries! The island was completely stripped of trees and the islanders ran out of food, but the carving had to go on!

I try to visit Rano Raraku – the quarry where the moai were carved - but am turned away at the entrance by one of the CONAF rangers. She apologetically tells me that they ‘shut’ at 6. Bugger. From where I’m standing, I can see that sunset is the best time to see the moai, but I’m out of luck. I dawdle, thinking I could perhaps sneak in once they’ve gone and take a few photos in solitude, but as if they’ve read my mind, they tell me to move along and follow me back to the main road.

Driving back at sunset is just wonderful; I’m pretty much alone on the road, the setting sun’s rays give the crashing waves and the clouds a pinkish tint, and the ocean breeze invigorates me. I feel the need to name my steed and finally settle on “Lawnmower”, because riding it is not unlike riding a motorised lawnmower, though much faster. Need a suitable title for myself. I like “Born To Be Wild”, though “Born To Ride Motorised Lawnmowers” is more appropriate, and “Born To Hit Every Pothole On The Island” is spot-on. Parts of the coastal road are in terrible condition, but luckily, that’s what my vehicle is made for.

Besides potholes, I have to watch out for wild horses, whose preferred grazing seems to be by the roadside, great steaming piles of horseshit and other road users. When they overtake me, they leave in their wake a cloud of red dust that clings to everything, especially my sun cream. By the end of the day, I’m coated in grime and when I run my hand through my hair, it turns black.

In the evening there’s a power cut. Just as well I always carry a torch. I end up eating at the posh “Taverne Du Pecheur” because it seems to be the only place to have emergency lighting. It’s a bit hit-and-miss, the fat irascible French owner is rather abrupt, and he automatically adds the tip to the menu, which is bad form, but the grilled mahi mahi with sixteen veg is just right. The texture of the fish reminds me of tuna or swordfish, and the island vegetables - taro and sweet potato – are a welcome change from insipid lettuce that seems to make it onto every plate in Chile.

Then it’s time to write up my work, read “The Mysteries of Easter Island” and plan tomorrow before I allow myself a treat: a chapter from Frederick Forsyth’s “The Deceiver.”