Where would a heathen like myself be on a Sunday morning? Why, attending mass in a Catholic Polynesian church, of course! I may not be a believer, but that doesn’t stop me from enjoying the music at the odd religious service.
The church in Hanga Roa is very informal; when the bell tolls, everyone walks in unhurriedly; people wander in and out; some prefer to listen to the service from the steps outside the church. There’s giant seashell filled with water on each side of the entrance; as the congregation files in, they dip their fingers in and cross themselves. Unlike all the other Catholic churches I’ve ever been in, this one isn’t gaudy: apart from a few paintings depicting the crucifixion, the only other decorations are large wooden carvings, including a striking on of Jesus on the cross. I sit through several guitar-led hymns, including a Spanish version of ‘Amazing Grace’ and scuttle out before they take communion, or whatever else Catholics do.
Not bad, though not as rousing as the powerful hymns I heard in a church in Times Square, NY, after I’d made friends with a Sri Lankan Christian, Suneel Mutusammy, while hiking in the Arizona desert on my nineteenth birthday. At that church we had the works: people throwing their hands up to ‘receive the spirit’, people rolling on the floor in ecstasy…I even went to an Ethiopian restaurant with some of the guys, but after one of them, Tennyson Chase, commented how terrible it is to see homosexuality on TV ‘as if it’s okay’, things quickly soured.
Today’s the day for my less favourite task: reviewing accommodation. I’m good at reviewing eateries because I’m a foodie and I know exactly what I’m looking for. I’m good at map work because the nerd in me loves maps and there’s something very satisfying about walking around, marking everything on in exactly the right place, and then doing the final copy later using my multicoloured felt tip pens: green for ‘delete’, yellow for ‘add’ and blue for ‘change.’ (Speaking of which, I need to find out if I can do a map of Hanga Roa from scratch as the one I’ve been given is rife with mistakes). I’m good at nature-related stuff because I love being outdoors and while I’m not terribly fit, I have plenty of endurance, and enjoy trying new outdoor sports and reviewing hiking trails. But reviewing accommodation means having to override my solitary nature, to formally talk to hostel and B&B owners (as opposed to informal chat with strangers in bars), to flash my letter of introduction, to explain the purpose of my visit, to give out my business card – all in my less-than-perfect Spanish. I’m certainly fluent enough, but the fact that I make mistakes makes me doubly reticent.
Still, I make my rounds and am semi-satisfied by the results, because there doesn’t seem to be a single choice worthy of my ‘author pick’ accolade. The friendliest and most helpful proprietor has the least exciting accommodation – identical rooms with décor reminiscent of a dentist’s waiting room, whereas several other places including Ana Rapu, where I’m staying, have lush vegetation and character, but the ownership is complacent, there’s nothing exceptional and it’s all rather pricey for what it is, compared to the Chilean mainland.
How do we pick which places to check out? It's part checking out the recommended ones from the previous edition, part wandering around and investigating ones that catch your eye, part reading what the competition's written and part preliminary research on the internet before leaving home, to see what's particularly popular.
I fail in my mission to find the house of the honorary British consul (apparently we’re the only country to have representation on Easter Island) because none of the houses in Hanga Roa are labelled, so I walk up and down Tu’u Koihu with no success. I don’t know what I was expecting – perhaps a British flag flying in the front garden. I just wanted to chat to him and find out what he does when he isn’t rescuing Brits in distress.
Allowing myself a short break in the afternoon, I write postcards to send to my inmate friends and rehydrate myself with a huge guava juice at La Esquina. This one’s going in the book as well; most places charge an arm and a leg for fresh fruit juice, and here at least they serve it in enormous glasses. I dread to think how much money I’ve spent on fruit juice.
On the football pitch by the pier, Caleta Hanga Roa, there’s a serious football match going on and spectators have gathered under the burning sun. A few people are swimming off the tiny beach, Playa Pea. A sea turtle is battling the undertow near the shore and boogie boarders are playing in the waves further out. Later in the afternoon, when the waves are bigger, the sea is teeming with local surfers. A couple of locals ride their horses out of town and the local dogs chase them, barking.
I wonder what the surfers, the football players, the Kari Kari dancers, the teenage boys who ride their horses to the local disco – what they all make of their history, of the annual influx of visitors, of the mystery surrounding the moai, of their ancestors’ reputation for being the finest navigators in the world, of their violent island history: of the massacres and the cannibalism, of the injustices perpetuated by the Europeans. I bet that just like New Yorkers don’t visit the Statue of Liberty, the Hanga Roa youths don’t visit Rano Raraku.
The weather changes. We’re hit by a short tropical storm and after it’s over, heavy clouds remain. My mood darkens with the weather. Over dinner, I try to figure out why. I think it’s partly because I have to leave for the mainland tomorrow and I’ve begun to put down roots. People are such creatures of habit and four days have been more than enough for me to settle into village life, to eat at the same place more than once, thus making it ‘my local’, and now I have to uproot myself, to pack and move, pack and move. The first time I researched Chile, four days was the longest I stayed anywhere and I managed to put down roots in San Pedro de Atacama to the point where a local family of dogs adopted me and even walked me to the bus station en masse when I was leaving.
That, and it’s occurred to me that it’s the first time ever that I’ve been completely and utterly unattached: there’s no one on my radar, no troubled man waiting for my call in San Diego, no one for me to worry about or to look forward to seeing. I’m untethered. James Blunt’s ‘Goodbye My Lover’ is playing at Au Bout Du Monde. Appropriate.
The rest of the evening is spent trying to decypher my chiken scrawl in my notebook and typing up my findings.
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