Day 6 - my real last day on the island.

7am start. Frenzy of packing because I left it ‘til the last minute. Rush to post office to send my postcards. Rush to the tourist office to double-check whether camping is allowed anywhere apart from Hanga Roa because they used to allow it at Anakena Beach and Rano Raraku. It isn’t. It must be unofficially allowed, though; I’ve seen a bunch of tents in various parts of the island.

Go to pay my landlady. Happen to glance at my plane ticket and discover that I’ve been booked for tomorrow’s flight rather than today’s. At a bit of a loss because once I’ve packed, I mentally moved on to my next task, my next location.

Decide to rent Lawnmower again and see if I can visit the remote peninsula Poike at the other end of the island - there’s a volcano to be climbed and a cave where they allegedly used to imprison virgins to keep their skin milky white. As I’m walking down Atamu Tekena, I see a severe-looking man. His face breaks into a smile when he sees me and he greets me in English. I realise that it’s ‘George Edmunds’ and he no longer looks unshaven or snaggle-toothed. I’m embarrassed because I haven’t called him, so I make my excuses and scarper. I think I’ve made a mistake by not taking him up on his offer of a tour of the island, for two reasons: my second impression of him is far more favourable than the first, and also, I’ve seen some graffiti mentioning Pedro Pablo Edmunds, the governor of Rapa Nui (I’m pretty sure he told me that his Spanish name is Pedro Pablo). It seems that I may have read negative connotations into a genuine offer of friendship from a reputable citizen. What happened to my spirit of adventure? What happened to talking to complete strangers on the road? When did I become so jaded and guarded? I feel a monumental tit.

I turn around and try to find him, but to no avail. The old men sitting in Plazuela Policarpo Toro see that I’m walking back and forth and offer to help. They don’t know ‘George Edmunds’, though, so I try the number he gave me. It rings but he never picks up.

I drive though the light rain on Lawnmower II until I reach the far peninsula. The only way to go up the volcano seems to be via a farm at its foot; the rest of the land is fenced off with barbed wire. The weather’s getting worse. I can hear a dog barking and decide to do Peninsula Poike next time I’m on the island, partly because I lose my nerve, and partly because the peninsula’s main attractions are best seen with a guide. I head for nearby Rano Raraku instead. There’s no such thing as seeing the birthplace of the moai too many times.

The CONAF ranger informs me that my Rapa Nui National Park ticket is valid only for one visit to each attraction, but he relents and waves me through. I think it’s a silly rule. For starters, since most people visit Easter Island once in their lives, I doubt they have many visitors who visit any attraction more than once, and they should commend repeat visitors rather than discourage them.

I take the left branch of the path, which climbs up into the massive Rano Raraku crater itself. In the middle is an overgrown lake, and a footpath runs up to the crater rim, winding between moai heads. Last time, Christina, Simon and went all the way up for a great view of Ahu Tongariki in the distance; now there’s a sign by the path, saying that visitors must not proceed unless accompanied by a guide or a CONAF ranger. I decide to disregard that on the grounds that I’m a responsible visitor who won’t stray from the path, won’t climb on the moai or vandalise them. In 2008, a jackass Finnish tourist was caught trying to break of an ear of a small moai to take home as a souvenir, so CONAF is getting stricter. I’m nothing like the Finnish guy. Halfway up, a foreign archaeologist is engaged in some excavation work. Two moai are being dug up so that they can be documented and so that the petroglyphs on their backs can be photographed.

The trail divides. I take the branch leading up, ignoring the crossed-out arrow and briefly enjoy the expansive view over the coastline before I become aware of a figure standing by the entrance to the crater, looking suspiciously like a CONAF ranger. I’m sure I’m going to get bollocked, so to delay the inevitable, I take the other trail that goes all the way around the lake. The young grass growing on the trail suggests that no one’s been this way for a while. I slip on a steep, muddy downhill bit. Half of me is completely covered in mud. It’s probably karmic comeuppance for my acts of disobedience. There’s no ranger waiting for me at the other end, but I decide not to revisit the main quarry bit.

Lunch at Anakena Beach. My meat on a stick helps me make new feline and canine friends. The nice thing about Chile is that none of the leftovers are ever wasted; there are always hungry creatures waiting to hoover up the remains. Chile has lots of stray dogs because they think it's immoral to chop the balls off any animal and also because people tend to set their pets loose after they get fed up with them. As a result, most dogs are friendly, placid and well -looked after, unlike the snarling or cowering beasts in the Caribbean or poorer Latin American countries. 

Enjoy the drive back towards Hanga Roa; it’s the only road on the island that’s in good enough condition to really speed up, and Lawnmower II flies through sunlit pastures and eucalyptus groves at over 30mph. In hindsight, a quad bike is the best possible vehicle on which to explore the island, since its suspension handles rough terrain better than a 4WD and driving on most of the island’s roads certainly counts as off-road driving due to the bad conditions.

I pay a second visit to Orongo because on my first day, I forgot to take the iconic Birdman-petroglyph-and-islands-beyond photo and this afternoon the weather’s perfect. Looking out at the tiny islets, I still don't understand how the islanders could've waited there for days/weeks for the first Manutara egg of the season: there is no shelter or shade and where on earth would they get drinking water?

If anyone were watching, they would've seen a small, helmeted figure, cackling with glee while bouncing down the volcano road at reckless speed. I come away very satisfied, even more so because I manage to make it to the sunset viewing straight after that. I sprint all the way up the coastal road as the sun sinks below the horizon. It’s even more beautiful than on my first day and there’s an even bigger crowd. This is a much better last day on the island than yesterday.

If I don’t put my dinner choice of Te Moana in the guidebook, it’s only because it’s not a budget place; the fish in a Dijon mustard sauce with figs was very satisfying. You gotta love Rapa Nui menus: the local names for sea creatures are most entertaining. ‘Mahi mahi’ is dorado, one of my favourite fish, while ‘rape rape’ is not, in fact, a double sexual violation: it’s lobster.

Try to call ‘George Edmunds’ again. Phone switched off. I will now wonder what adventure I would have had, had I taken him up on his offer, until the next time I return to the island...