Day 7 - travelling day and night.

I really am leaving Easter Island; I’ve triple-checked my ticket. Don’t feel as if I’ve really ‘done Easter Island’. While I’ve certainly covered all the main attractions and practicalities, I don’t feel I’ve immersed myself in the culture; ideally, I’d like to come back for the annual Tapati festival in February, when islanders partake in traditional sports, such as canoe racing and tobogganing down a hill on a rough sledge made of banana tree trunks, and stay for at least two weeks. I also want to ride up to the highest point on the island (Mount Terevaka) on horseback, hike the Poike peninsula and eat traditional curanto – meat and shellfish slow-cooked on hot stones in an earth pit.

I’ve been reading the latest Lonely Planet guide to Chile. What a difference a bigger budget makes! They can afford to send five writers to Chile, who can then afford to spend weeks and weeks doing their particular section, whereas the last Rough Guide to Chile was done by myself and another writer, on a much smaller budget.

I chat to the taxi driver on the way to the Mataveri airport; she’s a mainland Chilena with German roots, who tells me that next time I must stay at least a month ‘to learn the mysteries of the island’.

Since I’m three hours early (return flights to Santiago tend to be overbooked), I wander back into Hanga Roa after checking in, buy some sopaipillas (tasty things made of dough) for the road and to try and call ‘George Edmunds’ again. No luck.

On the flight back to the mainland I type up some of my research, though am distracted by the incessant fidgeting of the kid sitting next to me. A middle-aged man, wandering around with the blank bovine stare of a dementia patient, is constantly chased by the nurse travelling with him.

Since my time is limited, and I'm already a day behind schedule, I’m travelling overnight to Pucón, a mountain town in the heart of Araucanía, or the Chilean Lake District. At Santiago airport I gaze wistfully at the Tur Bus that takes passengers straight to the main bus station, but travelling on a budget and overspending on Easter Island means taking the Centropuerto bus into the city for a third of the price, but with the additional discomfort of having to then take the Metro from Los Heroés to Universidad de Santiago and having to lug 30kg of travel gear up and down stairs. Luckily, the Centropuerto bus passes all along the Alameda, Santiago’s main artery, and it turns out that I can get dropped off the bus station anyway.

Dinner is a Chilean-style hot dog, meaning it’s smothered in mushy avocado with copious amounts of mayo. Yum yum.

I’m approached in quick succession by a boy selling rosary beads (I thought that child employment was prohibited in Chile) and by a shifty-looking young man holding out his deformed hand; the inside of his arm bears the telltale scars of a serial self-harmer. I shake my head both times. One of the reasons I prefer to give handouts to animals rather than people is because those transactions are not complicated by feelings of resentment. I feed a dog and it’s happy. I do, however, give all my spare change to little old ladies in Eastern Europe. I’ve heard people say that those old ladies are part of some organised gang, that they don’t need the money and that they all drive Mercedes, but I see no evidence of that and it really gets me that someone frail and elderly should stand on a street corner with an outstretched hand instead of enjoying their retirement.

My ride to Pucón is a luxurious semi-cama bus, where the plush seats really recline, and there’s an attendant at hand to give you a blanket, pillow and breakfast. A ten-hour ride for a bargain off-season price of just over £10. Eat your heart out, National Express!