This past week I have been fortunate enough to make it to what is often stated as the most isolated island in the world. With it’s nearest neighbors a 5-6 hour flight away, you find Easter Island. Somewhere between Chile and Tahiti. And it is so magical I doubt my words will be sufficient to explain. For those who have been to Machu Picchu, the whole island has that sort of feel. It has an engery, a magic. And you can feel it anywhere and everywhere.
It seemed to get off to a rocky start when I found myself waiting in line behind all my fellow passengers to make it to the two immigration officers. In what felt like hours, I found myself leaving the airport with a ticket to the two national parks, a stamp in my passport, my bags scanned, and a flower necklace around my neck waiting with my fellow campers.
I stayed at Camping Minihoa, which as the name implies, was a camping joint. For about $11 a night, the cheapest I might add on the Island, you could sleep in a rented tent with a stunning view of the sunset everyday and wifi. I thought it was a pretty sweet deal. And while their are lots of things to see and do on Easter Island, I was really exhausted. My whirlwind trip to Bolivia and back to Ollantaytambo left me tired and weary. So I slept. In fact, my very first day their all I did was sleep. I passed out in my sleeping bag (also rented) and didn’t awake until nearly noon. I walked about for a bit, found the supermarket and returned for round two. I think I slept for about 15 hours.
Over the next few days I would pass the time watching the surfers in the harbour while contemplating life, going to see some historical sites around the island, and doing not much of anything too. I learnt about how the King of the island was choosen; this involved a three month training period, a 1400m swim (not a typo), climbing a cliff, waiting for a specific type of bird to lay an egg and swim back to the mainland again with the egg intact. Each tribe had one representative and the first person back would be the king.
The historical sites though are truly incredible. And while what you see is reconstructed (the tribes pulled them down after a king had a premonition that prompted him to tear them down), it still has significance. And the best part, for me was taking the tour with Kathy. A local who really cared about the preservation of the sites and the moai heads. She would spend her time telling us the significance of some rocks formed like boats (which were in fact former homes) and picking up cigarette butts from other people.
In talking to her about the significance and importance of the sites, I could just see the pride the Rapa Nui had of their culture and history. It was such a beautiful thing to see. And every local felt that way. It was evident when they spoke in Rapa Nui to each other. It was evident when they greeted each other. It was really beautiful. In places like Peru where often the most important sites of their history are relatively impossible for the poor to visit that wasn’t the case for the Rapa Nui. Their are many places where the people can go for free, and obviously they don’t pay as much as us tourists.
More importantly, I felt like they really wanted to share their culture with you, the foreigner. They wanted to see and appreciate their heritage. They wanted you to witness the mystery and be as confounded and marvel at it as they had. And it was really inclusive. It was open and friendly. It was evident from the lady, Raquel, who sold me my tomatoes and apples (which were freaking expensive, though gigantic), to the random people I met on the street.
And most importantly, I felt so safe. In every regard. Not that I was really on edge anywhere on this trip, nor has anything bad happened. But the peace and friendliness of the locals was so genuine that you couldn’t help but feel safe. And in my case, helpful. On Saturday I went to use the ATM and forgot to take my card with me when I left. And what happened? Someone brought it to the bank. No problems with the card, and I was able to walk back to the bank say I left my card and after presenting my passport I had it returned to me. But the best thing of all was I felt no fear. On this island, somehow their is a certain code of conduct and it was just so comforting.
And the worst thing that happened to me on the entire trip was that same fateful Saturday I left my debit card, I also was witness to the power of the wind from the North. I have never experienced a storm quite like it. The wind flapping my tent like it was a doll. The waves sounding more like cannon blasts against the waves than the same beautiful waves I watched just hours before. By the middle of the night, somewhere around four in the morning, my tent had had enough. And it collapsed.
Which really meant that I had two feet of space to pack up my wet belongings, put on some leggings, and get myself to the computer building. The comfy red couch was to be my bed for the remainder of the night. And I was left with the impression that packing up all your crap at such an early hour while slightly damp was a rather hilarious way to start your day.
While I only spent seven days in Easter Island, they were incredibly rewarding. I was able to spend some time focusing on something even greater. My return home.
After eight months, I know that I have changed. I know that my ideas about the world and how I fit in them have only been amplified and improved. And while I may have had a momentary feeling of dread that perhaps I had changed too much and that things back home might be more scary than I think, I realized something. No matter what happens, I’ll deal with it.
And after eight months, I know that I have been able to look after myself and that that won’t change when I go back home. Instead I’ll just be around my friends and family again, sharing the new and improved Madison. Should be interesting....
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