An Easter Island stone head, called a moai, with its back to the sea like all moai on the island, seems to stand guard over the authors boat, the mizzen of which can be seen flying the Dutch ensign.
In thick weather and only two miles off Easter Island's north coast, we perceived the black rocky shores looming up from under the low clouds. This could have been anywhere along the coast of Newfoundland and definitely was not what we had expected as our first Polynesian island. Except for the last couple of days, the journey from the Galapagos was a pleasant one. Starting off with a southerly wind, we could not steer a direct course. From the monthly pilot charts, we knew that the farther south we went, the trade winds would back toward the east, so we let Terra Nova roam along at 60° off the wind, a course it likes very much. Two weeks of leisurely sailing followed — for days at a time not a sheet had to be touched. Little white-bellied storm petrels frisked around. Always one of their legs touching the water, the petrels almost seemed to be riding scooters. They were amusing little creatures in the middle of the big ocean. To prove that nowhere is perfect, an approaching squall every now and again woke us into action. Another bit of exercise we had was when the stainless-steel pin that fixes the wind-vane pendulum to the shaft came loose. Another example of the poor combination of aluminum and stainless steel in a salty environment. The trade winds left us at about 24° south, some 200 miles north of Easter Island. We came back into the low-pressure zone we know so well from its twin in the North Atlantic. Here, in the Southern Hemisphere, however, the winds around the pressure systems behave in the opposite way from their brothers in the Northern Hemisphere. Around a high-pressure area, the winds go counterclockwise, and consequently, around a depression they circle in a clockwise direction. Under the lee of Easter Island, the sea abated, and we hoped for a more-or-less quiet anchorage near Hanga Roa, the only village. From our landfall, it was only four miles to the anchorage, but just too far to arrive in daylight. In the fading light, I imagined to see the first of the famous Easter Island statues staring at us from above. The binoculars were not much help; the approaching night absorbed the black stone image. To make our arrival even more dramatic, a torrential rain shower flattened the sea and hid the island again from our view. A group of lights puzzled us, but it turned out to be a small freighter anchored off the small harbor. The dent in the coast at Hanga Roa can hardly be described as a bay, but to our delight it gave us a reasonably good shelter in this strong southeasterly. Our 110-pound Bruce anchor found a sandy patch in the mainly rocky bottom 46 feet below Terra Nova's keel. Because we were still in the watch routine of four hours on, four hours off, one of us almost automatically woke up every now and then to have a look around. The lights ashore and the freighter a bit farther out gave good reference points. Misleading marks A new day welcomed us with a hesitating sun, and we had our first clear view of the island. And we saw our first moai, as the Easter Island statues are called. A row of five was standing proud just north of the village, and a bit farther on we saw two more. We were not given much time to enjoy the panorama, because even before breakfast a 26-foot-long open fishing boat came alongside Terra Nova. The authorities wanted to know why we hadn't checked in by VHF last night. Why didn't we respond to their calls this morning? This was our acquaintance with the Armada, the Chilean navy. Having voyaged recently in areas where the communication with the authorities was not so well organized, we had forgotten completely about checking in with authorities on our VHF. But we had entered Chilean waters and had to follow certain rules. Luckily, however, we didn't feel restricted in our movements. We quickly handled the formalities. In Chile, the capitania del puerto is a task of the Armada. A form that we had prepared in Spanish showing all the necessary information about Terra Nova and the crew was a big help. The weather can change fast and the anchorage can become a dangerous lee shore within a couple of hours. In which case, a yacht would have to move to an anchorage on the other side of the island. Ultimately, however, there are no all-weather anchorages at Easter Island, one always has to be prepared to run off to sea. "Are we allowed to go into the small harbor of Hanga Piko?" we asked the Armada. After some consulting with their base, we received an answer: "Yes, but you need to have a pilot onboard since the entrance to Hanga Piko is muy peligroso. The cost is $100 U.S. one way. And you have to have the pilot when leaving as well." We started to negotiate the price, and after speaking to somebody on the VHF, the Armada man told us that the pilot, a local fisherman, would guide us in for $50. We agreed on that, hoping that leaving on our own eventually would not be a problem. The next morning a heavy, middle-aged Polynesian man hoisted himself over our lifelines. He introduced himself in Spanish as Timo and obviously knew what he was doing: "Have a stern anchor and three long lines ready before we enter the harbor, because there is not much room to maneuver." It was only about a mile to the entrance, and during that short trip, Timo had a loud and boastful conversation in a Polynesian language with the man who brought him over and was following us in his open fishing boat. But then, in sight of the harbor entrance, Timo concentrated on his job, commanding small course corrections to Corri at the helm. "Look, do you see these leading marks onshore? Well, if you had followed their line, you would have gone right over those rocks there, which are just awash! The Armada who put them there would not listen to us fishermen." This was our first indication of an ongoing friction between the Polynesians and what they consider the Chilean occupation forces. A welcoming party stood ready to help with our lines, and a young man was introduced to us by his friends as the son of Jacques Cousteau. And indeed there was a resemblance with the famous French explorer of the underwater world who visited Easter Island back in 1978. With our stern anchor to port, a long line to the other corner of the harbor and four long bowlines to the quay, we felt relatively safe. Only "relatively" because even though the weather was calm outside, there was a tremendous surge inside the harbor as the Pacific Ocean swells filled then emptied the harbor basin through the narrow entrance. During our week-long stay in Hanga Piko, we kept a close look at the weather. If the wind piped up from any direction in the west, it would be impossible to leave the harbor, since the seas would break right over the entrance. There are reports that yachts, being caught inside under these circumstances, experienced considerable problems like torn-out cleats and damaged topsides. When Timo left, we wanted to pay him, but he told us to wait for Don Victor Hugo, a Chilean man in a pickup truck. It became clear where a big part of the pilot fees ended up. Magical moai The village of Hanga Roa is where almost all of the 3,000 islanders live. In the beginning of the 20th century the whole island was under lease from the Chilean government by a wool-trading company. Everybody was forced to live in Hanga Roa; the village was fenced in, and the rest of the island became sheep country. We strolled through the village on a first reconnaissance. It is sprawled out over a substantial area, houses standing far apart in a lush of green foliage. From the waterfront ascending up to the church, we followed one of the main streets where there are many tourist shops all selling the same souvenirs: rows of stone moai reaching from 4 inches to about 3 feet high. They all look alike as if produced by a machine. An elderly woman sat in front of her little shop as her younger neighbor and colleague from across the street parked her for-rent Suzuki. "Buenos dias señora, como estas?" The younger woman was obviously interested in the latest gossip, but an abrupt "muy bien, gracias," quickly ended the conversation. Life on Easter Island is hard in the off tourist season. Some of the souvenir sellers had one or two rental cars and, after shopping around, we made a deal for the next day. Along the south shore we saw more ahus, but not before we came to Ahu Tongariki, close to the easternmost point, we did find upright-standing moai. Fifteen statues with their backs to the deep blue ocean and looking toward Rano Raraku, the volcano where they were created. The different moai, the largest more than 30 feet high, had narrow faces, broad faces, slim bodies and stout bodies. They had one thing in common, though: hands folded on their bellies. Rano Raraku was the birthplace of the statues. Getting closer to it, we met dozens of moai on the slopes of the volcano. Most of them upright, some half-buried in the sand, but all of them looked like they were underway to the coast, to their ahu. In the steep wall of the crater, half-finished statues can be found in a horizontal position, chiseled out of the soft grayish lava stone. We climbed over the rim, and yes, also along the inside of the crater dozens of standing moai waited to be moved. But how? But why? Why so many? Why did it all stop? Unfortunately, no one knows the answers to these questions. Isn't it good enough just to see it, experience it, feeling the magic that floats around this place? Anakena is a small bay on the north coast, the place where, according to legend, the first settlers landed. It is an idyllic place: white sandy beach, palm trees and two ahus where the moai have turned their backs to this beautiful scenery, standing facing inland. Indeed, while Anakena looks like a good anchorage in settled weather and a southwesterly wind, it was not difficult to imagine how unpleasant it would be if it became a lee shore. Ready for the next leg The hike to the sacred village of Orongo at the southern tip of the island took us a couple of hours, passing through one of the last wooded areas. Or maybe it was newly wooded, because it looked like plenty of trees had been planted here. Slowly we climbed up to the rim of the volcano Rano Kau, where, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, the village was built. The oval-shaped dwellings were built of big, flat stones with earth-covered roofs. Rock petroglyphs pictured the Birdman showing a long beak and a hand stretched out carrying the first egg of the season. From the sheer rim, we looked down into the huge caldera of Rano Kau, with its green intensive vegetation and greenish ponds. Meanwhile, in the other direction, far below, three rocky islands were surrounded by surf of the Pacific Ocean. According to the cult of the Birdman, it was from these rocks that the first egg had to be collected and brought up to Orongo. At this magnificent spot we sat in the sun for a long time, looking out over the blue ocean, as we got ourselves mentally ready for the next leg of our voyage. Willem and Corri Stein are Dutch voyagers currently exploring the Pacific.
Misleading marks
A new day welcomed us with a hesitating sun, and we had our first clear view of the island. And we saw our first moai, as the Easter Island statues are called. A row of five was standing proud just north of the village, and a bit farther on we saw two more.
We were not given much time to enjoy the panorama, because even before breakfast a 26-foot-long open fishing boat came alongside Terra Nova. The authorities wanted to know why we hadn't checked in by VHF last night. Why didn't we respond to their calls this morning?
This was our acquaintance with the Armada, the Chilean navy. Having voyaged recently in areas where the communication with the authorities was not so well organized, we had forgotten completely about checking in with authorities on our VHF. But we had entered Chilean waters and had to follow certain rules. Luckily, however, we didn't feel restricted in our movements.
We quickly handled the formalities. In Chile, the capitania del puerto is a task of the Armada. A form that we had prepared in Spanish showing all the necessary information about Terra Nova and the crew was a big help.
The immigration officer stamped our passports, and we were free to stay on Chilean soil for three months. Also, Terra Nova got a three-month permit, but this was from the aduana, or customs, official. Since we were at anchor, the Armada insisted that at least one person be onboard at all times.
The weather can change fast and the anchorage can become a dangerous lee shore within a couple of hours. In which case, a yacht would have to move to an anchorage on the other side of the island. Ultimately, however, there are no all-weather anchorages at Easter Island, one always has to be prepared to run off to sea.
"Are
we
allowed
to
go
into
the
small
harbor
of
Hanga
Piko?"
we
asked
the
Armada.
After
some
consulting
with
their
base,
we
received
an
answer:
"Yes,
but
you
need
to
have
a
pilot
onboard
since
the
entrance
to
Hanga
Piko
is
muy
peligroso.
The
cost
is
$100
U.S.
one
way.
And
you
have
to
have
the
pilot
when
leaving
as
well."
We
started
to
negotiate
the
price,
and
after
speaking
to
somebody
on
the
VHF,
the
Armada
man
told
us
that
the
pilot,
a local fisherman, would guide us in for $50.
We agreed on that, hoping that leaving on our own eventually would not be a problem.
The next morning a heavy, middle-aged Polynesian man hoisted himself over our lifelines.
He introduced himself in Spanish as Timo and obviously knew what he was doing: "Have a stern anchor and three long lines ready before we enter the harbor, because there is not much room to maneuver."
It was only about a mile to the entrance, and during that short trip, Timo had a loud and boastful conversation in a Polynesian language with the man who brought him over and was following us in his open fishing boat. But then, in sight of the harbor entrance, Timo concentrated on his job, commanding small course corrections to Corri at the helm. "Look, do you see these leading marks onshore? Well, if you had followed their line, you would have gone right over those rocks there, which are just awash! The Armada who put them there would not listen to us fishermen." This was our first indication of an ongoing friction between the Polynesians and what they consider the Chilean occupation forces.
A welcoming party stood ready to help with our lines, and a young man was introduced to us by his friends as the son of Jacques Cousteau. And indeed there was a resemblance with the famous French explorer of the underwater world who visited Easter Island back in 1978. With our stern anchor to port, a long line to the other corner of the harbor and four long bowlines to the quay, we felt relatively safe. Only "relatively" because even though the weather was calm outside, there was a tremendous surge inside the harbor as the Pacific Ocean swells filled then emptied the harbor basin through the narrow entrance.
During our week-long stay in Hanga Piko, we kept a close look at the weather. If the wind piped up from any direction in the west, it would be impossible to leave the harbor, since the seas would break right over the entrance. There are reports that yachts, being caught inside under these circumstances, experienced considerable problems like torn-out cleats and damaged topsides. When Timo left, we wanted to pay him, but he told us to wait for Don Victor Hugo, a Chilean man in a pickup truck. It became clear where a big part of the pilot fees ended up.
Magical moai
The village of Hanga Roa is where almost all of the 3,000 islanders live. In the beginning of the 20th century the whole island was under lease from the Chilean government by a wool-trading company. Everybody was forced to live in Hanga Roa; the village was fenced in, and the rest of the island became sheep country.
We strolled through the village on a first reconnaissance. It is sprawled out over a substantial area, houses standing far apart in a lush of green foliage. From the waterfront ascending up to the church, we followed one of the main streets where there are many tourist shops all selling the same souvenirs: rows of stone moai reaching from 4 inches to about 3 feet high. They all look alike as if produced by a machine.
An elderly woman sat in front of her little shop as her younger neighbor and colleague from across the street parked her for-rent Suzuki.
"Buenos dias señora, como estas?" The younger woman was obviously interested in the latest gossip, but an abrupt "muy bien, gracias," quickly ended the conversation. Life on Easter Island is hard in the off tourist season. Some of the souvenir sellers had one or two rental cars and, after shopping around, we made a deal for the next day.
We got up early: This was going to be the most important day of our visit! Leaving the village and driving parallel to the huge runway, which almost stretches from one coast to the other, we came to Ahu Vinapu. Although the moai here are lying face down, the ahu, or fortress, here is one of the nicest. Its accurately matched stonework resembles walls built by the Incas, who lived high up in the Andes. Because of this, and the fact that a certain type of reed is found on Rapa Nui, some explorers believed that people here migrated from the South American mainland.
Along the south shore we saw more ahus, but not before we came to Ahu Tongariki, close to the easternmost point, we did find upright-standing moai. Fifteen statues with their backs to the deep blue ocean and looking toward Rano Raraku, the volcano where they were created. The different moai, the largest more than 30 feet high, had narrow faces, broad faces, slim bodies and stout bodies. They had one thing in common, though: hands folded on their bellies.
Rano Raraku was the birthplace of the statues. Getting closer to it, we met dozens of moai on the slopes of the volcano. Most of them upright, some half-buried in the sand, but all of them looked like they were underway to the coast, to their ahu. In the steep wall of the crater, half-finished statues can be found in a horizontal position, chiseled out of the soft grayish lava stone.
We climbed over the rim, and yes, also along the inside of the crater dozens of standing moai waited to be moved. But how? But why? Why so many? Why did it all stop? Unfortunately, no one knows the answers to these questions. Isn't it good enough just to see it, experience it, feeling the magic that floats around this place?
Anakena is a small bay on the north coast, the place where, according to legend, the first settlers landed. It is an idyllic place: white sandy beach, palm trees and two ahus where the moai have turned their backs to this beautiful scenery, standing facing inland. Indeed, while Anakena looks like a good anchorage in settled weather and a southwesterly wind, it was not difficult to imagine how unpleasant it would be if it became a lee shore.
Ready for the next leg
The hike to the sacred village of Orongo at the southern tip of the island took us a couple of hours, passing through one of the last wooded areas. Or maybe it was newly wooded, because it looked like plenty of trees had been planted here. Slowly we climbed up to the rim of the volcano Rano Kau, where, overlooking the Pacific Ocean, the village was built. The oval-shaped dwellings were built of big, flat stones with earth-covered roofs. Rock petroglyphs pictured the Birdman showing a long beak and a hand stretched out carrying the first egg of the season.
From the sheer rim, we looked down into the huge caldera of Rano Kau, with its green intensive vegetation and greenish ponds. Meanwhile, in the other direction, far below, three rocky islands were surrounded by surf of the Pacific Ocean. According to the cult of the Birdman, it was from these rocks that the first egg had to be collected and brought up to Orongo. At this magnificent spot we sat in the sun for a long time, looking out over the blue ocean, as we got ourselves mentally ready for the next leg of our voyage.
Willem and Corri Stein are Dutch voyagers currently exploring the Pacific.
