I suppose it was that first morning at breakfast that brought it home to us. Sickly orange squash (no fresh juice), black tea (no fresh milk), Madeira cake and sweaty salami.
The night before, we had arrived on Easter Island, one of the most remote spots on Earth and a place not noted for its 24-hour delis. Plopped into the Pacific 2,500 miles from Tahiti and 2,300 miles from mainland Chile (of which it is a colony) and with nothing but endless ocean in between, it's not exactly a place you might find yourself by accident.
It's one of those islands that has an aura of mystery. Most people have vaguely heard its name but don't know where it is or to whom it belongs. Stop Joe Schmo in the street to ask him and he might give one of two answers: It's near Christmas Island, innit? (Answer: no); or that's where all them funny stone heads are, guvnor (Answer: indeed).
And that's why travellers spend days circumnavigating the globe to get here. Now you might think you'd have to be a tad strange to come so far to gawp at bad-tempered stony faces with mad, staring eyes. After all, you could do that perfectly well on the train to work each morning. And in a sense you'd be right. Not that the heads aren't stunning and awe-inspiring (they really are) but that the people who come to see them do tend to be, erm, a tad strange. We met some that first morning over the salami.
There was the American, 'Diver Pete', a man who wasn't comfortable unless in deep water. All of his family were dead - he never explained how - though he did tell us menacingly: 'I'm not quite a psychopath, but let's say I am harbouring unresolved anger issues.' Gulp.
There was 'Colonel Kurtz', a bald, rum-swilling Belgian with a glass eye, who confided that he had lost the original one in the Lebanon. When we asked him how, his good eye misted over and he said: 'I was just the wrong guy, in the wrong place, at the wrong time, eh?' We asked no more.
There was blonde, dreadlocked 'Manic Mikey', a hyperactive Polish photographer who travelled the world working for Franciscan monks...
So these were our companions in the great quest. Easter Island has one tiny town, Hanga Roa, and during our visit there were about 20 tourists. All were staying in residencias which were really just rooms tacked on to the backs of people's houses. Ours, Hostal Martín y Anita, was pretty basic: curtains which were more hole than curtain (a night-time hobby was watching the moths have dinner), sheets in patterns not seen since the Seventies, no soap or toiletries (if you want Imperial Leather, bring your own).
As a consolation, the house was set in a beautiful, obsessively tended garden, full of busy lizzies, roses, lilies and orchids which smelled heavenly. It would have been the perfect place to sit and gaze at the shooting stars which, because of the lack of ozone layer, can be oohhed and ahhhed over nightly - except that it attracted cockroaches the size of poodles.
But you don't go to Easter Island for five-star accommodation. You go to wonder at the moai , the proper term for the stone heads, and try to figure out what they're all about. The first thing that strikes you is just how many of the blooming things there are. They're everywhere, from single heads to families of 15. Some are only six or seven feet tall, the highest is 60ft. Some have scary eyes made from coral, a few have red stone topknots once covered in grass 'hair', and not one cracks the merest glimmer of a smile. Sitting around the ocean's edge, they face inwards, which makes them quite oppressive. When they were all standing they must have looked like strange prison bars.
Those that have been restored are on ahus, or altars, and have graves underneath, but most are actually lying sadly sideways on the ground, where a mammoth effort has knocked them off their plinths. And this is the attraction; this is why everyone from history enthusiasts, archaeologists, mystics, conspiracy theorists and sometimes the downright bonkers come to discover the 'truth' about how they got there and who got so cross that they knocked them down. And there are several versions to choose from.
Some of the earliest heads date from 400AD, when the first Polynesians - known as Long Ears because of their penchant for Pat Butcher-style earrings - having drifted in canoes for months, fancied a bit of a lie-down and a light supper and stumbled across the island. Not long after, another lot from a different tribe (Short Ears) arrived and immediately found themselves enslaved and forced to spend long hours, without so much as a tea break, carving heads to suit the vanity of their fat masters.
So one story goes that the heads were knocked down during one of the earliest recorded workers' revolutions when the comrades had had enough, shouted 'Everybody out, brothers' and showed the Long Ears what they thought of them by tipping over their ancestors. Very mature.
Always keen to spoil a good story, however, the first Europeans arrived in the seventeenth century and reported that most of the heads were still standing. This led to theory number two - that it was Catholic missionaries, spouting all their 'false idol' claptrap, that forced the poor bewildered (oh yes, and by then starving) natives to break up their own heritage for a slice of Mother's Pride or two. (If this is true, it's no surprise that Polynesians insist the island is called Rapa Nui, instead of the name of a Christian festival. Strangely, both names were bestowed by Captain Cook, one in honour of the day he first spied the place, the other after Tahiti whence he had sailed.)
Other theories include unrecorded volcanic eruptions and even the inevitable visit by aliens - though why you would come from Mars for a little light vandalism is anyone's guess. Whatever you believe, the moai are astounding, set in their rugged, grassy beds with a wild sea rearing up behind them, looking like grizzled and disappointed old tyrants. Ozymandias made real.
And you could spend every day wandering around them, but if you're not a fanatic, there's plenty to distract. Easter Island is covered in inactive volcanoes, some simply gorgeous. There are no buses on the island - hardly any locals have cars so they ride horses bareback - but you can hire a Jeep and take it off-road to explore.
This is how we discovered Rano Kau, a truly gasp-inducing crater a mile wide. Grass and flowers grow on its steep banks which run down to a lake of sorts, on which float clumps of lily pads and wild grasses, looking from above like continents in an ocean. One side of the volcano runs down to the sea where a reef turns the water pure violet. Standing on the edge of the crater you simply do not know which way to look.
And when you've had enough of trekking and clambering, gawking and gasping, there are two beautiful white-sand beaches (the temperature reaches 28-30C during the summer) where you can swim safely. Polynesian women will also sell you cold beer here, and if you make the effort to say ' Iorana ' (hello) and ' Maururu ' (thanks), they whoop with delight. Because you must never forget that you are in a colony, ruled and policed by the Chileans, who annexed the island in 1888.
And boy, do they want you to know they're here. A population of around 2,000 is watched over night and day by carabinieri in dark glasses, riding around on motorbikes, armed and wearing bulletproof jackets.
One morning we took ourselves off to the local market where, say, someone with a few tomatoes might sell them to buy a couple of sweet potatoes. Officers stood around grimly, looking as though they might 'take out' anyone who argued over the price of a cabbage. The locals cheerfully ignored them, but it was incongruous and intimidating. It was hardly as if a people who own practically nothing and produce even less were suddenly going to rise up and beat them about the head with legumes.
The police were present again on the evening we wandered down Hanga Roa's main street, with its handful of eateries and small shops selling mostly out-of-date goods, and found that half the population had gathered for what must have been the Easter Island FA Cup.
To our amazement there was a floodlit pitch and teams in highly professional strips (one green, one orange). The referee really had his work cut out as most of the spectators were on the pitch, giving advice and encouragement for a penalty shoot-out. Players were slapped on the back as they went for the ball or had to dodge one of the many grazing horses, overexcited dogs and yelping small boys who were joining in the fun. Everyone knew everyone else, there were no hard feelings when the green team triumphed 4-3, and the main sound was of laughter. We ruminated that the police must have been as green as the winning team's shirts with envy.
On our last night we sat in a tiny restaurant on the harbour front watching the sky turn pink. A few horses were companionably munching the grassy verge, small children and mutts were once again running around, a couple of weary divers dragged heavy equipment from the water.
The idyllic scene was momentarily ruptured by a growl of motorbike, glimpse of gun and vest, and the grim expression of a cop riding by. No one even looked up. We wondered how the locals could be so sanguine about their occupation, but then we realised that, of course, for them nothing has really changed since the heyday of the moai . One set of stony-faced rulers has simply been replaced by another.
Factfile
Lanchile (01293 596607) flies from London Heathrow or Gatwick via Madrid to Santiago in Chile and then on to Easter Island from £924 return. Depart from London Wednesday or Saturday to catch the two Santiago-Easter Island flights on Thursday and Sunday.
Last Frontiers (01296 653000) offers four-night excursions to Easter Island as an addition to its two-week Chile packages (best taken between November and April - in the dry season). One such tour takes you from Santiago to the southern tip of Patagonia, including two nights in the wine region, four nights in the lake district and five nights in Torres del Paine National Park trekking and horseriding. Then return to Santiago and fly to Easter Island for a four-night stay at the ocean-front Hotel Iorana, Mataveri, tours of Rano Kau and Rano Raraku volcano, the ceremonial city of Orongo, La Perousse Bay, Ahu Hekii, Te Pito Te Kura and the archaeological site of Anakena. The tour price, including internal flights, accommodation and breakfasts, transfers and tours, is £1,895 plus £324 for the Easter Island segment. International flights and overseas airport taxes are not included.
Journey Latin America (020 8747 8315) offers five nights on Easter Island as an addition to its Penguin tour, a 14-night itinerary on mainland Chile taking in Santiago, the Atacama Desert and Torres del Paine National Park. Prices start at £2,395 including tour leader, all flights, transfers, 14 nights' hotel with breakfast and excursions. The trip to Easter Island costs £852 including return flights from Santiago, five nights accommodation in Hanga Roa in a simple hotel including breakfast and excursions to the Rano Kau volcano, the statues of Ahu Akivi, and Rano Raraku quarry.
