Fear and loathing in Hanga Roa

ORIGINALLY POSTED ON 12th OF MARCH

Just another freak, in the freak kingdom

- Raoul Duke

Who watched the movie Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas cannot help but note the similarity between me and Johnny Depp-Raoul Duke (!). It was a strange holiday, the one on Easter Island. Programmed as the most relaxing week of the whole trip, it was ruined by the unpredictable Murphy's Law, stating that "anything that can go wrong, will go wrong." Surreal days and even more surreal events were alternating each other in the village of Hanga Roa. And, before you get any endless, unfounded and childish doubt, the similarities with the movie end here: no trips, acids or hard drugs, whatever my dear former colleagues, whom I greet with affection, might say.

Where do I start from? I would say from the character of the week, Shale Hrvoje Salkovic. He introduced himself this way, "I'm a famous writer, and I've got wheels," that's why here at Kaimana Inn respect him and treat him as a privileged customer. Croatian from Zagreb, around thirty-something years old (I don't put the exact age in sign of respect), professional writer with five or six novels already published, winner of the Croatian novel of the year award, occasional journalist, earthquake witness correspondent, crazy dog because of passion, traveler because of curse, drunkard because of friendship. He's in my same hostel (of course, it's also the only one) but we met at the Kaimana Inn, the only restaurant that both my stomach and my wallet are able to digest. Actually, he says, Croatia is a hole, his wheels are the ones of the scooter he rented to stroll around the island and they treat him well at the Kaimana because he has already ordered the fifth beer. He doesn't utter a word of Spanish, unless you consider his mocking the Latin American soap operas, famous even in his small country. We spend an evening with coronas and lemon, laughing about how we managed to save ourselves from a tsunami that was due to drown the island. The goddamn earthquake makes him miss the connection flight to Antarctica, but maybe we would not have enjoyed in the same way if he had taken it. Coming back at the hostel we join the rest of the survivors and it's here when he pulls out the gem that you don't expect: the best excuse for taking drugs. If one day - he says - I will have children, I want to look straight in their eyes when they come back home from the disco. And then, thanks to my past experience, I will know immediately if their eyes speak of acid, estasy, or cannabis. As with Fantozzi and the famous Potemkin battleship (Italian comedy from the '70, where the main character manages to speak the unspeakable, admitting in front of his whole company that the movie his boss is forcing them to watch sucks), 92 uninterrupted minutes of applause by the onlookers. I did not expect less from a man who has always had in his suitcase for the past ten years the traditional clothing of Raoul Duke, and only to take pictures dressed like that: Raoul Duke at the pyramids, Raoul Duke at the Grand Canyon, Raoul Duke in front of the Statue of Liberty. I guess I will accept his invitation to visit him in Zagreb, sooner or later. Legend.

Because I'm such a good guy and don't want to fill your head with words, I'll briefly list the other events worth to mention.

The accent of Prince Charles. The first people I met at the hostel are a young British couple from London. Their accent is very similar to Italian imitations of Prince Charles and I, after having spent three years between Manchester and Dublin, simply two of the worst cities to learn a good English, struggle to understand them, even when they just ask me to pass the sugar at breakfast. The best part is when one of them makes a joke that I am compelled to laugh at, hoping they won't ask specific questions about it. It will be carved in history the attempt of discussion between Ian, the English guy, and Tomoyuki, the Japanese guy, until 2am, trying to understand each other.

Methuselah. One of the guests of the hostel is a Dutch youngster we managed to discover little about, mainly because no one could go and talk to him without laughing. I know we were mean with the poor centenarian (at least centenarian, look at the pic to believe), but he had become the pet of the hostel, a living legend (don't know for how long, though) for travelers of every nation. Nobody will ever forget the good ol' man walking around like a ghost looking for Barbara, the receptionist of the hostel, to ask her for the thousandth time the thousandth doubt he had.

The girl who disappeared. About Tomoyuki, and his way of waking me up the morning of the earthquake, I have already written. But he was not the only Japanese champion since there was also a Japanese girl of which I can't remember the name and I will conventionally call Kaori (sorry about the politically uncorrectness, but the blog is mine and I do whatever I want). Thinking there was no one in the room, her roommates had turned on the light, started making noise, talking loudly, even throwing clothes on her bed. The next morning the bitter truth: Kaori was sleeping under the covers and was so small and thin that no one had noticed she was actually in the room. Since the Japanese people have this "never to annoy" syndrome, she refrained from pointing out her presence to the noisy European roommates, willingly accepting all the stuff they were throwing on her.

The farmer. In the first available day I decide to trek along the path of the Tangata Manu ancient rite. On top of the volcano at the end of the trail, I meet Sebastian the ranger. He entertains me pleasantly for half an hour on local attractions, until I ask how can I reach the north-east part of the island. His expression changes and becomes more suspicious. He says it's dangerous and better not to go there. I try to deepen, slolwly working on his flanks, until he reveals the mysterious secret: that part of the island is dedicated to the cultivation of marijuana!

The local Celentano. In one of his old movie, Adriano Celentano, not at all worried by the braggart who does a wheelie on his motorbike, manages to do the same with a car. You may not believe it, but I saw a guy  doing a wheelie with a tow car, one of those little ones used at supermarkets to move packs. Not only I wasn't in the cultivated area of the island (see above), thus excluding any vision, but I was also accompanied by the British couple, who saw exactly the same scene.

The means of transport which was not. Since there are no buses on the island, the only way to stroll around is by renting something with wheels. The car was out of the window, I hadn't brought my licence with me. I try with a scooter, but here the Chilean law plays the trick: I need the license for this a well. Sad for my knees, I ask for a bike. I'm told that to rent a bike you need a credit card to use as deposit (I only have a prepaid card). I had to wander through half the village to find someone finally willing to rent his bike for 24 hours.

And now it's time for something that all of you always eagerly wait, a new episode of "Don't shoot on the red cross." I must admit that the island has proved to be fertile ground, with three champions of OLDSTER.

Oldster No. 1 - The American couple. She: grim and authoritarian, he: totally succubus and dominated by the wife, it is clear that he's only waiting for death (his own or his wife's) to regain the lost freedom. She: watches at my attempts to take silly pictures of me with the Moai. He: begins to foresee the moves of his wife. As soon as I get out of her way, she shouts the authoritative order to her husband: Do it, Tom. MOVE. Poor Tom strolls towards a big head of Moai and poses as if he were pushing the statue. She: wants the same picture but, instead of pretending to push the statue, puts her hands on it which is highly forbidden on the island. You could even got shot on sight for something like this.
Oldster No. 2 - The German lady who never slept. Now, this lady of about forty years old books a room in a hostel, usually full of young people, and would like it to be a 4-stars hotel. She wants to rest while we gather in the garden drinking and chatting. She "kindly" comes to tell us that she was sleeping and that our noises do nothing but wake her up. It's quarter to ten in the evening!!! Old inside.
Oldster No. 3 - The clandestines. When I finally get on a plane to return to the mainland, I find my seat occupied by a splendid example of old woman. She and her husband are passengers in transit from Tahiti, explains, and that was her seat since the previous flight. Her statements do not allow any answer back. I have to act as a typical Italian complainer and go to the first hostess I see, more or less the same way Buffon complained with the referee after the headbutt of Zidane in the famous 2006 World Cup final. It turns out that these two geniuses haven't gone through customs. Long story short, they are headed to Santiago (Chile) and the first Chilean customs arriving from Tahiti (France) it's Easter Island's. Result: they entered the country illegally. They then throw pathetic as much as useless complaints on the hostess, a bit like the French players complained with the referee after the headbutt of Zidane in the famous 2006 World Cup final. Amen. 

Wear some golf shoes, otherwise we'll never get out of this place alive.

- Raoul Duke