Easter Island on a Budget



My wife riding a motorbike on Rapa Nui



As a child I’d once read a book about mysterious places of the world and Easter Island was one of those places featured.  The book held that the moai, or the iconic large headed statues, may have been put there by aliens!  During my time in university I took a class about the collapse of different civilizations; Jared Diamond’s book Collapse:  How Societies Choose to Fail or Succeed was on the curriculum and used Easter Island as one case study.  It talked about how the islanders, not aliens, erected the statues to the detriment of their society.  The statues were enormous art projects that tribal leaders would finance in order to gain power.  It led to deforestation, a dark period of cannibalism, and the near extinction of the islanders.  The island, so far from the coastline of Chile and so isolated from any other land masses, has held the imagination of many travelers and explorers, but it never seemed like a place to which I could afford to travel.  This, like the aliens, was a myth.

When my wife and I arrived on the island we were surrounded by wealthy tourists who rented expensive cars and stayed at nice resorts; it felt like we were somehow stealing a rich person’s holiday.  How did we, mere English teachers, afford to get there?  How were we able to get around the island without spending a fortune?  How did we get through the week without starving?  For the South American backpacker there are a few tips I’d like to offer that can make Easter Island a possible destination. 

The first tip is to book a flight early and to be flexible with your dates.  It seems obvious, but since there is only one airline, LAN, which offers flights to the island, a first look at prices can turn you off the entire idea.  Some of the flights are over two thousand USD; we managed to get ours for just over four hundred dollars.  The key to our success was flying from Lima, Peru.  In the past, the only flights to Easter Island were from Santiago or Tahiti, but from the start of 2011 they had just opened the route from Lima.  This alone saved us over a thousand USD.  Keep looking, keep checking for changes, do your research about routes and days.  If you’re persistent, you should be able to find an affordable flight.

So you’re on the island, but you can’t find an affordable hostel or hotel; camping is an option.  For about ten dollars a night, or fifteen if you want to rent a tent, you can stay at Camping Mihinoa (http://www.mihinoa.com/), which was by far the cheapest option we were able to find.  The family that runs the place is extremely friendly and respond to your e-mails in either Spanish or English.  You should book ahead and they will even pick you up at the airport.  It’s a bare bones operation that offers showers and a shack where you can cook – also a big money saver – but for the week or so you’re on the island it’s more than you need.  Likely, you’ll be spending your whole day hiking and exploring; when you come back you just need a soft place to lie down and listen to the crashing waves.

It’s a small island, but it’s not that small.  My wife and I did spend a day literally walking from one end to the other.  We started at the campsite mentioned above, went around Terevaka Volcano, and ended up at Anakena, which has a terrific beach.  This took almost the whole day and while it was definitely an amazing trek, including a few run-ins with bulls, I would only recommend walking if you have enough time.  Also, as there isn’t much shade on the island, it can get pretty tiring. 

For cheap transportation I’d recommend one of three options.  You don’t need to rent a jeep; you can either rent a bicycle or a motorbike for a pretty affordable price.  The motorbikes can get a little tricky when you’re off the paved roads, but if you take it slow, you’ll be fine.  The other, and cheapest option available, is hitchhiking.  Most people are up for giving you a ride if it’s on their way and when you’re heading back to town at the end of the day there is no shortage of available rides.  Sticking your thumb up is free, and on Easter Island, pretty safe.

Lastly, if you really are on a tight budget, stay away from the bars.  It’s the end of the day, you’re covered in red dust from a long day of exploring, and you’re sweaty, hot, and sick of the unrelenting sun.  The temptation to spend four dollars on drink may sound pretty appealing.  There is, however, an alternative.  Buy a bottle of wine from a market and find an alcove by the cliffs (please be careful and find a safe place).  As sunset approaches you can sit on the rocks, enjoy some of Chile’s fantastic wine, and talk over the adventure of the day and your plans for tomorrow.  It’s the most beautiful sunset I’ve ever seen.

I don’t mean to sound like a tight ass and there are a lot of nice restaurants around the island, but for those of us who don’t have vast financial resources to draw from, a few drinks at a bar on Easter Island are another day of backpacking later on.  It’s about choices and priorities.  Most backpackers I’ve talked to don’t even consider Easter Island because they imagine it’s out of their price range.  It doesn’t have to be.

Bad Places to Faint in Bolivia

A fluffy creature from the Diablada

February and March mark carnaval time in different corners of South America.  My research led me to two different carnavals that, I felt, were necessary to check out.  One was the world renowned celebration in Rio, a sort of Mardis Gras on steroids.   The other was the carnaval held in Oruro, Bolivia.  Perhaps it is just me, but I’d never heard of Bolivia’s celebration, whereas Brazil’s brought to mind iconic pictures of exposed women in magnificent costumes.  When one thinks of Brazil’s carnaval they think of the sparkly masks, the gaudy jewelry, the peacock style costumes, the floats, and the nonstop party.  But what about Bolivia? 

It’s the poorest country in Latin America and I’d been warned by every backpacker I’d talked to that it was a difficult place to travel.  Even Lonely Planet warns of children in ski masks who spit on you and, while you stand there shocked, steal your wallet or slash open your bag.  I’d like to state that the only problem I had with kids on the street was the occasional water balloon being thrown in my direction.  Having said that, a German girl I talked to said that she was a victim of spit robbery.  Maybe I just don’t look like I have anything worth stealing, but I found the people to be warm, friendly, and full of life.  It was, after all, a time of celebration.

You cross the border from Peru and you instantly notice the change.  The houses aren’t as well kept up, the fields aren’t as green, and the people begging for money seem a bit more desperate.   In La Paz and Oruro I was struck by how barren the whole landscape seemed.  My first connection when I hear Bolivia is jungle, but in the highland regions it’s beautiful, but desolate; what I imagine Afghanistan to be like.  My second preconception of Bolivia did turn out to be accurate.  The percentage of native peoples in Bolivia is something like sixty to seventy percent, much higher than other Latin American countries.  The streets were full of women in bowler hats and ornate black dresses.  Full of old men with dark tan faces that wrinkle like accidentally laundered paper when they smile.

This year marked the two hundred year anniversary of the carnaval in Oruro and everything was on a grander scale than usual.  Oruro is a mining town and doesn’t usually have too much activity, but during carnaval it takes a completely different form.  The hotels and hostels had been completely booked  weeks in advance and by Friday evening all the bleacher seats to watch the parade were sold out.   On Friday, the streets were packed with venders and celebrants.  Alcohol flowed freely in every direction and spontaneous marches and horn playing were commonplace.  Kids and adults alike carried large squirt guns, water balloons, and funny foam to spray at passersby.  Many people were wearing ponchos to protect themselves, not from the natural elements, but from each other.

My wife and I had been travelling pretty hard core for a few months before the carnaval.  Plenty of twenty four hour buses and sleepless nights in strange hostels.  The carnaval was to be our last big celebration before we settled down in Santiago, Chile for awhile.  So, while exhausted, we gave the celebration everything we had.  By seven in the morning we were in our seats, beers in hand, watching the police chase passed out drunks off of the parade route.  One man, who was completely incapacitated, was picked up and laid on a bleacher.  He had wet himself and lost a shoe, when he woke up a few hours later in midst of the parade it was as if he’d awoken inside of a nightmare. 

The parade was one of the most amazing things I’ve seen while travelling.  Two days of virtually nonstop brass bands and strange costumed dances.  Two of the dances that have imprinted themselves on my mind are la Morenada and la Diablada.  Morenada is a dance that was made to represent the release of the black slaves.  It’s a strange dance consisting of bearded men with whips, who are meant to represent Spaniards, silvery men in large costumes that look like a layered cake, and beautiful twirling girls in short skirts.  One can identify the Morenada from afar by listening for the spinning noisemakers that the silver men carry that are meant to sound like the clanking of chains around their feet.

La Diablada is a dark affair that deals with archangels, in this case carrying swords and whistles, leading demons and other devilish creatures back to hell.  The dark host of characters consists of fat furry creatures with bug eyes, sexy horned women, and demons with enormous fiery helmets that were so large some had to take them off for short breaks during the parade.  Whenever they took off the helmets it revealed a sweaty and suffering human beneath the horrible mask.  Usually someone would run over and offer the poor soul a large sip of beer. 

The parade and revelry went on for days.  A clear thought, let alone sleep, were unmanageable during the festivities.  I could barely even walk on the streets they were so crowded and whenever I did, for a snack or a toilet break, I always came back covered in white foam.  There was no easy way to and from our seats in the bleachers, my wife and I had to climb up and down rickety ladders made from scrap wood and then push aggressively to get to our seats.  We only left our seats when absolutely necessary.  On Sunday my wife collapsed.  Perhaps it was all the travelling beforehand, perhaps the lack of sleep, perhaps the noise, perhaps the drinking, perhaps the devilish costumes, but she suddenly was out cold.

It was one of the most terrifying moments of my life.  We were in the stands cheering and singing along to the different chants when she fainted.  I didn’t know what was happening at first and started slapping her face.  I started trying to think how I could possibly carry her down the ladder and how impossible it would be to get an ambulance there if this was serious.  Luckily, after a few minutes and a few splashes of water she came to.  I held her hand tight and we pushed our way through the masked, cheering, half insane revelers and made it into our room.  Even behind closed doors there was no escape from the blaring horns and drunken screaming. 



The Morenada



It felt like fleeing from a horror film when we got on the next bus out of there.  I breathed a sigh of relief as the sign said we were leaving Oruro.  If I close my eyes and think back I can still hear the horns and the chanting; my hands get clammy and I feel a bit panicky.  It was just the way a good party should be: just the right mix of insanity, terror, and intoxication so that I’ll never forget it, even if I want to.

Classy Buskers

Opera buskers

I take my seat between a casually dressed businessman and a strung out looking young woman drinking wine out of a paper cup.  The three opera singers finish a number and are greeted with a warm applause from the audience, even the young woman next to me puts down her wine in order to clap.  I’m not in a concert hall, I’m enjoying lunch and some classically trained musicians who are singing for change on the street.  As the trio begins to sing “Ave Maria” I think to myself, man, these are some classy buskers.



The group I just mentioned is exceptionally talented, but not exactly unique in the city of Santiago, Chile.  Walking in most barrios I’ve seen street musicians singing classical numbers, playing violins, or, in one case, playing a harp—a harp!  Now, in the interest of full disclosure, the man playing the harp was wearing torn clothing and he had a rather scruffy beard, kind of like a fallen angel, but he definitely knew how to play. 



Violin busker in the metro



It’s not just classical music that one hears street musicians creating in Santiago, there are also musicians playing rock, jazz, and more traditional Chilean music, but the ratio of classical music seems unusually high.  Why so classy?  Do people in Chile have more of a proclivity for classical music than in other countries?  Do people part with their change more easily to the sound of Mozart than Bob Dylan?  Is it difficult to get a permit to perform anything but classical music on the street?

Having had difficulty getting in touch with the proper authorities to answer the last question, this writer would like to offer up examples that put the permit theory in reasonable doubt.  Along with the classy buskers previously described, there is another art form, which is quite common in Santiago.  I’d like to term it crosswalk hustling.  In my hometown of Chicago, you might stop your car and have a bum try and wash your windows with a filthy rag in hopes of some spare change.  In Santiago, however, it’s a very different game.  There’s a red light and suddenly a performer, or group of performers, will go out in the middle of the street and do their thing.

I’ve seen people doing strange ball catches and juggling, a one man band who spins around in circles as he loudly plays a number of instruments, and one time, I even saw a group of people make a human pyramid while the captive audience watched (n this case, literally captive as they were waiting for the light to change).  Either during, or directly following the performance, the artist will go from car to car trying to get a little money for their show.  Remember, this whole ordeal takes place in the time it takes for the light to change.  There’s no way that the city is formally allowing these people to perform.  They just get their act together and do a little hustle.

Busker playing the harp

During my university days I’d often considered trying to do some sort of street performance in order to make a little extra cash.  I had a trumpet on which I could play “Three Blind Mice” or I could always try and read some poetry aloud.  Feeling that neither of these would yield much profit from the college community, I instead donated plasma for beer money.  These days, I’m facing a similar crossroads, I need a little extra cash.  I’ve considered breaking out the harmonica or trying to do some sort of performance art project.  From the looks of the competition though, I’m gonna have to class it up a bit.

The Vagabond's Wallet



world currencies I found in my suitcase



I sit down at the table and assess the situation:  a plate of rice and beans (third time in two days), open the wallet to find it the home of nothing more than lint and a three year old condom.  Three months ago I had been doing the same job for a very similar company.  I’d gone out to eat for nearly every meal, partied hard, and even after a long night out, would often wake up and smile at how much money remained in my wallet.  So again, what happened?  I moved countries.

In the past four years I have been country hopping.  I work, like many other transients, as an English teacher.  What has surprised me more than anything is how dramatically my place in society shifts from year to year.  My first gig was in Vietnam where I instantly felt like a rich man.  I wasn’t really saving money, nor could I.  The currency of the Vietnamese dong was about sixteen thousand to the U.S. dollar at that time.  That said, sixteen thousand dong can get you quite a lot in Ho Chi Minh City.  With the wages I was making, I felt like a king.  Having moved from the states, it was as if I’d suddenly jumped from lower class to upper middle class…at times this made me feel guilty.

After that came Japan; what a kick in the nuts that had been.  The money I’d scrimped and saved to bring with me from Vietnam didn’t amount to much and there was a point before receiving my first paycheck that my wife and I were living off of condiment soup (it wasn’t quite as bad as it sounds).  That said, you get paid a decent amount and I found myself feeling like I fit in a lower middle class income bracket, but without any of the worries that many have (e.g. house, car, children’s education).  Basically, I’d live like a king for two weeks going out and living it up and then spent the next two weeks poor, reading books in my apartment.

The third move was to Korea, which was an amazing place to save money, but I found myself feeling like a slave.  I love the country but it was literally six months before I saw much of the outside of a classroom.  I literally have no idea where to place myself in this society, perhaps, no one really does.  You walk down the street and see seventy five year old hunchbacked women collecting cans that they can turn in for money right next to a department store that sells handbags for three thousand USD.  It’s poverty and decadence living hand in hand.  So, I found that I could spend as much or as little as I wanted, but I never felt myself wanting for anything.  It was more working hours than I could deal with and more money than I could spend.

Now, facing this plate of beans and rice I am struggling to find my place in society once again.  I haven’t been in Santiago, Chile long enough to really place myself in terms of class but I can say that compared to what I was making in Korea, the wages here are laughable.  In terms of lifestyle, I’ve noticed myself doing a lot more cooking, drinking the cheap beer, being careful with how much money I bring with me on a night out.  I’m a baby in this country and still getting myself set up, but I can’t imagine myself ever feeling rich here. 

In the past four months, I’ve managed to travel in three continents and the currency value has changed so dramatically that the bills in your hand begin to seem ridiculous.  A pound, a dollar, a boliviano, a Peruvian Peso, a Dong… they really are just pieces of paper and even when you calculate their relative value to each other, it means nothing.  To try and make sense of what a lifestyle might be in another country my friend and I had a system of calculating the cost of living via the cost of a pint at a bar.  You might be able to come up with a better system, but it all boils down to haves and have nots on different hierarchical levels.  In each country there are rich and poor people, globally there are rich and poor countries.  I guess what I’m waiting to see is where Chile will place me; will I thrive or face stockpiling rice and other dried goods.  Can I afford the beer at a bar.