Easter Island's post office – a six-metre-long, breeze-block cabin – is where tourists come to get their trophy passport stamp. Like me, the elderly Germans by the counter have already gone through the Chilean immigration desk, but it seems none of us can resist this cutesy souvenir. For a dollar, we get the more attractive version, featuring the fuzzy blue outline of three moai statues.

As the desk clerk, dressed in ultra-short shorts, presses the ink on to our pages, I realise that what most people know about this Polynesian island could be written in a space of roughly the same size. When I told people I was travelling here, to one of the most isolated inhabited places on earth, sitting between Chile (3,700km to the east) and Tahiti (4,000km to the west), their curiosity went into overdrive. "All I know is that it has big stone heads and deforestation," said one. That about summed it up for me too.

Easter Island, or Rapa Nui (also the name of the native language and the people), is just 63 sq km, with a population of around 5,000, yet it's shrouded in myth. I've come to try and get under its skin, and also because I hear tourism here is changing. The big news this year is the inauguration of the main town's first luxury hotel and I've also heard about a new tour, which focuses more on the islanders' traditional way of life, teaching you how to farm and fish.

It only takes 10 minutes on the island to dispel one of the most common misconceptions. The moai statues do not comprise just those few photogenic ones seen in the coffee-table books. In reality, there are around 900 of these stern, big-headed figures scattered across the island. You see them everywhere you turn, dotting the coastline and green hillsides. Some look angry; some look anxious; some are topped with red-rock hats that make them look as though they are auditioning for 1980s band Devo. At one point, in approximately 1500AD, the Rapa Nui people were churning them out like a factory production line. In the quarry, you can still see half-finished ones built into the rock.

Today, the island looks like someone has taken hair clippers to its hillsides, leaving just occasional tufts, which mainly comprise of eucalyptus imported from Australia. The theory is that the ancient inhabitants felled all the trees to transport their increasingly ambitious moai statues. Yet, as barren as it is, there is nothing bleak about this isolated land. Its simple colour palette features mainly golden greens and granite, all surrounded by the Pacific. Occasionally, there's a stretch of soil the colour of wet brick or a flash of glacier-mint blue when the surf crashes over a rock.

Hanga Roa is where 90% of the population lives. The harbour won't blow you away as a destination in itself, but for such a tourist-focused place it is very tasteful and no building seems out of place. The town has very strict construction laws and there are no chain businesses, aside from one bank. There are plenty of small guesthouses and even a couple of campsites. I spend one of my nights in Petero Atamu homestay, an oblong bungalow painted sky blue and with bougainvillea climbing up its sides. The elderly owner, originally from southern Chile, still gets misty-eyed when he tells of meeting his Rapa Nui wife in Santiago more than 40 years ago. "It was destiny that I came here," he says with a satisfied smile.

Tourism on the island took a more upmarket turn in 2007, with the opening of the Explora lodge, 8km out of town. The new 75-room Hangaroa Eco Village & Spa is the first high-end hotel in the town centre and I'm surprised to find it blends in so well. Its discreet style is inspired by the old Rapa Nui dwellings, which someone described to me as flat-roofed igloos but with grass growing over the top. The hotel generates its own energy with solar panels and small wind turbines. The stylish, seaview rooms have freestanding, hand-carved clay baths and desks made from volcanic rock.

Bar and bistro at Hangaroa Eco Village & Spa

The hotel is currently having a soft opening with the official inauguration set for August, but getting to this point hasn't been easy. In 2010, it was one of six buildings occupied by a local family who claimed ancestral rights to the land. The press pitted this as a "locals versus the outside company" battle, but, from asking around, I find the reality is more complicated. There is no single "local" opinion about this on the island, because there is no single local way of life. Some are pushing for independence and a return to simpler ways of living, while others welcome investment and a certain amount of development. After a lengthy court battle, it was ruled that the hotel has the rights to operate for 35 years and recoup its investment, then its operations will be handed over to a Rapa Nui foundation.

The intriguing thing about Easter Island is that on the one hand, it has an ancient past spanning thousands of years and on the other, you have its remarkable recent history. The changes the current population has seen in its lifetime are astounding. My tour guide, Hugo, tells me his 87-year-old great-grandmother used to live in a cave. She and many islanders also remember their confusion the first time they saw a plane circling overhead, causing children to run off screaming in fear.

These days, Easter Island has a plane landing every day, rising up to three in high season. It's now on a route linking Chile, Tahiti and Peru. I'm also surprised to find mobile phone reception. The travel articles I read before setting off told of a way of life stuck in the past, with horses tethered outside nightclubs. It turns out these are long out of date. Although people do still ride horses – and thousands of them roam wild on those golden pastures – cars and motorbikes are by far the preferred method of transport.

If you want to learn more about how the people live here, thousands of miles from anywhere, one of the most unusual operators in town is a company called Ancestral Tours. Moi, an outgoing Rapa Nui guy with a grey‑flecked beard and long, black hair, runs experiential tours with his equally friendly Chilean wife, Dayan. Like many Rapa Nui, Moi learned to work both the ocean and the land, while on rainy days he would stay at home to practise artisan carving.

"I am fishing man, I am farming man, I am artist man," he says, switching to broken English from Polynesian-accented Spanish without losing any of his characteristic exuberance. "And now … [dramatic pause] I am turismo man!" With that, I half expect him to rip open his shirt, reveal a logo and then fly out over the Pacific, but instead he goes straight into a burst of the Rapa Nui version of the Maori haka. "See! I am music man too."

I try his sea-orientated day tour, which starts with snorkelling at Ovahe beach. The island's coastline is generally rocky, but it does have a few sandy beaches with picture-postcard appeal on a sunny day. I realise that though wildlife on the island is minimal, there are plenty of weird and wonderful discoveries to be made offshore. Puffer fish and trumpet fish dart into view. Next, Moi takes us to learn to fish. There are no boats or rods involved, just one large net, which we manage from the water. The tide pushes the fish in and we have to form a human barrier to stop them retreating. I'm not convinced I'm much help, clumsily treading water in my flippers, but Moi takes charge and soon we have a few dozen fish, which he chops up for us to eat raw.

Moi, of Ancestral Tours, cooks fish on a traditional hot-stone fire

He cooks the rest of our catch on a traditional hot-stone fire. It turns out Moi is also "chef man". The whole experience is very hands-on, with everyone chipping in with the preparation and our small group – from Argentina, Chile and Korea – loves it. All this while, 15 moai statues stand directly behind us, watching over us like bodyguards.

Sadly, many of the other moai statues now lie face down or are broken. Easter Island's story is a tragic one of a civilisation that famously turned on itself. Its population plummeted from 15,000 to near-extinction by 1877, with just 111 survivors following a period of famine, disease, slave trading and cannibalism. Fighting between the two rival tribes is believed to be the reason all the moai were knocked to the ground. The ones that are standing today were hauled back into place from the 1950s onwards.

After a few days I start to see the island as a good example of the issues surrounding development. There are the complications of merging tourism and local life; the trials of managing immigration; the dangers of plundering natural resources; and also the issue of having eco hotels, but needing to fly to get here.

The one time when the entire population is completely in sync is during the week-long Tapati festival, which will be in full swing by the time you read this. I'm disappointed to miss it by a few days, especially the race where toboggans are carved out of banana trees and ridden down a steep hillside. Last year, women were allowed to do it for the first time, so I quite fancied having a go.

However, I do manage to catch festival rehearsals in a school gym. As part of the carnival queen competition, two local girls will be going head-to-head, each putting on their own dance show with an army of dancers. There are at least 300 people here, practising their routines and hoping to do their candidate proud. There are plenty of places around town to see a traditional dance show, but this is a different experience altogether, seeing a community with mixed abilities taking part and young children hovering around the sides, copying their elders.

All the islanders I speak to are welcoming and fiercely proud of their culture. One night, I go for a stroll and meet Maxi, a young pineapple farmer. Could he imagine living anywhere else, I ask. "Why would I ever leave this? It's magical," he insists. And, with that, he volunteers to give me a moonlit ride around the moai on his horse.

Seeing the statues' imposing outlines with no one else around is definitely a trip highlight. "Is this your preferred mode of transport?" I ask, wrapped up in the quixotic moment. But then, like a typical young Rapa Nui, Maxi admits he usually travels at a faster pace. "It's just for tonight. My motorcycle is in the garage."