Travel

Waves of colonialism have left their mark on the pristine Pacific archipelago of Palau, and now visitors are asked to tread lightly. By Hannah Bambra.

Tracing the impacts of colonialism on Palau

The islands of Palau.

Credit: Reinhard Dirscherl / Alamy

The Micronesian island state of Palau has a creation story: a giant clam was heavily pregnant in an empty Pacific Ocean. In a sudden strong current, the clam gave birth. Out came fish, crustaceans, sea turtles and a whole race of people. From then on, as one version tells it, “the ocean laughed with life”.

Its pristine reefs teeming with sea creatures and brightly coloured coral make Palau host to some of the best snorkelling and diving in the world. In one afternoon I swam with reef sharks, a three-metre manta ray, parrot fish and turtles.

“You won’t see no bleached coral here,” says Taka, the Japanese Palauan who takes me out in his boat to free-dive the reef. “Let’s hope the government keeps it that way.”

Conservation of the ocean is deeply rooted in the national identity. This collection of tiny islands is the first country in the world to ban reef-toxic chemical sunscreens. Most cafes have stickers on the windows declaring them “guardians of the sea”.

Upon arriving in Palau, which is home to just 18,000 people, visitors have their passports stamped with the Palau pledge: “I vow to tread lightly, act kindly and explore mindfully … I shall not harm what does not harm me.”

The pledge is made out to the “Children of Palau” as a promise to protect their island home. This is the first time an environmental commitment has been embedded into a nation’s border control process.

It has been a necessary step for this island nation. While tourism is its dominant industry, the crowds of visitors that Palau was drawing each year were threatening the pristine environment on which its economy depends. The pandemic was a turning point – the sharp drop-off in tourism offered an opportunity to consider ways to lessen its impact in recovery. An expensive “rock island pass”, which needs to be bought before exploring the islands by boat, helps limit numbers on the water.

A recently introduced six-hour flight from Brisbane, which leaves only once a week, was half empty when I visited. Waterfalls, expansive beaches and lagoons could be explored with no one else around.

Kayaking and paddleboarding are a beautiful way to see Palau’s Rock Islands, which are a UNESCO World Heritage site. Large and small mushroom-shaped rocks covered in forest protrude from turquoise water even around the city of Koror.

Palau has a handful of flashy resorts, but the stunning views from their windows somehow miss the charm. There is an opportunity here to dive into the parts that are rougher around the edges, unfiltered, historically significant but not overly documented.

Exploring the islands gave me a sense of adventure and discovery I haven’t felt since before smartphones, when travel meant stumbling across things or reading a Lonely Planet guide cover to cover.

The archipelago, made up of more than 300 volcanic and coral islands south-west of Guam, was colonised by Spain and sold to Germany before being seized by Japan in 1914. Japan’s navy used it as a base from which to invade the Philippines in World War II, and the denouement of that war brought Palau under the control of the United States.

The country gained independence from the US 30 years ago, but its colonial past is still apparent. Japanese is one of Palau’s four national languages and small supermarkets offer bento boxes beside pineapples, onigiri and shochu alongside papaya and wine. The US dollar is still the official currency.

Palau has some of the most fascinating sites for scuba divers, who can explore vessels sunk during battles in 1944. The wreckage of Japanese and American aeroplanes remains preserved in mangroves. The occasional propeller can be found mired in ancient forest, claimed by undergrowth more than 80 years ago.

The island of Peleliu is dotted with wartime lookout points and bunkers, and the island of Babeldaob – known as the Big Island, connected to the former capital of Koror by the Japanese Palau Friendship Bridge – has the ruins of a Japanese todai (lighthouse) and a bombed-out base covered with ferns.

I became enamoured with a near-century-old Japanese sea bath at the end of an old shipping dock. There is no sign or plaque to recognise the history of what is sometimes referred to as the Meketii Pools. Only a small, framed photograph in the local museum says that Japanese settlers built the pool in the 1930s.

Similar Imperial sea baths (or kaisuiyokujō) exist in Okinawa, Korea and Taiwan, which were also part of the Japanese empire when the baths were built. Swimming was part of school programs for health, safety and disaster preparedness, and the instruction included breath-holding techniques practised for millennia by the predominantly female pearl divers, or ama, of Okinawa. These methods were passed on to pearl divers in northern Australia.

The Palauns appear untroubled by who built the site and have made the pools their own. Many elders have done laps in the rock-walled shell. Locals tell stories about learning to swim there, and times when it’s been home to different sea creatures. One picture, now in the Hawaiian digital archives, shows young Palauans racing in the pool. Fishing wire divides the lanes and there is a line of onlookers’ shoes in 1970s shades of red, brown and grey.

The pool was partially restored for the recent Pacific Mini Games, but its charm hasn’t been stripped away. People still swim there, though the area has an abandoned feel.

One snorkelling instructor tells me to watch the tide and pick my time. “You can swim with the fishes!” he says, laughing.

On my first visit, I tiptoe around the pool. Concrete 20th century Japanese tiles – cut in patterns akin to sashiko stitching – frame its edges.

Its surface reflects palm trees and, from varying angles, old automotive signs from the 1980s, fallen coconuts and surrounding rock islands, covered in lush greenery.

It takes me a few days to actually get in and swim. My apprehension is the same as I feel swimming anywhere with sharks, which is irrational when surrounded by sea walls. It’s a childlike fear, like being sucked down the plughole.

When I finally venture in, the crumbled steps are slippery. It’s high tide and the water is warm. Glittering fish are everywhere – sea life drifts in and out, filtering through gaps in the rocks. Purple crabs hide from me in the walls. A huge sea cucumber is stuck at one end.

Two fishermen glance at me sideways.

The bottom of the pool is dark, though it is not deep. There is a time-travelling quality to it.

As my eyes adjust to the dimmer light, I see a giant clam. Something like the one that birthed all of humankind, perhaps – the people who made the pool, those who have tended to it over decades, the young Palauns who learnt to swim there and the chiefs who chose to restore it.

I break the surface and, just like Palau’s magnificent ocean, I laugh with life.

This article was first published in the print edition of The Saturday Paper on September 27, 2025 as "Time and tide".

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