Koror, Palau
Continuing my quest to set foot in every nation on Earth, I turned my sights toward Palau. Perched on the western fringe of Micronesia, roughly 850 kilometers east of the Philippines, this remote archipelago spans just 459 square kilometers (180 sq miles) across hundreds of emerald coral and volcanic islands, home to a modest population of around 20,000 population.
While tens of thousands of visitors journey here each year to dive its legendary reefs, the engine keeping the islands running is largely imported. To support this tourism economy, thousands of guest workers, predominantly from the Philippines, alongside growing representation from Bangladesh and Nepal, fill the essential roles across hospitality, construction, and service industries, their presence felt at nearly every counter, dock, and kitchen in town.
They bring an effortless warmth to daily life on the island. Exceptionally polite, attentive, and genuinely welcoming, their hospitality lends an easy, uplifting rhythm to every exchange, whether you are checking into a hotel or ordering food at a café.
Reaching this isolated pocket of the Pacific was an endurance test in its own right. My itinerary stretched from Ho Chi Minh City to Kansai for a six-hour layover, onward to Manila for two more, before the final hop deposited me at Koror’s Roman Tmetuchl International Airport at 1:30 in the morning, culminating a grueling 36-hour jaunt. Despite the late hour, the immigration line moved deliberately. What made the arrival remarkable, however, was the passport control process itself: rather than a routine bureaucratic ink mark, the entry stamp is a full-page environmental covenant known as the Palau Pledge. Before passing through, every visitor must sign their name beneath a promise addressed directly to the local youth:
The welcoming spirit of the island, however, hit an immediate speed bump at my hotel. Ahead of time, I had arranged both an airport pickup and an early 3:00 AM check-in, both confirmed and approved in writing. Yet past 2:00 AM, the curb outside the terminal remained empty. Two frantic phone calls finally summoned a taxi, but upon arrival, the night desk agent nonchalantly demanded a two-night tariff. I pulled up the written confirmation, stood my ground, and was eventually handed a key to a property that was practically deserted due to low-season.
That initial victory proved short-lived. Coming down for breakfast, a different manager cornered me, reigniting the exact same demand for two nights’ pay. After a long, circular debate, she finally backed off. Yet by evening, a third manager stepped into the ring to broach the topic anew. The following morning, manager number two was back at the desk, ready for another round. It was an exhausting comedy of administrative amnesia, but with every encounter, I held the line.
With hotel negotiations behind me, mobility became the priority. A rental car arrived directly at the hotel doorstep, and for $55 a day, I had the freedom of four wheels. I set out across the smooth asphalt, winding through lush, densely forested corridors to complete a full circuit of Babeldaob, Palau’s sprawling "Big Island."
Connecting Koror to Babeldaob is a vital artery with a dramatic past: the Koror–Babeldaob Bridge. The original span collapsed suddenly in September 1996, severing transit, power, and water lines between the islands. Rebuilt with Japanese grant aid and aptly renamed the Japan–Palau Friendship Bridge, it reopened in 2002, standing today as both a modern lifeline and a monument to international goodwill.
Pausing frequently to soak in the scenery and snap photos, I eventually pulled in for lunch on the island's eastern coast at the Palau Sunrise Seaview Landison Retreat. Perched quietly above the coastline, the property paired great food with unobstructed ocean views. Best of all was the rooftop observation tower on the top floor: stepping out into the breeze revealed a stunning 360-degree panorama, where the deep blue of the Pacific met the rolling green interior of the island.
Driving through the quiet interior of Babeldaob, one architectural spectacle stopped me in my tracks: the National Capitol complex at Ngerulmud. For a sovereign nation of barely twenty thousand people, the sheer scale of the government seat is disarming. Rising dramatically out of the empty, sun-drenched hills like a tropical reimagining of the U.S. Capitol, the domed central edifice and surrounding neoclassical executive and legislative wings felt grand, ornate, and utterly unexpected, a colossal monument to statehood perched quietly in the midst of pristine Pacific wilderness.
I stumbled upon a framed artifact of modern political history in a quiet corridor, in a pivotal moment in August 1986, where U.S. Negotiator Fred Zeder and Palau's President Lazarus E. Salii formally enacted the Compact of Free Association (COFA) that solidified modern Palau's unique relationship with the United States.
Later that afternoon, I wandered through downtown Koror to soak in the local rhythm. Everywhere the eye turned, lush emerald limestone islets rose out of the shallows, effortlessly living up to the municipality's moniker of "Bountiful Isles." Making my way down by the Ministry of Fisheries compound, I claimed a peaceful spot by the edge of the lagoon just in time to watch the sun dip low, casting a brilliant orange glow across the water and the shadowed islands on the horizon.
Returning to Koror after a full day behind the wheel, I capped the evening at Elilai Seaside Dining, widely hailed as the island’s finest table. Set against the serene backdrop of the moonlit waterway, the ambiance was matched only by the chef’s tasting menu: an unapologetic crash course in culinary decadence. Course after course arrived in succession, delicate appetizers, sweet local crab, fresh catch, handcrafted pasta, and tender meats, all thoughtfully paired with crisp champagne and a glass of wine, before concluding with a rich dessert. It was an indulgent, leisurely reward after a day of road-tripping.
The following morning, I shifted my lodging to a new hotel, dropping off my luggage early before setting out for Peleliu Island with IMPAC, a local Japanese tour operator. Getting there meant an hour-long, high-speed boat ride skimming across forty kilometers of open water south of Koror. Our group was an even split, seven Westerners and seven Japanese travelers. Grant, an affable Palauan native, led our English-speaking cohort with relaxed authority, while a young Japanese guide steered the other half of our expedition.
Peleliu was the stage for one of the most ferocious and costly battles in the Pacific theater of World War II. American commanders had brashly predicted the island would fall in four days; instead, it dragged into a grueling 73-day war of attrition. The Japanese commander, Colonel Kunio Nakagawa, recognized that direct counterattacks were suicidal and pivoted to deep defense.
He fortified the jagged limestone landscape, burrowing into more than five hundred caves and honeycombed tunnels across the Umurbrogol crest, a forbidding spine of rock the Marines soon christened Bloody Nose Ridge. From these concealed perches, his 11,000-strong garrison poured merciless fire onto the landing beaches, inflicting over a thousand American casualties on the very first day. With supply lines severed and the island enveloped, Nakagawa’s forces fought virtually to the last man. When the guns finally fell silent, nearly the entire garrison lay dead, leaving only a tiny handful of survivors amidst the pulverized coral.
Today, Peleliu functions as an open-air museum, still bearing the rusted, poignant scars of that clash. Our tour wound past the battered iron skeletons of Japanese Type 95 Ha-Go light tanks and ruined American LVTs stranded where they took direct hits. We paused by the airstrip, the primary objective of the invasion, which remains active today under renewed U.S. military strategic interest, explored the decaying concrete shells of the Japanese communications headquarters and power plant, both heavily bombed and reclaimed by jungle vines.
The most sobering moment came during the steep hike up Bloody Nose Ridge, culminating at the subterranean command post where Nakagawa and his remaining senior staff committed ritual seppuku as defeat became absolute. Standing inside the damp, oppressive limestone cavern, the sheer desperation and claustrophobia of those final hours felt palpable.
The legacy of the battle drew the highest level of solemn remembrance in April 2015, when Emperor Akihito and Empress Michiko traveled to Peleliu on the 70th anniversary of the war’s end. To host the imperial couple, a dignified yellow-trimmed reception bungalow was constructed near the shore to serve as their rest house for the day. Just down the path at Cape Ngarmoked, overlooking the crashing surf of the open Pacific, sits the Western Pacific War Memorial. Standing where the Emperor and Empress once bowed and laid white chrysanthemums in silent prayer for all fallen soldiers regardless of allegiance, the ocean breeze felt heavy with quiet reverence.
What struck me deeply throughout that Peleliu excursion was the surreal dynamic of history coming full circle. Here on this tiny Pacific battleground, a Palauan local and a young Japanese guide were narrating the brutal clash between Japan and America directly to Japanese tourists and Westerners standing side by side. Hearing those tragic, harrowing accounts delivered with quiet reverence, and absorbed in shared silence by descendants from both sides of the conflict, added an unexpected layer of poignancy to the entire visit.
Back in Koror after the long, emotionally heavy day, I was pleasantly surprised to stumble upon The Taj, an upscale Indian restaurant tucked away on the main strip. Sitting down to a steaming bowl of fragrant curry and warm naan was an unexpected comfort thousands of miles out in the Pacific. Refueled and relaxed, I called it an early night, ready for whatever new adventures the archipelago held in store for tomorrow.
The next morning, I joined another IMPAC excursion "Kayak and Jellyfish Lake tour", this time aimed at exploring Palau’s famed waters. Suraj, a young Nepalese transplant who had recently arrived on the island, picked me up from the hotel and shuttled me to the marina. Down at the docks, our boat brought together a group of around twenty travelers, a lively mix dominated by fourteen Japanese tourists alongside a handful of international explorers, all eager to set off into the lagoon.
Among the passengers, I fell into easy conversation with Federico, a fellow traveler hailing from the San Francisco Bay Area. Having already stamped his passport in 105 countries, he was a kindred spirit on a journey like this, and we quickly became conversation buddies as our boat motored out into the blue.
The outing was by no means cheap, running $137 for the day, plus a mandatory $100 Koror State permit strictly required to set foot near Jellyfish Lake. Yet for an eight-hour expedition through some of the most surreal marine landscapes on the planet, it proved worth every dollar.
The expedition began with an hour-long kayak paddle weaving through a maze of steep, densely forested limestone islets, millions of brain corals, skirting the edges of the outer barrier reef before pulling up onto a secluded sliver of white sand. For someone harboring a deep-seated fear of open water, dipping a paddle into those vast turquoise swells was an exercise in pure willpower. Reaching that quiet shoreline under my own steam felt like an immense personal triumph, a quiet victory over instinct, surrounded by absolute paradise.
Our second stop brought us to the famed Milky Way, a sheltered marine cove where the water turns a glowing, opaque aquamarine. Swimming out to a wooden floating platform, we dove into the ritual: guides scooped buckets of silky, sulfurous white limestone mud from the seabed, which we slathered head-to-toe for its natural exfoliating minerals. After letting the sun bake the mud into a ghostly second skin, we washed it clean in the warm turquoise shallows. Rejuvenated and properly ravenous, we cruised to a shaded beach on a neighboring island for lunch. The shore was alive with energy, boats from half a dozen outfits were moored along the sand, and with groups mingling under the trees, the entire cove took on the festive, convivial air of an island block party.
After lunch, I strolled along the water's edge, gazing down into the mirror-clear shallows. The crystalline flat was a thriving nursery of marine life: baby blacktip reef sharks cruised effortlessly through ankle-deep water, translucent schools of baitfish darted like glass slivers across the sand ripples, and heavy conch shells lay nestled beside scuttling green crabs. It was a serene interlude, but the day's headline act still awaited, the journey inland to Jellyfish Lake.
Tucked within a UNESCO World Heritage site, Jellyfish Lake (Ongeim'l Tketau) had only recently reopened after prolonged closures brought on by devastating El Niño warming events that decimated the fragile population. After rangers verified our permits, we hiked up a steep limestone ridge along a wooden stairway before descending into the dense interior basin where the inland marine lake opened before us. Aware of my deep-seated anxiety around water, Suraj graciously offered to tow me across the surface on a boogie board. The moment I adjusted my snorkel mask and slipped into the brackish depths behind him, every shred of hesitation evaporated.
Suspended in the amber-tinted water, I found myself adrift inside a living snow globe. Hundreds of golden jellyfish pulsed rhythmically around me in every direction, migrating through the sunlit thermocline. Having evolved over millennia cut off from the sea and free from natural predators, they have completely lost their stinging mechanism. Brushing gently against them, their soft, gelatinous bells felt slick and delicate under my fingertips. Amidst the pulsing clouds of golden bells and tiny, coin-sized juveniles, a massive moon jellyfish drifted by, translucent and milky white, hovering like a phantom. For an entire hour, time dissolved into complete, weightless enchantment.
I climbed back aboard the boat still trying to process the fact that I had just spent an hour adrift in deep water, my phobia completely forgotten. Before I had time to overthink it, we were speeding toward our next snorkeling stop: an open-water site renowned for reef sharks. Surprising myself, any lingering hesitation vanished. I pulled on my mask, strapped on my fins, and rolled backward into the swell.
Below the surface, the ocean floor was alive with motion. Sleek reef sharks glided gracefully across the reef, completely indifferent to our presence. Smaller juveniles trailed close alongside the larger adults, shadowed by slender remoras clinging hitchhiker-style to their bellies and fins, while schools of bright yellow butterflyfish fluttered in loose orbits around them. Floating quietly in the open current, watching these apex hunters move with effortless poise, capped off a day of confronting and overcoming my deep-seated dread of open water.
Yet the day had one more chapter in store. Just as I thought we were heading back, Suraj announced our third and final snorkeling stop: an encounter with the legendary Napoleon wrasse. Emboldened by the afternoon's triumphs, I plunged into the deep water without a moment’s hesitation. The visibility was astonishing, vast, cathedral-like coral formations plummeted into the cobalt abyss below. Almost immediately, three colossal Napoleon fish drifted into view, lounging like gentle sea titans amid a swirling, kaleidoscopic storm of thousands of iridescent parrotfish, striped damselfish, and shimmering clouds of silvery baitfish. It was a breathtaking, cinematic finale to an unforgettable day.
Needless to say, between my persistent anxiety around deep water and the acute terror of dropping my phone into the abyss during a moment of fear-induced fumbling, I kept the device stowed firmly away. I walked away without a single photo from beneath the waves—leaving all those otherworldly encounters with jellyfish, sharks, and wrasse captured solely in memory.
Back on board, I wrapped myself in a towel, letting the warm salt air chase away the chill. As we began the journey back, the boat slowed in front of Palau’s famed Natural Arch, a dramatic limestone span carved out by thousands of years of tides, where each of us took turns posing for commemorative photos against the turquoise backdrop.
Our final detour led us past a shadowy sea cavern once commandeered by Japanese forces as a covert fuel depot during the war, another subtle reminder of how closely history and nature intertwine here. An hour later, the engines throttled down, and we eased gently back against the Koror docks.
Waking up leisurely at the Sea Passion Hotel the next morning, I traded the boat deck for the tranquil calm of the poolside. Sitting quietly in the sun, I reflected on an itinerary that had felt entirely surreal from start to finish.
In just a handful of days, this remote island nation had pushed my boundaries, dismantled my fears, and revealed a stunning marine wonderland. It was a brief visit, but one that left an indelible mark, a true paradise I was fortunate to have witnessed.
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