The phosphate that made Nauru rich was never lying on top of the island. It filled the gaps between coral-limestone pinnacles that had been dissolving out of the old reef for ages. So the miners emptied the gaps and left the pinnacles standing. Topside, the plateau that is most of the country, is now a field of grey towers with the ground gone from between them. You can walk out among them, though the edges are sharp and the floor drops into sinkholes. Anibare Bay is the part the mining never reached. Two kilometres of white sand curve along the east coast, following the scar where part of the island's flank slid into the sea, with black rock stacks standing out of shallow water at either end. At low tide those pools turn into an aquarium of small reef fish and hermit crabs.
The country is a raised coral atoll of 21 square kilometres, and one ring road goes round it in half an hour, past the airport runway, the harbour and the fishing settlements. Anibare is the beach the islanders use. You swim inside the reef flat, because this coast opens straight onto the Pacific with no lagoon. The drop-off is close enough in that you can follow a Nauruan paddling an outrigger the whole way out. The water goes from pale green to open-ocean blue in a single canoe length, which tells you how steeply the island falls away. As the light drops, black noddies stream back from open water to roost in the escarpment woods above the bay. Nauruans meet them there with loudspeakers playing recorded calls and nets on long handles, and the catch is shared and fried the same evening. In the last hour of light the tide pools go glassy and gold, and the bare coral stops throwing back the day's heat. That escarpment is 35 hectares too steep to have been worth mining, and it holds the richest native vegetation left on Nauru. The Nauru reed warbler lives in it and nowhere else on the planet — the only songbird the country has.