A government representative told me no journalist would be permitted on the island, so I went as a tourist. When I announced my status to the ticket clerk in Brisbane, she laughed. I caught a ride to the Menem, one of two hotels on the island. In my room was a notice asking guests to be considerate, waterwise, since the country was in its third year of drought. My attempt at a shower ended 30 seconds later.
Wealth manifests itself in peculiar ways.
Every Nauruan seemed to own a car, but many of the houses were made of cinder blocks. Trash, too expensive to export, was simply piled out the back. Even at the shore's edge, many palm trees were dead from drought - coconutless, frondless poles. Returning to the hotel, I set about trying to locate the Nauru Agency Corporation. None of the clerks had heard of it.