Pohnpei

Pohnpei keeps the Pacific's greatest riddle on its reef: Nan Madol, a city of ninety-two artificial islets built from basalt columns stacked like titanic log cabins across a coral lagoon — begun around the twelfth century, seat of the Saudeleur dynasty, and raised by methods no one has convincingly explained, since some of the columns weigh as much as five elephants and came from quarries across the island. UNESCO lists it; the jungle guards it; the tide runs through its streets.

The traveller boats or wades to Nan Madol at low tide and walks Nandauwas, the royal mortuary islet whose walls rise eight meters — the hush inside is worth the whole crossing —; climbs or contemplates Sokehs Rock, the island's basalt prow; swims Kepirohi falls' wide curtain; dives or snorkels the manta-run passes; and ends the day as Pohnpei does, at a sakau bar, where the island's ceremonial cousin of kava is pounded on ringing stones and shared in coconut shells with unhurried gravity.

The Guide's practical counsel: this is one of the rainiest places on Earth — the interior drinks five meters a year — so waterproof the bag, plan Nan Madol around tide tables, and treat sun-showers as weather's normal conversation —; guides arranged through hotels smooth the customary permissions the ruins and falls sit under; sakau is stronger than it tastes and drunk before dinner, not after; and the island rewards the traveller who moves at reef pace: slowly, attentively, and with the current.