We arrived in Zanzibar late at night. Exhausted, I set the alarm, assuming that – unlike on the savannah – there would be no dawn chorus. Incorrect. It just would not be provided by the wildlife. The call to prayer woke me, a lone muezzin beseeching the faithful, his melodic words hanging in the air. After a minute his colleagues joined in, Allahu akbar emanating from every direction, their different intonations and rhythms smearing into and over each other like fresh paint between two panes of glass. Stone Town woke. Engines revved, horns parped and children shouted. Animated discussions echoed up from the narrow street. A radio emitted a blare of exotic music. In the distance a cock crowed. Stepping from the air-conditioned room out onto the balcony was like entering a steam room. Stone Town lay revealed below me. It was not in any way a picture postcard view. A sea of rusty brown corrugated iron roofs stretched away in both directions. Jumbles of rubbish could be glimpsed through gaping windows. Cracked plasterwork rotted in the humidity. Yet beneath the seaport grime the charm of old Zanzibar was very apparent as every aspect revealed crenelated rooftops, arched windows, faded wooden shutters and carved arabesques.

There is maybe not a huge amount to ‘do’ in Stone Town. It is not Venice. In fact the historic core is probably smaller than that of Valletta.  You head out, you enjoy the tropical atmosphere and you try to avoid the papasi – literally ‘flies’ but generally touts. No, I do not want your CD of music. No, I do not want your Zanzibar football shirt. No, I still do not want your CD of music. No, I do not want your carvings. No, I still do not want your CD of music. These can be found on the waterfront Mizingani Road which runs past the scenic highlights of Stone Town – the wooden balconied trio of the Old Dispensary, Old Customs House and House of Wonders (photo) as well as the mildewed coral of the Palace Museum and Old Portuguese Fort. This brief run gives a good overview of the mix of architectural styles that makes Stone Town so eye-catching, a melange of Omani Arabica, Anglo-Indian sensibilities and indigenous Swahili Coast techniques. Of those five the only ones I entered were the Old Dispensary (handsome and airy with green cast iron balconies but sadly under-utilised) and the Old Fort (crumbling coral rag, desultory salesman populating souvenir stalls). The hole-in-the-wall tourist shops down Gizenga Street and Changa Bazaar were likewise populated by lackadaisical salesmen. Inspection revealed that most of them sold pretty much the same things: stalls of paintings sold the same paintings as all the others and stalls of carvings sold the same carvings as all the others. There were a few genuine one-off craft shops and these were the ones we tended to investigate more closely.

But, to me, the appeal of Stone Town was not so much the appeal of certain landmark buildings in the same way that one’s memories of, say, Florence might revolve around the Duomo, the Uffizi and the Ponte Vecchio. The historicity of Stone Town was not the attraction (and I say this as a self-confessed history nerd). The attraction to me was twofold: the reality and the fantasy.

First, the reality: Stone Town as a living, breathing cultural site. Back from the sea, the tourist bazaars filtered out into Hurumzi. This was a shopping district catering to the locals: childrens’ shoes, hardware supplies, pharmacies and beauticians, stunning shimmering saris. No touts, no calls that it was “Free to look!” We were an irrelevance to the life that went on in these streets. We weaved our way through alleyways where children played, wooden posts supported sagging buildings and motorbikes slalomed between the carts of coconuts and sugarcane. After getting pleasantly lost we ended up at the Darajani market hall on the edge of the inscribed area (Creek Road marks the boundary). Outside, stalls were piled high with green bananas, pineapples, watermelons and vegetables. Inside, the fug of fish that had been on display a couple of hours too long was stifling and clouds of flies rose and fell as we passed. Reality indeed. Back to our hotel and any hope of a siesta as interrupted by a din from the narrow lane outside, drums and cymbals and the chanting of a hundred male throats. It died away, only to be replaced shortly by women, their deep singing periodically interrupted by an eerie wail – “Ah-yah-yah-yah!” – like the wind being forced through a crack in an old house. Dozens of headscarved women, gathered in the elbow of the twisting lane opposite and settled down on spread blankets. From my balcony I could see over their heads to a half-open door, beyond which a young bride was being prepared for her wedding day. This was the sort of exposure to a foreign culture that had intrigued me while traveling in Morocco, Egypt and Syria, and I was glad to share it with my wife.

Then, the fantasy. The melange of architectural styles, the exoticness of the location, the soft trade winds blowing in off a sea of turquoise and sapphire and ruffling the palm fronds, the wooden dhows bobbing at anchor, the sunset as seen from a lounger on the terrace of the Africa House Hotel, ‘Zanzibar Sling’ cocktail in hand, the tang of spices on the tongue, the very fact that we were here on honeymoon, goddammit. It all provided a dreamy, fantastical atmosphere and we could truly believe that we had successfully run away from our normal lives and were now in a place almost outside of time and reality.

World Heritage-iness: 3.5

My Experience: 3.5

(Visited Feb 2015)