AN AFRICAN ISLAND WITH STAR QUALITY
Exotic Zanzibar teases the senses and leaves you spellbound, says Rod Gilchrist
GEORGE CLOONEY and his wife Amal checked into one of the new hotels on Zanzibar last summer — a boutique retreat hidden down a sandy path leading to an indigo ocean. This celebrity endorsement is significant. It confers on an island where sultans once ruled a kind of Papal blessing; a dash of A-list stardust.
Until a few years ago, Tanzania’s feted Indian Ocean island was largely seen as a destination for backpackers, albeit one with an intriguing history as an outpost of British colonial rule. David Livingstone used it as a base in his search for the source of the nile.
I have neither the great explorer’s wanderlust, nor the Hollywood actor’s star quality — but I, too, am lured by Zanizbar’s reputation for being untouched.
rising at daybreak to walk along a deserted beach to the northerly fishing village of nungwi, I watch fishermen still at work, hauling in a night catch of slippery, silver tuna and marlin: air still in their gills, nets around their fins.
As the sun climbs, the fishermen shelter under palm trees to mend their nets. Women arrive at low tide, wearing brightly coloured kangas — kimono-like wraps — to collect seaweed to be made into creams. There are no jet-skis or kite-surfers.
ZAnZIBAr, 25 miles off the coast of Tanzania, is six degrees south of the Equator. But it basks in a comfortable average yearround temperature of 28c. It is ringed by coral reefs and talc-soft sand that separates coconut forests from the sea.
Once, the island was ruled by the Sultan of Oman, who relocated his court here from Muscat in 1840. He had been made fabulously rich by the trade in spices and slaves.
From where I am sitting — on a terrace at the Essque Zalu hotel on the island’s northern tip, just a stroll from the Clooneys’ hideaway — little seems to have changed since Zanzibar was made famous in the tales of Arabian nights.
Later, I flit through dense banana plantations to west coast Fumba, where I wade through the shallows to board a red-sailed dhow.
The skipper introduces himself as Captain Morgan (though his real name is Hussan) and takes me out in search of leaping dolphins, before anchoring for a session of snorkeling. Suddenly I’m in the middle of a natural aquarium of rainbowcoloured parrot and angel fish.
Later, we make land on a sheltered islet where giant crabs scuttle to the safety of the mangrove bushes as Hussan prepares a barbecue of swordfish, marlin and shrimp.
‘The British pirate Captain Kidd worked these waters, looting clippers from the east,’ he says with a grin. ‘He is said to have buried treasure on one of these islands.
‘He returned to London to give himself up, hoping that if he told where the treasure was, they would let him off. They hanged him. So the treasure might be under our feet.’ The next morning, I wander round a spice plantation where nutmeg, cinnamon, lemongrass and ginger make for a more heavenly scent than I’ve ever smelt in a bottle.
But the heart of Zanizbar’s legend lies in its west-coast capital Stone Town — a labyrinth of narrow alleys, bazaars and merchant mansions which once housed harems.
I join the Sunday service in the Anglican Christ Church Cathedral, built on the site where 60,000 slaves were sold every year. It is joyous to sing familiar hymns in Swahili, but I am hypnotised by the altar, where the whipping post once stood. It was in those dark times that the island’s grandest private palace was built — Mambo Msiige. A lavish, oceanside fort, crafted as the home of a wealthy sheikh in 1850, it later fell into ruin but has just opened as a sumptuous Park Hyatt hotel, its Moorish windows, carved doors and intricate Islamic tiles restored.
Livingstone’s body was returned here in 1872 to lie in state in its central courtyard. The view can have changed little since. Dhows still seek sanctuary in the nearby port, where young men continue to test their courage by taking a running jump over the harbour wall into the water 20ft below. One sultry night, I meander through the medina to Emerson Spice — a rooftop restaurant where I eat sitting cross-legged on silk cushions. It feels like heaven.
Some houses in Stone Town are crumbling. But, happily, citadels like Mambo Msiige are being restored. Zanzibar is a stubborn, splendid creature. Long may she be so.