Raising the Zanzibar
From a Masai massage to swimming in a perfect ocean, Harriet Mallinson discovers an African island that is...
THERE are four men leaping up and down in front of me. They shout and wail at a high pitch, and pant heavily, while the beads around their necks jangle vigorously. I’m told this cacophony is supposed to be relaxing. It is, after all, just the beginning of a two-hour ‘Masai Ritual’ spa treatment on the African island of Zanzibar, complete with dancing Masai men, flame torches and the odd goat. Unfortunately, my main preoccupation is whether these performers in traditional robes might soon pass out from hyperventilation.
I’m at the Essque Zalu Zanzibar hotel on the north coast of the tiny island, where they are immensely proud of this immersive experience. Impressively, the ‘warriors’ perform this show throughout the lengthy treatment, which is held in a series of teepee-like tents in the hotel gardens.
Two softly-spoken women treat my boyfriend Toby and me to a foot and body scrub, aromatherapy massage and a facial. In short you leave thoroughly pampered, serene (depending on your response to the zealous chanting) and smelling like a sherbet lemon.
The hotel is centred around a large turquoise infinity pool which faces the impossibly clear Indian Ocean.
My favourite feature of the residence is the wooden jetty which projects far into the sea and lends a degree of rustic, nautical charm to the relatively modern property. We are lucky that our spacious seafront suite looks right on to this glorious vista.
If you’re looking to simply chill out, the poolside, complete with waiters ferrying you endless cocktails, is the perfect place. However, if you’re seeking adventure, there’s plenty to do around the island.
One afternoon we head south on a snorkelling expedition. The variety of fish is fascinating: parrotfish, razorfish, starfish, scorpionfish. If you’re lucky, you might even see dolphins.
When I first tumble into the water after our guide, I find myself barging in on a congregation of zebrafish, which dart in front of my nose, no doubt per- turbed by the landlubber interrupting their peace.
The theatrical interactions of the deep are enthralling: squabbles burst out between a small group, pals huddle together as though catching up on the latest gossip, and one lone fish disgorges a tiny cloud of waste before nonchalantly swimming away from the scene of its misdemeanour.
ANOTHER unmissable excursion is lunch at a restaurant aptly named The Rock. This venue is perched on a rock in the Indian Ocean and is one of the most exclusive spots I have ever visited. During low tide, you can walk there, but as we arrive at high tide, a gapped-tooth boatman ferries us, Charon-like, across the stretch of water.
Despite its rustic setting, the interior of the restaurant is smart and sophisticated. We enjoy excellent wine and fish before retiring to the tiny terrace for a cocktail and a hearty photo-snapping session to make the most of the outstanding scenery around us.
While the sea view might not be 360 degrees back at Essque Zalu, I’ll wager the food is better. There are two restaurants to choose from: The Jetty, which, unsurprisingly, is on the end of the jetty looking out to the sea and is the more relaxed of the pair, and The Market Kitchen, which is slightly fancier.
A culinary highlight during our stay is the seafood platter for dinner at The Jetty. The soft flesh of the tasty lobster is complemented by a buttery, garlicky sauce and our fingers are soon sticky as we tuck into the tiger prawns and squid, washing the delicacies down with a crisp white wine.
A band plays while we eat and some guests even get up to dance, which makes for a very jolly evening.
We manage to get involved ourselves with the local cuisine when we take part in a Swahili cooking lesson held by Rosa, the hotel’s sous-chef.
Under her tutelage we create delicious dishes such as octopus in coconut, beef samosas and spicy potato croquettes. We enthusiastically gorge on the freshly made feast afterwards, marvelling at how simple the appetising dishes were to make.
Outside the hotel’s walls, though, life in Zanzibar is very different. Beyond the resort’s grounds lies a shocking level of poverty – ramshackle huts with roofs made of corrugated iron, women collecting water from a communal pump, and emaciated cows nosing among piles of rubbish.
It’s worth striking out on your own to explore the island to see the ‘real’ Zanzibar, away from the rose-tinted view afforded by tourist life.
If you follow the sands north of Essque Zalu, you eventually find yourself at Nungwi beach. When we meander over one afternoon, we pass carpenters working on traditional fishing boats, smiling children selling pretty shells on a rickety stand, and older men swinging buckets of fresh swordfish.
Once at the popular beach spot, we recline under a palm tree with a bottle of beer. A game of football starts up on the shoreline as the sun begins to set.
Fishing boats bob in the heightening breeze and women wander past offering massages, while more unsavoury types ask in hushed tones whether we want anything ‘stronger’.
Politely declining, I dig my bare feet into the soft, white sand, let calmness settle over me and admire the views as the dying sun’s golden disc slips behind a bank of cloud, throwing glorious pink and bronze streaks across the darkening sky.
I think I’ll pass on Masai warriors as a form of relaxation in the future, but Zanzibar is a place to which I could keep coming back for more.