Zanzibaaaaah!

Zanzibar: the very name sounds exotic, unfamiliar, slightly dangerous. It carries with it a whiff of heat, spices and adventure. It barely sounds real: didn’t Sinbad himself rock up there? Well, some people say so - and if he didn’t, he should have. This small island off the Tanzanian coast is the Arabian Nights brought to vibrant life.

Stone Town, the old heart of the capital, Zanzibar Town, is a heady maze of narrow, dusty alleyways crowded with Omani-, Swahili- and Indian-influenced buildings and resounding to the cries of the muezzin, jangling bells, chants from Hindu temples and Swahili pop blasting from CD vendors. Plain facades are adorned with elaborately carved wooden doorways that open into cool courtyards. Donkeys pass under intricate latticework balconies. Masai warriors sell beaded trinkets next to stalls stacked high with colorful kangas, the decorative strips of cloth worn by Zanzibari women. The scent of cloves fills the air outside spice shops - this is the Spice Island, after all - and small squares are draped in vast cobwebs. Shopkeepers greet passers-by with cries of “Jambo!” (hello!), and invitations to inspect their goods. On Sunday afternoons, groups of boys jump off the harbor seawall, swimming and diving among the fishing dhows and tourist boats. And at sunset, the waterfront Forodhani Gardens fills with barbecue smoke as dozens of tiny stalls set up offering freshly cooked delicacies.

Decaying splendor is the best description of Stone Town. It is famous for its beautiful carved wooden doors, their jambs engraved with chains symbolizing security, lotus flowers (peace), fish (fertility), or frankincense or date trees (good health). The doors are often older than the buildings that surround them, handed down from generation to generation, their size and weight an indication of wealth. But away from the old heart of Stone Town, the city is just plain decaying. Now, after some hideous Soviet-style architectural experiments following the 1964 socialist revolution, Zanzibaris are increasingly embracing their heritage. There are moves afoot to restore the historic town, a trading port since the eighth century, through the Stone Town Conservation and Development Authority: drains are high on its list of priorities. In 1994, the area was recognized by Unesco as one of the world’s top 100 heritage sites, although it has yet to receive World Heritage status. If you like your history lived-in, atmospheric and slightly moldering, Stone Town is for you.

After all, who couldn’t fall in love with a place whose largest building, “The House of Wonders,” boasts the first lift in East Africa (which no longer works) and a former president’s Ford Zephyr? And people do, in droves.

But Zanzibar is a beautiful place with an ugly past. Floating in turquoise sea plied by thousands of billowing, diamond-sailed dhows, the East African island is fringed with palm trees and dazzling, powder-white beaches. This is honeymoon central: sun-loungers are lined up in pairs on the pristine sand, and shiny gold bands twinkle on the entwined fingers of newlyweds. But it’s more than just another tropical-island paradise. In the 19th century, Zanzibar was home to the last Great Slave Market in Africa. It is a dark history that still lends the place an aura in fertile imaginations.

The market closed in 1873. In its place, stands an Anglican Cathedral and Missionary Hospital, and what was the market square is now the cathedral courtyard, one of the quietest places in town. You can still visit the old slave storage chambers beneath the hospital, a short but harrowing tour of tiny, miserable hellholes with breathtakingly small air inlets. Built in 1811, when the tide had already turned against slavery, the market reached its heyday in the 1830s-50s, when up to 60,000 people a year were sold here. The slaves’ strength and bravery were demonstrated by beating them at a “whipping tree” said to stand on the site of what is now the cathedral altar. Nearby is a wooden crucifix made from a branch of the tree under which the heart of explorer and anti-slavery advocate Dr. David Livingstone lies buried.

There are more echoes of the island’s sad past on Hurumzi Street, which means “let him free.” The grandest house on the narrow alleyway - second only to the House of Wonders in height - is thought to have been used by British administrators in the 1880s to buy back slaves from Arab traders. Today, the house is a stunning boutique hotel, a tour de force of boho chic, called Emerson & Green.