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They sit in weathered doorways gesturing into borrowed cell phones, trying to sell armfuls of last week’s cassava, yesterday’s kingfish, small piles of dusty peppers, sitting on old threadbare sofas or piles of coconut husks or squatted on old upturned truck tires. No one is so lethargic they don’t feel hunger. Poverty, tropical languor, and hunger pervade everything – the air itself seemingly heavy with it. In the crowded marketplaces no one spends more than a dollar a day, and thousands of people sit on dusty street corners with nothing much to do or say, nothing to wait for. Now home to just a million people, Zanzibar’s small rural townships comprised of permanently unfinished breeze-block buildings with corrugated iron roofs. In 1896, Zanzibar took part in the shortest recorded war in history, when the local Sultanate surrendered to Britain after 38 minutes of naval bombardment. Originally part of the Omani empire, Zanzibar fell under Tanzanian rule after its independence in 1964, following the bloody Zanzibar Revolution in which thousands of Arabs and Indians were killed.įor centuries prior to the revolution, the sale of slaves and ivory made it one of the principal trading outposts in eastern Africa, and a melting pot of cultures and vested interests. There’s a strange halo around Unguja, the main island in the Zanzibar archipelago: a stretch of pristine 5-star beaches that disavows the extreme poverty that exists throughout the rest of the island. The spice-scented, quintessential Indian Ocean idyll – turquoise-hued shallow waters lapping miles of palm-fringed white-sand beaches – does not disappoint.įor centuries, traders and travelers have eulogized about Zanzibar’s intoxicating aroma of spices, its beautiful beaches and the bustle of its Moorish capital, Stone Town. As we all begin to get pangs of wanderlust again, is there anywhere that conjures up the magic and mystery of exotic travel more than Zanzibar?