The Surprises of Zanzibar
It’s a gray, stifling July afternoon, and after flying over a carpet of palm trees, interrupted here and there by the ruins of Arab buildings, we land in Zanzibar.
In Salomé’s Garden in Zanzibar. If Zanzibar has a history, it owes it to the Omanis, who, for better or worse, made it grand. The revolution of 1969 restored dignity to the Swahili people but unfortunately destroyed many important relics. The sultans brought not only slavery but also civilization, art, knowledge, and wealth.
Salomé was one of their princesses.
Beautiful and cultured. Her villa in Zanzibar was among the island’s most refined. The small island facing Dar es Salaam became one of the earliest European settlements along the East Indies route, alongside Mombasa and nearby Pemba. The Portuguese, following Vasco de Gama’s voyage, recognized its strategic importance and transformed it into a major trade hub. Its position—especially with respect to the monsoons regulating ship routes—drew merchants from India and the Arab world, particularly from the Sultanate of Oman.
By the mid-1600s, Omanis controlled the island.
Zanzibar gradually became a significant slave market, supplying labor for East Indies plantations. The Omani presence grew stronger in an otherwise cosmopolitan and tolerant climate. In the first half of the 19th century, most wealthy Arab traders relocated to Zanzibar, prompting the Sultan of Oman to move his capital here. Political fortunes fluctuated, influenced by international diplomacy, particularly European, and by the late 19th century, it became a British protectorate.
The buildings, their decorations, and especially the finely carved doorways reflect vastly different periods, tastes, and cultures.
Doors became the hallmark of residential architecture: arched or lintelled, single or double, these doors still stand as proud showcases of the owner’s nationality, culture, and social standing. Large brass spikes and studs reinforce and adorn them, with each functional element crafted with meticulous attention.
More than the houses and palaces themselves, which are beautiful and charming in their own right, it is the doorways that give character to Stone Town, the old part of Zanzibar.
Here in this enclosed neighborhood, the original core of the city, the myth of the Spice Island lives on in the faded glory of a political primacy long swept away by history, preserved only through artistic expression.
Maura has lived here for years, in Zanzibar in the garden of Salomé House.
She is in love with Zanzibar and commands her staff with innate, unyielding grace. Like so many expats I’ve met in my travels, she knows how to focus on the essential, avoiding the traditional sophistries of urban life and steering clear of the traps of dominant or trendy cultures. Her life is fusion, like her cooking. Simple, direct, she speaks as she cooks: her words are like her hair—genuine blonde. Or like her handshake—strong and firm, as unforgettable as the taste of her crab ravioli.
Tomorrow we leave.
We’ll pass through Stone Town and head to the airport. It’s no longer the dusty place with wooden check-in counters I remember from years ago; now it even has air conditioning. But the Arab merchants are still there, scented with oud (the distinctive resinous fragrance), wearing embroidered kumas on their heads and dishdashas, proof that governments change, but business remains. Enchanted, we board the Gulf Air flight that will take us to Muscat, and from there, home.
