There are three ferry companies operating between Dar es Salaam and Zanzibar. All the trips are scheduled around the same time; between 12.30 and 2.30pm. With this in mind we woke up to buy provisions for the ride.

There is something about a picnic by the sea that makes even a simple meal of bread and juice romantic. Maybe it’s the hypnotic sound of the sea repeatedly crashing against the rocks.

Shops in Kenya and Tanzania are markedly different. Alcohol is sold openly in kiosks in Dar es Salaam. In Kenya, with its strict alcohol rules, it is still possible to find a shopkeeper ready to flout the law and sell you alcohol during the day, but in Dar es Salaam, lined up next to the bread and the milk are bottles and bottles of gin, vodka, whiskey and brandy.

However, the taxi drivers are similar to those in Nairobi. You get the feeling that you are being taken advantage of, that your accent and lack of street smarts means you get charged more than you should be.

As the taxi dropped us off at the ferry terminal with luggage that clearly said “tourists,” we were hounded by hordes of eager young men. They clawed at our bags relieving us of them and walking us towards the ferry of their choice. The cost for the ferry for non-Tanzanians is $18.

Leaving Dar

There is a passport check at the ferry boarding area. The waiting area is airy and complete with seats and a baggage area. Nothing like the chaos at the Likoni Ferry in Mombasa.

When the ferry docked at the pier, there was an announcement that all passengers should embark. The process is controlled like traffic at a roundabout. A few people are allowed on, and then an announcement made that passengers should make room for offloading of cargo.

The ferry has enough seats for almost everyone on board, and we sat above-deck to watch the ocean, for me because I think the ocean is mysterious, for my companion because it’s better for seasickness.

We set off. The ferry is fast; it feels like its flying over the surface of the ocean. It’s disorienting because, unlike on land where you can tell how quickly a vehicle is moving by how fast the scenery changes, in the sea all you have is the wind and the sound of the boat and a vague feeling of inertia as you cut across the waves.

After about two hours, we docked in Zanzibar where there was a Customs check. Zanzibar has its own president and chief justice, separate from mainland Tanzania.

At Customs, your passport will be scrutinised, yellow fever shot confirmed and your picture taken again. I asked why all the fuss and the female officer told me that there are Zanzibaris and there are Tanzanians. When Zanzibaris visit the mainland, they are still Tanzanians, but Tanzanians visiting the isles cannot think of themselves as Zanzibaris. A case of “yours is mine, but mine is mine.”

Zanzibar

When travelling without a local guide, you come to rely on taxi drivers for a number of things. They get you to your hostel or hotel, to the backstreet money changers or forex bureau, or an ATM machine. They will show you where to eat, and if you get lost, they are the people to trust.

When we got off the ferry, we found a friendly taxi driver: An elderly man with white hair, laidback and jovial with laugh lines etched into his face. He got us to our hostel with no fuss — a place called Flamingo Guest House on Mkunzani Street, in Stone Town. What I liked most about this place was the rooftop, where we were told breakfast would be served the next morning.

Stone Town was not built with cars or public transport in mind. As a result, many of the roads are one way. They look like they were built for animals and many of them end abruptly because vehicles are not allowed into some residential areas.

Stone Town is also the seat of the semi-autonomous Zanzibari government, but you don't even know when you are only 500 metres away from a government building.

The architecture is beautiful — a mix of Swahili, Arabic, Indian and European influences. Almost all the buildings are made of stone and you can see the ageing in them, the effects of the sea air. You can smell the salt in the air, and taste it on your tongue if you breathe through your mouth. Coupled with the humidity, Zanzibar’s afternoons call for just being lazy.

The best part is that you can walk around all night if you please.

We left the hotel and went to the famous Forodhani Gardens, a seaside street and seafood bazaar that sells delicacies from the ocean. It is vibrant. Laid out along the road, it spreads in one direction instead of gaining depth and width.

In many respects, it is a grocery market filled with everything you need to make a meal; tomatoes, onions, coriander, vegetables, cheese, garlic, ginger, lemons and dozens of other spices that I couldn’t identify.

There is also an array of cooked food. In display cases are mshikakis (meat on skewers) of roast chicken, beef, squid and other seafood, and various starches. There are juices in ice-cube form made of passion and sugarcane, flavoured with ginger and spices that I still can’t identify. They were simply heavenly in taste.

After Forodhani Gardens, we went looking for a bar. There are few bars open in Zanzibar during Ramadhan. Those that are open are generally empty. The question I most wanted answered yet no one could answer was, “What do you call an ashtray in Kiswahili?”

The next day, while taking a walk, we bumped into our taxi driver from the previous day. We needed a taxi to get us across the island to Paje beach. But first we visited the building where the Zanzibar International Film Festival is hosted. It has a stone coliseum with a circular seating area and a stage. There are nights when plays are performed here and I couldn’t imagine many things more beautiful than sitting under the stars breathing in the salt air and being taken away by actors to another world.

Later in our night wanderings, we got lost. Most people think that all you need to do is keep heading east and you will get to Japan. But, how do you know where east is? Well, they say moss only grows on the east side of rocks. But what do you do when you find moss growing all over and footprints that look exactly like the ones you left behind?

None of the streets we followed seemed to take us where we had been, nothing looked familiar and suddenly we found ourselves on the posh side of Stone Town where there are hotels with uniformed maître d’s.

The saving grace was that the posh hotels are close to the beach, and once on the beach it is easy to walk along it to the ferry terminal, then on to Forodhani, and-with a few detours back to Flamingo where we had kept our friendly cab-driver waiting for nearly 40 minutes.

He drove us to Paje beach with no extra cost for waiting. Decent chap.