Vicarious Nomads: Zanzibar!

Zanzibar is what I expected Morocco to be like. It is an enchanting place, ripe with the histories and mysteries of Omani sultans and Arab traders. Swahili is a beautiful language, part African, part Arabic. Stone Town's alleyways are lined with fruit vendors, small shops with woodcarvings, Masai beaded jewelry and paintings. They are car free. Just children running, occasional carts passing, bell-ringing bicyclists, meandering pedestrians, and a periodic motor bike. The streets look like you don't want to walk down them at night. But beyond each narrow passageway is a new discovery. A Hindu temple. A mosque. A school with children's voices ringing out the window. A market. Complete with fish of all shapes and sizes, fruits and vegetables of all colors – delicious avocados, tomatoes, breadfruit, jack fruit, mangoes, lychees, pineapple, apples, oranges, limes – and spices – saffron, clove, lemongrass, turmeric, bright red tandoori masala, vanilla, cinnamon ginger, curries.

When we wander out from Stone Town on a spice tour, we find all of these spices in a short walk. Each tree or bush provides something new. Huge jack fruit the size of the biggest watermelons dangle along the trunk of a towering tree. Vanilla beans still green, pollinated by hand, hang in groups. Lemon grass sprouts knee high from the ground. So does cassava, turmeric and ginger, a hint of their roots visible through the soil. Lime, mango, cocoa, breadfruit all over head. A pineapple sprouts from the center of a grassy plant, a gift presented as if for a king. A grove of cinnamon trees show, vertical stretches of bark removed to the scented delight of tourists. And clove leaves. When crushed they smell magic and deliciously familiar at the same time. And then there is the annatto, a small seed the size and color of a peach pit with fur on the outside. Inside are small red pods. When crushed, they solve a tandoori mystery. It is this bright red dye that colors the tandoori spices so brilliantly.

The smells are only matched by the colors. It is no wonder everybody here dresses in such brilliant colors. They are everywhere, in the hibiscus, the acacia, the bougainvillaea, the annatto. The same brilliance we see snorkeling along the reef the following day. I name rainbow-zebra fish, parrot fish, blue starfish, in the absence of any taxonomy. It is all far beyond anything I could imagine. The coral seems to breathe. And schools of fish mimic this coral in the currents. Huge sea anemones with the quills of a porcupine sit silently on the sea floor amidst coral that looks like mushroom caps of all varieties. Then there is the coral that looks like a huge colorful yellow brain. Gray matter just isn't imaginative enough. For every piece of coral, there seems to be an equal and opposite fish, its long mouth designed to extract food from amidst the coral. Its coloration camouflage for some unseen predator.

We each get a small pouch made from banana leaf in which to gather our spices. And we taste everything. Right on to green coconut, pineapple-tasting jack fruit, sour starfruit, turmeric root. I pick at the root for a taste. It comes off in circles like a carrot. It will take two days of ocean waves to remove the yellow from under my nails. After a smell and a taste, each goes into the banana-leaf pouch to make a pourri that we will later use in our bathroom.

Before sunset, we walk along the water. We watch a dozen teenage boys jump off the wall into the ocean. They take turns, like at a skateboard park. Each sprints twenty feet before leaping off of the stone wall in a trick while falling twenty feet into the Indian Ocean. Meanwhile the others watch. Some dive. Some spin and flip. One runs in slow motion in the air. Most land at odd angles, but seem to be unfazed by it.

Here the sun sets over the water. A bit before its departure, the promenade comes alive with street vendors. Maybe thirty in all, they are gathered in four or five squares around a fryer and barbecue. A man shoves meter sticks of sugar cane through a press for juice. Then he folds them over, sticks lime quarters and ginger chunks in the middle, and presses them again. And again until a cup of delicious lime, ginger and sugar juice comes out. Next to him, a woman has a pot of mango soup over a small grill, lumps of potato inside. It is served with small felafel balls and chopped green leafy garnish. A bowl is one thousand Tanzanian shillings, about 65 cents.

Next to her is the fruit man, a rainbow of freshly chopped pineapple, mango, papaya, avocado, watermelon and coconut on display.

Next to him is more deliciousness. A man has a wok of a frying pan over a charcoal fire, tiny tablespoon sized dough balls under a towel, a can of ghee, a dozen eggs and a few bowls of chopped goodness. These are the ingredients for Zanzibari pizza. Spanish omelet meets Italian pizza with samosa spirit and Zanzibar spice. He prepares them one at a time. Each takes no longer than five minutes. Dough pressed out by hand, covered in vegetable mixture and beef, an egg cracked on top and mixed in with a spoon. The edges folded up and onto the hot ghee-filled cooking surface. Cook for a while. Then flip. Somehow it never falls apart. When done it is chopped horizontally and vertically to make a dozen bite-sized pieces adorned with salad and chili sauce. This is 2,000 tsh, about $1.33. We sit and eat it off a droopy paper plate on a bench overlooking the ocean.

Every so often we hear a splash and a scream followed by applause. That is when the waves crash against the wall and splash up on the people. The ocean makes better entertainment than any Moroccan monkey man or snake charmer I have ever seen.

Then there is the main event. The mishikaki. Every fourth stall has a royal spread, forty kebabs across. It starts with fish kebabs of all sorts – kingfish, shark, tuna, and countless others I don't know. Then chicken kebabs. And beef. Then mussels, lobster, crab, octopus, squid, prawns. Occasional kebabs are decorated with the bright red of the annatto tandoori spice mix. Behind the kebab infantry are the big guns. Four flat breads, some with garlic, some with sesame seeds. Whole squid. Squid in two parts – bodies and tentacles. The same with the octopus. Huge crab claws, disconnected from bodies. Huge red crab bodies, disconnected from their front claws. Then warm-water claw-less lobsters that only make the crabs look bigger. Half golden brown chickens that look deliciously seasoned and slow roasted. Then there is the starch section. Cassava, breadfruit, potatoes three ways. All available fried or heated on the grill. It yields to what is advertised as the vegetarian section. Samosas (vegetable or beef), huge bready felafel balls of two types. And bright red tomatoes, cucumbers and chopped red onion for garnish. Chili sauce and ketchup for additional spice and moisture. It is all welcomingly overwhelming. I start with a fish mishikaki and make a few passes before deciding what's next. I sleep on it and come back the next day for beef and octopus.

The colors, the spices, the tastes and smells are accompanied by the call to prayer five times a day. And vistas of turquoise water and white sand seem to await around every corner. Not every corner, just the ones that I swear are in the direction that is not facing the sea. And on the turquoise water sails a wooden dhow, surely much the same as a thousand years ago. Its white sail poses like a huge dorsal fin in the sun. You can't out-souk the souks, but this is the magic I was looking for in Morocco, with a slower pace and less hassle.