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( July 22nd, 2010 )
236 Hurumzi
The Indian Ocean calmed, lightened to turquoise. The ferry glided past dhows, their ragged sails shaped like shark fins, past nefarious rusting vessels, and into port, stopping in front of a wall of centuries-old buildings, squeezed together and set behind long stretches of powdery-white sand.
“Welcome to Zanzibar. Do you have Typhoid?” The immigration officer asked.
“No.”
“Yellow Fever?”
“Not yet. Which way to the 236 Hurumzi?” I inquired after being admitted.
He pointed at the wall of coral stone buildings.
I walked towards where he pointed, into the heart of Stone Town, the ancient soul of Zanzibar, and was immediately lost in a labyrinth of narrow alleyways lined with curio shops, spice vendors and mosques calling the faithful to prayer. It would be three days before I could navigate this maze without assistance.
After a long day of travel, the 236 Hurumzi, once I did find it, invited me to fall into the island’s languid pace. I dropped my bags, collapsed onto a bed fit for a harem and let the ceiling fan cool me. The three story Hurumzi dates back to the early 1800s and was once the home to a prominent figure in the Swahili Empire. Its 16 private rooms are spacious, and its elegant Indian, Persian and Arab antique furnishings allow you to escape back to the early 18th century when the Omani Sultanate ruled the island. Up a steep set of well-worn and creaking stairs, as if on a pirate ship, was my room’s private, open-air tea room replete with a swing and opium-den cushions, overlooking the rooftops of Stone Town, and the placid Zanzibar Straight beyond.
A few locals and I spent evenings here drinking, cooling off from the day’s oppressive humidity, listening to the town settling in for the night.
“Try and leave”, one girl said to me on one of these evenings. “Try and leave Zanzibar willingly… It won’t be easy.”
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