The day bleeds to death in the far reaches of the Indian Ocean as crimson reflections slice the waves. We sit on a dock watching the flicker of leaping fish and the flying feet of little boys, skittering like crabs over the sand.
The soccer ball escapes them, a knot of neighbours taunt and somebody splashes into the darkened waters. Down the island, lights quiver to life one by one. Orchestra music scratches from a transistor radio.
Strictly speaking, we don't do much in this antique port town. We watch the mornings rise up to the decrepit rooftops, wander our days away and sit back down for sunsets. The fishing boats roll out at dawn, lumber home at dusk. We watch and walk, little more.
But that's Zanzibar - like falling asleep to coloured and complicated dreams. In this city of shadows and spice, we feel like children who've sneaked into a museum after hours.
Zanzibar. The Spice Islands. A coral archipelago rising from the Indian Ocean 40km off the eastern coast of Africa. The name reminds us of something, but what?
Some vague, tropical and half-forgotten idea, some scrap of history more intricate than the ornate doors of Stone Town. Something glimpsed years ago in the pages of an old storybook.
For centuries, Arab and Persian traders came sailing on the monso winds, hunting spices, ivory - and slaves. As many as 50 000 mainland Africans a year were stuffed into boats at the Zanzibar docks and shipped off to a life of bondage.
We stay in Stone Town, Zanzibar's aptly named historic port city. After centuries of tumultuous history, stone is the skeleton and the soul.
Stone Town is giving way under the weight of years. Lavish homes built from native coral rock beg for repair. The government of Zanzibar is struggling to preserve Stone Town before time and salt have their way with its architecture.
If you're looking for debauchery, don't go. Zanzibar is a traditional Islamic land, and social norms are conservative. Many restaurants don't serve liquor, and drinking in front of strangers is a faux pas.
Local women leave only portions of their faces uncovered and female tourists who wish to avoid harassment should consider following suit. Our skirts reached our ankles, but we still felt naked.
"Dear tourist . . . Please no mouth kissing," pleads a sign typed in English and tacked to a gate by the Palace Museum. "Street love is highly offensive."
White beaches lapped by turquoise water
Most of Zanzibar's travellers trickle in after a Kilimanjaro trek, a Kenyan safari, or both. Almost all are headed for the resorts and the many glistening white sand beaches lapped by turquoise water.
Our days are sleepy: We rise and eat breakfast at our hotel's rooftop restaurant, salted winds punching at the crisp canopies framing our table.
After strong coffee and pungent melon, we wander off to the market to haggle over ebony chess sets, combs and salad tongs.
A pool of pearled silk
At the endless textile booths we finger vibrant bolts of cloth. Some of the fabrics are nice, some are not. All are cheap.
"I want a piece of this," my sister says, dropping to her knees before a pool of pearled silk.
"Let's keep looking and come back," I suggest. We do. When we return, every stitch of the fabric has been sold. We've learned a valuable lesson.
At the enthusiastic urging of our guidebook, we wend our way through the labyrinth of streets to find Mr Mitu, Stone Town's celebrated tour guide.
Mr Mitu is something of a local legend, a portly, gray-haired man who pats his stomach as he fires off encyclopedic knowledge of Zanzibar's history.
We are among a handful of visitors who pack into Mitu's van and bump out of town, bound for the ruins of old Zanzibar. Persian baths, mosques and the remains of a sultan's harem sink slowly into the soft soil of coconut groves.
At night we eat curries
The first Middle Eastern sultan arrived in AD 975, when Abi Ben Sultan Hasan of Persia (now Iran) sailed off into the Indian Ocean with his family and a group of followers.
A century later, Sultan Seyyid Said moved his sultanate from Muscat to Zanzibar, where he and his descendants ruled for more than 130 years.
At night we sample curries in one of Stone Town's bayside restaurants. Shortly after sunset, we'll hear it.
We won't be expecting it, because by day we forget. That strange wail startles us for a moment every night.
It's an evening song of prayer, broadcast over the city as the world rolls the island deeper into night. The cry to Allah rings off moldering walls, skims out over the inky waters. In the cafes and on corners, eyes are cast low, waiting. Stone Town is still and listening.
Then quiet falls down from the starry skies and Zanzibar sleeps.
Fast Facts
Getting there
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Several flights a day run between the African mainland and the main island of Unguja. Ferry boats from Dar es Salaam to Zanzibar operate daily. Tickets are from R194.50. Plane fares can vary between R389 one way from Dar es Salaam up to R1 556 from more remote ports.
Getting around
The best way to negotiate the winding streets of Stone Town is on foot, though taxis to the airport are plentiful and relatively cheap.
To see the rest of the main island of Unguja, hop on to a local bus. Tour operators run boat trips from Stone Town to neighbouring islands.
Lodging
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Hotels in Stone Town range from the gleaming courtyards of the ocean-side Zanzibar Serena Inn, where a single room costs about R1 750, to a collection of hostels and water-stained motels where a night of sleep costs less than R79.
Dining
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Zanzibar eateries offer a variety of cuisines, due in part to expatriate restaurateurs. There is Greek and Italian, Indian and Chinese. With the breath of the ocean in the air, seafood is an obvious choice.
The consummate Zanzibar meal can be found on the rooftop restaurant at Emersons and Green, where diners lounge on pillows for five-course meals.
Entry
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A passport and proof of a yellow fever vaccination are required to enter Zanzibar.