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Sleeping is in individual chalets - awful word, reminiscent of Butlins - of hand-cut fossilised coral limestone, scattered towards the beach, or in bedrooms in the small central lodge. All blend in seamlessly with the natural contours of the Zanzibar shoreline, so much so that when one is contemplating the hotel from a gently bobbing boat off the beach, there's nothing to distinguish the jumble of palm-thatched roofs from any neighbouring fishing village along this stretch of coast. Inside, the bedrooms are light and fragrant, with the obligatory mosquito net draped four posters and bedspreads the colour of the Indian Ocean. Notices in the bathrooms exhort guests not to waste the water, which currently makes its way to Ras Nungwi in a tanker, bouncing up the rutted roads from a reservoir across the island. But you still get a little personal footbath to wash the sand from your feet before ascending the polished wooden steps to your own front door, behind a veranda replete with more cushions. The influence of the sea is everywhere - lamps encased in shades made out of hemp fish traps swing merrily in the salty breeze, and even the ashtrays are hollowed out coconut shells from the palm trees that line the beach. If you can summon the energy, the hotel has an all-singing, all-dancing game fishing and watersports outfit on the doorstep. If you prefer your fish in the sea rather than the frying pan, dive the local coral reefs, threatened for years by spear-fishing and dynamite but still breathtaking. But if the word 'watersports' conjures up images of jet-skis roaring past as you struggle to breathe through the exhaust fumes on the beach, forget it. The vessel most likely to sail past you in the blaze of an African sunset is an Arab dhow - the curved silhouette that shouts 'exotic' so loudly it's almost a cliché. But you'll smile complacently anyhow, offer a short prayer of thanks for the defeat of the bulldozer brigade, and settle back on those cushions for another nap. Copyright © Gemma Pitcher 2004 |
