Spent three miserable days in the armpit of Tanzania. Dar es Salaam is a repulsive stinktropolis but is a necessity to pass through as a gateway into other more appealing East African destinations. Boarded a ferry and left mainland Africa behind for the island of Zanzibar. Conquered in succession by Shirazi Persians in the 10th century, then by the Portuguese in the 16th, followed by the Omani Arabs in the early 19th. It remained the seat of the sultan of the Omani dynasty of Barghash until the 1860’s when they conceded to the British and shared power with them as a protectorate. By this time, the archipelago had established huge spice plantations and was the world’s leading supplier of cloves, cinnamon, cardamom, vanilla, black pepper, nutmeg, lemongrass, etc. Unfortunately, Zanzibar’s notoriety extended into sinister fame. It became the central trading center for both ivory and slaves. Arab raiding caravans were sent into the interior of the mainland and brought back trophies, both elephant and human. Over 30,000 slaves were sold at markets in Zanzibar every year, sent off by ship to faraway lands. The elephant slaughter financed empires in the Persian Gulf & India. Elephants were brought down and tusks were removed at a time when only primitive weaponry was available.
Despite its ominous history, the exotic blend of cultures amid perfumed fields has elevated the islands to mythical realms. Situated in the Indian Ocean just off the Swahili coast of East Africa, it lies at the confluence of Arab, Indian, and African cultures. Trade with the East brought a large Islamic influence, both in Arabic architecture and religion. Zanzibar is a devout Muslim society, with most women wearing full burkas. Walking through its labyrinthe of narrow alleyways lined with old stone buildings in advanced stages of elegant decay, it has the mystical feeling of an ancient kingdom of Persia, India, and Arabia, all merged into one spicy appetizer. Locals move about in traditional robes, uniformed schoolboys play soccer in goat-lined courtyards, young women gossip about who didn’t show up at the mosque for prayer, cats perch on steps waiting for scraps from the fishermen, Indian shopkeepers dust off their wares, and the elderly sit pensively and watch the entire drama unfold, orchestrating and regulating, quick to point out any breach of custom in this ancient theatre.
Ahh, the doors of Zanzibar. Nearly every building has the most exquisite set of old carved wood doors studded with brass ornamentation. The gem in the architectural crown but a lost craft of bygone artists. Needless to say, I scoured the antique shops looking my gates, a set of doors that speak to me. “Come hither, Michael, buy me, ship me off across the oceans to American lands, dress me with a homestead worthy of my creation, plant me on a forested mountaintop and decorate the manor with opulent fabric and sculpture.” Duty called, I answered, but she hung up on me. Haute international designers have already pillaged the treasures for their celebrity clientele. The few doors I did find were tagged at $800 but the shipping would have cost $2000 (they weigh about 500 pounds). It leaves me with only one option: to wait until I become a wealthy celebrity and am able to order a set from Pierre, my future gay French decorator.
Amidst the maze, is a historic landmark building which has been renovated into a luxury hotel but has retained the old Swahili elegance. Emerson & Green, two eccentrics loaded with both taste and money, have resurrected an architectural masterpiece. I wandered in after hearing rumours about a gorgeous roof top lounge and thought my honkyhood (perhaps mistaking me for an actual guest) would be enough to get past the lobby security. Nope. They asked a polite but brusque “can we help you, sir?”
“Ah, um, well, yes I came to check on room availability.”
“We are booked through November, do you have a reservation sir?”
“Well, no but I thought I’d come by to have a look at the rooms for next year.”
“Our rooms start at $300 per person per night.” As he said that, he glanced condescendingly at my ratty outfit. He continued, “Anyhow, the rooms are full so I can’t show you anything.”
“I see. Can I just have a quick look up to your roof top lounge?”
“I suppose but you must be gone by 7pm when our guests will be arriving there for dinner.”
“Absolutely, I promise not to disturb anyone, intentionally.”
And with that, I went up three flights of dark mahogany stairs to the Tower Top. What I saw is what I hope to create one day. The magnitude of splendor was nearly incomprehensible. In addition to some photo’s I made some extensive mental notes for future inspiration. Basically, it was an opulent open-air lounge perched like a lavish nest on the top of the tallest building in Stonetown, the capital of Zanzibar. The entire structure was ornately carved wood with gabling around the top. Luxuriant silk fabric, backlit from above, swagged from the ceiling, mirroring the billowing sails of the dhows anchored just offshore in the sea below. Persian carpets covered the floor, where no shoes were allowed. Overstuffed pillows covered in lush tapestries created a perimeter of seating around low wooden candlelit tables. The bar was staffed with men wearing Fez hats and flowing robes, providing guests with formal service reminiscent of colonial days.
I sat down tentatively, ordered a scotch, and drank the sumptuous visual feast that lay before my eyes. In the dying light of dusk, a breeze off the Indian ocean blew in, fluttering the cascading fabric draped from the roof, while the fourth of five daily Islamic calls to prayer rang out from the speakers of the nearby mosque. The setting sun cast a purplish-orange light behind the dhows, ancient Arab trading vessels, and the view over the rooftops was epic. I could have been a caliph of Persia, the sultan of Arabia, or the maharaja of India pontificating over his subjects from the opium den throne. My inadequate attempt using words to describe this moment will hopelessly never capture it. I left shortly before 7pm and walked back to my crappy $8/night fleabag with my 180 degree view of a brick wall.
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