It was dark when our ferry slipped into port at Zanzibar Town, yet there was no mistaking the heady scent of cloves. During the 1800's, the "Golden Age" of Zanzibar, our boat would have been fully laden with ivory, smuggled jewels, hashish, and slaves accompanied by their turbaned masters. Beneath the reign of the Sultans of Oman, it was said, "When you play the flute at Zanzibar, all Africa dances."

In the midst of a trans-Africa journey, we found ourselves sidetracked to Zanzibar, an island off the Tanzania coast that for centuries was considered the principal emporium of the East African seaboard.

The ferry from Dar es Salaam - "Haven of Peace" - was our first taste of the so-called spice island`s mystique. We queued up at the waterfront in Dar with throngs of Muslim Zanzibaris; women in long, black shrouds or vivid sarongs, men in caftans and gilded, white fezzes. Someone wedged a five-foot, woven cage of live birds in beside me. An ancient woman chanted a traveling prayer in rapid Swahili. She wrung her spidery, henna-adorned hands as she purred her mantra.

As we disembarked at Zanzibar, the air warm and thick, local "agents" approached, eager to provide hotels, restaurants and transport. I marveled at the rich shades of their mahogany skin. "This way, Mista!" "Welcome, Madame (pronounced Mud 'em). Welcome!". Our man of choice, Mohammed, would prove himself a dedicated guide, albeit unpredictable.

Having arrived on the late ferry, four and a half hours of standing-room-only, we learned that there were no vacant rooms left in town. Reassuring us animatedly, Mohammed secured a van and driver, chauffeuring nine of us through dimly lit Zanzibar streets, too spent to ask our actual destination. Finally, Mohammed announced that we would spend the night on `Prison Island`.

No one said a word as we reached the beach, unloaded and slipped onto the sand, a few titters of nervous laughter accompanying the gentle lull of the water as it washed on the shore. As intrepid travelers we`d asked for this. In the shallows two locals held a sail-less dhow at the ready, the whites of their eyes glistening in thin, dark faces. A deep breath and we handed over our bags and clambered aboard, each of us finding a dry perch amid the nets and bail buckets. The ancient motor rumbled to life, and we slipped out into the mist. Mohammed, a gaunt figure in his gray, tattered caftan, waved us away, a Merlin of that East African sea.

About 500 yards from the shore of Prison island, the dhow ran aground. The two boatmen, as well as one of our group, hopped overboard and struggled in vain to free it from its sandy anchor. One of the group began a stream of hysterical gibberish. Another simply froze in her seat, silent and petrified. I handed over the bags, tied my sarong up around my knees, and joined the men in the thigh-high water. As I made my way with the others towards the lush island, tiny bungalows glimmered in the distance, lit by oil lamps and candles.

The boatmen vanished. Seemingly we were prisoners, shipwrecked on Prison Island. Lights were on inside the hotel, but no one answered our persistent knocking. I shouted "Jambo!," the Swahili version of "Aloha," to a dilapidated looking cabin out back. Eventually two bedraggled men scurried out, ready to haggle out a rate for five double rooms. To our surprise, the men then started off down a path into the dark jungle. After a dark walk full of collisions with what seemed like large boulders at our feet, we arrived at a row of small bungalows on the edge of the sand. Every star was out in full regalia. The hotel men slipped away without a word.

Most of the group went directly to bed, slipping under their mosquito nets with relief. I opted for a star-lit wander in nearby tide pools instead.

Prison Island, also known as Changuu Island, is a large, flat, coral hill, meaning that even at high tide surrounding waters are quite shallow. The intertidal zone is a maze of pools, each revealing a unique, self-contained home for wildlife. Multicolored clown fish abound in the warm waters, joining sea anemones, sea urchins and corals. Many of the tide pools are like tiny barrios, crowded with miniature crabs that scuffle around together.

The next morning we set off to explore the island. It takes about half an hour to walk the 1 1/4 mile perimeter. Our first find was the true identity of the boulders from the previous night: giant sea tortoises littered the island.

There was the abandoned prison, infirmary and guard stations to visit, built in 1893 of coral dug out of the island. Originally owned by an Arab slave trader, Prison Island once detained recalcitrant slaves. Today, the prison is a strangely beautiful ruin, surrounded by the tortoises, various palms and other jungle flora. Arab doorways frame the occasional dhow sailing elegantly by.

We returned to Zanzibar Town in the afternoon, Mohammed greeting us as promised. When told about our dhow having run aground, his eyes rolled skyward as he exclaimed, "Praise be to Allah! The Great One has saved your lives!" We took that to mean that Mohammed and his cohorts felt that they were not to blame.

On our way to the night market, Zanzibar Town opened into an exotic labyrinth. Dark alleys to ancient Arab palaces to a lonely beach littered with parchment-colored dhows. Evenings in the town were about communing. The townspeople are out visiting, or basking on their own front steps each night, children racing through the corridors. One group of men, leaning their chairs back against the wall outside a tiny shopfront, laughed on into the wee hours.

The glow of hundreds of creamy white candles lured us to the Jamitive Gardens, at the waterfront near the Old Fort. Local musicians played aged, East Indian-style guitars and drums. We tried smoked octopus, spicy vegetables, beef satay, curries and cassava. Sugarcane nectar, pressed from the stalk through an antique clothes wringer, is surprisingly light and fresh-tasting. This luscious repast is overshadowed only by the people-watching -- the night market is a rendezvous for friends, a special family outing or a dark, romantic tryst for couples.

The following morning we took a spice tour through the plantations in a cool, open-air van, our guides introducing us to hundreds of spices and fruits. We wandered among chiramoya, plumeria, lychee, and jasmine trees. Zanzibar was once the world's largest producer of cloves. The clove plantations sport ancient sorting machinery, mound after mound of fresh harvest drying in the sun and balmy breezes. We continued on to the Marahubi Palace, once home to the Sultans of Oman and their harems. The Palace is a maze of ruined chambers, baths and outdoor "pleasure ponds" prompting decadent visions.

Thick jungle scenery punctuated the morning. Women sauntered slowly down the dirt roads, huge baskets of fruit and spice wrapped onto their heads with the same wild fabrics used for their sarongs. I spied a woman enjoying the shade of her lanai. She rocked her dozing baby in a hand-tied sling beneath a frangipani tree. With a slow smile, she let me take her photo, but covered her angelic child as I moved closer.

Arrangements were made (Mohammed again) to move on to Zanzibar's stunning east coast. We would stay at an all-but-deserted beach, near a tiny village where life moves at the pace of molasses. As we passed an open-air school, the van was surrounded by children screaming with delight, chanting "Karibu!," or welcome, in their singsong voices as they ran alongside. "Welcome" is a word we heard often in the coming days, more than any other, except perhaps "happy."

Our bungalows at the Bwejuu Dere Guest House were tranquil, to say the least, with their whitest-white adobe walls and doorways of periwinkle, yellow, pink, and coral. The bedrooms were simply furnished with bamboo-and-palm-leaf beds, crowned with the familiar mist of mosquito nets. I wondered why the proprietor was moving so slowly when we arrived; our own pace became as timeless as we slipped into swimsuits and crossed the fifteen feet to the beach, pausing only to utter "lobster," our dinner request, to the house boy. Finally, we lay down in the sand, warm water licking our toes. Occasionally, a local villager ambled by, offering a fresh-cut coconut or a sarong-full of shells.

One afternoon, I explored the village, wearing only a swimsuit and sandals. Among the huts were small gatherings of women of varying ages, reclining on palm-shaded lanais. They were amicable, despite our language barrier, yet I could see that they were shocked at my bare legs. At their invitation, I stopped to sit with one group, and struggled to communicate with my bare-bones Swahili. Chattering faintly, an old woman made her way over to me, untied one of two sarongs she wore, and wrapped it around my hips. The other women cooed their approval; with that, I knew I had been initiated. We prattled on through the afternoon, shelling coconuts in the swinging shade of the palms. And as I did, I couldn't help but think, "Praise be to Allah."