When I have the good fortune to travel, there's nothing I love more than to explore. Excited, I exit Zanzibar’s airport, metaphorically setting my sails. Historically, whimsical winds have blown in this region since those trading days of spices and slaves. No sea-breeze? Sweat trickles down my back. With no idea where to find my hotel transportation, I decide when in Rome do as the Romans do, and squeeze my way through the unfamiliar chaos of tourists and locals. Caught off-guard, I feel my luggage yanked out my hand. A man with a disfigured face locks eyes with me. His pained plea "just to carry my suitcase" strikes a chord. Without Tanzanian currency, I rush to explain I can't tip. Even so, the man with the scar refuses to let go. It unsettles me to hear Paradise has an underbelly that's rife with unemployment. Floating on the ocean is the epitome of bliss for my body, and head-space. Later, wrapped in a beach sarong and sipping spiced-iced-coffee, I jot down my plans for the next 5 days. Reminder Note: buy Zanzibar - an essential guide. Day-2. My hotel on the east coast is an hour’s drive across the island to Stone Town. The taxi-drop is Serena Inn Hotel. It’s here I meet Ali Joseph, local guide, the first time when he zooms in on me. We walk in sync through maze-like narrow streets. He doesn't stop asking, "What you looking for?" I intend to explore Stone Town alone, and simply ignore him. With no map or guidebook, it's obvious I'm clueless where I’m going. After 10 minutes I give in. “Books.” I’m gobsmacked when Ali leads me to a curio shop where I find books from Zanzibar’s original book club, for sale - when Zanzibar’s last Sultan was overthrown, this Club closed. These books, riddled with mildew, are barely readable; yet they encapsulate a vanished past. Withstanding a revolution, renders my tattered purchase a superior souvenir! To quench our thirst, we drink 'madafu', coconut water- I like it’s nutty taste. En route to Mercury House we pass the Arab Fort. A sign reads: 'History’s shortest war was here. 45 minutes, in 1896.' My jaw drops. Day-3. Ali meets me inside House of Wonders. There's an exhibition, ‘Behind the Veil’ on display. Princess Salme, I learn, broke tradition. Sadly, her life story's no fairy-tale. We head to Mtoni ruins, palace by the sea. This landmark of "lost grandeur in stark decay" was Salme's childhood home. Day-4. Snorkelling trip. An exhilarating, high-speed boat ride drenches me in sea-spray. It’s a thrilling day. I’m mesmerised by the luminous jellyfish, manta ray, butterfly fish and parrot fish. Best treat was witnessing a pod of dolphins dart passed. Final day. I photograph the rising sun - shimmering sunbeams reflect their mirror-image exquisitely over the sea. Two Masai, walking in traditional dress on the beach, stop to ask if I speak Italian. I shake my head. “ English.” Usually Masai want dollars for photographs. I have no money with me, but ask anyway. They nod. Yippee! I click quickly. One touches my hair. “It’s nice,” he says. Surprised by his compliment, I smile. I draw Africa in the sand. “See, Zanzibar is here. My home, Cape Town is there.” Our brief conversation flows naturally, the way one wave follows another. They continue up the beach. I follow the shoreline, lost in thought. Low tide. I watch the seaweed women harvesting seaweed for export. Checking seedlings on rows of raffia string pegged in shallow seawater, is backbreaking work. Island of luxury resorts, powder-white beaches, clove plantations, dhow cruises, crumbling ruins, spice markets, carved doors, traditional art and culinary magic. I believe inside this cryptic melting pot, a fusion of the exotic with hypnotic conjures the elixir for Zanzibar’s mysterious charm. Since I wasn’t looking, I didn’t expect to find the flip side. It's haunting me. Outside the airport I crane my neck. Time ticks. What if I don’t see the man with the scar before I leave Zanzibar? Sweat trickles down my back. Again. It has nothing to do with the weather. I can feel the weight of my purse crammed with shillings. Feeling the weight of regret is much heavier.