At the cultural and geographical intersection of the African and Arabian worlds, Zanzibar is an island of turquoise waters reflecting the bright canvas sails of dhows, with forests full of birdsong, markets redolent of exotic spices, and a port town whose labrynthine alleyways whisper of Arabian Nights. Neither solely the obvious heir to Scheherazade's tales nor the warrior creed of the Serengeti plain, Zanzibar was rather a little of both. But mostly Zanzibar was its own, unpresumptuous self, not Africa but not Arabia, not Asia, but not the West. Everything about this spice island beckoned to me.

"You will tell me what this is," said Mohammed, our guide. "If you are right, I will congratulate you. If not I will tell you its name."

At the center of Zanzibar's east-meets-west allure is its spices, and even the local cuisine showcased the wealth and diversity of spices that are produced by the farmers in Zanzibar's fertile highlands. We traveled up into the highlands to experience sensory overload firsthand. As we arrived, the glowering sky opened, soaking the soft earth in heavy drops and filling the air with the scent of flowers. The rain lasted only a few moments, and as the sun began to emerge from behind the clouds again the whole farm glistened like Christmas lights.

At Stone Town's waterfront, in the otherwise pleasant but unspectacular Forodhani Gardens, a masterpiece unfurled every evening as the sun plunged into the turquoise Zanzibar Strait. Evenings the Gardens host dozens of local artisans who set up broad tables and charcoal grills and cook all sorts of seafood delicacies in local sauces over the coals.

Zanzibar is renowned for its delicate and imaginative cooking. A hub of the spice trade for centuries, blessed with a diversity of seafood and tropical fruits, and at the nexus of both Middle Eastern and African cuisines, the result is a panoply of taste experiences as exotic and enticing as the island itself. And nowhere was this more evident than evenings in the Forodhani Gardens.

As we raced northward under the setting sun I watched the coast of Zanzibar pass by in the darkening evening. The mangrove estuary was now flooded with high tide and many of the ships we'd admired in dry dock now floated idly in the shallow water. We heeled over slightly in the stiff breeze, but the dhow trimmed nicely along the waterline. Issa adjusted the thick mainsheet incessantly, going for that very last bit of performance from his wooden craft. Out of habit, my eyes surveyed the bilge and the wooden keel, looking for pooling water. It was dry as a bone.