This trip stems from a promise that El (my better half) and I had made to ourselves - when her exams were over we would take off for a while, travel the world, have a little fun. The aim was to do a wide variety of stuff – some touristy things, some mountains, see some friends and family. Most of this journal dates from notes I took in the evening - I have allowed hindsight to creep in in some places though...

More meandering round town. We see the 'cricket grounds' – no sign of a square - and the market. We catch a glimpse of a tourist drama as four backpackers get out of a dalla-dalla and start frantically checking their bags. The moral being to never leave anything valuable in a bag in a minibus taxi, I suppose. We also see what should perhaps be the model for Stonetown renovation, the Old Dispensary, beautifully restored with its breezy verandahs running round the whole building, wood and pillars lending space and grace to the building.

Later on in the evening we get talking to three female kanga sellers. They offer to tattoo an octopus in henna on my arm, which I decline, or braid El's hair which as well as being a bit naff, would seem to lead inevitably to sunburnt tourist scalp. The more assertive girl offers her friend as a domestic maid. She would like to go to Paris she says, no money in Zanzibar. We discourage her but haven't got the heart or the Swahili vocabulary to explain in detail why leaving for a job as a maid in London or Paris that may or may not exist could be a lot worse than being poor in Zanzibar, particularly when you are as beautiful as she is.

15 tourists from 6 different countries in 1 minibus, off to the centre of the island for a Geri Halliwell concert... No, fortunately for us the spices in question are the original spices (not to be confused with the old spice either) and looking at sniffing and tasting some of the bewildering variety of plants growing side by side is a lot easier on the senses than either the after shave or the pop group.

We marvel at the astonishingly pungent bark of the cinnamon tree, the lemon grass and the incredible flavour and texture of the lychees. Often served too sweet in the west, here they were citric, varied, a real revelation. Only the cloves are now really grown as a cash crop and even they, despite their close association with the island, may not be economic for much longer, given the constantly falling prices for the raw product. A wide variety of the spices are still sold and used locally though, including Zanzibar coffee.

In the afternoon we see some ruins of baths and palaces - unfortunately they have deteriorated enormously in the 100 or so years since their heyday; it requires quite some imagination to recreate the scene. Imagination is not a problem for the guide, even if it does run down one track:

'And here are the baths where the naked women would swim - here the sultan would have sex with one of his 99 wives, have a massage with coconut milk, eat fruit, have a bath, have sex with another wife...'

We eat with a Norwegian couple in the evening. They had been busy spending wodges of money, staying exclusively in luxury hotels. To be fair to them, his next stop was a saw mill in the middle of the Tanzanian interior, so it might be his last taste of luxury for some time and she was off back to Oslo, where even breathing is expensive...

Quiet day, with the most interesting things happening at meal times. For lunch we hit the local caff, where you can eat copiously, if not always well, for a dollar. I try ugali, the local staple. It's like polenta, but even more compact, and comes in a big round white lump which you break bits off and dip into whatever is going to give it a bit of flavour. It certainly fills you up.

While we're eating this we observe a touching witless tourist scene. An American woman in her twenties spots a sick kitten lying on the ruins of a fallen down house. (Commonish in Stonetown - Omani architecture doesn't work well in the rain). The feline in question is clearly about to shuffle off its mortal coil, and in tears at the thought of this she takes it to a local women selling cloth to ask her to do something, anything. The lady is clearly a little bemused at what she is supposed to do until a flash of inspiration hits her - she digs out a plastic bag which she gives to the tourist to finish kitty off with. This isn't at all what our heroine has in mind and she beats a tactical retreat in renewed floods of tears, still carrying the ailing moggy. I suppose she can be grateful there weren't a couple of bricks to hand or else it might have been game over before she could say no you don't understand I want to...

I suppose you can't fault the tourist on compassion, but zero out of ten for awareness of local living conditions - no-one's got milk to spare for a cat that's on its way out, they've got enough to do feeding themselves and their families.

In the evening we eat at an Indian restaurant and get chatting to the owner's voluble son. He is acutely aware of the importance of getting a good mention in the guide books and shows us the photocopied mentions on the wall, like they were certificates in a doctor's waiting room. He tells us that the restaurant is in one of the standard Japanese guidebooks, accompanied by a photo of his nightwatchman. Now when Japanese groups come, they want a photo taken with the security guard...

Every year we like to spend one day at the beach before we get bored and want to do something else. We opt for the east coast over the north coast, quieter, and according to a couple of Australians we meet, less polluted.

After seeing a few beach resorts we opt for one with friendly if stoned staff, a cheeky miniature monkey and a couple of sleepy dogs. The beach is a Bounty advert special - fine white sand and turquoise blue water when the sun is on it. Which it rapidly isn't as the sun gives up for the day to be replaced by wind and tropical squalls. Days on the beach at places like Clevedon have hardened me, though, and I go for a dip anyway.

At the end of the day we go for a walk through Jambiani village with one of the many Zanzibar rastas hanging about the resort, TD. We ask how much the women that are collecting the seaweed get for their efforts from the Phillipine company that have set up an office here, and are depressed to find out that one collected, dried, cleaned and processed sack, weighing at least 8 kilos, earns the princely sum of 100 Shillings (10p). As the edible seaweed undoubtedly is sold quite dear on the Japanese market, it seems as with cloves, coffee and so much else this is yet another cash crop where those doing the spade work are not getting much of a share of the profits. Fair trade sushi anyone?

Interestingly, in TDs mind the bad guys in Zanzibar's past are clearly the Arabs, not the Europeans. He's also quite clear that there is no way he's going into the seaweed business - a mug's game and when you can earn your money showing the tourists round, who could blame him?

We get to meet one more Rasta in the evening. Perhaps predictably given the dreads and habit of inserting the phrase 'peace' into every sentence, he is the local weed dealer. We give it a miss.

An irritating day, full of waiting around, being hassled by touts and bitten by mosquitos. The bus arrives late so the afternoon boat is full. We fall back on a cheap hotel in a not particularly nice area near the port. We do get time to visit the palace of Beit el Sahel, which boasts a splendid view and some interesting insights into the taste of the Sultan. (Heavy).

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