The 5am start on a 12 hour bus journey heading away from Arusha was time to reflect all we had done and seen. It was fortunate that a whole week of Zanzibar awaited where there was limited travel, nothing but rest and relaxation and a chance to really feel that for once we had earned the break. Zanzibar is a small Tanzanian island offering tropical paradise, scrumptious sea food, fields of spices and bazaars full of unnecessary purchases not yet bought. To get there it means a boat ride of about 2 hours leaving from dirty Dar es Salaam and as the bus trundled it was clear we would need a nights stop over. A taxi to a cheap room and a good dose of people watching as the ladies of the night came to the hotel bar, along with prospective customers. Exchanges, rejections, faux flirtations all transparent and somewhat sad.

I had travelled to Zanzibar many moons ago with Sarah and Caroline and had the most horrific boat crossing involving gut heaving tossing amongst the waves. The entire boat population had white knuckles and a green complexion. The only view from the windows was underwater! I wasn't looking forward to the two hour crossing.

Fortunately time has passed and with it, infrastructure. The super duper catamaran had air con, clean sparkling toilets, cashew nut salesmen rather than sick bag distributors. The journey was slick. My journey was considerably more enjoyable than Simon's however, as he was in his usual uniform of shorts and t-shirt. Sat under a blasting stream of cold air he shivered for the first hour and gave in for the last having to succumb to wearing my jumper as his was in the hull. A little snug but the colour suited his complexion.

Stone Town, the capital of Zanzibar, is a city worth exploring. With winding lanes to get lost in, huge bustling markets, fishermen bringing in their wares, the mosques calling people to prayer, small boutiques and gorgeous restaurants it's impossible to not fall for its charms. We spent a few days in our beautiful guesthouse, or window shopping, or dipping our feet in the tiny beaches that dot the towns coast. We had evenings of choosing our freshly barbecued fish from the stalls in the sea front. Simon watched the World Cup on our roof top whilst I pottered in our fabulous room.

Knowing we would return to Stone Town we headed for Paje and for some real 'might as well relax as there is nothing else to do' time. Beach, reef, warm seas, hammock, cafe, pool...each day revolved around these in various order. Our room had looked all the more fabulous for having sand floors but in reality meant sand was quite literally everywhere with only rum and coke being a way of forgetting how much of the blasted substance you were sleeping with. We played cards. I wrote postcards. Simon watched youngsters playing volleyball. I went to yoga. Simon watched yoga. All in all a quintessential sea side holiday paradise! The most energetic we got was a quick snorkel in the shallow bay using a local fisher and boat and a rather smiley chap called Jimmy. I got hyperthermic whilst Simon got irritated at my pig headedness at not getting changed. Nothing another rum and coke wouldn't fix however! The overriding memories however are of how much we laughed. Laughed at each other, at the sand, at the mere fact we were there, surrounded by beauty and peace and that we were calm and quiet enough to bask in it.

Simon had made friends just as he had all around the world. The boys that ran the bar were a cheeky but friendly bunch. Simon teamed up with Amir. A Muslim chap that in the throws of Ramadan was having a dilemma. His home life on a tiny cut off island where his wife and children lived or the temptations of bar banter and naughtiness. This is where Zanzibar is a paradigm of itself. It's devout Muslim population shows itself in every walk of daily life except in the small hot spots where tourism thrives and where the western ways in all their glory/ debauchery can be found. My previous visit had jelled the two well and respectfully but it seemed to me as tourism has grown stronger and Zanzibar has became more of a package holiday destination the divide had deepened. The financial benefit of dipping into this income stream meant people were facing moral dilemmas not previously known.

There comes a point in any backpackers care free existence to have a reality check. This often can be encouraged (not unlike a sharp slap to the face) with a budget review. And so it was, on a warm, poolside day that Simon and I decided to look at where our finances stood. Now, previous experience has taught us that I am in fact useless at figures, I panic far too early, get grumpy when it looks bad and blame unnecessary guitar purchases on the state of affairs. In short I am intolerable. It is important to recognise ones failings when travelling with just one other, not least for the sake of travelling BACK with the same individual. As such it is Simon's domain which on this bliss soaked afternoon I decided to forget. I disappeared under the rouse of email and returned hours later in a fretful state. Poor Simon was awakened from his post-swimming slumber to a mass of jumbled figures and calculations. In one swoop I managed to undo all the very good R and R we had worked so hard with. Simon, now worried that our era of irresponsibility and freedom was under threat went to the wifi area where the connection started to go a little haywire and thus taking him one hour forty five minutes to log into his bank to assess the situation.

After much a do about wifi and passwords and security checks and automatic time outs he managed to assess the situation in its entirety, realised his one big gaff (he had trusted my work) and although they were somewhat anaemic they were by no means dire. Panic over. Snooze rebooted. Funny how even though you know something you still need to test it out. It is a bit like when you have the smell of Stilton on your fingers. You know it smells like old socks but you still go in for a second go.

Our hammock time was over. Time to say goodbye. Stone Town awaited once more.

A trip to Zanzibar is never complete without a trip to a spice farm. All these pots of pepper, cardamom, cinnamon that sit gathering dust in our kitchen all started somewhere. A small bus of other curious fellows were ferried to the leafy centre to see what they really look like. The tour starts with a chap showing you around his farm. With each odd looking growth you are given the chance to smell and taste. The various faces of Simon would be excellent guides on many packaging as to what to expect. Cinnamon- very lovely and sweet (innocent smile). Cardamom- strong and enjoyable (a manly grin). Nutmeg- bitter (nostril flaring). Ginger- clears the way (taking a satisfying deep breath). Cloves - ultra strong and little pungent (Scraping his tongue with his finger nails). We collected our wares in small banana leaf pouches. We painted our lips red with natural dye, we ate star fruit and mangosteens, we breathed in vanilla and chewed pepper. Our breath was like Christmas cake and fruit salad all rolled into one!

The tour continued to Palm trees where as one boy crafted ties for the gentleman and frog necklaces for the ladies. What a right load of wallies we looked. With what looked like dead frogs hanging around our necks, men wearing ties with t-shirts, some with bright red lips and others contorting their face at the cloves...we were not giving tourists a great reputation. Next, in all our regalia, we watched a double jointed lad hitch his way to the top of a rather scarily tall palm tree whilst singing an incredibly irritating song. Once he was down safely, having lopped off a few coconuts you soon see why you wouldn't survive if you were sitting underneath one of these falling coco-cannonballs . They could pop a mans head like a grape!

Back on the bus for a spicy feast, a bit of oil and spice shopping, a quick stop off for a look at the slave caves and finally a dip in the aquamarine waters before being dropped off back in Stone Town. A veritable feast of learning and eating.

That evening we decided to try a local restaurant that was out of the tourist radar. It meant a 15 minute walk through alley ways to find it and what with every person we asked telling us a slightly different route we decided to plunder in and ask when we thought we were close. Having got a little way into the alleys we asked a group of around 10 or so teenagers who were guzzling dinner after a days fasting. One confident boy spoke to his friends in Swahili for a while and concluded he would take us! A smiley chap, he was chatting to us both, his side kick following behind giggling. As we turned a corner his demeanour changed. He fronted me with a look of anger and disdain. We were both flummoxed! He stood, we stared, then finally it dawned on me. I grabbed Simon's arm and we calmly, although at a fair speed, scuttled to the nearest lit alley before his look turned into something more. It took a few minutes to work out that he must have spoken to his friends, not about the restaurant but backing him up so that when we were in a dark and hidden alley we could be surrounded. Fortunately, like many teenage boys, his friends were either late or couldn't be bothered, giving us valuable exit opportunity. A close shave. We had no choice; we would have to go to another restaurant.

Our final night was World Cup final night! Simon had chosen his venue for the performance at a spit chicken shop, where all the local men on late shift hung out in the street to watch sport. I decided that although football has never intrigued, I should at least show a little interest in a world event. I stood, like a cherry in a can of fruit salad, amongst a sea of guys and tried. I really tried. But as the game dragged on and extra time loomed I lost the will to even look at the screen. I was given a pass from Simon and stumbled back to the hotel. He spent the next 40 minutes bonding with his World Cup buddies, shouting at the screen.

Our last day in Zanzibar was a 'jobs' morning before hopping on the afternoon catamaran. I had to post a postcard, get some money and get some dresses altered. Oh and of course buy 24 metres of African print material. Like I said in the beginning; Zanzibar - a place of unnecessary purchases. Simon couldn't even muster a comment. The head rub said it all.

And so ended our journey to Zanzibar. With bags bulging, beige limbs (me) bronze limbs (Simon), and a final frantic half hour of picking my dresses up from the tailor we boarded our catamaran: Simon dressed like the yeti to brave the aircon. Next adventure: a three day train across Tanzania and Zambia in the quest for Vic Falls.