Offbeat Africa : For Those who’ve been there before, where to go now? Here, four trips off the beaten tourist paths and away from the main safari crossroads.

“Kilimanjaro or Zanzibar?” asked Keisha, our expedition guide. To climb 19,000 feet for five frigid days, lose your meals to altitude sickness and perhaps not even reach the summit, or to slip on a sarong for a week of tropical nirvana. I, for one, knew which way the trade winds blew.

Nine adventurers on a trans-Africa trek, we chose Zanzibar, an Afro-Arab island that is part of the East African country of Tanzania. We were signed on with Dragoman, an overland tour company out of Suffolk, England, that runs five-week expeditions through the wild lands of eastern and southern Africa several times a year. British traveling companions, Aussies and New Zealanders made it a lively group; I was the only American. One of our company, Drew, was a sheep station foreman from Australia. Keisha, a petite Welsh woman raised in Namibia, was a masterful driver, yet the long, dusty drives of our wildlife safaris had us aching for the slow life. The “Who Has the Filthiest Feet?” contest amuses for only so long, so we traded in our khakis and slipped into port at Dar es Salaam, Arabic for “Haven of Peace.”

Though Dar es Salaam is the commercial center of Tanzania, and the embarkation point for the 22-mile ferry ride to Zanzibar, it’s delightfully unspoiled.

The ferry itself was our first clue to the mystique of that spice island. We queued up at the waterfront in Dar with throngs of natives; 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 between Drew and me. An old woman chanted a traveling prayer in rapid Swahili. She wrung her spidery, henna-adorned hands as she purred her mantra.

Dusk arrived with us as we pulled into the harbor at Zanzibar town, the main city on the 640-square-mile, coral island. The air was warm and thick with the fragrance of spice. Local “agents” approached, eager to find us hotels, restaurants and transport. I marveled at the rich shades of their mahogany skin. “This way, Mista!” “Welcome, Madame. Welcome!” (Madame being pronounced “Mud ‘em.”) Our man of choice, Mohammed, would prove himself dedicated, albeit unpredictable.

Having arrived on the late ferry, 4 1/2 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 the nine of us to a lively seafood restaurant, the Fisherman, on Shangani Street. Despite the fact that the menu had nothing to do with what was available in the restaurant, it was an enviable feast. We stuffed ourselves greedily with fresh crustaceans, calamari and African beer, while Mohammed worked out the accommodations.

He returned with our van and we were off again, winding through dimly lit Zanzibar streets, too spent to ask where we were going. Finally, Mohammed pulled over to the edge of a deserted beach and announced that we would spend the night on Prison Island.

No one said a word as we unloaded our gear and slipped out onto the sand, just a few titters of nervous laughter. As adventure travelers, we had asked for this. Closer to the water, two boatmen held a sail-less dhow at the ready, the whites of their eyes glistening in their thin faces. They seemed agitated, as if by the thought they might lose the fares they had been promised for ferrying us to our destination.

Dhows are among the last sailing ships making regular runs on the world’s seas, and they hold a particular significance in Zanzibar, and her sister island Pemba, as coral reefs surrounding both islands hinder the passage of cargo ships.

A deep breath, then another, and we handed off our bags and struggled aboard, each finding some dry perch amid the nets and bail buckets. The old motor rumbled to life and we slipped into the mist. Mohammed, gaunt 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 suddenly ran aground. While the boatmen and one of the women in our group hopped overboard and struggled to free it, one of our group began a stream of hysterical gibberish and another simply froze in her seat, silent and petrified. I handed over the bags, tied my sarong up around my knees and joined the others in the thigh-high water. The coral wasn’t as sharp as I had feared, but there were plenty of slimy, cold plants and marine creatures to wade through. As I made my way with the others toward the lush island, I saw tiny bungalows lit by oil lamps and candles.

The boatmen vanished. We were prisoners, abandoned on Prison Island. Lights were on inside the hotel, but no one answered our knocking. I went around the side and shouted “Jambo!” the Swahili version of “Aloha,” to the ramshackle cabin in back. Finally, two men hurried out to us, and we haggled out a rate for five double rooms. To our surprise, the men then started down a path into the dark jungle. “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” moaned Anne--who was from England--as we shuffled along the trail, gear in hand, frequently colliding with what seemed to be large, round boulders.

At last, we arrived at a row of small bungalows on the edge of the sand. Every star was out. The hotel men slipped away without a word.

Most of the group went directly to bed, easing under their mosquito nets with relief. Drew and I opted for night tide-pooling instead. Prison Island, also known as Changuu Island, is really just a large, flat, coral hill, so that even at high tide the surrounding waters are quite shallow. The intertidal zone is a maze of pools, each revealing a unique, self-contained home for sea life--like little neighborhoods, alive with creatures that scuffle around together. Multicolored clown fish abound in the warm waters, as well as sea anemones, sea urchins and corals.

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 discovery was the identity of those boulders from the night before: Giant sea tortoises lay about the island, which is a sanctuary for wild peacocks as well. There were the abandoned prison, infirmary and guard stations, built in 1893, to visit.

Zanzibar became an independent Arab state in the 1800s, governed by the Sultan of Oman, who developed Zanzibar town and the clove industry. The island also became the largest slaving entrepot on the east coast, with Arab traders bringing captured slaves from all over the East African mainland. Prison Island once detained slaves. Originally owned by an Arab trader, the prison later housed hardened criminals and served as a quarantine station. Today, it is a strangely beautiful ruin, tortoises sunning beyond its walls. Arab doorways, still standing, frame the occasional, lateen-sailed dhow sailing elegantly by.

A revolt by Africans in 1964 overthrew the Arab ruling class on Zanzibar, and later that year Tanganyika and Zanzibar joined, forming the new country of Tanzania. But even today, the Africans of Zanzibar remain vastly underprivileged compared to the colonial Arab and Indo-Pakistani immigrant communities on the island.

In the afternoon we left Prison Island for Zanzibar town, where Mohammed greeted us as promised. When told about our dhow running 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. Back at the minibus, we rushed off again, this time to separate hotels, men in one, women in another.

The women’s accommodations were of the standard, somewhat primitive caliber found in Zanzibar town, but with the allure of a candy shop downstairs, and a friendly dwarf, Harry, who washed our clothes to within an inch of their lives.

Later, on our way to the night market, Zanzibar town was a labyrinth: dark alley to ancient Arab palace to lonely beach littered with parchment-colored dhows. Evenings here mean communing. The townspeople are out visiting, or basking on their own front steps, children racing through the corridors. We came upon a group of men, leaning their chairs back against the wall outside a tiny shop front, laughing and talking on into the wee hours.

The glow of hundreds of creamy white candles lured us to the Jamituri Gardens at the waterfront near the old “Arab” fort, a massive, crenelated structure built by the Portuguese. We tried smoked octopus, spicy vegetables, beef satay, curries and cassava. Sugar cane nectar, pressed from the stalk through an antique clothes wringer, is surprisingly light and fresh-tasting. Local musicians supply the entertainment. This luscious repast is overshadowed only by the people-watching--the night market is a rendezvous for friends, a special family outing, a shadowy, romantic tryst for couples.

The next morning, we took a tour through the spice plantations in a cool, open-air van, our guides introducing us to hundreds of spices and fruits. We wandered among cherimoya, plumeria , litchi, 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 the home of the Sultans of Oman and their harems. The palace is a maze of ruined chambers, baths and outdoor “pleasure ponds,” which prompted visions of decadence.

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. 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 laden with cotton mattresses and crowned with the familiar mist of mosquito nets.

I wondered why the proprietor was moving so slowly when we arrived. But our own pace became as timeless as we slipped into swimsuits and crossed the 15 feet to the beach, pausing only to utter “lobster,” our dinner request. Finally, we lay down in the sand, warm water licking our toes. Occasionally, a villager ambled by to offer a fresh-cut coconut or a sarongful of shells no more beautiful than the ones all around us.

One afternoon, I walked off alone to explore the village, wearing 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. Each woman summoned her own children so that I could take their photos, and we prattled on through the afternoon, shelling coconuts.

Sailing away from Zanzibar a few days later was downright mournful. What was it that called us to that spice island? The architecture, the culture, the beaches? The rich traditions that prevail here are protected by the blessing of the island’s geographic elusiveness. Zanzibar remains a seductive capsule of time that spans centuries and surpasses expectation. Praise be to Allah.

GUIDEBOOK

A Zanzibar

Bazaar

Getting there: To Dar es Salaam, British Airways flies via London; Swissair through Zurich, Air France through Paris. Round-trip fares start at about $3,420; Air Tanzania has flights daily except Monday and Friday from Dar es Salaam to Zanzibar for about $86 round trip. Kenya Airways leaves from Nairobi for Zanzibar on Mondays, Wednesdays and Sundays for $220 round trip. Tours: SafariCentre (3201 N. Sepulveda Blvd., Manhattan Beach, Calif. 90266; tel. 800-624-5342) and United Touring Co. (1 Bala Plaza, Suite 414, Bala Cynwyd, Pa., 19004; tel. 800-223-6486) are two tour companies that go to Zanzibar as a side trip from safari tours. Alternately, there are several overland expeditions that make the stop; the best, in my estimation, is Dragoman (Camp Green, Kenton, Debenham, Suffolk, IP14 6LA, England; tel. 011-44-728-861133). Dragoman’s U.S. rep is Adventure Center Travel (1311 63rd St., Suite 200, Emeryville, Calif. 94608; tel. 800-227-8747). For a longer stint than by other methods. Dragoman’s five-week “Africa East & South” trip winds through five countries from Nairobi, Kenya, to Harare, Zimbabwe, or vice versa. Rates for the journey range $1,570-$1,900, depending on the season and include all land costs.

Prerequisites: You must have a yellow fever vaccination to enter Zanzibar; antimalaria measures should be taken as well. Some authorities recommend tetanus, typhoid, gamma globulin and cholera vaccines. A Tanzanian visa is required and is easiest to procure from the Tanzanian Consulate.

Where to stay: High-end lodging in town includes the centrally located Emerson’s House (1563 Mkunazini St., Zanzibar; tel. 011-255-54-32153), a renovated old mansion with a variety of eclectic rooms and rooftop dining with great views of the city; rates $40-$95 with kitchen. Less expensive is the popular Spice Inn (P.O. Box 1029, Zanzibar; tel. 011-255-54-30728), a refurbished spice factory in the center of town. Rooms are basic, spacious and clean; doubles start at $22. For budget travelers, the Malindi Guest House (Malindi Street at Funguni Bazaar; tel. 011-255-54-30165) is a good choice. Breakfast is complimentary with $6 and $7 rooms.

Where to eat: Great restaurants in Zanzibar town include the Spice Inn, near the market, and Camlurs Restaurant, opposite the Africa Hotel.

When to go: June through October is the best time to visit, when the weather stays relatively cool, bright and rainless. Year-round temperatures range 70-90 degrees and the trade wind breeze is ever-present.

For more information: Visit or call the Zanzibar Tourist Corp., on Creek Road between Parajani Street and Livingstone House on Malawi Road; tel. 011-255-54-32344. Or contact the Tanzania Mission to the United Nations, 205 E. 42nd St., Suite 1300, New York 10017; tel. (212) 972-9160.