The swimming pool has fallen on hard times, its bland eye of water choked with a cataract of scum and weed. At its side, a skinny man waits for us beneath the palms. He wears a fur loincloth and clanking jewelry. The stranger unzips a plaid suitcase, draws out an enormous boa constrictor and proffers the limp serpent to the tourists. There are oohs, ugghs.
Honeymooners reach reflexively for their cameras.
I ask Mitu. But it's very strong. On the way back to Stone Town the roads are red, slicing and dipping through tangles of pineapple and clove. Old men are curled in the doorways of huts, children wave wildly at passing cars like all children do, everywhere in the world. At night we sample curries in one of Stone Town's bayside restaurants.