Along the coast of East Africa, December ushers in summer almost imperceptibly. It is a brooding, wet season. Clouds loosen their shapes into tufts along the fringing reef. The air carries the ocean's warmer, saltier scent. Seaweed shifts on the beaches and gentle late rains fall before dawn. The monsoon wind turns from south to north, from Kusi to Kaskazi, setting the sea back into motion. One has to pay attention. Summer speaks softly here. It drops signs for the keen-eyed observer.
When my wife Francesa and I arrived in Zanzibar, it was under different skies. We stepped onto the island at the start of the south winds, when the sea felt more restless and carried a curious kind of energy.
Shaped by countless journeys without fixed routines, Francesca and I have grown accustomed to motion. Here, however, the pace shifted. Between the winds in calm moments, we found the space to notice, absorb, and reflect. The land revealed itself in nuances as we reckoned with our own journey — what we had learned and where we might belong next.
I have long gravitated toward quiet corners of the earth, off-grid hideouts far beyond the crowds. Following unexpected lines, I am often alone within the elements. On the water, everything unnecessary falls away. Francesca thrives in this same spirit. Her photography comes alive in far-flung places.
After a full wind season in Zanzibar, we already knew the familiar spots along the east coast. With that solid foundation, curiosity drew us to the island’s quieter northeast regions. Steady and warm, we felt the summer trades begin to gather from our base on Pingwe Beach, making Chwaka Bay our natural first choice to visit as it was just across the peninsula tucked behind the Michamvi headland.
Close enough to reach via motorbike — a boda boda locally — the ride became a balancing act with boards jolting along every rut. Palms leaned in overhead, goats crossed our track, and fishermen paused, nets slung over their shoulders, to watch our spectacle as we passed. Arriving at Michamvi, the inlet opened to a sweep of oceanfront where tidal channels cut through silty mud plains and mangroves traced the inner curve of shoreline. White sand beaches gave way to shallow water and dark bands of marine grass — a contrast to the archipelago’s postcard turquoise hues and outer reef breaks.
Stepping towards the spot, we discovered the beach teeming with skittering crabs and the tracks of countless other creatures. Shoals of fish slipped through the ebbing water, their silver flashes drawing the watchful eyes of white egrets. Alone as we rigged up, we paused in awe as a herd of Andalusian horses swam past nearby, their sleek black coats gleaming, a stark spectacle in an otherwise empty bay.
Pushing off the land, channels of warm water ran like veins through soft mud, feeding the shallow, mirror-like pools protected by sandbars and reflecting both sky and clouds. I was in my element. That cove felt like a natural skatepark complete with obstacles to carve over and mini-lagoons to jump between. That first session was pure free ride heaven. A playground for creative style and expression.
As the tide flowed back in, I drifted my kite toward a raised thicket of mangroves rooted deeper within the inlet, their dense lattice-like roots visible beneath the water. Upon closer inspection, it appeared as a miniature forest. Taking one last carve between the trunks and a clean lift over the leafy canopy, I let it rest. This close examination of the mangroves was a perfect close to the session. The spot came alive with the northerly winds bending around the headland, settling into a steadier breath, and as the light faded, evening drifted into sundown at Kae Funk Beach Bar.
Heading inland, my intrepid wife and I traced a path between bush and scattered spice farms. Banana leaves flickered in the heat as we passed, mango trees sagged with fruit, baobabs rising in solitary above the scrub. Frangipani scented the air and bougainvillea spilled color over stone walls. The villages flickered past in glimpses — coral rag and cheap brick houses, tin roofs weighted with stones and old tires. Wooden fruit stalls leaned toward the road. Chickens pecked at scraps in the dust, thin smoke drifted from cooking fires as we pressed on toward the northeast stretch of the island.
Skirting the brackish, stilted basin, Chwaka’s sands stretch north past Marumbi and Uroa, a straight pale beach, before narrowing into Pongwe’s curved, postcard-shaped arc. All of it felt hushed, each pocket slipping by unnoticed. At Marumbi, one detail stood out. Hundreds of meters of knee-deep water extended outward, the offshore ridgeline appeared in the distance but was visible to us once more. Across the expanse, we were suddenly surrounded by thousands of tiny, white butterflies lifting and settling, brushing past in their steady migration. The shelf ahead lay flat and forgiving — the kind of ground that wakes old muscle memory. I eased into unhooked passes, testing timing.
Opening up ahead, Kiwengwa and Pwani Mchangani felt like one extended reach encompassing a broader face to the trades and the pulse of the Indian Ocean. The coral ledge ran closer here, more parallel to the sands — a contrast to the gentler, lagoonal feel left behind. The wind was cleaner as well, more consistent. At low springs, the inside waters drained, revealing patchy rock and uneven crags. Mid to high water knowledge became important for outdoor play and adventure.
Angling toward the Kiwengwa pier, I loaded my edge and tapped a piling before redirecting my kite into open water. A small punt — nothing fancy. Just enough to draw cheers from the deck above. In the shorebreak, I played with the crowd, floating over body surfers as the waves folded into the sand.
At Pwani, we linked up with a local kite school. The urge to glide was irresistible — I took a wing and carved arcs across the reef-backed swell with a fellow rider. Rounding the northern tip of Nungwi, the fringing plateau curves before giving way to open ocean. Women balanced buckets of seaweed upon their heads. We witnessed a tame baby monkey trailing its owner along the beach. Weathered dhows rested on a bare limestone shoal, coral heads dusted green with algae, waiting to float again.
Lifting onto foil, I rose above the wave chop, weaving in between the vessels. Ahead, the bank dropped abruptly, the colors of jade fading into dark cobalt blue. Rollers shaped into steep, explosive waves. White spray thrashed and foamed all around me. It was bliss. Inside this deep, current-driven channel of Nungwi, the wind whipped fiercely around the point. Again, I locked in, following smooth ribbons of water to steady speed — pumping, bar out, kite drifting with every gust.
With the wind at our backs, we next set off on a long downwinder — Francesca riding shoreward while I fanned out, following the outer break’s uneven fingers. Nearing Muyuni Beach in Matemwe, we wove through a flotilla of snorkelling boats, swimmers over the sides ogling for starfish and perhaps even dolphins. Seaward, Mnemba Island came into view — a brilliant white sand halo cinched tight around a dense green canopy. The island is a known conservation haven.
Beyond the atoll, we continued south, the shoreline slowly unspooling toward Chwaka Bay. Feeling the wind soften, we paused to read it, wary of coming up short in the final stretch of our journey. A couple of knots lighter, but it was still enough. Committing to the run, we crossed the bay in a single glide, touching down gracefully back at Michamvi.
Tucked within a rural Swahili settlement, our days began before first light. We woke to the mosque’s first call to prayer, the voice threading through the dark. The day began in devotion. Dawn revealed itself in sound before the light. All around, the same mood carried through. Five times, shopkeepers stepped away mid-conversation and wooden doors eased shut. The streets quieted, then filled again. On Fridays, near noon, activity thinned further.
Men in crisp white kanzu — ankle-length robes — some in embroidered kofia caps, drifted toward the mosque. Women passed in bright kanga cloths wrapped at the waist and shoulders. Every garment stood vivid and deliberate. Even in modesty, nothing felt subdued.
We adjusted; Francesca covered her arms and legs in quiet respect for local custom.
Ramadan fell in February. Before sunrise, kitchens flickered awake. By daylight, the movement softened beneath the heat. After sunset, everything changed. Dates were shared, plates dished out, laughter rose into the night. When Eid came, the celebration spilled outward — sweet, loud, embracing all within reach.
With much of the waterfront claimed by hotels, reaching for kite spots meant slipping down sandy footpaths in between time-worn homes and corner mosques, past makuti roofs stitched from dried palm and mud walls patched with rope and wire. In places, gated compounds blocked all view and access, holding two worlds apart. Rising just steps away, manicured lawns edged houses without power or running water — a stark closeness that caught the eye. At first, the dichotomy felt uneasy. Yet walking the lanes, the weight of difference softened.
Children chased tires, seaweed dried on racks, men checked their sails. People went about their routines, and greeted us with warm smiles, making the streets feel safe and welcoming. Wealth and poverty sit side by side in this region, but its pace and openness tempers the divide.
At dusk, we would join the Maasai on the beach, kicking a worn football across the sand while women and children beaded necklaces in the fading light. When Francesca called out to them in Maa — their native tongue — their surprise broke into grins. ‘Karibu’, they called back, waving us in.
Small dukas, or tiny local shops, supplied what we required, one errand at a time. After dark, the electrical grid faltered. Generators hummed to life. From the trees, bush babies called and clambered across roofs and palm fronds high above our heads. It never fell silent.
Overhead, the Milky Way burned bright. We walked the beach alone in the dark, shells cracking underfoot, and the moonlight shimmering across the shallows. Life here went pole, pole. Nothing hurries. The cadence of the land can soothe or frustrate, sometimes both at once.
Armed with our own kite gear and content with minimal support, Francesca and I came to appreciate the range of Unguja’s lesser-ridden spots. Each hamlet holds character and its own perspective on the water. Exploring means long drives between scattered communities, discovering new faces and hearing new stories. In this land, there are evolving seascapes and moods with friendships forming as easily as conversation.
Choosing between beaches is not simple. Summer blows lighter and shorter here — warm, and playful. The monsoon arrives heavier and steadier with swell rolling over the reef. Each region opens different corners to ride. Neither is better. Both belong.
Living between the Kaskazi and the Kusi, Zanzibar is a place that never stands still — it simply changes character. In the space between seasons, something settled for us. After years of wandering, Zanzibar offered something steadier: not permanence, but presence.
Africa has long felt like a compass point for my wife and I. Here, shaped by trade winds and tide, that drawl grew clearer. Travel, we realized, is less about arrival than alignment — knowing where you feel most at ease. Between the winds, we lingered, letting the rhythm settle before exploring the next ride.
