You don’t go on safari on the island of Zanzibar. But there is Capt. Morgan.

Is it his real name? He is coy on the subject. But any confusion with the famous pirate of the Caribbean ends with his scrupulously honest assessment of our chances of seeing wildlife when we are out on his dhow.

Capt Morgan gazes over the turquoise Indian Ocean in the direction of Africa, 20 miles away, as if to read its underwater secrets. “Whale sharks? About 55% chance of spotting one. And dolphins? I would say 65%. Or maybe we won’t see anything.”

It’s the oldest trick. Cut expectations right down, so we are all extra glad when it happens.

And so it works out. Two languid, synchronised humps  break surface in slow motion just yards from our little boat.

“Humpback dolphins”, remarks Capt Morgan. “A rare species.” I checked later. Rare indeed.

I’m no snorkeller, so I’ll let others describe the kaleidoscopic piscatorial wonders in the shallow waters. But I do know my five a day. Just five? Capt Morgan has bolder plans.

Our lunch stop is a little sandy pearl of an island too small to trouble the map makers. Like a true showmen, the captain saves the best to last, turning fruity profligacy into poetry. We sit, rapt, as he produces mango, baobab, jackfruit, papaya, durian, even banana (there are 22 varieties here), one by one from a basket. He extols their gnarled, spiny, knobbly, exotic, colourful looks, lists their  superior dietary properties.

Then, wielding a venomous cleaver with dextrous fingers, he carves them up into bite-size morsels  and  passes them around.

The performance wins a burst of applause. It’s not often you clap your captain, unless he is saving you from a Force 10 gale.

That lazy drift in a dhow, one white sail supported by an elegantly curving mast, is the simplest way to connect with distant history. This ancient vessel is the chief reason little Zanzibar, the Spice Island, just 53 miles long by 24 wide, became such an important  commercial centre off Africa’s east coast, swept by a millennium-long wave of trade from Arabia and India.

History has been kind to its capital Stonetown. There are many surviving buildings, from a glorious mix of cultures. Omani sultans ruled, Portuguese explorers called in, and even the British  took charge for a bit. Unesco gave Stonetown world heritage listing for its palaces, churches, New Orleans style verandas on cast-iron columns, and its crazy maze of narrow alleyways, so tortuous that we found we found  it easier to navigate with satnav than conventional maps.

There were unexpected cameos, such as one hopeful sign of spiritual togetherness. Down a narrow alleyway, a mosque and a Christian church stood spire to minaret. And everywhere those ornate wooden doors, including one especially rhapsodic example, at the house of a certain Farrokh Bulsara.

But you know you have found Freddie Mercury’s birthplace because there is usually an awestruck tourist standing outside taking a selfie.

One  essential stop, to fathom Zanzibar’s dark history, is the Anglican Cathedral, built on the site of the former slave market. A sculpture of a group of shackled slaves is a searing testimony. I put my camera away.  I cannot photograph this unforgettable horror.

Just as our guide  is recounting the cruellest detail, they throw open the doors of the cathedral, and out pours a wedding party dressed in rainbow colours, accompanied by jaunty, joyful music, to raise our spirits.

Stonetown is shabby and frayed at the edges, and utterly authentic. Bits of the House of Wonders, once the grandest building in town, keep falling off in high winds. Restoring it will cost a sultan’s ransom. But tourism, recently overtaking agriculture as the main source of income, could yet be the town’s salvation.

We had arrived on the new, direct Qatar Airways flight to the island from Doha, (after Qatar’s connecting flight from Heathrow) pausing for some luxurious pampering in the dizzyingly opulent Hamad International Airport. Park Hyatt had a similarly high ambition in the makeover of  its new waterside hotel, which opened in Stonetown in 2015.

This was a typical seafront mansion. It’s Swahili name means “not to be copied or imitated.” Fussy UNESCO inspectors had to approve every moulded plaster and intricate mother of pearl inlay detail, every last  carved wooden door made by local craftsmen.

The little apron of beach before the hotel is strictly off-limits to developers. Every afternoon it becomes a football pitch, as sacrosanct as Wembley Stadium. Some crooked sticks make the goalposts. The gently slapping Indian Ocean is the touchline. Our balcony is the grandstand.

Dressed in their harlequin hues of different Premiership kit, everyone was a footballing maestro. But when the boy in the Liverpool shirt goes down in a tackle from the lad in the Arsenal top, a caressing cushion of the softest, creamiest sand  breaks his fall. They play until the sun goes down in a basin of molten gold, over the African mainland.

Borrowing a football idiom, this is a holiday of two halves. Our next call is  Zanzibar’s version of Indian Ocean paradise.

We bounce along a road fringed by everyday society in perpetual motion. Catch any bystander’s gaze for more than second, and you will be rewarded with the widest of smiles.

Our driver dodges around a high-necked Brahman cow, stoically indifferent to the rules of the road. A bike lumbers past bearing the harvest from half a field. A joyous posse of pupils in their neat uniforms sprint out from a village school. And on some open land two boys run alongside a priceless, unbreakable toy you will never find in Hamleys, a big  fat car tyre.

We stay on the northern tip of the island at the Essque Zalu, soon to be rebranded the Per Aquum. My villa is on a rocky ledge looking over sand like synthetic gold dust. A sea of 50 shades of blue washes gently over a cordon of coral reef just offshore.

The choice is pampering, diving and snorkelling, a trip to a spice farm – much of the  interior has been tamed to produce fruit and spices – gyms and yoga, lounging and more  pampering. And in the evening a menu anchored around fish, caught just out there, and cooked in so many different ways in the island’s  spectacular spices.

Strolling along that deliciously sandy shore. I notice my shadow has shrunk to almost nothing under a towering midday sun – we were just 6° south of the Equator. Fisherman stand motionless, way out in the shallow water. Behind them vast clouds climb towards outer space. It looks like rain, but far, far away over the Serengeti.

Then a dramatic exit. The turning tide is calling the local fishermen. Dhows begin to drift out from the bay around the headland, first the odd one, then a handful, then a dozen, then the whole bay dancing with the billowing white sails of these ancient  craft. We will dine well tonight.