Spice Coast Sundowners Trail: A 5-Day Food and Wine Escape in Zanzibar’s Stone Town and Beaches

Steam rises from tiny cups of kahawa as Stone Town wakes, the clink of porcelain echoing off coral-rag walls and carved wooden doors. You begin in the soft light of Hurumzi Street, easing into the city’s rhythm over coffee and cardamom, before a late-morning dive into the island’s spice story at Kidichi, where leaves are crushed between fingers and the air smells of clove, vanilla, and damp earth. Lunch back in town feels like a reward: contemporary plates at Yeoyum above Kenyatta Road, a quiet perch above the street noise. Afternoon is for context and street-level detail with Amo Zanzibar, threading through Mkunazini and the old quarters, hearing the layers of trade, resistance, and daily life in each alley. As the heat drops, you ride the elevator to The 5th’s rooftop, the ocean line turning molten, then end the night slightly salt-sprayed on the Floating Bar, the city glowing behind you and the gentle slap of water against pontoons underfoot. Tomorrow, the coast opens up—longer horizons, softer schedules.

Morning in Paje tastes like strong coffee and mango, with the sea a pale, almost chalky turquoise at low tide. You ease into the day at a beachside café where the soundtrack is cutlery on plates and the soft whoosh of kites being laid out on the sand. By lunchtime you’ve moved down the coast to Jambiani, the road narrowing, palms leaning in, for a meal that smells of garlic, coconut, and charcoal smoke at a family-run spot where grilled octopus is a minor religion. Afternoon is for the island’s other obsession: spices, this time at Kidichi’s cousin farms and the small producers that keep Zanzibar’s markets fragrant. As the light softens, you return to the waterline for dinner at a casual spot where feet meet sand and seafood meets chilli and lime. Later, a drink in Matemwe under a sky that feels too big for one island, with live music drifting over the tide, sets the tone for tomorrow’s deeper beach immersion.

The day begins in Stone Town again, this time above the streets at a coffee house where the aroma of freshly ground beans snakes down Mkunazini Street. From there, you walk to a small cooking school where the morning turns into a blur of chopping, toasting, and tasting—turmeric-stained fingers, coconut milk simmering, the perfume of pilau spice filling a shaded courtyard. Lunch is what you’ve cooked, eaten slowly with fans whirring overhead and traffic murmuring outside. In the afternoon, you slip back into student mode at another tiny roastery, then trade the city’s echoing alleys for the open sea with a luxury catamaran charter gliding out from Azam Marina, the deck warm under bare feet. The evening closes quietly in a courtyard restaurant where lanterns throw soft shadows on plaster walls and the menu is a love letter to local produce, a counterpoint to tomorrow’s more hedonistic north-coast energy.

By now, the road north to Nungwi feels familiar: villages flickering past, red earth, flashes of bougainvillea. You arrive to a different kind of light—harder, cleaner, bouncing off white sand and clear water—and ease into the day with breakfast at a café where the menu leans fresh and wholesome, the coffee surprisingly serious. Late morning is a gentle wander between local spots, then lunch at a women-led restaurant where shared tapas introduce you to the island’s home-style dishes. Afternoon belongs to the sea: a dhow or small boat ride that takes you out past the line where the reef drops and the water deepens to inky blue, dolphins occasionally surfacing like punctuation. Dinner is barefoot, somewhere between grill smoke and fairy lights, and the night stretches on at a beach bar where the music is just loud enough to loosen shoulders but never drowns the sound of the tide. Tomorrow, you swing slightly south to Kendwa for one last, concentrated dose of sundowner ritual.

Your last day leans into the ritual that’s been quietly structuring the whole trip: the slow build toward sunset. Morning is gentle, a simple coffee or juice at your hotel before you head toward Kendwa’s softer sands and calmer water. Late morning, you board a traditional dhow whose wooden hull creaks in a reassuring way, sails billowing as you cut across water that looks almost painted. Lunch is unfussy, eaten in the shade with sand between your toes, the kind of place where the seafood is fresh enough that it barely needs seasoning. Afternoon drifts by in a blur of swims, a beach bar stop, and maybe one last, spontaneous tour booking at a tiny kiosk for the next time you come back. Evening is your finale: a considered dinner in a beach resort where service feels choreographed, then a quiet walk under a sky thick with stars, the air still warm and salted. You leave with the taste of lime and grilled fish still on your tongue, already editing your own version of this trail for friends back home.