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Lapped by the clear waters of the Indian Ocean, the small island of Kilwa Kisiwani off the coast of Tanzania deserves its reputation for being an arduous destination for visitors.

But in its heyday its appeal was so great that sailors from Arabia, India and Persia would regularly risk their lives to reach it, sailing for long weeks on treacherous seas, in ‘sewn’ wooden boats built without a nail, often hopelessly at the mercy of the monsoon winds.

They came for rich rewards, as by the early 1300s the magnificent island city-state and port of Kilwa was pivotal to all trade on the East African coast. Gold, ivory, tortoiseshell and slaves from the still dark East African interior were abundantly available, and Kilwa merchants were eager for imported cargoes of elaborately painted porcelain, cloth, and figs. These foreign sailors also brought philosophy, religion and concepts of architecture, and Kilwa soon became an independent island paradise, with elegantly domed stone mosques and houses with courtyards and gardens with trees, spices and herbs. Antelope, partridges, nightingales and deer lived among orchards and fountains and among palaces and houses whose inhabitants dined from oriental porcelain painted with flowers.

I was curious to know what spirit of this world remains today. And so began a journey to the island that time reclaimed. The roads across the Rufigi River Delta are notoriously bad, demanding at least two days hard driving, and no buses even contemplate the route following the rains. I found a friend who had a ‘plane and he agreed to fly me to Kilwa.

One smartly dressed official stood in a sunburnt stubble landing field to greet me. A little surprised, he took my bag on his back. I knew that we were some way from town, and asked about a taxi, at which my new friend threw back his head and laughed. Welcome to Kilwa, he said. We set off in the mid-day sun, plodding slowly southwards, and after what seemed like an age came to a tiny structure on the outskirts of town, where one desk, telephone and truck were installed. This, he explained, was the Kilwa Fire Station, and Chief Fire Officer was his official title. I suggested we telephone some accommodation, and this time his laugh was rye. No phone lines for six months, he said, opening the bonnet of the truck. No engine either, since he had sent it to Dar for repairs. I thought, let’s hope there’s no fire.

A young boy was watching me, unabashedly enthralled, and when I hoisted my bag and set out on foot, he trundled along beside. He led me to a small hotel in town where I took a room, and I soon realised that no one could understand me…even in my best Swahili. I ordered rice and beans to eat, and was brought fish and ugali, and asked about a motor boat to take me to Kilwa Kisiwani. The following morning I negotiated with a gaggle of sailors, waving lots of fingers to indicate the high price I was prepared to pay, until finally I was beneath the billowing sails of their dhow, and we began to tack out against the wind. We dozed and sang Swahili songs and sounded a conch shell at passing boats, passing the hours with a fine East African disregard for time. Finally we drew ashore beneath the huge and crumbling Gereza, a historic fortress and monument of Kilwa’s decline, built by the Portuguese when they seized the island in 1500, and sealed its earliest fate.

Amongst the ruined palaces and mosques a small village farms beans and cassava outside typical mud and thatch homes. The wells, once were renowned for their flowing sweet waters, require a ten foot string for buckets to be lowered to the trickle at the bottom. Children find coins embossed with heads of self-appointed Sultans, and porcelain pieces from china, small, earthy remnants of a past era of power. But my guide points out coffee-skinned girls smiling outside their house, laughing with pale blue eyes, a vibrant lasting legacy of the first Shirazis.

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