A two-hour choppy ferry ride across the Indian Ocean from Dar es Salaam lies the semi-autonomous Zanzibar Archipelago of Tanzania. Stone Town, the historic centre of Zanzibar City on the main island Unguja, was once a trading empire between Africa and the Arab world. The Zanzibar sultanate traded for ivory, spices grown on large plantations on the island, and slaves.

I was startled by the dichotomy of overpriced luxury resorts on white powdery beaches in juxtaposition with impoverished corrugated metal shacks in which locals sold fruit, clothes, and souvenirs. It’s not that such blaring contrasts don’t exist elsewhere, but the effort it takes luxury to turn a blind eye on poverty coexisting in such proximity was remarkably high here.

I could well imagine that lulled by the splendour of a luxury resort and brilliant sunsets one could think of Zanzibar as the most beautiful beach holiday location. If that luxury resort has a private beach section that is. For otherwise, the moment you stepped onto the white sand for a peaceful stroll along the Indian Ocean you’d be pestered by swarms of local vendors every step of the way.

In Stone Town, where lasting Arab, Indian, and European influences nowadays blend with Swahili culture, the strange dichotomy between recognition of its notorious past of discrimination and on-going practise of such injustice – with a different target of abuse, namely homosexuals – was disturbing.

We visited the underground slave chambers in the slave market.

Little light fell through narrow air slits into two small gloomy slave chambers below ground. As I stood in one of these, perhaps 25 square metres in size, the bare stone walls and low roof closed in on me and I stifled a whiff of claustrophobia. I was the only person in the chamber at the time, but between the 17th and the end of the 19th century when millions of slaves were traded from East Africa, 50 men or 75 women and children were penned up in these holding chambers for several days. Rusty chains, names etched into the walls, and the oppressive heat in this gloomy prison spoke of a magnitude of suffering and cruelty that easily compares to humanity’s worst crimes.

At my feet a channel was carved into the rock through which excrements and the dead were once flushed out by high tide. Many died of hunger, thirst, suffocation and diseases. Those still alive after three days were shackled and dragged outside to the slave market areal on which Anglican Christ Church Cathedral was later built in commemoration.

The strong were sold and the unmarketable killed. A common practise to test a slave’s likelihood of withstanding the cruel conditions on the plantations – on top of indecent examinations in public – was to chain them to a whipping post for beating. Who cried fetched lower prices at market.

Slavery may be a thing of the past in Zanzibar, yet discrimination perseveres. It seems Islam has no room for tolerance as Zanzibar outlawed homosexuality in 2004 for religious reasons, imposing a 25 years imprisonment penalty for those in gay relationships.

Discrimination against skin colour and race was merely replaced by that against sexual orientation and the only learning from history was that one didn’t learn from history. Zanzibar isn’t even proud of Freddie Mercury who was born on the island, so we sang the Bohemian Rapsody in public that night; it was the least we could do.

The alleyways of Stone Town carried the soul and beauty of bygone days. But for how long, I wondered, as the urban decay evident throughout the town bespoke of little money or interest in maintaining its rich history.

The locals were friendly and greeted us with ‘Jambo’ (hello) and ‘Karibu’ (welcome) as we strolled through Darajani market, although it was obvious from my pained expression and pinched nose that I almost gagged on the smell and sight of dead and alive animals in various stages of decay.