From the ocean to my belly in less than 2 hours.

I don't have as much to take pictures of living in "urban" Gambia now, but my favorite new spot is the porch of the Bakau Guest house at dusk, where I can watch a fish go from net to frying pan. Fishworld works like this: The market picks up when the boats come in, boys swimming out with trays to meet them. Gele geles pull up and load their entire bus with fish to take up country. Women gut, clean and fry to sell. "Lincoln" the agressive rasta fish-monger adopted me my first time into the market. I reluctantly became his Kilian when I waded my way through the seafood-seeking masses to discover what had been dragged in that I could possibly cook. He introduced me to the comical and meaty butterfish, with its Bugs-Bunny mouth, which he'll yank filets out of for me in under a minute. What a contrast to the waves of the midwestern grass this summer, where a thousand hours of driving led us to Omaha, America's midpoint, with shrimp on the menu. Perhaps it was brought there by one of the huge farting trucks we'd played leap car with for a day or more on route 80. Whatever its journey, I'm certain it wasn't worth it, only to be limply tossed in a bland buttery bread-crumbed thing to be served after the nachos were all gone.
Now here I might not have the micro-brews or the table service, but I can buy a handful of shrimp, still squirming, with the tide they came in on almost touching my toes.