What happens when Team EYW shows up to a fancy eco-lodge with the best restaurant in Senegal? They wind up eating at the bar man’s house.

Every friend of ours who has been to Senegal recommended we go to a hotel and restaurant in the Sine Saloum region called Lodge des Collines de Niassam. Besides having beautiful eco-friendly bungalows built into baobab trees and overlooking a bird-filled lagoon, the property is notorious for having the best French-inspired fare in the country. It was a big splurge for us, especially after three weeks of pricier-than-anticipated travel around West Africa, but we decided to go nonetheless, calling it an early seven-year wedding anniversary celebration.

It was quite an adventure to get there: We opted for the low-budget local-transport approach, ultimately rolling our luggage 1.5 kilometers down a rocky dirt road after arguing with our sept-place driver, who refused to take us all the way to the hotel. I can't imagine many other lodgers arriving in this fashion, but we tend to be unconventional—usually in the attempt to save a few dollars.

The lodge proved to be worth the hike, as even along our route we were welcomed by gorgeous scenery and some of the most exquisite birds imaginable. We dusted ourselves off in our stunning lodge, which offered 180-degree views of gently lapping lagoon and a horizon lined with baobabs, and headed out to our much-anticipated
first meal.

Lunch was everything we could ask for: perfectly chewy bread, freshly made cheese from the lodge’s own cattle, local grilled fish, blini, basil mousse. It was our first non-African meal in three weeks and felt incredibly indulgent. As did the strong $4 house rums, each infused with a different local fruit.

Afterward we hung out with the lodge’s bar man, Gorgui (whom we quickly dubbed “Georgie”), learning about the activities on offer at Niassam. Realizing the costs exceeded our budget—i.e., it was something like US$40 a person to visit a local market—we decided we were content to take advantage of the pool and our lovely room to just read, play Yahtzee, and relax, with not even wifi to distract us.

Then Laura remembered that in Dakar we’d met a man who told us about a traditional dish from the Sine Saloum region called thiere mboum (pronounced “cherry boom,” though we liked to emphasize the BOOM part). Despite being technically “off” from website work while at Niassam, we asked Georgie in our best bad French if he knew where we might find it. He said of course, and he could even arrange it for us. Skeptical, we asked if this was another $40-a-person local-food tour; Georgie laughed and said no: We could come to his house for dinner the following night and try the dish there. He called his wife to see if that was OK. To help pay for ingredients, she asked for the local equivalent of $5.25, which we happily handed over.

So there we were, having just had a delicious meal in what’s widely considered the best restaurant in Senegal, arranging to swap one of our two included dinners to try our luck at some local thiere mboum…and we couldn’t have been more psyched. The next day, Georgie excitedly arranged for us to meet his sister, another employee at the lodge, for a ride to Palamarin village up the road. Georgie’s brother Seku met us at Georgie’s house; we quickly learned he spoke Spanish. Finally we could communicate with our new friends! (French and Wolof were not getting us very far.) After a sunset walk along the village beach and a meet-and-greet with the entire extended family, it was time for dinner.

A rug was laid down in Georgie’s one-room concrete home, with just enough space between the bed and the dresser for eight of us to sit. Georgie’s elegantly dressed wife, Mymona, entered the dimly lit room—one small fluorescent light was borrowed for the occasion—carrying an enormous covered shallow bowl; she placed it inside our circle of touching knees. At last, the thiere mboum was unveiled.

Greenish-brown millet couscous (thiere) filled the large bowl, and Mymona, using a second smaller bowl, ladled out heaps of a peanutty leaf-studded sauce around the outer edge of it. Each person stuck to the section of bowl right in front of them, using their right hands to scoop the food up and into their mouths. I opted for the spoon that was offered (as there wasn’t a napkin in sight) but managed to match the intensity of millet-to-mouth speed of my new Senegalese friends. The flavors were clean and earthy, with a slight tang. It wasn’t a mind-blowing dish, but fresh and authentic, made as it probably has been for hundreds of years. After a few final ladles of sauce, all that remained was one small pile of millet couscous in the center of the large bowl.

As it’s known to do, thiere mboum’s filling nature put us all into a food coma. The two adorable small boys in the room, Georgie’s son and nephew, still had energy, clearly on a sugar high from the African cola passed around (we guessed that this special-occasion beverage was the real reason for our small financial contribution). But the adults were done: It was time to head home.

There was only one way to end this evening: on the back of a donkey. Georgie’s friend pulled up with his donkey rig, and Laura, Georgie, and I hopped onto the flat-board back. Under a beautiful moonlit sky, we crawled our way back to Niassam, the poor donkey slow and sluggish under our weight. It was almost as if he’d had his own thiere mboum before the journey.

I remember the days of always having one camera, two lenses, and a flash with me on my travels. That’s all changed with the iPhone. Last October I (finally) bought one, and happily tossed my old Samsung that could hardly connect to the internet into my ATC (antiquated technology drawer). I quickly fell in love with the portability and playfulness of my new phone’s 8-megapixel camera and actually became stressed about traveling with it. Would I still use my Canon 5D? Would I learn to rotate? Would I have to take pictures of everything with two cameras?

My first trip dealing with this dilemma came a month later, when Eat Your World headed to Amsterdam with some friends. My immediate observation was that I took way more photos than is usual for me. I documented everything with the iPhone, moments for which I would never have used my Canon: at the airport, on the plane, our first night out. I had a ball and spent every free moment uploading the pictures to my Instagram app, choosing an appropriate filter. I was consumed. I was obsessed. Our second day it rained, and my bulky Canon never even made it out of the bag. With ease the iPhone captured countless memories in bars, restaurants, inside our rented apartment.

Day three saw sunshine, and I finally remembered the fine piece of equipment I had ignored for 48 hours. With my 5D, I strolled the canals of Jordaan, framing photos and enjoying every click of the camera. I zoomed in and out, knowing I’d have some nice big files to work with when I got home. Every so often I’d pull the iPhone out of my pocket for a quickie. I’d found my happy medium: Each camera will have its place in my future—at least until the iPhone can take 50-megabyte photos.

Reviewing our food map en route to the airport (iPhone)

Sunny day in the Jordaan (5D)

Colorful bikes by the canal (5D)

Laura & friends at the Seven Bridges (iPhone)

Any other photographers out there have this dilemma?

It was 1997 the last time I was on the Charles Bridge in Prague. I was a college student backpacking through Europe, and this moment of Dixieland jazz in the heart of Europe, pictured above, hit me strongly. I wasn't much of a photographer back then, but this is one of the few photos during that trip that actually told a good story and made me proud. When I started shooting professionally, I took the photo out, scanned it, and had the smudged, fingerprinted, black-and-white 4x6 sitting on my desk for years. When we started a Prague section on this site, I knew I wanted it to be a header.

Fast forward to October of this year: I'm back on the Charles Bridge. The same Dixieland jazz band was rocking, as the rain that had settled over the city finally let up. I took some more photos and enjoyed the beats, as I did when I was 21. When we got home we took a look at the two photos and realized the banjo player was the same—a bit older, but showing the same energy and love for his music, 14 years later. To think of how many times this man has been photographed playing these same songs amazes me. His smile tells the whole story.

Also, check out the video!

When I was asked to meet up with some clients in Detroit, I had a feeling a weekend of EYW coverage would lead to some very good things. It was just a few years ago that I had quickly visited Greektown and experienced the famous "flaming cheese." I knew there had to be much more than that, and was determined to convince Laura to make it a serious destination for us. With some trepidation, she began to research Detroit's foods, and slowly a list of musts became apparent that sold us both to the idea.

When you mention Detroit to anyone, you get a "why would you want to go there?" look immediately. The city has clearly lost its luster over the last god-knows-how-many years, and has earned a reputation as a desolate urban graveyard. And yes, when you travel throughout the city, it is just that: Boarded-up factories are abundant; once-glorious run-down houses and buildings (like the iconic Michigan Central Station, above) are ubiquitous on almost every stretch of the city proper. I couldn't help but think of New Orleans' Lower 9th Ward around every corner. It is visually horrific and photographically brilliant in a sick and twisted way.

But what makes our job so incredible is that we put together itineraries that focus on the best of what a city like Detroit has to offer. Because of this, we're able to unravel the heart and soul of a place, even when it's hard to see on the surface. Detroit has this heart and soul. Born-and-bred locals can drive down any street and remember details of the Motown era's storefronts, and happily dine at old-school institutions like Buddy's and Bates, relishing in their personal historical significance. The ethnic groups of Poland, Greece, and the Middle East (among others) still have their pockets, and the food and traditions that go with them. On a cold winter's day, we were shocked to see Detroit's enormous Eastern Market, demonstrating the freshness of vegetables, eggs, breads, and sausages that are not only sold to shoppers, but are also used in restaurant kitchens across the city. (It seems Detroit has had a locavore movement for years, but doesn't feel the need to hit you over the head with it.)

What makes Detroit special to me, however, are the people we met during our eating and drinking journey. The locals who haven't fled despite the economic hardships; people who are warm and friendly, realistic and proud; bar companions who've suffered and have seen suffering, yet over a delicious local beer will laugh and tell you about neighborhoods showing new signs of life. In a city where you light cheese on fire with a jubulant "OPA!" it's not hard to push through and continue to feel its strong beating heart.