I stuff the meat into the freezer, triple bagged but still leaking, strip down, throw the clothes in the washing machine and scrub myself down in the shower. Moments earlier I was biking by the local fish market and was drawn in by the amount of fish that were laid out and overflowing on a floor large enough for a basketball game. Swordfish streched out 2 metres long with their sides being disected as locals choose which section they desire. Smaller blue fin tuna the length of your arm, hundreds of them are being bought up for the local short eats shops so they can make masuni roshi a breakfast dish with shredded tuna, coconut, chilli and lime, served up with crepe style bread called roshi. Masuni Roshi has been compared to the truck stop brekfast by a french canadian pilot Jean Michel, who claims it leaves you feeling full but not greasy inside and on your way to a complete hangover recovery. That's if you can keep it down, I tend to steer clear of any fish for breakfast if i've been drinking the night before. Standing waist high in a bucket of ice are the yellow fin tuna, tails sticking out like a handle and their fins showing the distinct yellow. Before I knew it I was pointing, grunting and using all the Dehvehi i've learned, zero, to get my point across that I wanted to take one of those bad boys home with me. 40 Rufiyaa (3.50 CND) for the the fish. I grabbed on to the tail and heaved it out of the ice and dragged it on its nose to the cleaning area. I paid another 8 R. and was pointed to a line up of men holding their selections, at the front of the line a blood soaked Maldivian man fileting these fish like a master. After watching a few people I knew the drill, walk up to the counter, man handle the monster onto the cutting block, take reciept, obtained earlier, and as the man leans foward place it in is chest pocket. The head comes off first, he gestures if you want to keep it our not, I shake my head and he slides it to the side to take home, I guess some of the best meat is in the head, but what am I going to do with it! Splitting the fish in two, peeling the skin off, pulling out the inards and serving me up no less than 20 tuna steaks takes less than a minute. I fumble with my two plastic bags and he dumps the goods and I scurry off. The cutting block is perpetually washed with a hose sticking out at each cleaning station, of which there are about twenty. The water then channels down to the tiled floor and fills the whole fish market. As I walk out my sandles slip and slide and I feel like I am on skates for the first time. The ceiling drips water on my back, as I keep walking the dripping doesn't stop. My sandles are actually spraying me with two stripes up the back, a mixture of fish blood and water. Bag under arm, leaking, I pedal home extaticed and disturbed. Now what to do with all this choice tuna? I know i'll call my French friend, he'll have recipes.