Groups of us (the Small Enterprise Development [SED] team) went out of town. We left the capital in groups of two to four . . . on buses in separate directions to meet-up with PCVs in various parts of the country. Our bikes accompanied us. The four-day trip was called Demyst, which undoubtedly stands for demystification. I returned on Sunday morning, 11 July, completely mystified.

My particular group took a three hour bus ride on a luxury motor coach due east of the capital. OK, it wasn’t a luxury coach, but neither were there goats and chickens. Observation: he who controls the window controls life. Perhaps that’s a bit overblown; but there is something to be said for sitting next to one of the windows that opens. Oddly enough, despite the heat, the Burkinabe don’t open their windows. I heard something about a genuine concern of TB in this windy, dusty, Sahelian land; however, but I don’t know that TB quite explains their willingness to sit in the heat. Probably just of one of the myriad cultural differences.

So we arrived on Thursday afternoon in a lovely town in the east, not far from the borders of Niger and Benin (check your map, kids). On Friday we dug in the fields and planted corn. For those of you who know me, you know that I was in heaven. Give me some dirt and a garden spade . . . or in this case, a daba. Yes, I had my hot-pink garden gloves. I’ll embrace manual field labor, but I won’t ruin a manicure. Somewhere one simply must draw the line.

Speaking of lines, the Burkinabe turned-over the sandy ground, then dug small holes for the corn. Me? I made a small plot containing furrows, in lines, which create rows of little hills called (I believe) mottes de terre. My corn was then planted, nicely spaced, atop the lines of mounds. The goal here is to retain water in between the mounds. So someone tell me: why didn’t the entire village create mounds?

We ate lunch in the field: black-eyed peas and rice, which is called benga. It’s topped with oil and usually with a spicy/peppery powder called pimient. Yes, it’s eaten by everyone, with hands, from a single large bowl. The Burkinabe call their peas beans. I pointed out the black-eye spots on these so-called beans, and said points avec les yeux noires (peas with black eyes). Everyone laughed, mostly likely at my French, not at the American name of the vegetable . . . . I guess you had to be there.

We returned to our villa tired but happy, slept outdoors on the ground, and awoke in the middle of the night to a herd of cattle being driven in from another country to, arguably, the largest cattle market in West Africa. Looks just like the Fort Worth Stock Yards. I kid you not. So much mooing and clip-clop of hooves. Again, I was in heaven.

On Saturday we visited a group of folks who were wrapping-up a three-day seminar on growing sesame. Have you ever seen a sesame plant? I thought sesame seeds came from Whole Foods. Evidently, I was mistaken. These tiny seeds grow on upright plants in small pods that look like tiny-baby okra. Inside each okra-type pods are hundreds of seeds. Sesame seeds. Duh. Who knew?!

Here comes the fun part: after the seminar, we visited the office of the PCV in Eastern Burkina and were presented with glasses of dolo. Dolo is a locally/regionally produced drink, which is fermented from sorghum. It’s not carbonated, it’s not cold, but it is alcoholic (my guess is around 7%). It tastes like a mix of a very dry cider and a very mild IPA.

Odd fact: I’d say that of the 17 or 18 SED members, at least 60% of us cook, and cook well. A la Alton Brown, we’re all fascinated by the science of cooking and food processing. And we’re all delighted inasmuch as we’re just discovering this about each other. Most of us are experienced in at least one or more of the following: cheese-making, home-brew, yoghourt-making, baking, preserving, flavour-building. In other words, one can just look at an SED member eating or drinking and see the gears turning inside that head.

And the case of dolo? Mmmm. What this stuff needs is a bit of tampering with the yeast (I’m thinking champagne yeast). Would a dab of the local honey affect the specific gravity? What would refrigeration do? Can a recipe be consistently reproduced? What is the alcohol content? Does Chris really have the recipe? And . . . wait for it . . . was I really stung by a scorpion? We can only speculate.