Honey and Venom

by Andrew Coté

  So there we stood, waiting for the building manager in our sweaty beekeeping gear, watching the tourists lined up to buy bottles of water and selfie sticks. They regarded us with open curiosity. This, along with their girth, and brightly colored fanny packs, was one of the hundred ways we knew they were tourists. New Yorkers are unfazed by our beekeeping gear. They won’t give us a passing glance. Most New Yorkers would step over a man on the sidewalk with a knife sticking out of his chest without lifting their eyes from their phones, except maybe to take a video of him. Also, New Yorkers avoid Times Square as if it will give them herpes, which, before Giuliani cleaned it up in the late 1990s, it clearly would have.

  It is worth noting that, strictly speaking, this building’s management had not reached out to us. The manager knew that there was an issue, but did not know exactly what it was or whom to call. This is common. Time is of the essence with regard to swarms, and because people in general just do not always know whom to contact, by the time the appropriate party is found the swarm has often moved on. Frequently this move exacerbates the problem, as the colony may find its way into a crevice in the affected building and set up shop, bringing greater and more difficult-to-resolve problems later.

  In this case, though the management had not gotten hold of us, they had been trying to get hold of someone, anyone, to assist with the problem. Upon seeing the three of us all suited up, the manager took us straight up to the roof with nary a question asked. On the elevator ride up, I gathered that he did this not out of concern for the welfare of the bees, but simply because the building’s union employees would not go anywhere near the roof due to the bees’ presence. The advertising signs could not be adjusted, fixed, or otherwise physically handled, which meant that serious income was being lost, or soon would be. So the bees needed to go.

  After ascending seventeen floors, we exited the elevator to see that the inside of the building was empty—there was no furniture, the walls were unfinished, pipes were exposed, and wires dangled from the ceiling. We were marched out onto the roof, where we were able to see the backs of the illuminated signs and a hint of the sky and buildings across the street. But there was no swarm to be seen. The manager stood in the doorway (not wanting to venture out, lest he be carried off by the bees, I suppose) and pointed to where the swarm of bees had settled earlier. By this point, there was only a bit of wax foundation there, evidence that the bees had begun to build a small amount of comb. There certainly had been honey bees there.

  The roof felt surprisingly small. It was covered mostly in beams that supported the electric LED-display billboards that spanned the sides of the triangular building from the second floor all the way to the roof. A photo that I had been sent less than an hour earlier showed a huge swarm on the end of a massive steel beam. So we knew the bees were there, or had been there just a while earlier. I looked up and half hoped to see them attached to the great New Year’s Eve ball—no such luck.

  Despite the manager’s wishful-thinking protestations that the bees must have left, we hunted around. It took only about a minute for Gus to spot a few bees buzzing around, trying to lead us in the right direction, and Hannah correctly guessed that the swarm had simply shifted position. She gasped aloud when she found the actual swarm. I don’t know if she gasped from the surprise of finding it, from the size of the conclave (it was a large swarm), or from the fact that the bees were hanging in space on the edge of a beam with a seventeen-floor straight drop to the sidewalk beneath them. It was truly a stunning site to behold.

  Now, one may well ask, why not leave the swarm alone? Why not let the bees live their lives and go about their business? Both good questions. First, there is the inherent danger, or at least concern, that a swarm in a hyper-crowded locale such as Times Square—through which upward of four hundred thousand people, more than the entire population of Iceland, pass every day—would again relocate and cause mayhem, or, at least, severe inconvenience. The swarm that landed on the hot dog vendor’s umbrella down below a year later made a fun story for many, but it did cost the vendor a day’s profits. So it is generally better for all concerned that a swarm be captured and safely and appropriately housed.

  Risking life and limb for $100 or so’s worth of honey bees is something that I cannot easily explain. True, it makes little sense to chance death for something as trivial as a buzzing blur of insects. But when a beekeeper sees a dangerously located swarm right in front of him or her, that beekeeper’s DNA is programmed to capture it; normal concerns about mortality simply don’t exist, nor do intellectual functions like reason and logic. At least that is how I justify it. Also, I have always been too stubborn to accept that much is impossible. Add to that the fact that, though I knew that this particular swarm was magnificent, majestic, and marvelous, the experience of being there on that roof with the bees seemed to be in its own way a private thing. Meaning, though two hundred feet below I could see thousands of people walking, dozens of buses driving, and scores of taxis zooming, we were far removed from other human contact. No one was looking up. We could easily see Central Park, gaze up and down Broadway for miles, and look into the windows of the buildings opposite. We could hear the faint honking of horns and other nondescript sounds from below. Yet we were alone, isolated with the bees and the wind. It felt like a very personal experience.

  So we set about doing the job of rescuing them. From one of the NYCBA apprentices—who was, as kismet would have it, in the area, with his car, and armed with a bee vac—we borrowed a low-suction vacuum specially designed to gently suction up honey bees. Hannah and I strapped on safety harnesses usually worn by the maniacs who regularly changed the lightbulbs on the ads on the building or washed its windows or whatever it is they do. We fastened ourselves to stable points, leaned out, and started the vacuum.

  To capture all of the bees, we had to perform mild acrobatics. At one point I needed to sit on the beam and shimmy out over the edge of the ledge, gripping the beam with my thighs. I thought about how those people who used to walk across the wings of planes wore a wire to stabilize them, but how the wire was just a psychological aid because it wouldn’t do a thing to help them if they slipped. I decided that when the capture was complete I wanted to take the elevator down as soon as possible—and not the outdoor express one. But there was no incident. For their part, as usual, the bees were passive and uninterested in us, and paid no heed at all until it was too late. They were pulled into a screened cage, where they were safe yet completely flummoxed about what had just happened.

  Of course, as we focused on accomplishing our task in a safe and efficient manner, we did not consider that the Reuters offices were right across the street. Hundreds of reporters were working at the same level we were, doing their jobs in a safe and efficient manner, too. Theirs was reporting news. When we were halfway done and I was taking a break on sturdier footing, my cellphone rang and I answered it. It was a photographer from Reuters I had met the week prior at the United Nations, where he was doing a story on the beehives that I managed there. “Would you please raise your right arm?” the voice on the phone asked me. I played along. “Thank you. My colleagues and I are watching you, and they didn’t believe me that I knew you.”

  “So you thought you’d call me when I am trying to hang on to the side of this building covered in bees?” I chided.

  “And you decided to answer?” he shot back. Reporters are often smart-asses.

  When we reached terra firma again, we proceeded to Bryant Park where we relocated the bees, ignoring the three-mile rule this time. And then we continued working at other apiaries until, mercifully, the sun finally set.

  Thanks to our friends at Reuters, our adventure was caught on film and disseminated all over the world. The swarm capture was seen in Korea, Australia, Germany, South Africa, Brazil, and dozens of other countries. It was nice to have our work and appreciation for honey bee rescue recognized on an international level, and it see
med appropriate that the Crossroads of the World was the place to share this moment.

  JULY

  And your Lord inspired to the bee, “Take for yourself among the mountains, houses, and among the trees and [in] that which they construct. Then eat from all the fruits and follow the ways of your Lord laid down [for you].” There emerges from their bellies a drink, varying in colors, in which there is healing for people.

  —Qur’an, 16:68–69

  Honey bees, and other bees and wasps, reputedly have a long history of being dragged into warfare by humans and used as weapons. A couple of thousand years ago, the Heptakomites purposely left poisoned honey along the route of their adversaries, the Roman soldiers. This honey, made from rhododendron nectar, was harmless to honey bees but unsafe for human consumption. Hence, when one thousand advancing Romans found the honey, they ate it, fell quite ill, and were easily overpowered by their enemies.*1 For their part, Romans also are said to have employed bees in their arsenal from time to time, catapulting them into the thick of their enemies. Upon landing, the hives would burst and tens of thousands of angry bees (or hornets or wasps) would engage the enemy on the Romans’ behalf. Aside from the Romans, the ancient Greeks are credited to have used bees as tiny soldiers in war. In addition to catapulting beehives over the walls of besieged cities, the defenders of Themiscyra, a Greek town best known at the time for producing exquisite honey, defeated the encroaching Romans in 72 B.C. by funneling swarms of bees into the mines beneath the walls of the city—straight into the faces of the enemy. Fast-forwarding another thousand years or so, Richard I of England is alleged to have used bees as catapult-launched bombs against the Saracens during the Third Crusade in the twelfth century. There are examples from the American Civil War of bees and apiaries disrupting battles and troop movements; they were used, at least on one occasion, as a practical joke against the captain of a regiment. “I recall an incident occurring in the Tenth Vermont Regiment—once brigaded with my company—when some of the foragers, who had been out on a tramp, brought a hive of bees into camp, after the men had wrapped themselves in their blankets, and, by way of a joke, set it down stealthily on the stomach of the captain of one of the companies, making business quite lively in that neighborhood shortly afterwards.”*2 But it wasn’t all fun and games, of course. A Union soldier named Lieutenant Robertson from New York’s Ninety-third Regiment, while in Virginia, recounted, “To advance was impossible, to retreat was death, for in the great struggle that raged there, there were few merely wounded….The bullets sang like swarming bees, and their sting was death.”

  During the Great War, the Germans gained an advantage during the Battle of Tanga, also known as the Battle of the Bees, fought near the slopes of Mount Kilimanjaro in what is now Tanzania, when several beehives were disturbed by gunfire and the bees angrily swarmed the area, particularly attacking the British Ninety-eighth Infantry Regiment and the Loyal North Lancashire Regiment. In his memoirs, the German commander, Paul von Lettow-Vorbeck, described the accidental episode as “decisive” for his victory. In Southeast Asia, the Viet Cong used stinging insects to fight, using nests as projectiles and in traps to be stepped on. Honey is sweet, but the bee stings.

  * * *

  —

  In July 2005, I was working with bees far away from Manhattan rooftops and Brooklyn community gardens. Under the auspices of a State Department initiative and embedded with the U.S. Army, I was teaching beekeeping in Iraq.

  While Iraq during that time was as brutal as most people might imagine, it was also filled with good people, life, joy, hope—and to some extent, honey bees, and a need to bolster the honey bee industry for the purpose of helping the Iraqi people feed themselves through increased pollination via more and healthier honey bees. So I was all in.

  I moved around a lot, from Baghdad to Erbil, Kirkuk, Sulaymaniyah, Mosul, and several other places. Some locations were rough and tumble, and in some, one would hardly know there was a war going on. One relatively peaceful region was Dohuk, located in the northernmost part of the quasi-independent Kurdistan, in northern Iraq. It lays claim to beautiful mountains, hills, and lakes, and also produces some of the most delicious honey—yellow star thistle blended with eucalyptus—that I have ever tasted in my life.

  To get to Dohuk from Erbil, our convoy drove at breakneck speed, mostly because we were passing through the outskirts of Mosul, a city of infamous reputation and one that had been much in the news at the time as a stronghold of the opposition. The road was bumpy and curvy, and by the time we arrived, I felt that I would vomit my organs onto the front of my body armor. Motion sickness is my kryptonite.

  After three hours of being tossed around, we finally arrived in Dohuk. We had a scheduled meeting at a bee farm, but I asked to make a quick stop first to compose myself; a cup of tea and a bite of bread, I thought, would do wonders for my state. We entered the parking area of a strip mall of sorts, and my ever-present security detail of about a dozen men, some American and some Kurdish, and I entered a café. First they told us there was tea, then they told us there wasn’t, then we were informed that there was but we would have to wait fifteen minutes for it. We decided to use the time to explore the grocery store next door.

  During my time in Iraq I was astonished by how much attention was given to my movement by the security team, and so I tried not to deviate from the schedule, as it threw them into high gear. They would stop traffic whenever we entered or exited a building. If I had to use the restroom, they would surround me as I approached it, and then clear it out and maintain watch outside so that no one could enter while I was performing my ablutions. When we entered the only supermarket in northern Iraq, located in the strip mall with the café, it was cleared out except for staff so that I could shop. I bought some Pringles-like chips.

  I imagined being back in the States and going to a Stop & Shop, CVS, or Walmart, and having guards block the parking lot, clear out the building, watch all the exits, and surround me as I bought potato chips. That, from time to time, was my life in Iraq. It was a strange blend of high tension and complete relaxation. And while the security measures often felt unnecessary and cumbersome, they did allow us to avoid delays due to long lines. That was my positive spin on the situation.

  Refreshed in all ways, we drove the remaining distance to the bee farm. To get there, we crossed a massive dam formerly known as Saddam’s Dam and now once again called Dohuk Dam. The stone dam, adorned with a large painted-on Kurdish flag, is home to one of the most gorgeous vistas one could hope for. It reigns over a massive blue lake cradled between impressive hills and mountains. The view is a sight to behold.

  A group of about twenty beekeepers awaited our arrival. They were sitting patiently beneath a canopy of natural materials, sipping sugary tea from tiny glasses on tiny saucers. When I arrived, the head beekeeper took me by the hand and led me to the others. I shook hands with every one of them. Some clasped my hand between their two hands, released their grip, and then touched their hearts. Many also made attempts to introduce themselves in English. I tried using my extremely limited Kurdish during my greetings, which was oftentimes met with a look of confusion, but also with smiles. We had an interpreter, but he wasn’t necessarily well trained. We worked with what we had. Everyone had a good attitude and we were gathered for a common purpose—to promote healthy honey bees.

  When it comes to beekeeping, while I have the spirit, the passion, and the technical know-how, the man who taught me everything I know about bees, my father, holds more information about bees in one hair of his white mustache than I will ever know. I also sit on the shoulders of great beekeepers like Dr. Thomas Seeley, Dr. Larry Connor, and Dr. Dewey Caron, people who have taught me along the way through their books, talks, conversations, and friendships. So, bearing that in mind, imagine how futile I sometimes feel when I have a group of hardworking, impoverished beekeepers sitting in front of me, hoping that I hold the magic key to
their varroa mite problem, their wax moth enigma, or their difficulty in raising a decent honey harvest.

  Especially varroa mites! Those little buggers had killed about a third of the colonies in North America the year prior to my visit to Iraq, and if I knew the secret to destroying them, be sure I would share it. The parasite Varroa destructor attaches itself to the exoskeleton of the honey bee and hangs on, sucking and feeding on the fat found in the abdomen of the bee; if a human being were to have equally proportioned creatures dangling and feeding on the liver, it would look as if big red basketballs were affixed to him or her. Varroa came to the States around 1986 and has radically changed beekeeping here and wherever they rear their nasty little red heads. When I say “changed,” I mean that at this point, about 30 percent of American honey bee colonies are decimated per year, and the number one cause of their demise is, in the opinion of the great Dr. Dewey Caron, varroa.

  * * *

  —

  My beekeeping knowledge and experience, as limited as it was, could at least help these beekeepers increase their yield of sweet liquid gold and stave off the more devastating effects of varroa. I wouldn’t have made the trip if I’d thought I couldn’t. But there’s no magic or simple solution. And one must possess an open mind and be willing to accept that, perhaps, there are practices that need to be adjusted. Not that my practices are flawless, but I do have the benefit of further-reaching experience, and experts with whom I am in contact.

  Among the difficulties I run across, especially when I travel, are folkloric ideas that the rural beekeeper simply will not relinquish. An example: The beekeepers in front of me told me that there was a general feeling among those in their village that bees can recognize the scent of their keeper. There are many beekeepers in the United States, too, who believe that their bees “know” them from their smell, their touch, and their manner—similar, I guess, to the way a dog recognizes its owner. Bees do have an extraordinary sense of smell, after all. Beekeepers tell me all the time that they do not wear veils when doing routine inspections, and that their bees never sting them because they know them and they have an unspoken understanding. It is a notion as charming as it is false.