Honey and Venom

by Andrew Coté

  The moment the notion of bees knowing the scent of their keepers goes too far is when, for the purpose of assuring that one’s bees are indeed familiar with one’s scent, one places a pair of used undergarments into the hive. Besides the obvious, I have a couple of problems with this practice. First, I imagine it is a daunting task to fill hundreds of hives with underwear, for just how long might it take to amass so many pairs of used skivvies? And second, I cannot imagine that the underclothes exert any sort of positive influence over the honey. On the contrary, I think the noisome addition to the hive would distract the girls from their tasks. What decent woman likes to work with a pair of men’s dirty drawers in her face?

  Another interesting discrepancy between the world as I know it and the world as the beekeepers in this region knew it involved the behavior of the queen. I was repeatedly and adamantly informed that I was wrong about the queen’s mating flight. To review: The queen bee mates once in her life, on what is called a mating flight, and on that flight she mates in the neighborhood of fifteen times. That is, she copulates with that many drones, whose barbed penises are then torn from their bodies, ripping out their entrails. Then the drones fall to the ground and die. After this busy afternoon, the queen stores the sperm of her suitors for three to five years. Most queens can lay up to two thousand eggs a day when necessary for two years, with numbers dropping off somewhat thereafter. I don’t offer this information as opinion or conjecture. These are the facts.

  The very idea that the queen, as perfect as she is, would have relations with so many males was unbelievable to some of my Iraqi friends. “Is she a whore?” one particularly impassioned man demanded, nearly screaming. He enthusiastically refused to believe a pristine female—such as his mother or his favorite wife or his queen bee—would keep company with so many men. So there is that element as well to contend with: cultural differences. There are a lot of intercultural communication issues that come up in my Bees Without Borders work, and I am sure that many of the people with whom I deal overseas are as baffled by my everyday comportment as I often am by theirs. Regardless, my underwear stays out of my beehives.

  We talked more about bees. Someone brought me the corpse of the dreaded European bee-eater, Merops apiaster. Even in its poor condition, it was easy to see that it had once been a handsome specimen. Merops apiaster is a beautiful bird, richly colored and slender, with a black beak, green wings, and a combination of browns, yellows, and even gold in its feathers. While beautiful, it is thought to not only eat a great many honey bees—and indeed, it does eat them—but it is also believed by many beekeepers that this feathered fellow will, with his mere presence, intimidate the honey bees into staying inside lest they become a repast for these migrating beauties. The truth is that even in areas where these birds nest, fewer than 1 percent of the local bee population ends up as lunch for the bee-eater. Still, try telling that to a group of Kurdish beekeepers or any rural beekeeper from West Asia all the way to Africa. Most beekeepers in the region would seem to disagree.

  Interestingly enough, there is at least one place on earth where honey bees are purposely cultivated as a meal for bee-eating birds. Founded in 1899, the Bronx Zoo currently boasts nearly two and a half million visitors per year. There are two beehives kept atop the World of Birds at the zoo—two colonies of honey bees that have been populated on and off for the past dozen or so years, there primarily to provide sustenance to a specific group of birds on the ground floor of the building. The white-throated and white-fronted bee-eaters (Merops albicollis and Merops bullockoides, respectively) feed in part on those honey bees raised on their roof. Two beehives, in traditional Langstroth beehives that are equipped with small pipes as entrances, are on occasion fitted with tubes to those entrances that lead into a small trap. Once a couple of hundred bees fly out of the hive and into the box, the box is sealed and brought downstairs. Then that box is taken into the small arena where the hungry birds reside. There it is opened, and the unlucky honey bees become an afternoon repast for the hungry birds. The public is invited to watch the action.*3

  But back in Iraq, we went on to speculate on the cause of the death of some local beehives, discussing the application of a certain chemical that some foreign company has distributed liberally in Iraq, but which has been banned in the States and many other countries with even minimal regulations. They asked me why, if it had been banned elsewhere, was it given to them? I answered as best I could that the reality was that some company had manufactured it and wanted to profit from it, and when they couldn’t sell it in the United States or another reasonably well-regulated country, they’d probably sought out a market where there were fewer regulations and safeguards. Iraq is not in a position at the moment to dedicate its resources to checking the safety of every medicine, and so these chemicals get dumped here and elsewhere. I urged the beekeepers I met in Kurdistan not to use certain products I knew to be harmful, though I understood that it would be hard for them to resist, since they need to battle the varroa mite problem, for example, somehow. In short, over time, these struggling beekeepers will poison their bees and strengthen the varroa mite by using and misusing the toxic chemical.

  One man suggested that burning lavender inside the hive would kill adult varroa mites, and that by using that method every few days, one would kill all of the varroa mites as they came out of the cells. I have also heard from a beekeeper in Japan that a lavender patty of some sort was being devised. I find it interesting that two similar folk remedies have evolved, and I hope that one of them will prove effective. Unfortunately, the evidence weighs against it. The latest natural remedy for varroa mites that I’ve heard involves mushrooms. Time will tell.

  During a break in the meeting, the head beekeeper, Khorsheed Ahmed, led me around his apiary. One thing I noticed straight off: The poor yield of the hives must have had a lot to do with the fact that they put far too many colonies in an area that cannot support that many foraging bees. When there are simply too many bees in one place, the nectar sources will run out, and the bees will have weak hives and poor honey yields. Also, there was an inadequate nearby fresh water supply. The former problem could be solved. It is important to bring water to the hives, especially in dry rural areas.

  Eventually we moved from the hillside to a nearby restaurant, where my organization bought lunch for the forty people or so in our group. We ate traditional Kurdish food and continued chatting about bees. I noticed a young beekeeper, about sixteen, which was a rarity in what is usually an old man’s vocation in this country. It turned out that he was there with his father, who has been teaching him about bees since he was a much younger boy. This reminded me that many—indeed most—of the beekeepers had learned their craft from their own fathers or uncles. Of course, this put me in mind of my own father and his tutelage, which has brought me to wherever I have gotten in the bee world and beyond. I tried to explain that to my new friends, but I had to abruptly stop my talk about it, for despite myself I realized that I was welling up. Surprised by this swell of emotion, I once again realized how grateful I am to my father for teaching me about bees, and for being a great father. A sentiment and bond that was clearly understood and shared by many present that day.

  Eventually we retired to a secure hotel, where we met some more beekeepers from a different group. We all spoke and sampled different honeys, and then they were on their way. I had an appointment scheduled with the minister of agriculture the next morning that I wanted to be ready for. Not that I had any clue what we would be meeting about. My primary bodyguard, a man named Dave from Staten Island, and I decided that since the hotel was heavily guarded we would send my personal guards out to enjoy their evening, and he and I would stay in the hotel and have dinner. With twenty dollars from me, which was more than enough for several beers each for the guards, they wandered off, and Dave and I sat in the outdoor restaurant watching a huge moon rise, sipping beers, and tossing scraps of our food to the scrawny cats
that meandered around the tables.

  While we were eating, a fellow named Marwan came by. Marwan worked with my organization, and he let me know that he’d had no luck finding an interpreter for my meeting with the minister of agriculture the next day. Without one there was little I could do, so I had the idea to hire one of the receptionists at the hotel. I found a woman who had worked as an interpreter for some news organizations in the past, and though her English was not stellar, it far surpassed my Kurdish, which consisted of about ten words. Problem solved, I thought. I went to my hotel room and watched BBC to learn more about the war that was raging elsewhere in Iraq.

  Not long after I’d gotten back to my room, Dave radioed to tell me that he was around the corner sitting with a group of three tourists, members of a little society that promotes and enjoys traveling to war zones and other dangerous places. It all started with a book (one that I happen to have read) called The World’s Most Dangerous Places. The book’s most avid fans evolved into a cult of people who like to travel to dangerous areas and write about that experience. But as far as Iraq is concerned, visiting Dohuk and then leaving the country is perhaps the equivalent of going into a house of ill repute to use the bathroom, and then quickly departing without partaking in any of the other offerings. You don’t really see any action in either case. Still, these three, two Brits and an American, were very chummy and we shared beers for a few hours.

  “I work for the government,” confided Charlotte, a Rubenesque middle-aged bleached blonde whom we had seen earlier in Dohuk, either leading or being led by her big red suitcase on wheels. It turned out that she worked for a county clerk’s office somewhere in the Midwest. A pleasant woman, she was excited to be in Iraq for the day. The two fellows, Ian and John, spent a lot of time in Turkey, I gathered, but other than the fact that one of them worked with computers, I did not catch much about their line of work. They didn’t believe that I was in Iraq teaching beekeeping skills.

  “That is the worst cover story I have ever heard!” insisted Ian.

  “So bad it must be true,” I countered.

  They were not convinced. “So why all the firepower with you?” John pressed.

  “In case a bee tries to sting him,” Dave answered. More drinks and laughs ensued. For those few hours we could have been just about anywhere.

  The next morning I met the interpreter, Berivan, downstairs, and we all drove off in the convoy to the Ministry of Agriculture. It was only about five minutes away, and during that time I learned that in Kurdish, Berivan means “girl who takes milk from cows or sheep.” I was about to learn that milkmaids are not necessarily the best interpreters.

  Also, it was the case on this day, as on many days over the months I was in Iraq, that there was no clear plan or reason for any of these meetings. They just seemed to enjoy having meetings. Sometimes I knew why I was walking into one, and sometimes I didn’t. Often the meeting was about what we would discuss at the next meeting.

  We were ushered into the minister of agriculture’s office and took our seats as he was talking on the phone. Where we sat there were two air conditioners that blasted out nothing but hot air—much like the minister himself, as it turned out. A family of birds was clearly roosting in one of the AC units. I asked my interpreter if he was on an important call. She listened, and then reported that he was talking about shoes, at which point I noticed him regarding his shoes more than one normally might. Then, after a full twenty-five minutes of me listening to a man talk about footwear in a language that I could not understand, Mohammed Sherif gave us his full attention.

  That lasted about one minute until another phone rang, this time his mobile. He picked it up and started talking again, obviously delighted by something or someone. Mercifully he was on this call for only about five minutes, and then he immediately launched into a passionate speech about how Kurdish honey is world famous, and how it is the purest and best in the world, and how the Qur’an tells us that honey is a medicinal food, and how there are two kinds of honey, natural and chemical, blah blah blah.

  I was bored out of my mind as he spewed his rehearsed rhetoric, but I nodded and assumed a serious expression and did my best to be polite. I could hear Berivan’s interpreting just fine up until it was important that I hear her, and then suddenly she decided to be coy and whisper. This had also happened with our translator the preceding day, and I wondered if the technique was somehow part of their training. Between my interpreter’s sudden and extreme drop in vocal volume and the irritating marketing pitch that the minister seemed to be making, my eyes were glazing over. I was wondering what I was doing there when the minister surprised me by barking in English “QUALITY OF HONEY!”

  Around this point his phone rang again and he slumped into his chair to answer it. Call number three seemed like a genuinely grave matter. After a minute or two, my interpreter told me that it sounded as if he was doing some home remodeling and something was going wrong.

  Not long after he got off the phone, it was time for us to say goodbye and head to the main purpose of our visit to the ministry—a meeting with inspectors for the region, under whose purview fell beekeeping—though, like their New York City Department of Health counterparts, not one of the inspectors was a beekeeper.

  At this point, right when the true work of the day was about to commence, my interpreter’s phone rang. She answered it and then quickly scribbled on my notepad as she listened to the voice on the other end:

  “Sorry, phone come to me argent I most be I go, I am apologize If you don’t mind.”

  Translation: Andrew, you are about to go into the big meeting, and you have no interpreter. Good luck! You’re screwed!

  So Berivan the interpreter was off. Soon thereafter I came to wish I had left the building with her. These bee inspectors were not there to have an amicable gathering. They just wanted to demand money and to complain. I first knew something was wrong when they did not offer me the best chair in the room. Everywhere I had been in Iraq, I had been treated very well and with respect, as it was customary to treat a guest in that country. Especially a guest who holds the key to a lockbox of cash. Mind, I don’t need the finest chair, or always accept it. But a guest is generally offered it regardless. Not this time. Instead I was offered a rickety plastic chair next to the cushy one where I had placed my bag, which someone had moved onto the floor. The nice chair was now filled with the posterior of a government worker, who appeared unmotivated to be elsewhere. No one offered me a drink. I had never been to a meeting in that country where I had not been offered refreshments. Instead, through the impromptu interpreter someone rustled up, I started to hear the first of a dozen demands from this surly group of government workers.

  These inspectors had been living in something of a welfare state for quite some time. I didn’t mind hearing suggestions or pleas for assistance, since that is part of why I was there. However, the things this group of petty government officials were demanding included a factory to sew overalls for beekeepers, a factory to refine wax, a factory to make hives and hive tools, a university and a laboratory to test the pureness and quality of honey; quarantine stations at every border in the country to prevent pests from coming into the country on the backs of bees; a fleet of ships and planes to transport and export their honey—no worries to them that the area is landlocked; I am sure they meant to ask for a canal.

  I grew weary of it and their attitude early on. One man seemed to have been elected spokesperson, and he was shouting these demands for the entire world to hear. My woefully inadequate interpreter could hardly make out how to tell me anything. At one point I asked them if they would like a ladder built to the moon. This was interpreted (maybe—something was interpreted) and they seemed to discuss it, and finally the response came that there was no need for one at this time. I told them that they had about as much luck in getting that ladder as they did in having these outrageous demands met. I asked th
em what they had done in their professional capacities to better the plight of the beekeepers in their country. Precious little, I answered for them. We give grants to those who demonstrate initiative, I told them, and who make reasonable proposals. They were talking about hundreds of millions of dollars. One man shouted, “What do I do when I have five tons of honey? How will you help me export it?” I responded, “When you have even half a ton of honey to worry about, we will talk about it.”

  I had hoped to discuss local projects with area beekeepers, teach them how to manage diseases, and perhaps set up some training programs and shared equipment facilities—something useful to the actual beekeepers, not just to the pockets of the pencil pushers in charge. Not another well-funded program for them to fleece.

  I decided to leave fifteen or so minutes into the melee. There was no point, as I saw it, to this meeting. These men were not beekeepers; they were petty bureaucrats looking for something for nothing. Middlemen scheming to personally profit under the guise of government service. As I started to leave, one man was apparently not finished shouting. This was for the sake of his colleagues, no doubt, since no one was interpreting any longer. He moved just a little too quickly toward me and immediately became better acquainted with one of my armed guards. I smiled and walked out, wishing I always had these fellows with me. Especially knowing how opening my mouth sometimes got me in trouble.

  We returned to the hotel to eat lunch and check out. These things accomplished, everyone piled into the vehicles to drive up to the dam once again. Once there, we drove a few more minutes to a picturesque spot near the pristine blue waters. We all got out of the vehicles, walked a few hundred yards down past the DANGER! NO SWIMMING! signs in Kurdish, and disrobed and jumped in. Since we could not technically read the signs ourselves, Dave and I reasoned, we were in no danger. The weather was hot, well over 115 degrees Fahrenheit, and the water was cool and clear and perfect. It was a nice diversion, and all of the guys seemed to have a good time. In thirty minutes we were back on the road and looking to get gas before heading back to Erbil. Dave, who had been wounded in a car bomb attack about six months earlier, said, “This has been my best day in Iraq so far.”