H is for Honeycomb

13/3/13

Fresh honeycomb. Either you have it or you don't. Gingerly, between two fingers and a thumb, I heft the biggest brick I've ever held. The dark honey in its complex geometric structure is quite rich, and holds together better than what you find in the market or at a state fair. It's the product of wild African honey bees, the kind that go ballistic like bloodthirsty marauders of old, and chase interlopers for miles, stinging with a long merciless memory and often killing the unlucky through sheer persistence and volume. 

When we first arrived at Umkwali, our boss's house was a jumble of odds and ends, the material mishmash of a place about to undergo a renovation. The spare room we stayed in was crammed with warthog tusks, years-old office papers, vuvuzelas, cast-off toys, curtain rods, filing cabinets, a golf ball, unidentifiable odds and ends, a piston-powered airgun that I later appropriated, and a cramped low mattress. It was a relief to get into our corrugated-iron shack in the bush a few days later.

When we first arrived, the kitchen ceiling was a patchwork of soft tiles and duct tape. An ominous hum underlay the sound of printers and toasters and teaspoons clinking in mismatched mugs. It accompanied our naive conversation about conservation and culture and planning. Anthony told us the rafters above were home to a population of bees. And that the weight of the nest threatened to collapse the ceiling. It could happen at any time. 

"What about your kids," I asked, nodding my chin at the high-chair in the corner. 
He shrugged. "We're working on it." 

Apparently there were too many bees just to fumigate the room and have done. And too many for him to rent a suit. And the handful of professionals who'd come to evaluate had retreated in horror, shaking their heads. But what was he supposed to do, just burn the whole thing down? They nodded sagely.

For our first days on the farm, any kitchen conversation was punctuated by the crack and sizzle of bees in a bug zapper. Emptying the zapper was a many-times-daily chore for the house staff. Some weeks later, they completed a renovation of the house, building shelves in the kitchen and putting up stone tiles. It was beautiful. Except the ceiling remained.

But then came the fumigation campaign. Finally they'd found some guys willing to take on the buzzing horde. In exchange, they would take the bees and the honey. Apparently there was enough to make it worth their while. With that, they rolled up their sleeves and got to work.

I arrive on the farm just after they've finished stripping the honeycomb from the opened ceiling, preparing to fumigate the remainder and cleanse the space. They've packed the riches in numbered boxes on stacks of pallets on a flatbed. What they couldn't fit they left for us. We revel. The brick in my hand weighs easily half a pound. 

The honeycomb is almost red. I take a slow eager bite. My teeth sink in as if coming home after a long journey. Crystallized bits of honey tickle my tongue, and a natural warmth spreads to all the little crannies of my mouth, filling my soul with flavor and sweetness and gold. It's rich and faintly smoky from a previous attempt to flush out—or at least subdue—the hive. The wax is sturdy, not sticky, and keeps its integrity as I chew out the last molecules of honey. I look up, and everyone is staring. The moan dies on my lips, and I smile ruefully.

"Yum," I say.

Then I take another bite.