Honey gathering, like hunting, is man's work. Karambodu's honey tree is an old ndau (Irvingia gabonensis), and the hive is located in a rotten branch some
twenty meters (sixty feet) from the ground. A colony of Apis mellifera bees lives in this
tree, which is good because hives of stinging bees always seem to contain more honey than
the stingless variety (Meliponula bocandei). Gathering honey is a dangerous pursuit, but
the rewards are potentially enormous. Kebe hands his twelve-year-old son Ndikpa an apopau,
a small machete, with which to open the hive. He helps Ndikpa up to a notch on an adjacent
tree that he will climb to reach the lowest branches of the tall ndau. As Ndikpa maneuvers
across to the hive, smoke from the tilipi parcel of hot embers and green vegetation swirls
around him and keeps the now agitated bees somewhat at bay. He cuts the hive open with
three quick hacks and pulls out and throws down sections of honeycomb, which we catch in
mitts of sini leaves, a smaller forest version of tilipi. The bees are everywhere,
sticking to the comb, sticking to our skin. I keep my arms away from my body so as not to
trap an irate bee under my armpit, and Ndikpa makes short snorts as bees sting his
honey-coated hands and arms. It is a good hive, and we collect about five kilograms
(eleven pounds) of honey and two kilograms (four and onehalf pounds) of grub comb. As
Ndikpa starts down, the Efe at the base of the tree are consuming what to me are huge
sections of comb. After twenty minutes of gorging only about one kilogram of honey is left
to take back to camp with the grub comb. This is one of the first trees of the season, and
it is not uncommon for the men to eat nearly all the honey, leaving little for the women
and children. In good years there is always plenty for everyone and even a large surplus
for exchange with the villagers.
ndau (Irvingia gabonensis), and the hive is located in a rotten branch some
twenty meters (sixty feet) from the ground. A colony of Apis mellifera bees lives in this
tree, which is good because hives of stinging bees always seem to contain more honey than
the stingless variety (Meliponula bocandei). Gathering honey is a dangerous pursuit, but
the rewards are potentially enormous. Kebe hands his twelve-year-old son Ndikpa an apopau,
a small machete, with which to open the hive. He helps Ndikpa up to a notch on an adjacent
tree that he will climb to reach the lowest branches of the tall ndau. As Ndikpa maneuvers
across to the hive, smoke from the tilipi parcel of hot embers and green vegetation swirls
around him and keeps the now agitated bees somewhat at bay. He cuts the hive open with
three quick hacks and pulls out and throws down sections of honeycomb, which we catch in
mitts of sini leaves, a smaller forest version of tilipi. The bees are everywhere,
sticking to the comb, sticking to our skin. I keep my arms away from my body so as not to
trap an irate bee under my armpit, and Ndikpa makes short snorts as bees sting his
honey-coated hands and arms. It is a good hive, and we collect about five kilograms
(eleven pounds) of honey and two kilograms (four and onehalf pounds) of grub comb. As
Ndikpa starts down, the Efe at the base of the tree are consuming what to me are huge
sections of comb. After twenty minutes of gorging only about one kilogram of honey is left
to take back to camp with the grub comb. This is one of the first trees of the season, and
it is not uncommon for the men to eat nearly all the honey, leaving little for the women
and children. In good years there is always plenty for everyone and even a large surplus
for exchange with the villagers.