TAMATERT, MOROCCO – Omar is having trouble with his bees; they’re not producing honey. This according to Rashita, the woman who manages the inn where I am staying.
The inn and scattering of homes that constitute this village are perched on the side of a mountain in the High Atlas, a crescent-shaped range of snow-capped peaks that runs through the center of Morocco.
Douar Samra is a multi-leveled array of mud-walled buildings and patios built by a Swiss woman, who came to Morocco after the death of a child. She owns inns in the Medina in Marrakech, a cave in the costal town of Agadir and here on the edge of Toubkal National Park.
Tourists come to this area to hike the mountain trails and revel in the natural beauty of the place, which looks like a slightly more arid, though no less spectacular, version of Colorado.
What hiking I’ve done here has been the three kilometers down the mountain to Imlil, a dusty village that offers enough commercial activity to be interesting for a non-trekker.
There one can find a healthcare center for donkeys, a cooperative that sells cosmetics made of argan oil to benefit Berber women, a honey collective and merchants displaying varying degrees of aggression in their efforts to sell the same rugs and scarves you see on display in the Marrakech souks.
As best I can tell, the inn has a staff of four: Rashita, who runs the place and speaks some English; Omar, who tends the grounds and the needs of guests; Mohammed, a grizzled headman who serves food and bosses everyone around and a housekeeper.
I follow Omar down a narrow, sunken dirt path between mud-covered buildings, the homes of his neighbors. We enter a door-less entry into a labyrinth of bare, unfinished concrete rooms.
The hives are at the edge of a small porch that juts over a steep ravine. At the opposite end of the porch eight almost-grown chickens peck at a sprinkling of feed on the concrete.
The hives are made from sections of eight-inch red clay pipe, about three feet total, laid horizontal. The bees come and go through the end of the hive at the edge of the porch; the other end is covered with a scrap of fabric held in place by a shoestring. The hive is sealed with donkey dung, which is readily available here and, apparently, has multiple uses.
I realize right away I’m going to be of no help.
Omar removes the covering on the end of the hive and hands me his cell phone, now a flashlight. Feeling a bit like a doctor on a house call, I squat and peer into the darkness of the hive.
As they do in any colony, the bees have filled their space with parallel sections of honeycomb. We can only see the outer comb, which is covered with bees going about their work. We’ve not smoked the hive, nor do we need to. Omar’s bees are not aggressive.
I suggest we go back to the inn and talk using Rashita as an interpreter. He agrees. But first he wants to give me a tour of the addition to his house he’s building with his son, Hussein.
In an adjoining room on the concrete floor is a tray with a pot of freshly brewed mint tea and three small glasses. Omar introduces me to Hussein, who looks to be about 18, and we stand in the semi-darkness of the empty room and drink tea. Drawing on the few words of French I know, I compliment them on their efforts, thank them for the house tour and try to relate some of my beekeeping experience.
Omar wants to know if I could look at his friend’s hives. My ride back to the city will be here in 30 minutes. Curiosity trumps prudence, and I nod yes.
The neighbor’s hives are atop a small, makeshift platform in a stable overlooking the same ravine as Omar’s porch. The three of us climb a crudely made ladder and squat before two hives. The neighbor shows me a piece of comb containing dead bees. He then points to a moth. The hives have wax moths and are possibly doomed. Without going into the hive you can’t be certain.
On the way back at the inn I wondered if I had any beekeeping photos on my laptop. In 2014, at the behest of Kay Box, I did a presentation for the Daughters of the American Revolution at Lion Hills Country Club. There were pictures of my beehives in that presentation.
I played for Omar, Rashita and Mohammed the DAR PowerPoint presentation. Each image elicited a flurry of comment. Rashita translated.
Afterward I opened a program on the computer, which translated my English into Arabic. Omar read aloud for the others the Arabic version of my typing.
“It would be good if you could get those hives producing honey,” I typed. “You could sell it to guests here at the inn, ‘Douar Samra Honey.'” They laughed in agreement.
Two or three productive hives of bees could make a tangible difference in the lives of these two families.
Before leaving we all shook hands and patted each other on the back. Rashita put her hand over her heart. Omar asked for my email address.
The secret power of bees. Not the first time honeybees have fostered friendship between heretofore strangers.
Birney Imes III is the immediate past publisher of The Dispatch.
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