Standing in the midday sun, surrounded by towering sandstone cliffs, I gazed into a trough made from half of a battered oil drum. It was partly filled with sugar syrup, and on the syrup floated chunks of rubber-sandal soles and a few dead bees.

It was mid-November, and at this same spot just a year earlier I had eaten lunch with beekeepers of Wadi Du‘an in their tent. But this year, the ilb (“buckthorn”) trees had flowered earlier than I had expected. So, the men had moved on with their tents and hives. My driver chuckled to himself at my bewilderment. He had just spent two days driving me across 500 kilometers (300 miles) of desert to meet again with the beekeepers.

Eric Hansen

“Believe me. It’s delicious!” says honey dealer Islam Ahmed Ba Dhib, whose family traces its roots in Wadi Du‘an back more than 1,000 years. The price for a tin such as this one is high—$100 or more, depending on the blend.

Wadi Du‘an is a remote, little-known valley in Yemen, just south of Saudi Arabia. Beekeepers have been perfecting their craft here for at least 1,000 years. They work hard, using labor-intensive techniques to manage bees. Combined with the dry climate and the short flowering season of local plants, their efforts have helped to produce the most expensive and sought-after honey in the world. The most frequent customers come from Saudi Arabia, and in Wadi Du‘an a two-pound tin of the very best honey can command a price of $100 or more.

Wadi Du‘an produces what specialists call a dry-land, monofloral (one flower), wildflower honey that is prized for its unique buttery flavor, rich aroma and thickness. The honey is also thought to be the perfect medicine to help women regain their strength after childbirth. Elderly men say that a spoonful a day keeps them young, while young men believe that regular doses will help produce a male heir.

During the morning’s drive, I had plenty of time to think about all this. A gravel track had taken us past storefronts selling local honey. One of the shopkeepers, Islam Ahmed Ba Dhib, opened tins of honey to let us sample the three different types he had on hand that day.

Eric Hansen

Yum! The soft comb of asal du‘ani (“honey of Du‘an”) is easily eaten with fingers or a spoon.

The first type he showed us was bariyah (“the cream”), a winter honey made from buckthorn blossoms. The honey tin was filled with a double layer of round comb. The floral fragrance was unlike any honey I had ever smelled, and the taste was a complex mixture of butter, wildflowers and mysterious, aromatic herbs. Next, he opened a tin of marbehey, a summer honey also called sa’if (“of the summer”). This, I was told, is a “hot” honey, good for getting rid of intestinal worms. It is usually eaten by dipping warm bread into a mixture of the honey and clarified butter, and then sprinkling all with nigella seeds. The third type of honey, mardjah, is collected between the winter and summer seasons. Produced when fewer flowers are in bloom, it is one of the most expensive types.

Eric Hansen

Imagine the view from the clifftops! The village of Rihab is one of more than a dozen dotting the 35-kilometer (21-mile) length of Wadi Du‘an.

Later that day, not far from where I stood with beekeeper Mohammed al-Osabi, a band of wild baboons emerged from a date grove. They paused to glare at us and then, without hesitation, swarmed up the 90-meter (300-foot) cliff and disappeared from sight. Watching them, al-Osabi noticed a single abandoned beekeeper’s tent at the foot of the cliff. Walking closer, we came upon several dozen terracotta hives, set on metal frames and wrapped in burlap and cardboard to protect them from the sun.

No one was in sight, so we approached the hives on hands and knees to take a closer look. Small bees with black and gray stripes flew in and out of the hives. I was wondering about honey thieves when al-Osabi nudged me. The shimmering profile of a man appeared in the heat waves, and then I heard the sound of footsteps on the hot gravel. We stood up to greet him.

Eric Hansen

Beekeeper Omar Sa‘eed Abdullah waves a scrap of smoking burlap in front of a hive entrance to calm the bees within. To shade his plywood hives from the hot sun, Abdullah has covered them with layers of cardboard. The bees here are about two-thirds the size of a European honeybee and actually quite calm.

He introduced himself in Omar Sa‘eed Abdullah, honey producer and owner of the hives. Lighting a scrap of burlap sacking, he waved the smoke toward the entrance of a rectangular wooden hive, a trick used to calm the bees. Then he opened the back of the hive to reveal a section of golden comb. The metal legs of the hives were set in tins of motor oil to keep out ants. Hornets are another enemy of the bees, and Abdullah showed us a cleverly constructed screen trap, baited with poisoned fish and swarming with confused hornets. Gesturing to the overhead sun, he invited us to his home. There, we sat on a carpeted living-room floor, kept cool by the thick walls of the four-story, mud-brick building. I ask him how long his family had been keeping bees.

Eric Hansen

All that’s needed now are buyers and bees. Today, some beekeepers prefer terracotta hives to those made of plywood. They buy them from potters like this man. Their cylindrical shape recalls the hollowed tree trunks used as hives centuries ago.

“For generations,” he said as he poured out cups of ginger coffee and offered us a plate of fresh dates. “We used to keep the jabali [“mountain”] bee,” he said. “I can still remember it from my childhood. Now it’s gone. The new bee we use is from Ethiopia, but it is not as drought- and hunger-resistant as the wild mountain bee was.”

Behind a heavy wooden door that opened onto the sitting room, tins of honey were stacked waist deep. Abdullah brought out a tin of buttery kharfi (“of the autumn”), a 100-percent-pure ilb honey from his private supply. This is reserved for family, friends, and—as in my case—unexpected guests. We cut off small portions of the comb, and sat back to enjoy the sensation of thick honey melting in our mouths, revealing layer upon layer of delicate and unexpected flavors.

According to Abdullah, the beekeepers had recently moved their camps to the south coast to set their hives near the late-flowering ilb trees in that region. Today, they use four-wheel-drive vehicles to transport the hives. Years ago, they used camels and moved only at night to allow the bees to work during the day. Abdullah inherited beekeeping rights to enough land to make it unnecessary to shift his hives with the seasons. He prefers to produce a limited amount of high-quality honey from a specific region, hoping to command a premium price.

Eric Hansen

The materials used to make and shade the plywood beehives may be makeshift, but the techniques involved are time-tested, producing honey considered among the world’s best.

In addition to honey, the Wadi Du‘an area is famous for its bee sellers. In March, there is a market out on the main road, known as suq al-nub. There, swarms of bees, as well as hives, are sold just prior to the spring season. When selling honey, traditional beekeepers prefer to sell it in the comb to attest to its purity, or they simply squeeze the honey from broken combs into plastic water bottles. Bits of wax and the odd dead bee float into the neck of the bottle, offering another indication that the honey was locally produced.

Eric Hansen

“That looks good!” The dry climate of Wadi Du‘an keeps the moisture level of the honey low, making for a thick, almost pasty consistency prized by honey experts. They say it holds the complex flavors on the tongue far longer than other honeys. The thickness of the honey makes it difficult to filter, and floating bits of wax from the comb have become a sign of authentic asal Du‘ani.

The following morning, my driver and I headed north to the city of Shibam, where I met Said al-Sakoti, a dealer specializing in honey from Wadi Du‘an. Al-Sakoti admitted that the new methods of mass-producing honey, with modern, large-capacity hives set at the edge of cultivated fields, were rapidly changing traditional practices. Quantity was becoming more important than quality, he said. The bees were being fed sugar syrups and cheap imported honey to increase yields. New customers from outside the area were less discriminating than the locals, he explained. In addition, many beekeepers now preferred to drive their hives from place to place in order to produce honey year-round, rather than just during the short seasons, as before. “But, there will always be a market for the very best honey,” al-Sakoti assured us.

I asked how the old-fashioned kind of honey could possibly maintain its high price in the face of inexpensive imported brands and now mass-produced local honey as well.

“Demand and limited supply is what drives up the price,” he replied. “There is no substitute for the flavor and taste of great honey. Experts judge honey mainly from the aroma. The taste merely confirms what the nose tells you.”

“And what is the best way to eat high-quality honey?” I asked.

“Sometimes with a spoon, but among friends, I like to cut the comb like cake and eat it with my fingers. That is the very best way. And now,” he said, “shall we see what the bees have brought us this year?” He smiled and reached for a nearby tin.

 

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ERIC HANSEN is the author of Orchid Fever and Motoring with Mohammed: Journeys to Yemen and the Red Sea. He lives in California.