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[split]
Al Aufi was born into the bee business. He grew up in a village of less than 50 blood relations who all earn their daily bread by either shepherding livestock, like his uncle Abu Salem, or producing honey, like his father and two other uncles. ‘Goats and bees,’ says Abu Salem, ‘that’s what we inherited.’ A sliver of a dirt road peppered with goat droppings separates the majlis from the now nearly 100 year old family hive, the entrance to which is coated with a living forcefield of tireless bees, intimidating passersby away from the entrance.
‘There’s nothing to fear. The Omani bee is a calm bee, just like the Omani people,’ says a chuckling Al Aufi. ‘Just look at our politics! Calm. That’s what makes us special. The same goes for our bees.’ Members of the copper-coloured and peculiarly long-legged variation of the bees that are native to Oman fly nonchalantly in and out of the majlis, their presence unnoticed. By now, the Al Aufis have grown accustomed to the occasional sting. They don’t even bother with the protective suits worn by their more industrial peers. ‘The sting is beneficial,’ says Al Aufi dismissively. ‘The venom gives you immunity.’
Al Aufi’s father, who seems frail, pulls himself up from his seat in the majlis at regular intervals, to fearlessly swat the wasps threatening the integrity of the hive with his cane. As though out of a mixture of fear, respect and perhaps even love for this ‘parental’ figure, the bees keep their distance from his rubbery skin, toughened by years of toiling in the sun, probably impenetrable anyway.
The Al Aufis are loyal to the traditional palm trunk technique of beekeeping, which, they argue, allows for the production of a cleaner and purer honey than modern methods. Bees are transferred from a natural hive to the hollowed-out trunk of a palm tree. They’re sealed inside along with a wax disc, which serves as a template for them to follow as they resume work in their new home. ‘You know a hive is healthy and active when it’s so crowded that bees start circling the outside of it. That means the honey is ready to be extracted,’ explains Al Aufi.
For the Al Aufis, the family honey is good to eat straight from the hive. There’s nothing fresher than a slice from a newly extracted honeycomb – wax, live bees and all – carved out with a dagger like the one Abu Salem wears around his waist. But, for pickier eaters like many of their clients, the honey is preferred filtered, a job that is reserved for the household matriarch.
‘We really depend on the women here,’ Al Aufi explains, ‘our job in the hive is really to help them – they do the important work.’ The kitchen is adjacent to the majlis, in a courtyard that sits at the centre of the rest of the 15-person home. There, Al Aufi’s mother has been dedicatedly pressing the nectar out of honeycombs between her palms and filtering it through thin pieces of cloth for more than 20 years.
There is no ‘brand identity’ behind the family’s honey, only a reputation spun by word of mouth. Al Aufi’s number is passed from eager person to person, and his honey, in turn, circulates along with his endless suggestions on how best to consume it. ‘A burn? Put some honey on the wound. Bitten by a scorpion or snake? A spoonful of honey will fight the poison out of your system.’ Every family, Al Aufi continues, ‘should keep at least half a kilo of honey at home at all times, just in case someone gets sick.’
Why do these families stock Omani honey in particular? ‘Quality, of course. Our environment, nature and geography are cleaner than others. The scent and the flavour of our honey stands out.’ Subtle traces of the native flowers from which the honey originates, he explains, can be smelt and tasted. ‘The scent is so strong, when you consume it your body smells of it – your sweat smells of the flower.’
Despite its countless medicinal and cosmetic benefits – Al Aufi’s sister Asma recommends mixing it with butter to create a purifying facemask – the Al Aufis agree that honey is, first and foremost, a treat for the stomach, one that not only pleases the palate, but invigorates both the body and soul. ‘When you taste Omani honey you feel a harara [temperature]. It makes you balloon with energy,’ says Al Aufi. His preferred method for consuming it? As a dip alongside crispy lamb, cooked in lard within a wok-like pot over a wood fire – the traditional way – and enjoyed with a side of toasted flatbread, perfect for wrapping around the tender meat and scooping up a healthy serving of honey. ‘It helps with muscle weakness and joint pain, and it’s delicious.’
Despite serving as a beekeeping advisor for Oman’s royal court, Al Aufi believes his primary responsibilities lie in the village, maintaining his familial heritage. Arduous yet simple, their life is nevertheless evidently fulfilling, grounded in honest hard work. There’s a certain self-satisfaction derived from watching their humble product travel far from its hidden wadi, without any help from marketing experts. The quality sells itself. Not even Asma, who studied translation and could have more prospects for work in a big city like Muscat, has any plans to leave the bees or village behind. ‘What do they have that we don’t have?’ she asks, grinning playfully.
[split]
Al Aufi was born into the bee business. He grew up in a village of less than 50 blood relations who all earn their daily bread by either shepherding livestock, like his uncle Abu Salem, or producing honey, like his father and two other uncles. ‘Goats and bees,’ says Abu Salem, ‘that’s what we inherited.’ A sliver of a dirt road peppered with goat droppings separates the majlis from the now nearly 100 year old family hive, the entrance to which is coated with a living forcefield of tireless bees, intimidating passersby away from the entrance.
‘There’s nothing to fear. The Omani bee is a calm bee, just like the Omani people,’ says a chuckling Al Aufi. ‘Just look at our politics! Calm. That’s what makes us special. The same goes for our bees.’ Members of the copper-coloured and peculiarly long-legged variation of the bees that are native to Oman fly nonchalantly in and out of the majlis, their presence unnoticed. By now, the Al Aufis have grown accustomed to the occasional sting. They don’t even bother with the protective suits worn by their more industrial peers. ‘The sting is beneficial,’ says Al Aufi dismissively. ‘The venom gives you immunity.’
Al Aufi’s father, who seems frail, pulls himself up from his seat in the majlis at regular intervals, to fearlessly swat the wasps threatening the integrity of the hive with his cane. As though out of a mixture of fear, respect and perhaps even love for this ‘parental’ figure, the bees keep their distance from his rubbery skin, toughened by years of toiling in the sun, probably impenetrable anyway.
The Al Aufis are loyal to the traditional palm trunk technique of beekeeping, which, they argue, allows for the production of a cleaner and purer honey than modern methods. Bees are transferred from a natural hive to the hollowed-out trunk of a palm tree. They’re sealed inside along with a wax disc, which serves as a template for them to follow as they resume work in their new home. ‘You know a hive is healthy and active when it’s so crowded that bees start circling the outside of it. That means the honey is ready to be extracted,’ explains Al Aufi.
For the Al Aufis, the family honey is good to eat straight from the hive. There’s nothing fresher than a slice from a newly extracted honeycomb – wax, live bees and all – carved out with a dagger like the one Abu Salem wears around his waist. But, for pickier eaters like many of their clients, the honey is preferred filtered, a job that is reserved for the household matriarch.
‘We really depend on the women here,’ Al Aufi explains, ‘our job in the hive is really to help them – they do the important work.’ The kitchen is adjacent to the majlis, in a courtyard that sits at the centre of the rest of the 15-person home. There, Al Aufi’s mother has been dedicatedly pressing the nectar out of honeycombs between her palms and filtering it through thin pieces of cloth for more than 20 years.
There is no ‘brand identity’ behind the family’s honey, only a reputation spun by word of mouth. Al Aufi’s number is passed from eager person to person, and his honey, in turn, circulates along with his endless suggestions on how best to consume it. ‘A burn? Put some honey on the wound. Bitten by a scorpion or snake? A spoonful of honey will fight the poison out of your system.’ Every family, Al Aufi continues, ‘should keep at least half a kilo of honey at home at all times, just in case someone gets sick.’
Why do these families stock Omani honey in particular? ‘Quality, of course. Our environment, nature and geography are cleaner than others. The scent and the flavour of our honey stands out.’ Subtle traces of the native flowers from which the honey originates, he explains, can be smelt and tasted. ‘The scent is so strong, when you consume it your body smells of it – your sweat smells of the flower.’
Despite its countless medicinal and cosmetic benefits – Al Aufi’s sister Asma recommends mixing it with butter to create a purifying facemask – the Al Aufis agree that honey is, first and foremost, a treat for the stomach, one that not only pleases the palate, but invigorates both the body and soul. ‘When you taste Omani honey you feel a harara [temperature]. It makes you balloon with energy,’ says Al Aufi. His preferred method for consuming it? As a dip alongside crispy lamb, cooked in lard within a wok-like pot over a wood fire – the traditional way – and enjoyed with a side of toasted flatbread, perfect for wrapping around the tender meat and scooping up a healthy serving of honey. ‘It helps with muscle weakness and joint pain, and it’s delicious.’
Despite serving as a beekeeping advisor for Oman’s royal court, Al Aufi believes his primary responsibilities lie in the village, maintaining his familial heritage. Arduous yet simple, their life is nevertheless evidently fulfilling, grounded in honest hard work. There’s a certain self-satisfaction derived from watching their humble product travel far from its hidden wadi, without any help from marketing experts. The quality sells itself. Not even Asma, who studied translation and could have more prospects for work in a big city like Muscat, has any plans to leave the bees or village behind. ‘What do they have that we don’t have?’ she asks, grinning playfully.