The Mad Honey Diaries (Pt.5)

The morning after the feast was surprisingly clear-headed. There was no hangover, just a profound sense of peace and a body grateful for rest. Over a simple breakfast of flatbread and sweet milk tea, Kamal found me.

"Before you go," he said, "come."

He led me to the back of his house, where a few traditional, horizontal log hives were kept. These were not the cliff-dwelling giants, but a smaller, more docile cousin of the bee. "We take only from the cliffs once, maybe twice a year," he explained. "It is too dangerous for us and for the bees to take more. But here, we care for them. We take only what they can spare, and they provide for us all year. This is the balance."

He taught me how to approach the hive slowly, with calm intention. He showed me how the smoke was not an attack, but a communication, a signal that allowed the keeper to work. "The honey is a gift," he said, his hand resting gently on the log hive. "You do not take a gift. You receive it with thanks. This is what the world has forgotten."

His words struck me to my core. My entire quest had been framed as a "search" and a "harvest," an act of acquisition. But Kamal and his people lived in a state of reciprocal exchange with their world. The honey hunters risked their lives not in conquest, but in participation of a sacred, natural cycle.

The journey back down from Jogipada was a different pilgrimage. The path was the same, but I was not. The weight in my pack was not just clay pots of honey, but the weight of a new understanding. Saying goodbye to Kamal and his family was difficult. There were few words, but a firm, lasting handshake and a look that conveyed more than language ever could.

Flying out of Pokhara, watching the Himalayas recede into a jagged white wall, I felt a pang of loss. I was leaving a part of myself in those misty cliffs. But I was also carrying a part of them with me.