Memories of Bees
Whenever I recall this story, I am filled with an overwhelming sense of joy. I remember being a small child. It was winter. I lay by the window in a warm room, watching large snowflakes fall from the sky. Nearby stood an ivy-covered tree, swarming with birds. I watched them and delighted in their presence.
The fire crackled in the fireplace, my mother was baking khachapuri, and my father was sharpening a saw. Suddenly, someone called out. Our neighbor, Tamazi Basilia, entered the house. I sensed that something was happening. He told my father, "Let's go before it gets too dark."
They left, taking an axe and a saw with them. When I asked my mother what was happening, she said, "They need to cut down a tree and bring back bees and honey." To me, this sounded like a fairy tale—I didn’t even know what a bee was.
That evening, they returned with plenty of honey, but, sadly, the bees had been eaten by a mouse. That was the first time I tasted honeycomb. From that moment on, I could hardly wait for spring to arrive so I could finally see the tiny creatures that created such delicious sweetness.
And then, spring came. The blooming cherry trees were alive with bees. One fine day, I took some glass jars and began catching them as they hovered over the flowers.
In the evening, when my father returned from work, he found my jars filled with captive bees. He asked me to release them in the morning. I did, hoping they would return—but in vain. Surely, they had found their way back to their own hives.
There was a large mulberry tree in our field. One day, I noticed a swarm of bees surrounding it. It was a natural swarm. A distinct buzzing sound filled the air but soon faded.
As I got closer, I saw that the bees had entered a hollow in the tree and immediately started working. They were carrying out tiny wood shavings and bringing in pollen and nectar. It was a mesmerizing sight—I couldn’t take my eyes off them. It gave me a strange sense of joy, so when I returned from school, almost every day, at about the same time, I would go and sit under that tree, resting there for hours.
This went on for about a month, and who knows how much longer it would have continued if I hadn’t overheard my neighbor, Osiko Chigogidze, calling out from above: "Come out, woman! Look at that boy—he’s standing there like a statue again!"
Embarrassed, I dropped to my knees and crawled out of the field.
The following year, we cut down that tree and transferred the bees into a hive. That’s how the first beehive appeared in our home.
Medicine has recognized the therapeutic properties of bees and their products. For a beekeeper, working in an apiary is the best form of relaxation. It relieves all stress, calms the nervous system—especially when things are going well. At the same time, the air infused with vapors from the honey-processing activity of bees provides unique health benefits.
My father suffered from rheumatism. I remember how much pain he endured. He had been everywhere, including balneological sanatoriums, but without success. When we acquired bees, naturally, he was stung while working with them. From that year on, he was completely cured of rheumatism. This intrigued me, and over time, I discovered many similar cases.
"Extracting honey and inspecting bee colonies are among the most important tasks in an apiary. One year, my neighbors offered to help me with the work. The sun was blazing, but the weather was calm—perfect for working. The bees were foraging well. I was working shirtless, pulling honeycombs from the hives.
Just then, my helpers arrived. One of them was dressed in a wool coat, rubber boots, a hat with ear flaps, gloves, sunglasses, and even had a scarf wrapped around his neck. The other was dressed normally and loudly declared, " I'm not afraid of bee stings!"
At that moment, an innocent bee, loaded with nectar, accidentally landed near his ear. He started waving his hands wildly, then bolted. Nearby was my cornfield—he tumbled headfirst across it, flattening an entire row from one end to the other.
I laughed heartily, but what was so funny? The corn was no longer standing."
It was summer, the weather was great, and I had opened nearly thirty beehives. The bees were calm, not stinging, and I wasn’t even using a smoker.
A little while later, the situation changed. The bees wouldn’t let me work anymore. I washed my hands and face, lit the smoker, changed my shirt, and opened a few other hives—but the problem remained. I had no choice but to stop working.
Not even half an hour had passed when dark clouds gathered in the sky, followed by a heavy downpour.
So that was the reason for the bees' agitation!
I was helping a friend extract honey. It was May — the acacia was still in bloom, and the bees were so busy they had no time for you.
I opened about forty hives. I was exhausted, but surprisingly, I hadn’t been stung even once.
They offered to switch with me. I agreed — handed over the smoker and sat down nearby to take a breather.
He was a beekeeper too, but I didn’t like his way of working — his movements, his technique. The bees didn’t like it either. Angry, they swarmed out of the hive and started stinging.
yelled for them to run to the river. It was nearby, so they sprinted toward it. A swarm chased them, ready to sting. The water saved them, but they still got stung pretty badly.
I sat completely still. The bees were swarming around me. I knew what would happen if I ran — I tucked my head between my knees. I got through untouched.
A few minutes later, the bees calmed down.
Beekeeping is a challenging but fascinating field. Experience matters a lot, but no matter how old you are, you can learn something new or make a mistake every day. That’s exactly what happened to me recently.
I was working in the apiary, inspecting the bee colonies. The hive lid was open, and I had removed a frame covered with bees. Suddenly, my neighbor called me about something urgent. At first, I ignored him, but when he wouldn’t give up, I instinctively responded loudly. The sound irritated the bees—they swarmed out of the hive and gave me a proper "lesson" by stinging me repeatedly.
I have a big circle of friends, neighbors, and relatives. Over the years, I’ve gifted more than a hundred bee colonies to them. Many of them became beekeepers — and they still keep bees.
One day, a friend asked if I could give him a colony of bees. Naturally, I was happy and agreed.
Soon after, I gave him a smoker.
Then a face net.
Even gave him a wax sheet with frames.
Next time we met, I told him he should buy medicine and treat for varroa mites in time. I also gave him a few pointers on how to go about it.
I checked in with him several times — he kept telling me, “I bought the medicine and I’ve got it shelved.”
A while later, I asked how things were going. He said:
— The bees are all gone…
— The medicine? — I asked.
— It’s on the shelf, — he replied.
So I told him:
— Well, let it sit there till the expiration date. Once it’s expired, just toss it out!
It was August, around five past midnight, and it was still hot. It was very dark, with no moonlight. I was working in the apiary, collecting bee venom.
Suddenly, a distinct clicking sound echoed, repeating at intervals. I thought it was a snake, but I still approached the spot and shone my flashlight.
Beneath the hive, a large toad was lurking—snatching bees from the hive entrance, and at that moment, its tongue was producing a bizarre sound
It's well known that hunters are famous for boasting, but I didn't expect it from a beekeeper. One summer, my friends (I. Razmadze, V. Peliaminov, and others)—scientists (beekeepers) from Tbilisi—came to visit. We were conducting various experiments in my apiary. In the evening, a traditional Gurian feast took place. Of course, during such gatherings, some tell the truth, and others—lies.
One guest boasted, "I'm not afraid of working with bees. Moreover, I've even planned to publicly place a bee on my body."
At that moment, from somewhere under the table, a bee buzzed. Then it flew up, circled the table, rushed towards the lit lamp, broke away from there, and settled directly in that person's hair.
There was a stomping of feet, then waving of hands, followed by groans, and finally, the "Guinness" record seeker ran outside.
We laughed so much that evening, may God grant us more like it."
In western Georgia, during autumn, bee-eaters visit apiaries. These birds are incredibly beautiful, but they are ruthless enemies of bees, sometimes causing significant damage to hives.
One evening, I came home to find hundreds of these birds swarming my apiary. I tried everything to scare them away, but nothing worked. In the end, I fired a shot into the air. Unfortunately, I accidentally hit one. It fell to the ground, letting out a desperate chirp. I immediately regretted it—I didn’t know what to do and felt terrible.
Curious, I examined the bird. When I opened its stomach, I found 46 swallowed bees inside..
It was the year 1981. Heavy snow had fallen. We barely made it up the mountains for our hunting trip. On our way back, my friend called out for help. I rushed over and saw that his foot was stuck—he had stepped onto a long-fallen beech tree, and its rotten trunk had caved in. Inside, there was a massive amount of honey.
He couldn’t free his foot from the honey. We helped him out and tasted some right there. But we had no containers and no way to carry it back. One of our colleagues marked the trees, hoping we could return for it later.
A few weeks later, we climbed back up and were met with an astonishing sight. As spring arrived, the sun had melted the honey, and it had flowed like a golden river, stretching nearly 10 meters down the slope. I regretted not having a camera to capture the moment.
I couldn’t help but wonder—how many years had bees been living in that hollow tree to amass such a stockpile of honey?
Many people who want to become beekeepers give up after their first bee sting and hand their bees over to someone else to take care of.
I want to remind them that you can't learn beekeeping from a distance. Show perseverance—don't be afraid. Move your hands gently while working. If you get stung, quickly wash the area with water, as the scent of venom can irritate other bees. Choose the right time to work. Avoid using protective gear like gloves. Bees notice clothing, cleanliness, and color. They are also easily irritated by intoxicated individuals.
Bees are harmless creatures. Outside the hive, they are very timid, and inside—if you follow all the rules—they won’t harm you. Once you gain experience, you will understand their "language." They will "speak" to you through their behavior. When a bee signals for you to leave it alone, respect that—close the hive and step away.
If you must continue working inside the hive, put the bees to sleep, and finish before they wake up. So, don't be afraid of bees. Once you become skilled, they will perceive you not as a threat, but as a caring friend. Working with them will help maintain your health, relieve stress, and regulate your nervous system.
There have been countless times when I entered the apiary feeling angry or troubled—sometimes even at night. Here, no medicine is needed. The hum of bees, especially at night, when they process nectar into honey and release moisture, is an unmatched remedy.
Bee products are the elixir of life.
This happened during my student years. When I left for my studies, I had left two bee colonies at home. One day, I received a letter from the village (at that time, phones weren’t very accessible). My father wrote:
"The bees swarmed naturally, landed on a mandarin tree, we brought them down and placed them in a new hive."
Of course, this was great news — we had gained another bee colony.
A little while later, I visited the village. I checked the new colony — the queen bee had already started laying eggs, and the bees were building comb nicely. That’s when I revealed my total lack of experience.
Even though I loved reading books on beekeeping, it turns out practice really does matter. As they say, “Books alone won’t do the trick, but neither will ignorance.”
Wanting to show some “respect” to the new colony — though it clearly wasn’t necessary at that stage — I took some sugar, dissolved it, and in broad daylight placed a bowl of syrup near the hive entrance. Then, I went back to the city.
A few days later, a letter arrived from the village. I was surprised — I had just recently left. I was a bit worried too. I opened the envelope. As always, a red ten-maneti bill peeked out first — I tucked it into my pocket and began reading the letter.
It was from my mother. I still remember her words by heart:
"Giviko, how was your trip? I’m well, your father’s well too. Don’t worry about us, don’t be sad or anxious. When you read this letter, make sure you eat a good breakfast and head to university properly. All the neighbors are doing well too."
A chill ran down my spine. I kept reading:
"You know that bowl of sugar syrup you left in front of the new hive? Robber bees from another hive attacked it, took the honey, and killed the bees. Then they looted the weak colony nearby too — stole the honey and left the bees dead. So now you’re left with just one colony.
Your father says not to tell the boy — he’ll feel bad. But it’s okay.
The beekeeper told me that feeding bees in front of the hive during the day is a big no-no..."
That’s how the letter ended.
And that’s when I said:
“Bread should be baked by a baker!”
I decided to seriously study this complex but incredibly fascinating field.
It was a bitter lesson — but one that turned out to be very useful for the future.
In my village, there is a forest strip to the east, known as the "Black Forest." It is probably called so because the century-old trees create a certain darkness within. This forest is rich in nectar-producing plants. Walking through it is a pleasure, as even in the scorching heat, the air remains cool, and the fragrance of the flowering plants, combined with the songs of various birds, is an unparalleled remedy for a good mood. One summer day, I was enjoying the beauty of this nature. I sat down on a tree stump to rest. Nearby, a cold mountain spring was bubbling. I plucked a cherry laurel leaf to use as a drinking cup, and then I noticed something remarkable: in the hollow of a dry beech tree, a colony of bees had settled and was working tirelessly. I sat there for a long time, mesmerized by the sight.
I imagined how humans had once transferred bees into artificial hives. That was when an idea struck me: wouldn’t it be possible to make an interesting documentary film about bees? I returned home, and that night, I couldn't sleep—I kept thinking about how this could be realized. Soon after, I wrote a script, traveled to Tbilisi, and shared my dream with well-known film directors—Leri Sikharulidze, Rezo Vardanishvili, and Guram Meskishvili.
We couldn’t find a similar film anywhere. I returned home satisfied, as I had earned the approval of specialists. I prepared all the necessary materials and logistics in advance, eagerly awaiting the arrival of the team and the start of filming. We chose the title: The Beekeeper and the Bees.
The film was to feature well-known Gurian songs and music. It would begin with wild beekeeping in the forest, followed by the transfer of bees from a tree hollow into an artificial hive, and then showcase various beekeeping procedures. The grand finale was envisioned as follows: during New Year’s celebrations in the city, a festive table would display bee products—gozinaki (a traditional honey and walnut snack), Honey beeswax vodka, and honey-based delicacies. There would be feasting, humor, and good songs. Then, suddenly, the scene would shift from the city to the countryside—a winter beekeeping landscape covered in deep snow. A beekeeper would be seen shoveling snow off the hives while continuing to hum the same song, blending the two worlds seamlessly.
A one-hour documentary film would have been both fascinating and visually appealing, but the events of the 1990s in Georgia left this dream unfulfilled.