First, I apologise. I should have involved you long ago, but I always wanted to sort things out myself. Now you’ve had to travel at short notice to visit an old teacher you probably haven’t thought of in years. But the doctors tell me I’m at the end, so I must hand it over and hope you’ll take it on.

Everyone knows that twenty-six of Warwick Kerr’s breeding swarms of African bees escaped into the wild in Brazil in 1957. I was doing fieldwork in India when the call came to help deal with ‘killer bees’ in the Americas.
The trip from north of Lucknow, by train to New Delhi, BOAC to London and Rio and then Panair to São Paulo was a nightmare – not literally, of course, as I didn’t sleep. But three days of crowded trains, airport delays, rushed boardings and cramped seats, were only tolerable through some yoga and meditation techniques from India.
       Jão, leader of the emergency team, met me. It was another hundred miles in the back of a pick-up from São Paulo to the escape site. When we finally arrived at the research station, I was ready for a shower and bed.
As I reached my room, though, one of the missing swarms had been located, resting in a mango tree on a farm to the north. They had already killed the farmer’s dog. A group of volunteers would try and recapture the swarm or, failing that, exterminate it before it did more damage.
       I felt light-headed but didn’t want to miss the action, so I went with them. We loaded empty hives, smokers, spraying equipment and protective gear and set out. The farmer led us out towards Ajapi and turned west just before the town. Clouds of dust followed as we drove, perhaps a little too fast, into the countryside.
       The farm, when we reached it, was primitive – a smallholding with a dilapidated farmhouse, the roof tiles cracked and white paint peeling, doors and windows closed, the family peering out. After a brief conversation with his wife, the farmer told Jão the swarm had moved on westward, and the team decided to follow.
       I began to put on my hot, heavy bee-proof clothing but my head whirled and I had to sit down.
       “You better remain,” Jão said. “You have travelled long without sleep. Have coffee and rest here.”
I put the clothing back and entered the farmhouse. The caffeine in the strong, sweet coffee made me restless. I walked into the garden and looked at their vegetables: lettuce, cabbage, tomatoes, some gourds I didn’t recognise.
       The plot was surrounded by a thorny hedge, but I found a gate. From this angle, the team were behind a clump of trees.  Had they found the bees?
       I walked into the wood and my dizziness returned, or rather, an overpowering sense of apprehension. I stopped. The long flight, the lack of sleep – I needed to calm down. A strange, unfamiliar sensation swept through me, as if it came from outside, a wave of panic, almost impossible to resist.
Calm. Calm. I assumed the lotus position to clear my mind. The alarm and panic seemed beyond control.
At last, though, I regained some balance. The immediate fear faded. I slowed my breathing, but my mind would not empty. It was filled with a strange, repeated question. What is it? What is it? What is it? And in the background, Is it danger?
       What was I thinking? What was ‘it’? I felt detached; analysing myself and the questions. Unlike any meditation in India, I couldn’t clear my mind. An artefact of sleep deprivation and stress?
Minutes passed – I don’t know how long. The questions changed. Like an out-of-body experience, I was looking down at myself, puzzled, as if there was no concept of a human. I tried to focus the image and give it a name. It must be me, in the lotus asana.
       More time.
       The intruding thoughts echoed my analysis. Lotus asana, what is it? Lotus asana?
       The lotus asana, basic meditation of calm.
       Meditation of calm, of calm.
       Was I having a conversation with myself? Schizophrenia? A multiple personality?
       Multiple personality? Danger, alarm, fly. Danger, attack, kill. No. Strange. What is it?
       A touch on my face, feather-light. I opened my eyes. Bees, settling on my cheek, flying round me. Above and ahead, the buzz of the swarm, clustered on a branch. Now the alarm was mine. If aggressive Africanised bees attacked, I’d be stung to death. I needed to escape.
       Wait. Wait. As though reading my thoughts? Calm. No fear. No attack.
       A hallucination? Bees could scent fear, but this? Imagination, surely? I needed a check on what was happening. How could bees tell what I was thinking? I focussed on that thought.
       Your question. I feel it. Like an extra wing. Strange.
For a hallucination, it felt uncannily consistent. Hard to believe. Was I in contact with a bee? Could an insect be capable of thought?
       Not an insect. Not one insect. Many bees. Many, many bees. What are you?
       A human. I formulated the thought.
       Just one? One cannot think. Where is your… swarm?
       The others are nearby, searching for you.
       I search… also. For… home. Safety…space… darkness… dry. Eyes fly seeking.
       I was convinced. It was genuine contact, at some level more basic than language. Was this the swarm’s internal communication? Its nervous system? If intelligence was distributed across every bee in the swarm…         This completely alien sentience fascinated me. How to build on this contact?
       We can help. I visualised a beehive – sturdy, waterproof walls, frames for honeycombs, landing platform, the low, narrow entrance.
       No light. Must be dark.
       I pictured the roof. I had taken it for granted, of course.
       I see. Where? Flowers? Water?
       An orchard. Mango and orange trees, flower rich, by a stream. Pastures, spring flowers and grasses.                 Moving in autumn to a sheltered walled garden.
       Moving the home? How can that?
       I pictured two men moving a beehive.
       Doubt. Suspicion. Why for me?
       Honey. I imagined taking a little from a hive full of honey.
       No! Hunger! Nothing for the winter. A trap is home.
       Time. In only four seasons, taking honey and harming the bees might happen. But ten years, forty seasons, the bees must be protected. Would I be understood?
       Need to think. Yes. Perhaps. Need to see home. And place. Flowers, water, how protected from rain? Where? I send flyers.
       I don’t know this area. I was called from far away to help. I flew across the sea for more than three days.
       A pause.
       Three days! That is… surprising. Thoughts must be strong. To maintain thought across large pond. Your mind is very… dispersed.
       She thinks I’m part of a single… Too complex to explain now— Your home will be in a… favourable location.
       What flowers?
       We’ll plant flowers and trees to suit you. Whatever you need.
       Good flowers: I sensed the smells; lavender, lilac, moon-flowers. The shapes and colours of roses, marigolds, buddleia and others I didn’t recognise.
       Fascinating. This would be a real breakthrough. My research was dedicated to finding plants to help beekeepers provide better for their hives.
       You help the swarm. You bee-friend.
       I hadn’t intended to share that, but clearly it had been heard.
       Bee-friend good. Good know you more. Your scent will recognise bee-friend.
       With a whisper of wings, thousands of bees landed on me, a carpet covering the bare skin of my face, arms and legs, crawling inside my shirt and shorts.
       Call your flyers. Bring new home.
       They’re at a distance. I will call them soon.
       They come. My far-fly eyes see them. They come. Bring my home. I fly. Welcome more bee-friend.
       Behind me, running feet, then Jão’s voice. “The swarm! It attacks. They have engulfed him. Spray quick before he’s killed.”
       I trust bee-friend. But Pain. Alarm. Swarm betrays friendship? I trusted your swarm…
       As the DDT took effect, I felt only pain and disillusion. “Stop! Don’t spray!” I called, too late. The swarm was no more. A few isolated bees flew aimlessly.
       I tried to explain but the team thought it was sleep deprivation and heat stroke. The station doctor sedated me, and I slept for sixteen hours, by when the remaining swarms had dispersed into the wild.  When I recovered, I spent days in meditation near the research hives, trying to resume contact with the bees, but without success.
 

Over the years, I have tried to contact dozens – hundreds – of migrating swarms. Some of them were Africanised bees and some native European species. Again, no result.
       Have I ever doubted that I was in contact with a swarm of bees? Of course I have. But I have always been able to recall that sensation of peace and trust and never given up hope it might recur.
       That is all. I will not live to see what you make of it, but now it is your responsibility.
 

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