They're not juicy like you'd expect, wings gone to the roasting pan. All you're left with is the head, thorax and abdomen. Flying ants, a centimetre long, smothered in gravy, sitting atop filet mignon and chicken. I gave them a look, choked back a gag, then dove in. Ellen never really got past the concept and left half of her's. For me they were like crunchy little nuts, an aftertaste like coffee grounds. Restaurante Color de Hormiga specializes in this odd delicacy. It's one of those once-in-a-lifetime things, for those who pass through sleepy little Barichara.

The following morning, filled with protein, Ellen only half, we struck off on a nine kilometre hike. Originally a pre-Colombian mountain trail, our path was re-built 100 years ago by a German. Still in good shape, I guess, for being more than a century old, the trail's a good way to sort out the men from the women. While Ellen sped along over sharp, jagged rocks, continuously spotting birds of one colour or another, I watched the rocks, for fear of spraining an ankle. I started counting the damned things. After a time I got disoriented from looking at the ground and started including cow dung in my rock count. What I'd have done for a horse and a wet towel. God how I hate hiking.