In the high-altitude kitchens of Boyacá and Santander, Colombia, there exists a delicacy so prized, so deeply embedded in the pre-Columbian soul of the nation, that it commands prices per kilo rivaling prime beef and imported seafood. Its name is at once humorous and descriptive: hormigas culonas —a colloquial term that translates to “large-bottomed ants.” To the uninitiated, the concept of eating ants might evoke a survivalist’s last resort. But to the people of the Colombian altiplano, these insects are not a curiosity; they are a seasonal ritual, an ancestral legacy, and a crunchy, savory explosion of umami and toasted maize that marks the arrival of the rainy season.
To eat one is to understand that the line between “food” and “not food” is not drawn by nature, but by culture. It challenges the squeamishness of a globalized palate and invites a deeper respect for the planet’s smallest, most industrious creatures. In a world obsessed with factory farming and monoculture, the hormiga culona remains a defiantly wild, sustainable, and delicious act of resistance. It is the taste of a place that refuses to be flattened, one crunchy, creamy, big-bottomed bite at a time. hormigas culonas
The ants arrived at the time of year when stored grains from the previous harvest were running low. The vuelo nupcial provided a sudden, abundant, and protein-rich resource exactly when it was most needed. The Guane believed that eating a queen ant would transfer her vitality and fecundity to the eater. To this day, some rural Colombians ascribe aphrodisiac qualities to the ants—a belief reinforced by their rich zinc and protein content, which are indeed beneficial for reproductive health. In the high-altitude kitchens of Boyacá and Santander,
The method of consumption is specific: pinch the ant gently behind the head. Bite off the abdomen. Chew slowly, letting the creamy paste coat your tongue. Discard the head and legs (though some aficionados eat the whole thing). It is a meditative act. The flavor evolves on the palate—first a crackle of salt, then a wave of roasted maize, and finally a deep, funky, almost cheesy finish that lingers like a fine single-malt scotch. To eat one is to understand that the
When the Spanish arrived, they were initially horrified by entomophagy (insect-eating). However, hunger and curiosity eventually overcame disgust. Colonial chronicles note that Spanish settlers quickly came to appreciate the “little toasted grains” that the natives offered. Over centuries, the hormiga culona transcended the indigenous sphere to become a regional symbol of santandereanidad —the identity of the people of Santander. In the 21st century, the hormiga culona has leaped from the rustic budare to the white tablecloths of some of the world’s most avant-garde restaurants. This is due in no small part to the work of Colombian chef Leonor Espinosa, whose restaurant Leo in Bogotá has been repeatedly named one of the best in Latin America. Espinosa, an economist turned chef, has made it her mission to document, preserve, and elevate the biodiversity of Colombian cuisine.
In the leaf-cutter ant hierarchy, the colony functions as a single superorganism. For most of the year, the queen sits deep within a labyrinthine nest, laying eggs tirelessly. But when the seasonal rains begin to soak the clay soils of the Andes—typically between late March and early June—the colony initiates a synchronized, biological spectacular: the vuelo nupcial , or the nuptial flight. On a specific morning, dictated by humidity and barometric pressure, the colony releases thousands of winged virgin queens and males. They take to the sky in a swirling, buzzing cloud, driven by the primal imperative to mate.
The harvesters do not swat or chase. Instead, they gently gather . Using soft brooms or even their hands, they sweep the teeming queens into buckets, sacks, or calabash bowls. The sound is distinctive: a soft, persistent pattering like rain on leaves, as hundreds of queens drop from the low vegetation or stumble across the tarps. A good morning’s harvest might yield five, ten, even twenty kilograms of live, squirming queens.