Next comes the toasting. Traditionally, this is done on a budare —a large, flat, unglazed clay or cast-iron griddle set over a wood fire. No oil is used. The damp, clean ants are poured onto the hot surface. At first, they hiss and steam. A strange, earthy aroma fills the kitchen—damp forest floor, roasted nuts, and a sharp, vinegary note. This vinegar smell is formic acid, the ant’s natural defense, which is being driven off by the heat. (If the ants are not properly toasted, this acid can be irritating to the mouth.)
The harvester stirs constantly with a wooden paddle. Gradually, the ants dry out. Their bodies stiffen, their legs curl inward like tiny claws, and their abdomens begin to swell and darken from a pale cream to a deep, glossy bronze. The transformation is alchemical. The formic acid evaporates, leaving behind a pure, concentrated essence of the ant’s inner reserves.
This is the story of Atta laevigata —the queen of the leaf-cutter ants—and her brief, spectacular journey from the depths of an underground metropolis to the sizzling budare (clay griddle) of a rural campesino . Let us address the elephant—or rather, the ant—in the room. The name culona derives from culo , a Spanish word for buttocks or rear end. It is a direct reference to the ant’s most striking anatomical feature: an abdomen so disproportionately large, swollen, and gleaming that it constitutes nearly two-thirds of the insect’s total body mass. This is no accident of nature. The ants consumed are not the sterile, wiry workers that one sees marching in perfect file across a forest floor. They are future queens . hormigas culonas
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 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. Next comes the toasting
The method is deceptively simple. Culanderos (ant harvesters) lay large, clean white plastic sheets or tarps on the forest floor, often near the entrance of mature ant colonies. Sometimes, they simply sweep the bare earth. Then, they wait. When the atmospheric conditions trigger the nuptial flight, the queens emerge from the nest. They are clumsy, reluctant fliers—their massive abdomens making aerodynamics a challenge. They run and flutter, attempting to launch themselves.
International food writers have compared them to caviar. But the comparison is inexact. Caviar is a luxury of scarcity and brute force. The hormiga culona is a luxury of patience and ecological intelligence. It cannot be farmed. Every attempt to raise Atta laevigata in captivity has failed, because the ants require the specific fungal gardens, the precise microbial ecology of a wild nest, and the atmospheric cues of the Andean rainy season. They remain stubbornly, gloriously wild. The very popularity that has revived this tradition now threatens it. As demand has grown—from urban Colombians and international chefs—the pressure on wild ant colonies has intensified. In some areas around San Gil and Barichara, harvesters report that it is harder each year to find the queens. The forest is being fragmented by cattle ranching and eucalyptus plantations (which are toxic to the ants’ native fungi). Moreover, a practice known as sobrecosecha (overharvesting) occurs when harvesters take too many queens from a single colony. If too many queens are removed in a single season, the colony’s ability to reproduce collapses. The damp, clean ants are poured onto the hot surface
In the markets of Bucaramanga, a small bag of hormigas culonas can fetch the equivalent of $20 to $50 USD per pound, making them one of the most expensive insects in the world. This price reflects not just the difficulty of the harvest, but the cultural cachet. To serve hormigas culonas at a wedding, a baptism, or a cumpleaños is to signal prosperity and a deep connection to the land. They are a gift of status. The consumption of hormigas culonas predates the Spanish conquest by millennia. The Guane people, an indigenous group that inhabited the highlands of Santander, revered the ants. Archaeological evidence—ceramic vessels and cooking stones—suggests that the Guane developed the techniques of harvesting and toasting queens as early as 500 CE. For them, the ant was not merely food. It was a source of strength, fertility, and a connection to the earth mother.