Nuns and grubs...

Arriving in Leticita/Tabatinga/Santa Rosa once more we booked into Los Delfines.  This hostel run by ex-nuns was literally a godsend after our journey.  We were now faced with two options.  Option #1 - Continue up the river in a Peruvian boat to Iquitos.  Not an attractive prospect.  The recent aquatic adventures had left deep scars within the group and the mention of a floating bathtub as a futher means of transport caused the onset of a panic attack.  With the promise of worse food, slower speeds and devastating sanitary conditions we looked to the gods to help us out.  And they did, with Option #2 - a flight outta there from the airport in Leticia on the Colombian side of the border.  Although expensive, this was the only way we could maintain our sanity.  All we had to do was select a destination.  Difficult choice with the South American continent at your disposal but I feel we rose to the task.  The target was the Galápagos Islands!  Meanwhile we had a night out in Leticia to enjoy.

This is the same Tres Fronteras I'd spent New Year's Eve in.  Previously I'd been in Tabatinga on the Brazilian side bored out of my tree with nowhere decent to go.  If only I'd known that within spitting distance, on the Colombian side of the border, were restaurants and bars coming out of your ears.  We headed out in the warm torrential rain to indulge ourselves in one of them.  The place we chose was donned out like some kind of jungle hunting lodge.  Glancing at the menu we decided to shoot from the hip and selected mojojoi, having no idea what that might be.  One of our party unwittingly ordered pirhana.  The result wasn't pretty, although it was tasty if you could get over its evil stare.

The mojojoi was another story.  Major Les Hiddins, a.k.a. The Bush Tucker Man would understand.  If, like me, you spent too much time in your youth watching imported TV programmes on Saturday mornings, you might remember this legend.  In his show he would tour the Australian outback hunting for roots and insects which he could eat.  There was one that always seemed to rear its ugly head, literally.  The witchetty grub.  This plump moth larva was constantly being grilled and eaten by Major Hiddins and it was his method I used to tackle this culinary challenge.  Grabbing the tubby little morsel by the head I placed its entire body in my mouth and ripped the little sucker in two with a swift slice of my incisors.  It wasn't very pleasant.  The worse thing was the amount of fluid contained within the leathery skin.  It burst forth into my mouth like an exploding water bomb.  Once the hot liquid had found its way down my throat I was left with the skin.  Surprisingly, the texture and flavour reminded me a little of chicken.  But a hideous chicken that I would never choose to eat.  With hindsight I am disturbed and proud to think that, through the digestive process, such a little beast now forms part of my own body.  Long live the grub.