TABLE MANNERS

This story was originally written for the New York Times Magazine. They chose not to publish it, so I am putting it here for your enjoyment. The story describes events from March, 2006.

The most important thing about eating fire red ants with tribal people in the forests of India is table manners. My momma always taught me, no matter what, never insult your host.

In this case, I was the guest of R.P. Kushwa, the informal leader of a tribal relief camp in the southern tip of Chhattisgarh. He hadn’t invited me exactly, actually not at all. I just showed up, driver and translator in tow, to report on camp conditions for an American newspaper.

It was dicey business. Maoist rebels were prowling the forests and had thoughtfully placed landmines underneath the road into the camps. Not surprisingly the tribals received few guests. Which might explain why, after making sure I wasn’t the most lost tourist in the history of India, they welcomed me with open arms.

Kushwa and company insisted, despite their meager resources, on preparing their finest cuisine called ‘chapda’ or ant chutney.

Great fanfare was made. Young men were dispatched to hunt fresh ants. Yesterday’s ants would never do. Apparently, like sushi, they don’t keep well. The men climbed the tall trees to fetch the frenetic little critters and their gushy white eggs. How they killed them I never found out, but thankfully, they weren’t moving by the time I had to face them.

The tribals prepare the ants raw like ceviche, lightly dusting them with chili powder and salt. Like great gourmands, the tribal chefs don’t want fancy sauces masking the natural flavors.

Kushwa ushered us to a wooden table and invited me to sit next to him. He put his meaty arm around me. The body length rifle that never left his shoulder was pressed between us. The mental note about good manners seemed particularly apropos.

Around fifty tribal men gathered around us, the younger ones pushing through their elders to get a look at the strange dinner guest. The crowd was oppressive, pushing Kushwa and I closer together. Someone from behind kept pinching and punching my back, perhaps to make sure I was real.

Kushwa threw a wide smile and announced first we would have special fish. “It has twelve feet,” Kushwa said. “I am sure you will like it. We serve it French style.”

I did a double take to my translator, Subodh. “Did he really say twelve feet and French style?”

Subodh shrugged. He was a journalism student from New Delhi, a city slicker, and was as far out of his element as I.

I was getting shaky thinking about the Fear Factor feast to come. A boy emerged with a shiny aluminum plate, a generous pyramid of spicy red shrimp piled high on it. Ah, the twelve-footed fish was not so scary after all. And it was delicious too, an almost perfect Cajun barbequed shrimp. It was even served peal-and-eat style.

I began to relax. Ants or no ants, these guys were good cooks.

Kushwa called for drinks. Two tall glasses were placed before us. A wiry man poured pale yellow liquid. Kushwa picked up his glass, gave a sly grin, gulped the contents down in one shot, and slammed his glass onto the table.

The crowd chanted for me to drink what I surmised to be highly toxic moonshine. Whether standing naked in a frat house hazing or sitting with Gondi tribesman, men are men. And the best way to earn their confidence is getting plastered with them. Dogs sniff backsides. We drink.

I put the glass to my lips, threw my head back and sloshed the liquid down. When I slammed my glass to the table the men went crazy, laughing and cheering. We were friends.

The moonshine’s flavor was halfway between lemonade and fermented socks. An acquired taste. The wiry man re-emerged to fill our glasses. Gulp. Slam. Cheer.

The moonshine was beginning to have its way with me. We all laughed together, likely at different jokes.

Kushwa motioned for the main course. An easy-faced tribesman brought a wad of newspaper and laid it on the table. Kushwa opened it and flashed that grin again.

I stared down at a scraggly pile of red ants, their tiny black eyes mocking me. In between the ants were shiny white globs that must have been their eggs.

I started sweating and reached for another shot of fermented sock juice. And then, remembering momma’s adage about table manners, I threw my hand into the red ant mix, scooped a healthy pile, placed them into my mouth and chomped down.

I felt little ant legs scratching the tip of my tongue and egg juice shot across my mouth like prehistoric pop rocks.

“Yummy,” I said as I chewed. The crowd erupted in laughter, giving me the impression that they don’t actually eat ants. Perhaps they just wanted to see what kind of crazy stuff they could make the new guy do.



“Are they good for you?” I asked.

“Oh very much,” Kushwa said. “If you eat two portions a day for one month you can ward off malaria and sickness.”

“What about black ants? What are they good for?”

“Black ants. Are you crazy? Why would anyone eat black ants? That’s totally disgusting.”

By now my driver was frantically motioning for us to go. Darkness was fast approaching and he feared driving through rebel territory at night.

I waived for the check, thanked Kushwa for his hospitality and took my month’s supply of chapda in a doggy bag to go.


The author, seconds after the delightful ants hit his tongue.

Another classic face.

Neil Samson Katz is a freelance writer and photographer living in New York City. He spent February and March working and traveling in India.