Without even glancing at each other we drop our arms and run. Ready to land in the comfort of the seats on the air-conditioned bus.

*

Half an hour later we pull up outside a small village comprised of only a few buildings. We head straight into one of them, which turns out to be someone’s house, with posters of local sites plastered on the walls along with a few string instruments. We’re ushered to a large wooden table in the middle of the room and sit down.

‘Time to celebrate you all being brilliant!’ says Scott, coming over with two of the biggest glasses I’ve ever seen; they’re bigger than his face. One contains a murky yellow liquid, the other a deep pink, with an enormous foamy head sitting on top.

‘Chicha!’ Kevin sings. ‘This is local produce. A beer from Peru.’

‘It’s made from corn, and there are very precise methods to making it, but it’s something the locals have been doing for thousands of years. This one is traditional,’ Scott says, placing the yellow glass in front of us on the table. ‘And this one is made up with strawberries.’

‘Drink, drink,’ shouts a woman, who I imagine to be the owner, from the oven in the corner of the room while she prepares food.

‘You two first,’ I say, egging Zaza and Vicky on. They never need any encouragement where alcohol is concerned, and to be frank I’ve seen them drink some vile things in their time. This ought to be nothing in comparison.

They each pick up a glass – Zaza yellow, Vicky pink – and take a gulp.

‘Not what I expected,’ says Zaza, she and Vicky looking at each other to take in their reactions.

‘Same,’ says Vicky, sliding her glass over to Zaza so that they can swap.

‘Am I not even getting a look in?’ I jest.

There’s a roll of eyes before another gulp is taken and nods are given. Both glasses slide in my direction.

‘Come on,’ I say, passing one to Scott.

I take a big mouthful and swallow. Its sourness is what takes me by surprise, that and the fact it’s warm rather than cold.

‘Wow,’ I say, giving my head a shake before taking the pink beer back from Scott and trying it for comparison. I expect it to be sweeter thanks to the strawberries, but somehow it’s even more sour.

‘Now eat,’ says the woman I clocked at the oven as she places a straw bowl in front of us. She gives a warm smile before wiping her hands on her apron and returning to the oven.

‘The time has come,’ says Scott, taking the straw basket and spinning it so that it lands in front of the three of us.

There is no denying what it is. Guinea pig, with a serving of jacket potato for balance.