BENEDICT ALLEN INTO THE UNKNOWN

Whether shopping in Oxford Street or traversing the Amazon, it’s always wise to adopt the Boy Scouts’ motto and be prepared

‘You haven’t forgotten your survival kit, have you?” These were the parting words of my mum as she waved a sad farewell and I was whisked away, aged 22, to Heathrow.

Off I went on my first expedition, and my mother felt better knowing that, out in the steamy forests of the labyrinthine Orinoco, I’d always have strapped about my waist the essentials for keeping alive. For every jungle explorer worth his salt had a survival kit – or so she’d read. Like Scouts, they always went prepared.

I was prepared, all right! On that first trek my survival kit was a voluminous sack which not only bulged with goodies but sported a great number of exciting zips. Decorated in the more fashionable greens and yellows, it was a glorious creation – and hindered my every step as I waddled with it ever deeper into the interior, wondering if this lone venture was such a good idea.

In additional to lugging along the more conventional stuff – compass, whistle, distress flares and so on – I had to contend with a kilo of extras from concerned relatives: Kendal mint cake (a source of fascination to every passing ant), a fishing net (complete with lead weights), and an innovative and entirely ineffectual handsaw, made from a strand of wire. Also, a Mars

Bar – presumably for when the local diet proved too much. You needed a break from monkey.

My dentist added a syringe of gutta-percha should I lose a filling and a well-meaning though somewhat ancient gent donated reams of waterproof paper “for imparting instructions to any rescue party”, he intoned, darkly. “I made good use of it myself in the Congo.” I was left to imagine the sad scene: “Proceeding NNE,” he perhaps scrawled in berry juice, with a shaking hand. “We remain in good heart, all things considered. Carruthers eaten yesterday.”

It was the same Old Hand who said I should take along some postcards. “These should be of the Queen,” he insisted. “Or Buckingham Palace, if necessary. The natives love ’em.”

Oddly, he was right about the “natives” loving them. In the Amazon the pictures went down a treat, especially with the womenfolk. “My headman,” I’d say, tentatively proffering an image of Her Majesty in her prime. They’d hold the cards up to better admire her crown – after all, not so very different from a superior feather headdress – and sigh.

How times have changed. These days the only images I take along are of my children looking sweet – they enlist more sympathy from wannabe robbers. These aside, I take just fishing hooks and line, waterproof matches – the sort you hope to discover in the lifeboat, as your ship goes down – and boring medicinal stuff for combating malaria and strange bites.

It’s all horribly practical. And always there’s a nagging feeling, as you stagger ever onward through the unforgiving trees, that you should – as a hardened veteran – be able to get away with less. Perhaps you’re getting soft. Next thing, you’ll end up with what American travellers call a “fanny pack”. (I believe they place in them handy snacks.) No, a survival kit should be small – and grow ever smaller as your skill sets evolve. A tampon will serve for tinder, a condom hold your water. Chuck in a couple of spear blades and you’re sorted. Forget the fishing kit – a bit of wire will catch you your piranha. Guides robbing you again? That $100 bill, secreted in your boot, will make you no end of friends.

These and other make-do remedies have got me out of all manner of mischief, through the years. Once, I made a hammock from gaffer tape.

But of the many things that have kept me alive, I’ll always reserve a special fondness for

‘My headman’, I’d say, tentatively proffering an image of Her Majesty

the humble drinking straw. They weigh next to nothing and it’s much better for you to siphon up the fresh rainwater caught by tree leaves than slurp what you can from a green slimy puddle. Just ask my doctor.

Of course, we all have survival kits in life, do we not? That spare credit card, that stick of extra-seductive lipstick, that bottle of gin. Whether shopping in Oxford Street or traversing the Amazon, it’s just nice to know they’re there. You walk boldly along the uneven pavement of life content in the knowledge that you are the one that’s prepared, for you have your rescue pack. Just hope you never resort to using it.

Fishing? A bit of wire could be handy