Free Tracks of the Tiger by Bear Grylls Page B

father had been there, reminding him just as he was about to remind Peter.
    â€˜Good on you, buddy. We need all the nourishment we can get,’ he said. ‘And we definitely can’t afford to be squeamish in a survival situation.’
    â€˜Yeah, I know . . .’ Peter opened his eyes thoughtfully. ‘Y’know . . . it’s not actually that bad.’ He scooped up three or four more in his cupped hand and ate them one at a time.
    â€˜Hey, don’t take the lot!’
    When they had eaten as many as they could find, Beck poured water on his bandaged arm, gently moistening the wound. Then he slowly peeled off the bandage, wincing as it ripped at the congealed blood. The cut was still open, glistening, and the flesh on either side of it was red and tender.
    â€˜I think a doctor would want to put a stitch in that,’ said Peter, peering at it.
    â€˜That’s beyond our resources,’ Beck muttered. ‘Though I’ve heard of jungle tribes using soldier ants . . .’
    â€˜Huh?’ Peter was cutting another strip off the spare T-shirt for a bandage. ‘How?’
    â€˜Soldier ants have jaws a centimetre wide. You hold them over the cut so that when they bite you, they actually pull the edges of the cut together. Then you twist their bodies off and the heads stay in.’
    â€˜ Ow! ’
    â€˜Exactly. But we might not have any choice if this gets any worse . . .’
    Peter wrapped the new bandage round the cut and Beck pulled his sleeve down over it.
    â€˜And I suppose,’ Peter pointed out as they set off into the jungle again, ‘you could always eat the ant bodies . . .’
    â€˜We’re gonna make a jungle guide of you soon at this rate, Peter!’
    Beck’s plan was to eat and drink as they went. If they stopped at all, it would only be briefly. Eating on the move meant they covered more ground, and it suited the ‘little and often’ philosophy. They would take in enough energy to keep them going but not so much that their bodies would start to divert the precious water and energy needed to digest a large meal. And eating on the move gave them something to focus on beyond their immediate predicament.
    Sometimes food just presented itself, like a cluster of low-hanging figs. Fig trees in the jungle are distinctive: straggly, with aerial roots – knobbly protrusions just like the roots you find below ground, but taking moisture in from the damp air. The leaves are leathery and evergreen, with rounded bases. The figs look like green balls growing straight out of the plant and can be eaten raw.
    There was plenty of fallen, rotting wood around, and that meant plenty more insects. Peter seemed to be getting quite into insects, which surprised Beck. He secretly hated them, eating them purely out of necessity.
    Beck couldn’t help noticing that his friend seemed to have more of a spring in his step today. He was looking around, taking an interest in his surroundings, even if his glasses were fogged up with steam most of the time. Everything that had happened yesterday – the volcano, the crash, Nakula being killed – had been a shock. In their hurry to get away from the volcano and set up a camp for the night they’d had very little time to come to terms with their situation.
    Beck remembered Peter’s attack of claustrophobia. Yesterday, the jungle had been an oppressive, threatening place. Today it still wasn’t exactly safe – if they ever made the mistake of thinking that, it could be fatal – but Peter seemed to have accepted it.
    A crumbling, thirty-metre-long tree trunk lay across their path. It was another type of palm, with long thin leaves neatly spaced along its branches.
    â€˜Hey, more food?’ Peter asked hopefully.
    Beck laughed. ‘Could be . . . In fact, definitely. I think this is a sago palm. And that means palm grubs.’
    He used