About a decade ago, I was voluntarily kitted up in a padded suit, gloves and helmet, hitched onto a zipline, and sent on my way by expert park rangers, down and down from a hilltop in Cambodia to a jungle retreat.

What was I thinking?

Given that I have terrible eyesight, can’t wear contact lenses because my eyes make too much mucus, and my glasses wouldn’t fit under the helmet, I was more or less unable to see a thing.

This may have been a blessing, but not for the retreat guests below. It was the cocktail hour, and they were assembled with coloured drinks and fancy snacks and smart safari hats on a wooden deck and weren’t expecting me to drop by, as it were.

But there I was, wobbling and weak-kneed at The Zone Bar as staff fished amid multiple zippers in my rucksack for my glasses, steadied me and asked if I’d care to try the drink of the day. I am pretty sure it was called a Down and Out and came frilled with fernery.

Before slurping the lot in one mighty gulp, I asked them to remove the leafy sprigs as I already had enough of those on my face. The drink was green, too, just to add to the overall nausea, while one smarty-pants onlooker decided to advise me that proper outdoors people who climb and sail and trek in tricky climes consider it wise to mount video cameras on their helmets.

If there’s a moral to be had in such circumstances, it’s to not be forced into outdoorsy endeavours that seem scary or senseless and to always have maximum travel insurance cover. Also, of course, check what exclusions might apply.

My record in such matters isn’t good, I fear. At a resort in The Maldives, I ziplined across to a wooden platform among the fluffy tops of coconut palms so I could interview the chef and partake of his organic cuisine, which was earthy and wonderfully virtuous. What wasn’t so fabulous was losing my notebook on my return run and, despite the best endeavours of resort staff, it wasn’t ever found.

Sunk without trace?

Devoured by roaming chickens?

Certainly not stolen by fellow journalists in my group as they already knew my handwriting was illegible.

I have ridden camels in the Sahara and don’t recommend that as much chop, either. They are not called “ships of the desert” for nothing. Motion sickness tabs, ahoy.

In a safari park in northern India, I ended up on the roof racks of a beaten-up old bus because the car I had rented decided to let me down and there was no mobile phone coverage to call for help. It was a miracle of sorts when that rackety conveyance came ambling past and the passengers helped me aboard and patted me down, offered snacks and copious amounts of Thums Up cola with its “bold fizz and spicy flavour profile”, not to mention a rather obvious spelling error in the brand name.

They quizzed me about Australian cricket and checked that I supported India, and not Pakistan or Bangladesh, when it came to such important matters.

I confirmed I was indeed an Indophile and had written a novel set in Shimla, up in the northern state of Himachal Pradesh. That seemed mildly impressive to my new-found travel companions and off we went, leaving the broken-down car to its inevitable fate in the land of elephants.

When I eventually decided the right thing to do was to call the rental car operator and apologise for not returning the vehicle, there was a bit of to-ing and fro-ing between lower-down clerks and upper-crust managers.

Then the big boss came on the line and declared there was no problem. “That car was a pile of junk,” he stated. “When you return to India, we will not charge you for the next rental.” Go, figure.

Either way, I am grateful for the kindness of strangers in dangerous climes and know not to stump up money again to a certain dodgy operator.