The store

Wet it, wring it, wear it. Evaporation does the rest.

The cheapest thing on this list and the one that makes a thirty-eight degree afternoon survivable.

Earplugs, an eye mask and an inflatable pillow.

Sound carries all night and the sun arrives at six. This is what buys you the extra two hours.

A brim the whole way round, rated fabric, packs flat.

There is very little shade and you are outdoors for seven days. A brim, not a cap.

Passport, boarding pass and one card, on a cord under a shirt.

Four flights, two borders and a tent with no lock. It is the smallest thing here and the one whose loss ends the journey.

Both rechargeable, both worn rather than carried.

One for the middle of the afternoon, one for finding your tent at four in the morning.

Water, a layer, a towel. Nothing more, on purpose.

Big enough for a day out there; small enough that you stop noticing it by the second morning.

Ten pockets, two of them zipped and inside.

It moves your documents, your phone and your money off the airport floor and onto your body for the whole of a nineteen-day journey.

Two pre-paired LoRa units that find each other with no phone signal at all.

The network fails long before your battery does. This is the answer to the actual problem of losing someone in a crowd of tens of thousands.