April 2002
Published in Skywings magazine
‘You are not a terrorist?’
So, landing at Karjet hadn't been such a good idea. I'd flown through my last thermal and made my final glide across the town to land on the other side. That had been fine and I was really happy. I'd flown off the edge of the ghat (the Hindi word for step) and it had been spectacular; any sort of retrieve hardship would have been worth it. But this I really didn't expect.
It was a Sunday and the Police Commissioner's house was on top of a hill, so we drove there in the police jeep. The Commissioner stood at his door in a sarong and dirty white T-shirt, looking at my passport and raising his eyes left and right to his two colleagues. 'Challo,'he said, 'let's go,' and I was bundled back in and taken to the station.
He switched the fan on as he walked into the room 20 minutes later, now in the brown and green uniform of the Indian Police Force with brass lapels indicating his superior rank.
The papers on his desk moved gently with the fan, the high ceilings flaked with paint, a small lizard waiting on a wall in one high corner for mosquitoes to be blown past. He inspected my papers.
Finally he looked up, 'You are not a terrorist?' he asked quite politely
'No, no, no, no...' I replied, quite taken aback.
'You see we have some terrorist activity in this country' I waited. The walls seemed to shrink a little, I could hear the gecko licking its lips.
'In Delhi,' he said.
Two days before, the Parliament building in Delhi had been attacked by suicide bombers who had driven through the gates in an old white Ambassador car and attacked the heart of Indian democracy Twelve people, including all the terrorists, were killed. India was on edge.
Hanging out flying every day at Melissa's pilot guest house, we had no idea what was going on. There was no TV, no radio, no papers - just a lake to swim in, balcony to lie on, a harness to swing in and a hill to fly from.
When I got there from a London November it was like stepping into the Garden of Eden. Leopards live in the high country, occasionally coming down to the valleys to steal a farmer's chickens or, worse, his dogs. Eagles soar the steep black basalt cliffs that so charactense the Western Ghats of India and wild honey hangs in sheets where they overhang.
The take off for Melissa's local site is from the top of one of these cliffs, about 800m amsl. Facing east, it was working in the morning and getting too gnarly by the afternoon. It made for a steep walk after breakfast and a launch at about 11.30am.
Every time I launched here I thought 'Fuck me!' It's only 180m top-to-bottom so you're wanting to go up straight away. Today, the fifth time I'd launched there, I turned left and, barely in my harness ... bof! Asymmetric on my leh side. Stay straight ... out she comes ... turning right ... up we go! Turn, turn, turn in this small thermal until it's topped me out at 1,400m. Now, where's that house thermal gone?
Melissa had just discovered this for herself two days before, although she'd been told about it by Sumit Nupuri who discovered the site. It was, she told me aher her flight, a fountain of air just waiting to be flown into. Whooaaa! There it is. Up again to 1,800m and this time stay with it.
I had no idea what was up this valley, so height and patience was to be the key. I could see the next obvious face, a black cliff staring into sun, but resisted the temptation to go there and with no clouds at all I just waited, hanging in the zeros and ones drihing slowly, slowly up the valley. It would be a slow day I thought, but that would be OK as no one had ever flown this way and there were no maps to follow.
Slowly, I drifted past the obvious second face and finally my thermal gave up. Its gentle zero turning to sink sent me scooting along the valley. Soon, with the valley rising as I tlew up it, I could no longer see over the plateau. I was going down.
However, the great thing about the Sahyadris, as the hills from here to 100 miles south are called, is their volcanic history, which makes for an abundance of exposed, black rock everywhere. I flew straight at a black cliff, my focus narrowing until it just about filled my vision. It felt low but it was into wind and although a little less than smooth, it worked. Fully up - full power!
But the thermals today were painfully slow, just 2-up then 1-up then a burst of 4-up then back to a 1-up. I forced myself to concentrate on the thermal, not the night. I needed as much height as I could get to go over the head of the valley and the plateau on top. Ahead I could see a decision looming. There was a low narrow col at the head of the valley and an undulating plateau on either side. Between the col and the next hill was a deep, steep-sided valley; no landings, lots of sink, lots of rock. It was the edge of the ghat.
From my position back at 2,000m I could see a waterfall tumbling into the jungle below. It was lush and green and dark and I thought of Kipling, Kim and the Jungle Book. I let my mind wander into the abyss and the darkness of this gorge, real tiger country, and I grinned to myself. I was laughing inside and I let it break through the concentration of the flying; this is why I came, this is what I came to do!
Across the gorge was the next hill, a massive, flat-topped chunk of the ghat that seemed to have snapped off the plateau. At first I thought to go leh as it looked more open, but the drih carried me right and, as I climbed higher under an unreachable cloud (the only one of the day), I committed to the run across the plateau, over the edge and into the flatlands.
The edge of the ghat is a remarkable thing. It is a drop of some 1,000m and looking down I could see no real road back up. For a moment I thought I should turn and land on the plateau. Stupid thought! I carried on and then bosh! 3,000 feet for free as the ghat dropped away below me and I started to run out into the flatlands.
Out in the flat I flew from quarry to village in an attempt to find lift. Eventually, at 250m agl I found a zero above a quarry. This I stayed in for an incredibly slow 20 minutes, drifting back slowly towards a village until suddenly I could smell cooking, an eye-watering mix of chilli and masala spices as if I was in the kitchen down
there on the ground. Then the vario did its thing and, half an hour aher finding the quarry, I topped out again and set off for the next town.
I hopped from village to village, not knowing what was a real road or what was a track I'd have to walk along for hours. The last fragments of the ghat, small hills that trundle into the flat, gave me a second boost back to the top at 2,000m and I set off again, following the highway.
Gradually, through the haze I could make out a railway, two main roads and pylons. A proper town. This is where I was going to land.
I landed with only one man watching, but as I packed people started to flood into the field. Soon there were maybe 200 people crowding around, interested onlookers who, as ever, did no more than look and ask, 'Parachute?'
It was half past two, I'd been flying for two and half hours and had covered a mere 25km. Ten kilometres an hour; yes, that's a very slow day It was about to get even slower.
The lizard blinked, or did it wink? The Police Commissioner looked up at me as he put down the phone and nodded his head to one side. He had just been speaking to Melissa who had been indignant that I was being questioned. 'Let him go immediately!' she had demanded. He was probably shaking her out of his ear.
'It is only adventure sport?' he asked. I nodded. Absolutely, yes, without doubt!
'You have no camera?' No, absolutely not, certainly couldn't take photos from the air, too busy flying the thing, very tricky sport. It was in my pocket as I lied.
'No photos of the power station from the air?' Ah! The dam... No, no photos at all.
He waited. 'You may go.'
I said thank you and shook his hand. I raised my hands together in Namaste salutation, backing out of the door with my wing on my back. If I was lucky I'd make the 6pm train and be back by ten. I hurried out and as I did I glanced for the lizard. He was gone ... and so was I.
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