Powered Parachuting over Ras Al Khaimah

Aerial view of a semi-feral donkey in Ras Al Khaimah

“When once you have tasted flight, you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.” - Leonardo Da Vinci

(A version of this blog was published in outdoor uae magazine. )

A warm breeze swirled the dust of the runway as Captain Kevin Donaldson and I walked across the concrete slab and past the microlight aeroplanes shimmering in the sun. From the shady depths of the hangar an assistant wheeled a large three-wheeled cage with a propeller at the rear. The trike, looking like something from the Mad Max movies, was constructed of lightweight aircraft aluminium and stainless steel. Behind the tandem seats a two cylinder, two stroke engine was mounted which powered the triple bladed propeller.

PPGs are simply an engine in a cage and a fabric wing.

The Captain started the engine and let it run for a few minutes to warm up, then killed it again. Lying on the rear seat was a large black bundle which he picked up, carried to the rear of the trike and opened to reveal a mass of brightly coloured rip-stop fabric and kevlar lines. The engine was the power and this was the parachute. Clipping the ends of the lines to the cage he spread the fabric out in an arc behind the trike and folded the leading edges over to make sure it didn’t catch the propeller wash prematurely.

Headphones are essential for communication over the engine noise.

A two seater PPG has the pilot up front.

“Ok, in you go!” he said and I clambered into the rear seat and clipped into the four point harness which held me firmly in place. Two headsets hung over the top bar, one for each of us. The Captain took up position in the front seat and started the engine, the headsets muting the engine noise and allowing us to chat over the in-built microphones.

“Are you ready?” came over the headphones and I gave the affirmative. He pushed the hand-held throttle lever and the trike lurched forward gaining speed and then, the lines pulling suddenly taught, the parachute inflated and rose up behind us. Gunning the engine we trundled down the runway as the parachute rose higher and then, crabbing slightly in the wind, we broke free from gravity’s hold and were airborne.

The captain guns the engine and as we lurch forward the tension on the lines pulls the wing up. Photo: Maria Reynolds

I have always loved flying and the best flying is done in a small open craft where you can feel the wind in your hair and see the far-off earth below your feet. Not to be confused with powered paragliding, where the motor can be on the pilot’s back, a powered parachute has pilot (and passengers) sitting in a vehicle with an engine and wheels. The wing of a Powered Parachute is similar to the square wings used by skydivers while a paraglider has a higher performance airfoil allowing foot launched flight. Called PPCs for short, they come in single and tandem styles so that a pilot can fly solo or take a passenger. They are one of the least expensive forms of powered aviation and are used by private pilots, farmers, search & rescue and law-enforcement agencies around the world. The low centre of gravity in relation to the ‘wing’ and resistance to stalling means that PPCs are also a very safe form of flying. Currently only Jazirah Aviation Club in Ras Al Khaimah provides both flights and training for PPCs and according to Captain Donaldson it can take as little as 15 hours to become a PPC pilot. My half-hour flight was a birthday present, courtesy of my wife (bless her.)

The wing shows the typical aspect ratio of a parachute.

Far below us the sun sparkled on the waters of the Gulf and the long white beaches stretched out from Ras Al Khamaih down to Umm Al Quwain. The sea was dotted with blue jellyfish, visible even from this height, and every now and then I’d get a bird’s eye-view of a big turtle coming up for air. I must’ve seen ten in as many minutes. The water was clear enough that you could see the turtles descend onto the sea-grass beds. We flew over the ghost town of Jazirat Al Hamra, abandoned buildings built in traditional Arabic style where Jinns are still rumoured to wander, and I felt like an explorer flying over an ancient lost city for the first time.

Aerial view of a semi-feral donkey in Ras Al Khaimah

As we reached the northern limits of our flight the Captain pointed out a huge sunken and rusting barge: “In this area, when it’s cooler, we sometimes see big Manta Rays,” he said to my surprise “and you can often see sharks cruising along the reef back there.”

We turned back towards the flying club and cruised over lush green lawns standing out against the desert, water skiers carved lazy curves in the marinas and kids splashed off the beaches, waving at us as we passed overhead.

4WDs leave tracks on the beaches.

Waterskiers on the lagoon of a residential development.

Labourers play cricket on an industrial lot.

A golfer searches for a lost ball amongst date palms.

Crossing back over the coastal highway we slowly descended and he cut back the engine. “See, she doesn’t fall. We control climb and descent with the throttle speeding up makes you climb and slowing down lets you descend. Turning is done through footpedals that are linked to lines fixed to the trailing edges of the canopy.” We cruised low over the desert scrub, our shadow jittering back and forth as dunes raced below us. He pointed out some burrows in the dunes and said that in the cool of the evening desert foxes would come out, popping back to into their earths if they saw you flying over. We approached the landing strip from the desert as the wind was onshore, all flying craft land and take-off into the wind.

Coming in to land.

Photo: Maria Reynolds

We drifted ever lower until, with a gentle bump, we touched down and rolled to a stop. Slowly the wing deflated and collapsed gently behind us. For a few moments I just sat and reflected on how much fun it had been, it was a great way to spend an afternoon and I’ll be back again for another flight, maybe I’ll even do my PPC license.

sunburnt ... and in need of a shave

Steam Clouds in Tatopani

"Om Mane Padme Om" carved on Mani stones at the start of the long climb, our day's destination being the far ridge.

Anabatic breezes slipped slowly in succession up the mountain causing the long trains of prayer flags to rise high, flutter momentarily and then gently descend, only to rise again on the next waft in a long slow cadence, like God breathing in slumber.

Gently rising prayer flags over Tatopani

Clouds of steam drifted up to be teased apart and fade into nothingness. The only sounds were the susurrating splash of steadily streaming water and quiet conversation. It was evening in Tatopani and villagers had come for the evening ritual of a wash in the geothermal springs that poured perpetually from the belly of the mountain through elegantly decorated stone conduits, followed by a convivial wallow in the swimming pool sized tubs built into the slope.

A cool evening makes for lots of steam.

The evening's bathing ritual enjoyed by all, youngest villager to the oldest.

Mothers, wearing only a simple cloth shift, scrubbed naked children and chattered quietly with husbands standing under the steaming cascades. After a day's climb that took us from Thambuchet at 1700 metres to Tatopani at 2607 metres the hot soak was the perfect end to a superb, if exhausting, day.

Sitting makes things less precarious on the slick stone floor.

That morning we'd woken early for a frugal breakfast of Tamang style pancakes, a thick doughy slab somewhat like a large crumpet, and hot sweet tea. People were already gathering around yesterday's bus for the return journey to Kathmandu. Asheesh briefed us on the day ahead while Yong-tashi produced a well frayed rope and proceeded to strap our two backpacks together. He'd carry both our backpacks over the next few days while all we carried where daypacks.
I've walked many a trail over mountains and along coasts and never had anyone carried my pack for me, but every dollar pumped into the local economy makes a big difference so I was happy to swallow my pride and pay for a guide and porter, although I still had my misgivings about the size of the packs versus the size of the porter.

Yong-tashi our porter, my son and Asheesh our guide at the start of the 1st day's trekking.

Thambuchet was slowly awakening, a woman with a large basket on her back was rhythmically harvesting nettles for cow fodder. After a swish of her long handled sickle she'd sweep the cuttings into her basket with a pair of very long tongs. Most of the houses had animal shelters below and the living quarters above. Hand looms, some with partially finished cloths, stood waiting for the days weaving.

Long tongs mean the nettles don't sting and you don't have to bend.

Tamang weave fine, brightly striped cloth which is made into a number of useful items.

Humans on top, animals below. Dwellings make the most of limited space.

We left Thambuchet and headed up the valley on narrow pathways threading through paddies, across a small suspension bridge and past the first of many chortens and mani we would encounter along the way. At the entrance to another small village we met three small girls, destined for a tough life of hard work, carrying large bundles of straw. They watched us pass with shy smiles and dirty faces.

Chortens, flanked by carved Mani, marking the way. We were supposed to pass on the left but these stones only had one path to the right. The locals didn't seem perturbed about dogma.

No fashion toys or sleepovers, these girls live a life far removed from that which western girls take for granted.

For a second time we crossed the river and then the climbing started. The path contoured tortuously, switching back upon itself so that at times a few steps would put you directly above the person behind you. Up and up we climbed and my legs became like jelly and lungs pumped like bellows, living an easy life at sea level was not translating well to hiking at altitude. I was also monitoring my son, this was his first hike and the start was the stiffest climb he'd ever done. Would he whimper and give up or vasbyt*and keep going?

Just as I was wondering how much further before I could rest my aching legs we topped a ridge and there, on a flat ledge cut into the mountain, was a kiosk with red plastic chairs and a million dollar view. Time for tea! The view was spectacular, to our left the valley with the tiny houses of Thambuchet in the distance, to our right the ridges soaring to snow covered Ganesh Himal, dazzling white against a baby blue sky.

Incongruous plastic chairs at the mid-morning break.

My fears about the strength and endurance my son and our porter were unfounded on both counts. We'd hardly made it through the first day of the trek before my son, once he got his breath back, started jabbering about where we should go walking next and kept pumping me about hikes I'd done in the past; where were they? what where they like? was it harder than this one or easier? A ceaseless, but enjoyable, jabber on all things outdoors and adventurous.
You can read all the parenting books you want and subscribe to all the theories, from Dr Spock to the over-the-top Tiger Mothers, but all you really need to know about being a father is to listen and take heed of the lessons in "Cat's in the Cradle". Money, toys and gadgets no substitute for time with your kids. We were enjoying ourselves immensely.

A Tamang child eyes me warily.

And what of Yong-tashie and the double backpacks? While we were perspiring and panting he hardly broke a sweat, bounding up the mountain while chatting to Asheesh without so much as breathing hard.
The phrase of the day was bistare bistare (bee-sta-reh) meaning slowly, take your time and walk at a pace you can handle. Why is it that "slowly" is a repetition in so many languages? I've picked up Swahili's pole pole (Pow-leh Pow-leh) while in East Africa and Arabic's shoei shoei (shway shway) in the Middle East and, now, the similar double-barrel phrase in Nepali.

After the initial steepness the path eased off drastically, but still a steady climb through forest and fields. I recognised the first shoots of potatoes pushing through the soil while other fields stood waste deep in oats, their green heads drooping but not yet golden.
Glittering streams flowed chattering between rocks and the sun released the heady smell of wet earth from their banks. Butterflies flittered about and unknown insects buzzed and chittered in the overgrowth. There were expertly packed dry stone walls everywhere, even many of the large buildings of more than one story where built without mortar, expert hands making sure the corners were true and crisp.

With little flat ground in Langtang, most buildings are cut back into the slope. This house was built entirely from dry stone walls.

We reached our destination a lot earlier than I expected, just in time for lunch. The menu was surprisingly extensive but because cooking fuel is scarce (wood, in a country suffering from deforestation) I consulted my son and we agreed that we'd joined Asheesh and Yong-tashi in their usual Dal Bhaat. And so it would be for the next few days with rare exception, Dhal Baat for lunch and for supper too, with some meat or delicious onion soup (home made from locally grown onions) thrown in where available. But hunger is the best seasoning and we inevitably wolfed it down as if it was the finest caviar.

The guesthouse owner was named Bamen (at first I thought Asheesh was talking about him being the barman) and he was very hospitable and kept his guesthouse very neat and clean. At breakfast the next morning he proudly produced his own yak milk cheese which was exceedingly good, hard and strongly flavoured.

Bamen's wife and children enjoy some family time as afternoon rain brews.

Cloud shrouded peaks of Langtang Lirung from our guesthouse balcony. Almost all houses take in trekkers for much needed cash, you could walk for weeks in these mountains and never need a tent.

After lunch we put on some swimming gear and walked to the springs after which the village was named, I was expecting some rocks and a trickle of water but to our surprise we found three large cisterns built into the hillside, each with it's own twin-inlets.
The drains of the two outer baths had been plugged and they were slowly filling with ochre coloured water, one still knee deep as it filled and the other above the waist.

Elegantly carve mythical beasts spew (almost) scalding water.

My son thought he'd try the 'showers' first and he'd hardly stepped under the flow when he yelped and sprang out like a ... well ... a scalded cat. The village was named Tatopani ( tato being hot and pani meaning water) and from the inevitable quick leap of most who stepped under the water for the first time it was obvious why.
We spent a few hours lazing around the springs, alternating between standing under the hot flow, wallowing in the waste deep baths and sitting on the edge to let the mountain breeze cool us again.

A mountain life of hard toil shows in the muscle and sinew.

By the end of the day the ochre coloured water had stained our swimming costumes dull red and turned my son's surfer blonde hair a tawny gold that would take days to rinse out.

Even in these remote parts you can get a beer and as I sat sipping my daily ration on the guest house 'terrace' with the million dollar view I replayed the day in my mind.
At last, trekking in Nepal, one more life-goal achieved.
What would my son go on to do in his time?

sunburnt ... and in need of a shave

*vasbyt, pronounced 'fuss-bait' - Afrikaans word meaning to persevere under difficult circumstances. Literally translated as 'bite down hard and hang on'.

Screaming Knees on the Thambuchet Bus

Roadworks camp near Dhunche, Langtang.

I took one look at our porter and thought "You're not much bigger than my son and he's only 13 ... and you're planning on carrying both our backpacks, a load roughly half as heavy a your skinny 50 kilos. I'm probably going to have step in and carry things myself before the trek is over". I would be proved very, very wrong over the next few days.

Sunrise at the bus station. Khatmandu.

Our bus, an ancient Tata long overdue for retiring, rumbled patiently in the dawn as baggage was handed up to the roof and passengers squeezed on board to locate pre-booked seats. Even at this early hour the 'bus station', an open, muddy kerbside lot, was already heaving with passengers, fruit sellers, luggage and bicycles. Underfoot mud, garbage and steel reinforcing rods, polished smooth by a thousand sandals, made you careful of where to step. The tang of cigarette smoke mingled with exhaust fumes and together they vied for nasal recognition with the smell of ripe fruit and the odour of rotting garbage. Many Nepalese wore masks over their mouths to protect themselves from Kathmandu's ever present air pollution.

The ticket office for the Thambuchet bus.

I hadn't even recognised the ticket office, despite standing right next to it, a corrugated iron lean-to under a tree, open on 3 sides and besieged by customers waving crumpled Rupee notes. We hung around waiting for departure, taking in the sights, sounds and smells, until a yell and a blast from the hooter exhorted my son and I to clamber on board, our backpacks long since having disappeared into the pile on the roof under the auspices of our guide, Aashish. I silently wondered if I'd see them again, they weren't even tied down.

Cellphones and cigarettes, a bus station food hawker.

We had, in theory, the best seats on the bus, right up front with a good view out the windshield. But over the years my buns-of-steel have become loaves and my six-pack is now more of a keg, so it was with trepidation that we squeezed into the equivalent of one-and-a-half airline seats. And there was no legroom. And I could see the back of the radiator and a sliver of the passing road below through gaps in the plywood firewall. And the lingering smell of scorched brake pads. And we had 9 hours to go.

From right-to-left: My arm, my son, old guy on the gearbox, another guy on the gearbox and, the dark shape, the driver. Asheesh is just behind us.

The crowded bus wended it's way north, stopping regularly for people to alight or leave, with seatless passengers standing in the aisle or climbing on to the roof. An old Nepali, friendly but silent, was wedged between us and the driver. Perched on the gearbox housing with no handholds he was constantly being thrown onto us as the bus swung around corners. But for the locals this was normal and we decided to just take it in our stride. "This is how most of the world travels." I said to my son, "at least those who can afford it."

Waiting for traffic to clear, plenty of hooting and revving of engines, precious little progress. Somewhere near Trisuli.

With our soundtrack, the falsetto squeal of hindi music from tinny speakers, we climbed out of Kathmandu Valley on a road cut into the side of the mountain, rising through greenery and passing countless villages, emerald rice paddies, terraced fields and even some trout farms. A stop for lunch in Trisuli where the only item on the menu was dal bhat , steamed white rice with a thin gruel of lentils. I'm not a small guy and can eat with the best of them, but watching Aashish and Yong-tashi pack away a mound of dhal bat was an education. Every now and then the cook would come around with a big pot of rice or dhal and offer us more, these two thin guys kept on going long after I couldn't eat another bite. Where did they put it all? We'd eat a lot of dhal bat over the next few days, now and then with the luxury of some chicken curry, yoghurt or spicy achar that would clear you sinuses, and each time we'd give up long before the other two.

A slow afternoon, as usual.

The miles dragged on and my knees ached, being crammed into a slightly bent position for hour after hour. My son and I switching sides every now and then for the hallowed window seat. All the discomfort was momentarily forgotten, or at least ignored, when we rounded a corner and in the distance caught our first glimpse of snow covered peaks and a daytime moon. It was a moment I'll never forget, my son and I grinning and touching fists knuckles-to-knuckles. Finally, the Himalaya!

The main, and only, road to Langtang. Often nothing more than a rough dirt track hugging the mountain side.

The road varied between tar and mud tracks that would do a 4x4 justice. Every so often we came across road crews repairing the more dangerous and eroded stretches with hard-packed gravel held in place by massive wire-cage gabions. Some of the worst sections were in towns and villages where the constant passing of heavy vehicles and the effects of rain had churned the road into mud.

The muddy mire that is the main road through town. At least we're welcome.

At every bend in the journey the driver would blast his hooter to warn oncoming traffic, size determining the right of way. Motorbikes gave way to cars, cars gave way to buses and buses to trucks. My confidence ebbed on a few occasions when I saw the wrecks of buses that had not quite made the turns, or stopped in time, lying far below the road.

Who will give way? Will we back-up a bit or edge past each other? Compare the width of the bus to the width of the road. The drop is hundreds of metres.

At times the road was so narrow that both vehicles would have to creep past each other inch by inch with only a finger width separating us. The driver would rely on a guide sitting on the roof, able to see the length the bus, who'd use complicated whistle signals to say if things were OK or that we were about to scrape. I had to pull my elbow in, from where it was resting on the window ledge, on many occasions.

Prospective passengers.

There were regular military roadblocks on the road and I assume we were in Maoist rebel country due to the many houses with a hammer and sickle painted on them.
Apparently, rooftop riding was not allowed so, approaching a roadblock, the bus would come to a stop and all those on the roof would climb off, some squeezing into the last breathing spaces in the bus while the rest would nonchalantly stroll through the checkpoint. At the checkpoint the bus would stop again and papers would be scrutinized by uniformed men carrying firearms, sometimes they'd squeeze through the bus checking faces and papers. Once the bus had been searched it would be waved on and less than a hundred metres further, in full view of the soldiers, everybody would climb back on again and the bus would clatter and rumble on its way.

The entrance to Langtang National Park, heart of our trek.

On the final long descent to Syabrubensi. I lost count after 12 hairpins, the smell of burnt brake pads isn't conducive to counting.

Don't ask me the correct spelling for the town of Syabrubensi, a walk down the main, and only, street delivered a variety of spellings. Almost each signboard was unique: 'Syabrubensi', 'Syabrubesi', 'Shyabrubensi', 'Sia brubesi' ... and so on. The bus took a break here, so we decamped to a guest house for cooldrinks or tea and to stretch our, by then, decrepit legs.

My son snoozing on the verandah of 'Hotel Peaceful' after tea. Waiting for passengers.

The cramped conditions got too much for my son who clambered onto the roof at Syabrubensi for the the last stretch to Thambuchet. Despite my misgivings about the safety of being perched on a wallowing bus clinging to the edge of a narrow mountain track I decided to let him go. We were here for adventure after all.

On the roof for the last leg of the journey.

Nepalese girl outside a dry stone walled house between Syabrubensi and Thambuchet. She hid when she saw my camera.

Terraced fields contribute to the deforestation of Nepal.

The bus stopped at Thambuchet which was the end of the road. Literally. Meaning the road also stopped at Thambuchet and the bus went as far as it could physically go without taking out a few of the village houses. I disembarked stiffly from the bus, my knees screaming at being released from the tight confines in which they'd spent all day, and we found our way to our guest house and a cold beer.

Understated colours in our room in Thambuchet guest house.

Looking at the old bridge from the new. Exhaustion is written all over his face, nine hours has taken its toll.

We spent the dusk exploring the village, glad to be able to get the blood flowing through our legs. That night, back in our rooms and the luxury of a bed, the two of us chatted briefly before slipping into black sleep. We'd start walking the next day.

Craig
sunburnt ... and in need of a shave

Prayer Flags at Tatopani

No matter your faith, belief or creed, until you have been to Nepal you will never comprehend the peace of prayer flags rising to flutter on the breeze in the stillness of moon-rise evening .

Craig
sunburnt ... and in need of a shave