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Wings and a prayer: Learning to
paraglide in India
Sheer terror, huge exhilaration
and enormous black bruises: learning to paraglide in the
mountains of India's Western Ghats is a truly memorable
experience
By Jack Barker
Published: 12 May 2007
'If you cannot fall to the ground from a standing position,"
said Sanjay, owner of Nirvana Adventures, "then paragliding
is not for you." It had been a while, but the thought
flashed through my mind that the nearest hospital was more
than an hour away by van, brushing past ox-carts on the
broken tarmac of rural Maharashtra. There was, however,
a mattress. I adopted a survival position - elbows pinned,
fists balled under my chin - and rolled on to it. Falling
over was easy: I did it again - and again.
This was the only bit of learning to fly that was anything
like as easy as falling off a log. The course mixed unaccustomed
exercise, some moments of sheer terror, and a huge amount
of exhilaration. There are plenty of good reasons to choose
the mountains of India's Western Ghats to learn how to paraglide.
Most importantly, for eight months of the year almost every
day is flyable, thanks to a settled climate and a set-your-watch
sea breeze that wafts over from the Bay of Bengal just before
sunset.
Icarus would have lived a little longer if he'd known about
the latest range of paragliders. From a three-strap, sit-in
harness, Kevlar cords thread up to attach the would-be pilot
to a wing made of rip-stop nylon, sewn into pockets. When
travelling forwards, incoming air fills the pockets and
transforms the fabric into the shape of a wing. If not filled
with air, it would be as aerodynamic as a fluttering rag,
but you don't think about that, at least not on day one.
You don't think about much on day one, except perhaps to
wonder what made you think that learning to fly was a) possible
and b) a good idea. I was introduced to my kit, taught how
to lay the wing out prior to take-off, check the lines and
carry out some basic safety measures. This all seemed fairly
straightforward, until I pulled the wing into the air.
It hadn't occurred to me that a kite powerful enough to
lift my 100kg into the air would have to be quite a serious
beast. I pulled the wing over my head and Yogi, my assistant
instructor that day, helped me to run a few steps down the
gentle slope.
At the time I was mystified as to how a gust of wind caught
the wing and blew it off to one side, with me following.
With a lightning tackle, Yogi brought me to the ground,
grabbing at the lines to collapse the fabric pockets. Later
on, watching other beginners, I realised that novice flyers,
paralysed with fear, just don't hear their instructors,
however loudly they shout. "Left hand down! Run right!
Run left!" are commands obeyed late, if at all. Daunted,
I learnt to pack my wing into its carry-pack, loaded it
back on to the van and headed back for lunch. The next day,
I was assured, would be easier - and more fun.
That night my upper arms turned black with bruises from
the paragliding cords. I stumbled out of bed on stiff legs.
Nor was I encouraged by being asked, before breakfast, to
fill in a disclaimer.
I'm not great at running at the best of times, let alone
with a heavy paraglider harness on my back and an unpredictable
paraglider wing above my head. Sometimes it swung off to
the left, sometimes to the right. My uphill trudges became
slower and the downhill runs became ambles. Yogi had an
answer to this: he ran behind and pushed.
Suddenly I was airborne. My legs were still moving but my
feet had left the ground. The seconds passed slowly as I
skimmed ever further: 20, 30, 40 metres. By the time I drifted
back to the ground my legs had stopped windmilling so I
fell over. I'd done my first "Bunny Hop".
That night at the guesthouse, a flood of 20 weekenders from
Mumbai transformed the atmosphere, blowing a blast of city
energy through the airy terraces. Qualified and trainee
pilots alike, they shared a love of free flight but otherwise
mixed professions, castes, religions, sexes and drinks.
The next day was the Hindu spring festival of Holi, and
our drive to the flight site ran a gauntlet of roadblocks
set up by small children expecting donations. We ran out
of coins first, then low-denomination notes, which meant
the last few Robin Hoods were left grinning in delight.
Not a grin from our party as we climbed a hill known as
Shelar, named after the farmer who owned the flatlands below,
and watched the windsock dangle despondently. To fly, a
steady wind of about 15km/h is needed and there wasn't a
breath. A British pilot who had arrived the night before
pulled out a paperback. A 12-year-old boy who had booked
for a tandem flight burst into tears. Everyone else sat
around, frustrated, talking climate change. Maharashtra's
famously reliable weather had let us down.
This left me with a slight problem. I'd gambled by allowing
just five days to complete a five-day course: now I was
a day adrift. Chief instructor took this challenge in his
stride. At 6am the next day we were up sipping sweet Indian
tea, ready to catch the morning wind. On three occasions
I climbed a 40m hill and flew down, following instructions
on an intercom strapped to my chest. Then I attempted a
final flight alone, which was fine until I overshot the
landing field and dumped several thousand pounds worth of
paraglider across three thorny bushes.
For my first soaring flight I took off from a ledge 80 metres
above the landing field and sheltered by a cliff behind.
My wing went up like a lift. For several moments I was terrified.
In open flight the wind noise was much greater than I expected,
and my wing seemed to take on a life of its own. When I
cleared the ridges of the Western Ghats, turbulence twitched
at my harness and it bucked around my shoulders. I'd been
told not to look up for reassurance, so I looked down to
see a Google Earth-like view of rural India, where even
big trees looked like small round bumps. The delicate smoke
trails of small kitchen fires should have given me valuable
information about the state of the wind but didn't. I just
prayed.
I was still flying, though, and a new range of lessons washed
away my fear. For a start, the simple steering I'd learned
close to the ground, pulling on left and right brakes to
turn or slow down, weren't enough to control the wing in
free flight. Instructions came though the intercom: "Shift
your weight to the right!" Strapped firmly into my
harness it didn't seem immediately obvious how this was
to be done. As if reading my mind, a more refined command
crackled through. "Cross your legs to the right!"
Immediately the wing responded, spinning in a curve that
seemed terrifyingly fast. Gradually I got the hang of controlling
my flight, crabbing across the clifftop to catch the breeze
and climb ever higher. The radio instructions fell away
and I picked my own course, describing a succession of long,
lazy figures-of-eight over the top of the world.
After an hour in the air I began to wonder how I'd get down.
The sun was setting and I half-remembered talk about evening
thermals that could affect whole valleys, vast tubes of
air that my fevered imagination suggested might send me
to meet the space shuttle. The instructor’s voice crackled
back on the radio and directed me away from the mountain.
Here a series of turns brought me effortlessly back to the
landing strip. I touched down soft as a feather, turned
and dropped the wing to furl into a neat concertina.
My instructor shook my hand and Shelar, the farmer, came
up to give me a celebratory cup of tea. That night I'd be
driving back to Mumbai and then flying home. But at this
moment, as a qualified P1 beginner pilot, I felt on top
of the world.
TRAVELLER'S GUIDE
GETTING THERE
Mumbai is served by British Airways (0870 850 9850;
www.ba.com),
Virgin Atlantic (08705 747 747; www.virgin-atlantic.com),
Jet Airways (0870 910 1000; www.jetairways.com)
and Air India (020-8560 9996; www.airindia.com),
from Heathrow.
To reduce the impact on the environment, you can buy an
"offset" from Equiclimate (0845 456 0170; www.ebico.co.uk)
or Pure (020-7382 7815; www.puretrust.org.uk).
PARAGLIDING THERE
Nirvana Adventures (00 91 22 2605 3724; www.nirvanaadventures.com)
organises paragliding courses at Kamshet in Maharashtra
state.
Five-day beginner pilot courses cost €400 (£286)
including five nights' accommodation, equipment hire, radio
supervision and site charges. Tandem, weekend, and novice
pilot courses are also available. Flying takes place from
October to May. Nirvana can arrange for guests to be picked
up from Mumbai airport for the three-hour drive to Kamshet
(Rs2,500/£30).
RED TAPE
British passport-holders require a visa, available from
India's High Commission (0906 844 4544, calls 60p per minute;
www.hcilondon.net).
Be warned that normal travel insurance does not cover adventure
sports such as paragliding: you will need to consult a specialist.
MORE INFORMATION
India Tourism: 020-7437 3677; www.incredibleindia.org.
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