Sky flying in the shadow of the Burj Khalifa
The Burj Khalifa in Dubai is the tallest structure in the world. With a total height of 829.8 metres (2,722 ft.) and a roof height (excluding antenna) of 828 metres (2,717 ft.), the Burj Khalifa is so tall that the temperature at the top is six degrees cooler than at the bottom. The observation deck is on the 148th floor at 555 metres (1,821 ft.) because floors above that are often lost in the clouds. Why anyone would want to jump off the top of the Burj puzzles me, but apparently that suggestion had been part of one of my press tour’s itinerary until sanity prevailed. Pardon me; one of the members of our group had suggested it as an experience we might enjoy. I’m still trying to find out who it was so I can remonstrate with him in a small corner with no witnesses.
Everything in Dubai is either the biggest in the world (the shopping malls, one with an indoor ski hill and another with a full-size hockey rink), or about to be the biggest in the world (the airport) or the tallest (the Burj) or the most expensive (the Royal Suite at the Atlantis Hotel). The city seems to have one of everything (a ski hill in the desert?). If it doesn’t exist already, it will be built soon. Our itinerary included idiotic experiences like racing around the world’s largest go kart track. It was 42 degrees Celsius, or about 200 degrees Fahrenheit, and you took your life in your hands stepping outside for more than 30 seconds, yet to prove my manhood I donned a racing suit and helmet and screamed around the blazing pavement.
We risked our lives “dune bashing,” flinging giant SUVs over huge sand dunes in the Empty Quarter of the endless desert, skied the ski hill, toured the shopping malls, went to a mosque, cruised the man-made canals, played with sea turtles, rode some camels and generally enjoyed all the tourist tat that such media tours entail. But we didn’t jump off the top of the Burj.
Over the years I have attempted to experience many activities that scare the snot out of me. I was given advice when I started my travel writing career that readers would enjoy my sorrow if I did such things. Better me than them, so to speak. I have taken pains over the years not to try anything that might actually kill me in the process (I won’t be trekking over the Himalayas with a maniac monk in the midst of a civil war any time again, thank you very much). Diving with great white sharks was fun, and chasing alligators is always good for a laugh. I don’t recommend having your ferry sink in a giant lake full of crocodiles though.
I enjoyed a 1,700-foot freefall on a zipline once, the highest in the world, and if they make diapers large enough I might do that again. Probably not. But jumping off tall buildings seems a really stupid thing to do. As the saying goes, it’s not the fall that kills you, although in my case it might, but the sudden stop at the end.
The wording on our Dubai itinerary was unclear. The parachuting idea had been nixed. Then we were supposed to fly above the city in an airplane so we could shoot photos and video, but somehow that didn’t work out. There was some other talk about pie in the sky (a helicopter ride?) and other things to do with vertical drops. I don’t know who suggested all these stupid ideas. I possess a serious fear of falling, something to do with wiping out on a mountain bike once and smashing my head on the ground. Yes, I was wearing a helmet at the time so I am still here, but the knock on the noggin resulted in some sort of inner ear issues. I get the flip flops looking down from great heights. When we went up to the observation floor at the Burj I literally had to crawl across the deck on my hands and knees to the edge and looking down at the 40-story skyscrapers far below gave me the spins.
Changes were made to the itinerary. Instead of falling from great heights, we were going to go “sky flying” instead. That is, the male members of the group were going to enjoy this activity because the female members of the group were last seen shopping at the largest mall in the world. I had no idea what sky flying was about, but I was told it had nothing to do with airplanes. The last time I was offered a parachuting experience I told the pilot I didn’t know why anyone would jump out of a perfectly good airplane. He replied: “What makes you think this is a perfectly good airplane?”
Sky flying, as it turned out, is a ground-based activity. There was a building located somewhere in one of the gigantic shopping malls in the vicinity of the Burj Khalifa that housed the equipment necessary to go sky flying. There was a waiting room where you watched a video that explained how the system worked. This stood in for proper training from an experienced instructor, which I would have preferred, but apparently not every sky fly instructor in Dubai speaks English. The video revealed there was a massive motor hidden away in the floor of the sky fly room with apparently enough power to put a man on the moon. The floor was actually a grate. The motor generated an incredible blast that blew you to the ceiling about 100 feet high above in a nano-second, should you be so stupid as to agree to stand on the grate, spread your wings and allow this blastoff to occur.
At this point the other member of our group of the male persuasion (who I suspect was the one who wanted to jump off the roof of the Burj) announced that he had issues with his neck, and his back. His head might fall off, he said, which was not good for his health. (What a coincidence, I thought, I have a stiff neck and bad back myself.) Therefore it would be necessary for him to avoid this particular activity on behalf of his desire to walk upright for the rest of his life. Someone else in our group, although not him, would be obliged to enjoy the experience in order to pacify the tour organizers who had gone toa great deal of trouble to find idiotic experiences for we journalists to endure. Why, they said, sky flying looked like a great deal of fun.
In order to fly to the moon, it was necessary to don a helmet, goggles and space suit. The googles required me to remove my glasses, which immediately rendered me as blind as a bat. I didn’t know which way was north or south. I waddled out from the dressing room like a wounded penguin looking for an iceberg on which to squat. My instructor gave me a blinding smile which I took to be a threatening gesture because all I could see were his teeth. Those of you who have been in the vicinity of monkeys may know that showing teeth is the sign of their imminent attack. I felt imperiled before I even got to the grate.
The rules were explained once again. The motor would be turned on. As the hangman says to his customers, all I had to do was step forward from the edge and lean forward. This would elevate me above the ground into a level plane and the instructor would grab me by the belt so I didn’t ascend immediately to the heavens. Then I would turn around with his assistance, slowly, to get used to being blasted by a hurricane. Once used to that procedure, he would release me so that I would float gently up to the sky, embrace the clouds and gently descend like an angel to kiss the ground and all would be well with the world. I didn’t believe a word he said but I agreed even though I knew I would immediately regret it.
He turned on the motor, which to me was akin to standing behind a 747 jet at take-off, and indicated I should lean forward. All I could see was the white of his teeth. Without my glasses I can’t find my way to the bathroom at night, so I was forced to put my life in to the hands of a Middle Eastern orthodontist who I had never met. I cursed myself for not announcing earlier my fondness for shopping, no matter what the garment. Why, I could have bought a bedsheet and fit right in with everyone in Dubai. Then suddenly without warning I was airborne.
God invented belts for a wide variety of purposes. For myself, I employ them to keep my pants from falling down. From time to time, usually in the presence of young ladies, I like to suck in my tummy with the predictable results. In this case, if my instructor hadn’t made a mad grab on my belt, I wouldn’t be here now to chat with you. I would be ensconced permanently in Dubai in a box buried in the sand, with an inscription on my grave marker indicating “here but by the grace of God fly you.”
I have heard the phrase “a mighty wind” used before to describe certain politicians but this was a different form of physical and mental distress. The force of the machine was tremendous. I had no idea what to do. I tried to turn but my instructor had a firm grip on my belt from behind which confused my body language. I glimpsed the entrance to the cage and its doorway posts and I made a mad stab at grabbing a post but he pulled me back. I felt like a marshmallow in a late autumn storm, like a single twig in a leaf blower. If he let go of me I might have ended up in Vladivostok.
In his earlier demonstration, my instructor had flown to the roof of the building, descended in a series of summersaults and landed on his feet like a ballerina. I had watched with some interest how he did this, because if he didn’t turn and float like a butterfly he would have dropped like a stone. I had no idea how to get airborne, never mind twist and turn on the way down, and I had visions of my doing a sudden face plant on the grate at the bottom and thereby turning myself into a serving of French fries. So I put up a battle.
Stupefied in my myopia, all I could do was blindly grab for the door frame of the machine. I could see it as we swung around like a pair of performing monkeys, but I couldn’t grab it because he had a death grip on my belt and kept pulling me back. I would get close and he would give me a yank. It was a game of tease. The whole time my heart was in my mouth in case he accidently let me go and I splattered myself against the roof of the building. Thankfully on one of our circumnavigations I shot one hand out and grabbed a doorway post, hung on for dear life and refused to let go. As my buddy tugged on my belt I suddenly stood up, cutting the air flow, and jumped out the door. Escape!
My good buddy, hip to such moves, landed on the floor right behind me and stepped outside, shaking my hand as he did so. I was ashamed of myself, a Sky Fly chicken, terrified to rise to the edge of infinity and beyond, a clumsy oaf in the adventure business and an embarrassment to my loyal legion of adventure readers. He continued to shake my hand as our tour leader came forward to translate.
“You set a new record for first timers,” she explained. “You lasted 45 seconds. Congratulations. He wants you to join him on the next stage, rising up to the top together hand in hand.” I declined the offer regretfully. The moral of the story is simple. If you are scared snotless the first time around, no need to double down on the experience, and I still want to know what idiot suggested we jump off the Burj Khalifa.