A Flight to Remember by Patrick Foss Smith
It was with great trepidation, because of the current troubles in the area, that I recently visited the Middle East to commission a process plant at a sugar refinery. I had not been able to tell my wife and family where I was going and, for good reasons, it would not be prudent to reveal either the country I visited, or the people involved.
I flew out with a spare canopy for Joe, an Arab friend and experienced pilot who had recently learned to paramotor in England and was currently having difficulty launching his small tandem wing in the hot local conditions. Private flying in Joe's country is illegal and I was apprehensive that the airport customs officers would pounce on me for importing aviation equipment - I need not have worried as the customs officer was not in the slightest bit interested in the wing; instead he summoned the Chief Customs Officer to ask me, with a straight face and in heavily accented English, if the flue gas analysing equipment, I carried in a special suitcase, was "a nuclear weapon…" - he was wisely keeping an open eye for them that day!
I made contact with Joe and we agreed to have supper and do what all paramotor pilots do together - exchange
outrageously inaccurate flying stories and look at each other's flying pictures. During supper he asked if I would like to fly with him - a millisecond's sensible consideration of the risks of flying (illegally) someone else's equipment in an arid desert region affected by a regional war - "Yup!"
The next morning, Joe picked me up at 05:00 hrs in his vast 4 wheel drive and we drove out, on a deserted and pitch black highway, to an isolated turnoff. Then off-roading it to the flying field - well not exactly a field, more like a vast, silent, desert bowl formed by distant mountains.
Already at the site were a small group of helpers, in other off-road vehicles, quietly waiting for the boss to arrive. As the first light of dawn appeared behind the mountains my hosts washed their hands and feet before Joe summoned them for prayer. Facing towards Mecca and whilst intoning in Arabic in a deep melodious voice, Joe led the small group through their devotions - for me, a non-Muslim visitor, this was a deeply moving and poignant experience; I felt privileged to have been there.
Then the action: A vast tarpaulin (the landing strip) was quickly unfurled on the ground and weighted down with sand pockets, wings laid out, chairs arranged, radios checked, engines warmed up. Joe flew first whilst I helped his charming nephew with an engine problem. Then came the 'moment critique' ? British paramotor pilot, unfamiliar equipment, expectant audience - pulled the wing up in a cracking forward launch, two paces and off with a flourish in a swirl of dust.
Liar!
Actually it wasn't that bad, I got the wing up OK but hadn't reckoned on scampering across the entire desert until I'd built up enough ground speed to take-off - so up and down the dunes I went; eventually leaving the ground when Gravity finally gave up out of pity "Oh, for goodness sake let the poor blighter go…" I was so tired I couldn't get into the seat and just hung out to dry like a dripping flying suit on a washing line.
It was a magical experience flying above the desert floor watching the dunes pass slowly under my boots. I had been warned not to go above the 550 foot military radar horizon; but to hell with flying high, this was low flying city! Quite difficult to judge height over the desert floor and I found myself flying 'lower than intended', so-to-speak. The air was hot but smooth and great for hands-off flying, except when lower than 10 feet when things became interesting - Joe inadvertently, but harmlessly, removed the top of a small dune with his prop whilst in unexpected sink. The desert is a fairly uniform colour receiving uniform heating; but with strong local thermals rising from anything of a different colour. I videoed Joe's nephew rising at around 4m/sec in a thermal caused by our group of cars.
My landing was uneventful and not at all unplanned. I was met by the ground crew who cheerfully gathered in my wing, lifted the engine off my back and handed me an ice-cold bottle of water. The ground crew included a huge smiling Arab who delighted in the name of 'Precious' - he had the job of pull-starting reluctant engines; he could quite easily have bump-started Concorde.
By mid-morning it became too hot for the 'dripping Brit' so we left for Metropolis, and Joe's house, to do what all paramotor pilots do together. And the next day we did it all again, this time flying low through a vast remote canyon, inhabited only by camels and their calves, before again doing what all paramotor pilots do together - but this time in the air-conditioned saloon of Joe's beautiful powerboat…
I was touched by the warm generosity and hospitality received during my visit. I could not have been made more welcome and am grateful for an unforgettable experience. You'll know who you are - thank you!
Patrick Foss-Smith
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