The modern world is a funny place. Generation upon generation has developed a wealth of modcons meant to make life easier, but in the process we make life duller, too. Did you know that an electric toothbrush is perfect for scrubbing stubborn dirt out of pans? Come on, when was the last time you had an incontinence-inducing thrill? (Anywhere near a Bas Mini don't count too banal).

Gone are the days when we could throw things at sabre-toothed tigers to see if we could piss them off, or flash our willies at incoming projectiles a la any battle scene in Braveheart.

Mid-life crisis

When life gets too cozy, we start looking for arousal (and I'm not talking about Morning Thickness, if you know what I mean). Man has invented all sorts of terrifying pastimes where the means is the end (hopefully not of you, though). In this dare devil category, we've got bungee jumping, rock-climbing, and oh, parachuting.

Ah, yesss parachuting. Skydiving, as we one-jump veterans prefer to call it. You get into a plane with what basically amounts to a big shopping bag attached to you by tiny strings. You fly up to a stomach-churning height jump out. And here's where you shit your pants glide down, always hoping that when you land, you don't crash and burn'. And, viola, an incontinence-inducing thrill.

But before you experience reaches this heart-stopping (and pants-wetting) crescendo, you've got to do your homework. I decided to try out Kelab Sukan Payang, as they're the only parachuting instructors I've ever heard of in Bolehland. It turned out to be a weekend course (including first jump, only RM500).

The theory course was conducted in Azlan the Jumpmaster's living room whenever enough people showed up. The half dozen or so students were a mix of hung-over Canadians and eager-beaver Malays. No sooner were the introductions out of the way then the lights went out for a slide show. Big mistake. The hung-over Canadians fell asleep, as did the completely
sober Malays.

I remember being awakened for lunch. Then we went into the front yard to be shown a real, live, unfurled parachute and all the things that were supposed to happen, and what not to do: "When you jump out, try not to hit the back wing." Followed by a chilling double-entendre: "Spare parts are hard to come by"

When in doubt...

The afternoon was whiled away with more practical advice. "When you land, avoid palm trees."

By mid-afternoon, Azlan felt we were ready, but his oral exam tested our resolve more than our knowledge ("Are you scared?"). If the day's lessons didn't entirely instill confidence, at least it heightened the sense of adventure facing the unknown (unlearned?) and all that.

The next morning, we drove down to a remote dirt landing strip in Segamat, Johor ("This one, no regulations, lah!") where we were met by an ancient Piper Club plane whose seats and doors had been torn out. The Indian pilot was wearing headphones which, it turned out, didn't connect him to the dilapidated tower but to his Walkman ("I luuuuurve the Spice Girls!").

Every 25 minutes or so, the plane would take off with two students and Azlan piled into the back, fly over the clouds into the sun, and return cargo-less for another round. The problem was; of course, that the narrow red earth landing strip had to be shared by us novice jumpers and the plane.

I guess the fact that the students ended having to land around the same time as the returning plane ought to have heightened the sense of adventure that we paid such good money for. (One of the still hung-over Canadians suggested that Russian Roulette might be a safer and less stressful source of thrills).

When it was my turn, I was told to sit in the doorway and hold on to the pilot's pant leg so that I didn't fall out prematurely. Fair enough I always believe in safety first, too. Up, up we went through the gathering clouds before leveling off at 4,000ft. And then, without warning, the dreaded command came: "Jump!"

Put your right foot out

I kid you not, that's one thing they actually forgot to teach us. My fault for not asking, I suppose. Landing I understood: something about avoiding palm trees and propellers. But the actual act of jumping? No clue.

Going above the clouds at 4,000ft at 160 knots, we had to climb out onto the wheel and hold on desperately to the supporting wing strut. I have never been so f**king scared in my life. You look down between your feet and see nothing but clouds, tiny houses and a highway into the distances and then you have to let go. There was a case where a novice jumper froze up and the jumpmaster had to climb out onto the wing to pry her hands off the side of the plane. Hmmm

The feeling of freefalling all eternal three seconds of it before your parachute opens is like nothing I've ever experienced before. People talk about feeling weightless while scuba diving, but it's not the same as tumbling through the thin air and clouds.

Sure, on the one hand you could say that I paid good money to soil myself, but all I can say is if you need a wake-up call form the slumber of modern living, this is the way to go!

The truth, of course, is quite different: Azlan and his partner Captain Seri are perhaps the most qualified skydiving instructors we have, having won numerous awards and accolades for their professionalism and dedication to promoting this fine sport just ask anyone who has had the pleasure of learning from them.

For more information contact

Azlan can be contacted at parajump@tm.net.my.

Address and telephone number:

SKYDIVE KUALA LUMPUR
23 Jalan Indah 13
Taman Cheras Indah
56100 Kuala Lumpur
Malaysia

Tel: 03 9840063 (after 6 pm)

ERIK FEARN, a locally based travel-writer, has logged some fantastic trips in his time. But mixed in among these are some trips which turned out ... differently than expected.