8

ALAIN AND THE KING

Aa kid, I used to imagine that a king was a man before whom we hould kneel down naturally and respectfully. Certainly the story of good King Dagobert, the 7th-century monarch of the Franks, made a big impression on me in my childhood but I also remember images of the flowery-bearded emperor Charlemagne, meditative and majestic, in the magnificent Gothic cathedral of Reims. Today, despite the erosion of monarchy and ceremony around the world, the decorum and pomp accompanying this tradition remains appealing. Not so in France though of course, as we rather dramatically ended all this by guillotining our last monarch, Louis XVI.

In the stifling humidity of tropical Kuala Lumpur, I am going to meet a real king. My first king and also my first queen as well as my first princess! And for this regal occasion, I want to do my absolute best.

From my suitcase I delicately remove my most beautiful black leather trousers. And now I hesitate for ages as I try to select the perfect top. What should I wear in such circumstances? I don't meet kings very often. What does protocol suggest? I know that it would be absolutely rude to have dinner with a king dressed in too casual a way. After trying on multiple tops, and after having spread them all over the floor of my hotel room, I finally make up my mind — my lizard-skin sleeveless waistcoat is just the thing for this very special event. I slip it on and size myself up in the mirror. So posh and trendy... Bare-chested in a lizard-skin waistcoat and black leather trousers... The result is very tasteful and will create a great stylistic splash for sure.

As I prepare for this remarkable meeting my head spins. The more I think of it, the less I succeed in understanding the sequence of events which will lead me, in less than an hour, to spend the evening with the highest personalities of Malaysia. Three days ago, I was rotting in a gruesome dungeon: a malodorous and gloomy hole besmeared with filth and grime, infested with cockroaches the size of bars of soap, and filled with a multitude of wretched and mistreated souls who slept on the bare floor. I had seen them beaten and physically abused, sometimes severely. I had myself been kicked viciously and needlessly by a cop. And I still hadn't forgotten the episode with my anus. I have gone from the misery of eating what is supposed to be 'food' off the ground to attending an exquisite banquet in the very best restaurant in Kuala Lumpur, and it really took only one step. Just like a fairy tale…

It was in Valence one day that due to a lack of projects I could not stop brainstorming. Beautiful stories often begin this way, during an aimless afternoon. For the thousandth time I had gone through that fat book which holds images of the world's most skyscraping architecture. I read a passage under a nondescript picture of a pair of concrete-and-steel skeletons surrounded by cranes, a picture I had not bothered with before. And then, a thunderbolt! These two immense towers, still under construction, were poised to be the tallest in the world, exceeding the current record holder in the States. The record holder was Chicago's Sears Tower, a stupendous structure that I had long yearned to climb but which had appeared all but impossible. The final height of these twin record breakers? A staggering 452 metres against the 443 of the Sears. These young giants were the Petronas Towers in Kuala Lumpur.

But Malaysia remained too distant, the idea of climbing too expensive as well as too vague. The buildings were not finished in the photo, so I did not know what texture they would possess. I could not be sure what I would be holding onto. Also, from a climbing perspective, it was pretty hard to distinguish the actual base of the building. Architects hamper me when they choose, especially for ambitious projects, to build the first ten or 30 metres with marble. Alright guys, marble is an attractive material which enhances the impression of height and adds a semblance of grandeur. I have nothing against marble but it occasionally prevents me from achieving some magnificent challenges.

Sometimes, if I am lucky, the top floor of an adjacent shopping centre allows me to avoid these impassable zones. It may be connected by a bridge, or it may simply back onto the tower I am chasing. Using these detours I can bypass the marble sections and access the rest of the structure.

From what I could see, the Petronas Towers had some of this marble but maybe, just maybe, I might be able to find a way past it. What a fantastic slap in the face! I have been inspired. Have you ever told yourself that a course of action is not feasible, that it would be better to wait until the next day to act? Have you ever found, just a few seconds later, a perfect excuse to abandon it altogether? And still does it not disturb your sleep at night, your subconscious mind angrily prodding you to remind you of your cowardice? Immediately I seize the phone and call the Gamma photo agency.

We enjoy some small talk about interviews, projects, life, Kuala Lumpur... Conveniently one of the agency's photographers has just come back from the Malaysian capital with a complete report on the impressive Petronas Towers. Ten minutes later, I give my wife a shout and I am in my little VW Golf, in fifth gear heading straight to Paris.

The white lines on the highway scroll into a flickering blur, which is good, because I have only one point left on my driving licence and I must evade the cops. I drive without a tax disc, dragging an unenviable trailer of several thousand francs of unpaid fines. I really don't want the cops to catch me and must ensure this journey is as brief as possible, so I push down on the accelerator. In Brazil, you can pass your licence if you are really pernickety, but the most common practice remains to forget about it and hand over a few notes when the cops catch you. Whatever happens, whether your papers are in order or not, you will have to pay a bunch of dollars to resume your journey. The concept of what is right when faced with a man with a gun and the law behind him is not discussed. What do I have affixed to my windscreen in place of my tax disc? The only thing I have ever had from the French state: a disability sticker which comes in handy for parking.

In the bustle of the agency, I meet the photographer who saw my towers. He answers all my queries but is not really able to guarantee that the base can be overcome. But a good piece of news is that he confirms the Petronas Towers truly are the highest towers on the planet, after a ruling by the CTUBH - the Council of Tall Urban Buildings and Habitat. The CTUBH has the final word on such matters and has ruled that the antenna of the Sears Tower in Chicago cannot be counted as an architectural feature. An American speciality for much of the 20th century, skyscrapers have been part of the brand image of our transatlantic cousins and they do not like sharing it. The Americans asserted that the Sears' immense broadcast and plane-guiding antenna made it higher than any other building, whilst competitors stated that this was a crafty addition with no purpose other than to claim the title. The Malaysians countered that the Petronas' concrete spires were an absolutely integral component of the structure, just as the mooring mast and depot for Zeppelins at the top of the Empire State Building was accepted as part of the Manhattan structure. All very contentious and a tricky battle of expert opinion. It is an argument that continues today as even taller buildings such as Taipei 101, the Shanghai World Finance Centre and Burj Dubai sprout up and overtake them, each vying for the distinction.

If Malaysia still remained a dream, another project was a concrete reality. For some months, I had been trying to scrape together a budget to go to Australia, where I hoped to climb Centrepoint or the Sydney Opera House. As is sometimes the way, a chance call opened the door. Suddenly the required finances materialised and I had only to fly there, some 24 hours from France. Seeking to kill two birds with one stone, I researched air routes and various fares to see if it was possible to grab a stopover in Kuala Lumpur. I had vaguely spoken to my photographer Alexis of my desire to go and see the Petronas Towers at close quarters during a brief visit there. But first things first. We had a few things to attend to in the land Down Under.

Sydney is a picturesque fairground with numerous attractions for the urban climber. The clear air quality and sharp light, not to mention the striking city backdrop, will make for some pretty escalating photos for my holiday album. Centrepoint, the city's observation tower, is the tallest freestanding structure. The slim stem of the tower section sits on top of an 11- storey combined office building and shopping centre. Since I have no way of inspecting the tower section itself until the actual ascent, I conduct my reconnaissance from a useful vantage point in the nearby Hilton Hotel.

From the hotel I observe a circular base of white cables, anchored at the foot of the main trunk section, which lead all the way to the top. They seem to cross over one another on the way up. The cables meet the edges of a circular disc-like platform halfway up, and then converge in a neat and tight ring against the stem some 50 metres or so above it, before fanning out again to join the cylindrical section at the top. The cables at the top half of the tower give the impression of forming a tautly pulled net, though this is just an optical illusion caused by the sight of cables upon cables from a two-dimensional perspective. I know I will only be able to get as far as the underside of the cylindrical top section containing the revolving restaurants and observation decks, as the enormous overhang and the smooth featureless exterior makes the crown of the tower impossible to reach or climb.

I return to Centrepoint the next day and quickly scale the 11 storeys of the concrete building at the base. I make the rooftop without incident — there is little evident security and I climb up unimpeded. The rooftop is deserted. But when I approach the giant trunk of the tower section and come face to face with the cables, I am immediately struck by an obvious problem. They are huge, much larger than they appeared through my binoculars. I had no idea the cables were going to be this large — they are wider than my thigh. Not only that, but they are painted with white gloss paint and slippery: significantly more slippery than the thinner rope-like cables of the Golden Gate Bridge. Back then, I had a square space between four cables in which I could wedge myself and climb, but here I have just the one fat pipe-like cable. I am hesitant at the thought of trying to climb these enormous glossy cables after the difficulties I faced in San Francisco, but I decide to try it.

I wrap my hands around two crossing cables and push up with my feet. My hands don't feel so secure, due to the dimensions of the cable, but my feet seem to hold okay. I climb cautiously at first to acquaint myself with the cable then decide to ascend as if I were harvesting coconuts up a 305-metre palm tree. The escalation is tricky and tiring, demanding much energy, but I feel optimistic about my chances of success.

Soon I have ascended high enough that I am visible from ground level, and it doesn't take long to realise that scores of Sydneysiders are pointing upwards. A news helicopter is encircling the tower and a few heads are peering over the edge of the top. As I near the disc at the halfway point I become aware of some activity up there. There are several cops awaiting me and it is clear that I cannot avoid them. Sadly it seems the climb will end here.

At the disc there is unfortunately little room for humour today as amongst the cops there is a female one, and a woman cop is of course even more terrible than a man. I am unsure why this is the case — perhaps they feel they need to overcompensate to match the natural authority their male colleagues possess? I really don't know, but all over the world I find there is almost always a bitch inside the uniform of a woman cop. And this Australian one, whinging and whining sarcastically through her nose and threatening me with physical violence, is horrendous.

I am arrested, held in a cell for a day, then swiftly taken to court and fined. The climb was always going to be problematic or perhaps even impossible to finish so the outcome is not that much of a surprise. The reception from the antipodean press is warm, even if this escalation was ultimately a failure.

To end my trip down to Oz on a positive note, a few days later I decide to nip up the Sydney Opera House early in the morning. It is certainly iconic but the Opera House does not pose a significant challenge, standing at a modest 183 metres at its apex. More importantly, it lacks verticality and is more of a walk up a hill than a climb. This little diversion is more about enjoying the famous scenery. Plodding up its curving roof to catch the sunrise over Sydney Harbour makes for a splendid morning. Once I have absorbed the sight I drop back down off the roof in around 40 seconds, totally unnoticed by anyone and totally satisfied.

Alexis and I make our way back to France, but en route our 747 touches down in Kuala Lumpur to enable us to disembark. As soon as we pass through immigration and customs we get down to business. Our schedule is tight with no time for hanging around.

Straight from the airport I jump into a taxi, a pair of binoculars in hand. The car slaloms through a river of traffic gushing into the capital, a gigantic sprawling construction site with more than four million inhabitants. Far off, in a haze of humidity and pollution, my towers are already outlined. As we approach them I gasp. It is often said that a skyscraper tears the fabric of the sky. But here they rip it, shred it, pulverise it! New York's ill-fated twin towers can be compared to these giants. The World Trade Centre buildings seemed high, but hugged by a multitude of nearby skyscrapers, they did not dominate the sky as much as their measurements would suggest. In Kuala Lumpur, the Petronas Towers erupt from an area of parkland and lower buildings, emphasising their height more starkly.

The taxi stops close by, and I pay my rip-off rate after a bit of a battle with the driver. At the base of the towers, at the world's biggest construction site, the builders hammer, clank and mix away in a rush to complete the immense shopping centre which forms part of the complex. Around the edges of this enormous site a corrugated fence forbids access and I cannot find a point from which I can observe the base of the building.

The towers themselves are finished and handsome indeed. Clearly inspired by the minarets of Islam they are full of pride, purpose and identity. Many-sided and receding inwards towards their twin spires they look eminently climbable, at least at first glance. The two-storey sky bridge on the 41st and 42nd floors, which connects the two towers, is quite unusual and catches my eye although it will have no bearing on my climb. With my binoculars, I try to decipher this enigma. Thoughtfully I rub my chin. After the first 30 metres, invisible from this angle, the escalation seems to be quite straightforward. Still, it will be necessary to get that high in the first place.

Back in my hotel room the TV is on as I fiddle with some crap in my luggage. A news story abruptly jerks my head up. Images of my escalation in the land of kangaroos and boomerangs scroll before my dumbfounded eyes. It is like announcing to all Malaysia that my next objective will be the highest towers in the world, right here in their capital. And this is a nation that doesn't like people to challenge authority at all. Well, too bad guys, I have a little something for you! But already it is clear that this project has a whiff of danger about it. While in Sydney I had run the idea past my Australian lawyer. He told me straight that Malaysian prisons closely resemble the Turkish jails of Midnight Express. They are no picnic. According to him, the security forces have few scruples when it comes to putting the boot in or splitting a lip and the police force's reputation is terrible. Furthermore, Malaysia being a Muslim country, I do not really know whether the judges will enjoy my joke or not. I cannot be sure how my climb will look in their eyes.

The phone rings. I am asked to participate in two television shows in France, and this should provide enough time for the local authorities to forget about me. The timing is probably a good thing. I decide to return home and ponder this challenge. My photographer friend Alexis remains in KL to obtain a flying licence, without of course revealing our true intentions. But my hunch that the authorities were on my case appears well founded — during my absence, Malaysia's secret police pay an impromptu visit to Alexis demanding to know the purpose of my visit.

I walk merrily if unsteadily off the plane at Kuala Lumpur International Airport just ten days later, having got utterly drunk with my neighbour on the plane. In a bit of a whirl I hit the shower on arrival in the tropics to try to regain a more human appearance. I stand out a mile here. With long blond hair, leather outfit and cowboy boots, no secret policeman will get a medal for tracking me down. I hardly make it difficult for them with my nice clothes. As the water sprays my face I do my best to shake off the effects of the alcohol as MTV is going to interview me in less than an hour, and I climb very early tomorrow. The climb will be timed to avoid the overwhelming midday heat and the frequent tropical downpours in the afternoon. For such a huge tower, an escalation can easily last several hours or even more.

Semi-sober, I rush to my meeting with MTV. The interview takes place at the top of a tower, in a panoramic restaurant offering a magnificent view of the Petronas Towers a few kilometres away in the distance. In spite of the prospect of alerting the security services, I speak very freely about my plans for the next day. Whatever happens, the local authorities already know where I am and of course they must know why. No one is unaware.

Between two filming sequences, I slot a few coins into a telescope to look at the silhouettes on the horizon which obsess me. From here I can really appreciate the magnitude of my target. It's one big, big climb. I sip some water to continue rehydrating myself after the effects of the flight and the unplanned alcohol. Tomorrow, it will be necessary to carry some water to stay hydrated. Drinking hydrating fluids delays the onset of lactic acid, an essential precaution for such an effort and in such a climate. Maybe getting 'shit-faced' — as my neighbour described it — wasn't the best thing to have done but sometimes you meet people and things just snowball.

It is dark and I am finding it extremely difficult to sleep. Tomorrow is already today. At 7:00am sharp, still foggy with jet lag, I shall engage in a battle against the world's highest towers. Even if, according to my observations, the climb does not seem technically extreme, the scale, the heat, the dust, the doubt and the uncertainty of the subsequent punishment fill me with less than my usual composure. Nevertheless, it is from this acrid mixture that I find my strength, an immovable motivation which will push me movement after movement, onwards and upwards. I know that this pressure is a true ally, but feeling it pressing on my shoulders tonight pushes me into a world of nightmares. My Everest, my twin peaks will decide whether I live or die. I am humbled by them, drawn to them like a moth to a flame. They obsess me.

It's 6:00am. I awake, petrified. My alarm clock rings out like a shattering window. The bell catapults me as a battered contender into the middle of a boxing ring before a hungry crowd and a mountain of muscle eager for blood. It is a superfluous image, but at this moment, my tortured imagination summons this last fragment of nightmare. I must override my biological clock to break out of my lethargy. In spite of its frightening harshness I always pack my ancient clock with its shrill bell and terrifying tick-tock which fills the room. I cannot part with this menacing timepiece. It accompanies me in all my ascents, even if the noise of its mechanism is sometimes unbearable for me. I think I need this sensation of discomfort to dramatise the situation, to provide the stress which transforms a man into a wild animal; because in this mortal contest, I must give everything, I must fight to survive. To me it seems difficult to launch a survival operation without previously being tortured mentally or physically by an enemy.

Seven o'clock. A car drops me in front of the barricades of mankind's highest towers to date. I waste no time and just get out and run straight through the gates. The security services start running as well. It's that manic scramble again. I just love it — this is surely the best way to start the day. During this dash of two or three hundred metres, I have time to neither think nor doubt. Shouts ring out from all directions, the sounds of anger and panic assail my ears, and the multiple pounding of footsteps on the hard surface betrays determination equal to my own. But I can see salvation! And there is no marble at the base of the tower. I spring away and fly up the side of the building as fast as I can.

I am out of reach of the guys on the ground within seconds, but still I power upwards. Five minutes. Ten minutes... Breathless, I wait with fear for the first bark of an Alsatian from a window or for the blast of a firearm. I wonder why I have never been used as a human bull's-eye in certain countries. It really wouldn't surprise me if one of these days some security guy went too far. But so far, nothing out of the ordinary has happened. The guards surely must have known that a game of cops and robbers was on the cards for today but as usual they are a few steps behind me. The first point goes to Spiderman.

I am a few dozen metres above them, the necessary safety margin to pause to regain my breath. Conditions are hazardous as the towers are still an immense construction site. My slippers look more like workmen's boots than the graceful ballerina slippers of a dancer. One way or another I have to clean the soles, keep them bare and smooth. This mixture of rubber and resin, the same material which is used for the tyres of Formula One race cars, must fully contact and grip the building or else I will slide like a rally driver on a dirt track. The uninitiated often wonder why a climbing boot does not have a sole adorned with crampons, as a mountaineering boot does. The larger the contact area, the more adhesion one gains, provided of course that the surface is uniformly clean. Additionally, a flexible and slim sole allows for great sensitivity. The soles need to warm up to gain adhesion and efficiency, just like the tyres on a race car. Rock climbing boots have been developed from the same technology and the same challenges require the same remedies.

As expected, the structure does not raise insurmountable technical problems. Sure, the passage from one floor to the next requires full concentration, and the scale of the building in this heat is quite sapping, but a good rest after every section allows me to recover. I brought plenty of fluids in a squeezy pack and I grab a drink, hanging from one arm. As usual I rest by suspending my weight from one arm and then the other, letting my free arm dangle whilst shaking it to relax it and to lose the fatigue. Inside the Petronas, behind the grime and dust of the newly glazed bays, I see workmen between showers of fiery sparks. Construction workers are engrossed in their tasks, yellow helmets screwed onto their sweaty heads. I enjoy this moment of voyeurism, spying on this scene we are forbidden to see. None of them suspect that at this moment, the French Spiderman observes them from the outside. Behind them, just for a minute, they have a man-shaped interruption to the perpetual monochrome blue of the sky.

After 350 metres of escalation I am approaching the 60th floor. And here I face the thorniest problem, one which troubled me most during the night. The last section of the tower is blocked by an obstacle. It is a circular terrace, two metres wide with a balustrade, and virtually impossible to pass unnoticed. Hope being the favoured weapon of the ambitious, I remain optimistic. This is where they will intercept me for sure but I harbour a little hope that I can tiptoe past them. The design of the structure unfortunately does not allow me to move sideways, which might let me appear somewhere unexpected and dodge any welcoming committee.

I move in stealthily. Two floors from the terrace, a head pops over with a radio. Merde! That is it then. I have lost. Unless, as in Brazil, they forget to put me in handcuffs...

Still concentrating fully — nothing is more dangerous than to lose focus under pressure — I flop over onto the balcony where the guards seize me violently and all my illusions vanish into the humid haze. Objectively, I knew from the beginning of my journey that my chances of reaching the summit were slim. But still I cannot refrain from feeling profoundly disappointed.

Firmly grasped on the terrace I manage a glance upwards. Only 80 metres from the summit, I contemplate my Everest, now inaccessible. For those mountain climbers who want to reach the roof of the world, the weather report is their incorruptible watchdog; for them, fate lies in the goodwill of the skies. In my case, defeat results only from the inability of the cops or guards to appreciate the necessity of human triumph over adversity. Sometimes I have seen a sparkle in the eyes of the men whose duty it is to catch me. Those men can see it, they understand the poetry behind my climb. But these guys don't treat me so nicely — I am just a criminal, a guy who has stepped out of line and who needs to be overpowered and roughed up. I guess guards are just guards, we can't ask them to display intelligence or understand philosophy!

When I am brought back to the cracked mud of the construction site, I overhear that an official visit took place here today. So that is why there are so many guards! It is not my day. Alexis had been called back to France so Lim, an independent Malaysian photographer, has been arrested too.

Amongst the cranes, machines and scores of construction workers, the leader of the guards steps forward. I give him a smile as his henchmen clutch our hands behind our backs. He walks up to us and coldly stares at me from behind his shades as if he was some bad guy in a Bond movie. He does not seem to laugh with me and even less with Lim, who silently absorbs some painful and noisy slaps across his face. I am saddened by this. It really seems like this is the normal way to conduct business here. Oh, the malaise of Malaysia... Once he is done with his cameo, the Bond villain gestures to his henchmen. Grabbed by our collars, we are dragged to the nearest police station, where I immediately notice that everybody is wearing military fatigues. The atmosphere here is certainly not as nice as it was in Europe!

An angry fellow, rather big for an Asian, faces us. His authority is apparent in his build and manner and the fact that he is the only one wearing a cap. Bordering on hysterical, he roars at us in fury. Everybody takes a step back as he blows his top — the cops, the photographer and I are swamped by this tsunami. I don't understand a word of it but I don't need to understand Bahasa to know what is meant by this raging thunderstorm. A second officer gives me a report to be signed. Automatically, I ask to acquaint myself with the contents of it, but what is a basic legal right in Western countries seems to be considered an insult here. For the capped officer, this is too much. The violence behind his immobile face is convulsive and it is clear this is a man who enjoys terrorising people. There is an expression on his face... a desire to inflict pain.

Lim casts himself at the feet of the chief, on his knees, imploring forgiveness. The cops seize him by the armpits and drag him to another room. Lim, who had at our first meeting proudly shown me his visiting card bearing the embossed title 'Photographer — Fashion Designer', behaves now in a much humbler way. As I am dragged down the corridor past him I see his underpants lying like a rag on the ground and Lim cowering naked in front of the guards...

I have no idea what happened to Lim. I hope he was just beaten up and released, as he didn't break any laws — he didn't climb, he didn't trespass, all the poor guy did was take photographs. Me, I am left here to rot.

After two days in prison under the control of this diabolical despot, the French embassy intervenes and frees me from my cell. I had begun to think that I might be there for weeks or even months. The Australian lawyer was right about the grisly nature of Malaysian prisons. I was kicked two or three times by a screaming guard, molested during an invasive body search, and saw sadistic violence in that place. I knew that I would not be forgotten and that my release would come. But at that moment, I never guessed that news of my ascent would reach the highest echelons of power, falling onto the desk of the Minister of Transport - the Prime Minister's right-hand man — and that this dungeon episode would only be a prelude to five astonishing weeks.

I'm out. I'm free! Back at the hotel I savour my liberty. I appreciate simple pleasures in life the most. Something tasty to eat and a clean flushing toilet get me very excited. And so do the luxuries of air conditioning and clean carpets after the air and floors I have had to suffer, let alone the mod cons like kettles, TVs and mini-bars.

I catch up with events on the outside and learn that the Dato, this famous Minister who has become my guardian angel, has publicly announced that I will be granted a licence to reattempt my ascent of the Petronas Towers. From the moment the news breaks, the hotel is invaded by journalists. What is going on? The whole country drops by Room 7239: from the Dato to an entire delegation of deaf-mute Malays. I have very fond recollections of my unexpected meeting with the latter. With a sign-language textbook in front of me, I communicated with them the best I could. It was a warm and touching experience.

All manner of people pass through and want to meet me. The most incredible? A visit by the police chief. The same hysterical and detestable tyrant who had humbled me and Lim just a few days earlier now waits patiently in the lobby for me to accept his invitation to dinner! Apparently he wants to hear more about me and wants to tell me more about himself too. It is an offer that I obviously decline. After all, I had already had the opportunity to enjoy his hospitality.

Thanks to the Dato, I live like a prince. This man of authority, president of a humanitarian organisation — nothing is more fashionable for the elite than to be interested in the misfortune of others — is my pass, my guide, my magic wand. He opens every door. I have only to follow his lead as his orders cannot be discussed. Often, he offloads like a tornado in my room, no matter what time it is. He dictates my to-do list for each day, lining up a chain of press conferences and dinners with high officials. When you are caught up in this beguiling whirlwind, there is no escape. All you can do is go with the flow. I had moved from the violence of the prison's inner courtyard, where the guards looked forward to meting out random blows from their truncheons upon their fellow human beings, to the luxuriant splendour of receptions with the men who rule over the country and over those very jails. The inconsistency of the state's reaction to me filled me with bewilderment.

The Dato arrives in my room one day even more excited than usual, while I am engaged in an almighty session of body-building, not forgetting to sample a glass of wine between each series of press-ups. I am French after all. Even in the privacy of a hotel room, it is necessary to know how to be a little sophisticated... With a huge smile, the Dato announces that the royal family wants to have dinner with me. My reaction is to choke on my wine. I look at this man without understanding his motivations, nor what urges him to introduce me a little further into his world every day, as if he had a mission. He has even provided me with a car and chauffeur, a gorgeous Mercedes-Benz limousine. An A-Class would have been more than sufficient!

For every invitation, I try to push the exuberance of my clothing a little further. They want the French Spiderman, the crazy guy who has never heard of stairs? Then they will get him. It is in this state of mind that I start this special evening, being simultaneously respectful and disrespectful.

My limousine stops in front of the Shangri-La, the hotel housing what is reputedly the best restaurant in the capital. The chauffeur removes his cap then opens the back door. I extend one leg, then both, to test my clothes on the photographers who have already invested in a place near the entrance. In case things deteriorate, I have brought along a black jacket in the back of the car. Certainly, nobody expected to see my lizard-skin waistcoat, but I consider the reaction positive enough. The royal limousine also draws up in front of the steps. Ready... steady... go! The Dato, surprised but resigned, lines up beside me and then introduces me to my regal hosts. One hour beforehand, he had insisted on my adherence to the protocol to be followed during the introduction. Of course, I had to say "Your Majesty" and so on. Naturally, I mix everything up, I muddle the polite phrases with incomprehensible gibberish, but nevertheless everything seems to go okay. A little bit of fun cannot do any harm. No premeditation or lese- majesty here, just a little bit of confusion... Later I shall be told that certain newspapers the following day criticised my clothing.

As we enter the restaurant, the diners stand up and wait for a signal from the King to continue their meals. Dressed in a dark suit and Malay-style hat, the King, a man in his fifties, settles down at the table, inviting us to do the same. In front of me sits the Princess, a beautiful woman in her early thirties dressed in a very chic Chanel suit. She is strict but smiling and relaxed enough to make me feel comfortable. She is also responsible for a charity organisation. For two hours, synchronised with the rotating tray of dishes, I answer the classic questions: Why do I climb? Am I afraid? Is Paris always Paris? The usual routine.

Armed with my chopsticks, I try to avoid two principle fears: turning the tray while the King or Queen are using it and, more likely, dropping the piece of fish clamped between my chopsticks onto the tablecloth. Imagine this moment of absolute solitude when your intended morsel splatters on your trousers or falls inside your waistcoat or upon the table, while the highest personalities of a country watch in silence. I believe I don't commit too many indiscretions unless, in an effort to eat only those things which I can capture with my disobedient chopsticks, it is considered bad form to eat a veritable vineyard of red-hot cayenne peppers.

The Dato seems to have so much influence that he does not doubt for a minute that his idea of an escalation for charity will go ahead. Furthermore, the King is interested. And thanks to our association tonight, his daughter would also like to be there. The dinner finishes on this inspiring note of optimism. I will be able to climb my Everest. What an evening!

Sunk into the leather upholstery of the limousine, I cannot help but marvel that life is full of unforeseen developments. But things take a little twist. While I am watching TV in my hotel later, I see an interview with the Chairman of the Kuala Lumpur City Centre (KLCC), the complex which includes the shopping centre as well as the twin towers which sit beside it. He formally refuses to grant a licence to organise a show on the towers, and says there is not the slightest chance that I will obtain one, no matter who my supporters are. Apparently, he is not kidding: my lawyer makes additional enquiries regarding the proposed climb and is assured of my immediate expulsion to France if I make a second attempt. The Dato has free rein over state matters, it seems, but no right of intervention over private property.

The previous year, the Chairman had refused to let a Hollywood director shoot a scene near the towers for a James Bond movie. All this in spite of the financial rewards, the marketing spin-offs created by the world fame of Ian Fleming's hero, plus indeed the knock-on benefits this could have on national tourism, and on top of all that the presence of Bond girl Michelle Yeoh, a prominent Malaysian actress! Could I sleep after this news? No way. I was condemned to stare at the ceiling, mulling over the decreasing chances of seeing my project succeed.

The next day, a TV channel contacts me for my reaction to the rather austere intervention of the Chairman. I have nothing to say, apart from proposing a direct confrontation between him and me on a talk show, so that each of us can express his point of view. Such a duel will not take place, the Chairman having neither the time nor the inclination to face me, since his inflexible position, radically opposite to public opinion, will not increase his popularity. For now the climb really seems impossible. I could make another attempt but the terrace will only be overcome if the security guards let me pass, or if I pull off an improbable escape act. My goal of climbing the Petronas Towers seems destined to failure. I must try to put it to the back of my mind. This assault remains shelved, but not entirely buried in the innermost canals of my cortex. Maybe one day...

Disappointed but not discouraged, I look around for another target. Thanks to the Dato's invitations to many high-profile functions and banquets, plus a number of interviews I have given, I am sailing high in the media. There is an air of expectancy. Malaysia needs an escalation. Also I am aware that there are figures out there who will not react so stuffily as the Chairman of the KLCC. I suggest to the General Manager of my hotel, the Melia Kuala Lumpur, that I climb his building legally. He almost falls out of his chair, the unexpected publicity exhilarating him. In an instant he declares me a permanent guest of his establishment. My lawyer insists with the police that the traffic is regulated, to avoid any complaints. With everything done above board there can be none of the shenanigans I had at the police station — nor in prison.

The ascent of the Melia Kuala Lumpur is relatively difficult, requiring a lot of technical know-how and really testing my mettle. A good crowd look on in delight, applauding and cheering like a bunch of school kids. It warms me that my climbing is truly appreciated in Asia.

When I get down to the ground for my post-escalation interview, I assert that this escalation was technically more difficult than the Twin Towers, a remark not greatly appreciated by the KLCC. This is no idle statement. I repeat again to the interviewer as I have done around the world: the height of a building does not proportionately influence the intrinsic difficulty of climbing it. A modest three-storey building can be more complicated and dangerous than a 400-metre tower. Recently, during a dinner in France, some restaurateur friends of mine asked me to climb the façade of their establishment, just for fun, as if the comparison between the highest skyscrapers of the planet and their modest shop window made the climb laughably easy. Visually, and also in terms of psychological commitment, there is absolutely no comparison. I thus went to inspect this locally famous façade . Spiderman or not, I am definitely no gecko. I need grips, even tiny ones, to resist the gravitational pull of the earth... Levitation would be a useful skill for a climber, and I am working on it, but so far I do tend to go to hospital when I get detached from a cliff. If there are no grips then I can't climb an inch. Height is a lesser issue — the dimensions of a building only become important later on when they start issuing a broader range of strategic and risk management concerns.

The momentum of this hotel climb helps drive on the prospect of the charity show we had originally hoped for, though now it seems to have shifted its location away from the capital on Peninsular Malaysia over to the state of Sabah on the island of Borneo. The Chief Minister gives his consent for me to climb a 34-storey tower which belongs to the government. The building is named the Sabah Foundation. The charity project is finally taking shape, though I still need to verify the feasibility of scaling the building.

I jump on the first plane for Borneo and head directly to the Sabah Foundation which, surprisingly, is outside of the state capital Kota Kinabalu. Instead of sitting among the grey streets of the city, or even its suburbs, it sits in green fields on the edge of the ocean. A few kilometres away I can already make out its silvery-blue cylindrical form. It reflects the ocean, the sky and the vegetation, situated along the shore of a dreamlike beach. The Sabah Foundation stands proud and alone in a quite improbable setting. There is nothing here except nature, the sands and a shiny cylinder gleaming in the sun. Why build a skyscraper in a rural area? There is no premium for land here and any remote project like this would also require new infrastructure to support the staff who work there. Not impossible of course, but just plain weird, especially when one bears in mind that Kota Kinabalu is a small and relatively flat city. It's almost like a helicopter with a winch had flown into a crowded metropolis and stolen a building, then dropped it off on a random beach. For the office workers it must be difficult to pop to the bank in their lunch break or hide in a bookshop. And where do they all go for lunch?

None of these issues are my concern. I am here to climb, not to consider the dining habits of the building's secretaries. My success rests on the shoulders of the architects who conceived it. Did they leave a fault, a weakness for me to exploit? More than my safety is at stake — this climb is for charity, for people in need. Because of this I approach the building with a rare degree of stress. The shiny cylinder begins to grow and grow, my eyes darting all around her. About 500 metres from the tower, many of my doubts fly away: there is a long vertical crack leading to the summit.

Three hundred people wait for me as I exit the limo. There is also a ludicrous number of photographers. This spiral of people shifts along with me at its core, and a trail of other press and onlookers follow in my wake. From above we must look like a giant sperm cell moving towards a huge egg. Engulfed by the crowd, I progress towards the flight of steps. The sperm reaches the egg and the DNA packet, me, is injected inside. The ascent is conceived.

Where am I going? As usual I must see the summit. From the roof, I jump over the edge of the building, to the dumbfounded stares of my companions, dropping down the top two floors, then going back up them. I bound back onto the roof and confirm that I am 110% sure that I am able to climb it. There's no problem with the building and the charity show will be excellent.

There are just over 72 hours before I climb the Sabah Foundation. Unfortunately it is too short a time to arrange the merchandising operations which were originally bandied about as a useful method of increasing the day's takings. For my part, I only have to have a minimal discussion to establish the payment I will receive. But this discussion takes place in a rather indiscreet setting — before the cameras.

During a press conference, surrounded by various ministers, I am asked what my fee will be, so I announce that I would like to keep ten percent of the earnings. What are the costs? Obviously, I have no idea of what those are, but ten percent seems to be a suitable figure. My lawyer, who is absent this particular day, calls me. He is furious, absolutely raving! According to him, my earnings should be aligned with the percentage taken the previous year by Michael Jackson. When I tell him that the gig is not the same — Jackson has to perform on stage and this requires much more management — he replies that the risk-taking, too, differs strikingly and adds that the absurdly rich singer does not have these kinds of scruples. Well, I hadn't thought of that. My lawyer is most pissed off. I guess he is pounding the table because this reduces the fee he can levy on me. But anyway, thanks to his intervention, the government waives the taxes which I would have been subject to.

All this money talk is a bit disconcerting. Fees, taxes, percentages; who cares? Even if I am not the sort of man to be repulsed by cash, this sort of gold-digging at a charity bash seems a little out of place to me. In the past I have climbed for humanitarian events without ever asking for financial compensation. It seems logical that if an artist wants to advertise himself by putting himself in the 'shop window' at a charity show, no problem, but if he is paid. well, we are at odds with the principle of the show. Surely there's a time for earning and a totally different time for offering your services to help others, a time when it's not about personal gain.

Sometimes I wonder what is going on at these charity events. For ATD Quarter World I was once invited to go down a façade on the Champs-Elysèes which had been especially decorated for the occasion. Bernadette Chirac and Geneviève de Gaulle were there, along with a plethora of actors and famous personalities. My role was to open a succession of windows to represent the opening of vacant Parisian apartments for the homeless. Unfortunately the cold had frozen these windows shut, and instead of opening as expected, they splintered and shattered, broken glass raining down upon the pavement. A political commentator could interpret that metaphor in any way he liked. The event was a success but the press conference had been held in Fouquet's, a very swish restaurant where the slightest glass costs an obscene amount of money. Hey, what is this all about? The plight of the homeless? Or the ability of Fouquet's barman to make magnificent cocktails? It didn't feel right to be clinking glasses in such luxury while the homeless froze outside. So I went out to climb the façade again.

The first time I had the chance to help a charity was on Christmas Eve in my home town, Valence. On December 23rd I had been chatting with a doctor friend who devoted some of his spare time to The Children of the Caravan, an association which tries to rehouse homeless people in old and specially converted trains. The next day, while everyone was fussing about with last-minute Christmas shopping, I found a paper mill among the pedestrian streets of the city centre and asked the boss for permission to repeatedly climb three floors of the building. Meanwhile, my wife, my children and a few good friends were selling my picture postcards to raise funds for the association. Being late December it was bitterly cold. An icy wind rushed through the alleys, robbing the colour from passers-by. Twenty times or so I climbed this mill, much to the interest of passing onlookers. They were captivated by the ascent but little motivated by the idea of spending ten francs. At midday, I was getting nervous. We had made next to nothing. As indifference appeared to be in fashion (I even saw my own parents carefully avoiding me), I ripped off my top and climbed the frosted mill bare-chested. What did that achieve? Well, nothing apart from a raging fever the next day. The operation brought in 1,500 francs. Not much really, considering the effort we all put in.

But Valence did do a little better another time. On behalf of Kiwani, an association which buys wheelchairs, I climbed the beautiful City Hall. The boys at the football club had sold tombola tickets the week before and the prize draw at the escalation generated enough money to buy three fancy wheelchairs. My T-shirt went under the hammer and was sold for 200 francs. Not bad at all for a second-hand shirt!

And there are times, unlike that chilly Christmas Eve in Valence, when people really get behind you. My climb of the Montparnasse Tower with Le Réverbère was an agonising but ultimately successful ascent in terrible conditions with gusts of wind reaching 100 kilometres an hour. But I received plenty of support and it galvanised me to battle on. Abbe Pierre himself, a member of the French Resistance in the Second World War and the founder of the homeless charity Emmaus, gave me a call to convey his thanks. The newspaper salesmen were all at the foot of the tower egging me on; the firemen, worried but supportive, were with me all the way. Even the cops did their bit, clamping small 'thank you' notes under the windscreen wiper of my car rather than parking tickets.

It's the day of the climb in Borneo and the fire brigade tell me that they are determined to install a safety net at the base of the tower. My response? It's completely useless! No net can save me from a 100-metre fall! If you want to slice and dice me into little cubes for a Spiderman casserole, then sure, the net is fantastic. The effect would be like making a serve with a worm instead of a shuttlecock in a game of badminton.

After half an hour of discussion, having explained the uselessness of the thing, I am running out of words. Increasingly exasperated, I decide to draw a line under the affair. If there is a net, I tell them, I shall deliberately avoid it and fall on the ground. Firstly, I would prefer my corpse to be stretchered off the concrete rather than swept up by firemen with a dustpan and brush. But more importantly than that, people are coming to see me, the urban climber, the guy who climbs buildings without ropes. They will come from all around to donate their hard-earned money to our fight against AIDS and cancer. They deserve a spectacle deserving of their enthusiasm and support. I don't mean to sensationalise myself, I just want the good people below to be given the thrills and spills that we used to enjoy at the circus in years gone by.

Also I feel I owe everyone a bit more. Maybe it is stupid, but the idea of taking money from this operation makes me ill at ease and I am anxious to realise this ascent correctly, as if I had done it for myself, illegally. Coming from a humble background in France and being dunked into this jacuzzi of gold in Malaysia over the past weeks has reminded me of my luck and fortune in life. I really have to give something back. I feel like a footballer in a penalty shoot-out at the World Cup. I have to put everything I have into it. Eyes are upon me, people expect and hope.

The fire brigade reluctantly relent. But I must also respect the wishes of the locals in other matters. Apparently basing this show on a Frenchman risks inflaming certain old-fashioned types and politically motivated xenophobic critics. To mitigate this, a Malay stuntman will join me halfway up to exchange a handshake. Those who may take offence that a foreigner gets the top billing at the bash will be placated by this face-saving move. Actually I quite like the idea as it gives the audience a little variety and something to cheer about.

This morning, the sky is an unchanging blue, symbolic of optimism and success. Usually quiet, the road has become an immense traffic jam which our limousine has to forge through if we are to kick off on time. The crowd is enormous. More than 15,000 people are gathering at the foot of this isolated tower! Fifteen thousand. It's incredible. As we arrive I can see a brass band playing on the square around Miss Asia as well as politicians taking turns on the podium to spout rhetoric. Our car breaches the security cordon and crosses this great flood of people. Hardly out of the car, I am totally mobbed. Always smiling, their appetite for photographs is insatiable.

"One more picture, please!"

My concentration is shot down in flames but I don't care right now. Armed with two felt-tip pens I sign autographs two at a time. I am not ambidextrous but curiously I can write just as well (or just as badly, as those who have read my writing will agree) with my left hand as well as my right — but back to front. To decipher my scribble, I tell a few confused autograph hunters: just use a mirror.

After an hour of this I need to escape for some solitude. The crowd may want more autographs, but I can't do 15,000 of them if I am to do my climb today! They probably don't realise that before an ascent I do not revel in the publicity, nor can I enjoy the endless session of autographs, no matter how wonderful they are to me. Fear stabs my abdomen and twists a blade in my stomach. I would honestly rather lock myself in the toilets.

Composed and equipped, I emerge through the automatic doors. To keep my nerves at bay I do not dare look at the spectators as I walk to the departure lounge of my escalation. I already have all the butterflies of tropical Borneo in my stomach, including those massive ones with one- foot wingspans, and I do not need any extra pressure.

As I cast a final look towards the top of the structure, silence spreads like a Mexican wave throughout the crowd. The brass band also wheezes then dies. It is time... I rub my hands together in a puff of magnesia. I pause. Then I attack.

At first I ascend with ease. The base of this building is rather unusual, like the lower half of a cone. In fact the bottom half of the tower looks rather like a rocket sitting on a single booster. This part is a cinch but after a dozen metres I reach a tough obstacle. The cylindrical body of the building is now on top of me. A sizeable horizontal overhang blocks the route ahead. Without the typhoon which ripped through Sabah two months earlier I would not have been able to continue, but the wind has torn away panelling, laying bare the steel girders. I wrap my hands around the steel and bring my feet upwards. Then my hands start walking along the beam as if I were a monkey. I let my feet swing free. Dangling like an orang-utan, I make my way across to the end of the overhang. Whether on buildings or on rocks, the exit from an overhanging zone is always the most unpredictable and most difficult part. The position makes the hand grips more central than the feet, an intense position for a climber to sustain. Gaining height using the hands is difficult, and bringing the feet back into the game even more so, as they tend to skate around aimlessly until they find a foothold. If you can't find footholds, you must pull yourself upwards further still to prevent your body from swinging, and of course so you can find those invaluable grips with your legs. It is effectively one almighty chin-up. It looks easy on paper but it most definitely is not, and for a precious few moments you really do hold your life in your hands.

The overhang demands a great deal of muscular power. For a while my complexion shifts to a shade of scarlet but the footholds are exactly where I imagine the architect would have put them and I recover my vertical position. The escalation from now on will be less radical, but since I have only a crack to work with, there will be no horizontal grips to offer me any rest. I must place my fingers in the gap and pull vigorously on them, as if I were trying to pull a pair of closed elevator doors apart. Theoretically I should climb slowly to maintain the precision of my movements up this 120-metre edifice but this cruel lack of horizontals forces me to accelerate the rhythm. It's tiring. Speed enhances the risk of error but I must climb swiftly in order to conserve my strength.

Halfway up I wedge a foot in the gap and squeeze the Malay stuntman's hand which, carefree, extends towards me. Applause wafts up from below. I hang off him a little as he sits happily in his harness. It is so hot up here! Maybe wearing leather was not such a good choice. Exposed to the equatorial sun, as well as the heat emitted from the building, I am perspiring quite a bit. My clammy fingers are losing adhesion against the glass and steel. I peel off the unique turquoise leather waistcoat I picked up in Rio. Just like Madonna flinging her G-string to the hysterical public, I lob my leather waistcoat down to the crowd below. It spins and flutters on the breeze like a leaf. After a series of pirouettes and spirals, it disappears into a swirling sea of outstretched hands. I feel cooler now, both in terms of bodily temperature but also in terms of acting like a bit of a dude. Yeah man, rock 'n' roll.

Satisfied with this interlude, and having caught my breath, I switch back to the ascent. This time I peel up the building rapidly. Very rapidly. Out of respect for the crowd and the cause for which I climb, I endeavour to put everything I have into it. Even though my life depends on my adherence to safety margins I cannot bring myself to do the bare minimum. The success of the event is based entirely on my success and I have a duty to surpass myself. It may seem idealistic and melodramatic, but it is still possible to put your life on the line for ideas, or to die for them. I race upwards as if I were trying to break a speed record. The first half of the climb took me twelve minutes or so but I need only two or three minutes to make the summit.

As I draw a breath near the top, I spot someone in the middle of the crowd. One of the young deaf mutes I met in Kuala Lumpur had written to me saying that he would be in Borneo and would be among the spectators. He told me he would be easily recognisable since he would be dressed in lively red. In his letter, he had asked me to make a peace sign from the summit, arms raised, fingers spread, except the ring finger. Up on the ledge, I comply before collapsing, dead beat as ever I have been after an ascent.

I slump back and take in the blue sky. I have done it. But the heat, coupled with my exertion, has taken a lot out of me. On the verge of illness, I remain seated at the top of the tower, gulping down whatever liquid is passed to me. Recovery doesn't seem to be coming. I gaze around and see a photographer snapping me furiously. When I made it to the roof I had suddenly seen him a good ten metres back from the rail. As I clambered over the top, he obliterated reels of film. I hadn't seen him earlier and it occurred to me he had only captured me at the summit, missing the escalation itself. His vertigo is obvious. As I sit breathlessly recovering he continues snapping away as if making up for the lost action images. I tell him that a fear of heights is very common and it is a necessary evil to overcome. I explain to him how he can do this: by rationalising the situation, focussing and seeing the reward for his courage, which in his case will be some great action photos. He laughs nervously, then edges closer to the drop on hands and bended knees, as if the tower would collapse if he reached the railing.

Half an hour has passed, and although my breath and muscles have returned to their baseline, I don't feel much better. I have a throbbing headache and feel listless. Right now I don't feel especially in the mood to climb down the exterior of a building. I do not feel fully recovered but I know there are 15,000 people down below staring expectantly up at the top of the Sabah Foundation. The show must go on!

I rise to my feet and peer over the edge. Cheers ring out and I give a big wave to the crowd. I beckon the photographer towards the edge. He almost crawls over, but appears to reach an invisible wall. My ascent was so fast it made me feel a little unwell so I decide to exercise more restraint and descend the building slowly. After a deep breath I throw a leg over the edge and start making my way down.

The ascent was not easy, but the descent turns out to be downright difficult. I need to conserve my energy since I must keep enough in the tank to overcome the treacherous overhang, a dozen metres above the ground. Initially I climb down the same way as I went up, hands jammed in the gap, pulling it outwards as if it were a chest expander. But after a few floors I realise that this technique, though effective, is too demanding. I cannot face the overhang in an exhausted state and neither can I rest on my way towards it. So I decide to change strategy and squeeze my feet into the crack and slowly slide down it. I must admit that this unorthodox technique is unanimously forbidden by my doctors for it is far from the safest way to go down. But it is highly energy-efficient. I could get down this way within two minutes, but I wisely opt to descend at a reasonable pace, pausing from time to time to savour the sweet sensation of my controlled fall.

I slide to the overhang and with some difficulty and strain I overcome it. I hop down and submerge myself in the crowd, awaiting the final donation figure. As the morning wraps up, the figure is announced — we have made just over a million francs. The event has been a resounding success.

The limousine procession starts up again and sets off towards the hotel for a slap-up lunch. A restaurant is reserved for our sizeable party and boisterously we all take our seats. Pleased that I have not disappointed anyone or let them down I order a bottle of Dom Pérignon. As a good Frenchman, I enjoy drinking on special occasions. Rotund bottle in hand, I make a tour of all the tables one by one, to each of the banquet guests. I offer everyone a tipple of this fine vintage, which to my surprise no one seems to want to try. Maybe they are just being polite? Still, I make a tour of the entire restaurant, offering everyone a liberal dash of the good stuff, trying to nudge some of them into acceptance. Strangely it looks like they don't appreciate my offer... And only then do I realise my faux pas. In the euphoria of the moment, I have forgotten that Muslims do not drink alcohol! Sheepishly I take my seat with my full bottle. As a result, I drink the whole thing alone, guzzling rather than savouring it, totally aghast at the idea of letting a bottle of this price die so pathetically.

I awake the next day with an absolutely horrendous hangover. The equatorial daylight is painfully dazzling and my body aches like I have run a marathon. My stomach is delicate in the extreme. The place is quiet. The tension and drama has evaporated, leaving an eerie calm like the silence following a fierce battle. Over a late breakfast that I can't actually bring myself to eat I go through the newspapers and catch the news of my climb.

Two climbing propositions have also reached me. The first comes from the Sunway Lagoon, a gigantic and ostentatious hotel outside Kuala Lumpur designed by Las Vegas architects. The General Manager there wants me to fly over and climb it. Having seen my climb televised, the Roman Catholic Church would also like to organise a charity event on their modest but aesthetic cathedral, also in the capital.

A day or so later, I make the quick flight over the South China Sea back to Kuala Lumpur. Regrettably the plasterboard decorum of the Sunway Lagoon cannot be climbed — there is almost nothing to hold onto, and even where there is, this fragile material could easily crumble and give way. The church however turns out to be easy. Just to be sure, I climb three-quarters of the irregular building and study every section to consider technical solutions to the problems posed. I have only three days before I must head back to France but the bishop assures me that on the eve of my departure, everything will be ready. After my success in Borneo the church looks favourably upon such an event. Malaysia is a country where Catholicism represents only a tiny sliver of the population, and consequently funds garnered through donations can be limited. Personally, I am ethically okay with it if the church does not mind, and they let their flock know they feel this way. The last thing I want is to offend anyone. To be given the seal of approval to climb such a monument interests me enormously, particularly after the caper with the Duomo in Milan. But sadly I never get the chance to go up there, the highest authorities of the clergy at the last moment preferring to refrain. The bishop seems to regret the change of heart as much as me, but I depart Malaysia with his blessing.

And how can I be disappointed after the intensity of the last few weeks? I feel like I have lived an entire lifetime here. Malaysia has been a maelstrom of vivid experiences and adventures, a thrilling rollercoaster that I could have stayed on forever. I have tackled the tallest building in the world and experienced wildly contrasting scenarios, having met wretched dungeon dwellers and vicious perverts one day, and then powerful ministers and exalted royalty the next. I have had an absolute blast in Malaysia. It's truly been a right royal visit!