11
ASIA RISING
It seems an easy enough request. Could I climb that traffic light for a photo to go with the story? I am sitting in a little cafe near my home in France, nearing the end of an interview with a journalist. We have spent two hours talking about my life and as we wrap it up she asks me if I might stand upon the traffic light for a nice and wacky accompanying photo for the article. It is such a ridiculous idea that of course I cannot say no. No problem. So I sprint across the road as she pulls out her camera and I choose a decent-looking traffic light.
The road is a little wet after the morning rain. Not knowing I was to perform a mini climb, I turned up for my interview in my trademark leather trousers and my pointy cowboy boots. But a piffling traffic light hardly warrants climbing slippers or magnesia chalk so I leap up it without a care. We chat casually as I adjust my feet to stand upon the top for an artistic snap, much to the bewilderment of passing vehicles. And then, as I position myself for the photograph, I trip...
I plunge sideways about three metres and find myself sprawled on the ground, half on the road and half on the traffic island. I feel a bit idiotic to have befallen the sort of juvenile accident that would occur to an 11-year- old, but I am more concerned about my left elbow. It has taken the full brunt of my fall and a quick checking over tells me it is quite badly hurt.
The journalist rushes over to see if I am okay, and I tell her that I am basically fine. Blood is dripping off my fingers, making the fall look dramatic, though at least I managed not to land on my face this time and bust my nose again. Still I know I have hurt myself quite badly — my forearm is totally numb. The area from the tip of my fingers to my elbow is completely anaesthetised. Immediately I worry about the nerve I damaged in my second fall of 1982. That time, I severed the nerve which controls the two smallest fingers of my left hand. I was left with restricted mobility.
After numerous operations they did save my hand but since then I have been unable to fully close my fingers — making a fist is impossible for me. Also I suffered quite a bit of muscle wastage in my forearm due to certain nerves and motions being lost. But I learnt to live with it and adjusted my climbing techniques accordingly. At the foot of this traffic light I can feel that I have done something to that nerve again. My fingers are dead. They won't budge. I cross the road to sit down for a closer examination and it is not good news. But I am keen to finish off the interview, so ten minutes later I am crossing the road and climbing the traffic light again. My left forearm lacks sensation and my fingers are paralysed but still, I can climb it. I stand atop the traffic light, get photographed and then descend. The journalist leaves with her interview and her snap and I head off to the accident and emergency ward to get my arm sewn up.
As it turns out, I need 16 stitches. My fingers are a more serious issue and instead of asking these doctors to look at them I decide to go home and ask my friend Dr Gérard Hoël.
Stitched up, I return home. Since Dr Hoël is not yet available I try some moves on the climbing wall up in my attic. Even basic movements cause me to fall again and again. This is not good at all. I ring my surgeon again and this time I get through. I tell him about my accident and describe how I fell, and report my lack of mobility. Dr Hoël asks a few questions which I answer and after a pause he answers thoughtfully.
"Maybe it will recover in a few days. Leave it and let's see how it gets on. If it continues to cause you problems, Alain, give me a ring and we'll take a look at it."
I take his advice and rest it for a while, but after two or three days it feels even worse. The paralysis has spread and my elbow is swollen like a balloon. So I ring the good doctor up again and report my medical status. On hearing of my lack of progress he suggests I come in.
But there's a problem: in less than two weeks from now I am due to fly halfway across the world to Taiwan, to climb a spectacular new building in the capital Taipei. This structure is the world's newest tallest building, overtaking the Petronas Towers of Malaysia by quite a margin. The building is the much-trumpeted Taipei 101 and for the opening week the government has planned a host of festivities, beginning on Christmas Day and culminating in a gigantic firework display at the official inauguration on New Year's Eve. As part of the celebrations, I have been invited to Taipei to climb it on Christmas Day, for a nice fee. There is obviously no way I can postpone this climb and I will need to be fit on Christmas Day if I am to complete it. The doctor nods and understands my position, but suggests climbing whilst injured is unwise.
"But I can't give up on the assault. I have to climb Taipei 101 and I need my left hand back," I reply. Dr Hoël frowns but responds decisively.
"Okay, in that case we have no time to lose. If you want to make the ascent in Taipei, we will have to operate on you as soon as possible. It will not heal in time, but hopefully at least some functionality should be restored."
I'd happily go under the knife right now, but unfortunately his operating schedule is full and I will have to wait a week before he can fit me in.
It is only six days before my escalation in Taipei, and I have an appointment at Grenoble Hospital. Dr Hoël inspects me once again and admits me for surgery. Within minutes I am wheeled into the theatre. I stare at the operating lights hovering over my head like a UFO as the mask goes over my face. After only a few breaths, the general anaesthetic starts to kick in. The surgeon opens me up and gets to work fixing my paralysed fingers.
Upon folding back the skin and muscle of my elbow, he discovers a lot of blood and fluid around the damaged nerve which needs to be drained off. Dr Hoël next locates the severed nerve and deftly rewires me before stitching me back up again. The operation concludes and I am wheeled out from the theatre unconscious.
Before I went under, I had been worried most immediately about my upcoming escalation in Asia, but more so about my long-term future. Falling time and time again from my climbing wall in my loft gave me a taste of what escalation would be like without these two fingers. I may never be able to climb properly again.
But when I wake up, I come round to a success. The surgeon has done a fine job and I can immediately feel the difference. I don't have all the mobility I had before this accident but I have almost all of it, enough to climb, which at the end of the day is all I need. Pleased to have my fingers back I thank the doctor for his handiwork and, a little groggily, I leave Grenoble Hospital. I feel a bit under the weather after the operation but I head to my car. My fingers are able to open the door and grip the steering wheel once more. I put the car in gear and drive back to my place in Valence, something you are not normally supposed to do. I am also supposed to rest, but later the same day I am climbing again in my attic — and this time I don't fall off.
My first impressions of Taipei 101 as I am driven towards it are positive. As I expected, the building is magnificent. Taipei 101 is now officially the world's tallest high rise, smashing the record held by the Petronas Towers. It measures in at a cool 509 metres. That's over half a kilometre high! The centrepiece of the capital's new business district has 101 floors, hence the name. And I will be on hand as it opens to the public next week. Being sponsored by the Taiwanese government to climb the world's tallest building is not the sort of invitation I am going to turn down, even if I am still carrying an injury. The stitches have been removed from my arm but my fingers are still not back to normal. They work, but I am far off 100%, and my elbow and fingers are bound to slow me down.
Assisted by engineers I have inspected the building thoroughly inside and out, and feel amply prepared for the escalation. Taipei 101 is an innovative piece of architecture. I am struck by the originality and intelligence of the structure. Just as the Malaysian Petronas Towers are unmistakably Islamic, Taipei 101 immediately strikes you as Chinese. Robust and block-like, it features a stacked profile which reflects Chinese architecture through the ages. The architects apparently drew upon the pagoda as their inspiration. And also, I am told, they invoked another very Chinese influence in their blueprints — bamboo. The resemblance is more than passing, as eight sections — each tapering inwards towards its base — are inserted into one another in a similar way to the conjoined segments of a stem of bamboo. The design is filled with symbolism, the eight segments representing good fortune as the number eight brings prosperity to the Chinese. Other oriental touches are more obvious, but only a trained eye would note all the abundant feng shui references sprinkled throughout the building to bolster fortune and wealth.
Before I know it, the day of the climb is upon me, and I am hanging around at the base of the building. Naturally there's a big press presence for what is a national event and I pose for the cameras with various smiling dignitaries. The building, though unusual, should be relatively straightforward to climb. The first third or so of the tower is effectively a giant base tilting in towards the waist of the structure in a steep incline, roughly ten degrees off the vertical. This part does not bother me too much, although it is primarily a wall of glass. The eight sections above, however, jut outwards with a slight overhang, again around ten degrees off the vertical. At the top of each overhang is a lip upon which I may be able to stand and rest. These overhanging sections are each approximately 50 metres high. Eight sections of glass overhangs on the tallest building in the world! It is quite a challenge even if I were fully fit, not necessarily in terms of technicality, but more in the endurance I will need to display. With the skies clouding over and rain a real possibility I do my best to hurry proceedings a little but of course this is not my show.
And then I feel it... a speck, a tiny drop against my cheek. I glance around and check Taipei's ubiquitous grey horizons. Is it raining? I feel another tiny droplet on my knuckle and then another on the bridge of my rugged nose. There is no escaping it — there is a light drizzle and the wind is also picking up. The media are all assembled and awaiting my escalation but the skies are grey and if it rains heavily the organisers tell me the event will be called off.
In fact they are not happy about me going up there at all even in these conditions. The last thing they want is a dead climber to usher in the opening of their glittering project, a project which cost the best part of two billion US dollars. That sort of opening would not only be a public relations disaster, it would be seen as an omen of bad fortune, something that could affect the desirability of rental space and have financial repercussions, not to mention severely denting the image of success this new building is meant to impart.
So they insist that I use a safety device to scale the tower. I have mixed feelings and try to talk them out of it, but in truth I expect this stance from these guys. There were mentions of such safety devices before I came. I ask if they don't mind dropping the idea but they are adamant they will not risk my life and say the deal is only offered so long as I take these precautions. But they are still keen for me to go ahead if I feel the conditions are not dangerous. A little reluctantly, but philosophically, I agree.
Soon, equipped with a simple belt attached to a cable, I am at the foot of the building gazing up. This cable does not support me in any way; it is only there in case I fall off. It feels a bit of a con to have this thing attached to me, but still it is a ropeless escalation and I am getting paid to climb the world's tallest building.
The summit is very distant and the tower has a weird appearance from this angle, as if it is collapsing or folding in on itself like a house of cards. Someone asks me how long I think the ascent will take. I gaze up at the structure and hazard a guess, responding that I believe I can complete this climb in around two and a quarter hours.
On the carpet in front of the assembled press and audience I focus my mind on the gargantuan structure above. I blot out my surroundings, and once the tower and I connect, I attack. I clasp the edges of the glass panes and step upwards at a similar angle to a ladder. Quickly I note that the fingers on my left hand provide some resilience, but with surgery less than a week behind me, they lack proper strength and grip. The ability of my left hand is significantly reduced but I believe it will be enough. As I test it out I am fully confident that I will complete the climb.
As I ascend I familiarise myself with my physical limitations and the building itself. The tower is fully glazed, with each pane set an inch or two in from steel sills, giving me a narrow ledge to hold onto with my fingers and push against with my toes. There's not an awful amount to play with, but in urban climbing terms it is comparatively generous. It is much more supportive than the Blue Cross-Blue Shield or the Sears, for example, which were bolt upright and offered no protrusions at all. The unfortunate incident with the traffic light means my movements are curtailed a touch and it will take me a little longer to make the summit. But it does not handicap me that much and the base proves easy enough.
Being not quite vertical, the first section is a nice warm-up. I adapt to the dimensions and materials of each floor and start to find a sensible pace. Every eight floors I stop for a breather, which pleases the assembled Taiwanese. The little cable dangling down to my belt makes the authorities feel better but it rather irritates me. I would like to detach it for a little more freedom and a lot more fun but I can't upset my gracious hosts. And besides, I have given my word. I put up with this annoying dangling thing and despite both the cable and the gentle rain I complete the base, the first third of Taipei 101 and the best part of 200 metres, in good time.
I pause a while and give the crowd a little wave to happy cheers, though there seem to be fewer of them now then when I started! It's not that wet but people are always averse to a bit of drizzle. The next part is going to be a little more tricky. I must get past the first of the overhangs. I reattach myself to the cable and attack the first of the eight overhanging sections. Climbing an overhang is of course technically and physically more challenging, as the outwards slant means gravity wants to pull you away from the surface. If you slip there is no recovery. The weight of my body pulls on my fingers but they feel secure. Ordinarily this overhang would be easy, but doing it with only one good hand means I need to take it a little more seriously. But I find it is perfectly manageable and I adjust my movements until I find my rhythm. After a quarter of an hour or so I reach the top of the overhang and make it onto the first ledge. Almost 50 percent of the building is behind me in terms of height, but the overhangs will be much slower than the base.
Still feeling fresh and with no problems so far, I don't pause for rest before taking on the second overhang. I grasp onto the ledges and ascend the first floor of the second section. But by the time I complete this section the drizzle has given way to a proper downpour. Big raindrops tap against me now. Below me is a mosaic of umbrellas but the crowd has shrunk significantly. I survey the structure above me. The building is soaked! This appealing escalation was originally quite straightforward, even if it boasted the grandest dimensions in the world. But now it becomes a lot meaner. With the ledges and frames it is not impossible but it is certainly a lot more difficult. If this had happened on the sheer glass of the Sears Tower or in Philadelphia I would certainly be dead by now, but here the abundant metal features of the building provide a still graspable structure.
The rain belts down more heavily as I make progress. The organisers have rather superfluously stationed nurses and rescue teams at each section, to step in if needed. But even though I am not particularly pleased with the weather, not for a moment do I consider abandoning the ascent.
The wind and rain is really picking up. Coming down in sheets, it forces me to slow down. I am completely drenched! My left hand begins to seize up with the damp and the wind chill, but I overcome the fourth section and take a breather. I don't bother waving this time and just get on with tackling the fifth. I need to stop regularly for rest because of the gusts pushing me sideways. The rain abates a little as I tackle the sixth overhang, but then picks up again on the seventh. Although I am towering above Taipei the truly miserable weather means I can barely see anything of the city. It is lost in an opaque milky blanket. While most of the western world must be waking up to Christmas morning in their cosy homes, unwrapping their presents, I am buffeted by gales and having buckets of cold water thrown over me by the heavens.
Christmas Day is not an especially good day to make an escalation in Taiwan, and certainly not the day I would have chosen. Dripping wet, I reflect that this is not the first time a date imposed by sponsors has caused me big problems due to adverse weather.
Back in 1 999 I made an aborted ascent of the Grande Arche in La Defense. For many years I had harboured a desire to go up this modernist cube-like version of the Arc de Triomphe. The arch had caught my eye when I first searched for likely projects in the Parisian business district and had stayed with me ever since. The finale, a huge and only hypothetically climbable overhang, represented an immensely difficult — and irresistible — challenge.
I got the perfect excuse to ascend it when a company stepped forward to sponsor me for this technically demanding 110-metre climb. Everything looked good except for one thing: the date. Unfortunately for me, the date they set for the climb was in September, and September that year was unseasonably hot. If the choice had been mine I would have postponed the climb to a cooler day, but my sponsor had already set wheels in motion and against my better judgement I found myself climbing a hot marble arch in searing sunlight. How did it all end? I became blinded by the dazzling reflection of the sun off the white marble, and ill with heatstroke and dehydration halfway up the arch. I had to be winched down to safety by rescuers on ropes. It was an ignoble conclusion to what should have been a noble climb, and it taught me that I ought to set my own parameters when making escalations. Right now, hanging offthe world's tallest building with an injured left hand and going through nature's carwash, I am beginning to wonder if I have made the same error again.
After numerous pauses due to the withering effect of the relentless rain I arrive at the top of the seventh section, where the president of the building leans out of a window to greet me. We enjoy a friendly chat about how each of us is getting on, the weather, and the other meaningless small talk you might exchange with your neighbours. After this interlude I make for the final overhang. Continuously drummed by heavy raindrops, the going is slow and laborious and my hand is becoming increasingly bothersome. But I slog it out and eventually close in on the top of the world's tallest tower. It has taken all day but the summit is at last within my reach.
It is a great relief to clamber over the top. I am tired. I am aching. I am bursting for a piss. But it's all smiles up here. Instead of the usual grim gathering of security guards and police, a festive public relations reception welcomes me. I give a big wave to the loyal crowds far below and I am interviewed by the TV crews. Then I follow the organisers' carefully crafted script and fly the flag bearing the building's logo for the cameras.
In the end the escalation of Taipei 101 has taken me almost four hours, nearly double my estimate. My hand feels pretty bad but I am grateful that it held out for the whole ascent. The management have raised international awareness that their building has taken the title of the world's tallest, so they are happy. I have my climb and the reporters have their story. Even the cops and security guards are happy. I tell the organisers that I would like to return one day and climb this building without a rope, and they make positive noises. I would certainly like to come back and do it my way. But overall I must be content, especially bearing in mind the state of affairs I found myself in with my lifeless hand just a week ago. A lot was against me but I have pulled it off and added the world's tallest building to my sticker album. All in all it's been a good day's work and I retire to my hotel room satisfied and relieved. As the raindrops tap on the window I switch off the lights and sink into a blissful and much-needed sleep. And since I have been invited, I stick around to catch the gigantic firework display which bursts from Taipei 101 six days later. Rockets and explosions of every shade of the rainbow flare and light up the night sky, ushering in a quite brilliant new building, a bold new year, and exciting new challenges ahead.
There are a lot of exciting things going on in China at the moment and the statistics coming out of that country are staggering. What we are witnessing is probably the adolescence of a potential superpower. For climbers the country has always been a marvel, with countless mountains and rocky crags spread across its vast territory, not to mention the entire northern side of the Himalayas. The limestone region of the southwest, for example, contains no less than half of the world's caves, many of which are undiscovered by potholers.
From an architectural perspective China's great cities have always been broad and flat with wide boulevards and few high rises. Although the traditional buildings were designed with artistic grace, the architecture of the communist era was decidedly ugly and drab, and sometimes so utterly disgusting that the completed structures may quite seriously be considered masterpieces of grotesqueness. A drive around the suburbs of Beijing reveals some truly revolting buildings, buildings that surely required a concerted effort to be made so hideous. This assertion however is likely to hold less water day by day as China tears itself down and rebuilds, such is the construction whirlwind sweeping the country. There are plenty of monstrosities left today, but who knows what will be left of the suburban belts of old carbuncles tomorrow? What is certain is that as the country booms China will play a leading role in taking construction to new extremes. The Three Gorges Dam, for example, is a mammoth endeavour and formerly flat cities like Beijing and Shanghai are suddenly rocketing skywards with ambitious construction projects. And as Chinese cities transform, a generation of new world-class skyscrapers are sprouting up and attracting the eyes of the world... mine included.
It is a late spring night and the streets of Shanghai are quiet and empty. Four of us are squashed into the back of a stationary taxi in the Lujiazui financial district of Pudong. This neighbourhood on the banks of the Huangpu, which thrives by day, has become the premier business zone of China. Lujiazui sports some attractive new buildings. The Oriental Pearl Tower dominates the skyline with its pink and silver space-age spheres and concrete columns pointing to the stars like a rocket on a launch pad. This impressive television tower however is impossible to climb and is not the reason I am here. Having attacked the three tallest buildings in the world — Taipei 101, the Petronas Towers and the Sears Tower — I am here to conquer number four: Shanghai's Jin Mao Building.
In the car with me is my photographer friend Emmanuel along with John and Pete, two British friends based in Hong Kong. We are sitting across the darkened road from the entrance of the building, plotting. From here we can see the Jin Mao Building clearly and I can plan my assault on it.
The building itself may be very tall but it is also very, very easy to climb. The latticework cladding means it is effectively a giant climbing frame from base to peak. My six-year-old son could climb it. In fact I could quite honestly make the summit with one arm tied behind my back. The management of the Jin Mao Building are well aware of this, and low- key earlier inspections revealed a substantial security presence as well as the installation of anti-climbing spikes around its base. These unfriendly additions are similar to anti-pigeon spikes and are placed on the exposed ledges with the aim of making it impossible for a climber or intruder to scale the exterior of the building. Somehow I must get past these well placed spikes, spikes which the security services have placed at strategic positions after consulting professional climbers. If I manage to breach the protection afforded by the security forces, who in China are usually ex- PLA soldiers, and if I can get around the anti-climbing obstacles, I will be away and no one will be able to stop me.
In the hushed rear of the taxi I describe my plan to my accomplices. The entire base of the Jin Mao Building is ringed with a protective barrier of these spikes, and guards are positioned at regular intervals around the tower. Security here is tight. But for all the precautions taken by the security team I have uncovered the Achilles heel of China's tallest building. Sure, there is no way up any of the flanks of the tower from the ground, and the security team looks quite sharp. But adjacent to the tower is a theatre, and this is attached to the Jin Mao Building by a glazed lobby area which allows passage between the two. The theatre is clad in marble but its walls are not quite vertical, each marble panel very slightly set back from the last. Scaling the theatre will not be too tricky if I can get up it without any interference, but I will be totally exposed for several minutes and highly visible in the heart of a crowded business district. Even more so bearing in mind I intend to do this climb in my Spiderman costume...
From the roof of the theatre I can get across to the tower where, at this elevation, there are no anti-climbing spikes. But it all depends on the security guards. They patrol the building and its entrances in their dark suits and sunglasses and there is not a sufficient gap between them to allow me to run and make my assault. But I find a partial blind spot at the corner of the theatre, a place where I can go up just hidden from their view. John and Pete will need to distract the guards at the entrance to keep their eyes off this corner while Spiderman dashes up and across the theatre and crosses onto the Jin Mao Building. Their distraction may involve the ruse of being lost tourists with a huge map unfolded and flapping in the wind. A documentary film crew will be there tomorrow, once again keeping their distance and acting as if it is all one big coincidence. For this climb, timing and positioning are absolutely crucial.
We go over the plan in the back of the taxi like bank robbers then decide to head up to the 87th floor of the Jin Mao Building to enjoy a drink in Cloud 9, the world's highest bar. From the swanky interior of the darkened bar I survey the night horizon and take a little glance at the latticework cladding. Then quietly I raise a glass and toast the next day's climb.
The next day the documentary crew is ready and we all meet in my hotel lobby. My Chinese fixer Mr Lu is also on hand as the film crew prepare their equipment. I am a little concerned about the weather, as the sky has clouded over. If the marble walls of the theatre get wet I might well struggle to get off the pavement, something I cannot afford to do. But the weather forecast for the coming days is worse, so it is clear that if this is to go ahead, I will need to go up today.
I prepare my Spiderman costume and bandage my fingers in the hotel bar. I have informed a Reuters journalist of my climb but I am a bit concerned when a BBC reporter also turns up. The number of cameras and reporters is growing in the hotel lobby. It seems more and more media know about the climb. This could be problematic if not properly managed, as a sudden press presence at the tower would certainly alert the security services.
After a few coffees I decide it is time to go and immediately everybody splits to take their positions. Emmanuel has managed to negotiate a prime elevated position in a luxury apartment facing the Jin Mao Tower. I jump into a van with some of the crew while the cameras head for a rooftop bar opposite the theatre. John and Pete mill around not far from the Jin Mao, preparing to look lost. As we cruise around the Lujiazui district in the van I don my Spiderman costume. I tell the crew to translate to the driver that it is imperative they drop me off at exactly the right place. It must be inch perfect — I cannot be seen crossing the road dressed like this and I must be dropped in the tiny blind spot between two guard positions. If he gets this wrong we must circle again.
We take a turning and approach the Jin Mao, and I prepare to either run out or tell the driver to make another pass. But he nails it perfectly and I spring out of the van and attack the near-vertical marble of the theatre. There is a security guard only a few metres away from me, just around the corner, and I cross my fingers he is currently occupied. Marble is an unforgiving surface but I grip the inch or so jutting out of each slightly staggered panel and rapidly climb ten metres onto the terrace of the theatre. I am glad I am off the ground but I am still very vulnerable up here on the terrace. It is totally exposed to the street and the entire tower.
Some 50 metres dead ahead of me is a set of double doors leading from the top floor of the theatre onto the terrace. To the right of that, the terrace leads over to the roof of the glass entry lobby between the theatre and the tower. While the theatre is windowless and marble, the region ahead is pure glass. Anyone in that lobby looking up will see Spiderman running across the terrace. My fear is that there will be a guard or two behind the double doors. I worry they may spring open at any moment! Already, as I sprint along the terrace towards the glass lobby, I notice that a pair of businessmen below have stopped dead in their tracks and are looking up at me. There is no guard here but now I am right above a glass lobby full of security guards, concierge staff and passers-by. I must make it to the lobby rooftop and cross onto the tower without delay.
I hop over the banister and drop onto the rooftop, but of course with all this glass I am immediately noticed. Black-suited security guards are scrambling in all directions under my feet. I make it over to the tower just as they pour out into the courtyard and onto the terrace. But it is too late for them! I reach the scaffold-like cladding and grab the bars and vault up the side of the tower. In no time at all I climb the first floor. To my right, the courtyard now holds a small group of people gathering to see what the fuss is about. Security are running around like headless chickens holding their earpieces and barking into their radios. People in the courtyard are pointing at me. Who is that guy scaling the Jin Mao Building? It looks like Spiderman!
The Jin Mao is a piece of cake to climb. A pushover! It really is as easy as climbing a ladder. It slightly resembles Taipei 101 in terms of architectural influence — again the pagoda is the source of inspiration and there is a series of overhangs, but everything about it is much easier. The overhangs bunch together the higher I go, but all are minor and brief. The Jin Mao is a nice leisurely climb offering no real test at all. The only real obstacles, the security measures, are well behind me.
As I climb I remove my face mask for ventilation and to get a better look at my surroundings. I see excited office workers on the inside gleefully photographing me with their mobile phones. As I gain more height I decide to climb around a corner and onto a new face to get a better view of Lujiazui and Pudong. Next to this tower, work is underway on a mighty skyscraper that will surpass the Jin Mao — the Shanghai World Financial Center. It is only half-complete but I can already see how the tower will narrow to a chisel-like blade at the top. What a building that will be. I can see that hundreds of construction workers have downed tools and are watching my ascent. Some construction manager somewhere will wonder why he is behind schedule!
With my vivid red-and-blue costume I can be seen very clearly from the ground, and below me there's quite a commotion. The road has been closed and people are flooding towards the tower. The courtyard has been taped off, cops are everywhere and a fire engine has turned up. Later my friends will tell me that men they guessed were government agents were on the scene, no doubt coming to check that my ascent was not political. Had I climbed with a Taiwanese flag or a portrait of the Dalai Lama on my back I imagine things could have been very different. In fact my legal research into this ascent had not left me particularly confident about what would happen on my arrest. China is obviously one of the world's strictest countries, and falling foul of the authorities here can get ugly. But I am only climbing for fun and I am here purely to enjoy myself. The way I see it, China is joining the world's elite in high rise construction, and I want to embrace their integration with the world in my own special way.
Below me the firemen are going to town. They unravel a giant inflatable mattress directly under me. It always amuses me when I see this pointless fuss and I decide it is time to mess them around a bit. I start climbing diagonally, so that if I fall I will miss their mattress completely. As soon as they realise I am wandering away from them, I see them scampering around and dragging the enormous semi-inflated mattress after me. I let them settle it under me and start inflating it again, then I reverse and move back in the other direction. Again they shuffle this colossal mattress back to its original position. I keep on climbing upwards, negotiating overhangs, but every now and then I shoot off sideways, dragging King Kong's orange lilo with me below.
In only 20 minutes or so I approach the 88th floor, the summit of the building. The firemen have given up. By now I have climbed around the corner of the tower and back over the entry lobby connecting with the theatre. If I were to fall I would smash through the glass lobby in glorious Hollywood fashion.
The number 88 is of course representative of good fortune and it has also turned out to be a lucky number for me today. I make the summit with ease and take in the city, enjoying the moment. I have not climbed right over the top, as up here I see the angry-looking men in black from the security services as well as the Chinese police. I don't fancy getting arrested up here away from the eyes of the media and the crowds. I have no idea what these guys will do to me, and besides, the cheerful crowds below deserve a big finish. So, just as I reach the top, I give the crowds a big wave, to loud cheers. I pop my head over the edge, give the cops a friendly wave, then I reverse down again. More cheers from the ground! I start my descent, hopping rung by rung down the latticework cladding, vaulting in bounds down the overhangs. Every now and then I stop to encourage the crowd. As I near the lower floors I see all sorts of people on the streets: chefs and waiters who have abandoned the little restaurants across the road, taxi drivers, business folk, scores of joyous international school kids, and amongst the flashing lights and throng, badly parked coaches which have pulled up and deposited dozens of tourists who point their camcorders skywards.
I am returning to my starting point, the roof of the entry lobby, and I see that directly below me are the same police and security guards I saw at the summit. Any arrest will be in full view of the crowds and the news cameras, which should help protect me from any aggression. The police at ground level look like they are struggling to contain the crowd, which edges forward as I near the lobby rooftop.
A few floors above the glass lobby I pause. I pull out my mobile phone and make a call to Nicole to let her know everything went well. The impatient police shift uncomfortably as laughs ring out from the masses. After a brief chat with my wife I decide it is time to call it a day. The climb went as well as I could have hoped and was well received — by the crowds anyway. For the grand finale I replace my Spiderman mask, to applause and laughter. Then I descend the final few rungs of the cladding into the hands of the police. The police restrain me in a civilised manner in front of the cameras, and as the crowd pushes forward through the tape they quickly push me through the double doors on the theatre terrace. As I am led inside I see some of the crowd breaking into a run for the rear entrance where, I imagine, rumour has it I will be transferred into a police car. The cops barricade the doors as the Jin Mao Building is besieged by the fervent public and media.
Within hours the story is distributed nationally and throughout the world through the internet and on various international news channels. But what makes this climb a little different is the size of the country. Here in China the story features quite prominently. Television pictures, radio broadcasts and newspaper stories spread out across the world's most populous land. The news that a slightly strange Frenchman climbed the country's tallest building dressed as Spiderman, and was then arrested, is fanned out to more than a billion people.
So what is it like being arrested in China? Well, you are definitely on your own. A word of advice: don't bother hiring a lawyer. It may sound crazy not to acquire legal counsel in a country where you have no understanding of the language, let alone the judicial system, but believe me, it's a pointless exercise. The lawyer I hired in China is a total waste of time. He can't even visit me in jail — not even once — and I hear nothing from him. He did warn me that the legal system in China is different to other countries but I did expect more for the US$1,500 I paid up front. All he did was to tell me a while ago that I could expect a fortnight in jail. This advice, which I could have been given in less than a minute, turns out to be the full extent of his legal services! I never see him again and he leaves me to rot in there. What a crook. One wonders what lawyers actually do in China; they seem more like expensive translators of legal text than people able to represent your interests. I would guess that the Chinese have greater reason to hate their lawyers than the Americans.
The legal system here is a quagmire and being on the wrong side of the law is not pleasant. I have no idea what is going on. My fate lies totally in the lap of the authorities and whatever they decide, and that's all there is to it. The French Embassy is involved in my case but they have no real power or influence.
I am however pleasantly surprised at how well I am treated in prison. I am placed in a cell with five Chinese inmates and our whole day is very well organised. From six in the morning until nine at night there is always something to do, apart from weekends when some sessions do not feature. At 6:00am we listen to the national anthem and then other inmates bring us our toothbrushes. Next, they bring us each a bowl plus a container of hot water so we can freshen up. These are refilled three times a day so we can drink, wash our dishes and take our daily improvised shower. Cameras in the cell keep an eye on us and three times a day we sit for hour-long meditation sessions where we have to remain seated and silent. The cell is clean and the food is okay for a non-Chinese prisoner. While I am there we are never allowed out of the cell, but I have enough space to stretch and exercise and perform some of my climbing techniques, which greatly interest the prison guards who have probably never seen a European inmate. Also I find that I can communicate with my cellmates. Even though their English is basic we still manage to communicate throughout my incarceration. Some prisoners give me milk and pastries, things they are allowed to purchase every two weeks. I learn that some of them have been in this cell for two years, for petty crimes such as stealing a hundred dollars. Besides our chats, every hour or so there is something happening and I am surprised at how quickly the day passes.
Soon I learn my fate. Unlike other countries there is no trial to speak of, and I am told that the cops themselves decide how much time I will get. Cops, judiciary, army — the distinction in China is not all that pronounced. According to my long-departed lawyer, a swindler who ought to be in here for two years instead of my cellmates, I can expect 15 days. Apparently it goes to a vote and they elect how long they think I deserve. A couple of cops might have said ten days, others none, one may have said three, another 20 and so on. They total it up and split the difference and the number of days I end up getting inside turns out to be five. It is good news, not least because I am still wearing the clothes I was arrested in, since they do not issue prison clothing. Five days in a Chinese jail dressed as Spiderman is a bit of a drag. I like the costume, I really do, but enough is enough.
I am told I am being deported and must purchase a ticket to France. I state that I would rather go back to Singapore as I already have a connecting flight to Paris from Changi Airport and I need to collect my luggage there, but I am told that as a deportee I must fly to my country of origin. I speak to the vice-consul but she informs me that they have no power in this matter and if the Chinese authorities say I am being deported to France, then I am being deported to France. It is annoying but I have no choice.
The days pass quickly and before I know it, it's time to go. I leave my cellmates behind with some warm handshakes and wish them all the best, and the cops escort me from the jail to a waiting car. They take me directly to Shanghai Pudong International Airport and march me through immigration without delay. Immigration officials join the party, none of them leaving my side for a moment. They all take me through the gate and onto the plane. Once I am on board they inform me that the People's Republic of China will not permit me to enter the country again for at least five years. From previous experience I know this sort of episode does not bode well for my next visa application.
Once they have served this notice, the cops and officials disembark. The doors shut, the engines whine into life and soon afterwards I am airborne. Within eleven hours I land in Paris and quickly purchase another ticket and then fly to Singapore — to pick up my fucking luggage.
Not long ago the internal magazine of the Quai d'Orsay (or more specifically, the French Ministry of Foreign Affairs, rather than the quay upon which it sits) published an interview with me. The magazine is intended for French diplomats and is distributed to every country where France has diplomatic activity. With the embassies having intervened a number of times in countries like Malaysia, the editor of the magazine felt French diplomats may be interested in my escapades and what could be learnt from my various cases. Many diplomats have heard of my escalations and my arrests in far-flung corners of the world.
The opportunity to feature in such an article attracted me. I felt there was a chance it could be beneficial if these guys knew a little about the problems I encountered and how things unfolded in various countries. I figured that perhaps one day in the not too distant future, having climbed a high rise in some country with a frosty judiciary, that the embassy might be aware of some strategy or approach which might help me out. In numerous countries diplomatic intervention at the right time, before irreversible decisions are taken, could indeed get me out of jail. There have been times when embassy staff have been helpful even if they are actually quite limited in their power. In Shanghai they could do little to assist me other than express an interest in my case. But this in itself is useful as it does at least help ensure humane treatment. Here and there, diplomatic intervention has saved me days or weeks in jail. The French embassy managed to help me out of a real corner in another Asian country where I could have ended up spending months in prison.
Generally speaking, my experience of the authorities — the police, judiciary and jails — in Asian countries has been eventful. With one or two notable exceptions the countries of the Far East tend to take a hard attitude to the apprehension and incarceration of their citizens, or indeed foreign nationals. And it has very little to do with the level of economic development of that country, or its political climate, for you may be surprised to learn of the nation whose police gave me the worst welcome at the top of a building and whose judiciary took the sternest stance. Sure, Malaysia may be the worst once you are arrested, and its jails are hellholes from another century, but the most violent police while making an arrest? Japan. This escalation in Japan took place nine years before my recent ascent in Shanghai.
As expected, I find Tokyo an immensely crowded city with a very vertical skyline. The term 'concrete jungle' is more apt here than just about anywhere else on the planet. The metropolis is a heaving mass of concrete and glass crawling with humanity. After a day or two's location scouting I realise that as modern as Tokyo is, most of its buildings are very similar and functional, and they seem to have gone up in the 1970s and 1980s. For such an advanced people the architecture is actually rather homogeneous, unadventurous and bland, even in their most prestigious buildings. One or two pleasing exceptions to this include the Yokohama Landmark Tower, which looks like a giant cuboid rook in a space-age chess set, but on closer inspection this tower turns out to be impossible to climb. Tokyo's architecture is really quite a reflection of the uniformity of this remarkably harmonious society where individuals also seem to make a concerted effort to blend in. I am a little surprised to learn there are few outstanding pieces of architecture in terms of aesthetics or dimensions, but having said that, Japan is a fun place to be and I am certainly not short of options.
After some touring I settle on the Shinjuku Nomura Building, a satisfying white skyscraper in the Nishi-Shinjuku district standing a few inches shy of 210 metres. The architects have thoughtfully separated the hundreds of windows with little vertical pillars which run top-to-bottom only a metre or so apart, giving the skyscraper a decidedly grille-like appearance. The chief reason I opt for the Shinjuku Nomura, beyond its respectable height, is that these sharp pillars also give me a pair of parallel surfaces to wedge myself between.
The day before I am due to climb, I inform the media about my impending escalation. I call a number of newspapers and television channels to let them know what I intend to do. One of the calls I make is to NHK, the public broadcaster of Japan.
On the day of the climb I approach the Nomura Building with a friend. As the building comes into view I immediately see that it is surrounded by a sea of cops, security guards, curious onlookers and a sizeable contingent of journalists - from Nippon News Network, Fuji News, NHK, All- Nippon News and TV Tokyo, plus all number of newspaper journalists and independent paparazzi — hundreds of people are awaiting my arrival! A police cordon is in place, not that I would be able to get that far, such is the impenetrable wall of bodies before it. I am stunned by the turnout. Yes, I was expecting some sort of reaction, but nothing like this. Even though the scene is a hive of activity, as I exit the car hundreds of eyes turn towards me and fingers point in my direction. I am wearing a bright red leather jacket and yellow pants and of course they all know I must be the guy who is going to climb the building.
Immediately everyone closes in, cameras rolling as a bunch of serious- looking cops approach me and read out a statement. They inform me that I am prohibited from climbing the building, that they are very serious about this, and that the law in Japan is very tough. I am listening to the Japanese police delivering their stern warning and, you know, I am laughing a little bit. This stand-off with the cops, surrounded by microphones and cameras, is a mildly humorous exchange. The cops aren't quite used to all this media attention whereas I am quite relaxed. They try to impress upon me the severity of their warning but as they do so they struggle to communicate, tripping over their words a little. I know my English isn't great but their hapless effort, delivered as if it were a diabolical tongue-twister in front of the nation's press, is pretty hard to take seriously. I shrug and laugh a little more. What they say is not going to have any effect on my actions. I am smiling playfully and thinking to myself, "Yeah, sure, I don't give a shit!"
Of course, cocooned within a cornfield of human bodies, I can't hope to make the ascent right now. But in spite of the enormous scrutiny of security, police and barging press I know I can make an escalation today. Surrounded by this circus, the Shinjuku Nomura Building is conspicuously off-limits, but it is only one of three buildings in the area which is climbable.
I leave the cordon of the Nomura with a smile, trailed by press and police. I guess it is obvious to everyone that I am unperturbed by the warning from the cops. As I walk down the street the police follow several paces behind. If I want to, I could head towards one of the other buildings I have earmarked as backups, though I do have an inconvenient number of journalists and cops in tow. Both buildings are close by. I know that if I get within a few yards of my alternative site and start running the cops won't catch me — I can be off the ground and out of reach within seconds. I walk a few blocks but the cops are still sticking to me like limpets — or perhaps some other local variety of immovable shellfish they like to serve sliced up and raw.
A Tokyo ascent is achievable even with my escorts but I am not sure if it is the best time or the best way to start a climb. Right now I feel a little under pressure. Every time I pause in the street, the cops are radioing in the latest on my movements. I enter a mall and they follow; I pop into a shop here and there and the cops come with me. I go into a space-age public toilet and they come in there as well. While I urinate the cops watch on, crowding the restroom and drawing bewildered and nervous looks from my fellow urinators. What man wouldn't feel uncomfortable in such an exposed position under the watchful gaze of the country's law enforcers?
Maybe like Singapore these strange guys have toilet-flushing laws and the local urinators are afraid they might be caught for some sort of lavatorial offence. I can't help but be amused by this bizarre level of dutiful detail. Who knows, judging by the Japanese obsession with cleanliness and order and the eccentricity of their toilets, there could be such laws. In case you have never sat on one, Japanese toilets are fitted with controls and buttons that would look at home on the Starship Enterprise. Functions include seat warming, air extraction, water-squirting bidet controls for temperature and power (we French appreciate this) and even an air dryer to gently evaporate any moisture left behind by the electronic bidet. Going to the toilet in Japan is certainly quite an experience, and perhaps for many, the highlight of their trip. But I am not here to sit around with a newspaper, I have only popped in to release a little pressure on my bladder.
The omnipresent cops report to base that urination has ceased and that I have washed my hands. Once I am done, we all emerge from the toilet together. And as I emerge from the lavatory with a bunch of cops I find that the press are still waiting expectantly. This whole situation is getting increasingly weird. I am just trying to go to the bathroom. Why should this be of such interest to everyone? News reporters ask me what I am going to do, what my plan is. An escalation is a possibility but I prefer to be better prepared and with a slightly safer distance between myself and the police force. So I keep walking, followed by the police and a few diehard reporters until I take the subway train. Finally, as I pass through the turnstiles, the cops and the last of the press drop off and I board the train with only my friend for company. He shakes his head and smiles at me. I shrug and smile back. Okay, we won't be doing it like that again.
Back in my room I reflect on the day's events. Today's shenanigans did offer some comic relief but it was clearly not the best time to make an ascent. Obviously someone amongst the press must have grassed me up to the cops. As it turns out, NHK were the ones responsible for the phone call to the police informing them of my intentions. NHK is funded by the government and therefore does not operate in the same way as the rest of the nation's press. Usually the press value confidentiality and won't shoot themselves in the foot by sabotaging a developing story. The public broadcaster though is compelled to put the law before protecting its sources. After a period of contemplation back in my room I make another few calls to the news correspondents.
"Okay. I am going to make it tomorrow. But this time, I will not reveal exactly which building I will ascend. This time I will just tell you the time of my climb and that it will be in central Shinjuku — and that's it."
Of course they ask me which building I will climb, or try to narrow it down to a street or a few buildings to make their job easier, but I will not reveal any more than this. Any more information will severely dent my chances of penetrating the already-heightened security. And besides, I reckon it is more fun for everyone this way.
After breakfast the next morning I head discreetly out of my hotel with my friend. Fortunately no media or cops are hanging around, at least visibly, and we jump into a taxi. My new target is the Shinjuku Center Building in Nishi-Shinjuku. Built in 1979, it is a year younger than the Nomura and also a little taller at 223 metres. It is broadly similar to the Nomura in design and dimensions with only the colour, a sandstone and red-brick hue, plus the angles of the ridges between the windows being significantly different. It isn't quite as good-looking as the Nomura, nor as easy to scale, but it will still be a reasonably straightforward climb posing no major problems.
The car cruises towards the Shinjuku Center Building and as we pass through Shinjuku we notice a strong police presence. Remaining as inconspicuous as we can, our eyes flicker around to assess the opposition. The Nomura Building is cloaked in cops though not as heavily protected as it was the day before. There are gaps I could run through if I wanted to make a break for it. Other tall buildings, most of which I wouldn't have climbed due to their being technically impossible to surmount, are also bestowed with a stiff police presence. It is quite surprising they have gone to all this trouble.
As the car nears the Shinjuku Center Building I note that there is indeed a police presence here too, though there is no cordon. Ten or so cops are deployed in little clusters here and there. It seems they have more of a deterrent mindset than the defensive back line you might see on a rugby pitch. They obviously think that a verbal warning will deter me as it did yesterday — at least in their eyes! Of course they have no way of knowing that for me, the stiffer the challenge, the more I want to overcome it. I haven't come here just to visit the shrines and parks or sit on their toilets. I flew to Japan to climb, and naturally I prefer to go up the exterior of buildings when the police are off guard, to even the odds a little. One against ten is hardly a fair game. It must be a boring job hanging around outside a building all day, only half-expecting some law-breaking gaijin to try and run past you. But this aids me as they do not have the focus that I do. Everything looks good and I am pumped up, primed. The cops stand there chatting idly and a nice gap between them leads right to the springboard.
Just as the car reaches the ideal location on the pavement I give the signal to the driver to stop. I burst out of the back of the car and break straight through the police line, and streak towards the building with the speed and stealth of a ninja. Immediately the cops turn and start bellowing at me in rage, but amazingly they don't run, as if an angry shout in Japanese will stop me as effectively as a samurai sword. They briskly walk after me, obviously resenting the indignity of running, but when they see me grab the side of the building and lift my foot off the ground they simultaneously explode into sprints and fury. But it's too late, guys! What kind of tactics were those?
I am already two storeys high by the time they reach the wall below me, absolutely berserk. Almost as fast, a journalist materialises with his camera and I can see a few more darting across the road and running with video cameras to capture the action. The police are still shouting, waving their arms around, no doubt calling for reinforcements on their radios. But it's too late. I'll see you at the summit! We can discuss Japanese law in jail.
The Shinjuku Center offers reasonable comfort and allows me to move at a relaxed pace. Several hundred people are already in place behind the police cordon and a huddle of police cars and vans is parked at the bottom. The floors pass swiftly by while the number of people peering upwards starts to swell. Before long I reach the halfway point. A news helicopter suddenly rears above a nearby building and hovers not far away. The chopper stays in place for the rest of my ascent, moving here and there for different camera angles for the evening news. I keep moving up the gap between the windows, very much enjoying my start to the day. The escalation of the Shinjuku Center Building turns out to be fairly standard and I make the summit comfortably. Happily I throw a leg over the railing, jump down to the rooftop and bring my head up to greet the assembled welcoming party. The very first thing I encounter is a punch in my face.
I crash back into the wall as the cops — not the security guards — all wade in to bash the crap out of me. I cover my head as blows pummel me into the ground. Knees and feet go in and I am flung to the ground by my hair. Half the Tokyo police force sits on my back. Angrily they chop at my wrists with the metal handcuffs while another cop delivers a few hearty slaps to my face for good measure. For such a civilised people I am surprised at the behaviour of the Japanese police officers. Several kicks and punches later I am dragged to my feet and propelled through the access doors away from the top of the building. My feet barely touch the ground.
In the descending elevator I can taste blood in my mouth and I wonder if I have collected yet another nose fracture. It doesn't feel too good. The police van is right by the entrance, within the cordon, and the press cannot see me. I am shoved into the van and sprawl across the seat, dazed and sore. The van roars off to the police station where again, despite my lack of resistance, I am roughed up. These guys mean business! The cops in this country have no qualms about meting out liberal doses of brute force with a trademark guttural growl. It's all par for the course. And another thing, they don't have much of a sense of humour, especially when I try to joke about the whole affair! Unlike everywhere else I have been, where despite the audacity of my actions at least some of the cops grudgingly respect the feat I accomplished, joke with me, or even openly applaud it, no one here seems to appreciate my climb in the slightest. If anything they seem to resent it personally. It doesn't seem like I am connecting with these guys on a human level, though I imagine that quite a lot of what I am trying to communicate may be getting lost in translation.
My lawyer arrives on the scene, and ignoring the grazes, cuts and swellings on various parts, my face soon spells out my current circumstances. Impassively he states that I am to be remanded in custody for 23 days before trial and then I should expect two months, maybe three months in jail, he doesn't really know. I listen as my lawyer reinforces comments made by the police on several occasions — that the law here is strict and severe — and his deadpan expression tells me there is no way out of this scenario. Various ploys that have helped in other countries are futile here: the law is the law. The news is not good. As he leaves, I face the prospect of spending almost four months in detention in a Tokyo jail before my expulsion from the country, a rather downbeat conclusion to an otherwise stimulating day. Several months in a prison where no one speaks French or English doesn't sound too great.
I am thrown back in my cell and the door slams, leaving me to chew over my situation. I check my nose which seems to be in one piece. I am okay, although a bit pissed off to have been beaten up like that. But in spite of the news from my lawyer I do not worry too much. It is all out of my hands now. Here I am. C'est la vie. I am in the system and whatever will happen from now on will just happen.
But while I am languishing in my Tokyo cell something unexpected occurs, something I know nothing of for several days. And it has a dramatic bearing upon my situation. Unbeknown to me, the news channel helicopter that had been following my progress up the building was still filming me when I made the summit. As luck would have it, the cameraman caught images of the beating I took from the nation's finest at the top of the Shinjuku Center Building, and they showed it on TV!
As the story was beamed across the whole of Japan my friend saw the footage on television, and he had the good foresight to record the entire bulletin from beginning to end. His action was especially fortunate because although they continued to run the story, they transmitted the incriminating footage of the police attacking me only once, censoring the rooftop drama in following broadcasts. It was a fluke he had recorded that particular bulletin as he knew nothing about the pummelling I had taken on the rooftop. Having seen the assault he swiftly submitted the tape to the French embassy.
Soon afterwards I meet a representative from the embassy who enlightens me as to the developments on the outside. The news that the rooftop incident had been recorded and the evidence is in the hands of the embassy is a big boost for me. For the Japanese cops the footage is acutely embarrassing and with the intervention of the French embassy the case is not something they can ignore. The embassy now has some leverage to help free me, and for me it suddenly means I have a case to file a complaint. Of course I am not interested in complaining, I only want to get out of here and climb more buildings. However the embassy encourages me to raise a complaint and to follow procedures. An unprovoked assault of a French citizen by the Japanese police when he was not resisting arrest is a matter that they believe they should pursue.
I do as they suggest and in the end the embassy and the cops strike a deal. I spend only five days in jail before being released without trial. My complaint will be dropped and no police officers will be disciplined.
I am delighted with the outcome — a couple of punches in the face and ribs are fine if it saves me a few months in jail. I also learn from this case. In countries where the police may be violent, I might choose to descend after climbing the entire building and surrender amid all the cameras and commotion at the bottom. Cops by nature tend to be power-mad control freaks. Let's face it, these types of people feel the need to dominate those around them. None of them would be in the job unless they enjoyed the authority the state allows them to exert over other human beings. In the heat of the moment some of them can go berserk at the thought that a mere civilian might not feel like bowing down to them. And of course we know that there is a small but significant proportion of cops who are attracted to the job only because it allows you to smack the shit out of other people. Give them the seclusion of a rooftop with no witnesses, and any cop who wants to dish out his own justice can do so with impunity.
Staging my arrest before the cameras will help secure my safety as the cops, as desperate as they might be to put a sneaky punch in, won't dare do so on national television. This ought to ensure I am arrested calmly and don't get beaten up. Well, not until I get to the police station!
After being thrown out of China and having to make a 19,000-kilometre round trip from Paris to Singapore to pick up my bags, I return to France to consider new projects and challenges. A number of ideas and proposals are on the table but before long one in particular stands out as especially intriguing.
Despite the displeasure of the Shanghai authorities in May 2007, it soon appears that my five-year deportation is forgotten. Only six months have passed since my expulsion from the country but guess what? I am climbing in China again, and this time at their invitation. After my escalation of the Jin Mao Tower was beamed across the land by the national media, a number of people have expressed interest in this crazy Spiderman guy.
To the south of China's heart sits Hunan province, a green and mountainous region comparable to France in terms of size and population. Officials here wanting to promote the romantic natural beauty of Zhangjiajie National Forest Park in the northern reaches of the province decide that I may be just what they need to help garner publicity, interest and ultimately tourist revenue.
Naturally the fact that I was jailed and deported for my last ascent, and also banned from returning to the country for five years, is a bit of a sticking point. But my manager in China, Mr Lu, somehow convinces officials in seven government departments that I could help boost tourism to the region and help showcase some of the motherland's interior abroad. To do so, of course, I will need to be allowed back in.
I hadn't been expecting much luck until at least halfway through 2012 but within a short period of time I receive a rubber-stamped invitation from the Hunan provincial authorities to feature in a nationally televised climbing event! I am not sure how all this happened. The inscrutable Mr Lu has somehow pulled a rabbit out of his hat. But perhaps my medal from the IOC has been useful, since Beijing is hosting the Olympic Games in the coming months.
The reception I receive at the airport is a pleasant contrast to my send- off in May and soon I find myself in a very scenic part of the country performing an energising free solo up a crumbly 200-metre section of one of China's most famous mountains. A good local crowd, media and government officials warmly applaud me as I reach the top section of the charcoal-coloured Tianmen Mountain. And to top it all off, the trip comes with a very respectable sponsorship fee.
Bearing in mind events that occured only a few months back, it's quite a turnaround and a startlingly open-minded move by the Chinese authorities. And who knows what wonderful opportunities this mountain ascent might spawn? A flick of this domino may well result in new adventures in China or somewhere else, somewhere totally unexpected. It never ceases to amaze me how quickly things can change. You can never tell what waits around the corner.