Swiss Watching Read online

  However, you only have to look at Belgium’s fate in two world wars to see that being neutral with an army doesn’t guarantee anything. So perhaps it’s Switzerland’s mountainous location at the centre of Europe, and not only its army, that has been its saviour. Whatever the reason, Swiss neutrality has been a success. Despite its dark side, such as an obsession with invasions that might never happen, it has succeeded in producing not only the Red Cross but also peace for its citizens. And there’s a reminder of that success in every town.

  Once you’ve visited a few Swiss towns and villages, one thing stands out. Not the time-warp mediaeval centres with their sculptured fountains; not the stencilled decorations and overhanging roofs; and not the sturdy churches and pristine graveyards. It’s the lack of a stone cross in every village centre, no engraved lists of dead sons on a town cenotaph. That took me a while to notice. Such things are part of the fabric of nearly everywhere in Britain and France, but in Switzerland they are almost non-existent. How strange for a place to be so close, both geographically and culturally, but for it to have a completely different collective memory of the last hundred years. The two world wars affected the Swiss but just not in the same immediate, every-family-lost-someone way. And in November you can really see the difference: no poppies, no two-minute silence, no Last Post. There’s no Remembrance Day in Switzerland because the Swiss have nothing to remember. For all its imperfections and contradictions, armed neutrality has at least given the Swiss the luxury of no lost generations. How lucky they are.

  SWISS WATCHING TIP NO 6: LEARNING YOUR ABC

  My IKRK moment highlighted one important fact about life in German: it’s like living in alphabet soup. On a daily basis you are faced with gaggles of capital letters, as every noun begins with one and then almost everything is reduced to its initials. Part of the comprehension challenge is that the full version is often not spelt out because it’s blindingly obvious to everyone else. So to you and me a BH could mean anything, but to a German speaker it’s clearly a bra (Büstenhalter).

  The Swiss equivalent of the Foreign Office is known as the EDA or, to give it its brain-achingly full name, das Eidgenössische Departement für auswärtige Angelegenheiten (the Federal Department for Foreign Affairs). Or there’s AHV, the Swiss word for a pension, which actually stands for die Alters- und Hinterlassenenversicherung (old-age and survivors’ insurance). Quite a mouthful, even if you have still got all your own teeth. Even something as commonplace as traffic has to get in on the letter craze. A lorry is known as an LKW, short for Lastkraftwagen, whereas a car is a PKW, or Personenkraftwagen. Thankfully, the more obvious Auto is also used.

  As for the train system, it goes the whole hog. Swiss Federal Railways becomes SBB (short for Schweizerische Bundesbahnen) in German but, since this is multilingual Switzerland, it’s in French and Italian too. So we also have Chemins de fer fédéraux suisses and Ferrovie federale svizzere, both of which are reduced to their initials. All this means that trains (and timetables, merchandise and tickets) are emblazoned with nine letters: SBB CFF FFS. Not exactly a catchy acronym.

  Reducing words to letters is the best solution to two problems. First, everything has to be precise, hence using IKRK and not Rotes Kreuz (or Red Cross). If something has a proper name, then that’s what should be used. But problem number two is that German is full of tongue-twister phrases and ridiculously long words. As Mark Twain so memorably noted in A Tramp Abroad, German words such as Unabhängigkeitserklärungen are ‘not words, they are alphabetical processions’. By the way, that mouthful in the last sentence meant declarations of independence. Reducing words to their initials is the best practical answer, and certainly saves on column inches, air time and brain aches. Of course we do it in English – BBC, OBE, MRSA – but not nearly to the same degree.

  Dealing with the abbreviation mania raises a big – and unexpected – problem in learning German: the alphabet. You may laugh, but it’s true. It’s not like Russian, where a C is an S and a P is an R, but while German letters look the same, they all sound different. And with so many initials to deal with, not to mention spelling your own name, the alphabet is one minefield that can’t be avoided.

  First, the good news. About half the letters are similar to English, but with a German accent: the likes of ess, ix, eff, and zett (S, X, F and Z) present little problem, while kuu, kaa, ooh and haa (Q, K, U and H) are fairly obvious. Then come six letters with a simple vowel change, where an English -ee sound becomes an -ay: B, C, D, G, P and T in German all roughly rhyme with bay. The only one to cause any consternation is G, which becomes hard in German, so changes from gee to gay. Every time I used to hear someone mention the old G tram in Bern I had to smile; it was probably the world’s only ‘gay’ tram. As for the G-spot, well, we just won’t go there.

  Easy letters done. Now, If I say ay I mean A but the Swiss mean E, which I pronounce as ee but for a German speaker that’s an I. Confused? I usually am. Throw in a German A (aah) sounding like an English R, and spelling can be a nightmare. I now clarify if German or English letters are being used when spelling out loud, especially with people who speak both languages. The tendency to revert to your mother tongue when spelling is surprisingly common, even for people who are otherwise fluent in a second language. It must be something so instinctive, going back to our very first words, that it’s hard to un-learn.

  Last come the special cases. In German Y and J are oop-see-lohn and yot, but then a J becomes a Y in speech. For example, jaguar and jungle are horribly complex: jaguar is spelt the same but said ‘yaguar’ while jungle sounds the same but is spelt Dschungel. And then the two letters that cause the most trouble for many German speakers. I’ve lost count of how many willages, wegetables and wisits I have heard about. As for when a friend was telling me about an aunt living in Vancouver, well quite. It seems to be a quirk particular to German speakers, which is most peculiar as a V in German is pronounced as a hard F (as in Vater, meaning father) while a W is a V (as in Wasser, or water, and Ve have vayz and meanz, if you watch too many war films). Interchanging the two letters is the least logical – and therefore least Swiss – thing to do. It would make more sense to say fillage and fegetable but that never happens. Having asked Swiss friends about it, many say that they can’t hear the difference between veal and wheel, though I’m sure they’d notice once they started eating. The odd thing is that many Swiss people speak French and have no problem with Vs in that language; you never hear woulez-wous.

  Following on from the BCDGPT rule above, a V should logically go from the English vee to a German vay. But vay is German for W, as in vay vay vay is the www with which websites start. So it’s easy to see how W and V could get transposed – or is it? V is pronounced fow (to rhyme with cow not low), which makes that archetypal German car a Fow-Vay, a name that means little until you realise it’s an abbreviation of the German for ‘people’s car’. As with so many German words, Volkswagen was reduced to its initials and conquered the world.

  Just when you think you’ve mastered the whole letter thing, you sit down to use a computer and end up with something like ‘lovelz piyya’. That’s because on a Swiss keyboard the Y and Z are swapped over, Z being used much more in German and French than English. The other 24 letters are the same but most punctuation keys are different to make room for the six accented vowels: ä, ö and ü in German and the French à, é and è. If I type without looking my sentences are often dotted with rogue apostrophes, umlauts, hyphens and exclamation marks. It’s enough to make you go crayz+, or maybe even crazy!

  SEVEN

  MADE IN SWITZERLAND

  Resourcefulness is, ironically, exactly what is needed by a country that has few natural resources of its own. With no coal or iron, not enough arable land to feed itself, and no colonies to provide endless raw materials, Switzerland has always been reliant on trading with its neighbours to survive. It helped that the Swiss had a trump card: control of the mountain passes everyone else wanted to use. And they have proved ve
ry adept at making the most of what they have, and filling the gaps by being the ultimate import–exporters: they import what they need, create something out it, then export it for profit, helping to make the Swiss economy one of the most successful in the world.

  Part of that success has been a knack for innovation. Penknives and watches may be what the Swiss are most famous for but, as we’ll see in this chapter, everyday things such as toilet ducks and cellophane were invented in Switzerland. It’s typically Swiss to create a world-beating product then not shout about it; modesty in all things. The irony is that this is essentially a conservative country where change is often viewed with suspicion. ‘Stick with what you know best’ could be a life motto for most of its people; luckily for chefs and cleaners everywhere, the Swiss talent for invention can be stronger than their desire to retain the status quo. In social terms progress may be glacial at times, but technologically speaking it can be remarkably speedy. There’s no greater impetus than material gain.

  This sense of inventiveness, combined with the Swiss reputation for quality, has produced more than one world-famous product. Perhaps the most ubiquitous, and most copied, is the humble penknife, Made in Switzerland’s best ambassador.

  WHERE THE KNIVES COME FROM

  It feels like a rite of passage, something every Swiss man has to go through before being accepted into society. And I’m not talking about blowing his first alphorn or shooting his first gun; I’m talking about making his very own Swiss Army Knife, from scratch. Actually, it’s something very few Swiss people have the opportunity to do. Assembling this icon isn’t something we mere mortals can do whenever we want. Normally the factory is closed to the public and the closest you can get is the shop, but thanks to a temporary exhibition, an organised few get the opportunity to make their own. Organised because places at the workbench are limited and much in demand. Just as well one friend of mine is Swiss enough to book ahead for both of us. So one grey Saturday in September, Markus and I set off into deepest Switzerland on a quest to make the ultimate symbol of Swiss manhood.

  Our goal is the town of Schwyz; the same Schwyz that christened the country and is home to the Rütli charter (for more on this see Chapter Two). It was here in 1884 that Karl Elsener opened his cutlery business, going on to develop the penknife that made his name. On the map the trip looks easy, but when we get off at Schwyz train station it soon becomes clear that we are not where we thought we’d be; SBB has obviously gone to the Ryanair School of Geography. Schwyz station is not in the town of the same name but in Seewen (or more likely Seewen-Schwyz), a bus ride away. By the time we realise that, the bus has gone, as it only waits a few moments for connecting passengers. For once the Swiss transport network isn’t the epitome of perfection, which is comforting in a way; it makes it feel almost human. There’s no choice but to walk; 20 minutes later we’re in Schwyz, ready for our penknife moment.

  Victorinox may not be a household name everywhere, but in the English-speaking world most people have heard of a Swiss Army Knife, particularly anyone who watched MacGyver in the late 1980s; there was hardly a problem he couldn’t solve without using his trusty red tool. The knife’s initial popularity was largely down to American GIs taking them home after the Second World War; if it weren’t for them, the Swiss Army Knife might have remained exactly that. As it is, its compactness and hardiness helped propel it into the epitome of Swiss design and craftsmanship. Funny, then, that the knife we all know and love isn’t the one Swiss soldiers normally used. The original soldier’s knife, first introduced in 1891, was black and had only four tools, with no corkscrew, which was not deemed to be essential for survival. The newest soldier’s knife, issued to all army recruits, is green and bigger than a Swiss Army Knife. And it still has no corkscrew. The penknife that found world fame was actually the Swiss Officer’s Knife, patented on 12 June 1897, which was never army issue but had to be bought privately. Clearly a corkscrew was (and still is) essential to being an officer, as that knife had one from the beginning.

  Penknives aren’t a new invention, but Elsener changed the internal workings so more blades could be added without increasing the overall size. That first Officer’s Knife has been the template for all the company’s penknives ever since, with more additions over the decades. Every tool imaginable has been incorporated into a Swiss Army Knife: nail file, wire stripper, magnifying glass, altimeter and now USB stick. Not all made it, though. The best part of the exhibition is seeing the prototypes that never got produced. Ones with a mini-fork or a comb look faintly silly and the potato peeler is just laughable, but those are almost normal compared to the one with a pencil sharpener. Apart from ruining the design (the prominent bulge makes it look pregnant), the sharpener is clearly superfluous in a tool that already has two blades.

  The knife-making process takes place under the careful supervision of Daniela and Joe, two friendly Victorinox employees. At the workbench, Daniela patiently guides me piece by piece in the art of building a penknife. Start with three tiny brass pins, and three tinier rings, on a base plate. Then attach a spring and the first three tools (bottle opener, can opener and reamer) and pull a one-armed-bandit handle to push it all together. Position the middle plate and compress everything by pressing the foot pedal. Next come a second spring and the last three tools (small blade, large blade and corkscrew). Pull the handle, add the top plate, press the pedal and out comes something resembling a naked penknife.

  While that basic assembly took me about five minutes, an experienced worker can do it in 45 seconds. At least the next bit is less technical. Hammer down the protruding brass spikes, add red plastic covers, squeeze in a vice, oil the blades, pop the tweezers and toothpick into their slots, clip on a key ring and my knife is ready. A Victorinox Spartan penknife, measuring 91 millimetres, weighing 60 grams and with 12 standard features. Holding it in my hand, I feel almost Swiss.

  An hour later in the factory shop, it becomes clear just how big the Victorinox family of knives is. My Spartan has so many siblings. There’s the Sportsman, which rather strangely has a nail file in it, something not so useful to most sportsmen; the Manager, one of the few penknives actually to have a pen; the Angler, with a fish scaler that doubles up as a ruler, though it’s only 7 centimetres long so is clearly for measuring minnows; and the Camper, Explorer, Ranger and a host of other suitably rugged names, although I’m not too sure the Escort fits in with the rest. Top of the range is the SwissChamp, containing 22 tools with 33 functions, including five different types of screwdriver. Who could ask for anything more? In fact, Victorinox has 100 different models of Swiss Army Knife and produces 28,000 per day (that’s six million a year),1 which seems a lot until you discover that it makes twice as many household and chefs’ knives.

  For me, the strangest member of the Victorinox family is the one aimed at children. Whereas in other countries kids have my first bike, my first Sony or my first Little Pony, Switzerland gives its children My First Victorinox. It comes in red or blue with two tools: a large blade and an all-purpose affair that opens bottles or cans, strips wire and drives screws. Admittedly the blade has a rounded tip rather than a point, but it’s still rather disconcerting to see two wholesome children on the box proudly displaying their first potentially lethal weapons. Then again, Swiss children are far too sensible to do anything silly with their penknives.

  Markus doesn’t see the problem, but then he probably grew up with a Sackmesser (the Swiss German word for a penknife, which I’m convinced is misspelt; surely it should be Sak-messer, short for Swiss Army Knife?) instead of a rattle. He’s an officer in the Swiss Army and has the uniform to prove it, but he couldn’t resist buying the new soldier’s knife. It was love at first slice. There’s nothing guaranteed to get a Swiss man more excited than a new penknife. Most of them already own one and carry it at all times, but show them a new knife and let them play with all the different blades and their faces light up. They’re all still Boy Scouts at heart.

  TEN THINGS YOU NEVER
KNEW WERE SWISS

  Other than milk chocolate, the Swiss Army Knife is possibly the best known invention to come out of Switzerland. I exclude watches, at least until the end of this chapter, as the Swiss are famous for making rather than inventing them. But that red Army Knife isn’t the only Swiss invention that has left its mark on the world; there are plenty of others. Since the Swiss aren’t that good at blowing their own trumpets (too busy with alphorns), many of their best creations aren’t known for being Swiss. So here are ten things that you probably didn’t know were invented in Switzerland.

  Velcro

  More properly called ‘hook-and-loop fastener’, Velcro (which should probably be VELCRO® as it is a registered trademark) is possibly the most useful Swiss invention ever. It was the brainchild of Georges de Mestral, a native of Canton Vaud, who went out for a walk with his dog and ended up changing the world of children’s trainers and strippers’ trousers. Far from getting irritated at all the burrs sticking to his clothes, he inspected them under a microscope and decided to invent a man-made version. That’s the sign of true genius – producing an extraordinary idea from an ordinary moment. And as befits all great inventors, although he wasn’t taken seriously at first he never gave up. In 1955 he patented his invention as ‘Velcro’, a contraction of velours and crochet2 (French for velvet and hook respectively). It’s so useful for so many things, but such a shame he didn’t also invent an easy way of getting all the dust and hairs out of the hooks.