Swiss Watching Read online

  Ask a Swiss man where his Heimatort, or place of origin, is and he won’t necessarily tell you where he was born but where his ancestors came from, probably a little village halfway up a mountain. It may well be that no one in his family has lived there for generations, but it is this, not the place of birth, that is written in a Swiss passport. In Switzerland knowing where you came from is as important as knowing where you’re going to, and that applies as much to the country as its people.

  If the paradox of having an official name that doesn’t reflect the actual country seems odd, to the Swiss it’s normal, because Switzerland itself is a paradox. For this is a country that shouldn’t really exist. It defies nature, both Mother and human, with borders that make no geographic, linguistic, religious or political sense.

  AT THE HEART OF EUROPE

  European countries, unlike many American states, tend not to have straight-line boundaries that march across the map without bothering about complications like rivers and mountains. But even by European standards, Switzerland is a decidedly odd shape. Its borders wiggle all over the place, following rivers then leaping them to create bulges on the other bank, or zigzagging over lakes so that a simple boat trip has you crossing and re-crossing the lines. Essentially, the country looks like a horribly misshapen jigsaw piece, uncomfortably locked into its neighbours. And at times, it can seem like the missing piece, the last one needed to complete the puzzle; one look at a modern map of Europe and you’ll notice a Switzerland-shaped hole in the middle of the European Union.

  Nevertheless, look at that same map another way and Switzerland changes from a hole in the heart of the continent to an island in the middle of a vast sea of deep blue. It is surrounded on every side by the EU, with Austria, France, Germany and Italy5 all flying the blue flag dotted with gold stars. This mountainous country isn’t huge (at 41,285 square kilometres,6 it’s roughly twice the size of either Wales or New Jersey), but it would be Europe’s fourth largest island7 – and easily its most unusual, not least because it has no coastline. Welcome to the landlocked island!

  For most of its history Switzerland has been an anomaly at the centre of Europe, an Alpine republic encircled by monarchies and empires, dictators and generals. Occasionally the tide of history has washed across its borders, bringing Europe’s conflicts and ideas into the farthest mountain valleys, but Switzerland has always managed to restore its island status, one it still relishes today. The Swiss have long recognised that their country is often as isolated as any dot of land in the middle of the open sea, and have used their location to their advantage. While historically this was achieved by controlling trade routes or making the most of being surrounded by great powers, the Swiss are still doing it today. For an example, we can look at duty-free.

  A duty-free shop is not normally the place to discover how a nation sees itself. In among the stacks of Toblerone, Smirnoff, Chanel and Marlboro you might find a few overpriced ‘authentic’ souvenirs or delicacies, but such shops are rather like Hiltons or Starbucks: you could be anywhere in the world. At Swiss duty-free shops there was, and periodically still is, a poster that said as much about Swiss business sense as it did about the national mentality. It appeared after duty-free shopping was abolished within the EU8 and showed Switzerland as a palm-covered island in a sea of very blue water. No matter that, even duty-free, the cigarettes, perfume and alcohol were probably still more expensive than in a supermarket in Milan, Munich or Manchester. The message was clear: this was the last place for tax-free shopping in Europe, the last-chance saloon for anyone gasping for a drop of Johnnie Walker Red Label.

  The poster revealed how well the Swiss can grasp an opportunity to capitalise on their position at the heart of Europe, and in the not-so-distant past there have been less charitable examples. Business opportunities aside, the poster also shows how the Swiss see their own country. Eurosceptics might prefer to view Switzerland as a welcome oasis of sanity in the desert of pan-European unity, but the Swiss themselves are more likely to see it as a desert island, albeit one with mountains and glaciers instead of palm trees and ice creams (though they can be found together in Switzerland as well).

  Desert islands, both real and imagined, need three basic characteristics to live up to their name: sand, sea and solitude. They offer an escape from the outside world, where you can lie back and let the day slip by to the sound of gently lapping waves, or even a few favourite records. Or perhaps they are a last hope of survival for castaways washed ashore in tattered clothes, with only dates for company. Either way, such islands don’t normally have the world’s most used train system, one of the highest levels of computer ownership and (arguably) best chocolate. Then again, this is a desert island like no other, not least because it’s 200 kilometres from the nearest stretch of seaside.

  Although Switzerland may not physically have the three requirements of a desert island, it has long acted as one. It has been both a retreat from the outside world, for those who can afford it, and a lifeboat in a storm, for those who won’t rock that boat too much. In fact, the Swiss Family Robinson didn’t need to be shipwrecked to find their desert island; they could have just stayed at home. The island status is a mental, not physical one, with inhabitants choosing to isolate themselves from the outside world and, until recently, very often from each other.

  The Swiss are very much a product of their geography. Separated by mountains, the valley communities developed in semi-isolation, as shown by the many distinct dialects and customs still in evidence today. It was a case of local things for local people, helping your neighbours, being wary of foreigners and trying not to be different. Some Swiss, particularly those on the right, see that as a lost ideal; for others it’s an outdated view that belongs in the past. The funny thing is, they don’t always realise that today it’s largely true for Switzerland as a whole, though in a much watered-down form. But keeping yourself to yourself, either as an individual or as a community, is very Swiss – and it’s all down to the Swiss being a bunch of coconuts.

  LIFE’S A PEACH, OR A COCONUT

  In her book on Swiss culture, Beyond Chocolate, Margaret Oertig-Davidson uses an interesting fruity analogy to describe the differences between the Swiss and English-speaking societies. Fittingly enough for desert islanders, the Swiss are coconuts. This doesn’t mean that they are all small, brown and hairy, though some might be, but that they make a clear distinction between public and private spheres of their lives. Breaking through a coconut’s outer shell isn’t easy, just as it can be hard to get onto first-name terms with Swiss people, or even to get to know them at all. For the Swiss it’s clear that most people belong in this outer shell, where surnames are used and private details are not shared. The inner part is reserved for closest friends and family, who use first names and whose relationships last a lifetime. This private sphere often includes the home, which is rarely opened up to strangers, rendering a Swiss home more fortress than castle. All this can make the Swiss seem cold and distant, but what to outsiders appears unfriendly is actually them respecting personal space and taking time to get to know someone.

  In contrast to those cautious coconuts, societies in the English-speaking world are all peaches. In the soft, fleshy outer part every stranger is a potential friend, first names are more readily used, the home is more open to all and everything is a lot more relaxed. And since friends can come and go throughout your life, the much smaller inner core is essentially your immediate family, the ones you can’t choose or lose. Perhaps the peach works best for Americans, whereas the British are possibly more like pineapples, a little prickly at first, though easier to get past than a coconut shell. Then comes the large, softer part where work colleagues, neighbours, friends and acquaintances all mix without much formality. Last, the family makes up the firmer centre.

  While the coconut analogy clearly can’t work for everyone, as a general picture it’s quite accurate. The Swiss are polite and friendly, but not exactly forthcoming with newcomers, and they certainly
like to bunch together. Break through that shell and it’s a different story – a Swiss friend is for life, not just for Facebook. But the Swiss and the British are probably more alike than either realise. Both societies are ruled by unspoken etiquette and red tape, and outsiders might find it hard to make friends or become fully integrated. Added to that, both share a reluctance to commit to European federalism, have a common distrust of the Germans and want to keep their own currency.

  Of course there are differences too. For example, there is no state religion in Switzerland and there is never likely to be, as the country is evenly split between Catholics and Protestants. And Switzerland is a republic, one of the world’s oldest, but Britain a monarchy, though both countries are similarly made up of disparate parts held together by a common will. The fact is that many Swiss are Anglophiles and Brits have always come to Switzerland, with the Swiss tourist industry practically being created just for the English. And, after all, pineapple and coconut together make a great piña colada.

  If the Swiss can be seen as coconuts, then Switzerland itself is much like its people, only bigger. On this scale it’s the mountains that act as the shell, protecting its inhabitants and stopping outsiders from getting too close. To the rest of the world these mountains are the face of Switzerland, which isn’t too surprising given how much they dominate the landscape. It might have to share the Alps with all of its neighbours, but with 48 peaks over 4000 metres, Switzerland can justifiably be called the Roof of Europe. Almost two-thirds of the country is taken up by the Alps, with the Jura range in the northwest making up another 10 per cent of the surface area. And in this land of countless mountains, one stands out: the Matterhorn.

  CONQUERING THE MOUNTAINS

  There are no world-famous Swiss monuments or buildings: no Taj Mahal or Eiffel Tower or Opera House. Instead there are mountains, and possibly two of the best known in Europe. With its forbidding North Face the Eiger gets more starring roles in books and films, but it’s the Matterhorn that is the real Swiss icon. This singular, triangular wonder with a slightly crooked peak is known around the world, though not always at home. None of the 16 candidates for the 2009 Miss Switzerland title could put a name to the photo of the Matterhorn9; apparently, winning that crown really is only about looks. For most other Swiss, however, the Matterhorn is an instantly recognisable symbol of their country, even if they do have to share it with Italy. The mountain lies not in the middle of Switzerland but in the middle of nowhere, down on the Swiss–Italian border. That means that getting there is no picnic: from Bern, for example, it takes three trains, each smaller and slower than the last, to make the trip up the ever-narrower valleys to Zermatt and beyond. But it’s worth it. For one simple reason – the view.

  The Matterhorn literally stands out from the crowd. Not because of its size, though at 4478 metres it’s more than a pimple, but because it sits in solitary isolation, uncluttered by neighbouring peaks. That’s why it looks so majestic, because you can see the whole mountain from bottom to top. And that’s exactly where one Englishman went. In 1865 Edward Whymper led the team that scaled the Matterhorn for the first time, though four of them died in the process. Most visitors today are happy to stick with the view from the train or from the end of the line at Gornergrat. From there the panorama includes the Matterhorn, the mighty Gorner Glacier and snowy Dufour Peak,10 Switzerland’s highest. Looking at all that it’s hard to believe that, as the crow flies, it’s only 70 kilometres to Switzerland’s lowest point in Ascona11; that’s equivalent to having a height difference of over 4400 metres between Leeds and Sheffield. Such extremes so close together show how compact Switzerland really is, but also the possible obstacles to even the shortest journey. Then again, the Swiss were never ones to let a few mountains stand in their way.

  If there’s one date that proves the Swiss commitment to conquering their landscape, it’s 25 June 1930. That marks an event that, in the scheme of Swiss transport history, isn’t so momentous. It wasn’t the opening of the Gotthard Tunnel or the completion of Europe’s first mountain railway; it was the inaugural journey of the Glacier Express from Zermatt to St Moritz.12 The joining of two upmarket ski resorts may not seem like much until you look at the map: the two are at opposite ends of the country and separated by rather a lot of mountain. It’s almost as if someone just decided to join the dots in spite of what was in between. With two altitude changes to overcome, each of 1400 metres, the line resembles a long roller-coaster, though not in speed. It is possibly the world’s slowest express train – glacial is a good adjective – but that slow pace, and the glass-roofed panorama cars, means that it’s a great ride for seeing the Alps.

  The thing about the Glacier Express is not its 291 bridges or 91 tunnels,13 or even the fact that it runs all year round despite the snow. It’s that nowhere along its route is particularly big enough to warrant building such a line. The two largest towns, Brig and Chur, are connected to the rail network by mainline routes, meaning that the Express serves a few villages along the way, as well as tourists wanting the experience. And that’s the crucial part. Regular trains run along the same route, stopping at every hamlet, but it’s the tourist trains which make the line feasible. In high season you have to reserve well in advance to get a seat, and there’s no standing allowed (not that you’d want to for 7½ hours).

  From the base of the Matterhorn at Zermatt the train chugs down to the Rhone valley, which is flat enough for it to practically race along to Brig. Then it’s up and over the Oberalp Pass – cue splendid craggy peaks softened by lush green meadows, or in winter a white wonderland – before dropping again to the Rhine gorge. It’s rather amazing that two of Europe’s largest rivers have their sources so close together, with each flowing in a different direction: the Rhine northwards to the North Sea, the Rhone west- then southwards to the Mediterranean. Not forgetting that just over another mountain the Inn begins its eastward journey to the Black Sea, making a triple watershed at the heart of the continent. Include the 1500 or so lakes, Europe’s largest waterfalls and a few glaciers, and it’s easy to see how Switzerland accounts for 6 per cent of the fresh water in Europe.14 No wonder over half of the country’s electricity comes from hydroelectric stations.15

  It’s perhaps only on the last part of this epic train ride that you really notice the engineering involved. To manage the climb from Chur up to glitzy St Moritz, the line has to curl round on itself repeatedly, going up through loop tunnels blasted in the rock. To cross the ravines it uses towering arched viaducts sitting on stone stilts, and bridges that seem to hang on thin air. All quite enough to give you sweaty hands if you look down at the tumbling waters below.

  The Glacier Express shows that for the Swiss the mountains are a challenge rather than a barrier, there to be tunnelled under and driven over. They are also a playground, to be walked up and skied down, as much as a defence against the outside world. They are, in essence, the Swiss equivalent of the sea, the soul of the country and the reason it is the way it is, beautiful and inviting yet defensive and unwelcoming. And, like the sea for any island, they affect the weather. The big difference is that while the Swiss love their mountains, the weather rarely gets a look in.

  WHEN THE WIND BLOWS

  Ask any Swiss person about the weather and... In fact, don’t ask a Swiss person about the weather. It’s not something they talk about as willingly as other nations, particularly the British. That’s partly to do with the Swiss dislike of small talk, but also because for them it’s a pointless conversation. Here’s a typical British–Swiss chat about the weather:

  Brit, coming in from outside: ‘Brrr, it’s so cold out today.’ Swiss: ‘It’s winter.’

  Whereas the opening line could be a cue for an exchange about the weather, purely as a way of breaking the ice or making conversation, the Swiss sees it as a statement of fact, and not a very bright one at that: it’s winter, therefore it’s cold, therefore there’s nothing left to talk about. Never mind that last week it was still T-shirt we
ather, or that the forecast is for 30 centimetres of snow by the weekend, or that it’s not nearly as bad as last year (any or all of which could be a natural response in British small talk). This Swiss habit of being direct and stating the facts can give the impression they are either rude or uninterested in you, when in fact they are neither; well, most of them anyway. They’re just not used to others wanting to talk about trivia or divulge personal information, particularly with strangers. For a Swiss person, standing beside someone watching the rain in silence is more comfortable than talking about it. The ironic thing is that Swiss weather actually is worth talking about.

  Living in the shadow of Europe’s highest mountains means that the weather can be both remarkably static and extremely changeable. Systems can sit over Switzerland for days, roasting or freezing its inhabitants, but then something shifts and temperatures change twenty degrees overnight. With all those the mountains and no sea nearby to cool the summer and warm the winter, Swiss weather can reach both extremes: its coldest and hottest recorded temperatures, –41.8°C and 41.5°C respectively,16 are figures more readily associated with Siberia and Libya.

  There is one weather feature that the Swiss love to claim as their own and will happily chat about: the Föhn, pronounced roughly like Inspector Clouseau saying ‘phone’. Mention that and you won’t be able to get a word in for the next few minutes. Whereas its cold counterpart, the Bise, blasts chilly air down from the north, the Föhn is a wind that comes from the south over the Alps, typically in April–May but also in the autumn. It generally brings warm, dry air, hence its name; Föhn is German for hairdryer, though who knows which came first. But this can be quite some hairdryer, with wind speeds regularly over 100 kilometres an hour17 and dramatic temperature changes. It’s not unusual for it to be 25°C where the Föhn is blowing and 6°C a few valleys away.