Pt 8. Into Switzerland.

Tuesday 18^th May 2010

I had intended riding to Geneva in Switzerland, but I got a police escort from just outside of Dole, and found a much more interesting road to follow down to Nyon on the shores of Lake Leman instead. It wasn’t really a police escort of course, just a couple of gendarmerie on bikes that I decided to ride with for twenty miles or so, and got so caught up in the ‘Seven-Mary, Three-Four and Five’ thing, that I missed the turn off completely. To make matters worse, I accidently waved to someone riding a scooter; and that’s an absolute no-no; scooters aint real bikes! But even with that, it was the most exciting riding I’d done so far, with waterfalls, rocky cliffs, crazy winding roads, and mile after mile of smooth beautiful tarmac. I even realised I can ride on the wrong side of the road now and think nothing of it. The road wound around and down, and up and down again. At some point I officially entered Switzerland, but there was no –one there to shake my hand, or wave a flag, nor check my passport. It’s at times like that I can’t help but think smuggling could be a good way to make a living, I’m just not too sure what I’d smuggle, or even if I’d enjoy being smuggled myself?! More high rocky crags led to even more beautiful waterfalls. The air was crisp and smelled of pine and Nordic shampoo, the road was black and smooth, and long and curvy like a Massai woman’s legs. Soon the Pine forest cleared and I could see water stretched out before me. It was Lake Leman, -or Lake Geneva if you prefer; even though technically it’s not-. I could see the Alps lazing in the distance across the other shore, but they were so shrouded in mist that they may well have been Toblerones for all I knew. I stopped at a vantage point and tried to get some photos of my very first view of the majestic Alps, but it just wasn’t going to happen. Between the mist, the glare and my fumbling inability to get the right exposure, the pics came out like whitewashed lime-stain on a patchy, grey marble wall. I put the camera away and rejoined the road

By now it had become something worth having a whole lot of fun on. It ess’d it’s way downhill steeply and without pause for thought of danger, and twisted and turned on cambered bends that pulled G-forces right through my socks, and made my adrenal glands sing ‘Oh Praise the Lord, Jesus says oo-rah!’. I pushed the bike harder than I’d ventured before, and leaned it lower and tighter to the road. Any moment I thought I was going to get the holy grail of scraping leathered knee on tarmac, but the closest I got was being hit in the face by a bee just as the twisties began to run-out, and the sensible people came out play near the edge of the town called Nyon. I dropped the bike back a gear or two and coasted into town, hunger burning at my guts, and my sphincter puckering to perfection; right on cue a McDonalds appeared, and I pulled in to relieve both of my renal needs.

As I stood at the counter of Macca’s, looking at the menu deciding which of the incredibly nourishing and appetising culinary delights to have, I heard an English voice, actually it was American, but I was prepared to forgive them that. Their names were Merve and Ken, and they were from Detroit, or possibly Chicago. They were both househusbands, who spent their days playing golf and wandering around, and eating at McDonalds. Their wives were the breadwinners, being accountants at some large US firm that had it’s headquarters nearby. I noticed the particularly delicious-looking Big Mac meal deal was priced in Swiss francs, in fact the whole menu was; I hadn’t thought of that, I only had euro’s on me. Ken came to the rescue and offered to exchange 20 euro’s for 25 Swiss francs. I didn’t know if that was a good deal or not, but having been guilty in the past of ripping off unsuspecting Americans, I figured it’d all come out in the wash one way or another; so I decided to deal, and got myself some food.

The guys were on their way to see the grave of Richard Burton who was buried nearby, also the house where Charlie Chaplin used to live. They told me that Switzerland, being the tax haven that it is, has attracted only the best kind of money to it’s lake Geneva shores, and includes such luminaries as Formula one ace, Michael Schumacher, and formula one rising star, Lewis Hamilton. Country singer Shania Twaine also has a house near Lausanne, along with Phil Collins and probably countless other rich, famous and noteworthy. After I’d finished oo-ing and ah-ing at all the appropriate places, they told me about a campsite further along the shore towards Lausanne called Rolle. It was right on the water and by all accounts a seriously worthwhile place to stay for the night or even a week. I took their photo, wrote down their e-mail addresses and shook their hands goodbye. Half an hour of going full guns along the smooth and well-heeled Swiss foreshore road, I was pulling into the entranceway of the Gondwana campsite. The Alps were still heavily misted over, but I caught glimpses here and there of snow-capped peaks tantalising me through breaks in the cloud and haze. I booked myself in and found a site to pitch the tent just meters from the waters edge, and a stones throw from this crazy-looking campervan with pictures of Snails all over it.

A 70-odd year old woman named Manja from Brazil owned the van. As I approached her to say hello, she was painting another snail with a fine brush and a palette of oils; but these weren’t just any snail paintings, but rather comical representations of snails in various form. Clowns, cats, Father Christmas; a snail riding a bike, playing cards around a table, etc, and they weren’t rough and ready either, but finely detailed and lovingly done. I asked if I could take some photos of her van, and she said of course I could, and then invited me in for a glass of wine and a chat. Over a bottle of sweet white I learned she was fluent in 8 or 9 languages. She couldn’t remember how many herself actually, and wasn’t entirely sure if a couple of them even counted, as they were Swiss/ German, Swiss/French and Swiss/ Belgian, all of which are different in their own peculiar way. She did tell me however that her favourite language was Italian, as it was all about sensuality and passion for living. In her day she’d been a Genealogist and an artist, but nowadays she was retired, and was only visiting Switzerland for a week to take care of her ex-husbands estate, as he had recently died and his affairs needed attending to. I said I was sorry to hear of her recent loss, but she just laughed it off. “Don’t be sorry” she told me, “I’m not, he was hard work and I’m glad to be free of him”. She went on to say that, her husband saw the world in black and white, with no room for colour in between, and now she feels that her coming of age ‘is to be savoured like a well matured Wine’ and her painting is all about ‘the domestication of colour’. “It should make you smile on the inside”, she told me. She’d been married four times, and all four husbands had died…que Sera. I left her to her thoughts on life and death, and went for a walk along the lake-shore to see what I could see.

Some ducks were squabbling over a piece of bread. A beautiful white Swan was nesting on three eggs. A boat was moored just offshore with a guy and his girl barbequing on board. The Alps were a misty temptress still, and the sky above was azure, reflecting like a Sapphire on the sparkling diamond surface of the lake. I started walking into town until I discovered it was a lot further than I realised, and defeated, I turned around and headed back to camp where I again found Manja, busy with her paint-pot, while the smell of something tasty cooking oozed from inside her van. “Would you like to join me for dinner”? She asked. Would I? I thought to myself, what have I got planned for dinner? Let me see. A tin of Sardines, and a stale slice of bread that I wrestled off a duck. A half-eaten tomato with some questionable cheese; a cup of instant coffee with some broken biscuits, or a packet of crisps and a cup of luke-warm water. “That sounds lovely Manja” I told her, “I’d love to”.

She’d made something with shredded potatoes, cheese and sausage meat, ‘Roasties’ I think she said they were called, but this I’m sure was just some generic name similar to the Scottish ‘Stovies’. It was beautiful though, a real taste sensation, especially when washed down with a vintage red wine and more than one shot of something much stronger.

“What the hell is that? I asked her as fire burned in my eyes, throat, nose and mouth. “It’s Damassine” She said “from the Jura mountain region of France”. Jesus wept, and so did I. Snot ran from my nose, tears streamed from my eyes and something strange moved around inside me. It reminded me of rancid Tequila but much, much worse. It was made from wild plums that had frozen while still on the tree, Manja told me, and when you swill it in your mouth you can taste the fruits and the flavours come to life. I didn’t agree, all I could taste was something akin to kerosene, that had been lit just as I swallowed it down. “Have another” she told me, filling up my shot glass. “The first one is always difficult”. So I did, and the night came and went with red-wine, white wine, fire-water and food. The conversation was eclectic and charming, and the hangover already starting by the time I crawled into my tent at nearly two o’clock in the morning.

Wednesday 19^th May 2010

As far as hangovers go, I’ve had worse, but even so, when the alarm woke me at just after seven, the best I could manage was to lean over and turn it off. By the time I woke properly and cleared the fuzz from my brain it was getting on for ten-thirty, and I was in no state to consider packing up and getting on the road. Once I’d made the decision that I was going to stay another day, everything began to brighten and I felt much happier about myself. I walked over to the reception and told them I’d be staying another day, and that was no problem at all. Why would it be, the place was only half-booked, and they stood to extract another exorbitant amount of money from my credit card. With that sorted I went and had a shower, got myself vaguely humanised, and sat in the café and gobbled down some breakfast.

Since yesterday had been bit of a washout as far as my writing was concerned, I decided that now I was staying for another day I must be strict with myself and get some done; and with that, I spent the majority of the day in the Gondwana bar, listening to Bob Marley and other chilled-out funky music.

It wasn’t a bad place to be either, a very laid-back joint with Cane furniture, throw rugs and large comfortable cushions scattered all over the sea-grass matted floor of an open-sided gazebo. I sat there writing, drinking wine, drinking coffee, eating cheese, writing some more, drinking more wine, eating salmon baguettes with Avocado and fresh salad fillings. In between it all, I sent and received text messages, checked my e-mails and got thousands of words written down. I thought that maybe this is how Ernest Hemingway enjoyed his days, but then I remembered he’d also been a frontline war correspondent during the Spanish civil war, and saw the best of times along with the worst of times too. Nevertheless, aside from that bit, maybe this was what it was like for him. It was almost cavalier, and definitely decadent; awesomely satisfying and more than just a little bit self-indulgent.