SWITZERLAND of 1958 was a place that was out of this world; my world of poverty, ignorance and dirt, to be exact. Not only was it different from my Third World, but England and France were no match either. It was so very very clean, fresh and neat. Even the air was so pure and fresh that like a bell it jingled and like a new coin straight out of the mint it was pure and musical. So much so that when I breathed, I felt guilty.
Geneva sprawled along Lake Lemon and Lake Geneva. It was a city that proved fatal for an innocent teenager like me. The camping site was situated on a green hill overlooking the city and a great expanse of blue water. On one side flowed the river Rhone. The most fascinating spot of this camping site was a small cafe from where you could see the famous Geneva Jet sending gallons of water thousands of feet high. I was swept away, mesmerized indeed and when I heard my favourite song Darling Don’t Forbid Me by Pat Boone being played on the jukebox of this cafe, the fatality was complete. Although there were other matters in store for me which proved more fatal.
Presently I decided that I was going to stay put, spend my whole summer vacation here. After all what could be better than this paradise? However, now that I realize, paradise was in my young blood and inexperience, otherwise Geneva, although a fantastic city, was not the end of the world.
As soon as I erected my little tent on the greenest of green grass on that hill, had my first cup of coffee in the cafe and putting coin after coin in the jukebox to hear my favourite song, I noticed a very shabby looking tent peeping from the bushes. In front of it sat a very dashing white haired gentleman with only shorts on. In front of him lay a self manufactured table which was covered with old newspapers upon which lay a glass of sparkling red wine. First he spoke to me in French and when I shrugged my shoulders he said haltingly “Are you Indian youngman?”
I was vastly hurt and said “No sir, I am from Pakistan, Indians are never that handsome.”
He did not mind my foolish ego a bit and stretched his hand “We can be friends, my name is Pierre.” When the pleasantries were over I asked him “Sir where are you from?”
“Switzerland” he said.
“And which city?”
“Geneva.”
“And you are camping in your own city? What is your profession?”
“I am a vagabond!”
Basically I wanted to reply in Urdu that Khoob Guzre Gi Jo Mil Baithen Ge Diwane Do, but I could not translate it. And besides, this Diwana was at least fifty years senior to me. So I said “It’s my pleasure to meet one of the kind.”
Pierre, that evening, cooked some sausages and french-fries which he insisted that I share with him. Although he insisted that I share his wine too but till then I had not touched the cup that cheers.
Next day I descended from my heavenly abode and explored the city of Geneva. I noticed that the Swiss are so vastly enamoured of their flag that they hoist it, hang it everywhere, even in lavatories. Later I decided to refresh myself under the Geneva Jet in the cool, for me freezing, waters of Lake Geneva. In fact I am not a swimmer in the real sense of the word, basically a splasher i.e. if I am pushed into the deep waters, I go down and down and then finally when I emerge on the surface, I splash frantically to save my dear life. During one of these splashes underneath the Geneva Jet fountain, in the deep waters of Lake Lemon, I saw emerging from the waters a blonde head. She was Ruth, a German girl who in time to come would prove to be ‘Ruthless’.
Ruth was here in Geneva to learn French part-time and full-time she was a waitress serving in one of the most expensive restaurants by the Lake. Needless to say that in coming days I enjoyed many free of cost meals in that posh and expensive restaurant courtesy Ruth, the Ruthless.
Eventually, in life I achieved the dubious honour of obtaining a certificate in ballroom dancing, from the prestigious, Victor Silvester School of Dancing, learning the intricate Tango, Quickstep and Waltz, beside the notorious Cha Cha Cha. However, at the time, I was ignorant at that time of reference of any dance form. And it was Ruth who was my teacher. In the midst of the night, when I was walking her home from my camping spot, in the darkness of a thick forest, from the depth floated a melody, in the hush of the night there was music. Ruth said “Lets dance.”
And I said apologetically, “I can’t”.
“It’s simple,” and she put her arms around my waist “you just count one two three and swirl...it’s simple.”
I was a dumb headed novice but who wouldn’t become a bright head if it was a Geneva night and there was a willing teacher?
Prior to this lesson, we had sat in the camping cafe and Pat Boone kept on crooning Darling Don’t Forbid Me. A morning came when I saw a sight which was beyond my comprehension. That self-proclaimed vagabond, Pierre, was emerging from a chauffeur driven car in a three-piece suit, very respectable. Then he went into his very shabby tent and when he emerged, he was in his shorts, and sat in the sunshine of Geneva and looked at my disbelieving face.
“Pakistani, I am unfortunately one of the most famous dental surgeons in Geneva but when I get fedup with my luxurious life, I escape and come here, don’t disclose my secret.”
And when I introduced Ruth to him he was delighted, “If I were any younger I would have challenged you for a dual to win her over.”
Those who are experts in hitch-hiking consider Germany the best place to raise a thumb and Switzerland the worst due to a law according to which you are not paid any insurance in case of an accident if a hitch-hiker is on board. So from Geneva I decided to walk along the shore of the lake upto Laussane. Years onward, on the slopes of Vichy, Charles Chaplin was to be buried and then stolen.
A few days of a short lift here and there, and walking I reached the magical city of Montriex at the end of Lake Geneva. Here although the camping was right beside the lake, but the charm of Pierre and the beauty of Ruth were lacking. The mediaeval castle of Chillon on the edge of lake was the main tourist attraction. It is the castle of Byron’s poem Prisoner of Chillon and the guide dutifully shows the dungeon in which the now famous prisoner rotted. But the star attraction of the place was Byron’s autograph, engraved into a stonewall and to safeguard it a thick glass sheet covered it and rightly so. Because all the female visitors felt duty bound to kiss it with such passion that every now and then the layers of lipsticks of all shades had to be wiped clean. Byron must be a very happy man even now, in his grave or wherever he is.
From Montriex one could easily see the shores of France across the lake and one afternoon I hired a rowing boat with the intention of going across, having a cup of coffee in France and returning to Montriex. It looked very near but it was deceptive. I rowed and rowed but France never came any never and finally when the evening approached and I decided to turn back, I was shocked to see that although Montriex was there somewhere, I couldn’t locate the spot from where I had started my journey. When darkness fell, even Montriex and the villages around it got all mixed up. The mountain was a mass of lights and I was completely lost. Fortunately for such emergencies the boat was equipped with a lantern which I lit and hoisted it on a pole and then using my vocal chords fully, I started shouting for help.
Finally I was rescued by a police boat. It was almost midnight when I creeped into my tent hungry and shivering but grateful that I had avoided the watery grave of Lake Geneva. Did I learn my lesson? Alas it is not so. I remained foolish and impulsive for the rest of my life, always itching to go across to see the other side of a lake, or a mountain. And in this life of mine, lets see what is in store for me on the other side.
SWITZERLAND of 1958 was a place that was out of this world; my world of poverty, ignorance and dirt, to be exact. Not only was it different from my Third World, but England and France were no match either. It was so very very clean, fresh and neat. Even the air was so pure and fresh that like a bell it jingled and like a new coin straight out of the mint it was pure and musical. So much so that when I breathed, I felt guilty.
