The Nazi Copper of Zermatt

‘Even ze Queen of England would have to pay,’ he said with cold blue eyes narrowing further.

My plea for reasoning was just hardening his stance. I really wished I could play hardball, but my hand was weak. My car didn’t have the obligatory motorway tax, my shirt was blood stained, and I had a sausage knife by my side, but no sausage – yet my biggest problem was that I was a foreigner without a passport.

'I want ze money now,' he demanded, his voice upping in pitch.

I stood there trying to work out what the hell to do. The last thing I’d expected on our day trip to Switzerland was getting stung by the police. After such a bad start to the day, I’d honestly believed things could only get better.

The storm had hit at 3am. The lightning flashed behind the looming mountains and momentarily caught the tent ablaze, the thunder rolling down to rattle me out of my sleep. When the rain hit, it was hard. Incessant. Come 8am when we were all supposed to leave, it was still pouring down.

Our pitch was swamped. My brother’s wonky tent had just about managed to hold out, but would never be used again. He and his horde were still asleep, and when they did eventually awake, they were in no mood to go anywhere. I argued there was no point delaying the trip as this entire part of Europe would be rained upon for the rest of our stay.

He conceded, and with the five kids dispersed into two cars, we set off out of the gloomy Chamonix valley, the snowy peaks of the magnificent Massif du Mont Blanc lost in cloud, the steep forests that had bristled in the sunshine all week now dark and foreboding.

Nobody stopped us at the Swiss border, so we breezed straight through, drifting over the pass and down to Martigny in the mist way below. The drive along the industrialised valley floor was arrow straight. The beheaded mountains lining both sides receded into paler shades of grey, the craggy double hills of Sion surreally rising out of the smoky horizon.

The weather turned for the worse again as we started the climb for the famous mountain resort of Zermatt. I then sliced my thumb as I cut into the last of my saucisson, leaking blood over myself. But worst of all, the magnificent Matterhorn - the giant, twisted shark tooth of a mountain I’d come so far to see - was completely hidden by low-hanging sky.

We reached the village of Täsch, the last before Zermatt, and had to turn sharply onto a skinny stretch of road that continued upwards. Strangely, my GPS didn’t show the road anymore, but I didn’t think much of it as it was such an old device.

The outskirts of Zermatt were muddy and unattractive. We carried on, looking in vain for street parking, thinking I’d have to pay a tidy sum for a tourist parking lot. We quickly approached the main drag, having to dodge the golf-cart like taxis that were darting around. Just then, a large middle-aged bloke carrying a backpack stood in my way and signalled me to pull over. I did, dropping my window to hear what he had to say.

He said he was a local policeman and that only electric cars were allowed in the village. Oh damn. I apologised obsequiously and asked where I could park. He said he'd show me in a minute, but first wanted to see my driver’s licence. I trustingly fished it out of my man bag, and as I did so, I realised I’d left my passport back in France. Oh double damn.

He went over to have a word with my brother. I saw him in my mirror also handing over his licence. The cop’s face became serious. He pulled out his phone and made a call. My status as an illegal immigrant began to seriously concern me.

My brother got out to speak to the cop, but he didn't want to know, so they just stood there in silence waiting in the rain. It didn’t take long for a uniformed officer to arrive on a bicycle. He was younger, blonder, thinner, sporting a dodgy moustache – and with the eyes and sharp facial features of a movie Nazi.

He conversed in German with the first cop, then began speaking sternly to my brother in broken English. I heard him say it was a fine of 350 Swiss francs per car. It took a moment to for it to sink in. 350 francs?? No fucking way. That’s about €320 each!

He came over and looked a me and the kids disdainfully, then explained that not only weren't we allowed to drive through the village, but we also needed a special permit to drive up from Täsch.

He pulled out a laminated photo of a road sign, of which he said there were four on the road up – a white circle with a red border, underneath which was written quite small in four languages. ‘No access without authorisation from cantonal police’. I didn’t remember seeing any of them.

He came out with the same line he used on my brother. ‘It's not a problem. If you don’t pay,' he said, 'we take your cars, then I go home, take my jacket off,’ he thumbed the lapels of his uniform and shrugged, ‘and I forget about you.’

I tried to appeal to his better nature, but it appeared he didn't have one. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying it. This was probably all he had to do all week. He must lovingly polish that photo, I thought. When not flashing it to foreigners, it probably takes pride of place on his mantelpiece.

He walked back to my brother who was still standing there vacantly. I got out of my car too. He told us to hurry up and get the money from the ATM up the road. I had a limit on my cards, and my brother was skint as it was the day before he got paid. Still, he went off in search of the ATM, obviously trying some crap blag.

In the meantime, another cop turned up in an electric police cart. A young guy. Short, dark-haired and with a black German Shepherd in tow. He half-heartedly inspected my car, obviously looking for other faults to sting us for.

Passers-by stared at us as if we were proper villains, and an ancient bloke hobbled past several times, looking at me and the kids with such hate-filled eyes, I started to wonder if he really was an old Nazi.

My brother returned saying he couldn’t get any money. The blond cop became exasperated.

'I will take your cars and then go home!' He screeched. I couldn't bear more talk of him taking off his jacket (my graphic imagination just got too carried away) so I quickly said I’d have a try.

I walked up the rain-soaked street with my hood up, struggling to find the ATM. Everything and everybody looked bleak and unpleasant. When I finally found it in the train station, I hoped my credit card would refuse me the 500 francs. It didn’t. The remaining 200 I took from my debit card.

I trudged back deliberating whether to blag it or not, but I knew I couldn’t. Not without a passport. I hated myself and the powerlessness of my situation. I couldn't expect my brother to pay, as it was all my idea to come here. And I’d worked so hard for this trip. Two months of overtime, working up to 17-hour shifts, all now clasped in my hand in 7 crisp hundred franc bills.

As I re-approached the scene, the anger must’ve shown on my face. I drew back my hood and stared back at the 4 pairs of eyes staring at me. My brother’s were wide and confused (he later said he thought I was going to attack the police). The young cop looked away. The first cop looked embarrassed. And, strangely, Nazi Boy looked uneasy for the first time.

I walked up to him and held out the cash. He seemed surprised at first, but then quickly snatched it and counted it. The first cop seemed apologetic and muttered something about how I should ring my bank to put more money on my account. It was obviously part of the good cop/bad cop routine, but I also think he didn’t expect Nazi Boy to be so hard.

'What?' I said. 'There is no more money. It’s all there. The summer’s ruined. I don't even have enough to get home.'

What made things worse was that my brother later told me they'd agreed a cheaper price. The bastards.

Nazi Boy issued us the most generic of receipts and ordered us to leave immediately, instructing us to follow the young cop in the police cart. I got back in my car and watched in disbelief as the first copper – the good cop – sparked up a cigar, as if in celebration.

I went to drive off, but was stopped by a herd of brown long-haired goats kitted out with traditional bells and harnesses.

‘All I wanted to do was to see the Matterhorn,’ I said to the first cop signaling to the wall of cloud above.

He blew out cigar smoke and threw his thumb back at the herd clattering up the street.

‘At least,’ he said slowly and in the deadest of pans, ‘you have seen our goats’.

#zermatt #matterhorn #switzerland #chamonix #täsch