Story of my Swiss Driving License
Recently, I became the proud owner of the lifelong Swiss Driving License. The process of procuring one, however, was not easy.
Back in India, I learned how to drive by the time I was 12-years old, courtesy drivers who worked for my father. Of course, all of them were not so easygoing and cool. But some were. And, that sufficed.
Looking back, my Indian trainers were undoubtedly good. In my decades of driving in India, I have had no major incident apart from a couple of bumper hits. The Swiss process involved quite a bit of learning and unlearning. In India driving is instinctive.
The only aspect that is predictable is the unpredictability. A cyclist can appear from nowhere in front of your vehicle disregarding his own life and safety; a lorry may brazenly charge ahead just like VIP vehicles fitted with red lights on top; an autorickshaw may approach at high speed from the wrong side; a traffic cop hiding behind a bush could suddenly jump in front of your car to claim you have been speaking on your cell phone; pedestrians weave through traffic believing they will never be hit; beggars bang on the window at red lights, while enterprising ones peddle food, books, balloons, toys.
There is never a dull moment while driving in India. In Switzerland, traffic on the road is like an orchestra where everybody plays a part to ensure that the final product is a symphony of vehicles moving as per the rules.
There are notes to be deciphered everywhere: multiple signs, drawings, dotted lines and designs on the road, right and left priorities, different zones that have their own set of rules and priorities, speed limits that keep changing though there may not necessarily be a sign indicating the same. In short, there is nothing instinctive about driving in Switzerland, as also other European countries such as Germany, France, Austria that I have driven to.
I needed to unlearn my Indian habit of wedging my car into any opening that sometimes is the only way forward. Needless to say, I caused quite a bit of dissonance to the perfectly calibrated movement of vehicles here in Switzerland. Many honked, and a couple even showed me the middle finger. In India, I would have laughed it off and showed my middle finger back. The writing was, however, on the road.
I needed to re-calibrate and re-skill quickly or stop driving. As advised, I took driving lessons. My new teacher was not easygoing, unlike the friendly drivers who worked for my father. I don’t know whether all Swiss trainers follow her militarist style, if I may use the word.
She was clear that she had a job to do and needed to get it done in a ruthlessly efficient way. There was no room for small talk, banter, chai or coffee. She arrived in a tiny car, the size of a Maruti 800 or Alto.
Tall and powerfully built, it was hard to believe how she fitted into her car. She seemed more suited to train lorry drivers or operators of heavy agricultural or construction machinery. Though we live in the Canton of Vaud, which is French-speaking, she belonged to the German side of Switzerland, where the population knows English.
During our initial introductions she told me that she was a grandmother of four. Her two daughters and one son lived in other parts of Switzerland. She stayed somewhere in the mountains closeby, with her pet horse. I assumed her husband was dead or more likely left her. I found out about her horse as she understandably cut short a driving session when a neighbour called to say he was unwell.
“Why don’t you keep a dog or cat, why horse,” I asked her later.
“I love horses. Cats and dogs are too easy to look after,” she told me.
As I found out, she mainly trained youngsters, under 20, about to begin their driving life-journey. And, treated me like one too. In the first couple of classes she would jump on her seat, gesticulate animatedly, even grab the steering, thinking I would crash into every vehicle on the road. To reassure her, I said that I had driven in the Himalayas, Himachal, Kashmir, on very dangerous roads, without any incident.
“Here, in Switzerland, you will fail,” she replied sharply. “My aim is to take you to a level that is much higher than the expectations of the examiner during the driving test. That way you may not fail,” she said.
That was the only time she used the words “not fail,” in 15 sessions.
Soon, she was pointing out dozens of mistakes, real or imagined. She wanted me to wait when I did not and move when I waited; she told me my eyes needed to look right when I looked left and vice versa; indicators were either too early or too late before a turn; I was either over or under the speed limit; when I got the road signs right she reminded me of the ones I did not; she told me to wear a mask when I did not and remove it when I did.
She carried a notebook with her and jotted all the mistakes I was making, even as she scrutinised all my movements very closely. By the end of each class she would have filled several pages. Before leaving, she pointedly said to me every time that I was going to fail the test. She never answered any questions. Her standard reply was, “What do you think?”
And, when I did express my opinion she said, “Maybe you are right or maybe you are wrong. What do you think?” Predictably, her constant carping resulted in a couple of narrow misses and major honking by irate drivers that disturbed the tranquility of Switzerland. This angered her even more. The day before the driving test she told me categorically that I will fail. The test, that lasted nearly 45 minutes, was quite uneventful. As a matter of fact after being badgered by the lady for weeks, the experience with the examiner was calming.
“Nobody can be worse than her,” I told myself. I, however, did make one big mistake. Some Indian habits die hard. Keen to please the examiner, I kept a bottle of mineral water next to his seat. Also, keen to impress that I knew French, I asked the examiner a few times to drink the water that he kept refusing. All of that was fine except that I had fed Google translate horribly wrong. What I was telling the examiner was to take a bath with the bottle of water. I passed the test.
My trainer was surprised. She told me, in his report, the examiner said that I did not make a single mistake. “It is not possible that you did not make mistakes,” she said. We, however, parted on good terms. I gave her a pack of chocolates. Though I did not agree with her over exacting teaching style, all’s well that ends well. My DL soon arrived.
I did try to probe, one last time, about her humane side.
“You too must be indulging your grandchildren,” I asked her.
“I am unlike other grandmom’s. I am strict,” was her parting comment.
