The Ban Bus

On the road again. Willy Nelson could sing a song about that. We packed up and began the haul over the mountains towards Geneva. Geneva is home to the United Nations and a forum called the CCW was about to begin. The CCW stands for Convention on Conventional Weapons. This is the forum that should deal with all weapons that are not chemical, nuclear or biological. The first time I was here was in 1996 and we put all of our hopes in it dealing with the Landmines issue. It failed due to its bogged down inability to decide on anything, the process of consensus and the mire it inhabits.

Since the Cluster Munitions Treaty was negotiated in Dublin in May there has been a renewed vigour in trying to create a protocol within the CCW that will cover cluster bombs, as well. The problem being the bar in the CCW is so low that if they actually achieved something it could weaken the excellent treaty negotiated in Dublin. Snakes and Ladders played by diplomats in their ivory tower. The chair is a Danish diplomat called Bent Wigotski. Denmark has agreed to sign the cluster bomb treaty in Oslo but Wigotski seems hell bent on producing something out of Geneva that would undermine the Oslo treaty. The argument for CCW is that it has the big players like Russia, America and China as members. The down side is that if they actually do achieve anything it will be so weak that it will be worth nothing. This of course translates to more cluster use in the future.

We drove across the top of Italy, around Milan, and finally up into the hills. It was breathtaking scenery but we ended up missing most of it because, once again, we were largely travelling at night. We rolled into Geneva and my diplomatic déjà vu was back. A booking was waiting for us at the Etap Hotel near the airport. It’s clean and busy catering for those on a tight budget with something to do at the UN. It’s a regular pot pouri from all four corners of the world.

Monday morning we met under the Broken Chair to hold a public action lobbying the diplomats as they came to the UN. The Broken Chair is a massive sculpture set accusingly in front of the main entrance of the UN. It’s a huge wooden chair with one leg blasted off, as a symbol of those injured by landmines. It was commissioned during the negotiations for the Landmine Treaty in 1997 and has stood a silent vigil staring into the UN ever since.

Handicap International is an NGO that has dealt with disability in the developing world for about 30 years. They were a key player in the creation of the Landmine Treaty and were never shy about doing public actions. They began the tradition of the shoe pyramid where they would dump tonnes of shoes in very public places and use it as a rallying point for everything from the general public to politicians and the media. Creativity was always a strong point for them and it’s no surprise they were the driving force behind the creation of the Broken Chair.

We drove down the hill towards Lake Leman then up into the island where the chair stands. I have to admit that I love the chair. I have no idea why but I do get a strong feeling from it, like it belongs to me or I belong to it. It’s like meeting an old friend again, it stands for something I fought so hard for and has been a core part of my life for so long.

The chair has been wrapped in white paper as part of the new protest in support of a ban on cluster bombs, but the significance of this is lost on me. The bus is parked under the shattered leg and in a few minutes we have all of our photographs out and are talking to anyone who passes by. A fake boarding pass to Oslo had been printed and on the back of this is a plea for diplomats to come to Oslo and sign the treaty.

The Swiss can be quite stiff at times so ice breaker tactics need to be applied to get them engaged.

“Good morning! Here is a free ticket to Oslo. Bring your friends, family, diplomats and government. No sir, don’t be shy, it’s only a piece of paper. It won’t bite you.”

Incessant babble often gets through and if that doesn’t work you either blow them off and move to the next or get really cheeky.

“It’s only paper, be brave, reach out and take the tiny piece of paper. Beware of paper cuts though and dispose of thoughtfully after reading.”
“Take it, come on, I dare you, even double dare you.”
“Did you know I’ve always loved you, grrrrufff.”

(Run like hell if that one stops them.)

The pedestrian peak hour is from about 8.30 am till 10 am and we get many in this time. Banners are up with different messages. “Cluster bombs, ban them in Oslo, don’t legalise them in Geneva.” And simply “Sign in Oslo”. The photos are always a crowd stopper and as soon as people stop to look at them, I’d slide on in for a chat about the problem.

The media turned up in mass too and we reinforced that all countries need to be in Oslo and not wasting their time contemplating half bans in Geneva. The crowds died away and we went to the UN to get our accreditation and passes then meet for a press conference inside. The UN is a bastion from reality. There are the same tired faces here conference after conference and sadly the role of many is to water things down and look out for their “National Interest”. Oh how I hate that phrase. Gormless pasty faced rakes in droopy suits who think they are the real deal, waiting for their opponents to blink in a death match of poker. Wigotski sits as a scrawny little character and attempts to railroad through his views. Statement after statement is read and the job of the chair is judge the view of the room and come up with a conclusion. There seems to be potential cracks here as the different views are expressed but it’s very early days and the CCW two weeks to run. Anything can happen in that time.

I sat at the back of the room listening to a few speeches. One tried hack after the next delivers their view that they don’t like this or don’t like that and collectively erode any progress away to nothing. I hate it and wait for the lunch time adjournment and the start of our media conference.

The clock strikes one and I am off with Thomas, Lynn and Steve into the bowels of the UN. This is not a building to get lost in, as I have learnt from the past, it’s the second largest building in Europe and a rabbit warren at that. We trudge off for the 1km walk, our footsteps echoing in the grand vaulted halls. Originally this building was the home of the League of Nations, the forerunner of the United Nations. When it was constructed it was done on a grand scale. Columns, vaults and magnificent masonry adorned with murals and the trappings of grandeur. The end we start from though is the shabby carbuncle section, a modern extension and nothing more than steel, glass and concrete.

The new end was added to give bigger meeting rooms and the really large assemblies of representatives from the whole world can be seated here. There is not one massive assembly room but a whole series of them each with smaller side rooms for holding side meetings and briefings. Our press conference is at the other end in amongst the labyrinth of offices. This area gets so confusing I have been stuck inside in the past and couldn’t even find a way out. Over the twelve years I have been coming to the UN I have become more familiar but that can always turn to confusion.

The first time I was here was 1996 at the CCW. There were the usual round of cocktail parties hosted by the different nations to grease up other nations and NGO’s. I hate these events with a passion but part of the job is to attend and use the opportunity to lobby. I don’t dispute their usefulness to do some lobbying but I just hate the elitism that comes from them. Many use them as just an excuse to booze up on free wine and finger food. During the 1996 meeting the USA threw a cocktail party and it was the worst I have been to. They ushered us into a large box of a room in the base of their building then ran out of booze and food before I got through the door.

The next day the British decided to host one but used the opportunity to embarrass the Americans. There is a formal dining restaurant on the roof of the UN with an incredible view of the lake and Alps beyond. This was to be their location. It was April 25, ANZAC Day, a sacred date for Australians and New Zealanders. It’s the day that they landed for an attempted invasion of Turkey in World War One. Thousands died and the attempt was abandoned many months later after the loss of thousands of men’s lives. It was a tough lesson about the world for two very young nations and has been commemorated on this day ever since.

To show up the Americans the Brits turned on a lavish spread of wine and food, true diplomatic style. We pressed the flesh and talked through the issues with various diplomats and slowly the numbers began to thin out. I ended up drinking with two Australian Colonels and some British Military and we were giving them hell about using Australians and New Zealanders as cannon fodder. One drink led to the next and we were getting fairly well lubricated. I overheard a brief conversation between the British representative from the Foreign Office and his Army counterpart.

“I’m off,” said the Foreign Office guy. “You shut it down when you see fit but this kind of drinking is a job for the army anyway,” and with that he was out the door.

Another round of drinks came by and the conversations were heated not just on the meaning of ANZAC Day but on the work at CCW and its probable failure. The hands lapped the clock a few times and the serving staff were half asleep in the corner. Major what’s his name waved them into action and more booze arrived. We drank on. The serving staff had finally had enough but instead of kicking us out put a crate of gin on the bar and went home.

Without breaking rhythm we moved to gin tonics and toasted India and the Raj till we ran out of tonic. The straight gin proved too much for most and the idea of leaving crept through the room. A good idea as it was past 1 am. We walked out of the restaurant into a darkened foyer and caught the lift to the exit level. Giggles erupted as the doors opened and a few went down face first. Our little gang of about 12 wandered to the exit and it was locked. The next door was locked too. We began to try every way out but couldn’t find an unlocked door. We couldn’t find any security either.

Our gaggle headed off on the one km walk from the new building to the old and as we came across exits we tried each and every one. All locked, no guards. Finally we got to the far end and still couldn’t get out. Those with careers at stake began to panic a bit at the thought of being busted inside the UN hammered with NGO’s. I just found the whole episode immensely funny and was being very noisy.

“Let’s just start yelling,” I suggest, “someone must come eventually.”

“No way,” says the Major, “I’ll be Court Martialed!”

“Not my problem sunshine,” says me.

We head back the way we came checking doors and many an office is open. We could have gone on such a rampage if we had wanted to. The UN is on a steep hill so there is a second level two floors down that also exits into the grounds. Heading down there we continue checking the doors. Finally at the far end we find a service door unlocked and exit into the cold night. The walking has sobered many up by now and the army boy is terrified his career is about to end.

“Ok, let’s get out of here, there is a light on at the lower gate, someone must be there and they will let us out,” says me.

Army boy is in a lather now that they will take names and he’ll still be busted.

“Well that’s what happens when you join the army and try to keep your landmines,” I rather helpfully point out, “should have become an NGO and done some real work.”

We hatch a plan to head to another section and jump the fence. Why did I feel that this plan would attract dogs and gun fire? Now it was like being in a World War Two movie and we were about to break out of Colditz Castle or something equally as dramatic. Up through the shadows to the fence and all are safely bunked over and we transform back to our original selves, a bunch of drunks staggering home after a big night out.

In the morning, with massive hangovers, we are back in the UN and knowing little smirks pass from one to the other.

“God you stink of booze,” I said to Major soldier boy.

“I know, I know. I have been trying to avoid the Ambassador all morning,” he says.

A few hours later I discover Major boy has a hidden talent. He’s a closet cartoonist. While the great and the good are babbling back and forth he sits and draws, supplying the odd military comment when required. He passes me a cartoon he has done this morning. It’s apparently of him and me, drunk, arm in arm with birds and stars circling overhead and the fumes of booze wafting up. I’m the scruffy NGO and he is the dishevelled diplomat in the pin stripe suit.

The caption from his mouth says, “You’re right, we don’t need landmines.”
Mine says, “No, you have a legitimate right for your own self defence.”

How times have changed. We won that fight and now trying for a second treaty we walk these halls again.

Once past the General Assembly, the biggest room in the UN, we descend some stairs to the ground floor and into the back of the press section. There is a small conference room there with a table at one end and 26 press representatives waiting. They covered every corner of the globe and are an essential forum to get the message out to.

Steve begins with an over view of the problem, the criticisms of CCW as a process and why it will not deliver a strong text that will solve the problem of future use of cluster bombs. Thomas follows on with more comment on the way forward and the Oslo process, then we pass the microphones to Lynn. She is an American mother whose son was a Marine in Iraq. He was killed when dealing with a cluster bomb there. Her testimony stumped the room and you could hear a pin drop. Some eyes looked away as the intense pain that only a mother knows is laid bare for the journalists. Her story is simple, eloquent and very sad. Finally I am given the floor and talk about Georgia and the Ban Bus. We open the floor for questions.

The UN press corps can be a brutal and fickle bunch. They could become your friend or foe for no apparent reason. Today they were our friends. Some good questions were asked and finally we adjourn. I went back to do more public actions outside and the rest went back to the meeting. We were to head off in the morning so today was our day to sort out any more Ban Bus problems. Thomas had brought us a case full of stuff from the Irish Ban Bus and as Geneva was basically the half way point, we needed to make sure all was set for the run north into the worsening weather and the drive to Oslo.

Mette and I met Thomas, Lynn and a few others for dinner that night and Thomas had a Portuguese shrimp restaurant lined up for us. It’s cheap and they keep the shrimps coming in a Piri Piri sauce till you want no more. Cheap and lots suits me and the thought of a good dose of chilli really appeals.

Geneva is a very beautiful city if you like this kind of place. It’s on the water of Lake Lemans and as it straddles the western tip is a mass of reflections from the city lights. The reflections are actually of massive neon signs that advertise every form of Swiss watch. Rolex, Philippe Patak and many others are represented in the watery mirror. Our shrimp extravaganza turns into a Fondue restaurant and we settle in to a hearty feast of wine and melted cheese. It’s simple, you get a small bon fire on your table with a pot of boiling melted cheese with Kirsch added on top. You dip bits of bread in with forks and eat that. It’s tasty but I can’t say that eating a few kilos of melted cheese is really my thing. My bum tends to suffer from it the next day, and the day after, and sometimes the day after that. We tuck in and digest the day’s proceedings.

A pub provides a night cap and we head back to Thomas’s hotel. We have to collect our big box of goodies and Thomas will be pleased to see the end of them.

We arrive at the Montana Hotel, an old favourite amongst NGO’s. The people are friendly and it’s more of a home away from home than a hotel. Many a strategy has been hatched in its rooms over the past 13 years. There are 6 of us, three guys and three girls. The new guy on the late night shift turns on us in the strangest way and says we can’t go up to Thomas’s room. He intimates that we have picked up and are off for a bit of group rumpy pumpy. The situation degenerates quite fast and we basically tell him to calm down and all entered the lift. On pushing the button for the 6th floor the lights go out and the lift is jammed. We stand like sardines in the dark and wait to see what happens. Nothing. I grab the door and force it open and we step out. The desk clerk commando is beside himself now and ranting and raving.

Thomas and me take to the stairs and the rest wait in the lobby for us to return. Up 6 floors and retrieve the case. The walk back down is interesting as the case is near 30 kg and hits every step loudly all the way down. Thump, thump, thump, thump. I can hear it echoing all the way to the lobby. Words have been exchanged while we were gone and the situation is no calmer, anything but. We get everyone out into the street and as I go through the door he gives me the Swiss equivalent of the finger, the thumped forearm with a clenched fist. I turn back to him and tell him in a very calm way, because that annoys people who are upset even more, there is absolutely no need for that. He ran into the restaurant, we left. I found the whole show hysterical. He obviously didn’t feel the same way as he had got himself into such a state. He deserved it though as he basically treated the three women, who are all colleagues of ours, as a trio of hookers.

Thomas didn’t care either and as we departed he re-entered and had a nice calming chat with the night clerk. Thomas is a good diplomat and all was sorted in a few minutes.

Our plan to leave early changed as Steve wanted me to come to a side briefing he was giving and talk a little about Georgia. This would not be till 2 pm, so we worked on planning more Ban Bus events for the coming days and I had a long talk with the Swiss members of Handicap International. Mette was at the Broken Chair again and working the morning crowds for a second day running.

As I entered the UN I met our favourite Croatian, Djiana. She told me that no adverse publicity came from the Zagreb event and all was good. She has done so much in getting Croatia to engage in the Landmine Treaty and the Cluster Bomb Treaty that she deserves a Nobel Prize! She has to have the thickest skin on earth as she has come under so much political fire at various times.

The briefing is very well attended and Steve delivers the findings of the Human Rights Mission to Georgia. They have always done excellent work and their reports are a mass of fact without emotional commentary. They had done it again and the diplomats sat in stunned silence. There was very little I could add and it seemed pointless to go over points he had covered so succinctly, so I added some comments about the surface clearance and how this will play out in the spring when farmers try to use their land again. The Georgian Ambassador was there and was quite distraught at what he had heard. Welcome to the truth, you used cluster bombs defensively on your own land and have trashed it. Idiotic strategy.

The Georgian Ambassador was having great trouble coming to terms with the facts about his own country. He wasn’t aggressive or even defensive, just simply shocked. He seemed a sad character and said in a pleading voice, “but we don’t even have these weapons, we bought M-85’s from the Israelis.” Tragically, he wasn’t trying to dispute the findings.

(The outer casing of an M-85 is the same as an M-95 or a Bantam. Its dark metal with fragmentation rings circling it. The part that distinguishes one from the other is the cap. The cap is what makes it a so called self destruct munition, not the body. A cursory look can easily fool the unsuspecting eye. There is a small groove in the slider and a little indent to the side of that. That is subtle enough and hard enough to spot in the field but when that whole section is packed under the deployment ribbon inside its delivery bomb it’s impossible to detect. The plot was beginning to thicken as it appears that Israel may have ripped the Georgians off by selling them the old non destruct stocks claiming they were self destruct munitions. The Georgian Ambassador was devastated at this possibility. There were definitely going to be some embarrassing questions asked between Tbilisi and Tel Aviv. Personally, I found the whole charade quite amusing. What is the world coming to when you can’t trust your local arms dealer?)

It was time to head off as there is only so much Geneva that anyone can take. We drove down the hill from the UN to the lake and turned east into a bumper to bumper traffic jam. This might take awhile. Crawling for many kilometres we finally found the cause of the chaos, the police had a licence check happening. This traffic jam must have spread the whole length of Geneva!

Not being pulled over we drove on towards Zurich. We thought we could find a little hotel in the mountains somewhere near the border. It would be so nice to get out in the countryside and away from the city. We headed for Zug as Davor had a cousin there and thought that would be as good as anywhere to stop. Our GPS guided us to nearby hotels but each was full. Farther and farther afield we searched and not a bed was available. The thought of a night under a bridge in the sleeping bags was looking like a possibility. It was dark, cold and late when finally we found one room we could put Daniel in and another for Mette and me. Davor headed off to his cousins.

We were exhausted and fell to the sleep of the dead till I am awakened by church bells. What the hell is the church doing ringing at 3 am? That was the beginning of the end as the church tolled once every 15 minutes then rang out the hour every hour. They were driving me crazy!! I lay awake all night listening, bong, bong, bong, bong. This made the Taliban look like moderates, at least when they call to prayer they only do it briefly 5 times a day, not every 15 minutes. When 6 am came they went into a ringing frenzy and rang over 200 times. I know, I counted the bloody things!! I couldn’t get out of this place fast enough. Now I know where the US got their tactics for Guantanamo Bay, they got them from the Swiss and their love of clocks and time! Next time you are heading east across Switzerland and see a sign to Zug or Cham put your foot to the floor and keep going as it’s a place you never want to visit, ever.