A "moving" experience

The more I move, the more I believe that crossing borders is a story that concerns cars, not people.

Last Tuesday we moved into Switzerland. By “moving” I mean we officially imported our car across the border from Belgium via France into Switzerland.

Around 4 o’clock in the afternoon, after a tiring seven hours drive from Brussels- via various detours due to roadworks- we stopped by the customs official at Basel, who, as usual, was going to wave us through. We rolled down the window and solemnly announced we were moving – acting on advice from well-meaning colleagues to be on our very best behaviour- and that we wanted to import the car. We were then directed to the customs offices via some obscure, tortuous route and parked our car next to the mass of trucks and lorries- the “bread and butter” of the customs world. Men were hurrying around clutching sheets of paper and so we followed them into the Swiss customs building- not without first wandering into the wrong building, marked “transit” which didn’t look like a customs place at all but had lots of truck drivers lounging around.

In the Swiss customs building, we entered into a world of hushed silence with officious office staff seeming to work busily at their desks behind the glass windows. Actually, on closer inspection the impression of industriousness was just a front as the staff actually had nothing to do. After finally locating our window –marked “Public” – we woke up one young man from behind his desk and got him to spring into action. Well rehearsed by colleagues again, we presented a sheaf of documentation- lists of household effects in duplicate, car papers, pre-filled-in forms…… and so the list went on. When we thought we were nearly through the bureaucratic tunnel and having paid our dues, the official sprang his final trump card, which caught us by surprise. Now, we had to confirm that the car was formally exported - from France - and we needed to go next-door into the French customs building for a rubber stamp. We protested that the car was not exported from France but from Belgium. He said not to worry as it was the European area and all the same to him.

Pushing open the door to the French customs office was like entering another world. Chatting and laughter filled the air as people moved casually around the corridors. There was none of the hushed silence and people sitting quietly behind their desks as with the Swiss. Even our business was dealt with informally in the corridor as a passing official caught us while he was strolling by. To his question of “did we have our French pre-filled-in export forms” we said “no, we were from Belgium” our hearts now sinking as we faced the gruelling prospect of another seven hours drive back to the Belgian border to get a rubber stamp. On hearing this, he threw caution to the winds, stamped our papers and we rushed gleefully from the building.

A final rubber stamp from the Swiss and we were on the road again- a good half-hour spent on European bureaucracy – but this is not the end of the story as obtaining a number plate is a tale on its own!

Bye from Switzerland,

Flying Kiwi 2006