Switzerland is a small mountainous country, whose climate is anything but tropical.

It may seem surprising that it has become one of the world’s leading chocolate manufacturers.

Now that you mention it, swissworld.org, it does seem strange. I’d never wondered about Swiss chocolate much before – I’d just devoured it in large quantities without giving much thought to its origin and history.

But now that Swiss chocolate is fresh in my mind and recent on my tongue, I thought I’d find out a little more.

The European love affair (indeed, the vast bulk of the top twenty chocolate consuming countries are European) began with the introduction of cocoa to Europe from the Americas in 1528 by the Spanish conquistador, Cortez.

By the 17th century, the appeal of this new la-di-dah drinking chocolate had spread from the Spanish court to the French court with the marriage of the Infanta Anne of Austria to King Louis XIII (1615). Although the heyday of hot chocolate was winding to a close by the 19th century, the popularity of the recently invented solid chocolate was on the increase. It took off from there – and soon chocolate bars, milk chocolate and fillings of dried fruit, liquor and praline emerged as if by alchemy.

Switzerland became synonymous with chocolate in the years 1890-1920, a period which coincided with the “golden age” in Swiss tourism. I tried to find some recent facts and figures about the consumption of Swiss chocolate, but like any statistics, you can find just about anyone willing to say anything.

I couldn’t resist the figures from CHOCOSUISSE, the Association of Swiss Chocolate Manufacturers, as anyone who captions a graph of Per capita consumption (Source: International Confectionery Association) with ‘The Swiss like chocolate’ are definitely alright by me in the high-brow stakes.


The Swiss like chocolate. In 2007, as in previous years, they had the highest per capita consumption with 12.3 kg. However, this includes purchases by tourists and cross-border commuters.

And I like Swiss chocolate. I was most impressed to sample the Swiss interpretation of “chocolate biscuit” as heavy on the chocolate and light on the biscuit (I mean, if I wanted a “biscuit chocolate” I would have asked for one!)

Look, I know my blog is ranked up there with the foremost official world news sources, so I thought it was high time for a Eurovision 2008 update!

It’s less than two months now before all the hilarity of Europe’s #1 pop piss-take (oh, what? They’re serious? No, I can’t believe it!) and I for one am counting down the days until the May 24 final.

I’ve recently heard via a random text message that Dima Bilan will be representing Russia, and any long time readers (ie. my mother) will know that I have a somewhat reluctant fascination with Bilan’s disregard for good taste and dogmatic adherence to a sassy Slavic mullet. Speaking of sticking with a sinking ship, I’ve heard his Eurovision 2008 song already, and I don’t think this will be Russia’s year… again… and especially not since “Dima” – or should we say “Victor” – Bilan has lost the right to use the Dima Bilan stage name after a three year court battle.

So will it be Vitya Bilan performing this year? Only time will tell.

I just hope that one day Ukrainian drag queen Verka Serduchka will grace the stages of Eurovision again in the near future after she was robbed of her rightful crown, as Dancing Lasha Tumbai only came in at second place. All that glitters is not gold…

For the sake of fond memories, here’s some of that Serduchka magic now:

Here’s one from the memory archives, lifted out tenderly and gently disposed of all its accumulated dust… let’s just call it ‘fame brushes past’ and go from there in all its glory.

It all took place some years ago in a Turkish coffee shop, on the ascent to Prague Castle. I was with a Slovakian friend who was introducing me to the wonders of sahlep, a traditional Turkish milk-based drink, served hot and sweet, garnished with powdered cinnamon. Sahlep powder is apparently the dried powdered roots of one of two types of mountain orchids, and the drink is best when it’s thick and creamy.

You can see what had all my attention at that particular moment in time.

All of a sudden my companion started tugging at my arm and trying to convey in an unsubtle hissed whisper that I look over his shoulder without actually looking over his shoulder. All of a sudden he was lost for words and started half-giggling (the women serving behind the counter completed the other half of the collective giggle, as they stopped work and stared too).

It was… get this… Karel Gott.

I had the same reaction too. Who?

In hushed tones I had it explained to me that Karel Gott was akin to the Czechoslovakian Julio Iglesias, and that his mother would just die if she knew that we had seen him.

‘So, we go get his autograph?’ I queried, as the momentous nature of the occasion was a little lost on me.

This suggestion was dismissed with a daggered glance, and a ‘if you dare do anything as embarrassing as talking to Karel Gott, I’m going to kill you’ recommendation.

Pfft. The man, the legend, was doing an interview with some journalist type, which quickly concluded. They got up to leave and all eyes followed their departure. As they reached the door, Gott brushed past me to reach for his coat, saying ‘excuse me’ to me in English.

And then they left.

I wasn’t allowed to talk to Karel Gott, but it seems he decided to speak to me.

That’s about the pinnacle of my non-illustrious record of meeting famous people…

Call my curiosity limited, but I can’t understand why anyone would spend any time wondering if there was life in outer space. There is plenty of life on Earth to contemplate, why bother going any further?

Luckily enough, Paris spares me the issue of donning my ethnographer’s hat or safari cap, and has already collected and displayed it all for me at the Musée du quai Branly.

A word about the museum – it contains an expansive collection of artworks and artefacts from Africa, Asia, Oceania and the Americas in a unique aesthetic setting. Day or night the premises is stunning, and (no surprise) I was completely taken by the Asian exhibits, particularly those from Siberia and Central Asia.

This recently opened treasure-trove of world cultures is a treat for anyone curious about the world in which we live. It’s a must-see for those wondering about non-European culture (of which you get a bit beaten over the head with in the rest of Paris.

A visual feast, magnificent layout and respectful treatment of the cultures on display (it doesn’t feel like an anthropological zoo) makes the Musée du quai Branly an international experience in itself.

Sure it’s a romantic overview of world history, but what’s Paris if not the city of romance?

I learned a lot on my trip to Kirovsk though, and pretty much answered my question of “what are people doing living there?” in the Apatity Geological Museum. Apparently the Kola Peninsula region – the “most Soviet” of areas, having been established in the mid-twentieth century – was populated to exploit mineral wealth. Mineral exploration came about with the advances of the railway line, and continued in an “only in Russia” fashion. Why mine when you can just let off a nuclear explosion, for instance? (Although local scientists insist that the immense crater just north of suburb Kirovsk-25 was achieved by heavy machinery and earth movers).

It was a strange science-meets-sport atmosphere there. I guess it continues in the bizarre line of its namesake, Sergei Kirov, whom Stalin has murdered then commemorated through renaming various towns and the Kirov Ballet in St. Petersburg.

I spent twenty-four hours travelling through Karelia to the scientific town of Apatity, which was established in 1966 on the site of a former gulag to cater for the growing scientific population at Kirovsk, at the foot of the mineral rich Khibiny Mountains. They say that three quarters of the elements of the periodic table (a source of pride for Russia, as it was invented by the highly esteemed chemist Mendeleev, the same jolly fellow who standardised vodka at 40% alcohol per volume) are present in them there hills.

I was reading American Psycho non-stop, and I think only one amusing thing happened all train ride. It wasn’t anything to do with the novel, which I found disgusting and shocking (I don’t know what offended me the most: the murders, the sex or the completely vacuous lives of the yuppies). But when I went off to my bunk to sleep, the guy below me started talking about reading in foreign languages, and telling his friend about how I was reading “American Psychology”. I didn’t have the heart to tell him otherwise!

While it was otherwise, and I’m almost sorry to say this, filled with bollocks – the magazine La vie à Crans-Montana (“Switzerland’s Prestige Magazine”) interestingly introduced one of their articles with:

‘The Russians appreciate Switzerland in winter for its prepared ski slopes and high-tech facilities; the Helvetians adore Russia for its wide open wild spaces.’

Which got me thinking about the skiing spots I’ve been to in Russia – mind you, not for skiing, just for a bit of good old-fashioned voyeurism.

Like the time I ventured up north beyond the Arctic Circle to Kirovsk and the Khibiny Mountains, just to spend my afternoons at the Apatity Geological Museum, being guided through “the biggest shop in town” or wandering through people’s decrepit garbage / storage space and personal rubbish dumps.

I guess during the winter the wrecked car bodies get covered in white, and in green during the summer, so no-one is perturbed by the grimy spring unearthing.

Almost everything in Kirovsk was grey, but it wasn’t as sombre and depressed as it could have been. Instead it was just what could be expected in a Russian mining ski resort town – dust and grit contrasted by a splash of colour in the form of a gaudy branded ski jacket.

Looking back and trying to describe it, I’m reminded of the morose French character in the Molvanîa guidebook spoof, whose “off the beaten track” hints often lead to malaria and hypothermia (somehow simultaneously) all in the aim of avoiding tourist traps. Sometimes travelling solo in Russia can be like flipping a coin and getting both heads and tales at the same time. You just take the good with the bad.

The good included crème brûlée ice-cream and Kirovsk’s “Potemkin village” train station, where just the ornate façade was created and now it stands (precariously) as an ornate wreck.

My goodness Russia had amazing ice-cream (my dentist can provide a testament for just how much I ate of the stuff), but try as I might I never got into the popular pastime of eating it in the middle of winter. Determined chewing and biting effort is not something I associate with an enjoyable ice-cream experience!

There’s not much to mention about my final day of skiing, other than the huge dump of snow of all over the mountain, especially in the mid and lower sections. As a result, our house had a fresh covering and even the village was transformed into a magical place. Unfortunately for the skiing, the fresh powder was no more than a deceptive sprinkling of icing sugar on top of a formidably frozen iceberg.

In other words, not great skiing.

I’d either career out of control then thump down hard in a fall on the ice or jolt unexpectedly to a standstill in the thick powder drifts.

All in all though, it was a great holiday (ahem, “work”) – and of course one prone to excessive poetics…

But I went to have a beer and a croque-monsieur at a café in Crans last night, and watching the snow falling gently outside, I was charmed. The décor of the “Café-Bar 1900” played its part in the entrancement – with frosted glass lanterns, somewhat anachronistic posters from the 1920s, and the ample spirits reflected in mirrors and gleaming from the polished wooden shelves.

There’s something about a steady stream of drifting snow that is so beautiful though – actually I think it’s the whole mountain atmosphere. It’s impossible not to get all Robert Frost or artistic airline commercial by just mentioning the evocative majesty of falling snow…

But you can tell you’ve got it bad when smile from the chairlift, watching the clutters of multiple ski groups on the slopes and thinking that they are unfurling like ribbons!

Oh, get me to stop – someone pinch me!

Speaking about serious mountain intoxication, it’s time to expand on my list of favourite things that have been pieced together slowly in this blog: Nicholas Roerich.

This would be the moment I get all sappy and gush about how much I could just melt into one of his paintings, but I’ll restrain from too much cringe-worthy sentimentality…

Nicholas Roerich is one of those old-school products of his time that would be sorely scorned as a cosmic crank or hung on charges of Orientalism. As it was, born in imperial St. Petersburg in 1874, with his heart and occasionally body in India, China and Central Asia, Roerich was a bit of an artistic modern-day Marco Polo.

His travel itineraries read like my Christmas wish lists, one such five-year long Asian expedition in the 1920s ‘started from Sikkim through Punjab, Kashmir, Ladakh, the Karakoram Mountains, Khotan, Kashgar, Qara Shar, Urumchi, Irtysh, the Altai Mountains, the Oryot region of Mongolia, the Central Gobi, Kansu, Tsaidam, and Tibet’ in the artist’s own words. I’ll just have to keep dreaming…

Not only are his collections of paintings inspired by these journeys and landscapes amazing, but he was also instrumental in bringing Slavic folk culture to the stages of Russia and the world. Even if you haven’t heard of Roerich and the Mir Iskusstva movement, the names Serge Diaghilev, Léon Bakst and Ballets Russes might ring some bells.

If not, no biggie, let it just suffice to say that Roerich was an instrumental player in imperial Russian Art Nouveau and the conservation and propagation of Ukrainian folklore, Karelian landscapes and Russian legends, history and architecture.

Plus, shocked by the destruction of the First World War, Roerich founded a cultural artifact protection movement under the Banner of Peace, which was basically a distinctive logo to be flown on flags from cultural institutions to protect them during wartime. Unfortunately, Roerich’s Banner of Peace never took off like the Red Cross as a symbol for medical neutrality, and was superseded by Hague Convention of 1954.

Can’t win them all, I guess.

If you get the chance, check out the amazing “The Museum by the name of Nicholas Roerich” (it sounds catchier in Russian, believe me) in Moscow for a fantastic overview of Roerich’s cultural, archeological and theosophical legacy. There is also a bequeathed collection at the Novosibirsk State Museum, returning many of his works to their Altai heartlands.

Sunday, being my day off, was spent similarly to my days on… skiing.

The only exception was that I was able to spend the whole day on the slopes, only stopping for a cake and hot chocolate “hospitably” provided by the CMA (Crans-Montana-Aminona Domaine Skiable) in the form of a ten Swiss franc voucher for the Resto Petit Bonvin on purchasing your lift pass.

It was also the perfect excuse to get me further afield, on higher altitude slopes where the snow was fresh, the views pristine and plenty of opportunity for distraction watching the slalom course and freestyle snow park [insert all applicable “need for speed” and “serious air” clichés here. Think up your own, but be sure to say them in a breathless, yet gravely “extreme” radio voice].

To get to Mount Petit Bonvin (2,400m) is a bit of an up-down-up-down process, but a rewarding one all the same. From the comfort zone of the familiar blue gondola take the icy plunge down Nationale to the gondola Violettes Express (avoiding at all costs the dislodged rocks and exposed tree roots!). Head down to La Barmaz and take the Toula chairlift and you’ll have your first glimpses of the restaurant and the peak. A comfortable blue run, another chairlift – and voila! You’ve descended to the haven of the gods! Have a hot chocolate to mark the occasion!

I topped the day off with a beer in the sunshine, with a panorama of snow-capped peaks stretched out for my visual appreciation… ahhh… what bliss!

There’s nothing like Warsteiner, the favoured beer of German train stations, to get one acquainted with every single one of the Rhône Valley peaks… I’m just glad I’m here, and not on Deutsche Bahn!

Today I felt that my Crans-Montana mountain dreams had come true. The crowds abated, the runs were smooth and clean… It’s a pity I couldn’t see more than half a metre in front of me, but I can’t have everything or else I’d just be spoilt!

Instead of the Saturday morning rush that I had expected, the opposite eventuated. As it was raining down below and a dense cloud up on top, only thousands (not millions) tackled the Swiss slopes today. Plus, Saturday morning is apparently the exchange period when people leave in the morning and arrive in the afternoon, or something of the sort. Not the day to buy or top-up your lift passes, I guess.

I had a few runs in the middle section (which also had the benefits of only half-rain, half-whiteout) and then came home for some tea and cake. This in itself deserves some airtime because I found a “Tyrolean Cake” at the supermarket, and I was eager to test its authenticity. First bite, ah yes, traces of marzipan – could quite possibly be Austrian!

I was also drawn to the brand name – “Betty Bossi” – could you imagine working with here in the kitchen? It would be hell! But, come to think of it… that could quite possibly have been my nickname in the second grade of school!

But on further research (don’t, dear readers, think you’ve stumbled across a blog of mere speculation – these are the hard facts!) it emerges that there has never actually been a Betty Bossi… the culinary dominatrix never actually existed but is a fictitious product of a Swiss margarine manufacturer (oh well, next they’ll tell me that there isn’t an Easter Bunny either!)