The Bus Ride from Hell

The temperature dropped in seconds as I sat on the bench at Rive waiting for the E Bus to take me to Corsier. The sensation would be the same if you jumped into the North Atlantic off the Maine Coast on a hot August day turning your skin icy blue to match the water in a matter of seconds. The bus arrived five footsteps before it started to pour.

This wasn’t raining cats and dogs, but cats, dogs, geese, ponies, giraffes and an elephant or two. We could not see the mountains, the lake or the walk in front of the lake which is no further than a traffic lane away.

When people jumped onto the bus, the water came in after them in grey sheets of water drenching those unlucky enough to sit near the doors. The new passengers were soaked to the skin. Surprisingly enough many had towels with them (the ultimate of preparedness) that they used for their hair and then threw them over the shoulders.

To make matters worse a skinny drunk Arab, his shoes untied, walked up and down the aisle berating every one. An Arab woman in a head-to-toe sopping burka yelled at him, telling him in French and Arabic that he was a disgrace to his mother, his father, his country and his religion. He became so obnoxious that the bus driver and two other men decided he needed to leave at the Arrêt Ruth. However, he refused to let the bus go blocking it in front in a game of I’ll-Out-Wait-You. The bus won, and at the last blurry site of him he was walking down the centre of the highway.

The rain let up enough to see the good surfing-level waves on the lake that had been floor-flat two hours before. We past the giant posters from the Cinelac Theatre, the outdoors summer movie theatre over the lake, just as wind ripped them from the wall and blew them along next to us before being skidded over by cars.

The rain slowed slightly, although the side windows were covered with water washed up from the street. Then the bus stopped all together. “Everyone out,” we were told.

The passengers obeyed. A pine tree lay toppled across the road. The air smelled like a home when a newly cut Christmas tree is brought in. A man in an official jacket decided we could go no further.

There was a bus on the other side of the tree its destination opposite of ours. The old managerial me who looks for solutions thought it would be smart for the passengers in each bus swap places, the buses turn around and retrace their routes getting everyone to their destinations, but I was told that wasn’t possible without directions from headquarters.

The rain had let up, but we got back on the bus until we were told we couldn’t stay there any longer, but must make our own way to wherever. On a sunny day, an approximately three-mile walk would be nothing. Even today with a raincoat and boots it could be interesting if I didn’t try to do a kite imitation. However, in my flapper style dress and ballet style shoes, it did not seem appealing.

A car stopped. Two teenage boys started to get in then looked at me and another woman. They exchanged glances and with a Sir William Raleigh sweep of their hands gave up their place. The driver took us each to our own door. By now it was hailing, half golf ball sized stones.

Jean Calvin preached the hell, fire and damnation, a cruel God that throws unexpected horrors in front of people. I am convinced, although there is no documentation to prove it, that it is the Geneva weather that helped shaped his philosophy. Today’s storm was exceptional only in that it isn’t that exceptional.

The Bluewin web site says that vineyards all over the region were destroyed by 100 MPH winds (actually they reported in Kilometers) and the hail.