LA sticker announces “QUIET ZONE” and they sure take it seriously. The Swiss passengers cast a stern eye on us as we grunt, cuss, and clumsily lug our bags and instruments through the almost clinically sterile coach, debating, on a certain decibel level, whether we got on the right train or not.

Zurich is essentially a city Germanic not just in language but also in temperament. Trains arrive on the dot, although the whole railway network can be a bitch to negotiate— unless you spracken deutsch. A seat in the Quiet Zone demands utmost silence and catatonic behavior—luggage that occasionally falls down due to slight G-forces instantly elicits the meanest stares. A persistently collapsing bag belonging to Pedicab’s Raimund Marasigan, in particular, drew the ire of a yuppie reading Durrenmatt’s Der Verdacht, a book about which I have absolutely no idea. Later someone tells me that Zurich is so obsessed with quiescence that it is even illegal to flush toilets in apartments after 10 pm. “Never mind if your whole pad stinks,” says our source. “You’ll have to wait till morning.”

The train ride takes three hours, past endless stretches of greenery, gentle rolling hills, vast panoramas of pine and heartbreakingly quaint chalets. A couple of hours into the trip, the vibration of wheels on the tracks induces a vaguely pleasant kind of hypnosis. On cue, I take out my iPod and play Kraftwerk’s “Trans-Euro Express,” a predicatably corny soundtrack to the whole scenario (Lou Sern’s “Swiss Boy” just seems wrong). After the Lausanne station, the torpor is finally broken when the sight of Lake Geneva suddenly loomed below us, every bit as Lifestyles-of-the-Rich-and-Famous as you imagined it to be.

Instant noodles, Gran Matador and a cartload of ciggies

Filmmaker-official contingent videographer R.A. Rivera announces that all his “Bear Brand fantasies” melted away upon landing on truly, unmistakably sunny Geneva. Speaking of which, he had been planning to make a mini-docu walking around the city and asking people if they’re familiar with Bear Brand. They’re not.

Geneva, according to the 2005 Economic Intelligence Unit, ranks fifth in “the world’s most livable cities” survey. But the term “livable” has a beehive of connotations and denotations. “Livable,” in this case, is certainly a First-World description, if it means perfectly potable tap water, traffic systems that actually work, motorists who strictly stop at pedestrian crossings and respect bicycle lanes, and extremely low crime rate. But “livable” may be debatable to Third-Worlders, who still can’t bring themselves to pay the equivalent of over a hundred pesos for the smallest bottle of water. Which is why, Sago flew there with an armature of instant noodles, canned goods, and Gran Matador, Gilbey’s gin, and enough cigarettes to kill Blas Ople through three lifetimes.

Trying to focus on economic justice amid topless bathers

We— along with dance-punk unit Pedicab and folk-rock collective Village Idiots— were there to play at the International Concert for Solidarity for Fisherfolk and Farmers, upon the invitation of a group called Solidarités via the intercession of Focus on the Global South. We arrive by lunchtime and were set to play that same night at a venue called Bans de Paquis, a kind of beach strip and park that stretches into the middle of Lake Geneve. The backdrop is none other than the world’s biggest-ass waterspout . The lake is ringed by yachts and elegant old buildings on either side. What is remarkable is that there are no skyscrapers in Geneva. Neither would you find Nido nor Bear Brand milk here.

We were setting up by 6 pm, and because it’s summer, the sun was still shining like a mothereffer, which explains the plethora of swimmers and sunbathers. We all know our raison d’etre there, that we had a duty, that we, as musical performers, were representing something bigger than ourselves, and that we were there for an extremely important cause. But it was quite difficult to focus on international trade matters and economic justice when your attention is under siege from sight of endless rows of topless sunbathers.

Gusto ba ng taga Geneve ng baboy?

More than a protest action, it’s a celebration. See, a few weeks before our arrival, WTO talks have stalled, in particular, between the US and the European Union over the issues of agricultural subsidies. Small victory for the little folks, as it were. The decided atmosphere, appropriately, was rather festive than agitated. And with a place like Bans de Paquis, it’s not too hard— by 8 pm, with faint light from the fading sunset, the breeze getting colder, the profusion of beer, wine, and that wonderful little herb outlawed in many Asian countries. Fascinating what hundreds of years of neutrality can bring you. The Swiss truly take summertime seriously.

The first act was a group of Algerian Rai musicians called Les Nomades. They were well received by the crowd; it seems most Europeans are into such “exotic” stuff. Village Idiots, playing mostly originals, also got significant applause. We were next, although whatever might have transpired have partially escaped my memory— blame it on prematurely dispensed alcohol. I don’t know how songs like “Gusto ko ng Baboy” and “Astro” might have translated to the majority of the audience members. It goes without saying that the same people we played to were the same set of promenaders (some of them topless earlier). Of course, also there to support was the Filipino community and the rest of the anti-WTO contingent from RP and other countries as South Korea and Germany. While we were playing, the Koreans, mostly solemn farmers and labor leaders in their 50s, had this puzzled look on their faces.

German tree-huggers and 6-foot Thai transvestites

We were lodged in a placed they call the Bomb Shelter. I thought it was just a cool name for some sort of youth hostel, until we arrived. It was an actual bomb shelter— built in the ‘50s, in a subterranean location in Rue dela Navigation, with thick, gigantic radiation-proof armored doors, disinfecting chemical showers, ergonomically positioned bunkers, and military-standard metal shelves and cabinets. It’s actually pretty decent living quarters, with clean toilets and shower stalls, a sanitary kitchen with fresh, running water. With the exception of unwashed but earnest German tree-huggers who bunked with us together the industrial-strength kimchi the Koreans eat for breakfast, the Bomb Shelter actually smelled better than most inns in Manila.

Geneva is one of the few places in the world where you feel absolutely safe walking the streets late into the night— in fact, you actually feel more dangerous than the locals. Even in the red light district, the 6-foot Thai transvestites visibly steered clear of us. It’s nice to walk around the perimeters of Rue de Mont Blanc where the old buildings are, the quaint cafes, the Lebanese shops selling what is often considered one of the planet’s best “chawarma” a.k.a steak sandwich a.k.a. shawarma. At a place called Parfums de Bayrouth, you can enjoy lamb chawarma while watching images of carnage and destruction beamed over Al-Jazeerah.

Fulfilling Bear Brand fantasies

A day before our return to Manila, we went on a biking tour of the Geneve countryside. We pedaled all the way from the city proper to the postcard-pretty village of Satigny. I hesitate to use the adjective “lovely” but it was the only way to describe the idyllic scenery we passed through— smooth roads winding down cool mountainsides, vast sunflower fields and vineyards, pine forests, and quaint little towns with storybook houses (except they have Volvos and BMWs parked in front). The bike trip, at least partially, fulfilled our Bear Brand fantasies. It was ballsy of us— a bunch of sedentary, tragically unfit, overweight, over-liquored, over-nicotined slobs— to pedal for five hours straight. Not to mention in a place where the sun shone till nine p.m. Officially, it was in Geneva where I got my first sunburn in years.

An end to the quiet zone

The train leaves at 4:30 a.m., which means, sleep would be an unwise idea— because they really mean 4:30 as everything works with, uh, Swiss precision. We decided to devote the entire night to finishing a whole bottle of cheap Third-World rum (believe me, we were stacked), as our way of saying farewell to the world’s fifth most livable city. Two of the guys were determined to drink themselves into absolute stupor— at the mere thought of a fifteen-hour flight to that beloved tropical hellhole we call Manila. They were criminally loud snorers. As we clambered upon the train, this time we made sure we didn’t stay at the Quiet Zone.