Written by: Godfrey Smith
Monday, March 29, 2010 

       Swiss Air flight 349 crosses over the Swiss Alps descending into Geneva.  I stare blankly at the snow-capped mountains, deconstructing and reconstructing article H.2.3.3 over and over again.  The mountains are mute, staring vacantly, coldly back. They yield no clues as to the correct interpretation of H.2.2.3.
    No immigration or customs cards to be filled out.  No customs check. This is Switzerland, the centre of civilization.  I make a left in the arrival hall following the signs directing me to the train station annexing the airport. 
    The next train to Lausanne leaves at 8:01 p.m.  I punch in for a one way ticket at the ticket vending machine. Twenty-three Swiss Francs. Platform one.    
    Precisely at 8:01 p.m. the train silently glides out of the station. The red “Thank you for flying Swiss Air” after dinner chocolate has melted in my shirt pocket. Beside me two male passengers wearing heavy winter jackets are chatting cheerfully in German.  They look like technicians.
    Suspended in that interstitial realm between sleep and wake, their words start sounding like English. The ticket collector interrupts my light doze and scribbles something on my ticket. I don’t care; I won’t be using it again.
    I stare out the train window but it mockingly throws back only the images from within the lighted cabin: the two chatterboxes; a gangly youth and his mother. 
    Approaching Nyon; next stop Lausanne.
    Lausanne: headquarters of the International Olympic Committee and known as the Olympic Capital of the world.  It is the global centre for sports administration and, of course, the home of the Court of Arbitration for Sports – the CAS – at which Belize has a fateful appointment.
    Hotel Mirabeau is a Best Western.  But I am grateful that there is an ironing board, an iron, and a shoe polish sponge. From a drawer-full of universal adapters, I am given one to charge American configured devices with Swiss power.
    The room is not air-conditioned and after a while it becomes uncomfortable.  I crack the window to let in some air.  The humming and whizzing of the traffic three stories below quickly leap up and escape into the room. 
    Sleep is fitful.  Statutory provisions have usurped and occupied the subconscious. They tumble over each other, competing, entangling and mutating into unrecognizable forms. They defy and dodge certainty aimed at them from the dreamy canons of interpretation.    
    The distant wail of a siren floats in through the open window, dredging up from my subterranean memory vaults the BBC’s serial, Inspector West. I heard those European sirens through the radio as a child.
    Friday, March 25th 2010.  Fourteen francs and a fifteen minute cab ride later locate us at the CAS at 1:20 p.m.
    The CAS is housed in the Chateau de Bethusy, a three-storey building; handsome but neither imposing nor palatial with double wooden doors adorned with shiny brass.  The buzzer is rung. From within, footsteps come hurriedly down a stairway.
    A few seconds later a door swings open. Isabella looks up at us and introduces herself. We look down at her and introduce ourselves. We are immediately led into a meeting room, declining the offer of coffee. The door is closed. 
    The CAS garden is well-tended but uninspiring compared to the terraced gardens and intricate water features at the Olympic museum. The courtyard fountain is not working. Perhaps turned off until spring arrives in earnest. The trees, naked without their leaves, look like menacing metal installations; their spiny skeletal branches starting off in so many different angles and directions.    
    The door opens and Isabella brings in a form for us to fill out. Date. Name. Position. Signature.  Andreas Zagklis, counsel to FIBA and Benjamin Cohen, FIBA’s legal affairs manager have already signed the form.
    From the adjacent room muffled voices can be heard. The panel of arbitrators have assembled. They each had to sign a declaration that they have no conflict of interest. 
    A knock on the door.  Jean Philippe Dubey wearing small rectangular black-framed glasses and a three day shadow enters. He will serve as clerk to the court.     
    “If you are ready we can begin,” he says. 
We follow him into the room and are shown our seats. A minute later Zagklis and Cohen are shown in.
    The panel of judges is introduced by Petros Mavroidis, the President of the panel.  He is Greek, a professor at Columbia Law School and an advisor to the WTO. Michael Beloff is a distinguished British QC and former president of Trinity College, Oxford who has arbitrated disputes arising from the World Cup and Olympic Games. Jan Paulsson is a Swedish –American, President of the London Court of International Arbitration and a judge of the World Bank Administrative Tribunal.
    There is no formality. We may conduct our case as we like. They would prefer if we go straight into submissions on how the controversial provisions should be interpreted.
    Belize’s Director of Immigration explains that section 27 of the Belize Constitution does not involve an act of opting to retain Belize citizenship. It is automatically retained if not renounced. Section 29 (4) is an administrative mechanism that doesn’t confer citizenship, it confirms and ratifies citizenship obtained at birth.  He maintains this position under cross-examination by Zagklis.
    The fight rightly centers on 29(4) of the Belize Constitution in the context of H.2.3.3 of the FIBA Internal Regulations.  Is 29 (4) subservient to 23(3) and 25 of the Belize Constitution? H.2.3.3 was designed to counter the phenomenon of sporting mercenaries distorting a level playing field.  Was Belize recruiting mercenaries? Is the proper recourse for FIBA to redraft its regulations?  Final judgment will be delivered on or before April 30th 2010.
    The outdoor lounge of the Café d’Ouchy sits on Lake Geneva and commands a grand view of the mountains.  At least until the wind coming off the lake transforms the trousers into sheets of ice. Inside is a trendy art deco bar. White, stainless steel, low lounge chairs. The barmen are expecting a crowd.  People soon start thronging in, several with little house dogs in tow. Thirsty Thursday in Lausanne.    
    At midnight I take a break from writing. Outside the air is crisp and cold.  Four noisy teenagers are coming up the street besotted from drink and revelry. I light up. One has stopped in front of me.  Red-faced, he asks me something in French.    
    “Anglais,” I respond.
    “Do you work here?”
    “No, I’m staying here.”
    “May I have a light?” then “What are you doing in Lausanne?”
    I briefly explain.
    “Where are you from?”
    “Belize. Do you know where that it is?”
     “Yes,” he responds and when I challenge him to tell me where it is he explains that he came on cruise from Miami that stopped in Belize.
    “So you are from Belize.  Belize is a very dirty place” he says without malice.
    He had been to Belize after all then. I had just spent the afternoon arguing over the moment at which Belizean citizenship by descent is obtained.  I wasn’t about to engage in another argument. One that I obviously couldn’t win.
    They stagger off into the night, the four of them huddled together, a half-sized bottle of Absolute vodka clutched in one of their hands and disappear around a corner. In drunken unison the words “Tonight’s gonna be a good night, tonight’s gonna be a good, good night” come floating back to me on the cold night air.

Copyright ©2010 Godfrey Smith

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