risk aversion

Heavy snowfall, howling blizzards, frozen roads: the white terror of winter has a way of exposing national weaknesses and hidden strengths.

In Britain even a light sprinkling of snow has a way of underlining the absolute inability of the country’s traffic infrastructure to deal with the unexpected. Trains stall in the Channel tunnel; airports become chaotic gatherings of angry, stranded unwashed passengers. The fabled stiff upper lip quivers in the cold. In the US, often facing much sterner winter weather than in Europe, people struggle for hours in order to turn up proudly in the office: snow brings out the old pioneer spirit. And there are societies who have learned to deal with sudden snowfall, to prepare intelligently. When the arrivals boards are full of cancelled flights, you can be sure that planes from Moscow (and from Swiss destinations) will get through.

The social need for fear

But in Germany, oh yes Germany, snow storms induce a cycle of panic, feverish emergency planning, a sense of anti-climax and, finally, mutual recrimination. Odo Marquard, the Giessen philosopher, wrote twenty years ago about the “Angstdynamik”, the social need for fear. And the invention of a threat if no real threat exists. Typically, in Germany, this centres on epidemic diseases, from mad cow diseases (“Rinderwahn”), through Avian flu (“Vogelgrippe”) to the current swine flu (“Schweinegrippe”). A medical problem is identified and projected, statistically, on to a national scale. The tabloid press seizes on the worst case scenario, because it sells newspapers and increases internet clicks more than any other emotion. Germany’s huge planning machine cranks into action; crisis staffs are created, medicines ordered in bulk, special quarantine units are set up.

And, in the end, nothing much happens.

This is taken as proof that planning works, in the same way that witch doctors recite spells to ward off evil spirits. Nobody really ponders as to whether the supposed threat might have been over-stated in the first place.

Axis of pessimism

And so it is when Germany enters its blizzard-season. An axis of pessimism between the planners and the headline writers predicts “Schneechaos” ahead of every Storm and is then either proved right – because Germans promptly rush out to buy four days of provisions from the supermarkets – or wrong, in which case a vague feeling of disgruntlement descends on the country.

In any case, falling snow is seen as a moment when every German should do his duty to minimize the crisis. The law is quite clear on this. Everyone is responsible for clearing the snow from the stretch of pavement before his house by seven o’clock in the morning and keep it clear of snow until eight o’clock in the evening. An ice-free path of at least one metre has to be created. To melt the ice the resident has to put salt or sand on the pavement (there is even a German word for this – “streupflichtig”), and the exact amount is specified by the local council.

The unspoken assumption of these regulations, this micro-planning, is that the resident has to stare out of his window for 13 hours since every new snow fall, every fluctuation in the temperature, requires action. The planning thus contributes to, rather than eases the chaos. People prefer to miss work rather than risk being prosecuted or sued by a passer-by who slips on the ice in front of their gate. This winter there was even an official recommendation from the “Mieterbund” (the Association of Renters): "Don't leave the house if you are uninsured." If you are too ill to clear snow, or too poor to pay someone else to do it, you can apply of course to the local council for an exemption. This requires full documentation, including doctors certificates and statement of income.

The most heavily insured country in Europe

Hah! German Ordnung,” exclaimed a frustrated colleague who had asked a pensioned neighbour to watch his path for a few hours. He was referring of course, to the supposed German love of order. The problem though has different roots: it is German aversion to risk. Germany is the most heavily insured country in Europe. Germans insure against theft, water damage, vandalism, against being sued, against accidental damage caused in other homes. Naturally other societies have similar security cushions. But none embraces the system quite as enthusiastically as Germany. A postman who trips over a loose cobblestone while delivering a letter? A clear case for the householder's third party insurance – for the damage to his trousers, medical treatment, loss of earnings and possible psychological after effects. Your third party insurance pays up. But maybe you want to contest the claim – no problem since both you and the postman have legal cost insurance. No wonder courtrooms are so full in Germany. And no wonder that 245.000 Germans are employed in the insurance business.

Snow is a God-send for the insurers. It explains some of the passion that is pumped into snow-clearing. In Nuremberg this winter a 66 year old landlord, worried that he could be sued by a passerby, complained that his 41 year old tenant had not cleared the ice thoroughly enough by seven o’clock. The tenant, exhausted by the work, lost his temper and hit the landlord. The wives joined in the fracas and all four were hospitalised. There are endless rows, not all of them as violent as the Nuremberg flare-up, but most resulting in sharp words between neighbours and an appointment in court. Orthopaedic specialists meanwhile are weighing in with advice about the correct way to shovel snow: it can damage vertebrae, apparently, and lead to slipped discs. It is a dangerous business.

I cannot wait for springtime, when the waterpipes burst, icicles drop menacingly from rooftops and the swollen rivers start to flood our cellars. And – let us not forget that bit – when the first crocus blooms.