Out of the mountains, onto the island

I stare back at my reflection: blood shot eyes, a bit of a swollen check having been pressed up against another man's chair for over four hours on the train, greasy hair (shower bedamned) and several bags on my back, and under my eyes. It's been nearly 21 hours since I've seen a bed, and I will have to wait another 10 as I prepare for my journey by ferry from Nynashamn to Visby, and finally to the farm in Rone on the island of Götland.

Known for its medieval buildings, mainly churches, and the stony soil, much of Götland is populated by simple sheep farmers who want to seek out and maintain a simpler way of life. My experience of Götland via the wwoofing website excited me to the possibilities of being knee deep in mud shearing a 1,000 year old breed of lamb (or lamm, in swedish). But this would not be the case.

Several weeks prior to my arrival I contacted Martin and Anso about my visit and they put me in touch with Marion Huber, my co-wwoofer during the two week stint. Marion is also from Switzerland, and would just be finishing her practicum at a hospital in Turku, Finland. She seemed really sweet via email and enthusiastic about both meeting up and our farming experience together.

As I stumbled through the Stockholm Central Station balancing my 15 kilo bag, a backpack full of books (train fare) and the mounting expectations of my rugged two week stint on an island.. I found myself in the mess of Stockholm commuters bustling towards the south bound Nynashamn train. I then realized that I had totally forgotten everything the train station agent had told me, and now I was encumbered both with bags, and a complete lack of direction. I turned to a group of school children, picking the oldest one (usually its a safe bet to talk to students as they are immersed in english and more readily able to converse), and upon tapping her shoulder realized it was the teacher. She beamed at me, and soon I was on my way, tagging along with a group of students bound for Götland via the very same ferry. School children here seem to go on many overnight trips to various locales all over sweden. We saw several up in Abisko when Yvonne and I stayed at a hostel for four nights and hiked above the arctic circle. I can't imagine taking anyone of my previous art classes (kids of the same age as this stockholm group) for four nights in a hostel.. I can just imagine the squeals now.. ugh. Nonetheless Helen and Katarina (or "Kiki" as the students affectionately regarded her- headmaster and all) talked me through the process of getting on the ferry and arriving without issue. They also informed me of their jobs, the current school system in Stockholm and the effectiveness of their type of private school. Let it be said that private schools here are not the same as private schools in the states. With money funded entirely by the government, although the school is private, it does not seek tuition from its students. It also does not bend in any way to the laws and structures given by the government for public schools. It no longer comes down to money or class, but a manner of preference.

At the train station I excuse myself from the rambunctious group to use the ladies room. I had been searching the train and ferry station, but still no sign of Marion. I even stalked a girl for several minutes before I decided she was definitely not the wwoofing type. . but as I left the ladies stall I spotted a girl in a trademark large leather jacket, totting a giant silver suitcase, and looking suspiciously familiar to the several photos I received from Marion to indicate her appearance. There she was, in tight jeans, nylons, make up and an impossibly fashionable brown leather jacket. I felt like a complete ogre in her presence, and immediately began imagining her dealing with a flock of rowdy sheep.. heh.

Let's just say I was a bit skeptical about her, though I'm such she felt the same about me in some way. She seems uncommonly enthusiastic about meeting me and beginning this trip and I feel kind of awkward at first, not sure if she's entirely sincere in an attitude uncommon among soft spoken, introverted swedes. We exit the bathroom, yes, and head for the queue where we'll deposit our bags and collect a "real" ticket.

With her small frame, and gentle, doe-like demeanor I fear all my actions and movements to be oafish and crude. I try to focus through the intense fatigue brought on by a hellish 16 hour train ride with two screaming children, a man who wreaked of smoke, and sitting chairs only. It could've been worse.. I eat typical swedish fare (meatballs and potatoes) while she carefully chews a gala apple. This oughta be an interesting two weeks.  ...we spend the rest of our time discussing our mutual experiences prior to our random meet up in the ladies room. Her time in the hospital in Turkey, her favorite vacationing spots, what kinds of songs her family sings together during Holidays, etc etc.. I tell her a bit about farming before I feel my eyelids drop and we both decide I should sleep, we'll talk later..

We leave the ferry, each anticipatorial of the strenuous, eye opening weeks ahead of us on this strange island. Not entirely sure what Martin looks like we immediately set eyes on a bearded man in the corner sporting a flannel shirt, holding one kid on the hip, while the other toe-head clings somewhat hesitantly to his pant leg. It was too easy. Martin's car is full of work debris and children's toys. The tell tale signs of all farmer cars I've driven in is some homemade repair to the car involving some kind of duct tape, wire or wood. Martin's appendage was a large wooden 2x 4 that was used to prop open the trunk large and long enough for Marion and I to load our large bags. We all squished into the car, and headed for Rone Smissarve.

Alma and Torrun are 2 years and 4 years old respectively. They run the show. Their white-blond hair and pale blue eyes seem to act as a shield to any punishment or reprimandation. They aggressively pursue their desires and seem impervious to their parents' wishes or warnings, though Martin's booming voice has a strong effect at times. Torrun claims she's feeling car sick, and rather than have our indoctrination be through the regurgitated lunch of his eldest tot, we decide to stop at a local church. Marion and I explore the church while Alma and Torrun each distribute rocks of different sizes and shapes into our hands, expecting the obligatory "Tak" (or, "thanks") after each deposit. I surruptitously chuck my gifted gravel in with the rest, pretending to act surprised and happy with each new bundle. It becomes apparent that Torrun is better, so we leave the gorgeous church, and head finally for home.

The farm is probably the most run down of any yet, but i do not judge. Though Martin is a bit weird at times, he seems to be enthusiastic about having help. What Marion and I hadn't anticipated was the extreme lack of work we were able to do. He takes us through some routines, proper care with the electric fence; how when and where to feed the chickens, and the benefits of having sheep of some 1,000 year old breed. Dinner is a strong meat sauce spaghetti made with beef from a local livestock herder and butcher. It's savory and delicious, and we help ourselves to many spoon fulls before heading to bed.

Martin's initial tour of the house, and our sleeping quarters, let us know that in case we needed to pee in the night, there was a bucket in the corner of the room we could piss in and then empty in the morning. I thought Marion was going to faint! Thankfully her English is not always so accurate, so she misses things that would otherwise cause her to go into a kid of fit, or sunken emotional state (this is just me projecting). So far we've done very little but clean up after the kids and Martin and Anso, organize some of the tamer livestock and sort firewood for the furnace into piles. We are also responsible for dinners twice a week, so last night I did some brainstorming. WIth cupboards stocked, but no obvious continuity I meditated on a dinner that consisted primarily of ground beef and flower. Pasties! The treats that my mom's friend colleen used to bake for us. A tradition from her folks' native land of northern(?) england. I felt empowered by the personal history and the potential delicious outcome. Truth be told they turned out fantastic! The crust was perfect (even without measuring cups, dern metric system) and the filling was really fresh, you could tell the cow had been recently slaughtered.. mmm.

We've been eating them ever since... so nice.

Marion is a bit fed up with the alternative lifestyle. Her impression of Swedish farms were quaint, and perfectly run. The reality of small scale organic farming is that it's either a life hobby, or something that most people do on the side. Martin and Anso are really intelligent, ambitious people and it looks like with two rambunctious kids, it's difficult to even keep their own lives in order, let alone the farm.

While Marion remains skeptical, I am keeping my eyes open.