Desperately Seeking Sweden

Thankfully, it seems all my senses are intact. I see people; the mountains have turned into square-shaped chunks of concrete and I have already spotted at least two H&M’s within spitting distance of each other. I hear voices and the distant buzz of traffic from the dual carriageway.

I smell fast food joints that are open until 20.00 and beyond and will taste their offerings later in the evening. It feels strange to be in a place where I can need a map and where my temporary bout of Tourettes Syndrome – cause by fly-swatting to the head – has been cured.

I wouldsn’t say I’m lost in translation as I know what nordostersjokustartilleriflygspaningssimulatoranlaggningsmaterielunderhålls-
uppföljningssystemdiskussionsinlaggsförberedselsearbeten means. 

But it seems I have developed a mild form of culture shock on returning to civilization and surviving places that Ray Mears would fear to tread. More on my current location coming soon but, for the meantime, I only hope the other hat-trick of nearby eå-ending places can forgive me for passing them by.

Ray Mears: He's quite hard but I bet he's not been to Pajala

In other news, after careful deliberation I am pleasure to announce that I hand over my Jokkmokk Ambassador crown to Tom who, like everyone else, failed to get all the answers right but scores extra points for his cheese fettish. According to the the official Jokkmokk Ambassador board game, the answers are as below. And Tom, if you’re still reading, send your address to news@thelocal.se and I’ll pop your prize in the post.

1. The first weekend in February
2. Mora
3. 150
4. 1,970 square kilometres

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The first time I went skiing I believe I invented the sport of bumboarding. So I headed to Tärnaby with slight intrepidation yet safe in the knowledge that all but a sprinkling of snow was left on the mountains.

This small picturesque village of just 600 people has produced the greatest Swedish skiers of all time, most notably slalom king Ingemar Stenmark and alpine princess Anja Pärson. Their legacy is planted all over the place with their smiley faces on billboards inviting visitors to take to the slopes named in their honour.

Gotcha! Me and my Tärnaby hosts Lindy and Matt

 

After my first fateful skiing experience, I recall giving up, going to the bar and vowing never to attempt to navigate a chair lift again. But I persevered and can now boast a skiing age of three years old; ain’t no green slope high enough to defeat me these days.

Indeed, learning a new skill as an adult can be quite a challenge. Anyone that’s moved to Sweden will have battled with learning the language or Systembolaget’s opening hours. Spare a thought for the Tärnaby residents whose local branch of the state-run alcohol shop is over 100 kilometres away in Storumen.

The Swedes love to be at one with nature this time of the year and living here has taught me to appreciate country life that little bit more. These parts are a haven for hikers in the summer months and any sport requiring snow in the winter. I prefer to do neither but, in an attempt to extend my limited repertoire of outdoor activities, I took up the offer to try something slightly more sedate in Tärnaby – a spot of fly-fishing was in store.

Under the tuition of Filip, my faithfully patient guide, I took to the waters in my waders around Lake Laisan, truly one of the most beautiful backdrops I have every had the pleasure of witnessing.

Filip and I soon bonded over a shared passion for tweed and whilst I’m like a like a fish out on water on a pair of skis, swap them for a nice big rod and I am to the manor born, it seems. Here comes the money shot – not bad for a fly-fishing novice.

I retired back to my abode for some celebratory ’after-fish’ under the amazing hospitality of my hosts, Aussie ex-pat  and The Local reader Matt and his Swedish partner Lindy. They’ve been running the Bed & Breakfast in here for a good few years now and quite simply go out of their way to make you feel at home.

I’m currently in the process of persuading the camera-shy couple to pose for a photo, but until then, I say a big thank you. A special mention goes out to Matt’s good humour, Lindy’s top-class culinary talents and Martin – the best barman in Tärnaby.

I really hope to return one day but until then I’m putting my ski boots on sale and signing up for a monthly subscription to ’Get Hooked’ magazine. 

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”Borta är bra men hemma är bäst,” as they say in Sweden which I would translate to ”there’s no place like home,” though someone will surely correct me if I’m wrong. Whilst I’m thoroughly enjoying life at a latitude of 66 degrees north, you do find yourself longing for a few home comforts.

Which is why I couldn’t resist the warm welcome from The Local reader Linda Platt who moved from the delights of Doncaster in northern England to Arvidsjaur a couple of years ago. A true Yorkshire lass like myself, Linda kindly picked me up at the station and we supped two medicinal cups of tea before setting off on a whistle-stop tour. 

Linda’s musical talents are much appreciated in the community. She’s a keyboard player, organist and the only accordian-playing woman I’ve ever met. Indeed, Linda caused a stir when she turned up to the local AA meeting (Accordian Association). But she soon struck the right chord with the other 15 male members after proving she can whip up a Swedish folk song like the best of them. A big cheer to Linda for a lovely day and sending me off with a stash of Yorkshire tea-bags.

The Local reader Linda can play 'owt you like

Now there are 6,600 people living in Arvidsjaur, which also has a snowmobile population of 3,300. It is home to the most beautiful church in Sweden by my estimations as well as Lappstaden, a 300-year-old Sami village still in use today. Other sights include the soldiers from K4, the Arctic Ranger regiment stationed in the neighbourhood, as well as the Norwegian pipe-smoker at my hostel that parades around in his underpants.

I can also report my first mosquito bite of the trip, which is rather unattractively positioned on my upper lip. However, I would highly recommend it as a natural alternative to botox as, on waking up this morning, I looked like I’d taken a decent right hook from an offended reindeer herder. 

Still, my ambassador status remains intact and I was taken out to dinner by the generous folk at the local tourist office. They gave me an official A-Z of Arvidsjaur over a Greek meze and have to say I’m pretty impressed with the efforts and desire to market the town to the masses.

It’s a shame I can’t stay longer; not least because of the offer to join a beaver safari with some Irish tourists. Rather, it’s a beautiful part of the country I’d like to explore further.

And so I find myself in melancholy mood at having to leave in such haste and begin to reminisce way back. Only now can I really sympathise with the Littlest Hobo, the Canadian canine star from one of my favourite TV shows as a child. It followed our four-legged friend on his travels, befriending folk here and there, before having to say his premature goodbyes.

You’ll be pleased to know I’m finding comfort listening to the theme tune lyrics and invite you to relive the memory with me here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PINxfouNQFw

And so I turn to another friendly reader of The Local as I make my way to Tärnaby to meet Aussie Matt and his partner Lindy who run a B&B there.

”Maybe tomorrow I’ll want to settle down, until tomorrow I’ll just keep moving on.”

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Wednesday night is pub night in Jokkmokk and the locals were out in full force to keep the token number of tourists company. I finished up sandwiched between a grave digger and a reindeer herder so naturally the conversation flowed freely.

Keen to show an interest in the two professions I probably know least about, I inquired as to how many reindeer aforementioned herder owns and there the conversation took a cold turn. Seems reindeer give you serious purchasing power and so you keep your count strictly under cover. Still, all was forgiven thanks to my obvious ignorance and the herder’s intoxication.

The grave digger, however, enjoyed vocational trivia and proceeded to explain the optimal way to dig a hole. Before coming to Jokkmokk I didn’t know the legal depth for a grave in Sweden is two metres and ten centimetres. I do now and returned to the hostel satifsfied in the knowledge I had learned something, albeit pretty useless.

Tourist-tastic: Check out my red jacket I bought in Pajala

I spent the next morning chugging along the Inlandsbanan on my way to Arvidsjaur. With a maximum speed of 80 kilometres per hour you really have to sit back, enjoy the ride and refrain from telling the driver to put their foot down.

As we crossed of Arctic Circle we hopped off for a photo opportunity before being awarded our ”I crossed the Arctic Circle” certificates. I will proudly frame mine, put it on display and soon after probably shove it in the back of a drawer in my Stockholm pad.

A further attraction came by way of old man Kjell who sets up his second-hand relics and hot dog stand every day. Kjell’s health and safety record has been a little bit off, of late. Like his sausages which, the conductor warned us, have been the cause of some dodgy stomachs further down the track. Still, Arctic Circle stall-holder is pretty unique on a passport and another sure-fire conversation starter in any pub.

Kjell: Do you want ketchup and mustard with that?

By the way, the Jokkmokk Ambassador quiz is still swinging since all of the, wait for it, three entrants failed to get all the questions right. Tom is currently leading the pack with two out of four questions answered correctly. So the quiz stays open until Monday which gives you plenty of time to get Googling! You’ll be pleased to know Kjell is sorting me out with the prize. 

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My journey to Jokkmokk was a bit of a rocky one. Thanks to the black-out blinds in Gällivare’s hostel I had the best night’s sleep of the trip so far. Too good in fact, which meant I overslept and missed the train. And so to the coach station and a miserable driver who could learn a thing or two from Björn’s Bus Driving School of Etiquette.

On arriving in the town, I had really good vibes about the place. It was pretty, colourful and there seemed to be a northern soul in the air of this community with plenty going on.

Heading to the hostel, I was ready for a power-nap and a nice warm shower. But unfortunately, it times its morning welcome for the incoming traffic of train travellers and then shuts shop until early evening. That left me with six hours to kill and so the good vibes started to go sour. Slightly unenthusiastic about doing the tourist trail, I opted to spend my time switching between the kitsch internet cafe and the pizzeria-turned pub – the only two haunts to be seen in around here. The only two haunts there are.

Jokkmokk is the so-called Sami capital and keeps the culture alive by honing handicraft skills, which are taught and handed down through the generations. So this is the place to pick up a genuine Sami souvenir. A visit to the impressive Attje Museum tells their story and how today’s community keeps up with the Sami Joneses with their snowmobiles instead of sleighs and the importance of the internet to swap tips on reindeer husbandry.

I skipped the evening’s advertised entertainment at the local cafe where you could  ”learn the ukelele in 15 minutes” and opted for an early night instead. I didn’t think ukelele-playing was a particular skill I needed to hone.

Now youth hostelling, on the other hand ,is something of an art for a city girl like me. I’ve been on the road for a week now and already my clothes have that authentically rustic and damp smell about them. Earlier today I had to throw in the towel and by a new one when mine started give off that well-known backpacker essence known as  ’eau de dog.’

Still, when Jokkmokk’s hostel finally opened its door, it was a sight for my sore and tired eyes. Åsgård, a former hunting manor, is a beautiful residence with a homely feel and their showers don’t switch between 100 degrees and minus 20 in nought to three seconds. There’s access to all the modern amenities any traveller could ever wish for. Even now, as I type in the TV lounge, a young Swedish couple are struggling to decide which video to watch from the VHS library. It’s a toss up between Home Alone 2 and The Great Muppet Caper.

I would recommend they instead amuse themselves with the board game that was my early evening pasttime. Forget the tourist information office, the best way to learn about the town is to play ’Jokkmokk’s Ambassador’ – think Trivial Pursuit meets Monopoly in a northern Swedish setting.

Jokkmokk's Ambassador: Order taken now for Christmas 2009

You can opt to be a bear, reindeer or a hiker and, by successfully answering questions about Jokkmokk and it’s surrounding area, you make your way around and the winner takes the lucrative title. Local businesses, it seems, have sponsored the game in exchange for advertising; pick up a bonus card and they plug their services while you win two moves forward or a free throw of the dice.

Since I failed to entice a couple of mute Germans to play along with me, or even speak, I won . So as the new Ambassador of Jokkmokk I challenge you to the follow questions that I got wrong. Send in your answers via the comments link and I’ll throw in a Jokkmokk souvenir to the winner.

1. When is Jokkmokk’s famous winter market?
2. Where in Darlana does the Inlandsbanan start?
3. What is the population of Porsi, one of the oldest villages in the Jokkmokk area?
4. How big is the Sarek national park?

The prize won’t be a Sami hand-made mobile phone case which set me back a whopping 650 crowns. I felt sorry for the lonely looking woman in the shop who told me no-one had bought anything for three days. I’m not surprised. That blew the day’s budget which meant I wasn’t dining out tonight and went down to cook something up in Åsgård’s deluxe kitchen.

A lively Danish family were making a celebratory dinner having just completed a week’s worth of the Kungsleden hiking trail. They felt that that warranted an interesting combination of pancakes washed down with red wine and invited me to joint them as a VIP guest. It’s something I should get use to I suppose. Indeed, such is the life of the Ambassador of Jokkmokk. 

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You can learn a lot from bus drivers. At least you can from Björn, who I would gladly nominate for best bus driver in Norrland, after his impromptu guided tour around Gällivare on the number two bus.

The thinking Sami man is thinking...

While Swiss travellers with tractors may well be a recent addition to the community, northern vagabonds are not a new phenomenon. Sami nomads descended here first and the town’s name derives from a Sami word meaning ’crack in the mountain’.  The statue of the ’thinking Sami man’ in the middle of town is a memorial to the original inhabitants and is made from granite from the Dundret mountain that watches over the city.

Björn was eager to point out the ’English’ neighbourhood to me; somewhat of a former colony that is largely unknown about. Turns out a few hundred Brits came to these parts in the late 19th century to profit from the newfound mine. They came, they saw, and they built the Railway station.

But they never left much more of a legacy after losing the lot to bankruptcy before the Swedes stepped in to save the day. Generations that grew up here still refer to themselves as ’the English’ and there was even a football team called the ’English boys’. According to Björn, they never won a game against the other local Swedish teams for years. Nothing new there then.

...does my bum look big in this?

A few weeks ago, a tremor reaching 3.0 on the Richter scale rocked the neighbouring mining town, Malmberget, at midnight. Something the locals are used to, says Björn, as the mine charges explosives every night when the clock strikes 12. Despite his wealth of local knowledge, Björn couldn’t help me find the attraction I was really looking for. A Swede told me it was a must to check out ’Gällivarehäng’ while visiting the town and on asking for directions he let out a jovial laugh.

What could be described as a monumental sight, Gällivarehäng is rather Swedish slang for low-hanging trousers – I suppose what we’d call ’showing your crack’ or having a ’builder’s bum.’ I made it a mission to find photographic evidence  but unfortunately I leave saying I failed to score any decent crack in Gällivare. 

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Taking a dip in the Torne River when it’s ten degrees is not the best of ideas. My constant sneezing and runny nose kept me up most of the night so I didn’t need my alarm to ensure I made it on the 7am bus to Gällivare. I have less than 24 hours to spend in this small industrial town which is a mainstay for backpackers at the start or end of the Inlandsbanan train route.

Given my rising temperature, I opted out of the 10am kayaking tour, as advertised on the make-shift noticeboard at the railway station, and was about to head off to the youth hostel when I was approached by a couple of fellow travellers in need of help. Now, if you are intrigued by my adventure, then brace yourself for this.

Swiss do Sweden: Christos and Jonas

Meet Christos and Jonas, two guys from Lucerne, Switzerland who are travelling through Scandinavia with their tractors and trailers in tow. Because they can. But for the moment they can’t and are currently stuck in Gällivare with one of their tractors in need of bit of attention. Stationed in the middle of the town, their old time Härlimann machines are causing a bit of a stir, with locals coming out to take photos.

So in order to raise funds to mend their ailing farmyard four-wheeler, Christos took to the streets of Gällivare to sell home-made biscuits to the tractor tourists. I bought some fruit ’n’ nut crunchies in exchange for hearing more about their story. And very nice they were too.

Now, I very much admire their entrepreneurial spirit in such times of tractor trauma so while I’m off to explore what Gällivare has to offer, if there’s any mechanics and welders in the area who can spare a thought and lend a free hand to these talented biscuit bakers and friendly travellers, you can email them at christosparavalos@gmx.ch

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I found out what it was like to party like a real Torne Valley man or woman on one of the biggest nights in Pajala’s social calendar. The whole village, it seemed, turned out for Saturday night celebrations during the annual fair weekend. 

A comment to an earlier post asked what it’s like to be a women travelling alone in these parts. Only earlier in the day I sat down with Mrs Slottenholm, the 85-year old matriarch of the B&B where I’m staying. For over half a century she’s been invited strangers into her home and has also housed local youngsters with social and behavioural problems.

I asked her what it’s like to run this open house and she admits her family and friends have expressed concern for her safety in recent years. But she tells them ”var inte rädd om människor” (don’t be scared of people) and as a person travelling alone anywhere I echo Mrs S’s philosophy. But naturally you need to keep your wits about you so I would add that one should steer clear of eight-fingered men who wear excessive amounts of stone-washed denim and sing ’God Save The Queen’ every time they see you.

Apart from this nutter, the people of Pajala went out of their way to ensure I had a good time and taught me how to master the Norrland trait of sucking in your breath to punctuate a conversation. This is an everyone-knows-everyone community and it wasn’t long until I was bumping into and sucking in my breath with those I’d met by the salmon sausage stall earlier in the day. Yes, amazingly enough, it’s a sausage made of salmon.

Before the dance floor was full to bursting I took the chance to have a serious chat with some locals on how they feel about living here. The essence of their replies was mocked and misunderstood by much of the rest of Sweden. They claim and genuinely seem to be a contented bunch who leave their doors unlocked at night and know their neighbour or the next man down the street is only too happy to help them fix the car or shift the snow.

The official get-together came to a close in the early hours but the hangers on hurried down to the river where a row of wooden huts were smoking from the rooftops. An after hours party in Pajala equals sauna in any season and and I was honoured to be invited for alternating sweating and swimming which continued through until breakfast. Great people, great times and great memories. 

I consequently woke a little heavy-headed and took a stroll down to the former work-house of Lars Levi Laedstadius, now a museum in his honour. The 19th century Swedish evangelist would not be very happy with the hungover majority in his former parish this Sunday morning. Laedstadius preached ardently about the evils of alcohol and spread the word of the sober spirit over Northern Scandinavia. He is buried accross the road in Pajala cemetery and there are around 200,000 practising Laestadians globally today. I never met any in Pajala. 

On the way back I stopped to say my goodbyes and caught sight of the Wimbledon men’s final in the pub, the ultimate sin according to Laestadianism, which also disapproves of television and competitive sports. By now the market had packed up and Pajala was back to the quiet, desolate place I found on my arrival. 

While walking past the world’s largest sundial in the village centre, the fact that little Pajala knocked king-sized Disney World out of the Guinness Book of Records* brought a smile to my face.

Now I’m set to begin a short descent of the Inlandsbanan – a train route that sees me starting in Gällivare on Monday, down to Jokkmokk on Tuesday, on to Arvidsjaur on Wednesday/ Thursday and then to Storuman on Friday. Feel free to drop me a line if you’re around.

* The sundial in Pajala, 38.33 metres in diameter, is the largest in the world. The previous record was held by Disney World in Orlando, Florida, at 37.18 metres. Nice one.

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I was expecting a fanfare of fun and frolics having heard so much about Pajala Fair. But on my early evening arrival, I disappointingly found the place pretty much abandoned with empty stalls and only the distant noise of a cover band doing a soundcheck in a basement hotel bar.

At least I got the village’s last vacant room in a wonderfully homely guest house where I have been taken under the wing of a Swedish-Finnish family who have been running the place for 54 years. Turns out they are big fans of the British TV soap Emmerdale and as I come from Yorkshire, where the programme is based, it warranted a welcome with chocolate biscuits.

Nice view: it's not Yorkshire, it's the Torne River

A population of just 2,000, Pajala is quaintly situated on the banks of the Torne River and so I took a morning stroll along the picturesque waterside dotted with yellow and red houses before eagerly venturing to the market.

It’s a big weekend for the locals. Around 30,000 visitors come from all corners of Norrland including a threesome from Jokkmokk that I met over breakfast who were very enthusiastic about selling their speciality sausages.

I wasn’t. This is Pajala in its prime and everyone here is in joyous mood. But the market is a little sad with its rows of DVD’s, candyfloss kiosks, raffles with crap prizes, knock-off handbags and Bolivian panpipers. I was intrigued, however, by the concept of Cafe Ost where your cup of coffee is accompanied by a big chunk of cheese. But it seemed to be quite natural with the visitors so I duly joined in without comment. The most entertaining market wares were to be found on the rude T-shirt stall with hundreds of them emblazoned with rather risque and very unpublishable innuendoes.

Pajala Fair: be there or miss out on cheap DVDs

Across the road the injured elk fund was promoting their cause while blokes in checked shirts and dirty jeans stood proudly with thumbs in their belt loops during a power-drill demonstration. Pajala is a man’s world. I’m told there are three times as many men than woman here; girls grow up and go off to seek glamour in the big cities while the hunter-gatherer guys stay at home.

A local band sings a song about a typical Torne Valley man who should never be a ’knapso’ – local speak for metrosexual – while in the third week of September, Pajala’s other annual festival ’Romp Week’ encourages bachelors to get hooked up.

And let us not forget the village’s estate of Vittula, translated by the tourist office into ‘Pussy Marsh’ or something more obscene if you read the book ’Popular Music’ which put Pajala on the map.

It's not on a T-shirt, but it could be

Speaking of popular music, there was an interesting choice of tunes blasting from a burger joint all day which struck a smiling chord with me. My personal favourite was a rave version of Roy Orbison’s ’Pretty Woman’ – a male yearning, perhaps, to the lack of them in Pajala.  

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It was around 12.05 am in Kiruna when I took this photo. I artistically call it ”Midnight sun over residential car park.” Everyone told me to go to a high vantage point to view it but I just nipped outside the youth hostel and stood on a big brick.

My dormitory is well occupied with Danish hikers but not so well equipped with curtains so I’ve resorted to wearing my sunglasses to sleep in. It was a bright and sunny day as I headed off on my first organised tour to Kirunavaara – one of the two mine mountains that currently sandwich Sweden’s most northerly city.

They say Kiruna wouldn’t exist if it wasn’t for the mining industry, which has been going on for around 100 years here, so I went to see what all the fuss was about along with a coach load of the usual bumbag brigade. And they didn’t disappoint in their standard uniform of socks, sandals, I love (insert random city) caps and camcorders.  Aside from one guy that is, who seemed suspiciously out of sorts, on account of the fact he looked Amish.

Amish miner: only in Sweden

Once underground with my yellow safety hat safely in place, I was taken aback at just how dark it was. I’m aware that mines, by their very nature, are dingy hangabouts but I could barely see a thing. Had I become too accustomed to constant daylight perhaps? Alas, no. Turns out I still had my sunglasses on. I wasn’t seeing things though. I was still convinced that  guy was Amish. And I found it far more amusing to take pictures of him, rather than the drill and truck displays.

Then, as soon as my temporary blindness was instantly cured, I could concentrate on the guide’s facts and stats. And of those which I remember I now relay to you in under 30 seconds. Between 70-100,000 tonnes of iron ore is produced in Kiruna every day. The main mining level stands at 1045 meters and iron ore reserves at this depth will last until around 2010. But they believe the ore continues down to 2000 metres – another century’s worth of digging at least.

Yet, what I take home most vividly from the tour is that it’s probably one of the last public bastions of in-house smoking respites in Sweden. Indeed, there’s a nicotine-friendly spot close to the visitor cafe, 300 metres below the ground’s surface. And there the Amish guy gave me a light. 

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