The Great Escape to a Hare Krishna Permaculture Farm in Sweden
Four months after returning from SE Asia, I managed to leave London once again, this time to volunteer on an eco-farm in south Sweden
A tall old man with white hair and a beard stood behind the glass panel at the checkpoint and asked my reason for visiting Denmark.
‘I’m volunteering on an eco-farm for three weeks in Sweden,’ I said cheerfully.
‘You don’t have the right visa, you’re not allowed to work,’ he replied. His pale blue eyes behind silver wire-framed spectacles twinkled with warmth. He looked like a kindly fisherman one would expect to find in a very cold climate, like Iceland or Alaska. All he needed was a thick raincoat, a fishing pole in one gloved hand and a snowy backdrop and the image would have been complete.
‘I’m not working; I’m volunteering,’ I said quickly. ‘I’m not getting paid.’
‘You’re visiting for leisure purposes,’ he gently corrected me.
‘Oh sorry…’ I smiled sheepishly. He slipped my passport back to me through the small gap in the window. I thanked him and floated by.
I had finally escaped London and I felt free. I was on the road, moving again. I returned from southeast Asia four months ago, severely anxious and spent the last six weeks in London depressed. What was worse than the anxiety and depression was the feeling of stuckness. There was no progress, no growth, I was in a perpetual state of stagnation. Life was a series of coping mechanisms - jogging every morning, writing a gratitude diary at breakfast, listing my daily achievements every night, breath work five times a day, listening to personal development podcasts to foster inspiration, avoiding reality by getting lost in long Netflix series and pouring my overwhelming thoughts and feelings into various notebooks scattered around the house. Despite all this, I didn’t have the energy nor the motivation to look online for a way to dig myself out of the hole I was in. I knew I should have been job searching but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. And then one day, while mindlessly scrolling through Facebook, I saw a post advertising for a volunteer at an eco-farm in south Sweden.
Bhumi’s Farm is looking for a person or two to care for the gardens. We are a vegetarian Permaculture community and animal sanctuary. Welcome with your application!
I had thought about volunteering at a yoga retreat on a sunny island somewhere for a month or so. Exchanging my film, photography and writing skills for accommodation and unlimited yoga sessions which was bound to heal me. But it seemed like I was meant to work on a farm instead. I had been interested in learning about plants for about a decade but had never prioritised it. This was my chance.
After some back and forth communication with Emilia, a co-owner of the farm, I booked a one-way ticket to Sweden. I told myself I was only going away for three weeks - this was just a short break and I was going to return to London. But somewhere in the back of my mind, a small voice whispered, if it’s good, don’t come back.
A pleasant one-hour train ride across the sea bought me into Lund, a quaint little university town in south Sweden. Two bus rides later, I arrived at Lövestad where Bhumi’s Farm resided on fifty-two acres of flat terrain. The grass was green and the sky oh-so-blue. I felt like I was in Teletubby land.
Emilia was a petite woman with white hair and blue eyes. She and her ex-husband Eric ran the farm and were Hare Krishna devotees. The farm followed a strict vegan and vegetarian diet - meat and eggs were not allowed nor were onions, garlic, leeks and mushrooms. Every evening, a different volunteer cooked for the whole team. I enjoyed cooking and wanted to make rice and curry but doing so without onions and garlic was going to be a challenge.
DON’T TASTE THE FOOD, it’s good anyways! said the handwritten, laminated kitchen rule book.
While cooking, please don’t taste the food, it has to be offered to Krishna first. If you are worried about the amount of salt or other spices, you can always adjust after the offering.
The communal room behind the main kitchen was where mealtimes took place and it housed a small alter hidden behind a floor-to-ceiling thick, purple curtains. Emilia liked to offer a tiny portion of food to Krishna fifteen minutes before everyone ate.
The first night, a Portuguese woman named Teresa cooked spaghetti with tomato sauce made from scratch. It was simple and flavourful.
The next day, a tall German guy named Henrik was to cook dinner. He was doing a six-month internship as part of his agriculture degree and was in charge of the plant nursery. Dinner will be late he said in the Whatsapp group. My tummy growled softly in protest.
Emilia asked if we were interested in doing kirtan while we waited. I didn’t really know what it was but I had heard of it before; it was one of those activities floating around some of the hippie spaces I had been in in London. An image of a dancer spinning round and round came to mind. Who would dance like that on the farm?
Half a dozen of us joined Eric on the floor, our bottoms protected from the cold, tiles by thin square cushions. A small wooden piano, which I later found out was called a harmonium, sat in front of him. It wailed like a drowning cat when he pressed the keys with his thick fingers. And then he started singing, his pitch low, the melody almost melancholic.
‘Hare Krishna hare Krishna
Krishna Krishna hare hare
Hare Rama hare Rama
Rama Rama hare hare’
So this was kirtan. Was it specific to the Hindu religion or did it include all types of spiritual singing and chanting?
Eric encouraged us to join in. I wondered what my family would think if they knew of this. Islam was a strictly monotheistic religion and any form of worship beyond that was gravely sinful.
I joined in, my eyes focused on the lyrics plastered on the wall just behind Eric. I did it for the experience; I thought it might be healing or soothing but it didn’t make me feel any particular way.
‘We try not to do too many activities around Krishna with volunteers because we don’t want people to think this is a Hare Krishna farm,’ said Emilia, holding a pair of small gold cymbals which she pinged at regular intervals during the singing. ‘It’s open to people from all religions and background.’
Dinner was mashed potatoes with chunks of al dente carrots. My stomach felt hollow as I placed my metal tray topped with food on the small, wooden table. Henrik finished his meal quickly and sat stiff and silent on his cushion throughout the rest of the event, perhaps disappointed and slightly embarrassed by how long it took him to make it and the modest portion available.
‘The hardness of the carrots goes really nicely with the softness of the mash,’ I told him.
‘The carrots are meant to be as soft as the mash,’ he replied.
A soft ripple of laughter travelled around the circle.
‘Nobody knows that,’ Emilia’s delicate voice chimed in from my right. ‘Just say it’s meant to be like that.’
Lunch was always leftovers. The next day, there was barely any food. I didn’t know who had eaten and if everyone wanted a portion of the mash and carrots or had their own food.
‘There isn’t much lunch,’ I said to Emilia.
‘Well, you’re old enough to sort out your own meal,’ she replied.
I was hangry and her response annoyed me. I had just spent three hours cleaning out the horses’ area with Teresa, including scraping horse poo off the floor into a wheelbarrow and then tipping into a compost bed about a hundred metres away. Horse poo weighed a tonne; my arms got a real workout. I didn’t mind doing that because it was out in the open and it didn’t even smell bad. It was the cool, shaded, enclosed barn housing the rolls of hay where I sensed a little resistance in my body. The space felt dirty. The air smelled of damp hay, wood and animals. This was not a place I wanted to spend time in. We picked up chunks of hay and straw with our gloved hands and stashed them into large plastic bags. We used the rakes to sweep the floor. Then we went outside and shook the hay and straw into the feed boxes. The horses came clip-clopping and I hastily moved out of the way, nervous. Later, we scrubbed the big plastic tubs where the horses drank water from. It was a hot day; the sky was blue and not a cloud was to be seen. I dabbed my forehead and upper lip with my exposed forearm, careful not to let the dirty glove touch my skin.
‘The water always ends up with small bits of algae,’ said Teresa. ‘They grow rapidly, within a day, and they’re toxic for the horses. So when cleaning the water bowls, always start scrubbing in a circular motion at the bottom-middle and then work your way outwards to the top. That way, you know you’ve scrubbed everything and captured any stray algae.’
By the time I returned to the kitchen, it was half past midday and I felt like the insides of my stomach had been scooped out. I expected there to be food and I expected Emilia to provide it as the farm owner who was benefiting from the hard labour of the volunteers. The nearest shop was in Sjöbo, a small village a twenty-minute infrequent bus journey away so it wasn’t practical to go there for a quick lunch. I took out the container of mash and carrots and spooned a small portion onto a plate, heated it up in the microwave and ate quietly. Then I made myself a cup of tea with a slice of buttered toast.
Emilia’s son, Aaron had come to visit for a few days. That night, he cooked a feast of lentil fritters with two different sauces - one was spicy and cut through the bland frittas really well. There was also cabbage stew and a refreshing tomato and cucumber salad. It was certainly filling but by lunch time the next day, I was tired of it and by dinner, quite sick of it.
It would be my turn to cook the next night. I had decided I was going to make chickpea curry with rice and salad. My oldest sister had suggested looking up curry recipe with a tomato base and a quick google search showed me a variety of options. As for cooking without tasting, I could do that. I came from a large family and was used to cooking for around ten people so knew how much salt and spice to add intuitively. I gave myself a mental pat on the back for having such a positive attitude. This was perhaps the first thing I looked forward to the most on the farm.
After dinner that night, Emilia informed me that there was a special group activity taking place and she wanted us all to meet at the courtyard at 8.30pm. What could it be? A small performance? Maybe she wanted to share some really good news.
To my disgust, the activity turned out to be slug-picking. There was an infestation, not just on Bhumi’s Farm, but the neighbouring farms too. Every few metres, half a dozen fat, brown slugs lay in their own slime.
‘They’re an invasive specie,’ Emilia told me.
‘Oh really?’ I feigned interest in an attempt to hide my revulsion.
Marlin, my roommate, was the only other volunteer available. Everyone else was busy bringing the horses and the cows home or closing up the plant nursery. Emilia handed out rubber gloves and plastic bags. Apparently, the night before, Teresa had requested the slugs not be harmed but released into the forest because it was the kind and gentle thing to do. I was all for saving nature but some creatures - those that were high in number and destructive to the ecosystem - needed to be culled. And releasing them several hundred metres away was a futile attempt at clearing the farm because they would obviously return within a few days.
Emilia led Marlin and me into a hidden garden behind the farmhouse. They started picking up the slugs the way one would pick up radishes or another small root vegetable. I stood still and stared at them. Half of their body had engraved stripes. OK I’m wearing rubber gloves, I can do this, I told myself. My body didn’t move. This is farm work. This is what I came to do. A minute went by and I remained where I was. Emilia and Marlin had their backs to me and didn’t seem to notice my inaction. I wanted to run away but if I did that, it would feel like I wasn’t a team player and volunteering on a farm was all about that. Everyone chipped in equally. I imagined myself picking up a slug and throwing it in the bag. Visualisation didn’t help. The squishy body and thick mucus made me shudder. Emilia’s daughter, who was also visiting for a few days, had picked up the slugs without gloves the night before and apparently, the slime was extra strong and very hard to wash off with soap. A couple more minutes went by.
Eventually, I said, ‘I’m sorry Emilia, I don’t think I can do this.’
She didn’t seem to have heard me. And then a few seconds later, ‘what size are your gloves?’
‘Medium.’
‘Can I have them?’
‘Sure.’ I took them off and handed them over.
‘I’ll take the bag as well.’
I felt awkward, like I wasn’t living up to my expectations. And in hindsight, I realised Emilia was not pleased.
When I got to bed, I complained about the farm to Ming, a 38-year-old Vietnamese-Chinese guy I had matched with on Bumble, a dating app. We had been talking for a couple of days. He thought the idea of me slug-picking was hilarious. I told him I wasn’t sure the farm was for me. There were too many strict rules; everyone had to work five hours a day which was a lot and several people had asked me what I was going to do with the hours where I wasn’t scheduled to work. I felt like I was being monitored; everyone was making sure I was earning my keep. I was told by Marlin and Teresa that I needed to mop the bathroom floor after using the shower because I had left little drops of water around the cubicle. I did not think it was a big deal - it was a small amount of water which would have evaporated anyway. Later, I found out the nice, spacious bathroom I had been using was actually for the Airbnb guests and volunteers were supposed to use the tiny, dingy bathroom in the house where we slept. The room I was sleeping in was a windowless attic room with two single beds. It had two doors, one which led to Teresa’s bedroom and therefore a no-go, and the other led to a spiral metal staircase outside. (To be fair, this door was made of glass so the room did receive some natural daylight). If I wanted to use the bathroom, I had to go outdoors, take the spiral staircase, walk around the house and then come back in. I was not impressed. In addition to the five hours of gruelling work per day, there was also a common project which involved everyone getting together and doing a big job, such as cleaning the plant nursery, or in the most recent case, slug picking. We also had an hour-long team meeting nearly every day at midday where we shared how we were feeling and what we were doing. It was a lot. I felt overwhelmed. I had told Emilia I was a burnt-out Londoner with long-term depression and anxiety before coming to the farm. I had hoped this divulgence would have afforded me some leeway, such as a softer landing into the farm life but apparently not. I told Ming I wanted to leave but I didn’t know where to go.
I actually have a spare room in my apartment for a month and a half before the next tenant moves in he wrote.
I paused. Was he hinting that I stay with him? Ming was a shy introvert who worked in tech. He told me he had made a lot of progress socially from playing sports over the past decade - and this told me he was a late bloomer and probably had confidence issues growing up.
How do you feel about hosting me for a week? I asked.
Sure, but you should know that I am really sensitive to noise and I go to bed at 10pm.
Okay… His response wasn’t as enthusiastic as I thought it would be. But he said yes and I didn’t have many options. I was in semi-flight mode and wanted to leave the farm as soon as possible.
Haha that’s fine, my bedtime is 9pm I replied. Let me wait and see a few more days and if it’s still not working for me, I’d love to come and stay with you.
I was getting serious vibes from Ming. I suspected he was looking for a wife, not a girlfriend or a passing fling. I got the sense that southeast and east Asian men preferred to stick with women from the same ethnic background as them but Ming’s older sister had married an Indian guy and had two kids with him. This explained why he was so open to me. I wanted to be attracted to him but I wasn’t; I just felt comfortable talking with him. The idea of dating a Swedish guy, as opposed to a Brit, was exciting but it wasn’t going to be Ming.
I lay awake wondering what would happen over the next couple of days. Would I stay and work through it or would I pack up my suitcase and runaway? I needed to make a pros and cons list. I also needed to start jogging. Maybe go into town and hire a bicycle so I could cycle through the farms - my most favourite thing to do. Somewhere in the distance, I heard a cow moo. I thought the cows were asleep. Or was I asleep and dreaming?