Swedish nature treasures

The month of September is a time for mushroom and wild berries in the forests of Sweden. But the weather has been erratic and unpredictable that the fabulous forest gold, the "kantarell" or chanterelle mushrooms-most sought after by pickers, already peaked in August. The combined force of heat and rain induced the growth of forest mushrooms with unprecedented speed.

When we had our summer house in Hargshamn, about two and a-half hours from Stockholm, mushroom and berries picking became an obsession. Fishing in the nearby Baltic waters was also an addiction. Swedish summers' long days allowed for many adventures into the forests and waters. Hargshamn, where we had our summer house, borders on the Baltic sea and the waters have an abundant supply of fishes, especially herring.

Kantarell grows in mossy forests, usually in the same areas every year. Many pickers have secret "ställe" or places they will reveal to no one, and every year they revisit the same kantarell places. In the month of October comes another most-sought -after mushroom, the "trattkantarell". They are either brownish or orangish in color and they grow thick in particular areas. There are also black ones but rather rare. One can walk the forest for hours without discovering any, but once you spot one, then you have discovered the whole regiment.

They are secret places held close to the heart of pickers. Such secrets remain closely kept until death and are passed on to the heirs of the estate. It goes like this: " Äskling" (darling) here are the secret chanterelle places, but don't by all means include them in my asset inventory, otherwise the tax authority will come and tax you." Sweden is an overtaxed country such that simple joys we get from nature's treasures, including clean air, we must keep to ourselves only, least the tax eager politicians get the wrong ideas.

Other worthy mushroom competitors are the "Karl Johan" and wild champignons. Hundreds of wild mushrooms populate the Swedish forests although more than half are unedible if not deadly poisonous. Some newspapers accounts told of foreigners taken ill for eating poisonous mushrooms. The worst kind is the "flugsvamp" which comes in spotted white or red. So beautiful yet so deadly evil.

What did I do with baskets of mushroom harvests I take back to Stockholm? The kantarells, including the tratt can be dried. Use some newspaper under that absorbs the moisture. Or, permitting space in the fridge, fry them in their own moisture with some salt. No butter and pepper, as they could change the taste of the mushroom when you saute' them as side dish for your roasts. Pack them according to consumption portions. If you want to eat them fresh, then fry them with little butter, salt and pepper and put them on toast bread. A real delicacy, I promise. But before consumption, clean them with a soft brush because they have some bits of soil and dead leaves from being in the forest.

As for the treasures of the water, fishing herrings called "strömming" is a real summer sport. Its the only time one is allowed seven hooks to a line. The "strömming" which comes and goes in schools are caught not necessarily through the mouth but other parts of the body the hooks happen to hit. In June I used to go out around nine in the morning with my fishing gear and a pail. Since the days were really long, I'd stay fishing until ten, eleven in the evenings or until my husband came looking for me.

Cleaning "strömming" is not my favorite part of the sport. Too many scales, too slimy, and just too many in the pail. That part I normally left to my patient hubby. And the fishing goes on until there's no more space in the freezer. When that happened, I took the whole lot back to Stockholm, including the other catch that our neighbour supplied us. Back in Stockholm, I knocked on my friends' doors and asked: " Hi, want some "gädda"?

And so I spread the joys of picking and catching to non-pickers and non-catchers.

Experiencing Africa

Being in Africa begun in July 1983, long before Angelina Jolie adopted her Etiopian child and later gave birth to her own in Namibia; or Madonna who followed suit and got her highly-publicised Malawi son. It was also years before America's super media mogul Oprah Winter focused her benevolence and wealth on South Africa, to build a leadership school for girls. Nelson Mandela - whom I admire to be the true father of democracy in the world, was still in prison in Robin Island, and apartheid's reign of terror held the heart of Southern Africa.

We, my family - consisting of two teenage boys and my Swedish diplomat-husband - arrived in Nairobi, Kenya for a week's holiday prior to settling down in Maputo, Mozambique - the new diplomatic assignment. Our first encounter with Africa's wildlife begun in Ambosele Park, - around six hours drive from Nairobi - passing through a vastness of open fields without vegetation except for huge umbrella-shaped trees that punctuated a mirage of sea. On the top branches were hanging bird nests shaped like pouches. There were famous Marabo birds - huge like horses that could run with similar speed, if pursued. One huge egg is equivalent to twelve chicken eggs if scrambled. In Nairobi's park, we saw a snake pit with the world's most dangerous species like the mamba. It was an exciting introduction into the Africa we would embrace for the next five years.

Mozambique's capital is Maputo - known during the Portuguese era, as Lorenzo Marques. After some 400 years of Portuguese colonisation, Mozambique finally got its independence. When we arrived, the Marxist Frelimo liberation army had taken the reigns of government. It had huge problems, an economy in ruins, agriculture was minimal and limited, food was in shortage as everything else, and the government lacked the infrastructure to govern. In short, the Frelimo was learning the big difference between struggling as a liberation army and struggling as a legitimate government. Samora Machel, the charismatic Frelimo leader was the president. His wife was Graca Machel, education minister who later married Nelson Mandela.

The Mocambicans are a gentle people. Very few have education and employment was scarce such that, the diplomatic homes were staffed mostly by men, not women. The majority of the menfolk were contract workers in South African mines, leaving their homes and families to the women. Womenfolk carrying babies on their backs, trekked tens of kilometers to their farms. Mozambique was to become later the third largest Swedish develoment aid recipient, a large part of which went into subsidising its budgetary deficit.

Aside from its charms as a country of many tourism potentials, it lies just beside the Indian ocean, its source of fish and seafoods. But whatever harvests it gets like tiger shrimps, only go to its main ally, then USSR to barter with oil. Even other exportable goods like semi-precious stones go to its Eastern European friends. As a Marxist state, its diplomatic relation was strong with the former communist states, whose representatives in Maputo often liked to show who was " more equal than the others".

Before the Swedish government built its new grandious embassy in Maputo, the old embassy - where my husband held office as ambassador, was housed on the second floor of a fish-smelling apartment. The embassies and residences of big powers like the US, USSR and Great Britain were grander by comparison. Sweden was a butt of diplomatic jokes because it did not know how use its development aid muscle to get a better building. It felt even at this time, that no matter how much aid came to Mozambique, it would continue like Tanzania to be an international aid mendicant.

We went to neighboring Swaziland quite often because my husband was also accredited to the "Queen Elephant Mother" - as the tribal head of state who was mother of the Crown Prince was known. The old king of Swaziland had around 120 wives by the time he died. His heir, the English- educated Crown Prince was crowned king in an extravagant ceremony attended by diplomatic representatives of most countries. First came the tribal coronation, then the Westernised one, complete with open field shows and games. The streets of Swaziland glimmered in black Mercedes Benzes, all flown in to service the foreign guests. The extravaganza could have answered a year's budget without foreign borrowings. Many years after we left, this young king had surpassed his father's number of wives.

Experiencing Africa then, was seeing not only the extreme ends of poverty and disease but encountering victims of the on-going civil war between the Frelimo and its armed opposition, known locally as the "bandidos". Fightings raged in many parts of the country which made travelling by road extremely dangerous. What used to be a leisurely 3-hour drive to Swaziland for our monthly food shopping became impossible because the "bandidos" shot at cars and burned them. Pictures of buses burned with its passengers still inside and others hacked by machete came out in the "Noticias", the only local paper. One afternoon, Maputo was rocked by explosions from bombs that exploded nearby. All embassies went into crisis meetings to carry out a mass evacuation plan. But it was contained and evacuation did not take place. But bombings in small scale took place in many houses believed to be harbouring anti-apartheid guerillas, the African National Congress or ANC. The Pretoria regime had a fantastic intelligence system that was able to locate precisely ANC safehouses.

In the later years in Mozambique, we experienced not only constant fear from the on-going fightings but worst of all, the tragedy of a presidential plane crash carrying Samora Machel, some of his advisers and ministers and the ambassadors of Zambia and Congo. The presidential plane was Russian-made, the pilot was Russian-trained and on its way from a peace summit, it ran into a night storm, lost its direction and crashed. Maputo mourned its beloved leader, and funeral parades were also held for the ambassadors who lost lives. The death of Samora Machel was investigated, and to this date, no one believes a hundred percent that it was not the working of his enemy, apartheid South Africa.

This was my piece of Africa that lives on. We have visited other countries in Southern Africa especially South Africa, Botswana, Zambia, Zimbabwe, Lesotho, Swaziland and Malawi. There are many differences between these nations not only in languages they spoke, but to a great extent, they mirror the influences of the colonising powers that shaped their nationhoods. Today, the Marxist states have succumbed to the lures of the market economy, opened their boundaries to tourism and foreign investments. But, their economies have not taken off. And if one looks at Zimbabwe today, it is in worst condition as when it was a newly-liberated state. In Mozambique, Foreign Minister Chissano became the new president. He remains so up to today, 20 years later. To the gentle Mocambicans I say: " A luta continua!"

Life in Review 2: My own love story

Time magazine's issue of August 20th this year, features an interesting article on the vanishing Hollywood love stories. How did it happen that moviegoers lost interest in love stories such as the famous "Casablanca", "Gone with the Wind", "Titanic" and other classic love films. These days, it is more about violence, wars, science fictions and comedies, and even magic. Unpopular films mean low revenue because ticket sales stink.

What has happened to the old fashion "boy meets girl, love at first sight hits like thunderbolt, courtship begins and many years later comes a wedding". No, apparently this has gone out of style. These days, girl seeks boy in some night spots, have a drink or two, goes to " mine or your place" and have sex. Just a one night stand, just sex, nothing more, they would rationalise the following day. Oh yeah! twas just part of a drunken night.

I think we should each have a love story to remember, no matter how old fashioned. A love story that truly warms the heart on winter days, one that survives either parties beyond the grave. Because when nothing remains but memories captured in pictures and video films, it is one's true love story that lives on. It is the afterlife beneath a tombstone.

My greatest love story goes like this. I was a foreign correspondent in Manila invited one evening to a presidential cruise to honour the visiting Iraqi vice-president. Majority of the guests were chiefs of foreign diplomatic missions and government ministers. I was sitted with the Philippine ministers of agriculture and cultural minorities, a Geneva-based Jamaican ambassador, the Danish charge' d affaire and the Swedish ambassador. It was a lively conversation in our table. The Jamaican ambassador was flirting openly and the agriculture minister encouraged it. Even the Danish charge´de affaires followed suit. Only the Swedish ambassador remained quiet.

It was great to be the only female in a table of men energised by scotch. No one paid any attention to what the Iraqi vice-president and the Philippine prime minister were telling the guests. Was it the promise of oil? Who cares. Then the Jamaican ambassador passed on his calling card. When the boat returned to Manila bay, we said our customary "Good-byes" and "Do you have a ride home?" kind of gesture. " Yes, I have, thank you!"
Then I discovered underneath my plate the Swedish ambassador's calling card. It read: " Tomorrow he, the Jamaican will be gone, but I will still be around." This was January 13th, 1982.

All was forgotten. I went to Southern Philippines for a 2-week long coverage of a paramilitary group terrorising the local inhabitants. Remember, this was Marcos authoritarian rule and the military lorded over the countrysides.
Upon my return to Manila, my secretary handed me several call slips, all from the Swedish embassy. I played coy and ignored it. The calls went on and sometime in March, I agreed to a dinner date with the persistent Swedish ambassador. He was Bo Kälfors, ruggedly good-looking, very sun-tanned ( from golfing ) deeply penetrating eyes and long gigolo-like hair.

The dinner was very romantic, the conversation was sexy and the questions were frank and honest. No. it was not red wine influenced. He asked, if I would like to be his "sambo" (live-in) in his next diplomatic assignment. He was nearing his end of tour in Manila. I didn't answer. Thought it was the wine talking. Then came the lunch date, and more dates. I allowed the courtship to flow its natural course, like a river. We became engaged in May ( my birthday) and had a big party with media friends and politicians. It was mesmerising how fluid the events took us. I made no attempts to hinder it. Around May, he was asking his cousin in Sweden to start looking for a romantic little church where we would marry.

The wedding took a detour. I was previously married but separated. My former husband, also a journalist, joined the underground movement against Marcos- was eventually captured, sat in jail for seven or so years, freed and ala-Mandela went into politics. Anyway, it was only in Dominican republic where I could get a divorce because the Swedish authorities said I had no residence and had not lived with the Swede about to marry me.
So, it took a long way to Drottningholm's chapel ( official residence of the Swedish royalty) as we crossed the Pacific ocean to get to the Caribbean's Dominican republic.

The end of this love story was, we married in the mid-summer day of June 26th, 1982 amidst family and diplomatic friends. This love story has kept us together for 25 years - through wars and conflicts ( in his places of assignment from Africa to Bosnia) , the ups and downs of life in Sweden. Until one day, his weak heart gave in and on May 16th this year, he passed into eternity. I don't feel any emptiness because we have a love story that lives forever.

Lifestyle: The Swedish crayfish tradition

The month of August ushers in an important Swedish tradition, the crayfish celebration. A long time ago - I was told at a recent crayfish premier party - only the wealthy landowning Swedes who owned properties that included lakes had access to this delicacy. The harvest took place in August, the cooking is very Swedish, of which the most important ingredient is the dill crown. That's where the unique taste and smell comes from.

Then came some pest that corrupted the fresh water habitat of the crayfish, and the Swedish tradition was threatened with extinction. Luckily, some enterprising Swedes found other sources abroad in countries like Turkey, the USA, Spain and China. Crayfish prepared the Swedish way was imported in big quantities from these countries and the Swedish tradition found a new lease of life.

In recent years, crayfish came back to its fresh water habitat and avid Swedes began fishing the homegrown delicacy again. The Signalkräftor sell between SEK450 to 600 per kilo. One true-hearted crayfish enthusiast I know is Lars Hedfors, who without fail treats his friends to his annual harvest of crayfish. Lars is married to a Filipina, Mary and both have been delightful hosts to our yearly crayfish celebration. For Lars, a crayfish party consists of a first course - " to line up the stomach" for the heavy vodka and snaps drinks, the crayfish in big platters, the side dishes of toast bread, or hard bread, buttered and lined with ripe brännvin. Unlike in Louisiana where a pile of crayfish (called crawfish) can be served right on the table without plates, the Swedish way is more colourful because of accesories like napkins, lanterns, placemats and hats all of which have decorative crayfish motiff. The occasion becomes a celebration.

To start the race for as many crayfish one can consume, the first tail requires a short speech, a vodka toast "Skål!" and in it goes, marinated in alcohol, straight into the digestive system. The party is ever punctuated by "Skål!", a song and another tail. True crayfish eating requires genuine slurping and sucking of the crayfish head, for its butter and eggs. That's truly the best part of the animal. And the sucking has to be hard as through taking the very last breath out of one's beloved.

Lars Hedfors believes that crayfish eating is almost a religious devotion, in the way one savours every bit of the animal. And when his guests show this kind of devotion, as did my husband Bo, he says he feels rewarded for all his hardwork from catching to cooking. " It makes everything all worth it", he says.

Life in review

The measurement of life is not how long or short one has lived. Is it a straight highway without stops in a landscape of plains without hills, valleys and mountains. Or, is it turns and bends without sure destination
in sight. Is it a planned long journey where every stop is expected and outcomes determined or just a long
journey without thoughts of any light at the end of the tunnel.

When one deciphers what life is for oneself as well as for others in a never-ending interaction of many individual histories, and how such interactions have resulted in millions of episodes, of which some may have created great impacts upon many peoples, do we think that we have lived a meaningful life.

But life is not always how we want it to be, no matter how well we plan if only to avoid pitfalls like pain, sickness, loneliness and worst, poverty. The "here and now" of life could be all roses without any thorns in sight but somewhere is an inheritance of loss, if I may be allowed to borrow Kiran Desai's book title where previous generations continue to impact the present. We could find ourselves hostage to a past without any redemption in sight.

One is reminded of the ancient rivalries and hatred between the "nations" of former Yugoslavia, of a conflict that runs so deep in the psyche of every inhabitant in this region. There is no way to measure how far back the conflict had begun, only that its full eruption was not too long ago and mass graves are still being discovered.
How many lives were lost, how many souls scarred forever.