Herrang Diaries or Punch Me in the Stomach: Part 1

I just read this by some-time Swede, Elin, and it got me angry.

Angry like when a vending machine eats your coins without giving you Doritos, ANGRY.

GRRRRRRRRR

That's cos you can't find a swing dancer anywhere, who WON'T add to the already Atlantic-sized ocean of love for Herrang Dance Camp. I couldn't find anyone who'd utter even a non-committal word about it.

Leaving n00bs, like ME 2 months ago, with the perception that heaven exists just about 2 hours north of Stockholm. The deception has to stop people.

So even though I have hours on Facebook to log, I guess I'm going to stop that important work to tell the truth about Herrang. I know it's a drop in the ocean, but someone needs to counteract the hype. And since I could definitely be a medallist if Hatin' was an Olympic sport, I bravely step up to the line and risk the ire of the converted.

Also, I notice the burn mark on my arm is about to flake off entirely and the blister on my foot went a few days ago. The orange-sized bruise and various scratches on my leg is fading too, so I want to note down my vitriol before the golden light of nostalgia causes me to succumb to the mass amnesia that has clearly infected everyone else.

For the non-swing people reading, Herrang Dance Camp is a mecca for Lindy Hoppers. It's held in the tiny town of Herrang for 4 weeks every summer. "Herrang" roughly means "Mr Meadow". That's really only the beginning of the strangeness.

For me, it started badly, and maybe I should have heeded the signs. When I found out I'd be in Scandinavia, I checked straight away about registering. Unfortunately, there were no more places for follows (girls). So I considered volunteering. If I worked there this year, I could get classes next time for free. Hmmmm given the distance and expense, I might never return, but that seemed my only choice, so I grabbed it.

After farewelling my family and the tour group in Copenhagen, I stayed an extra few days then I hopped an 8-hr sleeper train to Stockholm.

Bound for DANCE NIRVANA!!!! WOOOOT!!!!!

Having spent the night in a space about three shoe boxes big, I thank the deities for being short, and for pulling up to Stockholm on time at 7am.

Dance nirvana, here I come! Woo!

I killed time and paid to use toilets for 3hrs until the shops opened. Then I tooled around in a costume shop on Stockholm's outdoor touristy shopping mall. Come 1pm, I headed back to Central Station and collected my bags.

dance nirvana...i'm gonna make it...


There I got on a metro. Then I got on a bus. For over an hour. I waited 40min then I got another bus. The meadows became more lush and expansive. Hmmmm cows and hay. Am I on the right one? Is this it?

Thankfully some Swiss dancers show me the right stop and point the way to the Folkets Hus, or Community Centre. So 4 hours after leaving Stockholm, 20 hours after my last shower, I finally arrive.

where can I eat?

I ask a volunteer in a fluorescent t-shirt for some help. In the afternoon light, I explain that I'm a volunteer, I'd like to check in and find a bed until my booked accommodation opens up tomorrow.


And here began my downfall: What I was expecting was a bunch of people who, though a little disorganised, were nonetheless helpful and fun.

What I wasn't expecting was couldn't care less, and can't be bothered. If I wanted that I could have spoken to some staff at Northwest Airlines He couldn't help me on the beds, I had to find my own. But he could helpfully remind me that when I got my stuff sorted out they needed extra hands with the decorations for that night's party. Thaaanks.

I head inside the main building and see some kind of registration process in the library. I sidle up to the slow-moving queue and spend a good 10min there before checking it's the right one (clearly spent too long in Singapore). When I run upfront and inquire, I'm told this is the queue for a weekend beginner's course and volunteers only needed 9am tomorrow. And where to sleep? General Accommodation. I steal an info booklet for students to find where it is.

General Accommodation
This is a euphemism for the bunks crammed into the school gym and some extra rooms. It's free to sleep here, so it's not surprisingly full. It looks like there's been a 3-week baggage handler's strike in there. Bags with their bowels spilling out, on bunks as far as the eye can see.

There's meant to be a labeling system, but buggered if I can tell which ones are legitimately taken, and which are the ones I can rightfully push stuff off. But who am I kidding? I'm a polite Asian. Call me thin-skinned, pussy-footed, lily-livered, or denigrate some other part of me, but I am just not the person that pushes someone's stuff off a bed. Others apparently did do this, and I met their (legit) victims in the reception the next night.

It's madness on a Friday night because of the crossover between those leaving and those arriving, and there not being enough beds. So clearly they expect people to apparate in at 8.55 on Saturday morning. Either that or a tractor beam from the mother ship, perhaps. I can't fathom any another explanation for having nothing available. Oh wait-there ARE more beds down near a place called the marina, but that's a long trek away, in the dark, especially with a backpack, and the bike rental closed 2hrs ago, lady.

Frustrated and pissed off with no bed still, I head back to Folkets Hus to find some food. I'm pointed to the burger kiosk down the road, where I spend 60SEK/RM35/USD$10 on a few deep fried meatballs, with powdered mash and shredded iceberg lettuce, plus can of Coke. This turns out to be one of the better options available actually.

After dinner I get acquainted with the showers. Do you remember teen movies in the 80s? It'd be called Porky's or Goonies, or something else that was easily-pronouncible. Many had totally unbelievable (I thought) female school shower scenes in them. It'd be scores of totally fake-boobed chicks walking around a tiled room lined on one side with shower heads, completely starkers, with nary a towel or dividing wall in sight.

Well, imagine that, minus the silicone, take the number of showers down to 3, take the grittiness of the floor up to public pool levels, add a lot more random, used clothing in the changing room, and you're about there. I won't go into the gory details, but it's not sexy, I can tell you that much.

I did go to help with the decorations after that (my other option, to cry, I would end up taking later). That got me into the hippy-themed party for free, but after doing a few laps of the hippy festivities in a turban and sarong (no, there are no photos), and a half-hearted round of the dance floor, I decided to call it a night.

Sitting in a tent, mercifully lent to me by the ONE person I do know (all hail the wonderful Cat), with the sounds of the party still in the air, waving my phone around to find an apple, chocolate, or ANYTHING to eat, was not really how I'd imagined my first night in Herrang.

I went to sleep, praying to all the deities, for the beginning of something better tomorrow.

Continue to Part 2