They lied to me about Sweden

Written by:
Jones Wafula Lukorito
You know those annoying people that always clap and cheer whenever the plane lands? Yes, I
am part of that happy-go-lucky mob. I have made it a habit to clap on touchdown as my own
personal way to show appreciation to the captain and the crew for our safe arrival. I did not
perform this ritual, however, when the plane hit the runway at Landvetter.
I was all set to erupt in jubilation once we touched ground in Sweden. However, a fact I had
read about Sweden and its people entered my mind, causing me to put an abrupt stop to my
celebration. The Swedes, I had heard, are reserved and take an understated approach to social
interactions. I thus concluded that they were likely to frown upon my enthusiastic and
passionate airport tradition.
A cold, alongside a wave of uncertainty, hit me as I stepped out of the plane. I clutched my bags
tighter as it quickly became apparent that I had underdressed for the snowing Gothenburg
weather, which was in stark contrast to the scorching sun that I had left in Nairobi. The fact that
the people around me spoke mostly in a language that I did not understand only added to the
feeling of unfamiliarity and disorientation.
It was not long before I discovered that I needed help. My rickety cellphone, which has served
me faithfully over the past 7 years, chose this precise moment go off and resisted all
resuscitation efforts. I was quickly becoming apprehensive. You see, I had planned every step of
my journey to ensure that I would be as self-sufficient as possible during my stay in Europe. The
Swedes, I had heard, rarely ask for help. They believe in taking responsibility for oneself and not
relying too heavily on others.
At the risk of tearing apart the Swedish fabric of personal autonomy, I approached a nearby
tuck shop and explained my predicament to the gentleman manning the counter. He listened
patiently, putting me at ease with his empathic nods. What followed next was a most beautiful
service of generosity extended towards me, a stranger from a foreign land.
On the attendant’s advice, I pulled out my credit card and made a ‘fake’ purchase at the shop.
He refunded me the amount deducted in cash. Leaving his shop unattended, my knight in
shining armor escorted me to the taxi rack where he negotiated for a decent fare price on my
behalf, helped me load my bags into the boot, and instructed the driver to drop me at my new
address whose name I could not yet pronounce.
I wrestled with many thoughts as the taxi drove through the crisp winter air towards the city.
Yes, Gothenburg at the moment was unfamiliar and literally cold, but a sense of warmth and
excitement had started building within me. This is the place I was going to call home for the
next four months over the duration of my program. It was impossible not to be overwhelmed
with excitement and anticipation as I took in the city’s unique sights and sounds. Despite the
freezing conditions, Gothenburg’s vibrant energy still managed to shine through.
Outside the window, amidst the hustle and bustle of rush hour traffic, I stared intently at the
city’s residents. The Swedish, I had been told, are all blue-eyed, blonde, lean, and taller than
giraffes. However, as I watched them crowding at tram stops and mingling out of shops and
cafés, the picture I got was quite different. The Swedes, my eyes confirmed, come in all colors,
shapes and sizes.
As I processed my experience so far and contemplated what the future held, I grew tired of
wrestling with my own thoughts and felt the urge to let them out in a conversation. I wanted to
initiate chit-chat with the driver by commenting on something banal like the weather, but then
I remembered reading somewhere that small talk is not a particularly common or valued aspect
of social interaction in Swedish culture.
“How’s our weather treating you, eh? Are you used to winter?” The taxi driver remarked.
Wait, was a Swede trying to initiate a conversation through small talk?
His name was Levi. He came from a town near Uppsala, and his wife had just given birth to their
second child a fortnight ago. I told him all about me too—my journey into Volvo Cars, my
experience with living abroad, and my expectations for my stay. He gave me a summary of the
Visiting Gothenburg 101 Guide: Nordstan, Liseberg Station, Vastraffik and System Bolaget.
“Do you have a pen with you? Write down my number. I want you to call me once you get a
new phone. We must have fika!” He said as I offloaded my bags at the end of our trip.
As I settled into my new abode in Smorkanegatan, Kalleback, I reflected on the experience I had
had in my first day in Sweden. I couldn’t help but chastise myself on how problematic and
wrong it was for me to distill an entire nation into one bucket based on stereotypes and
generalizations.
What unnecessary barriers and misunderstandings would I have created for myself if I had gone
through my stay judging people based on characteristics they may not even possess? Had I not
been disabused of my stereotypical notions, what impact will this have had on my ability to
create healthy relationships? No two individuals are ever alike; what a great folly it would have
been to oversimplify the multi-cultural community of Gothenburg based on tropes!
Just as I was unpacking my bags, my weathered phone, which had caused me great dismay by
playing dead all day long, suddenly decided to spring back into life. A glance at the screen
showed an email from someone at Volvo Cars. “Cultural Training”, the subject read.
“I could really use that,” I said to myself.