Gulam and his seeds

Gulam is from Afghanistan. He gardens in a nice shirt and stay-pressed tousers. He is unemployed like most of the people who work at the allotments. If he had money he would buy a plastic tunnel to bring on his seeds, but instead he builds his own cold frame with wood from the building site and a bit of plastic.

In it he has marrows, cucumbers, and different salads that he has grown from seed brought from Afghanistan. He has given me seeds wraped in little paper cones. He says it is "tirp" I have sown it and he promises that in a week the plants will have germinated and I should have a bed of green that is cut and come again. Sounds interesting. Some of the salads he has have got interesting tastes. One looks like clover but tastes like peas.



He is also of the opinion that cheap vegetables you buy from the supermarket and expensive ones you grow for yourself. He waxed lyrical about the number of varieties of grape that grew in his village, and told stories of some miraculous drink that once you drank it no matter how stuffed you were feeling it instantly made you feel hungry again. He told of seven men roasting and eating a whole sheep. He laughed at the memory of it. Something that belonged to home. Something that could never happen in Finland. There was a longing for the fire and the open air and the smell of roast lamb. He sucked the air in through his teeth and nodded his head, and there was a sadness in his eyes for times gone by.