That I miss my tropical garden in Jakarta (and not just the garden) is an open secret. If I hear Bahasa Indonesia, I feel cheerful, it’s like home, the sight of a mosque excites me, me the non-Muslim. I take solace in the words of Rumi (or Mawlānā Jalāl ad-Dīn Muḥammad Balkhī, Persian: مولانا جلال الدین محمد بلخى), the sufi poet of love. Live moves on, no worries, I know.
Well, but I still feel somehow lucky that our new home in Bangkok has at least a large terrace. This is quasi virgin territory for my, the city gardener in the making. The big pots the owner of the apartment put there are full of tropical plants and also have some orchids pinned on some of the palm tress.
Here they are. if anybody knows their names, you are welcome to tell me. Have a beautiful Sunday.
The Man from Mosel River 