The intimidator

Well, I’m almost done with my fourth Ramadan, which has been absolutely nothing like the first three. I’ve yet to be asked if I’m fasting and no one had blinked an eye when I apply Chapstick during the daytime.

The post-Ramadan holiday is next week. In Morocco, we called it “3id Sghr,” which means “Little Holiday.” Here, it goes by the formal name “Idul Fitri,” or “Lebaran,” which I know as a misspelling of a Chrysler. It’s the dormant Detroiter in me, sorry.

Another new term I’ve learned is the “mudik.” Basically, this is the mass exodus to the suburbs, countryside or wherever the heck the millions of Jakartans originate from.

Essentially, starting yesterday or so, an estimated eight million residents of the city began to pack up and leave.

Don’t let the door hit you in the butt, that’s for sure. I am SO glad to have the city at a “normal” level of congestion. It’s still busy, but comparatively speaking, it’s a ghost town. I guess that seems like a contradiction, but this place is so vastly overpopulated, ditching that many people essentially puts the remaining population at about what capacity *should* be.

I’m not even sure when the holiday is, actually, or how long it lasts. We’re talking a lunar thing, so it’s dependant on the moon. I’m hearing Aug. 30-31. No one is really for sure about it.

But the paper is taking a four-day break and I head back to work the 31st. That will likely be a holiday, but since the next day isn’t, we’ll have newspapers to subscribers and in the hotel rooms by then.

I’ve no real idea what Idul Fitri is all about. We’ve run stories and columns about “forgiveness,” which is new to me. This is, after all, one of what I termed “Cookie Holidays” in Morocco. My host mom would come over and pound on my door until I staggered to open it, and then drug me to neighbors/friends/relatives and I drank tea and ate cookies until my blood sugar was in the same stratosphere of the space station.

Right now, though, it’s all about having four days off. Today, my second day, I’ve spent holed up in the apartment, but yesterday, I went out and about. Unfortunately, that was the peak traffic day ahead of the holiday.

I went to lunch with one of our interns who heads back to New Zealand in a few days. Plans were to meet at someplace I’d never heard of at 1. I sort of figured about a half hour to get there and assumed I’d have to take a cab since I couldn’t find the place on a map.

Since I’m still sticking with the fitness routine, that was going to cut it a little close. I’m at a little over two hours now, so I basically have to get in there around 9:45 in order to finish and get showered by 12:30, which I estimated was the absolute latest I could leave.

Having only a vague idea of which direction I was headed, I walked out, assuming I’d just jump into the first empty Bluebird cab that passed by. (We have lots of different cab kinds, but the general consensus is Bluebird is best and so far I think they’re right.)

But as I walked in the general direction of the place – which I thought was, to be kind of vague, somewhere past the mall that has the Wal-mart like store – I realized I, on foot, was moving MUCH faster than the mass of cars and motorcycles headed, presumably, out of town for the holiday.

Posted just 'cause I can.

As in, at some points, moving AT All. I am not kidding. On foot, I was going at least twice as far as the sea of motorcycles and double that past the cars. Mostly they weren’t moving, period. Had I taken a cab, I might still be sitting in that trainwreck.

Eventually, I got to the mall place and asked for directions to the other place, which turned out to be maybe a 10-minute walk farther. That was completely do-able, but at that point I was running late. Fortunately, for reasons I think should be tackled by some PhD student’s thesis, the traffic miraculously cleared after the mall and I did jump in a cab – for what turned into a three-minute ride.

Had a great lunch, though I’m not entirely sure what it was, and about five minutes after getting home it attacked me. But it was good.

And I had a fabulous dessert. This little mall place was basically just a bunch of cafes and restaurants and they had a *cakery*. Oh, Dana would love that. I know I did.

I splurged on three pastries. One was Little Debbie-like -- a Swiss cake roll about the length of a Cuban cigar but four times as fat. What Karen tried to make for catering but it didn’t work out and we had truffles instead. Basically, spongy chocolate-y heaven.

As I was paying, my colleague, bless her naive little heart, asked me if I had an airtight container to put the little sweet things in so they'd last a few days. Yeah, right. I’ll take that under advisement.

Those poor suckers didn’t have a chance at lasting for days. Little Debbie was lucky to make it an hour past my return home, and was only spared that amount of time because of the lunch sought vengeance. The Tall Cool Cupcake was gone by nightfall.

Mmm.... but ancient history. And note, the Jakarta Globe carries "Calvin and Hobbes"!

The plain donut with sprinkles lasted through the night, but on borrowed time. By now, all the evidence is completely gone. LONG gone.

Hopefully, by now, so are Jakarta’s motorcycles. I haven’t ventured outside the apartment building today, but I really hope they’re gone. I wish they’d never come back, but that’s not happening.

I despise the motorcycle population here. Hate. Loathe. Abhor.

I don’t mean the ones who obey the traffic rules (I say that like there are any – I can’t actually verify it) but let’s face it, out of the 10 million or so that are here, there’s maybe four who do. Bless them.

Those for whom I have no love lost are the other 99.84625 percent of them. They know who they are: the ones who cut across parking lots, sidewalks, weave in and out of traffic and basically endanger not only themselves and their three passengers, four bags of rice and two suitcases, but also car drivers and God forbid, the brave (and cheap) soul who’s trying to walk from place to place.

Repeat: Hate. We’re talking the spew venom kind of hate here, the kind normally reserved for an FSU-UF game. And by that I mean Bobby and Spurrier, not Jimbo and Urban.

And, like any Seminole, I do not stand down for the morons.

On my way back from lunch, I was swimming upstream from the throng, not that that makes a difference to me. On the way there, with traffic, I do the same thing: dare the bastards. The only difference is, when I am against the flow of traffic, they see me.

And this does make a difference, I think. I have them scared. They are flat-out intimidated.

No kidding here. I'm Mad Max. On a mission. I’m Denzel Washington in “The Book of Eli.” I do not waver. Morons motorcyclists on the sidewalk – GTFO. It’s my sidewalk, and I’m not moving in any direction but forward.

Sometimes, I have to step into the roads. That’s the fault of the cycles, too – the parked ones on what passes for a sidewalk force me to step into the road, so if I have walk on their territory, it becomes mine. And I’m not yielding. I mean, if I’m in the road and it’s possible for me to step up on a curb, I will do so. But if I can’t, well, for the 1/83862nd fraction of their ride, they can freaking drive around me.

And you know what? They do. I am not sure what kind of vibe I give off, but it must be a mean one. I am Moses parting the Red Sea. They come at me, I will just stand there and dare them to move. And, so far at least, they have. One hundred percent of the time.

Occasionally, they don’t move far enough. No worries. I’ve elbowed a few drivers and knocked a few rearviews out of whack. I don’t give a crap. You’re on my sidewalk, Bub. I don’t give up a single yard.

Both directions yesterday, I walked through the driveway of a Shell station, motorcycles flying by me. I waved at the gas station attendants. I think they’re amused. I think the shop owners laugh when I walk by, knowing those annoying idiots behind the wheel are going to have to veer their course for the Bule Who Acts Like a Mule. (If you pronounce that right, it doesn’t rhyme, -- it’s more “boo-lay,” but this is visual, OK?). I’m stubborn.

Working out must be paying off. I can’t tell much of a difference, but I make a point to walk with authority – it keeps the riffraff away. I mean, I stare the morons down. They do not mess with me.

I even scared the bejesus out of one. He was headed straight for me and paying absolutely no attention to what he was doing – talking to someone else – and I yelled, softball voice-like, “HEY!” Dude’s head snapped like he was on a gallows. And he GTFO post-haste.

Tomorrow, I will have to take a walk and enjoy the peace. I feel like I’ve won.

In a totally random segue, I’ve had a great day off today and done absolutely little but wash clothes. The TV has been on and I’m trying to FTP some files – which takes FOREVER with my snail’s pace connection and Nero-era laptop – but it’s been a fantastic non-productive day.

Continuing the random segue, “Date Night” came on earlier, and although I didn’t see it – during fitness routine time so I didn't bother to get into it – I caught a little dialogue and heard the word “penis.”

I cannot fathom why on Indonesian TV, you can say “penis” not “vagina.” I only know the latter to be fact because there’s a line from “Mad Men” that I saw on surfthechannel that, when it came on Indo TV, it got blanked out. (No hard language replaced with “get the flock out of here” here – they just silence the offensive words.)

So many things about this country confuse me! I certainly am not going to let that bother me, though.

Anyway, that’s it for today. But I hope everyone in Irene’s path stays as dry and safe as possible.

Alan and Emily, congratulations! Hopefully everyone will get there OK and everything will go fantastic. I’m getting a new cousin! I’ll be thinking of y’all Thursday.

Your Dumbass of the Day Award for Aug. 23 goes to…

Without reviewing the other contenders, I think I get this hands down.

Got up as usual and did the whole morning routine. Checked my email and downloaded tomorrow’s workout narrative. Glanced at my calendar and noted that I’d written “OFF” on today’s date.

Thought briefly to check but I had some downloading issues and had it in my brain that I was off Thursday – even planned my shopping/cooking/cleaning around it – and left for work as usual.

When I got there, I stuck my tea in the fridge and filled my water bottle, then checked my email and schedule.

Sure enough, Thursday’s day off is NEXT week and I was indeed off today.

I turned around and went home, probably much to the confusion of the folks I see every day.

No harm, no foul, though. It would have been much worse if I hadn’t shown up on a day I’m supposed to work.

The walks are routine for me, and again, this just absolutely shocks locals. It’s really not that far, I don’t guess – maybe two miles or something – and I do get sweaty, but oh well.

Today I was wearing jeans, which is usually pretty bad but I wear Chacos, not shoes, with them so it kind of evens it out. They’re ready for the laundry, though. It’s that time.

Anyway, I’m taking a pit stop to even out my body temp before going back out to the grocery store, since I had on Saturday bought enough food to last until Thursday. If I don’t have enough potatoes for hash browns in the morning, bad things might happen. Not as bad as if I have no Buta for tea, but pretty bad.

As it is, my entire list consists of an onion, 2 carrots, oil, garlic, Pepsi and chips. The fake M&Ms are an automatic, and on Saturday, the juices were on sale so I’ll check that. The blueberry is awesome.

When I head out again, I wonder if the sleeper will still be there.

Sleeping people are a phenomenon here. I don’t understand it, really. I mean, yes, I sleep, but here it’s … well, bizarre sometimes.

I credit these people. I’ll be walking along, and I’ll come across someone -- somehow I can’t quite fathom – stretched out on a motorcycle, completely zonked. My name not being Grace, I can’t figure out how they do it, but people will randomly be sacked out here and there.

In Morocco, I’d see people sleeping in donkey carts in the afternoon, but it goes way beyond that here. People sleep around. They’re on the sidewalks and overpasses and in the hedges.

Once, a block away from work, I ran across a guy completely spread-eagled on his back, sleeping in the middle of the sidewalk. A living chalk outline. It took awhile to figure out he really was alive.

I’ve no idea how they do it. It’s over 100 degrees outside, humid as anything most days and it’s freaking LOUD. The traffic absolutely never ends, with honking, revving of engines and the occasional crash boom bam.

Yet these guys – and, except for the mom and daughter on my overpass, they’re all guys – never budge or blink.

Today’s fella was in my overpass, completely zonked. He was using a bag of possessions as a cushion, but usually the heavy nappers just lean back and start sawing logs. Both directions, he was out.

I cross through several little motorcycle gathering spots, and one’s in a shady spot at the end of my street (other end from the monkey). Invariably, there will be several drivers completely gone, lying on the concrete under the trees. I’ve no idea what the polite thing would be to do if I actually wanted a driver to take me somewhere – it seems like it’d be rude to wake someone from dead sleep. I know I’d hate it.

In Florida news, Wendy and Karma rocked the house at the Tallahassee fairgrounds rodeo. Here they are, complete with bling.

Congratulations!

And a big shout-out to Steph, who’s flying Robin’s coop and leaving the DoO hanging dry. Yay! She's definitely NOT the dumbass.

Malaysia, mosquitoes and MP3s

When Dana, Dave and I (and maybe Jackie, but I don’t remember) went to see “Men in Black II,” I remember thinking it was hysterically funny. I mean, from the opening scene, I just laughed and laughed.

Yes. Yes I did.

Then I saw it again later and thought, “WTF was I thinking?” Other than the whole Tommy Lee Jones in shorts, it was pretty stupid.

It’s highly possible that the situation surrounding the movie made the entire thing so absurd it became funny. Somehow, that day at Southfield, it just became this comedy of errors. I don’t remember the whole thing, but we had to wait half an hour for popcorn or something like that and wound up missing the start of the movie. Then something else happened, like maybe the power went out or something.

I loved this tree. It was right on the road side and had all these viney things growing on it. The trunk was about four feet around. HUGE tree.

Whatever happened, we wound up leaving the theater and catching the next screening. By the time we sat down, I just needed the break so badly I guess the thing was hysterical.

So in retrospect, maybe Kuala Lumpur wasn’t that great. But man, I needed it.

Yes, I finally got the heck out of Dodge, and it was everything I thought it could be. Although right now, I can’t really pin exactly what was so great about it, except that it wasn’t Jakarta.

On Friday, we got our days off for the next few weeks. Friday was the last day of my six-day stretch that you have to do before you get two days off in a row, which were Saturday and Sunday. And on Friday, I learned that I’d also, once again, be off Monday.

Models in the little wading park near the twin towers.

Last time that happened, it was the Fourth and I couldn’t get anywhere since I didn’t find out until the Sat.-Sun-Mon. days off until the Sunday. This time, I had a whole day advance notice.

But you know what? I can meet a deadline. After just having found out around noon that I’d be off on Monday, too, I started mulling over what to do. I mean, if I stayed in Jakarta for three consecutive days, I’d be voluntarily feeding myself to the rats. I just couldn’t have taken it, especially after the last few days I’ve had.

So once I got into work, I solidified a plane ticket. I’d previously checked on tickets and I knew that the ONE flight I could use my Delta voucher on (for getting bumped going to Palm Springs) was to KL. And, even the day before, I could do that. Heck, I even have enough to do it again, which I might be doing later in September.

Petronas twin towers. World's tallest. 88 floors. I didn't go up, even to the observation deck.

Couldn’t reserve a hostel from the office because I didn’t have my credit card with me, so I did that once I got home. My first choice was no longer available but I found a No. 2 that turned out to be a brilliant choice. If I go back, I’ll be staying at the Traveller’s Palm again.

Travel-wise, everything went smoothly, which was almost surreal. I mean, I got there and headed to the train into town, which only leaves every half hour or so at that hour. One was leaving in five minutes. Seriously, I couldn’t have timed it better.

A little piece of home, although I'm willing to bet they didn't mean Florida.

Yeah, I misjudged some time and spent a bit too long in airports as a result, but who plans for seamless commutes? Seriously? No going to bitch about that.

My flights were fabulous. Apparently on the way out, the flight actually goes to Amsterdam with a KL stop. They had a real meal and free drinks and stuff, even though it was only an hour an a half flight. I even had a movie selection. (Mine: “Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.” I had to watch half going and half returning. God, that’s a great movie.)

IMO, KL is superior to Jakarta in every way I can think of. Heck, they even had a jungle in the airport! Seriously! The terminal I was in was circular, and in the middle was the outdoors. Where most airports would set a smoking room or something, they had a little jungle boardwalk you could walk through. No animals that I saw, but they had some little informative stuff on the trees. And silence, which is always nice in an airport.

One day, I'll make that book of signs. This is going in.

Other ways the place was superior: cooler weather (which seemed weird, because it’s about as far above the equator as I was below but it was actually cooler there), public transportation, less traffic and more green. They also had a TGI Friday’s, but I passed it up in favor of Nando’s, which came recommended by Elizabeth (who was totally right – fabulous).

I do admit, though, that one of my drink choices didn’t work out well. Something called a “Cane drink” that had a picture of sugar cane on the side. It seemed like a good idea, especially in comparison to *another* soft drink or the tea that said “with real chewy bits!” on it. That seemed like a bad idea, too, but the cane stuff just made me shudder. It was like sucking on a sugar cane stick, which I guess was the point but unless it’s Mule Day, I’m going to take a pass next time.

This won't make it in, but I liked it anyway. I definitely take weird photos.

Another annoyance was mosquitoes, but after attacking me the first night as I sat with the other hostel guests, they seemed to fill up on me and lose interest. But I did get bit on the bottoms of my feet, even.

KL is home to the world’s largest twin towers and a ton of malls for people watching. I went to a couple and just basically messed around. I probably didn’t do 10 percent of what the place had to offer – I never made it to a museum, the deer park, Chinatown (although I did hit Little India and had a great lunch my last day), a mosque or a monument.

The fountain in Little India, where I had a HUGE thing of rice for 5 ringgit, which is maybe $1.50 or something. I almost made myself sick eating all of it, but what a way to go.

Basically, I was at peace walking somewhere that wasn’t Jakarta. There were very few cars on the road, really – I was there Sunday – and I can’t even recall seeing a single motorcycle.

For the first time, I went armed with headphones and my MP3 player, which really gives me a ton of time on one battery. I listened to about two weeks’ worth of the “Through the Bible” alternated with stuff like Toby Keith and Jimmy Buffett.

Can I just say how extremely weird it is to be walking down a foreign street and hearing something as American as “How Do You Like Me Now?!” or “I Will Play for Gumbo?” It’s almost like a secret joke.

The jungle experience, smack dab in the middle of Terminal C in the airport. Literally smack dab in the middle.

I visited the towers, but didn’t go up (I’d run out of cash at that point – didn’t have much – and hadn’t yet found an ATM) but did wander in the little park nearby, which included a wading pool.

My traveling wardrobe, luckily, now consists of a gray pair of Capri pants and my rust-colored (and now, bleach-spotted) Lands’ End shirt, which has a handy front pocket for an MP3 player and the little clippie sunglasses I own. My Chacos are the only shoes I wear on non-work days (if that).

In the gardens outside the twin towers, near the wading pool. I liked the big leaf plant, but I didn't see anything telling me what it was.

This is how PC has affected my travel: For a trip that lasted, essentially, a day and a half, I didn’t even bring a change of clothes. I brought a tank top and shorts to sleep in, but that was it. Didn’t even wear the belt – it sets off airport security sometimes – and therefore spent about 1/10 of the time hitching up my pants, which are close to sliding off my hips these days.

But the Capris are a good pick, because I can do things like jump into wading pools when they appear in front of me. Plus, if I sweat, they’re light enough that I can basically just shower in them to rinse them off and then leave them to dry the rest of the night. (Don’t try this at home – people will think you’re nuts. But in cheap SE Asia hostels, it’s pretty standard.)

At some point in the future (inchallah) I will get a decent job and income again, but man, I am not sure how I will manage to adjust back to the real travel world. Like the kind where you get a whole room to yourself and don’t fill up on the cornflakes at the free breakfast.

Other KL highlights were minimal, I guess. I walked a ton, which is nothing new – although my calves still hurt – but I did hit up a few sights like the handicraft center.

Didn’t find anything I couldn’t live without, but I did head into a drugstore (not illegal drugs, of course. Beyond the fact that this is me, Malaysia has lots of warnings up about trafficking being a capital offense) and check out their fungus drugs.

Yeah, my little rashes aren’t healing themselves, despite me slathering stuff on every chance I get. So I found a couple of possibilities and decided to ask the pharmacist which was better. She (I got lucky) asked what it was for and since one spot is in a place I can show and tell, I showed. (Didn’t speak the language enough to tell.)

She offered to give me the full Monte one – the prescription, way stronger than the OTC. Yay! Fungi killer drugs!

So that and a magnet were my souvenirs. I’m so exciting.

Luckily I didn’t have to declare anything at the airport – I wasn’t really sure how to go about that. “What did you buy in Malaysia?" “Drugs!”

Yeah, that didn’t sound so great. But fortunately no one asked.

In fact, no one asked anything. And I sped through.

My flight on the way back was in this HUGE plane. Ten seats across, 63 rows. Not totally packed, but pretty piled in. I got lucky --- I was in bulkhead, albeit next to two somewhat rude Dutchmen.

On the way out, I figured I’d have a long wait in the immigration like always, but I realized I didn’t have to stand in the “Visa on demand” line, which probably 80 percent of the people herded toward.

The other 19.8352 percent were Indonesian, and I really got thrown off as to where I was supposed to go. I didn’t need a visa, I knew, but the only other line said “Permanent Alien Residents” or something like that. And there was only one person in that line.

Now, I hate to think of myself as a permanent Indonesian resident, but that seemed to be the closest category, so I got in that line. Breezed right through, grabbed a cab and headed home.

I gotta say, it was quite a fabulous break. I just needed it so badly.Maybe when I do it again, it'll be like "MIBII," re-deux, but I'm willing to give it a chance.

What got even better was today was my holiday since tomorrow is Independence Day. I could have stayed in KL for another day, but honestly, I figured I could use a day here to just catch up.

And that’s what I’ve done. I even wound up going to the doctor here, which was a little unplanned. I’d tried to make an appointment but due to the phone issue I couldn’t get through and emailed them instead. I didn’t know until last night I had an appointment, so I went ahead and went and got MORE drugs. Yay! I’m going to win the fungus battle.

And maybe, just maybe, I will head back to KL next month or the month after. I do have enough for another plane ticket and unless I stay on the plane and go to Amsterdam, I don’t have another destination for the voucher. I was really hoping that purchasing the one ticket might extend the Feb. 10 expiration date, but that didn’t happen. So since I am a little low on funds still, I could cash in and head back.

Which wouldn’t be a bad idea.

Out of gas

In Indonesia, like in Morocco, the cooking fuel that folks use is gas. I assume it’s propane, but who knows? We called it “Buta” in Morocco, since that was the brand name. Everyone knew what you were talking about.

Here, when I say “Buta,” people tend to laugh, because they hear “Budda,” and I guess, to the 88 percent Muslim majority in Indonesia, that’s funny. It’s not intentionally so; that’s just the name I know.

My Buta tank (I think it’s “luh gaz” here, or something like that, but it’ll always be “Buta” to me) here is much larger than the one in Midelt. There, my host mom insisted I get the medium sized canister because she didn’t think I could lug the hefty one.

Perhaps she was right; they are heavy.

My Morocco tank lasted a little over a month, and judging by sight only, I figured my Jakarta tank was maybe double the size.

So, going on four months, I knew it was running low. Kind of like there’s no surprise when you get a flat tire driving to the Detroit airport (twice) because of the crappy road construction, it wasn’t like I could muster up any surprise when I ran out of gas.

All things considered, it wasn’t totally horrible timing. Wednesday I got tagged to work the feature shift, which really messed up my schedule but had me home at 8 p.m.

The Buta tank. What an ordeal

I made dinner (and lunch for two more days) and then, as is my daily ritual, put on a pot of tea.

It happily heated up and I went about my business. A bit later, I realized it hadn’t boiled yet and I looked over. No happy little flame. I was out of gas. And the tea still hadn’t boiled.

Well, I figured, no worries. I’d just wake up a bit earlier the next day, lug the empty to a store and get a new one.

The only thing I have to go ono is my experience in Morocco, and that’s what would happen. I’d be cooking and in mid-pancake, run out of gas. I’d whip out the Leatherman, undo the mika, pop out the canister (risking a George sighting) and walk down to the corner hanut.

If that one didn’t have the right size, the one two doors down would.

I admit, I had trouble once because medium is a weird size in Morocco, but I just camped out at Hanut Option No. 4 one time, until the mul returned from prayers.

So I didn’t anticipate any problems. Silly me.

I undid the hardware and hoisted the empty canister, thinking, gee, maybe host mom was right about that large – the empty was pretty darn heavy. I wondered, foolishly, if I’d be able to get the filled canister back all right.

Turns out, I had no reason to worry about such nonsensical matters. I got down to the front desk and ask where the nearest store is where I could exchange f or some breakfast-cooking fuel. (And I am getting hungry at this point!) They looked at me like “What does the stupid bule think she’s doing?) and conveyed to me that purchasing Buta is NOT a do-it-yourself thing. I am supposed to call someone, who miraculously appears and brings me a new tank.

So, OK. The problem there is that, for some reason, my phone isn’t calling out. There are no phone booths, either. That’d be a silly developed country convenience, you know.

I thought perhaps my phone’s problem was that I somehow ran out of money, which seemed highly unlikely since I don’t actually use it. I have exactly three people’s numbers in my directory, and one of those is mine. I’d just put about $5 on it two months ago, and I knew that couldn’t be out because he first 50 cents or so lasted me about a month. I do not use the phone.

But, I thought, perhaps something happened. Maybe I accidentally made a 6-hour phone call. Who knows, right?

See how handy my trash bag holder is?

So I set off in an attempt to refill my minutes – and to get some food. I’d expected to dart out, get a new canister and be back in time to make my hash browns and egg, but it hadn’t happened yet, so I was really getting hungry.

The first place I stopped at – basically a guy with what looked like a hot-dog stand only it was phone cards – did not have my particular line of credits. Or something. I wasn’t clear on the reasoning, but basically he couldn’t help me.

So I headed to the World Trade Center and finally figured out how to get to the downstairs in one building, where I – eventually – located a place to refill my phone.

The lady did it electronically, which was a new one on me. My phone didn’t blink, blurt out “congratulations, you did it!” beep, or give off any other indication it worked, but I got a receipt that said it was done. I also, for some reason, got a free “health lemonade” drink. Also a new one on me. It wasn’t too bad, but I wouldn’t buy one.

Armed with another $5 on my phone – which I figured should last me well into 2015 – I headed for Dunkin Donuts, because I just wasn’t going to make it much longer. Got a couple of sweet breakfast food items and went back home.

Tried to call. Same failed message as before. Not that I could understand what was said or anything; I just knew it didn’t go through.

Figured maybe the minutes took awhile to go through, so I went to do my workout routine. Due to the weird schedule the day before, I’d only done half and was feeling off-kilter all day. So I went whole hog, then came back and tried to call again. No dice.

At this point, it’s more of problem than an annoyance. I have no way to cook food.

Yes, there’s a microwave, but it’s basically a trash bag holder. The thing shorts out about 30 seconds into any usage, so it’s worthless.

But yep, I tried it anyway. The thought of cold rice, onions, carrots and garlic was enough to give the stop-and-go nuking a shot.

Didn’t work. I gave it up after about five minutes of trying. The meal filled me up, but other than that, let’s leave it.

So I headed to work, confident that there were enough Indonesian speaker who could explain the phone hurdle, clearing the path to the finish line, which at this point was the ability to make tea.

Yes, I discovered what I am like after about 18 hours of no tea, and let’s just say it’s best we all not go there again.

Happy flames return. Tea on the right, hash browns on the left. Back to normal.

Well, my first discovery was being told my phone *number* isn’t valid anymore. I’ve no idea how this can happen, but I’m told it did, and that’s why my calls aren’t going through.

This, I believe, is bull, because I *receive* calls. So far, I’ve yet to figure that out, but, with phones at the office, my personal portab problem is secondary.

I asked Rata to call the gasman on my behalf and line up an 8:30 a.m. delivery.

But hold the joyful noise. Come 9:30 a.m., dude was a no-show. I was hungry, irate and needing tea. I went down to my landlord’s office and tried as best I could to explain what was going on, and eventually my dilemma became clear. Pa Erwin put in a second call on my behalf and gave me a totally different number to call (yeah right) next time.

Hamdullah, eventually, a nice fella showed and replaced the tank.

What an ordeal! But I have tea, so that’s definitely a step up.

The phone issue will have to wait.

Ramadan’s different here

Two days from now marks a week into the Muslim holy month of Ramadan, and so far, not a single person has asked if I am fasting.

It’s my fourth Ramadan, and I find this fact amazing, simply because at this point in my previous three Ramadans, I’d been asked “Wech katsawmi?” about 856 times.

Indonesia is vastly different than Morocco. Leaps and bounds.

Although Indonesia is very much a Muslim country – the way we put it in the Globe is “Muslim majority,” but the fact is it’s 88 percent Islamic – there are other religions displayed reasonably prominently.

Hinduism is the far and away No. 2, but Christianity is in there, too. In fact, among the holidays I get off are something about Budda’s birthday, the ascension of Christ *and* the ascension of Muhammad.

All this adds up to lots of calls to prayer but no pressure to fast. At all, really.

Now, there are some really extreme Islamic groups that hope to turn Indonesia into an Islamic state, but they’re not making a lot of progress. Part of this, I think, is that from the feelers I get (which are mostly from reading reader comments on the Globe stories) is that Indonesians, by and large, HATE Arabs.

But as far as fasting goes, there’s no pressure. The way Ramadan is approached here is totally foreign to me.

In my mind, Ramadan is an upside-down time. Since it’s been in the hot months lately – my 2007 Ramadan started Sept. 12 or so, and every year since then it’s started 10-11 days earlier, so right now it’s in the dog days of August, even though Jakarta is pretty much dog days all year – in Morocco, basically the theory is sleep during daylight hours, wake up a little before sunset to cook and then eat as soon as the Call to Dinner Prayer goes off.

After that, you party and throw in some work until the next meal, and then you party big time until the next meal, then you head to bed right after the early morning call. Lather, rinse, repeat – 28 or so times.

Not here. Perhaps in part because it’s the capital, Jakarta pretends to have some normalcy of working hours. As an administration, they’ve “cut back” the work hours to six a day during Ramadan – plus time off for lunch, which I don’t quite understand. But all and all, things are open.

This is a little weird for me. I’m used to having to hunt for stuff during Ramadan. Today I went to the grocery store. That in itself was foreign in Morocco, what since I didn’t have a Giant in the first place, but also because mostly, stuff just shut down.

Really, there’s not a lot different from Ramadan from any other day. I work with enough non-Muslims that it’s not offensive for people to snack and drink while at work. (We’re keeping regular hours, what since news doesn’t stop and all.)

At the Call to Dinner Prayer, there IS a big rush to the little kitchen, but it’s not a big deal.

There’s no hararia, no la byd (hard-boiled eggs), none of those fruit smoothies, no schpekia (which is a travesty), no Moroccan pizzas (travesty x2) and no invitations for the ftr, or break-fast meal. That’s a shame, because those were awesome times. In all, it’s just another way that demonstrates that Indonesians, while friendly, aren’t as hospitable as Moroccans. That’s not to insult Indonesians, just to point out that Moroccans (especially Berbers) are THE most hospitable people on the face of the earth.

During Ramadan, I was a bit concerned about my walk to work, honestly. In Morocco, people start to drive erratically during the afternoon – it has something to do nervousness as an onset of not smoking, I think – but here in Indonesia, I don’t get that. IMO, that’s because there’s ALWAYS erratic driving in Jakarta. I tend not to notice because it’s par for the course.

Due to the fact that post-sundown in Morocco was party time, I also kind of worried about my walk home from work. I’m still doing this at around 10:30 at night. Three months into my walking, most of the people in my neighborhood are used to seeing me walk around, and I see and wave at the same folks every day.

Frankly, I think I amuse them. I say ‘hallo’ to practically everyone (yes, ‘hallo’ and not ‘hello’) and I’ve noticed that other passers-by don’t do that. I guess it’s abnormal, but hey, I’m Southern. It’s not possible not to be nice.

But I was a bit concerned that there might be a greater number of strangers-to-me wandering about post-Ramadan, high from the caloric intake from that Moroccan pizza, those fruit smoothies and schpekia plus all that fellowshipping folks had by having lftr with their friends and neighbors.

It hasn’t happened. There are some additional people here and there on my walk home, but all in all, it’s the same thing. In some cases, less of it -- which is weird. Even some of the food stalls that are set up on my walk home normally haven’t appeared during this first Ramadan week. For some Moroccan reason I had in my brain, I really expected more food stall things to appear, and they just haven’t.

While I was in Midelt, the hour from 10-11 p.m. was really my favorite. That’s when I would go sit with my King of the Hill bunch in front of Zaka’s store and watch what essentially was a street party every night. We’d just sit, people-watch and shoot the breeze (sans beer). It was great.

Here, it’s just more of a letdown. I’m not fasting and have no reason to do so, but I kind of miss the camaraderie. It doesn’t exist here.

That’s not a complaint at all. I just find it really odd how different cultures of the same religion approach the holiday.

The paper ran some “fasting tips” this week. I found the whole thing to be a joke, really, because, basically, people eat three meals a day, just at different times. To me, giving newspaper space to telling someone to eat healthy was a little silly because … well, DUH.

Anyway, one of the tips was to brush your teeth and use mouthwash to stave off bad breath.

That’s another way that Indonesia is different. In Morocco, brushing teeth is totally forbidden during Ramadan. (Mouthwash is unheard of , so that’s not an issue.) Liquids aren’t allowed to pass your lips. Some people even spit instead of swallow their own saliva. They don’t swim, either.

So it’s fascinating to see how a different culture approaches the whole “holy month” thing. It’s the same overall religion, but the take on it is so different.

Separately, (yes, I know that’s an odd segue, but it’s more of a joke. That’s how our reporters completely change the direction of a story…like they’re writing about, say, corruption in some political department and then will say “separately, So-and-So, police spokesman, said that jaywalkers will be shot on sight." It has nothing to do with the story, but they had room and didn’t have more than a sentence for a totally unrelated story.) my neighbor monkey disappeared.

Well, one of them, anyway.

My apartment building is almost at the end of a block. Just beyond the building, sort of in the back, is a school. Little kids; I’m not sure how old, really. There’s also kind of a clear area and then a bunch of store/stall things with varying stuff. For some reason, there’s also a cucumber plant.

In that same open area-cucumber-store/stall area, since I moved in, have been two monkeys. They’re kept chained up, on short leashes maybe a meter long (yes, I have to speak in metric now). They pace constantly.

Normally, I go out the building and down the road from the other side, but on Wednesday, I went that way to check out --- I don’t remember. Something. But I noticed one monkey was gone.

I’m not sure how I feel about this. I don’t know where the monkey went. I can’t ask; I don’t speak the language well enough. The other monkey, the one who’s on top of the metal monkey-bars (I guess that’s a real enough term to use here), seems to be just as restless as before, but I can’t help but wonder where the other guy went.