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.