Ode to Propane

In Bali, most stoves sit on the counter top and are fancier versions of the Coleman camping stove with a propane tank under the counter. An American owns the house we are staying in, so we have a traditional American type of gas stove (with oven! One of two I know of in Ubud!), yet the house still does not have a gas line – just a propane tank under the counter. Despite Kent’s warnings to Wayan, our house gardener, over the course of two weeks, that the tank should be replaced, we ran out of propane. 

            Kent discovered the lack of propane when he went to heat up dinner. He sounded disappointed, as he came in and announced, “Well, no potatoes. No propane. Sandwiches for dinner.”

            “No potatoes? But what about the coffee in the morning?” I asked.

            No propane. No coffee in the morning.

In the morning, Kent teased that I was listless, that it took me much longer to get out of bed, that with no coffee I didn’t see the point. To some extent, he was right. Really, I was thinking of walking up the path fifty meters to the Mata Hari Bungalows, a half-hearted restaurant and bed & breakfast, to see if they had coffee. I was waiting until it was a decent enough hour, like maybe a little past 6:45 am. When I had told the owner that at some point we might stop by for breakfast and asked him what time they opened, he said, “Oh, we usually get up around six.”

            I thought, I’d be polite and wait until the restaurateurs were out of their pajamas.

            Despite my threats, I didn’t actually end up walking up the path for coffee. 

            Wayan, the gardener, was supposed to come early in the  morning. Kent sent Wayan a message the night before, saying he should come with a propane tank when he arrived at eight. But Kent didn’t hear back from Wayan. He didn’t think the message went through. Kent said that to impress upon Wayan the importance of our having propane, he would tell him that I was a dragon until my first cup of coffee. 

            “I’m not really a dragon am I?” I asked. Depressed maybe, or a little put out, but dragon seems a little harsh.

            “No, you’re not a dragon,” He said.

            “But I’m to be the fall guy on this one?”

            “Yes.” Kent said. 

            When Wayan arrived, he said he would take care of the propane tank, but that we would have to wait a bit, that the store was closed for the cremation ceremonies.  He speaks English well, but sometimes there are gaps.

            “They’re closed for how long?” I demanded.

            “Just until later.” He said. I was now beginning to understand the significance of Hanukah, and the point of celebrating the miraculous achievement of making oil last eight days. I wondered if the Jews used any of their oil for coffee or if they just used it for light. I wondered why more people weren’t Jewish, why this miracle was underappreciated. I thought about becoming Jewish myself.

            “Later.” I said to Wayan. I think my eyes turned yellow like a dragon’s; Wayan then looked at Kent.

            “I’ll take the propane tank now.” He said.

            We took Fyo to school, and we had breakfast at Bali Buddha, where Kent ordered a side of sausage and ended up with a side of salsa that the waiter swore was sausage.  I had two cups of coffee to make up for my late start.

            But that afternoon, we had our propane.