Butano

The weather’s been chilly recently, nothing like Archangel temperatures but we need to heat the flat.

Dehydrated yak dung is hard to come by in these parts so we use Butanos (butane gas in orange metal bottles) for cooking and heating. Our seventh-floor caravan does get a bit parky if the butano runs out and we’re caught off guard by Siberian wind.

Butanos are both potentially dangerous (asphyxiation by butane inhalation, explosions, and fire, etc.) and difficult to get hold of. Although Butano lorries do the rounds on weekdays, they usually come when we’re all out.

Yet last Saturday the Butaneros came to town.

Clang! Clang! Clang! goes the familiar racket of a Butanero (Butano seller/lugger-abouter) banging a piece of metal on a gas bottle to let folks know they’re around.

"Bu—u---e- ee—o!" shouts another Butanero, Mornin’ Stannitly.

I lumber down seven flights (unsurprisingly, the lift wasn’t in order) with a couple of empty yet heavy gas bottles and reach the lorry just as it’s driving off. Shit! Butaneros are supposed to deliver Butanos to punters’ doors and exchange them with used bottles. However, they don’t carry them up seven flights of stairs unless they're rewarded with a hefty prearranged tip. The more liftless floors, the bigger the tip.

"Oi! Stop!" I yell.

To my surprise, the lorry pulls up.

The driver, El Rubio ("Blondie" round here, even though his hair is a dark shade of black) from Granada, is accompanied by a couple of blokes from India and Morocco who are wearing the distinctive corporate orange and grey uniform of Repsol, the company that distributes Butanos and sponsors motorcycle races. El Rubio nods, a gesture he makes to let me know that the bottles on the trailer are all empty and that he can’t be bothered to talk.

But he does speak.
"Back in ten minutes" he promises.
I look at him suspiciously.
He senses my mistrust.
"Ten minutes. Butanero’s word for it!" he smirks. Butaneros are notorious cheats and liars. Not surprising given their miserable wages. Wifey was once sold a used bottle (despite the apparently untampered-with seal on the top). El Rubio short-changes everyone. Everyone knows El Rubio short-changes everyone.

But, ten minutes later, he is back. This is a serious challenge to my prejudices. Perhaps he isn’t a cheat and a liar.

"That’s 22 euros"
I hand him two 20-euro notes. El Rubio puts them with a wad of money he has apparently taken from his underpants. He gives me eight euros change.

"I gave you two twenty notes"
"Are you sure? I thought you gav........."
"I’m sure"

He gives me the other ten, winks, turns round and climbs back into the cab.

Well, maybe just a cheat. Now, to get two 35-kilo gas tanks up to the seventh floor.