The Tungku

Smart, reed-thin little guy Tungku looking a picture as usual this afternoon, and handsomer still with his goatee strands and moustache. (You look so young Tungku, someone recently flattered.) Weekly visits to the barber and daily shaving. (The latter during ablutions and feeling in the dark more than sufficient.) Only just woke, he confesses, after retiring 3 - 4am. Under the stairs at the market Tungku’s chosen corner, mixing it with some of the riff-raff who drink and trade in the illegal ciggies. A prince who declines disguise. Tales of lordly life related briefly: the blessing of parents at first biz ventures, appetite for justice and pride in the natural ability to meet all classes equally, from the beggar to the most high. Big, big flashing reminders of the chief leader of the pack in primary school, little mousey-haired & freckled Kenny Roussell. (Certainly never pronounced in the French!) What a joy it was to be invited to the birthday party at his house in Hick Street in 1966 - 7. Appalling shame at Babi’s horrid present of a striped rocket pencil-case that astonishingly, Kenny accepted with grace and allowance. A leader of boys and men indeed! Three or four times the dapper chappie reported references by petitioners of various kinds to his royal person, one police inspector among the rest, who produced his voluminous file with CCTV shots and prints. (You think it fazed the man? The Tungku was needed on-side.) A seat over in one of the off-shore islands, among other ancestral holdings elsewhere, stolen by Raffles and the British thieves. Lavender long-sleeve, black slacks and polished shoes, in the overcast hardly inappropriate at all today. 

On the Receiving End

After the newspaper all the turgid crud one has perforce swallowed day by day here over this long stretch on the billboards, in the retail quarters and then borne by the poor sorry sods like a cross everywhere they go. Above all it was the youth one felt for herded through the housing towers, the schools and malls. STRAWBERRY LEAGUE on the left drowning the retina and PING! electric impulse flooding the brain before you could say Jack Robinson or look away. Opposite at the table ROMANITE – For Pride and Glory black hoodied lad hunched over his books. Crowd spilling onto the floor of the 8^th offered a soft bespectacled Indian pal of the first lass sporting The Same Is Tame. (Pass mark for rebellion in the Singapore frame.) All the sudden inspirations between breakfast and lunch of the designers in the lofts through this region. (Easy to differentiate the native linguistic flair of Anglo-American copy.) Little mouse eyes caught in the trap. School was back Monday. (Correction: possibly read Homanite—a movie tie-in?) Strawberry  was fleecy woolly, matched with pink underwear briefs as it happened that had ridden high on the girl’s thighs. Beside Homanite sat a contented blank maroon hoodie chum unfussed—perhaps there was something on his chest. Yes, in the tropics still: fiercesome aircon here at the best of times and on an overcast day like today with drizzle started again Siberia.                                                                  

                                                                                         SG National Library, late June 2016

Terrorizing the Floor

The big-size 130kg. Johor Malay late for work sheepishly offering the sign of prayer to the Tamil uncle at the register for his excuse—turned-up wrists more than palms. It was not the little tubby Tamil uncle he needed to worry about however; rather the big stern ISIS-like terrorist in back who was the obstacle. Another Tamil in fact—they were not all 1.55cm—sporting a bushy salt and pepper beard this year that only added gravitas. Carefully chosen and promoted by the ogre owner; one would guess the man was the son and not the little bantam Iqbal who liked partying and the ladies. The latest attention to detail was the four inch separation of the tables. Narrows the passage rather, but perhaps lunch-hour during Ramadan a couple of degrees separation between the faltering fasters was in order. Fellow sitting at table occupied with serious labour makes no never mind. Sorry Arrhh. How are you? Started speaking of late. Al Wadi won’t be opening mornings until at least the third week of July, many of the lads back to India and Malaysia for the festivities.

Spaceship Travel

Welcome back to our home planet Major Tim, a well-earned rest now after the rigours of your travel. Dispensing with suction hoses for clearing your bowels will be a great boon of course—once more the thrills of gravity are yours. Otherwise the smell of the ground down here was missed? Yes, check Major Timmy, the dirty old brown ground, who would have thought. Re-acquaintance with wind and weather generally bringing joy? Perhaps the passage of the seasons? Check again Major Tim, easily under-estimated. And no more temp. controlled packaged food delivered from afar back on terra firma hey, this blessed watery planet of our forebears. What about picking some fruit from a tree branch perchance, one in the wilds untended and carrying hidden birds, fair chance. How would that be? Vegies from a garden open to the sky, rooted in the earth our mother? A treat awaits the hero, food for his soul. In Singapore we thought of him constantly up there out of sight, following through the outer darkness every step of the way. Heartily welcome, it must be beyond wonderful to have finally escaped the dazzling void.

NB. British astronaut Tim Peake recently returned to earth after six months on the International Space Station.

Down the Drain May24

Chinaman on a fishing expedition lookalike of the old butcher at the Haig, who had run a tote on the side in his day. (Spendthrift younger brother?) The Tamil uncle at the register knew the routine without being told, chap evidently doing the rounds there every so often same as round in Geylang Road. No shame about it, bent straight to work and carefully trawling through the plastic & cardboard muck. Often the coins must snag; one needed to be thorough. Last week a Bulgarian patron had gifted the Tamil uncle at the register a dollar that he was keeping as a lucky charm—it had not slipped him and rolled into the drain. Were it not for the wrong colour and the naked hands, give the Chinaman a pair of overalls with insignia, one might take the man for a responsible council employee. Little iron jemmy would make a person wonder passing him on the street. In the case here outside Har Yassin, not needed — grate pulled up no trouble and shallow pit made light work of it. Still the man was properly thorough, sifting, combing, dredging up the soggy sludge. Unidentifiable muck. Lastly run along the rim with fore and middle just to be sure, sometimes coins got trapped in there. Mid-70s, lithe & nimble. There were social services available upon application—join the queue, interview, proper ID. Doctor arranged. Now fill in the forms. Home inspection, earnings of children, domestic particulars again. Call this number in a fortnight. In Thailand & the Philippines, Laos & Cambodia, India & China, Indonesia, there was no safety net at all and elderly sleeping in the streets. Lucky Singapore.

 

Glory On High

This afternoon some lingering beneath a speaker in the ceiling of the stationery department at Kinokuniya. It had taken some little while locating with the volume turned down and the elusive voice battling against the hubbub. At first the sound seemed to be coming from a recess in the ceiling completely out of sight. Some soft light was also emitted from beyond that little ledge above the notebook stand. Later a second speaker in the same aisle was found turned off. Thought had been after the KV lunch and print of a couple of pages at Peace Centre a quick reconnoiter hoping to find a volume of old Tu Fu—sometimes confusingly rendered Du Fu, the poor girl at the Info desk needed to be informed. There was nothing of David Hinton’s translation, that had been established a couple of weeks before. Only Hinton’s Analects and the I Ching that had been already purchased. Some hope that the largest bookstore (English holdings at least) in S-E Asia might turn up the Tang star. Chinese city after all. TuF. had been rendered by a couple of previous notables—fair chance you might have thought in Singapore, steady sales ticking over. KinoK had been downsized a couple of years ago, usual chief victims. If you were after motivational, entrepreneurial, investment gurus, biz. management & strategy, conservative histories, mysteries, cololuring-in books, comics, celebrity, cook books, photography, design, more photography and design, you had come to the right place, all cards accepted at the register have a nice day sir. The LKY shelves alone could not have been sent up in smoke with less than three molotovs, not a chance, forget it. Man was hardly dead, only symbolically and figuratively. (The feud between the PM and his sister over accusations of political exploitation in the use of the dear father of the nation’s passing had been hosed down of late, all hush-hush in-family.) They had stocked Tu Fu once upon a time, sold out now, the fine young lass conveyed. She could not be quizzed on the history—it was not possible to punish poor innocents for the sins of the elders. No. Too bad. Good selection of Gel pens in stationery at KinoK, including 0.8s at $3.10 comparable to ArtFriend and Popular, at the shelves there among all the inferior biros and all the soft pastel colour varieties, when suddenly out of thin air one was quite unexpectedly lightly showered by Pavarotti early signatures. First like a compressed TV flowering of a vivid orchid hidden in jungle thicket, O Sole Mio’s rhythmic swelling bathing the brain. It was followed immediately after by Ritorno a Soriento. Melting. Caused one shiver followed by another. Here was a chance to show the locals one’s superior cultivated taste, almost word for word with the big man and phrasing perfect. The little jail-bait schoolgirl’s mum might have had entirely the wrong idea on the loitering. Strange in the Asian (more or less) locale receiving those melodies, the exhalation from that great old bellows. The fact the maestro had been dead all these years now perhaps added feeling, gone the way of Caruso, Mario Lanza, Jussi Bjorling and all the others. That short stretch of waters from the bays of Boka over to Bari, down to Brindisi, Sicily and up on the other side to Napoli rose up. They could have Sorrento, skip that jaunt. Thirty-five years ago there had been no malls in Napoli; in the old town near the waterfront there would be none now. Minimum of ornamental trees and shrubs. The mafia there would be a sight better than the entrenched tropical kind that could not be ousted for the next one hundred years. There was almost as much street prostitution in Napoli as Geylang, no fool would pay for indoor theatre. Fourteen-sixteen hours away for little over a grand. With the usual shuttering for the morning during Ramadan and the danger of the ogre owner Haneefa at the other option at that late hour, it had been Starbs for the morning cafe and attempted revision. As the customers piled into the outlet at the base of OneKM there nearing lunchtime the volume had gone up on the pitter-patter remastered golden oldies and prairie ballads. Something to do with the almost completely overwhelming effect a few hours later of the big man.

Finalities

The characteristic form in which to convey the sad news.

         Smile on the approach was not unusual, the Tamil auntie coming from behind her counter for it.
         — Shanmugam.
         .... Well yes, Mugam….

          Lad wasn't in that afternoon. Recent months Mug was struggling with added hours and had begun taking a siesta in the middle part of the day. Often returning around 2 o'clock the man showed a puffy face, droopy eyes and become a little uncommunicative.

         The pause was covered by movement in the passage and the hubbub at the tables.

         — Father die already, Auntie wanted the regular and indeed a friend of Mug's to know.
         The news had only come through here at eleven the night before. Heart attack; other details were unknown. Mugam was leaving for India in the morning.
         Malays used the same form and grammar. The same kind of news had been received a good number of times in this community in the necessary sharing out of the difficult burden.
         The odd adverbial usage that was stock standard continued to give a little sting in this deployment particularly, as did the bluntness. Traditional peoples were more prepared for finalities.

Accommodating the Maid

Surprise reported after a survey showing one in ten foreign maids or domestic helpers here sleep in a shared room; and furthermore, a " "surprising" number" shared with a male.

         "It's terribly unacceptable for a maid to share a room with a male, unless he is physically handicapped," a maid agent was quoted.
         Ah. Well. Hmm...
         Turned out the chap was thinking of closest supervision of an invalid or disabled—perhaps the helper on a stretcher by the bed in order to catch the employer in the event he rolled from the mattress above.
         A MOM — Ministry of Manpower — rep. warned such a state of affairs was unacceptable, protection of modesty was important and contravention of regulations could lead to a $10,000 fine or a year's jail or both.

                                                                                          Straits Times, Saturday 18 June 2016

Assisting the Amazing

The absence of alcohol in the Malay world has been one of the features — remarked a number of times in these pages — of five years travel through the region. Reports of Russian and English hooligans in Paris, drink-driving in Australia and the rest was one thing; the more common and easily under-estimated lubrication that can give a particular cast to interactions and conversation is at least as large a factor. (Numerous friends and acquaintances down in the great Southern land will be scratching their heads.... A rechabite tee-totaling wowser now guys!) Where one of the corporate arms is absent of course others rush in. Nestlé in this case, a very large entity in this part of the world. Nestlé is "the No. 1 food company in the world," God Almighty help us! according to a long article in the New Straits Times here in Johor Bahru this morning. An announcement that the company plans to make Malaysia one of its chief procurement centres. ".... some 12 - 15 million Nestlé products are consumed daily in Malaysia.... — Maggi, Nestlé, Nescafe and of course Milo and Kit-kat." It had taken some months to become accustomed to the heaped Milo beakers at the drinks counters here, particularly Malaysia and Singapore. (There was less evidence in Indon. Even Phillip Morris had a lesser presence in Indon and perhaps indeed Coke too.) Down in Geylang Serai Zainuddin has been threatening for months now to confront the operator at Al Wadi over his proudly displayed halal certificate — fries galore, sweetened drinks of all kinds, yet boasting his Muslim credentials. What does harm to human beings cannot be considered halal in Zainuddin’s reckoning…. The old wizened Indian serving at Restoran Sheza here in JB cut a dashing figure in his brightly coloured apron and polo the other afternoon, yellow/red and green respectively, the advertising on the former making a new-comer gulp on his teh:
                    Maggi
     Assisting the Amazing

                                                                                             New Straits Times, Bloom's Day 
                                                                                                                                           June 2016

Taken For a Ride

Through the kitchen window Doreen read the cloud early blowing over from East Coast. An hour was enough for her smalls out on the poles; larger items could be brought in onto the other poles indoors. An hour and half in fact before the first drops started, at least out at Little India. Chin chap in the rear of a small lorry in Lavender Street was caught out. In front against the cabin the two Indian lads had good cover overhead. This fellow at the end was going to get a wet arse, as the tradies in Australia say before getting themselves in out of the weather. Like for contemporary cricketers under the TV advertising regime, foreign workers here were not disturbed by drizzle, no question of an appeal—the game proceeds. The tools were the other factor for the young Chinese roustabout, there was a variety down on the floor of the tray. Luckily a long sheet of veneered ply was ready at hand, it would provide good cover for both tools and legs up to the knees. The rain would blow in through the sides of course, the two in front unable to escape that either. Depended how far they needed to travel. Would the driver take pity and seek cover if a slashing tropical storm set in? That depended too. If a concrete pour was scheduled, or the lads were particularly required at site, well, they could dry off back at the ranch. The blazing sun was worse than rain, South Indian lads well used to it of course from back home; they were much less likely to suffer heatstroke. Often one found cardboard sheets under the roofs of the lorries up front by the cabins; the red plastic chairs from the eateries could also often be found in the lorries, their legs cut down by fine-toothed hack-saws. Seven years ago on the first sightings of these transports at all hours, deep into the night, the appearance was of convicts or the condemned being carted off to prison and execution yards. A dozen or more clinging to the bars, most of the men downcast, but a few looking out. It seemed even then there was a law on the statute books prohibiting such transport. It reminds now of another, more recent law. There was to be no more idling of motors allowed here; the Republic of Singapore took its green credentials very seriously. No more running motors allowed except for such-and-such and such-and-such other. Often one found cabbies, lorry, bus and regular drivers parked and seats reclined as the men soaked up the aircon.

The Long Queue (Orlando)‏

Checkpoint the Malaysian side was 45min plus. Made it late for the brekkie menu at Muthu: no pongal, no uppuma, rawa dosai or masala dosai. Rice, rice the waiter offered. Briyani—which was basmati—was only chicken; no vegetarian. Sorry. GROAN. But then the Mussies were fasting so put up with it and shut up. An ordeal as usual the visa run, excepting the breeze-bus from Queen Street, over before it began more or less. (Correct phonetic BAS sign on the other side entering the rat-run raised a smirk.) Was it Ramadan responsible for the queues in the full hall, or Orlando? A more serious sin again such a shocking crime committed during the holy month of Ramadan. The commentators would be onto that immediately, the moderate, co-opted Muslims throughout the diaspora. Expect almost no mention even a week later of the underlying mayhem that is playing on all the minds of those watching the ancestral Mid-East homeland from afar, from their impossibly contradictory safe vantage. (A Yugo-stalgic knows very well.) Mahathir summed up the position succinctly the other day in an interview out on the campaign trail against his former party. (Hand it to the old fellow.) Collapse of oil prices, renewables, LNP and CSG alternatives alone will not change the equation up there. One hundred years of devilish policy cannot be turned around in a trice. Netanyahu and Sisi ousted, the Sauds finally overthrown, the catastrophe of Syria resolved ? This side likely able to absorb continuing sporadic terrors into the foreseeable future. Hardship and horror on all sides—mostly theirs—continuing. Bracing for the familiar rhetoric now: We must not let the terrorists win. Party-on. Our precious way of life. (One sees John Howard down in Oz has also been enlisted for the current campaign in the south, which returns to mind his gambit during the early days of the Arab Spring when he claimed the democratic flowering in that part of the world stemmed from the intervention.)

Rise Up You Tides and Storms

Must needs be double plus brief. The same drum cannot be beaten again and again and monotonously again.

         Young Rajapandian in the Haig car-park shortly after 11pm. Near the children's playground with fair lighting overhead. Maids one commonly saw washing cars mornings and afternoons; rarely men. Raja was the right colour for the job. Tamil, yes: stature, moustache, gleaming ready smile. 
         Washing the boss's car right? 
         Yes. Right. Kind of.
         Rajapandian's old classic black roadster circa 1953 was not seen at first on its stand immediately in front, a plastic bag tightly wrapped around the seat and implements in the front carrier.
         Washing the boss's Beamer after hours as an add-on? Perhaps a concrete pour had been delayed; a crane perhaps collapsed killing a worker and the lads had defied the foreman walking off the job.
         Well, no. Raja worked as an aircon technician. A qualified tradesman from back in India indeed, where he had earnt fully 64,000 rupees monthly.... On the spot conversion: about SG$2k. Damn decent dough.
         Lured to Sing' with false promises of advanced training and upgrade of his qualifications. Likely story the old recruitment scam.
         Tamils were the worst people in the world Rajapandian wants you to know. You have heard of happenings in Sri Lanka?... (Uncertain the point here. What, the Tamils on the southern island perchance given up by their northern tribesmen, 67 million strong?... There might be an opportunity to talk again. It was a large park at the Haig.) Then of course Rajapandian’s own sorry tale here. Cheated by you know who.
         Placing the cold milk carton on the hood to retrieve pen and paper was no good. Dirty.
         OKOKOKOK.
         Four hours nights Rajapandian slept. From shortly before 3am until 7. The aircon stint was 8am - 2 30pm — $420 per month. Nights car-washing 4pm - 2am sixty-four cars brought $400.
         Doubled more or less what he earnt back home, so perhaps he should not complain, regardless the upgrade promised.
         Chap resisted the abbreviation: No: Rajapandian. Young and strong. Will endure. Like his coolie cousins brought out in the earlier generations: a circle. That the sons of coolies were employing the same exploitative practices gets you more than anything. Reminded of the African traders in league with the ship captains, the Jewish capos in the camps....An unforgettable Uncle Tom photograph of the founding father's grandfather or great-grand here in his dress coat, vest and bow tie sighted in one of the newspapers had told a story all by itself, vivid and strong.

You Swallow It Whole

Three
            We Care
                      For The Earth
            We Are Green
                          & Gracious
banners on the condo site corner Lavender and Jalan Besar for the passing traffic. 
            Miscellaneous others—Falling Objects Can be Fatal; Hook On Life Line; Crane Lifting Safety, Keep Your Safety; Working Together Gets the Job Done Safely; Protect Your Hands, Don’t Lose Your Touch; Say No To Falling Objects.
            Not exactly Orchard Road copywriting.
            Elsewhere on other sites tables of zero man-hours lost to injury or death in twenty metre canvas stretches likewise turned out to the street for passersby.
            Meanwhile contractors and corporations getting away with blue murder. 
            As of Thursday last week thirty-three workplace deaths this year in Singapore. (At the end of May sixty-three in Australia, where the population is five times the size. Malaysia in 2014 nine hundred and thirty-three were recorded.)
            In today’s paper report on a case of a heatstroke death last December for a Hebei chap who missed out on the mandatory fourteen day weather acclimatization program. From minus 7 - 3 degree average temperature back home into this hot-house hell laboring on the conds. 
            But he came willingly, locals will respond. Indeed there are long queues waiting.
            The harried maid who is routinely beaten, starved and working from morning to late night, the gardening and garbage details, street-sweeps, cleaners, foreign labourers and others driven like slaves by the heirs of former coolies fed opium by the colonial masters who are aped by the upper tier all too much to stomach some days. Particularly with the pretense, artful manipulation and arrogance and self-serving justifications added. 
            The old story the world over of course: the poor suffering other bombed in their unfortunate cities and deserts, drowning in the seas, herded in the camps not especially difficult for those on the other side to abide.
            A friend recently sent a Youtube attachment of a gabfest featuring the endearing Slovene Slavoj and the Greek former Finance Minister Varoufakis at a Southbank, London public forum shortly after the Paris attacks. Brought reminders of the polished showman Obama gently roasting the media and cracking nicely timed jokes—fine man and all that—while the drone attacks continued. Another French sponsored Israeli-Palestinian conference; humanitarian agencies counting bodies and making press releases in the Mediterranean. Here recently an air show featuring the latest fighter jets entertaining crowds.
                                                                                                                                                                                                              Straits Times, Tue 7 June 2016

Thirsting and Itching (May24)

Seasoned old rogue with the green flourishing ganja covering his tee, handsome devil of the classic form unconcerned about the danger of such advertisement in Singapore. A Fine City, as the other mocking tees with their listing of prohibitions proclaimed. 

         Thin, tall, sharp-featured dangerman red-hot bait for any public order official on the prowl. Canna see bag please sir?...
         First intro-ed few days ago by the old Madurese flat-cap cowpoke with the belt-buckles, dyed mullet and big-stepping gunslinger stride. It fitted immediately: couple of rustlers blown into town stopping at the ol' saloon for a drink. Eye-full and a half, a pageant from fifty metres distance.
         Madurese had been absent some months now, made himself scarce, keeping a clean nose. At the stop by the table hooked at finger at his off-sider without need say more—the picture told the story.
         Brilliant hair-cut àla early seventies Keith Richard; not dissimilar otherwise too. Of course Doper could not have afforded the blood transfusion.
         Madurese favoured the gals, lashing out for a table of the Batam lasses no matter how many. Critics said he had dough that was being blown all without regard for the kids and grand. Late, late seventies and ram-rod straightest back on the planet for that cohort. Prance down the street, forget it—beyond any compare.
         Of course Dopers were cut from different cloth. Good English, when the chief had only lightest sprinkling.
         Earlier in the morning with the crowd a chair had been taken beside the Deaf. Drinks. Chat. Abandoned later for some better elbow-room in the next row, which is where pretty boy grandpa found his man. 
         Howdeedo? Howdeedo? Ah-hum, yeah. This and that. Yeah, yeah. Hmmm.
         Nice bangle slipping over a coloured cotton or hemp band as the man rocked. Always a feature of the pretties bones like that. This bloke didn’t seem vain. Easy cool floating smooth.
         Chat with razz without any substance. Sweet but. Over his rims lazy-eye surveying the tables and falling on somebody back there was it?.. Who, what??... In fact none other than the gentle, quiet, mind-your-own-business Deaf shrunk in his chair. 
         That one?
         Ohwee! Yes indeed, knew him inside-out. The same katal for the gals, you might not know.
         Ah, what?... You mean? The D-D-Deaf?... (Man saw the arrows aimed in his direction.)
         Katal big time. No sooner he sees a one, itching all over, shiverin’ an’ shakin’. Katal.
         The fellow would have convinced you of a murder charge, cannibalism of new-borns, what have you. Easy, easy cool walking on water.
         The Deaf. Quiet sheepish no-say-boo-to-a-mouse. (Not to be confused with the showman Deaf, the charmer and one half double plus. Slays them that one, three tables joined of a dozen all peeing their pants hanging on his next move. Mesmerizing. He certainly was never short of a companion of the semi-fair sex; not the other.) A surprise. One never knew. The quiet ones.
         There had in fact been heard the English here before without giving it too much mind. Shame to tell and blushing all the while, one or two of the girls had been found in deepest toils itching, itching bad. Itching good and bad, and leaving lasting memories. City gals never quite pleaded for scratching in that same pussy cat curled way. 
         Katal. A new acquisition to the vocab, learnt in the preferred way in meaningful context where there was a chance of sticking.
         Brought to mind Bloom's Irish Molly itching for it too—katal.
         — Oh, give us a touch Poldy, the wandering Jew recalls as he waits out Blazes Boylan back at the ranch. God I'm dying for it, poor darling all aflame.
         Katal. They felt it in these parts too by the volcanoes, under the branches in the jungle and plenty other places now.
         The old Montenegrins would say, Zedan na nju, thirsting for her. (Horny was so-so OK possibly, when one considered early usage perhaps, for the male at least. Appropriate language and a certain kind of evocation raised.)
         Noted appropriately and filed.
         Incidentally, shortly after when the Deaf was challenged (Doper passed on), the man stoutly denied. Absolutely not. That fella… Doing a circuit lands back here, blabber, blabber, running at the mouth—fingers making the universal duck-bill for chatter-box. Full of it that guy…. One hand half-clasping the other cross-wise was uncertain; the fore-finger cross low on the brow on the other hand well-known now.
         …And hold your horses steady there partner, too! Doper had never gone to school; lad preferred fishing by the river for shrimp instead, trapping birds in the thicket. No such thing as katal at all. Noooo. Delete. It was GATAL. GGGGGeee. Luckily Osman the ex-schoolteacher providentially happening along and file corrected.