Excerpt from travel journal written on the 19th of September; 2013 in Kuala Terengganu.
*
The hostel (More of a sex-shack, really, but allow me to delude myself into thinking that the bed that I sleep on has had no contact with secretions of the questionable kind) that I am currently staying in are manned by transvestites. I am strangely elated by this mainly because of two things:
1) I have never found a way to talk to transvestites before due to my own timidity. Also, most of the contact I've had before while living in Chow Kit were made up of frightfully surprising appearance in the darkness of the alleys. Prostitution never really gave me the ability to strike up conversation.
2) There are a lot of questions that I have always wanted to ask and being in such close proximity to them means that I can finally get it off my chest.
Them being there, working as cleaners and at the reception is a new facet to a stone wall that has been spit on by most of the members of society. I am puzzled because while it is a fantastic move forward, so many questions arise that need answering. Have their fates changed for the better? Are they no longer ridiculed by our fiendish society? Or have Kuala Terengganu surpassed all of us in terms of sexual liberation? I must find out more but how? Will they not be offended by my straightforward questions? Will they look at me as if I am a creature with a backward mentality?
This is my mission, now. I must resolve these inquiries for the weigh heavily on my scrawny shoulders.
*
I did it, princess! I cast shame aside and I approached them, face burning with uncertainty, and I talked to them. There were two of them, J and S, janitor and receptionist respectively. J was in her thirties and was more feminine in disposition while S was, and I could not believe it, in her fifties. She looked to be forty at most. Both of them are undergoing hormone replacement therapy. I asked if they considered surgery but their faces told me that they had no money for it.
This is their story.
First and foremost, I asked them quite bluntly how they managed to get a job. I told them that I thought they were forced to work on the streets because they had no choice and that prostitution became the only option.
"Well, it's not as if we're accepted but then the truth is that many of us are simply lazy," J responded as a matter of factly, looking to S to further consolidate her point. S, who was using a pair of tweezers to remove some stubble on her chin, nodded. "Some of us don't try looking for a job, they think that there is no point in trying. Besides, working on the streets is much more substantial, the good ones can get up to RM500 on a good night." They giggled, eyes indicating that there was an inside joke.
"I honestly thought that most of you had no choice because of the prejudice," S started to work on her nose hair.
"Don't get me wrong, there is. I don't mind being turned away from a job, to be honest, because I know that I lack the education needed. I mean, I wouldn't want to hire some guy who only has PMR qualifications, you know? But then I have friends who are university graduates and they were turned away simply because they had long hair, tits and a dick. It's hard la, sometimes I am so thankful for being hired here."
S, satisfied with the tweezer's performance, jumped into the conversation.
"You know, it used to be much more lenient around here." I asked her to explain and she sat down beside me. "See, before 2006, the ones who worked the streets can get their clients the usual way; by parading their wares, standard prostitution protocol. We had friends in the police force who'd alert us when a raid was being planned so things were very safe. When there's a raid, we hang out at a kopitiam and just laze the day away."
"They warned you? That's kind of nice," I laughed.
"Well, at a price, obviously. Some of them accept a small gift at the end of the month, some of them pay us a visit and have sex, you know the drill."
"So what changed?"
"I don't know exactly but after that, the raids became more frequent. Our friends on the force stopped warning us, I think some of them were fired. There were raids every week and never on the same day so we were always guessing. Eventually the risk was too high and some of us stopped going out. We depended on our regulars instead, they'd call when they wanted to have some fun. It's better but our income was cut by half." S sighed and she seemed lost in her reminisce. J took out a bottle of moisturiser from her purse and applied it onto her skin with a grace that put some women I know to shame.
"What happens when you get caught?" I asked, curious. J returned the lotion into her purse and narrowed her eyes.
"It depends, really," she started. "Usually for first timers, they get a RM1000 fine and they're let go." I nearly choked on my coffee.
"One thousand?! That's fucking harsh!" She laughed and handed me a serviette.
"Yeah, I know. The repeat offenders get sent to this place called Pusat Pemulihan Akhlak (Correctional Center)."
"What happens there? Sounds like a fucking concentration camp."
"Oh, the usual," she said, as if describing the beach. "Your hair gets cut and then the brainwashing starts. Day in day out you're told that everything about you is wrong. Your way of thinking is wrong, your dressing is wrong, your skin is wrong, your hair is wrong, everything about you is unnatural. You're force fed religious scriptures and here's the thing," J laughed. "Some of the girls I know are hafazan; they've memorised the Qur'an. Some of them are good muslims but they're just forced into the streets."
I tried to picture a hijabi transvestite selling herself on the streets but I couldn't. It saddened me greatly.
"It rarely does the trick, though. I mean what do they expect, you know, we're born this way. It's like taking a tiger and forcing it to act like a dog. I can't make myself to not want to be a woman and I'm sure that they can't either. They keep telling me that it is an abomination in the eyes of God but God made me this way and I'm thankful." A wistful smile appeared on her thin lips. "You know, I get so pissed off sometimes. The pondans are the ones that are caught. The 'normal' prostitutes are left in relative peace. Ada puki punya pasal."
"It's funny as hell though," K interjected. "Sometimes they catch a transvestite with surgical implants and they do the usual cutting of the hair et cetera. Then you see them scratching their heads trying to figure out what to do with the implants." We laughed till our sides hurt, the three of us, at one in the morning. Just then, a car pulled up in front of the hostel and a couple of men in skullcaps got out of the car. They made their way to the glass door, noticed the presence of J and S, shook their heads and retreated. I saw them enter the car and a heated discussion ensued. The driver locked eyes with me and I smiled before giving him the finger. I could feel the blaze of his self-righteous rage.
"These men," K said after berating me for my impolite gesture. "They think that every single transvestite or gay guy is after their dicks when they don't realise that we have got very refined tastes. Like I can look at you and say that you're not my kind of guy," she said to me. I didn't know whether I should be relieved or hurt at the remark. Her phone rang and she went outside to answer it. J told me that it was a client. I was confused because since they had a job, why did they still need clients?
"Well, some do it out of habit, I guess. Some for the money. Still, it's not like we have much option when it comes to finding guys that are interested in us. This whole regular clients thing becomes our dating database."
K came back in, agitated. Her client insisted that she travel to his house and spend the night there. She was having none of it, obviously, her job came first. She told me about how she was once in a relationship with a man that spanned seventeen years. I was amazed. 17 years! He was married with three kids. A week ago, he cut contact with K. The hurt in her eyes was genuine.
I went out for a smoke and she followed suit. She told me about a man she met in Kuantan, a DJ at a local karaoke lounge or something along that line. There was a connection, she said but she was unsure and asked me what she should do. I told her that relationships are not my area of expertise but I thought that she should go for it. Across the street, a couple of drunk or high teenagers (Who knows what they're on nowadays?) walked unsteadily. One of them noticed our presence or more accurately, her presence and began hollering obscenities like the uncultured swine they are. Concerned, I asked her if she was insulted.
"I'm 50 years old, bro. I've gone through years of abuse to the point where it no longer hurts me. It's our way of life, our happiness goes hand in hand with pain." She smiled. "You're a medical student, aren't you?"
"Yeah, I am," I replied.
"Well, tell me this. Do the doctors consider our condition a disease? If so, then what medication do we take so that we can crush our souls?"
I doubt that I will ever forget that moment, for as long as I live.
*
The hostel (More of a sex-shack, really, but allow me to delude myself into thinking that the bed that I sleep on has had no contact with secretions of the questionable kind) that I am currently staying in are manned by transvestites. I am strangely elated by this mainly because of two things:
1) I have never found a way to talk to transvestites before due to my own timidity. Also, most of the contact I've had before while living in Chow Kit were made up of frightfully surprising appearance in the darkness of the alleys. Prostitution never really gave me the ability to strike up conversation.
2) There are a lot of questions that I have always wanted to ask and being in such close proximity to them means that I can finally get it off my chest.
Them being there, working as cleaners and at the reception is a new facet to a stone wall that has been spit on by most of the members of society. I am puzzled because while it is a fantastic move forward, so many questions arise that need answering. Have their fates changed for the better? Are they no longer ridiculed by our fiendish society? Or have Kuala Terengganu surpassed all of us in terms of sexual liberation? I must find out more but how? Will they not be offended by my straightforward questions? Will they look at me as if I am a creature with a backward mentality?
This is my mission, now. I must resolve these inquiries for the weigh heavily on my scrawny shoulders.
*
I did it, princess! I cast shame aside and I approached them, face burning with uncertainty, and I talked to them. There were two of them, J and S, janitor and receptionist respectively. J was in her thirties and was more feminine in disposition while S was, and I could not believe it, in her fifties. She looked to be forty at most. Both of them are undergoing hormone replacement therapy. I asked if they considered surgery but their faces told me that they had no money for it.
This is their story.
First and foremost, I asked them quite bluntly how they managed to get a job. I told them that I thought they were forced to work on the streets because they had no choice and that prostitution became the only option.
"Well, it's not as if we're accepted but then the truth is that many of us are simply lazy," J responded as a matter of factly, looking to S to further consolidate her point. S, who was using a pair of tweezers to remove some stubble on her chin, nodded. "Some of us don't try looking for a job, they think that there is no point in trying. Besides, working on the streets is much more substantial, the good ones can get up to RM500 on a good night." They giggled, eyes indicating that there was an inside joke.
"I honestly thought that most of you had no choice because of the prejudice," S started to work on her nose hair.
"Don't get me wrong, there is. I don't mind being turned away from a job, to be honest, because I know that I lack the education needed. I mean, I wouldn't want to hire some guy who only has PMR qualifications, you know? But then I have friends who are university graduates and they were turned away simply because they had long hair, tits and a dick. It's hard la, sometimes I am so thankful for being hired here."
S, satisfied with the tweezer's performance, jumped into the conversation.
"You know, it used to be much more lenient around here." I asked her to explain and she sat down beside me. "See, before 2006, the ones who worked the streets can get their clients the usual way; by parading their wares, standard prostitution protocol. We had friends in the police force who'd alert us when a raid was being planned so things were very safe. When there's a raid, we hang out at a kopitiam and just laze the day away."
"They warned you? That's kind of nice," I laughed.
"Well, at a price, obviously. Some of them accept a small gift at the end of the month, some of them pay us a visit and have sex, you know the drill."
"So what changed?"
"I don't know exactly but after that, the raids became more frequent. Our friends on the force stopped warning us, I think some of them were fired. There were raids every week and never on the same day so we were always guessing. Eventually the risk was too high and some of us stopped going out. We depended on our regulars instead, they'd call when they wanted to have some fun. It's better but our income was cut by half." S sighed and she seemed lost in her reminisce. J took out a bottle of moisturiser from her purse and applied it onto her skin with a grace that put some women I know to shame.
"What happens when you get caught?" I asked, curious. J returned the lotion into her purse and narrowed her eyes.
"It depends, really," she started. "Usually for first timers, they get a RM1000 fine and they're let go." I nearly choked on my coffee.
"One thousand?! That's fucking harsh!" She laughed and handed me a serviette.
"Yeah, I know. The repeat offenders get sent to this place called Pusat Pemulihan Akhlak (Correctional Center)."
"What happens there? Sounds like a fucking concentration camp."
"Oh, the usual," she said, as if describing the beach. "Your hair gets cut and then the brainwashing starts. Day in day out you're told that everything about you is wrong. Your way of thinking is wrong, your dressing is wrong, your skin is wrong, your hair is wrong, everything about you is unnatural. You're force fed religious scriptures and here's the thing," J laughed. "Some of the girls I know are hafazan; they've memorised the Qur'an. Some of them are good muslims but they're just forced into the streets."
I tried to picture a hijabi transvestite selling herself on the streets but I couldn't. It saddened me greatly.
"It rarely does the trick, though. I mean what do they expect, you know, we're born this way. It's like taking a tiger and forcing it to act like a dog. I can't make myself to not want to be a woman and I'm sure that they can't either. They keep telling me that it is an abomination in the eyes of God but God made me this way and I'm thankful." A wistful smile appeared on her thin lips. "You know, I get so pissed off sometimes. The pondans are the ones that are caught. The 'normal' prostitutes are left in relative peace. Ada puki punya pasal."
"It's funny as hell though," K interjected. "Sometimes they catch a transvestite with surgical implants and they do the usual cutting of the hair et cetera. Then you see them scratching their heads trying to figure out what to do with the implants." We laughed till our sides hurt, the three of us, at one in the morning. Just then, a car pulled up in front of the hostel and a couple of men in skullcaps got out of the car. They made their way to the glass door, noticed the presence of J and S, shook their heads and retreated. I saw them enter the car and a heated discussion ensued. The driver locked eyes with me and I smiled before giving him the finger. I could feel the blaze of his self-righteous rage.
"These men," K said after berating me for my impolite gesture. "They think that every single transvestite or gay guy is after their dicks when they don't realise that we have got very refined tastes. Like I can look at you and say that you're not my kind of guy," she said to me. I didn't know whether I should be relieved or hurt at the remark. Her phone rang and she went outside to answer it. J told me that it was a client. I was confused because since they had a job, why did they still need clients?
"Well, some do it out of habit, I guess. Some for the money. Still, it's not like we have much option when it comes to finding guys that are interested in us. This whole regular clients thing becomes our dating database."
K came back in, agitated. Her client insisted that she travel to his house and spend the night there. She was having none of it, obviously, her job came first. She told me about how she was once in a relationship with a man that spanned seventeen years. I was amazed. 17 years! He was married with three kids. A week ago, he cut contact with K. The hurt in her eyes was genuine.
I went out for a smoke and she followed suit. She told me about a man she met in Kuantan, a DJ at a local karaoke lounge or something along that line. There was a connection, she said but she was unsure and asked me what she should do. I told her that relationships are not my area of expertise but I thought that she should go for it. Across the street, a couple of drunk or high teenagers (Who knows what they're on nowadays?) walked unsteadily. One of them noticed our presence or more accurately, her presence and began hollering obscenities like the uncultured swine they are. Concerned, I asked her if she was insulted.
"I'm 50 years old, bro. I've gone through years of abuse to the point where it no longer hurts me. It's our way of life, our happiness goes hand in hand with pain." She smiled. "You're a medical student, aren't you?"
"Yeah, I am," I replied.
"Well, tell me this. Do the doctors consider our condition a disease? If so, then what medication do we take so that we can crush our souls?"
I doubt that I will ever forget that moment, for as long as I live.
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