I know I haven’t updated this blog for a very long time. But since not a lot of people look at it, I figured it’d be safe to post some of my thoughts and writings here.
The following piece is actually a journal entry of mine from when I lived in Florida with my friend Ben. Its a reference to my time spent working in the sex slavery industry in Thailand a couple years back. While this story and its characters are fictional, the reality of it is very true and happening as we speak. A lot of people are aware of what is happening with human trafficking around the world, but most don’t truly have a real glimpse of it. So I ask that as you read this, really try to immerse yourself in this story, and allow your emotions and heart to move if they want to.
And for those that don’t know, this entry is in regards to the sex-slave industry in South-East Asia, more specifically in Thailand. It is a monster that affects all ages and all genders, and its impacts are felt globally, whether by the people directly involved, or the families of the men and women purchasing such acts.
Anyways, this is my journal, so its not necessarily family friendly. There’s no swearing or bad language, but its real and its contents are raw. So please read it maturely. This is only the first half. I’m working on part 2.
The entrance to Nana Plaza. It opens into a large, 4-story courtyard lined with bars and pay-by-the-hour hotels.
Part 1: The Plaza
“Spring 2011
It’s easy to see light in the darkest places. Strike a match in the middle of Times Square or along the Vegas Strip and see who notices. See if you can even define the outline of the small flame while its matted against a backdrop of fluorescence and color. You might find yourself so heavily concentrated on finding its bounds that you forget to let it go as your fingertips begin to scorch. It’s a mistake you’ll think twice about making again. Now take that same match and strike it against the asphalt of a Brooklyn alleyway. You’ll quickly find you’ve conjured a brilliance that conquers even the blackest shades. The flickering shape of the flame is defined powerfully against the void it penetrates. You watch as it crawls gently down the matchstick, revealing its passion and ferocity as the heat warms your fingernails. But it is abandoned as your eyes hold it in an almost tangible grip. And a quick breath decides its fate.
Nana Plaza was on fire that night. The moist air rested heavy upon the city streets like a woolen blanket as Bangkok stood proudly like a torch against its lesser surroundings. It was alive, breathing, moving, with an air of determination and excitement. Although the clocks were dancing towards 2am the people milled about like time had no definition. Men and women and boys and girls all bathed in the glow of industry and greed as they hurried on with their lives. The tourists in turn reeked of alcohol and desire. None but the men bothered to stay out this late. Little good happens in the shadows of 2am, at least not in this place anyways, and the world knows that.
Sunburned and overweight, a milky-white British man sits at the bar near the entrance to the Plaza. His dingy tank top reveals two hairy shoulders glistening under perspiration from the oriental heat. Meanwhile, his shirt struggles to hold his excess skin from pouring out into the open. His feet, bare and dirty, are tucked into two brown sandals at the bottom of legs much skinnier than the rest of him. His lips slurred praises to the women around him while spit collected at the corners of his mouth. For the alcohol had created a thick dryness across his tongue that made speaking somewhat of a challenge. He mewed compliments and took every opportunity to stroke the hands or hair of the ladies at his sides. This man was older, maybe 52. The ring on his finger quietly spoke of a life far away, but its shimmer spoke only one word to the females surrounding him, “money”. For although their nods and laughter deceived the man, they truly had no idea what he was saying to them. But his skin color was enough. And so was the time on the clock.
It was the same all throughout the Plaza. Hundreds of men with hundreds of rings with hundreds of sunburns, with hundreds of girls, all convened with a darkness lurking inside of them.
Piam was 8 years old. She grew up in a little village called Mae Sot and learned to climb trees when she was young. She would run after school with her friends everyday to the tallest tree in her small town and climb to the very top. Her hair was long and her hands were soft and small. And she liked to sing. The dirt that made up her kitchen floor always kept her feet filthy, but she didn’t mind. Because everything is dirty in Thailand. Only she didn’t know that. She just didn’t know any better.
She also didn’t know that her brother was the pride of her family, as is every family in her culture.
It was the summer before when she had realized she was poor. Because that was the summer her parents sold her. The woman who bought her had given her father 500 American dollars.
It had been 7 months since then. Yet she could barely remember anything from her previous life. All she knew was that her owner fed her and clothed her, and beat her and scared her. She was only 8 years old, yet had been forced to grow up much faster than she had wanted to. Now she did as she was told. And she was told to make money from British Man, and American Man, and French Man. She had been taught the best way to do that.
He had come here for business. That’s what his family knew. But he had planned on really enjoying something else. The heat of the day had turned his fair skin rosy and pink and his body ached from walking all day through the city. The accent of his dialect had betrayed him numerous times upon his quest as he visited the different holy shrines and landmarks, more than once helping him struggle to converse with the locals. Finally, as night fell, the British man found himself stumbling upon Nana Plaza, his Mecca, his Promised Land. And he sat down, and had a beer.
The women wasted no time in searching him out. They saw one thing and one thing only, a business transaction. He, on the other hand, finally felt alive. Like a dry, wilted flower being graciously watered, he drank in their attention selfishly. The heart inside his chest quickened its pace and he became boyish and fidgety, excited. Euphoria settled in amidst his clammy palms and nervous laughs. He began to relax and became comfortable in his role as Don Juan. Rounds of drinks and pool were enough for a few hours but the continual touches and prolonged glances from those around him soon birthed a new un-satisfaction, a new desire for something much deeper than flirty conversation and dancing. He felt a deep urge, and desire began to ignite inside of him. His thoughts soon turned much more provocative as he became more and more turned on.
This new state of arousal left the man thirsting and desperate for the women he saw. And this in turn made him much more bold. Words became actions and thoughts became reality, all in a swirl of liquor-saturated bliss, as he began to test his limits. Sweet-talking and subtle advances became perverse and limitless as the hunted became the hunter. For hours his mind produced possible outcomes of the evening, each ending gloriously in his relief and satisfaction. But no matter the thought, he realized he wanted something more. Prettier, skinnier, younger, none of these would do, and his heart hardened in arrogance and anger. His money was worth more than this. He was deserving of the peak of what this place had to offer. He had come here for the ultimate enjoyment and pleasure. In his mind, this was not it.
The way he perceived himself in reference to the indigenous people around him worked as a vice in his mind. His riches and mentality separated their true living, breathing spirits and personalities from their ability to offer him the most perverse of pleasures. He saw them only as opportunities to enjoy his life further, and nothing more.
These around him were not what he wanted, and that realization hit him like a freight train as he grabbed his hat and headed for the door.
The bar tender caught his wrist before he could escape and asked him if he didn’t like the girls in broken English. British Man shook his head “no” and began to motion with his hands, “Prettier”, he said loudly over the music, “and younger”.
The bartender’s eyes widened as he hurriedly said “Ok, ok”, and began speaking in Thai with one of the girls. Soon he looked back and instructed the man to “Follow, follow”.
The woman took the British Man by the hand and led him out of the bar. Down the bright street they strolled as his mind raced with anticipation. Soon she rounded a sharp corner in a very dark alleyway with him in tow. It smelled horribly, like rotting garbage, and the standing water that dotted their path in puddles seeped over the lips of his sandals and soaked his feet.
Shortly they reached a door sealed shut. A few women loitered around the outside and touched his arms and shoulders as they entered.
The room was small. An older woman sat in front of a tiny television, staring at the screen as 12 or so young children played games with each other around the room. Extending off the back wall was a dimly lit hallway revealing four more doors, three of which were open and dark on the inside. The hushed talking and suppressed giggles of the boys and girls echoed off the dirty walls. The floor was dirt and the air was foul. And it was almost too disgusting to breathe.
Upon his entrance the old woman stood and excitedly bowed to him. She had him sit in her chair and gave him a bottle of beer. She was so happy! Her mouth was small but she spoke loudly enough so he could hear her. She asked him where he was from, if this was his first time to Thailand, and if he liked the girls. While asking this last question she laughed loudly and rocked where she stood. Then she asked if he had cash.
“Yes”, he said simply.
She asked if he “like girl or boy”.
“Girl”, he said quietly.
Upon this she explained the price of an hour with one of the girls. He listened. “Pick”, she said. And he stood.
His eyes narrowed in the darkness as he surveyed each child. They looked at him with fear in their eyes and smiles etched across their cheeks, daring to make eye contact. His gaze finally came to a rest. A little girl with long hair and dirty feet had become his prize. He pointed, mumbling “her”, under his heavy, dry tongue. She stood and took his hand.
Together they walked down the hall and chose a room. Once inside he shut the door and locked it. She sat on the yellow, semen-stained mattress on the floor. “How old are you?” he asked her.
She held up five fingers on one hand and three on the other. “Eight”, she said. And his heart beat faster.”
