This photo has nothing to do with the story. And yet, in an abstract and metaphorical way, it really does. This week a dear friend from my first days of traveling the world two years ago found me on Facebook. I met her at the hotel bar where I was staying in Bangkok, she was a bar girl. aka-Thai hooker. We became close and she confided much in me. Although this poem is partially about her, it is also about many of the girls I met there, often sent by their parents into the city to do this work in order to feed their families. Many of them have children, but not husbands. You would never know this unless you asked. Instead you will sit and feel loved and pampered and caressed and cared for. You can pretend that it is all about you when you are in Bangkok, the land of smiles, because these girls and their massage shop counterparts will make you feel amazing. And yet, they are real, with real souls, and real needs. I am happy that my friend is now working as a secretary and is no longer a bar girl. One up, thousands more to go… In the interest of protecting her identity, I am not using her real name, nor her picture.
This is for you, my MIA. Thank you for your words today. You are right, we can’t change the past, so why dwell in it?
Daw walks down Soi 18
Skirting between the changing shifts
Of food cart and hill tribe vendors
A white bag of offerings in her hand.
Arriving at The Rain Hut
She offers two rolls and a flower
Placing them lovingly
Into the birdhouse temple
She bows her head and says a prayer
Then kisses the golden Buddha
Hanging from her neck
Tomorrow, she thinks, will be better
If not this life then next.
She sits with the other girls
Combing mascara onto
Long dark lashes. An hour spent
Adept as Toulouse-Lautrec, they
Transform into their reputation
From village farm girl, to city bar girl
Ready for the long Bangkok night.
The evening shadows grow
As the city starts to cool
The sun and sweat have burned
Holes in the souls of those
Who come and fill the seats.
It’s the 50 baht per Chiang price tag
The cheapest on the Soi
That gets the crowd.
“Sohee, get me a Chiang.”
She brings him a cold beer.
Daw has another treat in store
POP. She slams her hands together
Extracting a cold wet towel
From the plastic enclosure
She dabs it lovingly over
His smelly sweating neck.
“Chokee!” He said, raising his bottle to the sky.
“Chokee!” Said the crowd in response.
They tip back their heads
Draining their bottles
“Another Chiang!” They cry in unison
Sohee doles them out and turns on the stereo
Blasting Thai rap out into the Soi
The crowd starts to dance.
A leering man twirls his fingers
In Daw’s straight black hair.
“Sohee, short time with Daw."
Sohee puts the cup on the table
The man deposits 500 baht
Taking Daw by the arm
They walk through glass doors
Up the stairs, and into a room
Filled with the scent of mold
And screaming with the songs
Of Malaria and the Dengue Fever
He pushes her onto the bed
And lives his fantasies
For half an hour,
Pretending she is there.
Grasping the Buddha between
Long painted nails
Daw closes her eyes
And thinks about the future.
Hours away in a small village
A little girl looks into her
Grandmother’s eyes
And doesn’t question
Why she gets to eat tonight.
31 comments:
Cat, I am speechless, but I am crying and even though you can't see that, maybe knowing it tells you what I cannot, now, put into words.
Oh Jennifer, you were so right in your post about women sticking together. We have such a long way to come in this world.
You've brought tears to my eyes. I have a Korean friend who also did this work; we were close, took care of each other, travelled together, and shared a place for a while there. I lost touch with her a few years ago, and I often think of her and wonder how she is now.
I love these lines most:
"Pretending she is there"
and the ending,
"A little girl looks into her
Grandmother’s eyes"
There is so much trust and nurturing in these few words; yet this little girl may have to follow her mother's path to support her family.
This poem brings out so much emotion in me. It's one of the best I've read in a long time.
Hi Rachel, Maybe some day you will be in touch with your friend again. I thought I would never hear from Daw, and then she found me on Facebook! The miracle of this weird internet thing, you know? I thank you so much for your words, they mean much to me.
The world just got a little bit smaller. Very touching poem, even without the explanation.
such a shame what many folk are forced to do to survive...
Cat - You have re-created this world entirely, and it is a heart- breaking picture. Like Jennifer and Rachel, you have me crying for the plight of women everywhere who do what they have to do to survive. How sad. I agree with Rachel -- one of the best I've read in a while.
JR- Thank you. :) It was whole different world for me, I'm glad I got to know Daw, and the others.
Laughingwolf, it is indeed. And so much worse in other countries than here, the things people have to do.
Karen, thank you my friend. It means a lot to me to know you feel it, and I sense the camaraderie. Today she called me a lucky woman. I can't even begin to describe my own sense of guilt at the chasm that exists between what I have and what these girls have to endure. And yet there is a sense of acceptance and grace in doing what they have to do that pervades their attitudes, this is something I can learn from.
catvibe
You really are a gifted writer...whatever you are writing. I feel as if I have met and talked with this young woman and seen into her heart. I want to extend a hand or just walk with her. What a treasure your writing is.
Linda
Tomorrow, she thinks, will be better
If not this life then next.
Cat, your words gave me goosebumps and made my heart cry for all the unfortunate souls of the world. Yes, we are very lucky.
That was simply amazing...a moving example of a woman simply doing, without question, what she has to do to survive. Impressive. Thank you for sharing it with us!
jorc
you seriously need to get this stuff published....
there is a lot of self congratulatory stuff in blog land (all well meaning) but some of it not very prudent - you though can write.
do you know any publishers?
Linda-I really thank you for the very high compliment. It helps me as I plod along in my learning despite the self doubts. I'm really glad I could translate her world to you, and how it made me feel to be there. You have put your finger on that.
Vesper-Aren't we though? Sigh... I wish I could do more than just write a poem to help.
Jorc-I always love it when I see you, so welcome back. Thank you for your words and for taking the journey...
Paul-I do not know ANY publishers, but it is a real dream. I thank you so much for your encouragement. It means a great deal to me.
Very touching story, true, sad and optimistic.
The poem explains well the lives of these women makes it more felt and more thoughtful.
I can picture these young ladies in some countries I traveled to. What I like about many of them, their untouchable souls!! Whatever happen to their bodies, they still carry the hope, the dream and the good left in life.
That blindness at the end deals the mortal blow. It's blind, it's hidden, it's buried...until it isn't. I fear for her in the ice-blade future when it isn't.
that makes me sad :(
Khaled-Optimistic, I like that. I feel very much optimism for Daw. Thankfully she didn't have that job for very long. Sadly, many others aren't nearly so lucky and will be badly wounded by their fate.
Jason-Thank you. There is always a cost when a person has to endure a less than ideal existence in order to survive. Many people never get a chance to rise above that and so never know anything BUT the ice blade. For them I feel the most pain. I found myself finding very comforting and helpful advice from Daw, in her statement to me not to dwell in the past. Considering our pasts, I found her statement to hold a lot of power. For her I have a lot of hope. As I said to Khaled, for others, not so much.
Noelle- I'm sorry to make you sad. :-( But these are the facts, unpleasant as they are... Thanks for reading. It is always a pleasure to have you over. :-)
This was so sad to read but beautifully written Cat. I'm glad your friend found a way out. What a wonderful tribute you've written.
Hugs, G
A wallop of emotion here, Cat. I'm not sure if I can say much more than that, as I'm all squeezed out. Your choice in bringing it around to the daughter at the end was truly inspired. Just an amazing progression and window here.
I'm so glad your friend is climbing. I wish we could pull up all the others.
I just wanted to mention that you infuse her with such dignity by bringing her child into the ending. Really good writing.
Oh, Cat. I am blown away. This poem is sad but also beautiful at the same time. Though what she endured is horrific, the woman is beautiful.
The ending is perfect! You have created a vivid portrait of the real woman behind the things we hear about or the articles we read. Excellent poem!
That was a powerful piece, Cat. How you've intertwined and juxtaposed the beauty with the ugliness is incredible.
Karen, Sarah, Julie, Blue Sugar and Geraldine, I thank you for your words, and I want you all to know that Daw was very happy to read this poem, although she would very much like to forget the whole experience. And who could blame her for wanting that?
Mia (a nickname we have for each other) You are in my heart my dear.
Cat, Well done. I have nothing to add that hasn't already been said.
In East Pakistan, in Dacca (or Dhaka) where I lived for a couple years, 67-69, I would walk past a man squatted down hammering bricks into gravel all day long. In a lean-to of cloth, not even a tent, his family lived right there with him while he broke the bricks using a small hammer, one at a time. He was hired to make gravel for the concrete that would be poured behind the wall for whatever was needed there. The women disappeared daily. I don't know what they did, nor the children.
Sometimes families like this will maim their children to increase the chances of Baksheesh (alms). They are doing what they must to survive.
As for this way of getting gravel, clay is plentiful in this land which is ancient alluvial plain, and rock is almost non-existent, thus broken brick gravel.
I should add, East Pakistan went through changes that started as I left, and is now known as Bangladesh.
Sorry I am so late in getting here. I echo all the comments. This is haunting in it literary quality and human drama. One would have to be a brick not to cry hard after reading this poem.
Extraordinary!
Christopher- Thank you for your story. I saw that same scene over and over in India, but women were breaking the rocks and their children (babies) were lying by under makeshift shade while men were standing by directing and smoking bidis. I was horrified.
K. Thank you so much. I really didn't know it would cause so much of an emotional response, but I am very glad for that feedback.
Cat, you've rendered this woman's
plight [and the other girls] with
a gentle compassion. The last
bit a heartbreaker.
Cynthia -Thank you. Indeed it is. For way too many.
It is a very touching poem! The last lines did bring tears to my eyes...it's wonderful! No words to explain exactly how I feel...
Deepaz World- Thank you, and welcome to my blog! It is very nice to meet you.
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