“only dance, only dance…drink beer…only dance.” Our friend Aung Tin (name changed) tries to clarify his purposes at the local disco before we fully understand what he desires to clarify for us. He invites us out for a night of dancing and we accept it as an opportunity to enter into his world.
We board the crowded bus after dark and go a few stops up the road to an area we’ve not been before. Step off the bus, wander down the street a short way, then turn down a dark alley. My mind throws out a flag for me which I duly acknowledge as I continue down the road with my friends. We approach a high-rise building with some neon lights at the base and a few people mulling about. It’s still early, but not too early. We walk up to the desk to pay our cover – $3 for men, $2 for women….wait just a minute…but I will fully understand quickly enough the reason for the discrepancy. Ushered into the elevator with a few others we find ourselves staring at a sign prohibiting cameras on the premises. We arrive at the top and come out to blaring music, black lights. Our bags are searched, the guys are frisked, and we are taken in and seated at a bar bordering the dance floor. As we walk to our seats my friend leans over and comments “I don’t think you’re going to fit in well here”. We see only one other westerner the whole night. I am the only woman who is not there on work. What we do see makes me sick deep inside my being. This is no ordinary club where men and women come on an even playing field to hook up with one another – it’s clear who brings what to the table here.
We quickly notice a table near to us where three older men are seated, and it becomes our focus. Young women swarm around to hang on the arms of these men who carry with them thick stacks of Kyat (Burmese currency).
The scene then changes. Until this point the dance floor was open, now everyone is sent to their seats and the, for lack of a better word, “fashion show” begins. Groups of 10 or 12 women come out at a time, each group dressed differently, and begin to model for the men in the room. Young women. Girls. Some can’t be older than 14 or 16 while some might be in their early twenties. And these run-way shows go on in a seeming endless progression. There are easily over a hundred (maybe two hundred) young women in this place dressed with complete disdain for the Burmese sense of modesty. And they walk out one after another after another after another to win the ‘affection’ of the men here with the money to purchase what they are here to sell. It is a marketplace. The chinese man at the table next to us who we have been watching calls over one of the older staff women who carries over a string of flowers. He talks with her a moment. Then stands up and steps towards the floor and points towards one of the girls. The woman nods. He takes out his stack of Kyat that is too big to fit in either his pocket or wallet and counts out for her the amount he will pay. His eyes are disgusting to me. I turn back to the dance floor and begin looking into the eyes of the girls who continue their show. The string of flowers is taken out and draped over the chosen ones shoulders.
A couple of these girls, the slightly older ones, walk with confidence and really work to lure in their potential clients. Most keep their eyes on the floor and walk as mechanically as they can get away with. And one girl I notice in particular as I watch her. So hesitant. Something breaks inside of me and I feel the tears behind my eyes.
Can I weep right here and right now in this place? I need to but I mustn’t. That will come later.
I just continue to sit and watch while my mind becomes numb as theirs must. And then that hesitant girl walks by with another girl, and I begin talking with them, asking questions about their lives. The realization strikes me that there are no limits here as one of the young women rests her arm on my waist and my friend leans over to comment that these girls are flirting with me.
And now that girl who I noticed on the floor catches my eye and winks at me as to send a message that there is no confusing. And I am so confused within. This cannot be happening but it is, and it becomes ever harder to sit here. My eyes need to see this, but they cannot bear it.
The night drags on. The dance floor opens up again. I go out and dance a bit.
I go to use the washroom where I find a woman who has changed out of her ‘work clothes’ and sits on a bench next to some lockers. The poster on the wall speaks to the importance of using condoms. The words go through my head from a song “This place is a prison. And these people aren’t you’re friends.” I go back to my seat.
Things will go on like this for hours, and Aung Tin needs to get some sleep because morning comes early, so we leave and grab a taxi and make our way back to our hotel.
…and I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling. Damn, how am I supposed to sleep now?!? The more I come to know this world I live in – the harder it is to wake up each morning and step out my door.
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