Tonight I went out with Tammy, Alessandro, and James Pond (that's Pond, not 007...though he could be), who founded and runs Transitions Cambodia, Inc. (TCI). James took us on a tuk-tuk (passenger trailer pulled by a motorbike – Cambodia's version of a cab) ride through the brothel areas of Phnom Penh. James told us that there had been a recent crack-down on the well-known brothels, in a response to the U.N. And U.S.'s ultimatums (make more of an effort against trafficking and child prostitution or we'll stop giving you money). Unfortunately, rather than stopping sex slavery, it only forced it further underground or relocated it. I'm sure this is a case of “treating the symptom not the disease” in terms of the larger systematic problems at play, but in any case, James told us that we wouldn't see as much as we would have a few months ago. Could have fooled me. We rode down streets and streets just filled with girls sitting outside of bars and clubs where they either worked for pimps as street prostitutes, in sex bars, brothels, or as “hostesses”. They all looked so young. James told us that what we were seeing was just the outer layer of the sex trade in Phnom Penh. Like a rotting, stinking, poisoned onion, there is layer upon layer of exploitation, degradation, and criminality. Some of the bars, we were told, had a “fishbowl” set up, where a man would enter to see a glass room filled with girls sitting on bleachers, all with numbers pinned to their chests. He simply orders which one he wants by number. Others are a little less obvious, employing hostesses who try to get men to buy as many drinks as possible before paying to take her upstairs. And then there is the Building. The Building is enormous and looks like it has been bombed out (probably has). I wouldn't set foot anywhere in the vicinity, just for the fear of it collapsing as I walked by. Well, this charming little locale is the hub of Phnom Penh's sex trafficking industry. Inside, we were told, every single room (formerly apartments) is filled with brothels (aka, sex slaves). Many of them children. It is unclear why the police haven't targeted the Building, but I suspect the reasons are also multi-layered. James told us that a friend of his, who worked undercover to rescue girls from the Building, vomited the first time he entered one of the rooms. The stench of human excretions (mostly male, if you catch my drift) was so overpowering that he had to leave and come back later to avoid throwing up again in front of the madam.
To get an even closer view of sexual exploitation at play, James took us to a bar called the Walk About, which caters mainly to Westerners. He and Alessandro waited outside, and told Tammy and I to go in and look around. He wanted to get a woman's perspective on it. At first, it looked like any American bar. Lots of older white guys having drinks and laughing. On closer inspection, all of the white guys were chatting with young (and I mean young) Cambodian girls. We headed upstairs and, on the way up, encountered a girl who needed help putting her dress back on. Before we could offer, a fat old white guy rushed to her side to lace up her dress, while also happening to grope all over her. Ew. Upstairs was a large group of older men – imagine 7 or 8 American businessmen that you would see on a golf course – each with 2 or 3 young girls hanging on him. As I watched these men, probably doctors and CEO's, I couldn't help but think of how easy it would be, if I were them, to fool myself into thinking that the girls were enjoying themselves. I guess I always have the image of the prostitute as sad and deadened, based on what I've read about the psychological effects of the industry, but failed to remember that they also have to sell themselves successfully. Therefore, they play the part of happy and fun, flirty and desiring of the men. If that's all I wanted to believe, I could see how tempting it would be to ignore the reality of what these girls endured and accept them at face-value.
With our blood boiling, Tammy and I decided that it was time to go. We couldn't stand to see human beings traded around as products any longer. On our way out, two younger American guys sitting at the bar grabbed my arm. They asked if we wanted to go out drinking and dancing with them. We said we couldn't, and then one of the guys told me that we really need to leave the bar. When I asked why, he flatly told me “because this is a hooker bar”. “Oh, really?”, Tammy said. He quickly explained that he and his friend (both professors) had booked a room in the hotel (conveniently upstairs from the “hooker bar”) without knowing what type of a place it was. I told him I was surprised that they stayed, then, and asked how he felt about staying in a place like that if he wasn't partaking in it. He said it didn't bother him – that it's just a cultural thing for the women and it's the only way they can make money. I wanted to smack his fat face and give him a serious education about why he should be bothered. But before I gave in to the temptation, Tammy dragged me out and back to the tuk-tuk, where our chivalrous men, men who fight for the rights of these women and understand what the sex trade does to them, waited to comfort us.
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