We welcome the storm, although it does complicate our objective. We walk into the first brothel; only red lights illuminate the shadows of utter darkness inside. The heavy smell of incense and alcohol, along with the pulsing music, adds to the stifling atmosphere.
Nonetheless, I take a deep breath and follow my friend, a seasoned veteran of brothel visits, into the obscure back corners of the local. She walks quickly and confidently, intention radiating in every bit of her being, a force to be reckoned with.
I mostly just listen and take in my surroundings as she talks with woman after woman. But as I feel the shuffle of dozens of shopping men brush by me, I am immediately brought back to harsh reality. I notice a group of men fixated on a glowing television set, and avoid looking at the screen so as not to be assaulted by the perverse images that are no doubt being displayed.
We step back out into the cold, wet night, breathing deeply of the fresh air and quickly make our way to another brothel, and then another.
Would you like to do more talking? We step into the next brothel and agree to take the upstairs while the rest of our team stays downstairs. Our male volunteer remains in the middle of the brothel, praying while vigilantly watching over us. His presence has a calming effect on me. We climb the rickety steps, taking care not to fall through the unsecured planks that form a makeshift stairway, and approach the first women. I stutter over my words and forget what I am saying. The talking gets easier.
