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Indonesian Hookers in Kuala Lumpur Malaysia

The best massage theraphy

The best massage theraphy

‘Massage?’ asks a tall girl with peroxide blond hair, no older than in her late twenties, who trails us as we pass her shop. Inside, two bored-looking girls, are lounging in their own reflexology chairs.

We stop about ten paces away. ‘Can be happy?’ Ivan asks.

She smiles. ‘How you want to be happy?’ Her lips are thick and fleshy.

‘Make love?’

‘Yes, can.’ Her eyes, squinty and bright, move from side to side.

‘How much?’

‘Sex and reflexology, one hundred and thirty ringgit.’

‘Hundred ringgit?’

‘No, I must pay thirty as reflexology charges to my boss.’

‘We look around first.’ Ivan looks at the signboard and mentally notes its name.

‘She’s seems to be the best, but let’s finish our round first,’ he says to me.

Half an hour later, after surveying six more centres, we return to the shop with the peroxide blonde. Her red lips stretch from ear to ear when she sees us.

‘I’ll take the reflexology,’ I say.

‘I’m going for the happy package,’ Ivan tells her. She leads him away from the shop.

Stepping in, I sit on the reflexology chair and remove my socks and shoes. After wiping my feet with a hot, wet towel, a short girl starts to thump my calves with her fist. Then she starts to twist her fist into my soles.

Twenty minutes later, Ivan and the peroxide blonde come back to the shop. His forehead is bruised.

‘What happened?’

He gives me a vivid account. Earlier, the peroxide blonde leads him to a shop with tinted glass. There is no signboard. She looks around to make no one is watching and unlocks the door. The shop is divided into curtained areas, each containing a massage table. He and the peroxide blonde climb on a massage table measuring, according to his estimate, two by five feet. During their spirited love-making, Ivan falls off the massage table, hitting his forehead on the floor.

The peroxide blonde laughs. ‘I told your friend not to try difficult positions. But he wouldn’t listen!’


Red-light District Hookers

Red-light District Hookers

In a garbage dump the size of three soccer fields in Medan Marelan, Sumatra, Budiwati, aged seventeen, trudges ankle-deep in litter and scans around her. She picks up recyclable items like tin cans, plastic bottles and cardboards and takes them home, two kilometres away. Having scavenged for the past five years, four hours every day, she is oblivious to the stench assailing her nostrils and the flies buzzing about her face.

When Budiwati has collected a sizable quantity, her mother takes the bags of recyclable items to a scrap dealer. She and her family stay in a one-roomed shack made of planks and a rusty zinc roof. There is no sanitation, water or electricity, and she has never attended school. When she was ten, her father, a bemo (three-wheeled motorcycle-taxi) driver, died in an accident. Her family, comprising her mother, elder sister and younger brother, moved to the shack in the slum of Medan Marelan for which the landlord charged 100,000 rupiah a month.

When she arrives home, her mother says to her, ‘You’re old enough to get a job. I’ve arranged for a friend, Pak Hartono, to take you to Dumai. There you’ll board a ferry to Malacca. From Malacca, you’ll proceed to Kuala Lumpur, where you’ll get a high-salary job. Please obey these people. Don’t be scared – there’ll be other girls travelling with you.’

Budiwati has been expecting this move. She recalls that the previous year, two men came in a black, shiny car. They took her elder sister, Citra, away and gave her mother a wad of rupiah notes in exchange. For several months, the family ate better food than before, and her mother bought new dresses and a pair shoes for her. Her mother told her Citra was sent to work as a maid for a rich family in Jakarta. But, Budiwati knew her sister was sold into prostitution in the capital’s red-light district of Mangga Dua. Many other teenage girls in the slum suffered the same fate.


Her life in Kuala Lumpur

Her life in Kuala Lumpur

Over the past few months, her mother’s meals became simple again, and Budiwati realized the proceeds of the sale have run out. She is aware it is her turn to go away. She nods her head. ‘Yes, I understand. I’ll do what they tell me to do. I know my life will be better in Kuala Lumpur.’

Two days later, Pak Hartono, a portly man in his fifties, goes to her house. He chats briefly with Budiwati’s mother and hands her a bulging envelope. ‘Wati, come here,’ her mother says. ‘It’s time for you to go with Pak Hartono.’

Budiwati emerges from her room with tears in her eyes and bids goodbye to her mother and younger brother. She and Pak Hartono walk to the transport terminal, and board a bus. The journey takes up a horrendous eleven hours. By the time Budiwati reaches Dumai, her back is sore. From the station, a bemo ride brings them to a stilted house in Loeboekgaoeng, a fishing village ten kilometres from Dumai. Four other girls, all in their late teens, are also in the house. They are given a simple meal of curry and rice.

The curtain of night drapes the horizon. ‘It’s time to leave,’ Pak Hartono tells the girls. Using a flashlight to illuminate a path, he leads them to a vessel moored on the mudflats. Budiwati is shocked that it is not a ferry but a small wooden fishing boat. Pak Hartono and the five girls climb on board, and huddle in the small plank cabin. The boatman does not give them any life jackets.

In the darkness of the night, the fishing boat leaves Loeboekgaoeng into the Straits of Malacca. The sea rocks the fishing boat like a cradle on several occasions, causing two of the girls to throw up. Two hours later, the boat lands on the muddy shore of a fishing village called Tanjung Sepat, where a van is waiting. Pak Hartono herds the lasses into the back of the van, and it departs for Kuala Lumpur.


70 ringgit for short time!

70 ringgit for short time!

Selayang. After given a day’s rest, the girls are driven to a brothel in Brickfields every evening to work. ‘Kerjanya senang (The work is easy). Just lie on your back!’ Pak Hartono briefs them. The pimp in the brothel charges clients 70 ringgit for a short session. As the girls’ families have taken cash advances from Pak Hartono, three-quarters of their earnings are deducted to repay the debt and the cost of their lodging. Two months later, Pak Hartono takes them to Klang to work and subsequently to Sungei Buluh.

Images of her past fade away in my mind as Budiwati stops talking and resumes eating her rice. We are in a nasi padang restaurant on Tuanku Abdul Rahman Road. The scent of coriander, lemongrass and beef mixed into the humid air fill my lungs.

I cut a piece of curried chicken into half and eat the morsels and we remain silent for a few minutes. Budiwati puts her fork and spoon down. She drinks her air bandung (rose syrup), and her big eyes dart about, seemingly to make sure no one is eavesdropping.

Putting the glass down, she continues talking in Indonesian language. ‘I’ve been staying here illegally for over a year. My mother’s debt has been settled but I won’t return to Medan yet. I intend to earn more money before I leave.’

‘What’s your worst experience here?’

‘On one occasion, I had so many clients for two consecutive days that my private parts hurt. I asked Pak Hartono to take me see a doctor, but he refused; said we couldn’t register as patients because we didn’t have passports. Instead, he took me to a bomoh in Kampung Datuk Keramat. The bomoh gave me jamu (herbal) pills. Pak Hartono only gave me a day’s rest.’

‘How many clients do you serve a day?’ I sip my Coca-Cola.

‘When I was a new face in the brothel, I served fifteen to twenty customers in one day.’

‘What has become of the other girls – your co-workers?’

‘One got arrested in a police raid; another returned to Sumatra. Two others are like me, working freelance. We’re staying together.’


Indonesian Hookers in Kuala Lumpur Malaysia
Indonesian Hookers in Kuala Lumpur Malaysia
Indonesian Hookers in Kuala Lumpur Malaysia
Indonesian Hookers in Kuala Lumpur Malaysia


Her mother told her Citra was sent to work as a maid for a rich family in Jakarta. But, Budiwati knew her sister was sold into prostitution in the capital’s red-light district of Mangga Dua. Many other teenage girls in the slum suffered the same fate.


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