Chapter 9:

Auntie Nong; Ageing Dancer

You’ll have to pardon me, but age has clouded my memory. I’ll try to recount my life for you in as much detail as my withered brain will allow. But during the 70 years that I have been scraping by, I’ve learned that sometimes forgetting things can be a blessing because we all have moments in our lives that we wish we could erase or rewrite. Sadly, I have plenty of them.

My memories of being abused at the hands of people I trusted are the most vivid and they never seem to fade. Time has healed the many cuts and bruises on my body but my emotional wounds still throb with as much pain as if they had been inflicted only yesterday. Looking back on my life, my heart aches and I can’t help but pity myself.

Swhing Nisagornsen was my birth name but I became better known in the later years of my life as Auntie Nong. I was born in 1934, the year of the dog, and kathoeys were considered despicable beings at that time. The sight of an effeminate boy running around in his shorts greatly upset the neighbours. They either thought the child was evil and openly voiced their abhorrence, or even worse, they thought he was insane and pitied him. Some took his fondness for beauty and femininity as an indictment of mental illness. I was that little child with no idea of what I was doing to offend people. Cruel folks told me that I was the personification of a wasted incarnation, and that it was disgraceful for me to want to express myself as a girl. I always hoped in vain for some understanding and sympathy. I didn’t choose to be born like this. I am who I am. And to be honest, I like who I am.

The house I was born in was made entirely out of teak and sat on Sib Sam Hang Road in the Banglampoo area of Bangkok. It’s hard to paint an exact picture of Bangkok, or Changwat Phra Nakhon as it was known back then, but let’s just say Khao San Road, which is now full of backpackers, was just an empty road.

It would have been nice to have grown up in a home where people understood me but then that would have been wishful thinking. My differences made my life a constant struggle from the beginning, and poverty only served to double my hardship.

I was the sixth of eight children, born to an opium-addicted father and a weary mother. Por was a veteran soldier hailing from the Phetchabun province in the northern region of Thailand, while mae was a Mon, an ethnic group originally from Burma, and was living in the Nonthaburi province, a suburb of Bangkok. I never found out the details of my parents’ courtship or the circumstances that brought about their union.

I don’t know why por turned to opium. In fact, although I spent a lot of time with him when I was a young boy, I knew very little about the kind of person he was. But there probably wasn’t very much to know. As far back as I can remember, por was intoxicated most of the time. I have pleasant childhood memories of our trips to the licensed rong fin (opium den). Por always put me on his back for the journey. I would wrap my legs around his emaciated body and bury my small fingers in his skeletal shoulders. As a young boy, I was too fixated on the thrill of being up so high to notice how severely the drugs had ravaged my father’s body.

The opium den was made from wood like most houses in those days. The floor was covered with flattened strips of split bamboo, called fak , which reflected the yellow hue from the sun’s rays onto the dark, wooden walls. Benches had been placed on a patch of raised ground, allowing the clients to lie back and drift away on clouds of euphoria. Trays containing paraphernalia such as pipes, bowls, oil lamps and opium trays lay next to them. At the time, I thought they were engaging in some sort of cultural practice, and I found the opium house enchanting, with its sweet-smelling clouds of smoke and its relaxed atmosphere. That was before I realised the destructive effects of my father’s addiction.

Por would sit me next to him as he indulged in the euphoria. The den provided either smooth rocks or enamelled porcelain for its customers to use as pillows. An attendant would slowly prepare the opium for por by pushing it into a narrow pipe. By most standards, this scene would not qualify as a positive father-and-child-bonding activity, but all I remember of it now is my father’s laughter. Seeing him so happy made me happy in turn.

As a by-product of por ’s addiction, his fondness for sweet things made him an excellent cook when it came to desserts. His best recipe was kaeng buat (pumpkins in coconut milk) and he always made extra so he could sell it. Por was also very good at carpentry but the opium rendered him sluggish and sleepy and he often dozed off in the middle of his work. He never bothered trying to make a career out of either of his two skills, as his real job was smoking opium.

Had he tried to make something of his life, I wonder how it would have improved our family life. It’s not very acceptable in Thailand to speak ill of your parents and I really did love mine dearly, but I’m afraid my father forsook many of his obligations for his addiction.

Chinese immigrants, most of whom were labourers, are said to have introduced the recreational use of opium to Thailand. The public gradually saw how addictive and dangerous the drug could be and eventually in 1959 opium dens were outlawed, along with the production and sale of the drug. By then it had already claimed my father’s life. I remember por as an affectionate and loving father. Had he been freed from his addiction, I doubt that he would have reacted positively to my identity.

As por fell under the full spell of his opium addiction, mae stepped into his shoes as the family rice-winner. She faced a daily struggle just to put food on the table for us. She swept the market early every morning and spent the rest of the day hawking rattan baskets filled with khanom (sweets) on the streets of Bangkok. At the end of each day, she would arrive home on the verge of collapsing from exhaustion. Por , who had awaited her return all day, would steal money from her bag and usually wake her up in the process. At first, mae refused to give him money but she would be slapped around as a result. She quickly learned to turn a blind eye to his actions and was careful to leave only a small sum of money in her bag for por ’s fix. He squandered what little we had on opium instead of putting the family’s well-being first like he should have. I like to think that mae loved him but just didn’t know how to help him get better. You see, we were just simple people. There was no such thing as rehab or counsellors in those days, and even if there had been, my family wouldn’t have been able to afford it anyway.

In her spare time, mae liked to play cards, smoke cigarettes, and chew makphlu. Makphlus are areca nuts wrapped in betel leaves and smeared with lime. When chewed like gum, they cause your saliva to turn red. Mae ’s teeth had darkened from years of chewing makphlu but she was still a real looker. She used a secret ingredient to make a dye paste that turned her grey hair black. She took good care of her long, silky black hair, which is the signature feature of a Mon woman’s beauty. I used to touch her hair fondly as she combed it, secretly wishing that I might one day have hair like hers. To mae ’s credit, she managed to maintain a good balance between making money and disciplining her children during the first few years of my life. But her energy levels could only last for so long, and fatigue eventually caught up with her.

I grew up during turbulent times in Thailand. There were wars, coup d’états, rebellions and dictatorships. During the French-Thai War and World War Two, I remember bombs raining down from the sky as the deafening alert sirens wailed in the background. The alert often went off when I was at school. But wherever I was when it sounded, I always ran into Wat Bawonniwetwihan for cover. Even though there were bunkers around, we villagers preferred to hide in the sacred land of the monastery. We believed Buddha’s protection was superior to the protection any kind of man-made shelter stood to offer.

I admit that at first I thought of the bombings as an exciting break from my daily life. I know it was childish but I was only a seven-year-old boy. The more I heard about the aftermaths of each attack, the more reality began to seep in and I became increasingly terrified. Bodies were found under blown-up trams and crammed into bunkers, while dead men lay on the streets with their bowels pulled inside out.

I was carrying my infant nephew during the last attack. I was with one of my older brothers who always wore a lot of amulets around his neck. He took one of them off, put it between his palms, and began praying for protection. I was terrified when I heard a bomb exploding and saw a nearby chedi (stupa) shake slightly. I was convinced that it was going to collapse and crush us, but Buddha must have been watching over us that day.

After World War Two, I started skipping school at Wat Chana Songkhram. I was only seven so when mae found out she scolded me, telling me that I was throwing my life away. Later, she grew tired of trying to discipline me; her seven other children and abusive husband must have consumed all of her energy. I was too unruly so she gave up on me and told me I was old enough to make my own decisions. I hated school anyway. The other children used to call me names and I was always getting into fights with foul-mouthed boys. Looking back now, quitting school was the biggest mistake of my life. I’m illiterate and can only manage to write my name. At times I blame myself for making such a rash decision but, in my defence, I was just a child who didn’t know any better. I just wanted to play and be merry all day. I didn’t realise that without an education, I was diminishing the rays of light in an already dim future. How I wish someone had sat me down and talked some sense into me.

In the absence of school, I had no shortage of ways to fill my free time because Banglampoo was a very lively area. When durians were in season, the Penang market was filled with vendors offering variations of this fruit according to their shapes, sizes and thorn patterns. But not everyone likes durians on account of their unique, strong smell. Using a big knife, the vendors removed the green thorn-covered husk to reveal the meaty, yellow flesh within. They then offered passers-by small samples to taste. On lucky days, I could get an entire meal just by walking from one end of the durian market to the other.

Near Penang market, there was a cinema of the same name. I went there to see stars such as Audrey Hepburn and Kathryn Grayson in Thai-dubbed black and white movies. I would examine the movie programme board beforehand and memorise the starting time of my favoured movie. Then, because I had no money, I would sneak in on the coat-tails of the paying customers. If the ticket collector spotted me, he would drag me out of the screen and knuckle me sharply on the forehead. But no matter how many times this happened, I never learned my lesson. The Penang cinema was later renamed Sri Banglampoo before it burned to the ground in a fire.

At the age of nine, I discovered a fondness for men, and the screen legend Gregory Peck was one of my first hopeless crushes. My attraction to men was intense but not sexual. I couldn’t understand why I liked being near them and watching them so attentively.

I also liked to pass the time by going to the ngan wat (the temple fair), which was at the peak of its popularity in those days. People were drawn to the fair by many attractions, such as likay (musical folk drama), ram wong (Thai folk dancing), rot tai thang (a motorcycle doing loops in a giant barrel), makeshift shops and singing contests. In anticipation of big sales, mae and I would eagerly load baskets with wares and set up a stall at the market. Mae had good people skills so she could sell the wares on her own while I wandered off to watch the likay and ram wong . I was enthralled by the way the pairs of men and women almost embraced one another as they danced, their eyes locked and their movements graceful. Even though there was no actual physical contact between them, their dancing seemed teasingly flirtatious to me. I was so impressed by their dancing that I began practising their moves in front of the mirror at home.

No matter how unruly I was my parents never beat me, unlike my older brother Yoi, the fourth child, who liked to take his anger out on me on a regular basis. He punched and kicked me whenever he felt like it. He seemed to take the fact that I was a kathoey as some sort of justification for his behaviour. He told me that I had brought shame upon the family and deserved to be punished. To be fair, he victimised my sisters too but I suffered at his hands the most. Yoi was the bully of the family.

By the time Yoi’s aggression towards me had become routine, por had passed away and mae refused to get involved. She just walked out of the house whenever my brother started beating me. Mae was an excellent provider but I’m afraid she utterly failed to protect me. Maybe she was afraid of Yoi. Besides, long hours of work wore her out and she simply hadn’t any energy left to deal with Yoi. How I wish she had done something to stop the beatings instead of turning her back on me. In time, I slowly began to nurture a strong resentment towards every member of my family. They didn’t seem to think of me as an equal human being. To be honest, I felt like they had disowned me.

Before I turned 15, I was more than ready to escape my family. The prospect of unforeseen adventures was far more appealing than living with people who didn’t understand me.

One evening mae sat me down and, taking my hand in hers, she said, ‘Tueng (my then nickname), you’re grown up now. I know you can fend for yourself so I don’t worry about you. I don’t have the resources to support anyone anymore. You should go your own way.’

Her lips quivered and tears poured down her sunken cheeks. ‘Whatever you do from now on, please stay on the honest path. If you are in need ... it’s better to ask or beg. Promise me you won’t steal from anyone.’

I nodded before she continued, ‘Take care of yourself. This raft is about to sink.’

I wasn’t really hurt by my mother’s parting words. Between my sadistic older brother and my desire to express myself, bigger factors were contributing to my decision to leave my family. They discouraged me from cross-dressing and I couldn’t handle being a punchbag for Yoi any longer.

I realised too that mae hadn’t been exaggerating when she told me she wouldn’t be able to support the family for much longer, as she was suffering from a terminal illness. She needed all the money she could get for her treatment so she decided to sell our teak house. There was nothing left to make me think twice about leaving. I knew I would probably never see any of them again but then I knew that none of them wanted anything to do with me anyway. I left home with only the clothes I was wearing. I later discovered that my name was removed from the family register after I left.

I spent the first few weeks sleeping on the streets. I walked around in filthy clothes while people pointed and stared at me in disgust. I’d say I was a favourite amongst the mosquito population too because I was one of their main suppliers of blood during those few weeks. I wai ’d passers-by to beg for food. Kind strangers gave me coins and sometimes asked if I was a boy or a girl. I always replied, ‘I’m a boy, kha ,’ purposefully adding the female ending.

Around this time, I met a group of kathoeys who hung out around a park adjacent to Saphan Phut. The park was known as a popular gathering place for kathoeys in those days. These ladyboys weren’t as beautiful or petite as modern-day ones because hormonal and surgical enhancement wasn’t widely available. They were fully dressed in women’s clothing yet they still looked mannish, their strong, thick legs wrapped in unflattering stockings. I was intrigued by them nonetheless. In spite of how awkward they looked and the scornful looks they attracted, I felt empowered by them. When I had finally mustered up the courage to approach them, I walked up to one of them and tentatively asked, ‘How come you are so beautiful?’ She gave me a big beaming smile in response and from that moment on I became the youngest member of the group.

After they had listened to my ordeal, with tears welling up in their eyes, not only did they give me make-up, dresses and wigs, but they also took it in turns to take me in. I tried to help with household chores during my stay but I usually felt like more of a hindrance than a help. I was just a teenager with no real means of supporting myself and I didn’t want to be a burden on anyone. I preferred to keep moving from one house to another with the few possessions I had.

I learned a lot about applying make-up and cross-dressing from my new friends. In those days, we didn’t have a huge selection of make-up with which to experiment and I couldn’t afford to buy any myself. I had one hand-me-down lipstick in the most glorious shade of red. It dribbled down my chin like streaks of paint when I ate noodles. In lieu of blusher, I dabbed the tip of the lipstick with my finger and smeared it across my cheeks to give my face a pink glow. The only other hand-me-down that I had was a beautiful synthetic wig, which looked very much like Farrah Fawcett’s signature hairdo. This was my first taste of freedom and it was all the sweeter because I finally felt like I belonged somewhere. These older and more experienced kathoeys really did save my life.

Contrary to what you might have expected, most of these senior kathoeys came from good backgrounds or held respectable jobs: there was a university student, an attorney and a soldier/pilot amongst us. They dressed and lived like men during the day and cross-dressed at night; unlike today’s kathoeys who generally live as women 24/7. I suspected that some of them had wives and kids at home but I never asked. We accepted one another as if we were sisters. There was no bitching or bad-mouthing among us at all. And most importantly, the other kathoeys never looked down on me because of my poor background.

Having said all that, none of us were angels. We would arrange to meet up in the park before venturing off to the military camps to score soldiers. If we were lucky, the soldiers might be having a party and ask us to join in the merriment. I bagged a lot of men in my time and I nearly always ended up in someone’s room. If I were a natural woman, I would probably have had lots of children by now.

Of course, our gathering at Saphan Phut attracted many curious men, but not all of them were kind to us. Whenever a drunk fellow insulted us, yelling ‘ Kathoey mee dueay !’ (‘ kathoey with a knob’) he never knew what, or who, had hit him, because all of the kathoeys would gather around and shower him with punches and slaps as punishment.

Some men hurled profanities at us and tried to provoke us into having fist fights. But as soon as my friends, who were quite well built and strong, lunged at them, these cowardly men would flap away like startled birds. We may have been feminine, but we were by no means cowards.

In time, I effortlessly evolved from a protégé into a fully fledged seductress. This wasn’t good news for the rest of the group because as the youngest and most feminine member I got the most male attention. I never stole men from my sisters though. In my mind, the main premise of being a kathoey was to dress in women’s clothing and be suay. To me, being beautiful and appreciated by others at parties and temple fairs was the most integral part of being a kathoey.

I met my first boyfriend, named Wuth, in 1951. My first love coincided with the most damaging rebellion in Thailand during Plaek Phibunsongkhram’s regime. It was called the Manhattan Rebellion and it broke out when the Royal Thai Navy attempted to overthrow the General of the Army, Plaek Phibunsongkhram, who is commonly called Chomphon Por by Thais. In June of the same year, during a ceremony celebrating the transfer of the American dredge, Manhattan , to the Thai navy as part of the US military assistance programme, a group of junior naval officers kidnapped Por at gunpoint. They held him captive in a royal ship called Sri Ayutthaya , which was anchored in the middle of the Chao Phraya River. Instead of meeting the rebels’ demands, the government ordered soldiers and police to launch a fierce counter-attack. They even sank the ship in which Por was being held captive. The General, however, miraculously swam down the vast river to safety.

Wuth was a policeman who looked very smart in his fitted uniform. I once ran all the way from Banglampoo to Saphan Phut where he was stationed just to see how he was doing. I had been worried sick wondering if he was okay. Tanks and machine-guns were dotted all over the street, and although I was a little scared, all I could think about was how madly in love with him I was.

He seemed very surprised to see me at Saphan Phut, and asked, ‘Nong, what the heck are you doing here?’

I honestly don’t know why he reacted like that—was it because he didn’t want to be seen with me or because he didn’t want me to be in any danger? I told him that I had come all that way because I missed him. He sighed and replied, ‘It isn’t safe walking around the town during this uprising. Go home as fast as you can.’

I kept glancing back at him all the way out of the makeshift station. It was an innocent relationship in many ways, on my part at least, because Wuth was my first boyfriend. We slowly drifted apart because we were living so far away from one another. I doubt he took the relationship seriously. Years later, I met him again and learned that he had gotten married. We met by chance on the street and he talked to me as if we were merely acquaintances and had never had a deep relationship. Our conversation was awkward and he abruptly bid me goodbye. I stared after him for a long time as he walked away from me, stepping back onto his rightful path that led to his wife and home. I couldn’t help but wonder if I would ever find my own path to real love.

In every relationship I’ve ever had, I’ve always been the one who walked out on my boyfriend. I was young and suay , and like the modern-day saying goes, ‘ khon suay lueak dai ’ (‘beauties can be choosy’), and this beauty always thought there was a better man lurking just around the corner. Some of my boyfriends were very nice to me but I’m afraid I took most of them for granted.

All but one that is. I had a boyfriend from Pak Nam who was very kind to me. At the end of each month, he would give me his entire salary like a man might do with his wife, whose job it is to manage her husband’s money. I was happy with our relationship up until the point where I found two movie tickets in the pocket of his trousers, and I hadn’t been to the movies with him in a long time. I interrogated him fiercely and he finally confessed that he had been seeing another woman for some time. He had been a caring man when we first met but he turned out to be yet another disappointment in a long line of them. I asked him, ‘Why didn’t you tell me that you have a woman on the side? You can tell me and I’ll understand,’ and I meant every word of it.

But there is no point trying to change a man’s nature. How could I compete with this woman when I didn’t have womanly parts? My boyfriend asked me to walk away from him because he wanted to marry this woman. He said that he just wanted to go back to, as he put it, ‘normal’ life. He said that he worried that I would go to drastic lengths to avenge him, such as publicising our relationship or chasing after his soon-to-be wife and assaulting her. In my defence, I had every reason to be angry with him but the thought of hurting either him or his fiancée never crossed my mind.

For the next few years, I was in and out of relationships with several men. Some of them were more like patrons than boyfriends. One of my boyfriends was a high-ranking soldier called Chian. I was so infatuated with him that upon his request I cut my hair short in order to conceal the true nature of our relationship. In public, I was his houseboy, but within the confines of his large house we were lovers.

The strangest aspect of our arrangement was that his parents and younger brother acknowledged our relationship and we lived under the same roof as them. I tried to help out with the household chores but his mother flew into a panic if she saw me so much as sweep the floor. She said that if Chian saw me working as a servant he would be upset with her. His parents were very fond of me and they called me ‘ luk ’—an affectionate term that suggested they thought of me as their own child.

Chian’s only negative quality was that he was very jealous and possessive. He ordered his brother to spy on me to see if I was cheating on him. Obviously, Chian, rather than his father, was the figure of authority in his family.

In time, Chian’s paranoia caused him to start beating me. I would have lived with him as long as he would allow me, had he not begun to abuse me physically and emotionally. Jealousy can distort a man beyond all recognition and I’ve witnessed this with my own two eyes. My kind patron turned into a ferocious creature who was consumed by madness. He reminded me of my abusive brother in this regard—a man who vented his temper through violence. His parents were too terrified of him to intervene. I didn’t stick around long enough to find out what lay at the root of their immense fear of their son. After I had moved out of the house, Chian’s mother asked me to pay him a visit. I had a lot of respect for her but I thought she had some nerve to make such a request. Unfortunately, Chian isn’t the only abusive man with whom I have crossed paths but I’d prefer not to talk about the rest of them.

Having had my heart broken countless times, I came to the conclusion that I couldn’t rely on any man emotionally, as no man would ever be able to love me for me. They all eventually left me to marry women and have children. I’ve concluded that this life of mine, which has been deprived of any real romance, is cursed.

After I left home and everyone in my family had gone their separate ways, I thought I would be safe from my abusive brother but I was wrong.

I was at a party one night, when unbeknownst to me, Yoi’s friend spotted me and reported back to him. A group of sailors were flirting with me and I was having a great time, when out of nowhere my brother grabbed me from behind and dragged me out of the party by my long hair. I tried to break free of his grip with all my being. The sailors were about to intervene but my brother’s friend quickly told them that the attacker was my brother and that I was a kathoey. They backed down immediately thinking the assault was a ‘family affair’. My brother’s attack was a hate crime yet nobody came to my rescue. I sobbed so hard a huge lump swelled up in my throat as my brother dragged me out of the party. I was so embarrassed. I was at my most vulnerable yet no one had helped me. They just looked on with pity. But what good was pity to me?

Yoi clawed at my hair and clothes with great force. He hurled me into a corner before flying at me mercilessly. I tried to avoid his blows and fight back but I was no match for him. Every time his fists crashed into my face I felt a part of my will to live slowly ebbing out of me. By some stroke of luck, an aunt of mine happened to sell khanom at a nearby vending cart. She had taken me in from time to time in the past when things at home had gotten rough. If she hadn’t been there that day, I’m not sure if I’d still be alive today. Seeing Yoi assaulting me, she ran over and pleaded with him to stop.

‘Yoi, stop that right now! Don’t hurt your own brother,’ she shouted.

Yoi panted as he lowered his balled-up fists. My lips were cut and blood was gushing down my nose. I wiped the blood away with my hands and saw that several of my fingernails were broken. My body was covered in bruises. I assessed the damage that had been done to me and broke down all over again. As I struggled to my feet, Yoi grabbed a hold of me a second time and dragged me to a pier near the base of a bridge on the Chao Phraya River. He pulled me aboard a docked sampan and tied me to its mast before walking away.

I never saw or heard from Yoi again after the beating. But I later received the terrible news that he had hung himself after his temper had cost him both his wife and his job. He was an abusive alcoholic and there was only so much his wife could take. When I heard the news, I honestly wasn’t sure whether I should respond with joy or sorrow. Buddha teaches us to forgive people who mistreat us, because cluttering your mind with hatred does nobody any good. But I really don’t know if I can ever forgive Yoi.

I took every menial job that presented itself just to get by. No application or training was required for the work I did. I pushed fully loaded rickshaws across the bridge but I didn’t always get paid for it. It was up to the passengers to spare me 5 or 10 satang for my efforts. I was like one of those homeless children who ambush cars sitting in traffic, armed with window-cleaner or garlands to sell. I sometimes offered massages to older acquaintances for 30 baht an hour. During my most desperate moments, I went to fresh-food markets and searched the gutters, which were filled with the dirty remains of fish and meat, looking for coins that people had dropped. The vile smell of dirty water clung to my hands. It was only when I got scabies from searching through the gutters that I finally decided to stop. I managed to get by on these menial jobs because I had only myself to look after and I usually had a free roof over my head. However, my pitiful wages never lasted long and I never built up any savings.

When I was in my late teens, I started walking the streets for a living. I did it out of pure desperation. I walked around Sala Daeng and the old Coca Cola building on Silom Road looking for clients. I worked independently, usually positioning myself on the sidewalk next to an electricity pole and assuming my most seductive pose. Most things tend to change with time but I suppose the modus operandi for this trade is an exception. A punter would pull up alongside me in his car and lower his window. We would make eye contact and I would poke my head in through the window to negotiate. The transaction took place in a nearby bungalow that could be rented at an hourly rate. Some clients felt comfortable enough to bring me home with them and carry out business there.

I lived with a friend near Queen Saovabha Memorial Institute on Henry Dunant Road while I was working as a prostitute. The location suited me perfectly because it wasn’t far from my regular trading spots. I didn’t walk around Suan Lumpini, which is one of the streetwalking hotspots nowadays. But I did go there to have free unprotected sex. AIDS was unheard of back then. All of the other streetwalkers I knew were kathoeys. Some of them stole from clients, so the kathoey prostitute’s reputation as a petty thief is age-old. I abided by mae ’s parting advice to me though, and I was never tempted to steal. I could make 100-200 baht for a quickie and the money would last me for a week or so before I would take to the streets again. Back then, one saleung of gold (3.8 grams) cost just a little more than one hundred baht.

My career as a prostitute came to an abrupt end when the government began a serious crackdown on streetwalking. One evening I saw a jeep speeding along the horizon. My friends suddenly started scattering in all directions crying out, ‘Police! Police!’ My friend and I ran for our lives towards the Klongtoey area. It felt like we had been running for miles before we happened upon an abandoned construction site. Darkness impaired my visibility and I stumbled into a hole. A sharp pain seared through my leg but I couldn’t see what had caused it. Besides, the pain was the least of my worries at the time. I needed cover and my intuition told me I should hide out here. My friend opted to keep running.

Using both hands I smeared dust and dirt all over my body. It proved to be a smart move as a few minutes later I heard the sound of approaching footsteps. I sank deeper into the muddy soil. A police officer suddenly appeared overhead, a flashlight in hand. He shone the beams in my direction, scanning the hole carefully.

‘If there’s anyone down there,’ he called, ‘you better come out immediately.’

My eyes instantly welled up at the thought of spending time in jail. I had no money and no one to help me so if I was arrested who knew if I would ever taste freedom again. With that horrifying prospect in mind, I held my breath and sank even deeper into the mud. I prayed to Phra Mae Thorani (the Earth personified as a goddess) to help conceal me. I stayed still for as long as I could. I think I owe a debt of gratitude to Phra Mae Thorani because the policeman was gone when I finally came up for air. I stayed in the hole all night to make sure the coast was clear. Apart from the occasional squelching of the mud, all I could hear was the faraway noises of jeep engines and police whistles. Sitting in the hole, caked in mud, it suddenly hit me the depths my life had sunk to and I cried myself to sleep.

When the first rays of sunshine appeared the following morning, I awoke and sat up in my temporary dwelling place. I discovered that I had lost my wallet and the pain in my leg had been caused by a piece of broken tile that had been concealed in the mud.

I later found out that my friend had been arrested. Along with others who had been arrested, she was sent to Lad Yao Prison and left there to rot. Many of the prisoners died from TB. I swore off prostitution from then on.

When I was in my twenties, I got to know a kathoey dance troupe who performed at ordainments and funerals. Relatives often hired such performers to honour the dead or sometimes purely to gain face. Obviously for funerals, the performance can’t be about celebration or merriment as that would be disrespectful to the dead.

After seeing me dance, the troupe asked me to join them. Under the guidance of more experienced dancers, I quickly became one of their best performers and I took over most of the lead roles, which were of course all female. I was paid 50 baht for a gig. I came to love performing and I’ve since spent most of my adult life as a nang ram (a female dancer).

My style of dancing, however, is not purely traditional because firstly, that wasn’t the way I was trained and, secondly, over the years I have integrated my own moves into my dancing. I like to think that I’m a natural when it comes to choreography, thanks to my observant eye and photographic memory. As my network of friends expanded, so too did my opportunities, and I ended up moving between several different dance troupes. I didn’t make a lot of money but I got by. I rented a room for the first time in my life in the Klongtoey area.

Through my expansive ladyboy network I had the opportunity to travel to upcountry provinces with a ram wong troupe. I earned 25 baht a gig. We usually set up a stage in a large field within the monastery. In those days, upcountry wats were located in remote areas with primitive transport systems, meaning that everyone in the group had to help carry the tools and equipment along with their own personal effects. We often walked many kilometres to the venues on sun-parched dirt roads. Occasionally, kind villagers might offer us buffalo carts as a means of transport, and flirtatious, chivalrous men would insist on helping me with my bags.

Ram wong was very popular in those days. Men would purchase their ticket at the entrance, and once inside they would approach the woman of their choice and ask her to dance by bowing slightly before her. The dance itself was sophisticated and there was strictly no hanky-panky allowed. Ram wong girls always dressed modestly and attracted their partners with beaming, gracious smiles. No one could tell that I was a kathoey and I was rarely left sitting for any dance. However, it was the men who generally caused commotion. More often than not, two men would get into a fist fight over a beautiful girl. They sometimes insisted on continuing the dance after the fair had ended or fired gunshots into the air, having had one too many drinks. I never saw anyone get badly injured though and all in all I found these gigs fun, because they allowed me to work as a woman. I went out with a few men after the dances, but they were always gentlemanly enough not to take advantage of me.

Things seemed to be looking up for me. I settled down in the Surawong area when I was in my thirties. I moved here from Klongtoey and rented a room behind Wat Hualampong. During this time I picked up another style of dance from watching far too many Bollywood movies. I thought Meena Kumari, who starred in the 1952 film Aladdin and the Wonderful Lamp , was exquisitely beautiful. I stole dance moves from various films and I eventually developed what I called a rabam khaek (an Indian dance). I practised in front of the mirror and found that my flexibility gave me a huge advantage in my newfound passion.

I also diligently practised belly-dancing in water. If you move your hips in the shape of the figure eight and observe the movements beneath the surface of the water, you’ll know you’re getting better when each grind produces small waves. With all my new dance moves, I decided to join a cabaret group where I was revamped as Hema, after Hema Malini, another famous Bollywood actress. I performed at a nightclub on Soi Nana which was frequented by Saudi Arabian men. If I recall correctly, it was called Thai Heaven. I had the time of my life there. I was very popular with the patrons, so much so that some patrons would call over and tip me before I had even performed. The most elaborate trick I had for wowing the patrons was to slowly bend backwards and pick coins or banknotes up off the stage floor using my mouth and without falling over. I made quite a lot of money and at the end of each night the whole cabaret act would go out for a meal together at a roadside eatery.

To commemorate what I felt was the pinnacle of my life, I paid an art student who lived nearby, 150 baht to draw me in my elaborate costume of a midriff-bearing blouse, called a choli, and a petticoat. My motto was to be merry today and not worry too much about tomorrow. I celebrated life by going out with my kathoey friends, eating nice meals and buying men. Sanam Luang was the place to buy men in those days. It was safe enough to go with them and they were all straight. I never got robbed by any of them and it usually cost me 100-200 baht for a quickie. I would probably describe this period of my life as my happiest.

Throughout my life, I never really had a real job with a fixed salary and other benefits. Whatever money I earned was usually all used up by the following night. It was inevitable really that I would land myself in poverty.

After the cabaret act, I got a gig performing at a gay bar. I became a well-known figure among gay and kathoey night workers. The show at this bar got underway at about 10.00 p.m. My improvised traditional Thai dance was usually followed by a dance where gyrating go-go boys, holding bundles of small candles, dripped hot wax over their bodies. The highlight of the night was an act involving six men. The dance would start with three hunky men walking onto the stage and posing seductively. Three bodybuilders would follow soon after wearing nothing but condoms. The six men paired up .... and I’m sure your imagination can fill in the rest. Their act was interspersed with acrobatics and remarkable twists and turns. One couple would climb down from the stage and walk around the tables, allowing the patrons to get a closer look and to tip them.

Some of the go-go boys occasionally gave me a little money because they knew I was living in poverty. I would try to wai them for their kindness but they would quickly stop me because it is considered a bad omen to be wai ’d by someone older than you. It is believed that such an action shortens your life. The rule is that the young are supposed to wai the old, while the old remain upright and graciously accept the wai by joining their hands together in front of their chests. One of the go-go boys asked me to pat him on his forehead three times for good luck. Blessings from your elders are much appreciated in Thai culture. I’m not sure how this go-go boy came up with this particular blessing, but I know that he is now living with a sugar daddy.

I had been working in the bar for 20 years when the owner approached me one day and said, ‘Auntie, right now we don’t require your services but I’ll give you a call as soon as we do.’

I knew that he didn’t want to include my act anymore because it was both out of date and out of place for such a venue, but he tried to say this to me in the nicest way possible. We Thais are afraid that bluntness will be interpreted as rudeness so we try not to hurt each other’s feelings or cause someone to lose face by saying what we really mean.

These days, I live in a room in Soi Chindathawin on Rama IV Road. From the outside of the building you’d have no idea of the squalor in which I’m living. My tiny room with its thin wooden walls sits on the rooftop of a run-down building where I share toilets with dozens of other poverty-stricken tenants. I have only a little patch of ground on which to sleep. I have neither a bed, a wardrobe, nor a mattress. I own a hand-me-down temperamental TV and a refrigerator, but the real comforts in my room are the shelves of deities I pray to when I’m feeling particularly low. On windless summer days, the weather in my one-window room is unbearably hot.

A few years ago my miserable life was made into a Thai programme called Kon Khon Kon . My life was captured on film and that was how I came to be well known. But I wasn’t catapulted to stardom or anything like it. I still live in terrible conditions and every day is a constant struggle. After the programme was aired, many strangers offered to help me in different ways but I turned most of them down. I don’t believe in accepting things that don’t belong to me. I might not have much but I do have my principles and my dignity. That being said, TV Burabha, which produced Kon Khon Kon , contribute 2,000 baht towards my rent every month. My landlord sometimes gives me back 100 baht because she knows I have four stray cats depending on me for food. That makes my rent 1,900 baht, including water and electricity bills.

I depend mainly on myself though. I earn a living by selling lighters in the red-light district of Patpong and the gay town, Soi Twilight. My lighters cost only 25 baht and they come with a flashlight. I carry my basket of lighters everywhere I go. Occasionally I get stopped by municipal officers. If you ask me, they must have nothing better to do than prey on this old granny. The working girls and boys who recognise me from the TV programme sometimes offer me a seat to rest my weary legs and we make small talk. Some offer me 100 baht for a lighter but refuse to accept any change. I also make a small income performing traditional dances at a bar called X-Boys in Soi Twilight at the weekends. I get paid 100-200 baht for a gig. I don’t come away with very much when you subtract the tuk-tuk and cosmetics costs but I love performing anyway.

There is a group of gorgeous ladyboys who work on Soi Patpong who never fail to greet me. Mingling with my ‘daughters’ brings me back to the time when I considered the sex-change operation. I’ve given it serious thought twice in my life but I never had the resources so it never happened. It’s probably a good thing in a way because had I taken hormones and had work done to my body, then I probably wouldn’t have lived this long. The procedure shortens your life. However, I did get three or four collagen injections to feminise my face at a cost of 500 baht each. I got it done properly by a legitimate doctor. Today, there are so many so-called doctors running around town with their surgical kits but who knows what’s really in their syringes.

I occasionally like to participate in ladyboy beauty contests as either a contestant or an awards presenter. My most recent triumph was at the Miss X-Boys Beauty Thailand contest on 2 September 2007. The X-Boys contest is organised by a young gay man called Khun Ting. He is quite a well-known figure in the gay and transgender community on account of all the charity work he does. Being involved in charity work isn’t something a lot of people would expect from a go-go bar manager. He is also known for being kind and straightforward with the boys who work for him, and he provides them with free meals before they start work. To him, this contest is about more than just entertainment; it’s about bringing gay and kathoey people together. His bar regularly hosts this type of contest under a variety of different themes.

The Miss X-Boys Beauty Thailand contest began at around 9.00 p.m. on Thursday and finished at around 2am on Friday morning. On the Thursday evening, contestants arrived in Soi Twilight early to get their hair styled and their make-up professionally applied at several different beauty salons along the soi. Even though I struggle to make ends meet on a monthly basis, I managed to put some money aside so that I could hire professionals to help me get ready on this special day.

At the Thai-themed contest, I tried to walk on stage as graciously as I could in my light green Thai costume, complete with a matching one-shouldered, sheer sabai . My hair was neatly styled and adorned with a golden tiara and purple flowers. My makeover took 20 years off me and I could have passed for a woman in her fifties. The stage on which the go-go boys usually dance—gyrating in skimpy briefs and simulating anal sex—was taken over by beauty queens for the night. The contestants were donned in Thai costumes ranging in style from the Sukhothai to the Rattanakosin era, and you could divide the group into two categories: ‘the beautiful’ and ‘the not so beautiful’.

I could see from the stage that the bar was packed. Two boisterous, big-boned mistresses of ceremonies cracked vulgar jokes and teased each contestant mercilessly, causing the audience, made up of a mixture of Thais and farangs , to howl with laughter. They were a little kinder to me, calling me mae and sarcastically admiring me for having the ‘guts’ to show my face on stage. They advised me to slap anyone who dared tell me my face was sagging. I don’t mean to brag but when the MCs introduced me I got the loudest applause and screams of all the contestants. For a moment, I felt like I was really somebody and that people accepted me. I’m not sure what these young gay men and kathoeys saw in me but I doubt that all of them considered me worthy of their respect; I’m sure some of them recognised me for the hag that I am, whose background has been beset by problems, abuse and poverty.

I was presented with the title and a trophy at the end of the night. It should come as no surprise that I won the Timeless Beauty title. In fairness, there was no competition because I was the eldest contestant. I left the contest feeling elated, only to return to my decrepit room and the harsh reality of my life.

Whenever I think of all the strangers who have been so kind to me, my eyes well up with tears. It’s one of the greatest mysteries of my life why I couldn’t rely on my family, yet other people who aren’t related to me in any way can care so deeply about me. I find answers in Buddhism. The sum of karma you’ve accumulated in your current and past lives, be it good or bad, govern your current life accordingly. Therefore, I believe my family must have collectively committed unspeakably bad karma in their past lives that prevented us from getting along in the present one. A Buddhist monk who once read my palm reinforced this belief, telling me that I’m blessed with an abundance of supporters when I’m in need, but I’m destined to live my life with neither a romantic partner nor a family.

I have no idea whether or not any of my siblings are still alive. I lost touch with them long ago and they never attempted to contact me. I still wonder what would have become of my life if they had accepted me and we had thrived as a family. I think having a good relationship with your family is vital for anyone if they are to succeed in life.

I later came to understand why people called me a wasted incarnation—it’s because I was born a man and yet I haven’t procreated like a man is supposed to. I believe my karma played a major part in me being born as neither a man nor a woman.

I don’t understand why, but I sometimes don’t like being near women. Don’t get me wrong. I am friends with many women but I feel uneasy when I think about their female parts. I didn’t even like being close to my little sister. I used to shoo her away at night and tell her to sleep next to mae instead of me.

I always tell the young kathoeys that we were born as this awkward being on account of our karma. I warn them that they will never be able to rely on any man emotionally or hope that he will one day become their husband. To me, it is wrong to try and tempt these men away from their rightful path in life. We would only bring bad karma upon ourselves for doing so.

Thailand has become more tolerant of my kind of people over the years. The situation now is incomparable to that of the past. A lot of TV personalities are openly gay and kathoey , and many more are still in the closet. The public seems to value comments from gay and kathoey commentators when it comes to singing contests, fashion and cookery. We might still be a long way short of gaining real acceptance but we have a strong presence for sure. Still, I want Thai society to take differences as they come. Kathoeys may express themselves differently but they don’t trouble others. I want today’s children to have the freedom to be whoever they want to be. I think of all the variations, Thai society can be especially discriminating of kathoeys ; it’s as though people fear that our population will multiply if we are shown too much tolerance.

As far as career opportunities go, I think a good chunk of Thai ladyboys become prostitutes because they don’t have many other choices in life. There are not enough rattan baskets in this country to hold all the ladyboy prostitutes. These kids give the transgender community a bad name because some of them drug and steal from their clients. They also hang around red-light districts looking for unsuspecting victims to pickpocket.

What would I like to be in my next life? I’m about to move on to it any day now so I’ve given this question a lot of thought. I want to be reborn as a woman, who works as a traditional dancer, and has a loving family and a home she can call her own. I would obviously wish for the exact opposite of the life I have now. When I recite my prayers, I usually say, ‘What horrible karma I’ve made in my past existences is beyond me, but goodness please hear me and acknowledge the good karma I’ve done so far. I wish for the next chapter of my life to be peaceful.’

I used to think that whatever will happen, will happen. I felt like a rotting log whose existence didn’t really matter very much to the rest of the world. If I were to die in this squalid room and nobody were to find me for days, then so be it. I had to try and accept that nobody really cared about me.

However, I’m more at ease with my mind now that I know there are people, especially in the gay and transgender community, who care about me. They adopted me as if I was their older relative—their auntie—and they promised me that I wouldn’t end up being a corpse with no relatives. They have also promised me a proper funeral. In most circumstances, this wouldn’t be an especially nice pledge to make to an elderly person, but in my case, it is a heart-warming one indeed. I now know that I won’t be forgotten. Whenever people come by to check on my well-being, I feel as if they are breathing a little bit of life back into my fading existence.

I’m an orphan auntie after all. Would you care to adopt me?