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By Maricel Cruz, Jena Balaoro
and Inday Espina-Varona
First of 4 Parts
MALATE — It is Manila’s newest pride. Rajah
Sulaiman plaza, a charming, brick-paved promenade, lies in the
heart of the national capital’s tourist district, nestled between
a century-old Roman Catholic Church and the famed Manila Bay
seafront. Touted as a testament to urban renewal, the plaza boasts
of a colorful fountain, benches that allow weary folk to catch the
sea breeze, and new lamps that give the scene a European flavor at
night.
Rajah Sulaiman also happens to be a popular
pick-up point, center of a sex trade that bustles amid the presence
of traffic aides and cops, Catholic lay workers, and well-heeled
patrons of Malate’s bars and restaurants. Last June, days before
the weeklong Araw ng Maynila celebration, the park and the entire
stretch of waterfront were cleared of prostitutes, petty drug
dealers, beggars and youthful vagabonds. These days, they are back
with a vengeance. It is nigh impossible to walk on sidewalks
opposite the plaza without running into entire clans of homeless
folk. Cute gamines greet men and women with psssts and flash smiles
as they tap a finger on a clasped palm — the eternal symbol for
sex.
It is amazingly easy to pick up nubile, young
bodies. On the side of the plaza facing the famous Aristocrat
Restaurant, just looking for parking space will bring droves of sex
workers.
Eager offers
Two female reporters of The Manila Times cruised
one night with a driver and a photographer, aboard a white, L300 van
stripped of the newspaper’s sticker. As the vehicle slowed down
midway through the plaza, near a burger stand, eight men and women
emerged from the trees and the benches and approached the team.
It was 11 p.m. on a Sunday. Three cops idled in
the middle of the plaza. The Times vehicle made another turn around
the place. By the time it returned, people waved for attention and
were soon flocking around the van.
“Anong kailangan?” (What do you need?)
“Huwag ka nang mahiya” (Don’t be shy) a
blonde woman cajoled a reporter. Twenty-year-old Sheila took over
the bargaining.
Told the team wanted a man, she rattled off
prices. For a live show, a couple for as low as P2,000. A solo
performance without sex, P1,500. A minute later, the price went
down: P800 to P500 for a man and P500 for a woman. In reply to a
quip about expensive males, Sheila gave a brief version of market
economics — “mas konti sila, mas malaki ang demand.” (There
are fewer of them and a bigger demand.)
When the customers said they’d think about it,
Sheila promptly gave her cellphone number. Two nights later, The
Times team was back. Pimps and their wards were still around. Sheila
was with another blonde woman, still pretty but approaching her
mid-30s.
When The Times staff introduced themselves,
saying they only wanted an interview, and were willing to pay for
time, Sheila’s companion climbed down.
“Di naman kailangan ng tao, Sheila, ibigay mo
na si Diwi,” she told her friend. (They don’t need a body; just
give them Diwi.)
Diwi smiled. The 14-year-old, male pedicab
driver also dabbles in prostitution. Sheila made a sound of disgust.
Diwi, she said, could hardly talk and would be a waste of money.
“Kahit kami ganito, di kami manloloko,” she explained. You’d
like Diwi better if you were a man, she laughed.
Where the boys ‘talk better’
After some cajoling, Sheila consented to give
The Times a tour of an area where prostitutes “talk better.”
It turned out to be on Nakpil and Leon Guinto,
the parts fronting the Philippine Women University (PWU). No, the
young flesh sellers were not students of the university.
“Gusto niyo lalake? Hayan!” With a dramatic
gesture, Sheila indicated several huddles of young men, mostly clad
in tight denims and tighter muscle shirts. They stood in pairs or
groups of three by doorways that announced “Boarding House. Rooms
for Rent.”
Sheila went down and approached two men seated
by their doorstep. She gestured at the vehicle, made a scribbling
motion. The youths laughed and shook their heads. On the second try,
she came back with Francis, 18. He took a peek into the vehicle,
seemed reassured that he’d come to no harm and consented to the
interview.
Francis is articulate, his Tagalog formal,
sometimes shot with English phrases. He is a criminology student in
one of the better specialty schools and dreams of becoming a senior
police officer. After all, he is the son of a police captain, and
brother to two other police officers.
‘Freedom’
Francis turned 18 last February. He is on his
third year of college, his second year of prostitution. He does not
apologize for his job, seeing it as his passport to independence
from family discipline. Some of his “colleagues” are younger, 16
or 15 years old, including some high school students.
There are no pimps in their area, Francis
boasts. All the boys are lone wolves who nevertheless band together
for protection. “Walang agawan, it’s like a brotherhood,” he
says. The boys help each other but insist on their “personal
space.” The neighborhood likes them, Francis says. They keep the
streets “safe” from robbers and thieves.
He says a friend he met on an Internet chat room
boasted of earning “easy money.” After several sessions learning
about the “very profitable profession,” Francis decided to sell
his body. No, he told The Times. It wasn’t because of dire need;
his mom is also a middle-level officer in a private firm.
“Mas type kong mag solo lang. Gusto kong
maging independent. Iyon lang!” (I just want to live alone,
be independent. That’s all there is to it.) Francis describes his
family as close, with open lines of communication among siblings and
between children and parents.
But, although his parents are generous,
“Ayokong humingi sa kanila. Gusto ko sariling kayod.”
Also, “nung nakapoder ako sa kanila, maraming
bawal. Bawal lahat. Bawal umuwi ng gabi, dapat hanggang 8 p.m.
lang. Yung ganon.” (When I was under their care,
too many things were forbidden. They wouldn’t let us out at night.
We had to be home by 8 p.m.) It is his father who is very strict;
his mother tolerates Francis’ escapades.
Francis says he understands his father and bears
him no ill-will – but he chuckles at the irony of their lives.
“Kung alam niya lang” (if he only knows) is said without regret
or malice.
Now Francis is “free.” He pays his P16,000
tuition per semester, rents a room, buys all his food, clothes,
books.
He also doesn’t have to contend with having to
emulate his two older, successful brothers. Not that he doesn’t
want to follow in their footsteps. Francis just wants to do it on
his own terms.
Part-time work
Francis is not a full-time prostitute. Two or
three customers a night, three times a week is enough for his needs.
“Ginagawa ko lang ito kapag walang-walang na talaga akong pera.”
(I only do it when I’m short of funds.) He can earn at least
P2,000 per night. With generous clients, a night’s pay can go up
to P5,000.
On his “days off,” Francis hangs around bars
and chats with friends and strangers over the Internet. He is a
devout Catholic, and attends Wednesday novena masses in Baclaran.
Being a commercial sex worker does not stop him from finding time
for God.
“Wala akong guilt feeling. Minsan nga
kakasimba ko lang sa hapon, tapos sa gabi trabahao na.” (I don’t
feel guilt. Sometimes, I hear Mass and then go straight to work.)
Gays and ladies in their early 20s with a
penchant for “sex just for fun” are his regular clients. Then
there are the tourists and a substantial number of
Chinese-Filipinos.
When not in tight shirts, Francis goes casual in
shorts and a t-shirt or, when the mood strikes him, japorms (natty)
in chinos and polo shirts.
He has one strict rule. No romantic involvement
with clients. This, he calls “intimate relationship.”
“Bawal ang magkaroon ng commitment.
“Nandyan (ako) sa kanila para lang talaga sa pera.” (I’m only
there for the money.) He even brushes off his clients’ personal
revelations. “Hindi ko pinapasok ang personal life nila. Basta
trabaho lang. Ayoko ko nga ng usap-usap.” (I do not delve into
their personal lives. It’s all work. I don’t even like to talk.)
Separate lives
Francis says he’s so discreet that his gay
cop-professor isn’t even scared about him squealing. After one
night, following an “accidental pick-up,” his teacher tried to
foist “blackmail” on him, to test if he would break. Francis
just shrugged off the hints and threats.
Another client, a wealthy Filipino-Chinese
businessman, fell in love with him but was told no amount of money
could buy “love.”
It is Francis’ own code of honor.
“Ayokong magkaroon ng isang relasyon sa isang tao na magkaroon ako
ng utang na loob.” (I do not want a bought relationship.)
“Ang intensyon ko lang talaga bakit ko ito ginagawa ay para
masuportahan ang aking pag-aaral. At maipakita sa mga magulang
at kapatid ko na kaya ko mag-isa at the same time maging successful.
Pero once na nakagraduate ako, aalis na ko dito (business). I
don’t consider this as my permanent job,” Francis insists. (I am
here to underwrite my education and to show my parents and brothers
that I can live alone and still be successful. Once I graduate, I
will leave this business.) Francis says he’s okay because he
doesn’t do drugs. Beer is his stimulant of choice.
No one “in my other life” knows about the
sex trade. He doesn’t want to humiliate his pa and brothers. Even
his long time girl friend does know what kind of life Francis leads
when night falls.
Sometimes, he feels like a traitor. Francis has
plans to confess to the girl friend “when the right time comes,”
presumably before he marries the 23-year-old woman next year. But
never to his parents and brothers. “Kailangan mapatunayan ko sa
sarili ko na kaya kong lampasan lahat ng ito.” (I will prove I can
transcend this episode.)
Francis gets in from work around 5 a.m. He
sleeps a few hours then goes straight to school. Despite the tough
schedule, he still manages to get good grades.
Francis says he’s a simple man, with a simple
dream — a cop who’ll crush the anay (termites) or corrupt in the
police ranks.
Second Part
| Third Part
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