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Her parents gave her up for two million rupiah ($200). She was 13 and a virgin. On her first job in Batam, Tarini earned the virgin premium – five million rupiah ($500) for living with a Singaporean tourist in his apartment for two weeks. “He said, ‘You look like my daughter,’ ” she recalls.
With the money she bought a piece of land for her parents. Over her eight-year career, she built a house on it. But most of her customers refused to use condoms: “When I talked about disease, they said, ‘Well, that’s your risk.’ ”
Only after she had married and quit sex work, on the day her first child was born, did she discover she had full-blown AIDS and had passed it on to her tiny son. “His whole body was full of disease, on his skin, like a fungus,” Tarini says.
Abandoned by her husband, she sold the house and land to pay medical bills. When the boy, Putra Kirana, was a year old, she went back to prostitution. Unable to face the reality that she also was sick, she sought no treatment for herself. “I prayed,” Tarini says, crying. “I asked God to take me, not my son.”
God did not listen. At 16 months old, the boy died.
Tarini is now being treated, has quit sex work again and remarried. Late last year she had another baby, a daughter. Husband and child are both free of HIV.
Dr Fransisca Trestanto runs the clinic that looks after Tarini and several hundred others in what’s known as Indramayu’s “concentrated epidemic”. Treatment is free and available, but ignorance means that many sufferers never seek it, simply carrying on, infecting their partners and children, until they turn up with late-stage AIDS or die at home.
Fransisca is the only doctor. The head of the local health office, Idham Latif, tells me that others are reluctant to take on the job.
AIDS is a big and growing problem, but one that does little to deter the sex trade. We try to verify a story we hear repeatedly, that one family’s prostitute daughter had died of AIDS, so they’d sent her younger sister to pay off her debt. We try to meet the family but when they’re told we’re coming, they leave their house and cannot be found.
In Jakarta’s Mangga Besar, the street prostitutes pose in the glare of the headlights, competing for attention with the stalls selling invigorating shot glasses of fresh cobra blood.
Inside the Travel Hotel – a favoured destination of Indramayu girls – my drinking buddy and I are installed by a tough-looking Mami on bar stools in the pitch dark. She plucks a couple of girls from a row of brightly lit couches where dozens sit bored, texting or chatting, wearing sky-high stilettos and no-imagination-required mini dresses.
“Sylvie” flops into the chair next to me. She insists she’s 18 but looks like a kid – tiny bones, wide eyes, braces on her teeth. She fidgets and throws her hands to her mouth when she laughs. For 350,000 rupiah ($35), she could be mine for an hour.
Further north, in the filthy laneways under Jakarta’s inner ring-road, the price is even lower. About 60 per cent of the sex workers in this part of the city say they are from Indramayu. They service dock workers and sailors in dozens of bars and karaoke joints.
As rats cavort on the road outside, 22-year-old Niken tells me that she came from the Indramayu village of Patrol when she was 19 at the suggestion of a friend. Her Mami encouraged her to borrow cash to help her sick father and pay the “other needs” of her family.
Niken has sex for just 120,000 to 150,000 rupiah ($12 to $15) and relies entirely on Mami to inform her when her loan is paid. The debt makes it virtually impossible for her to change pimps. “If the family needs more, I’ll have to borrow for that, too,” Niken says. As for condoms: “I always offer it, but only about half the clients want to use them. They say it doesn’t feel good. Two days ago I took tests and, thank God, I was still healthy.”
Her friend, Yuli, 20, offers discounts for men who are willing to use protection, but agrees to unprotected sex anyway: “What can I do? I need the money.”
Of everyone we meet we ask one question: why Indramayu? The first answer is typical of Indonesia, where supposed regional characteristics are typically blamed for problems rather than institutional failings. “It’s consumerism, it’s their culture,” says Syarifudin. “They want to show off and they don’t care where the money comes from.”
The girls themselves say it’s about the economy. But Indramayu is far from the poorest region in Indonesia, and education is comparably poor in many places.
What seems to set this place apart is its proximity to Jakarta and a well-established local culture of sex trafficking. The first girls, it’s said, left in the 1980s. When they returned to their villages for the annual Muslim homecoming, Idul Fitri, they were walking advertisements for the cash and glamour of professional sex. A network of pimps, channellers and loan sharks spread the word until sex for sale became an economic mainstay with very little stigma attached.
Now, many who left seeking glamour and pallor and wealth have already come home to die.
“You stop doing this either because you get married or you get sick,” says Sunenti, who has AIDS. “Others stop because they die. At least, that’s the story for many that I know.”