Becoming Fifi: Chronicle of Change - 08

March 8th

Dear Journal,

As I write this, every inch of my body aches, my mind is reeling, and my spirit feels like it’s hanging on by a thread. Why, oh why, must one person be subjected to such an unrelenting streak of bad luck?

This morning, I woke up with an unsettling fluttering in my stomach. It was check-out day, and the reality of what I was about to undertake was staring me in the face, a chilling testament to the dire straits I was in.

Let me take you back to yesterday. Faced with the imminent end of my hotel stay and without any money, male clothes, or identity documents, I was in a state of absolute despair. In a moment of pure frustration, I grabbed the suitcase and tossed it across the room. Its contents scattered everywhere, an array of feminine clothing, shoes and a plastic envelope that I hadn't noticed before.

The envelope was filled with documents, all written in French. It contained a birth certificate, a degree certificate in Fashion Design from a Parisian university, and a long letter, all of which bore the name Fifi Genevieve LeRue. I don’t know much French, but I was able to identify one crucial detail in the jumble of words on the letter - an address in Jakarta.

So, a plan was born out of desperation. I decided I would leave the suitcase with Amirah, get her to print me another map, and visit the address in the hopes of finding this Fifi. I reasoned, if I had her suitcase, then she must have mine.

The only problem was, after the monsoon, the clothes left at my disposal were undeniably feminine. Worse still, with the loss of my sandal, the only footwear left were towering high heels. But I was left with no other choice. The state of the streets meant that going barefoot was out of the question.

It was at this point, dear Journal, that I truly believe I lost the plot. I reasoned that if I was going to don such unmistakably feminine attire, then I should attempt to blend in as much as possible. Surely, it would be less conspicuous if I looked like a girl wearing girls' clothes than a boy wearing girls' clothes. With this logic, I resolved to wear the reddish-brown wig I’d previously discovered.

Rummaging through the pile of soft, colourful clothes further, my hand hit upon a razor. Suddenly, an idea struck me. I had never seen a girl with legs as fuzzy as mine. And wasn't I supposed to pass off as a girl now? Empowered by my desperate resolve, I did something which I instantly regretted - I shaved my legs. It was an utterly foreign sensation, the smoothness of my skin, the peculiar chill that my newly bare legs felt. An uneasiness stirred within me, as though I had irrevocably stepped across an uncharted boundary.

Oh, the depths of embarrassment one can sink to. My face still burns as I write this. I can still see the shock in Amirah’s eyes as I clicked and stumbled towards the reception desk in my heels, dragging the suitcase behind me. Time seemed to slow as she slowly looked up to register my transformation. The gasp that slipped past her lips echoed in the eerily silent lobby. She did her best to maintain her professionalism, but the surprise etched on her face was hard to ignore.

After a moment of gaping at me, she regained her composure and printed out the map. Her eyes widened again as she saw the address was on the other side of the city. She looked down at the impossibly tall platform sandals I was trying to balance in and offered to call me a taxi. I politely declined, unable to bring myself to admit my penniless predicament.

Stepping out of the hotel felt like entering an entirely new reality. The warm, humid air of Jakarta hit my bare, freshly shaven legs, causing a wave of goosebumps to erupt. The silky white blouse I was wearing seemed to hug my body more intimately than anything I'd ever worn before, outlining the tight, stuffed bra underneath. The angle of my feet in the towering platform sandals was a physical pain, each step making my ankles scream in protest. And then there was the sound. The distinctive click-clack sound of my heels against the uneven pavement, attracting the attention of everyone within earshot.

At first, I felt somewhat daring, almost badass, in my leather shorts. I had never worn anything made of such material before. The tight fit and the sheen of the leather was a stark contrast to the loose and comfortable jeans I was accustomed to. But the novelty of the experience quickly gave way to a profound self-consciousness as the clicking of my heels seemed to act as a beacon, drawing everyone's gaze directly to the shorts hugging my backside.

Today's illustration was a testimony to the agony of that journey. I sketched myself sitting on the side of the road, one of the many pit stops I had to make to get some feeling back in my numb toes and soothe my screaming calf muscles. I captured my pained expression as I massaged my legs, my shoulders slumped in defeat. I've attached the sketch to this entry for posterity, a visual testament to my bizarre journey.

(See Illustration 08)

If I thought today couldn't get any stranger, I was in for quite a surprise. The sense of relief that washed over me as I finally arrived at the destination was almost overpowering. Stumbling up to a security guard who spoke no English, I showed him the letter with the address. He buzzed the apartment and directed me to the lift.

The ascent to the thirteenth floor felt like an eternity. I was shaking so badly I could hardly stand on the towering sandals that felt like medieval torture devices. Every part of my feet was crying out in agony, from the sharp jolting pain in my toes to the rawness of my skin where the sandal's laces had rubbed mercilessly.

The apartment door swung open to reveal a woman. Beautiful, sophisticatedly dressed, and obviously wealthy, she looked me up and down and curled her lip in disgust. I suppose I couldn't blame her. I was a sweaty mess after walking for hours in the heat. To her credit, she smiled politely and invited me in.

As I hobbled behind her, I took in the apartment. It was vast, lavishly decorated, a clear testament to the wealth and taste of its occupants. My hostess, whose English was only marginally better than the security guard's, tried to explain something to me. “Fifi late,” she said, “Annisa not here now. Back later.” “Room ready.” “Make self at home. Use all things you want,”. The words swirled around my tired mind, making little sense.

I was led to a room — presumably a guest room — and then she left, closing the door behind her. Now here I am, sitting on the edge of the bed, my torturous heels kicked off as I massage my aching feet. I can hardly keep my eyes open, but I need to document today's peculiar events. The somewhat embarrassing but thrilling walk across a foreign city dressed in women's clothes, the surprising fact that I managed to do it in a pair of heels I would have doubted I could even stand in until today, and the unusual welcome I received from the woman at the apartment - none of it seems to make sense.

At least she mentioned Fifi, so she must be around somewhere. Perhaps she's out? I can only hope that when she returns, she will understand my reasons for having to borrow her things and won't hold it against me.

With hope that this crazy adventure is about to end,

David