The scorching heat of the sun at Chatuchak Weekend Market felt like an unanswerable question. Locals joked that if the sun was the center of heat, Bangkok was next, before the rest of the world. And at that moment, the joke seemed true.
Perhaps this explained why every April 13 to 15, the Songkran Festival, or Thai New Year, was celebrated, turning the entire country into the world's biggest water fight. It was a colorful attempt to cool bodies that felt ready to cook in 42-degree heat.
But even that ritual of cleansing was not enough to erase the heaviness in the air: the smell of grilled squid, fish, and pork mixing with vehicle exhaust and incense. This was joined by the famous Thai coconut ice cream that melted quickly, and the alluring but harsh chemical scent from souvenir stalls. Amid the vendors' shouts, motorcycles deftly navigated the heat, which seemed to boil but never rise.
A small stall nestled between baskets and souvenir t-shirts. Inside, the air was thick: steam from soap and plastic, mixed with the sharp artificial sweetness of mango, banana, and durian, up to the calming scent of lavender and chocolate mint.
On the shelves, lined up like trophies no one wanted to claim, were molds of genitalia in various sizes and shapes. Some glowed in neon pink, blue, and green; while purple ones covered in glitter competed with pale coconut white. There were also skin-colored molds crafted realistically, polished black ones, and brown ones that looked carved from varnished wood. In a corner, a few glow-in-the-dark ones seemed to wait for darkness.
Among this jumble of colors, a bright mango color shone in the light.
“Oh wow,” said Rommel as he bent down. “It even smells good!”
Cristina smiled, quickly picking up a white, smooth soap. “Even former nuns would admire this,” she said without hesitation, and mimicked a microphone while winking. “Shush!”
Their laughter echoed through the stall, then gradually faded into the surroundings.
In her hand, the black soap felt heavier than expected. Julia turned it over, studied every curve, and then placed her thumb on its tip.
“It really is,” she breathed deeply.
Rommel approached and looked at the black mold resting in her palm. “Is this the final one, ter?”
Julia laughed, but it was thin and forced. She glanced at her own body before answering. “I’m a woman, Mel,” she said softly, placing the black soap back on the shelf. “The soap is optional.”
She walked briefly outside, her eyes fixed on the rows of souvenirs. Inside, Cristina picked up a banana-shaped soap. “Imagine if we had this at home,” she mused. “Would we display it or hide it?”
“Depends on who’s coming over,” Rommel joked. “Delicious!”
Japanese tourists, who were sniffing soaps, were startled as the whole stall erupted in laughter. Then silence fell when Julia returned. She looked at the items she no longer touched.
“It’s so easy for them to say, right? ‘Transwomen are women.’ As if it’s that simple.”
A brief silence. The laughter died.
“Isn’t it?” There was no immediate answer. Her thumb pressed into her palm, as if searching for something that wasn’t there. “It feels like the door has closed.”
“On what?”
“On what comes next.”
As Cristina carefully unwrapped a durian-scented soap, its thorns pricking her skin, she said, “People like things that are finished. Easier to carry.”
Rommel picked up another soap, weighing it in his hand. “We carry them anyway,” he said, each syllable heavy. “Finished or not.”
The coconut scent was clean, almost too clean. Julia brought it to her nose, but put it back without even smelling it.
“Some days,” she whispered, “I don’t know what I’m carrying.”
A child passed by and bumped into her. The shelf wobbled. One of the soaps fell, rolled to the edge, paused for a moment, then settled back. From outside, a sharp traffic sound rose, then slowly faded into the air.
“Let’s just buy,” Rommel said to break the tension. “We’ll give them as pasalubong. I’m sure Sugiyoyot will love them.”
“Of course! We’ll give some to Jevy, Bonnielou, Angel, Mommy Rubilyn, Mitch, Bes Jo, MJ, Dexi Gay, Bernie, and the two tombalatch, Marski and Rye, the ancient teachers,” Cristina joked.
Julia picked up a purple soap with glitter. It lingered in her hand for a moment before she dropped it into the basket.
They paid. Their bags filled with various colors and scents.
Outside, the heat blasted their bodies again. Light reflected off plastic, metal, and skin. The market returned to its noise, as if they had never been noticed. A lingering scent of sandalwood, or maybe strawberry, clung to their fingers.
Rommel lifted the bag, testing its weight. Cristina observed the bustling tourists and locals, smiling at something that wasn’t there.
Julia rubbed her thumb against her palm. A small piece of glitter remained. She rubbed hard, but it wouldn’t come off.
She lowered her hand.
They moved on with the crowd.
