Horses are scarce around Haymarket. No evidence remains of the dusty impressions their hooves would have made in the dirt, pulling produce from the farms towards the market. There was a time when they would have been everywhere you cast your eye, snorting at the sun, shaking their heads at the flies and rolling their tongues over the metal bit in their mouths. Now, even police horses are scarce and the only reminder that they were ever here is the occasional porcelain one, displayed by Chinese storeowners for good luck.

Haymarket is now known as the Chinatown of Sydney, but my dad used to waggle his finger at me and say - remember, it's the third Chinatown we've had. It hasn't always been here and it won't always be either. The Chinese have been here since the gold-rushes and they've survived because they know how to adapt and keep moving.

The original Chinatown was actually up near The Rocks. It has disappeared into a tourist's vision of convicts and colonials. But when I go there I think about opium dens and the bitter smell of Chinese herbs, just as in Haymarket I think about fresh vegetables going sour in the heat, and the horses with their flanks drenched in sweat.

Now, instead of the horses trotting down the streets, it was people who hurried and blew air impatiently through their noses. I stood on the corner of George and Goulburn Streets, my back against the wall, trying to take up as little space on the pavement as possible. But people came towards me from either side like a flood and threatened to carry me away.

I kept my feet planted firmly on the concrete and tried to keep thinking about the horses. I was wearing a skirt that was too short for me and no matter how much I tugged at it, it refused to cover more than a token amount of my thighs. I felt self-conscious wearing someone else's clothes. They weren't clothes I would have chosen for myself.

The train station was so close. It would have been easy - thirty minutes and I would be back home, I could change back into my old clothes. But I had promised to meet Reshma and that promise kept me there on the street corner, nervously avoiding people's eyes, hoping that I wouldn't be seen by someone I knew.

Earlier that morning I'd woken up on a spongy mattress, back muscles aching but a grin on my face. I'd had a full night's uninterrupted sleep. No singing, no thumps, no clinking of glass against tiles or my dad's gruff curses sidling through walls. Just darkness, silence, and the regular sound of Zahara's breathing filling the room, lulling me to sleep.

But once I was fully awake, my shoulders started creeping back up towards my ears. I had only fifty dollars in the pocket of my boardshorts. I'd had a good night's sleep but with only a bikini, a t-shirt, a cardigan, a towel, a crumbly-looking pair of flip-flops, sunglasses and half a bottle of sunscreen in my bag, I was not well-equipped for this world.

Zahara offered to lend me clothes, but it became clear, very quickly that I wouldn't be able to borrow anything from her. Drawn up to her full height, she was still nearly a head shorter than me and at least two sizes smaller. Reshma, six centimetres taller than her older sister, came to my rescue.

Reshma was a real character. I'd met her the night before. We'd stopped to pick her up from a friend's house before Bashir dropped us all home. She bounced into the backseat of the car, looked from me to Zahara, and jerked her thumb in my direction.

- Who's this?

- We picked up a chaperone at the beach, since you weren't going to oblige.

If I hadn't been told beforehand, I would have guessed that Reshma was Zahara's younger sister. They shared the same aquiline profile and narrow face, the same droplet eyes rimmed heavily with black mascara. But Reshma's face peered out at me from the soft frame of a blue scarf. Forgetting all my manners, I stared at her without saying a word. Reshma politely ignored me and continued talking with Zahara.

- I thought you two wanted some private time.

- Wait til I tell mama that you preferred to watch a movie instead of protecting my chastity.

- Hey-

- Just kidding! Just kidding. As if I'd ever tell ma that, she'd kill me.

- No, she'd kill me, said Bashir.

- Ma would kill us all, twice, said Reshma.

- And what about me? I asked, finally finding my tongue.

- You're already an infidel, laughed Zahara. Didn't you know? No point wasting anger on the damned.

I laughed along with them but I found my eyes wandering towards the scarf tied tightly around Reshma's face. It made me wonder if Zahara really was joking or not.

The next morning, standing in front of Reshma's wardrobe, I realised that the joke really was on me.

- This is your wardrobe?

I was scandalised by her drawers of slinky, low-cut tops and her penchant for miniskirts.

- I wear them over pants, don't look so shocked.

I couldn't help myself. I was shocked. The night before I'd marvelled at how, even though she was only a year older than my own sister Lark, she seemed so much older. Reshma had a cheeky glint in her eyes and a quick tongue. While Lark had a tendency to open her mouth and say whatever came to her mind, no matter how inappropriate it might be, Reshma had a slower, more thoughtful manner. When she spoke, you got the sense that she was choosing her words carefully.

She was the only girl in the family who wore the headscarf and I'd therefore assumed she'd be the most conservative. As she pulled flashy clothes from her wardrobe, I realised that she might not be that different from Lark after all.

- This might do. I think my pants will be a bit too short on you, but the skirts will be fine.

- I can't wear that.

- Why not?

- It's so short.

- You're not Muslim, it doesn't matter.

- It's very Britney Spears.

Britney Spears with a python around her shoulders, writhing on stage with her stomach muscles rippling. I fought off the urge to drop to the floor and start doing sit-ups.

- No, we're going for the Pussycat Dolls! You've got long, straight hair, just like one of them. I've got great boots that go with this outfit, too bad your feet are a bit bigger.

The clothes were tight but they did fit me. The black top barely covered my rib cage. Reshma stood back and nodded her approval.

- You look hot! Now - eyeliner.

- What?

- You come into my house, I need to give you the Muslim makeover. Trust me, this won't hurt at all.

I perched on the edge of her bed and she came at me, brandishing a black eyeliner pencil.

- Now, look up to the heavens.

I looked up as she placed the black pencil on the inner rim of my eyelid.

- Close your eyes.

She smelt of orange blossom and musk. The eyeliner gave me a funny sensation on the back of my spine as it traced along my waterline.

- Open.

Reshma held up a hand-mirror and I stared at myself, one eye now traced with black. It stared back at me, impassive and mysterious. I didn't recognise myself.

Down in Haymarket, the streets were jammed. Cars, buses and taxis were at loggerheads with each other, modern chariots in battle. Men and women puffed up their chests, ready to fight til the death for every last centimetre of space. Pedestrians spilled out into the traffic, traffic edged over into the intersections, horns blared, voices yelled and people stuck their middle fingers up in the air.

A lime green scarf emerged from the crowd. Reshma greeted me with a kiss.

- Sorry I'm late, the bloody train took forever. Come on - let's go shopping!

We'd arranged to go shopping for some clothes in the afternoon. I would have been happy to take my fifty dollars to Supré, but she grabbed my hand and dragged me down towards Sussex Street. A small cluster of clothing stores had sprouted up around the Labour Party's headquarters.

- Let's get you some proper clothes - my treat!

She paused in front of a shop window that displayed Hello Kitty stuffed toys dressed up in bridal wear and pirate gear.

- Look at that - that's a cute dress.

Reshma pointed at a lacy white mini-dress which had a black corset built over it. The corset's black garter straps dangled down provocatively past the skirt. I didn't know what to say.

- It's a bit over-the-top, isn't it?

- They're harajuku clothes - haven't you seen them before? From Japan. I don't think they're actually called harajuku clothes over there, maybe they're just normal clothes, but I don't care. They're wild.

She dragged me into the store. The Korean sales assistant stared at us, making me feel uncomfortable, but Reshma was oblivious. She only had eyes for the clothes.

- I've seen photos of people wearing this stuff in Japan. They don't tone it down there - they wear the whole outfit, wigs included. I'm going to go there one day. It seems like you can wear anything you want. I'm gonna wear the brightest colours, the craziest clothes, and nobody's gonna look at me twice.

I tried to imagine Reshma with the black-corset, bridal mini-dress over her jeans, wearing a matching white scarf and skivvy. My imagination failed me. I couldn't see her clutching a stuffed Hello Kitty doll up beside those kohl-rimmed eyes and Indian nose.

- Oh, they have skirts - come see!

The clothing racks were jammed with a gloriously absurd mix of prints, patterns and textures. There were strangely shaped pieces of cloth with holes in them. Sometimes it was difficult to figure out whether they were arm holes or decorative holes. There was a skirt completely made of silk ties, dresses channelling Little Bo Peep and neon coloured pieces that could have been boob tubes, could have been miniskirts, could maybe have been designed to be both.

Reshma's face was in raptures as she collected armfuls of clothes to try on. I joined her, a bit reluctantly, feeling even more embarrassed because I didn't know how to wear the clothes.

- Get yourself an outfit, my present for you.

But I couldn't find anything to wear. The more I tried on flouncy, ruffly, gauzy creations, the more I longed for a soft, worn Bonds t-shirt.

Reshma, on the other hand, was having difficulty deciding between all the different items. She nosed around the store, muttering under her breath, "I'm only allowed one. Why am I only allowed one?" She reminded me of coming down to Chinatown with my dad when I was a kid. He'd take me into a Chinese bakery and let me choose one piece of cake from the counter. I'd shake my head in the same way, unable to decide between all the pretty designs.

Finally, she came to me holding a relatively demure red tartan skirt which had two layers of black ruffles poking out the bottom.

- Why don't you try this? I'm going to try the green one on.

I obliged her, but in the dressing room the red skirt made me feel like a flag waving at a bull. It was bright - brighter than the sun on a cloudless day. It was so bright that if I pulled back the cubicle's curtain, it would blaze out and people on the street would be blinded and for generations to come they would tell stories of the day a great fireball burst out of a little Korean store in Haymarket.

Bodies would litter the streets, kids would run screaming. I would be the only person left in a hundred-kilometre radius, shielded by the skirt's black silk lining. Completely unaware of the consequences, Reshma called over to me.

- What does it look like? Can I see?

- No. No, I can't wear this.

I quickly unzipped it and let it fall to the floor. When I emerged still wearing my boardshorts, Reshma looked a little crestfallen.

- You're not into this, are you?

I didn't say anything but she nodded in understanding.

- Do you want to go get something from Pitt St Mall?

I nodded.

- Well, I'm getting this. Who would have thought harajuku and Islam would go together so well? she joked, holding the skirt up to her shoulders so that her covered head poked above it.

The green checks on the skirt matched perfectly with the green scarf on her head, it was surprisingly true.

I waited out on the street while she paid.

It had been years since I was down in Chinatown, but my dad used to bring me here regularly. He'd take me along to 'yum cha' with clients or friends, back when he had friends, and afterwards we'd wander around. He loved the history that was stamped across these streets. Hay Street, Factory Street, Brewery Lane, Omnibus Lane. This was history you could really dig your teeth into. Names which told you something about the lives of the people who had settled here, not simply the dead kings of another nation.

The roads were wider then, the buildings low and spaced out. Now, people twisted their shoulders to squeeze past each other and the buildings jostled each other for a patch of the sky. I heard the screech of tyres, or maybe the tired whinny of a ghost. Instinctively, from an old memory, I reached my hand up, searching for the reassuring grasp of my dad's thick fingers, but I only brushed through the cool air.