When the KLM aircraft landed at the cold, drizzle-drenched Amsterdam airport, it was difficult to imagine that I was near a city sizzling with male lust. Neither did this become clear while driving and walking through the tourist-filled streets of the Centrum with their impressive Gothic buildings. The atmosphere was austere. The Van Gogh Museum occupies the pride of place in this museum city. Van Gogh’s paintings, whose lines and colours merge into the Gothic surroundings like the sombre worlds of Flemish masters, speak in accents of introspective gloom lighting up only occasionally.
This impression fades on encountering blonde men and women feasting in crowded restaurants or loitering about the Martyr Pillar at Dam Square. Contrary to ones expectations, Amsterdam is a city of joy and celebration. So is the whole of the Netherlands. Just a few minutes spent on the spectacular beach of Denhague proves it. On holidays and weekends, the coastline is bursting with innumerable cars parked over three miles. Restaurants of every kind have a roaring business on sunny days.
Sitting and sipping coffee or beer, one sees a lot of men and women bathing in the warm sunlight often wearing nothing at all. Women daydream with their breasts exposed to the sun, unmindful of many intent eyes. Neither are nude men disturbed by women eyeing them lasciviously. The wind-combed blue waves of the North Sea and the burning sun above seem to join the carnivalesque pleasures of the beach.
Apart from the museums, windmills and beach, the most important tourist attraction is the red-light area without which no city is complete. Not even Denhague, the home of the International Court of Justice. One of its streets is called the Street of Beautiful Girls, where rows of two-storeyed apartments have one glass-walled room. These rooms are attractively decorated with red curtains and exquisite lighting. The passers-by are free to feast their eyes on generously
exposed bodies of all colours and nationalities, making inviting gestures and dancing to background music. When somebody moves close, the door parts and a voice coos, “Won’t you come in?” Some buildings display the price: “50
euros for twenty minutes, 70 euros for one hour.”
The choicest girls from all continents vie with each other to attract customers. The flesh-trade in Netherlands is legal, bringing the government rich dividends. Furthermore, it is safe. Should there be any trouble, patrolling cops are at hand. Gentle, voluptuous and seemingly innocent pleasure-girls from pink rooms mean business. They give you sex and take money. Some from respectable families far off, some educated and doing this for extra income, they avoid answering personal questions. Impressed by an exquisite Russian blonde, a mischievous passer-by exclaimed, “From Russia with love.” “No, from Russia with sex,” she corrected him. What a contrast to the glum-looking prostitutes in Van Gogh’s painting!
It was only after some effort that Jessica, a splendid Jamaican goddess, began to talk. At first, she parried questions of personal nature. Unlike her fellow-professionals, she seemed sensitive and refined. Her long fingers seemed best-suited to play guitars. After consuming a bottle of champagne, she began to bear her heart. There was anger in her tone. She abominated poverty. She had crossed the ocean to escape poverty, but there is no easy money in this trade. She has a son growing up. Her biggest dream: just to make money and raise a family some day. Hers is a beautiful but poor country with a handful of very rich people. If only their wealth could be shared by all like the sunlight and rain, she couldn’t have been pushed into this hard life. She broke into sobs, started weeping aloud and could not speak anymore.
Isn’t it the story the same all over again?