HEAVY TRAFFIC
A Bacchanalian romp through Ancient Rome’s best orgies. A venereal visit to Casanova’s Venice. Neither of these tours is as well-lubricated as The Prostitute Information Center’s (PIC) guide to Amsterdam’s De Wallen, a.k.a. the red light district. And when a red light goes off in De Wallen, you are certain that there is someone who is going… and going… and going.
We begin with a tour of the neighborhood. These are the types of tours that could only be conceived by a country that offers over-the-counter marijuana. And this is just the type of morally ambiguous tour that could pump up our limp tourism industry. “Just imagine the lively commentary, Mr. Secretary!” I excitedly blurted out, in my head, to the DOT chief. “I can hear the tour spiel now: ‘We are driving past one of the most popular hangouts among our politicians. No, no, not the Department of Budget and Management! I’m not sure what you call these places back in your countries, but over here we call them KTVs. There’s a lot of singing going on over here, but without the use of microphones. (Bada-boom…) (I have a drummer who does rimshots in my head.) And if you want to add some culture to your trip, witness their nightly modeling shows and see how fishnet stockings and a string of faux pearls can pass as clothing! Here’s a special tip: if you arrive in the KTV with a congressional car plate, you get a special discount!’”
“Love, why are you talking into your shoe?” my wife said, rolling her eyes. “I warned you not to go inside that coffeeshop kanina to buy that special mushroomburger! I told you kasi those are not the same kind of mushroomburgers they sell in Tagaytay!” as she spoke I swear I could see word balloons coming out of her mouth. “Now, look at you! You’re even more delirious than usual. Hay naku, we have to sober you up!”
So after being submerged in the romantic sewers of De Wallen for several minutes, I was finally lucid enough to embark on our self-guided tour. I was as giddy as an eight-year-old who had just discovered his dad’s stash of bomba magazines. Aside from overcoming sleep with the lights closed and reclaiming my foreskin, my other man-goal has been to visit Amsterdam’s red light district. I have always been curious as to how the sex workers would be arranged in front of those windows: Would they be standing in front of an SM Department Store-type window display with signs that screamed “Employee of the month” or “We take credit cards” or “50% off”? Or would they be sitting behind a one-way mirror where a thin slit allows the clients to peek at the sex workers, much like an aquarium at a KTV?
But despite my excitement, I was very uncomfortable strolling these alleyways with my wife during our honeymoon. This was almost like watching XXX movies with my parents while they were teaching me about sex. Luckily enough, these red light mushroomburgers had a magical way of eliminating your stress, your apprehensions and many other neurological processes. You’ll never find fungus like this growing at Hogwarts.
While bobbing down the narrow alleys, I took some mental notes for my three female readers who are also emotionally mature enough to spend their honeymoon in De Wallen. And also for the D.O.M.s out there who would like to make this their final resting place.
Servicing Yourself
1. This is a bit like Disneyland. Especially if Daisy Duck told you that she could do things with her beak that would make you squeal like Mickey Mouse. After previewing several of the girls behind the window displays, De Wallen reminded me of the “It’s A Small World” ride in Disneyland. And it’s not because you can ride on some of these girls or because you can have some of these girls ride on you. (Bada-boom… Bada-bump…) After leafing through the PIC guide and activity book, I discovered that there are a whopping 450 windows in the red light district and, God help me, my wife and I saw every last one of those window displays. Let me tell you, if variety is the spice of life, then De Wallen is life on MSG.
There are reportedly more than a thousand sex workers of far-flung nationalities working different shifts in the red light district. We caught women of every size, shape and location of body hair. In one alley, you had your Eastern European giantesses; in another alley you had your African warrior women; and you even had your alley of Oriental seductresses. But the alley that had me holding on securely to my nether regions was the seemingly unending row of global transsexuals. I am glad that my mind was blanketed in a mushroomburger-induced haze or else those transsexuals puckering up and blowing me a kiss would have been fried into my long-term memory. However, there was one window display that had my gonads voluntarily retreating to the pit of my stomach: It was a 350-pound black transsexual who was writhing with tattoos, sporting an Afro that could cause solar eclipses, displaying a grill of gold teeth, and draped in a hot-pink bikini. (Warning: Please do not even attempt to visualize this image; you do not deserve this type of suffering.) The permanently etched image of him/her in my mind was punishment enough for going on this tour.
2. It is perfectly fine to take pictures in the red light district. Especially if you have a death wish. According to the PIC’s frequently asked questions guide and pop-up book, there is an unwritten law in De Wallen that you should not take pictures of the sex workers. Over the years, there have been many cases of tourists who have ignored the warning signs on the displays and brazenly snapped pictures of the sex workers. These violations often lead to fingernail scars carved into faces, stiletto heels embedded in scalps and cameras shoved into inappropriate orifices. If you are willing to risk bodily harm, then my advice is to take pictures from a good 30 feet away. When I took a picture from that distance, a well-hurled stiletto heel barely grazed the side of my head. However, some of you may not be as quick with your reflexes. If you’ve spent too much time hyperventilating in a coffeeshop before hitting the window displays, then you will barely notice the brutish seven-foot Dutch pimp with the handlebar moustache and nipple piercings who will take you from behind and pummel you into a nice red stain decorating De Wallen’s cobblestones. Well, it is either him or the 350-pound black transsexual dragging you into her window display where she will suffocate you in the folds of his/her flesh. But still, feel free to take pictures in De Wallen, if you are into suffocation.
3. Behave. You can only misbehave in the red light district once you’ve paid for it. The PIC guidebook and connect-the-dots page says that the sex workers are well aware that they are also a tourist attraction. And even though they do not offer free trials to tourists, the important thing to remember is that you should show these workers respect at all times. Please do not stand with your nose pressed against the door and beg, “Puh-leez, just one peek!” Please do not show them some coins and say, “How much can I get for these?” and, most importantly, do not ogle them. I know, I know. How can you not ogle a woman who is bathed in unflattering red light and dressed in an almost nonexistent two-piece when there is absolutely no sign of a beach nearby? I’m Pinoy; I’m genetically predisposed to ogle. It’s a good thing my wife warned me that if I stare for more than three seconds, then my eyes would liquefy, I would grow a pair of breasts and the 350-pound black transsexual would invite to be part of their window display. Of course my wife told me this while my body was still busy breaking down the effects of the mushroomburger. She could have told me that I had more than three female readers, that she couldn’t tell the difference between me and Piolo Pascual, and that any constitutional change is really a people’s initiative, and I still would have believed her.
4. Say your prayers. What kind of red light district would this be without a church nearby? In true Dutch fashion, it is barely surprising that the Oude Kerk church is right across from the Prostitute Information Center (seriously). In fact, it is the oldest parish church in Amsterdam still being used for both religious and cultural activities. Local artists often hold exhibits at the church, after which they the visit the window displays for art’s sake.
So for all those who have stopped for a red light in De Wallen, you needn’t worry about performing penance: Oude Kerk is more than ready to mortify you with the requisite whips and chains. But these whips and chains are not be mistaken for the ones you find in the neighborhood sex shops.
As we wound down our self-guided tour, I spied a red light that was blinking on and off, underneath which an emaciated woman with a platinum blonde wig, ashen skin and ill-fitting lingerie was banging her fist on the window. “Damn that Trudie Styler.” she mumbled. “Damn her.”
In the end, my visit to De Wallen wasn’t as thrilling as I expected it to be. I didn’t get any adrenal rush. I didn’t get any testosterone high. I didn’t even get smothered by a 350-pound black transsexual. And I think this is probably because I spent half my life being bred, battered and often incarcerated in an all-boys’ Catholic school. I was practically raised on a diet of guilt and condemnation. What these Dutch don’t realize is that for anything to be remotely entertaining to me, it needs to be illegal, illicit and deserving of punishment. Sigh. The next time I visit De Wallen, I really should bring along my yaya.
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