I just got back from a short work trip. Somewhere in my itinerary was a stop in Amsterdam. People, can I just say that no one gives Amsterdam the credit it deserves?! Today, most of us hear Amsterdam and all we think of is a city of debauchery; legalised weed sold in coffee shops by harmless old ladies and Work Visas given for prostitution with all seriousness.

BUT, I got to Amsterdam to find a city that must have been the muse for many a fairy tale. A city you could very easily (VERY) imagine horse drawn carriages pulling up to elegant town houses to pick royal ladies peacocked in feathers and furs, for dancing in glittering ball rooms and engaging in merry fêtes. I was surprised to find a beautiful, classic old city with all the elegance we have come to expect from Old World Europe. I can only imagine the horror of the older citizens of the country in finding their city, which is so rich in history, culture and trade, steeped in the miry waters of debauchery, a most questionable sex trade and legalised drugs.

Walking around Amsterdam city centre with a pounding head ache thanks to the stench of fermenting weed reeking from the pores of every red-eyed tourist, I deliberately-roamed into the renowned Red Light District. Negroes and Gentlefolks, unimpressed is an understatement.

I was underwowed. Underwhelmed. Underinterested.

Artistic license, please!

For a start, the only thing the prostitutes at the windows invoked in me was a mild embarrassment. Some of them looked, in the wise words of rapper Fabulous, “Old enough to know better yet young enough to not give a ….”. The District is populated by houses with long glass windows in which counter chairs are placed and women sit or stand, in a variety of questionable erotic poses with numbers to call. Or something. I didn’t really try to figure the logistics of it.

It all sounds very exotic; this sex-haven for people from all over the world to experience their wilder, baser fantasies…but in real life, Amsterdam’s Red Light District cannot run away from the truth of debasing sex. It is soulless, tired and despondent. The prostitutes looked exactly like most people do on their way to work on Monday morning: many mildly bloated, clearly irritated and just tired. While men ogled and women took selfies next to the glass shielding its almost naked and dehumanised prize,  the prostitutes fiddled with their phones or stared pointedly at nothing.

I think when it really hit me just how ridiculous, contrived and hypocritical the whole thing was was when I spotted the little radiators on the walls next to these women.

(I got this photo online, mine didn’t come out as nicely thanks to the reflection on the window)

Let me put this in context for you. The cold in Amsterdam last week was of an “Onyi na tu moooooo” variety. My Igbo sisters will understand what I’m saying. I swear I thought my heart was going to revert to it’s natural state of pure ice. The cold tore my coat, stretched inside my soul and seemed to chill my blood stream from the centre, ending  in sharp pins and needles on my palms and soles. I felt like an extra in Frozen, the movie.

So, to see women sitting in tiny scraps of clothes disguised as matching panties and bra sets, next to windows opened out unto the streets was truly a wonderment. The little radiators next to the women obviously did little to dispel the chilly claws of a European winter. This made me certain that as much as Europe whines about sex trade in developing countries, the true prototype of the future of sex trade; a ‘respectful’, a ‘sanitised’, yet equally horrific flesh trade, lies in the heart of a beautiful European country called Holland.