“Here around the Old Church you’ll find mostly black women and Hispanic women, on this side until the next bridge you’ll find mostly Eastern European women, and from this bridge on you’ll find mostly white women of all countries…”

A picturesque spot for perversion

Welcome to the land of contradictions, our guide Verma had said at the beginning of the tour, and as we stand on a scenic spot over the sleepy waters of one of Amsterdam’s famous canals, it certainly seems contradictory that such a picturesque place could also be one of the world’s infamous epi-centres of perversion. Like most people I’m fascinated by the sleazy side of society, normally kept out of view, but – also like most people – I’m either too shy, or too prudish, to experience the notorious charms of Amsterdam’s Red Light District first hand… which is why I’ve opted for a tour instead.

This particular tour is run by the Prostitute Information Centre (PIC) of Amsterdam, an organisation set up by former sex worker Mariska Majoor seventeen years ago. Mariska entered the sex trade at the age of 16 of her own choice – and, despite her young age at the time, it’s not a choice she has ever regretted. After years serving on the frontline, first at a nightclub, and then later in the red-lit windows, she still felt a great attachment to both the district and the profession, an attachment which drove her to set up the PIC.

The PIC of the Red Light District

“I think it’s really important to have a free and open place in the middle of this world-famous red light district where everybody can go to and ask for information. It’s important for everybody, but in the end it’s most important for sex workers, because people always look at them in a really bad way. My goal is that if I can explain to people and give them a a better view of sex workers then they can feel less embarrassed about themselves and what they do for a living. It makes it easier for them to stand up for their rights and feel secure about their profession. The tour is part of that explaining process,” says Mariska.

Back on the streets and we’re now standing underneath the towering Gothic ‘Oude Kerk‘ church, our group of curious couples and young back-packers huddling around Verma as she explains some of the history of the naughty quarter, which goes way back beyond the first cheap flights to Amsterdam.

The message never got across

“Many people are surprised to find a church here, right in the middle of the Red Light District but from the 14th century this area was already known as an unsavoury area. Building a church here was actually a strategical move by the government of the time to convert these poor poor women who, they believed, had fallen victim to men’s evil and lustful desires.”

The plan however didn’t work, as construction on the church continued on and off for 600 years (as one wag in our group pointed out, the construction workers must have got distracted), and for centuries the naves were used for a market place, where the ladies of ill repute would often meet and socialise during the daylight hours. Today at last the church functions as a place of worship, but some things haven’t changes since medieval times, claims Verma.

“Many people today, in 2011, still believe that all the women involved in prostitution are victims and all the men are the perpetrators. At the PIC that’s also part of our mission to tell people that we are not all victims, that we’re not little lambs just following the wolf into the big bad woods. We can make decisions and choices of our own, even if they’re not necessarily your choices.”

Our guide for the evening...

Verma, a jovial academic type, is in fact the only member of the PIC who is not a former sex worker, but she shows a remarkable solidarity with the women of the RLD (often using ‘we’ in casual talk about them). This solidarity, coupled with her four year’s of study of the history of prostitution in Amsterdam, makes her the perfect tour guide for this infamous district. Her slow walking pace (she is using crutches, having hurt her leg) is an added bonus, as it give us plenty of opportunity to apply our retinae to the red-lit windows that occupy the ground floor of the austerely-beautiful 17th century canal-side properties. Women of all shapes, ages, colours and sizes can be found gyrating, beckoning or pouting in bikinis from the inside of their softly-lit love nests, but here on the main canal most confirm to typical male fantasies of being young, pale and pert. In the last remains of daylight, these pornographic creatures seem more than a little incongruous and most of the tourists passing by – families, couples and big groups of students – either ignore them, giggle, or try to take a surreptitious photograph (a practice much frowned upon in this neck of the woods).

“Are there always women in the windows, 24/7?” someone asks.

“Oh yes. You can come here at 7 o’clock in the morning and there are still women in the windows. There are lots of people who like to come to work with a smile.”

Window dressing

After crossing over to the other side of the waterway, Verma draws us up close to a window where a busty brunette is busy pretending to field a phonecall (…apparently this makes them seem more unattainable). Verma is careful to position us so that we are not obstructing the passage of any potential customers.

“All the women working here are self employed which means they are completely their own boss, they are the ones who decide what they wear, or what they don’t wear, what they will and what they will not do, and who gets to come in and who does not. I always say this specifically because for some reason there are still a lot of people who believe that a prostitute is not allowed to say no. This of course is absolutely not true. Just because you’re renting your body – you are not selling it, just renting it out for a certain period of time – doesn’t mean it’s not still yours.”

Not only are the women self-employed but, as prostitution is legal in Holland, they also pay taxes. And whilst condoms are tax-deductable expenses their first concern is to get enough customers into their window to pay the exorbitant rents. The windows, Verma informs us, are rented by companies who own up to 100 each, to the women at a rate of 80 to 180 euros per 8 hour shift.

Verma stops off to pick up some essentials

“As with any business, location is very important – this area is the main street so you’ll definitely be paying 180 euros to work here. If you want to go inside with a lady over here it will cost you a bare minimum of 50 euros for 15 mins, and that’s for the most basic, boring sex you can imagine. Basically you can ask anything you want but it’s completely up to the woman whether a) she’ll do it b) whether she’ll do it with you and c) how much she charges for it. So prices can be completely different from that window to that window for anything you want to do.”

I guess the message here is shop around.

Whilst the women in our tour group are outraged by the high rents and long shifts, the men question whether 15 mins are really enough time to get jiggy with it, no matter how big the lady in question’s fake boobs are. Verma assures us however that on average clients only spends 6 minutes behind closed curtains:

“This type of prostitution only has one goal, and the goal is not to spoon up beside one another, or have a nice massage in the bubble bath – the goal is orgasm,” she asserts. Small talk is at a premium when there’s customers queuing up and rent to pay, making Amsterdam’s Red Light District the McDonalds of the sex trade.

Back street boys

We move on down further the increasingly busy streets. Night has fallen and joining the more genteel tourists, the greater-spotted British stag parties have added a level of boisterousness to the evening. As one group lurch by to our left, we swing a right down the narrowest alley I’ve ever stepped foot in. Barely four foot wide there’s a slow train of people, mostly guys, walking in each direction and now you can really feel the district’s sleaze factor. Both sides of the lane are lined with more red-lit panes, and as we pass by at whisker’s length it strikes me this is window shopping of an extremely tempting nature. As the girls pout, wink, whisper, and whistle at those passing by I think I know how Odysseus must have felt on his way past the sirens. I don’t have any rope, but nor do I have 50 euros: it’s Lady Poverty who has tied me to the mast.

Amongst the skinny Slavs, fake-titted-and-tanned blondes, and bookish brunettes (complete with thick-rimmed glasses), I spy a perfectly proportioned pin-up with nipple piercings, arm-length tattooes and thigh-high PVC boots. That could be a wild 15 minutes, I think to myself wistfully. When I finally manage to catch up with Verma I ask her what percentage of the red light customers are tourists.

Fifteen minutes of fun, a lifetime of memories

“A really small percentage. Most tourists never get to see the inside of the room, and that’s because there’s a couple of rules customers have to adhere to. The first rule is that these women will not take a customer that’s obviously drunk, because drunk people are unpredictable and that leads to bad situations – so there goes, what, 60% of all tourists? And that’s a conservative estimate! The second rule is you don’t take a customer who has obviously used drugs. It’s not that stoned people can get aggressive but they can pass out or be sick, and you don’t want to spend your shift dealing with that.”

It’s a testament to how protective this district is of the girls that work here, that they can afford to turn down customers they don’t like the look of – and with no pimp harrassing them, plus a panic button in every room, this is about as safe as prostitution gets, for both customer and concubine. We finish our tour at the other side of the church where we’d begun and Verma brings our attention to a statue in the square. It’s of a semi-naked girl, hands on hips, in a doorway.

The Editor tries to help cover his travel expenses

“This statue right here, this is our Belle. We put this statue here in 2007. She represents the respect we have for all the sex workers all over the world. She is a unique statue of her kind because she shows a proud woman with her head held up and her chest forward – prostitutes are usually tucked away in shame in a corner somewhere. What we want to do is help empower these women. I always say that you don’t have to like this, you don’t have to do it yourself, but I do believe it’s time – it’s 2010 – that we start accepting the fact that there are women who do this. And, as we see here in Amsterdam, by making it legal, by making it safe, you can do it right.”

For more info and stories check out our Amsterdam City Guide. Duncan stayed in Amsterdam courtesy of the excellent Cocomama hostel – a former bordello if you fancy keeping your Dutch trip on theme.

Krakow: a city of dreaming spires, ancient castles, dragons, myths, cobbled streets, cosy bars and coffee shops; an intellectual hub, a university town for seven hundred years; a favourite on the stag night circuit and the biggest tourist pull in Poland. Surely saturated as far as tourist ideas go? Well, since 2004, ‘Crazy Tours’ has thought otherwise. Intended as an offbeat alternative to the usual historical trudge around the Old Town, this Michael Palin–endorsed spin around Krakow’s least-loved quarter – Nowa Huta – has been expanding exponentially since its inception, and shows no signs of slowing down. I decided to find out what is making this one of the great entrepreneurial success stories in Poland….

Welcome to Krakow...

I waited outside my apartment for my chauffeur to arrive: shivering, despite being heavily wrapped up. Winter in 2010 as cold as any I could remember. Sure enough, and bang on time, a bright blue Trabant pulled up. “Welcome to Krakow” cried my cheerful driver for the day, a bright young chap called Cyril, understandably oblivious to the fact that I live here. One of the knowledgeable team of ‘Crazy Guides’ set up six years ago by Michal Ostrowski (aka Crazy Mike), he chatted amiably as we sped up the road out east of Krakow and to the Communist legacy that is Nowa Huta. Hunched into a rather uncomfortable space, camera and notepad wedged between my knees, the car lurched into fourth gear and nudged 50km/h, pretty much its top speed, as Cyril explained some of Nowa Huta’s history to me.

As a long-term ex-pat, I was already well aware of this odd curiosity that sits on the city’s eastern fringes, an unwanted adopted child that is a bit of an embarrassment to Krakow’s often sniffy residents. Built as a kind of antidote to the perceived ‘intellectualism’ of Krakow, and as a proletarian utopia in the brave new world of post-war, Stalin-controlled Poland, Nowa Huta (literally ‘New Steelworks’) was never popular amongst Poles, despite the wealth of propaganda. Today, it’s considered by most Krakowians as, at best, dull and uninspiring, and at worst downright dangerous.

One of Poland's most colourful districts

“The things that people say about Nowa Huta today are all myths,” explained Cyril. “They base their opinions on what existed twenty, thirty years ago. They have memories like elephants.”  True enough; having been to Huta on many occasions, I have never witnessed any violence or trouble, never seen or breathed any pollution from the now not-so-new factory. And yet, nary will you hear a positive word spoken about this area by a true Krakowian; they simply refuse to give it any credit whatsoever; as if blind to any possible benefits a trip there might have.

As we walked into the only restaurant in central Nowa Huta, Stylowa (‘Stylish Restaurant’, somewhat implausibly), stomping the snow from our boots on the doorstep, I realized what a refreshing contrast this made to the international tourist spot that is Krakow’s Market Square. Here in Huta one is confronted by few symbols of ‘modern’ Poland; instead, you are transported back to about 1973, when this was the cultural centre of a community which made up for in spirit what it may have lacked in true style. Busts of Lenin adorn the tables; an old man slurps his soup in the corner, a couple of women in their 60’s with big wigs and lots of makeup chat animatedly whilst sipping Zywiec beer. At 2pm. A suspicious-looking man leans on a fruit machine by the toilet whilst a lady guards the toilets zealously, and only lets you pass if you grace her palm with 50 groszy (10p). There is a general air of faded grandeur.

There's a little Lenin still left in Krakow

“This place used to be where it all happened”, explains Cyril, “it was the place where locals would meet on a Saturday night, dance, sing, drink and be merry. Many a marriage in this town had this place to thank”. As I gazed around the room, at the gaudy but charming furniture and curtains, the thin tablecloths with cigarette burns in them, it seemed we had walked into a working museum, a glorious survivor of Communist times – perhaps one of the few left in modern Poland. Cyril spread out old maps and plans of Nowa Huta in front of me, examples of the ambitious idealism of the Communist architects. He explained the style and scale of the buildings here were designed as a riposte to Krakow, to give the people of Nowa Huta a sense of grandeur. Indeed, wandering through the arches and arcades around Plac Centralny, one is reminded of Italianate Renaissance design, a certain classical whiff in the air which may one day be appreciated by locals who currently deride this so-called ‘Communist Realist’ style as hopelessly passé and charmless.

“During the summer months, this place comes alive”, says Cyril, dreamily. “The streets are clean, there isn’t much traffic, and there are so many parks and trees. And the girls here…” he tails off at this point and I’m left to fill the gap, as it were, mentally. We finish off our cups of coffee and head out into the cold again, bidding farewell to the barmaid who is bemused to see me taking a snap of the toilet attendant.

Whistle while you work

Cyril whisks me to the eastern flank of Nowa Huta – to the foreboding gates of the steelworks after which the town is named – the entrance to what was one of the largest steel producers in eastern Europe, and also one of Europe’s biggest polluters. “Today, production is only a fraction of what it used to be, but they still employ around 10,000 people here, though the chimneys don’t show it,” Cyril tells me as I gaze up at the sign outside. It simply reads ‘Huta im. T. Sendzimira’ and is somehow reminiscent of the ‘Arbeit Macht Frei’ sign outside Auschwitz. “This place dwarfs central Krakow. There are shops, buses, roads in there, it’s a whole world in itself”. Unfortunately for us, this world remains a mystery to the casual tourist, as it’s strictly open to employees only, except on rare occasions such as when the Sacrum Profanum festival welcomed Kraftwerk and Aphex Twin to Krakow. No doubt the industrial grandeur suited them. “When you stand on a hill outside Nowa Huta you really get an idea of the size of this place – it’s huge,” says Cyril.

Communal life

It would be great to see this for myself, but instead we head off to have a more domestic taste of Communism – to one of the blocks outlying Plac Centralny (confusingly streets here do not have names, and you just get district names and block numbers, which admittedly does add to the Communist mystique but which must be a nightmare for postmen). “This flat will give you a unique flavour of Poland in the 70’s,” promises Cyril. I am led into the front room where I am shown a short video on a 12 inch black and white tele about Nowa Huta’s construction. Kierunek: Nowa Huta (Direction: Nowa Huta) shows a fascinating glimpse of Communist-era propaganda; lots of smiling, healthy workers in the sunshine and robust-looking women mucking in – a utopian vision which was far from reality, but which nevertheless adds to the kitschy, fun and possibly rose-tinted look at Poland’s recent history. The room is adorned with cheap and esoteric Communist memorabilia: shiny kitsch ornaments, plastic flowers, tacky wallpaper, even a packet of 80s ‘papierosy’ – Communist cigarettes, which you had to pinch the end of to create a ‘filter’ and prevent sucking the tobacco into your lungs.

A drink to your health?

I am led into the kitchen and shown a vast collection of empty vodka bottles, including the ‘workers’ choice, Czerwony Kartka (Red Card), a brand which no doubt stripped paint if required. Not recommended, although a glass of Wyborowa may be proffered to Crazy Tourists. “Cheap, but effective”, grinned Cyril. “People had to have fun. The state encouraged it – and they encouraged  pre-marital sex too, by making condoms widely available.” (This was confirmed by a very uncomfortable-looking sheath on display in the bedroom). “Anything to undermine the church, who frowned on this.” Indeed. I very much liked this flat, a great insight into communist era living, and accurate – down to the minutest details, such as shampoo bottles and soap in the bathroom and even a basic top-loading primitive washing machine. “People weren’t so poor – they just didn’t have anything good to buy!” Cyril said as we made our way to our final port of call for the day – the ‘Arka Church’.

Direction: Nowa Huta

“This church,” explains Cyril, “is a huge symbol for the people of Nowa Huta. They fought hard to get it, and only after years of wrangling did the Communist regime finally allow the people to build it; although they refused them permission to use steel from the local works – meaning that the structure took ten years to complete”. The Noah’s Ark-shaped building is not exactly easy on the eye; it is a grey, concrete affair. But the symbolism of this place to the locals, devout Catholics as much as any other sector of Polish society, should not be underestimated. A tank that we passed on the way here was a reminder of the oppression these people felt – and religion was the one reference point, beyond vodka – on which they could pin their hopes. A sobering thought, and one that makes you realize why Pope John Paul II – a statue of whom stands outside Arka Pana – is still such an adored figure in Poland, his part in the fight against Communism still remembered gratefully by Poles. Nowa Huta today stands as a stark reminder of that fight, and the 50 years Poland spent trapped behind the Iron Curtain, which may explain its unpopularity here. ‘Crazy Tours’ has tapped into a vein of foreign curiosity and appreciation of the recent past which the Poles, at the moment, simply don’t share. Maybe with a few more Cyrils around to spread the word, in a few years they will, I thought, as we sped back to ‘normality’ and Krakow’s dreaming spires came into sight once more. ‘Direction: Nowa Huta’. What a great catchphrase, just Crazy enough to make sense.

Click here for more info on Crazy Guides Communist tours.

“How do you murder the King of England and get away scot-free?” Boomed a deep voice from above a flowing black trench coat. This was the dilemma facing me and around twenty others in a dark corner of the City of London. Huddled together on a freezing, gusty evening perhaps was not the ideal time to contemplate such a scenario, but, nevertheless, we listened intently.

Feeling the chill on the Ghost Walk

“How do you kill the head of the English royal family,” the voice continued to quizz us, “in such a way that would not show up long after his death?” There was a pause and a ripple of curiosity ran through us. No, we were not fresh recruits in a subversive anti-monarchist movement – armed with a Tardis and vial of Polonium 210. We were the captive audience of the London Ghost Walk and our guide, the author Richard Jones, was gleefully recounting one of his favourite tales. The wretched King in question was Edward II… the method of execution a red-hot spit, rammed up His Royal Highness’ arse by two assailants, killing him outright.

This wicked deed was ordered by none other than his very own ‘trouble and strife’, the enchanting Isabella who craved Blighty for herself and her native France. However, despite her impious behaviour, Isabella was a devout Catholic and, concerned that the murder would not fly with St. Peter come Judgement Day, she demanded to be buried as a monk in attempt to fool God’s loyal doorman. Her vengeful son Edward III had other ideas, however: he buried his mother in her wedding dress and threw the preserved heart of his father in the casket for good measure – thus scuppering her hopes of eternal rest.

A capital of creepy courtyards

“And here on misty autumn mornings,” Jones’ bellowing voice sings to a crescendo, “You can often see a beautiful but angry ghost, skulking amongst the tombstones, clutching before her the still-beating heart of her murdered husband…” Yikes!

Those well-versed in the history of the capital will tell you that tales such as Isabella’s are not unfamiliar. London has always been a ghost town – a city of great tragedy, loss and constant upheaval. As historian Peter Ackroyd wrote in London: The Biography, “London is a city perpetually doomed. There have always been epidemics and waves of death within the metropolis.” Plagues and pogroms, blazes and blitzes… for Jones it’s natural that claims of lost souls wandering the streets of modern day Londinium abound, and why his walks are so popular.

On misty autumn mornings...

“They’re great stories of things happening in history that have come back to haunt London,” he tells me, as we sit supping our pints in a local pub following the 90-minute tour. “The past and the present mingle nicely. For example, right next to Newgate Street, a busy main road, overlooked by Merryl Lynch’s towering modern office and you’re surrounded by old railings, antique gaslights – you are standing on centuries-old gravestones. An ancient burial ground.” It was over this street and others that we had obediently followed Jones through the dark, gloomy, late-December streets of the City, hearing a series of delightful tales along the way. We learnt of Scratching Fanny on Cock Lane (yes, really), of the anguished screams of human experiments emanating from the Royal College of Surgeons, and the friend of Charles Dickens who scared the spock out of Patrick Stewart when he was appearing in ‘Waiting For Godot’ (incidentally, Jones’ favourite scary anecdote).

But, tales aside for the moment, I wanted to know how and when Jones’ obsession with the paranormal began. “I used to have an old Irish uncle that used to tell me ghost stories as a kid. I loved it.” he tells me. ”But what got me into the really spooky stuff was the original ‘Great Expectations’. I can still see that image to this day, when little Pip goes into see Miss Haversham for the first time….”

A clandestine gathering

As somebody who has shaken and stirred his way behind the bars of the West End, I didn’t find the London Ghost Walk particularly frightening per se. (For me the frenzied rush before closing, during which cocky drinkers would down a Jeroboam of sambuca in 10 minutes, would usually result in the city’s most terrifying transfigurations -Isabella’s ghost had nothing on Big Trev from Billericay!) However, the Ghost Walk was very informative, and, thanks to Jones’ well-honed gift for storytelling, highly entertaining, as well as a great way to get out and experience hidden parts of the city other tours (and locals) tend to ignore.

Nothing on Big Trev

But as I prepare to switch of my digital voice recorder, I decide to ask our guide a final question he has no doubt heard countless times before. “Yes, I believe that there’s something there, and the term ‘ghosts’ is as good a name as any,” Jones says. Although he doesn’t believe it’s the dead haunting the streets of London, he sees it as a collection of ‘place memories’; spaces where people once experienced strong emotions. “I think they leave an imprint; something certain people can hear, smell, or feel. But they don’t have to be sorrow or terror,” he emphasizes. “They can be happy emotions, too.”

Unlike a terrified, convulsing Big Trev. Last we ever saw of him, at All Bar One in Leicester Square, he was on the floor by the fruit machine in the foetal position – where he was heard, smelt, and stomach-pumped, by the wonderful people from St. John’s Ambulance. Now that was a truly scary London encounter.

For more information, tour/ticket prices and booking check the official London Ghost Walk website.

More Creepy Crawlies & Terrifying Tours!

Looking for other scary London attractions? Here’s a run down of some more frighteners…

Jack The Ripper Tour
Richard Jones is your guide again… this time following the footsteps of the notorious serial killer ‘Jack The Ripper’. History buffs with a taste for the macabre will love this gruesome walking tour of the East End and the chance to see original Victorian photos relating to the crimes.

It was more scary before CCTV

London Dungeons
A more visceral than cerebral scare, the London Dungeons offer a theatre full of fearful rides and recreations… such as the Drop Ride of Doom and the Boat Ride to Hell. Encounters with Sweeney Todd and Jack The Ripper await the brave-hearted.

London Bridge and London Tombs
Two terrors for the price of one. Lavish special effects and actors bring London Bridge alive through the ages in this interactive adventure, complete with pick pockets and criminals. And prepare to don sword and shield to repel a Viking invasion! Meanwhile you may wish to brush up on zombie lore before entering the London Tombs… watching Shaun of the Dead won’t be enough to save you!

The Tower of London
Famous for Beefeaters, ravens and the Crown Jewels, this notorious prison has seen more than its fair share of executions in its 900 year history. Sir Walter Raleigh and a headless Ann Boleyn are amongst the A-list of ghosts who continue to haunt this tower of terror.

Ghost Bus Tour
If you thought London transport was a nightmare at the best of times, then you should definitely avoid this hellish ride. Your creepy conductor acts as guide for this sinister sightseeing tour, which takes place in the only surviving bus of the Necropolis transport company which ran hearst services in the capital until 1967.

Pasaje Del Terror
Yet more theatrical scares await at the Pasaje del Terror in London’s Trocadero. First opened to the public in Bilbao (hence the Spanish name!) this international interactive attraction will expose visitors to some of cinema’s most chilling baddies… but is it scary? Hell yes… at least according to Radio 1′s Scott Mills who screamed 18 times.

If you prefer to be petrified over a pint, then check the Fluid Foundation’s guide to London pubs with horrible histories.