The police car was just in front of us. For a moment, we thought we had been unlucky. We knew
the Matasari neighbourhood, near central Bucharest, would be packed on a Friday night with
pimps offering their services on street corners. And now the car bearing the number plate of
the 8th Bucharest police station was just in front of us.
But to our surprise, the group of pimps on Pache Protopopescu Street did not vanish when
officers pulled over, only 15 metres away.
Our curiosity grew, and we stopped the car when we noticed someone get out of the police car
and join the pimps' gang. We stopped our vehicle too and the same man - the one who had got
out of the police car - asked us if we would like a prostitute.
"Hi man. Would you like to try one for yourself," he asked. "It's cheap and you'll be
satisfied. Don't worry about the police. They're my friends."
After briefly repeating the story about my foreign friend seeking some fun, I insisted the
police car might get in the way. It had not moved, however, and the cops seemed uninterested
in our conversation. At this point, the pimp wanted to deal directly with the foreigner. Tired
of my complaints about the police presence, the pimp then called a friend who could speak a
little English.
"Police. No problem. Police friends," the woman said, while urging us to follow her to an
adjacent street where she and the pimp were minding the girls.
By now the group of pimps started shouting at us, so we had no choice but to let them get into
our car and follow their directions. After a short drive through dark, narrow streets, they
told us to stop. In front of an old rusty iron gate, we were told to wait.
One by one, the girls started coming to our car. They were shivering from the cold. The
expressions on their faces were utterly indifferent, as if they could see through us. From
then on, I noticed the same look on all the prostitutes' faces.
We decided to call the show off.
"Look man, you have really nice girls here," I said. "But we have to go eat and we'll come
back later. OK?"
"Sure. I can recommend you a restaurant just around the corner. You can take the girl there,
too," the pimp said. He looked disappointed when we turned down the offer.
We took off in a hurry. It was enough for the night. We had decided Matasari was the right
place to look for trafficked women, and returned a few days later. The first thing we had
to do was avoid the same street corner where the pimps hooked us last time. We decided to
head down the back streets and avoid the main boulevards.
Our plan paid off. We noticed a bearded little man smoking in front of what once had been
a beautiful house in the "Little Paris" of pre-Second World War Bucharest. Now the house
was only a memory of former times and the little man in his thirties, like the owner, probably
did not care about architecture or history. We suspected that he was a pimp and trafficker,
and made our approach.
