Kalgoorlie, Western Australia
Yesterday my friend Digger and I spent the afternoon touring the brothels of Kalgoorlie, an old gold and nickel mining town in the middle of nowhere. In more prosperous years Kalgoorlie had as many as 18 houses of ill-repute, but now there are just three. The global economic downturn has dealt Kalgoorlie a solid blow, though locals are expecting things to pick up again, and soon. We spent an hour at 181 Langtree’s — motto: ‘The girls are yum at 181’ — a new and elaborately themed brothel operating with just two working girls at the moment, but six more, they told us, were starting work on Anzac Day.
Prostitution is traditional in Kalgoorlie. In the heady gold-rush days, girls would come from the coast on camel trains — from Perth a gruelling 18-day trek. According to one version of local history, some were convinced that they were coming out to work as waitresses, and when they learned that they were instead expected to sell sex from tents to queues of sweaty gold prospectors, they committed suicide. Another, perhaps more masculine version, has it that the money to be made was so fantastic that girls eagerly flocked to Kalgoorlie from all over the world.
At 181 Langtree’s, the current rate is £100 for half an hour or £150 for the full hour. A hot shower and a medical check-up are compulsory. You may be refused entry, the advertised rules state, ‘if you are too out of it on drink or drugs’. And no kissing is allowed. Apart from that it’s Liberty Hall.
Once you’ve selected a girl, you choose your theme. There’s a bedroom called the Great Boulder Shaft, for example, designed to resemble a mining tunnel from one of Kalgoorlie’s most famous old gold mines. The wooden lintels are said to be originals from there, and cunning use of opposing mirrors creates a convincing impression of lying in a double bed in a mineshaft. On the wall hangs a portrait of Driller Dave, a gold miner, and once one of 181’s all-time biggest customers.
Or, for those nostalgic for the rugged simplicity of pioneering days, there is the Afghan tent room, the Afghan bit of the title alluding to the hired drivers of those very early outback camel trains. If sado-masochism is your thing, the girl supervising the dungeon bedroom is fully certificated for health and safety.
After an hour in 181 Langtree’s, we popped along Hay Street to the Pink House. The Pink House opened its doors for business in 1904 and is famous for its row of original, old-fashioned ‘starting stalls’, corrugated tin kiosks in which the girls stand and tout for business and negotiate a price. The madam at the Pink House, Carmel, has been in charge for 17 years and she’s immensely proud of her brothel’s prominent and colourful role in local history and legend. She is very condescending about the other two brothels, 181 Langtree’s in particular. It is new and gimmicky in her opinion. There is no tradition behind it. The themed rooms are absurd and demeaning to the courtesan’s art. They’ve even spelled Langtree’s wrong.
And as for the extravagant claim made by the rival Red House’s advertising material that it, and not the Pink House, was the oldest brothel in Kalgoorlie, it was beneath her contempt. Had we seen the Red House? (We had, we said. We were going there next.) Well, that property was just an empty plot until 1980, she said bitterly.
Carmel knew the history of prostitution in Kalgoorlie inside out. She trotted out all the stories. The old chap hobbling in on a walking frame anxious to make a start before the Viagra wore off and his nursing home found out where he was. The punter who died with his socks on. The punter who likes to have cream buns thrown at him. Her performance was all the more captivating because her elegant hand gestures, her wonderful diction, and her between-the-wars, cut-glass English accent were exquisite. (The Pink House was the Pink Hice, for example.)
Then she gave us a quiz. The girls used to work 16-hour shifts. How many men did we think a girl could have in 16 hours when business was brisk? At 181 Langtree’s, Digger and I were the only takers for the guided tour. At the Pink House, however, there were a dozen of us sightseers squeezed into the Madam’s Room for the pre-tour talk. Carmel went around the room, like a teacher in a classroom, eliciting estimates.
‘Seventy-five?’ said a small, reserved lady. ‘Oh, come on,’ said Carmel, profoundly irritated. The correct answer was 60. ‘But I was close!’ protested the reserved lady. ‘Sweetie, there’s a big difference between having 60 men in a shift and having 75,’ said Carmel.
And on that small, acid note, she stood up and gave us the tour.
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