Nestled on the left side of the bustling port of Piraeus, as you gaze out at the ferries awaiting embarkation, lies the infamous district of Troumba.
For decades, this area was a vibrant, often volatile, microcosm of early 20th-century port life, a place where sailors, pimps, and prostitutes converged, creating a world of red lights, rebetiko music, and raw human drama.
Troumba: a history forged in vice
The name “Troumba” itself is a corruption of “the pump,” referring to a fountain installed in the 1860s in the western part of Terpsithea, at the intersection of today’s 2nd Merakhia Avenue and the coastal road. This pump supplied Piraeus’s steamships with water, eventually lending its name to the entire area.
The legendary Troumba stretched between two churches, Agios Nikolaos and Agios Spyridon, with its “heart” pulsating on Notara Street. Here, brothels, hourly hotels, and offices of venereal disease specialists were the norm. Neighboring streets like Filonos, Skouze, and Kolokotroni buzzed with bars and cabarets, completing the picture of a thriving entertainment district.
The roots of Troumba’s notoriety can be traced back to the interwar period. Initially, the activity of prostituted women was largely confined to Vourla, a marshy area in Drapetsona. In 1867, public outcry from Piraeus residents, protesting “sluts that are springing up in the city like mushrooms to meet the needs of sailors,” led the municipal authority to designate Vourla as a secluded spot for these activities. By 1876, a complex of state-run brothels, protected by the Gendarmerie, had been established there.
However, in 1937, Vourla was earmarked for a penitentiary, displacing the prostitutes. They subsequently gravitated towards Troumba, where bars and cabarets were already operational. Here, “this time on private initiative, another flourishing kingdom” of prostitution was established.
The golden age of Troumba in Piraeus
Troumba, as described by the late Greek actress and writer Sperantza Vrana in her autobiography Tolmo (Τολμώ, I Dare), was “an ‘other’ society within the society of Piraeus.”
It was a “noisy microcosm” where the sounds of rebetiko music, often accompanied by the “sorrowful dance of a lone man,” emanated from tekedes, or hashish dens, where patrons could indulge in both music and cannabis.
Gambling was also a popular pastime, fueled by the poverty exacerbated first by the forced exile of Greeks from Turkey following the Asia Minor Catastrophe of 1922, and later by the German occupation during World War II. The Asia Minor Catastrophe brought a massive influx of Greek refugees, many of whom settled in Piraeus, contributing to the area’s unique cultural tapestry and the birth of rebetika.
Troumba’s heyday was arguably in the 1950s and 1960s, particularly during the frequent visits of the US Navy’s 6th Fleet. These visits brought a flood of American dollars, inspiring the movie Kalos irthe to dollario (‘Welcome to the Dollar’).
During this time, “more than 500 registered women of all ages” offered their services. However, as one account notes, the actual number of prostitutes “reached 3,000” during its peak in the 1960s, a stark contrast to the official figure. In addition, there were the “occasional ones”—undeclared women, sometimes housewives and mothers facing financial hardship, who joined the ranks when demand was high to boost their income.
Life in Troumba was governed by its own unwritten rules
Prostitutes rarely plied their trade on the streets; they were “housed” in the numerous establishments. A man’s word was sacred, and internal disputes were often settled without police intervention. “The cops in Troumba were unwanted. The laws were different there,” Speranza Vrana recounted.
Yet, for the women, love was a dangerous game, often leading to exploitation and violence at the hands of their “protectors.” Despite their circumstances, many of these women held onto their dignity, chasing away young boys to protect them from the environment, attending church on Sundays, and covering their red lanterns during Holy Week.
The financial scale of Troumba was staggering. A newspaper article from To Vima on February 13, 1966, titled “Troumba’s revenues are the same as those of the PPA” (Piraeus Port Authority), highlighted the immense profits generated by the district. However, the lion’s share of this income went to the “protector” and the “tsatsa” (madam), with the women receiving only meager pocket money, free shelter, and food.
Junta’s clampdown
As Troumba flourished, apartment buildings began to rise among the brothels and cabarets, and ordinary families started moving into the area. This led to a curious dual identity for the district.
By day, shops were open, and families went about their lives. By night, as the sun set, the “other ‘houses’” prepared for their shift, and families retreated indoors. In the 1960s, some remaining households were forced to put up signs, often in English, reading “beware, a family lives in this house!” to deter the “ignorant or drunk customers” who sometimes invaded family homes.
World-historical changes also began to affect the dynamics within Troumba. In 1956, women gained the right to vote in Greece, and the first female minister, Lina Tsaldari, issued a law prohibiting brothels from operating as group companies, allowing only two prostitutes per “house.” This impacted the “tsatsades” (madams) and led property owners to charge exorbitant rents to individual prostitutes.
The vibrant, though often chaotic, life of Troumba came to an abrupt halt in 1968. The military junta, which had seized power in Greece, promptly shut down every single one of its establishments, effectively turning Troumba into history overnight.
Troumba Today
Today, remnants of Troumba’s colorful past still linger. The dingy Cine Olympik still screens adult movies, and neon signs featuring female figures and cocktail glasses blink in red above doors on side streets. A “rundown aroma seems to be ingrained in the asphalt and cement.”
However, Troumba is undergoing a transformation. Shipping offices now dominate much of the area, leaving older buildings abandoned or scaffolded. On weekdays, the streets are filled with “flocks of suited men heading out for business lunches or honking the horns of their flashy cars at the rush hour traffic.” The district is showing signs of revival, particularly in the food and drink sector, with a noticeable increase in ethnic cuisine.
Troumba’s unique character and the lives of its inhabitants profoundly influenced Greek art and culture. Writers from the “generation of the 1930s” frequently referenced the district, reflecting the era of great migration through Piraeus. The district also found its way onto the silver screen, inspiring a rich vein of Greek cinema. Films like The Virgin of the Harbor (1952), Never on Sunday (1960), The Bastard (1963), The Red Lights (1963), Lola (1964), The Bait (1964), Troumba ’67 (1967), and Welcome the Dollar (1967) all captured various facets of life in the “sinful” neighborhood.
Melina Mercouri‘s iconic portrayal of a Piraeus prostitute in Jules Dassin’s Never on Sunday earned her the Best Actress award at the Cannes Film Festival, and Manos Hadjidakis won an Oscar for the film’s soundtrack.
Vasilis Georgiadis’s Red Lights was even nominated for an Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film.
The story of Troumba is a testament to the complex, often contradictory, nature of urban history. It was a place of vice and vitality, hardship and hope, a true “stock exchange of the sinful neighborhood” that continues to fascinate and resonate today.
(The article used Tonia Maniatea’s report published by AMNA)
