Hungary

Me, trying to liven up the Hungarian landscape with an impression of Al Jolson...

Although I officially entered Eastern Europe when I crossed into Slovenia, it’s only when I ride into Hungary that the Eastern Europe of my imagination becomes apparent. As I cross the border after a perfunctory passport check, the land opens out. Quiet roads through trees in a flat landscape, the houses here are older and a little more careworn, there’s an earthy smell of wood smoke and manure. I’m amazed at the number of Trabants being driven around. Their very presence indicates the favourite joke of the 1980s has been much maligned. I wonder how many Ford Fiestas or Vauxhall Corsas of a similar age are still on the road?

From Keszthely by the expansive Lake Balaton to Szeged, a pleasant little town near the Romanian border. I stop in the square, sit in the sun on a bench, and watch the Hungarians go about their lives. Soon a tramp, a bit drunk, stumbles over. He’s the type that make enormous effort with their meagre positions. His suit and coat are threadbare and furred at the cuffs, but clean as a whistle. Two polythene bags hold his worldly goods. He grins and sits down next to me, rattling off in Hungarian.
“Sorry mate, don’t speak the lingo.”
He pauses and raises an eyebrow. His question is obviously “Where are you from?”
“British.”
“Ah, one cup of tea please!”
I laugh. “Yeah that’s right!”
It seems to be the limit of his English. Still, five more words than I know in Hungarian.
He rummages in one of his bags and produces some loose slices of bread, thrusting them at me.
“Oh, no I’m fine thanks” I shake my head. He tries again. Suddenly a suspicion arises. I look down. Muddy campsite boots; filthy, oily, Draggin jeans, dirty fingernails. I run a hand through my Grizzly Adams beard and realise: “Bloody Hell! He thinks I’m a tramp!”
He even offers me a tin of something to go with the bread. I laugh and indicate I’ve just eaten. After a while we shake hands and I wander off, heading in the direction of some music that has started up.

It’s a pair gypsies busking with accordion and fiddle. They are incredible. The old man with the fiddle is extraordinary, the bow flies in a blur across the strings. Every note perfect, the speed and expertise is a joy to watch. I have just decided to part with a sizeable donation when they cripple their chances of sudden wealth by launching into what can only be described as a Romany version of the ‘Birdie Song.’
I’m painfully aware that if this were to happen on a similar sultry evening in Glasgow or Macclesfield or any other urban centre in the UK it would seconds before half a dozen red faced, cackling housewives and a fat chap in a Hawaiian shirt and indiscreet jogging bottoms would be thrashing out the actions with flabby, sunburnt arms.
However, either the song does not have the same connotations to the Hungarians or they just have more personal dignity than the Brits. I’m plumping for the latter.
The gypsies are soon making amends with traditional tunes and in no time the ‘unpleasantness’ is behind us. I leave a good donation after all.
Tomorrow, to Romania.