In the economic depression of 2011 in Hungary, we spent three days in Budapest which we hoped would be a highlight but instead proved one of the few lowlights of our trip.
Sad Pest was filthy and falling to bits. The world heritage centre of Andrassy Avenue – a broad tree-lined boulevard of former mansions now shops and apartments was, quite literally, falling piece by stone piece onto the street.
Scaffolding and giant nets were set up to catch the flaking stucco and tumbling masonry and prevent head injuries to passing pedestrians below. The nets were grimy and torn where chunks of buildings had fallen through and left shattered on the pavement. We didn’t see any sign of restoration work.
The few buildings which shone clean and bright in the weak sun were either foreign embassies or big brand designer stores – with bored shop assistants staring out of the windows at people hurrying past.
Buda was fairing better and the castle, fishermen’s bastion along the ramparts, and palace were stunning to see. We spent a morning meandering around the old mediaeval town tripping up on the cobbles and admiring giant wooden doorways that led into shady stone interior courtyards.
The view across to Pest over the Danube was a chilly one as the days were cloudy and cold. This might have been why the river was not the famous blue but a murky brown, however closer inspection at low tide showed the all too obvious pollution and litter lining its shores. There was little water traffic, mainly barges carrying coal and freight and no evidence of pleasure boats or cruisers.
We used public transport to get around cheaply under our own steam but fell foul of the officious and aggressive ticket inspectors on our first journey.
Staying at Haller City Camp in the suburbs and having a very tight budget, we wanted to buy a 72-hour pass to cover all transport in and around the city. It was after 6pm at Nagyvarad station and the manned ticket booths had closed for the day so we planned to buy the travel passes in the centre of town. A big mistake.
We had scrubbed up and felt overdressed – and clearly stood out to the lurking inspectors at Deak Ferenc central underground station.
A perspiring fat little man headed directly towards us wearing a black uniform that had the aroma of not being washed for several days. A gaggle of Norwegian girls were also targeted by a second inspector, unmistakably tourists in a new city.
We had all done the same thing and asked to buy travel passes. We were denied and told “fine”. We explained the situation in several different ways but the response was always the same, “fine” – but it seemed the amount had now almost doubled!
Our trip budget couldn’t cope with such a hefty sum of money which, in 2011, was the equivalent of an entire days’ budget. Our option was to pay the 16,000 Forints fine or the police would be called. We were sure the police would see sense but whilst we waited the hour for them to arrive the fat little man poked, pinched and continually hissed at us. The locals stared but hurried past as we felt shaken up and bullied. Later I would discover many bruises around my ribs!
With a discreet wink, a policeman told Simon to give a name – any name with an address and it would be sorted. Over the next few hours and days we became increasingly paranoid after giving false names and addresses.
The system of trams, metro and buses was highly effective, but utterly filthy. Hardened chicken bus travellers that we were, having crossed Guatemala by bus previously, we had to resort to washing our clothes before packing them away again.
Seeking out some former communist experiences we found an authentic 1960s café where the décor had neither been changed, nor likely, deep cleaned.
Café Bambi in Pest was covered floor to ceiling in tiny smoke-stained mustard coloured mosaic tiling above a peeling lyno flooring. Dead or dying plants were gathering dust in blue pots in its corners.
We sat on faded red leather chairs pondering the lacy table cloth over our tiny table and were served warm bread with melted cheese and strong black coffee in little glasses by a dour older woman. She had a knack of throwing the diners’ meals at them.
There was no menu as the fayre was the cheesy bread with coffee and with or without goulash.
Next to us, old men were playing plastic dominoes on plastic tables and drinking beer. It was easy to imagine the clandestine meetings of ‘informers’ and their ‘keepers’, as the smoke from the strong cigarettes swirled around us.
Hungary was still very much a smokers’ country. In 2011 paper packets of cigarettes were available for as little as 250 Forints (or the equivalent at the time of one euro or 90pence).
The old east German-made Trabant was still puttering its way around the streets, driven by retro-loving youngsters and older, most likely still original owners. In general traffic was very light and a reflection of the steeply-hiked fuel prices.
We got to see some original socialist public art by visiting a park outside of the city where the politically incorrect statues were removed at the end of the 1980s during the change of political power.
It was both a stirring and daunting sight to see the towering figures of flag-waving and muscular youths rushing forward to embrace the ‘people’s freedom.’ We saw what was left of the giant statue of Stalin – just his boots – torn down by the jubilant city when the Berlin Wall came down in 1989.
A Nissan-style hut housed photo exhibitions of the 1956 Hungarian Revolution, staged by young people in Budapest and violently quashed by the Russian army, and of the end of communism in the country in 1990. Amongst the striking images were scenes along the country’s barbed wire border which Hungary tore down to welcome throngs of desperate East Germans. In four years’ time we would cross through another barbed-wire Hungarian border, this time with Serbia, erected to prevent the desperate flow of migrants escaping the crisis of the war in Syria in 2015.
A grainy black and white film instructed on the methods of a Stasi-sponsored secret agent, including how to set listening devices, carry out house searches and intimidate ordinary people into becoming ‘informers.
Watching it was a moving and arresting glimpse into the paranoid times of the mid to late 20th century in Communist Hungary which somehow seemed to be both tragic, and in the case of the life-of-a-would-be-secret-agent, comic at the same time.
Of course, after our earlier incident at the metro station, the exhibition did nothing for our nerves.
We pondered all we had seen over a very cheap beer in what was known in the city as a ‘ruin pub’. Essentially a building scheduled for demolition, it had been taken over by young people and filled with consciously retro and falling apart furniture, ingenious art installations using old computer hardware, telephones and domestic household wiring mixed with fairy lights, disco lights and lava lamps.
The music was cool Hastings’ Dragon Bar all over and we felt right at home lounging on a split-at-the-seams Trabant back seat.
Goodness knows what was crawling around inside it, but the lighting was dark enough to ignore it and the beer tasted good. It summed up how we felt about the city – still edgy, very grubby, full of depressed-looking smokers and harking back to another era.
It was also a symbol of optimism and evidence of young Budapestians taking hold of their city with energy and vision. We toasted their vision and wished them well.
We didn’t yet know it but we would return in four years’ time to find the bar greatly enlarged and packed with a steady stream of elderly Asian and American tourists being shepherded through in large groups from their luxury riverboat cruisers.
The strong pilsner back in 2011 gave us the courage for one final journey on the city’s metro train. We had 45 minutes to return to our campsite before the tickets expired and we were taking no chances.