Welcome to Hungary

Hungary welcomed us with immediate delays. We sat and watched goldfinches bathe in the puddle of a leaky pipe for thirty minutes.

When we moved it was into a very different country. New roads were under construction, new houses, even new railway track was being laid. Pylons waited empty for cables to be slung, factories had new roofs, cars and trucks were busier, cleaner, newer. Graffiti sprung up in great swathes and rubbish was everywhere. Beyond the towns fields were the hedgeless expanses of Western Europe.

I asked the guard in my best mime whether we should put our clocks back. He assured me we shouldn’t and I passed the information to my fellow travellers. We were two hours from our due arrival time. An hour later I approached the guard again.

“One hour to Budapest?” I asked, making one circuit of my watch with my finger.

“Yes, yes. Budapest, one,” he agreed.

Again I passed the news to the others. An hour later we pulled into Szolnok; we were two hours from Budapest. And the station clock was an hour out..

I decided to beat a retreat into the toilet. After six countries and three days I was getting a bit ripe. I locked the door and put my bag on the toilet seat. A tiny metal washbasin was fed by a thin spout operated by a foot-pedal. In the rolling train there were only two positions, off or full on, the latter causing the water to slam against the basin and scatter everywhere.

I stripped for action and the train promptly stopped. No using the toilet while the train is in the station – everyone knows that; to do so would attract a knock at the door. I waited while feet climbed up the steps and then receded. We started again. Barely had I shaved when we again stopped. Still unmolested but definitely disturbed – I had visions of arriving at Budapest naked and wet – I soaped what I could as we rolled off.

Sudsy water washed to the floor. Slipping and squirting, dabbing and splashing, I did the best I could, packed up my stuff and left with what dignity I could muster.

“Achtung, liebe!” the hairy German said as she surveyed the dripping scene.

As we slipped through the outskirts of Budapest I threw the CRAP down the toilet. It seemed appropriate: it tasted as it was labelled. I kept the lid as a souvenir.