InsideOut Travel—Budapest Tram Cont.

<< back << home

I was grateful to see the tram shuffle up to the station, but sagely waited for the locals to get on first in order to observe any ticket stamping, seating arrangement or driver greeting rituals that must be obeyed. Nothing—just get in and sit down.

The packed tram made its way over the green-blue Danube River, leaving Buda behind and heading for Pest.

The plan was to get off at the last stop, which was more or less the geographical centre of Pest. I assumed this was everyone else’s plan, but for some reason everybody—and when I say everybody, that’s every single human being except myself and the driver—got off in the middle of nowhere. I looked out the slightly grimy window to see what could possibly merit this mass exodus—nothing. But the reason for the exodus wasn’t outside the tram.

Turning back from the window, I was confronted by a stocky middle-aged woman dressed in what appeared to be a 1950s police uniform with a bar towel draped over one arm and a giant medieval calculator in the other. The malicious look in her eye identified her as a ticket inspector. The look in a ticket inspector’s eye is universal; it transcends international boundaries of ethnicity, geography and ideology because, doing the devil’s work, they all have the same boss.

Towering above me in my seat, she looked me in the eye and said: “Ye’ eejit.”

This was weird. Was she Irish? Turns out she wasn’t, she was demanding my “yegyet,” or ticket which is pronounced “yeejit.”

So, with what I thought was a winning smile, I proudly produced my hard won ticket. She looked at it and shook her head. I knew that this wasn’t a good sign.

“Nem,” she said and pointed first to the ticket-stamping machine, then to the ticket in my hand and then to me.

The woman was a studied master of the international gesture. With this simple act of tri-directional pointing, she had communicated that I had failed to validate my ticket at the stamping machine and that this was bad news for me. I attempted to explain that I was unaware of the need to validate tickets, and that since no one else had done it there was no way of me knowing, and that I sincerely apologized for my faux pas and would certainly endeavor to follow correct procedure in future instances.

Unfortunately I knew only four words of Hungarian. These were “Igen,” which means yes, “Nem,” no, “Ûveges-sör,” bottled-beer and “Köszönöm,” thank you.

While attempting to construct my defense with these limited resources, everything became clear. The reason for the elderly “Budapesters’” wry smiles was the same reason for their mass exodus. No one ever buys a tram ticket, let alone validates it, and the wily old dogs know to head for the exits when the woman in the 50s police uniform makes an appearance.

My epiphany testing her patience, the inspector made the internationally recognized gesture for “get off the tram you’re in big trouble.”

I got off, wondering how this was going to go. The instinct to run was strong—I could definitely outrun this woman, especially if she planned to bring the medieval calculator with her.

“Fine is 800 forints or I call police,” she informed me.

She spoke English! Brilliant, maybe I could talk my way out of this after all. I put on my best smile.

“Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize that tickets had to be validated, no one else had validated so I had no way of knowing. I’m really sorry. I’ll do it from now on I promise.”

“Fine is 800 forints or I call police.” It seemed her English vocabulary was highly specialized. Further protestations were met with an increasingly familiar “Fine is 800 forints or I call police”.

“Bottled-beer?” I offered by way of a joke.

“Fine is 800 forints or I call police,” she repeated like a mantra that didn’t end until I finally accepted my fate. I was left with no option but to pay up.

There’s a lesson to be learned here. The phrase “When in Rome, do as the Romans do” is generally good advice. However, it doesn’t work if the “Romans” are a bunch of elderly Hungarian fare-dodging lawbreakers and the proverbial Romans presumably speak fluent Italian, so if you only master enough Hungarian to say thank you for the bottled beer you just ordered then you’re left at the mercy of unforgiving ticket inspectors.

Daryl Grove is a young(ish) freelance writer from Birmingham, England.

<< home

<< back

<< discuss article >>

CONTINUED DESTINATION: BUDAPEST

<< back << home