Skip to main content

The xenophobe 2017/09/06 Budapest, Hungary

My first morning in Budapest started uneventfully ... a step across the road to the bakery and then a stroll around the neighbourhood, looking for a leafy, sunny spot with wifi. Most of the tables in the park are taken. There is a table of men and women talking. At another table four men sit drinking bottles of beer. It's 11AM on a Tuesday morning and judging by their neat clothes, they could be on their way to (or from) work. 

I looped back to my Airbnb. The apartment staircase within the private courtyard was my best Wi-Fi and tea spot. And so I sat for probably a good hour journalling, tapping on my phone. Neighbours came and went on the opposite stairs. Then an old, fat, moustachioed man with a yellow shirt came to talk to me. I don't speak Hungarian, I said.
 --Francais?
Yes.
--  What you are doing there doesn't work. And he gestured for me to leave the premises. I'm not blocking his path. He thinks I'm trespassing.
"I'm sleeping here, at my friends house."
He kept telling me that I had to leave.
"I am invited, you can't uninvite me." I said.
Fat man asked to speak to the resident of the house, but my host is out.
"There is no problem," I said.
" Passport please," he said with an outstretched hand.
"Who are you?" I said "You are not the police."
Fat man got his phone out. He was calling the police. I turned my attention back to the internet and my cup of tea.

Within maybe 30 minutes, two young police officers found their way into the private courtyard. They were polite, and one of them spoke good English. They asked me what I was doing. Using Wi-Fi, I said, showing them the Wi-Fi symbol on my phone.
"We understand."
"I'm staying here with a friend, I have the keys to this house" ...and I showed them. I got up from the step and turned the key in the lock. Surely the matter should end here. I sat down again.

But no. They asked me for identity. I reached into my bag and handed them my Australian drivers license. One officer stood below me, the other, looking down on me. They held the drivers license for a while, studied it. They asked my nationality. I said Australian, European. They asked for my passport.
"Why? You have my ID." They held the drivers license for a while more, referred to their phones. "There may be a crime happening somewhere," I said. "But not here." They mulled over my drivers license a while longer.

"Documents please."
I'm getting annoyed now, but keep a calm tone of voice. "This is private property. I am a tourist. In one week I will be gone. What is the problem?"
"Can we see your passport?"
"Is there a crime? Why do you want my passport?"
"I am a police officer. It's just a check."
Very miffed but unsure of my rights in this country, I finally went inside to fetch my EU passport saying, "You stay here. This is going to be a very exciting day for the police. They are going to find a European citizen in Europe."

Inside the passport was my boarding pass stub, showing I had been in the country less than 24 hours. The English-speaking officer said "Thank you. We came because someone saw you sitting here and called us to come and check."
I said "Maybe he is wasting your time. I believe that's a crime."
The cops made their exit.

Up yours, racist old busybody and rookie cops. I love to break your stereotypes. My first morning in Hungary, what a welcome!

Untitled

Comments

Unknown said…
Mamma mia!
We knew that many Hungarians are racist, but hearing the story is another thing ... But you were good!
Let's dance it over <3

Popular posts from this blog

Physical poetry – Contact Improv in Madrid

On my first visit to Madrid, I wrote about exploring Lavapies Tabacalera by day – sophisticated art installations in warehouse galleries. On this second visit to Madrid, I discovered the Tabacalera studios by night – a living, breathing art community. Cuban flautist and poet Liz stayed in touch after our chance meeting in Lisbon, and joined me for this contact improvisation adventure. Tabacaleras are former tobacco factories, given over to the arts by many Spanish municipalities. Passing through the unmarked portal into this furnace of creativity, I quickly felt relaxed and at home. Liz said she had never seen anything like it it. To get the dance studio, we traversed a cavernous room of giant murals into a corridor of spectacular street art, past booming reggae and African DJ dens, out into the yard. A few oil drum fires burned, and people gathered around to keep warm, under the gaze of Albert Einstein. If only he could see his two-metre high portrait, spray painted on old wo...

From seaweed to bananas – Contact Improv in Dublin

The dancers were sitting in a circle when I arrived. A stranger, I was greeted with words of welcome and invited to join the end of a class by Yaeli. We danced as seaweed buffeted by waves, brushed by fish... first anchored on rocks, then taking flight into the water. This seaweed dance was one of my best trio experiences, taking turns with David and Fergus in the roles of weed or wave or fish. A friendly jam followed, including dances with Isabel and Jacob.  When the jam was over, we said goodbye with hugs. I felt great... welcomed to the community, emotionally and physically invigorated. I walked to my bus stop with a smile on my face. Though bus rides are usually tedious and smelly in the damp Dublin winter, I smiled the whole way. I got off and walked the few hundred metres home in the freezing rain. Soon I was home with hot tea, a hot bath, and downy bed – a happy body, drifting into dreams. Going bananas at the Lab The offer to share dance skills came at a d...

Beggars 2017/10/03 Pamplona, Spain

It pains me that four of the nine black people I've seen here in Navarra are are beggars. Today I bought shampoo from a friendly black lady in the market. But at two of the four market gates, a young fit black man stands, with a cup in hand, eyeing passers by. Of course I get the full eyeball, up down. Same thing at the supermarket across the road. Black people are a highly visible, small minority here, so there is that moment of recognition and then a very uncomfortable moment. I would like to feel solidarity, warmth. Instead as they stare, I feel harassed... the guilting of a beggar, plus an undertone of sexual harassment. One of the beggars is more polite... smiles more, stares less... but I still want to avoid him. Passing them, I feel anger, fear, contempt. Two kinds of fear... of the beggar, and of the racism that feeds off their image. I don't choose to feel this way. Without wanting to blame the victim, I'm ashamed of how they inhabit a negative stereotype, perpe...