Disused tram rails run parallel to our street, whilst just behind them rises a railway embankment full of bushes, trees and magpies. In summer months both the railway and trains are invisible behind the dense green of branches, and the embankment is a jungle of plants and cats. In winter, however, the bare bushes reveal all that lies hidden in warmer months.
Just before Christmas it became evident that there was a makeshift dwelling, no longer camouflaged by greenery, at the base of the embankment where it meets the overgrown tram lines. A single line of footprints in the deep snow across the tram tracks confirmed that someone was living beneath the blue and grey plastic, draped carefully over the bare branches of bushes. On that day a blizzard obscured the collection of wood and sheeting, as temperatures sank well below zero. By afternoon, small red flames flickered on the now dark embankment, and from our vantage point at our kitchen window we began to speculate on the occupier’s prospects of surviving a night in the open in such conditions.
Remembering the name of the Menhely Alapitvány shelter I had seen on stickers on public transport, we looked for their web page and telephone number. As we began to describe the location of the hovel they informed us that the man was already known to them, but he had told them he did not want to go to a shelter. I had heard such stories before: people afraid of being robbed of their meagre possessions in the company of others in similarly desperate circumstances.
Feeling we could hardly leave an hour or two hence for the party we were invited to, and stand at the bus stop a mere two or three metres from this miserable sight, we decided to verify the information. Filling a plastic bag with half a loaf of bread, some ham and a container with hot soup, Paul added his own footprints to those over the tracks in the deepening snow. The man was crouching in his makeshift home and attempting to warm himself by the fire; the howling wind whipped up clouds of snow, threatening to blow away his roofing. He was sober and friendly, if somewhat surprised by his unexpected visitor. He welcomed the food and said he did not want to freeze to death, but he could not afford to go to a shelter. The factor of payment had not occurred to us, and thus Paul left him, promising to ring them again and ascertain the situation. A further phonecall confirmed that he would not have to pay, and that someone would come and offer him a warm bed for the night. Another foray out through the bitter cold and relentless wind brought the hopeful news to the hopeless man.
As we stood at the bus stop an hour later, watching the dancing yellow-orange light on the white embankment, we wondered if he really would be rescued from this coldest of nights.
On returning, some time after midnight, the fire was black and spent; but there was now a third set of deep footprints leading over the tram lines across to the hut: they had kept their word.
http://www.menhely.hu/
(061) 338-4186
Just before Christmas it became evident that there was a makeshift dwelling, no longer camouflaged by greenery, at the base of the embankment where it meets the overgrown tram lines. A single line of footprints in the deep snow across the tram tracks confirmed that someone was living beneath the blue and grey plastic, draped carefully over the bare branches of bushes. On that day a blizzard obscured the collection of wood and sheeting, as temperatures sank well below zero. By afternoon, small red flames flickered on the now dark embankment, and from our vantage point at our kitchen window we began to speculate on the occupier’s prospects of surviving a night in the open in such conditions.
Remembering the name of the Menhely Alapitvány shelter I had seen on stickers on public transport, we looked for their web page and telephone number. As we began to describe the location of the hovel they informed us that the man was already known to them, but he had told them he did not want to go to a shelter. I had heard such stories before: people afraid of being robbed of their meagre possessions in the company of others in similarly desperate circumstances.
Feeling we could hardly leave an hour or two hence for the party we were invited to, and stand at the bus stop a mere two or three metres from this miserable sight, we decided to verify the information. Filling a plastic bag with half a loaf of bread, some ham and a container with hot soup, Paul added his own footprints to those over the tracks in the deepening snow. The man was crouching in his makeshift home and attempting to warm himself by the fire; the howling wind whipped up clouds of snow, threatening to blow away his roofing. He was sober and friendly, if somewhat surprised by his unexpected visitor. He welcomed the food and said he did not want to freeze to death, but he could not afford to go to a shelter. The factor of payment had not occurred to us, and thus Paul left him, promising to ring them again and ascertain the situation. A further phonecall confirmed that he would not have to pay, and that someone would come and offer him a warm bed for the night. Another foray out through the bitter cold and relentless wind brought the hopeful news to the hopeless man.
As we stood at the bus stop an hour later, watching the dancing yellow-orange light on the white embankment, we wondered if he really would be rescued from this coldest of nights.
On returning, some time after midnight, the fire was black and spent; but there was now a third set of deep footprints leading over the tram lines across to the hut: they had kept their word.
http://www.menhely.hu/
(061) 338-4186
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