Possibly the comment most frequently made when talking about the nigh twenty-eight years I have spent in Hungary is, You must have seen a lot of changes in that time! It would obviously be impossible to enumerate the differences, but I have mused upon what single factor has, in fact, changed most dramatically, and it would undoubtedly have to be that of communication. This aspect of life has altered everywhere since the advent of the mobile telephone and the internet, but here in Hungary these dramatic developments, occurring within a much eclipsed time span, have completely transformed society.
Before 1989, approximately one tenth of people in Budapest had a telephone, whilst in villages the doctor was likely to be the only such person – a single public kiosk having to suffice for the remaining inhabitants. To this must be added the fact that phones were notoriously unreliable: a deafening silence often replaced the comforting purr of a working line; numbers remained engaged for days at a time; rain frequently rendered phone lines unusable, or resulted in crossed lines (I succeeded in speaking to someone in Pakistan when trying to reach a friend in Buda!), or so many callers were apparently sharing the same line, each demanding the others hang up, that it was impossible to have a coherent conversation.
And this was in the happy event that you had your own apparatus at home - even a party-line was heaven-sent! (Before coming to Hungary this term was something I had only come across in black and white Ealing Studio films my parents watched!)
Street phones came in two varieties, red and yellow. Yellow appliances were for domestic calls at 2 forints a time; their red counterparts were for calls abroad. Here, the range of possibilities preventing the successful procedure of ringing someone, was vastly increased. Though vandalism did not at that time exist per se, frustrations with the shortcomings of phones were often turned into destructive revenge on the receivers themselves which hung limply, their disembowelled wires hanging from cracked ear pieces. Then came the list of technical problems: the phone was dead, there was no line; it was impossible to insert one’s 2-forint coin in the slot; the coin kept dropping through; the coin was retained but the buzzing line continued; you dialled, but even your most frantic shouts could not be heard…
In these circumstances it was usually quicker (and considerably less wearing on one’s nerves) to visit the person you wished to talk to. This resulted in impromptu gatherings in people’s homes all over the city on any night of the week. The only way of talking to someone who did not have a telephone, was to visit them. This was as accepted as it was unexceptional – there was quite simply no alternative. The result was that one’s friendships and relationships were close and extensive, as one inevitably met the children, parents, families and friends of existing friends and colleagues. This provided new contacts and a growing network of friends: one could almost say it was a living counterpart to the virtual world represented by today’s Facebook.
The red and yellow shiny plastic apparatuses are long gone, having been replaced with the shocking pink T-com models. But almost as quickly as these were installed, and colourful phone cards sold in place of using coins, so mobile phones rendered public phone boxes passé in their turn. (I cannot remember when I last observed someone using a public telephone.) In fact, many Hungarians went from having no phone at all to having a mobile, leaving out the stage of an (unreliable) mainline telephone altogether.
Today, the brave new world of emails and text messages, Facebook and twittering, have obviated a trek though wind and rain to the other side of town to see a friend, bottle of wine in hand, possibly to meet an unknown group of people, play with a friend’s children and share in a very real evening of food and un-virtual chat. Regret at its passing may be regarded as nostalgia pure and simple; but in the era that sought to make communication as difficult as possible, it thrived as it has not done since. Yet another paradox.
Before 1989, approximately one tenth of people in Budapest had a telephone, whilst in villages the doctor was likely to be the only such person – a single public kiosk having to suffice for the remaining inhabitants. To this must be added the fact that phones were notoriously unreliable: a deafening silence often replaced the comforting purr of a working line; numbers remained engaged for days at a time; rain frequently rendered phone lines unusable, or resulted in crossed lines (I succeeded in speaking to someone in Pakistan when trying to reach a friend in Buda!), or so many callers were apparently sharing the same line, each demanding the others hang up, that it was impossible to have a coherent conversation.
And this was in the happy event that you had your own apparatus at home - even a party-line was heaven-sent! (Before coming to Hungary this term was something I had only come across in black and white Ealing Studio films my parents watched!)
Street phones came in two varieties, red and yellow. Yellow appliances were for domestic calls at 2 forints a time; their red counterparts were for calls abroad. Here, the range of possibilities preventing the successful procedure of ringing someone, was vastly increased. Though vandalism did not at that time exist per se, frustrations with the shortcomings of phones were often turned into destructive revenge on the receivers themselves which hung limply, their disembowelled wires hanging from cracked ear pieces. Then came the list of technical problems: the phone was dead, there was no line; it was impossible to insert one’s 2-forint coin in the slot; the coin kept dropping through; the coin was retained but the buzzing line continued; you dialled, but even your most frantic shouts could not be heard…
In these circumstances it was usually quicker (and considerably less wearing on one’s nerves) to visit the person you wished to talk to. This resulted in impromptu gatherings in people’s homes all over the city on any night of the week. The only way of talking to someone who did not have a telephone, was to visit them. This was as accepted as it was unexceptional – there was quite simply no alternative. The result was that one’s friendships and relationships were close and extensive, as one inevitably met the children, parents, families and friends of existing friends and colleagues. This provided new contacts and a growing network of friends: one could almost say it was a living counterpart to the virtual world represented by today’s Facebook.
The red and yellow shiny plastic apparatuses are long gone, having been replaced with the shocking pink T-com models. But almost as quickly as these were installed, and colourful phone cards sold in place of using coins, so mobile phones rendered public phone boxes passé in their turn. (I cannot remember when I last observed someone using a public telephone.) In fact, many Hungarians went from having no phone at all to having a mobile, leaving out the stage of an (unreliable) mainline telephone altogether.
Today, the brave new world of emails and text messages, Facebook and twittering, have obviated a trek though wind and rain to the other side of town to see a friend, bottle of wine in hand, possibly to meet an unknown group of people, play with a friend’s children and share in a very real evening of food and un-virtual chat. Regret at its passing may be regarded as nostalgia pure and simple; but in the era that sought to make communication as difficult as possible, it thrived as it has not done since. Yet another paradox.
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