It would no doubt elicit raised eyebrows and scepticism were it to be suggested that the communist years witnessed even a passing nod at ‘green’ policies or practices. The two-stroke cars, buses and lorries belched noxious clouds of sooty fumes that choked the city, blackening the façades of architectural treasures, and necessitating frequent hair and curtain washing. During weeks spent in the countryside I noticed that the water in which I washed my hair remained transparent: in Budapest it was black, while factories billowed varicoloured gases over the concrete tower blocks.
Yet – albeit it for reasons of shortage or economic necessity – recycling was at a more advanced (or more retarded) stage than that back in Britain. Little was thrown away: everything could be mended for a few forints. In Blaha Lujza tér, the Corvin Áruház ( still grimly hanging on to life, but surely to be demolished soon, as the building nextdoor already has been) boasted a stocking-mending service. A middle-aged woman sat on the first floor at a small table, peering closely at one of the multitude of pairs of laddered tights their owners had left with her, and which they would soon come and collect, perfectly repaired.
Close to Gerlóczy utca was an umbrella repair shop. Following an age when an umbrella was not a throw-away item, but whose polished wooden handle and strong spokes were covered with good quality material, it was not uncommon to have them re-covered at a modest cost. Every kind of electrical appliance which in more affluent countries would be thrown away and replaced, could be repaired. And where the requisite spare part was unavailable – either because it simply could not be procured, or because the gadget itself was from abroad – repairmen would simply adapt an existing part, or fashion the necessary component from whatever they had in their workshops.
Meanwhile, a deposit was payable on all glass containers from fruit juice (no Tetrapak!) and wine bottles to jam jars, bottled fruit bottles and even medicine bottles. There was little by way of frozen food, thus vast quantities of fruit and vegetables were bottled, increasing the weight of the average shopping bag at least threefold. Cough mixture and antibiotics all came in small glass bottles – all with a deposit to pay, and all returnable. Of course, this also meant carrying these heavy glass containers back from whence they had come – and many was the occasion when the supermarket hatch for taking returns was closed, or they had no more crates to store the bottles, or today was a ‘beer’ day and not a ‘wine’ day, or…..in which eventuality one had to return home again with the empties as one’s shopping bags were already full!
But maybe the most extraordinary recycling is witnessed still today in Budapest streets when it is time for lomtalanitás. It is then that the city’s streets fill with every imaginable and unidentifiable kind of bric-a-brac: untidy, sprawling heaps of tangled wires and splintered furniture, headless dolls and handle-less saucepans; singed mattresses and collapsed ironing-boards, rusted heaters and torn school textbooks. This is the annual opportunity for Budapest residents to clear out dusty cellars of those items the weekly refuse collectors cannot take. The dates are posted in advance, giving serious ’collectors’ warning of the impending rota around the city’s districts.
After our move in 1990, we were forced to part with our first automatic washing machine, a Russian Vjatka. Though only three years old, and with the motor working perfectly, the plastic door had split and was leaking ever-increasing quantities of soapy water. In spite of all attempts, it could not be effectively repaired, and with the change of regime, the factory had ceased to function and spare parts were unavailable. Thus, we manhandled the solidly-made machine onto the street corner in readiness for the lomtalanitás. Before we had even manoeuvered it into position, a gypsy family appeared and sat the youngest of their brood of children on top. The child seemed undaunted by his responsibility of preventing any other person from laying claim to the Vjatka, and untroubled by the fact that his family then quickly disappeared around the corner in search of other treasures.
It was several hours later and growing dusk when they finally returned with a small handcart – possibly procured from a neighbouring pile – and then, placing both child and washing machine ontop, they made for home.
Yet – albeit it for reasons of shortage or economic necessity – recycling was at a more advanced (or more retarded) stage than that back in Britain. Little was thrown away: everything could be mended for a few forints. In Blaha Lujza tér, the Corvin Áruház ( still grimly hanging on to life, but surely to be demolished soon, as the building nextdoor already has been) boasted a stocking-mending service. A middle-aged woman sat on the first floor at a small table, peering closely at one of the multitude of pairs of laddered tights their owners had left with her, and which they would soon come and collect, perfectly repaired.
Close to Gerlóczy utca was an umbrella repair shop. Following an age when an umbrella was not a throw-away item, but whose polished wooden handle and strong spokes were covered with good quality material, it was not uncommon to have them re-covered at a modest cost. Every kind of electrical appliance which in more affluent countries would be thrown away and replaced, could be repaired. And where the requisite spare part was unavailable – either because it simply could not be procured, or because the gadget itself was from abroad – repairmen would simply adapt an existing part, or fashion the necessary component from whatever they had in their workshops.
Meanwhile, a deposit was payable on all glass containers from fruit juice (no Tetrapak!) and wine bottles to jam jars, bottled fruit bottles and even medicine bottles. There was little by way of frozen food, thus vast quantities of fruit and vegetables were bottled, increasing the weight of the average shopping bag at least threefold. Cough mixture and antibiotics all came in small glass bottles – all with a deposit to pay, and all returnable. Of course, this also meant carrying these heavy glass containers back from whence they had come – and many was the occasion when the supermarket hatch for taking returns was closed, or they had no more crates to store the bottles, or today was a ‘beer’ day and not a ‘wine’ day, or…..in which eventuality one had to return home again with the empties as one’s shopping bags were already full!
But maybe the most extraordinary recycling is witnessed still today in Budapest streets when it is time for lomtalanitás. It is then that the city’s streets fill with every imaginable and unidentifiable kind of bric-a-brac: untidy, sprawling heaps of tangled wires and splintered furniture, headless dolls and handle-less saucepans; singed mattresses and collapsed ironing-boards, rusted heaters and torn school textbooks. This is the annual opportunity for Budapest residents to clear out dusty cellars of those items the weekly refuse collectors cannot take. The dates are posted in advance, giving serious ’collectors’ warning of the impending rota around the city’s districts.
After our move in 1990, we were forced to part with our first automatic washing machine, a Russian Vjatka. Though only three years old, and with the motor working perfectly, the plastic door had split and was leaking ever-increasing quantities of soapy water. In spite of all attempts, it could not be effectively repaired, and with the change of regime, the factory had ceased to function and spare parts were unavailable. Thus, we manhandled the solidly-made machine onto the street corner in readiness for the lomtalanitás. Before we had even manoeuvered it into position, a gypsy family appeared and sat the youngest of their brood of children on top. The child seemed undaunted by his responsibility of preventing any other person from laying claim to the Vjatka, and untroubled by the fact that his family then quickly disappeared around the corner in search of other treasures.
It was several hours later and growing dusk when they finally returned with a small handcart – possibly procured from a neighbouring pile – and then, placing both child and washing machine ontop, they made for home.
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