Traffic mania

Leaving Budapest turns out to be at least as difficult as getting in. The patchy cycle path first takes us over a bridge to the left side of the Danube. I don’t know what to do there because the signs are misleading. The Hungarian map is inaccurate and doesn’t show us how to get through the 2 million metropolis. I ask a pedestrian. He doesn’t speak a word of English and explains to me in sign language that I have to cross the bridge to the right side of the Danube again. We follow his instructions and actually find ourselves on a cycle path that leads us along the banks of the river into the city center. When we reach the last of the six city bridges, we have to cross the river for the third time today. Once again I’m standing there and don’t know what to do. Yesterday’s high spirits evaporate in the stress of looking for the road and the swirling traffic around us. “It’s really tearing my hair out. How are you ever supposed to find your way out if you don’t have a proper map?” I curse to myself and try to concentrate. “Do you know how to get to Rackeve?” I ask a cyclist. The helpful man gets off his bike and writes several places on a piece of paper. “You have to go back and then follow the main road south,” he explains in broken English.

Now the cycle path, which was actually only available in fragments even before Budapest, is finally over. The main road is in very poor condition. The heavy tires of the trucks have left deep grooves that are becoming real obstacles for us. It bumps and shakes when we drive over it. The exhaust fumes from the cars and trucks cover us like a thick blanket. It’s hectic and we miss the peace and quiet and the protection of the cycle path. The traffic requires all our concentration. I can’t take my eyes off the uneven road for a second. The slightest mistake could have fatal consequences. We are not aware of our surroundings. Houses, factories, traffic lights, signs, building sites flit past in the corner of your eye. So far, there is no sign of Hungary as an agricultural country. No fields, no thatched houses and stables, no horse-drawn carriages, none of the flair we had hoped for here. Hungary seems to us as if it had already adapted very strongly to our Western European culture, as if it had hung up its own identity years ago in order to become part of the European Union. At the moment I am disappointed with what we are seeing and hope that the now dreary surroundings will change.

“Tuuuhhht!”, warns the deep horn of a truck. My nervousness is transferred to the handlebars, which immediately start to wobble. Swaying slightly, I wait for the big bikes that are about to whiz past us. “Sssuuuhhsh! Sssuuuhhsch! Sssuuuuhhsch!”, the black rubber pairs eat their way through the deep asphalt channels. The air pressure makes my handlebars tremble even more and I let my bike plunge into the muddy ditch for fear of being sucked in. “What are you doing there?” Tanja wants to know. “What a question. I dodged the monster,” I reply. The sun is hiding again today behind a dense wall of constantly changing shades of gray. It is relatively cool and we make good progress despite the heavy traffic. The towns of Dunaharaszti, Sezigetszentmiklos and Taksony more or less merge into one another and we have the feeling that Budapest now extends over the rest of Hungary. Our speedometer already shows 40 kilometers for the day and we are still driving through urban areas. There has been no sign of the Danube since the last bridge. There are apparently no more narrow roads on the banks of the mighty river. In Kiskunachaza I ask a friendly looking woman if there is any accommodation in Rackeve. She laughs but doesn’t understand me. “Pansion? Pansion?” I ask, putting my folded hands to my ear to explain that we’re looking for a place to sleep. “Pansion?” the woman laughs and nods her head. She starts to tell us something in Hungarian. We only understand that Rackeve is not far away and that there is a guesthouse there. We wave goodbye to the nice old lady and leave the exhaust-filled and hectic main road. “It’s much better here!” I shout into the twilight of the evening, because suddenly there are hardly any of those annoying piles of metal rushing past us.

“Wow, that looks really expensive!” I say in surprise as we drive past the impressive spa hotel. “I’ll ask how much the night costs,” I say to Tanja and go to the reception of the Edelschuppen. “106 euros per night. But we’re fully booked from tomorrow,” replies the woman behind the counter. “Thank you,” I reply and head back to our bikes. “So, how much does it cost?” Tanja wants to know. “Too expensive. But there’s another castle just outside the village. Let’s try there,” I reply, climbing into the saddle. “55 euros a night,” the receptionist at the old castle disappoints us and sends us to a kind of station guesthouse. When we are still asked to pay 40 euros per night without breakfast, we head for the campsite. Unfortunately, it is closed at this time of year and we are recommended a sports restaurant. “Looks pretty run-down and abandoned,” I say, peering through the window. “What do you want?” asks a man in broken German who has just arrived by car. I explain to him that we can find accommodation here that we can afford. He leads me behind the house. There is a lot of activity there. Men sit at tables, smoke and drink beer. The place here has similarities to a German sports restaurant in the village. My companion asks the young man at the bar if we can spend the night here. He picks up the phone and dials a number. Then he nods his head and the two converse in their own language. “40 euros per night without breakfast,” says my helper, visibly annoyed at having to quote me such a proud price. “Thanks, too expensive,” I reply and say goodbye. After cycling about 10 kilometers back and forth, we move into the mosquito-infested station accommodation. “We can’t stay here to write the update,” I realize, sitting on the edge of the bed. “We’ll find something,” Tanja replies confidently, as she often does. I bring two chairs from the station pub into the room so that we can sit down. Then, on the advice of a young girl, I carry our bikes into the recently erected building and lock them up. Tanja takes a shower while I hack my short notes into the computer. “Denis, can you come here? The water smells very strange,” she calls out. In fact, it stinks of rotten eggs. “Is it from the thermal water?” Tanja wants to know. “I have no idea. Who knows, maybe the owner pumps the water out of the pond behind the house?” I say, pointing out of the window. “We’d better not drink it. To be on the safe side, let’s use the water we brought with us for dinner,” I suggest and set off on the hunt for the many mosquitoes.

We look forward to your comments!