Hungary's Inexhaustable Asset: Irony

A Hungarian example of how laughing at problems may help overcome them 


Ivad is a charming little village in Northern Hungary, sitting among leafy hills about 40 kilometers away from any town-like settlement. Not a big distance in space, but a huge difference in every other aspects of community life. Like many Hungarian and Slovak villages in the region, Ivad is struggling with the absence of industry, the lack of financial means, poor infrastructure and its longstanding handicaps at politically skewed development programs. With strict endogamy going back to the 17th Century and after 20 years of lonesome democracy Ivadians are fed up with isolation. So they have decided to swim against the tide stirred by the Budapest-centered bureaucracy by using their only asset: irony. 

First, they decided to trade their streets’ names: for a given tariff, anyone can have his or her name be given to a street or a square in Ivad. Following the example of the Canadian Kyle MacDonald (who had set for himself to buy a condo from a paper clip through subsequent trading of items) Ivad has launched its action to have a new playground for its children – by offering a table-flag. To the wonder of many, a new playground was inaugurated in 2009. Another time the village’s mayor, Gabor Ivady postured himself in front of the House of the Parliament to literally beg for pre-funding for his village to be able to get EU development aid – within two days, Ivad got the money. In a protest against the government’s policy to close post offices and schools of little communities, Ivad symbolically barred nearly 30 politicians (several members of the socialist government) from its territory. A series of desperate attempts to make it to the headlines is a normal response in a country where politics often fail.

Ivadians’ best-known invention is, however, the so-called ’Swag-Gallop’, the provincial parody of the Hungarian National Horse Ride (a well-marketed horse race set in the posh metropolitan Budapest once a year).

The ’swag’ refers to everything that participants must bring to the spot themselves, more precisely: Everything. Ivadians don’t have a penny indeed to spend on community events; they have a soccer pitch at most. The rest comes from donation: some bring tents, others amplifiers and even ingredients for the mandatory goulash.

The race itself is not a competition but a skit. Every kind of ’vehicle’ (except horses) qualify to the race as most of the runners try to highlight a social problem and/or a funny blessing for Hungary’s forgotten nooks.

So the race is off. The team of a village called Nagytőke (meaning ‘Capital’ in English) runs with barrows full of fake bills to mark Venture’s advent to the countryside. The Association of Families dressed a mayor a gipsy woman hanged with puppet-babies as bunting; he is pushing a baby buggy, leading the march against Hungary’s dwindle of population. There is a Santa-dressed bunch and a reindeer-man dashing to guarantee extra funds and the urban status for Ivad, and then there is a man-propelled (Flinstones-style, foot-engine) garbage truck to care for EU-conform waste management. The truck is followed by a punisher squad clearing up the mortgage mess caused by nasty banks; a man company sluggishly hauling a traditional iron oven also manages to make it through the pitch. People are clapping their hands and shouting, laughing and waving hurrah to the racers.

Foolish soccer matches mark the other stunt: teams of 5-42 players (from kids to the village’s sexagenarians) tramp and jostle on pitches some of which slants in 20 degree while others are crossed by a burn. The senseless tussle is seen as a symbol for Hungarian politics - its unwieldy practices and the unequal chances of those involved. But it’s also a fun for children and grown-ups trying to score into a goal fixed on a tree branch six feet above the ground.

Corruption is amply demonstrated too. Ivad’s mayor overtly confesses that his decision over which of the swag-racers should get the prize was ‘a bit biased’ by Nagytőke (or ‘Capital’) pledging to build an iPod factory to create jobs in the region.

Moreover, for the sake of those anxious to get bribed, the program features a ‘corruption tent’ where everyone gets introduced into the art of channelling slush funds to attain one’s goals, using the techniques to ‘manage’ invoices and tricks to avoid open call for tenders.  

Another alluring site is an inflatable pool filled with the water of the not so remote Balaton lake which is a must-see for any Hungarian, but never seen by many Ivadians. But the most important courtesy, of course, manifests in free goulash, food and wine served at the various tents - one really needs to look to find something s/he could lose money on.

After many glasses of wine some of the visitors start to hail their ability to shrug off the troubles and the ‘no-work, fleeing-youth’ -type of problems facing these forgotten parts of 21st century’s Hungary. And indeed, with EU-funding running scarce, Ivad’s shrewd mayor builds upon Hungarians’ innate sense of irony. He has his rational: he prefers eternal sources and zero paperwork.