Mohács and the Busójárás

Cow bells clanging, loud rattles, huge furs, hideous masks. The Busós might scare away the winter but standing in the middle of Mohács main street, I could only feel exhilarated.

Reaching the town from Budapest had been no problem. The Busójárás festival, taking place at the end of February during carnival season, is so well known in Hungary that the bus company added extra buses with several time slots to choose from. Wanting to take advantage of the day, I decided to take the very first one leaving at seven in the morning.

Three hours later, the bus dropped us off at a small parking lot between the main street and a fairground. The place was still fairly empty, there being only two other parked buses. To my good fortune, the people at the information stand were early risers and I was able to get a copy of the day's program in English, where I learned most activities started until noon. Not sure what to do on so early hour, I set on to lazily roam through the town.

Stalls lined the streets all the way to the Danube. My eyes wandered through diverse crafts such as leather belts and wallets, colorful embroidery on white clothes, souvenirs both pretty and cheap and of course, the intricate wooden masks. 

My nose feasted on roasting kürtőskalács, freshly baked rétes, smoking grilled meat and slowly cooked stews. My mouth watered at the wide sort of cookies and sweets, all kind of cheeses, hams and salamis, even the better if I could have a free sample. My stomach could not stand it anymore and let out a growl. I succumbed to a poppy seed-filled rétes.

 Happily munching, I made my way to the Busóudvar, which throughout the year holds an exhibition about the festivity. However, as I would experience the real deal, I did not enter and instead walked to the Serbian church. A stage had been set on its courtyard, where several dance groups performed and a couple of Busós fooled around between presentations.

A bit after midday, I set out towards the river promenade in order to see the Busós cross the Danube. Wriggling my way through the crowds, I found a spot with a nice panorama view. Unfortunately, the crossing place was at the Sokac haven, a lot more to the north than where I was, so I only got a small glimpse of the boats.

 While the Busós landed and got ready to start the parade, I walked back to the main square, snatching a ham and cheese lépeny on the way. Right in the middle of Széchenyi tér, the actual name of the square, was a huge heap of hay, ready for the bonfire. 

Bordering one side lays the city hall, in front of which a raised stage hosted several folk music and dance groups. I enjoyed seeing how they proudly wear the traditional costumes, whistling at one another upon a display of footwork skills. Absorbed watching the dancers, the rustle of people moving to the edge of the square brought me back to reality. The Busó parade was finally arriving.

Traditionally, only the men wear the Busó costume of mask, sheep skin and white trousers. Tied to their belt hang cow bells and bottles of some drink, out of which they take sips from time to time. I doubt it's only water. In their hands they carry rattles and pitchforks. Some of them have donuts pierced through their pitchforks and horns, to comedic effect. A few others throw flour to unsuspecting female tourists. They are the vivid definition of a buffoon.

 

In contrast, their women companions look tidy. Their hair is tied in a tight bun with a red ribbon, complementing the traditional Sokac dress, which consists of a skirt, an embroidered apron, a white blouse and a black knitted shawl. A black mask with a white veil covers their faces, their eyes accentuated by the contrast. Whole families take part in the walking, with the little ones dressed just like their elders.

 

 Divided into guilds or clubs, each group has its own allegorical car with decorations ranging from the funny to the irreverent. Nevertheless, all of them are decorated with hay, wood, dried stalks and green weeds, possibly to augur a good harvest. Some of them also pull along cannons, which puzzled me.

Once the last group arrived on the square, it was a free for all celebration. The locals mingled with the visitors, with the Busós posing for pictures as well as playing pranks. Cannons thundered constantly; the louder, the better. I could feel my head pounding from all the noise. A feeling of mischievous playfulness hung in the air.

As soon as the sun set, two Busós climbed the hay heap and raised a big mannequin. They danced around it to the beat of the music while carrying torches. Then, with the burst of a firecracker, everything was set alight. A gasp surged from the crowd and hundreds of cellphones tried to capture the moment, while the rest of us spectators stood there mesmerized by the fire.

Suddenly I snapped back and checked the time. My returning bus to Budapest would depart in a few minutes, so I walked back to the small parking lot. This time it was overrun with buses and visitors who also wanted to go back home. After struggling to get on the right bus, I finally sat down and dozed off, tired from the long day but smiling from all I had experienced.