From Kanjiza a footpath lead out of the town. It goes along the river in the forest. A pleasant easy one kilometer walk under the trees. From the end of the path the highway junction is only another kilometer and half. ANd there comes the last long walk along a straight and very good quality road to Maratonos. The quality and the angel of the road obviously an irresistible temptation for all local drivers to put the pedal on the metal. Here in this road everybody drives like crazy. Fortunately there is nothing, only the border, is beyond this village so traffic is rare.

Three old ladies come on bicycle. I greet them properly in Hungarian.

- Good afternoon.

No response. They passed me quietly. I only hear part of their discussion.

- Did you see, "they" already speak Hungarian.

A gold metal old Opel Kadett stops. Two roma families are in the car. The men in the front the women in the rear, plus two small kids. One man jumps out of the car and waves at me franticly. Tries to invite me to the car.

- There is no space in your car man, - I said in Hungarian.

- Oh my God bradah, I just tried to make a little money, but I take you for free.

I refuse the offer. Tivadar is a real risk taker because in Serbia only for taxis and buses can transport refugees legally. If the police catch someone in illegal transport they confiscate the car. Interestingly in entire Vojvodina there is a kind of legend of the "gypsies of Horgos", those who live just on the border and deeply involved in helping the refugees certainly for good money. I have heard for bus drivers, cafe owners, hotel receptionist actually from everybody here the same story, those "gypsies" in Horgos are buying houses cars and motorbikes.  

A village is just  a few Hundred meters away. There behind the church the local pub Charlie. The only pub in Martonos. Three plastic table and chairs in front of it. One table is occupied. Gyuri and Oszkar, the usual village pub philosophers struggling with the plum brandy. They also confirm the Horgos story.

- The only problem with the refugees that during we can not sleep. They come after nightfall and the dogs bark all night long, - says Gyuri. Oszkar also would like to contribute to the story but he is always late. Gyuri already started the other one. Oszkar can not catch up. A bus stops next to the church. Fiify  refuges quietly walks just next to us. Nobody notices them.

It is three in the afternoon. I also take off. A few local teenagers show me the way towards the Hungarian border. It is the dam of the river Tisza. Just walk up on that. It will brings you to Hungary, say one of them. It is a very long straight, then an even longer bend come. I am alone everything is quiet. Then from the distance I her people, lot of them talking. It must a group in the shade of a tree line next to the dam five hundred meters away. When I come come closer I see a big group. AT least eighty people. I walk to them.

- WHat do you want? - asks a guy.

- I am a journalist

- From where?

- Hungary, - not really good antre.

- Then good bye, he say, and the entire gorup start climbing the dam. I follow them despite the unfriendly "goodbye". On the other side of the dam we walk outside of the forest. Just next to the tree line.

There is young guy next to me. We are last in the group. He carries a big plastic bag. Obviously he isnˋt right. I take over the bag.

Hamit  is 14. Speaks English. He is from Mosul together with his father. After a few hundred meters we move into the forest. Then Hamitˋs father, say a quiet thanks you and take back the bag.

Here in the forest the first obstacle is a channel. Fortunately it is dry, but its walls are very steep on both sides. It is especially dangerous for the kids. We pass them hand to hand. When everybody crosses the channel the order is to wait. We sit on the ground and wait for something.  It turns out that half of the group is from Northern Iraq. Yazid Kurds. The other half are Syrians.

I sit next to handsome Kurd. He introduces himself as Nono. To confirm it he shows me his tattoo on his right shoulder. It say Nono. He really does not understand what the hell am i looking for here.

- You can go, cross the border without this... the why?

- I am journalist, - I try to explain. Then I we start talking about Kurdistan. It is the best confidence building measure for me. Other also come closer when I talked about the places I visited in Kurdistan the people I met there. One of them even shake my hand when I tell them that I have interviewed Sami Abdulrahman. He say that they were party comrades Then the "goodbye" bloke comes, he is the bearded one and spots my cell phone that I tried to show Nono on the GPS our position. He takes my phone. Then a few minutes later he gives it Nono,  then we are all walking again. Another few minutes and Nono gives it back to me. But the phone was switched off.

The next channel which we have to cross is a far tougher obstacle. I think it is the border between Hungary and Serbia. It is steeper, deeper and there is water in it. We have to cross it one by one cautiously stepping on logs. When everybody crossed the channel a young arab guy leads the group and a crazy run starts on the path. Nobody knows why all of a sudden it is so urgent. The dam is about fifty meters to our left. We have to be quiet. It is especially hard with the kids. Some of them are crying. The forest is thick but I can see a Hungarian police mini van drives to the south on  the dam. The run ends and everybody has to sit down. We have to wait. The drinking water is gone, all the bottles are empty. Men goes down to the river refilling the plastic bottles. I try to tell them do not drink that water. No avail.

I sit on the ground leaning at a tree. Try to put together how big is the shit I have driven myself in. The pieces slowly came together. There is the oldest guy around 35, and the four young fellows. The older one is the leader of the group, the four younger one are the spotters. Those who were always looking for something outside of the group, moving ahead of us. They communicate on mobile phones with each other and with god know who. All of them carried knifes. I think just to show authority. When the sun sets all five do the ritual cleaning and pray. Nobody do this, only them. The people just look quietly.

Meanwhile two other group arrives. These are smaller than ours. Then from somewhere a bold muscle guy arrives. Dressed like a Budapest pimp. He speaks Arabic. Cheap sneakers, under the knee sleeve pants, Adidas jersey. He and the leader of the three groups sit down. The group leaders have a piece of paper in hand. They talk quietly. After a few minutes all start talking on phone franticly. Then they sit back again. The negotiation is over. The pimp leaves with the money.

At this point I seriously start executing a plan "b". I tell Nono that I take some water from the river. If there would be a "problem" i swim across the river. That's my only escape route. I walk close to the river. There a young guy asks me, what am i doing here. I told him.

- I am Faizal, - he said. Faizal is cook from Damascus. He would like to study in Copenhagen at the hospitality school, which is one of the best in the world. Faizal wants be a chef.

- What kind of music you like, - ask this surreal sounding question, especially in a situation I planning a run for my life. I am so surprised  that I can only tell, Deva Premal.

- I donˋt know that, but I love heavy metal. May 15 is my birthday. On May 14 I was in Istanbul, the Blind Guardian gave a concert there. That was the best experience of my life.

He shows me the ticket and puts  next to it a one dollar note.

- SInce I have left Syria I ask people who were nice to me and I donˋt want to forget them to sign this note. Would you do that?

I sign the banknote. Then he quietly ask, whether I paid for this or not. He politely do not ask, how much. So it is clear that here all paid for this. Then slowly becomes dark. The leader gives a sign. Everybody has to move. Now. We move to the north. After a few hundred meter the group leave the forest. We are next to the dam in the opening. The spotters walk on to of the dam. We have to run fast two hundred meters then across the dam to the other side. One of the spotters come to me.

- Hungary go! - He shows towards Szeged. It is clear that I am not allowed beyond this point. The group follows a dirt road in the cornfield. Tne after fifty meters they turn to the north. It is getting dark, and I loose them.

I switch back the phone to see on the GPS how far is it to Szeged. In the distance is Gyalaret a small settlement few kilometers away from Szeged. I walk in to the bus station. A friend of my will pick me up here, hopefully with a lifesaving bottle of water. This big adventure, which I want to believe helped me to put together the small pieces of a bigger picture ends here but the flow of refugees, I am sure, continues for a long time coming. The far right in Europe is getting stronger moderate politics losing ground. Yeats' poem, The second coming is a must read for all. Shanti.