The socialist countries of the 1980s struggled with constant shortages of goods. Each country was assigned a specific industry or product category: there was overproduction of some things, while others were chronically unavailable. It was a distorted, dysfunctional economic model that eventually collapsed under its own weight.

People began taking the problem into their own hands. Since travel was relatively free only within the socialist bloc, people started trading with each other at the so-called “Polish markets.” They were called that because the Poles were the most talented and active traders in this informal economy. These markets, usually located on the outskirts of cities, were buzzing with life.

Clothes, tools, canned food, medicines, car parts, home decorations, and all kinds of technical goods changed hands there. There were even snack stands run out of caravans, selling sausages and just about anything else.

Original Levi’s, Rifle, or Wrangler jeans could only be obtained here, usually thanks to Polish smugglers. Records from Western rock bands were also available exclusively at these markets. It was a peculiar world, but those living in it got used to it — some even began to enjoy it.

The girls often traveled abroad for training games and cup matches. For them too, this kind of barter-style trading became routine. They brought something from home that was considered a treasure there, and returned with something that was scarce or fashionable back in Hungary.

“So what did you bring with you, Edó?” Mesi asked her friend.

“Contraceptives. Twenty boxes. The basketball girls here in Oradea will take them immediately and pay good money in lei for them. I’ll buy crystal vases with the money. They’re already waiting for them at home.”

“And you, Mesi — are you trading with your usual ABBA records?”

“Of course. ABBA, and plenty of others. There’s always demand for those. I also have an order for some children’s clothes.”

Crossing the border was always exciting, but below a certain quantity the customs officers tended to look the other way when it came to civilian “suitcase smugglers.” Off duty, many of them were part of the same world. They liked ABBA records too, and their wives were also searching for the Hungarian contraceptives that were considered modern at the time.

The multi-day tournaments organized in Romania were a special kind of adventure. Everything was run down: the accommodations, the sports halls, the city institutions, the shops — practically everything. Here a real dictatorship was in full force. From eight in the evening there were electricity restrictions. In Hungary that would have been unimaginable.

The Romanian basketball girls were kind, and many friendships were formed. The teams helped each other whenever they could. They played good matches, the tournaments helped a lot with preparation, and several teams from different countries were present.

“Mesi, at home we always complain about how bad everything is… but this here… this is truly brutal. I’ll barely survive these two nights. If I lived here, I would already have defected to the West. Compared to this, we are the West.”

“I physically feel sick from everything here. I like the girls, but the fact that the Securitate people are constantly around us — posing as organizers, interpreters, or escorts — watching every word and every move… that’s frightening. I feel sorry for the people living here.”

In the evenings Edó and Mesi locked the door of their hotel room and stayed inside. They only heard later that some of their teammates had slipped out to local bars to dance and meet boys. The two of them didn’t want anything like that here.

They played their games with heart and soul, completed their little business deals, and waited to return home.

“So your goods changed hands for money — that’s not even barter anymore,” someone joked.