... Got a ticket for my destination
On a tour of one night stands
My suitcase and guitar in hand
And every stop is neatly planned
For a poet and a one man band
Homeward bound
I wish I was
Homeward bound...
On a tour of one night stands
My suitcase and guitar in hand
And every stop is neatly planned
For a poet and a one man band
Homeward bound
I wish I was
Homeward bound...
You and me both, Simon! Right at that moment I wished I was homeward bound, rather than the situation I was actually in. It’s Friday night, gone midnight and I’m slumped on a hard wooden seat, having watched my train depart without me aboard due to a ticket mix up and with only a decidedly down-in-the-dumps date to keep me company. I love the joys of travel. This scenario is hardly ideal in any circumstances; even less ideal when the station is Kiev in the Ukraine and the train that was supposed to take the two of us to Kharkov, some 545 km away, was now an hour into it’s journey. I have had better Friday nights. Even in Grantham, which is saying something.
Getting to Kiev, back in chilly February, had been easy, courtesy of a new budget airline called Wizz!, who had Whizzed! me direct from Luton where I’d left the car, and I’d met Natalia as planned at Kiev Borispol Airport - she'd spent 7 hours travelling by coach, followed by another four waiting for my flight to arrive, so was feeling rather bored and tired. Who wouldn't? After a bus transfer into town, I’d dumped the suitcase with Left Luggage, so that we could take a brief look around Kiev and get some dinner before returning for our train at 22:35. So far so good.
My first view of Kiev by night, this is Independence Square. No opportunities for photos, being encumbered by luggage and desperate for food, so I borrowed this one, with the kind permission of ‘Stuck in Customs’ by Trey Ratcliffe.
Upon returning to the station, things began to unravel. Firstly, we couldn’t find Left Luggage in the cavernous basement of the station. Well, we could find one set of Left Luggage Lockers, and did so three times by ever increasingly circuitous routes of the station, but the other one appeared to have disappeared altogether. Time was ticking, and as Russian trains always leave on time, this was worrying. With ten minutes to spare, we finally found the right place, and retrieved the case. Then it was a mad dash over to the platform to find the sleeper train, which was a monster with 20 coaches. All berths are pre-booked on Russian trains, so you don’t just clamber aboard. We were in coach 2, of course, so it was quite a marathon to walk / jog the length of the train. Natalia had purchased the tickets a few days before, and handed them to the carriage attendant (called a provodnitsa) for checking. An argument in Russian then ensued, with much gesticulating and shouting; it was clear that everything was not entirely tickety-boo. That was when Natalia informed me that the tickets were actually for the previous day, and not valid on this train. Oh goody. This train was fully booked as well, as Russian trains are very well used by locals due to their reliability and cheap prices (Alistair Darling, are you taking notes?) This meant that a bung was out of the question; if there are spare seats the provodnitsas will invariably allow you to travel if you make it worth their while. Money talks in the Ukraine just as well as anywhere else. But no seats means no seats. End of.
Well, it’s not the first time my Russian travel plans had gone awry, as my previous experiences in Belarus had demonstrated a few months earlier. Natalia went into a major strop, explaining that it wasn’t her fault (of course) and wishing a thousand plagues onto the girl who’d sold her the tickets back home. All very poetic, but it wasn’t likely to get us anywhere. I suggested going to the booking office, which stays open all night, and searching for a replacement train. After 15 minutes of sulking and making absolutely sure that I understood that this cock up was not her fault (I understand, get over it) she agreed to go and look for a new train.
At the booking office, the nice lady with a scowl informed us that there were several trains to Kharkov (it is Ukraine’s second city, similar to Birmingham). The next was at 00:42, another at 03:15 or wait till morning and get the luxury express. Natalia chose the 00:42, only to be informed that it had no 1st or 2nd class compartments available, and the only option was Platzkarny, or 3rd class. I made my ‘whatever you think best, dear’, speech, but secretly, I was rather pleased in a masochistic kind of way. Luxury compartments are all very well for tourists, but platzkarny is how real Russians travel, and it was a chance to experience a slice of normal life and meet new people. Plus, it is incredibly cheap, which is something very close to my heart. Tickets for the two of us were 100 grivnas, around a tenner. Yes, that’s right, change out of a fiver, per person, to travel 545 km. Puts Virgin trains £135 (for a similar trip of say, London – Glasgow) into perspective, eh?
All this activity had taken an hour or so, including downtime for sulking (not mine) so there was only about an hour to wait. Talk about getting away lightly; really, I’ve had far bigger travel mishaps to deal with in the past. I treated myself to a ‘coffee’ from a vending machine, and waited until the appropriate moment to descend once again to the platform.
The train was another monster of around 16 coaches; its day had begun at a place called Hmelnickii at around midday, so already it had covered 358 km in around 12 hours – not spectacularly fast, but all CIS country’s trains are operated with a focus on steady reliability rather than speed – a sort of tortoise and hare syndrome. The Ukrainian coaches are painted blue with a white band, and date from, I’d guess, the fifties and sixties. A lovely aroma of a coal fire emanates from these carriages as you walk up the platform; really takes you back to Brief Encounter – at least, it does until you discover that your date buggered up the booking and you can’t get on. That never happened to Trevor and Celia; they thought it through. The interiors are dated but spotlessly clean, as each carriage has the aforementioned provodnitsas who look after it throughout the trip – these attendants are often quite fierce and parochial; do not misbehave or mess up their carriage! As well as keeping it clean and tidy, the provodnitsas also bring drinks, look after the bedding and keep a coal-fired samovar (a large boiler) bubbling away at the end of each coach to provide hot water – hence the smell of an coal fire as you pass the end of each carriage.
The station platforms are at ground level in Ukraine, so it was a steep climb up the steps to enter the coach. I perfected my technique in Belarus; you throw your case in then scramble up after it; trying to carry it up the steps with you is a recipe for disaster. I hope this titbit of information will be useful to you one day.
Given the late hour, the coach was in partial darkness and most of the occupants in deep slumber. I should explain how a platzkarny coach is designed. Each coach consists of 9 open compartments with no doors. Each compartment has four berths plus an additional two berths are located longitudinally over the corridor. At each end of the carriage is a bathroom. This diagram shows the arrangement more clearly; it is a very public and cosy affair!
During daytime, the bunks are folded up and passengers sit on the benches – and I mean benches, not seats. Overnight, the benches become the lower sleeping bunk; and you pull down a shelf above it to create the upper berth, so that four people can sleep. The windows do not open in these coaches, presumably a hangover from Soviet days to stop people leaving the train for a fag break followed by a fun-run into a neighbouring country that sold Levis and Coca Cola - many trains are international and travel considerable distances, often 2 – 3 days. Consequently, they become very hot and stuffy; and the air gets a bit foetid after a while.
We found our assigned berths; naturally the lower berths were occupied by sleeping people so we’d get the shelves. Great! I had to wake up the man at my berth, because my suitcase had to go into the luggage locker, which rather thoughtfully, can only be accessed by lifting up his bed. They thought that one through. Not. On a more practical note, a shag on a shelf was out of the question; although given that Natalia’s mood had worn a little thin, I suspected that she wasn’t planning to give it up this evening anyway. Even though I had made it abundantly clear that no, the cock up wasn’t her fault, and yes, the lady in the ticket office should indeed die a thousand deaths for this travesty.
The passenger that I awoke from deep slumber didn’t seem too perturbed by this intrusion, such is Russian train travel. As he was now awake, he decided to stay up, which gave me a good opportunity to have a chat. His name was Yuri and although he spoke no English at all, I could speak basic Russian as I’d been studying at night school for a year. Opposite Yuri was a woman called Lenka, but she didn’t say much and went back to sleep. Yuri and I were able to communicate reasonably well through my limited Russian, sign language and facial expressions. He worked on the railway as a signalman and was travelling the entire trip – 903 km from Hmelnickii to Kharkov. Inevitably, he produced a bottle of fruit flavoured vodka and opened it up to share, a great tradition on Russian trains. And I was not going to pass up drinkies! Another tradition is that once the bottle is open it must be finished, and I’m all in favour of taking local customs seriously. I also found that the more vodka I drank, the better my Russian became and the conversation really flowed.
This is the platzkarny coach configured for overnight. It resembles a troop train rather than long distance passenger express. There is no privacy whatsoever, and no segregation either between the sexes. Which can be fun in the right circumstances.
Naturally I haven’t a clue what time the vodka ran out, and it was time for bed. This is when you discover that the vodka has directional skills – my head was clear and lucid (I think) but my legs were decidedly drunk. I made Bambi on ice look like a coordinated march of the Coldstream Guards. This made climbing up onto my shelf a tricky proposition, especially as once up there, I had to make up my bed – it is customary to make up the bed before climbing up, but that all passed me by. Once I was more or less wrapped up in a sheet and duvet it was time for sleep – I had a sudden urge in the crowded carriage to announce, ‘Goodnight Jim Boy …’, but fortunately I was able to hold that thought. With all that vodka I expected to sleep all the way to Kharkov, if not Moscow, but it was not to be. The motion of the train was restful and soon lulled you off to sleep, but unfortunately no sooner did it get going than it would stop at some isolated station. Without the soothing sound of the wheels on the rails, all you could hear was snoring, a lull of occasional chatter and an annoying buzzing noise that sounded like a bluebottle had got aboard and was desperate to get off. It was unlikely to be a bluebottle, unless it had a valid ticket – the provodnitsas would see to that.
The train made 12 station stops during the trip, so sleep proved evasive. Around 07:00 the coach began to stir into life as people got up and began preparing for the new day. I was quite happy up on my shelf and decided to stay there, besides which I wasn’t sure that I had enough co-ordination to get down. But nyet! At 8, the provodnitsa came down the corridor and barked at me. Yuri explained that it would be a really good idea to get up now. I got up. Natalia had already risen, but remained obstinately silent during all of this. Thanks, pet. Shortly after that, the provodnitsa was back, and Yuri ordered me a tea, very thoughtful. He advised me to avoid railway coffee, because it tastes like shitski. Fair enough. She brought the tea and then had another rant. Now what? It turned out that once you get up, you must disassemble your bed, put the duvet cover, pillowcase and sheet into the correct plastic bag (provided) and place the duvet and pillow neatly onto the storage shelf above the upper berth. Oh yes, why didn’t I think of that? Then you take your plastic bag down to the provodnitsas compartment, where it is put with the laundry. She took my proffered bag with all the grace and charm of a health & safety officer and that was that. Back to my much-needed cup of tea, and by now Yuri and Lenka were tucking into breakfast that all passengers bring on board the trains. They generously shared everything, and I contributed my pack of chocolate Hobnobs to the feast (never leave home without them).
Good morning, rise and shine! The first passengers have woken up,
but you can still see much of the bedding on the seats and sleeping-shelves.
The train was a lot less lively in the morning than during the night, and everyone was quiet. The view from the window was limited as they’d all steamed up during the night, so there was little to see. We chatted a little for the next hour or so, until at 10:20, after 9 hours and 40 minutes, the train pulled into the majestic Kharkov Station. What an amazing building! First task was to find the washrooms and freshen up, but for now my main thought was that I’d travelled platzkarny and survived! It was a great, if uncomfortable, experience – and whilst not one I’d repeat in a hurry, well worth doing.
Here at last, my first view of Kharkov on a chilly February morning.
The interior of the station building is magnificent, with intricate carvings all delicately handpainted to bring out the detail. Glass domes bring out the best of the bas-relief with natural lighting. After a long, uncomfortable night, this really lifts your spirits. But not as much as finding a McDonalds just outside the concourse.
The grand facade of the station is just as grand as the beautiful interior, and immediately reminded me of the imposing Twin Gates at Minsk. I stayed in Kharkov for a week and had an excellent time, but this is enough for now. Once Natalia had a good night’s sleep she changed dramatically for the better, and we had a great week exploring her home town. I returned to Kiev by express road coach, but that’s another story.
Getting to Kiev, back in chilly February, had been easy, courtesy of a new budget airline called Wizz!, who had Whizzed! me direct from Luton where I’d left the car, and I’d met Natalia as planned at Kiev Borispol Airport - she'd spent 7 hours travelling by coach, followed by another four waiting for my flight to arrive, so was feeling rather bored and tired. Who wouldn't? After a bus transfer into town, I’d dumped the suitcase with Left Luggage, so that we could take a brief look around Kiev and get some dinner before returning for our train at 22:35. So far so good.
My first view of Kiev by night, this is Independence Square. No opportunities for photos, being encumbered by luggage and desperate for food, so I borrowed this one, with the kind permission of ‘Stuck in Customs’ by Trey Ratcliffe.Upon returning to the station, things began to unravel. Firstly, we couldn’t find Left Luggage in the cavernous basement of the station. Well, we could find one set of Left Luggage Lockers, and did so three times by ever increasingly circuitous routes of the station, but the other one appeared to have disappeared altogether. Time was ticking, and as Russian trains always leave on time, this was worrying. With ten minutes to spare, we finally found the right place, and retrieved the case. Then it was a mad dash over to the platform to find the sleeper train, which was a monster with 20 coaches. All berths are pre-booked on Russian trains, so you don’t just clamber aboard. We were in coach 2, of course, so it was quite a marathon to walk / jog the length of the train. Natalia had purchased the tickets a few days before, and handed them to the carriage attendant (called a provodnitsa) for checking. An argument in Russian then ensued, with much gesticulating and shouting; it was clear that everything was not entirely tickety-boo. That was when Natalia informed me that the tickets were actually for the previous day, and not valid on this train. Oh goody. This train was fully booked as well, as Russian trains are very well used by locals due to their reliability and cheap prices (Alistair Darling, are you taking notes?) This meant that a bung was out of the question; if there are spare seats the provodnitsas will invariably allow you to travel if you make it worth their while. Money talks in the Ukraine just as well as anywhere else. But no seats means no seats. End of.
Well, it’s not the first time my Russian travel plans had gone awry, as my previous experiences in Belarus had demonstrated a few months earlier. Natalia went into a major strop, explaining that it wasn’t her fault (of course) and wishing a thousand plagues onto the girl who’d sold her the tickets back home. All very poetic, but it wasn’t likely to get us anywhere. I suggested going to the booking office, which stays open all night, and searching for a replacement train. After 15 minutes of sulking and making absolutely sure that I understood that this cock up was not her fault (I understand, get over it) she agreed to go and look for a new train.
At the booking office, the nice lady with a scowl informed us that there were several trains to Kharkov (it is Ukraine’s second city, similar to Birmingham). The next was at 00:42, another at 03:15 or wait till morning and get the luxury express. Natalia chose the 00:42, only to be informed that it had no 1st or 2nd class compartments available, and the only option was Platzkarny, or 3rd class. I made my ‘whatever you think best, dear’, speech, but secretly, I was rather pleased in a masochistic kind of way. Luxury compartments are all very well for tourists, but platzkarny is how real Russians travel, and it was a chance to experience a slice of normal life and meet new people. Plus, it is incredibly cheap, which is something very close to my heart. Tickets for the two of us were 100 grivnas, around a tenner. Yes, that’s right, change out of a fiver, per person, to travel 545 km. Puts Virgin trains £135 (for a similar trip of say, London – Glasgow) into perspective, eh?
All this activity had taken an hour or so, including downtime for sulking (not mine) so there was only about an hour to wait. Talk about getting away lightly; really, I’ve had far bigger travel mishaps to deal with in the past. I treated myself to a ‘coffee’ from a vending machine, and waited until the appropriate moment to descend once again to the platform.
The train was another monster of around 16 coaches; its day had begun at a place called Hmelnickii at around midday, so already it had covered 358 km in around 12 hours – not spectacularly fast, but all CIS country’s trains are operated with a focus on steady reliability rather than speed – a sort of tortoise and hare syndrome. The Ukrainian coaches are painted blue with a white band, and date from, I’d guess, the fifties and sixties. A lovely aroma of a coal fire emanates from these carriages as you walk up the platform; really takes you back to Brief Encounter – at least, it does until you discover that your date buggered up the booking and you can’t get on. That never happened to Trevor and Celia; they thought it through. The interiors are dated but spotlessly clean, as each carriage has the aforementioned provodnitsas who look after it throughout the trip – these attendants are often quite fierce and parochial; do not misbehave or mess up their carriage! As well as keeping it clean and tidy, the provodnitsas also bring drinks, look after the bedding and keep a coal-fired samovar (a large boiler) bubbling away at the end of each coach to provide hot water – hence the smell of an coal fire as you pass the end of each carriage.
The station platforms are at ground level in Ukraine, so it was a steep climb up the steps to enter the coach. I perfected my technique in Belarus; you throw your case in then scramble up after it; trying to carry it up the steps with you is a recipe for disaster. I hope this titbit of information will be useful to you one day.Given the late hour, the coach was in partial darkness and most of the occupants in deep slumber. I should explain how a platzkarny coach is designed. Each coach consists of 9 open compartments with no doors. Each compartment has four berths plus an additional two berths are located longitudinally over the corridor. At each end of the carriage is a bathroom. This diagram shows the arrangement more clearly; it is a very public and cosy affair!
During daytime, the bunks are folded up and passengers sit on the benches – and I mean benches, not seats. Overnight, the benches become the lower sleeping bunk; and you pull down a shelf above it to create the upper berth, so that four people can sleep. The windows do not open in these coaches, presumably a hangover from Soviet days to stop people leaving the train for a fag break followed by a fun-run into a neighbouring country that sold Levis and Coca Cola - many trains are international and travel considerable distances, often 2 – 3 days. Consequently, they become very hot and stuffy; and the air gets a bit foetid after a while.
We found our assigned berths; naturally the lower berths were occupied by sleeping people so we’d get the shelves. Great! I had to wake up the man at my berth, because my suitcase had to go into the luggage locker, which rather thoughtfully, can only be accessed by lifting up his bed. They thought that one through. Not. On a more practical note, a shag on a shelf was out of the question; although given that Natalia’s mood had worn a little thin, I suspected that she wasn’t planning to give it up this evening anyway. Even though I had made it abundantly clear that no, the cock up wasn’t her fault, and yes, the lady in the ticket office should indeed die a thousand deaths for this travesty.
The passenger that I awoke from deep slumber didn’t seem too perturbed by this intrusion, such is Russian train travel. As he was now awake, he decided to stay up, which gave me a good opportunity to have a chat. His name was Yuri and although he spoke no English at all, I could speak basic Russian as I’d been studying at night school for a year. Opposite Yuri was a woman called Lenka, but she didn’t say much and went back to sleep. Yuri and I were able to communicate reasonably well through my limited Russian, sign language and facial expressions. He worked on the railway as a signalman and was travelling the entire trip – 903 km from Hmelnickii to Kharkov. Inevitably, he produced a bottle of fruit flavoured vodka and opened it up to share, a great tradition on Russian trains. And I was not going to pass up drinkies! Another tradition is that once the bottle is open it must be finished, and I’m all in favour of taking local customs seriously. I also found that the more vodka I drank, the better my Russian became and the conversation really flowed.
This is the platzkarny coach configured for overnight. It resembles a troop train rather than long distance passenger express. There is no privacy whatsoever, and no segregation either between the sexes. Which can be fun in the right circumstances.Naturally I haven’t a clue what time the vodka ran out, and it was time for bed. This is when you discover that the vodka has directional skills – my head was clear and lucid (I think) but my legs were decidedly drunk. I made Bambi on ice look like a coordinated march of the Coldstream Guards. This made climbing up onto my shelf a tricky proposition, especially as once up there, I had to make up my bed – it is customary to make up the bed before climbing up, but that all passed me by. Once I was more or less wrapped up in a sheet and duvet it was time for sleep – I had a sudden urge in the crowded carriage to announce, ‘Goodnight Jim Boy …’, but fortunately I was able to hold that thought. With all that vodka I expected to sleep all the way to Kharkov, if not Moscow, but it was not to be. The motion of the train was restful and soon lulled you off to sleep, but unfortunately no sooner did it get going than it would stop at some isolated station. Without the soothing sound of the wheels on the rails, all you could hear was snoring, a lull of occasional chatter and an annoying buzzing noise that sounded like a bluebottle had got aboard and was desperate to get off. It was unlikely to be a bluebottle, unless it had a valid ticket – the provodnitsas would see to that.
The train made 12 station stops during the trip, so sleep proved evasive. Around 07:00 the coach began to stir into life as people got up and began preparing for the new day. I was quite happy up on my shelf and decided to stay there, besides which I wasn’t sure that I had enough co-ordination to get down. But nyet! At 8, the provodnitsa came down the corridor and barked at me. Yuri explained that it would be a really good idea to get up now. I got up. Natalia had already risen, but remained obstinately silent during all of this. Thanks, pet. Shortly after that, the provodnitsa was back, and Yuri ordered me a tea, very thoughtful. He advised me to avoid railway coffee, because it tastes like shitski. Fair enough. She brought the tea and then had another rant. Now what? It turned out that once you get up, you must disassemble your bed, put the duvet cover, pillowcase and sheet into the correct plastic bag (provided) and place the duvet and pillow neatly onto the storage shelf above the upper berth. Oh yes, why didn’t I think of that? Then you take your plastic bag down to the provodnitsas compartment, where it is put with the laundry. She took my proffered bag with all the grace and charm of a health & safety officer and that was that. Back to my much-needed cup of tea, and by now Yuri and Lenka were tucking into breakfast that all passengers bring on board the trains. They generously shared everything, and I contributed my pack of chocolate Hobnobs to the feast (never leave home without them).
Good morning, rise and shine! The first passengers have woken up, but you can still see much of the bedding on the seats and sleeping-shelves.
The train was a lot less lively in the morning than during the night, and everyone was quiet. The view from the window was limited as they’d all steamed up during the night, so there was little to see. We chatted a little for the next hour or so, until at 10:20, after 9 hours and 40 minutes, the train pulled into the majestic Kharkov Station. What an amazing building! First task was to find the washrooms and freshen up, but for now my main thought was that I’d travelled platzkarny and survived! It was a great, if uncomfortable, experience – and whilst not one I’d repeat in a hurry, well worth doing.
Here at last, my first view of Kharkov on a chilly February morning. 
The interior of the station building is magnificent, with intricate carvings all delicately handpainted to bring out the detail. Glass domes bring out the best of the bas-relief with natural lighting. After a long, uncomfortable night, this really lifts your spirits. But not as much as finding a McDonalds just outside the concourse.
The grand facade of the station is just as grand as the beautiful interior, and immediately reminded me of the imposing Twin Gates at Minsk. I stayed in Kharkov for a week and had an excellent time, but this is enough for now. Once Natalia had a good night’s sleep she changed dramatically for the better, and we had a great week exploring her home town. I returned to Kiev by express road coach, but that’s another story.
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