The Slow Train to Lviv

'Gatta' means cat in Greek...

The seats were solid, hard wood.  They hurt.  The train creaked along and the ticket collector didn't arrive until a good 20 minutes after we had boarded in 'middle-of-nowhere,' Ukraine.  I paid about 50 Hryvnia and my accidental tour guide, Maria, paid a little less.  It was then that I finally realized she wasn't going all the way to Lviv with me.  Her long trip from Greece via Krakow was ending in a small village named Rudne.  Once again I would be alone in a large city where I don't speak the language.  I returned to my usual state of traveler's panic.

I questioned Maria for information about the train's arrival in Lviv.  In my notebook she wrote 'Prymiskyj Vogzal' which was the name of the station, or possibly the name of a villain from a cheesy sci-fi film.  To clarify she informed me, "Not Central Lviv Station."  Very reassuring.  So how do I get to central Lviv?

Fortunately I had the foresight to write a short list of available hostels in Lviv:
1. The Kosmonaut Hostel, 1st floor Sichovykh, Stritiso 8
2. Roxelana Hostel, General Chuprenke 50/4 Tehepan
3. Retro Hostel Shevchensko, Shevchensko 16.  Take Tran #1 or #9, exit Green St, cross to Saksaganskogo St.

The street names are complicated but at least they have names.  Unlike Costa Rica where I live.

Notice the third hostel has the most directions?  As a hostel manager, I beg of you hostels to always have good directions on how to arrive at your place.  The three hostels are all cheap, but I settled on Retro Hostel for the simple fact that its description told me how to get there.  Imagine.  Although it would seem obvious, many hostels seem unaware that most of their guests are completely new in the city, don't speak the language and exercise bad judgement due to exhaustion/disorientation/hangover/stupidity. 

Maria recognized the information I showed her.  She drew a simple map of the train station and two parallel streets.  I had to cross one parallel street then look for tram 29A which would take me to Green Street where Retro Hostel was. Simple.

"Skype? You Skype?  I learn English, you?"

"Umm...yes.  I have Skype."

She wrote her Skype name next to the map and continued sketching on the opposite page.  It was not a map.  It was a cat.  I asked her if it had a name.  Above the drawing she wrote 'Gatta.'  She told me 'Gatta' is 'cat' in Greek.  Next to the drawing she wrote in English: 'hello', 'good morning' and 'good night.'

"I learn English, you, Skype?" she repeated and gave me a small smile while looking directly at me.  There was a sad, pleading look in her eyes.  She took my hands and indicated she wanted a massage.  I obliged with a certain guilt.  I had observed how thin she was and it become even more evident when I placed my hands on her.

I felt like a dick for thinking that she had been out to scam me or lead me into some trap.  I remembered the pictures of her children on her phone.  She had been away working as a cook in Greece for almost a year; most likely wiring her money to her family in her small village.  Due to the wide language barrier I could never learn the true story.  I'm sure it merits more respect than my silly joyride through the Ukraine.

In time Maria gave me a massage as well.  When she finished she gave me another long, sad look.  I looked her in the eyes.  I thought of taking advantage of the situation, but guilt overcame me again and I let the moment pass.  I was sure there would be more moments like this in Lviv very soon.  After gazing at her for a minute I stupidly said, "Skype!" 

She smiled meekly and laid her head on my shoulder.  Not knowing what else to do, I put my arm around her.  Quickly she drifted into sleep despite the hard wooden seats.  I was unable to sleep and stared out the window at nothing in particular.  I stroked Maria's hair absentmindedly.  An incredible sadness came over me.  The train slowly became more hot and crowded and interesting with each stop, but I noticed none of it.

When we arrived at Maria's small village another lady was waiting for her there.  She told me "two more," which I took to mean two more stops until Lviv.  I thanked her for her help and carried her heavy bags off the train.  Her and her friend waved at me as the train took off.  I waved back and smiled bitterly, knowing I would never see her again.

 

The Wrong Way To Cross Polish-Ukraine Border to Lviv

Working in a hostel has made me realize how many backpackers blindly allow 'Lonely Planet' guidebooks to dictate their entire travel plans.  Their travel mantra is, "If it's not in 'Lonely Planet,' it doesn't exist."

 Thorn Tree travel forum

meczko

Oct 14, 2008 4:23 AM
Posts:  998

7

Re catching train on the Ukrainian side - it's not practical. The border railway station in Mostyska is several kilometers from the road/pedestrian crossing in Shehyni, actually in a middle of nowhere, so you'd have to catch a cab and I am not sure how would it be with tickets availibility there.

If I had taken this Thorn Tree advice to heart, I wouldn't have enjoyed eating lunch in scenic 'Middle Of Nowhere,' Ukraine.  Although it seemed more dangerous at the time, blindly following a strange Ukrainian lady from Krakow to Lviv was a better decision than repeating the advice of a guidebook.

Maria had gotten me from Krakow to Prsymsymsysm to Medyka and across the Ukrainian border into Shehyni without problems.  She had helped me get food in the ugly bordertown convenience store and had even scared away an evil taxi driver who had followed us inside.  I could trust her now and stop imagining she was somehow leading me into a trap involving a roving band of gypsies, corrupt police and her ugly gold chain and tracksuit clad Mafia boyfriend.

Besides...who else could I trust here?

With food in hand, we walked out the store into the hot summer sun.  The bordertown vultures saw us exit immediately and we rushed down the road in the opposite direction of the border while ignoring the shouts of "Taxi, Taxi" and "Money, Money."  A short walk past some garbage piles and homeless winos brought us to a large rock lot like the one in Medyka.  Minibuses waited for us there.

"Minibus, minbus," said Maria.  And then in a more hushed tone she added,

"You. No English.  Speak English, more money."

Those who know me would say its impossible for me to keep my mouth shut in any language.  This particular time I did follow her advice very well.  We boarded in silence and took off once the bus filled up.  My mouth was shut, but I imagine that pulling out the camera on the ride raised the rate a few Hryvnia.

Stupid tourist.

Kilometers clicked by as the driver randomly dropped off and picked up people along the highway.  It seemed everyone knew where exactly where they were going except me. Were we taking the bus all the way to Lviv?  I resisted the urge to ask Maria and assumed she knew what was next.

After 15 minutes we pulled off to a muddy road on the side of the highway.  Large puddles dotted the route.  Maria nodded her head.  I got off, grabbed my bags and turned around to see Maria heatedly arguing with the driver.  They wildly gesticulated and yelled as the other passengers stared.  Hastily Maria got off the bus with her luggage.  Some old ladies were departing as well so I helped them with their bags.   Maria continued arguing with the driver.  Finally she stopped and told me to pay 3 Hryvnia for the trip.  I paid and the driver left in a hurry.

Maria and the old ladies discussed her mystery problem for a while before they left.  I gazed around the empty countryside, oblivious to the issue.   Eventually Maria and I were standing alone on the muddy path that stretched into the distance.  She was pissed.

I asked Maria, "Katastrofea??"  She responded immediately with, "Tak, Katastrofea!!"  In my bad Slovak I found out that less than 200 meters down the path was the train station that would take us to Lviv.  For this short distance the driver wanted to charge us an additional 3 Hryvnia; that's double the price for a small detour.  His reason??  The mud was dangerous.

Train structure with chickens

We meandered to the train station...or rather train structure.  To call it a station would give it too much credit.  A tin roof topped 3 concrete walls.  Two broken benches, some graffiti and a few stray chickens were inside.  There were no schedules nor employees to say when trains came.  Maria assured me we could leave our bags alone by the tracks with no problem.  Given the desolate location, I believed her and gladly dropped my heavy luggage.  I asked her when the train arrived.  She held up one index finger.  It was 11am.  

"Woda?"

"Tak. Woda je dobra...where?"

I hadn't drank anything in fourteen hours.  The train structure clearly had no electricity nor plumbing, so I wondered why Maria would offer me water.  She waved her hand and led me around the structure to a low-built wooden shed with a crank sticking out the right.  Inside there was a tin bucket for an old well leading deep into the ground.  I momentarily thought of how the Chernobyl accident had occurred in the Ukraine, but the incredible dryness in my throat quickly cast this thought away.  After several times of lowering and raising the tin bucket we had quenched our thirst with fresh water straight from the aquifer.

My throat was no longer parched but my stomach was rumbling.  We returned to our luggage besides the tracks and prepared a simple lunch of bread, cheese and yogurt.  It was sufficient to kill the hunger that had been building up since I had left Krakow several hours ago.  Following the madness of running by train, minibus and foot from border to border all night, it felt good to have some peace.  Now was the best time to enjoy that first Ukrainian beer I had bought at the border town.  After a moment of panic when I realized I had no opener for the bottle, I remembered an old Polish saying my friend Marcin taught me: "anything can open a beer."  I walked over to the railroad tracks, set the cap against an edge on the steel beam, then pulled the bottle down quickly.  *Psssshhhh!*  The quiet Ukrainian countryside looked much better now.  Who wants a beer?

The first Ukrainian beer

Maria received a call on her phone and disappeared into the bushes to talk.  The sounds of the countryside filled up the silence: birdsong, some cricket chirps, a light breeze blowing and the occasional cow moo in the distance.  The mind wanders easily in a idyllic setting like this.

...What do I know about the Ukraine?
The bad: Chernobyl, high AIDS rate and mail-order brides.
The good: Yalta Conference, Orange Revolution and mail-order brides.
The just plain weird: Jonathan Safran Froer's novel, 'Everything is Illuminated.'

Sitting alone in this empty, never-ending countryside by an isolated railway emphasized how little I knew about the largest country in Europe.  What do they eat?  Are they friendly?  Do they like Americans?  Is it -in fact- still Europe?  Many questions and thoughts ran through my head, and soon the moment took on a surreal quality quite like one of the stranger passages from 'Everything is Illuminated.'  Perhaps the train will never come...and it won't matter.

I always thought words like 'enchanting' and 'magical' were reserved for places like Paris, Dresden and Prague, yet this little, dilapidated corner of western Ukraine affected me more than any of those great cities.

Maria returned from her hiding place in the bushes.  We finished our food then took a nap on the concrete in the hot sun.  The train arrived exactly at 1pm.