I Love Platzkart

The legacy of the Cold War has left North Americans with precious little knowledge of the post-Soviet world. Sadly, some of the things that North Americans don’t know are rather nifty.

Ex-Soviet transportation infrastructure makes North American transportation infrastructure seem an ersatz, shameful excuse. Expensive North American taxis, buses that take forever to arrive, and subway systems that only privilege huge cities pale in comparison to post-Soviet transportation infrastructure, which tends to be efficient and affordable. Yes, the subways are creaky, the buses look like they haven’t been updated since 1940, the marshrutka* drivers clearly have a collective death wish, and the taxis are uncomfortable and painted in jewel-tones, but I’ll be darned if the whole system doesn’t just work better than it does in North America.

A tram in Vladikavkaz.

This isn’t a taxi, but many post-Soviet taxis do look like this.

Although I geek out about all aspects of transportation infrastructure in the former Soviet Union, one particular type of transportation is special.

Platzkart. I love platzkart.

Platzkart is a class of train travel. When you travel by train in North America or Europe, you buy either a seat or a berth in a cabin. In the post-Soviet republics, platzkart is an intermediate option. If you buy a ticket in platzkart you will spend the night in a bed in a train car that contains 54 beds. It’s like a hostel . . . in a train.

Russians tend to feel disdainful towards the idea of platzkart. I told a group of men from Krasnodar about my love for platzkart. “What?!” they yelled all together. “Is it the not showering? Is it not having hot water? Is it feeling dirty and smelly that you like?” They mimed showering with a bucket of cold water in a postage-stamp sized bathroom in platzkart over a several day trip.

I told another group of Russians from Moscow. “What is it you like about it?” they asked, perplexed. “The smell?”

I told my Russian teacher, and now every time I change cities she asks whether I travelled platzkart, and then laughs her head off. Of all my Russian friends, she is the kindest to platzkart and can understand why I choose to travel that way – but she still finds it hilarious that I’m such a big fan.

Each wagon in platzkart contains 54 beds. Half of them are lower berths, and half are upper. At the beginning of the journey, everybody sits on the lower berths. As evening approaches, passengers roll out a provided mattress pad and make the beds with the provided linens.

Platzkart from above, before making the beds.

Platzkart doesn’t really smell. (There was one time the toilet broke, but that was just once.) Yes, if you have back problems or are a light sleeper, or are taller than 5’6/168 cm or so, platzkart might not be for you. The berths are usually a bit hard, sometimes people snore, and people will probably bump your hands or feet if they stray a few centimeters off the bed, which is easy to do because the beds are only about 170 cm.

The pros outweigh the cons though. Platzkart is a great social mixer. Spending 12, 24 or 36 hours in the same space with no internet starts conversations flowing. I’ve met missionaries, political scientists, tourists, a girl who moved to Azerbaijan for love (yikes), people who grew up in the train’s destination, and so on. Platzkart holds people captive and all but forces them to exchange stories. Half the time I leave platzkart, I leave with a phone number of somebody who lives in that town. “Give me a call if you need help,” they say. “Really, if anything goes wrong, just call.”

That’s not to mention the funny things you witness in platzkart. The woman who was trying to get 20 packs of diapers across the border without paying duty? Well, the whole train had to wait, but only the folks in platzkart were able to laugh because we were the only ones who knew what was going on.

In platzkart, people have shared their food with me, given me advice about travel, patiently corrected my broken Russian, invited me to breakfast in their homes, and promised to help me celebrate my birthday. They have also provided me invaluable information about the cultures of my destinations, things I might not have learned only by travelling to the destination because conversations are more difficult to start when people are not forced to occupy the same space. In fact, a few of my upcoming blog posts started as conversations in platzkart.

Platzkart is also the safest way to travel as a woman travelling alone in the ex-Soviet Union. It is possible to buy a bed in a four-berth (kupe) or two-berth (lux) cabin, but unless you are travelling with friends, it only means that you will be sharing a cabin with one or three strangers instead of 53. In platzkart, not only will 52 people hear if something goes wrong, stealing is more challenging because everybody keeps an eye on others’ stuff.

In the upcoming weeks and months, I am planning a series of posts inspired by platzkart conversations. Stay tuned.

*A marshrutka is to the post-Soviet world what a dolmus is to Turkey.