APRIL 8, 2022 – Blogger’s note: In keeping with the duration of my long train trips in Poland, the length of this post violates my self-imposed limit of 500 words. (“A-a-a-l-l aboard!”)
As a long-haul traveler, I’d learned to roll with the bumps—especially aboard trains. In Poland, however, I encountered the worst train conditions of my entire odyssey and fell into the traveler’s trap of making judgmental comparisons. I had to remind myself continually that I wasn’t in Sweden or Switzerland; not Australia or even India. I was rattling across the landscape of a country in a world of woe.
* * *
In 1981, for switch engines, the PKP (Polish Railway) relied exclusively on ancient, coal-burning locomotives. They were so commonplace I took little notice of them after my first day in country.
At the conclusion of my Poland trip, when I returned to Ystad, Sweden and walked from the ferry wharf to the train station, my first bit of reverse culture shock occurred when I saw on display, a vintage coal-fired locomotive not unlike the scores I’d seen in Poland—except the display model had been completely refurbished and was shining proudly, as well-scrubbed and carefree as its admirers. The crowd of Swedish onlookers gawked as if what stood before them was a taxidermized Brontosaurus. Far more than a six-hour ferry boat ride separated the two worlds—Sweden and Poland.
Within its modern borders, territorial Poland is about half the size of Texas. Trains were my main means of travel along the following itinerary:
- Świnoujście to Poznan (300 miles);
- Poznan to Warszawa (250 miles);
- Warszawa to Gdansk (German “Danzig” before WW II) (275 miles);
- Gdansk to Krakow (484 miles);
- Krakow to Oświęcim (“Auschwitz”)(56 miles);
- Oświęcim to Zakopane (102 miles);
- Zakopane to Wrocław (pronounced VROTS-whav; the slashed ‘l’—ł—in Polish having the sound of an English “w”)(298 miles); and
- Wrocław to Świnoujście (387 miles).
“I spent over 52 hours riding trains,” I wrote in my letter home. “I stood for over half that time.” I described Polish trains as “antiquated, dilapidated, unreliable, unsafe, filthy, and . . . cheap. The train carriages are in horrible shape. Doors are often dangling by a single bolt; WCs are disgustingly unsanitary, and every surface, vertical or horizontal, is covered with grease, soot, and dirt. Often the crowds are so bad one nearly suffocates when the train (and ventilation) stops. Poles are generally very civilized and courteous, but when they board or disembark from trains, WATCH OUT!”
Freight cars were even more forlorn than passenger carriages. I remember the trip from the Oświęcim station to the frightful Auschwitz death camp when my taxi—first in line—had to stop at a rail crossing. As the old, creaking, swaying train rolled by, I noticed the box car doors had been left open and cargos haphazardly loaded. One car contained sacks of cement, piled willy-nilly and only three layers high. Right at the crossing several sacks wriggled free and slid right out the doorway.
Passenger station platforms were as chaotic as the trains. Often the platform number would be changed at the last moment–at best with garbled notice over dated loudspeakers; at worst with no notice at all. Like lemmings, waiting travelers dashed from the scheduled platform to the newly appointed one. I learned quickly. Given the common absence of signage, before departure I always asked several fellow travelers to confirm the destination of the train I was boarding.
In my letter home I recounted in detail the mind-boggling illogic and inconsistency of the whole ticketing and reservation system. As I read my account today, I laughed. I’d forgotten the extent to which there was no “system.”
“[Buying a ticket] was a baffling and unpredictable event,” I wrote. “In Świnoujście I’d wanted to purchase a 15-day second class Polish Railpass [pushed as “the best deal” in the government tourist book I’d purchased in Sweden]. The woman handling such affairs was very friendly but not particularly knowledgeable or adaptable. She dug around in the drawers of her battered oakwood desk and produced a handful of passes. She found only 8-day and 21-day passes, and so she informed me that I couldn’t buy a 15-day pass. It seemed as ridiculous as being denied a cinema seat, not because there were no seats available but because there weren’t enough physical tickets . . .
“Through a few words of German (she spoke no English or French), I suggested that she sell me two 8-day passes (dated consecutively and priced at the 15-day rate of $2/day x 16 days). But no, she couldn’t do that. An 8-day pass was $20 and two passes made for $40. I paid the $40 (equivalent in Polish złoty) and forgot about it—such a small problem really, in the greater scheme of things.
“Once I was aboard the train, the conductor demanded a reservation card. ‘But the official brochure says pass-holders needn’t pay extra for a reservation card,’ I thought. Perhaps, but how do you explain that to a busy conductor who doesn’t speak your language and who has never heard of any ‘official brochure’? Nevertheless, the train was crowded, and the conductor in a rush. He lost himself in the crowd somewhere, and I never saw him again.
“In Poznan, just before leaving for Warsaw, I decided to obtain a reservation card in advance. After queuing for 40 minutes, I finally had my turn. The agent issued me a card, but she wouldn’t believe that pass-holders didn’t have to pay extra for reservations. On board the train, the conductor laughed when I presented my pass and my ‘reservation’ card: I’d been issued (and had paid for) a ticket, not a reservation. Furthermore, reservations weren’t even required on that train. On three other long-distance trains no conductor even asked for a ticket.”
“In Gdansk,” I wrote, “I tried again for a reservation card. I presented my rail pass to the clerk and said ‘Reserwajci’ [Reservation] for Krakow,’ to which the clerk replied, ‘Pass no good for Krakow. Good only for Praha, Budapest, or Berlin.’ – ‘Ridiculous!’ I thought. ‘This is a pass for Polish trains only, not for international trains—it says that on the pass card in English and Polish. Furthermore, if it’s good for Praha or Budapest, why isn’t it good for Krakow, which is on the way?’ The clerk refused to read the provisions printed in Polish on the back of the pass. I dropped the matter, and without a reservation I boarded the train bound for Krakow. Since all the second-class carriages were jam-packed (luggage and babies were passed through open windows), I boarded the less-crowded first-class wagon. When the old conductor saw my second-class pass (sans reservation), he merely nodded, said ‘Dziękuję [Thanks]’ (pronounced, “Jin-KWEE-e’), and moved on.”
However judgmental I was of Polish trains, they would serve a vital method of protest during martial law, which was imposed three months later by the Soviet’s puppet, President Wojciech Jaruzelski. With the clamp-down on all street protests and conventional communication, Poles resorted to creative alternatives—such as painting anti-government slogans on the outside of train carriages, which thus became traveling billboards of opposition.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
