Lublin Bus Station

The rain drains off of the overhang at the Lublin bus station, forming streams of water that feed into a giant puddle in front of a small café. I watch people clumsily dance together around the small pond, trying to protect their business clothes and gain entrance to the warm and dry confines of the coffee shop. One man misjudges the distance between dry land and the front step of the café, ending up in a splash of muddy water, soaking his black dress shoes and slacks.

The rain splatters against my face as I run to catch my bus back to Ukraine. As the buses line up to take people to Warsaw, Krakow and Berlin, the bus to Ukraine stands out as it crawls to the curb. It looks to predate every other bus on the lot by 25 years. I briefly attempt to count the number of revolutions that have taken place in Eastern Europe from the conception of this bus up until now. The driver’s piercing stare interrupts my train of thought. I give him my ticket and he gruffly motions for me to head to the back while mumbling something in unintelligible Russian. I am well aware the friendly smiles and customer service I had experienced in Poland will not accompany me to the border and beyond.

Inside I smell damp beer and kielbasa. While I search to find a seat, the bus begins to reveal itself more as a cargo mule than a mode of transportation. Babushka bags stuffed with goods and produce fill every seat I wish to occupy. Many people make their living transporting assorted Polish foods and products into Ukraine, to be sold at local bazaars. Their illegal partners in trade across the border make a similar living smuggling cigarettes and vodka from Ukraine into Poland, oftentimes giving the bus drivers a cut of the money to help stow the contraband so not to be discovered by the Polish border police. The only seats in the back not filled with babushka bags double as the driver’s travel table.

A tray covered with kielbasa, black bread, cucumbers and a half-emptied bottle of Ukrainian vodka prevents me from sitting down. I pray it was the driver’s companions who put the work in on the vodka, and that we safely and soberly make our way down the road. As I step off the bus to grab some snacks for the trip, the driver abruptly begins to pull away and I rush back and begin banging on the door, determined not to be left behind.

For all that matters, I left Poland an hour West of her Eastern border.

Kovel Bus Station

The bus takes me into Kovel, a city of about 70,000, serving as a transportation hub into Western Europe, Belarus and Russia. Daily buses and trains leave from Kovel, headed to Warsaw, Berlin, Brest, Moscow and nearly every major city in Ukraine. Despite it’s travel convenient location, Kovel is not much of a tourist destination.

Most of Western Ukraine was once apart of Poland, Romania or the Austro-Hungarian Empire (some places a combination of two, or all three) and the whole region fell under the rule of the Soviet Union. In most of the cities in the West the diverse history is evident in architecture and culture. While Kovel does have some choice spots, it fails in comparison to cities with beautiful market squares, narrow streets, old Roman-Catholic cathedrals, staggeringly beautiful Orthodox churches, Italian-influenced architecture, old castles and Austrian styled opera houses like those found in L’viv, Ternopil, Ivano-Frankivsk, Kamyanets-Podilsky and Lutsk.

A light rain welcomes me back to Ukraine as I step off the bus in Kovel. While I have made this trip many times during my two years living in the Northwestern part of the country, I am continually surprised by the drastic changes that take place after crossing the border from Poland into Ukraine. Ukraine struggles with vast political corruption, a deepening economic gap, a weak infrastructure, lack of development and an identity crisis as well as a cultural war being fought amongst its citizens. It has been home to civilizations for over one thousand years, but is still a young democracy — gaining its independence in 1991 and ultimately political independence from Russia in 2004. Now with the recent election of convicted criminal and Kremlin-leaning Victor Yanukovich, many in the country (predominantly in the West) fear a crackdown on civil liberties and freedoms will soon take effect and a pro-Russian view on the country’s difficult history will pervade it.

The area around the bus station is forlorn. I watch an old man pull a cart filled with personal possessions and bundles of sunflower seeds through puddles of oily black water as he dolefully blows on a harmonica. Pairs of Roma (sometimes referred to as gypsy) kids step onto idling buses to sing songs about religion, family, and country in hopes of receiving spare change for their efforts. A pack of dogs scavenge on the concrete between a woman selling live river fish and a decaying dumpster. I walk through the doorway, down the poorly lit corridor opening into the bus station. The crowded terminal smells of body odor, damp clothes and stale bread. I notice a drunken man sprawled over a bench, mumbling to no one, taking up three seats. A black crow frantically circles above, trying to escape to the dark skied afternoon. I make my way to the cashier window and buy a ticket on a bus headed to my village, leaving in one hour.

With a little time on my hands, I enter the small café operating at the end of the bus terminal for a drink. Several of the tables are occupied with older men gathered around plastic cups partially filled with vodka and plates of black bread. I step up to the bar and order a bottle of Lvivske 1715. I take the beer outside as the sun begins to slowly break through the clouds and turns the day muggy and humid. I watch the busses pull in to the empty platforms. The Roma kids are still making their rounds. One of the girls in their group — no older than thirteen and pulling along a young boy — has a noticeable bulge in her stomach. The Roma population — ethnically Indian — is outcast in Ukraine. Many of them grow up living on the streets — begging at train stations and bus stations across the country. I quickly finish my beer and walk over to a street vendor for another.

As my bus arrives I can already see no seats are available through the dingy glass. A short line has begun to form in the aisle, starting at the back. We impressively fit what I would believe to be a record number of people for a bus this size, but no one seems to recognize this. Instead of with champagne and cake, I celebrate this accomplishment by partaking in an awkward staring contest with a drunken war veteran, whose face is unfortunately within inches of my own, and will remain there until the first stop. After ten minutes, a few people get off and I have an opportunity to readjust my position. Although recently, the Ukrainian government made it illegal to travel on a bus without a seat, the law is rarely enforced.

After a number of stops the crowd thins out and I’m able to find a seat and catch a quick nap before re-entering my life in rural Ukraine.