Part 3
We wanted a train adventure - and the Bosphorus Express sleeper train from Istanbul to Bucharest provides it. Just don't ask what time we arrived or what the toilets were like!
“Mummy, what will happen if we miss the train?” says my eldest anxiously as we lug our rucksacks up the hill to our hotel for the final time. “We’ll be walking to Bucharest,” I reply. “Don’t worry though, it’ll be a piece of cake after all the training we’ve had in the past couple of days.”
It’s not a ridiculous question, because we have been traipsing around buying food for tonight’s first train journey and, unsurprisingly, it has taken longer than planned. We have been informed that there is no catering available during the 20-hour trip to Bucharest and that there are no shops near Halkali station (where the train departs), so something to eat and drink is essential.
Our bags are packed with delicious bagels from the ubiquitous stalls dotted everywhere, plus crisps, biscuits, cucumbers, bananas, gallons of water and some warm wine. We’ve already walked 25,000 steps today, so decide to take the easy option of a taxi as Halkali station is a good hour away by public transport.
The girls are being entertained by the hotel manager while we wait, playing a hand slapping game! I am pacing nervously because the taxi is taking forever to get through the traffic, despite being only five minutes’ away. The taxi struggles round the corner 20 minutes’ later - even cars can’t get up this hill. The manager waves goodbye to the crazy Brits with a bemused ‘why don’t they just take a plane’ expression.
As our driver pushes his way through the cobbled streets to join the throngs of cars on the main road, he turns and grins at us. “I’m good driver,” he says, as he beeps and squeezes through the tiniest gaps. He can’t speak any other English really, but once we’ve got through the gridlocked vehicles, he turns out to have the perfect skills to get us to our train on time, weaving in and out of traffic, undertaking and overtaking as he feels necessary. He turns the music up, singing at full volume, taking both hands off the steering wheel at times to clap along.
What was I worried about? We get there with 40 minutes to spare, and join the other passengers waiting to board, most of whom do a double take at Duke the dog sitting in Cressida’s arms. The gate opens and everyone files in to put their luggage through the x-ray machine. It’s a much less eventful experience than our flight from Bristol to Dalaman, where Cressida’s pencil case that she had insisted on bringing was found to contain scissors, meaning most of our luggage was flagged and searched. No such dramas this time, and within a couple of minutes we arrive on the platform, where the train is ready and waiting. The inspector points us to the last carriage, which holds the couchettes for the Bucharest passengers.
The children let out a whoop of excitement as we enter our couchette, already arguing about discussing who sleeps where. It’s just past 7.30pm, less than half an hour before our journey begins. Our train manager, who looks like Basil Fawlty (should I be worried?) brings round four lots of bedding, each sealed in plastic bags and looking pleasingly clean. There are about seven other couchettes and they are all full. The other passengers are a mix of young European backpackers and some Romanian families, one of which walks past our compartment with two very young children. Memories of a nightmare flight from the UK to Australia with a five-month-old Saskia spring to mind. Phew, I’m glad that’s not me.
Bhavin goes to check out the toilet facilities. “Do you want the good news or the bad news?” he asks on his return. “What do you mean?” I reply, shooting him a look. “Well,” he says, “the toilet down the other end is just a hole in the floor. But you will be pleased to know that the one at our end is not. I don’t think you are going to like it though.” Cressida wants to see the hole in the floor but returns horrified. Not so much by the hole, but by the smell. And nobody has even used it yet.
I make the beds for the children, who have no intention of going to bed, but want to mess around. The pillows are surprisingly plump and comfy; the sheets look whitish and unstained. The ladder comes out and gets climbed up and down multiple times. Duke sits on the table looking out of the window. “Is this better than camping?” I ask as Bhavin and I pour ourselves a plastic cup of warm wine. “Yes!” they shout in unison. “Much better.”
At 8.30pm, 30 minutes late, the train trundles out of the station. We’re off! I’m sure the train will make up the time, I say as Bhavin and I relax with our wine and watch the outskirts of Istanbul pass in the last of the daylight. The children enjoy a film and a bagel, and I decide to brave the loo. It’s gross. It stinks worse than a car-park stairs and it’s tiny. I retch, so try to hold my breath and escape as soon as possible. Oh man, I say as I collapse into the couchette. “Children, you are not brushing your teeth on this train. Wait until you get to Bucharest tomorrow evening.” The girls celebrate wildly.
The Bosphorus Express is not in a hurry. It plods along at about 20mph, with lengthy stops at stations and regular stops in-between, where people get out for a cigarette. The two young children are screaming. They’re probably overheating as the air conditioning is ineffective and the window only opens about four inches. It also seems to blow in warm air. We sip our warm wine and breathe in the warm air happily. In between the bursts of crying, we hear our backpacker neighbours chatting. They’re strangers sharing a very small four-bed couchette, I’m so glad that’s not me. We drift off to sleep at around midnight, but not before we notice we’re now running about an hour late.
We wake to find the train not moving and people standing around on the platform. It’s 4am and we’re at Kapikule, the Turkish border. The train is now running about two hours’ late. We know we get off here to have our passports stamped, but there’s no action yet.
About 30 minutes later, the train manager appears shouting passports, banging on all the couchette doors. The banging does not wake up the girls, and we don’t have much more luck, with neither of them willing to do more than open their eyes for a few seconds. Finally forced out of bed, we step out of the train carriage to a chill in the air. “Cold,” calls over the train manager. He’s right, the Turkish border must be high up. We drag our unimpressed, half-asleep children to the back of the queue and steel ourselves for a barrage of whinging as we wait for the single man behind the counter to stamp the passports of a full train of passengers.
Back on the train an hour later, the children fall straight back to sleep. The train chugs off again, stopping and starting as we make our way to the Bulgarian border station. This time, we don’t have to get off, but a border police officer bangs on our door and brusquely asks for our passports. We hand them over and he disappears … I’m pretty sure I read something about this, but Bhavin is not reassured. An hour later, he returns, handing them back with a severe expression. The train pulls out of the station into Bulgaria and we go back to sleep. I don’t check how late we are.
I wake at about 9am and we’re stationary at a ramshackle Bulgarian station. There’s lots of banging and shouting going on, and it seems that part of the train is being separated. Our train manager has changed into a casual pyjama-style outfit and people are stretching their legs and smoking on the train tracks. I check the time, we are now running more than 2.5 hours’ late. We’re supposed to arrive just after 5pm, but I’d say there’s more chance of Spurs winning a trophy this season.
The train crawls off again. The children are in heaven because they have free rein to eat crisps for breakfast and watch films. They’re completely oblivious to the fact we’re running three hours’ behind schedule and I’m not going to be the one to tell them. We sit and watch the world go by, there’s space to stretch out and several hours pass in a pleasant fashion.
By mid-afternoon, the Romanian border is still a couple of hours away and it’s just two hours until we are due to arrive in Bucharest. The sun is beating through the window and the power is more off than on, making it extremely hot in our couchette. We cross the magnificent Danube before arriving at the Romanian border station of Russe.
It’s the same set-up as Bulgaria, with border police appearing at our door to take our passports. Couldn’t they just bring the stamp with them? The air con doesn’t work when the train is not moving, so the temperature goes up another level. I get out of the train and wander up and down the tracks with some of the other passengers.
The Bucharest arrival time comes and goes. There’s a bit more banging and shouting, not sure what they’re up to. Saskia briefly joins me but decides it’s too hot and returns to her book. The babies are screaming again. I’m not surprised. However, maybe the fact we are running 3.5 hours behind time has galvanised our train crew into action because suddenly we are told to get back on the train. The passports have been returned and it’s time to depart.
We breathe a sigh of relief, but that doesn’t last for long because the power refuses to come back on. We have the door to our couchette open hoping for any bit of breeze and our train manager walks by making a ‘isn’t it hot’ gesture. Power, we say to him hopefully, pointing at the socket. “No power,” he says. “No power in Romania.”
By the time we arrive at Bucaresti Nord nearly four hours’ late, the mood is edgy. The last three hours have been tough going, we haven’t mentally prepared ourselves to arrive so late and we are tired, hot and hungry. But Bucharest is beautiful, much more so than I imagined, and the stressful final part of the train journey is quickly forgotten as we arrive at our apartment, right in the heart of the lovely old town.
Takeaways from the first leg? Less smelly toilets and power in Romania would be a big plus, but we knew that the sleeper train from Istanbul to Bucharest would not be luxurious and were fine with that. It was exciting to head off into the night and pass through three different countries in one journey. We wanted adventure and we got adventure. It ran late, but we should have expected that. People don’t hurry in this region; things happen when they happen. I loved the unpredictability of the stops, the tiny stations in the Bulgarian countryside and the different people we met as we travelled.
I remember my joke to Saskia about walking to Bucharest if we missed the train. I wonder who would have arrived first. Us or the train?
Comments