Outside of the Baltic States, "marshrutkas" are a ubiquitous sight in the former Soviet Union, but I hadn’t spent much time in them until my most recent trip to Ukraine, where I took them daily. These minibuses are share taxis, like a larger, more crowded, dollar van, but with more tassels and rugs. They have set routes, but while the urban ones run every few minutes, they only depart their terminus (often a train/bus/subway station) when they are full. Some, especially the intercity ones, can be flagged down outside of their regular stops, and they often only stop on request, or if the driver sees waiting passengers. Soviet bureaucracy (and perhaps the Russian language itself) lends itself to portmanteaus, and the marshrutka is no exception, coming from the German “Marschroute” (“marching route”) and the universal “taxi,” revealing the marshrutka’s origins as a taxi with a set route.
In countries with poor public transport, marshrutkas bridge gaps. Arrive at a train station on the edge of town late at night? Well, there’s a marshrutka for that, and it costs 15 cents EUR. Have to get to the subway but the nearest station is 3km away? There’s a marshrutka for that (and it runs every 5 minutes or so). Have to get to the capital of an unrecognized country that has no airports and only one train per day in either direction to Ukraine? Of course there’s a marshrutka for that.
Marshrutka etiquette inspired me to write this post. Generally, as in Kyiv and Lviv, you pay as you board. In theory, you simply give cash to the driver when you board, who immediately hands you change (and occasionally a ticket). But the driver has a schedule to keep, almost never has a coworker/friend to make change, there are generally two entrances, and the poor minibuses can be utterly crowded. The larger trolleybuses owned by cities tend to have conductors, although on one bus, one saw but didn’t approach us, so we didn’t pay. I’ve seen European drivers make change and print tickets as the bus moves, but this process is generally partially automated—a machine prints or stamps a ticket, and he releases a few coins or bills with the help of levers. Thus, I was nervously impressed by the driver of the marshrutka I took from Kyiv’s airport as he simultaneously drove the bus and made change for me from the piles of bills scattered on the rug next to him.
Ukraine can have a reputation as a rough place, but I was heartened to see that if you can’t board a marshrutka from the front and pay the driver, it’s the norm to pass money to the front, often clarifying if you need one ticket, or two. The marshrutka operates on the honor system, generally without even a ticket or other proof of payment, but while a ride was generally 5-8 hryvnia/UAH ($0.18-$0.28), I helped pass 10, 50, 100, and even 500 UAH bills forward, then the change and tickets back (although most marshrutkas didn’t bother with tickets). When we got to the subway, though, the sense of quiet camaraderie quickly disappeared with the first shove.
On my last evening in Ukraine, I took a train back from the Carpathian Mountains, which was overcrowded with students going on hiking trips with other members of their departments (or visiting home). When we returned to Lviv, my friend and I boarded a night marshrutka that was so overcrowded that I was wedged in and unable to move one of my feet. I thought of the old Soviet joke, “how many people fit into a Rafika [Latvian van]? One more.” The contrast between the bright, warm interior, and the cold, dark streets prevented me from seeing much out of the window, and as the minutes wore on, I started to wonder if we’d found a ghost marshrutka, as we made no stops (I’m sure my friend was just feeling bored and hungry). It was a relief when the vehicle finally stopped, and we found ourselves just a block from where our hosts had a sizable dinner (from soup to figs to pelmeni dumplings) waiting for us.
Lviv’s streetcars functioned similarly, with the passengers slowly passing back change and a ticket to stamp, but I had been warned about Odessa’s take on marshrutka customs. Rather than paying after we boarded, we joined everyone else in paying only right before we disembarked, even though we had to figure out where we were and where we needed to get off with some buffer time if we wanted our change handed back to us. This ticket twist annoyed my travel partner who had come down from Lviv, and seemed infamous among Ukrainians. I wonder where the tradition came from?
For all its faults, I marvel at Berlin’s public transportation, whenever I return home from abroad. Yet while I enjoy sitting in silence by a window, I do miss watching people safely pass around stranger’s money, even without the threat of ticket inspections. When Berlin’s trains run smoothly and quietly, I believe the public transportation authority’s slogan “Because We Love You,” but the S-Bahn lacks the charm of the marshrutka trip (apologies to Stephen Merritt).
