A train called Antsia Kushnytska
Three times a week, a regular clanging noise resounds through the valley of the Borzhava river, in the lower stretch of the Ukrainian Carpathians. At a slow pace, a narrow gauge train stops by the stations of five isolated villages lying in the dale. It travels along 25 km in one hour and 20 only to carry the inhabitants to the closest market in Vynohradiv, the county seat. In this forgotten corner of Europe, where roads are almost non-existent, this ramshackle antique of the Soviet epoch is so important to deserve a name and a surname: Antsia Kushnytska.
Farmers of this area rely on the train to sell their vegetables, livestock and grains. When in Vynohradiv, the train stops in the middle of the market: a geometric chaos of benches, sheets and sellers that literally take up the tracks. Indeed, there’s an intimate link between the train and the community, where the first is the main means of development of the latter. By reason of this relationship, local communities cherish Antsia Kushnytska and constantly struggle to keep it in service, making the train resist time and threats of closure.
In a era of high speed lifestyle, this reportage tells of a slowness symbol: an old train that is still the engine of development for this part of Ukraine, whereas in western Europe it would just be a tourist attraction. The photos portray the whole trip of Antsia Kushnytska, focusing on what happens both in and out of the train: day labourers surrounded by oceans of wheat, tiny stations, old babushkas boarding with their stuffs, and even ticket checks. Once arrived at the final destination, I got off the train and found myself in the heart of the market. With my camera, I had a walk among the stalls of washing machine and car spare parts, laid out on the tracks. I bought some cucumbers in the shade of the train. Then I fixed the engine with the machinists, and took a coffee with the station manager. Then, the last stall closed and the market square became again only a station.
