All aboard the Doğu Express, the cult Turkish train you’ve never heard of

It’s shortly before 6pm and the train glides out of Ankara’s Art Deco station while a pair of twentysomethings run alongside, filming our departure. Like a local celebrity, the sleeper service has attracted a handful of fans who are still lingering on the platform, waving while holding up signs with the train’s Turkish name on: ‘Doğu Ekspresi’.

Giggles and yelps come from the adjoining compartment, and as the wheels settle into a steady thump, I poke my head round to find two young Turkish women engaged in what looks like a séance. This is no quick-fix train dinner; they’ve set up an atmospheric dinner party for two. A flickering candle the size of a small tree stump, surrounded by open boxes of pistachio baklava, cold cuts and triangles of meaty börek.

Originating in the Turkish capital, the Doğu Express—meaning Eastern Express—takes 26 hours to cover 800 miles (1,287 kilometers) across Türkiye’s mountainous terrain of Anatolia, stopping at 52 stations and ending in the northeastern city of Kars. Lying just 30 miles (48 kilometers) from the Armenian border, which remains closed—owing, in part, to the Turkish government’s refusal to recognize the Armenian genocide (1915-16)—Kars is a walkable city steeped in Roman, Byzantine and Ottoman influence, surrounded by nature, and noted for its honeycombed gravyer cheese and roasted goose-meat on bulgur pilaf.

Kars is also a gateway to the medieval city of Ani which now lies in a panoramic sprawl of ghostly ruins, bordered by the Akhurian river. And it’s this UNESCO World Heritage Site city of hollowed-out cathedrals, echoing chapels, crumbling minarets, and surrounding snow-covered steppes that are the lure for many on board this evening.

After the fall of the Ottoman Empire, Mustafa Kemal Atatürk nationalized existing railway lines built by foreign entities and set about extending the network into the nooks and crannies of the land mass. It was part of a drive to bring isolated communities into the fold, and to boost the economy by connecting mines, ports and farmlands.

Since 1939, the Doğu Express has existed in various guises, beginning its journey as a migration train carrying seasonal agricultural workers between the cities of Sivas and Erzurum, and members of the military who trained in the latter, a vital stronghold near the eastern border.

“There is a culture here. I make a lot of activity, watching movies and studying. That is the advantage rather than being on the plane.”

- Ender Bulut, student and Doğu Express passenger

Transporting telegrams, letters and parcels from one side of the country to the other, the train has long served as a Turkish lifeline, but in the last few years, it’s developed a cult following, particularly among young Turks.

In thrall to the drama of the frozen landscape, they usually ride in winter, stringing colored lights around the windows, playing house music, and turning the carriage into something that resembles a mobile camping trip.

The previous day, I got chatting to Ferhat Karabulut, a high-speed train driver. He’d told me that the Doğu Express was always busy but its sudden appeal came about after a Swedish YouTube sensation posted a video of the train, barreling along, its tail snaking around snow-covered mountains and the curves of the Euphrates river, alerting the younger generation to a gem of a journey in their own backyard.

Tickets were snapped up as soon as booking opened, so much so that Turkish Railways launched a second, touristic service which contains only couchette compartments—no upright seats.

This second route makes long stops along the way, allowing passengers to disembark for up to three hours at a time to explore historic sites in Iliç and Erzurum when traveling eastbound, and at Erzincan, Divriği and Sivas when travelling westbound.

I heard about the train from a Turkish-Cypriot friend who had ridden it as a child. Keen to experience the original version, I booked my tickets through a Turkish agency and was now working my way up the aisles towards the scent of grilled meat drifting through from the dining car.

The beating heart of a night train, the dining car is managed by a kindly man named Harun who brings thick Turkish coffee while I make friends with a medical student named Ender Bulut, one of the few on board not gazing from the window at the snow flying at the glass. A regular commute for him between his home in Ankara and his university in Erzurum, the journey is not one that Ender can afford to make by flying.

Rumor has it that if passengers make a phone call at least two stations in advance, a kebab delivery can be collected from the station at Erzurum. I’m thrilled to discover it’s true.

But even if he could, the train is still superior: “There is a culture here,” he tells me. “I make a lot of activity, watching movies and studying. That is the advantage rather than being on the plane.”

As I spear a piece of marinated grilled chicken, I can hear the homely sizzle of cooking from the galley mingling with the din of passengers sharing stories. I understand what he means: There’s an inherent feeling of comfort and camaraderie on a sleeper train.

At bedtime, in a private four-person compartment—women can’t share with strangers—I shift up to the window which is etched with the Ottoman crescent moon and star, and peer into the darkness. The black surfaces of rivers gleam in return, the light from single farmhouses glowing like tiny orbs.

I can still hear the women next door, the animation of their chatter a soothing sound to fall asleep to in what is a toasty compartment with plenty of room. Just the kind of train for groups of friends on a getaway, I think.

At 7am, I meet such a group in the dining car; lively 50-something Turks who have traveled from their home in Wuppertal, Germany, on a reunion.

They’re sipping dark red tea and handing around baklava slicked with honey that sets my teeth on edge so early in the morning. I order a portion of toasted kumru—spiced sausage and tomato grilled between flatbread—and settle in for breakfast.

In the distance, the mountains blend into the blizzard, black belts of river looping beside the tracks, their surfaces fractured like panes of glass. Originating from the Kızıl Mountains in north-central Anatolia, these waterways swell at every turn, and I watch them for hours as they widen, gathering quietly falling snow and boosting their journey to the Black Sea.

Rumor has it that if passengers make a phone call at least two stations in advance, a kebab delivery can be collected from the station at Erzurum. I’m thrilled to discover it’s true. I join a few of my fellow passengers craving a ang and sign myself up to a carrier bag of cağ kebab (marinated lamb) and salad that turns up en masse for 60 of us.

Just four hour until Kars, we unwrap our food, licking salty fingers and sipping the cool yoghurt drink. I relish this moment of silent companionship. It’s one that defines the unity and communal harmony of a night train, while the world flashes by outside in all its wild and snow-covered beauty.

More info

Tickets for the classic Doğu Express are released 29 days before departure and can be booked through Amber Travel . A four-person couchette costs €46.50 (USD$54) per person and first-class upright seats cost EUR€27 (USD$32).

Monisha Rajesh’s new book, Moonlight Express: Around the World by Night Train is out now, published by Bloomsbury.

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