At the bar I order another (free) Crown Lager. Dave is back in Position A. Space is made available for Joe and June. A gold-class group has gathered post lunch in the gold-class lounge, drinking gold-class booze: Shane, a former mechanical engineer, who appropriately once worked in a gold mine; his wife Diane, a former city draughtswoman (responsible for parts of Canberra); a Kiwi couple who have been to see the distinctive red-rock formations on holiday in the north of Western Australia ('the Bungle Bungle Range is amazing'); and a mammoth man named James, who is even bigger than Dave and cannot fit in the burgundy leather chairs, so he sticks to a sofa. James hardly says anything.
Our discussion covers a gamut of topics.
The sale of a house in Australia for $57 million. Dave: 'You could go to a lot of Rugby World Cups for that.'
Gin. Joe (ordering another one): 'I only drink gin on trains. Whisky gets to you after a while. Rum is too sweet.'
Kalgoorlie, our next stop. Dave: 'It's got all the same mod cons as Perth, it's just further from the beach.'
Billabongs. Shane (pointing out of the window): 'That there is a billabong, Tom. We also call that a pond.'
The Western Australian wheat belt. Dave: 'A lot of the world is fed from that wheat belt. A lot goes overseas.'
Sheep farms. Dave: 'Rawlinna station is bigger than Lebanon and it's owned by a single family.'
Cattle farms. Shane: 'There's one in the Northern Territory that's bigger than England: 1 million acres, 10,000 cattle and they can't make a profit. It's too far away. It would cost $1,000 an hour to round them up. Then put 'em in trucks. Then transport them. They don't bother rounding them in. They don't cut their balls. They just let 'em run free with no fences. They call it eco tourism.'
Joe reminisces about an old job at Tennant Creek gold mine in the Northern Territory: 'I worked at a cookhouse. I was helping build it. I was the chippie, the carpenter. The guy who ran it was drunk for one week out of every two. I never seen anything like it. They would only pay him every two weeks coz he drank so much when he got his pay. He drank it all. In Tennant Creek it was like that. If you didn't turn up with twelve beers if you went to see people, they didn't want to know you.'
He sips his G & T.
The others are listening, nursing their drinks. I'm not sure whether they know Joe is on his last trip. It's as though the rhythm of the train on the track and Joe's deep mellifluous intonation has lulled the group, as though we're sitting round a campfire listening to old stories.
'Tying up wheat bags. That was another one,' Joe says, not explaining where he had this job. 'Ten bob a bag. That was a lot in those days. Yes! It was tough back then.' As if to prove how tough, he adds, 'I saw a cat attack a dog: the only time I ever did see such a thing.'
The symbol of the Indian Pacific is inspiring: a wedge-tailed eagle in flight, painted yolk-yellow on the side of our train (and printed on menus, tickets and souvenirs in the little gift shop in the bar). It's an uplifting logo suggestive of the Indian Pacific soaring across this vast nation and its baking red-earth hinterland. The service began in 1970, following the completion of an east–west standard gauge track. While it had been possible to cross the vast nation by train before, this was a lengthy, tiresome passage, partly because there were so many different gauges. When developing each part of Australia in the nineteenth century, local governments decided which size of track was best suited to their needs. Victoria, being then a wealthy, densely populated colony, opted for 5 feet 3 inches (the Irish gauge), with viaducts and bridges and a grand scheme. New South Wales went for the more modest standard gauge of 4 feet 8½ inches, while Queensland, South Australia, Western Australia and Tasmania opted for a narrow gauge of 3 feet 6 inches, which suited little railway lines zipping off to isolated communities; narrow gauge was cheaper and quicker to lay than heavier-duty lines. The result was a hotchpotch of tracks across Australia that required all sorts of hopping on and off.
So much embarking and disembarking invoked the ire of a certain American novelist on a world tour in the 1890s. Before reaching Ceylon and India, Mark Twain stopped off in Australia in September 1895 during his long journey to give lectures and collect material for Following the Equator so he could pay off debts. On arrival on a steamer from Vancouver, Twain was asked by reporters of his views on Australia, and he surprised some by remarking: 'I don't know. I'm ready to adopt any that seem handy.' The writer, at the time one of the most famous men on the planet, later got into his stride. Having been introduced to leading politicians, he wrote: 'Australia is the modern heaven – it is bossed absolutely by the workingman.' But there was one thing that really annoyed him: switching trains.
When he reached Albury in New South Wales, he was made to move on to another steam service in Wodonga in Victoria: 'Now comes a singular thing: the oddest thing, the strangest thing, the most baffling and unaccountable marvel that Australasia can show. At the frontier between New South Wales and Victoria our multitude of passengers were routed out of their snug beds by lantern-light in the morning in the biting cold of a high altitude to change cars on a road that has no break in it from Sydney to Melbourne! Think of the paralysis of intellect that gave that idea birth; imagine the boulder it emerged from on some petrified legislator's shoulders.'
Twain was perhaps being a little grumpy. The tracks were a historical legacy from the pragmatic early days of trains, before the Australian federation of 1901 and more organised national coordination. Yet his tetchiness did have a basis. All the different tracks were a nuisance. So the opening of the Indian Pacific line had symbolic import. The continent had been tamed. Or as the Australian poet Henry Lawson once wrote, referring to the first Australian railways: 'The mighty bush with iron rails' has been 'tethered to the world.'
The Indian Pacific provides plenty of time for reflection. The empty, open landscape seems to invite fanciful thoughts. The scenery becomes drier and drier, flatter and flatter. Gum trees with flinty, dainty branches rise wispily from orange-red soil. Grain silos with peeling paint loom upwards, with no one about: are they still being used? Thin, scraggly sheep look half starving: do they belong to anyone? The sky has become a canopy of gold, red and indigo clouds framed by perfect blue. On the horizon I can see the curve of the Earth… or maybe that's just my imagination.
Beyond Merredin, with its Oasis Motel and row of pick-up trucks parked outside, we come to sidings that are home to the locos and carriages of CBH Group, the country's biggest grain exporter. The silos must be in working order, after all. A water tower advertises Kalgoorlie Beer. Old electricity and telegraph poles stand with twisted wooden fittings and wires hanging down. Rickety barbed-wire fences divide fields. A farmer with his head down, ignoring the train, inspects a crop. Jet-black crows peck in ditches. Light fades in a fusion of peach and purple as darkness descends, clouds parking quietly for the night above the tiny town of Carrabin. Silos stand in silhouette. Long shadows stretch beyond the train, catching the shape of the wheels. Billabongs reflect the stillness of the sky.
This is what trains in Australia provide: a glimpse of life on the ground that you just don't get on planes. I watch and doze, listening to the 'Chardonnay/Manhattan' jazz-and-blues music channel on my cabin's sound system. Classical music – Beethoven, Strauss – soon seeps from next door. Pop music rises from another wall. The aural jumble is slightly maddening, but not so bad. I turn off 'Chardonnay/Manhattan' and watch the dark world outside. It's funny to think of us in our pods in our silver train, slinking eastwards.
Such reveries do not last long. I go over to the lounge a quarter of an hour before my allotted time for dinner; passengers are given slots to avoid queues. The drinking crew are still in Position A, but the mood seems to have shifted in my absence.
'Stopped for bad play, did you? But Dickie Bird said you could start up again?' says Dave, mentioning the former English cricket umpire. He's not asking; the questions are rhetorical, and meant for all the others about him to hear.
Thinking he's just indu
lging in 'Aussie banter', I say something along the lines of 'Right you are, mate.' And I go up to the bar to get a drink.
A couple of steps past him, almost at the bar, I hear him say loudly for all others to hear: 'And what are we going to write about you?'
I'd been open with him earlier about my train rides. This was obviously, as I'm about to discover, a big mistake. With my back still turned to the lounge, as I wait for my drink, I hear someone comment: 'He's going to say he met all these stupid Aussies!'
I return with a (free) Crown Lager to sit down on the edge of a sofa, waiting for my dinner slot. As I do so, I realise I'm open prey. Dave turns to me and tells me about someone he had heard of who shrink-wrapped a steam train to protect it from rust, as he did not have enough cash to put it in a garage. 'You can write that in your little book!' he says, loudly once again, after telling his tale.
'Er, thanks, Dave,' I say, turning to a new neighbour and hoping Dave will cool down.
I introduce myself and ask my neighbour's name.
It's Sal, whose first, archly delivered, words are: 'Oh, I've heard all about you!'
This is not said in a good way. I have seen Sal making his way between swaying carriages during the day. He has a tan and wears ripped jeans. He seems reluctant to talk, although he tells me he prefers cruise ships to trains as they have more space. Then he stops abruptly, stares at me with disdain, and looks away.
Time seems to tick slowly. There's nowhere to hide in the goldclass lounge of the Indian Pacific. Dave glares at me. He's almost growling beneath his breath as he does so. Joe drinks a G & T and says nothing. By asking a few questions earlier, I seem to have turned into public enemy number one. All the other seats are taken and dinner has yet to be called. Anyway, I would lose face by moving from where I'm sitting now.
I turn to another neighbour. Her name is Angela; she has a bulbous red nose and seems hostile, too. Her form of antagonism is, however, subtly different from the others. I have made the further error of carrying a small notebook. She pointedly looks at this and begins to tell me a long-winded life story involving drives between Sydney and the outback and close collisions with various animals. As she rambles on, she eyeballs my notebook and I feel obliged to take down her convoluted tales that seem to hinge upon the importance of 'seeing the mountains' in life. Jotting notes seems the only way to keep her happy. This approach, however, also has an advantage: I can simply nod and say 'oh yes, really' occasionally while waiting for dinner. This goes on for what seems like a long time. I can feel the searing eyes of Dave. How have I found myself in this position?
A shrill woman with a shock of blue-grey hair interrupts us. I have neither talked to her nor taken her in yet. She seems to know all about me as well. She looks at me and asks, 'Are you freelance? Are you doing this for yourself?' This is not said in a good way, either. Fortunately, she is called away for dinner before I can respond.
Sal turns on me. 'I was born in…' he says. And he stops in mid sentence and stares at my notebook as though I should write down what he is about to say. He's got a smart-alec expression. He's obviously completely taking the ****. Things are spiralling out of control here. I turn on him and, in a voice no one else can hear, tell him to back off in no uncertain terms. He is speechless, livid with indignation.
Pleased with this, I go to the restaurant, dreading the meal ahead in case I draw one of my new enemies as a dining companion. Fortunately, I'm put with a charming couple, and we chat genially about trains for a while. All is relaxed once again. That is, until Angela makes a beeline for our table, sits next to me and continues her long-winded life story, with asides on her children's lives, too. On and on she goes. The polite couple begins to notice that I've had enough of her (I think – in fact, I know – I may be guilty of raising eyebrows, and other involuntary facial expressions). Although the beef fillet with red-wine jus and potato galette is excellent, it's an awful meal. After dessert, Angela, finally letting her guard down, asks my name and says that she is going to 'get my resource officer to pick up on that'. I have no idea what she means by this (and I wonder if she does herself). She is, I have worked out by now, what might commonly be termed 'a bit of a wind-up merchant'.
So begins the mutiny (against me) in gold class on the Indian Pacific. I get the sense that Australians may be a little touchy about Pommie reporters. That all I want to do is enjoy the ride and indulge in a little 'train talk' does not, to them, seem possible. I must have some more sinister English agenda.
Never mind. We stop at Kalgoorlie (population: 31,000) in the dead of night. A brief coach tour has been arranged at 22:45. It's a bizarre scenario. Those of us who wish to – some of the Australians don't bother as they've seen Kalgoorlie already – file on to coaches and listen to the story of the town's 1893 gold rush told by a blonde guide who arrived at the remote mining city a dozen years ago but stayed as 'red dust gets in your veins'.
Evocative turn-of-the-twentieth-century wooden buildings give the centre of town a frontier feel. The streets are wide so camel trains could perform turns, we are told. Camels, apparently, risk dislocating their shoulders if made to step backwards. We are told that 'skimpies', or barmaids, in the town might expect to make $500 a night in tips from the many miners working in local gold mines. We are shown a white picket fence where gold was first discovered, a short distance from a working mine with a 1,200-metre 'super-shaft'. Kalgoorlie is a well-to-do town and, as if to prove this, the guide tells us that the local Woolworths brings in $1.2 million a week: 'The biggest takings of any Woolworths in Australia.'
We are also driven to 'infamous Hay Street', where various brothels are to be found. Takings in these brothels are down, says the guide, as many of the prostitutes in town now 'work out of motels using mobile phones'. This practice is, she says, 'less hygienic', for some reason or other. Daytime tours of one of the brothels are available for $20. 'It's not dirty or smutty; it's interesting, the history of prostitution. They show you rooms. The oldest pro is sixty-seven. You go, girl!' says the guide. A session with a pro in a room might set you back '$350 and upwards', the guide happily informs us. 'We were going by in a coach one time and a young lad was just coming out. He clicked his heels and ran away, poor lad,' she says.
Lord of the Flies on the Nullarbor
Kalgoorlie to Adelaide
You do get a fleeting flavour of towns along the way on the Indian Pacific. After Kalgoorlie, we visit the 'ghost town of Cook' the next morning, where we are allowed off the train for half an hour.
I manage to avoid gold-class hostilities at breakfast and enjoy strolling about Cook (population: four), where we have been told to keep out of old buildings as they could be dangerous. The town is in South Australia in the middle of the desolate Nullarbor Plain. It came into being with the railway in 1917 and was an important medical and supply centre for the region and the passing trains until 1997, when new railway owners downscaled its importance. A weather-worn sign says: IF YOU'RE CROOK, COME TO COOK. QUEEN CITY OF THE NULLARBOR. Crook is Australian slang for 'ill'. The handful of residents now appears to consist of caretakers for the Indian Pacific.
I wander round red-dust yards, inspecting the old wooden buildings, a basketball court with broken hoops, a tennis court with a ruined net, and a sign advertising the long-closed Cook Golf Club, where 'sand green fees' were once $2. I also talk to a cattle, sheep and arable farmer from one of the other gold-class carriages; gold class is split in two with the impassable platinum-class carriages in the middle. Being cut off from my now poisoned gold class, he knows nothing of my notoriety. He tells me he finds the train relaxing and goes on four-day trips every now and then. He's teetotal and says, 'A lot of people are actually just here for the drink.'
Sam, another gold-class man from the other side of the train (it's all a bit Lord of the Flies on the Indian Pacific), is inspecting the front of the blue and yellow locomotive, which has no fewer than five horns. He is full of admiration.
'There's something abou
t trains, mate,' he says. 'I don't know what it is. People come to Australia and they hop on a plane to Alice Springs – they have no idea how big the country is. I like that a train has its own track: its own bit of land. It has its own area and it goes its own way. I just like that.'
He pauses, says 'excuse me', walks to one side, pauses for a few seconds and returns. 'Just letting out some of the good stuff,' he comments, on his return.
I do not enquire into Sam's exact meaning here.
Sam tells me he's a rugby fan and that he supports the Associates Rugby Union Club based in Swanbourne, Western Australia. He is short and squat with a bald pate and bushy eyebrows: more of a scrum half than the many ex prop forwards on my side of the train. Sam asks if I would like to hear a song. I say I would. And so he begins: 'Rule Britannia! Marmalade and jam! Five Chinese crackers up your arsehole! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Ra-diadi-ah-da! Ra-di-adi-ah-da! Ra-di-adi-ah-da!! Up Soaks!'
Only in Australia. His cries echo across the Nullarbor Plain. Sam's team is about to play today, so he felt like giving them a distant cheer.
We move on under a mottled sky. The land is rocky but flat. A black line seems to mark the horizon, where the orange plains studded with dried-out shrubs meet the end of the world. We pass a little airstrip by a town called Barton. White-painted tyres mark a dirt runway.
Ticket to Ride Page 20
