I made a big decision recently: I wanted to travel back in time. I wanted to go back to when the world was a simpler place – when people were kinder, things went in a straight line and you couldn’t check your emails on the plane.
It’s 6pm in Adelaide, so that makes it 3.30 in Perth. A good start. I’ve got a one way ticket on the Indian Pacific. It was the first train to cross the country in a single swoop, east to west. Before then the bickering states all had their own size rail tracks.
From what I’m told, the tracks in New South Wales are still rubbish – so I’m skipping the Sydney leg. They jolt you about like sitting on Santa’s knee when he’s suffering from restless leg syndrome. If I’m going to be sipping martinis in a carriage for two nights, I want them stirred, not shaken.
I’m in Gold Class – there’s the chair-bound trip of Red below it and the unknown luxuries of Platinum above. The interiors give an impression that you’re back in time already; fine brass and wood finishes give it an old-world feel.
The cabins are roomy for the space you’ve been given – a clever doubling up of responsibilities by the couch (it turns into a bed) and your toilet (it turns into a shower).
There’s a wide window too. I resist the usual hotel room urge to throw off my clothes and jump on the bed like a lunatic. We’re still on the platform and the porthole sits precisely at eye level.
The train leaves from the Adelaide Parklands Terminal just outside of the CBD. Soon you pass the outskirts of the city on the northward bound journey towards Port Augusta, where the track turns and heads west to the Nullarbor.
Ice is quickly broken between the passengers. I see it like a friendly version of prison; you’re not going anywhere, so why not stop and have a chat and see what people are up to? My book follows me everywhere and I never see a page, because every time I sit down or grab a drink, it ends in a pleasant conversation.
An open bar helps the camaraderie along. Feeling patriotic, I drink Coopers Pale. A gold star for the staff: each and every one of them knows the tilt and roll.
The main lounges are comfortable and accommodating, and there’s a party atmosphere at night that you might not expect. The cabaret tunes come on and I see Norm, a 92-year-old man, dance so hard he has heart palpitations. I’m surprised he doesn’t spontaneously combust. The girls are swooning.
Exploring the train leaves you in the twilight zone. A lot of the carriages are identical on the inside – there’s that uneasy feeling that you might see the back of your own head at the opposite side of the corridor. I go to bed that night terrified that I’ll dream of walking through endless cars.
We wake up the next day to a whole new world. The Nullarbor stretches on forever outside of my window. The sun is just coming up, casting a fresh light on the treeless plain. If ever there was a real world equivalent to the Australian soul, surely it’s this place. Open and expansive, simple, isolated.
The vast Nullarbor Plain, viewed from the train. Image: Cameron Zegers Photography
Our first stop is Cook. It only exists for the old rail companies that built it, but there’s not much left now. The souvenir shop is gone. The bush hospital has closed, though its ha-ha signage still resides. “If you’re crook, come to Cook!” it exclaims. “Our hospital needs your help. Get sick!”
I stand in the shade feeling inadequate. That’s thanks to a woman who demounts the train in exercises clothes and proceeds to run its 700 metre length in the heat. The deep blue livery of the Indian Pacific’s locomotive looks exquisite against the desert, but there’s not much else to do other than sweat.
Astronaut Andy Thomas says the train track, the longest straight track in the world, can be seen from space; 478 kilometres through the Nullarbor, like a thin pencil line. Google Maps agrees with the assertion. In fact, thinking about it, this trip is the longest, straightest line I’ve ever been on in my life or career. My parents would be proud.
Food is included, and it’s good – local stuff that the train grabs at each stop. Out of Adelaide, we’re eating Barossa Valley chorizo with spiced bush tomato relish atop a leek, potato and tomato hash.
There’s grainfed beef medallion, scallop and prawn noodles, and Mediterranean vegetable and polenta ragu. Just about every choice on the journey is a keeper and everything can be made gluten-or-whatever-free for those in need.
The wine list is lengthy as well, with each state on the trip taking a share. From South Australia you’ll find a Di Giorgio Family Wines “Lucindale” Pinot Noir/Chardonnay sparkling. There’s Penna Lane “The Findings” Riesling from Clare Valley and Murdoch Hill Sauvignon Blanc out of the Hills. For red, it’s the beefy Barossa Shiraz – an offering each from Yalumba and Troy Kalleske.
Dinner is served in the dining car. Image: Cameron Zegers Photography
We roll in to Kalgoorlie that night. We’re running late, so the bus driver gives a condensed tour of the settlement. Little did I know it was such a morbid place – or perhaps our guide is simply a morbid fellow. He rattles off the death toll of the mining boom-town.
“Seven people would die down in the mines every year back then. But it’s much different now,” he says. We exhale in relief, thinking it must be better – “Now, even MORE people die every year!”
Then there are the pubs. There used to be 93 or so, now there’s only 25. Much more respectable (many were replaced by brothels, he says). Apparently countless folks have fallen from hotel balconies and died. Finally, his anecdotes seem to peter out in to more happy territory. We drive past the Christmas tree in the centre of town.
“Last year,” he says, “a real joker tried to climb up that tree.” We giggle respectfully. “He fell right back out again!” The whole bus titters at the thought. “And he broke his back, his neck, both of arms, and both of his leg. Then he DIED!” Oh dear.
I go to sleep that night terrified of the sinkholes (apparently they open up in people’s backyards fairly regularly), but grateful that I escaped Kalgoorlie alive.
We arrive in Perth the next morning. I’ve barely slept – late nights partying with old Norm and early mornings catching the sunrise. But I’ve travelled back in time, and I like it.
Boarding the plane home, I can’t help but feel I’d rather be going by train.
