The Cheap Seats

The endless View

More of the same

Nap time

Broken Hill Pub

The Cheap Seats

The booking clerk whistles and shakes his head.

“You could buy a lot of food & drink – a couple of massages – as well as a nice place to sleep in Perth for the difference in cost.”

You see, my nerve has faltered. Sitting on the platform at Sydney central train station I was looking at the actual train – the actual Indian – Pacific - that was going to be home from Wednesday to Saturday. All of a sudden, the thought of having a chair and not a bed for three consecutive nights seemed, well, like torture. How much could the upgrade cost anyway?

$1400 is the answer.

The Indian – Pacific runs from Perth (on the Indian Ocean) to Sydney (on the Pacific) twice a week in both directions. The trip takes 65 hours to travel almost four and a half thousand kilometers.

We walk the platform along length of the train and past a door decorated with a gold flag. We look in at the linen table cloths and crystal wine glasses already set up in the Gold Dining Car. A red flag hangs from a door at the rear of the train where we are to enter. There are no table cloths in the Red Car snack bar.

Until our first stop next morning in Broken Hill the train (the Red part anyway) is less than half full. We move up to the Bar Car and rock back and forth as we watch the light paint the cliffs and valleys of the Blue Mountains. Commentary and cheesy music come over the intercom periodically. We cross the great divide and head into the outback. Trees become scattered. Grass becomes brown. Night falls.

A thin strip of dawn was all we see as we leave the train in Broken Hill the next morning. It is 10 degrees and 6am. Only one coffee shop is open.

“I’ve been sitting way too long already – let’s walk.” Jim shoulders his camera gear and we head down town. The town has wide streets, sidewalks with verandahs, and lots of pubs.

Broken Hill is a mining community in far west New South Wales. Here, the largest source of lead, silver and zinc in a single site anywhere on earth has been mined since the late 1800s. BHP (Broken Hill Proprietary Limited) became a powerhouse in international mining and business. Train commentary tells us that the ore is going to run out in five years.

“They said that in 1990 when I lived here and it’s still going.” A fellow passenger chats to us as we wait to re-board the train.

“I lived here long enough to get married and divorced. It’s a funny place.” We chat to pass time. “There are only four places anyone from here ever goes. First is ‘tadelade’ – that’s “to Adelaide” but they always say it like that – ‘tadelade’. The second is ‘up river’ - to the Darling River. Third is Mildura for shopping. Everywhere else is ‘Away’. ‘Away’ pretty much covers everything: “Where did ya go for hol’s – oh ‘Away’ – was it good?”

Jim laughs. “Makes the world a simpler place doesn’t it?”

We get ‘tadelade’ early evening and look around the railway station in surprise. We ask the railway staff.

“Walk to the end of the street – go left on Donald Bradman Drive. It’s only about three kilometers.”

We’d boarded the train more than 24 hours ago. A walk is appealing. In less than half an hour we’re in town. We head down to the Torrens River; we walk past the Parliament Buildings and old Railway station. We grab supper – a kebab full of cucumber, lettuce, tomato, onion.

“Nice to eat something not prepared in a microwave, isn’t it?” Train food isn’t awful but there’s not a lot fresh about it, and the menu is pretty limited.

Our second night on the train passes the same as the first – long and bouncy. But those seats do really recline and with the aid of some Gravol, we see the dawn spreading over an endless sea of brown. Nullabour comes from the Latin meaning ‘treeless plain’ – an apt description.

The train slowly rolls to a halt. Jim looks out the window at a dusty white pickup. A man is throwing a sack on the back, then gives the train a wave. We ask Syd, the train supervisor.

“Oh yes, they’re the caretakers of the Mailinga Rocket Range – we’re giving them their mail.” He tells us there were two mail drop offs overnight – then their big one is at Cook. Then three more mail pickups follow during the day.

“Yeah, we’re the mailman out here.”

After 18 hours we arrive in Cook and we can again ‘detrain’ as they call it on the P.A. This settlement of less than 10 people was once a regional centre. Now it only to exist for trains. Here drivers change and the train fills with fuel and water.

The school has closed and the swimming pool is filled with Gravel. The hospital is demolished. The only remains are an historic plaque and a hand written sign: “The Hospital needs your help – get sick.”

Back on the train, hours pass as the country side barely changes. We stop at the first curve in the track for 477 km. Here, the country side looks as bleak as the rest. An 18 year old train mate climbs down the stairs and is met by a truck with the words ‘Jumbuck Pastoral’ printed on the side. Her bag is thrown into the back.

“Can you believe it,” the man in the seat in front of us says. “She is going to be a cook out here on a station. She’s going to stay for at least six months.” The train pulls away.

For five hours we’ve seen nothing but red dirt and small scrubby bushes – not a bird, not a camel, not a tree.

“Six months could be a long time,” he adds.

Kalgoorlie is our last stop on the train. Famous for the largest single open pit mine in the world, here is a place of gold mining legend. It’s Friday evening and we eventually find a store that’s open

“What should we do here?” I ask the clerk as I pay for my purchase.

She points to a beautifully restored old Aussie Pub, complete with the big verandas and iron lacework.

“You could go to the skimpies.”

Jim asks what that means.

She pauses as she considers her answer. “Kalgoorlie is famous for two things – mining and the skimpies.”

That may have been the bar to see scantily dressed barmaids, but drunk and noisy Aussie guys are all over town.

We are getting used to the constant motion of the train and our third night we sleep reasonably well in our ‘day/nighter seats’. Few signs of green are seen until we are actually in Perth itself.

“Could be green all over soon,” says Jim as we watched the rain pour down the windows of the train. “Droughts are awful for the country but very handy for traveling in.”

The English fellow sitting across from us asks about our plans in West Australia. After touring in the Campervan, we’re going back to Canberra to stay with Mum.

He asks if we are taking the train back too.

Jim’s eyes go wide and he starts to laugh.

“Hell no – we’re going to fly.”