Whether it’s beach volleyball in Kalgoorlie or a four-person town 400km from the nearest pub, the Indian Pacific rail journey touches on things other tours can’t reach. By Mary Kiley

I’m on a bus in Kalgoorlie, staring out into a pitch black night illuminated only by the garish pink lights of the Questa Casa. In the darkness I can just make out some of the members of the world’s oldest profession, touting for trade. A little further down Hay Street, the madam of the equally infamous ‘Red House’ doesn’t allow her girls to be seen outside – she doesn’t think it’s "classy", according to our coach driver Jilly.

No, this is not some sort of creepy peeping tom tour – this is the Whistle Stop Tour for Indian Pacific passengers. It’s supposed to be our chance to see the town and the super pit – the largest open pit mine in Australia – but the pit is shut and Kalgoorlie’s in darkness. As we stepped off the train into the sultry night, we were greeted by an almighty lightning storm that shorted out just about every light in the area. And so we drive around, peering at the vague outlines of hotels – many, many hotels – while Jilly tells us stories about gold finds and ghosts and gunfights and an American president who supposedly had a fling with a barmaid. But my favourite bit of local history concerns the fate of one of the town’s now-defunct cinemas. Seems they used to take the roof off back in ye olden days, so people could watch movies under the stars. Now the roof is firmly in place – so the indoor beach volleyball players won’t get wet. I look around to see if anyone thinks this is as funny as I do, but I can’t make out anyone else’s face.

Back on the train, I chat in the lounge with a Japanese journalist doing a story on the world’s great train journeys. He’s a real rail enthusiast, which you kind of have to be if you’re going to commit to this trip. It takes 65 hours to cover the 4352km distance from Sydney to Perth at an average speed of only 85km/h.

Fortunately, I am a train-travel lover from way back. It really is the best way
to see a country – especially if you’re in no particular hurry and if you want to skip the tedious rigmarole involved in catching a flight these days. (Seriously? I have to be singled out and swabbed for explosives EVERY time I board a plane?)

In the early ’90s I backpacked through Europe in winter, oohing and aahing at the picture postcard prettiness of it all. Back then I perfected the art of sleeping in positions I’d now need three weeks of physiotherapy to recover from, and I could produce my passport for customs officials without ever really waking up – except for that time I was abruptly roused by the barking of a scary German guard and his scarier German shepherd. But there was nothing like that on this trip – we were threatened with sniffer dogs set to detect illicit fruit in Perth, but they never materialised.

This would be a very different trip. I had my own Gold Class cabin, with two fold-out beds and my own little bathroom – a shower cubicle with a fold-out sink and toilet. I am such a pathetic geek when it comes to stuff like this – I spent a ridiculous amount of time playing around with the sink and toilet and I was so excited about having a shower in that tiny room and sleeping in that bunk bed that I could hardly wait for dinner time, when the magic bed fairies – i.e. the friendly-but-not-fawning staff – come around and set all the beds up while the passengers are feeding their faces.

The dress code was ‘smart casual’ so I made an effort to look presentable for the welcome drinks in the lounge – and quickly learned it’s not advisable to apply eyeliner on a rocking train.

It was noticeable that, as we went further west, some passengers clearly thought smart casual meant ‘wear your best shorts and thongs’, but on this first evening, as we wended our way through the Blue Mountains, most people had adhered to the code. At dinner – which, like all the meals I had on board, was top-notch – I met Indian Pacific fan Jim, who was introducing his wife Mary to it, and Bruce, a lawyer on his way to Perth for a case. He’d used the IP’s motorail service to bring his car over and intended to drive back. I was a bit hesitant about being lumped with three strangers, but they proved to be delightful dining companions. There’s just something about train travel that seems to encourage camaraderie. Then again, it might’ve been the wine.

I returned to my cabin, showered in the rocking cubicle – another interesting experience – and retired to my bed to watch an Agatha Christie on my laptop.
It seemed appropriate. When I told people I was going on this train trip, their attitudes were generally positive, but mixed. "Maybe there’ll be a disappearance – or a murder!" was the reaction from the Hitchcock and Christie fans. "Maybe you’ll be like Carrie and get a spot!" came from devotees of Sex and the City. For the uninitiated, in one episode of SATC, Samantha accompanies Carrie on a train trip to San Francisco for a book promotion. On the train they crash a bachelor party full of happily married men. Samantha gets drunk, Carrie gets a pimple and they end up flying home. Our experiences could have been similar. I too was heading west. I’m of a similar vintage to Carrie. I didn’t get a spot, but I did come home with a cold sore. The real difference was in our expectations. I didn’t expect to meet hot young men, which was just as well since most of the men I met were married retirees travelling with their wives. But socialising with people you wouldn’t normally cross paths with is one of the joys of travel. However, while there are plenty of opportunities for socialising in the lounge or at dinner, you’re not forced to do it. You can pretty much mix as much or as little as you like. If you wish to dine alone, provided there’s space in the dining car, you can. And if you want to sit in your cabin and watch the world go by, you can do that too. For someone like me, who likes company but also craves alone time, it’s perfect.

And so I whiled away many a pleasant hour just staring out the window. The fat book I’d bought sat accusingly beside me, but I ignored it. It couldn’t compete with the scenery. In Broken Hill, I did the Whistle Stop Tour at some ungodly hour of the morning. The town is dusty and squat and the Miners Memorial is a testament to how many young lives were lost in the search for silver. At Adelaide, I disembarked and re-boarded a week later on a Sunday for the two-day trip to Perth. On the Monday morning, we stopped at Cook, a ghost town with a population of four people and eight trillion flies. As I got off the train, cursing my stupidity in bringing just the one bottle of Aerogard, I wondered: what do you do in a town with only four people? Play bridge? Ping pong? Really lame games of Oz Tag?

David and Andrea Blythman, who make up half of the town’s permanent population, have lived out here for three and a half years and they assure me there’s plenty to do.

"There’s the internet and Foxtel," says Andrea. And, if they’re really bored, Ceduna Pub’s only a five-hour drive away.

They seemed happy enough but I was still sure that, in their position, I’d end up going loco and start referring to the flies as my babies and naming them all…

Then it was back to the train and the seemingly endless Nullarbor, along the world’s longest straight stretch of railway track – 478km. I kept my eyes peeled for the eagles, roos, emus and camels I was assured I’d see, but I always seemed to be on the wrong side of the train. All I saw were cows. And kilometre after kilometre of desert. I must admit, I was a little disappointed – the Nullarbor was greener than I’d expected and I did see the odd tree. However, I don’t suppose the government will change the name to ‘the Occasionalarbor’ any time soon.

On Tuesday morning, after a hearty breakfast, we arrived in Perth and I said
a fond farewell to the old girl. Actually, as it turns out, I am almost exactly the same age as the Indian Pacific, who celebrated her 40th in February. We’re both looking a little worn around the edges, but I like to think it gives us character. While waiting for my suitcase I got chatting to an older gentleman, who asked me if I was at uni.

Considering my uni days are 20 years behind me, I was quite chuffed. Turned out my new acquaintance was legally blind. I wondered what, with his limited vision, he’d gotten out of the trip.

"I just enjoyed the journey," he said. And I knew exactly what he meant.

Open Road March/April 2010