Wainwright is good to go
A seat with a 'roo (if you look closely)
Short stop at Broken HillIf it wasn’t for the glass partition I could stroll about 20 feet from my railway carriage dormitory to the waiting Indian Pacific train, which is standing majestically at the next platform. Instead I lug my backpack on a 10 minute trek out of the hostel and through the nearby railway station.
The Indian Pacific train runs for 2,704 miles (4,352 Km) from Sydney, due west to Perth. As the name suggests, it links the Indian Ocean coastline of Australia with the Pacific Ocean coastline. The whole journey takes 65 hours to complete, requiring endurance travellers to spend 3 nights on board. That’s an awful lot of staring out of the window as small settlements, bush and kangaroos glide by.
The journey traces its origins back to 1917 when on 25th October the first eastbound passenger train departed Kalgoorlie for Port Augusta. The trip was the result of a brilliant engineering and surveying project to bridge the 1,240 mile gap between eastern and western rail lines. The project took 5 years to complete and made it possible for passengers to travel from Sydney to Perth by rail for the first time, although they had to change trains 5 times due to differences in the track gauge.
It was not until 1969 that the standard gauge railway line across Australia was completed. On Monday 23rd February, 1970 the first unbroken journey of the Indian Pacific commenced at Sydney Central Station and was greeted by a cheering crowd of 10,000 people in Perth three days later.
The train offers various levels of comfort with corresponding price tags. In his lively travelogue Down Under, the epic voyager and brilliant raconteur, Bill Bryson, describes his experience on the Indian Pacific. Bill, having quite a few best sellers under his belt by this time, checked into the luxury of Gold Class. A place of fine eating, soft beds and comfy chairs. Whilst exploring the train he eventually comes to locked doors that protect him from the horrors beyond.
‘What’s back there?’ Bill asks the buffet car girl.
‘Coach class,’ she replied with a shudder.
‘Is this door always locked?’
She nods gravely. ‘Always.’
Now, I’m not claiming to be a more intrepid explorer than Bill. As you may have guessed he is somewhat of a hero. But Bill never ventures beyond those doors. Just like he never completes the Appalachian Trail in A Walk in the Woods. Bill may be a wonderful travel writer but at times he seems to come up short on the perseverance scale.
Not so your Middle Aged Gapper. I chose to venture into the limited confine at the rear of the 15 carriage train in what is now called the ‘Red Service’. In the days of the Titanic it would have been called Steerage. I must admit that budget was a big factor. It would have cost me £400 to travel in Gold Service, opposed to the £75 it cost me for a Backpacker ticket. Well, I am a Yorkshireman after all.
My 75 quid buys me a very comfortable seat that tips back to form a less comfortable couchette, with slightly more room than you would have on a plane. On the plus side there is easy access to the buffet car, which may not be gourmet eating, but is reasonably priced considering I am going to be a prisoner for about 24 hours. There is also a shower and roomy toilet close at hand.
The Coach Manager welcomes me on board. A large bunch of keys, a can of mace and a side handle baton dangle ominously from her thick leather belt.
I have the window seat and I am joined by my cell mate, Steve, a very affable Scottish chap in his early thirties who has taken a couple of months out to travel. He’s made his way to Australia via Thailand and Vietnam. Like me, he has spent a few nights in Sydney before venturing west to Adelaide.
‘What about those bats in Sydney, eh? Big buggers weren’t they?’ I say.
‘What bats?’ replies Steve.
Checking that Wainwright is safe in the overhead luggage rack, I take note of the other passengers who now occupy every seat. Oh my God! I’m on the set of a disaster movie. Everyone is here – the selfish guy in the smart suit who will let us all die to save his own skin; the nervous woman who will let us all die because she can’t overcome some hidden weakness; a nun with a guitar; an old but fit guy in a vest who will sacrifice himself for the rest of us; Forrest Gump. Hang on, what’s Forrest doing here? Surely he’s on the wrong train?
Forrest turns out to be a very nice man from Argentina who is travelling with his equally charming Filipino wife. They sleep for almost the entire journey to Adelaide.
The Indian Pacific journey may be long, but it’s never fast. The Japanese Bullet Train could complete the coast to coast journey in less than 17 hours. Our locomotive settles instead for slow but steady progress at an average speed of 40 miles per hour. Slow and steady that is until the disaster strikes.
The train makes its way lazily through the outlying districts of Sydney. I am looking forward to the view as we wind our way through the Blue Mountains and into the outback beyond. But less than 3 hours into our journey the train comes to a halt in Katoomba.
A nervous voice on the intercom announces that an electrical storm has brought down a power line across the track ahead. The emergency services are on their way to deal with it.
About 80 yards away in the fading light I can see Hotel Gearin with its inviting beds and equally tempting bottle shop (off licence to us poms). But as the train is not at a platform we are confined and locked down. I look to see the older guy in the vest. The sod is asleep when he should obviously be climbing along the roof of the train to confront the terrorists that have seized control of the locomotive and put a gun to the head of the Train Manager to make him keep us calm with a plausible excuse.
It takes over 4 hours before we get underway again. By this time it is dark and all hope of seeing the Blue Mountains has gone. If I was on a British train and delayed for 4 hours I would no doubt join countless other passengers in a bout of communal disgust and anguish. There would even be those who would verbally attack the train staff and speak loudly about falling standards and refunds. But on a journey of nearly 24 hours what do a few more hours matter? If I’d wanted to get to Adelaide quickly I could have flown for the same price. The whole point of the Indian Pacific is to enjoy the experience of travelling by this world famous, iconic train. If anything, another 4 hours on board represents even better value for money.
I awake at 6.00 am the next morning and take a refreshing shower and shave. No one else is awake so I slip into the dining car to await breakfast. The sun rises to reveal a landscape of red soil, dotted with acacia trees, or the wattle, as it is known in Australia. There are no roads and no people but I do spot herds of goats and a few kangaroos as well as a couple of soaring wedge tail eagles, the symbol of the Indian Pacific.
Travelling west I do something could never do on a British train – I cross a time zone, albeit a rather odd one as my watch is turned back by 90 minutes to Central Standard Time.
For the remainder of my journey to Adelaide I settle into the cosy routine of the prison inmate – reading, eating, writing my journal, napping and gazing wistfully at a landscape that hardly varies.
There’s no exercise yard as such, but I do have the freedom to wander between my coach and the buffet coach. Seeing that the guard is distracted by Forrest, who is asking for another blanket, I make a bold dash to move further down the train but just as Bill Bryson has foretold the door is locked. I press my face to the dark glass and catch the faint chink of champagne glasses coming together before they are drowned out by raucous laughter. The inviting aroma of lobster thermidore eases through the gap in the doorway accompanied by a languorous whisper of jazz music. I make a silent promise. One day I will return and travel in Bryson class.
The Indian Pacific train runs for 2,704 miles (4,352 Km) from Sydney, due west to Perth. As the name suggests, it links the Indian Ocean coastline of Australia with the Pacific Ocean coastline. The whole journey takes 65 hours to complete, requiring endurance travellers to spend 3 nights on board. That’s an awful lot of staring out of the window as small settlements, bush and kangaroos glide by.
The journey traces its origins back to 1917 when on 25th October the first eastbound passenger train departed Kalgoorlie for Port Augusta. The trip was the result of a brilliant engineering and surveying project to bridge the 1,240 mile gap between eastern and western rail lines. The project took 5 years to complete and made it possible for passengers to travel from Sydney to Perth by rail for the first time, although they had to change trains 5 times due to differences in the track gauge.
It was not until 1969 that the standard gauge railway line across Australia was completed. On Monday 23rd February, 1970 the first unbroken journey of the Indian Pacific commenced at Sydney Central Station and was greeted by a cheering crowd of 10,000 people in Perth three days later.
The train offers various levels of comfort with corresponding price tags. In his lively travelogue Down Under, the epic voyager and brilliant raconteur, Bill Bryson, describes his experience on the Indian Pacific. Bill, having quite a few best sellers under his belt by this time, checked into the luxury of Gold Class. A place of fine eating, soft beds and comfy chairs. Whilst exploring the train he eventually comes to locked doors that protect him from the horrors beyond.
‘What’s back there?’ Bill asks the buffet car girl.
‘Coach class,’ she replied with a shudder.
‘Is this door always locked?’
She nods gravely. ‘Always.’
Now, I’m not claiming to be a more intrepid explorer than Bill. As you may have guessed he is somewhat of a hero. But Bill never ventures beyond those doors. Just like he never completes the Appalachian Trail in A Walk in the Woods. Bill may be a wonderful travel writer but at times he seems to come up short on the perseverance scale.
Not so your Middle Aged Gapper. I chose to venture into the limited confine at the rear of the 15 carriage train in what is now called the ‘Red Service’. In the days of the Titanic it would have been called Steerage. I must admit that budget was a big factor. It would have cost me £400 to travel in Gold Service, opposed to the £75 it cost me for a Backpacker ticket. Well, I am a Yorkshireman after all.
My 75 quid buys me a very comfortable seat that tips back to form a less comfortable couchette, with slightly more room than you would have on a plane. On the plus side there is easy access to the buffet car, which may not be gourmet eating, but is reasonably priced considering I am going to be a prisoner for about 24 hours. There is also a shower and roomy toilet close at hand.
The Coach Manager welcomes me on board. A large bunch of keys, a can of mace and a side handle baton dangle ominously from her thick leather belt.
I have the window seat and I am joined by my cell mate, Steve, a very affable Scottish chap in his early thirties who has taken a couple of months out to travel. He’s made his way to Australia via Thailand and Vietnam. Like me, he has spent a few nights in Sydney before venturing west to Adelaide.
‘What about those bats in Sydney, eh? Big buggers weren’t they?’ I say.
‘What bats?’ replies Steve.
Checking that Wainwright is safe in the overhead luggage rack, I take note of the other passengers who now occupy every seat. Oh my God! I’m on the set of a disaster movie. Everyone is here – the selfish guy in the smart suit who will let us all die to save his own skin; the nervous woman who will let us all die because she can’t overcome some hidden weakness; a nun with a guitar; an old but fit guy in a vest who will sacrifice himself for the rest of us; Forrest Gump. Hang on, what’s Forrest doing here? Surely he’s on the wrong train?
Forrest turns out to be a very nice man from Argentina who is travelling with his equally charming Filipino wife. They sleep for almost the entire journey to Adelaide.
The Indian Pacific journey may be long, but it’s never fast. The Japanese Bullet Train could complete the coast to coast journey in less than 17 hours. Our locomotive settles instead for slow but steady progress at an average speed of 40 miles per hour. Slow and steady that is until the disaster strikes.
The train makes its way lazily through the outlying districts of Sydney. I am looking forward to the view as we wind our way through the Blue Mountains and into the outback beyond. But less than 3 hours into our journey the train comes to a halt in Katoomba.
A nervous voice on the intercom announces that an electrical storm has brought down a power line across the track ahead. The emergency services are on their way to deal with it.
About 80 yards away in the fading light I can see Hotel Gearin with its inviting beds and equally tempting bottle shop (off licence to us poms). But as the train is not at a platform we are confined and locked down. I look to see the older guy in the vest. The sod is asleep when he should obviously be climbing along the roof of the train to confront the terrorists that have seized control of the locomotive and put a gun to the head of the Train Manager to make him keep us calm with a plausible excuse.
It takes over 4 hours before we get underway again. By this time it is dark and all hope of seeing the Blue Mountains has gone. If I was on a British train and delayed for 4 hours I would no doubt join countless other passengers in a bout of communal disgust and anguish. There would even be those who would verbally attack the train staff and speak loudly about falling standards and refunds. But on a journey of nearly 24 hours what do a few more hours matter? If I’d wanted to get to Adelaide quickly I could have flown for the same price. The whole point of the Indian Pacific is to enjoy the experience of travelling by this world famous, iconic train. If anything, another 4 hours on board represents even better value for money.
I awake at 6.00 am the next morning and take a refreshing shower and shave. No one else is awake so I slip into the dining car to await breakfast. The sun rises to reveal a landscape of red soil, dotted with acacia trees, or the wattle, as it is known in Australia. There are no roads and no people but I do spot herds of goats and a few kangaroos as well as a couple of soaring wedge tail eagles, the symbol of the Indian Pacific.
Travelling west I do something could never do on a British train – I cross a time zone, albeit a rather odd one as my watch is turned back by 90 minutes to Central Standard Time.
For the remainder of my journey to Adelaide I settle into the cosy routine of the prison inmate – reading, eating, writing my journal, napping and gazing wistfully at a landscape that hardly varies.
There’s no exercise yard as such, but I do have the freedom to wander between my coach and the buffet coach. Seeing that the guard is distracted by Forrest, who is asking for another blanket, I make a bold dash to move further down the train but just as Bill Bryson has foretold the door is locked. I press my face to the dark glass and catch the faint chink of champagne glasses coming together before they are drowned out by raucous laughter. The inviting aroma of lobster thermidore eases through the gap in the doorway accompanied by a languorous whisper of jazz music. I make a silent promise. One day I will return and travel in Bryson class.
Stepping out of the station in Adelaide I catch the shuttle to the next hostel and a slight nervousness overcomes me as I think about what the next day will bring. A boat trip to swim with dolphins and a chance to find out if Shark Shield actually works.
Hi Bryan
ReplyDeleteI was that Sharon who you met in Dux Deluxe. I have not had any 'spews' since I have been, but don't know how - the amount of wine I have drunk. Off to Sydney on Sunday, then to Singapore, then home. What job did they offer you?