The train pulls up in the middle of the plain. This is in theory a station called Watson. There is nothing but small grassy clumps and red soil. An aboriginal woman and her small child step down from the train together with a steward with their bags. I overhear their conversation at the door. She is a teacher; her husband is a mechanic.

A thin dirt road ends at the railway line; and a white ute waits to make the pickup at the side of the track. There are no buildings. The woman and child get into the ute, which drives off into the distance down the long straight road. The train slowly rolls back into motion.

The place names seem random. Even the aboriginal names don’t seem to fit. The land is so old it defies being named.

The entire train stops at Cook, a bundle of sheds. Everyone gets out to walk around. I pick up a small fossil shell from beside the tracks. The air is cold and dry, despite the sun being high in the sky.

A single camel wanders past the tracks. The passengers are quiet and preoccupied; the two dimensional drift of the landscape becomes disorientating after a while and distances seem to lose their meaning. Peoples eyes turn away from the windows; they read, or sleep, or wander down to the lounge car.

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The country outside Adelaide is initially greener than I imagined (no drifting sand dunes or camel trains yet.) However the ubiqitous red soil is there; and after some time you realize the landscape is impercetibly changing. The last distant low uplands slide away and the perspective is of a vast surrounding tabletop.

Small scubby plants cover the expanse and trees gradually thin to ten, five, and eventually none in sight. Two kangaroos make an appearance. Even a lone bird silhouetted in a tree is welcomed as a sign of life. The three Japanese guys opposite stare out between sharing around their English copy of the Adventures of Sherlock Holmes. They must be getting a strange feel for Western culture.

Over the horizon pass by some familiar names. After coming out here you feel a sense of stronger sympathy for anyone held at Woomera. Further down the line Maralinga sits to the north. It seems all the things the Australians want to hide from view are kept out here, out of mind, out of sight.

The plain continues.

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It’s a strange sensation to wake up in a train carriage, especially when you are on the outskirts of Broken Hill. The previous night the train was delayed because of ice on the tracks in the Blue Mountains, not the kind of delay you expect in Australia.

The hills are grey and ghostly in the pre-dawn light. Broken Hill holds a central part in Australian labour history as home of the 35-hour week, fought for by local miners. It is extremely cold in the clear morning light. As I walk down to buy a morning paper, there is little to indicate the dramatic past of the town. Two fat bikers pull up beside me on a chopped hog and ask if there is a McDonalds anywhere.

Overcharged for breakfast but in no mood to argue after a rough night’s sleep (Julie is trainsick.)

Rough, dusty land all day. We arrive in Adelaide at night and have a brief trip to the supermarket. The suburbs feel depressingly like the south end of Christchurch. Thankfully “Jungle Boy” (see previous entry) has left the train. At least we can sleep without worrying about a grenade incident. The train pulls out and heads west towards the Nullabor Plain.

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We are travelling out of the endless Sydney suburbs. Out in the West there seems to be little of the flash cosmopolitan city and more of the dusty cramped bungalows and industrial sprawl. We are checking it all from the “Red Kangaroo” cars with the seats, not the bunks (i.e. we are in the cheap seats.)

Trains are great. They are the most interesting way to travel short of walking. They allow time to view, to sit back and let someone else get you there. Have you noticed: if you travel by car you always see into peoples front yards and their blank windows; from the train you always see into backyards, sidelots, strange offcuts of urban land invisible and unseen from any other angle.

On the advertising material for the Indian Pacific, the Red Kangaroo travel experience is one inhabited by virile twenty year olds in tight fitting jeans hanging out in the lounge car with a guitar. The Gold Kangaroo experience is advertised by models who look transported out of the 1940s, aged fifty, with gold jewellery and artificial tans. The reality is different. Red Kangaroo is a lot cheaper.

The Indian Pacific itself reminds me strangely enough of the former Southerner (for any South Islanders who remember), with a few added extras. Comfortable but dated with the ubiquitous teal and forest green decor.

The stewards are all old fashioned larrikins who have a pre-customer service attitude which involves them cracking jokes at passengers and making rambling announcements on the PA. This is much more fun and you can imagine that these characters would not be interested in the tipping system. Good for them.

Within five minutes, the antediluvian on-train video system has crackled into action with a top volume Bugs Bunny movie being repeated on about fifty screens suspended from the carriage roof. For those wishing to quietly contemplate the slow roll up the slopes of the Blue Mountains, tough luck! On a positive note, Jungle Boy (see previous post) seems to have relaxed and is no longer discussing weapons with visiting students from Osaka.

The sudden transition from hard edged working class suburbs to wooded valleys takes us by surprise though, and even Bugs Bunny at one hundred and forty decibels cannot distract us from the magic of night settling on the trees as we move further inland.

Read more on Indian Pacific: Red Kangaroo or Gold Kangaroo?…

On Saturday 17 July, we embarked on our overland train trip from Sydney to Perth. The journey really begins at Circular Quay station, where Julie breaks her tooth on a candy bar. Luckily it doesn’t seem to cause too much pain but is not a good omen for our 63 hour transcontinental journey that is coming up.

We stumble under our baggage upstairs to make the Sydney Metro connection with the main rail station. We wait on the platform next to a tall man with a shaved head and camouflage gear. He’s with his father, and the tall man is angry and paranoid and quite possibly completely insane.

He keeps raving on about “civilians” and stalking about glaring through his aviator shades. We make a point of getting on the next metro carriage in case “Jungle Boy” goes troppo. I make a joke that he’s probably going to be getting on the train with us to Perth, to go to a survivalist training school or skinhead national front light arms training school.

Sure enough, at Central Station he’s there in the Indian Pacific queue with Dad. Being a slow learner, I joke that he will probably be in the same carriage as us. Touch wood I say, with a sinking feeling. Too late.

We board the train and settle into our seats on carriage S of the Indian Pacific.

Jungle Boy gets on with his Dad after us. At least he’s travelling with someone sane I think. Then Dad gets off the train and says goodbye to Jungle Boy, who is now on the loose.

Jungle Boy stows his luggage and I hear him asking some Japanese backpackers “What is your favourite choice of weapon?” and bowing.

It’s going to be an interesting few days in carriage S.

Read more on Indian Pacific: What is your favourite choice of weapon?…