Articles > Trainathon Australia

The little hook is begging to be pulled. So I do. And suddenly a fold-up toilet drops out from the wall and almost into my lap. The sleepers on the Indian Pacific are fantastic places to explore. They're stuffed full of seemingly meaningless hooks and ledges whose raison d'etre becomes apparent only after the train gets started. If you ever thought you'd get bored sitting on a train for the three days it takes to cross from Perth to Sydney, rest assured you could quite happily knock off an hour or two poking around the train. Oooh, there's the second bed. And here's the strange, squiggly corridor for the single bunk sleepers. And look, it's the lounge bar! There are a couple of other perhaps more pressing reasons to leap on to the Indian Pacific for the 4352- kilometre journey across three states. One is that it's a whole lot cheaper than coughing up for petrol for your car both ways. It costs quite little to haul your beloved vehicle on board, although four-wheel-drives are too high on the two-tiered carriages to fit through the tunnels in the Blue Mountains, so they're unceremoniously dumped at Adelaide on the way back from Perth. The other reason is that Western Australia is currently in the midst of wildflower fever. The season stretches from August to November, when sparse spaces are filled with the minute, intricate forms that characterise our native flowers. Not for us the blowsy blooms or gaudy displays of the northern hemisphere. In a morning's flower-hunting just a few hours north of Perth we spot tiny donkey orchids with the morning dew still glistening on their tongues, spiky primitive dryandras and perky acacias, massed in tight balls of pure yellow. My favourite is a sparky, carnivorous drosera that zaps its prey with a sticky enzyme, which turns me from casual snapper into a flower-obsessed paparazzo. This bucolic pastime forms a natural end to our visit to WA, where we enlist for the three-day trainathon back to Sydney. The journey can be spent either in monastic contemplation of the sparse, passing landscape or, for the more gregarious among us, forming those peculiar and unusual relationships that develop only when strangers are thrust together for a prolonged period of time. We might like to tell ourselves that Australia is a classless society but on the Indian-Pacific there are most definitely two sides of the coin, Gold Kangaroo for the white linen napkins and pre-dinner drinks club and Red Kangaroo sleepers and coach seats for those who feel like sitting upright for the three days, mainlining hot chips and weak coffee. And never the twain shall meet, save for the four stops en route, Kalgoorlie, Cook, Adelaide and Broken Hill. So, for a dose of reality, it's down the back to the Red Kangaroo, with its mix of families, singles and foreign backpackers. Goshi from Tokyo has been a jackaroo up in the Kimberley for the past six months and is off to see the rest of Australia, joined by Rick from the Netherlands. They rave about mustering and swimming with the dolphins at Monkey Mia and both plan to get off at Adelaide to pick up the Ghan. At the next table Daniel, a reptile handler and Peter, a prospector and Aboriginal bushman, are arguing about when a taipan bites and whether the mark will fade and then reappear throughout the rest of your life. They're both a bit dark about the new laws that will mark the end of the scary little smoking alcoves on board the train. So far there's no smoking from Perth till we hit the South Australian border but from October 1 2006, the entire journey is smoke-free. At Kalgoorlie the first to pile out are those looking for a peaceful cigarette in the fresh night air. It's a chance to stretch our legs as we've been on the train for only two meals and already we're getting sluggish. As one staff member, Marcie, warns us: "For those of you who are missing the gym, you're on holidays and the food's pretty good. We're not called rolling stock for nothing!" She's right. The food is excellent and the pace genteel, with a glass of South Australian riesling at lunch and a three-course dinner already under our belts. So instead of taking the bus tour, two of us strike out on our own. It's 11pm and most of Kalgoorlie is abed. The Superpit, a gold mine so big you can (allegedly) see it from the moon, is nought but a big black hole, so we wander into the Exchange Hotel for a quiet drink, pulled by a "skimpy", a barmaid clad only in her underwear. "If she was wearing black or something really unusual I'd understand it," says Liz, ordering her diet coke in a rather subdued manner as we debate whether ladies sit on bar stools topped with saddles (the answer is no). But the girl is wearing an everyday cream bra that I could see myself buying for the office, although her knickers are rather fetching. A few guys look her over quickly while ordering a drink but the 13 big screen TVs win their attention as she empties ashtrays and wipes the bar. We wander down Hay Street for a longer walk, past the brothels which do tours in the daytime. At night it's punters only. "I feel sorry for those poor buggers working on the mines for three months at a time," confides Dave, an oil engineer. "They finally get into Kal and just as they're about to walk into the brothel, a tour bus full of oldies pulls up and takes photos of them!" This night there's only one other person in the foyer of Langtrees' brothel, a bald little man covered in tattoos, wearing only a large white bath towel. "It's all very Twin Peaks," mutters Liz, and we beat a retreat. The train pulls out of Kalgoorlie with a bunch of tired and strangely unsettled passengers but the comfy bed has been turned down and the train rocks like a cradle, so sleep is fast coming. Gold Kangaroo cabins have two bunks which the stewards arrange while you're at dinner. From Perth to Adelaide a nice man called Matt fluffs my pillows every night and brings me a cup of coffee in the morning. He is the ideal prototype for a husband. Over the three days I become unnaturally fond of my new tracksuit pants, seriously debating whether I could do dinner in them, but decide against it. One must have standards. After green Adelaide we turn east at Peterborough and are back on pale orange dirt, with dusty pale orange sheep picking at the grey tussocks. A pair of emus sprint away, their feathered rumps bouncing like Victorian bustles. Once we cross the border and hit Broken Hill, the train starts to rock like a 1970s station wagon. "That's the NSW Government for you," is the going joke. It takes a while to get our train legs but the staff swivel their hips automatically as they dish out dessert and top up our tipples. We jolt through the night and next morning the sun filters through misty Mount Victoria. Eggs, bacon, coffee, pastries. We eat like it's the last supper before we arrive at Sydney’s Central Station at 10.15 on a Wednesday morning. What's the point in being good now? The damage is well and truly done and it feels so good. TRIP NOTES * The Indian Pacific leaves Sydney and Perth twice a week. www.trainways.com.au. * Perth's newest hotel, the Medina Executive Barrack Plaza, has an opening special. See www.medina.com.au. * Country Escapes runs small-group wildflower tours. www.countryescapes.com.au.

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