Coast to Coast
a transcontinental journey on the Indian Pacific WORDS BY DORIAN MODE PHOTOGRAPHY LYDIA THORPE
I’m flying from Perth to Sydney, sitting in a metal tube at 30,000 feet. Unlike the Indian Pacific, none of my fellow passengers is up for a chat. There is no smile of recognition. No camaraderie. And if the octogenarian beside me thinks she’s winning this armrest she’s out of her mind. Day One We feel a transcontinental frisson at Central Station’s Platform #1. Airports are exciting. Trains stations are not. However, at the long silver caterpillar that is the Indian Pacific, we find smart people in Akubras and RM Williams boots, checking–in passengers before directing us for a swab. Post nose–drilling, we are ferried to canapés at Platform 818: the flanking Mercure Hotel. I never did this while waiting for the 3.10 to Gosford. At Mercure, our on board–off board entertainer, croons, “I’m Leaving on a Long Train…” Post bubbles, we head to the platform to find our cabin. The Indian Pacific is so long it’s split over two platforms before becoming one train. It has two classes:
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Gold and Platinum. (i.e Rich and Stinking.) We are in Gold Class, which is the majority on the train (cabins are all twin singles: there is no double–bed unless you’re in Platinum). The passengers are mostly fun retirees, besides one ‘young’ couple (about our age–ish) in box fresh matching Akrubras who, in comparison to the retirees, look like the models in the Indian Pacific’s brochure. As they step aboard, the passenger demographic instantly halves. Being a train buff, I like the cubbyhouse aesthetic of the cabin. And like ships, I’m fascinated by how they utilise space like a magic trick. We have a tiny closet and ‘wardrobe of bathroom’ which suits our purposes well. Showers are easier than you think and much fun negotiating the motion of the train. From our cabin, we careen our way to the lounge car: the soul of the train. Here you’ll always find someone up for a chinwag. We order cocktails before wending our way through the pretty Blue Mountains. Sure, you can do this on a suburban train, but not from the cocktail bar with a salt–rimmed Margarita. While at dinner, the staff magically transform our Gold Class Twin cabin into cosy bunk beds, with posh linen
and even a chocolate on our pillow. Light sleepers may struggle with the white noise of the train but I embrace it as part of the exotic experience. In my imagination, I’m in an Agatha Christie novel. Soon we are snatched by sleep. Day Two We wake to find the famous mullock heap of Broken Hill towering outside our window. Brekkie is as posh as dinner. During Eggs Benedict our cabin is magically converted back into the day cabin. Timetabling prevents us from viewing the desert sculptures that morning so instead, passengers are coached to the Miners Museum and Miners Memorial. The memorial is a deep and moving experience (pun intended). These miners died horrifically, underscoring why the union has such a powerful presence in town. Driving through the main drag you’ll see giant Khrushchev–era style union slogans painted on the sides of buildings. When you fly you loathe getting back on a plane. But you look forward to getting back on the train. As we chug out of Broken Hill, we delight in sitting in the lounge and simply watching the stark, arid beauty of the desert scrolling past our window: an endless canvas of red earth, blurred with grey mulga. And we like how small things become big things on trains: the white puff of a feral goat. A mysterious abandoned building. The mad frightened dance of a feral camel (one of the dishes on tonight’s menu). Trivia at 2:30. For luncheon, (camel – hump steak?) we meet John and Mavis. These spritely retirees are enjoying their 58th year of marriage. As I’m a little deaf I find it hard to hear the softly spoken Mavis over the
