Lounging on the Indian Pacific (left), A work-window on the Nullabor (below)

Transcontinental train
By Stan Morse
February 25, 1998

The Indian Pacific is impressive as it arrives from Sydney, corrugated aluminum gleaming in the hot sunlight, proud eagles emblazoned on the cars. This quarter-mile-long train will carry me 1,500 miles across the southern part of the continent, all the way to Perth.

It comes through Adelaide -- where I'm boarding -- twice a week. Last Tuesday, I came down to check its accessibility. And from what I saw, it seemed I would be okay. More important, every staff-person I talked to, from the conductors to the train manager, seemed genuinely interested in my comfort. My new rule for travel is that if the people who will be in charge aren't friendly and helpful, I don't go. It's like the old adage about trying to force a square peg into a round hole; just don't do it!

Things begin well. Debra, one of the porters, walks up and down the platform with me, taking digital pictures of me against the backdrop of the train. Then she and another porter get me into my cabin, just before the train pulls out.

It's pretty nifty inside. Sure, the hallway is about six inches too narrow for my wheelchair, so I'll have to be carted between my room and the dining and lounge cars in the train's aislechair. But at least my "D" car is adjacent to the lounge and dining cars, so I'll only have to negotiate one hallway.

I'm in a first class sleeper. It's a two-person room, but I'm the only occupant. I have my own shower, toilet, sink, table, bunk and two large windows. And the shower has a fold-down seat and grab rails, which is a distinct improvement over any other train I've been on.

We roll out of Adelaide, and soon are gliding past wheat fields that have seen the summer's harvest. A few sheep and cattle now graze at the yellow stubble.

I'm surprised to see low rolling hills to the west. I'd pictured this area as pancake-flat. I wouldn't call it pretty, despite the hills. It's bone dry, and there are bleak miles between each farmhouse.

By the time I leave my room for dinner, the last red tendrils of sunset are fading into the darkness. Dinner comes in two sittings; I'm in the second, at 8:30. Meals are included in the price (appx. $500.00 US) of my ticket. There's a good chef in the kitchen. The chicken breast, stuffed with spinach and pine nuts, practically falls off the fork it is so tender.

After dinner, I'm carted back to my room. I'm tired, but have difficulty falling asleep. The car rocks. But in the middle of the night everything seems to smooth out. I find out why in the morning.

When I roll up the window blinds I discover that the wheat fields and grazing livestock have been replaced by the desolation of the Nullarbor Plain.

"Nullarbor" means "no trees" in Latin, and it lives up to its name. The orange-red, rock- strewn ground is sparsely covered with scraggly, ankle-high shrubs. Infrequent bushes huddle like orphans on the linear horizon. We are crossing the world's longest section of straight track: 478 kilometers, laid across one of the largest flat expanses on the planet.

There's not much to do on a train, really. Especially when you're crossing virtual nothingness. I write a lot. And when I get tired of writing, I sit and watch the nothingness slide by, waiting for the infrequent bush or large rock to appear. I keep fantasizing that I'll see a determined cyclist or backpacker alongside the track, but it never happens. No one is that stupid. Because this place would kill you . . . quickly.

There are very few stops during the trip, because there is nothing much to stop for. At a place called "Cook" -- a few metal-roofed houses and outbuildings -- we stop for water. They let everyone off to walk around, and offer to lift me down. I take one look at the dusty, hot, rocky ground, watch a man swat at flies, and politely say, "Thanks, I'll pass."

I do get off that evening, at the town of Kalgoorlie, where Australia's largest gold mines drive an economy of around 35,000 people. There's a bus tour through the dark streets. It's hard to see in the dark, but most of us on the train are ready to try anything to break up the trip.

We see the outlines of various "historic" buildings, most of which look rather ordinary in the dark of night. The open pit mine is spectacular -- if you like looking into a gigantic pit where trucks are constantly being loaded with dirt, then crawling up the side of the pit toward wherever they process the stuff.

The interesting twist is Hay Street, Kalgoorlie's "red light district". And "yes" there were red lights on the shed-like buildings. And the "ladies" were out. Most of them turned away or went inside their squalid stalls, but a few waved. I was amused at the time, but felt sad later. When you've driven past an Olympic-sized swimming pool, an elite social club, several upscale restaurants where well-dressed people are enjoying the night; then, come upon ramshackle brothels . . . it makes you think. A lot.

We pull into Perth at 7:00 a.m. the next morning. I slept better the second night, thanks to extra pillows. Wedged between them in the narrow bunk, the rocking of the train was no longer a nuisance.

I recommend the Indian Pacific. But go first class, if you can. Sitting in a seat for two nights (three, if you go the entire route between Sydney and Perth), would be tough.