The great Ghan

Today I woke with the sense of excitement I recall as an impatient child on Christmas Day or the first morning of a long anticipated summer holiday. The Ghan was on my bucket list and it was now waiting for me at a specially extended station just outside Darwin.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a train addict, spotter or collector. Whilst I respect anyone’s right to do so, I can assure you I’ve not spent one minute, never mind a precious day, standing with pencil and notebook in hand, sandwiches and flask in ‘sack, peering into the mist from the lonely end of a platform in the likes of Crewe or Doncaster. But the prospect of sitting in the comfort and ‘unreachable’ privacy of my own cabin for several days; watching the landscape morph from deep green tropical to arid red desert and on to the mediterranean greens and golds of the temperate south, all in the secure knowledge that at any point in time I could stretch my legs to reach a vintage club car with all-inclusive bar; I have to say ticked several boxes for me. This was the way to see Australia I thought, and the way to taste it, as the restaurant also came highly recommended. Travel bliss I tell you. If that makes me a train enthusiast then so be it, sell me the tee-shirt.

Whilst back in the middle of the nineteenth century the driving vision was for a North-South rail passage through Australia, the original track connected Adelaide on the southern ocean to Alice Springs in the red centre. Alice, due to its central position, as important as it is uniquely remote. The Ghan takes its name from the labourers and camel drivers imported to construct the track in such a challenging environment. Mostly from Central Asia, they were considered Afghan, hence the Ghan. Camels are not indigenous to Oz and were first transported from India in the mid-1800s to support exploration and construction. They carried many of Australia’s early European explorers, whose names now label highways, rivers, mountain ranges, creeks, passes and towns across Australia. Names such as Stuart, Sturt, Simpson, Currie, Horrocks, Hume, Wild and of course, Thomas Mitchell of downtown Darwin’s Mitchell Street fame. Unfortunately several perished in the process, such as Burk and Wills, Oxley, Kennedy (accompanied on his fatal trip by the memorably named Jackey Jackey), and the mysteriously disappeared Leichhardt. Some of their camels probably fared a little better.

Work began on the original Ghan track to Alice in 1878 but wasn’t completed until 1929. Travellers would at that time often continue the journey to Darwin by uncomfortable camel. It may be that the strange walk I noted on Darwin’s Mitchell Street late on a Saturday night, is a hereditary remnant of those long distance camel treks, now absorbed deep into the NT DNA. It seemed particularly exaggerated in the guys from Humpty Doo. Maybe back then, some folk couldn’t take one step more of camel hump splitting their butts like some mediaeval bock* torture, and the point at which this excruciating ‘wall’ was reached on that long dry road to Darwin was where they laid their hats (and no doubt their sorry butts). And fittingly named that place Humpty Doo. What a wonderful story that would be. You never know. Stranger things have happened – especially in the outback.

Some camels went feral after escaping their toil, but most were simply released into the wild after motorisation replaced them. As a consequence, groups of wild camels can now be spotted throughout the red centre and desert areas of central Australia. In 2008 their numbers were estimated to have grown to over one million, so a subsequent cull reduced this to around 300000, although their number is still thought to be increasing by around 10% a year.

Due to lack of cash, the arrival of the Great Depression and the national engagement in the Second World War, the remaining half of the south-north rail link was conveniently forgotten. Not until the next century was the original vision realised, with the Alice Springs to Darwin leg opening in 2004. The namesake Ghan now runs once a week, covering the 3000 kilometres between the two state capitals of Darwin and Adelaide, in a journey spread most enjoyably over three days and two nights.

The Ghan is hauled by one majestic red beast of a locomotive engine. Well two of the powerful monsters actually. The double pull required in no small part to the immense length of the train, which on our trip was almost 1.2 kilometres. Yes that’s a snake of carriages of over one full kilometre. On arrival at the station we visited the front end where the two huge powerhouses were warming up, forcing the ground to vibrate with the deepest and most rhythmic purring, as if gigantic cats preparing to roar. The lead engine wore the Ghan’s glorious red livery with attitude in the bright NT sunshine. We were then taken to our designated coach by minibus, which actually drove out of the station, joined the highway, then came back to the track to deposit us at the rear half of the train. Such is the size of the Ghan.

The train’s organisation, with its 60 staff aboard, is localised so that you are never going to be far from your section’s hospitable 24 hour club car. In fact most conveniently for Jacky and I, we were in the very next coach.  Jacky is a free spirit, and the spirit was free.

Our cabin was a work of efficient design and gadgetry which fitted seats, wardrobes, bunks, bathroom with sink, shower and loo, plus even your personal safe, all into one tidy, polished compartment. Whilst you’re at evening dinner it’s magically transformed by invisible elves into a double-bunk bedroom ready for your unsteady return from a late nightcap in the club car. In the morning you can be greeted with a wake-up cup of tea delivered by an unidentifiable arm and anonymous voice. Then, whilst back in the Queen Adelaide restaurant car enjoying your sumptuous breakfast, those same elves restore your room to its daytime ‘let’s watch the world go by and spot strange creatures’ mode. How truly brilliant and how life should be!

On boarding the train we bade a temporary goodbye to daughter Francesca and Sam, as for the next fortnight we would venture alone. They are both far too young to be exposed to the indulgent excess of the great Ghan – their formative years could be irreparably damaged.

Having familiarised ourselves with our personal cabin and the view from its window, the drinks card at the club car and of course the fine Queen Adelaide restaurant coach over lunch, we prepared for the afternoon stop at Katherine. I dressed ‘outback contemporary’, with Jacky leaning more to ‘outback chic’. The result being that Jacky quite looked the part. I simply looked as though I’d not thought it through, which of course is precisely the case. My inner ‘conservative Yorkshire’ just wouldn’t allow me to sport the classic Australian Barmah bush hat. Even without the kitschy hanging corks. Not for real anyway. Perhaps at one of those parties back home, when that dangerous point is reached when every sad item of holiday-relic clothing is pulled out of that special ‘party drawer’ and distributed amongst those resilient enough (and sufficiently inebriated) to see the night through. Not a quality Barmah anyway, far too expensive. Although a didgeridoo I’ve found, goes down reliably well at such events. The epic fails at generating the slightest sound, never mind mastering the circular breathing required, accompanied by that familiar expression of imminent thrombosis, always gets the collective tears flowing.

Don’t get me wrong, the Barmah can present most stylishly. On Australian men, and only on Australian men. There’s something about the way they wear it, what they wear it with, and the angle of the head. They make it look cool and even a tad rakish, whether for work, for shopping or even for a night on the town. Non-antipodean guys in a Barmah, or worse, cheap imitation ‘bush’, simply don’t cut it. Wrong hat, wrong head, wrong hombre . You can tell a tourist ‘wannabee’ a mile off. On an Aussie the Barmah contributes to expressing the whole. On me it expresses asshole. And trust me, I know one when I look in a mirror.  Interestingly however, as an 8 year old I had no such qualms with headgear in my innocent yet gloriously exciting adventures with the girl from the Terrible Ten. We chased around the outback, building camps and hiding from villains, with our identical leather bush hats hanging on our backs, casual cowboy style. This was so much better than adventures with mates, different and somehow deeper.

Just east of the town of Katherine (population 10500) is its namesake Katherine Gorge in the Nitmiluk national park. Well it’s in fact a series of 13 gorges, some with their sheer faults through red sandstone standing over 100m high. We took a boat through each of the first two major canyons and walked along the ancient red rocks between. An almost imperceptible breeze flowing through the gorge gave just a little respite from the 38C heat. The traditional landowners of Nitmiluk are the Jawoyn. On one high cliff face, faint but still visible, was an enormous painting that had been created at some point in the 40000+ years that these indigenous peoples had looked after the land prior to the very recent arrival of europeans. We touched the smoothest and shiniest sandstone rock, simply too old to hold any vertebrate fossils due to being around 1600 million years old. Neither warm nor cold, it’s probably the oldest thing I’ve ever placed my hands on. A strange feeling of connection with something much more significant. I don’t normally give way to this sort of thing, but am I getting close to that spiritual feel I’ve heard about?  Probably just an illusion on a hot day, after a liquid lunch. You can think (or drink) yourself into such places.

Safely back in the air-con cool of the Ghan, it was time to test out the shower, dress for dinner and take a seat in the club car for a sundowner. And share stories with strangers. All against that slowly moving backdrop of increasingly alien landscape. A  vast panorama which made even the immense Ghan appear small and vulnerable. What a privilege.

Tomorrow we stop off at a town like Alice. In the meantime there’s an evening in the Queen Adelaide to savour. “Yes I’ll take the Coonawarra Shiraz with that lamb rump thank you Kai. Of course it’s fine to leave the bottle. You’re a good man”.

I begin to hope that negotiating my top bunk later tonight (as allocated by DSO Jacky – Dir of Sleeping Ops) doesn’t bring me down to earth with a bump. However we’ll climb that ladder when we come to it. For now seize the moment. Wyrd bid ful araed. Fate is inexorable.

*The bock was a horrendous mediaeval torture and punishment, which caused slow and agonising death in a manner too excruciating for me to describe on this page. Of all the earth’s species, only homo sapien has the inherent sadism to think this one up. If you really want to go there search it yourself. But you’ve been warned. Make sure you’re sitting comfortably.

Where we stayed.
The Ghan (Gold) North-South: leaves Darwin weekly Wed am. Arrives Adelaide Fri pm.
South-North: leaves Adelaide Saturday. Arrives Darwin Monday.
Where we ate.
The Queen Adelaide restaurant car. The Ghan. Stylish, excessive and indulgent. You can have too much of a good thing.