Train manager

"Cheap as chips, mate," the ticket agent said. And he was right, $29 for a five hundred mile train ride from Melbourne to Adelaide was a pretty good deal.

I bought the ticket in the morning just a half hour before the eight o'clock departure, then quickly made my way to platform 2, car T, seat 12. I'd planned to go by bus, but by good fortune I was off westwards on one of the three days a week that the Great Southern Railway runs The Overland train to Adelaide. I settled into the comfy seat, stretched my legs, and, with prospect of an eleven-hour train ride ahead of me, felt intensely happy.

The Overland is just a handful of cars, maybe four or five, each car seating about sixty people, with a cafeteria car dividing economy from first class. The other cars were mostly full, but mine was mostly empty. I put my seat all the way back, spread my gear around, settled in.

Just after we left the station, a woman came on the p.a. system and introduced herself as Jackie, the "train manager." Her announcments were a combination of admonition and stand-up comedy. She said, "there may be fifty ways to leave your lover, but there are only five ways to leave this train." She said, "Great Southern Railway has some of the greatest crew around....unfortunately none of them are on board today." At the end of her routine she told us to turn to our neighbors and introduce ourselves; the elderly Chinese couple across the aisle pretended they didn't hear and so did I.

Outside Melbourne, we came into nearly flat, open country, vast fields bordered by single rows of small eucalyptus trees, some of the fields devoted to a green, unidentifiable crop two inches high, but most occupied by scattered bands of sheep. Tiny lambs stumbled alongside the larger animals, as all fled from the charging train. Sometimes in the corner of a field I would see a couple sheep corpses, deposited there, I suppose, to be out of the way. Large black and white birds, Australian magpies, hopped about among the sheep. Occasionally a small bare hill stood up from the flatlands. Rain fell off and on and the land was muddy with days of wet weather.

I felt giddy with the pleasure of riding a train across southeast Australia. But of course no pleasure is without its shortcomings.... When the train slowed and quieted, piped in pop music became unfortunately audible--Carly Simon, Average White Band, Boston, "Piano Man," "Feels Like the First Time," "Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves"....

Worse, though, was the red-faced old man sitting right behind me. At first I thought he was talking on a phone, but his monologue was unceasing, and when I glanced over my shoulder I saw that he was talking to himself. Not particularly loudly, but loud enough, with a slurring sibilance. He puncuated every paragraph or so with a sudden teeth-sucking sound followed immediately by a blubbery snort. Then the incomprehensible conversation would pick up again. At first I thought he was deranged, but then later considered the possibility of Tourette's. He napped late in the day and afterwards I saw him walking up the aisle silent for the first time.

But I didn't wait around for the nap. Long before, I'd moved to the back of the car, preferring to be near the woman with the infant and four-year-old (who everyoe else had avoided). I was more comfortable with the sort of noises they made.

Jackie, the train manager, passed through my car repeatedly during the day, always moving quickly on her way to the next task, usually with a quasi-friendly word of remonstration for some passenger. "Remember, Aurora," she said to the four-year-old, "little girls are not allowed to play in the aisle." Frankly, I didn't trust Jackie's heartiness. Her chipper demeanor seemed to gloss over a barely suppressed irritation, even rage. I could imagine her going from smiling to screaming in a moment.

She was a tall woman, big-hipped, in her early forties, with glasses and a shag-haircut, blonde highlights, a headband. She wore khakis and a blue collared shirt, a windbreaker when she had to step out onto the platform at a stop. Midway along she announced that the bathroom in S car was broken. "I've put on my plumber's hat," she said. "I'll get back to you with the results."

Early in the journey the red-faced old man had tried to go forward into a closed car, but Jackie had stopped him. "Can you read the sign, sir?" she asked (it said, "No Entry. Staff Only."). He looked confused, but nodded. "And what does it say?" she asked, not willing to let him off that easy. He hesitated. "Hmm? What does it say?" she repeated. The man mumbled something and turned away, and she said, "Right," as if to indicate that she knew just what sort of idiot he was. Later when she was coming down the aisle with a cart, the old man was standing up next to his seat, and she said, "coming through, sir"; when he didn't move fast enough, she put a hand on his back and pushed him into the space between the seats, continuing on without breaking stride. When she passed me I avoided eye contact, worried she would call me out for switching seats.

In Ararat a tired-looking woman with three kids got on. One of the kids opened his arm rest and pulled out the folding table, put it back, did it again. The woman said, "Leave it alone." The boy did for a moment, but then pulled out the tray table again. The woman hissed, "Leave it alone!" Her anger and hate were all out of proportion to the infraction, but who knows what happened before they got on the train. Later I heard her say on a cellphone that she hadn't been able to smoke on the bus to the station, and then hadn't had time before getting on the train and it was killing her.

Jackie came to them to see about paying for tickets, and the woman gave the kids' names and ages: Dyllan (11), Nikki (12), and Rachelle (13). She argued about the price, saying the police had promised a special deal--apparently some police matter required their sudden trip to the town of Murray River. Jackie said she didn't know about the police, but Great Southern Railway required $72 for the lot.

The four of them bought lots of candy and sodas and chips from the cafeteria car (chips come in four flavors: plain, bbq, salt and vinegar, and chicken). The mother swore with great ease and liberality, though without much imagination. She said to the boy, "why you put all your shit in my bag?" He said, "I haven't." She said, "you have, you put your shit in my bag." She used some form of "fuck" in nearly every sentence, as in "get the fuck back in your seat." The word is quite common here in public and on television.

The long day rolled by, and I read a little but mostly watched out the big window, and listened to my fellow passengers. I wanted the ride to go on and on. In my book, Paul Theroux's Honolulu Hotel, I marked the sentence, "What was new to me always seemed important."

We reached Adelaide at 6:30, and a shuttle bus dropped me off downtown at My Place, a backpackers hostel. I was assigned to a small orange room with three bunkbeds and pink and purple and yellow sheets and comforters. The gear of the four young German men already occupying the room covered almost the entire floor.

I walked to the central district and had a plate of nasi goreng at a Malay restaurant. I'd so been looking forward to a hot and large dinner, but the rice dish was disappointing.

Back at the hostel I could've gone in the crowded tv room, but I was feeling too tired to be social, so I got in bed and read and soon fell asleep.