Kalgoorlie Miner (14): Prospector - Part Two

In the prolonged blink of a tiring eye, a scenery change has occurred. Green into gold like a bolt from the blue. A fine line scribed in over time by statistics, economics, and a dash of hope. A sharp boundary imposed on a gradational change. Wheat can grow profitably here, wheat cannot grow profitably there. Gutsy to be farming out this far.

I am starting to get unnerved by the sterile and refrigerated atmosphere of this train. Rail journeys should be hot, loud, blustery affairs. Character builders. The Prospector is safe, quiet, comfortable, and therefore boring. Option of living dangerously engineered out. My sealed window acts as little more than a television screen, scenery mutely panning by. Jack London: the proper function of man is to live, not to exist. I wonder if they’ll let me on the roof?

I have never felt as alive as when hanging out the side of a battered, groaning steely hulk of a train bound for a village 40 km south of central Calcutta, my life literally in my hot clammy hands. An adrenaline-heightened awareness of the speed, the heat, the colours, the smells, the people. Of life. A glorious engagement with my environment as a pulsating participant, rather than a disassociated rubberneck. Living.

I just got a bottle of water, and on the way back I couldn’t resist a stickybeak at what Junior Beckham was scribbling on his notepad. Angst-ridden lyrics for a new teen anthem? A bloody massacre scene? No. Calculus equations. Somewhat unexpected I must say. School holidays isn’t it? Very studious young chap.

In year 8 mathematics I raised my hand and asked: “Why do we have to learn calculus?” The room was swept with shocked intakes of air. Numerous murmurs of qualified support. Minor giggling. A 5 minute discussion with the teacher failed to convince me of the subject’s merit, and I was asked to stay behind. He offered me a book on the usefulness of calculus. I dismissed it offhand as blatant propaganda.

The showdown was the talk of recess. I was a hero. Sure, I was wrong – calculus is important – but what was more important at that age was that I took it to The Man. I kept the bastards honest. George Orwell: better the lone wolf, than the cringing dog. I was back to being a cringing young pup come exam time though. The Man has far-reaching tentacles.

Just got another cup of tea from the snack bar. A ham-cheese-tomato sandwich in the display case is labelled “connoisseur” and “gourmet”. Better be some damn fine cheese. A silverside-cheese-pickle version is “delialfresco” when to me it is neither of those thoughtlessly concatenated words. The individually-packaged muffins are “home-style”, just like those loaves of bread that are “country-style” because they have a bulbous shape, a dusting of flour, and a smattering of rolled oats glued to the top. I begrudgingly dips me lid to those marketing folk. They know that a thin swirling smokescreen of old fashioned goodness is more than enough to distract our attention from the accelerating erosion of same.

At Merredin now, and a woman has taken the spare seat next to me. Looks busy and efficient. Sharp features. Fixed nervous smile. Like Reverend Lovejoy’s wife. My greeting is warmly reciprocated, but nothing further is offered. Silent trip on the cards?

I’m typing this up in Perth now – it turns out she was very, very talkative. One comment on the weather and we were away. Certainly no time to pen a part three or four. Lovely lady.

Footnote: the journey’s token “annoying little boy” got out at Midland and donned a West Coast Eagles jacket. I should have known.

Happy New Year to you all!