Melbourne to Perth is 3500km.
Memories of 3500 km between Melbourne and Perth PART 1
Struggles in my adopted county – The Long Road West and Crossing the Nullarbor in 1977
Readers mail……
By Eren Erdogan, Melbourne, Australia……
It’s 3500 km between Melbourne and Perth.
The year was 1977. Elvis was still alive, disco was infecting the airwaves, and three young fools from Melbourne—including myself—decided to chase fortune in the Wild West. Not cowboys and tumbleweeds, but mining jobs. Gold, iron, maybe uranium—we weren’t picky. We just knew one thing: the further we got from Melbourne, the better.
We were all recently unemployed—some of us voluntarily, some not so much. My own exit was more of a push than a choice, but that’s a story for another time. The plan came from a well-respected older Turkish gentleman we knew, Ergun Abi. He spoke with the kind of authority that made you believe even the most ridiculous ideas were genius.
“Go to Perth,” he said. “The money’s in mining. Leave this place.”
It sounded poetic. Or maybe it was just desperate optimism. Either way, it worked.
My mate Şükrü Olgun—better known to everyone as Max—was the kind of guy who didn’t hesitate. We scraped together whatever cash we had, bought an old Valiant (because why not trust your life to a Chrysler from a decade ago), and stuffed everything we owned onto its roof racks. I had about $200 in my pocket, most of it borrowed from my sister, and a bag full of hope. We didn’t even check the tyres.
First stop: Adelaide. Sort of. I think we passed through it, might’ve taken a quick stroll and grabbed a pie. The road was more exciting than the city. We were on a mission, after all—young men in search of fortune, fame, and preferably a soft bed somewhere west.
Somewhere before Kalgoorlie we pulled into a caravan park. It was no Hilton—just a patch of dust, a few vans, and shared bathrooms that hadn’t seen bleach since Whitlam was in office. But we were broke and happy. Everything still felt like an adventure.
When we hit Kalgoorlie, it was like arriving in another country. This was a true outback town: red dust, wide streets, miners in every direction. We checked into a pub—because that’s all there was—and I vaguely remember a cast-iron statue out front of a bloke holding a gold pan, probably celebrating the good old’ days when people actually struck gold here instead of FIFO contracts.
We were restless, so we went walking. That’s when we stumbled across what I can only describe as the most polite red-light district in the southern hemisphere. A whole street—maybe called High Street—lined with little tin sheds no bigger than a prison cell, each with just enough space for a single bed and a door that squeaked suspiciously. We had accidentally discovered Kalgoorlie’s infamous brothel lane.
Now, keep in mind, we were three young guys from Melbourne—none of us saints, but this was something else. It felt like falling into a bawdy bush version of a Fellini movie. We walked up and down that street, not quite sure whether to laugh, run, or knock politely and ask for directions.
But that was just a warm-up. The real test came next: crossing the mighty Nullarbor Plain. Now, if you’ve never done it—let me tell you—it’s not a drive, it’s a psychological experiment. The land is so flat and barren it makes the moon look overgrown.
Somewhere near the border we saw the first sign:
“Last petrol station for 400km – FILL UP!”
We did. We also bought meat pies and two bottles of Coke, just in case that was our last meal.
There were also signs warning of camel crossings. Not kangaroos. Camels. That’s when we realized we were truly in the middle of nowhere. We took turns driving. One day it was Max, then me, then the third guy. At one point we thought the engine might explode, so we stopped in the middle of nowhere, jacked the car up, drained the oil, and replaced it like we were pit crew at Bathurst. Not that we knew what we were doing. It just seemed like the kind of thing responsible car owners should do.
After three days of endless road, sky, and hallucinating roadhouses that didn’t exist, we finally rolled into Perth. Dusty, broke, and smelling like we’d slept in the engine bay, we went looking for our contact—a Turkish guy arranged by Ergun Abi. We were told to find him at a Greek café where Turks and Greeks mingled over strong coffee and stronger opinions.
A time to rest
We found the café. And eventually, we found Ahmed—the man who would save us from sleeping in the car. He wasn’t home at first, but after a few awkward calls and café hangouts, he showed up and let us stay in his one-bedroom flat. Three of us. and him. Four grown men in a space designed for one. It was tight, chaotic, and far from glamorous—but we had a roof and a mattress between us. That was enough.
We paid him rent—daily, in cash, from our fast-dwindling pockets—and started the next chapter of our lives.
That’s how the Great Journey West began. We didn’t find gold right away. But we found something just as valuable: stories worth telling.
I couldn’t go on with my story without explaining or mentioning the Camels on the Nullarbor it’s an important part of Australian history, which I discovered afterwards.
I hope this adds a little more understanding to the diversity of my adopted country.
Here we go again.
As we rattled along the long, flat stretch of the Nullarbor Plain back in 1977, something strange caught my eye — a yellow road sign with the silhouette of a camel.
At first, we laughed. A camel? Out here? It felt like a joke. We were in the middle of Western Australia, surrounded by red dirt, saltbush, and nothingness for hundreds of kilometres. But this was no joke. That sign was real, and it hinted at a much deeper story than we ever imagined at the time.
The camels we were warned about weren’t from a zoo or circus. They were wild descendants of the very camels brought to Australia more than a century earlier by Afghan cameleers.
In the late 1800s and early 1900s, men from Afghanistan, British India (now Pakistan), and parts of the Middle East were brought to Australia for one crucial reason: camels. Horses couldn’t cope with the brutal inland heat, the vast deserts, or the endless stretches of dry country. But camels could — and these cameleers knew exactly how to handle them.
They played a vital role in opening up the Australian outback, transporting supplies to mining towns, remote stations, and railway construction camps — the lifelines of early inland Australia. Without them, much of the development beyond the coastal cities wouldn’t have been possible.
They didn’t just bring camels. They brought their culture, their traditions, and their faith. Many were Muslim and built some of Australia’s first mosques — in towns like Marree, Broken Hill, and Perth. Quietly, they left a legacy, even though they were often treated as outsiders.
When trucks and trains eventually replaced camel transport, many of these animals were set free. Over time, they adapted to the wild, and now Australia is home to the largest population of feral camels in the world. They wander through remote regions — including the Nullarbor, which is why those signs are there. Not to amuse passing tourists, but to remind us of a forgotten chapter in Australia’s history.
Back then, in 1977, we didn’t know any of this. We just saw a camel sign and cracked a few jokes to keep ourselves entertained on the endless drive. But now, looking back, I realise it was more than just a road sign — it was a symbol of resilience, migration, and the quiet, uncelebrated contributions of people who, like many of us, came from far away to help build something better in Australia.
Very soon, I will continue with my story of our journey from Melbourne to Perth which is 3500km, which is similar to travelling 3600km from Istanbul to Lisbon.
Eren Erdogan
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