LACHLAN MURDOCH catches a train from Senegal to Mali and learns what a great railway adventure is all about.

There is something alluring about long distance train travel. Countless travelogues have been dedicated to trains and there are even television documentaries featuring the Great Railway Journeys of the world. So, what is it about trains? Is it the mantric effect of their rattle and hum or the gentle cradle rocking motion that lulls travellers into a trance that produces thousands of stories?

Whatever it is about trains, I was about to find out, as the trip from Dakar in Senegal to Bamako in Mali is evidently one of the world’s great rail journeys.

Arriving at Dakar’s main railway station at the appointed time of 7.30 a.m. for the 10.00 a.m. departure, I dutifully joined the already long queue of travellers. There was something vaguely annoying about everything around me that had more to do with my sleep deprivation than waiting in line. The previous night a bug had decided to stowaway to Bamako by lodging itself in my left ear leaving me without sleep and as I stood in line it was squirming away just to remind me it was coming along for the ride.

The journey to Bamako is advertised as 30 hours, plus the time spent waiting anywhere en route including the point of departure. After two hours at the platform the train lurched off, just in time to bathe in the rays of the midday sun, only to come to a halt again almost immediately. Enclosed in a sealed cabin the heat was oppressive and the air conditioning in first class blew hot like a hair dryer, and then only when the train was in motion.

My travelling companions were three Malians and two Belgians. The Belgians, who had arrived the day before from chilly Brussels, were impossibly blonde with milk white skin - so much so, they appeared to have been dipped in a vat and left there far too long. The change in climate was visibly distressing them. No sooner had they put bottles of purified water to mouth than beads of sweat appeared on their brows and their shirts dampened. Although slightly better acclimatised, I too felt myself dripping as the humidity enveloped me as if wrapped in a giant hot hand towel like the ones you get after dinner in Chinese restaurants. The Malians too, were beginning to wilt. With each passing stationary minute we all slumped further and further into our seats - a transformation was taking place, we were all melting. Heat inspired hallucinogenic visions came to mind of the milk white westerners and dark brown Malians forming puddles on the floor and blending as the train rocked back and forth.

To be honest, the journey felt otherwise quite unremarkable. Stifling humidity persisted throughout and moments of interest such as our passage through looming mesa-like rock formations and stops at towns along the way were not frequent enough to provide sufficient distraction from the relentless heat. After some 42 hours on the tracks we pulled into Bamako at 4: 00 a.m. and the passengers scurried out of the terminal to their accommodations. So ended the world’s great railway endurance test.

Bamako sits astride the Niger River, hemmed in on one side by a perfectly flat topped low bluff crowned with a curious looking French castle – one of the city’s few architectural graces. Bamako gives the impression of a city that is really nothing more than an overgrown country town. Streets radiate out at impossible angles and, with the exception of heavily trafficked arterial roads, even the most important of Bamako’s thoroughfares are dirt - adding to the pall of Sahelian dust that hovers over town. The story goes that the streets were once paved until, in the universal tradition of bureaucratic incompetence, a former government decided to renew them, pulled up all the tar and then found there wasn’t the money for new bitumen.

For all its aesthetic shortcomings, Bamako has buzz. It’s a centre for West African musicians and rapid fire mbalax and down beat wassoulou groove echo around town as the city’s nightclubs throb to the rhythms of young musicians hoping to emulate the successes of Mali’s favourite son Salif Keita and daughter Oumou Sangare. Music is important to story telling in Malian culture and Malians are a musical people. It is not uncommon to be treated to a traditional song by a powerful female singer while sitting in any of the large lunch-time eateries that dot central Bamako.

From Bamako I would make my way up country for a few days on the tourist trail to Mopti and Djenne to witness impressive markets and marvel at the mud brick towns. The orange ochre mud brick mosque that dominates Djenne conjured visions of a massive turreted outback anthill set against the desert. However, the delights of travel are not always found in the sights and sounds that play on the senses but also in the experiences, good and bad, that befall travellers and as the time came to leave West Africa I was about to be visited by misfortune.

On returning to Bamako tiredness overtook me and sleep became irresistible. Our bus pulled into the station at 3.00 a.m. and passengers were invited to spend the night on board. As the only tubab (white person) I became the unwitting victim of a local thief. While fast asleep I was relieved of my money belt and the small day pack that was doubling as an uncomfortable pillow. On waking, I quickly came to the realisation that I was bereft of everything but my clothes.

In these circumstances one’s first inclination is to panic, immediately followed by a desperate desire to carry on as if nothing has happened. Fanciful ideas came to mind - I could just go straight to the airport sans passport, airline ticket, vaccination certificate and money and simply talk myself onto a plane. After a while, the seriousness of the situation dawned and I resigned myself to the task of replacing all that had been lost.

Without money I was left to throw myself at the mercy of locals - friends, strangers and acquaintances - most of who had little or no money themselves. The generosity was overwhelming. Complete strangers at airline desks offered me money to get to the next office. One friend, Amadou from the Dogon country, who had earlier removed that offending bug from my ear, took my predicament as a personal and cultural affront and was determined to leave me with an impression of Mali other than the theft. In traditional Dogon dress that included a hard conical shaped hat and a heavy woollen tunic-like over garment that made me sweat just looking at it, he smoothed what would surely be a rocky path back to Senegal.

The ensuing days were a constant round of visits to the police, the airlines, the embassies, the bank, the photographers and the travel agents. It was amazing what double-minded determination was able to achieve, as like dogs after a bone, one by one we replaced the stolen documents.

Not surprisingly the most complicated piece of the puzzle was to restore my "missing" identity. Day after day, Amadou and I beat a path to the Canadian Embassy. In francophone Mali, Canada’s embassy is populated exclusively by Quebecois and the unfortunately named Monsieur Cliché had drawn the short straw that found him with the job of aiding travellers in distress. After several days of confusion Monsieur Cliché made me an honorary Canadian and issued a temporary passport, just long enough to leave West Africa and return to London. Until this moment, I’d never felt particularly "Commonwealthian" and quietly expressed my gratitude for Quebec’s continuing presence in Canada and Australia’s in the Commonwealth.

With my identity restored I bid an emotional farewell to Amadou and boarded the plane to Dakar en route to Gambia and London. On arriving at Dakar’s airport, there was a hitch with the immigration police and I was taken into custody. Whether this was for reason of my nervous disposition, my dishevelled, driven look or just simply because the police took exception to an Australian travelling in the guise of a Canadian, I’m not sure. In any case, I was taken aside and informed that I would not be permitted to leave the airport until the following day.

Some of the Senegalese immigration police seemed to delight in the idea of a bedraggled westerner at their mercy and taunted me with the prospect of a night locked in the police station or, if by any chance, I had the money I could sleep in the airport hotel under guard. The hotel seemed more appealing and thankfully I had the money.

Three days and another temporary passport later, this time provided by the British, I packed my bags at the guesthouse and prepared to fly from Gambia via London to Sydney. A boatload of 700 Sierra Leonean refugees had survived a nightmarish escape to Gambia two days before and the guesthouse was full to overflowing. Sadly many of the refugees were without the necessary documents and had resigned themselves to months in limbo attempting to gain entry to any country that would accept them.

By contrast, my sense of relief was palpable as I scaled the stairs and boarded the plane later that day on my way home. We took off and within minutes the evening light brought the unmistakeable Mauritanian coastline into view. Oceans of golden Saharan sand abruptly met the dark blue oceans of the Atlantic as if someone had deliberately drawn the dividing line. While looking out the window I permitted myself the luxury of a smile about my traveller’s ordeal - it had been stressful but now was the source of amusement. I’d walked briefly in the shoes of the undocumented and got pushed around. Other people lived their lives undocumented

Lachlan Murdoch is the Deputy Director of STARTTS. He travelled to Senegal and Mali in 1999.