On January 2 1958, I departed from Cape Town railway station to take up an appointment with the colonial government in what was then Zomba, Nyasaland.

The journey through South Africa and Bechuanaland to Rhodesia was largely uneventful. Rhodesian customs formalities were dealt with on the train at Plumtree and three hours later, we steamed into Bulawayo station. The journey had taken two days and four hours.

At Bulawayo station, travellers were well catered for. For the sum of two shillings, I was given a towel and a bar of soap for a hot bath in one of the matchboard-lined cubicles.

Clean and refreshed, I settled down to wait for the overnight train to Salisbury.

At Salisbury I discovered I had been booked through to Beira instead of via Dondo Junction in error. Fortunately, travelling on the train was a middle-aged American missionary, Miss Ruth Foote, who was returning to her mission station at Malamulo in Nyasaland. Her long experience in central Africa was to prove invaluable, as she was fluent in Chinyanja and other local languages.

That evening at Umtali, the border town, we disembarked while shunting took place and enjoyed refreshments at the alfresco restaurant on the station. For the overnight leg to Beira, we travelled in air-conditioned coaches of the Moçambique Railways.

At 6am the following morning, in oppressive humidity, we arrived at Dondo Junction. The "station" consisted of a few corrugated-iron sheds and numerous rail tracks in the sand. Here we said goodbye to those who climbed onto the diesel rail car to Nyasaland. Miss Foote and I were the only two passengers left on the train when it arrived in Beira an hour later.

There were no platforms at the Beira terminus of the CFM (Caminhos de Ferro de Moçambique). The rail tracks came to an end in thick sand and some sheds served as railway offices. Two "European" railway officials, immaculately dressed in white uniforms, "welcomed" us off the train. Miss Foote did the talking.

The bad news was that the next "European" train to Nyasaland would depart in three days' time. However, the "African Mail" would depart at 1pm that day. Despite protestations from the officials, Miss Foote insisted that she and I would be aboard when it left. And so we were, but not before we had trudged through thick sand into Beira town and bought a few essentials, including a jerry can to carry boiled drinking water for the journey.

The "African Mail" of the Trans-Zambezi Railways was entirely fourth class, except for one third-class compartmented carriage at the rear.

There were no latches or locks on the doors, or mosquito screens on the windows. There were only hard, wooden benches. It would prove to be a long, hot night.

In the caboose, the guard baked scrumptious loaves of bread in a wood-fired stove. Late into the night, he sold bread to passengers. A bonus for us was that hot water was available from the back boiler of the stove.

To my knowledge, Miss Foote and I were the only two white people among the many hundreds of Africans aboard, mostly migrant workers returning home. Throughout the night, more were picked up at every stop with their bundles and boxes and even the odd crate with live chickens. In the early hours in the crowded corridors, a fight erupted which was soon sorted out by Miss Foote. Undaunted, she forced her way through the mêlée to try to sort out the fracas. One passenger had been pushed off the moving train. The conductor said he would report the incident at the next stop. A lot of raw courage was wrapped up in that missionary bundle. There were no further unsavoury incidents.

Early the next morning, the train clattered over the great Dona Ana bridge across the Zambezi. It took two attempts, as sand had to be poured onto the tracks to facilitate grip for the steep incline into Dona Ana station. Late in the afternoon, the train wheezed into Limbe station.

The journey through five countries on five different railway systems had taken five days and two hours.