It is 2 p.m. on a cloudless, Friday afternoon. Windhoek's colonial-era station simmers sleepily in the hot sun of Namibia, southwest Africa.

A platform cleaner, broom forgotten, dozes by the cafe door. The cafe is closed. Indeed, the cafe shows no sign that it has ever been open. The only things moving are the slow hands of the station clock and a chameleon arthritically crossing the shimmering tracks.

Then there it is, in the distance -- a mournful, foghorn honk. It's coming! The Desert Express!