The experience of African bus is the most ethnically one can imagine. I pass my impressions on the spot, sitting in place of 53 (I was actually 44, but Choma must have messed up and I found myself wearing a lot bigger than me Mama with a basket from which came the head of a chicken a little 'concerned about his unusual situation and a ticket with the number 44, so ... the boss) of the Lusaka Livingstone is managed by "Mazhandu family bus. "The way I did as a true lady, with a Gran Turismo Mercedes: two seats here, two seats over there, blue velvet upholstery such as British Airways, headrest of cotton changed every trip.
We start at nine o'clock in the morning you arrive on time from Livingstone Switzerland six hours and a half later: this is the so-called travel business. And there because its nice. They give you the newspaper, a banana cake that you choke if there coca cola was a providential ice to bring down the whole. Air conditioning and little music in the background that Zambia becomes troublesome only around Mazabuka (but we're almost there) when inexplicably becomes a gospel-rock drums and keyboards that accompany praises to our Lord. On his return from Lusaka had booked the same run business of nine in the morning but, alas, the traffic jam of Lusaka has nothing to envy to the tangential east of Milan about eight o'clock in the morning, so I lost and I embarked on the pop of the 11 bus. Two seats over here, across three seats, upholstered in genuine plastic, excellent to dissolve cellulite, no newspapers, but a young preacher that rises pending departure and threatening catastrophic for humanity offers you a book that promises to save the 'soul from the fires of hell (I would say with little result, it has not sold even one copy). 
Served a biscuit filled with cream and a sprite amoeba hot at the right to kill it. I have a motion of joy as I find that 44 is one of two seats. Squeezed between two Zambian which I assure you they have a significant amount, would be hard to take and pass the seven hour trip. The inner smile becomes Munch's scream when I get the number 43. But some of you have read the intriguing novel by Stephen King "The Green Mile"? Or at least someone saw the film with Tom Hanks? Then you will remember Coffee "as the drink", the emperor Nero falsely accused of murder as big as a mountain with his hands as hammers 
. There he was before me coffee, which his system corpaccione, which says "Sorry" and raise the armrest between us, last bulwark against the invasion into my seat, and he slept like a log just lays his head. Coffee has a baby sleep, calm and relaxed, you leave, take me to her pillow, home blissfully Russian. I am still a lucky woman because it falls at the first Coffee and Mazabuka in place of salt bambinotto a dozen years with his mother who has the seat behind me. The teenager is big but nothing to do with Coffee. He, however, another disturbing problem: despite the 30 degrees inside (the bus did not pop the air conditioning) wearing a feather duster. Ideal for the Sella group, but definitely overestimated the Zambian winter. Without his say. No, even my own: you try to have him with a duvet in a sweaty boy asleep on your shoulder. 
I understand, however, this matter of bodies, sleeping expand and invade. Sleep, please God do not last long because it starts a doomsday music, soundtrack of the telenovela African television broadcast a tape from the board, of which up to that point I had not noticed the presence, whose episodes will take us up to Livingstone . Telenovela made in Nigeria to devote a special place: they deserve it. Be aware however that the fourth hour journey, the sun is going down the bush, the people of the bus is applaudento, whistling and screaming because her husband has finally shamed his wife that if it was done with his ( him) best friend: barrel blind one or the other. The hen to my former position 44 is unusually quiet .. she's dead? That surely is the battery is dying on my PC. Over and out 
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