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As Anne's regaling us with her favorite Harare tourist and driving tips we find ourselves behind an omnibus, and as the bus approaches the intersection in front of us it comes to a stop at the light, which is red, forcing us to do the same. "Oh no," Anne says, "this isn't good." Too close to the bus' back bumper, with another car approaching us from behind, we can't easily navigate around it. So instead, we start scanning the nearby bushes, nervously waiting for the inevitable attack on our car. "This is not good at all, ya."

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When we land in Harare it's four in the afternoon on a hot, sunny Sunday - 40 hours since we've left Seattle. The airport looks well-worn and disheveled, with its immigration officers in a similar state of adornment: thread bare uniforms, name tags missing but for the pinholes left behind to mark their absence, epaulets hanging haphazardly, expressions drifting disinterestedly. Queued up to pay for our entry visa we wait. And wait. And wait some more. Welcome to Zim.

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