I read somewhere that this was a somewhat charming post-colonial town, and though charming would not be the first word I would use to describe it, Bulawayo has character. It is just over the border from Botswana, but it wasn’t easy getting there – I had to spend a day and a half in a Botswana jail first, in solitary confinement. Leaving Botswana in my rental car, I presented a special form that the agency gave me to use at border crossings. This was the only crossing where anyone gave it a second glance, but the Botswana police were not impressed and decided to investigate, checking serial numbers on the car, which they claimed did not match my papers (they did) and calling the South African police, who they claimed said my license plate number “did not exist.” I was cuffed and driven 45 minutes away to a jail. When the guards opened the solid steel door and I asked why I’d be in a dark solitary cell, furniture consisting of a urine soaked blanket on the floor and a disgusting toilet, they assured me that this was much better than being with “the animals” in the communal cell. My questions about a phone call or lawyer were met with shrugs. The guards were all extremely friendly but I felt like an animal in a zoo myself – different guards kept opening the door to have a peek at the American. This was a small town, far off the tourist trail. The next day I was called into the office of the police captain, where he sat behind a massive oak desk, flanked by half a dozen lieutenants (these were not busy civil servants; this jail had a guard-to-prisoner ratio of about ten to one). He informed me that they had followed my suggestion, albeit a day and a half later, of calling the car rental agency to verify ownership of the car. Before leaving jail, the captain asked me to fill out a customer satisfaction form and drop it in the wooden box.