"This isn't a car document," the customs official says, his forehead creased in suspicion.
All around is the chaos characteristic of a Mugabe-era Zimbabwe border crossing. Milling herds of hot, frustrated travelers, wailing babies, huge trucks destined for the Congo grinding gears and fuming, dodgy-looking foreign-exchange dealers ducking and weaving in and out with fistfuls of useless Zimbabwe dollars, papers strewn like confetti on the ground along with mashed banana peels . . . bedlam, purgatory, as the rusty cogs of a rotting bureaucracy slowly turn.
"This is a license to import light aircraft," the official continues.