The intelligence officer who pulled us over on a main street in Mutare, a large city in eastern Zimbabwe near the border with Mozambique, had seen us filming.

He doesn't look happy and walks over with a bit of a swagger. No uniform, an unmarked car, and the look of someone who knows he's in charge and presumes we're in the wrong.

A few months ago, the encounter might not have ended well for us. Certainly, it would have meant a trip to the police station, even if we'd had that rare gem then that we have now — that little blue card that is official Zimbabwean press accreditation.

Uneasy allies: President Robert Mugabe and his prime minister and long-time opponent, Morgan Tsvangirai, at a swearing-in ceremony in February 2009. (Tsvangirayi Mukwazhi/Associated Press)

As the officer prepares to launch into his "you have no right to be here" speech, we show him our blue cards.

That stops him for a moment. But what really cools the temperature of the encounter is when our local driver explains that we are on our way to see the prime minister, Morgan Tsvangirai.

Now, the official doesn't know what to do. And this is the point where, from a visiting journalist's perspective, Zimbabwe's transition from Robert Mugabe's quasi-dictatorship to something approaching shared power feels the most profound.

Zimbabwe in transition

Previously, any mention of Tsvangirai would have been like tossing raw meat at a lion, an invitation for a central intelligence official like this one to get even angrier and more determined to haul us in.

President Mugabe has long had full control over the police, military and intelligence services in Zimbabwe.

But the now formalized power-sharing deal between him and his long-time opponent, Tsvangirai, means there is a bit of confusion these days about whose word matters most and who calls the shots on any given day.

Detaining journalists in Zimbabwe, accredited or not, still happens. But this officer seemed to decide it wasn't worth the trouble of making the wrong call on the wrong day.

The famous blue card, Zimbabwe's press accredition. (CBC)

He handed back the card, muttered something about "only checking because he had to" and left. So did we, moving on before he could have second thoughts.

Are we making too much of a little exchange? I don't think so.

A local journalist who has worked with us before says that a year ago, during the worst of the election violence when Mugabe's forces were kidnapping, beating and sometimes killing opposition activists, he and others would adorn their cars and homes with Mugabe posters.

They thought the election posters would serve as talismans to keep the marauding forces away.

The posters are long gone, now. If you look closely you will see that there are actually very few pictures of Mugabe on public display. And those who want to hang images of Tsvangirai seem to feel free enough to do just that.

Another sign of the times: people here also seem to feel somewhat freer about talking with strangers or among themselves. You no longer get the sense they are speaking in hushed tones and looking over their shoulders.

Losing Trust

For many, these subtle shifts on the surface of everyday life here are intoxicating. But when you listen to what people are saying when they do speak out, the excitement wanes.

In a grocery store that is actually stocked with goods for the first time in years, the security guard explains she can't afford to buy a thing on the shelves.

Zimbabwean tobacco farm Chipo Chisya waits, with her baby, on the first day of the tobacco selling season in Harare, May 7, 2009. Staggered by years of inflation and bad crops, Zimbabwe has appealed to the world for over $1 billion in aid. (Tsvangirayi Mukwazhi/Associated Press)

Her salary is only about $100 a month (payable in U.S. dollars), the amount a government trying to wrestle with rampant inflation has mandated for most Zimbabwean public sector workers and politicians.

The abandonment of the ludicrous Zimbabwean currency was hailed as a bold move by Tsvangirai and the new hard-currency salaries were initially celebrated. But they are not enough.

Prices for goods are out of reach even for the lucky few who actually have jobs. Teachers and civil servants are talking about going on strike if the salaries don't jump soon.

Outside Harare, in a suburb that is a Tsvangirai stronghold, there is growing and obvious frustration. There are still moats of raw sewage around many homes.

In a year when cholera killed thousands, the hope was that the basic infrastructure, the key to saving lives and preventing illness, would be fixed. But the new government just doesn't have the funds.

A woman named Trust told us she is losing patience with being told to be patient.

'The landmine period'

Will Zimbabwe unravel?

Political scientist Lovemore Muduku says he gives the new power-sharing government, formally struck in February after nearly a year of wrangling, six more months before the unravelling begins.

"Morgan is not supposed to be leading a very slow process. We've already done that," explains Muduku.

"Ten years of struggle with Mugabe, that's what we needed in terms of waiting. But once you announce progress, and say 'we're in this inclusive government and we want to improve your situation,' then the pace of change must be faster."

Muduku uses the word "dangerous" to describe this moment in Zimbabwe's history. And he's not the only one.

Prominent political figures who publicly heap praise on the unity government privately describe this as the "landmine period."

They argue that Mugabe hardliners are trying to sabotage the new unity government, delaying key changes and messing with the mandates of different ministries, while they try to regroup as a political force.

The confusion that this intelligence officer felt at the side of the road has echoes throughout the country.

It's either a moment of great opportunity, or it's the early stages of a great and ugly fight. There probably isn't that much time left before the whole world finds out which one it is.