The streets are lined with small individual shops crammed full of electrical goods, cheap clothing, Chinese household accessories etc. Bags of coca leaves large enough to fill a phone booth are propped on the pavement to tempt your fancy. Both the Argentinian and Bolivian paperwork are straight forward until it comes to getting the bike into Bolivia. The customs officer just over the bridge, unable to deal with the situation himself directs us to the customs building in the town 3 and a half block and to the left. Here on the 1st floor of an office attached to a larger warehouse the problem bounces from one plain clothed official to another.
People come and go.
It is difficult to tell official from friend of official or public. The computers of Argentinian border officials are absent replaced by a tired typewriter placed on one corner of the aging desk. No one seems to have much to do but appear to be sufficiently experienced at doing nothing to give the impression of performing, or at least on the verge of performing some important task. After carefully placing carbon between each he begins to type, pausing occasionally to peruse our passports and the bikes registration document. At last with a flourish he gives it his signature, completing the final touch with a stamp and pad.