Goodbye Bolivia..."Don't Cry For Me Argentina?There was a time change at the Argentine border. I would lose an hour before I even got started.It turns out I lost more than an hour. The border was shut down for some sort of celebration. People were lined up forever.

I waited patiently. What choice did I have. Finally about 10:30 all of the singing and dancing was over and the Aduanas were back at it.

It was a fairly straight forward procedure except for two minor snags. Argentina now requires Insurance for a vehicle to enter. They asked for it. I produced it. It was a copy of my Insurance Certificate from home. They folded it and unfolded it, they turned it upside down and inside out. They had not seen one like that before, but they could not refute it. He asked his "heffe" if it was acceptable. His heffe asked someone else. Every time someone walked by, the certificate was presented for authentification. No solid conclusions were drawn. Meanwhile the paperwork progressed.

With the bike processed I crossed the street to get myself legalized. They did a good job. They checked to see if I had signed out of Bolivia. I had not. Somehow I had missed the Aduanas on the way to the border. I had checked the bike out but not myself. I walked back to correct that error. They had been waiting for me. When I entered the man said "Oh, you're the man with the moto. We have been expecting you." Stamp, STAMP and I was done...legally cancelled out of Bolivia.

When I returned to the Argentina Aduanas they continued with the paperwork. I talked with one of the free agents. We talked about all of the paperwork required...all of the forms...all of the time. What did it all mean? What happened with all of those logs? He had been to Cossovo as part of a Peace Keeping mission. "It is the same problem all over the world," he said. "But it has to be done. We have to keep track."

With my passport in hand, he followed me back to the bike. The Vehicle Aduanas guy was there too. One more time he asked about the insurance. I was asked to present the document yet again and show it to this other agent. He looked it over; read the front and the back. I reset the clock on the bike. I busied myself with nothing. Finally, he handed the certifcate back. "It is OK," he said. I was free to go.

What a difference a border makes. The mountains and the tortuous roads melted away into a broad agricultural valley with good pavement. Subsistence farming disappeared, replaced by large Estancias and modern farm machinery synonomous with that used in North America. The suspension replaced its normal staccato action with the slow undulating movement associated with smooth pavement. The RANA received her first drink of premium fuel in over a month. We all felt better for it.

Salta!! What a vibrant city. The people seem happy; contented even. There is a "je ne sais quoi" about their lifestyle...easy going...prosperous...a "joie de vivre" that comes with disposable income. Coffee shops and restaurants abounded, occupied with a steady ebb and flow of clientele. There was a relaxed feeling in the air...a "laisez faire" attitude. Life here was different. Gone was the hand to mouth existence so evident only a few hundred kilometers to the north; replaced with that "joy for life" which the Argentinians express so well.

The women dress expressively, not just covering their bodies but adorning them. They are proud of their figures and carry them well.

The tight jeans...the form fitting garments...the revealing blouses, the gently curled lips. All add to the package to complement the total.

A young lady walks by in skin tight jeans. I watch her moving down the street...through the crowd and then finally out of sight. Her tight buttocks undulating in a gentle, rythmic motion as they propel her forward. Only a thin layer of cotton separates the outer world from the inner. The eyes follow the movement...the gaze is arrested...the mind pre-occupied with the motion. In her wake lingers the sweet aroma of her passing.

..."Don't Cry For Me Argentina..."