The good thing about having a fully working and modern air-conditioning unit in the bedroom of our casa was the micro-climate it created. The bedroom could be a cool and calming zone, while even venturing into the en-suite bathroom meant you were faced with a not insignificant wall of heat. The bad thing was when the unit was right above your bed. This meant when I slept with the air-con on I had to press myself against the wall so that the cool air missed me as it was being blown out; regardless, I spent a lot of the night fumbling in the dark trying to turn the unit onto a lower setting which usually resulted in me turning it onto timer mode or switching it onto high-power.
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The bus had stopped at various places along the way, primarily to give the driver a break but it also let the passengers mill about in a half-dazed state. My main problem was that I was unsure as to whether the bus had a toilet or not or whether to brave getting off the bus and looking for a toilet in the rest stop. Finally plucking up enough courage, I wandered the length of the bus and found what could well have been a toilet, although in the half-light it could have been a luggage rack. Someone emerging from the formless box confirmed it was a toilet, but in my dopey state, I managed to stumble backwards and hit my head on the overhead storage shelf, much to the amusement of the young man who was trying to get past me.
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The morning routine ended up with Matt and I having breakfast in another, proto-kitchen located on the second floor which involved traversing a set of stairs and navigating around some barbarous looking corrugated sheets. The tradition of good coffee and unidentifiable jam continued accompanied by omelette and various fruits.
Alfredo and the mechanic from the previous day were already present when we finished breakfast, evidently ready to take us on our planned trip which today was to be Gran Piedre, a mountain 30 kilometres from Santiago.
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After a good nights sleep I woke up around 7am, showered and tidied the room before having breakfast. Our casa, like a lot of buildings within a Cuban city, is very vertical; while only two rooms wide, our casa was four stories high including the balcony and a cornucopia of side corridors and hidden rooms folding in on themselves. Our breakfast was on the first floor kitchen which housed an immense sink and cooker along with sturdy, tiled surfaces. Once breakfast was finished and Matt had showered, we were introduced to a man called Alfredo who looked like his skin had been spray-waxed directly onto his skeleton; angular without being dessicated. Alfredo spoke a wide variety of basic English and informed us that he could organise a trip outside of Santiago for us.
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My sleep was fractured at best, the air-conditioner sounded like it would tear itself apart while still managing to cool the room down; at times I woke and wondered if it was cool enough to turn it off or whether I could endure the cacophony for the sake of being at a comfortable temperature. Eventually rising at 7am I showered and was treated to another excellent cup of coffee accompanied by a breakfast of bread, Spanish sausage, an omelette, that same unidentifiable jam/preserve and some butter.
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