Time to check out from Hotel Jasmines and say goodbye to the beautiful view of the valleys that had welcomed us the last couple of days. After breakfast, which I actually managed to eat properly this time since sleeping off much of my sickness, we met downstairs to get on the bus. Not before A awkwardly brought up the fact that we were meant to have paid the guide from yesterday - something none of us seemed aware of. Just another miscommunication between us and the guide. Not really impressed.
Next stop was Pinar del Rio, an area apparently known for its "slow people" according to our guide - although how much slower Central Americans could move was a source of intrigue for me. I had found some pesos hidden in my bag which I went to exchange, then we moved to see the cigar factory we had not had time to see on the first day. Everyone was pleased with the guide that he could fit this in still, all I could think was that it was likely his fault we missed it in the first place.
The cigar factory didn't allow photos, as it was one of the government ones which made the cigars us rich Westerners buy as luxuries, and it was all top secret. In actual fact, the muggy room the workers worked their long days had no air-conditioning (fans were brought at the expense of the workers), there was radio and an empty box where someone apparently sat at times to read stories to the workers, and a kind of organised chaos for the selection and stripping of leaves, rolling, testing, inspecting and all the bits in between. It was actually interesting. A got hit on by a worker, who was outrageously flirting and wouldn't let him leave without her number. He actually seemed embarrassed by the whole thing. The souvenir shop had air-conditioning. That annoyed me.
We also had time to go to a rum factory, another staple of Cuban society. Random locals out the front asked us for "sabon" I think, which I assumed was them offering us drugs or something, but I found out meant soap (??). Apparently it's something from a while back when they assumed all tourists gave the little soaps from hotels to the locals, along with pens and t-shirts and other random things they didn't want or value. I made a mental note to take soap out with me next time. The rum factory was small and so took little time to see. I wanted to buy some but I was starting to worry about money.
Then it was back to Havana to have a swanky lunch in town (this one was included, we made sure to check from now on), and a quick trip to an arts centre to see some local works. I bought a CD to help the kiddies of the project. All this made us late for the vintage car ride about town, so when we got to our meeting place, they'd already left to look for us at the restaurant. So we waited for their return, beggars slowly congregating outside the bus. In fact, one of the beggars was one of the only other rasta guys I saw in Havana. Awesome. Me and the homeless.
The cars arrived finally and we were whisked around the city, some of us in the soft-top (which was cool but an ugly metallic orange colour), some in the funky purple and white car that was playing old tunes like Elvis. We swapped between the cars as we stopped in various parts of the city, me loving the open air of the ugly car but worried that I was slowly burning to a crisp under the sun. But it was fun, so much fun!
In the afternoon, I tried the debit card another agent had given me after the last of my money-withdrawing facilities were stolen from me, but it didn't work. I was a bit anxious as this meant I would have to borrow off P, the New Zealander who lives in Australia. She was the only one I could have borrowed off, so I guess she felt obliged, but I hated having to rely on her. I searched for another ATM but none would accept the card. Geez, lucky I had the other currency spare!
I gave up and met a few of the others on the rooftop for an afternoon relax by the pool. With the original Bacardi building catching the last of the day's rays in the background, we looked over Havana in all its glory, music floating from rooftops restaurants of neighbouring hotels. This was the same hotel as before, so I enquired about my bikini at reception, just in case. Funnily enough, they actually had the bikini there (my bet is that the guide never even rang to check) and I was promised it would be at reception by dinnertime.
Dinnertime came but the bikini did not. I was promised it would be ready when I got back at the end of the night. We made our own plans for dinner this night, for once, and opted for Sloppy Joe's, a remnant of days gone by where Frank Sinatra used to dine and dance. There is a strange appreciation for America here, which I didn't expect. The Cubans seem to celebrate and remember their association with the superpower, while the Americans are the ones to hate on Cuba. This is said, of course, without little knowledge of all the shit that's passed between them throughout history. Just a casual observation.
There was hardly anyone at Sloppy Joe's so not much of a vibe to keep partying. We headed to La Floridita, famous as one of Ernest Hemmingway's haunts and for making the best daiquiris in in town. And drank a daiquiri. Claro. I was keen to perhaps check out somewhere else, see more of Havana, but no one else was so I retired to the hotel. Probably a good thing, since I hadn't completely shaken the sickness yet. I checked for my bikini, seeing the chambermaid on the way in texting someone outside the hotel, and was told it still wasn't there. Yeah, your staff are clearly too busy to handle it.
Next stop was Pinar del Rio, an area apparently known for its "slow people" according to our guide - although how much slower Central Americans could move was a source of intrigue for me. I had found some pesos hidden in my bag which I went to exchange, then we moved to see the cigar factory we had not had time to see on the first day. Everyone was pleased with the guide that he could fit this in still, all I could think was that it was likely his fault we missed it in the first place.
The cigar factory didn't allow photos, as it was one of the government ones which made the cigars us rich Westerners buy as luxuries, and it was all top secret. In actual fact, the muggy room the workers worked their long days had no air-conditioning (fans were brought at the expense of the workers), there was radio and an empty box where someone apparently sat at times to read stories to the workers, and a kind of organised chaos for the selection and stripping of leaves, rolling, testing, inspecting and all the bits in between. It was actually interesting. A got hit on by a worker, who was outrageously flirting and wouldn't let him leave without her number. He actually seemed embarrassed by the whole thing. The souvenir shop had air-conditioning. That annoyed me.
We also had time to go to a rum factory, another staple of Cuban society. Random locals out the front asked us for "sabon" I think, which I assumed was them offering us drugs or something, but I found out meant soap (??). Apparently it's something from a while back when they assumed all tourists gave the little soaps from hotels to the locals, along with pens and t-shirts and other random things they didn't want or value. I made a mental note to take soap out with me next time. The rum factory was small and so took little time to see. I wanted to buy some but I was starting to worry about money.
Then it was back to Havana to have a swanky lunch in town (this one was included, we made sure to check from now on), and a quick trip to an arts centre to see some local works. I bought a CD to help the kiddies of the project. All this made us late for the vintage car ride about town, so when we got to our meeting place, they'd already left to look for us at the restaurant. So we waited for their return, beggars slowly congregating outside the bus. In fact, one of the beggars was one of the only other rasta guys I saw in Havana. Awesome. Me and the homeless.
The cars arrived finally and we were whisked around the city, some of us in the soft-top (which was cool but an ugly metallic orange colour), some in the funky purple and white car that was playing old tunes like Elvis. We swapped between the cars as we stopped in various parts of the city, me loving the open air of the ugly car but worried that I was slowly burning to a crisp under the sun. But it was fun, so much fun!
In the afternoon, I tried the debit card another agent had given me after the last of my money-withdrawing facilities were stolen from me, but it didn't work. I was a bit anxious as this meant I would have to borrow off P, the New Zealander who lives in Australia. She was the only one I could have borrowed off, so I guess she felt obliged, but I hated having to rely on her. I searched for another ATM but none would accept the card. Geez, lucky I had the other currency spare!
I gave up and met a few of the others on the rooftop for an afternoon relax by the pool. With the original Bacardi building catching the last of the day's rays in the background, we looked over Havana in all its glory, music floating from rooftops restaurants of neighbouring hotels. This was the same hotel as before, so I enquired about my bikini at reception, just in case. Funnily enough, they actually had the bikini there (my bet is that the guide never even rang to check) and I was promised it would be at reception by dinnertime.
Dinnertime came but the bikini did not. I was promised it would be ready when I got back at the end of the night. We made our own plans for dinner this night, for once, and opted for Sloppy Joe's, a remnant of days gone by where Frank Sinatra used to dine and dance. There is a strange appreciation for America here, which I didn't expect. The Cubans seem to celebrate and remember their association with the superpower, while the Americans are the ones to hate on Cuba. This is said, of course, without little knowledge of all the shit that's passed between them throughout history. Just a casual observation.
There was hardly anyone at Sloppy Joe's so not much of a vibe to keep partying. We headed to La Floridita, famous as one of Ernest Hemmingway's haunts and for making the best daiquiris in in town. And drank a daiquiri. Claro. I was keen to perhaps check out somewhere else, see more of Havana, but no one else was so I retired to the hotel. Probably a good thing, since I hadn't completely shaken the sickness yet. I checked for my bikini, seeing the chambermaid on the way in texting someone outside the hotel, and was told it still wasn't there. Yeah, your staff are clearly too busy to handle it.
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