Perhaps I should take pause and limn out the composition of our band of Bozos, our merry crew. I would not want to portray the false image of a horde of red nosed maniacs pouring from a tiny car to strike fear into the hearts of clown-phobic workers at Nicaraguan cigar factories. This would not be the truth, as we have a bus, not a tiny car. Red noses are, in fact, a misnomer as well, except perhaps after tonight's rum tasting, but I digress.
With the exception of yours truly there are not any real bozos on our bus. The Bozo-Bus actually transports the Brothers of the Leaf, the finest groups of friends a Bozo like myself could ever hope for, united in their love of camaraderie and the pleasures of a sassy spirit and a fine cigar. There are even Sisters of the leaf as four brave women have chosen to accompany their husbands on this junket. We count amongst our members a renowned pilot, a large handful of heavy-hitting IT Gurus, proud aerospace workers and an artisan craftsman of amazing skill. The bulk of our crew hails from the Seattle area, but we also count our staunch New York brother (he of the amazing Samuel Jackson quotes) and our moto-demon and MD brother from LA. There are even blood-related brothers on the bus, as our MD from the south is birth brother to The Great Bearded One of Burien, Clansman of the Scots.
More than one year ago, the seed of this trip pushed forth it's tiny sprout from the fertile soil of one of our many gatherings. He-Who-Can-Hover was waxing poetic about his past trip to Nicaragua and Honduras led by Colin Ganley, cigar tour leader, editor of Cigar Journal and currently our esteemed guide (Colin is also an Oxford Man, and while Oxford isn't Cambridge, it is still a darn fine educational institution).
Over fine cigars, the idea of a second trip coalesced. It would be a tour composed only of members of our group. The inherent benefit of this arrangement would be the lack of that awkward period at the beginning of any group tour when one realizes that there are strangers amongst the group who also happen to be assholes. This fate was to be avoided at all costs. Feverish planning ensued as we recruited fellow members with cajoling, pleading, insane promises and threats of violence. Admittedly the threats were usually issued by me.
There was the anxious early planning period where we fretted about making the minimum cut of eleven members. This was followed by the sudden tipping point where everyone wanted to go and, finally, the advent of the waiting list. One dearly missed brother did indeed have to pass on the trip and we wish he was here.
So now, to the present. It is the middle of the night here in Esteli, Nicaragua at the end of our second full day of our tour. I am trying to bring the blog up to date but, of course, have succeeded only in blathering. Where were we.....? Ah, yes, we left left our merry Bus as it headed out of Leon and began the climb into the northern mountains and to the town of Esteli, tobacco capitol of Nicaragua.
After climbing the scrub slopes, passing through small villages, we linked up with the Pan-American highway and headed North. The afternoon found us at the Oliva factory in Esteli, eager for our first actual tour. Honestly, this first factory was a blur for me, a cascade of sensory input, so much so that I did not take a single photo. The sights, sounds and smells of the factory are all piled on each other in my Bozo-brain. And everywhere there was tobacco, warehouse rooms with fermenting tobacco piled in pilones, huge piles that create heat as the sugar, water and other components of the leaves begin to break down. There were baling rooms and storage rooms, acrid with the smell of ammonia from the fermentation process. There were the sorting tables piled high with stacked leaves as women with skilled hands separated, de-veined and sorted the tobacco. From the lightest tan to the deepest chocolates, from tobacco as thin and pliant as skin to rough ligero, the leaves were everywhere. There was the sound of the rolling floor where the buncheros and rolleras turn stacks of leaves into beautiful cigars with swift, practiced movements of their hands. There are so many more things to note about the process, but it will have to wait.
Smells, sounds, textures, colours and sights surrounded us, matched by the steady flow of more and more imparted knowledge on the completely hands-on tasks of crafting a fine cigar. By the time we departed, I was exhausted, my feeble brain reeling. We took refuge in a shady old bar on a narrow street in the heart of Esteli's bustle, where a welcome agua minerale con gas soothed my tired head. Then it was off to our quiet hacienda of a hotel outside of town.
Another shared meal and another round of evening camaraderie was followed by a hysterically funny game of "Cards Against Humanity" which is a very much adult version of Apples-to-Apples. So our first day came to a close, and I to my bed.
With the exception of yours truly there are not any real bozos on our bus. The Bozo-Bus actually transports the Brothers of the Leaf, the finest groups of friends a Bozo like myself could ever hope for, united in their love of camaraderie and the pleasures of a sassy spirit and a fine cigar. There are even Sisters of the leaf as four brave women have chosen to accompany their husbands on this junket. We count amongst our members a renowned pilot, a large handful of heavy-hitting IT Gurus, proud aerospace workers and an artisan craftsman of amazing skill. The bulk of our crew hails from the Seattle area, but we also count our staunch New York brother (he of the amazing Samuel Jackson quotes) and our moto-demon and MD brother from LA. There are even blood-related brothers on the bus, as our MD from the south is birth brother to The Great Bearded One of Burien, Clansman of the Scots.
More than one year ago, the seed of this trip pushed forth it's tiny sprout from the fertile soil of one of our many gatherings. He-Who-Can-Hover was waxing poetic about his past trip to Nicaragua and Honduras led by Colin Ganley, cigar tour leader, editor of Cigar Journal and currently our esteemed guide (Colin is also an Oxford Man, and while Oxford isn't Cambridge, it is still a darn fine educational institution).
Over fine cigars, the idea of a second trip coalesced. It would be a tour composed only of members of our group. The inherent benefit of this arrangement would be the lack of that awkward period at the beginning of any group tour when one realizes that there are strangers amongst the group who also happen to be assholes. This fate was to be avoided at all costs. Feverish planning ensued as we recruited fellow members with cajoling, pleading, insane promises and threats of violence. Admittedly the threats were usually issued by me.
There was the anxious early planning period where we fretted about making the minimum cut of eleven members. This was followed by the sudden tipping point where everyone wanted to go and, finally, the advent of the waiting list. One dearly missed brother did indeed have to pass on the trip and we wish he was here.
So now, to the present. It is the middle of the night here in Esteli, Nicaragua at the end of our second full day of our tour. I am trying to bring the blog up to date but, of course, have succeeded only in blathering. Where were we.....? Ah, yes, we left left our merry Bus as it headed out of Leon and began the climb into the northern mountains and to the town of Esteli, tobacco capitol of Nicaragua.
After climbing the scrub slopes, passing through small villages, we linked up with the Pan-American highway and headed North. The afternoon found us at the Oliva factory in Esteli, eager for our first actual tour. Honestly, this first factory was a blur for me, a cascade of sensory input, so much so that I did not take a single photo. The sights, sounds and smells of the factory are all piled on each other in my Bozo-brain. And everywhere there was tobacco, warehouse rooms with fermenting tobacco piled in pilones, huge piles that create heat as the sugar, water and other components of the leaves begin to break down. There were baling rooms and storage rooms, acrid with the smell of ammonia from the fermentation process. There were the sorting tables piled high with stacked leaves as women with skilled hands separated, de-veined and sorted the tobacco. From the lightest tan to the deepest chocolates, from tobacco as thin and pliant as skin to rough ligero, the leaves were everywhere. There was the sound of the rolling floor where the buncheros and rolleras turn stacks of leaves into beautiful cigars with swift, practiced movements of their hands. There are so many more things to note about the process, but it will have to wait.
Smells, sounds, textures, colours and sights surrounded us, matched by the steady flow of more and more imparted knowledge on the completely hands-on tasks of crafting a fine cigar. By the time we departed, I was exhausted, my feeble brain reeling. We took refuge in a shady old bar on a narrow street in the heart of Esteli's bustle, where a welcome agua minerale con gas soothed my tired head. Then it was off to our quiet hacienda of a hotel outside of town.
Another shared meal and another round of evening camaraderie was followed by a hysterically funny game of "Cards Against Humanity" which is a very much adult version of Apples-to-Apples. So our first day came to a close, and I to my bed.
Inexplicably, the Cain Daytona 646 was more pleasurable than usual while reading this blog entry. Thanks for that, Marco.
ReplyDelete