Real Time

Augusto, keeping watch over Managua International

Not Managua.  Not even close.

Dateline: Cold-as-a-Coven-Member's-Left-Mammary, Outer-Artic, Seattle, WA
(yeah, in the USA)

Now I am writing in real time. I do not have to remember which tense I was supposed to be using and whether or not I was going to try to trick you, the reader, into thinking that I was recording every word of this blog AS-IT-HAPPENED. Because, because Dear One, if you think that that is true, you would be deluding yourself.

Now I am writing in real time. I am surrounded by a melange of crappy space heaters, Alexi Murdoch is filling the space of the Playhouse with a slight melancholy, just enough, and my mind is roaming back over the week. Too soon, too soon for any sort of conclusion. So......

Yesterday was a travel day. Thou shalt render unto the Travel Gods that which belongs to the Travel Gods. We milled about the bus, a few of the menfolk helping Samir load the big bags on the roof of the B-B. We made our goodbyes to Colin, who would not be riding to Managua with us. And then we departed.

The Bozo-Bus drifted down the Pan-American highway, shedding altitude and gaining heat. The back-the-bus-Bozos (and you know who you are) engaged in a lively trade of filthy jokes and the composition of bizarre blues lyrics. The last cigars of the trip were smoked, the volcanic cones drew into sight, and then we were passing the shores of Lake Managua. All too soon the airport hove into view and there we were on the sidewalk, burping our lighters like mad scientists, stowing our cutters in checked bags, trying to elude the evil claws of the TSA. This proved to be marginally entertaining street theater for the Nico redcaps lounging nearby.

Now I am writing in real time. Even with the heaters going, its coldish in the Playhouse. I'm smoking a small cigar and sipping tea. I am not surrounded by the Nicaraguan landscape rolling by the Bozo-Bus, or the echoes of the tile courtyard at our favorite hotel, or the raucous laughter of Los Hermanos. Now I am writing in real time.....

Point by point. That is how I view flying travel days, point by point, with the in-between of waiting. I do not kill time, for I do not want to anger Tock. I wait.  Point: Check-in.  Point: Passport control. Point: Security. You see? A series of small obstacles. I feel like a salmon swimming upstream over small waterfalls.

We were settled at the gate, the point of departure for the first leg, the flight to Houston. Who voluntarily goes to Houston? Isn't that like volunteering for Transportation, that most innocuous name that the English gave to the transshipment of convicts and undesirables. Yes, well, the joys of Texas will be the sport of another blog.

What one does not want to hear, unless one is on standby or waiting for an upgrade, is that scratchy gate intercom voice calling out one's name. "Will passenger......" No, No!! Let it not be me!! And son-of-a-bitch, it was me!

Three gringos called to the gate. Nicaraguan "TSA" cannot open anyone's bag unless that person is present. A fairly civilized regulation, that. We three had bags that required attention and our presence. Armed with out passports, we followed our leader out of the gate area, out of security (!), out of Passport control (!!) and into the concourse. We were disarmed of our passports at Immigration. As we passed that last point, we were now on foreign soil without that one most precious document. Danger Young Will Robinson!!

Traversing the entire concourse, we disappeared through one of those sets of doors that only minions are allowed to pass. The way is kept by the minions, the way is shut. Yet here we were, delving deeper into the bowels of the Managua airport until we came to a dead-end hallway. There, at this last point, was a sliding plexiglass window which looking into a small room containing a plain wooden table and a door, slightly ajar, that opened onto the briefest view of the baggage conveyor, the true entrails of an operational airport.

Over the window there was a big red button which, when pressed, caused an alarm bell to ring in the clanking beyond of the baggage area. After repeated ringings, another minion appeared, along with the bags of the tres' gringos. In a respectful fashion so unlike that of the TSA, our Nicaraguan baggage Jefe established that:

1) El Gringo Doctore had a lead x-ray shield in his bag and, as a volunteer on a humanitarian mission, was not a bad person. Passe, por favor.

2) El Gringo Dentisto had nothing in his bag that was of interest. Desculpe. Passe, por favor.

3) El Gringo de la Bozo had two puro lighters in his bag and was still functioning as the sacrificial lamb for Los Hermanos. After demonstrating that the lighters were, indeed, completely empty, la Bozo was allowed to both keep his lighters and passe, por favor.

We returned, point-by-point. Passports in hand (yay!) we were treated to a second security check and, finally, returned to our gate. Welcomed back, I was regaled with members of Los Hermanos showing me the various lighters, cutters, etc, that they had passed though security with. It is amazing the power that I unknowingly wield, power that can fend off the attention of the authorities by focusing said authority upon myself. Woo-Hoo, lucky me. Next time its someone else's turn. Given the result, the whole thing had turned into sort of a lark anyway, serving to help the time go by in a most interesting way.

Now I am writing in real time. My fingers are a little cold. No one is here to laugh with me. Even if I think up some other clever probing question about Collin's secret cigar blend, he isn't around to deflect it in an even more clever fashion.

Flying to Houston. We had the same flight attendant crew that worked the flight down. De-planing, one of our crew asked me if I wanted to fly back to Managua with them. I told them how mean they were, just down-right mean. Standing in the interminable Immigration and Customs line. Waiting in Houston, eating a salad (!), stretching aching muscles. Flying to Seattle, drifting in and out, bouncing in the turbulence. And then we were there, walking through a midnight airport, the purgatory of the damned and stranded. And then, and then, the Sundering of the Bozos and into the snow. But sundered only for a while and not really.

Now I am writing in real time. "I dreamed I stood beneath an orange sky, with my Brother standing by...." Alexi is singing. I am writing and smoking and trying to stay warm. I am resplendent in solitude, and yet also with the knowledge of the bonds of friendships strengthened, ties reforged, a mutual journey concluded and blessed memories. Yet more: new friendships begun and to be continued, horizons broadened as the world grows ever smaller, more strange places become familiar.

Now I am writing in real time. I want to dedicate this blog to everyone who had a hand in this journey. Thank you, one and all. Hearty thanks to the group, to Colin and Andrea and Samir, and to each of the people in Nicaragua who so generously shared their time and knowledge and smiles with us. I specifically want to dedicate this post to my very dear friend Mark Hansen, who called me this morning specifically to tell me how much he enjoyed these posts. That kind of encouragement is the fuel that keeps me going, hack that I am.

There will be a bit more to come on the subject of Nicaragua. In my attempts to chronicle events, I have had almost no time to reflect on what I learned on this journey. The blog is not at an end, not yet. But now I am writing in real time.

Drew Images

The Drew Estates factory floor.  It is impressive.

More impressive, the small floor where the Liga Privada, or Private Blend, is rolled.  This rollera is putting the wrapper on a Feral Pig, complete with pig tail.  We told her that she was a rock star.  Big Smiles.

The art studio were is image is turned to icon.

And here are the icons, marketing on tobacco leaves.

Its a Drew Sort of Day

If I have to choose the most important step of the curing process, I would say its fermentation.

Each of these pilones, or fermenting piles, is worth up to a quarter million dollars according to the Drew Posse.

Sure, the Rev was here.

Bad Boys

Samir & Rotors in confab

Drew Estate gets down with the brand image. 

Dirty Rat...... Get it.

But they do make a fine cigar from fine tobacco

Dateline: Friday, Esteli

On this last day of touring, we were headed to Drew Estate, the punk-rock bad boys of the cigars world. That is the image that is portrayed by almost all of the Drew Estate products. So it was up for modern cube Hotel Hex breakfast, a forgettable meal as always. At least the juego frescas are always great. And, as always, Samir and our renowned former pilot were camped on the curb, deep in confab.

Drew is the story of small business guys from Brooklyn with a struggling cigar company, trying to stay afloat. They hit upon the idea of "infused cigars" with names like Acid and Blondie. Here's a tip, if you call their cigars "flavoured," the Drew guys will run around waving their hands in the air and shrieking. Its fun.

In their defense, Drew also produces a fine line of what they call traditional cigars. This means not flavoured. (Aieee! Aieee!!). With colourful names like Dirty Rat and Feral Pig, they are still sort of silly, but they are damn good smokes.

The factory is huge, modern and slick. It is decorated in a neo-colonial style which is a bizarre contrast to the carefully crafted rattle-can murals. Again, it's all image. The flavoured cigars that Drew produces are some of the top selling cigars in the USA. The company doesn't give two hoots what a bunch of purists think. The telling fact was this: at the cigar buffet, they literally could not give away the flavoured sticks, while the traditional puros were snatched up like Coach bags on a suburban clearance rack.

The Drew Estate tour is a lesson in talking points and branding. Even the careful choice in tour leaders was telling. Our guy Pedro (he would say Main Man) was a slick talking Nicaraguan guy, young and brash, who used just enough profanity to make us all feel a little more streetwise. One of the Drew gang, you here what I'm saying? One the plus side, the factory is immense and interesting. The buncheros and rolleras were friendly. In a nod towards modern times, this was the only factory where I saw forklifts and pallet jacks.

Our merry group had been to different factories, farms and shops. This was not the case with the Drew Estate Cigar Safari group that we were paired with. Drew brings groups down from the USA, usually in conjunction with a particular cigar shop. The tour is given access only to Drew facilities and they stay at the Drew compound attached to the factory. Our two groups did not mix all that well, although everything was civil. I guess we weren't bad-boy enough, which is hysterical because the average age of these cats was probably 55 or so and they were from Oklahoma. I suspect that their first use for a rattle can would be touching up the paint on the lawn mower, not tagging a wall. Banksey they ain't. OK, enough cattiness. Well, one more: think "Indoctrination."

Regardless of motivation, everything at the Drew Compound was top notch and they were very generous with the cigar buffet. We shared lunch with the Safari boys and continued on the tour. I could have spent the rest of the day on the compound's terrace overlooking the Esteli hills and the river below.

At two PM we were rescued from the Drew tour, heading for the bus which would whisk us to the Padron factory, hallowed ground. And then...... poor Colin had to tell us that Padron had fallen through again. Last day, last chance, it just wasn't in the cards. I had watched Collin making dogged effort on the phone most of the week, and not without some stress. It was made more difficult, I'm sure, by our stories of how the Padron visit had been the spark that lit the conflagration of our tour.

Resilient, Colin managed to adapt, improvise and overcome. Some quick calls later and we were on our way to visit the small, exclusive, and very traditional Rocky Patel "factory." Tucked in a shoebox of a building in the center of Esteli, the traditional methods of cigar rolling are alive and well here. Highly rated puros are bunched on flat rolling plates as opposed to the hand cranked machines used in other factories. The rolleras finish the cigar with a triple cap, a time-honoured Cuban method. This unadorned gem of a facility was a look back into the past.

For me, the point-counterpoint of the Drew factory and the Rocky Patel factory was illuminating. I think the Padron tour, had it happened, would have had the same effect. While change is inevitable and traditions exist to be rebelled against, corporately cultivated rebellion is just another form of bait in the trap of consumerism. The quiet quality of a finely crafted product, without need of flash, is a reassurance to me. Sure, Rocky wants me to buy his cigars, fair enough, but the sticks don't come packaged with a pseudo lifestyle image, thank Dog.

As an aside, Rocky was at the Hex when we checked in, greeting our group, shaking hands, etc. We all recognized him of course, with the exception of our Doc. He thought Mr. Patel was a hotel employee fishing for a tip, so the Doc just sidled on by.

After a pit-stop at the Hex, it as back to the House That Drew Built for a tour of the art studio and then the rock star treatment in the compound. Don't misunderstand me, I dug the rock star deal. Drinks, a cigar buffet, a beautiful terrace and people chatting you up. It's just, well, a little out of my comfort zone. That aside, dinner was great, sans vege, and I was fortunate to win a "longest ash" contest. Smoke a cigar, don't drop the ash, longest one wins. Simple, no? For my troubles I was rewarded with a very special box of five puros from Colin's private humidor, an honour indeed.

The evening waned and so did we. Cribbage was played, houses designed, and laughter shared. The groups had drifted into their respective orbits, so everything felt normal again. It was a fine evening.

Back at the Hex, there was one more game of cribbage on the terrace, the. Yawns and goodnights. Our time done, the next morning would be packing for Managua and the flight home.

I want to extend my profound thanks to Colin and Andrea of Cigar Tourism for all of their hard work, and also to our great driver, Samir. I also want to remind Colin that Cuba is waiting and we are ready!!!!!!

Tomorrow: Managua and travel silliness. More blog posts to come ( sorry )

Royalty

Party in the Great Room

...and More partying.   

My Man! Getting down with the grill.

Thursday evening we boarded the bus for the short but bumpy ride to "Hialeah," the enclave of mansions in which dwell the king pins of the Esteli cigar society.

We were being feted at the AJ Fernandez factory mansion and guesthouse complex. The gate guard, whose not much taller than his scatter gun, granted us access.

Passing from the dusty rutted backstreets of Managua into the perfectly manicured grounds was like transcending a magic barrier. We were inside! It was as if we really had set foot in Miami.

The mansion, the pool, the grounds, everything seemed brand new. There were a few hints of the unfinished, a stray bit of wiring protruding from the wall without a light fixture, but just hints. The place was surreal, with huge spaces, tiled floors, stone walls and glass. Sound moved of its own accord in this space, flying away to bounce into someone else's conversation.

We were treated like royalty from start to finish. Our guide, Ricky (Enrique) hosted us, as well as Christo, AJ's business partner. Other AJ folks and friends joined the groups that formed and parted in the great room. It was fantastic!

Dinner was a complete Nicaraguan feast, with our jolly BBQ maestro ignoring the vege. Do NOT come to Nico expecting to be a vegetarian.

The evening went late, the cigars burned down, the the bar grew less weighted. Finally, after long goodbyes, we brought our royal selves out to the bus and bounced home through the darkness.

It's good to be King.

AJ Fernandez Farm Vignettes

Tobacco seedlings receiving loving care in the greenhouses.

Getting hands on with one of the seedlings.

Maturing tobacco in the fields.  Each of these plants will have three primings, or cutting.  Seco leaves come from the bottom third, viso leaves from the middle and ligero from the very top.  There is at least a week between cutting to allow the plant to recover from the shock.  Each priming has different characteristics.  Seco, the bottom leaves, gets less sunlight and so it is thinner than the upper leaves.  It provides combustion.  The viso leaves provide flavour and the ligero provided strength.

The drying barns with treasure hanging from the overhead poles.

A happy tourist.

Looking up towards the roof of the barn.  Layer upon layer of tobacco leaves being carefully air-dried.

AJ Fernandez

The gleaming facade of the A.J. Fernandez factory.  But I guess you figured that out already.

Ricky (Enrique) the Production Manager, guiding us through the sorting floor.

Rebuilding a pilone during the fermenting process.  Each pilone has to be turned from bottom to top and inside to out each time the interior temperature reaches between 120 and 135 degrees, depending on the type of tobacco.  Lots and lots of work and all of it done, very carefully, by hand.

The Man himself.  A.J. Fernandez with The Ray-Man.

Nirvana:  The Fernandez aging room.  From here, the cigars go for final packaging.

Dateline: Thursday, Esteli, Nicaragua

And now, back to the cigar tour!

Today was all about A.J. Fernandez, the rock star whiz kid of the Nicaraguan cigar world. Lovingly referred to as the "Rain Man of Cigars," AJ grew up in San Luis, Cuba, one of the most esteemed cigar regions in Cuba, mentored by Alejandro Robaina, one of Cuba's most famous tobacco growers. His grandfather founded San Lotano cigars in Cuba He ended up in Esteli, turning out cigars with a pair of rollers and a tiny garage for a factory.

When he was 26 years old and rolling cigars for other makers, he met his now business partner. Together they went on to build one of the most important cigar factories in the world. It is an amazing place, a vertical company from farms to final product, with AJ flitting around the country checking on every detail. Everyone we talked to said that AJ is happiest driving a tractor around on one of the farms, which are scattered across four regions of Nicaragua.

We arrived at the factory and were treated to a splendid welcome. The factory is a gleaming structure, and the guesthouse compound is truly amazing, the uber man-cave by which everything else has to be measured. This would be where we would be treated like royalty for dinner, but first the factory and farms.

The steps are the same as other factories: tobacco fermenting, drying, aging, sorting, blending and rolling. Our first big surprise was meeting The Man on the factory floor. He greeted all of us and we tried not to be too star-struck. I also met his uncle, Rafael. I asked Rafael if he was managing the rolling floor. He said "No, I manage AJ." It seems as if AJ runs around like a little kid, constantly enthralled with the entire process and always thinking up new things to try. Other folks run around after AJ and try to keep him attached to the planet.

After making our rounds through the factory, we headed out into the fields. Everything starts here, growing a finicky plant that requires almost constant care to become anything even remotely useful to the purpose of making a cigar. There were seedling greenhouses, the fields themselves, and the wonderful drying barns.

Walking into a tobacco drying barn is like walking into olfactory bliss tempered with filtered light. The dim barns are filled with pairs of tobacco leaves hanging down from horizontal poles. The entire barn is a framework for supporting these poles and the result is an overhead forest of leaves dangling straight down, from four feet above the earthen floor all the way to the ceiling almost thirty feet above. The verdant aroma is something to be experienced. Reaching up to touch one of the leaves is like running velvet through your fingers. The bright sunlight outside the barn doors is muted with coarse fabric. The resulting dim light turns the inside of the barn into a fairyland of muted greens and yellows that disappear into the upside down forest just above ones head, It is magical. The tobacco leaves are carefully monitored and rotated in the barn, top to bottom, inside to out, as the drying process continues. When the leaves are ready, they head to the factory for processing.

We headed to another farm, almost crippling the Bozo-bus with a rock lodged between the dual rear tires. Luckily for us, no rock is a match for Samir and a steel bar. After the brief unscheduled stop we continued on our way back towards town and lunch.

Another huge meal later, we traipsed back to the bus, only to be treated by Colin's glum face announcing that the Padron Factory tour had fallen through. Padron is special to all of us and Colin knew that we really wanted to go, but the Padrons will not schedule in advance. Despite having set up the time and made all of the arrangements, some issue had caused our Padron person to have to be out at the fields and so no tour. We now had several hours of free time before heading back to the AJ Fernandez mansion for our dinner. While this was hard for some of us, I used the opportunity for a much-needed walk-about and did not begrudge the schedule change.

In the weirdness of blog time-travel, I have already posted about the walk-about. Thus ended our fantastic day of cigar touring. I had no idea of what an evening the dinner was going to turn out to be.