The Threepenny Cheroot Club of Burma

 

The bow of our skiff split the blue, cloud speckled sky reflected in the clear water of Inle Lake.  From behind me, I could hear the roar of the Chinese diesel mounted on the long propeller shaft.  We were on our way to what sounded like a Burmese tourist trap.  "This morning we shall visit the cheroot making factory," our guide had announced.  

We drew into the jetty of a rattan and bamboo building on stilts sunk into the lakebed. Well, it was a bit of a tourist trap but one of the better sort.  It was more of a cheroot showroom with a demonstration.  Attractive young women sat rolling cheroots, not as the old men might have wished, on their thighs, but on tapered wooden rods.  Their children played around them and the women combined cheroot rolling and childcare with nonchalant ease.

The Burmese passion for cheroots was one of my reasons for visiting Myanmar in the first place.  I had memorised Kipling's "Road to Mandalay" and had a picture in my mind of his Burma Girl:

"An' I seed her first a-smokin' of a whackin' white cheroot,

An' a-wastin' Christian kisses on an 'eathen idol's foot:"

They probably do not get many smokers as visitors but I enjoy cigars occasionally and fellow tourist Richard turned out to be a serious cigar man.  They gave us tiny, aniseed-flavoured cheroots to try.  They were fragrant and mild.  They were fun to smoke.  My wife tried one too.  We bought a few and then a bamboo and lacquer humidor-full to delight our family at Christmas.

Richard and I soon discovered that in the markets, fat bundles of cheroots were for sale.  They varied from tiny ones, smaller than a cigarette to fat, black cigars.  They varied in colour from green, through brown to dark tar.  The amount demanded in Burmese currency was so small it took us some time to work out that a fine cheroot cost about threepence.

A couple of evenings later we were anchored in the Ayeyarwaddy off Mandalay.  It was a hot, humid evening and dinner was over.  Richard and I sat at the stern trying our selection of cheroots.  John, an expansively jovial New Zealander approached, drawn by the aromatic smoke.  He turned out to be another lover of cigars.  We offered him a smoke and he sat down with us.  And so the Threepenny Cheroot Club of Burma has formed.

John drew enthusiastically on a large but loosely packed stogie and was immediately enveloped in a shower of sparks — he yelped in pain; that will teach him to wear shorts.  He never really got the hang of Burmese cheroots and was to entertain us to a nightly conflagration.

Then it all got a bit competitive.  Every time we went ashore, the club members sought to out do each other in size or cheapness of their cheroots.  We had already found that a gas lighter cost 200 kyats (about 13 pence).  In Magwe, I found I could buy a lighter for half that.  The difference between a 100-kyat and a 200-kyat lighter is that the latter actually produces a flame.

Another companionable evening of shooting the breeze as our smoke drifted over the Ayeyarwaddy spurred us towards further cheroot buying adventures.  Ashore the next day, I found a white tipped yellow cheroot, or with its twist of leaves at one end, it might have been a firework. It was about a foot long and four set me back nearly two pounds.  That evening, I produced my corn leaf cheroots and John proudly presented a whackin' white cheroot.  But it was smaller than mine.  With some experimentation and difficulty, we got them to light.  This time we were both covered in a shower of burning leaf fragments.  After about three drags on what he now knew to be a corn leaf cheroot, John declared it unsmokeable and stubbed it out.  His problem was that he had bought twenty of the beasts.  I lasted a little longer and managed about half of mine: in flavour and sensation, it was like standing close too close to a bonfire.

John and I found that the remainder of our purchases made welcome additions to tips for horse and cart drivers.

From then on, our smoking habits were less bold.  I found a small green cheroot that tapered gently from mouth end to fire end.  The band simply called it "Special" and so it was.  More evenings of smoke and talking man rubbish followed until our last night on board.

That night, my wife joined us and we admitted female members immediately.  Fuelled it has to be said by a certain amount of claret and to universal admiration, she managed to smoke three of the aniseed cheroots.   John ended our last meeting by falling asleep with a cheroot still stuck in his mouth gently cascading fire down his front.  He looked so content; we had not the heart to wake him.  That is until his wife Dawn came up like thunder and told him it was time for bed.

Will the Threepenny Cheroot Club of Burma meet again?  Probably not but our memories still drift in the smoke over the Ayeyarwaddy to the sound of tinkling temple bells.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Hacienda la Cienega, Ecuador

 It is hard to keep your cigar alight in the thin Andean air.  There are however few nicer places to smoke a fine Ecuadorian Louis V cigar than the courtyard garden of the Hacienda La Ciénega. 

The summit of Cotapaxi had been glowing pink in the setting sun but night had come and I now had a view of the Southern Cross low in the sky; I was a degree of so south of the Equator.  To the north, the Plough pointed to where the Pole Star lay hidden below the horizon.

I had walked out into the courtyard to smoke my cigar.  One of my Ecuadorian companions offered me a proper light after my cheap wax matches failed to do the trick.  The Hacienda has 300 years of history.  Descendants of the Marquis of Maenza have owned it since the 17th century.  The address alone of this ancient house is enough to excite the traveller; it is simply Kilometre 326 Pan American Highway.

I kept walking the garden, drawing strongly on the cigar to keep it going.  There is not a lot of oxygen at 3,000 metres.  I felt I was in good company.  The German explorer Alexander von Humbolt had stayed here.  The Frenchman Charles de la Condamine had been here during his expedition to measure a degree of latitude at the Equator.  Ecuador's first president, Gabriel Garcia Moreno had been a visitor.  I felt that these men would, like me, have walked these pathways, maybe enjoying a cigar.

There was nowhere to sit.  The door of the hacienda's chapel was open and the interior lit.  I wondered whether to sit in a pew, after all, they burn incense.  I thought better of it and continued my stroll.  As I did so, I reached that special moment in a holiday that I always enjoy.  I had been keeping a travel journal as always.  It had been mostly a list of where I had been and what I had done.  As I walked, I began to form these mundane thoughts into the travel pieces I was going to write.  I had found my travel-writing muse in a hacienda garden.