Ideas - Puro Cubano: The Meaning of Tobacco in Cuba

Episode Date: May 20, 2024

For many people around the world, Cuban cigars are a luxury. But for Cubans, they’ve symbolized the country’s rich history and culture. Now as an economic crisis is gripping the country and people are leaving, the cigar is a bellwether of Cuba's uncertain future. *This episode originally aired on Feb. 5, 2024.

Hey there, I'm Kathleen Goltar and I have a confession to make. I am a true crime fanatic. I devour books and films and most of all true crime podcasts. But sometimes I just want to know more. I want to go deeper. And that's where my podcast Crime Story comes in. Every week I go behind the scenes with the creators of the best in true crime. I chat with the host of Scamanda, Teacher's Pet, Bone Valley, the list goes on. For the insider scoop, find Crime Story in your podcast app. This is a CBC Podcast. Welcome to Ideas. I'm Nala Ayyad. The patio of the Hotel Nacional de Cuba, built in the 1930s, in a style of art deco meets Moorish architecture. Palm trees frame a beautiful view of the Caribbean,

and around the courtyard are large, luxurious wicker couches where you can enjoy a mojito and a cigar. It's like being immersed in a scene from an old movie, a snapshot of Havana in a sort of cloud of nostalgia. A snapshot that stands in stark contrast to what's happening in the rest of the country. An economic crisis is gripping the country, the worst since the revolution in 1959. There are severe shortages of food, medicine, fuel and electricity. And more people have left the country in the last year than in the 80s and 90s combined. A portal to understanding what is happening in Cuba is a product synonymous with the country, as well as its biggest export, the Cuban cigar.

Smoking a cigar in most public places these days means a lot of dirty looks. Not here. means a lot of dirty looks. Not here. The Hotel Nacional is one of my favourite places in the world to smoke a cigar because it feels like a cultural activity. But as I sit here watching a wedding party being photographed on the lawn behind the hotel, I know that none of this represents what Cuba is today. And most importantly, this scene will tell me nothing about the cigar in my hand that's slowly turning to ashes.

Pedro Mendez has been smoking Cuban cigars for two decades, and he's in Havana to trace the cigar's path from seed to roller to discover what tobacco means to Cuba and its future. I'm heading to the opposite end of the city and the Melia Habana Hotel in the posh suburb of Miramar. Most major hotels with cigar shops also have their own rollers, folks who demonstrate how Cuban cigars are made right in the store. Most of these rollers are retired tobacco workers who are considered some of the best cigar makers in the country.

First, ask your name. My name is Arnaldo O'Valles Brignone. My name is Arnaldo Ovalles Brinones. Arnaldo Osvales Brinones is six feet tall, with a shaved head, about 60, and a huge warm smile when I tell him I've come to Cuba to find out what tobacco is all about. He's the house roller at the Melia Habana, and Arnaldo's story is one of a life spent with tobacco. So what jobs have you had in the tobacco industry?

Arnaldo's resume is more impressive than I could have imagined. Soon after learning to be an expert cigar roller at the Romeo and Julieta factory, he started to teach how to be a roller and eventually oversaw the entire rolling department. He continued to rise up the ranks until his really big career move. Arnaldo was appointed director of production at the El Leguito factory, the place that makes Cohiba cigars, perhaps the most prestigious and sought-after cigar brand in the world. He eventually moved to a management position before retiring this year and rolling part-time at the hotel. Everything I have, I owe to tobacco. I've been able to meet people from all over the world, from so many cultures. Tobacco is a great socializer. If you want to make new friends and build new relationships,

just light a cigar. It's a great pleasure after I've made a cigar to see a client spend time with it and enjoy it. It's a huge satisfaction for me. Are cigars something spiritual for you? I would say yes. Tobacco plays a spiritual part in the lives of people, not only in Cuba, but all around the world. We have a mixed culture here in Cuba, from the indigenous people and from the Africans who were brought here. And that mixture of cultures is really represented in our religious rituals,

where tobacco is always present. I think the first thing that needs to be said that differentiates Cuban tobacco are the qualities of the leaf itself. Then there's the characteristics of the soil and the climate here in Cuba. And of course, the knowledge and experience of the farmers and the rollers. All of that is what makes our cigars different from any others in the world. Tobacco has its own culture here in Cuba, but also it's a very important part of Cuban culture in general. You see, this work of growing tobacco has been done here for

generations and generations, for so many years. It's very difficult to find in a cigar factory or tobacco farm someone who doesn't have tobacco in their families. Which is why we say that tobacco is something that is passed on from generation to generation. As I've long come to understand, the historical significance of tobacco in Cuba is undeniable. I've just arrived for an appointment at a little cigar bar on a busy street in central Havana. Ok, the first thing, just to say your name. Well, my name is Zoe Nosedo Primo. Zoe Nosedo Primo was the director of Havana's Tobacco Museum for over 20 years. I don't know anyone in Cuba more versed in tobacco's history and significance.

I start by asking her how the history of tobacco relates to the history of Cuba. how the history of tobacco relates to the history of Cuba. After centuries of colonial occupation, wars, economic deprivation, government mismanagement, it seems to me to be a history of suffering. Well, let's get this straight. The history of Cuba is not a history of suffering. The history of Cuba is a history of resistance. Since the art, handicraft, wonderful concerts, scientists and writers. Speaking historically, that is all a part of our social evolution. And tobacco is part of that.

If you consider music, you find songs dedicated to tobacco. If you consider handicraft or visual arts, there is a lot of work by our artists dedicated to tobacco. And so it goes in many forms. Why? Because tobacco has always been the main, initial, oldest symbol of our culture. I'm asking Zoe here, why tobacco and not corn or sugar or something else that Cuba grows? or sugar or something else that Cuba grows? Because tobacco was what the indigenous Arawaks used, not only from a physical point of view as a stimulant and as part of their agricultural activities like fishing and everything they did, but tobacco was also used in religious rituals.

Basically, tobacco was part of the life of that community from the beginning. And tobacco had wider uses. It scared away evil spirits. It was used in medical procedures. It was used for women in labor. It was used for many reasons in the community. And then tobacco became a commodity. And then tobacco became a commodity.

And by becoming a commodity, because the colonizers discovered that tobacco could fill the coffers of Spain, tobacco had a whole evolutionary path in development that reaches to the cigar factories of today. And along with the history and evolution of that economy and tobacco itself, we see the evolution of groups of people that participated in its production. And tobacco farmers themselves, known in Cuba as vigueros, are, of course, key to production.

And over the centuries, they've had to rally together to defend their rights. For example, in 1717, after years of some autonomy and prosperity, a Spanish royal monopoly was imposed on Cuban tobacco. Tobacco farmers could no longer sell to whomever they wished. If they did, they faced the death penalty. And that set off the first of three uprisings that exist in the Americas.

The farmers rallied together against the Spanish in what would become three major revolts in 1717, 1721 and 1723. These uprisings included the violent ousting of the Spanish governor in 1717. The next violent revolt, though, in 1721, was met with force. Tobacco farmers were shot, and then their bodies hung from trees along the main boulevards of major towns as a warning. But in 1723, with yet another farmer-led revolt, the Spanish crown temporarily suspended the monopoly. During this period, and for the next hundred years or so,

tobacco was mostly used by settlers and Europeans as snuff or for chewing. If it was rolled into cigars, it was done in Europe. But in the early 1800s, the Spanish monopoly on cigars and tobacco was finally abolished. Cubans could now legally make and sell their own cigars. The Habano was born, with cigars being rolled in their eponymous city. And they weren't rolled with just any Cuban tobacco, but tobacco from a specific place. We're talking about the Vuelta a Bajo region

in the province of Pinar del Rio that emerged with a product unmatched by tobacco that came from other regions. Even though export Cuban cigars used to be called Havana cigars, they were only rolled here. To understand all the other work that goes into making a cigar, starting with the seed and the farmer,

I head to the Vuelta a Bajo region in Pinar del Rio, and specifically the village of San Juan y Martinez, in the west of the island, where the finest tobacco is grown. I take a shared taxi with a few other Cubans. Sorry, it's not a cool Chevy from the 40s, but a Peugeot from the 90s that's seen better days. The windows are rolled down for the entire two-hour drive, either because the air conditioning is broken or it costs too much to run it. Every time we pass a gas station, there are massive lineups that stretch on for blocks. Every 30 minutes or so, we pass a punto de control, a police checkpoint. A police checkpoint. I've been coming to Cuba for almost 20 years, and from my experience,

usually these checkpoints are staffed by a single, sleepy policeman watching the cars go by. But not now. The highway is blocked, forcing cars to slow to a crawl as they pass the three or four officers on duty. At every checkpoint, I see at least one driver being questioned. Once, my taxi is pulled over, but almost immediately waved through. I don't know why. As we enter the Pinar region, we fly past huge billboards with photos of tobacco leaves and farmers.

The slogans, in Spanish, say things like culture, identity, tradition, and cultivating revolution for new victories. Once in Pinar itself, we pass tobacco farm after tobacco farm. Nothing's growing yet, but the pinkish soil is in the farm of Hector Luis Preto. In the world of cigars, Hector is a celebrity. His tobacco is considered amongst the best in Cuba,

and he regularly receives cigar tourists from around the world. The main compound of the farm is a selection of small one-story buildings, white-walled with blue doors and thatched roofs, much like the traditional houses of Cuba that go back centuries. Some of them have metal roofs, and some of them don't have roofs at all. And there's white picket fences. It looks very sort of homesteady and somewhat antique and quite picturesque,

and I don't think that's by chance. The buildings are all covered in this traditional looking thatch. It's soft but surprisingly strong feeling. As I come into the compound, one of the central buildings is an open-air restaurant with a large thatched roof over it. into the compound one of the central buildings is an open-air restaurant with a large thatched roof over it. There's seating for maybe 50 people. There's a pool table, fully stocked bar, a well-dressed bartender, and it's it's almost a little out of place in the middle of this hard-working farm.

I'm here as a tour group is wrapping up their visit with lunch and live music in the restaurant. Cigar tourism seems to be a healthy backup stream of revenue for the farm. The noises, the construction sounds are because of what happened here last year. Most of the work is being done on a new building in the back and this was the site of the guesthouse. Sort of like a small cottage. It slept, it could sleep up to four or five people, had a little loft inside, a bathroom, all this sort of thing. A beautiful patio that overlooks the tobacco fields. But last year, Hurricane Ian tore the entire building down.

Even though it is hurricane season as I visit, thankfully the rain that starts to fall soon after I arrive is just a short downpour. But about this time last year, at three in the morning, Hurricane Ian hit the farm. Five hours later, all the thatched roofs were gone. The barns used to dry and store the tobacco had been destroyed, and this guesthouse had blown over. There was so much water that the fields around the farmhouses looked like lakes. Alejandro, Hector's nephew who works in the restaurant,

remembers waking up that morning and looking out his window and not recognizing where he was. The thing is, that hurricane hit just as the farm was preparing to begin the cycle of growing a new tobacco crop. Hola, Hector. Hola. ¿Cómo está todo? Mucho bueno. After the rain, Hector and I share a cigar in the open-air restaurant

and talk about the hurricane. The recovery meant working day and night, clearing garbage, and rebuilding the curing barns so that we could return to farming. Climate change means that Cuba's rainy seasons are longer and wetter, and they are suffering through more intense storms. This is costing the country about 9% of its GDP, threatening Cuba's already shaky agriculture industry. In this case, Hurricane Ian destroyed tobacco farms across the entire region.

Some estimates suggest that 90% of the area's tobacco curing barns were wiped out. At the time, people feared that it would be the smallest crop of tobacco in Cuban history. But unlike other farmers, Hector was able to get back on his feet and start planting the seedlings. Later than usual, but that year's crop survived, in large part thanks to Hector's tenacity. Of those who wake up and see everything destroyed, not everyone will have the initiative to deal with it. A lot of people would be very depressed to see that everything they worked on for 20 years was destroyed in a few hours.

It depends on each person, on their courage and bravery. You just have to close your eyes and start doing the work, with the goal in your mind to begin planting the tobacco. Are you concerned about climate change? Climate change is a reality. It's all around the world, and that includes us. The thing is, we need to adapt to these changes, and we have to adjust ourselves to this era and find solutions. We cannot see our lives ended because of climate change. We need to find solutions. Hector and I head out to the fields and are joined by Lazaro,

a staff member who helps with tours and rolls cigars. They take me over to a small tobacco plant, only about three feet high, topped with small pink flowers. Lazaro asks me to hold out my hand. He's giving me, oh my God, the tobacco seeds. Semilla. They are absolutely tiny. They're like dust. Oh my Lord. Is this a criollo o cro? Ok, así que este es el criollo, la semilla que se usa para el tabaco crecido en el sol. ¡Oh, Dios mío!

A los 45 días ya va a tener un tamaño de 10-15 centímetros, que va a ser el tamaño perfecto para replantarlo hacia el campo. Así que los semillas crecen por aproximadamente 45 días en el jardín, que va a ser el tamaño perfecto para replantarlo hacia el campo. ¿Podemos ir a Atera para la vez? Esta es la cuarta generación. to have a look. How long has your family been growing tobacco? I'm the fourth generation of tobacco farmers. My father, my grandfather, and my great-grandfather, my whole family. This field was from my mother's

side, and another we have is from my father's side. How did you learn to grow tobacco? I learned from my father, and my uncles, and my grandfather, too, when I was little. Every day, I'd go to school in the mornings, and then work in the fields with my grandfather. When you were young, did you want to be a tobacco farmer? Your parents always want you to study, and I studied because my mother wanted me to. But as soon as I finished my army service, I came back, because it's in my blood to grow tobacco. So the field that we're heading to now is for the shade-grown tobacco. It has tall poles all the way through it, around it and through it,

and wire, wire connecting all the poles along the top. And this is where the thin muslin cloth is laid over to protect the shade-grown tobacco. From seed to harvest, tobacco goes through a number of stages that depend on a complex set of conditions to be in perfect balance. That balance is off right now. There's been so much rain lately that the ground is too wet to begin planting. So when I arrive, they are just starting to till the fields. These shade-grown tobacco plants, with their large, delicate leaves, will be used as the wrappers, the final covering on a cigar to make it look its best.

What is unique about Cuban tobacco? Cuban tobacco, especially from San Juan and San Luis, is the soil, the weather, the tobacco knowledge and culture. Because there's been a lot of years growing tobacco here, the love that we have for growing tobacco are the reasons it is so special. Not only this generation, but for generations they've said this is the best tobacco in the world. Is growing tobacco the same as growing corn? They have their own culture too and we grow it a lot in Cuba.

But corn, you plant the seed and you grow it and harvest it. But tobacco, it's a very short harvesting cycle and demands a lot of effort. From planting the seed to rolling the cigar, there's a lot of agricultural work, but also a lot of traditional culture. I ask Hector how long the plants grow until the harvest begins. He says it's about 85 days to both grow and harvest. And it's a labor-intensive process. For the first 45 days, which is the growing cycle, each plant is visited every day and groomed by hand. The harvest itself is when the work really picks up. Leaves are removed by hand over many days days starting at the bottom. Leaves that are

huge by the way, almost a foot wide and two feet long. Is it hard to find people to work? Lately, yes, it's hard because of emigration, because of the financial problems the country has. But we can still find people to do the entire harvest. Despite how hard it is, do you like growing tobacco? It's something that's in our blood. My whole life I've harvested tobacco, and I enjoy it. You're listening to Ideas, where a podcast and a broadcast

heard on CBC Radio 1 in Canada, on US Public Radio, across North America on Sirius XM, in Australia on ABC Radio National, and around the world at cbc.ca slash ideas. Find us

on the CBC Listen app and wherever you get your podcasts. I'm Nala Ayyad. Hey there, I'm Kathleen Goldtar and I have a confession to make. I am a true crime fanatic. I devour books and films and most of all, true crime podcasts.

But sometimes I just want to know more. I want to go deeper. And that's where my podcast, Crime Story, comes in. Every week, I go behind the scenes with the creators of the best in true crime. I chat with the host of Scamanda, Teacher's Pet, Bone Valley, the list goes on. For the insider scoop, find Crime Story in your podcast app. Cuba is facing its most dire challenges since the 1959 revolution. Food shortages, power cuts, and about 3% of the population have fled the country last year alone. The Cuban cigar is both a cultural symbol of the country, as well as a bellwether of its uncertain future. Long one of the island's main exports,

the cigar is threatened by both falling demand and climate change, which is destabilizing tobacco farming. Ideas contributor Pedro Mendez is visiting the tropical island's farmland in Pinar del Rio in western Cuba, where the country's best tobacco is grown. His documentary is called Puro Cubano, the meaning of tobacco in Cuba. Hector Luis Preto and one of his staff, a young man named Lazaro, are giving me a tour of their tobacco farm

and taking me through the steps of growing and processing the leaf. We are leaving the freshly tilled field where they will soon plant the tobacco seedlings. In a few months' time, when those plants have grown to about 6 feet tall, the huge leaves will be meticulously harvested by hand. OK. Then, cure the tobacco? Yes.

Then? Once the leaves are harvested, they are sewn together in pairs and brought across the farm to the curing barn. The curing barn is covered in long strips of metal with heavy wooden doors. The metal feels pretty thin, but this is to allow the temperature and the humidity to sort of pass. The curing barn is under lock and key because there are undoubtedly tens of thousands of dollars worth of tobacco in there. I've been in curing barns during the harvest season when there are thousands of leaves hanging from dozens of poles running the length of the barn. They'll spend about 50 days hanging here, slowly turning from green to brown as the temperature and humidity is carefully controlled by Hector and his staff.

Right now, no leaves are hanging. But that doesn't mean the barn is empty. Whoa. It is very dark in here. It is full. Along the ground are piles and piles, big, huge piles of plastic covered. I can't even say what they are. But it's all the tobacco that was picked.

Okay, so I probably should have explained earlier that I don't actually speak Spanish. My background is Portuguese, so I end up speaking a mix of the two languages, Portuñol. But I understand enough to find out that Hector's farm is pretty unique in Cuba. You see, once the leaves are cured, they are typically bundled up and sent to warehouses in Havana. That's where the next stages of production happen. But Hector is allowed by the government to do the entire process right here on the farm. That's why the curing barn floor is covered in piles of tobacco being fermented,

which is similar to composting and helps to reduce acidity, tar and nicotine. After fermentation, it is necessary to separate the leaves. Yes, let's go. Yes, yes. All right, so after the fermentation, the leaves need to be separated and sorted into their different groups. All right, we've left, we've left the curing barn. Now we're heading across the path to a wooden barn raised on a series of poles, again whitewashed with bright blue doors.

And in here, oh, whoa, there's a series of small chairs and a big long table and fabric on the ground and a picture of Fidel, of course. Hector gets Lazaro to sit at one of the small tables to demonstrate this next stage of the process. He laughs because it's always women who sit in these chairs. This is where the center stems are removed and the leaves are sorted based on many factors like color and quality. The women will eventually have piles and piles of leaves on the tables and their legs, The women will eventually have piles and piles of leaves on the tables and their legs, which is probably where the legend comes from of Cuban cigars being rolled on the thighs of young women. I ask Hector why this job is exclusively for women, and he says it's tradition,

and adds the dubious claim that women have softer hands than men and won't tear the leaves. men and won't tear the leaves. Despite how impressive Hector's setup is, from the tobacco processing to the guest house and the restaurant, the world around him is just so precarious. Falling demand for cigars, unpredictable weather conditions, a national economy just limping from crisis to crisis, all of it threatening his future and all of it beyond his control. I think the future is to keep going, having the capability to face climate change, and then we hope to keep having demand for tobacco. And personally, I'd love for my son and my family to keep doing this work that we've been doing for so long.

And I hope they do it even better than me. That's my biggest concern now. Tobacco farmers are a symbol of Cuban nationalism. Why? Vigueros represent the countryside, the ones who produce things from the earth with their own hands. There's a lot of tradition, something we inherited from previous generations. It's the oldest tradition we have here.

What does tobacco mean to you personally? Tobacco for me, from when I water the seeds, through the whole process, I think tobacco is part of my family. It's part of myself. Even taking out the financial part, the income we get from it, just seeing it from the spiritual side, I look at it as part of my family. The next morning, it's time for me to leave, so the folks at the farm arrange a ride. A big, blue, beat-up 1940s American car pulls

into the yard. A local young tobacco farmer will take me into Pinar, where I can catch a ride back to Havana. An older farmer in his late 50s joins us. I'm at the bus terminal in Pinar and I was just dropped off by a driver. He didn't want to be recorded but when I asked him about the significance of tobacco to him, to his generation, he said that it's more than a plant. It's more than a product. It's a way of life. He even said it's like a religion. And I asked him, well, what would happen in the future if, you know,

because of dropping demand in cigars and climate change, if it just didn't make economic sense to grow tobacco anymore, yeah, I could just see a cloud come over his face when I asked him. And he said it was too depressing. He couldn't even think about it because of the way of life that would be lost. On the long drive back to Havana, I think more about the conversation I had with the tobacco farmers in the taxi. As we wove around horse-drawn carts and motorcycles on such pockmarked roads we had to constantly dart from side to side,

they talked about how bad things are in Cuba right now. I asked the older farmer to compare today to the 90s and the special period. That's the euphemism the Cuban government came up with for the time after the collapse of the Soviet Union and the destruction of the Cuban economy, when there was so much poverty and deprivation. The farmer told me that he feels like things are actually worse now. That's because back in the 90s, he had hope that things would change for the better. The younger farmer agreed, saying that the only thing worth looking forward to in Cuba right now is leaving.

Of the 30 kids who he went to grade school with, only four remain. I'm back in Havana for the final stages of cigar production, the blending and rolling that takes place in one of the city's many cigar factories. But back when I spoke with tobacco historian Zoe Nasedo-Primo, she told me about the significant role these factories have had in Cuban history, starting with the lector. That's the person who sits with the cigar rollers and reads aloud from novels, newspapers, and magazines while they work.

It is no small thing because the role of the lector was not established by the owner, not established by a boss. The lector is a triumph of cigar makers themselves who chose from among the rollers, from those who were known for their diction, because they knew how to read, because they were cultured, because they had the wherewithal to read to others. They chose that person for lector. And it is the cigar makers themselves who paid for that position. The great works of humanity were read, as well as the newspapers of the time. This gave a level of culture to the tobacco workers that was above average for the entire population.

While most of Cuba's economy has struggled badly over the last few decades, the tobacco industry has remained relatively stable. That has helped it to play a major role in another significant part of Cuba's overall development. There is something very important here that needs to be talked about. The role of women. Women were for years and years working secretly in the tobacco industry. Why secretly? Because a sexist society would not allow them to work officially. But there were women who had their own tobacco because they rolled it at home. They collected it and took it to market. There were women who worked on tobacco farms, either in the curing barns or

in the fields themselves with their husbands, or by preparing the food. The role of women didn't significantly change in Cuba until after the revolution in 1959. One prime example was the El Leguito factory that makes cojibas and where Arnaldo the Roller had worked. It was originally established to make cigars exclusively for Fidel Castro and people he gave cigars to. But establishing a new factory was a chance to shift women's roles in tobacco. And there it was decided to create the first school for female rollers, giving women who were stuck at home the chance to become cigar rollers. That completely changed the concept of women in the tobacco industry.

Many of these women who learned to become rollers then became teachers of other women in the municipalities. There are now women working at every stage of cigar production. In fact, it was at El Leguito in 1996 that a woman named Emilia Tamayo became Cuba's first female cigar factory manager, a role that became dominated by women until a few recent retirements. If you had interviewed me just five months ago, most of the factories in Havana were run by women. Of the five factories, four had female directors,

women who reached management positions due to their experience in tobacco factories. I'm walking to the other side of central Havana to witness the final stages of the making of a cigar in one of these factories. I move off one of the busy main boulevards onto a quiet side street. I approach a five-story beige colonial building. The tall main floor windows are dark and heavily barred. The entranceway is imposing, stone steps flanked by four massive columns. I'm told by the guards to wait in the atrium for the tour guide, who will be with me in about five minutes. It's a central courtyard, and I can see all the floors above me,

all flanked with walkways and slim wooden doors leading into the rolling halls. A huge photo of Fidel Castro smoking a cigar dominates the hall. It's really impossible to know if these factories are doing well or struggling to survive. The government doesn't share any details about the economics of the tobacco industry. This building, and others like it throughout Havana, are where the final stages of cigar production are done. Tobacco is released from huge bales and further classified and prepared. The master blender chooses which combination of leaves, from which farms and regions,

to use in the exact amount to create a specific brand and size of cigar. And then those leaves are sent to the rollers for construction. One? Of course. But one question. Can it be in English or not? Yes. You prefer English? That would be great. Wonderful. Thank you. Thank you. claro, pero una pregunta, puede ser en inglés o no? si, te preferes el inglés? eso sería genial, gracias

bueno, esta es la fábrica de patagas fue fundada en 1845 una de las primeras grandes fábricas en Cuba verás ahí arriba alrededor de cien personas girando los coches 10.000 cigarros al, a lot of them, handmade. We received the leaves aged from the fields with the whole information, type of leaf, time they were aged, where they come from.

According to that, they made the blendings. At this point, we head up the stairs to see the rolling gallery. You are a torcedor? No, I am not. I got this job, I know English. Amazing. And I tell you this because when you have been rolling 10 years, 10 to 90, your back, it's a hard job.

When you are learning, 40 people applying, very happy I will be a roller, 20 at the end. What about the other 20? They go. Either they don't have skills, or they have skills, they don't have the will. It's painful. They make, usually, between 80, 140 cigars per person, depending the size. When we reach the third floor, the guide takes me along one of the walkways

where I can look down on the atrium from one side and through the glass on the doors into the rolling gallery. I see a young man and an old wooden table covered in tobacco leaves. He was given the recipe in the morning. You cannot go in, but here they can open so you will see better. Then we go to another window. The guide opens the slim doors

and I can see the entire gallery. It's a huge room with a couple dozen rows of tables with about 10 rollers in each row. The tables look almost like old school desks with a drawer in front, a working surface and trays for finished cigars on top. Every roller is flanked by cigar presses. The blending. One, two, three.

He has the three leaf on the right. Obviously drier. They're very dry. There's still a piece of the stem here that we'll remove. I watch as the young man first lays out two halves of a tobacco leaf on the table. He then takes other leaves from three piles, folding them in his hands. He takes these bunches and slowly, carefully, starts rolling them in the binder leaves he had laid on the table. he had laid on the table. You put in the mold, you close, one hour.

The roller takes the tube of leaves, which looks pretty rough and loose, and places it into a plastic mold shaped like the cigar he's making. It'll now get pressed for about an hour. Let me show you another window before wrapping. Which is rolling right now. This is the final stage of cigar rolling, the wrapping. The bunch has been released from its press, and it's much more uniform. It looks more like a cigar, although still uneven and a bit rough. The roller lifts up a small wet cloth with tobacco underneath.

This is the shade-grown tobacco from the fields like I'd seen at Hector's farm. This leaf is very different from the others, which are dark brown and coarse-looking. The wrapper is the color of honey. It's slightly translucent and shiny, and it feels like silk, and it even has some stretch to it. The roller places the large leaf on the table and uses a small, handheld blade called a chevete to trim the leaf to size. She then places the bunch on the wrapper leaf and slowly, masterfully, while shifting and stretching the wrapper, rolls the cigar. This lady, by the way, she has been rolling 26 years.

That's a wonderful record, sir. When you roll 10, 15 years, it's really painful. She then cuts a small bit of wrapper leaf, which she applies to the head of the cigar to form a perfect covering. She uses some clear paste to hold it in place. That's your contribution.

That glue they take, we buy a powder in Canada from the maple tree. Then Canadians, they say maple syrup, but this is not sweet. We mix with water, that gel is natural. And no flavor? No, no flavor, no color. Just to put that, you see now he cut the cup. Yeah, yeah, give it the cup. Then into the guillotine for the American Red Size. The roller places the cigar in a small cutting device that trims the rough edge off the other end.

It looks perfect. It is now ready for its final stages before being sold, including resting for a week to shed excess moisture from the rolling process, having cigar bands applied, and finally being boxed up. Well, I hope you have a better idea. Glorious. Thank you so, so much. I head back to the Melia Habana Hotel, where I first started this trip, because there's a few things still on my mind.

I buy one of Arnaldo's own cigars, a perfectly rolled Pyramid. It is the best cigar I've smoked my whole time in Cuba. It's not very strong, which I prefer, and that allows the flavors to really come through. It's slightly floral and reminds me of the smell of dry grasses. And even though it's been rolled so recently, it is smooth and so well balanced. The whole time I'm smoking, watching the thick blue smoke drift up into the sky, I'm thinking about what I've seen. On one hand, the folks I've interviewed who are optimistic in the face of the biggest crises Cuba has faced in decades. But mostly, it's the stories

of people who spoke to me off the record. I've been coming to Cuba for almost 20 years, and I've never seen this loss of hope. The line that stays with me was from that young farmer in Pinar, when he said that the country is in ruins. And then when I think of the devastation the hurricane caused that area, it's really hard to just sit here and enjoy a cigar. Obviously, climate change is having a very negative impact in all aspects of life, especially with tobacco cultivation. Why? Because the process of growing tobacco is tied very closely to the seasons. And if the seasons start mixing or growing or shrinking,

it will have a direct impact on tobacco farming. Obviously, the hurricanes have had a huge negative impact. But we also have to think about the harvest. Tobacco is harvested in the dry season. But if it rains, if it rains a lot, it can destroy an entire crop. But I have no doubt that if we continue to do things properly, like we've learned from our ancestors, our tobacco will continue to have the prestige it has always had around the world.

And as the cigar in my hand slowly turns to ash, I have one more question for Arnaldo. So, each cigar is a handmade piece of art, and yet it'll be burned and disappear. It's not permanent. How does that make you feel? That's what life is like. Today we are here, tomorrow we aren't.

But life continues. We need to be psychologically ready for the fact that it can all end at any moment. Nothing is permanent. Things are born, they grow, and they die. It's the cycle of life. And tobacco is part of that cycle. Tobacco plants are born, they are cultivated, they're combined into a cigar. And finally, someone will light that cigar

and it will become a part of their life. It's a natural part of life. You were listening to Puro Cubano, the meaning of tobacco in Cuba, by Ideas contributor Pedro Mendez. Special thanks to Eduardo Batista for translation help in Cuba, Thank you to Chris Harris for mastering the episode. This show is a podcast and a radio broadcast. Please check out our vast archive of 300 episodes from recent years. Technical production, Danielle Duval. Our web producer is Lisa Ayuso. Senior producer, Nikola Lukšić.

Greg Kelly is the executive producer of Ideas. And I'm Nala Ayyad. For more CBC Podcasts, go to cbc.ca slash podcasts.