The Slow Burn: What I Learned the First Time I Visited Nicaragua

The road in Nicaragua is a holy place. Not polished, not pristine, holy because it’s alive. It’s where barbecue smoke mixes with the diesel of buses, where families pull out lawn chairs at dusk and post up roadside (yes, on the highway) to eat, drink, and be merry. The road is a drying rack for peppers and cacao, a cattle path, a marketplace, a gathering place. It’s life happening in the open.

Driving there is like playing a game I call “Is this a road?” Potholes aren’t just potholes, they’re axle-snapping craters that could swallow a sedan. Luckily, Waze has been baptized by the locals, complete with alerts for “potholes” (Grand Canyon size), police, and “sketchy bridges.” Dirt paths masquerade as highways, but the road is the spine of the country, with communities branching out like veins, each one with its own vibe.

It's worth noting, the national speed limit is 50 km/h (31 mph) for cars, trucks, and SUVs, and 40 km/h (25 mph) for motorcycles. Looking at a map, you’d have zero clue how far things are from one another that appear so close. God forbid, you get stuck behind an 18-wheeler. With “No Adelantar” posted every few miles, passing them is risking getting stopped by the policia…which also seem to be posted up every few miles.

Heading south to San Juan Del Sur, the landscape reminded me of backwoods Arkansas….beautiful, but scarred with trash and rusting cars. SJDS is a laid back, pure surf town. North toward Estelí, it’s another story: rolling green hills, volcanoes, and a sense of adventure that makes you want to disappear into it.. Granada carries scars of the revolution; colonial buildings pockmarked with bullet holes and a kind of desperation in the air, especially in low season. Estelí, though? Alive. Streets jammed with vendors, kids calling me “puta” (I fired back with my best Spanish roast and had them rolling in laughter). It was gritty, real, unforgettable.

And then there were the factories.

This is where I learned how little most consumers really know, or care, about how cigars are made. Behind the romance, there are shortcuts. Some factories “cook” leaves in pizza ovens to rush the process, others dye wrappers for better shelf appeal, or front-load the first third of a cigar with the best leaf so casual smokers think it’s “quality.” Many spray mineral oil on the tobacco to produce a “blue” tinted smoke. The color of the smoke we’ve come to love, may be anything but natural. Meanwhile, some of the brands you and I love? They’re paying their employees pennies while charging premiums for their brands.

It hit me hardest when I posted a pic on Reddit of puros I was smoking…real puros, meaning made from a single part of the plant in a specific region. Ligero from Estelí. Seco from Jalapa. True single-origin tobacco. Most people thought I was wasting money or didn’t know what I was talking about. Armchair quarterbacks, missing the point. Consumers don’t always want nuance, they want confirmation of what they already believe.

So what does that mean for Brolo?

It means I don’t play for the armchairs. I play for the brothers and sisters around the table. For the people who light up not just to taste, but to connect. For the ones who understand that cigars are more than smoke, they’re story, craft, communion.

My first time in Nicaragua taught me that the road is alive, the people are resilient, and the industry is messy. And maybe that’s the beauty of it. Like a good cigar, it’s not meant to be perfect….it’s meant to be honest.

No shortcuts.

No clout chasing.

No coattails.

Just good, old fashioned, well aged, premium hand rolled, Grade A tobacco.

Brolo is for authentic conversations. Brolo is for the early mornings and late nights. Brolo is an honest reprieve in a world focused on the “fastlane.”

So Light Up & Lean In. Smoke one by yourself or with a friend. Either way, savor the moment and the journey that brought you to it.