Mike Williams - Cox Washington Bureau. The Atlanta Journal-Constitution. Friday, June 16, 2000
Pinar del Rio, Cuba - Tall, thin and deeply tanned by the harsh Cuban sun, Jesus Perez stoops and gently trims the leaves of his tobacco plants, his strong hands moving with care among the fragile stalks.
Perez, 35, has toiled all his life in the lush tobacco fields of western Cuba, a region blessed with breath-taking natural beauty and a unique combination of soil and climate that cigar lovers believe results in the world's finest tobacco.
But just 10 years ago, Perez and other longtime tobacco farmers were frustrated by the poor production of their famous fields, which at that time were owned and managed by the Cuban government.
''The farms were all collectives, and there was little interest in the care of the leaves,'' said Perez, a third-generation tobacco farmer. ''Workers would break the leaves and damage the plants. This field was only producing six or seven (100-pound) bales of tobacco a year.''
Then came the crisis of the early 1990s sparked by the end of subsidies from Cuba's longtime patron, the Soviet Union. Those subsidies had been critical, because of U.S.-led trade sanctions. The sanctions remain in place, although the U.S. Congress is considering legislation, possibly to be
voted on as early as next week, to ease some of the restrictions.
Desperate for hard currency, Cuba's government turned to tobacco --- and tourism --- as its most ready source of new revenues.
Word from farmers like Perez finally filtered up through the Cuban bureaucracy, prompting officials to allow a bold experiment: break up some of the farming collectives and return the land to individuals.
Perez jumped at the chance to farm his own tobacco fields like his father and grandfather before him.
''In eight years, I've raised production from six or seven bales a year to 35 bales,'' he said, his face beaming with pride.
While collectives still run the majority of Cuba's tobacco farms and its sugar industry, the emergence of a tiny private sector in the tobacco industry is a sign that Cuba's socialist system is changing --- if ever so slightly.
The government still sets the price paid to tobacco farmers for their leaves, and still controls what they pay for fertilizer and other necessities. But the big new change is that Perez and other farmers are able to earn more if they grow more. That's an incentive that's been missing from the
Cuban economy for most of the past four decades.
''When I was a worker at the collective, I earned about 8 pesos (about 40 cents) a day,'' Perez said. ''Now, I earn 7,000 to 8,000 pesos (about $350 to $400) a year. The more I grow, the more I earn.''
This tiny opening of the system must be kept in perspective, however.
The vast majority of Cuban workers still toil for the state for salaries that average about $10 a month. Perez and his fellow private tobacco farmers --- along with a handful of tourism entrepreneurs who rent rooms or run their own restaurants --- have created only the barest inkling of a
private market economy.
But the success of the private tobacco farms has been undeniable. With the private plots leading the way, Cuba more than doubled its production of hand-made premium cigars between 1995 and '98 to 160 million.
Of course, there are concerns among some cigar aficionados that this rush to raise production will mean a sacrifice in quality. Perez disagrees. He knows that the other private tobacco farmers are like him --- taking great care with their plants, gently nurturing what has become a source of
pride and income.
''I have 50,000 plants,'' he says, surveying a long row of his bright-green plants. ''I care for each one of them.''
A visit to Cuba's tobacco- growing region is a step back in time, with farmers and workers still doing things the way they've been done for generations. Fields are plowed by oxen. Planting, trimming and harvesting are all done by hand.
The tobacco season starts in summer, when farmers prepare the soil. They plant their crop in small plots, staggering the planting a few weeks apart so that when the harvest comes 10 months later, workers will be able to rotate their way through the fields at just the right moment.
The harvest runs from January through March, with workers picking the more ripe leaves from the bottom of the stalks first. Filler tobacco for the inside of the cigar is grown in the open sun, while the all-important leaves used to wrap the outside of the cigar are grown under cheesecloth
netting to protect them from the sun's harsh rays.
Once picked, the leaves are taken to large curing barns, called ''casas de tobacco.'' Hung on long poles, the leaves cure in the dark, cool barns for about 50 days. Then they are stacked and moved to warehouses where they sit for another 30 days to ferment. Workers then separate the leaves by
quality, followed by a second 60-day fermentation period.
Tourists are welcome in the picturesque Pinar del Rio region, which is about two hours west of Havana by car. Several large farms offer guided tours, and the cigar-rolling factories are also open to tours for a modest fee of about $5.
The factories resemble large open schoolrooms, where dozens of rollers sit at desks. A reader sometimes sits at the front of the room like a teacher, reading fiction or newspapers to help workers pass the time.
Farmers like Perez hope that the Cuban government's move toward privatization will continue. The workers make more money, they grow more tobacco and the quality of the leaves is higher because of the greater pride and care taken by the workers.
''We grow the best tobacco in the world,'' Perez said.
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