The man indulged in a cigar

In a corner of Yangon, a man held a cheroot between his fingers, exhaling smoke with an air of deep satisfaction. In Myanmar, cigars are said to be far cheaper than cigarettes. No wonder, then, that most of the men one sees on the streets clutch not paper-wrapped tobacco but these rustic rolls. They are called cheroots—dried leaves stuffed with shredded tobacco, herbs, and sometimes even sweetly scented dried fruit. One mustn’t confuse them with the refined cigars of the West; those are polished luxuries, while these are woven into the fabric of everyday life.

Yangon’s streets swarm with cars, bicycle rickshaws, and throngs of people, battered by noise and dust. Amid it all, the man’s face, haloed in smoke, seemed oddly composed. The cheroot released a cloying sweetness, like cheap incense, that clung stubbornly to the nostrils. Yet there was no sign of annoyance among passersby—after all, the notion of “nonsmoker’s rights” has yet to take root here. If anything, the haze itself felt less an intrusion than an inseparable part of daily existence.

Yangon on Google Map

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