Return to Cuba: A Bittersweet Journey Home

On April 13, a Southern California Living story (“The Exile Decision: Visits to Cuba Mean Painful Choice”) described how Paloma Morales Rodriguez of Walnut and some of the other 120,000 Cuban Americans in Southern California agonize over visiting the island while it is still under Communist rule. In this story, Times staff writer Maria Elena Fernandez and Times staff photographer Annie Wells traveled with Rodriguez on the first direct flight from Los Angeles to Havana in decades to chronicle her return to her homeland.

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Paloma Morales Rodriguez left Cuba as a worm and returned, 30 years later, as a butterfly.

Like thousands of Cubans before them, Rodriguez and her family traded everything they owned in 1970 for a life of freedom in the United States.

“You’re nothing but traitors! Worms!” Cuban Communist leaders shouted at the 15-year-old and her family as they boarded a freedom flight to Miami. “You will never come back here again!”

In speeches, Cuban President Fidel Castro continually refers to those exiles of the ‘60s and ‘70s as gusanos, or worms, even though the end of the Cold War and the Soviet Union’s financial aid has forced him to welcome them as visitors and to accept their dollars.

Now those who swallow their resentment of Castro to return to Cuba can vacation at the island’s beautiful beach resorts, dine at fine restaurants, dance at nightclubs and buy anything.

Life is very different for the people of Cuba.

“When we left, we were the gusanos, the lowest of the low,” Rodriguez said. “But now we can come here and go to the nicest of places and do what we want. And those who were left behind, or stayed for whatever reason, are the ones who are struggling and suffering.”

The glaring inequity tore at Rodriguez’s heart after she arrived in La Habana, the Cuban name for the island’s capital. “You left like worms, but you return as butterflies,” a relative told her, repeating an expression coined by the youth of Cuba.

“I came to see my family and to help them out, but I don’t want to be a mariposa [butterfly],” a saddened Rodriguez said later. “No es facil.”

No es facil. It is not easy.

It was only the second day of Rodriguez’s weeklong journey home, on the first direct flight from Los Angeles to La Habana in 39 years, and already she was repeating the locals’ favorite expression, a phrase that helps them explain any hardship. And there are many hardships in this Caribbean nation of 11 million people.

Nothing about the trip was easy for Rodriguez. For weeks, she recalled with anguish her deceased father’s wish that the family stay away from Cuba as long as it remains a communist country. After her father died, Rodriguez’s mother and sister visited the island, increasing Rodriguez’s own longing for her hometown of Camaguey and her sweet aunts in Las Tunas and San German.

Emotional and tense, she arrived at Los Angeles International Airport on April 15 “looking for a sign” from God that would indicate whether she should board the charter flight. She feared that Cuban officials might close the airport in La Habana if the custody battle over Elian Gonzalez, the 6-year-old refugee, did not go their way. She worried she would not be able to return to her husband and two children in Walnut.

But two hours after arriving in La Habana and hugging her favorite first cousin, Rodriguez was crying and laughing simultaneously.

“I can’t believe I’m in Cuba,” she said over and over. “I’m glad I came.”

A Foreigner in Her Own Country

As a Cuban exile, Rodriguez thought she was prepared for the deterioration of her homeland. Since the breakup of the Soviet Union, Cuba’s main economic ally, the largest island in the West Indies has been caught in a downward financial spiral.

But Rodriguez never expected to feel like a foreigner in her own country.

“We got treated like criminals for not wanting to be Communists, and now they give us special treatment because we came from the U.S. with lots of dollars,” Rodriguez said. “It’s [Castro’s] way of keeping the Cuban people divided. He doesn’t want the exiles and the people who are here to unite.”

In fact, the U.S. dollar has all but replaced the Cuban peso, called “Cuban toilet paper” by locals. Shelves at stores that accept only pesos are bare, while the diplotiendas, or diplomatic stores, which take only U.S. dollars, are generously stocked with everything from sirloin steak and seafood to bicycles and furniture.

A Cuban doctor, for example, would have to spend his entire month’s salary--$25--to buy 3 pounds of beef at a diplotienda. Those who buy meat more affordably on the black market risk being imprisoned for 10 years. Those who sell it can be jailed for 30.

“Red meat is not for us,” a waiter at a Chinese restaurant in La Habana said. “It’s for foreigners.”

Cubans receive free education, even at the university level. But the government determines their careers based on the nation’s needs. Health care also is free, but Cubans say finding medications is virtually impossible.

And violent crime is almost nonexistent here, although robberies have skyrocketed in the last few years, prompting Castro to recruit more police officers by raising their salaries. Cops earn $40 a month, $15 more than the nation’s physicians.

But, by all accounts, the most heinous crime in Cuba continues to be speaking against the government. The dozens of Cubans interviewed for this story, for example, all asked that their names not be used for fear of reprisals.

“They say that the exiles live abroad,” a 35-year-old mechanic said to Rodriguez one morning in the Barrio Chino section of La Habana. “But this is exile right here. Cuba is a prison surrounded by water.”

“No es facil,” Rodriguez responded, wiping a tear from her face.

Jokes Abound About Elian

About 20 relatives and friends gathered at the home of Rodriguez’s aunt to welcome the visitor to La Habana and to eat the 110-pound pig roasted in a backyard pit underneath a mango tree.

They danced, took pictures, shot a video and reminisced. And they ate the succulent pork with rice and beans, fried plantains and tomato salad.

When the conversation turned to Elian, as it did so often during the visit, jokes abounded. A family friend said most Cubans hope Elian can stay in the U.S. for a while.

“Every time we get bused to a demonstration, we get paid and we get breakfast and a sandwich,” he said, laughing.

“‘And we haven’t had any blackouts because they want us to watch Elian all day on television,” another friend added.

Rodriguez said she loves being here, surrounded by family: her mother’s sister, her father’s only living brother and her cousins. But she knew great sacrifices were made to pay for the meal, which cost about $150, and it affected her bubbly spirit.

“I thought I was going to feel different, happier,” Rodriguez said, fighting tears as she watched her elderly uncle devour some pork. “Everything is falling apart, and I can see my family is in trouble. I can’t explain what I’m feeling. I’m numb. Maybe I’ll feel different when I get to Camaguey.”

‘Cuba Is a Coffin Full of Dead People’

Camaguey, where Rodriguez was born, is the country’s third-largest city and a little more than 350 miles from La Habana.

As the sun rose on the second morning of her visit, Rodriguez already was waiting to begin the journey. She had planned to fly, but the country’s only internal airline, Cubana, canceled all flights for two days, forcing her to hire a driver.

Gasoline is $3 to $4 a gallon, and although she can afford to pay the $100 it will take to fill the ’56 Buick, the driver asked her to be patient while a friend hunted for cheaper gas.

An hour later, the friend returned with containers full of gas he bought for $60 from the driver of a state truck. As he poured gasoline into the tank, Rodriguez asked how he feels about stealing from the government.

“Cuba is a coffin full of dead people,” he replied dryly.

As the Buick circled around a statue of the Virgin Mary standing in the center of a roundabout, the driver explained: “Anybody who works for the state robs the state. A nurse only makes $12 a month, but she probably is stealing medicine and selling it on the side.”

The Buick was almost alone on this six-lane freeway, which is newly paved at this end. Most of the traffic consisted of rundown buses and bicycles, although an occasional air-conditioned tourist bus raced by. Dozens of hitchhikers waved U.S. dollars at the Buick and a few oncoming cars, trying to get rides.

“Camaguey, here I come!” Rodriguez yelled with the glee of a child. “Today, I’m feeling better than yesterday.”

In Taguasco, about four hours from La Habana, the freeway ended. The driver stopped, saying the car needed oil, but the gasoline station sells only to government vehicles. The driver tried to buy some anyway, but the workers fear he is a police officer.

After attempts at three stations, the driver gave up and pulled back on the road.

“No es facil,” Rodriguez joked.

A few minutes later, as the car approached a police checkpoint, the driver said he had a bad feeling. Cubans must have state licenses to transport foreigners, and this driver doesn’t have one.

He was right. The officer at El Maja Punto de Control, a checkpoint, motioned for the Buick to stop, and after 15 minutes, the driver returned to the car with a citation.

“He gave me a ticket because my car has three colors,” he said. “I explained to him it’s not a third color. I had an accident, and they put anti-rust paint on my bumper.

“It’s just an excuse to intimidate me. Don’t be surprised if it happens again,” he said.

“Oh, my God,” said Rodriguez, her eyes narrowed, her voice a whisper.

An hour later, the Buick stopped at a second checkpoint. This time, the police officer ordered the driver to open the car’s trunk but then waved it on.

Shortly before 6 p.m., after eight hours on the road, the Buick approached a “Welcome to Camaguey” sign. The car had entered Camaguey, the province, and in an hour it would finally be in Camaguey, Rodriguez’s city.

“Look at the tinajones!” she exclaimed, spotting two huge clay pots under the sign. In colonial times, the pots were used to store water collected from their wells. After the city built aqueducts, the people of Camaguey used tinajones to decorate their gardens.

“Oh, my God, I can’t believe it. My heart is home!” Rodriguez shouted out the window.

As the Buick entered the small town of Florida, the scenery changed from picturesque countryside to dirty, ramshackle housing. There are no restaurants or gas stations anywhere.

“You can tell there are no dollars coming into here,” Rodriguez said. “This is terrible. These poor people.”

The driver stopped momentarily to help a stranded driver. Then, again, the Buick was stopped at a police checkpoint. This time, the officer asked a few questions before letting them go.

“This is harassment,” Rodriguez said angrily.

Riding in a State-Owned Jeep Carries Risks

“Ay, cheramoya!” Rodriguez exclaimed. It’s been 30 years since she has eaten the sweet fruit. “Mmmmm, que rico!”

Finally at the Camaguey home of her aunt and uncle, Rodriguez was upbeat, thrilled to be home. But when her brother’s childhood friend popped in for a visit, smiles gave way to nostalgia.

The friends have not seen each other since the fateful day when the telegram arrived, saying the Morales family could leave Cuba. Rodriguez recalled how her brother clung to his best friend at the youth agricultural camp where they were detained.

“So many memories,” Rodriguez said.

After a meal of chicken and rice, the family and friends sat in the living room to tell old stories. Then the discussion turned to Elian, and Rodriguez’s aunt said she was insulted by the American notion that Cubans are starving to death.

“Some things are not easy to find, but you find them,” she said. “You don’t just go to the store and find everything you need at good prices. But, abroad, they say a lot of lies about Cuba. We are not dying of hunger.”

Rodriguez does not see it her aunt’s way, but she did not argue. Her brother’s friend quickly offered to give her a short tour of La Gernica, the family’s old neighborhood nearby.

But there is a problem. The old friend works for the government and drives a state Jeep. If he is caught with Rodriguez in his vehicle, he could lose the car and his job. To avoid a police officer parked on a corner, he asked Rodriguez to walk to a nearby street and wait for him to pick her up.

“This is why I left Cuba,” Rodriguez said. ‘I don’t care about what my aunt says about food. This is awful.”

“That’s why I left too,” said a teenager who overhears the conversation while sitting on a bench near Rodriguez. He is one of thousands of young men who took to the sea on rafts in the summer of 1994 at the height of Cuba’s economic crisis. He has returned to visit his brother for the first time.

Does he like it better in Miami?

“Hell, yeah,” he said in perfect English.

Reunion With Two Aunts She May Never See Again

The next morning Rodriguez was ready for another important reunion a little more than 70 miles east, in the town of Las Tunas. She was eager to see these two aunts, the eldest of whom had written, asking Rodriguez to come to Cuba before she dies.

Before setting out to Las Tunas with a relative, Rodriguez stopped by El Gran Hotel to tell the Buick’s driver that she had purchased an airplane ticket to return to La Habana and will not need him. But he was not at the hotel. She found him in a nearby parking lot, where he slept in his car.

“They told me I could not stay there,” he said angrily, pointing to the tourist hotel. “After you left, they kicked me out. This is an insult. If I was from Hong Kong, I could stay, but since I am Cuban, I cannot stay there. This country is like this.”

Rodriguez wrapped her arms around him and began to cry. Then the tears turned to rage and she marched into the hotel, leaving him standing on the sidewalk.

“How could you do this?” she demanded of the front-desk clerk. “Why didn’t you tell us he couldn’t stay here last night? You let us leave before you threw him out.”

The front-desk clerk delivered a revolutionary-style speech, explaining that there are certain hotels “with schemes” that do not allow for Cubans to stay in them. She apologized for not informing Rodriguez of this sooner, and offered to let the driver bathe and grab a bite to eat there.

But the proud driver refused, saying he did not need their bathroom and food.

“People here cannot speak up for themselves,” Rodriguez said once she was outside again. “But I had to tell them what I thought. That was important to me.”

“No es facil,” said the driver, his arms around Rodriguez.

The short drive to Las Tunas was scenic and charming, but the conversation in the car was painful for Rodriguez. Her new driver, a 29-year-old father of one son, is running out of hope. He told Rodriguez that he bought a new home for his family, but after two months of living in it, the government seized it without an explanation.

“In the United States people work hard and can have anything they want,” he said bitterly. “Here, you work hard and you have nothing. I constantly worry about providing for my son. It’s like a nervous tick.”

The houses in Las Tunas, built of wood or concrete, have holes in the roofs and walls. Most of the streets are unpaved or full of potholes. People on the street do not acknowledge one another and rarely smile.

At the home of Rodriguez’s eldest aunt, however, everyone was full of laughs. The two aunts, one of whom has traveled from San German on the train to see Rodriguez, were waiting on the front porch. When Rodriguez finally reached them, the three women embraced and wept, still smiling. Rodriguez’s aunt brought a memento--a picture of a 14-year-old Rodriguez, taken the year before she left Cuba.

“Look at those legs,” her aunt said, referring to Rodriguez’s legs, shapely from youthful ballet lessons. Rodriguez beamed.

The aunts had prepared a delicious lunch of pork, rice and fufu, a plantain dish. As they fussed over the table, Rodriguez watched and said, “There hasn’t been a day since I left that I haven’t thought of them. Not one day.”

Reveling in the Taste of Toothpaste

After lunch, Rodriguez distributed presents--and it was as if Santa Claus walked through the door.

“Toothpaste!” yelled one aunt, who opened the tube quickly to taste the peppermint gel. “Do you know how long it’s been since I had toothpaste?”

The other aunt reveled at a jar of Vicks Vapor Rub.

“I have so much trouble sleeping at night because I can’t breathe,” she said.

When it came time to say goodbye, Rodriguez and her favorite aunt cried again, hiding their tears from the eldest aunt, who suffers from high blood pressure.

Then the elderly women waved goodbye from the porch, saying they know they might not see their niece again.

As the car pulled away, Rodriguez stopped crying and said, “I’m so glad I saw them. I needed that.”

Back in Camaguey, Rodriguez was in heaven. At a city park and a hotel bar, Rodriguez engaged strangers with tales of her “odyssey” in the Buick and of her loving husband, who had written her a letter for every day of her visit.

At La Academia de Ballet y Artes Plasticos, the ballet school where she studied for six years, it all came back to her as she listened to piano music wafting through the hallways. A former teacher recognized Rodriguez because of her large, green eyes.

“I can’t believe this school looks exactly the same,” Rodriguez said, her feet pointed out in a ballerina’s first position. “I feel so good here.”

Later, in La Guernica, the quaint neighborhood where she grew up, Rodriguez was like a child, knocking on the doors of people she knew decades ago. The house where her family lived had bars across its windows now, but the bedroom she shared with her sister and her mother’s kitchen looked untouched by time.

“You have no idea and cannot imagine how often I’ve thought of this house and La Guernica,” Rodriguez told the house’s new owner.

“Come any time,” the woman replied. “You have a friend for life.”

After Returning, Her Mind Remains in Cuba

On Tuesday, two days after her return to the U.S., Rodriguez was back to the frenetic pace of her Walnut routine. Her daughter’s dance shows. Her son’s soccer practice. Her job performing for Albertson’s Spanish-language commercials and her husband’s business.

“But I’m still in Cuba, my mind is in Cuba,” Rodriguez said.

She would love to see her relatives every year, but her heart won’t let her, Rodriguez said.

“That fright that people live under, that constant vigilance, I cannot take that,” Rodriguez said. “My family is not going to die of hunger, but to be afraid to bring home a bag of coffee or a pack of red meat--no, no, no. My spirit cannot handle that.”

Still, she added, “I have fallen in love with Cuba all over again.”