|A secluded beach west of Santiago de Cuba.|
Waves crash, palms blow, vultures wheel, clouds unspool. Here on the Costa Morena, the rugged coast west of Santiago de Cuba, all nature salsas frantically in the wind. Flopped like a castaway under a massive seagrape, sunburnt, pants torn, I suddenly get Van Gogh. Vincent never made it to Cuba but he would have known how to paint it: all agitated, spinning daubs. I need a video camera, not a pile of salt-stained sketchbooks, to record all this action. My sketches, I realize, are less a document of this trip and more an exercise in slowing down to really see nature's complex patterns. They're also signposts to feelings and memories.
|Off to build another inuksuk!|
Canadians visit Cuba to the tune of a million a year. For many, it's more than a cheap vacation spot; it has become our place in the sun. Some have been going for decades, building on long friendships and romances, getting married, making and baptizing babies. I'm always surprised, too, at how often I meet Cubans who have been in Toronto for some reason or another and express their love of High Park and snow.
|Four little inuksuit stare off towards Jamaica.|
|I heart inuksuit, driftwood and Cuba.|