The Caribbean. That wild place. That place of maritime meeting land- scape. That blinding light and deep darkness. That haunting in the heart. That first globalized space in the world. A fecund epicentre loved and looted by so many histories, pirates, map-makers, botanists, bohemi- ans, cartel barons, aristocrats and myths. That mystery where secret tradition and phenomenology give way to the vice of the passer-by. Rum. Sugar. Sex. The unpoetic engagement of native self with foreign self; a sprawling, fluid, attraction.
Cuban Mischief delivers luscious canopy-scapes. It exposes alluring body parts. It spies masked revellers and moments with water. It introduces native inhabi- tants in moments of synastry and of sometimes sharp relief, to shoot tourism with an arrow of reality.