adventure, exploring, friends, history, K.G. Bethlehem, life, literature, nature, Uncategorized, US Virgin Islands, writer, writing

On Location Series #9—US Virgin Islands (part 1)

My journey to the US Virgin Islands was a welcoming event for me.  It has been almost 10 years since I actually had a real vacation and I savor every minute of it. The beauty of the land, the clear waters stretching out to the Atlantic.  The personal vibe I felt strongly from the kinship of my island folks.  Exceptionally appealing is the variety that I used in describing it.

Now, the trek started off not so perfect or better yet—normally that I would desire.  The trip was detoured due to weather, but in reality, something was amiss with the plan as we attempted to fly into San Juan Puerto Rico.  We were soon diverted to Aguadilla Puerto Rico, waited for nearly an hour before being charter bused to San Juan.  We all arrived, yes all of the passengers on the plane close to 2 hours later at San Juan airport.  For the passengers whose final destination was San Juan, they were finally happy with discounted future flights by the company.  I and a few others who had other connecting flights were given tickets to fly out to our destination tomorrow morning with mines leaving at 11:30 am to St. Thomas.  We were all given free rooms at the airport hotel along with a dinner voucher and eventually settle in for the night.

The following day I happily boarded the plan and the 35-minute flight to St. Thomas begun.  I landed, greeted by a late friend’s mother, Mrs. Lynch and the vacation at last begun.  I stayed, for free at a 1-bedroom condo and the view from the window was crazy stunning.  My deck faced the bay that led out to the ocean.  I saw, in a distance, St. Johns Island and in a greater distance, the British Virgin Islands.  My G-d!

Mrs. Lynch and my good friend De’nee gave me an amazing tour during my 10 days stay in the islands.  The first part I went to Mountain Top which reportedly served the best banana daiquiris.  They were really good and I really don’t favor fruit alcoholic beverages.  I saw a great deal of the island from the Mountaintop and it just—really I don’t have any good words to describe it so just see it for yourself…

This is the actual spot Sir Francis Drake would sit at, surveying all who came into the bay.

I must also add, Hurricane Maria affected the islands of Puerto Rico and the US Virgins Islands.  Mainstream media did not do the best job in reporting on the small towns in Puerto Rico that were greatly affected by the natural phenomenon and less reporting for the Virgin Islands.  USVI is still recovering, many houses and other buildings still have a tarp on top due to not having a roof.  Schools were destroyed as the government were in a hurry in placing modules as suitable replacements until their original buildings could be fixed and in some instance, rebuild.  USVI and PR are part of the United States.


Yes, they are part of the United States.

This is part one of the On Location Series #9.  Look out for the next one in a week or less and thank you for stopping by.  Please, have a coffee on me and if you are inclined to, smoke a cigar as well.

children, Fiction, life, literature, poems, poetry, poetry readings, Uncategorized, writer, writing

Friday Night Poetry Corner #168-How I Learned to Walk

Good evening everyone and welcome to another Friday Night Poetry Corner. This week, the fantastic poet Javier Zamora poem called “How I Learned to Walk” is an introspective, descriptive piece that is brilliantly written. He is an amazing poet.

How I Learned to Walk


Calláte. Don’t say it out loud: the color of his hair,

the sour odor of his skin, the way they say

his stomach rose when he slept. I have

done nothing, said nothing. I piss in the corner

of the room, the outhouse is far, I think

orange blossoms call me to eat them. I fling rocks

at bats hanging midway up almond trees.

I’ve skinned lizards. I’ve been bored. It’s like

that time I told my friend Luz to rub her lice

against my hair. I wanted to wear a plastic bag,

to smell of gasoline, to shave my hair, to feel

something like his hands on my head.

When I clutch pillows, I think of him. If he sleeps

facedown like I do. If he can tie strings

to the backs of dragonflies. I’ve heard

of how I used to run to him. His hair still

smelling of fish, gasoline, and seaweed. It’s how

I learned to walk they say. Calláte. If I step

out this door, I want to know nothing will take me.

Not the van he ran to. Not the man he paid to take him.

Mamá Pati was asleep when he left. People say

somehow I walked across our cornfield

at dawn, a few steps behind. I must have seen him

get in that van. I was two. I sat behind a ceiba tree,

waiting. No one could find me.