National Geographic : 1968 Jan
bulge I could see he had quite a few more hidden away. "Hello," I said. "What's your name?" "Sylvester." "What's the rest?" "Ain't no rest. Jes' Sylvester." "Where do you live?" He made a gesture of beyond the next hill: "Ova dere." "And where did you get the bananas?" He waved toward a clump of trees in a different direction. "Ah been progging." "You mean stealing?" "No, sah! Progging, that's something you takes 'cause you got use for it. Stealing, that's if you sells what you takes!" Sylvester was a native-born Crucian-or Cruzan (pro nounced cru-ZAN)-and spoke a local dialect that was almost a patois. But often I felt during my stay in the Virgin Islands that people born there were as rare as true New Yorkers in Manhattan. A visitor will hear every accent of the Caribbean. Hotel maids from Tortola in the British Virgins cleaned my room; waiters from St. Kitts served my meals. I met welders from Stilled wings folded, yachts doze like gulls in Trunk Bay, St. John. Whether visiting sail ors come to picnic on the bone white sands or snorkel above coral gardens, they find here the perfect antidote for city living. Tenting only six short strides from the Atlantic, campers pre pare supper beneath sea-grape trees at Cinnamon Bay on St. John. This campground in Vir gin Islands National Park lies farther south than any other operated by the United States.