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 ï>¿Natural Beauty bysarobahÂ(C)

   Natural Beauty Pt.  01

   Welcome to Palmira

   The flight had taken just under three hours.  It was uneventful; but as
our plane began its final approach in a wide arc high above the
crystal-clear waters of the Caribbean, a buzz of excitement filled the
cabin.

   From the air Palmira looks like any other tropical island paradise, with
sky-blue coral reefs, black and silver and beaches, verdant hillsides and
green-skirted rocky ridges, all bathed in golden sunlight.  The broad bay
over which we were descending teemed with yachts and skiffs and fishing
boats.  In the middle, a cruise ship lay at anchor.  I could easily make
out from their gleaming wakes etched upon the surface a fleet of small
ferries delivering passengers to the shore.  Following the curve of the
coastline, neat rows of buildings gleamed brilliant white and vivid pink,
climbing the forest-covered slopes that enclosed the town of RÃ(C)gate in a
vast, viridian amphitheatre.

   The atmosphere on a plane full of holidaymakers is generally the same
wherever the destination.  There's euphoria as you take off, settling into
quiet languor as time passes, perking again as the end of the journey
nears, turning into mild apprehension during the descent and landing,
surging to elation when you come to a halt.  But even as we touched down,
the mood changed again.  The female passengers, including myself, while
outwardly cheerful became quieter and more introspective as the flight
attendants opened the doors and a gust of warm, humid air swirled through
the cabin.

   Seated next to me were a couple who, I judged by their lovey-dovey
expressions, were honeymooners.  The young man had gone silent and was
tightly clenching his fists.  His face had a greenish pallor; and, when
we'd stopped on the runway I heard an audible sigh of relief.  He turned to
me and allowed himself a sheepish grin.  The girl was frowning and fidgety;
but hers were not in-flight nerves.  She was wearing a canary yellow
sundress, and as she stood up she tugged downwards on the hem.

   The flight attendant's announcement reinforced the feeling of
trepidation and exhilaration.

   "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Palmira.  The local time is one
o'clock, the temperature is twenty-nine degrees Celsius, eighty-four
degrees Fahrenheit, and the weather is fine." There followed the usual
instructions and advice.  "On behalf of Palmair and the crew, I'd like to
thank you for flying with us today, and we look forward to seeing you again
in the near future.  We wish you a very enjoyable stay.  As you leave the
aeroplane, please have your passports and customs declarations at hand for
inspection; and ladies, be ready to undress."

   Palmira's is smaller than most international airports, but the protocols
and formalities are the same.  Ours and a charter plane were the only
aircraft on the tarmac, and the terminal appeared deserted, so I and my
fellow passengers could expect a quick and easy process.  But as we headed
towards the baggage collection area we saw the first nude women.  Beyond
the glass partition, airport staff could be seen going about their jobs. 
The females were without exception stunning to look at, their bare skin
glistening a variety of hues from ivory to ebony.  Most were moving briskly
and busily, but underneath a sign announcing "ARRIVALS" a dozen young women
were standing, carrying boards inscribed with the names of hotels and tour
operators.  Each held her placard above her head or out to one side, so as
not to obscure any portion of her torso.

   As I absorbed this fascinating scene, the girl in the yellow dress
squeezed her husband's arm.  She was wide-eyed and open-mouthed.  I looked
around at the other women in our group.  Those of us who were first-time
visitors were staring, none uttering a sound (except for a few gasps and
giggles).  The attention of the males was equally riveted.  We were
entranced by this opening encounter with the raw, unadorned, full-frontal
reality of Palmira.

   ***



   I had learned about Palmira when I was a little girl because my
grandmother was born there.  I'd heard romantic tales and fabulous legends
of bold buccaneers, intrepid mariners and their hardy womenfolk.  But I
knew little about the contemporary life, until I chanced upon an old travel
magazine.  It was one of those glossy-format publications with pretensions
to cultural significance, full of "gee whiz!" prose and pretty pictures. 
The July 1970 edition featured a faux-documentary article, "My Journey to
the Caribbean's Exotic Island of Naked Women."

   For a teenager still coming to terms with her own sexuality, I found the
story and the (tasteful) images both provocative and intriguing.  Grandma
never spoke much about her experiences, but she did reveal something of her
background.  Her Palmirene lineage purportedly goes back three centuries.
There is a tradition that my great-great-etcetera-grandmother had been
taken there as a captive.  She wed one of the pirates, raised many children
and became a local matriarch.  That may be a myth; but her family are one
of the island's wealthiest, descendants of a merchant aristocracy who once
ruled Palmira.

   We occasionally visited Grandpa's home, in England, but never Grandma's.
They had met when he was on the island as part of a hydrological survey
team.  They married and eventually settled in Australia; and when my mother
was born they stopped going back to Palmira.  The magazine article was
written a decade after their departure and the place had changed a lot, in
the wake of a big influx of tourists during the 1960s.  But one thing
remained constant, and has to this day  -" the famous (or infamous,
depending on your point of view) nude law.

   "To celebrate the natural beauty of the female body, women are forbidden
to wear clothing."

   Though I did not anticipate ever going there, I hadn't lost my interest
in Palmira.  Nudity never bothered me.  I'm pleased with my body which I
keep trim with daily exercise and don't mind showing off in a barely-there
bikini.  When I was a university student my girlfriends and I often went
topless, sometimes bottomless, on a beach near the campus.  So I'm not shy.
On the other hand, I am not conventionally sexy or girlie-girl feminine. 
This is partly on account of my profession.  I'm a cultural anthropologist
who spends much of her year on archaeological diggings where there's not
much call for frocks, heels and lipstick.  And because of my commitments,
while I have a boyfriend it's often a long-distance relationship.

   In fact, it was my career which would take me to Palmira.  In recent
times, a lot of interest has been aroused in the island's archaeological
heritage.  Once neglected, the study of pre-Columbian settlement in this
part of the Caribbean has taken off.  These remains are evidence of ancient
cultural links between the islands of the Greater and Lesser Antilles, long
before the arrival of the (peaceful) Arawaks and later the (warlike)
Caribs. The Palmirene government has sponsored excavations on the island as
a prestige project, and some remarkable finds have been made.

   I had been working for nearly five years in the Australian outback, at
well-known locations such as Lake Mungo where the continent's oldest human
fossils have been unearthed, Box Gully and Kow Swamp.  I love the fieldwork
but had been contemplating a change of scenery and focus.  So when I heard
that a postdoctoral research fellowship was being offered by Palmira
College, I considered my options.  The remuneration was nothing special,
more of an allowance really, but my airfares and accommodation would be
paid for.  More importantly, the modest scale of the excavations would
provide an opportunity for me to be a key player on the dig and not just a
glorified dogsbody (what Americans call a gofer).  Even so, I didn't
exactly jump at the chance; but I somehow felt it was my destiny to spend a
year in the fabled homeland of some of my ancestors (and living relatives).

   I received word that my application had been successful shortly before
Christmas and a week after my 28th birthday.  I'm not averse to admitting
that my family connection, though tenuous, may have been a factor.  The
starting date was still six months away, but there were a number of
orientation sessions via video conferencing.  These concentrated on
technical and professional issues, and not so much the local lifestyle. 
During them I got acquainted with my future colleagues.  It's a
multinational enterprise, mainly British and North American.  (Palmirene
historians are more interested in the "proto-colonial" times, by which they
mean the notorious pirate state of the eighteenth century.) The director is
an American ethno-archaeologist, Professor Rebecca Hayden.  I also spoke
with her deputy and other associates; and as this was during Palmira's wet
season, they were back in their home bases.

   However, the fact that Palmira would be different from any of the places
I'd worked at so far became obvious during one of our online meetings.  I
had been joined by Daniel, who was halfway through his Master's program and
was looking to convert to a PhD.  As his academic adviser, I convinced him
that a season working on Palmira would be good for his rÃ(C)sumÃ(C).  We
were watching, on a split screen, Rebecca, her deputy Mike, and the curator
of the Palmira Museum, Marcia Robbins.  And we were both startled when the
latter's image appeared live from Palmira.  She's an elegant, attractive
woman aged in her early forties, dark-eyed, mahogany-skinned and
raven-haired.  She was visible from the waist up, bare-breasted.  Neither
Rebecca nor Mike seemed at all fazed by her appearance; and once Daniel and
I had overcome our initial shock the discussion went on as normal.

   Yet it was hard not to feel some embarrassment, sitting with Daniel and
seeing this woman so unabashedly exposed.  I later reviewed hercurriculum
vitaeon the museum's website.  Although a native of Palmira, she spends
much of the year in Toronto, where she's a professor of anthropology.  A
century after their forebears began to settle down from their peripatetic
ways, many Palmirenes still maintain an itinerant way of life.  For the
women in particular, coming home must be a bracing experience.

   ***



   I discussed my decision with my family, especially Grandma.  They were
supportive, though perhaps a little perplexed.  My boyfriend Matthew, who
was used to our long periods of separation, accepted this latest one with
equanimity; but I noted that he seemed keener about visiting me on Palmira
than he did when I was working in the wilderness.

   During my twelve months on the island, I would be dividing my time
between excavations in the field and educational duties at Palmira College.
That a relatively small community can boast such an institution is a
tribute to the far-sightedness of successive governments, who have promoted
tertiary education in order to prevent a "brain drain" by keeping and
attracting educated young people.  It used to be affiliated with the
University of the West Indies but is now fully autonomous, with two
campuses.  I would be based at the postgraduate school in the capital,
RÃ(C)gate.  The undergraduate campus and Palmira Museum are located in the
nearby community of Grandin.  This is a "special administrative district"
which has its own by-laws.  Most of Palmira's families live there, although
many of the adults work outside.  Within Grandin's boundaries the nude law
is not enforced.

   I travelled alone; Daniel would not be joining me for another few weeks.
The flight from Australia did not proceed directly to Palmira because the
island's airport cannot handle the big jets.  Instead, I stayed overnight
in Kingston, Jamaica, and flew on a smaller plane the next day.  The
check-in area was located at one end of the terminal, and a queue had
already begun to form when we arrived.  It was a little disquieting to be
standing under the destination sign as passers-byen routeto other, less
exotic places, turned to look.  They must have noticed that we carried less
luggage than most tourists.

   There were about fifty people on board our aircraft.  Most were in
couples, and generally of about my age.  There was an all-girl group in
their early twenties, about half a dozen solo women but no single men. 
Seated directly in front of me were two girls whose sartorial style was a
kind of punk-goth fusion and who spent most of the three-hour trip cuddling
and giggling.  Most of the females were dressed in skimpy fashion, although
really no less than if we'd been on our way to any tropical island resort.

   At the rear of the cabin were a woman and two younger males in spruce
dark suits, hunched over open attachÃ(C) cases and laptops.  The woman, who
seemed in charge, looked familiar  -" some sort of showbiz celebrity, a
sports star or perhaps a politician.  I couldn't immediately put a name to
the face.  She and her companions had not been in the queue, and when they
passed my seat I heard them speaking in the Palmirene dialect.  (This is a
Creole English.  I have studied languages as part of my ethnographic
research, and Palmirene speech reminds me of Bermudian.  It retains an
old-fashioned quality but has been strongly influenced by immigration from
Europe and the Americas, including other parts of the West Indies.)

   Our aircrew were smartly attired in spick-and-span uniforms.  The flight
attendants wore short sea-green dresses.  The captain, who came back to say
hello, was an attractive woman with emerald eyes and close-cropped,
copper-red hair.  She had the friendly, no-nonsense manner of a veteran and
spoke with a faint Canadian accent mellowed by several years of living and
working in the West Indies.  She had on a snugly fitting white blouse and a
black miniskirt, without stockings.  It was a more revealing outfit than
you might expect on an airline pilot, but by no means risquÃ(C).  But when
we were inside the terminal awaiting the arrival of our bags, they overtook
us, towing their trolley-cases, and they all turned to wave good-bye.  The
women had taken off their uniforms and underwear.  The captain's skirt and
blouse were folded over one arm, her panties and bra draped neatly on top.
Her co-pilot, who was the only male in the group, scrutinized the bodies of
all the women he passed, but he seemed completely oblivious to the unclad
forms of his fellow crew members.  Despite my having primed myself for this
experience, the scene was still breathtaking.

   Nearby, another scene caught my attention.  While the rest of us
gathered to retrieve our luggage, the three people from the rear of the
plane were ushered directly into the customs inspection area.  We watched
as they were greeted by two officials, a male in uniform and a femaleau
naturel.  The two young men discarded their jackets and ties, while the
woman just as quickly and easily stripped off all her clothing.  She folded
each item before handing it to one of the young men.  She even removed her
shoes and earrings and wristwatch.  Her undressing revealed a gracefully
athletic figure.  Her brown skin glistened.  And oddly enough, this is when
I recognized her (from a photo in the online guidebook)  -" Palmira's
Minister for Tourism.  Between giving instructions to her assistants, she
was nodding silent, friendly greetings to the customs and immigration
officials.  I was as impressed by the lack of pomp and ceremony which
attended the arrival of a VIP as by her casual, comfortable nudity.

   "Welcome to Palmira," one of the ladies near me whispered.

   As we turned our attention back to the baggage conveyor, a further
curious tableau presented itself.  The passengers from the charter plane
included a family  -" mother, father and two adolescent boys.  I had read
that women who are residents of Grandin don't have to strip if heading
there directly.  Possibly this was one of the few families who live outside
the enclave, or maybe they were detouring, perhaps to visit relatives.

   The woman was tall and well-built, with silky-sheen, chestnut-brown skin
and glossy black, ornamentally woven hair.  The man was almost half a head
shorter than his statuesque wife, stout and balding; and he bore the
harassed, docile expression which you see on the faces of the domestically
downtrodden.  He wore dapper, neatly pressed white trousers a gaudy, floral
pattern shirt and a red neckerchief.  Creating a somewhat comical effect,
the boys were dressed the same as their father.

   The woman had already shed her clothing, including her shoes.  She
seemed completely at ease with her nudity, like the other women in the
terminal making no attempt to conceal anything.  Between her thighs, a
luxuriant growth proclaimed her marital status.  (According to the
guidebook, the local custom is that only single women remove their pubic
hair.) She held herself erect, her shoulders drawn subtly backwards,
accentuating her breasts.  One leg was poised just forward of the other,
bent slightly at the knee.  Her posture was a most intriguing blend of coy,
modest and provocative.  She seemed in no way self-conscious, standing
there stripped and exposed, her fully clothed husband and sons by her side.
To each of them, this was totally natural.

   The woman's composure contrasted with the agitation of her husband, who
was impatient for the arrival of their suitcases, and with the frenetic
energy of their sons.  When one of the boys was just about to climb onto
the carousel, Mama seized him by the collar and hauled him back to her
side. He remained there with his brother, surly but obedient, until their
bags had been retrieved.  Watching them, I was fascinated by this image of
a Palmirene family, the matriarchy not at all compromised by the fact that
this woman was forbidden by law to conceal any part of her body.

   We proceeded to the customs checkpoint and I was one of the last to go
through.  I had just one piece of luggage.  The officer, who greeted us
with a terse apology for the inconvenience, was a ruddy-complexioned man in
dark trousers, a white shirt and a navy-blue tie.  He glanced at my gear
and waved me on.  At the adjacent counter, attending to the honeymoon
couple, was a woman whose only accoutrements were a blue armband and
collar. Supervising the proceedings was the woman who'd greeted the
Minister.  She was small in size but conveyed a distinct air of authority.
Blue-and-red ribbons encircled her throat and upper arms.  She perused some
paperwork and spoke briefly to the man, who offered her an amiable salute.
Neither seemed mindful of the eloquent symbolism of this gesture, a man in
uniform saluting a completely nude female.

   By the time we reached the arrivals lounge, the other people from our
flight were already experiencing, at first hand, life on the island of
Palmira.  The women were undressing.  Some appeared relaxed  -" those who
weren't first-time visitors or who were otherwise uninhibited.  The rest
were showing various degrees of embarrassment.  Some giggled nervously,
while others displayed tight-lipped bravado.  The all-girl group used
teasing and playful banter to overcome their bashfulness.  The only women
in the room who seemed to be reveling in their striptease were the
goth-punk pair, laughing and larking as they peeled the clothes off each
other's bodies.  Some of the men assisted their ladies, but most just stood
back and observed, solicitous and sympathetic to any lingering shyness, but
loving the show.

   None of us would be here if we were scared or unwilling.  Few of the
bodies had tan lines because most women who visit Palmira acquaint
themselves with outdoors nudity before leaving home.  So the source of
discomfiture was its one-sided nature.  As the women stripped naked, the
men remained fully clothed.  And I'd expected our disrobing debut to be
more private.  Yet this was probably the best initiation, since we were
going to be exposed in public anyway.  Nevertheless, to maintain some
dignity and decorum there was a sign on the wall which decreed "NO
CAMERAS".



   I had rehearsed this moment of truth.  Yet my feelings were mixed, and
my ambivalence was not resolved by the behaviour of a couple nearby.  From
the evidence of their briefcases I concluded they were on some sort of
business trip; from the husband's attire I deduced they were engineers. 
(I've been on university campuses long enough to have a sense of this.) As
the woman slowly removed her clothes, they were engaged in a bizarrely
mundane conversation and she was doing most of the talking.  "Don't forget
the duty-free...  I wonder what the kids are up to right now...  Are you
sure you cancelled the newspapers?" Either she was covering up her nerves,
or she really was this blasÃ(C); it was hard to tell.  Yet she fondled each
article of her discarded clothing before handing it to her husband, as if
it were a precious jewel.

   The distraction proved useful.  Without thinking, I had pushed the
straps of my dress and bra off my shoulders.  But as I reached behind my
back to draw down the zip, I could feel the gaze of the people, especially
the males, around me.  Most of the women in the room were already naked;
but it's an interesting aspect of our psychology that the act of undressing
seems to evoke an even stronger response than the resulting nudity.  And as
I stripped, I noticed how much I was focused on doing what one normally
does without thinking.  I allowed my dress to drop freely to my hips, and
it fell into a heap around my ankles when I wiggled my backside.  I slid
the rear of my bra around to the front, undid the clasp and, sucking in a
deep breath, I plucked it from my chest.  I immediately regretted my
flourish, because my breasts wobbled, welcoming their newfound freedom. 
This sensation, combined with my mood, had the inevitable effect.  I felt
my face becoming flushed and a telltale tingling in my nipples as they
began to harden.  But I wasn't alone in experiencing that.

   I stepped out of my dress and crouched to neatly fold it and place it,
with my bra, in my duffel bag.  I don't really know if I was stalling, but
I took my time doing it.  I still wore my knickers, the final piece of
clothing, small as it was, which attached me to the world beyond the shores
of Palmira.  When that was gone, I would be giving up a part of myself. 
For the next year, people would gaze upon my naked form, viewing my most
intimate places, sharing my body.  Taking another deep breath, I stood up,
reached to my knickers and pushed them down my thighs.  For a few seconds I
remained slightly bent forward, partly shielding my nakedness from view. 
But once I'd removed my pants completely, I held myself proudly erect, clad
only my Balenciaga slingback sandals.

   It was a strange situation.  There were around fifty people in the room
and thirty were bare-skinned, so I was hardly on my own.  It's the same
throughout Palmira (outside the enclave); more than sixty per cent of the
population, local and visitor, are naked.  But what made me a little queasy
at being publicly exposed was that the men around me remained fully
dressed. It might not have been so much different from back home, when I
had "practiced" public nudity.  Stripping all the way was permitted on the
municipal beaches, but only for women.  That might come across as sexist,
but the rationale is simple (even if you don't agree).  A man's uncovered
genitalia are more on open display than a woman's.  However, there's a
difference here on Palmira.  Nudity is compulsory, if you're a woman, and
you experience it more intensely for that reason.  Yet it's liberating. 
You feel flattered and honored, even privileged, because it is theraison
d'êtreof the nude law "to celebrate the natural beauty of the female
body."

   Contemplating this, I'd become so lost in thought that when I finally
looked about I saw that people had begun to move off.  I reached down for
my bag but my hand was politely brushed aside by a young man who picked it
up instead.

   "Welcome to Palmira," I heard once more.

   The voice was familiar.  Marcia is as striking in the flesh as she is on
a screen.  (And the expression "in the flesh" had now taken on a whole new
meaning!) She has a sophisticated, dignified style, in a way rather
intimidating, especially how she looks at you with luminous, hypnotic eyes.
Her voice is as smooth as honey but she speaks with unmistakable authority.
She introduced her assistant, Ricardo.  He's a good-looking young man but
was dressed like an apparition out of a vintage tourist brochure, wearing
cream pleated slacks, Hawaiian shirt, Venetian loafers and aviator Ray-Bans
perched atop a pink Panama hat.  He spoke with a rich Jamaican accent and
displayed not a trace of humor, so I couldn't tell if his attire was meant
to be ironical.  Of course, next to his naked boss he looked anything
butoutrÃ(C).

   Marcia stayed behind as Ricardo and I departed the lounge, crossing the
terminal in silence.  Ahead of us, the all-girl group crowded at the exit
doors, laughing and mocking and daring each other to be the first out.  We
passed them, emerging into brilliant sunlight.  Over the doorway, a sign in
big red lettering stridently declared

   "NO ADULT FEMALE WEARING CLOTHES MAY PROCEED BEYOND THIS POINT."

   ***



   Palmira's airport commands exquisite views, in one direction a turquoise
ocean of startling clarity, in the other leafy hillsides dotted with neat,
whitewashed houses, and between them the picture-postcard town of RÃ(C)gate
spread out along the arc of the bay.

   The concourse pavement shimmered in the early afternoon heat.  Lined up
at the curb were several open-air taxis.  These are rather quaint,
customized pickup trucks, with bench seating along the sides of the tray
facing inwards under a canvas awning.  Ricardo led me to the third one in
the queue, spoke to the driver and showed her my ticket.  She was tall and
gorgeous, lean but shapely, with skin that gleamed golden in the sun's
rays, sparkling amber eyes and lustrous blonde hair which cascaded across
her slim shoulders.  I was ready to believe the folklore that this island
is home to the world's most stunning women.

   She bid us welcome and announced herself as Catriona.  Her taxi was the
shuttle to where I'd be spending my first two nights, the HÃ'tel
AndromÃ"de. (Quite a number of places on the island have French names,
leftovers from a bygone era.) Ricardo and I climbed into the back.  There
was just enough room for us and the three couples already on board.  One of
the women, English and in her late thirties, was evidently comfortable with
her nudity, although the way she pointed out the attractions to her husband
when we were on the move made me think she was a first-time visitor.  Next
to them were the two girls who'd sat in front of me on the plane.  Even
without their punk-goth garb, their hair colors, perforations and pastel
complexions proclaimed their lifestyle.  And there was something else, a
secret which cannot be kept on Palmira.  On each girl, amidst the silken
tufts between her thighs, I glimpsed the glint of a small gold ring
piercing the rose-petal folds.  We exchanged smiles.

   I could not help but squirm when I took my place on the bench.  The faux
leather seat was warm and sticky under my bare backside.  It was a slow
journey through downtown, because pedestrians share the streets with the
taxis (although no other vehicular traffic is allowed) and there seems to
be no operational concept of right-of-way; so our buggy slowed from a crawl
to a snail's pace in order to weave our way through the crowds.  Whenever
we swerved, and when we turned off the highway to head up into the hills,
and as we climbed a gravelly, undulating road towards the hotel, I felt a
delicious tingle as my skin peeled away from the upholstery and clung again
when I sank back down.  It was weirdly erotic, and as my unconstrained
breasts swayed to the rhythm, during the half-hour drive these stimuli
united in a thrill of sensation.  None of us women could suppress the
occasional gasp and sigh.

   I was seated between Ricardo on my right and the other woman passenger
on my left.  The English husband was sitting directly across from me.  He
every so often let his gaze wander over my body, though our eyes never
connected.  He was a tall man, and his knees grazed against mine when the
vehicle rocked sideways.  We weren't packed in; but Ricardo's thighs
touched mine whenever we lurched forward, and those of the woman next to me
when we jerked to a halt.  The feel of the men's trousers and the woman's
warm flesh against my bare skin tickled my senses.  Even if I'd wanted to
put the nudity out of my mind, it was impossible.

   While the other men were understandably charmed by our aroused
reactions, Ricardo either didn't notice or pretended not to.  It had
perplexed me, before we started out, why he'd arranged the taxi-ride, but
his reason quickly became obvious.  What better introduction to Palmira
could there be?

   We drove eastwards through the town, which hugs the shorefront of
Regatta Bay on the northern side of the island.  RÃ(C)gate's western
precincts merge into the Robina district, where the airport is located, and
the Grandin enclave.  The eastern end diffuses into the forested ridge
which forms the island's backbone.  The parts are linked by two major
thoroughfares.  The Esplanade follows the curve of the bay and is lined
with cafeterias, bars and nightclubs, as well as travel agencies, vehicle
hire operators, duty-free stores, souvenir shops and refreshment kiosks. 
The broader Boulevard runs further inland but roughly parallel.  Along it
are located department stores and specialty shops, the fancier restaurants,
offices and banks.  Near the middle of town, the two avenues are connected
by Patrick's Emporium, the historic marketplace.

   In contrast to the cool, quiet calm of the airport terminal, the
Esplanade was vibrant with exotic sights, sounds and smells.  The day was
pleasantly warm and the salt air wafting off the waves was infused with
aromas from the coffee shops and fragrances from the gardens.  Tourists and
locals mingled noisily, haggling, arguing, relaxing, loitering.  It could
have been any Caribbean resort, with perspiring men in billowing shorts and
flamboyant shirts, young men in straw hats peddling knick-knacks, red-faced
salesmen in white suits touting their trade, jaded tour guides shepherding
their groups and organizing rides.

   But then there were the women.  Visitors, vendors, agents, guides;
shopping, sightseeing, plying the crowds outside the storefronts; hanging
onto the arms of husbands, boyfriends girlfriends; strolling or striding;
wearing backpacks, carrying briefcases or shopping bags; dark, light, pale,
black, brown, pink.  All were stark naked.  Some wore hats and shoes, but
in between was nothing but bare skin.

   After just a few minutes of observation, I could distinguish local women
from tourists.  The former carry themselves with a self-assurance and
self-possession which come with day-to-day experience.  To any of these
women, covering her body would be as unnatural and discomforting as
unfamiliar nudity was to me that day.  Meanwhile, among the visitors it
isn't hard to spot the new arrivals, although not always by skin tones or
tan lines.  The newcomers' bodies will be slightly hunched, as if against
the cold, even when it is sunny and hot.  They cling to partners and avoid
eye contact with all who pass by.  Those with at least a few days'
experience of public nudity hold themselves with more ease and confidence,
but they nevertheless stand out from the locals in the way they move and
how they look about, not yet entirely accustomed to the extraordinary
scenery, and less so to being part of it.

   We left the town and drove up a hill to the HÃ'tel AndromÃ"de,
overlooking RÃ(C)gate a long way from the water but with a superb panoramic
view of the bay.  It is a genteel establishment, graceful in design, set
amidst manicured lawns, carefully tended gardens and lush groves of palms
and pines.  It's comfortable rather than luxurious.  In the driveway, chips
of fractured granite crunched cheerily underfoot as we disembarked.  On a
marble plinth flanking the portico there is a bronze sculpture of the
daughter of Cepheus, chained naked to a rock and gazing forlornly to the
heavens.  The building's faux-Renaissance façade might at first appear a
little pretentious, but it is not overdone, and the interior's fine stucco
decoration and period furniture do set the AndromÃ"de above the norm.

   We thanked our chauffeuse and were met by a long-faced doorman who was a
personification of the hotel, attired in a crimson uniform with copious
gold braid, befitting the old-world charm.  He politely cleared his throat.

   "Excuse me, ladies." He pointed tactfully towards our feet.

   I was uncomprehending at first, until one of the other women exclaimed:
"Good grief, this place really is posh!"

   We laughed and I took off my sandals.  We approached the reception desk
across a gleaming marble floor.  In my bare feet, I tiptoed charily over
the hard, cold surface.

   The young woman behind the counter had sleek brown skin and eyes like
black diamonds.  She wore her hair plaited in elaborate, beaded cornrows.
She spoke in a calypso accent with a subtle patrician overlay.  A plaque on
the desktop identified her as Regina.  Like most Palmirene females I'd seen
so far, she was extremely attractive.  So I do wonder if three centuries of
nudity have given rise to a natural selection process that has made all the
women beautiful, or whether the authorities give preference to the most
attractive immigrants.  But maybe it's just an illusion.  In reality, as
I'd seen on the Esplanade, the women  -" locals and visitors  -" are not
all beauty queens, by no means supermodel-slim or triathlete-trim.  But I
was finding out that once I'd gotten past the initial reticence, being on
display in public is a powerful and empowering expression of your
womanhood. I've always believed that positive feelings about yourself
radiate to everyone around you.  (And I was soon to meet a woman who
epitomizes that.)

   All of us standing at the desk were spellbound by this vision of
unadorned Caribbean splendor.  I was the first to recover, signed in and
was given two room keys and some brochures.  Regina reminded us of the
hotel's amenities, including a saloon bar and dining room, a swimming pool
and gymnasium; and she bade us both have an enjoyable stay.  Ricardo just
grinned.

   "I shall leave you here.  I'll be back at nine tomorrow morning?"

   It took me a couple of seconds to realize he'd asked a question.  I
nodded and said "That's fine."

   There was no attendant to carry my luggage, which was just the one bag
anyway.  I took the stairs, and found my suite on the third floor.  It was
modest but comfortable, with a balcony that offered a splendid view of the
bay.  I took a quick shower, and it was a funny feeling to realize that
once I'd toweled myself dry I was ready without further ado to go
downstairs.  But I couldn't resist scrutinizing myself in the full-length
bedroom mirror.  I performed a pirouette, arms outstretched, and was not
displeased.  I'm rather short.  My lips are a tad too thin, my nose
slightly crooked, my eyes a fraction too far apart, skin perhaps in need of
better care.  My hair is rather unkempt.  (A shag cut demands discipline.)
My breasts aren't large, my hips are narrow, my backside is small; but I
keep in shape, the contours are in the right places and I have nice legs.
I'm told I have a lovely smile.  My pubic hair bothered me, a little.  Just
a few wisps blur the outlines of my crease, but I'd read that in Palmirene
custom this is like wearing a wedding band.  I decided that was not a bad
thing, at least for now.

   I went down to the bar.  The place was almost empty, with a couple
sitting at one of the half-dozen tables.  The waitress waved her notepad to
let me know I'd been seen.  She was streamlined and tawny-skinned.  (I must
say that I don't normally focus so much on women's physical appearance...
at least I didn't, until Palmira.)

   I eased myself warily into one of the big lounge chairs but couldn't
hold back another gasp.  Unlike the taxi's upholstery, the leather was cool
and slick against my back and bottom.  I felt my heart begin to race and my
chest start to heave, and it took a few moments to regain my composure.  It
was extraordinary how something as prosaic as sitting down in a leather
armchair could be a new and exhilarating experience.

   The waitress took my order for coffee, and while she was fetching it the
couple came over and asked if they could join me.  Feeling somewhat ill at
ease  -" sitting alone naked in a bar in a foreign country can do that to
you  -" and a little resentful that I'd been abandoned by Ricardo, I was
happy to have company.  Ted and Valerie are aged in their mid-to-late
forties.  He is bespectacled and somewhat paunchy, with a florid face and a
double chin.  In his gaudy shirt and voluminous Bermuda shorts, he was an
endearing caricature of the jovial American tourist; and indeed, as he
greeted the barman, he spoke with a broad Midwestern accent.  She, on the
other hand, is well-built and well-toned, with platinum-blonde hair and a
pleasant face, keen eyes and a refulgent smile.  She is curvaceous with an
all-over even tan.  When she sat, I noticed that she pursed her lips as her
bare bottom came into contact with the chair.  The touch of naked flesh on
a seat is obviously something you don't get used to quickly.

   The waitress came back with my coffee.  Ted inspected her body from one
end to the other, his gaze lingering at the most interesting places along
the way.  I reckoned he must do this every time, and was utterly unabashed.
The young woman just smiled good-naturedly, completely relaxed at having
her every nook and cranny examined so thoroughly.

   I'd received only a cursory browse from Ted, but I wasn't offended.  I
could see he was showing restraint for the neophyte.  Even so, I must have
begun to blush, because Valerie leaned across and patted me on the knee. 
Then she did something that made me shiver.  She gently pushed my knees
apart, just a little.  It might have come across as an invasively intimate
thing to do, but I realized I had been clamping my thighs.

   "First time, sweetie?" she asked indulgently.  "It takes some getting
used to at first, but it's the best feeling in the world, you'll see."

   "This is our third trip." Ted explained.  "We'll keep coming back, too.
Can't get enough of it."

   Val slapped him playfully on the arm.  "No, you can't."

   Ted's enthusiasm and Val's felicity were infectious.  I started to
relax, still somewhat tense but more at ease than I had been since flying
out of Kingston.

   "First time we came here..." Ted began.

   "I hid in our room for two days," Valerie continued.  "By the time we
left, I had almost forgotten what it was like to wear clothes.  You get so
into it." She took a sip of her cocktail.  "There are basically two types
of men here, and believe it or not they don't divide cleanly into locals
and visitors.  Some will look at you out of the corners of their eyes. 
They're self-conscious about it, but they can't keep their peepers off you.
The other kind will stand there and take a good long look, and when they're
satisfied they go about their business."

   "A naked woman is as natural and as glorious as sunrise and sunset," Ted
cut in.

   "He gets poetic around pretty girls," Valerie scoffed, good-naturedly,
"but he's right, you know.  Take some advice.  Don't be ashamed or
embarrassed.  If they're looking at you, it's because they like what they
see.  Treat it as a compliment.  So don't try to hide anything.  Let them
see what you have."

   She paused, letting her words sink in.  Ted, meanwhile, was ogling two
women who had just walked in.

   "God made the man first..." he said.

   "...  and left the best for last," she went on.  "But the island has
lots of things to offer besides the obvious.  Some very good restaurants.
Wonderful scenery, especially when you get out of the town.  Lots to do. 
Snorkeling and scuba diving  -" that's our hobby.  One last piece of advice
though.  Sun protection is a must, particularly on your pussy."

   I drew in a breath.

   "You don't want him sticking it in there when you've got a bad case of
sunburn." She paused.  "There is a him?"

   Ted and Val were an interesting couple; and I had no doubt who, back
home at least, wore the pants.

   After some time and a single glass of wine, I managed to extricate
myself from the T-V show.  I admired their forthright and comfortable
manner, but they were the sort of pair whosejoie de vivrewill quickly
exhaust you.  Their natural habitat is the large gathering where they can
pass, or be passed, from one audience to the next.

   I retired to my room for a nap but couldn't sleep so caught up on some
reading.  When it was time for dinner, I discovered that getting ready to
go out for the evening is much simpler when you have literally nothing to
wear.  I decided to follow the lead of Palmirene women and eschew make-up.
(They take the "natural beauty of the female body" seriously.)

   I opted to take the elevator because it happened to arrive just as I
stepped out into the corridor.  (I was the only passenger boarding on the
third floor, so it must stop automatically.) I immediately lamented my
laziness, because the car was overcrowded, with four women including the
goth-punk pair and two men.  We weren't pressed together, but our bodies
touched as the car wobbled downwards.  It was an antiquated lift which
rattled and groaned and travelled very slowly.  I happened to be wedged
sideways between the two males.  The shirts and trousers of the man behind
me brushed against my bare back and bottom, those in front of me against my
breasts.  As in the taxi, it was a peculiar feeling.  The fabric tickled
but also teased.  The descent seemed to take forever.  I only just managed
to stifle a moan.

   The restaurant was a fancy one, with pristine white tablecloths,
starched napkins, silver candleholders  -" all the accoutrements of a
high-class establishment.  The serving staff consisted of two waiters and
four waitresses.  Each of the males wore an elegant uniform of black pants
and ruffled white shirt, with a spruce-green tie and silver-trimmed vest.
The girls were, of course,dÃ(C)shabillÃ(C)head to foot.  They were
marshalled by a pint-sized, intense-looking woman, themaÃ(R)tresse
d'hÃ'tel, whose only accessory to what nature and a vigorous daily workout
had endowed upon her was a thin gold neckband.

   It was with slightly guilty relief that I scanned the room and saw no
sign of Ted and Valerie.  Yet I was fretting that I hadn't booked a table
because the place was filling up.  So I was about to head for the bar to
order a counter meal when the goth-punk girls suggested I join them. 
Perhaps they were just being nice, but Emily and Caitlyn  -" Ems and Cat,
they called each other  -" turned out to be delightful company, erudite and
inquisitive; and I felt guilty about having judged these winsome little
books by their offbeat covers.  They are both petite and pretty, although
I'm not fond of piercings, particularly green-haired Caitlyn's nipple
rings. I was a little puzzled that neither had tattoos, but purple-topped
Emily gave an explanation that made me smile.

   "This is just a phase, you know."

   I wasn't sure if she was being serious, because she had a wry sense of
humor.  Caitlyn was more frivolous; and when a waiter approached she
twisted round in her seat to flirtatiously present him with a full view of
her body.  Yet the way the girls gazed every so often into each other's
eyes, I had the impression they were lovers.  They seemed genuinely
interested in my archaeological work; and I in turn was curious about their
motive for visiting Palmira.  To get in touch with their femininity, was
Emily's enigmatic reply.

   I wish I could have spent more time getting to know them.  They were
setting off in the morning with a hiking party.

   "Use plenty of sunblock," I advised.



   Natural Beauty Pt.  02

   The Joy of Nudity

   I awoke to a chorus of songbirds.  Sunrise was just getting started
behind the ridge at the rear of the hotel.  Regatta Bay was still shrouded
in darkness; scattered clouds glowed pallid pink and orange in the indigo
sky; a sallow near-full moon was sinking in the west.  I imbibed the clean,
crisp, salty air.  I love that lonely, tranquil time when the night's reign
is just ending.

   I heard a noise coming from below.  On the lawn, Emily's and Caitlyn's
group was getting ready to set off on their trek.  In the half-light it was
a wonderfully eccentric tableau.  There were approximately two dozen
people. The males wore the standard hiking apparel.  The women were nude
between their broad-brimmed hats and sturdy hiking boots.  Their bodies
gleamed with sunscreen and their faces were streaked with zinc cream. 
Protected from the sun's worst rays, they were defenseless against a brisk
breeze blowing off the bay.  They were stamping their feet and swinging
their arms.  One of them uttered a reedy cheer when it was time to go.  As
they moved out, bare derriÃ"res wiggled beneath laden backpacks.

   The breeze was beginning to bite, so I retreated inside to make a quick
breakfast of tea and toast in the kitchenette; but as I was about to sit
down I heard voices from the direction of the balcony.  For a second or two
I was bewildered, and a little chilled, then reproached myself because the
people talking were plainly on the adjacent deck.  I tried to be discreet,
peeking through the latticework screen, but was greeted with a cheery "Good
morning!" in German accents from a man and a woman.  I saw, to my shock,
that both were naked, sitting in deck chairs sipping coffee, and apparently
not minding the nip in the air.

   Dieter and Gabrielle were in the second week of their second visit to
Palmira.  They are followers of theFreikörperkultur -" free body culture.
They invited me to come over, and it was their turn to be startled when I
said "Don't get up" and scrambled over the balustrade and around the
partition.  We were only three storeys above the ground, but I am normally
afraid of heights.  I guess Palmira has boosted my bravado.

   There were no more chairs so I leaned against the railing.  Dieter
studied my body so thoroughly that I wondered if an erection was coming;
but as an experienced naturist he knew how to control his responses. 
Nevertheless, his reaction was contrary to my expectations of naturism,
which I'd believed was not sexualized.  Its adherents generally deny
(perhaps in self-defense) that eroticism has any part in their lifestyle.
They reject society's conditioning us to see clothing as a way of
separating ourselves from nature, as a symbol of status and a means for
self-expression.  And in this respect, naturism and nudism (there is a
subtle difference) also impose a form of equality on its practitioners,
without the surrender of individuality.  On Palmira, however, the (public)
nudity is one-sided, and compulsory.  Whatever they do in the privacy of
their suite and balcony, when Dieter and Gabrielle go out he wears clothes
but she does not and is not permitted to.  Yet they embracela
diffÃ(C)rence, they take pleasure in it.

   I'd always been aware that the unspoken, underlying premise of Palmira's
nude law is the "cmnf" phenomenon  -" clothed male naked female (although I
think "nfcm" puts the emphasis where it belongs)  -" in which the erotic
connotations are unmistakable.

   The most celebrated depiction of "cmnf" isLe DÃ(C)jeuner sur l'Herbe,
the painting by Ã0/0douard Manet which shows two fully clothed gentlemen
enjoying a luncheon on the grass with a naked woman.  She is staring out of
the frame, expressing no embarrassment, let alone shame.  She has possibly
just come out of the water and is drying herself in the air, because there
is a second, half-clad woman bathing in the background.  But the figures
are languid, and there appears to be no sexual tension in the scene. 
Nothing would change if both women were fully clothed.  However, the
artist's intent was to create, in the worlds of Ã0/0mile Zola, a vivid
contrast.  And that is what Palmira provides, a vivid contrast.

   Thereisa sexual tension intrinsic to the nude-law culture, because only
one sex is naked, and that sexmustbe naked.  And if you see this as a power
imbalance, it appears to favour the male.  But that's an illusion, because
we have chosen to come to Palmira, to be subject to the nude law.  Ours has
been an empowered choice.

   So having done my customary overanalyzing, I left Dieter and Gabrielle.
I decided to take a stroll around the hotel grounds and to the shoreline, a
few hundred metres down the hill.  I waited until I was outdoors before I
put on my hiking shoes, and won an approving nod from the doorman as I
tiptoed across the cold tiles.  The footwear, a cap and a layer of
sunscreen were all I had on.  The day was already heating up, but it was a
pleasant walk.  Nearby, a squad of gardeners was at work.  Beads of sweat
stippled their skin, and the fact that half of the bodies were completely
exposed was no longer a novelty.

   On the spur of the moment I resolved to walk all the way to the centre
of the town.  I calculated it to be, at a brisk pace, about twenty minutes
away.  I would be back in plenty of time for my rendezvous with Ricardo. 
The road is steep at the beginning but levels out when you reach the
coastal flats about half-way.  There the Esplanade starts its run along the
shoreline.  On your way down, you sense the history of this island as you
pass remnants of the serriform rows of fortifications that once snaked up
the hillside towards the stronghold overlooking the harbor.

   RÃ(C)gate's population is about three thousand, twice that for the
conurbation of RÃ(C)gate, Robina, Grandin and proximate villages.  The
business and entertainment heart is bustling, noisy, in places gaudy but
rarely tacky or seedy.  The Palmirenes disdain the high-rise development
which has tarnished the glamour of other resort communities, but there are
nevertheless unmistakable signs of progress and prosperity.  The
weatherboard houses are modest but well-maintained.  The overall tone is
affluent but egalitarian, combining colonial-style elegance with modern
glass and steel.  There are no ornate villas, oversized mansions or opulent
hotels.

   The pedestrian traffic was relatively light until I reached Patrick's
Emporium.  Nobody seems to know who the eponymous Patrick was, but this has
been the marketplace since when piracy and slave-trading were the mainstays
of the Palmirene economy.  Nowadays the lively activity is focused on
tourism.  There are fish, fruit and vegetable counters, a veritable maze of
trinket stalls, and dozens of roaming vendors.  There are even women's
clothing outlets, selling everything from bikinis to ball gowns.  Because
it's at the heart of everything, people were coming and going, in all
directions, hunting for early-morning bargains, seeking breakfast or
heading off to work.  Some were leaving the beach, the only public place
where male and female bodies approach any degree of symmetry.  Yet even on
the strand the difference remains.  You are warned in the literature, and
by shorefront signage, that male nudity is prohibited.  Indeed, Palmirenes
are rather prudish about this.  Exiting the beach, men are expected to at
least put on a shirt, and trousers or shorts arede rigueurdowntown.

   I wandered aimlessly for a while, as did many of my fellow
perambulators, taking in the sights.  I was particularly interested in the
daily lives of the residents, since I was now technically one of them; and
I found my exemplars in a couple sitting in a sidewalk cafÃ(C) having
coffee and croissants.  From the evidence of their laptops and folios, I
deduced that they worked for one of the banks or law firms which populate
the Boulevard.  (Offshore banking is a growing, albeit somewhat
controversial, source of income, rivalling tourism in importance to the
local economy.) The man was dressed in an expensive tropical-style business
suit.  Preoccupied with a conversation on his phone, he seemed indifferent
to his companion.  She spoke with an English accent but was well and evenly
tanned.  Extravagant red curls swept over her bare shoulders but clear of
her breasts.  I pictured her as a bright, ambitious junior executive making
a name for herself in the City of London, and learning that she had been
transferred to a branch office in the sunny West Indies.  ("The law says I
must what?") As she and her partner rose to leave, she turned away from me,
and I saw that the crisscross pattern of the seat cover was imprinted in
faint reddish weals on her buttocks.

   I returned to the Esplanade, passing two police constables on patrol, a
man and a woman.  His uniform was a khaki shirt, slate-blue trousers and a
broad-brimmed hat.  Hers consisted of thin blue ribbons around her upper
arms.  She wore shoes at one end of her and a sun visor at the other with
nothing in between except a narrow belt, from which were slung a baton and
a radio.  They paused to assist a couple who appeared lost.  The man wanted
to take a photo and they affably obliged.  Farther along the street, two
girls were eating ice-cream.  Lush blonde locks splayed across the chest of
one.  The policewoman amiably instructed the girl to tie back her hair. 
Nothing must conceal what nature has bestowed.

   It was time to return to the hotel to meet Ricardo.  It was getting hot
and I was walking uphill, so the sea breeze provided a welcome respite.

   By now I was coming to terms with my nudity.  I discerned myself
striding with confidence through the crowds, not flaunting myself but
enjoying what attention I received.  Valerie was right.  Everyone looks at
you.  It's why they have the nude law and it's why tourists come here.  But
in one sense it's easier for the males.  Nudity exposes not just women's
bodies, but our thoughts and feelings as well.  Those who pretend they are
not affected are betrayed by flushed faces but as well by raised nipples.
You cannot, even for a moment, escape, hide or forget what you are.

   ***



   I was back at the hotel in plenty of time for a shower.  I switched my
shoes for sandals, but carried them as I went down to the bar for a coffee
while waiting for Ricardo.  He turned up just as Ted and Valerie came in.
They smiled and winked, but moved on.  Ricardo took me out to a small,
open-sided vehicle something like a golf buggy.  There are a lot of these
on Palmira.  The island has one of the highest population densities in the
Caribbean region; so to reduce traffic congestion severe restrictions are
placed on the size and power of private motor vehicles.

   It's easy to see why the Palmirenes are so protective of their paradise.
It is one of the most picturesque and fragile environments in the West
Indies.  Most of the people reside along the west coast in the three
municipalities.  The rest live in scattered communities across the island's
thirty-four square kilometers (thirteen square miles).  Nestled between the
harbor and hills, RÃ(C)gate is the seat of government, chief port and
commercial centre.  Grandin is a dormitory town.  Robina is the transport
hub, built around the airport which services the island with a direct daily
connection to Jamaica and regular flights from most other parts of the
Caribbean.  The other major population centre is Frigate Island, with a few
hundred permanent inhabitants and several hotels.  It lies to the
north-east, accessible via inter-island ferry and water-taxi.

   Having no rivers or natural lakes, Palmira is completely reliant on
rainfall storage for its water supply, so farming is difficult and most
foodstuffs must be imported.  Some locals still engage in fishing and
boat-building.  Banking is the emergent source of revenue but is heavily
regulated to avoid the scandals which have tainted that sector elsewhere.
Palmira issues its own money, although the US dollar, UK pound and East
Caribbean dollar arede factolegal tender.  Other currencies are accepted,
and the local banks exchange cash for a very small fee.  Unemployment is
virtually non-existent and the people enjoy one of the highestper
capitaincomes in the world, even if most abjure extravagant and
ostentatious lifestyles.

   The main industry is, obviously, tourism.  In addition to the idyllic
tropical setting and superb scenery, the colourful history and unique way
of life have made Palmira a popular destination for adventurers and
romantics, thrill-seekers and pleasure-seekers.  With most of the workforce
engaged in tourist-related activities and more than half foreign-born, it
is not surprising that Palmira has a relatively young population. 
Furthermore, the sex ratio is lopsided, with 138 females for every 100
males.  No other country in the world comes close to this figure; and it is
the nude law which is mainly responsible.  Women are easily seduced by this
island.  We come here to work and to play.

   The trickle of tourists which started early in the twentieth century had
become a steady flow by the 1970s.  Female nudity became an attraction for
jaded jetsetters bored with the topless beaches of Saint-Tropez and the
fashionable hideaways of Montego Bay and Mustique.  Laudatory articles in
tourist magazines like the one that had attracted my attention, and in
publications such asNational Geographic,Time-Life, Newsweek and (naturally)
Playboy highlighted the attractions of "gleaming golden sands, shimmering
azure waters, dazzling cerulean skies and glistening, naked female bodies"
for a receptive audience.  "Don't bother packing much else besides your
toothbrush," one well-known travel journalist advised her distaff readers.

   As a result, this once sleepy backwater has grown rapidly in size and
sophistication.  Consequently, for environmental and logistical reasons
limits have had to be placed on the intake of visitors, in particular from
cruise ship stopovers.  To further cope, foreign workers have been brought
in from other Caribbean countries and (less often now) the rest of the
world.  Under Palmira's flexible immigration laws, most have been granted
permanent residence and citizenship.  These expatriates have made
invaluable contributions to Palmirene society.

   The legacy of the egalitarian buccaneer culture of old Palmira and the
cosmopolitan influences of tourism and immigration have made this community
a model of social harmony and racial equality in a troubled and turbulent
part of the world.  Political, social and economic upheavals elsewhere in
the Caribbean have had little impact.  The winds of change sweeping across
the region have been a benign breeze in Palmira, although nature has not
been so kind.  Hurricanes in recent years have caused widespread damage;
but the community has recovered quickly as a result of swift action and
intensive reconstruction efforts.  In fact, Palmira received widespread
praise for its contribution to relief efforts on neighboring islands.

   These tempests did have another consequence.  For some years opponents
of the nude law (yes, there are a few) directed their criticism at the
dangers posed to unprotected bodies during the storm season.  Although the
nude law had provided for exemptions, ambiguities with regard to hazards
led to amendments, and to the passage of an Equal Opportunities Act and a
Health and Safety Standards Act which have benefited Palmirenes of both
sexes.

   How much of the island's prosperity, stability and tranquility can be
attributed to the nude law may be a matter for debate; but the Palmirene
people think they know.  They have a saying.  "When all women are naked,
all men know they are brothers."

   Here endeth the lesson (for now).

   ***



   Ricardo drove me to the Palmira College campus in RÃ(C)gate.  The
postgraduate school has an enrolment of two hundred full- and part-time
students.  It's a serene setting, a cluster of wooden-frame buildings
nestled behind a hill not far from the beach.  When we arrived there were a
few people moving about, and this essentially random sample confirmed that
about seventy percent of staff and students are female.  The sight of their
naked bodies should by now have been almost banal; but it was nevertheless
a little bit strange to see the nude law operating in this place of higher
learning.

   Ricardo ushered me to the Department of Archaeology and Ethnology. 
Professor Hayden is also the dean of the postgrad school, which is an
indication of how seriously the Palmirenes take their historical and
cultural heritage.  She's taller than I'd pictured her (having seen her
beforehand only on a screen), with ash-blonde hair tied back severely in a
ponytail.  Though she spends only a part of the year on the island, her
body is tanned all over.  She was accompanied by two of her students,
Stephanie and Brandon, who had been living on Palmira for just over a year.
Their job was to get meau courantwith progress on the dig sites.

   The main excavation on Palmira is at Cimarrón Bay on the east coast,
where I would be working as a supervisor.  A secondary dig at Hamilton Bay
on the south coast has yielded important finds.  Discoveries have also been
made at Grandin Bay in the south-west, but investigations there have been
hampered by urban development.  However, that site is used by the College
for teaching purposes.  There are smaller spots scattered all over the
island.  Because they have such a strong sense of their past, the Palmirene
people take a keen interest in local archaeology.  The popular interest is
in colonial history, in particular the pirate heritage, but the government
promotes pre-Columbian studies.  A major focus has been on historical and
cultural links with other parts of the Caribbean, from which half the
population originates.

   Rebecca left us for a couple of hours, and when she returned the
discussion inevitably came round to the nude law.  As the only one of us
wearing clothes, Brandon kept out of the conversation at first, although I
was interested in the male perspective.  First I described my own feelings
and perceptions, and the women assured me that these were typical for a
newcomer.  This was important, because most of the volunteer diggers come
from overseas and, like the tourists, the majority are female.  My
responsibilities were to include their health, safety and welfare.

   Rebecca emphasized that her nudity does not impact on her authority as a
senior academic.  In fact, she comes across as very charismatic, a natural
leaderau naturel.  Her students idolize her, and as she spoke Brandon
appeared smitten.  She's an attractive woman, and being naked
understandably adds to the appeal.  She was obviously aware of his
infatuation, but (as I've since come to appreciate) women who deal with
male underlings here on Palmira take this grown-up puppy love in their
stride.

   It's all about that "vivid contrast." Back in Australia, while
completing my doctoral dissertation I taught undergraduate classes, and
encountered the occasional crush.  Even in academia you cannot entirely
avoid the "You're a woman, I'm a man" attitude from some of the guys; but
it's kept suppressed.  On Palmira, however, it's amplified because of the
one-sided nature of nudity; professional relationships between the sexes
simply cannot be asexual.  You can't sublimate the difference between male
and female.  And because she is not permitted to cover her body, the sexual
tension between Rebecca and Brandon, between naked teacher and clothed
student, is heightened even more.

   Neither of them expressed these thoughts in as many words, but it seemed
clear to me.

   Stephanie lightened the mood by revealing that whenever she goes home to
California she finds it a weird and unsettling experience to be wearing
clothes.  Brandon then told us that he was surprised at first at how
nonchalant the local men are about nudity and the local women about its
compulsory nature.  I thought he would raise some sort of response from
Rebecca and Stephanie when he claimed that for outlanders it's the males
who find it harder to adjust, and not just in not knowing where to look and
how long to look, and the difference between a glance, a stare, an ogle and
a leer.  While it's most young men's fantasy to be surrounded by naked
women all the time, males can be shy too.  And there's such a thing as
sensory overload.  In fact the women listened to his views in silence,
nodding and smiling.



   Ricardo politely interrupted with disappointing news.  My scheduled
inspection of the Palmira Museum would have to be postponed.  I had been
looking forward to seeing it in real life, having only explored it online,
and to visiting the College's undergraduate campus.  But it seemed
pointless to make the half-hour each-way journey just for sight-seeing. 
There would be plenty of occasions for catching up, and the alternative was
more than enough compensation.  Marcia Robbins was meeting with the members
of the government at Parliament House.  I could join her, and witness a
sitting of the legislature.  It was an opportunity not to pass up.

   (It only then occurred to me that I could have been moreau faitwith
local custom.  The museum and undergrad campus are located inside the
Grandin special administrative district, where the nude law is not
enforced. Before leaving my hotel, I should have inquired whether I should
bring something to wear.  In fact, although nudity is not obligatory in the
enclave, it isde rigueurfor women who work outside.  That is, it's is a
social protocol rather than a legal requirement.)

   The change of plans did mean extra time with Rebecca.  She suggested
that before lunch I sit in on an orientation address the staff give to new
students.  About two-thirds of all those commencing postgraduate studies
are from overseas.  They have jobs mainly in tourism, and many settle
permanently.  They come from all over the world and are drawn as much by
the generous wages paid in the both tourist and financial sectors as by the
island's other attractions.  To ensure they are not overwhelmed by the
culture shock, each new intake attends these orientation sessions.  Things
are run very informally at the College, and Rebecca takes some of the
classes herself.

   In the lecture theatre, about two dozen people were just getting seated.
With a couple of older exceptions, they were aged in their early twenties
and were about sixty per cent female.  The young men were dressed how you
would find them on any ordinary campus  -" in jeans, chinos, capris, cargo
shorts, plaid shirts, polo shirts, flannel shirts, T-shirts, etcetera.  The
women were also accoutered in the usual style...  for Palmira; and none
appeared uncomfortable or coy about her nudity.  They had been on Palmira
long enough that they were becoming accustomed.  A handful sat in a small
bunch away from the males, but most had no problem mixing.

   As I sat at the back, Rebecca stepped up onto the podium, alongside one
of her colleagues, to deliver the talk and field questions.  And because of
their status and academic credentials, the contrast between them was set
out in high relief.  Clayton Madore, the assistant dean, was impeccably
attired in a three-piece suit.  The symbolism was potent.

   We all know the phrase "clothes make the man." (On Palmira you don't
have to add the inclusive rider "...  and woman.") Some attribute it to
Mark Twain, or to Shakespeare ("the apparel oft proclaims the man..."), but
the sentiment goes back at least as far as Homer (he of the wine-dark sea,
that is, not of Duff beer).  In other words, it's a well-established
principle, attested to by scientific research as well as in everyday life,
that what we wear affects how others perceive us.  Garments do more than
protect us from the elements.  They project your identity, your feelings
and your aspirations, to communicate your social status, and to conceal
things as well.  Clothing style is a non-verbal cue which confirms,
validates and defines power-dynamic interactions and relationships.  But
that doesn't necessarily impose conformity.  We may choose to adopt a
unique style to affect perceptions of us.  And it works even when no one is
looking.  For psychologists have identified the phenomenon of enclothed or
embodied cognition, which means that what you wear can influence the way
you think, feel and behave in private as well as in public; but it's less
about your own self-esteem than the confidence, competence and power that
you associate with particular forms of apparel.

   Yet Mark Twain would not be very popular with Palmirene women.  He
supposedly claimed that "Naked people have little or no influence in
society." It's debatable whether he wrote that; but he did write: "Without
his clothes a man would be nothing at all...  There is no power without
clothes.  It is the power that governs the human race.  Strip its chiefs to
the skin, and no State could be governed; naked officials could exercise no
authority; they would look (and be) like everybody else  -" commonplace,
inconsequential." However, he also wrote: "Strip the human race, absolutely
naked, and it would be a real democracy.  But the introduction of even a
rag of tiger skin, or a cowtail, could make a badge of distinction and be
the beginning of a monarchy."

   So it might be held that it's the women who carry on the classless
character of Palmira's buccaneer heritage.

   That being said, you cannot get past the consequences of the nude law.
You can't ignore the asymmetry between men and women.  It's ubiquitous; and
that's one of the ironies of this weird and wonderful place.  Because women
have achieved social and economic equality, are represented in every sphere
of cultural, commercial and political life, their naked bodies, deprived of
clothing by the law of the land, are everywhere.  You'd be hard-pressed to
describe any aspect of Palmirene society without reference to or a comment
on this singular attribute.

   In any case, if clothes do make the man, it could be argued that the men
are disadvantaged; they are the ones who carry the burden of ensuring they
wear the right clothes.  Palmira has its uniforms and dress codes to which
males must adhere and which divide them into classes and cliques.  So
nudity in this context offers women the best of both worlds.  In separating
the sexes it imposes a particular conformity, but it also confers amongst
women a sense of equality.  In nudity there are no artificial distinctions.
Certainly there is individuality and thus diversity, in size and skin tone
for instance.  But we all have breasts and vaginas, and without the
accoutrements of clothing it is this commonality which stands out, not the
superficial differences.

   Yet the real joy of living under Palmira's nude law is not just that you
are naked.  There are, after all, who knows how many naturist venues around
the world, and you only have to travel to your nearest beach these days to
see bare bodies.  No, what makes Palmira special is that all women are
naked and only women are naked, you are naked all the time and youmustbe
naked.  Your nudity is an expression and a celebration of your womanhood.
As I've mentioned, you don't have to be a supermodel, a glamorous starlet
or a fine-tuned athlete to experience the joy of nudity.

   ***



   We had lunch in a coffee shop a little way off campus.  The repast was
fine, but after just a few minutes the wicker back and seat of my chair had
branded my bare skin with light welts, like those I saw on the rear-end of
the redheaded woman that morning.  The place was full, and I suspect the
mild discomfort inflicted on female patrons is deliberate  -" the Palmirene
version of the "fifteen-minute chairs" allegedly used by fast-food
restaurants to get customers to move on.

   We soon moved on.  Ricardo drove me across town.  Marcia was waiting
patiently outside Parliament House.

   Palmirenes are proud of the fact that their island, the world's fourth
smallest independent state, has one of the oldest continuously operating
parliaments.  Although self-government was achieved in 1968, and complete
independence in 1974, the Legislative Assembly has been sitting in one form
or another for more than two centuries.  It currently has seventeen members
elected for a three-year term.  There are no formal political parties, and
while the Members tend to vote as two blocs, conservative and progressive,
there's little (from what I can tell) which sets them apart.  Alliances are
fluid and allegiances such as exist are to family and locality.  Polling
day is treated as a festival, and since MPs are chosen by proportional
representation, elections are not winner-take-all contests.

   It must be said, however, that sexual equality was rather slow in coming
to Palmira.  Women did not achieve the right to vote until 1973, and were
not enfranchised on an equal basis with men until as recently as 1989.  But
how things have changed!  In 2009, Palmirenes elected a female
parliamentary majority; and today this small but enterprising island state
has a woman Governor, Chief Minister and Chief Justice.  And that is at
least partially due to the nude law.  Women have taken control of their own
lives and, yes, their own bodies.

   Parliament House is located on the north-eastern outskirts of RÃ(C)gate,
not that far from the HÃ'tel AndromÃ"de.  It is an unprepossessing
structure in keeping with the Palmirenes' casual approach to officialdom.
To gain admission to the public gallery Marcia and I simply walked up to
the entrance, greeted the solitary guard (a genial old gentleman) and took
the stairs to the second floor.  The legislature was in session, and the
people's delegates were engaged in a debate about fisheries.  The exchanges
were polite and relaxed.  A couple of interjections drew laughs on both
sides of the chamber.  The Chief Minister, Jennifer Hibbert, was speaking.
She is, like Marcia, a striking woman, full-figured but graceful, and in
common with most Palmirenes is of mixed racial heritage.

   After twenty-four hours on the island, I would have been surprised if
the ten female MPs  -" who include the presiding officer  -" had not been
naked.  The cozy concordance of their warm skin tones and the cool green
leather of the seats of power they occupied seemed symbolic of the
temperate nature of Palmirene politics, but also of the vivid contrast
which is the essence of Palmira.  And in a funny way reinforcing it,
perhaps because the air conditioning was out of order, their male
colleagues in coats and ties appeared much less at ease.

   Thinking about this, and about my previous musings on equality, I
recalled a passage written by Jennifer Hibbert for the traveler's guide, in
which she assayed the nature of the nude law.

   "Striving for equality does not mean aspiring to sameness.  Here we
value equity  -" ensuring justice and fairness, allowing every person the
appropriate opportunities to lead a full, healthy life.  To achieve equity,
we as a society must understand and acknowledge our differences; but when
we've achieved equity we can celebrate those differences.  So equal rights
do not mean exactly the same treatment or obligations under the laws.  And
in this respect, here in Palmira men and women are definitely not equal. 
The beauty of the female body is esteemed above all else.  As women, it is
our right and our privilege to honor what nature has given us, by never
hiding it away."

   I wanted to meet this woman but was disappointed.  As soon as the
Assembly adjourned she went off to an engagement; but I did get to sit in
on Marcia's conference with several government Ministers  -" Meredith Hewes
(Education, Recreation and Cultural Affairs), Raymond Chase (Natural
Resources and the Environment), Vesta Charpal (Infrastructure, Transport
and Public Works), Derek Wyse (Public Services, Labour and Immigration) and
Elizabeth AndrÃ(C) (Tourism and Trade).  The latter was the woman who'd
been on my flight.  Like the Parliament, most of the Cabinet is female. 
The meeting was comfortably informal, everyone addressing each other by
their first names.  The discussion was about promoting the island as a
high-end travel destination with a focus on historical themes, so my input
was invited.  (I think I even had an impact, reminding everyone that the
pre-Columbian archaeology was just as significant as that of the colonial
period.) At first it bothered me that they were so snobbish about up-scale
tourism; but the hard fact is that Palmira needs to put limits on the
number of tourists, for the sake of the environment, without contracting
the economy.

   Afterwards I decided to walk back to the AndromÃ"de.  The distance
turned out to be greater than I expected because the route was circuitous;
but it gave me time to think.  I mused about how extraordinarily my life
had changed in such a short time.  I had just sat in on a meeting with
fivebona fideCabinet Ministers...  and three of them were stark naked.  And
here I was, also without a stitch on my body, casually tramping up the
hill.

   ***



   It was getting on toward sunset as I entered the lounge bar, as usual
clutching my shoes along with my purse.  (I have to say that being barefoot
embellishes the look and the feeling of complete denudation.) I was
wondering what to do with my evening, annoyed with Ricardo for again
leaving me to my own devices; but that was irrational because he has his
own life to lead.  However, it turned out well.

   Just as I took my seat, Regina the receptionist came in.  She chatted
briefly with the bar attendant, saw me and asked if she might sit with me
awhile.  I happily agreed and we ordered coffee.  She impressed me by
knowing about my archaeological work.  In such a relatively small community
it was not unpredictable that she knew the general details of my visit; but
she actually cited a couple of my research papers.  From her refined accent
I had already determined that she'd been educated in England, and now
learned that her parents are the hotel's proprietors.  The family are
members of Palmira's Ã(C)lite class, who still have an influence in how
things are run.

   It disappointed me a little that such a compact, compatible population
might be socially stratified, but the reality is that class divisions are
blurred to the point of invisibility.  (Most Palmirene natives claim to be
descended from the pirate pioneers and their hardy womenfolk; but that
seems unlikely.) No one flaunts their wealth or status, and the elegant,
alluring Regina, working at the reception desk, personifies this
egalitarian spirit.  In fact her brother, who's three or four years
younger, was the bar attendant that evening.  He brought our coffees and
Regina introduced us.  He looked me over, something I was rapidly getting
used to and which he did almost as a reflex.  Yet I couldn't help but
wonder how he must feel about other men scrutinizing his naked sister. 
They were conditioned to the fact that he wears clothes and she doesn't;
but still...

   I mentioned my family, including my own Baby Bro, but decided against
revealing our Palmirene heritage in case my kin and hers were traditional
foes.  Anyway, Regina was much more interested in hearing more about the
ancient history of her island.  I invited her to be a part of one of the
excavations I'd be overseeing, and she appeared genuinely delighted
(although from the looks of her immaculate hands and perfect body, she has
not spent much time digging under a hot sun).  Then she apologized because
"Duty calls," and as she rose to depart she grinned.

   "I leave you in capable hands," she said.

   Ted's profligate shirt and Valerie's magnific breasts loomed over me. 
Ted called for drinks and I ordered a light beer.  Valerie announced that
they were going downtown for dinner and demanded I come along; and as soon
as I capitulated she raised her hand and waved eagerly towards the lounge
entrance.  Caroline and Fin (short for Finlay) came to join us.  They are
Scottish, spend most of their vacation time in the Caribbean, and met the
Americans while scuba-diving.  They're aged in the mid-thirties.  He's
suntanned and stocky, with what one would describe as movie-star chiselled
good looks; she is fair-skinned and slightly built, with delicate features
and strawberry blonde hair.  This was their first trip to Palmira and they
had been first drawn by the island's other great attraction, its glorious
coral reefs.

   A few minutes later, two more of Ted and Valerie's recruits arrived.  I
couldn't tell if they were a romantic couple.  They are French, both
brunette and very pretty.  Ã0/0lise is slightly taller; her body's contours
are angular, giving an impression of brittle fragility, like fine crystal;
her eyes shine like blue sapphires.  AdÃ"le's curves are more voluptuous;
her eyes glitter midnight blue above exquisite cheekbones.

   Caroline and Fin didn't say much but seemed intelligent.  Ã0/0lise also
said little but when she did she displayed a whimsical wisdom.  AdÃ"le is
outgoing and excitable.  When she gets feisty her voice becomes adorably
high-pitched, and her breasts begin to undulate, in a manner that caught
the rapt attention of the two men.  Although this was their first trip to
Palmira, she demonstrated an encyclopaedic knowledge of the island's
history and culture.

   A final couple showed up to complete our party just as we were getting
ready to leave.  Ted and Val had certainly been busy with their social
networking, and told me I was in for a pleasant surprise.  When introduced,
Rob and Sarah responded in Australian accents.  I'm not sure why meeting
fellow Aussies was supposed to give me such pleasure, but they turned out
to be quirkily charming, entertaining us with almost constant good-natured
bickering.  Indeed, they are an eccentric match.  He's tall and easy-going;
she's energetic and somewhat bossy, despite her diminutive size, willowy
figure and squeaky voice.  Her peach complexion, hazel eyes and pixie-cut
blonde hair round out the impish impression.  In fact I'd already noticed
Sarah when I returned to the hotel that afternoon.  She was at the front
desk facing away from me, and with her pocket-sized figure and short hair,
if she'd been wearing clothes she might have been mistaken for a boy.  She
and her husband were in their third and last week of their first-time visit
to Palmira.

   Our expedition was now at all-systems-go.  The men wore jackets so I
deduced we were heading to somewhere swank.  In fact, I felt more
underdressed than ever wearing just my Balenciaga sandals, because the
other women had on earrings, necklaces and, in Sarah's case a gorgeous
crimson ribbon choker with a miniature white rose.  Valerie and the two
French girls, in addition to applying lipstick and cheek blush, had rouged
their nipples.  So much for the "natural" beauty of our bodies!  But I
wasn't made to feel like a ninth wheel.  Although none of the others are as
effusive and ebullient as Ted and Val, all of my new friends were excellent
company.

   As we set off down the hill in one of the open-air taxis, we were packed
in tightly that Rob had volunteered to sit up front with the chauffeuse. 
(This was Catriona, who was even more stunning illuminated by the rays of
the setting sun.) However, the snug fit proved propitious, because a chilly
breeze was coming off the bay; and as we climbed in six of us were tingling
with goosebumps.  So much for the tropics!  But the two men, Ted and Fin,
sat at the ends of the benches, most exposed to the cool air; and our
huddled bodies provided mutual warmth.  I was seated between Caroline and
Sarah, and though I am rather drearily "straight" it was hard not to be a
little aroused by the touch of their naked flesh pressed against mine. 
Nevertheless, by the time we'd reached the coastal flats and then the
shelter of the buildings lining the seaward side of the Esplanade, we
females were a bit cranky.  When Rob couldn't resist praising the brittle
night air, Sarah thumped him in the chest.  His grin slumped into a
grimace. She may be tiny, but she packs a hefty punch.

   The street blazed with lights and roared with noise from the bars, clubs
and discotheques.  Although they are open day and night, it is after sunset
and all the way till dawn that they come alive  -" loud and crowded,
bursting with that quintessentially Caribbean blend of glitz and glamour,
vitality and vulgarity.  Ted and Val guided us through the throng towards
the restaurant they had picked out.  ThemaÃ(R)tre d'recognized them.

   "Table for ten?"

   "Just nine, Antoine." (I suspect that the extra place was intended for
Ricardo.)

   "Will the ladies be diningsans vue?" Antoine inquired.

   Ã0/0lise and AdÃ"le smiled.  "Blindfolded," one of them whispered,
though I think we all understood.

   Ted nodded without consulting us.  I presume the question was
rhetorical, since all female customers in the place were sightless.

   We were shown to a circular table, and each man was seated between two
women.  A waitress promptly appeared bearing a platter.  On it was a stack
of black satin sashes.

   Ted was on my right and asked "May I?"

   "Please," I replied.

   As he wrapped the satin about my head, he did in a leisurely fashion, as
if to let me feel the darkness as it descended.  Drawing back my hair, his
fingers brushed over my bare shoulders, perhaps deliberately, and I
flinched.  The man seemed oblivious, or he didn't care.

   I had already enjoyed the adventure of diningdans le noir.  I love the
anticipation of each bite or sip, the momentary puzzlement and the sudden
awareness of how heightened your senses have become as the loss of one
stimulates the others.  It titillates the taste buds and enriches your
receptivity to aromas and textures as well as flavours.  However, Ted had
arranged for an extra treat that evening.  As I sat in the dark in silence,
I heard odd little sounds around me  -" shuffling, a sigh, a giggle.  Then
Ted tapped me lightly on the left shoulder and whispered that I should put
my hands behind my back.  As I did so he gently grasped my wrists, crossed
them and looped what felt like silk ribbon around and between them.  Once
he'd tied the knot I found my arms securely pinioned, though not so much as
to put stress on my arms or chest.  Thus rendered helpless, I had to be
hand-fed my food and wine.

   The menu was superb.  We started with an ambrosial seafood cocktail,
moved on to a heavenly main course of duck in brandy sauce with truffles
and wild mushrooms, and finished with a voluptuous dessert,dulce de coco -"
pineapple and sweet potato smothered in coconut cream.  Being bound and
blindfolded, as well as nude, added immensely to the culinary experience.
Having ceded control to your partner, you must depend on him completely. 
You cannot be sure of what is going into your mouth when the fork or spoon
hovers tantalizingly under your nose and nudges alluringly against your
lips.  The food then slowly reveals itself on your palate.  Each morsel
becomes an epicurean exploration.  Each sip of wine is an intoxicating
adventure.  Each of the men attended to a woman on each side, while we had
to focus intently on the meal.  That adds to your appreciation.  The simple
act of dining is elevated to a skill, even an art form.  It doesn't limit
your experience, but rather enhances it.  Still, it can get messy.  When my
blindfold eventually came off, I discovered a streak of tangy relish
garnishing my right breast and a splotch of sweet cream decorating the
left.

   When we weren't putting all of our concentration on the meal, the
repartee was enlivening and enlightening.  Our bonds and blindfolds didn't
inhibit us women any more than being naked.  Undoubtedly a couple of
glasses of wine contributed to the ambience.  And there was no particular
reason why only females should dinesans vueand bound, except that you
already feel the piquancy of your nudity, so it's like a triple dose of
sensory arousal.

   Ted insisted on paying for everything.  I left the restaurant feeling a
bit wobbly.  The alcohol may have been partially responsible, but after two
hours of being retrained it took a while to recover equilibrium.  We agreed
that it was too early to turn in for the night, so someone suggested we try
one of the nightclubs.  We chose a venue that did not appear overcrowded.
Inside, however, the place was buzzing with primeval sensual and sexual
excitement.  On the dance floor swept by lurid beams of flashing and
strobing light were a dozen man-woman couples.  Nude bodies writhed to the
throbbing beat and pulsating light show, brushing with precise carelessness
against the fabric of their partners' clothing.  Naked flesh glistened with
sweat and glitter which adhered to clammy skin; unfettered breasts bounced
to cacophonous rhythms; bare bosoms and thighs rubbed impudently against
shirts and trousers.  Music blared, neon glared, people stared.  A group of
girls gushed onto the floor, bumping and grinding their bodies against each
other, as the erotic energy surged to a climax.  The place was like a cross
between Paradise and the Inferno.

   Waiters in casual slacks and floral shirts and waitresses attired only
in what nature provides moved through the crowd, plying their patrons with
all sorts of exotic drink mixes.  A brace of bounders stood by to ensure
that roving hands should not wander too far.

   The scene was intoxicating but rather daunting, so we hesitated near the
door.  As she placed her backside on a stool, AdÃ"le squirmed and pouted in
self-reproach.  The seat was warm and moist with perspiration.  I recalled
the uncomfortable feeling you get when you take a newly vacated seat on a
bus or train.  The feeling's a lot more yucky when your bottom is bare.  We
decided that retreat was the better part of valor and adjourned to a more
placid setting a few doors down.  After one drink, we strolled along the
waterfront.  The wind had picked up and I and the other women started to
shiver once more.  I could see Fin and Rob fighting the urge to take off
their jackets to drape over their wives' shoulders.  That would be against
the law; but wrapping an arm around is not.  In any case, after the steamy
environs of the nightclub, the sea breeze prickling my skin was delicious.
The effects of the dinner wine were wearing off, but the adrenaline high
hadn't.  I found myself giggling like a schoolgirl, and got some funny
looks from my companions.

   (It was early summer and I was a little disconcerted that it could get
so cool  -" not exactly cold, but enough that I began to appreciate the
hardiness of Palmira's women.  I would soon learn that these chilly spells
are infrequent and brief...  but when they occur you just have to bear it.
No concessions are made except in the worst weather.  But I like the fact
that sometimes we have to be tough...  tougher than the men.  It's a
reminder that the nude law honours feminine strength as much as beauty.)

   The Esplanade was congested as we looked for a vacant taxi.  I could
almost feel the eyes of passing men exploring my curves and crevices.  It
seems that inhibitions vanish with the setting of the sun, when instinct
takes control.  The brush of a man's shirt against my breasts as we
zigzagged through the throng made me shudder; but it was not intentional.
The multitude was well-disciplined, the men generally well-behaved.

   However, out of one of the bars stumbled a pair of drunks, scattering
pedestrians as they meandered boisterously along the street.  Two police
officers, a man and a woman, were quickly on the scene, deftly stepping in
to separate the inebriates from passers-by.  One attempted to remonstrate
with the policewoman, but she set him back with a sharp word and a menacing
stare.  Meanwhile, a commotion could be heard inside the bar, and her
colleague went to investigate.  More carousers spilled out of the building.
They clamored about the naked cop.  Unfazed, she ordered them to disperse.
There was, for a moment, tension in the air; but first one, then another of
the men peeled off and staggered away.  The rest quickly followed.  The
plucky policewoman's nudity did not deter her from confronting the men nor
diminish her control.  It may even have helped defuse the situation.  But I
had not expected to witness anything like this.  For all its uniqueness,
Palmira has its raw elements.  It is not a utopia.  You wouldn't want it to
be.

   Back at the hotel, having left Ã0/0lise and AdÃ"le downtown to continue
savoring the nightlife, we had coffee and I said my good-byes.  Tomorrow
morning I would be leaving the comforts of the HÃ'tel AndromÃ"de for the
dig site at Cimarrón Bay.  My holiday was over; a new phase of my life was
beginning.



   Natural Beauty Pt.  03

   Exploring the Landscape

   I was awake half an hour before dawn, and went out onto the balcony to
sit and think and watch the shadows of the ridge behind the hotel retreat
off the bay and up the beach.  It was very peaceful.  Nobody was
congregating on the lawn this morning.  Rain had chased away the songbirds
but had since dispersed.  No voices were coming from the adjacent deck. 
The silence was broken only by the distant roar of the waves and the
haunting cries of far-off seagulls.  A mellow breeze caressed my skin.

   I wandered downstairs and detoured past the kitchen; and to satisfy my
curiosity I peeked in.  As I expected, thecheffe de cuisineand her female
staff wore aprons, with nothing underneath.  I moved on to the dining room
where a buffet was being laid out; and while I normally avoid a hearty
breakfast, today I needed the fuel.  It was early, so I had the spread all
to myself.  A waiter was setting down platters of croissants and bagels. 
His pale and youthful countenance suggested he was a student on a working
holiday.  He had what I was already recognizing as the telltale traits of
the novice to Palmira's ways.  He glanced at me as I stood at the table
pouring my coffee, and when I didn't react he took a longer look over my
body.  To my surprise, I found myself standing more erect and inhaling to
puff out my chest.

   The young man averted his eyeballing when the manageress came out and
punctured him with a formidable frown.  It was the petite woman who had
presided over the restaurant the night before last.  (She either works very
long hours or rotates shifts.) Presumably it's improper to gape at the
guests.  But he shifted his gaze to her body and she didn't seem to mind.

   Back upstairs I packed my bag and then went outside to wait for Ricardo.
Having already bidadieuto the friends I'd made, I didn't feel guilty about
avoiding a final farewell.  I did find Regina, already on duty at the
reception desk, and promised her a personally guided tour of the dig site
once I was settled in.  Ricardo arrived on time in his golf cart.  I had an
important mission to start the day and was grateful.  He drove me to the
Customs Office, where I signed for the boxes, containing my belongings,
which had come in on the overnight air freight service.  The College had
arranged for a pick-up.  My things would be waiting for me when I made it
to Cimarrón Bay.  I could have hitched a ride in the delivery van, but it
was actually quicker to cross the island on foot than to wait for road or
water transport.  Anyway, everyone hikes on Palmira.

   Ricardo left me at the College with Rebecca.  Acting the mother hen, she
approved of my footwear and sun visor, but furrowed her brow until,
understanding her concern, I showed her how my duffel bag can be converted
into a rucksack.  (I was a tad offended that she thought me such a newb.)
But when I put it on she started to adjust the shoulder straps, lifting the
bag higher on my back.  It took me a moment to realize why, and I couldn't
help laughing.  The way I had it, the pack sagged too low.  The
modification made for better walking posture, but it was also important
that my bare buttocks be exposed to public view.  The Palmirenes take their
nude law seriously!

   Rebecca accompanied me to the staging area.  She would not be going with
me to Cimarrón, but I would have no dearth of companionship.  In a park at
the western end of the Esplanade, twenty or so people had gathered, also
kitted up for the trek.  The women were massaging their bodies with lavish
amounts of sunscreen.  I prefer cream to lotion.  Remembering Valerie's
advice, I applied extra dabs to my breasts, especially my nipples, and
between my legs.  I must have looked like a rampant party girl with smears
of cream all over my private parts.  The other women certainly did.

   Among them was Sarah and Rob.  We greeted each other like long-lost
family.  Sarah was dwarfed by her backpack, and I noticed that her little
derriÃ"re was hidden by its bulk.  No one pulled her up on it.  We walked
together; and as the philosophers say, it's a small world.  I discovered
that Sarah is a physicist working on her doctoral dissertation who teaches
at my very ownalma mater.  She had done some research on radiometric dating
techniques  -" carbon-14, potassium-argon, thermoluminescence  -" and so
had an interest in archaeology.  It was a pity that her sojourn on Palmira
was almost over.

   There were actually two distinct groups of hikers, although we went as
one from RÃ(C)gate to Cimarrón Bay, a distance of about four kilometres.
We didn't really need to stick together, but the herd instinct is hard to
resist.  Once the first couple had set off everyone else just followed. 
Having reached Cimarrón, six of us would stay there while the rest
continued northward on a three-day camping excursion.  I admired the
resilience of the women who would be bivouacking nude.

   Most of the trekkers were young, although there were a middle-aged
husband and wife.  There was a Japanese couple who appeared to be botanists
or herbalists, because they took samples of various types of plants along
the way.  They appeared dedicated to their vocation; the woman bore a
tattoo of an intricate vine which snaked and intertwined across both her
buttocks, over her left hip and into her cleft.  Ahead of them was a party
of five girls and two guys.  They were recently graduated medical students
from the United States.  From their athletic physiques I guessed they were
adventuresome types; but the girls' fading tan lines revealed that they
were not used to full outdoor nudity.  They (the girls) had been taking
annual "extreme" holidays  -" rock climbing, mountain biking, canyoning,
ice canoeing, that sort of thing  -" and confessed that this was their most
audacious.  It was the first time they had brought along men, to act as
chaperones (or, as Bethany put it, "to keep us out of mischief").  Josh and
Miguel are gay, and the girls at first had thought they might need
convincing to tag along.  But as Miguel pointed out, there's no reason why
he can't appreciate the aesthetic appeal of the female body.

   That got me thinking (again).  Palmira is bliss for heterosexual males,
offering visual delights unobtainable elsewhere.  It's a sublime experience
for us women.  But I imagine it's even more so for lesbians and bisexual
women, who get to enjoy both sides of nudity's sensual pleasures.  I
thought of the goth-punk girls and wondered where on the island they might
now be  -" somewhere to the north, probably, where most of the hiking
trails lead.

   Our route took us through the eastern outskirts of RÃ(C)gate and up the
forested ridge to a maximum elevation of about two hundred metres, which we
reached in just over an hour.  From the summit the view of Cimarrón Bay
was spectacular, but to our rear trees blocked the vista of equally scenic
Regatta Bay.  It had not been a difficult ascent, but once we left the
shelter of the densest part of the woods on our descending track, the sun
beat down out of a cloudless sky.  There was not a whiff of breeze, and it
was nice to be out in natureau naturel, my body bathed in the golden glow
of the solar rays.  I felt a bit sorry for the men.

   We didn't have a guide for the walk to the bay because the path is
mostly paved.  The track through the forest is well-marked track.  The
stretch of road down the eastern side of the ridge is rough for vehicles
but ideal for walking.  However, the country we moved through was an eerie
landscape of virtually deserted houses and hamlets.  Without a reliable
fresh water supply, Palmirenes have largely given up farming and abandoned
the countryside.  Most of the buildings that are still occupied have been
converted into holiday homes.  We saw a few women, some pottering in their
gardens, two cycling along the road, members of a work crew clearing
undergrowth for fire prevention; and we were reminded that the nude law
applies outside RÃ(C)gate.

   As we came into Cimarrón village, we were greeted by a young man and
woman who directed the larger of our two groups to a kiosk for refreshments
and a briefing on the next stage of their trek, followed by a quick tour of
the excavations.  He was in khaki shirt and shorts, and though she wasn't
wearing a uniform she had on a khaki collar, so I assumed they were park
rangers.  I said good-bye one more time to Rob and Sarah; and the six of us
who were staying at Cimarrón Bay awaited our escort.  It had been two
hours since we had set out, so it was still just mid-morning.

   As we waited, I got to know my companions.  All had signed up for
fieldwork at the excavation.  Tom and Lorraine, the middle-aged couple, are
Americans who pursue their passion for ancient history by volunteering on
digs around the world.  As veterans, they have worked on many sites and are
members of an organization which promotes public archaeology.  Rachel,
Lucinda and Sean are students.  The girls are from Australia.  (Palmira
gets a large contingent of visitors from down under.  My theory is that
because we already have a near-ubiquitous beach culture, Aussies look for
something more than just the basic sun, sand and sea.) Rachel is
high-spirited and gregarious.  She has classic beach-girl looks  -" very
pretty, sandy-haired, blue-eyed and freckled-faced, slim but sturdy, with
an all-over tan and a leaping dolphin tattoo which arcs around the contours
of hermons pubis.  A jagged scar running up the inside of her left leg is
the result of a surfing mishap.  Lucy is small, olive-skinned and
dark-haired with large brown eyes.  She's more introverted than Rachel but
with a subtly mischievous wit.  The two complement each other, and have
already worked together on a couple of excavations, although this is their
first overseas gig.  Sean is from Ireland, with the stereotypical green
eyes and red hair, and was at the time the youngest member of the team at
Cimarrón.  Unlike the girls he's not studying archaeology.  Like Tom and
Lorraine he wants to travel the globe as more than a sightseer; he wants to
be a part of the local culture.

   Just after the other hikers had departed, Mike the site director and Sue
the site manager came to meet us.  He's Rebecca's deputy and is responsible
for coordinating all aspects of the excavation, including personnel, health
and safety, public relations and liaison with government agencies.  Her
role is the management of day-to-day operations  -" logistics, daily
assignments and so on.

   We were the last of the team to arrive for the season; the others were
already on-site.  Sue showed us first to our living quarters, a
seven-minute walk up the road.  What is known affectionately as the
Barracks is a travelers' hostel, part of which is rented for the season by
the Palmira Archaeological Field Research Institute.  Because, I suppose,
most of the students are undergraduates, unmarried residents are sexually
segregated.  Rachel and Lucy were assigned to a six-bed dormitory while I,
as one of the professionals, was accorded the privilege (modest though it
was) of a twin-share.

   All the hostel staff but one are women.  This may be the hiring
practice, but since the majority are "work for accommodation" backpackers,
it also reflects the fact that most itinerant workers on Palmira are
female. The exception is the concierge.  A personification of the hostel,
he has an antiquated look and style, always neatly attired in a faded grey
suit, his weather-beaten face set in an expression that is at once benign
and intimidating.  He commands his nude platoon like a retired
sergeant-major, which possibly he is.  With female guests he is grouchily
paternalistic.

   I found my boxes had been delivered to my room; but before I could begin
unpacking the sergeant-major called Rachel, Lucy and me out into the
corridor to give us a stern lecture, expounding on the DOs and DON'Ts of
his domain, reciting rules and setting weekday and weekend curfews that
both he and we knew he could not enforce.  But we indulged him.  Perhaps he
was expecting orgies (we females being slaves to our hormones, after all),
but more likely he was just being protective.  So it was hard to suppress a
grin at the irony, as we stood there being lectured about decorum while
stark naked.  However, his unnecessary reminder that we mustn't wear any
clothing at any time made us a bit fidgety.  Perhaps our reaction was
illogical; but having a man tell us to expose our bodies was a tad vexing.

   Meanwhile, Sean was waiting for us down the hall, grinning.  Although
he's younger than us, I'll wager he didn't get treated like a naughty
schoolboy.  In defence of his attitude, I'll concede that on our trek he
had endured some puerile badinage from Rachel  -" good-natured teasing like
her advice that he should wear baggier trousers if he was going to be
around naked girls all the time, and the more acerbic suggestion that he
hadn't come to Palmira just to dig in the dirt.  Headstrong Rachel was the
most perturbed by the sergeant-major's sermon, and Sean enjoyed witnessing
her comeuppance.

   Sue was waiting for us in the lobby and noted at our expressions.  "The
old boy is quite a character, isn't he?  Don't worry; we all get the same
treatment." She glowered at Sean.  "Unless you have a penis." She flashed a
benevolent smile.

   Sue is the person I answer directly to and with whom I have developed
the closest working relationship.  She's physically slight but nevertheless
imposing, both down-to-earth and larger-than-life, plain-spoken but
sympathetic and supportive.  Though she excels in the practical, she has a
PhD in classical literature.  In her role as site manager she's everything
from quartermaster to mechanic to electrician to counsellor.  I have been
on quite a few digs, and Sue is as competent and hard-working as any site
boss I've known...  and she does it all naked.

   (I was already conversant with Sue's work.  Her field reports are
required reading for aspiring archaeologists.  Yet I developed even more
respect when I got to know her in person.  She came to Palmira three years
ago, fresh from managing a Maya site in Belize.  Her job was to assess
storm damage and she has stayed on.  At first uncomfortable with public
nudity, she requested exemption from the law but her application was
denied. Now, though she doesn't share the pleasure or the thrill that most
of us feel, she's very matter-of-fact about it, neither bold nor bashful.
Indeed, because of her pragmatic approach to everything, it was Sue who
alerted me to one aspect of compulsory nudity I hadn't thought of,
menstrual management.  Yes, it's an issue, because you are not permitted to
cover your genitalia.  So feminine hygiene products must be worn
internally, at least in public  -" tampons or menstrual cups.  To repeat,
Palmirenes take their nude law very seriously.)

   As it was midday, and apart from us and the staff the hostel was
deserted.  Packed lunches are prepared each day for the team, and six had
been left for us.  After that, it was time to head down to the dig site. 
It is right on the edge of the beach, and a sea wall has been constructed
to halt the erosion that once threatened the excavations.  (The government
has now banned sand-mining, which had been a major contributor to beach
attrition.) The buildings  -" dig hut, site office, science hut, etcetera 
-" are a short distance inland.  Ancient middens (domestic waste deposits)
and cemeteries extend along much of the shore of the bay.  A row of broad
trenches has been cut at right angles into the banks of sand, clay and
coral rock debris.  Around two dozen people were laboring in these ditches;
and had I not been acclimatized to Palmira, the sight would have been
baffling, even a bit shocking.  For it almost goes without saying, by this
point in my story, that all the women, who make up the majority of on-site
personnel, were bare-skinned but for headgear, footwear and gloves.

   Working on an archaeological site is serious business.  The physical
labor can be difficult and is often tedious (for example, the sifting and
sorting).  The remains are fragile and unless you're very careful with
documentation, things can get mixed up, context and chronology can be
hopelessly scrambled; so there's lots of bookkeeping to be done.  But it
can be incredibly rewarding, because while you don't expect to make any
paradigm-changing breakthroughs, each object unearthed is a new piece of an
historical puzzle, adding to the sum of our knowledge.  Hence everyone is
highly motivated.

   Contrary to the popular view of archaeologists  -" as adventurers like
Indiana Jones or Lara Croft, or professional paleologists like Howard
Carter  -" many are volunteer enthusiasts, like Tom and Lorraine, who pay
their own expenses for the privilege of spending several hours every day
under the sun scratching in the dirt...  and without whom very few projects
would be viable.  These amateurs often have more fieldwork experience than
the students, and even some of the career specialists.  They contribute not
just their labor but their maturity, know-how and intellectual curiosity.
And because they come from all walks of life with careers outside
archaeology and anthropology, they bring fresh perspectives and insights.

   While there has to be a hierarchy, a sort of democracy prevails on-site.
Everyone gets their hands dirty; and each afternoon when we gather in the
dig hut to report on our progress, and in the evening when we discuss the
day's finds, everyone has a say and everyone is listened to.

   So after ten years in the field, it was rather jolting to see the sexes
so starkly differentiated.  And I have not yet really gotten used to it. 
We women toil as hard as the men but do so nude.  On most weekends we go to
RÃ(C)gate, or hike the nature trails, or head for one of the beaches,
satellite islands or dive sites for rejuvenation, and being the
dÃ(C)shabillÃ(C) sex is part of the fun.  But it still feels weird
supervising my team members, giving orders to men whose simple act of
putting on clothes is illegal for me.

   ***

   The full complement at Cimarrón once I'd arrived was thirty-five  -"
twelve senior (professional academic) members, ten students and thirteen
volunteers.  We newcomers didn't begin work that first day, instead
acquainting ourselves with our colleagues and familiarizing ourselves with
the facilities and techniques.  (Each site has its unique features,
according to the environment, the history and the people working there.) We
took part in the afternoon conference and joined everyone for dinner at the
hostel.  The camaraderie was the same as at all the digs where I've worked.

   As on every site, although it's not a case of all work and no play,
people are usually too tired at the end of the day for much socializing. 
But letting off steam on weekends is important for morale; for regardless
of how dedicated you are, everyone needs some downtime.  My previous
archaeological jobs were in remote areas.  There were few opportunities for
rest and recreation beyond the camp.  Palmira offers plenty, in the towns,
in the countryside and in the surrounding waters.

   We did have some good times in the Barracks, albeit under the sullen
surveillance of the sergeant-major.  While we don't get to choose our
companions, given that our interests are similar all the people working on
the site will be basically compatible.  Each weeknight after dinner we
gathered on the terrace, a covered recreational area with a bar and
barbeque, or in the theatrette.  Nudity was generally a non-issue, partly
because we the unclad heavily outnumbered the men, but mainly because you
cannot afford to fixate on it, otherwise you will end up in a state of
permanent arousal  -" both sexes.  (Keep in mind that it's not just the
nudity, it's the one-sided nature which gives it sexual resonance.)

   Inevitably in the group there will be some hooking up, particularly
among the younger members; and the rule is that whatever you do off-site
stays off-site.  Most interactions are casual; relationships tend to be
short-lived.  There are usually spouses, fiancÃ(C)s, boyfriends,
girlfriends back home.  In any case, the priority is to maintain a
professional environment (and there are ethical considerations as well). 
Furthermore, with a typical "season" lasting just six to eight weeks,
people are coming and going during that period.  Tom and Lorraine stayed
for a month, longer than most volunteers.

   My roommate was Alice, the project's first aid and hygiene officer. 
She's a winsome, amber-eyed brunette aged in her early thirties who left
behind a career in medicine to pursue her passion.  She has been on several
sites in the Americas (she's from Oregon), and this is her second season on
Palmira.  Like most of us she claims that the island's archaeological
heritage is the main attraction, but she clearly revels in her nudity.  She
isn't flashy or flirty; but she takes pride not just in her body but in the
fact that she's naked.  In other words she takes pride in her womanhood;
and in that respect we're similar.  Unfortunately, we did not get to spend
much time together.  She spent only the dig season on the island, donating
her services on weekends to the Palmira Hospital.  And while that's
laudable, my personal belief is that when you work as hard as we do during
the week, you really need to let loose and live it up when you can.

   Because we arrived together, I acted as a sort of godmother to Rachel,
Lucy and Sean.  He was the youngest person on the site, acted immature at
times, and liked to pull juvenile pranks, but his enthusiasm was
commendable and infectious.  He was adopted as a little brother by Rachel,
whose irreverent high spirits matched his, and by Lucy, whose calm good
humour counteracted both of them.  At the same time, when we went to
RÃ(C)gate for the weekend he fancied himself as our guardian, and we
allowed him to bask in his heroism, even Rachel.  (A line from a certain
Terri Guillemets that comes to mind  -" "After a girl is grown, her little
brothers, now her protectors, seem like big brothers.") Of course, our
surrogate roles were somewhat compromised by the way he looked so blatantly
at our bodies.  He enjoyed hanging out with older women  -" that's me; he
really enjoyed hanging out with naked women; and he was one of the males
most candid about it, almost artless in his fondness for the undraped
female form.

   We also got on well with the hostel staff.  Being guest workers, they
shared our experiences.  Mostly students taking a gap year, they are
well-educated and broadminded.  Some have boyfriends, male travelling
companions, and in one case a husband, working in other establishments. 
They do not chafe under the thumb of the sergeant-major as we diggers did,
possibly because they don't have the luxury of feeling aggrieved.  Still,
they have their methods of rebellion.  At the beginning of the day shift,
he would make them line up for inspection.  They would stand rigidly at
attention, thrusting out their chests (nipples firmly erect), sucking in
their bellies, extending their hips to the fore, and I have rarely beheld a
more provocatively titillating sight.  He'd beam in clueless approbation of
their soldierly discipline.

   Naturally, most of our life was focused on the dig.  The day at
Cimarrón starts just after sunrise when Mike and Sue check the weather
forecast.  If it is good news, everyone has an early breakfast, eager to
get onto the site.  We normally walked from the hostel together, and the
day's briefing would begin at eight o'clock.

   My role during my inaugural season on Palmira was to oversee the
excavation of one of the trenches, recording and bagging all sorts of stuff
 -" human remains (biological materials and artifacts) being the most
dramatic, but also seeds, shells and bones (mammals, birds, fish)  -" and
taking soil samples.  When digging stops for the day, the post-excavation
analysis phase begins.  My tasks included writing up a diary, comparing
results with my colleagues to prepare a detailed grid map, and consulting
with the conservator, whose job is the preservation of finds.

   My crew consisted initially of my fellow newcomers (Tom and Lorraine,
Rachel, Lucy and Sean), and we were given a basic first assignment, digging
test pits looking for signs of burials and other objects of interest.  In
this you have to be cautious, and you record everything meticulously,
because any interference can damage fragile remains.  But we proved
ourselves a crack squad and were soon assigned to a trench where we
uncovered a grave with some fascinating ceramic and carved bone ceremonial
items.  We also had a role in unearthing an even more significant burial,
containing one body and two skulls.  This is evidence of ancestor worship.

   Working stark naked under the tropical sun is not a major problem so
long as you have UV protection.  But when you're down and dirty in a
meter-deep trench, the mud and grit get into your crevices.  And when at
the end of your shift you go to wash the grime off (and out of) you,
there's another thing that makes Palmira different.  Behind the dig hut are
toilet cubicles, and to indicate that they're unisex, on the door of each
are the standard graphic symbols for man and woman; but in this setting the
stylized figure in a dress seems comically incongruous.  And next to the
lavatories is a shower and changing room...  for the men.  Since the women
don't need to change into or out of anything, until recently the females'
amenity was a row of shower heads out in the open.  The thinking was that
there's no point investing resources in private facilities for those who
don't get that sort of privacy.  But the public spectacle of us lathering
our bodies is not exactly conducive to dignity, so a partition has been
erected.  Of course, not having to worry about wet clothes means we don't
need to bother drying ourselves.  The warm breeze does that.

   One of my favorite hum-drum tasks is wet screening, sieving soil and
other sediments looking for small objects.  The large frame version is a
heavy scaffold and a hose is used.  The small frame is hand-held, and the
screening is a two-woman job.  This is usually a job for the girls because
you stand in the water, up to waist-deep, and being female means you don't
have to bother with stripping down to a swimsuit...  Now I realize that's a
flimsy rationale; but on Palmira life is full of little rituals and
gestures.  Whereas on other sites men and women are treated scrupulously
the same, here the males are rather more chivalrous, if it can be called
chivalrous that they allow us to do the fun, splashy jobs.

   Before the team gets started each day, Sue does a health and safety
inspection.  Because almost all the work is small-scale and thus done by
hand  -" with minimal mechanical aid, using picks and shovels, buckets and
spades, trowels and brushes  -" this is a routine procedure.  Proper boots,
gloves and headgear are mandatory, sunglasses and bandanas are recommended.
Knee-pads are helpful, but a kneeling mat is better.  High-factor sunblock
and insect repellent are vital for both sexes, although obviously we ladies
need more.

   The men have the prerogative of choosing a range of clothing that is
cool, lightweight, comfortable and sweat-proof.  (And they have pockets!)
They can avoid the sun with long sleeves and trousers, but even in shorts
and short-sleeved shirts they have a lot less skin to protect than we do.
However, the sun does not present a major problem.  We dig in the trenches
for only three or four hours each day because there's follow-up to be done;
and we normally do so under tarpaulin covers.  These are not just for shade
but to shelter the trench and its contents from rain.  In fact digging has
to cease when it rains, because while typically of short duration Palmira's
downpours can be very intense.  Even with the tarps water fills the
trenches, so work stops for the entire day.  At such times, there are lots
of other chores to keep us busy.

   If special protective clothing is needed, for example with some of the
more vigorous excavation, Sue must make a decision.  Giving these jobs to
the males exclusively would be unfair to both sexes; and no one tries to
take advantage of her nudity to get out of the hard work; but a woman must
wear the absolute minimum of gear necessary, and must take it off as soon
as the task is done.  It is therefore one of Sue's responsibilities to file
paperwork with the police to make any exemptions official.  This is
important because there is something to keep in mind about the nude law. 
It's a LAW.  And when people break the law there are consequences.

   A week or so after my arrival, a work party moved into the village
planting trees and doing maintenance work on the road.  They reminded me of
the gang clearing undergrowth we had passed on my first day at Cimarrón;
and I was informed that they were performing court-ordered community
service.  There were twenty-four, fourteen of them young males.  The ten
females covered a wider range of years, from twenties to forties.  I knew
about community service orders; they are issued for relatively minor
offences like property damage, public intoxication, petty theft and
non-grievous assault.  I was now enlightened about one of the harsher
realities of Palmira.  Women who cover their bodies outside the Grandin
enclave can be arrested.  The penalty is a fine, imprisonment or up to a
hundred hours of involuntary labor.  It's almost always the latter.

   To satisfy my curiosity, I have checked the Palmira Government Gazette,
where law enforcement statistics are published.  While most male offenders
on the community service program have committed what are everywhere classed
as crimes, the females have mostly been sentenced for the uniquely
Palmirene transgression of putting on clothing.  It doesn't matter if it's
a bikini or a boiler suit; if you're wearing it, you're breaking the law.
So it still amuses me that a man will be prosecuted for "indecent"
exposure, while a woman will be prosecuted for not exposing herself.  But
it bothers me even now that a tradition which is such a source of joy and
pride is imposed with the threat of punishment.

   As well as straw hats, canvas gloves and boots, the males wore
mustard-colored bib-and-brace overalls and white T-shirts.  The females did
the same work, without the overalls and T-shirt but wearing leather
collars. They were supervised by male and female correctional officers. 
The woman's occupation and rank were denoted by blue-and-white armbands. 
If she dared to wear what the men under her supervision wore, she'd be
joining them digging and planting.

   I don't know how many of the females were there for breaking the nude
law, although the age range suggested it was the majority.  (For why would
women in their forties be more likely to commit minor crimes than males in
their twenties...  except for the crime of wearing clothes?) In that case,
I was curious about why they had done so.  Could it be that the nude law is
not universally popular?  There must be native women who object but cannot
spend their entire lives in the Grandin enclave.  It made me feel somewhat
better to learn that most violations of the law are not protests against
compulsory nudityper se.  For example, a few years ago, in the aftermath of
a hurricane when people were injured during clean-up operations, there was
a large public demonstration in RÃ(C)gate calling for improved hazard
control and prevention.  To dramatize one particular concern, several dozen
women (including foreign emergency service personnel) wore overalls and
industrial vests.  The government responded with the aforementioned Health
and Safety Standards Act; but each of the women was sentenced to a hundred
hours of community service.  That worked out fine, as it was a token
punishment.  They were assigned to the very job most had been doing anyway.
Nevertheless, the law had been broken and a price had to be paid.  (It
could have been more severe.  They might have been charged with "inciting"
women to wear clothing, which carries a heavier penalty.)

   Yet the fact remains that there must be women who object to the nude law
but won't break it.  They must live with it.  No society is perfect.

   ***

   One of the tasks of staff members is to conduct tours of the site.  Some
of my colleagues dislike this duty, claiming it distracts from the "real"
work, but I disagree.  Public outreach is a very important part of what we
do.

   One time we had a visit from a group of university students from the
United States.  I give them credit for including a tour of our site on
their itinerary, but it took them a while to be convinced that we were a
genuine operation and not a mock-up for the tourists.  They had been on the
island for more than a week, but the girls were still startled to see
nearly two-thirds of our team doing the job naked.  So we gave them a taste
by putting them to work; the guys as well, but I don't think they had as
much fun, especially in the showers afterwards judging from the laughing
and squealing emanating from behind the partition.  So while I don't know
if archaeology earned any career commitments that day, half a dozen girls
got a new perspective on full-time nudity (and perhaps on the phrase
"getting down and dirty"?).

   Another notable occasion was an inspection by the island's Governor,
Amanda Kennedy.  Although Palmira is an independent state, political and
commercial ties with the United Kingdom remain strong, and Ms Kennedy is
the Queens' representative.  She is the first woman to hold the office, and
came to Palmira with a distinguished record of public service.  Government
House is located in Grandin, but in any case she is legally exempt from the
nude law.  However, on the day she arrived at Cimarrón she and the other
women in her retinue wore nothing but hat and heels.  She is statuesque,
with dark expressive eyes and long auburn tresses that when she's naked she
keeps tied back, away from her breasts.  It was an informal occasion, but
her vice-regal bearing was an insightful example of how a woman in high
office can maintain herdignitas,gravitasandnobilitaswhen completely nude.
The Deputy Governor, a prim little man with a comb-over, looked
uncomfortable on this sultry afternoon in his stuffy three-piece morning
suit.

   The Governor, who has a reputation for firmness and outspokenness and
defending the prerogatives of her office, could grant herself dispensation
from the nude law but hasn't.  However, the statutes do allow for special
circumstances.  There are reasons aside from health and safety why a woman
may be exempted from the nude law.  The authorities  -" police, magistrates
and government ministers  -" are empowered to make singular and short-term
exceptions.  Medical and mental health professionals can issue certificates
of exemption.  Women over sixty years of age are exempted, as are girls
under eighteen.  You don't see many of the latter outside the Grandin
enclave because nearly all families have their homes there.

   Soon after the Governor's visit, my first dig season ended.  There are
three during the year, lasting a total of fifteen weeks.  During the
off-season most of the professional team-members go back to their own
countries.  (There are no native Palmirenes based at Cimarrón, because
local historians focus on more recent history, that of their direct
ancestors.  Sadly, there are no descendants of the pre-Columbian
inhabitants left.) I give classes to undergraduate students and mentor
postgrads at Palmira College, and I help run the teaching and demonstration
dig at Grandin Bay.  Unlike the other sites, this one operates all year
round.  I still have plenty of spare time for gratis work at the museum. 
It is not very large but the displays are outstanding.  Several of the
burials from Cimarrón and other sites have been recreated, and part of a
1500-year-old village reconstructed.

   One day at the Museum we received a visit from a very well-known
singer-songwriter and her entourage.  I shall call our famous guest Stella.
(Don't try to figure out her identity from that, because it simply means
"star".) She was inquisitive and despite her party-girl persona was
impressively well-informed.  And though we were inside the Grandin enclave
she was naked.  Besides Stella, I have seen a few celebrities vacationing
on Palmira  -" a multiple-award-winning actress, a best-selling authoress,
a champion sportswoman and so on.  You would recognize the names instantly
if I revealed them; but if they wanted publicity I wouldn't have to.  In
fact, Palmira enforces a strict code of privacy which includes robust
anti-paparazzi laws.  And while normally I'm not at all star-struck, I have
to admire the courage of these women to be themselves, because despite the
precautions, photos can leak out to the tabloids and gossip sites.

   ***

   Although during the non-dig part of the year I stay at a boarding house
in RÃ(C)gate, I spend a lot of time in Grandin.  After just a few days on
Palmira you get so used to what's around you that when you go into the
district it's a little jarring to see women wearing clothes.  The boundary
is unmarked except for signs bearing the same message as that displayed in
the airport terminal.

   "NO ADULT FEMALE WEARING CLOTHES MAY PROCEED BEYOND THIS POINT."

   Conversely, nudity is not prohibited inside the Grandin precinct.  In
fact, more than half the women who reside there never wear clothes,
although the proportion is higher among those who work outside.  Then
again, there must be women who never venture outside the district and are
always clothed.  I thought this might include members of the small
diplomatic community, although it would be a dreary life, confined to a
corner of this beautiful island.  Palmira hosts several embassies,
consulates and high commissions; and I got to meet the Australian
representative.  Heather Turley is Honorary Consul.  A career officer with
the Department of Foreign Affairs and Trade, she met her husband James, a
Palmirene citizen, on a mission in the aftermath of Hurricane Emily.  They
live with their children in Grandin, but her office is in the capital.  She
has diplomatic privileges and could disregard the nude law if she wished to
do so.  Naturally she doesn't.

   I first met Heather at a reception, hosted by the expatriate community,
for "important" foreigners living on the island, and I was flattered to be
included in that company.  It was held in RÃ(C)gate and all the women were
naked.  It was a black-tie function for the men, and as Heather and James
stood arm-in-arm the impression might have been of one of those soft-focus
photos in a "glamour" magazine spread.  She's a stylish woman who speaks in
quiet but assertive tones; and there's a warm glow of confidence and
sophistication about her.  She is not classically beautiful; she has a
faintly masculine appearance, with a strong face and frame; but the funny
(and wonderful) thing about nudity is that women like her exude sensuality
and sexuality more intensely than any beauty queen bombshell; "plain" looks
are enhanced, not overexposed.  (I have noticed that beautiful females,
especially the more voluptuous, tend to be the more self-conscious about
their nudity.) So a woman such as Heather does not come across as
conventionally feminine, but next to her husband in his tuxedo there was no
mistaking her for anything but female.

   Come to think of it, this was the first organized social gathering (as
opposed to informal get-togethers with my colleagues) I had attended since
my arrival.  Soon afterwards, I was invited to spend a weekend with the
Renettes, my relatives.  They live on Frigate Island, as proprietors of
Palmira's most luxurious hotel, the Chevron.  I took the ferrySirÃ"nefrom
RÃ(C)gate, and it's a ninety-minute voyage.  The hotel is larger and
grander than the AndromÃ"de.  On the other hand, Regina's family owns two
establishments, so the score is pretty much even.

   I was greeted by my second cousin, Lydia.  She's aged in her early
twenties and is almost impossibly gorgeous, with azure eyes and flame-gold
tresses that cascade onto her slender shoulders like a river of fire.  Her
smile is radiant, her skin is flawless and her body is divine.  She moves
with feline grace.  Very much cognizant of her own splendor, she pulls her
shoulders back as if to emphasize her perfect breasts; and when she's still
she casually pushes forward her pelvis, as if to proclaim "Look!  No
penis!" But her body language betrays that she's not entirely at ease with
her nudity, though she wears it (so to speak) proudly.  Her haughtiness
evokes vulnerability.  There's a distance in her demeanor, a coldness in
her eyes as if they were about to turn from ocean-blue to glacier-blue. 
It's not that she's rude or acts aloof  -" quite the opposite, although
that seems more a product of good breeding than an intrinsic part of her
nature.  In fact, she conforms to what I have just described about Heather
Turley.  When you're completely comfortable in your own skin (and what an
apt phrase!), you don't have to be cold or coy or coquettish, you don't
feel the need to flourish or camouflage your female charms.



   There were two dozen passengers on the boat, and several were bound like
me for the Chevron Hotel.  One of the now familiar open-air taxis awaited
us, and a young man was at the wheel.  It is immediately obvious when you
see them that he is Lydia's twin brother.  Xander (short for Alexander, I
assume) has the same striking features, but in an odd way not as well
defined, almost blurred.  It's his manner  -" he doesn't project himself.
He's grown up in the shadow of his sister, who is easily the dominant.  His
expression is one of apathetic detachment.  His clothes droop on him; he
has the sort of languid bearing where even a tailored suit appears
ill-fitting.  Compare that with Lydia, naked and acutely aware of her
beauty.

   The twins' mother, Amelia, is English, and you see where they inherited
their looks.  They were born in England but grew up on Palmira.  Kudos to
them that, like Regina and her brother, Lydia and Xander have taken on
regular jobs at the hotel.  Yet they seem frustrated by the ennui imposed
by their limited horizons.  Both are intelligent and intellectually
curious, and were fascinated by my "worldly" experience and academic
credentials.  During my visit they interrogated me endlessly about life in
Australia, about archaeology and even about Palmirene history.

   That night a soirÃ(C)e was held to welcome the cousin from down under.
It was a more elaborate affair than anything I'm cozy with, and for an
unpretentious gal who eschews glamour and glitter, nudity proved a
blessing. No fancy gown to worry about.  But I was bestowed with exquisite
jewelry  -" a pearl encrusted barrette, emerald earrings and a turquoise
pendant on a black velvet choker.  It was weird to be so expensively
embellished from the neck up and totally unadorned below.  In fact, I ended
up even more denuded than before.

   Earlier, I had blamed my disheveled hair on the wind during my trip
across the water; but that cut no ice with frosty Lydia.  She took me down
to the hotel's beauty salon for a hairdressing overhaul.  I have to admit
that my unruly shag cut was transformed for the better into a sassy
side-swept crop.  But then Lydia lowered the back of my chair, and when I
was horizontal she ordered me to spread my legs.  She instructed
thecoiffeuseto shave me (because a more thorough depilation would leave me
with inflamed pubes for the evening), but advised that I should get a
waxing when I returned to the mainland.  I decided against resisting, since
I'd been thinking about a move in that direction anyway.  Nevertheless, I
remained ambivalent.  I have always associated pubic hair removal with
presenting a "clean" bikini line, and that is plainly not an issue on
Palmira.  While aesthetic preferences play a role, it's mainly to
distinguish married from unmarried women, and that is itself is a fairly
recent trend.  In any case, when I returned to Cimarrón everyone noticed
my double hair makeover, and I eventually went for my waxing.

   The soirÃ(C)e was attended by members of what counts as the local
Ã(C)lite.  It was presided over by Amelia, who marshalled her guests and
serving staff with the command presence of a major-general.  As I had
already perceived, Palmira is very much a matriarchal society.  The Renette
women rule their aristocratic roost; and as I'd also learnt, being naked
does not preclude power.  Indeed, in an interesting way their womenfolk's
mandatory nudity gives the males of Palmira a uniquely resilient sense of
their masculinity, which obviates gratuitous displays of macho egoism; they
are easy-going and user-friendly.  I once heard a man described as being
strong enough that he can afford to be tender; and I think there's a
similar principle at work with Palmirene men.  They have nothing to prove.
Their identity and security as males is reaffirmed all around them all the
time, so they can get on with being good men.  (I'm not criticizing males
elsewhere; but Palmirenes seem to be a breed apart.) I've also heard it
said that a strong woman is she who can bring out the best in a man. 
Palmirene women do that.  It's not the essential purpose of the nude law 
-" at least not these days  -" but it's what you might call a fringe
benefit.

   Virginia Woolf wrote: "Women have served all these centuries as
looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the
figure of man at twice its natural size." And in a way  -" but a positive
way  -" that's the case on Palmira.

   And the thing is, Palmira is one of the least sexist environments you
can imagine.  There are two factors at work here.  Psychologists and social
scientists have long been aware that a person who is viewed as sexy is
perceived to lack "agency"  -" personal power, the ability to plan, act and
exercise self-control  -" and even intelligence.  Although this applies to
both sexes, women are more adversely affected, not just because (in the
Western world) we traditionally wear more revealing and more sensual
clothing.  Take applying for a job.  Even if you're conservatively dressed
woman, a man will judge you more harshly (and unfairly) than will his
female colleague.  Because men tend to focus on the visual, you will be
assessed not just on your clothing but on your physical attributes.  Merely
having breasts, however well they're covered, puts you at an immediate
disadvantage.  You are adjudged less competent because someone else finds
you attractive.

   Palmirenes aren't perfect.  But at least part of the problem is
short-circuited.  You're not judged on your state of undress (by men or
women) because your personal agency is undiminished, because youmustbe
naked.  And men's bias is decreased because they see, every day and
everywhere, women whose appearance is reduced entirely to the sexual and
yet are clearly not lacking in competence or intelligence.  While I don't
know if, in this respect, less attractive women have an advantage, what is
clear is that to lay claim to any level of logical thinking a Palmirene man
must, in a sense, reset his brain, training himself to look beyond first
impressions.

   Even so, it might be asserted that the nude law is sexist.  On Palmira
the female body is so revered that it is illegal to conceal it.  Yet the
intent and effect of the nude law are not the objectification of women.  In
this respect the critics (such as exist) are mistaken.  Exposing your body
to the world, being obliged by society's rules to abandon all inhibitions
and put aside encumbering modesty, is an intensely personalizing and
joyously liberating experience.  And nudity being for one sex alone is not
demeaning to females.  Never have I been so conscious and proud of my
womanhood.  Like most women, I do not have a perfect figure or abounding
confidence.  I do not crave attention but neither do I shun it.  Back home,
on a beach in a bikini, I rate a few fleeting looks and that's nice.  But
on Palmira your body is the proverbial temple; it's hallowed ground  -"
admired, respected and well-treated.  Both men and women come from all over
the world to worship here; but it's the women who are worshipped.  If it's
true you're an object, you're an object of veneration.

   All women are.  Even in the company of demigoddesses like Amelia and
Lydia, there was a feeling of sisterhood amongst all the females in the
room  -" hostess, guest and waitress alike.  The uniformity of nudity
imposes an egalitarian sodality which also transcends differences in shape,
size and color.  The expensive ornamentation worn by some of us actually
reinforced this effect, which may seem counterintuitive.  Jewelry properly
worn serves to enhance or draw attention to what you're wearing without
being a distraction.  When you're not wearing anything else,thatis what
your accessories draw attention to.

   (Lydia and a couple of others wore dainty gold and silver waist chains
which I hadn't realized are legal until I saw a few in RÃ(C)gate.  I now
wear one sometimes.  It tempts the line of sight downwards and upwards,
from the raw sexuality of your breasts and vagina to the sensual safe space
in between.  It gives emphasis to the totality of your nakedness rather
than the exposure of your parts.)

   Throughout the evening, the two sexes mingled without awkwardness,
diffidence or dalliance.  The most stimulating part was the conversation.
On both this occasion and at the reception in RÃ(C)gate, I found Palmirene
high society to be very conversable, more literati than glitterati.  Yet it
still felt slightly surreal.  Back home, a party where the male guests come
clothed and the females naked would be a major event on the kinky calendar.
On Palmira it's just another night out.  More than at any other time since
I'd been on Palmira, I felt as if I might be the woman in Manet'sLuncheon
on the Grass -" not flirting or flaunting, but not shrinking from the
public gaze.

   Even so, it was the also first time since stripping upon arrival that I
felt at all self-conscious.  Wearing only pretty baubles and a sociable
smile, as the guest of honor I occupied centre stage, so all eyes were on
me.  I lost the safety in numbers.  But I recalled a snazzy one-liner from
Gypsy Rose Lee.  "I wasn't naked; I was completely covered by a blue
spotlight."

   ***

   The next time I felt anything like that was when Daniel arrived.  He'd
meant to come over from Australia while we were still digging at Cimarrón
but had been delayed.  When he finally made it, the season was over and I
was based at Palmira College.

   I met him at the airport, and although he knew what to expect, by the
time he'd gone through customs he was already mind-boggled.  He had flown
from Jamaica with two young women who had been attending a conference. 
(More about that in a moment.) He doesn't have a girlfriend, so far as I am
aware  -" or a boyfriend, for that matter  -" but he is good-looking and
personable.  I watched them through the glass partition as the girls
stripped naked; and I could see that they enjoyed his attentiveness as he
accepted and folded each item of clothing and tried not to gape.  But any
pretense at nonchalance or discretion melted away as he came out of the
lounge and saw me.  It was as if he walked into an invisible wall.  I
allowed him to take a good long look at my body.  I just smiled and he gave
up trying to be subtle.

   I had almost forgotten what it was like feeling uncomfortable about
being naked.  I hadn't worn a thing in over two months.  But Daniel was the
first person I knew from back home to encounter me in my new,au
naturelhabitat.  What's more, I was his mentor and academic confidante. 
I'm seven years older and our relationship has always been strictly
platonic (in the sense of being both asexual and mentorial).  Indeed, this
was really the first time (apart perhaps from the faculty party the
previous Christmas, when I unleashed myself in a tiny party frock with
plentiful dÃ(C)colletage) that he saw me unambiguously as a woman.  And as
I've pointed out, maybead nauseam, the impact comes from not just the
nudity but the fact that it's one-sided and that, simply on account of
being female, I'm forbidden to wear clothes.  So I knew it would take a few
days for our old connection to be restored.

   Daniel introduced me to his new friends and we took a taxi into the
city. Sabrina and Molly showed in their faces and their gestures the same
feelings I had experienced on my first day, right down to the embarrassed
gasp of pleasure when one's bare bottom first touches the upholstery.  Both
girls are extremely fit, lean but shapely.  They had been in Florida for a
symposium on public health policy (strategies for promoting physically
active and healthy lifestyles).  The conference had adjourned for a restart
on Palmira with some of the attendees, to study the unique culture and its
prospects for "wellness tourism".  (I hadn't known that was even a thing.)
Molly and Sabrina had flown in a day before the others, for some reason. 
Around two-thirds of the conference group were females, and I heard that
they made quite a splash during their visit.  (I read later in the
conference proceedings that a recommendation had been made for greater
promotion of clothing-optional resorts.  I'm all in favour, but these will
never have the same exotic flavor as Palmira.  And I don't think there will
ever be a male equivalent of the nude law.  The world just doesn't work
that way.)

   By the end of the week Daniel had seen and interacted with enough nudity
that mine was no longer a novelty or a distraction.  Nevertheless, like
Sean he enjoyed the company of naked women  -" Rebecca, Marcia, Stephanie
and others besides myself.  That seems a case of stating the obvious, but
Daniel is from a "bloke culture" where young guys don't socialize much with
the womenfolk.  That said, he never played on his privilege.  By this I
mean he never considered himself special or superior because unlike us he
was permitted to cover his body.  Indeed, he treated me with discernibly
more deference to my femininity than before  -" not just being chivalrous
but respecting the fact that I have the strength and self-confidence to
reveal myself so completely, proclaiming and celebrating my womanhood,
being proud of what I am and having no pangs about what I'm not.

   Whereas, sadly, it did not work out quite so well with Matthew.  During
my previous expeditions, when I spoke to him via videophone, sometimes I
would take off my top, or even strip all the way.  He never did, but I was
okay with that.  In my first three months on Palmira nothing changed in
this respect, although he did comment that I was browner all over. 
However, when we reunited at Robina airport, I could see he was a little
taken aback at how comfortable and casual I was with my public nudity.  He
didn't appreciate men looking at those parts of my body which he regarded
as his exclusive domain.  He stayed for two weeks, and though I cannot say
that we've broken up, things haven't been the same.



   Natural Beauty Pt.  04

   Pride in Womanhood

   I flew back to Australia for Christmas, and after six months it felt
really strange to be wearing clothes, to have fabric next to my skin
instead of the warm, fresh, caressing Caribbean air.  My family noticed,
although only Grandma really understood.  Yet I felt no urge to bare
myself, did not seek out a local "free beach".  Some cultural practices do
not translate.

   Oddly enough, my attitude to clothing itself had changed.  As I've
mentioned, I have never been particularly "feminine" in my style choices 
-" by no means "butch" but certainly not "girly-girl".  I generally dressed
for comfort...  and to make a point of that is an indictment of much of
female fashion.  While there had been a few times when I cut loose, like my
Christmas party frock episode, in that instance I was, to an extent, being
ironic, contrasting my festive self with the practical woman who wears
jeans on campus and dungarees on the dig site.  Normally when I wore a
dress or a skirt, for coolness or comfort, I never really thought about the
genderized nature of clothing.  Women wear dresses and skirts, show legs,
bare shoulders and display cleavage; it's not something you bother to
analyze.  But my experience of life on Palmira has altered that part of me.
I guess the most apt equivalent to what I've become is a "lipstick
feminist".  I have come to embrace feminine clothing as empowering  -" yes,
because it is sexy but more because it's distinctively female, and because
it's a choice I have made, not a convention I've adopted.

   The first member of my family to comment on my new image was my brother,
who has always teased me for being a tomboy.  He was the one person I had
been reluctant to inform about my going to Palmira, because I was sure he'd
make jokes about it.  (He did, but none are worth repeating.) Now he
acknowledged my conversion.  "Hey everyone, I've just realized something.
Kate's a girl!"

   I returned to Palmira in January for the new dig season.  I flew in with
a contingent of undergraduate students from various Australian
universities. We'd taken part in several online conferences but only met in
person in Sydney on the day of our flight.  As usual the females
outnumbered the males, by about three to two.  The journey was a long haul
via Los Angeles and Miami.  When we touched down in Palmira everyone was
tired, but nonetheless keyed up.  It felt good to be back.

   By the time we'd retrieved our luggage and had reassembled in the
airport lounge, my little group had seen a few naked women.  This they had
prepared for.  But when I started taking off my clothes they were
goggle-eyed.  It wasn't just that it was one of their own; I was their
leader.  They were still stuck in the clothing-equals-status mentality.  I
didn't say anything; there was no need for hurry; but when the first girl,
a tall, athletic blonde, began unbuttoning her blouse I nodded and smiled,
and the others followed.  The young men watched in silence.

   We took two taxis to the hotel in downtown RÃ(C)gate where they were
booked in for two nights.  I studied the reactions of the girls as their
bare flesh made contact with the seat, and as they took in the sights on
our journey.  They're always the same.  In fact, when I think about it,
mine haven't really changed.  The wonderful thing about Palmira is that you
never get blasÃ(C) about your nudity.  There are the expressions you see on
the faces of newly arrived women.  There are your own responses to all
sorts of situations and challenges.  When a man's gaze lingers longer than
what's considered polite.  When goosebumps stipple your flesh and you're
not allowed to cover up.  When you exercise.  (Back home I always wore a
sports bra when jogging or doing calisthenics, for comfort and to prevent
long-term sagging.  On Palmira I support my breasts with my hands; but I
have to cup them from underneath so my nipples aren't hidden from view.)
Every time you sit down you feel the texture of the seat against your bare
back and bottom, and you're reminded that there is nothing between your
most intimate parts and the world.

   So everything has consequences.  Even the simplest acts have rules and
conventions.  Take that simple act of sitting.  You could write a book on
it.  You've learnt as a girl how to sit properly in a skirt.  But
Palmirenes frown at a woman who crosses her legs (and arms, although
crossing ankles is acceptable), because they see it as a way of shielding
yourself.  You naturally hunch over when your legs are crossed (because
you've made your backside a narrower and less stable base).  Therefore,
with your legs uncrossed you sit up straighter.  This looks more elegant
and it gives your breasts more display.  Knees can be touching, but not
pressed tightly together.  Posture projects pride.

   In your first days here, I found out, the worst thing you can do is try
to cover yourself with your hands.  (It's illegal to use anything else  -"
like your bag or hat or a towel, even if only the habitual offender will be
busted for it.) That just draws attention to yourself; and it doesn't
change the fact that you're naked; it just shows that you're ashamed.  But
you're apt to overcompensate.  When you walk you tend to keep your hands
busy, or clasped behind your back, as if to prevent them from converging,
by reflex, onto forbidden places.  However, as you become more at ease with
your nudity, you loosen up.  You start to enjoy the attention you receive.

   That's important.  Your experience is not all internal.  People are
watching you  -" not everyone, but those who do usually don't try to hide
it.  You take pleasure in being looked at, though not in being stared at.
You give permission to look, but it's not necessarily an invitation.  You
expect respect.

   On one of my weekends in RÃ(C)gate I encountered a young guy who was
quite good-looking.  His opening line set the tone for our short-lived
acquaintance.

   "You have a very nice body," he said.

   "Thanks," I replied.

   He saw my expression and apologized.  "I'm sorry if that came across
wrong.  I really did mean it as a compliment."

   He did, and he was polite, he wasn't leering, but he would not have said
it (probably) if we met back home regardless of what I was wearing.  He
might has well have said "Nice tits." Palmira can do that to people.  It
loosens your inhibitions, and you have to be on your guard  -" both sexes.
It's easy to forget that a woman's naked body is not the complete package.
So if he'd said simply "You look nice," I'd have been flattered.  It's a
physical compliment, albeit in this case he'd be complimenting the person,
not the parts.  But it's because those parts are on display that men can
sometimes be too blatant...  and women too, in their own way.

   What I've found on Palmira is that I love being around men, and it's not
solely because of the attention.  They are clothed, simply because they are
male, and their clothing separates them from me because I'm female.  So
even when I sometimes become less mindful of my naked state, the very sight
of clothing is a cue which brings me back to full awareness, not just of my
undressed condition but of the fact that I'm a woman.  When such a potent
symbol of our public sexuality, how much and what sort of clothing is worn,
has been eliminated, what's left are the distilled essences  -" pure
masculinity and pristine femininity.  (Who would have predicted a year and
a half ago that I would make a statement like that?  Certainly not I!)

   One occasion when this was really instilled in me was when a minor
mishap at the dig resulted in a sprained wrist and a gash above my right
eye.  To record each day's progress, we take photographs of the trenches
from a rather high, normally stable stepladder.  What happened was nobody's
fault, just a freak accident because one foot of the ladder rested on a
rock which became dislodged.  I took a dive into the dirt.  Alice patched
me up on-site but insisted on a more thorough examination for possible
infection and concussion.  While the island's main hospital is in Grandin,
I was taken to a medical centre in RÃ(C)gate.  In spite of my protests, I
was kept overnight for observation.

   The nude law is not enforced in health care institutions.  Indeed all
staff are clothed, more or less.  But Palmirene traditions are not ignored.
Nurses wear scrubs, the men's outfit being pants and a smock, the women
wearing just the latter.  Doctors and senior administrators wear white lab
coats, the males with shirt, tie and black trousers underneath, the females
with nothing else (apart from panties for hygienic reasons).  Male
technical personnel wear overalls, their female counterparts a short tunic.
Tribute must still be paid tola diffÃ(C)rence.

   As for female patients, the nurse told me that it's up to each whether
to remain naked.  I couldn't see the point of putting anything on for my
short stay.  My attending physician was a handsome young gent from Grenada.
I'd been half-naked in front of male doctors before this, but it felt just
a little bit creepy to be lying on the bed, my entire body uncovered (there
were no sheets) while he inspected my head and wrist and clinically ignored
the rest.  That night I slept with a light blanket.  I was in an open ward,
and in the bed next to mine was Richard, a tourist who had fallen off his
quad bike.  We chatted and he happily admitted that his misfortune occurred
because he wasn't paying attention to the traffic but rather to the
roadside scenery.  In the morning I dispensed with my covering.  Shortly
afterwards Richard's wife arrived.  She was wearing a chemise, but when she
saw me sitting up in bed naked she grinned and removed it.

   It's been one of my Palmirene insights that once the association of
apparel with status, protocol or decorum has been broken, your inhibitions
can be shed, along with your clothes.  The woman just assumed that female
patients would be covered up and propriety dictated that she should as
well. But when she observed that it was okay to strip she did so
immediately.  It's why, after all, she'd come to Palmira.

   My hospital experience was a reminder that one of the ways you get
seduced by the nude law is, ironically, through how, when and where it
doesn't apply.  For example, it is not illegal to cover your body out of
public sight  -" as in your private quarters.  Back home I sometimes slept
in the nude, usually when sharing the bed with Matthew; but in the cool
hours I could pull the blankets over me.  My suite at the HÃ'tel AndromÃ"de
was warm so I didn't need even basic bed linen.  The Barracks are also
snug, but on my first night there I waited to see Alice's bedtime practice.
I didn't want to infringe on her comfort zone.  It wasn't a problem; she
slept naked.  In the RÃ(C)gate boarding house where I stay, the rule is
that women must be nude at all times; and though that's impossible to
enforce in the private rooms, I am anyway.  In other words, even in
circumstances when you're permitted to cover yourself, you don't.  It's not
just about how you appear to other people; it's about your own feelings.

   (The boarding house is owned and run by a middle-aged couple who have
lived all their lives on the island.  Francesca has not worn a stitch of
clothing on her body for three decades, and doesn't understand why a woman
would want or need to cover up.)

   I shall go back to a statement I made earlier and amend it slightly.  We
dress or undress to affect perceptions of us; but that includes our own
perceptions, even when no one is looking.  Your state influences the way
you think, feel and behave in private as well as in public.  And I have
discovered that the confidence, the empowerment and the sheer joy of being
nude in public don't fade when I'm alone.  It's still me and my body.  I
want to hold onto those feelings.

   And so my story is coming to an end, at least for now.  I have taken up
the option of extending my fellowship for a second year and have been
promoted to the position of site manager at Hamilton Bay.  It's a
smaller-scale dig than Cimarrón but with lots of potential.  Daniel has
returned for a three-month stint.  Matthew will probably not be back, and I
am uncertain about our future.  I am equally ambivalent about my brother
who has announced plans to come over.  He says it's to visit the home of
our ancestors; but since he's bringing his girlfriend I doubt that his
motives are purely nostalgic.  I'm not sure how I'll feel about my Baby Bro
seeing me naked; but that's not been an issue for generations of Palmirene
big sisters.

   I have probably gone on long enough, but there are still some
observations to make about this extraordinary place.

   One of the driving forces behind modern attitudes to female nudity on
Palmira has been tourism.  There's no doubt about that.  What's less
obvious to the outsider is that most visits are initiated by women, who
make up three-fifths or more of all vacationers.  This is partly as result
of government policy, which is to limit absolute numbers and maintain a
"wholesome" image.  Only visitors with pre-booked accommodation are
permitted onshore overnight stays; and since the demand is high and the
number of hotel rooms limited, preference is given to certain categories,
in particular couples.  Single females are more likely to gain entry than
single males, and all-female or mixed-sex groups than all-male parties. 
Until a couple of years ago, a certain cruise ship company ran tours from
neighboring islands which were heavily patronized by men and became known
as "voyeurges" (a clumsy but accurate term).  Similar operations still
exist, but on a much smaller scale and have been subject to severe
restrictions.  Students on spring or summer break are discouraged, though
not banned.  Graduates celebrating the completion of their studies, like
the party of seven I met on the hike to Cimarrón Bay, tend to be less
boisterous and more acceptable.

   Palmira has also become a major player in wedding tourism, a lucrative
and rapidly growing sector of the international travel market.  Its appeal
is the combination of wedding and honeymoon.  In a very competitive
industry worldwide, tourist destinations are hard to differentiate, so they
must seek out or establish something which makes them unique.  In a
particular region such as the Caribbean, there are so many commonalities
that it's hard for any place to stand out.  But Palmira has a ready-made
distinction.  The island offers adds a special, indeed unique flavor to the
wedding experience.

   The very first people I met on my original flight to Palmira were the
honeymooning couple.  About one in ten of all visitors are newlyweds, and
an equal number are spouses renewing their vows.  Matrimonial couples are
still a small minority.  Not all family and friends are willing to abide by
Palmira's rules, and for this reason partners on their second or subsequent
marriage outnumber the first-timers.  The exceptions are lesbian couples.
(Palmira is a progressive society.  Weddings can be religious or secular.
Same-sex marriage is legal.  Commitment ceremonies, which couples from some
cultures prefer, are treated with the same respect as traditional
marriages.)

   One Saturday afternoon I and two of my colleagues, Sophie and Oscar,
witnessed a wedding in a RÃ(C)gate park.  The couple were accompanied by
about two dozen guests.  The groom wore an outfit appropriate for the
tropics, an open-neck shirt and blazer, cream slacks and brogues.  The
bride's full ensemble consisted of a silver tiara, a silk tulle veil and
ivory heeled sandals.  Her complexion was fair, but she must have prepared
for her big day.  She had made sure that no tan lines spoiled the seamless
sheen of her body.

   It was a civil ceremony and the officiant was a woman.  Needless to say,
she, the bridesmaid and the female guests were also nude.  (On a
frivolously practical level, the perennial dilemma of choosing bridal gowns
and bridesmaids' dresses  -" and fitting into them  -" is avoided on
Palmira.)

   The couple's vows had included the declaration, "I offer to you all that
I have, I give to you all that I am." This had symbolic resonance when,
just before they exchanged rings, they performed a little ritual.  As they
stood facing each other, he removed her tiara and veil, and she took off
her shoes, so that she entered married life completely bare, even more so
than when the nuptials began.  She was both opening up and offering herself
completely to her man.  As they were pronounced husband and wife, all that
she wore, from head to foot, was the ring he'd placed on her finger.  It
was a lovely gesture, with genuine meaning, unlike some of the more archaic
traditions you witness at weddings.

   Sophie and I had stopped to watch, while Oscar waited reluctantly but
patiently.  Sophie, from California, was at the time engaged to Corinne, a
professor at UCLA.  I think she made up her mind that Saturday to get
married on Palmira.  Corinne, who had had been a campaigner for same-sex
marriage in their home state, wed her first partner in San Francisco back
in 2004.  And as someone once said (I imagine), marriage equality becomes
real in the divorce court.

   Corinne agreed and they tied the proverbial knot at Bonaire, a
picturesque village on the north-east coast, in December  -" on my
birthday, in fact.  (I flew out for Christmas with my family a few days
later.) Corinne is a tall, slim, attractive redhead, a few years older than
Sophie's 26 years.  I must admit that I found her manner somewhat abrupt.
She's a no-nonsense, lay-it-on-the-line woman, in contrast to Sophie who's
sweet-tempered and free-spirited.  I met Corinne at their pre-wedding
party, and wasn't sure how she was adapting to Palmira's ways.  But if she
had any misgivings they did not show.

   There were men as well as women present at the party.  Several had flown
in for the event, and the women were at first understandably disoriented.
However, they adapted quickly.  Nevertheless it was a rather sedate affair
until the arrival of a pair of male strippers.  I was surprised by that,
although the dudes disrobed only as far as their chamois loincloths,
whereas the majority of their audience had started out with less.  As a
result the act was an anticlimax, but afterwards the revelers, both sexes,
grew more confident, spontaneous and fancy-free.  That night the Esplanade
rocked.

   The following day, as a nod to tradition and a hint of their
relationship, Sophie was attended by a maid of honor  -" that was me  -"
while Corinne was accompanied by a best woman.  There were no fathers of
the bride present, but in any case no one was giving anyone away.  Their
only accoutrements were Sophie's veil and Corinne's floral coronet, which
they duly removed for a fully naked embrace, an enchanting symbol of their
union.  The celebrant did not pronounce them wife and wife but instead
finished with "I now pronounce you joined in marriage." The reception was
low-key, a garden party with no speeches and no bouquet-tossing.

   I was touched by the simplicity and elegance of both of these weddings.
Perhaps I'm reading too much into this (and maybe I've spent too much time
on Palmira), but I love the idea of the bride being naked.  What she wears
on her wedding day should be an extension or reflection of her real,
natural self, what she is taking into the marriage.  This is her gift to
her husband (or with Sophie and Corinne, to each other); it is an
affirmation and an assertion of her womanhood and her sexuality.  It
represents her femininity; and by definition nothing is more feminine than
the female body.  Indeed, I've always thought that extravagant wedding
gowns miss this point; they are more about fantasy (fairy-tale princess,
anyone?) than reality.  By contrast, revealing  -" in some cases very
revealing  -" wedding gowns have become popular in many parts of the world,
including Australia, because women are choosing the dress that expresses
their actual personality.  It may be sexy, sophisticated, glamorous,
glittering, daring, demure, winsome, whatever.  A fully naked bride may
then be consideredne plus ultra- nothing else beyond  -" in her
emancipation from anachronistic traditions.

   On that note I shall finish off, with one last analysis.  If there is
one way in which I have been profoundly changed by life on Palmira, I
nominate feeling pride in being female.  Before Palmira I would have
dismissed that sentiment, like taking pride in being born with brown eyes.
Whatever you are or want to be, I would have said, to be proud of something
that's outside your self-determination is vacuous.  Now I think
differently. We live in a world where, by and large, females are constantly
reminded that we do not and should not have autonomy over our own bodies,
that we don't belong to ourselves, that even our self-esteem is controlled
by others.  That might appear to be the case with Palmira's nude law, but I
have learnt otherwise.  The nude law is a liberation, not an imposition.

   In a very important way Palmira is an enlightened society.  Women and
girls here show a healthy, positive attitude towards their bodies, are more
self-confident and more comfortable with our sexuality, more self-accepting
with regard to body image than those of our sex elsewhere, and more than
males.  Because we hide nothing, we learn that there is no such thing as
the "perfect" body.  Everyone looks at you but no one judges you.  People
have seen everything (and I mean that in both senses).  This is a culture
in which commercial and peer pressures don't make us feel we have to look
like a Barbie doll or a supermodel.

   Palmirenes suffer from remarkably few eating disorders.  Anorexia,
bulimia, obesity are virtually unknown.  At the risk of generalizing: these
often arise because a woman or girl experiences herself and her body as
separate entities, and she forces herself to control the body she dislikes,
making it in her mind an object that is alien and unwanted.  If her body is
objectified, it's worse when she objectifies it herself.  I don't think
this happens much on Palmira because you cannot separate your physical body
from your essential being.  (And men, set this example, are also healthy.)

   In most Western cultures, the prevailing view of the naked female body
is a detrimental mixture of titillation and shame.  To take one example, if
a mother breast-feeds her baby in public, this is often treated as improper
behaviour, rather than what it is, a perfectly natural and wonderful thing.
And yet women's bodies are used to sell everything from cars to cola
drinks. In other parts of the world it's the opposite but no better.  So
womankind is caught between the bikini and the burkha.  And the only
escape, if it's allowed, is to adopt masculine habits, clothing,
hairstyles, mannerisms, values  -" that is, to deny or repudiate one's
femininity, one's own being.  You cannot do that on Palmira.  You come to
terms with what you are, and with what you're not.

   Nevertheless, in celebrating difference Palmirenes have addressed the
issue of gender identity.  It's written into the nude law.  Their solution
is not without controversy, but they've made an effort and it's a work in
progress.  Transsexual females  -" persons born male who have undergone sex
reassignment through surgery  -" are subject to the law.  Somewhat more
contentiously, a transgender male  -" biologically female but whose gender
identity is male  -" must be naked.  On the other hand, transsexual males
and transgender females are defined to be male.  In other words, as the law
stands, if you have breasts and a vagina, however you identify yourself you
must not conceal them.  If you have a penis, you must wear pants.

   As I've stated before, Palmira is not perfect, it's no utopia.  What
makes this place unique is that the people believe that the expression of
natural femininity should not be constrained by what are no more than
contrived notions of status, gravitas, decorum, morality, modesty, shame.
So women, far from being victimized or objectified by the nude law, are
empowered by it.  Palmira turns on its head the all-too-common notion that
femininity is weakness.  Palmirenes believe that you have to be strong,
smart and self-confident to openly express your true self.

   That is what I have found.  Through the joy of nudity I have discovered
a new pride in my womanhood.