Natural Beauty Pt. 02

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 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 females 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, the women 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 derrières 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 talking was obviously on the adjacent deck. I tried to be discreet, peeking through the latticework screen, but was greeted with a merry "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.

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 he and Gabrielle are devotees of the Freikörperkultur, free body culture, and 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 the social conditioning that makes us regard clothing as a way of separating ourselves from nature, as a symbol of status and as 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. 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 embrace la différence, 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" is Le Déjeuner sur l'Herbe, the painting by Édouard 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 Émile Zola, a vivid contrast. And that is what Palmira provides, a vivid contrast.

There is a sexual tension intrinsic to the nude-law culture, because only one sex is naked, and that sex must be 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. The local women, I have found, espouse it as much if not more than their menfolk. 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. My footwear, 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.

Régate's population is about three thousand, twice that in the entire conurbation of Régate, 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, gargantuan 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. There are still fish, fruit and vegetable stalls, but the lively activity is focused on tourism, with a veritable maze of trinket stalls and dozens of roaming vendors. There are, surprisingly, 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 are de rigueur downtown.

I wandered aimlessly for a while, 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 exemplars in a couple sitting in a sidewalk café 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, rivaling 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 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 red 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 blond 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. People look at you. It's why the nude law exists and it's why tourists come here. But in one respect it's easier for the males. Nudity exposes not just women's bodies, but our thoughts and feelings as well. Those who pretend they're 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 in the three municipalities along a small stretch of coast. The rest live in scattered communities across the island's thirty-four square kilometers (thirteen square miles). Nestled between the harbor and hills, Régate is the seat of government, chief port and commercial centre. Grandin to the south-west is a dormitory town. Between them, 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 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 nascent 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 are de facto legal 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 highest per capita incomes 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 colorful 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 as National 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 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 has received widespread praise for its contribution to relief efforts on neighboring islands.

The 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 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 Régate. The postgraduate school has an enrollment of two hundred full- and part-time students. It's a salubrious setting, a cluster of wooden-frame buildings nestled amongst the trees 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 cornflower-blue eyes and ash-blond hair tied back severely in a ponytail. Although 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 are a Californian and a New Zealander. They had been living on Palmira for just over a year, and their job was to get me au courant with progress on the dig sites.

The main excavation, where I would be working, is at Cimarrón Bay on the east coast. 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 the three of us for a couple of hours, and when she returned the discussion inevitably came round to the nude law. As the only one wearing clothes, Brandon kept out of the conversation at first, although I was interested in the male perspective. I described my 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 as an on-site supervisor would 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 leader au 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 will not be asexual. You cannot 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.