Natural Beauty Pt. 03

My roommate was Alice, the 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 Chicago), 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 sessions 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 acted immature at times, and liked to pull juvenile pranks; but his enthusiasm was infectious and his work ethic commendable. He was adopted as a little brother by Rachel, whose irreverent high spirits matched his, and by Lucy, whose calm good humour counteracted their at times unruly joie de vivre. At the same time, when we went to Régate for the weekend he fancied himself as our guardian, and we allowed him to bask in the glow of his gallantry, even Rachel. (A line from Terri Guillemets 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, disarmingly ingenuous 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, good-humored and broadminded. Some have boyfriends, male travelling companions, and in one case a husband, working in other establishments. They don't chafe under the thumb of the sergeant-major, 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 makes them line up for inspection. They stand rigidly at attention, thrusting out their chests, sucking in their bellies, extending their hips to the fore, and I have rarely beheld a more provocatively titillating sight. He beams in clueless approbation of their soldierly discipline.

Naturally, most of one's life is focused on the dig. The day at Cimarrón starts at sunrise when Mike and Sue check the weather forecast. If it's good news, everyone has an early breakfast, eager to get onto the site. The day's briefing begins at half past seven, the spadework at eight o'clock.

My role during my inaugural season on Palmira was to oversee 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 in the early afternoon, the 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 (Jack 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 the best evidence yet found of ancestor worship in ancient Palmira.

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 damp clothes means we don't need to bother drying ourselves. The warm breeze does that.

There are other advantages to being the bare-skinned sex. One of my favorite hum-drum tasks is wet screening — sieving soil and other sediments in sea water to look for small objects. It's mostly mindless repetition so you sing and chat and joke; but occasionally some tiny object will catch the eye and another little bit will be added to the overall picture of the site. For this, there are two instruments. The large frame is a heavy scaffold and a hose is used. The small frame version is hand-held, and the screening is a two-person job. It's done by men and women, standing in the water that reaches up to waist-deep when the waves come in; and being female means you don't have to bother stripping down to a swimsuit.

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. 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 can choose 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 gals do. However, the sun does not present a major problem. We dig in the trenches for only a few hours each day because of the 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 the appropriate paperwork to make any exemptions official. This is important because there is something to always 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 of them, fourteen young males, and ten females who covered a wider range of years, from twenties to forties. They all had straw hats, canvas gloves and boots. The men also wore mustard-colored bib-and-brace overalls and white T-shirts. 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'd known 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 without good reason can be arrested. The penalty is a fine, imprisonment or up to a hundred hours of involuntary labor. It's almost always the latter. So to satisfy my curiosity, I later 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.

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?

It made me feel somewhat better to learn that most violations of the law are not protests against compulsory nudity per 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 Régate 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. 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. She is not legally bound by the nude law, but 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 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 her dignitas, gravitas and nobilitas when completely nude. The Deputy Governor, a prim little man with a comb-over, looked uncomfortable on this sultry afternoon in his stuffy three-piece 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 for all women. There are reasons aside from health and safety why a woman may be exempted. 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 and girls under eighteen are exempted; but you don't see many of these outside Grandin, where the nude law is not enforced. Although most adults work beyond the enclave, 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 home countries. (There are no native Palmirenes based at Cimarrón because, as mentioned, local historians focus on more recent history.) 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 although we were inside the Grandin district 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. (Not everyone outside Palmira appreciates and respects its ways; so what is a woman's pride and joy on the island can be a source of embarrassment beyond its shores.)

Although during the non-dig part of the year I stay at a Régate boarding house, 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 marked by signs bearing the same message as that displayed in the airport terminal.

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

Nudity is not compulsory inside the enclave, but most women who reside there don't cover up their bodies. For example, the family I watched at the airport baggage conveyor no doubt live there, and from what I understand the mother did not have to strip if they were heading directly home. But all women do. And while there must be those who never venture outside the district and are always clothed, I doubt that it's many.

Except in schools and places of worship where nudity for under-18s is not allowed, whether or not girls wear clothes, inside or beyond the enclave, is the prerogative of their parents. (So one's eighteenth birthday is especially momentous for Palmirene girls, something they approach with heady anticipation. Like their brothers they are now legal adults, they can vote, they can take control of their lives; but becoming a woman is special because it means being subject to the nude law. It's not an imposition; it's an entitlement.)

Palmirene children are used to seeing women naked, including mothers and teachers. The latter have a choice on school premises, but though not mandated, nudity is just about universal. They don't have a problem with standing naked in front of a class. For them and their students it's a simple fact of life. And the same applies on the College's undergraduate campus, where females comprise about sixty per cent of both the faculty and the student body. The young men are dressed how you would find them at any university — in jeans, chinos, capris, cargo shorts, plaid shirts, polo shirts, flannel shirts, T-shirts, etcetera. The women, including first-years, are naked without exception.

Around half the College's students, two-thirds of postgraduates, are from overseas. They have part-time jobs mainly in tourism, some in the financial sector. Many settle permanently, and the Palmirene government encourages this. They come from all over the world, drawn as much by the generous wages as by the island's other attractions. Most academic staff are foreign-born, including myself of course.

Palmira hosts several embassies, consulates and high commissions, all based in Grandin. Protocols exist regarding nudity. Although it's not de rigueur, female members of the diplomatic community who go outside the district's boundaries abide by the law. They can stay inside if they're reluctant to bare all, but it would be a dreary life, confined to a corner of this beautiful island.

I got to meet Australia's 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. I was flattered to be included in that company. It was a black-tie function for the men. Heather is 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 wonderful thing about nudity is that women like her exude as much sensuality and sexuality as any beauty queen bombshell. So while Heather does not come across as conventionally feminine, next to her husband in his tuxedo there was no mistaking her for anything but female.