Natural Beauty Pt. 04

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Greetings from the Exotic Island of Naked Women.
4.2k words
4.46
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14

Part 4 of the 6 part series

Updated 06/09/2023
Created 11/04/2018
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sarobah
sarobah
377 Followers

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". Being used to spending so much of my time in fieldwork, I generally dressed for comfort — jeans and shorts on campus, dungarees on the dig site. When I did wear a dress or a skirt, I never really thought about the genderized nature of clothing. Women wear frocks, 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. It's a choice I've 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 about 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, on a study holiday. 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 blond, 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 Régate where they were booked in for two nights. I studied the reactions of the girls as they came to terms with their public exposure. These are 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 blasé 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. (Palmirenes have a somewhat inconvenient liking for wicker chairs. These leave a lasting impression.)

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 correctly 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. Proper 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 Régate I encountered a young guy who was quite good-looking and probably not without charm. But 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 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 our 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 Régate. In spite of my protests, I was kept overnight for observation.

The nude law is not enforced in health care institutions. Indeed all personnel, both sexes, are clothed, more or less. But Palmirene traditions are not ignored. Tribute must still be paid to la différence. Female staff -- doctors, nurses, orderlies, administrators, technical personnel and so on -- wear short, color-coded dresses which are wrap-around (for quick and easy removal, I presume) with nothing underneath.

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 while he inspected my head and wrist and clinically ignored the rest. That night I slept with a sheet on top of me. 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, and he was rather taken aback because I was the only naked woman in the place. But shortly afterwards his wife arrived. She was wearing a chemise, and when she saw me sitting up in bed in the nude 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. In the Barracks, on my first night 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. We didn't even bother with a sheet or blanket because the place is warm even in what counts on Palmira as winter.

In the Régate 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. Francesca has not worn a stitch of clothing on her body almost her entire life, 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. And I am 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 women's nudity on Palmira has been tourism. There's no doubt about that. What's less obvious to the outsider is that vacationing females easily outstrip males in numbers. (Weak pun intended.) This is partly as result of government policy, which is to limit arrivals 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 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 focus on something that makes them notable. 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 can travel so far or 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 Régate 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 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 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.

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.

It should go without saying (but I shall say it anyway, because it's my curse) that any misconceptions about lesbians were dispelled that day. Sophie and Corinne did not disguise their femininity. They laid bare their womanhood, literally. And it was more heartfelt because you might not think that someone like Corinne would be comfortable with her required nudity. She is what might be called "stud-fem" or "soft butch" — androgynous in her mannerisms and, I presume, in her clothing style back home. Yet she reacted no differently from any other woman coming to Palmira for the first time. So if there's a lesson to be learnt, it's that gay women (just like feminists) don't want to be men; and what better place than Palmira to teach it?

In any case, 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 considered ne plus ultra — nothing else beyond — in her emancipation from anachronism.

sarobah
sarobah
377 Followers
12