Natural Beauty (redux)

In line with my policy of editing and revising all of my literary endeavours, I hereby present a new (hopefully improved) version of a previously published story.

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 Caribbean Sea, a buzz of excitement filled the cabin. Although I was in the aisle seat, as the plane banked I got a clear view of the gorgeous vista below us.

From the air Palmira reveals itself as a sublime tropical island paradise, with topaz-blue coral reefs, black and silver sand beaches, verdant hillsides and green-skirted rocky ridges, resplendently bathed in golden sunlight. The broad inlet over which we were descending teemed with yachts and skiffs and fishing boats. In the middle of the bay a cruise ship lay at anchor. I could easily make out from their gleaming wakes etched upon the water a fleet of small ferries delivering passengers to the quay. Onshore, 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 Régate 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 once more 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 had changed again. The female passengers, including myself, became quieter and more introspective as the flight attendants opened the doors and a gust of warm, humid air swirled through the cabin.

Sitting across the aisle from me were a couple whom I judged, by their lovey-dovey expressions, to be 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. His new wife was frowning and fidgety; but hers were not so much in-flight nerves. Meanwhile, the girl in the window seat next to me was gripping the armrest so tightly that her knuckles were white. I would have put this down also to fear of flying, except that she had been in high spirits at take-off. It was the landing -- or rather, where we were landing -- which now made her jittery. To my reassuring smile she replied with a grin and a wink. She was wearing a cheery, canary yellow sundress; and as she stood up she tugged demurely downwards on the hem.

The flight attendant's announcement while we were still taxiing had reinforced the feelings 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, the weather is fine with a light south-easterly breeze." And after the standard admonitions about staying seated and belted: "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 the average international airport, but the protocols and formalities are the same. Ours and a charter plane were the only aircraft on the tarmac, and the terminal was uncrowded, so I and my fellow passengers could expect a quick and easy process. But heading towards the baggage collection area we slowed, as we beheld 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 half-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 newly wedded woman squeezed her husband's arm. She was wide-eyed and open-mouthed. I looked around at the other females 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 full-frontal reality of Palmira.

***

I 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 and intrepid mariners and their hardy womenfolk. But I knew little about the contemporary lifestyle, 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. This edition featured an 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 disclose 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 by pirates. She wed one of them, raised many children and became a local matriarch. That may be a myth; but her family today are one of the island's wealthiest, descendants of a merchant aristocracy who until recently ruled Palmira.

We occasionally visited Grandpa's birthplace in England, but never Grandma's. They had met when he was on Palmira 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 the island. 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."

Although 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 a healthy diet; and I've enjoyed showing it 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 frills, frocks and lipstick.

In fact, it was my career which took 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 region has taken off. The Palmirene government has sponsored excavations on the island as a prestige project, and some remarkable finds have been made. These remains are evidence of ancient links between the islands of the Greater and Lesser Antilles, long before the arrival of the (peaceful) Arawaks and later the (warlike) Caribs.

I had been working on and off 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, an allowance really, but my airfares, accommodation and meals would be paid for. More importantly, the modest scale of the excavations would provide an opportunity for me to be for once a key player on the dig. 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 of my successful application shortly before my twenty-sixth birthday. I'm not averse to admitting that my family connection, though tenuous, may have been a factor. The starting date was still months away, but there were orientation sessions to be attended, via video conferencing. These concentrated on technical issues and not so much the local lifestyle. During them I got acquainted with my future colleagues. It's a multinational enterprise. The director is an Oregon-based ethno-archaeologist, Professor Rebecca Hayden.

However, the fact that Palmira would be different from any of the places I'd worked at so far became obvious during our very first online meeting. I had been joined by Daniel, who was halfway through his Master's degree program. As his academic adviser, I'd convinced him that a stint on Palmira would be good for his

curriculum vitae

. Suffice it to say, he didn't need much encouraging.

Most of Rebecca's associates had returned to their home bases because it was the island's wet season, but she and her deputy, Mike Renshaw, had stayed on. They appeared on-screen with Marcia Robbins, curator of the Palmira Museum. While Mike wore a colourful Balinese batik shirt, his colleagues, visible from the waist up, were bare-breasted. Aged in their early forties, both women are very attractive. Rebecca has sun-bronzed skin, cornflower-blue eyes and copper-red hair normally tied back severely in a ponytail. Marcia is dark-eyed, mahogany-skinned and raven-haired. Neither of their torsos showed any hint of tan lines.

Daniel gasped. I was surprised that he wasn't better prepared for this unadorned introduction to Palmirene culture. Of course, he didn't have my background. Yet it was hard for me to not feel some embarrassment, sitting alongside him and seeing these women so unabashedly exposed. But they smiled indulgently and the conference went on in an otherwise normal way.

During my twelve months on the island, I would be dividing my professional 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 to prevent a "brain drain" by keeping and attracting educated young people. It was once 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, Régate. The undergraduate campus and Palmira Museum are located in the nearby community of Grandin, an enclave with its own by-laws where most of Palmira's families live.

***

I had discussed my decision to go to Palmira with my family, especially Grandma. They were supportive, if perhaps a little perplexed. My boyfriend Matthew, who was used to having a long-distance relationship, 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.

I travelled alone; Daniel would not be joining me for another few weeks. Flights from Australia do not proceed directly to Palmira because the island's airport cannot handle the big jets. So I stayed overnight in Kingston, Jamaica, to fly on a smaller plane the next day. The check-in area was located at one end of the terminal, and a queue had begun to form when I arrived. It was a little disquieting to be standing under the destination sign as passers-by

en route

to other, less exotic places turned to stare at us. Most knew about Palmira; and they must have noticed that we women carried less luggage than the average tourist.

There were about fifty people on board our aircraft. Most were in couples, including the honeymooners seated across from me, and generally of about my age. 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. There was an all-girl group of six in their early twenties, and half a dozen solo women (including myself and the young lady next to me), but no single men. 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 attaché cases and laptops. The woman, who seemed in charge, looked vaguely familiar. She and her companions had not been in the Kingston queue, and when they went past 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. Palmirene speech retains an old-fashioned quality but has been strongly influenced by immigration from Europe and the Americas, including other parts of the Caribbean.)

Our aircrew were smartly attired in spick-and-span uniforms. The two 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, ash-blonde hair. She displayed the no-nonsense congeniality 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 risqué. But when we were inside the terminal awaiting the arrival of our bags, they passed us by, towing their trolley-cases. The women had taken off their uniforms and underwear. The captain's skirt and blouse were draped over one arm, her bra and panties resting neatly on top. Her co-pilot, who was the only male in the group, had not even loosened his tie and seemed oblivious to the unclad forms of his fellow crew members. Despite my having primed myself for this, 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 past the customs inspection area. They halted in an alcove just within our view. We watched as the woman took off her clothes. She carefully folded each item before handing it to one of the young men. She even removed her shoes, earrings and wristwatch. Her undressing laid bare a slim but shapely figure. Her brown skin glistened. And as she stripped, she was nonchalantly giving instructions to her assistants and nodding silent, friendly greetings to the customs and immigration officers. That's when I recognized her (from a photo in the online guidebook) -- Palmira's Minister for Tourism. I was as impressed by the lack of pomp and ceremony which attended the arrival of a government official 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. 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 bearing the sullen, harried expression which you often see on the faces of the domestically downtrodden. He wore dapper, neatly pressed white trousers, a floral pattern shirt and a red neckerchief. Creating a somewhat comical effect, the boys were dressed almost the same as their father.

The woman had already shed her clothing. 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 typically matriarchal Palmirene family. The woman's dominion was not at all compromised by the fact that she 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. The officer on my line was a ruddy-complexioned man in dark trousers, a white shirt and a navy-blue tie. He glanced at my one bag of luggage at my gear and waved me on. Supervising the proceedings was a woman whose only accoutrements were a blue armband and a blue ribbon choker. 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 acknowledging the authority of 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 revealed various degrees of reservation and embarrassment. Some giggled nervously, while others showed tight-lipped bravado. The all-girl group used teasing and playful banter to overcome their bashfulness. The only women in the room who revelled openly 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. Most women who visit Palmira familiarize themselves before leaving home, on topless and nudist beaches. But this was not a private display in a secluded sanctuary; it was a very public place. Adding to the slight sense of discomfiture that I and most of the other women felt were the facts that the nudity was compulsory and it was one-sided. As we stripped naked, the men remained fully clothed. Also, I'd expected our disrobing debut to be more discreet. 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".

Of course, what we were feeling was an essential part of our adventure. I recalled my undergraduate days in an on-campus student residence, when we dared each other to run naked down the corridors, across the foyer, through the dining hall and even around the outside of the building. It was almost always us girls who took up the challenge. The males preferred the role of onlookers, supporters and provocateurs. It would have been pointless without an audience, and if many of the spectators were unsuspecting and unprepared for the performance, that enhanced its piquancy for us. We overcame our shame and put aside our dread for the pursuit of a thrill. That feeling was now returning, not so energetic but just as intense.