Natural Beauty (redux)

Ted called for drinks and I ordered a half-glass of chardonnay. Valerie announced that they were going downtown for dinner and insisted that 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 are aged in their mid-thirties. He is 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 blond hair. This was their first trip to Palmira and they had been drawn by another of the island's great attractions, its glorious coral reefs.

I left my wine and went back upstairs to fetch my purse and shoes. When I returned two more of Ted and Valerie's recruits had arrived. I couldn't tell if they were a romantic couple. They are French, both brunette and very pretty. Élise is slightly taller; her body's contours are angular, giving an impression of brittle fragility, like fine crystal; her eyes shine like blue sapphires. Adèle's curves are more voluptuous; her eyes glitter midnight blue above exquisite cheekbones.

Caroline and Fin didn't say much but seemed intelligent. Élise also said little, but when she did she displayed a whimsical wisdom. Adèle 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 that 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 joy, 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 stature, willowy figure and squeaky voice. Her peach complexion, animated sky-blue eyes and pixie-cut blond 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 that we were heading to somewhere swank. In fact, I felt more underdressed than ever, 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 didn't fret. Nor did I feel like a ninth wheel. Although none of the others were as effusive and ebullient as Val and Ted, all of my new friends were excellent company.

We ladies were still clutching our shoes as we crossed the driveway to one of the open-air taxis, which was parked at the end of the cul-de-sac. (In the driver's seat was Catriona, the chauffeuse from the previous day, who was even more stunning illuminated by the rays of the setting sun.) The sharp granite chips bit into our bare feet so we trod lightly. A breeze was blowing off the bay and my skin tingled.

As we set off down the hill, Rob had volunteered to sit up front with Catriona. The rest of us were packed in tightly. However, the snug fit proved propitious because of the chill; and as we climbed in six of us were stippled with goosebumps. So much for the tropics!

I recalled one time when some friends and I were on a girls' night out and wore very skimpy dresses, in winter. There are times, and especially it comes to clothing choices, when males have more sense. But our philosophy was "When you look hot you don't mind the cold." Words to live by, or words to regret?

The other 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.

We put on our shoes to walk the final distance. 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 on till dawn that they come alive -- loud and crowded, bursting with that quintessentially Caribbean blend of glitz and glamour, vitality and vulgarity. Val and Ted guided us through the throng towards their favourite restaurant. As we entered, all of us women took off our shoes once more. It wasn't required, as it was in the hotel; but it was an automatic gesture; and I have to say that being barefoot embellishes the look and feel of complete denudation.

The

maître d'

introduced himself as Antoine and showed us to a circular table. We were seated so that each man was between two women. Ted co-opted the arrangements to make sure that partners weren't sitting together. I had Rob on my left and Élise on my right.

"Will the ladies be dining

sans vue

?" Antoine inquired.

"Blindfolded," Adèle whispered, although I think we all understood.

Ted nodded without consulting us. I presume the question was rhetorical, since all female customers in the place, from what I could see, wore blindfolds. A waitress promptly appeared bearing a platter. (Her pubic hair was eye-catching, dyed carnation ink and trimmed in a heart shape.) On the tray was a stack of black satin sashes.

Rob asked "May I?"

"Please," I replied.

As he wrapped the satin about my head, he did so 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 dining

dans 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 sightless in silence, I heard odd little sounds around me -- shuffling, a murmur, a chuckle. It took me a moment to realize that the three men were communicating wordlessly with each other. (This went on throughout the meal, to keep us women in the dark metaphorically as well as literally.) Then Rob tapped me lightly on the 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. I only found out the exact menu afterwards, but it was fun to guess and I mostly got it right.

Being bound and blindfolded, as well as nude, adds 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. Every morsel becomes an epicurean exploration, every sip of wine an intoxicating adventure. Each man attended to the women flanking him. Because Rob had his hands full doing double duty, and was also eating, I had time to savour each mouthful and anticipate the next. All of this adds to your pleasure. Your appreciation of the meal is enhanced. The simple act of dining is elevated to a skill, an art form and, yes, a sexual sensation. 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 concentrating fully on the meal, the repartee was lively 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 ambiance. And there was no particular reason why only females should dine

sans vue et en bondage

, except that you already feel the piquancy of your nudity, so it's like a triple dose of sensory arousal.

Next to me, Élise was taken care of by Fin, and every so often I heard her gasp and giggle. Apart from that she seemed more reserved, hardly engaging in the cross-table conversation. She's by nature taciturn but also, I think, she was turned on by our experience and enjoying it quietly. Valerie, on the other hand, also fed by Fin, was lusty, vocal and funny. Sarah and Adèle were being serviced by Ted, and given the sounds they were making that word "service" is a deliberate double entendre. At the end, he insisted on paying for the meal, despite our protestations.

I left the restaurant feeling a bit wobbly. The alcohol may have been partially responsible, but after two hours of being restrained it took a while to recover my equilibrium. We agreed that it was too early to turn in for the night, so it was suggested that we try one of the nightclubs. We chose a venue which did not appear overcrowded. Inside, however, the place was buzzing with 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, grazing with precise carelessness across the fabric of their partners' clothing. Naked flesh glistened with sweat, and gleaming glitter 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 a cross between paradise and pandemonium.

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

The scene was intoxicating but rather daunting, so we'd hesitated near the door. Adèle took the initiative and entered; but as she placed her backside on a stool, she squirmed and pouted in self-reproach. The seat was warm and moist with perspiration. But I was surprised that she had been so careless. It's why we carry wet wipes. Perhaps it was the wine. In any case, we decided unanimously that retreat was the better part of valor. We adjourned to a more placid setting a few doors down.

After a short stay 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. Anyway, after the steamy environs of the nightclub, the sea breeze prickling my skin was delicious. The effects of the evening's drinks 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 mid-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 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, both males, 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.

Indeed, farther along the Esplanade, near Patrick's Emporium, a bizarre and unsettling tableau reminded us of the dark side of Palmira's history. It was by now mid-evening. The streets were still full of people and a large crowd was gathered around a grassy plaza. We interrupted our quest for a taxi to investigate. Under lurid lighting a dozen posts the width of telegraph poles had been set up in a semi-circle, about an arm's distance apart. To each a woman was shackled with a heavy-duty chain attached to a metal collar around her neck. Half were standing, the others kneeling. An auction was underway, and when one of the standing women was sold she knelt on the grass. Although the temperature was dropping, their bodies sparkled with perspiration, so I guessed their ordeal had begun before this act of the drama. Men in the audience were calling out bids, and since they were dressed in period costume, although it appeared authentic this was a mock sale. Yet not all the performers were part of an acting troupe. Three of the chained women were from the group of six on the plane, and their friends were calling out words of encouragement from the sidelines.

Puzzled by this strange spectacle, I picked up a pamphlet from a nearby stall and learned what I suspected, that this was not a reenactment of a slave auction, at least not in the "traditional" sense. The plaza was the site of the old bride bazaar -- a euphemism of sorts for the marketplace where Palmira's pirates had once traded their booty and purchased their wives, where women were put on sale alongside crops and livestock. My grandmother had told me that generations of her female ancestors had met their future husbands here, but had never gone into the specifics.

To be honest, I suspect that much of the folklore that Palmirenes cherish is, if not invented outright, embellished for the tourists. Maybe the locals have come to believe the mythology; Grandma seemed to. In any case, the legends endure, to the extent that women want to experience what it was like to be a woman in olden times. Even the most liberated of females in our own age retains an innate curiosity about how she would have lived in a less enlightened age. Certainly I have it. Still, this seems to me an extreme way of going about it.

We waited about twenty minutes until the show ended, each of the "brides" was freed from her collar and chain and the crowd began to disperse... quickly as it was getting cold. We had to wait for a taxi and I was now shivering. Back at the hotel, having left Élise and Adèle downtown to continue exploring the nightlife (and I had to admire their tenacity), the seven of us had coffee and I said my good-byes. Tomorrow morning I would be leaving the comforts of the Hôtel Andromède for the dig site at Cimarrón Bay. My holiday was over. A new phase of my life was beginning.