Natural Beauty (redux)

I was awake half an hour before dawn, and went out onto the balcony to sit and think. I watched the shadows of the ridge behind the hotel retreat off the bay and up the beach. It was very peaceful. Rain had chased away the songbirds but had since dispersed. Nobody was congregating on the lawn this morning. No voices were coming from the adjacent deck. The silence was broken only by the distant roar of the waves and the haunting cries of far-off seagulls. A mellow breeze caressed my skin.

I went downstairs to the dining room where a buffet was being laid out; and while I normally forgo a hearty breakfast, today I needed the fuel. A youthful waiter was setting down platters of croissants and bagels. His artless mien suggested that he was a student on a working holiday. He had what I already recognized as the telltale traits of the novice to Palmira's ways. He glanced at the bodies of all the women, both staff and patrons; and when they didn't react he took a longer look. To my surprise, I found myself standing more erect and inhaling to puff out my chest. But he averted his eyeballing when the imperious

cheffe de cuisine

came out to inspect the arrangements and punctured his bubble with a formidable frown. (In one hand she clutched an apron, which had to come off the moment she left the kitchen.) Presumably it's improper to gape at the guests. So the young man shifted his gaze to her body, and she didn't seem to mind.

Back upstairs I packed my bag and then went outside to wait for Ricardo. Having already bid

adieu

to the friends I'd made, I felt no guilt at avoiding a final farewell. I did find Regina, already on duty at the reception desk, and promised her a personally guided tour of the dig site once I was settled in. Ricardo arrived on time and drove me to the Customs Office, where I signed for the boxes containing my belongings. They had come in on the overnight air freight service. The College had arranged for a pick-up, and my things were to be sent on to Cimarrón Bay. I could have hitched a ride in the delivery van, but it was almost as quick to cross the island on foot. In any case, everyone hikes on Palmira.

Ricardo left me at the College with Rebecca. Acting the mother hen, she approved of my footwear and sun visor, but furrowed her brow until, understanding her concern, I showed her that I could convert my duffel bag into a rucksack. I was a tad offended that she might think me such a tenderfoot; but when I put it on she started to adjust the shoulder straps, lifting the bag higher on my back. It took me a moment to realize why, and I couldn't help laughing. The way I had it, the pack sagged too low. The modification may or may not have made for better walking posture; what was important was that my bare buttocks be exposed to public view. As I've already affirmed, the Palmirenes take their nude law seriously!

Rebecca accompanied me to the assembly point. She wouldn't be going with me to Cimarrón, but I would have no dearth of companionship. In a park at the western end of the Esplanade, twenty or so people had gathered, also kitted up for the trek. The women were massaging their bodies with lavish amounts of sunscreen. Although I prefer cream to lotion, that was not an option... which was amusing. You aren't permitted to daub anything that isn't transparent on your body parts. Remembering Valerie's advice, I applied extra dabs to my breasts, especially my nipples, and between my legs.

Sarah and Rob were there. She was berating him over something. We greeted each other like long-lost family. She was dwarfed by her backpack, and I noticed that her little derrière was hidden by its bulk. No one pulled her up on it. We walked together; and as the philosophers say, it's a small world. I discovered that Sarah is a physicist working on her doctoral dissertation. She had done research on radiometric dating techniques -- carbon-14, potassium-argon, thermoluminescence -- and so had an interest in archaeology. It was a pity that her sojourn on Palmira was almost over. She had toured a couple of the dig sites, but I would have liked the opportunity to show her around.

There were two distinct groups of walkers, although we went as one from Régate to Cimarrón Bay, a distance of five kilometres (three miles). We didn't have a guide because the path is well-defined; and we didn't really need to stick together. But once the first couple had set off everyone else automatically followed.

Most of the trekkers were young, although there were a middle-aged husband and wife. A Japanese couple appeared to be botanists or herbalists, because they took samples of various types of plants along the way. They were obviously dedicated to their vocation; the woman bore a tattoo of a serpentine vine with intriguing symbolism. It emerged from the cleft between her buttocks, snaked across her left butt cheek, over her hip, down her belly and into her vagina. Up ahead was a party of five girls and two guys. During one of our brief breaks I learned that they were recently graduated medical students from the United States. From their athletic physiques I guessed they were adventuresome types; but the girls' fading tan lines revealed that they were not used to full outdoor nudity. They had been taking annual "extreme" holidays -- rock climbing, mountain biking, canyoning, ice canoeing, that sort of thing -- and confessed that this was their most audacious. It was the first time they had brought along males, to act as chaperones (or, as Bethany put it, "to keep us out of mischief"). Josh and Miguel are gay, and the girls at first had thought they might need convincing to tag along. But as Miguel pointed out, there's no reason why he can't appreciate the aesthetic appeal of the female body.

That got me thinking (again). Palmira is bliss for heterosexual males, offering visual delights unobtainable elsewhere. And it's a sublime experience for us women. But I imagine it's especially so for lesbians and bisexual women, who get to enjoy both sides of nudity's sensual pleasures. I thought of the goth-punk girls and wondered where on the island they might now be -- somewhere to the north, probably, where most of the hiking trails lead.

Our route took us through the eastern outskirts of Régate and up the forested ridge to a maximum elevation of about two hundred metres, which we reached in just over an hour. From the summit the view of Cimarrón Bay was spectacular, but to our rear trees blocked the vista of equally scenic Regatta Bay. Unlike the latter as seen from our plane, Cimarrón was placid, with half a dozen small watercraft and a few buildings scattered along and near the shore. The dig site was invisible. It had not been a difficult ascent, but once we left the shelter of the densest part of the forest on the descending track, the sun shone upon us from a cloudless sky. There was not a whiff of breeze, and it was nice to be out in nature

au naturel

, my whole body bathed in the golden virility of the solar rays. I felt a bit sorry for the men.

The stretch of road down the eastern side of the ridge is rough for vehicles but ideal for walking. However, the country we moved through was an eerie landscape of empty houses and deserted hamlets. Without a reliable fresh water supply, Palmirenes have largely given up farming and abandoned the countryside. Most of the buildings that are still occupied have been converted into holiday homes. We saw a few women, pottering in their gardens, cycling along the road, members of a work crew clearing undergrowth for fire prevention; and we were reminded that the nude law applies outside Régate.

As we came into Cimarrón village, we were greeted by a man and woman who directed the larger of our two groups to a kiosk for refreshments and a briefing on the next stage of their trek, followed by a quick tour of the excavations nearby. He was in khaki shirt and shorts, and she had on a khaki collar, so I assumed they were park rangers. I said good-bye once more to Rob and Sarah. Their party were continuing northward on a three-day camping excursion. I admired the resilience of the women who would be bivouacking as well as hiking nude.

The six of us who were staying at this location awaited our escort. It had been two hours since we had set out, so it was still just mid-morning. I used the time to further get to know my remaining companions. All had signed up for fieldwork at the dig. Jack and Lorraine, the middle-aged couple, are Americans who pursue their passion for ancient history by volunteering on excavation sites around the world. They are members of an organization which does a great job promoting public archaeology.

Rachel and Lucinda are students from Australia. (Palmira gets a large contingent of visitors from down under. My theory is that because we already have a near-ubiquitous beach culture, many Aussies look for something more than just the basic sun, sand and sea.) Rachel is high-spirited and gregarious. She has classic beach-girl looks -- very pretty, sandy-haired, blue-eyed and freckled-faced, slim but sturdy. A jagged scar running up the inside of her left leg is the result of a surfing mishap. Her all-over tan and a leaping dolphin tattoo which arcs around the contours of her

mons pubis

reveal that she is not a novice nudist. Lucy is small, olive-skinned and dark-haired with large brown eyes. She's more introverted than Rachel but with a subtly mischievous wit. The two complement each other, and have already worked together on a couple of digs, although this was their first overseas. Sean is from Ireland, with the stereotypical green eyes and red hair, and was at the time the youngest member of the team at Cimarrón. Unlike the girls he's not studying archaeology. Like Jack and Lorraine he wants to travel the globe as more than a mere sightseer, choosing to be a part of the local culture.

Soon after the other hikers had departed, site director Mike Renshaw and Sue Keppel the site manager came to meet us. He is Rebecca's deputy and is responsible for coordinating all aspects of the excavation, including personnel, health and safety, public relations and liaison with government agencies. Her role is the management of day-to-day operations -- logistics, daily assignments, risk assessment and so on.

We were the last of their team to arrive for the season. Sue showed us first to our living quarters, a five-minute walk up the road. What is known affectionately as the Barracks is a travelers' hostel, part of which is rented by the Palmira Archaeological Field Research Institute. Because, I suppose, most of the students are undergraduates, unmarried residents are sexually segregated. Rachel and Lucy were assigned to a six-bed dormitory while I, as one of the professionals, was accorded the privilege (modest though it was) of a twin-share.

All the hostel staff but one are women. This may be the hiring practice, but since the majority are "work for accommodation" backpackers it also reflects the fact that most itinerant workers on Palmira are female. The exception is Albert, the concierge. An unself-aware embodiment of the hostel, he has an antiquated look and style, always neatly attired in a faded grey suit. His weather-beaten face sets in an expression that is at once benign and intimidating. He commands his nude platoon like a retired sergeant-major, which possibly he is. With all females, staff and guest alike, he is grouchily paternalistic.

I found that my boxes had been delivered to my room; but before I could begin unpacking Albert summoned Rachel, Lucy and me into the corridor to give us a stern lecture, expounding on the DOs and DON'Ts of his domain, reciting rules and setting weekday and weekend curfews that both he and we knew he could not enforce. But we indulged him. Perhaps he was expecting orgies (we females being slaves to our hormones, after all), but more likely he was just being protective. So it was hard to suppress a grin at the irony, as we were lectured about modesty and decorum while standing there stark naked. However, his unnecessary reminder that we mustn't wear any clothing at any time made us a bit fidgety. Perhaps our reaction was illogical; but having a fully clothed man haranguing us that we must expose our bodies was a tad vexing.

Meanwhile, Sean was waiting for us down the hall, grinning like the proverbial Cheshire cat. Although he's younger than us, I'll wager he didn't get treated like a naughty schoolboy. In defence of

his

attitude, I'll concede that on our trek he had endured some puerile badinage from Rachel -- good-natured teasing such as her advice that he should wear baggier trousers if he was going to be around naked girls all the time, and the more acerbic suggestion that he hadn't come to Palmira just to dig in the dirt. And since strong-willed Rachel was the most perturbed by the sergeant-major's sermon, Sean enjoyed witnessing her comeuppance.

Sue was waiting for us in the lobby and noted at our expressions. "The old boy is quite a character, isn't he? Don't worry; we all get the same treatment." She glowered at Sean. "Unless you have a penis." She then switched to a benevolent smile.

Sue is the person I answer directly to and with whom I have developed the closest working relationship. She's physically slight but nevertheless imposing, both down-to-earth and larger-than-life, plain-spoken but sympathetic and supportive. Though she excels in the practical, she has a PhD in classical literature. In her role as site manager she's everything from quartermaster to mechanic to electrician to counsellor. I have been on quite a few digs, and Sue is as competent and hard-working as any site boss I've known... and she does it all naked.

I was already conversant with Sue's work. Her field reports are required reading for aspiring archaeologists. Yet I developed even more respect when I got to know her in person. She came to Palmira three years ago, fresh from managing a Mayan dig in Belize. Her new job was to assess storm damage to the exposed coastal sites, and she has stayed on. She's forbearing about her nudity but doesn't share the pleasure or the thrill that most of us feel. She's very matter-of-fact about it, neither bold nor bashful. Indeed, because of her pragmatic approach to everything, it was Sue who alerted me to one aspect of compulsory nudity I hadn't thought of, menstrual management. Yes, it's an issue, because you are not permitted to cover any part of your genitalia. So feminine hygiene products must be worn internally, at least in public -- tampons or menstrual cups. To repeat, Palmirenes take their nude law very seriously.

As it was midday, and apart from us and the staff the hostel was deserted. Packed lunches are prepared each day for the team, and six had been left for us. After that it was time to head down to the dig site. It is right on the edge of the beach, and a sea wall has been constructed to halt the erosion that once threatened the excavations. (The government has now banned sand-mining in the area, which had been a major contributor to beach attrition.) The buildings -- dig shed, site office, science hut, etcetera -- are a short distance inland. Ancient middens (domestic waste deposits) and cemeteries extend along much of the shore of the bay. A row of broad trenches has been cut at right angles into the banks of sand, clay and coral rock debris. Around two dozen people were working in these ditches; and had I not been acclimatized to Palmira, the sight would have been baffling, even a bit shocking. For it almost goes without saying, by this point in my story, that all the women, who make up the majority of on-site personnel, were bare-skinned but for headgear, footwear and gloves.

Work on an archaeological site is serious business. The physical labor can be difficult and is often tedious (for example, the sifting and sorting). The remains are fragile and unless you're very careful with recording and documentation, things can get mixed up, context and chronology can be hopelessly scrambled; so there's lots of bookkeeping to be done. But it can be incredibly rewarding, because while you don't expect to make any paradigm-changing breakthroughs, each object unearthed is a new piece of an historical puzzle, adding to the sum of our knowledge. Hence everyone is highly motivated.

Contrary to the popular view of archaeologists -- as adventurers like Indiana Jones or Lara Croft, or professional palaeologists like Howard Carter -- many are volunteer enthusiasts, such as Jack and Lorraine, who pay their own expenses for the privilege of spending several hours every day under the sun scratching in the dirt... and without whom very few projects would be viable. The veteran amateurs have more fieldwork experience than the students and even some of the career specialists. They contribute not just their labor but their maturity, know-how and intellectual curiosity. And because they come from all walks of life with careers outside archaeology and anthropology, they bring fresh perspectives and insights.

While there has to be a hierarchy, a sort of democracy prevails on-site. Everybody gets their hands dirty; and each afternoon when we gather in the dig hut to report on our progress, and in the evening when we discuss the day's finds, everyone has a say and is listened to.

So after ten years in the field, it was rather jolting to see the sexes so starkly differentiated. And I have not yet really gotten used to it. We women toil as hard as the men but do so nude. On most weekends we go to Régate, or hike the nature trails, or head for one of the beaches, satellite islands or dive sites for rejuvenation, and being the

déshabillé

sex is part of the fun. But it still feels weird supervising my team members, giving orders to men whose simple act of putting on clothes is illegal for me.