Natural Beauty (redux)

Daniel arrived on Palmira near the end of the dig season at Cimarrón Bay. He's what one might call an armchair archeologist. He studies the information gathered by those of us who get our hands dirty. That's not a put-down; he's no mere dilettante. He specializes in the analysis and synthesis of prior scholarship, not primary, in-the-field, hands-on research. But he keeps himself grounded, so to speak, by visiting archaeological sites to observe how we collect data; and since I became his academic adviser he has toured all the sites I've worked at. So he didn't come to Palmira just for the sightseeing.

I met him at the airport, and although he knew what to expect, by the time he'd gone through customs he was already mind-boggled and goggle-eyed. He had flown from Jamaica with two young women, Monique and Kris, who had been attending a conference in Florida. I watched through the glass partition as the girls stripped naked; and I could see how they enjoyed his attention. He tried to act nonchalant, but the pretense melted away when he came out of the lounge and saw me. It was as if he walked into an invisible wall. I allowed him to take a good long look at my body. I just smiled and he gave up trying to be subtle.

I had almost forgotten what it was like feeling awkward about being

au naturel

. I hadn't worn a thing in six weeks. And I have learnt that once you've become completely comfortable in your own skin (what an apt phrase!) you don't have to be cold or coy or coquettish. You don't feel the need to flourish or camouflage your feminine charms. But Daniel was the first person I knew from back home to encounter me in the flesh in my new habitat. What's more, I was his mentor and academic confidante. Our relationship has always been strictly platonic (in the sense of being both asexual and mentorial). Indeed, this was really the first time that he saw me unambiguously as a woman. And as I've pointed out, maybe

ad nauseam

, the impact comes from not just the nudity but the fact that it's one-sided and that, simply on account of being female, I'm forbidden to wear clothes. So I knew it would take a few days for our old connection to be restored.

Marcia and Rebecca met us as we left the arrivals lounge. That Marcia took time away from her busy schedule to greet a student may have been penance for the terse welcome I had received on my first day. Rebecca had, I assume coincidentally, just come in on a charter flight and waited with Marcia. The two women's appearance startled Daniel despite his having seen them bare-breasted during our video conferences. They are a generation older than him, and senior academics, so the jolt he received beholding them was even more profound than what he felt with me.

The six of us shared a taxi into the city. Taking their seats in the taxi, despite their somewhat seductive striptease Monique and Kris showed in their faces and their gestures the same feelings I had experienced on my first day, right down to the embarrassed gasp of pleasure when their bare bottoms first touched the upholstery. They had just come from a symposium on public health policy (strategies for promoting physically active and healthy lifestyles). The conference had adjourned for a restart on Palmira with some of the attendees, to study the unique culture and its prospects for "wellness tourism". (I hadn't known that was even a thing.) They were flying in a couple of days ahead of the others. Around two-thirds of the full group were females, and I heard later that they made quite a splash during their visit. (I've read since in the conference proceedings that a recommendation had been made for greater promotion of similar resorts to Palmira's, but these will never have the same exotic flavor. And I don't think there will ever be a male equivalent of the nude law. The world doesn't work that way.)

Meanwhile, sharing the seats with five naked women while taking in the unique scenery of Robina and Régate, Daniel was suffering, and savoring, the sensory overload which Brandon, Rebecca's assistant, had described. He never said a word during the entire journey.

Yet by the end of the week Daniel had seen and interacted with enough nudity that it was no longer a novelty or a distraction. Nevertheless, like Sean he enjoyed the company of unclothed women. That seems a case of stating the obvious, but Australia is very much a "bloke culture" where young guys don't socialize much with the womenfolk. That said, he never played on his privilege. By this I mean he never considered himself special or superior because unlike us (Rebecca, Marcia, myself) who were his supervisors, he was permitted to cover his body. Indeed, he treated me with discernibly more deference to my femininity than before -- not just being chivalrous but respecting the fact that I have the strength and self-confidence to reveal myself so completely, proclaiming and celebrating my womanhood, being proud of what I am and having no pangs about what I'm not.

He spent his free time during the first two days of his visit with Monique and Kris. They made their farewells when I took him to Cimarrón Bay. We walked there, in heavy rain the entire way. He wrapped himself in a waterproof poncho which kept him mostly dry but, though lightweight, made him sweat. I wasn't allowed such protection, of course, but while the downpour was heavy enough to slightly sting my skin it was warm, so on balance I suffered no more than Daniel.

When we arrived the site was waterlogged, so he did not get to observe any work that day. He stayed with the rest of us at the hostel and was both amused and bemused by the attitude and antics of the concierge. After just getting used to me being nude, he had to cope with the fact that his mentor and Sue the site manager were treated like naughty schoolgirls. He discovered that, at least here in the sergeant-major's domain, the privilege of his penis extended beyond the right to wear clothes. As I've said, no one takes Albert's authoritarian antics too seriously; but I must confess that I found Daniel's amusement to be a little irksome.

He stayed on Palmira for another week and a half, and took part in the actual fieldwork. It didn't surprise me when he signed up for next season's dig session. Even if he hasn't admitted it, getting dirty in a ditch with a bunch of naked females was not disagreeable to him.

Sadly, things did not work out quite so well with Matthew. During my previous expeditions, when I spoke to my boyfriend via video link, sometimes I would take off my top, or even strip all the way, for some long-distance dalliance. In my first three months on Palmira nothing changed in this respect, although of course I now didn't need to take anything off. He commented that I was browner all over. However, when we reunited at Robina airport, I could see he was rattled by how comfortable and casual I was with my public nudity. He didn't appreciate men looking at those parts of my body which he regarded as his exclusive domain. He stayed for ten days, and things after that were not as they had been. We haven't officially broken up, but I am uncertain about our future.

I flew back to Australia for Christmas, and after six months it felt 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," he exclaimed. "I've just realized something. Kate's a girl!"

"Always have been," I snapped back.

"But who knew?" was his retort.

Before going back to Palmira, I presented a guest lecture to a roomful of colleagues and students on the progress of archaeological and anthropological research on the island. After some consideration I included a slideshow which did not hold back on the nudity, including my own. I was more nervous than I'd ever been giving a talk of this nature. During the presentation my audience remained silent, but that was out of politeness and gave no indication of what everyone was thinking. Yet during the question-and-answer session, when the back-and-forth stuck to the science, I thought we were having an "emperor's new clothes" situation. (That's when they see everything but say nothing.) But then came some good-natured exchanges about the obvious. It must be remembered that enlightened historians are not judgemental about exotic customs and lifestyles. Even so, the most probing questions came from women, who appeared intrigued rather than shocked or censorious.

I returned to Palmira in the new year for the start of another dig season. I flew in with a contingent of undergraduate students from various Australian universities, who were on a study holiday. The journey was a long haul via Los Angeles and Miami. When we touched down at the Robina airport everyone was tired, but keyed up. For me, it felt good to be back.

Nevertheless, Palmira loves its quirks. We arrived on Perihelion Day, the fourth of January. This is an observance marking the Earth's closest approach to the Sun during its year-long orbit. While the locals insist it is an old tradition, I'm skeptical of the claim. (I believe it was invented as a tourist gimmick.) There are various ways to celebrate the occasion, but what it meant for us disembarking female passengers was that even the tarmac is, on this day, hallowed ground. So we had to undress while still on board the plane, rather than in the terminal. The female flight attendant announced this and then led the way, handing her cast-off garments to her male colleague. After that the passengers followed, we knowbies inspiring the newbies. Still, stripping was a difficult feat within the narrow confines of the crowded cabin. The males helpfully remained sitting while we disrobed in the aisle.

The girls in my group stood silently agog and agape as they watched me so calmly denuding myself. They weren't naïve or ignorant, but I was not just a travelling companion, I was their

de facto

leader. They were, as with most newcomers to Palmira, still stuck in the clothing-equals-status mentality. But I didn't need to say anything. As the first girl, a tall, athletic blond named Simone, began unbuttoning her blouse I nodded and smiled, and the others emulated her. We bumped and jostled each other as we stripped. So to minimize the congestion in the aisle, we turned towards the seats, which meant I was facing Callum, who had sat next to me, by the window, during the flight. My belly was at his eye level, and he tried to stare diligently straight ahead (but did not turn away to look out the window, I noticed) as I peeled off my blouse, my skirt, my underwear, folding each item and placing it in a neat stack on the seat beside him.

Once we were naked, everyone filed down the steps accompanied by the mesmerized males. And as we crossed the tarmac, we carried our clothes in a manner that didn't conceal any part of our natural beauty. All of the women from the plane did this automatically, and I think the early divesture helped in this respect. By the time we reached the terminal there were no hunched bodies or downcast eyes... though there were flushed faces, raised nipples and a few giggles.

After leaving the airport, we took two taxis to the hotel in downtown Régate, where my group were booked in for two nights. On the way, I studied how the girls came to terms with their public exposure. It is always the same. In fact, when I think about it, my own feelings haven't really changed. The wonderful thing about Palmira is that you never get blasé about your nudity. You see the expressions on the faces of newly arrived women. Then 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 a bag or a hat or a towel, even if only habitual offenders 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, over 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 don't accept leering. You expect respect.

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!)

The girls in the group learned this during their stay in Régate, during the hike across the island, and especially during their time at Cimarrón Bay. So did the guys. Females on-site now outnumbered the males by nearly three to one. And for the young men it must have seemed a perfect paradise to be surrounded by naked women, living, working, playing alongside them. Indeed, for the first (and only) time, I had envious thoughts. You rarely get to experience a fantasy come true like theirs. And being the sex permitted to wear clothing must create a huge boost to the ego, as a proud reaffirmation of their manhood as much as our nudity is an assertion of our womanhood.