Natural Beauty Pt. 02

Ricardo politely interrupted with disappointing news. My scheduled inspection of the Palmira Museum would have to be postponed. But there would be plenty of occasions to visit, and the alternative was more than enough compensation. Marcia Robbins was meeting with members of the government at Parliament House. I could join her, and witness a sitting of the legislature. It was an opportunity not to pass up.

Palmirenes are proud of the fact that their island, the world's fourth smallest independent state, has one of the oldest continuously operating parliaments. Although self-government was achieved in 1968, and full independence from Britain in 1974, the Legislative Assembly has convened in one form or another for more than two centuries. It currently has seventeen members elected for a three-year term. There are no formal political parties, and while the Members tend to vote as two blocs, conservative and progressive, there's little (from what I can tell) which sets them apart. Alliances are fluid and allegiances such as exist are to family and locality. Polling day is treated as a festive occasion, and since MPs are chosen by proportional representation, elections are not winner-take-all contests. Compromise and consensus are the by-words of Palmirene politics.

It must be said, however, that sexual equality was rather slow in coming to Palmira. Women did not achieve the right to vote until 1973, and were not enfranchised on an equal basis with men until as recently as 1989. But how things have changed! In 2009, Palmirenes elected a female parliamentary majority; and today this small but enterprising island state has a woman Governor, Chief Minister and Chief Justice. And that is at least partially due to the nude law. Women have taken control of their own lives and, yes, their own bodies.

After lunch in a coffee shop near the campus, Ricardo and I drove on to Parliament House. Located on the north-eastern outskirts of Régate, it is an unprepossessing structure, in keeping with the Palmirenes' casual approach to officialdom. Marcia was waiting patiently outside; and to gain admission to the public gallery she and I simply walked up to the entrance, greeted the solitary guard (a genial old gentleman) and took the stairs to the second floor. The legislature was in session, and the people's delegates were engaged in a debate about fisheries. The exchanges were polite and relaxed. A couple of interjections drew laughs on both sides of the chamber. The Chief Minister, Jennifer Hibbert, was speaking. She is, like Marcia, a striking woman, full-figured but graceful, and in common with most Palmirenes is of mixed racial heritage.

After twenty-four hours on the island, I would have been surprised if the ten female MPs had not been naked. The cozy concordance of their warm skin tones and the cool green leather of the seats of power they occupied seemed symbolic of the temperate nature of Palmirene politics, but also of the vivid contrast which is the essence of Palmirene culture. And perhaps because the air conditioning was out of order, their male colleagues in coats and ties appeared much less at ease.

Thinking about this, I recalled a passage written by Jennifer Hibbert for the traveler's guide about the nude law.

"Striving for equality does not mean aspiring to sameness. Here we value equity — ensuring justice and fairness, allowing every person the appropriate opportunities to lead a full, healthy life. To this end, we as a society must understand and acknowledge our differences; but when we have achieved equity we can celebrate those differences. So equal rights do not mean exactly the same treatment or obligations under the laws. And in this respect, here in Palmira men and women are definitely not equal. The beauty of the female body is esteemed above all else. As women, it is our right and our privilege to honor what nature has given us, by never hiding it away."

I wanted to meet this woman but was disappointed. As soon as the Assembly adjourned she went off to some engagement; but I did get to sit in on Marcia's conference with several government Ministers — Meredith Hewes (Education, Recreation and Cultural Affairs), Raymond Chase (Natural Resources and the Environment), Vesta Charpal (Infrastructure, Transport and Public Works), Derek Wyse (Public Services, Labour and Immigration) and Elizabeth André (Tourism and Trade). The latter was the woman who'd been on my flight. Like the Parliament, most of the Cabinet is female. The meeting was comfortably informal, everyone addressing each other by their first names. The discussion was about promoting the island as a high-end travel destination with a focus on historical themes, so my input was invited. (I think I even had an impact, reminding everyone that the pre-Columbian archaeology was just as significant as that of the colonial period.) At first it bothered me that they seemed so snobbish about up-scale tourism; but the hard fact is that Palmira needs to put limits on the number of tourists, for the sake of the environment, without contracting the economy.

Afterwards, I walked back to the Hôtel Andromède. I had told Ricardo not to wait for me; but the distance turned out to be greater than I expected because the route was circuitous. Still, it gave me time to think. I mused about how extraordinarily my life had changed in such a short time. I had just sat in on a meeting with five bona fide Cabinet Ministers... and three of them were stark naked. And here I was, also without a stitch on my body, tramping nonchalantly up the hill.

My visit to Parliament House got me thinking (again) during my walk.

We all know the phrase "clothes make the man." Some attribute it to Mark Twain, or to Shakespeare ("the apparel oft proclaims the man..."), but the sentiment goes back at least as far as Homer (he of the wine-dark sea, that is, not of Duff beer). What we wear affects how others perceive us. Clothes do more than protect you from the elements; they project your identity, your feelings, your aspirations, your social status. Clothing style confirms, defines and validates interactions, relationships and power dynamics.

But Mark Twain would not be very popular with Palmirene women. He supposedly claimed that "Naked people have little or no influence in society." It's debatable whether he wrote that; but he did write: "Without his clothes a man would be nothing at all. There is no power without clothes. Strip its chiefs to the skin, and no state could be governed; naked officials could exercise no authority; they would look (and be) like everybody else — commonplace, inconsequential." However, he also wrote: "Strip the human race, absolutely naked, and it would be a real democracy."

So it might be said that it's the women who carry on the classless character of Palmira's buccaneer heritage. In nudity there are no artificial distinctions. Certainly there is individuality and thus diversity, in size and skin tone for instance. But we all have breasts and vaginas, and without the accoutrements of clothing it is this commonality which stands out, not the superficial differences.

That being said, you cannot get past the consequences of the nude law. You can't ignore the asymmetry between men and women. It's ubiquitous; and that's one of the ironies of this weird and wonderful place. Because women have achieved social and economic equality, are represented in every sphere of cultural, commercial and political life, their naked bodies, deprived of clothing by the law of the land, are everywhere. You'd be hard-pressed to describe any aspect of Palmirene society without reference to or a comment on this singular attribute. And that's what makes Palmira special. All women are naked and only women are naked, you are naked all the time and you must be naked. Your nudity is an expression and a celebration of your womanhood. As I've mentioned, you don't have to be a supermodel, a glamorous starlet or a fine-tuned athlete to experience the joy of nudity.

It was a good thing that the walk was not far. I tend to get lost in my thoughts and then lost physically. It was getting on toward sunset as I reached the hotel. I freshened up and went down to the lounge bar. I was wondering what to do with my evening; but just as I took my seat, Regina the receptionist came in. She chatted briefly with the bar attendant, saw me and asked if she might sit with me awhile. I happily agreed and we ordered coffee. She impressed me by knowing about my archaeological work. In a relatively small community it was not unpredictable that she knew the general details of my visit; but she actually cited a couple of my academic papers. From her refined accent I had already determined that she'd been educated in England, and now learned that her parents are the hotel's proprietors. The family are members of Palmira's élite class, who still have an influence in how things are run.

It disappointed me a little that such a compact, compatible population might be socially stratified, but the reality is that class divisions are blurred to the point of invisibility. (Most Palmirene natives claim to be descended from the pirate-age pioneers; but that seems unlikely.) No one flaunts their wealth or status, and the elegant, alluring Regina, working at the reception desk, personifies this egalitarian spirit. In fact her brother, who's three or four years younger, was the bar attendant that evening. He brought our coffees and Regina introduced us. He looked me over, something I was rapidly getting used to and which he did almost as a reflex. Yet I couldn't help but wonder how he must feel about other men scrutinizing his naked sister. They were conditioned to the fact that he wears clothes and she doesn't; but still...

I mentioned my family, including my own Baby Bro, but decided against revealing our Palmirene heritage in case my kin and hers were traditional foes. Anyway, Regina was much more interested in hearing about the ancient history of her island. I invited her to be a part of one of the excavations I'd be overseeing, and she appeared genuinely delighted (although from the looks of her immaculate hands and unblemished body, she has not spent much time digging under a hot sun). Then she apologized because "Duty calls," and as she rose to depart she grinned.

"I leave you in capable hands," she said.

Ted's profligate shirt and Valerie's magnific breasts loomed over me. Ted called for drinks and I ordered a light beer. 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're aged in the mid-thirties. He is suntanned and stocky, with what one would describe as movie-star chiseled 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 the island's other great attraction, its glorious coral reefs.

I went back upstairs to fetch my purse and shoes, and returned clutching the latter. (I have to say that being barefoot embellishes the look and the feel of complete denudation.) 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 encyclopedic 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 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 pleasure, 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 size, 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 we were heading to somewhere swank. In fact, I felt more underdressed than ever wearing just my sandals, 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 wasn't made to feel like a ninth wheel. Although none of the others were as effusive and ebullient as Ted and Val, all of my new friends were excellent company.

As we set off down the hill in one of the open-air taxis, we were packed in tightly and Rob had volunteered to sit up front with the driver. (This was Catriona, my chauffeuse from the previous day, who was even more stunning illuminated by the rays of the setting sun.) However, the snug fit proved propitious, because a chilly breeze was coming off the bay; and as we climbed in six of us were tingling with goosebumps. So much for the tropics! But the 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.

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. Ted and Val guided us through the throng towards the restaurant they had picked out. The maître d' recognized them.

"Table for ten?"

"Just nine, Antoine." (I suspect that the extra place had been intended for Ricardo.)

"Will the ladies be dining sans vue?" Antoine inquired.

Élise and Adèle smiled. "Blindfolded," one of them 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 were sightless.

We were shown to a circular table, and each man was seated between two women. A waitress promptly appeared bearing a platter. On it was a stack of black satin sashes.

Ted was on my right and 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 flavors. However, Ted had arranged for an extra treat that evening. As I sat in the dark in silence, I heard odd little sounds around me — shuffling, a sigh, a giggle. Then Ted tapped me lightly on the left 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. Being bound and blindfolded, as well as nude, added 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. Each morsel becomes an epicurean exploration, each sip of wine an intoxicating adventure. The men attended to the women flanking them, while we had to focus intently on the meal. That adds to your appreciation. The simple act of dining is elevated to a skill, even an art form. It doesn't limit your experience, but rather enhances it. 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 enlivening 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.

Ted insisted on paying for everything. I left the restaurant feeling a bit wobbly. The alcohol may have been partially responsible, but after two hours of being retrained it took a while to recover equilibrium. We agreed that it was too early to turn in for the night, so it was suggested we try one of the nightclubs. We chose a venue that 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, brushing with precise carelessness against the fabric of their partners' clothing. Naked flesh glistened with sweat and glitter which 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 like a cross between Paradise and the Inferno.