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João Pessoa, Brazil
7° 7' S 34° 51' W
Dec 04, 2004 23:12
Distance 154km

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The Naked Brasil - A Tale of Tambaba

Text written in: English

500 years before Brasil was discovered by Portuguese, its indigenous people were mostly nonchalently walking in their Eve & Adam best dress. After colonisation, Brasil was flooded with hordes of evangelists intent upon "educating" the brasilians on the fact that good christians wear clothes - lots of them - and should cover their body at all times....

Three pieces of evidence we have noticed, that the evangelists have done a good job here in Brasil:

- the most common outfit in 40 degrees heat is a pair of jeans and usually a long-sleeved shirt.

- after several weeks of walking kilometers of Brasilian beaches we haven't seen a single topless girl.

- Brasil only counts 2 naturist beaches over 4000 kms of mostly deserted tropical coast

Based on the last of those observations we decided to investigate one of those highly exclusive beaches and spend a night at Tambaba, a naturist beach midway between Natal and Recife.


* * *


Our bus dropped us off about 10kms before our final destination and we decided to walk the last 10km of coast to get us ready for the experience. Being naturist virgins, several pressing questions occurred to us:

Firstly, when are we supposed to take our clothes off? Would there be a large naked woman at the entrance to the beach, demanding that we take them off?

Secondly, would the staff and waiters at the Don Quixote: Naturist Pousada, Restaurant and Bar, also be nude?

Thirdly, if we should get cold after nightfall, would we be forced to go to our room should we wish to "cover up"?


* * *


"Talking of which, how much is it to stay?" I asked Bertrand.

"Sixty reais," he replied.

"That's a bit expensive for us..."

"I'll negotiate them down."

"In the nude?"

"I can negotiate anything," B replied, and bemused, I fell silent, and returned to contemplating our pressing questions.


* * *

The first question was answered when we reached the perimeter of the beach. There was no hefty bouncer who would force us to strip down. There was nothing, in fact, save for a few gently swaying palm trees and a large blue sign, outlining the Tambaba Etiquette. Clothes Prohibited. Men only allowed in the company of a woman. No laughing at other people's rudey bits. No photography without permission. It all seemed ok. But still...

"When do we take our clothing off?" It seemed strange to do it there, right beside the sign. But the sign did say "Prohibited". In the distance, I could see a number of pale bodies sitting under palm trees and drinking from an esky. They didn't have any clothes on. Perhaps because it was "Prohibited". As foolish as it felt, we had to do it here.

To my fear and affront, B continued walking, well past the sign and indeed past the second one which more strongly stressed that clothing was "Prohibited".

"B, we have to take our clothes off!" I said urgently. He just walked on. But five years at law school and twenty five years of being a wuss meant that I always am very respectful of things that say "Prohibited".

"It's okay," B said.. "We don't have to."

"Yes we do- it says Prohibited!" I said.

He showed little sign of listening to me. And so, feeling strangely conflictual about obeying a sign which told me to take my clothes off, I did so, regardless of the fully clothed Bertrand. Only when I stood on the beach naked did he suddenly feel the need to also obey the Tambaba Law, and so he joined me. We stood on the sand by the sign, looking up at the pousada, wearing only backpacks and shoes. Thank god it was almost dusk.


* * *


And so we strode the short stretch to the bar. Which neatly answered our second and third questions. At the bar stood a menagerie of people, drinking and talking, and all wearing ... CLOTHES! The people on the beach were naked, but almost everyone at the bar was wearing something. The barman wore a pair of speedos and a hat. The woman beside me wore a sarong on her bottom half, but let her big swaying breasts run free. It seemed that people were allowed to cover up at dusk, when the temperature dropped, and little biteys started roaming. Bertrand and I walked up the steps and to the bar, feeling absolutely, ridiculously, naked. Even more so because we still wore our backpacks.

"Have you got any rooms vacant?" Bertrand asked, completely normally. I was very silent and resisting the urge not to laugh out loud. Even smiling was probably very bad. After all, the sign said no laughing at people's rudey bits. But I wasn't laughing at that. I was just tickled, very seriously, very Prohibitedly, about the fact that we were standing at a bar completely nude, with our backpacks on, asking about rooms, when everyone else had clothes on.

The barman was pleasant and talkative. He couldn't see our rudey bits because the bar came up very high. Still, I silently took out my sarong and slung it around my waist as though that was always my intention. B was left to negotiate for our room completely stark naked.

We got the last room. But he never negotiated the price.

"You were right," he said to me later, as we sipped caparinhas, at least semi-clothed, on the moonlit beach. "Some things are just too hard to do in the nude."


* * *


Ironically, we never got to spend much time nude anyhow. When we woke, a swift cool wind had picked up, and everyone felt too chill to remain naked. We and the other guests had gone to all the trouble of visiting Tambaba, only to spend most our holiday wearing clothes.