Carol’s Column

Naked is nice . . . so they say

A FEW days ago, while homeward bound, I heard a fascinating broadcast on nudism.

The speaker, herself an enthusiastic naturalist, flashed some remarkable statistics across the sound waves. For instance, did we know that there were at least 35 million nudists throughout the world? In fact, there were whole nude towns and villages where everyone from the butcher to the mayor was attired in nothing other than their epidermi to keep them warm.

My mind boggled. Imagine a naked Parkwood. A candlelight dinner at the Zoo Lake Restaurant dressed to thrill, being served a Truit de Saumon Belvedere by a nouvelle clad maitre 'd. Or selecting cabbages and courgettes from a hirsute veggie man. Even buying loaf of bread took on a different aspect.

Of course, there was nothing new about nudity, which, if you think about it, had been around since the amoeba, if not before.

As I accelerated from the Lower Park Drive traffic lights, I nearly hit the car in front as I heard the naturalist enthuse about nudity in South Africa. It appeared that on a sunny day in Cape Town, 3 000 nudists could be seen lying cheek to cheek on Sandy Bay beach.

That night, the advantages of nudity struck me full blast between the ribs.

"I need a new blazer and two pairs of school-trousers," said my third unmarried son.

"Can't you wear them for a few more months?" I asked. "The year's nearly finished."

"Ma, my trousers are already somewhere round my kneecaps and winter's coming. There is nothing worse in life than to have frozen kneecaps."

From previous experience, I knew that the adornment of Jamie's kneecaps, not to mention his ribcage and shoulders, would cost somewhere in the region of R250.

And then it struck me. Life is short and we should not be dictated to by blazers, trousers or even jerseys.

"I have an idea," I said to my husband, "why don't we establish a nude metropolis in South Africa."

He was silent, as were the rest of my family. Even Henry the Hog refrained from barking, an unusual occurrence.

I was fired with enthusiasm. "We could call it Kaalburg."

Every new venture needs extensive homework. With alacrity I shot off to my doctor to investigate skin.

It made sense that if Kaalburg was indeed to be a success, the residents had to be skinned appropriately.

He gave me the good news: "Listen, there are seven layers of skin from the epidermis inwards. The second layer down is called the squamous epitheliah and looks like crazy paving. Now, you should be able to acclimatise your epidermis, squamouses and basals, and get them used to a variety of weathers."

I discovered the International Naturist Federation (INF), an august body of worldly strippers who dedicated their entire beings, naked of course, to the pursuit of naturism.

Their manifestos contained such gems as: "Ever since life on earth began, man has felt most at ease in his natural environment, in a world of plants and animals, of air and water, a world of silence and the rustle of leaves, with scents of flowers and the smells of animals . . . the rediscovery of the naked body as something not sinful but quite natural is one of the merits of the naturist movement, and, in a manner of speaking, a rebirth of human culture."

My family was unimpressed.

"Listen, the weather report said that tonight would be below freezing point," said Nicky. "I'm quite happy with the culture in my life, I don't need a rebirth, I get goosepimples if I'm cold, and anyway, my class teacher would not be happy to teach me starkers."

It seemed the establishment of Kaalburg would be more difficult than I thought.

Later, much later, I paused before I climbed into my fleecy-lined winter nightie with the ruffled collar and thermal sleeves. "What do you think?" I asked my spouse.

"I think, unwrapped, you look like a frozen piece of Camembert cheese," he replied, "whereas clothed you look mysterious."

Of course, there are some people to whom Camembert cheese is infinitely attractive.

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