Thick skin needed if you’re nude to the scene
OUT OF MY HEAD
Mapua is the poster child of redemption. Once a toxic-waste pariah; now a gorgeous seaside hamlet with classy shops, quirky residents and one of the strongest community spirits in the region.
Sure, half the village speaks with an English accent, but I take that as a gold medal sticker on the wine label. These are people who explored their prospective new homeland in campervans, pulled into Mapua and declared: ‘‘Sorted. Throw out the anchor, Luv.’’
Like anywhere, though, the village has its dark underbelly, and you can take that literally.
My sister and I needed a holiday, so we deloused the caravan and chose Mapua Leisure Park. Or rather, it chose us courtesy of a dog-friendly policy from February 1.
‘‘Is she well-trained?’’ the receptionist asks, eyeing the fleabag, who has framed herself endearingly in a window of the car.
‘‘She’s old,’’ I shrug. ‘‘It amounts to the same thing – no energy left for mischief.’’
That ticks the box. ‘‘And do you realise we are now clothing optional?’’
I nod blankly, but it hardly seems relevant since the mutt possesses just one outfit, a classy tartan cape that transforms her into ‘Pawdry Hepburn’, but she seldom wears it since I’m the killjoy who has to rein in her diva ego.
We park the caravan, drop the ‘legs’; and unfold chairs. I head for the kitchen and hot water. The secret to conquering strange surroundings is to secure your bed and put the jug on for a cuppa.
As I pass one of the cabins, a woman with bright green hair lounges on the patio. The dye job is so ‘out there’ that I take a second to realise everything else is out there too – she is starkers.
‘Saints preserve us’ I think, ‘the chemicals in those dyes are powerful. She’s so wasted she forgot to dress.’
On the way back I spy a nude man putting up a tent, arms bulging as he hoists the roof, with a musculature not unlike Michelangelo’s David. They could be twins, if David was four decades older, sported a full-term beer-gut and had tattoos on both buttocks – depicting what I didn’t care to investigate.
Such a wardrobe malfunction cannot be blamed on hair dye because this David has no hair. The only possible explanation is that all his clothes have been stolen.
Some toe-rag swiped his kit for drug money, and this poor creature suffers abject humiliation until replacements arrive.
Trouble in paradise. We soon discover that garment rustling is rife here. Many other campers slouch dejectedly in their birthday suits.
These lost souls have obviously been in distress for some time because their skin is chocolate brown and wrinkled like a pair of forgotten tramping boots.
The victims gravitate to the swimming pool, seeking primordial comfort in water, I guess.
The oceans gave us life after all. Except this pocket-ocean is gaspingly cold, leaving the dispossessed to collapse on the grass, sunning themselves for warmth.
Out by the estuary, a bare-botty fisherman casts a line. Yikes. Fishhooks and flesh make an unhappy combo. He must be losing his marbles.
The clothing bandits have targeted a wide age range – from 50 to 90. Only the young are spared.
‘‘Have you met a woman with green hair?’’ I ask Sis on day two, over dinner of citrus beer and nibbles, both of us being too lazy to cook. ‘‘The lime or the spearmint?’’ ‘‘Lime.’’ ‘‘Yes, I did actually. Met in all her glory, shall we say. Sitting on the deck with a bunch of equally buck-naked mates, enjoying a wine.’’
‘‘Damn – more thefts,’’ I cry. ‘‘But peer support, that’s terrific. There’s no empathy like someone who’s been through the same trauma.’’
And other good news to report: many victims are clothed in sarongs, from the Red Cross I expect, so dignity is being restored.
The sarong-wearers also appear to be ‘self-medicating’ with copious alcohol at sundown.
Or from lunchtime on. However that’s Kiwi campground ritual, and let’s not waggle a finger without walking a mile in their jandals.
Ali and I have already been through our own bags for spare clothing we might offer, but I travel light and my other T-shirt is now the dishcloth we forgot to pack.
‘‘Some of them are still in a shocking state,’’ I caution. ‘‘Nothing but dark sunglasses and gold neck-chains to stand up in. It makes you weep.’’ Sis agrees. We lapse into silence. The scent of melanoma hangs in the air. Cicadas startle as a selfmedicating receptacle crashes into the recycling bin.
I glance up – and slap my forehead theatrically: ‘‘Heck, we’ve got an emergency sewing kit. Couldn’t we knock out half a dozen tunics from the caravan sunshade?’’
We could, first thing in the morning, and meanwhile, the thought of finally being useful in a crisis makes our simple repast easier to swallow.
As for naturism in general, skinny-dipping on a quiet beach is my limit. Rampant exposure puts a wobble in my whistle.
Nudity is a dish best served spontaneously.
No gripe with the campground. It’s a stunner – though I might recommend they plant a few fig trees.