“Are you going to wear that for the climb?” Our tour guide, Lucas*, asked one of my shipmates. The young man is wearing a white buttoned down shirt with black slacks and black leather loafers.

“I like looking my best,” he replied.

“Well, just be careful,” cautioned Lucas. “Some parts of the path are covered in moss.”

A random man in the back of the group yelled, “I don’t know what he was thinking wearing those church shoes.” The group exploded with laughter and all day everyone referred to the young man as “Church Shoes.” No one bothered to ask him his name. U.S. Sailors are petty that way.

We are assembled about a five minute walk away from the foot of Costão de Itacoatiara, situated in Itacoatiara, Niteroi. Niterói is a municipality in southeast Brazil, connected to Rio de Janeiro by a bridge across Guanabara Bay.

It is June 2004 and our ship, the USS Ronald Reagan, has been anchored a mile from shore for the last two days. My liberty buddy Joz* and I decided to take a tour, with a few other Sailors from the boat, to get away from the crowds of Rio.

As we walk toward the hill, I look at the houses in the little suburb. They remind me of the houses in Trinidad. Many of them are high on stilts with long staircases leading up to a porch. I notice that some of the yards have pommecythere trees.

Called Cajarana in Brazil

We had one of those trees in the yard of my childhood home too. I am tempted to reach up and grab a fruit that was hanging over the fence — as a Trini this cannot be helped — when I notice spiders the size of puppies suspended in webs twice as large on the tree; on ALL the trees. I look around in horror. There is a woman sitting on the porch as though she is not surrounded by eight legged freaks.

“What in the fuck?” I slowly back away.

Lucas tells me they are not going to jump on me and that I should relax, but I swear I see uncertainty in his eyes as I feel something brush against my leg. I speed up ahead of the group as we begin our climb.

We are halfway up when my legs start aching, and my breathing becomes labored. Just as I am about to stop for a break, a man, his wife and their two small children breeze pass me, laughing and talking as though they are taking a leisurely stroll in Central Park. The mother is carrying a baby in a pouch and the entire family is not wearing shoes. Lucas senses my shame and explains that they hike daily.

I am pleased to at least be doing better than Joz, who is currently sitting on a rock, drinking water. Suddenly, she springs to her feet when she spots a young Brazilian woman briskly walking up the hill. She is wearing a yellow thong bikini and hiking boots. In any other country that outfit would not make any sense. I stare in amazement at her Disc man precariously hanging on the string of her bikini bottom. It seems like it would give away at any moment. All the men stop and wait for her to pass so they can get a good look at her derriere as she continues her ascent. A little motivation I suppose. To them, the beauty of the landscape is no match for a perfectly rounded Brazilian bottom. One woman gives her husband an elbow to the rib as he gawks shamelessly. It is as though he forgot his wife is present. He closes his mouth and resumes climbing while looking at the ground the rest of the way; trying desperately not to make his eyes rest on the young woman’s backside. His wife side eyes, waiting for him to slip.

I am almost to the top when I notice Church Shoes is one of the first people to make it there, despite his poor choice in footwear.

Finally at the peak, I can barely breathe. I put my hands on my knees and gasp for air, silently vowing to hit the gym more often. (I make this vow often).

As you can see, that hike kicked my ass.

“You guys are lucky it is clear today,” says Lucas. “On some days you cannot see anything.”

Christ the Redeemer in the distance.

I look down the hill to see Joz sitting on yet another rock. I ask if she is coming up and she yells back that she is good right where she is.

It is noon and the sun beats down on us. In the distance, boats sail and people sunbathe on the beach. On the other side of the hill, the water beats against jagged rocks. To my surprise, there is a man sitting on a stool near the slippery edge, fishing as though a wave could not sweep him away. After taking pictures, Lucas announces that it was time to head back to the beach for lunch.

Church Shoes takes in front. He is practically running down the hill. I am right behind him as Lucas yells for us to slow down because of mossy patches.

I stop to tell Joz about the views she missed due to her laziness, when Lucas calls our attention to a particular kind of cacti that is supposedly only found in Brazil. Joz and I look back toward the bottom of the hill to see Church Shoes is gone. The only thing we notice is the moss, which looks like someone slipped on it.

“That does not look good.” Joz says, barely containing her excitement.

We disregard Lucas, who is yelling at us to stop running, and bolt down the hill and through the trees. We find Church Shoes sitting on the ground looking startled. He explains that he slipped and slid down the hill.

I help him to his feet only to find that the seat of his freshly creased trousers is shredded leaving his boxers partly exposed. They are green with a sail boat pattern. Joz snickers. I try not to laugh as Church Shoes tries to survey the damage. He spins around like a dog trying to catch its tail. Joz howls with laughter when she notices the heel of one of his loafers is worn down and now he stands lopsided.

“What happened here?” Lucas asks.

Everyone is in stitches as they gather around the poor fellow. I hand him a beach towel from my backpack so he can wrap it around his waist. He hesitates then throws it over his shoulder.

“I warned you about those shoes,” Lucas says.

He shakes his head trying to stay professional. His shoulders tremble under his attempts to avoid laughing. Church Shoes limps ahead of the group as everyone chuckles behind his back. An elderly woman, who lives nearby, walks pass him slowly. Her eyes widen at the sight of his muddy pants. She shakes her head slowly. The group erupts with laughter. For the first time I do not think about spiders leaping off of trees and unto my shoulders. Although Joz reluctantly gives me a once over before we board the bus.

We walk into the restaurant, a large, open, hall-like eatery that leads straight to the beach. To Church Shoes’ dismay it is packed with people. Using his finger nails, he scratches out spots of dirt from his pants then wraps my towel around his waist. The other patrons stare at us as though we are a herd of cattle migrating through the restaurant. Their eyes mostly fixated on Church Shoes as he hobbles and drags the shoe with the eaten up sole across the floor. He bows his head in order to avoid making eye contact. A little girl tugs at her brother’s shirt, points at Church Shoes and says, “Veja.” The two children giggle as their parents look at him with pity.

As we take our seats at the table he sighs in relief that the walk of shame was over for now and he would not have to do it again until it is time to leave.

“Actually, you have to get the sides yourself,” I inform him with a grin.

I point to the spread with my head. He asks me to bring him a plate.

“Nope.”

I make my way to the food. It smells delicious. This is my first experience at a Brazilian restaurant. I fill my plate with steamed cassava and salad and return to await the meat that will be brought to our table. The waiter explains that our coasters have two sides: when the green side is up they will continue to bring an assortment of meats to the table. They will keep bringing meats until the red side is visible. I have not eaten all day and after that hike I am famished. Needless to say I have my fill of roasted pork, beef tenderloin and chicken and sirloin wrapped in bacon. The knife cuts through the meat like butter. Church shoes only eats meat because he refuses to get up for anything else.

After lunch, we retreat to the beach for a lazy afternoon and make plans to go to a club that night. Church Shoes tell us his real name and promises to return my towel after it is washed.

A food coma before my swim.

* Denotes a name change.