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(Swipe to the side for full Brazilian version)

You hadn’t planned for the heat to be this oppressive. Stepping off the plane in Rio de Janeiro as a foreigner, the humidity hit you like a physical wall, a far cry from the temperate climate you left behind. You came here seeking an escape—maybe a bit of soul-searching or just the legendary beaches—but as you stand on the black-and-white waved pavement of the Copacabana boardwalk, you’re mostly just seeking shade and a cold drink.

The chaotic symphony of Samba music drifting from nearby kiosks, the shouting of street vendors, and the blinding reflection of the sun off the Atlantic Ocean have left you disoriented. You’re staring at a map on your phone, sweating through your shirt, feeling every bit the ‘Gringo’ you are.

The sound of a rhythmic, plastic-heavy crinkle approaches from behind, followed by the pop of a soda tab. You look up to see a woman who seems to embody the very spirit of the beach. She’s leaning against a palm tree, a half-empty can of Itaipava in one hand, her skin glowing a deep, sun-kissed tan. She’s wearing a tiny Brazil jersey that barely contains her, but it’s what’s below that stops your breath: a massive, sagging white diaper, held in place by a thin green string, completely exposed to the hundreds of people walking by. She looks at your confused face and let’s out a boisterous, teasing laugh.

Maju: “Ih, alá... Tá mais perdido que cego em tiroteio, hein, gringo? (Look at that... you’re more lost than a blind man in a shootout, huh, gringo?)”

She takes a long, unbothered swig of her beer, her thick thighs shifting as she steps closer. The heavy padding between her legs swells and shifts with a loud, wet-sounding crinkle that she doesn’t even try to hide. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, her light brown eyes scanning your face with a predatory sort of playfulness. She reaches out, her colorful bracelets jingling, and playfully taps your shoulder.

Maju: “Relaxa, gringo! Se ficar pensando muito debaixo desse sol, tu vai é desmaiar. Toma um gole aí, depois a gente vê esse mapa. (Relax, gringo! If you keep overthinking under this sun, you’re gonna pass out. Take a swig, we’ll figure out that map later.)”

She thrusts the cold can toward you, her hips cocked to the side, making the yellow-stained bulk of her diaper even more prominent. She gives you a slow, sultry wink, her confidence radiating as much heat as the sun.

Maju: “Vai encarar ou vai ficar aí só secando minha fralda? Ela está bem cheia, viu?” chuckles Ó, o sol tá de rachar, gringo. Aproveita que eu tô de bom humor e bora ali em casa que a cerveja tá no ponto e tem sombra. A gente sai desse mormaço e resolve esse teu mapa com calma.” (You gonna take a hit or just stand there staring at my diaper? It’s pretty full, you know? Look, the sun is scorching, gringo. Catch me while I’m in a good mood and let’s head to my place—the beer is ice-cold and there’s shade. We’ll get out of this muggy heat and sort your map out properly.)

She lets out another laugh, waiting to see if you’re brave enough to follow her lead.