Dexterous Dexter 05

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Hypoxia
Hypoxia
928 Followers

The Chichi cathedral is a Mayan temple. A mound of incense burns perpetually at the bottom of its front steps. Only tribal elders may enter the main doors; lesser folks must use a side door. The cathedral floor was strewn with flower petals. The walls were lined with greater-than-life-size figures of santos and angels, to be carried through town in regular processions. A group of guys squatted in the nave, chanting.

I took a posada room with a view overlooking the valley and mountains. I was warned not to sit in the tree-cast shade in the courtyard; falling five-pound avocados can smash a skull.

Pedro, the innkeeper, was a local Quiche (KEE-chay) Mayan guy who had worked for thirty years in Chicago and Cleveland. He was trilingual in English, Spanish, and Quiche, but the neighboring Ixil (EEE-sheel) Maya dialect was Chinese to him. The thirty-odd Maya dialects are mostly mutually incomprehensible.

Rosalita, my language coach and fuckbuddy back in California, had lived in Chichi till she was eight years old, and had since visited regularly. The accent I learned from her was pretty good. Pedro was surprised I was not a local boy.

Pedro did not supply or arrange for girls but he did not mind that I brought company home.

Avia and Lola had come to town for the next day's market. They were sisters, tall for Maya girls, very chic in their mixed Western and traditional garb, and pretty damn hot when stark naked too, cute and curvy and taut. Their huipiles (whee-PEE-lays, rough blouses) pattern indicated their home village. (That tradition began with the Spanish so the conquerors could keep track of their peons.)

After our shower and foreplay, we lay lightly on the bed. We kissed faces and chests and thighs and pubes. We circled into a daisychain, me eating Avia eating Lola eating me. Sisters really are the best, yes!

When we were adequately lubricated, we adjourned to the scenic balcony. They both leaned over the balcony railing with legs spread and butts beckoning. From behind them, I plunged happily into one, then into the other, alternating regularly, a dozen strokes each time. Lola came first. Avia pulled Lola's head to her own and swallowed Lola's screams with her mouth. A few minutes later, Lola returned the favor.

I had not yet cum. I laid Avia on her back on the bed and Lola just above her, back against the headboard. I slid my cock into Avia, pulled her legs up onto my back, and slid her butt up so I thrust fully into her depths, with her head under my chest. I pulled Lola's pussy to my mouth. Avia sucked my nipples while I frantically fucked her, and my hands fondled and abused Lola's tits while I hungrily ate her.

We all came rather nicely, wetly, loudly. Don't you love when a plan (and all involved) cums together?

I pulled Avia atop me into a tasty 69. Her wide mouth felt like an infinite abyss on my cock. My tongue delved into her spicy pussy, tasting my own cum, and abused her clit. Lola lay beside her and sucked my balls and twisted Avia's nipples. Avia and I grunted, moaned, and came together, our shouts well-muffled.

I rolled Avia off me, and Lola mounted her for slow mutual oral-genital sex. After a few minutes watching, I lifted Lola's face from her sister's pussy and put my stiffening cock in her mouth. She sucked me back to hardness. I moved around and pushed my cock into Lola's cunt while her sister sucked her clit. Lola came again, then Avia, then me again. Avia slurped and swallowed the rich mixture of my and Lola's juices.

We lay back in bed, exhausted. We cuddled and slept, and awoke in the dark for yet more. Sure was fun.

I stayed for Chichi's Sunday market day. Avia and Lola were with me again that night, worn out from their day's activities. That night's activities wore them out even more. No complaints, though. Not from them.

---

I have mentioned that the Chichi marketplace was immense. Buyers came from around the planet, because any craftwork from anywhere in the Mayan world could be found at Chichi. In that regard, Chichi resembles Nogales, south of Tucson and Phoenix. Just about any Mexican craftwork can be bought in the Nogales market complex. It is much more convenient to shop there than to try to find all the source villages.

I encountered several 'internationals' sifting through the Chichi Sunday market. Yvgenia and Pierre from Marseilles were looking for ancient artifacts, real or otherwise -- they had customers back home for both good stuff and fakes. Georges from Thessaloniki, Carlos from Buenos Aires, and Sylvia from Mendocino, all bought piles of handmade fabrics for shops in their home areas.

Then there was Elspeth, a wiry straw-blond almost-30 Danish woman with big dreams. She was traveling Latin America until her money ran out. She came to Chichi and other market towns for jewelry, artifacts, and other small stuff, to send to her sister's shop in Kobenhavn to sell, to raise more money, to extend her travels. She had already been from Patagonia to Texas and back a few times over the past couple years.

Elspeth had been an elementary schoolteacher. She went on vacation to Peru, to see Cuzco and Machu Picchu. She had an immense awakening. She realized that her soul felt far more at home in Hispanic cultures than in Europe. She did not return to Denmark.

The far future did not matter to Elspeth; her foreseeable future was right here, alive and vibrant.

I breakfasted on and with Avia and Lola, then kissed them good-bye. I wandered through the market's day-after debris. I hit a vendor for my last coffee before leaving town. And I ran into Elspeth again.

Elspeth had loaded her packed merchandise and light luggage onto a shuttle van headed for Panajachel on nearby Lake Atitlan. Her stuff would be delivered to the posada where she had booked a large room. But she wanted to see more of Chichi, and planned to catch a later shuttle. We wandered through Chichi together, chatting, maybe flirting a little. I invited her on a motorbike-ride to Pana. She accepted.

I enjoy riding with a woman behind me on the bike, her arms wrapped around me, her breasts pushed into my back, her thighs pressing mine. Elspeth was quite MILF-ish enough for a very pleasant ride.

We spun around Chichi's periphery to take in the views. We slowly rode the twisty scenic road back to the ridgetop Pan-American highway, then down the steep caldera cliff-hanging roadway to Pana. We stopped at villages and overlooks. We both exercised our cameras. We stripped and laughed and held hands under a high light cascada (waterfall). We felt good.

She invited me to stay with her in Pana. How was I to refuse? And she did not laugh at my ukulele.

Panajachel (PAW-naw-haw-SHELL) had already gained the name Gringotenango. 'Tenango' is a Nahuatl (Aztec) suffix meaning "the place of" or " where x is found". The quetzal is a colorful bird, the national symbol of Guatemala, and Quetzaltenango is "where the quetzals are," supposedly. The huehue and chichicas are other birds, I think, and I guess Huehuetenango and Chichicastenango were loaded with them, I dunno.

Gringotenango is where the gringos are. Especially stoners looking for dirt-cheap room and food and weed and dirty sex. The cheaper and dirtier, the better.

Pana had resort areas catering to various social strata. Rich folks from Guatemala City would come to the fancy resorts for weekends. Middle-class folks from around Central America came to the more modest places for vacation. And cheap hostels catered to the very budget-minded: room and board for one buck a day.

Elspeth had booked into a middle-class posada just above the beach. The large second-floor room was airy, with huge windows giving spectacular views of the town on one side and the lake on the other. Her stuff was already in the room.

We unloaded my bike, undressed and showered, then sucked and fucked. She may have been a decade older than me, but her body was firm and luscious. And she showed me some new tricks. Yummy!

Elspeth had not experienced anything like my neck-gasm trick, though. I won her approval, and some more delightful oral gymnastics. Elspeth had the most talented tongue I have ever encountered. She had obviously practiced. She appreciated that I had also practiced with my own tongue.

"You are a very surprising young man, Dexter. You are not like any other Yankees I have met."

"For an 'older woman', you're pretty great yourself. Did you learn all those moves in Denmark?"

"Oh, the Swedish boys and girls are much more adventurous than Danes, much sexier, more sensual."

"You make me want to visit Sweden next, at least during the summer. Winter must be miserable."

"Winter in Scandinavia, there is nothing to do but write and sleep and drink and screw. So we do."

"Why didn't I see more Swedes and Norwegians around Los Angeles? Why do they move to Minnesota?"

"They are masochists. They migrate so they can live somewhere just as fucking miserable as home."

We slipped into another 69 and slurped each other into ecstacy, then showered and dressed. We strolled the lakeshore and on into town. A kid standing on the cobbled path to the the shore had a brazier full of hot peanuts. I bought a handful. Elspeth declined.

We walked past the knife vendors, parrot vendors, hashish vendors, street artists, etc. We stopped at a storefront eatery for a nice roast-chicken dinner. We walked into the upper town's maze, stopped at a couple bars, danced a little, chatted with locals and internationals.

We walked back to the posada. We sucked and fucked some more. We slept. And I got sick.

Yes, I made it to the toilet in time. But my body emptied its contents and raised its temperature, high. I was purged, shaking and shivering, feverish, pupils dilated, et fucking cetera.

Elspeth woke the innkeeper to ask for a doctor. The innkeeper woke her mozo (servant boy) and sent him to run for help. The male half of a man-and-wife team of doctors appeared within a half-hour, diagnosed me, and wrote prescriptions. The mozo hopped his bicycle and rode to awaken pharmacists for the needed drugs. In under an hour, I was dosed up. By noon, I was almost back to normal. My total cost for doctor and medication: ten bucks.

I learned not to eat street-vendors' toasted peanuts. They are NOT clean. I've never had any problems with other street food. I was advised to avoid ceviche, marinated raw fish. Raw fish and peanuts are killers.

I handed the mozo a dollar tip (two or three days' wages) to thank him for his speedy efforts, which possibly saved my life. He tried to refuse, saying he was just doing his job. His boss hissed at him, "Don't be shy! Take the money!" He finally did.

I later found that the prescribed drugs are mostly used to treat cholera. Holy shit! I had a close call.

I stayed with Elspeth the next night. No more sex, I was still a bit off, but we nicely massaged each other. We kissed good-bye the next morning. She was heading north while I was going south. I rode on.

---

Two roads lead from Lake Atitlan to Antigua Guatemala a.k.a. La Antigua, the old one. The short route was reportedly infested with bandits. I rode back to the Pan-American Highway instead, busier and safer. I took the right cut-off, rolled through quaint villages, and reached the hilltop overlooking La Antigua. The view was breathtaking, a small treed city in a lovely valley bowl surrounded by smoking volcanoes.

La Antigua is built mostly in a grid. Most of the buildings are low, no more than two stories, with thick walls. The architecture grows from local reality -- La Antigua has been stomped by earthquakes, eruptions and mudslides for centuries. A quake in the near future would collapse most of the remaining cathedral.

Some buildings remained in ruins. Some were turned into prisons. Inmates labored to restore the building. When finished, that building would reopen, the prisoners moved to the next ruined project for yet more hard labor.

La Antigua is quite a lovely place, much visited by international travelers, with an amazing array of services. Wide varieties of good cheap food, lodging, entertainment, markets, drugs, sex, the works. This small city of under 40,000 was almost as cosmopolitan as San Francisco. I could spend a year or more here.

Alas, I did not have a year, not yet. August approached. It was time to continue south.

I stayed in La Antigua a couple days, at a clean cheap-hotel-like posada between the Parque Central zocalo and the hulking fortress-like blood red Spanish Embassy. The posada was run by frizzy-dirty-blond kiwi Shayla.

Shayla first came from New Zealand to vacation in Guatemala a dozen years before. Her heart kept her here. She worked for a decade as a tour guide for Anglish-speaking internationals, then settled down to manage a couple hostelries owned by three brothers. One brother fathered her children. Shayla had gone native. But she did not fuck the guests.

I walked around town shooting photos with my half-frame 35mm cameras. Each could get almost 75 frames on a standard 135-36 film roll. The little Olympus Pen-FT wore its 50mm 'portrait' lens; its other lenses were in my waist pouch. The small wind-up Canon Dial-35 was in my pocket. The Dial-35, with a 28mm 'normal' lens ringed by CdS cells, looks more like a fancy exposure meter than a camera, and was good for firing off a dozen or more silent stealthy shots at a time.

I walked to the zocalo, stopped at Cafe La Contessa for coffee and incomparable tres leches cake, and crossed the street to the large well-treed plaza. Traffic circled slowly. La Antigua felt much like San Cristobal, back in Chiapas, but in slow-motion.

I saw a traveling rig similar to my own off the plaza sidewalk: a Honda 350cc with a travel pack tied to a sissy bar. Beyond, I saw a tall Japanese girl with long hair dyed white, standing before a tripodded camera, setting its timer to take pictures of her. In her background was the squirty-titted-nymph plaza fountain, with the fairly-ruined cathedral beyond that.

I walked over and noticed that her camera was also an Olympus Pen-FT, with its 28mm lens. I attracted her attention and waved my own Pen-FT at her. She smiled. We chatted, first in her rough Spanish, then in her much better English.

24-year-old Midori was motorbiking a two-year world tour, sponsored by the Osaka newspaper for which she reported. She had ridden across Asia, through China and Afghanistan and Jordan, and up and down East Africa, then criss-crossed Europe to Britain. She and her bike sailed to Canada on a tramp freighter. She had ridden down the Atlantic and Gulf seaboards from Halifax to Belize, spending a month and a half in Mexico, and was working her way south now.

Her next destination was the same as mine, Ruinas Copan in Honduras. I asked if she would like a riding partner that far, and she agreed. I asked if she had lodging here yet, and she said no. She took her own room at Shayla's posada. Shayla pointed us to a photo lab for developing our film. Then we explored.

We dined at a BBQ joint across from the imposing Iglesia La Merced holy site. We heard music coming from around the corner. We peered into a tiny window and saw a small room filled with six guys playing a double marimba. Band practice! A rider danced his stallion down the cobbled street under the town arch, prancing sideways, clip-clopping syncopated patterns. Celebrants launched exploding skyrockets from the La Merced church grounds.

Shayla did not provide girls (or boys) at her posada. We found our own, Juanita and yet another Maria, sisters from Santiago de Atitlan, across the lake from Gringotenango. I took Juanita to my room, and Midori took Maria to hers. Ah, so *that's* how it is...

The next morning, after the best-yet desayuna typico, Midori and I rolled east to Guatemala City. I was not impressed by Guate. We were pulled over by a motorcycle cop who was intrigued by Midori's Japanese license plates. When he saw my passport and California driver's license, he got excited.

"Oh, you are from California? I have a brother in California. Do you need anyone to work for you in California? I will take any job you have. Please, hire me! I want to live in California!"

I did not want to disappoint him, and maybe get arrested, so I took his name and numbers and promised to call or write in a couple months. Note to self: Do not return to Guate after two months have passed.

Midori and I decided to see the German colony in the coffee town of Coban before heading for the Copan ruins in Honduras. Our maps, and local informants, said that Highway 5 was a good road. Turns out it was good for goats, maybe. Steep and twisty, monstrous potholes, mile-deep sheer drop-offs into slashed canyons, careening chicken buses, and huge mud bogs. We survived. I like survivable adventures. I had read accounts of the earliest days of motorized travel. I figured that we had gotten off easy.

Midori and I shared a room and two girls in Coban. Our relationship was advancing, right? Well, almost.

We cut across the grain of the landscape to Copan. Only a small bribe again to clear Honduran customs, and my accent again kept the exchange rate low when we swapped quetzales for lempiras. Many Central Americans stereotype Hondurans as wimps because they do not have enough revolutions. Still, we passed resorts with signs telling guests to leave their firearms with the gatekeeper.

We again shared a room and two girls in Copan. It was a fun night. And then I got *really* sick.

I barely awoke the next morning. I was exhausted, feverish, bad color, really yuck. The local doctor said that I was in bad shape, probably tubercular pneumonia, and he could not help besides some prescriptions, that the nearest competent medical care was in Tegucigalpa or Guatemala City. Midori hired a van to haul us and our bikes back to Guate. I said that Shayla had mentioned a first-rate medic in La Antigua, so that is where we ended up, at the medic's girlfriend's hotel south of the zocalo.

Allen and Evita had a fairytale story. She was a local upper-class girl. Her family sent her to school in New York a decade earlier, where she met and fell in love with Allan, a biomedical chemistry student. Her family disapproved of their pairing and married her off to an old grandee. Her hubby had died after seven mediocre years. After the funeral, Evita visited friends in Guadalajara -- and found Allen again, there for a biomedical conference. Their romance rekindled. They cohabited. They were living Happily Ever After.

Allen's research specialty was of classes of drugs to treat... tubercular pneumonia! He was the local expert. He knew exactly how to treat me, with dosages quite different from those prescribed by the Copan doctor. Without his care, I could have died, or at least have required airlifting back to the States.

Midori had to roll on. I sang her a ukulele farewell. She did not kiss me goodbye. I did not blame her.

I spent almost two weeks as Allen and Evita's patient and guest in La Antigua. I got a bargain room rate, and no charge for the medic work except to pay for drugs. But I also had no roommates. I was lonely. And one week into August, I had totally blown my time window for going further south. Rats. Maybe next time.

NEXT: Homeward Bound

Hypoxia
Hypoxia
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