2.

I walk everywhere in Mexico: an odd figure constantly running fingers through hair and muttering as I work out problems of dialog and narration. Years ago I found myself gesturing like one of my characters—trying him on for size, in effect—as I passed a store window. There I was—there he was—reflected in the glass, one hand pawing at the air, lips mouthing tentative phrases. I cleared my throat in embarrassment, adjusted the lapel of my jacket, and tried to appear more dignified. Elegant women clicked past me in their high heels. Somber men sat on high chairs in the plaza, getting their shoes polished. There has always been a lot of rough vulgarity in Mexican border towns and the industrial centers, but in the provincial capitals I gravitated towards, like Aguascalientes, dignity was visible everywhere. But what is dignity worth, anyway? Today as I sit in the Excelsior I see a gaggle of schoolgirls, their heads together over one table. Occasionally they lean back and erupt with laughter, even shrieks. Nearby a man scratches at his crotch, then pokes a finger in his ear. He wears a sweatshirt and rumpled trousers—he looks like he just got out of bed—and hasn’t shaved for two or three days. Two middleaged women in garish sweatsuits and running shoes—both are fat, and obviously neither runs—complain loudly about something, perhaps their husbands. They look with distaste at the girl who drifts to their table—why? because she is younger than they are? prettier?—and make her come back three times, changing one cookie for another, a cup of this for a cup of that. Above us all hangs the new black television, showing cartoons. People stop whatever they are doing—drinking, smoking, talking—to watch anthropomorphic mice or perhaps therianthropic children race across the screen. All of us have to talk loudly over the television noise, and at times the room reverberates. Even with earplugs in place, it is difficult for me to concentrate, and indeed I wonder why I bother. I wander out into the street into crowds of the same people. Chilangos, a friend of mine calls them, a derisive term once applied to the uncultured poor who migrated from the countryside to Mexico City, but now meaning the vulgar, uncultured louts who have spread from Mexico City all over the country. Mexico, like many third world countries, is in the midst of a population explosion. The capital itself, enclosed in a valley, has become ungovernably huge—the biggest urban center in the world, the Mexicans claim—as barrios spread everywhere, many without running water or sewers or electricity. It is a joke, but alas true, that during the winter dry season the air fills with dried fecal matter, a fine dust that blows from the barrios everywhere, even through the Zona Rosa and the rich neighborhoods. No one is immune. Embassies call the city a hardship zone, and recommend you stay indoors breathing filtered air. In an effort to alleviate this population pressure, the federal government has encouraged decentralization, and industries are moving out to the provincial capitals. Nissan came to Aguascalientes several years ago, followed by hungry and desperate families looking for work. Now Aguas too is bursting at the seams, the streets choked, drivers honking in desperation as the cars pile up.

Chilangos most of them may be, but it is not so easy to disdain them. Loud, brassy, vulgar, sans dignity, but hungry, always on the verge of rage and dissolution, they are Mexico’s teeming present and its ominous future. Anarchy seems to be taking hold. The growth industry in Mexico City is kidnapping, and most of the kidnappers seem to be either the police, famous for their cruelty, or their friends. In a desperate effort to keep order, the city recently fired a hundred cops, and set up another anti-corruption squad. But what can you do in a country where the brother of the last president is in jail, accused of making the country safe for the drug cartels? The ex-president himself hides in Ireland, reportedly fearful of arrest. The head of the special anti-drug task force had to be fired for corruption and “illegal enrichment." When you are robbed, a friend told me, the last person you want to see is a cop, because then youll be robbed twice. During the Christmas season, when hordes of Mexican-Americans come south from the U.S. to visit relatives, the traffic and state police go into a feeding frenzy, stopping visitors and ripping off whatever they can get. This happened to a friend of mine a couple years ago—he was heading to Quertero to show off to his family his American success, a new pickup loaded with presents. He was stopped on the highway and lost it all.

Chilangos, we say distastefully, friends and I, as we stroll the busy streets. Not precisely the poor—not all chilangos are poor—but the noisy, the crude, the greedy. Chilangos everywhere, taking over the town.