This wasn't Portis' best work; still, nothing to snivel at. Hippies galore are congregating around Mérida AND vicinity, for a supposed last day of the world and a chance to meet El Mago. THe main character makes his living by searching out runaways and doing chandlering for archaeological digs. It seems as if he puts up with a lot from his fellow characters in the book, but it wasn't easy to get a fix on what he was really like. I certainly enjoyed the scenery that filled the book. ( )

When I first finished the book I was vaguely disappointed. True Grit is sui generis, but of the "spiritual trinity" of Norwood, The Dog of the South, and this one, I thought the picaresque structure, the easygoing plain-spoken main character, the straight-faced jokes, and the easy asides and insights in Gringos seemed to have the least impact on me. The whole book is as laid-back as its protagonist, a Portis stand-in named Jimmy Burns living in Mexico who gets tangled up in a scheme to rescue a stray gringo from a bunch of hippie cultists in the ruins of the Mayan pyramids. The pacing seemed so slow, the characters so blurrily defined, and the ending so anticlimactic, that I didn't really like it. It actually almost seemed like a partial autobiography - the constant sprinklings of Spanish phrases, the trademark car talk, the obvious deep immersion in Mexican culture - with all the potential for dead spots that implies. Then, and this sounds like a really stupid epiphany, I started thinking about it while I was eating at at a Mexican restaurant and I realized that the point of the book was right in the title. It's really about what happens to Americans when they come to Mexico, and the way they find meaning in this endlessly adaptable country, conveniently close yet still foreign enough to offer new possibilities. For Jimmy, Mexico offers the possibility of the quiet life of a voluntary expatriate, of doing odd jobs and escaping the pressures of his home country. For the pyramid hippies, Mexico's ruins have a convenient penumbra of mystery for their attempts to find religious meaning in that vanished Mayan culture. For the archaeologists, each dig site is another opportunity for a power trip, to one-up their colleagues and impress everyone else with the work they imagine they're doing.

Everyone in the book is coming to Mexico for their own reasons, but keep falling back into the patterns of the culture they came from. You can never really shake off the habits of your home, and so when a bunch of flakes show up in this country, many of them use it to indulge their worst habits. It's Ugly American Syndrome, basically, and Portis is his usual wry self about it. The reason why this occurred to me at a Mexican restaurant (bear with me) is because one thing I like about the city I live in is its excellent food - it's had a lot of Mexican immigrants importing big chunks of their culture, and it's therefore very easy to eat cheaply and well. I get to enjoy some of the benefits of Mexico and all of the benefits of the US, but others make different choices depending on their natures. I wouldn't say that Portis is any more thrilled with human nature of the American variety than he normally is, but he's still able to throw a few chuckle-worthy scenes, and of course if you live in the Southwest you'll be able to relate to it a lot more. ( )

*** Mild Spoilers***

Charles Portis is the funniest American writer currently at work—I hope. Gringos, published in 1991, seems to be his last entrada, as Doc Flandin calls his voyage into the selva throughout the book. And while True Grit may be his best novel and Masters of Atlantis and The Dog of the South tied dead even for his funniest (or the funniest by anyone, anywhere), Gringos is my favorite.

I had the chance to teach the novel for a few years when I was teaching high-school AP Literature. One day, a student said to me, “Admit it—you want to be Jimmy Burns.” She had me there, dead to rights. Prufrock knew he was not meant to be Hamlet—but who could? That’s like aspiring to be Beowulf or Bond: the task is too great for any normal person. But Jimmy Burns is at least visible on the horizon of literary heroes one could emulate. He’s tough, he’s ironic, and he’s a good man. He gets himself into one situation after another because he’s trying to help other people and he only complains to the reader. A month doesn’t go by without my quoting him or thinking, “This is right out of Gringos.”

Gringos, like life, seems to read as an episodic series of set pieces, unlike True Grit which barrels along at a fast pace and ends in a terrific shootout. But, again like life, when one looks back at the action, one senses a pattern in all of it. Jimmy prides himself on his keen powers of observation, working for Gilbert, finding fugitives, but there are other things he can’t see, such as Alma’s opinion of him or the nature of Rudy and Louise’s relationship.

And, for all of the jokes, the novel is one of the most realistic I’ve ever read in terms of how the major moments are handled. When Jimmy realizes that Big Dan and the Jumping Jacks are behind the City of Dawn business and that Red is a runaway in over her head, he prays—mid-paragraph, mind you—in a way wholly convincing:

But my poor head was so muddled that I didn’t work it out until that moment in the pyramid steps. It came to me all at once. I stopped dead in my tracks and took off my hat in this driving rain and offered up a prayer of my own. I asked God to let me find the little girl, LaJoye Mishell Teeter, promising to not let her out of my hands this time. I promised not to take any money for her recover. The wind was fierce up here against the forest canopy.

We have no reason to assume Jimmy is insincere—and he keeps his promise of not taking any money. A similarly realistic moment is the shooting that occurs atop the pyramid. Thousands of other authors would have offered some banter, some ironic detachment in that scene, but Portis is too good. The shooting happens, and then the characters begin screaming at each other because their adrenalin has been increased a hundredfold.

Other moments are exactly like these in tone and spirit: Jimmy’s visit to Doc’s house when he learns of Doc's illness, the gathering of vets and the hippies at Shep's, the ways that Beth patronizes Jimmy, the barroom attempts at "marks of distinction," Jimmy’s quoting Art and Mike, and Jimmy’s marriage. How he gets married makes perfect sense and the couple at the end of the book strikes me as far more believable—and likable—than others found on other pages. Jimmy reasons, “You had to plant a tree somewhere,” and this novel of how a 41 year-old man ends up planting his tree is a masterpiece. This is probably the tenth or eleventh time I've read it from start to finish. My only regret is that the Coen brothers can’t make it because the man born to play Jimmy Burns, Tommy Lee Jones, has aged out of the role. ( )

Funny at times, but I found it pretty boring overall. The narration was at such an even keel that it didn't feel like anything was ever building to the climax until, hey, here we are. ( )

Hilarious, witty and written with shocking clarity. A strange, mad-cap romp thru the jungles of Mexico (and the surrounding borders), unearthing Aztec ruins, forgotten cities, oddball conspiracies and UFO theorists.

As far as plot goes, Jimmy Burns travels thru life as an aloof and facetious observer. He is essentially an everyman character who keeps his hilarious musings private. He drifts from one vignette to another, eventually getting married when a female friend moves into his gifted aluminum trailer and says, 'Why not?'

Plotwise, GRINGOS is slim pickens. Not a whole lot 'happens' in terms of narrative thrust, but the little vignettes do a good job of keeping you interested until the very last page.

The real beauty of this novel is Portis' voice. His fiction is essentially what you'd imagine from the Coen Brothers mixed with a little Barry Hannah.

From here on I will be reading everything else he's done. ( )