Proud Highway:Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman (66 page)

Chao,
^**
H

April 8, 1963
Rio

Dear Mr. Graham:

Well … two pages, single-space, catch my breath, define myself … that's a tall order for a man of my stripe, but I'll give it a go. I doubt I can match the olympian spleen of my last effort, but what the hell?

You may be a phony, Graham, but I admire your spirit. Your letter of March 25 had a cavalier tone that in some circles would pass for a very
high kind of élan. The only real flaw I found was that it was written in English, instead of French. But, again, what the hell?

Actually, I am more interested in your reason for answering my letter, than in anything you had to say. Mine (the “moderate and shy” one of February 8th) was written in a pure, rum-flavored rage at about four in the morning. Needless to say, it was not re-written the next day, as most of my stuff is. It meant, as I recall, exactly what it appeared to mean. There were no ulterior motives—except, perhaps, that of prodding you into a reply. Certainly I would not want you to interpret it as a devious means of applying for a job on the assembly line at
Newsweek
, or covering speeches for
The Washington Post
. I sign what I write, and I mean to keep on signing it.

As for me, I'm a writer. I came to South America to find out what it meant, and I comfort myself in knowing that at least my failure has been on a grand scale. After a year of roaming around down here, the main thing I've learned is that I now understand the United States and why it will never be what it could have been, or at least tried to be. So I'm getting ready to come back and write what I've learned. With luck, I will be in New York and Washington by June. Perhaps you'll be able to afford that bottle of Old Crow by then.

As I recall, I offered to bet you a bottle of Old Crow that my published output, since coming to South America, would surpass the entire output of the
Newsweek
staff—on South America stories published over the course of the past year. You did not mention either the bet or the bourbon in your letter, so I assume you are weaseling out.

My relationship with the
National Observer
has been exceptionally decent. They have published all my articles—even my letters (
NO
12/31/62)—and paid me well enough so that I don't have to write unless I feel like writing, or have something solid to write about. In return, most of the things I've sent them have been incomparable.

I don't know what all of this means to you, but the fact that you answered my letter leads me to believe that you now and then take a break from the “normal, sybaritic pursuits of proprietorship,” and devote a few idle moments to pondering the meaning of your days and your time. How old are you? Maybe that's a clue. Have you come to that point where you suddenly realize you're afraid of people as young as I am? Or have you passed on, into a sort of crotchety, good-humored resignation?

Now, to change the subject, I've been forced to modify my hardnose line of February 8, for several reasons: 1) I recently had dinner with Milan Kubic, who tells me he's about to open a
Newsweek
bureau in Rio; a good move, but not quite as laudable as it is overdue; 2) Lippmann's piece on Rockefeller was Grade-A stuff, as was the
Newsweek
cover story on unemployment in the U.S. Since I knocked you on your South America coverage,
I'd be acting like a newsmagazine editor if I ignored your best efforts; 3) Your letter came on the heels of “recent reports” that you were seriously ill. After being down here for a year, I have little faith in “recent reports,” but if that one happens to be true, I'm sorry and I hope you're back in shape. Judging from your letter, I assume you are. At any rate, I felt vaguely uncomfortable about sending that kind of a letter to a man who was “seriously ill.”

Hell, I haven't used up my two pages. What else can I tell you? Height 6′3″; Weight 190; Age 25; Politics: opposed to Nixon, Norman Mailer & George Lincoln Rockwell; Draft Status: Vet; Religion: Seeker. At this point it gets difficult.…

Oh yeah, I like a good tavern, sun on grass, a lean white hull, a beautiful woman, fine writing, fine whiskey … I could carry on here, but there's not much sense in it. I guess I'll owe you that other half-page.

Chao,
Hunter S. Thompson

Next address:
c/o U.S. Embassy Mexico City Mexico, DF

TO TOM MARTIN
:

Martin was a USIS officer Thompson had met in Bolivia a year earlier
.

April 24, 1963
Lima, Peru

Tom—

About two days ago, old sport, I flew right over your head. Due to Brazil's rotten exchange laws, I bought my Rio–NY ticket in the States and when it came there was no provision for a stop in La Paz. Again, due to Brazilian bullshit, it would have cost me $144 to add La Paz. No dice.

Probably I'll be back down this way in a few months. In the meantime, you can do me a favor. Just before leaving Rio I got a letter from a girl named Esther Ribero in Santa Cruz. She seemed to think I was in Washington (god knows how she got the
Observer
address) and wanted me to get her a job as a maid for some family in the States. That's out of the question, of course, but I thought she would make a good story—you know, this desperate urge to get to the States. I plan to use her letter as part of the text, but I need a photo and more information on who she is, how she lives, and
that sort of thing. Your man in Santa Cruz can probably get that stuff with no problem. If so, could you buck it on to me in Washington?
³

Just for the record, you can consider this a formal request from the
Observer
, rather than a personal favor to me—if that makes it any easier to do it as a USIS project, rather than your own. Maybe, if you're down in Santa Cruz, you could stop in and see her and have somebody take a photo for use with the story. Naturally, I wouldn't tie USIS into any immigration schemes for Bolivian maids (USIS man rounds up cheap labor, etc.) but it would make a good human interest story if we could show that USIS is in touch with “the people” and their unusual problems, rather than merely grinding out propaganda.

My main angle in the thing would be to show just what kind of vision a “typical” Bolivian has of the States. Why does she want to go there so badly? What does she think she'll find if she does go? She said in her letter that she knows “all Americans are good people.” Where did she get that idea? See what I'm driving at?

Also, where did she learn English? Why did she want to learn it? Where did she learn what she knows (or thinks she knows) about the U.S.?

And, for the other side: What is her life like in Santa Cruz? Does she work? How much does she make? What does it go for? What kind of house does she live in? Does she have her own bed? What does she do in her spare time? How far has she been from Santa Cruz?

I have her first letter here, and I'll write her another & ask her some questions myself, but I need an objective view of her situation that she could never give me in a letter.

Another idea: if you want to work on it on your own I'll split what I make on it with you. Anywhere from $50 to $100 (your share), depending on what kind of a story it turns into. Let me know how you want to work it.

I hated to miss you, because I was looking forward to some good boozing nights up there on the hill. In your last letter you mentioned something about quitting USIS & working for
Time
. What came of that? If you don't work for them, you might query the
Observer
(Cliff Ridley) and see if they want anything from you. They just ran last week my other Bolivian piece (the one about the queer things that happen in La Paz) so they won't need a lot of stuff right now. But I'm sure they could use an occasional shorter piece giving background stuff on the labor situation, operation tri, etc.

You can probably catch me with a letter c/o U.S. Embassy Bogotá if you write in the next day or so. If not, use the
Observer
address. Anyway, write. And, again, sorry I missed you.
Ate logo
, HST

Conklin had returned to the United States ahead of Thompson, who was making a farewell tour of South America
.

April 25, 1963
Lima, Peru

Dear Princess:

Got a bunch of letters from you here, most of them carbons (2) and one big packet of clips. Also a letter from home & nothing else. I'll be here another week—one political story here, one in a mining camp 16,000 feet up in the hills, and another on a sugar hacienda on the way to Ecuador. Then, Guayaquil. Jesus.

Anyway, I'm heading north, and that's important. Your letters are good and you seem happier than I thought you'd be. Try to avoid New York if possible. I have a feeling there's some kind of a web up there & we might both get caught in it. I can blitz through if I'm alone, but with you there it would be too much like settling in.

I'm all for settling, but somewhere West. Did you write Peggy Clifford?
⁴

Lima is pretty bad. I was drinking tonight with a Britisher and a pretty Chilean whore came and sat with us. She did her best to entice me off, but now that I look back on it, it seems too pathetic to even be real. Sometimes whores don't seem quite human to me. I wonder if they ever enjoy anything. Imagine spending all your best years trying to coax men out for a half-hour at a time, and, even then, being in a hurry for the next one. Ah, what a life, what a continent. If this is “reality” I vote against it. Even the bars. I am trying to remember when I last sat in a bar in the States. I don't mean a tavern, but a bar. Anyway, I left the Britisher with the whore and bow-legged it back to the hotel, picking up two quarts of beer on the way.

Did I ever tell you to read
A Long and Happy Life
by Reynolds Price? I read it earlier this year and found another copy today. Pick one up if you can. Sort of a junior Styron.

Jesus, I wish we were somewhere in a warm bed tonight. When I think of all the silly bitches I stare at in these silly towns, compared to what I could have if I merely got on a plane and went all the way north, I wonder about my sanity for staying down here. When it comes to really royal humping, I believe you're the best in the world. Or maybe I should say We, because I don't think either of us would be worth a damn without the
other. I think we have made it a fine art and somehow it is always a little bit new and a little bit better, and that's the amazing thing. It is almost comfortable for me to sit here and know that soon we will have it again, and it will make all the others look like punks.

That is an odd paragraph for me to have written, eh? For some reason I seem to be much more in love with you now. I don't know why. This is my second consecutive love letter and far lustier than anything I've ever written anywhere. At least in letters. Maybe I have finally managed to bring love and lust into focus on the same target. That is a hell of a big thing.

Remember that time when we drove back at night from Monterey in Maxine [Ambus]'s car? Or driving back in Jo [Hudson]'s car with Jo and Jenny [New] in the front seat and your head in my lap with a blanket around us? I want to drive like that again somewhere out in the country on a night with no other cars and a winding road and nothing but trees and the moon to watch us. I think we will.

But now, this stinking continent. I have a vague, distant fear that I'll never get off of it. When I walk into Idlewild I'm going to feel like a man escaped from the tomb. […]

As far as I can see, I am going to follow the route of that ticket, skipping Cali and Quito for the sake of time. I may also skip a few Central American countries. I have just about given up the idea of skipping the whole thing, because if I came back to the States in a fit of pique and depression—owing the
Observer
money—it would put me off on a pretty slippery footing as far as getting anything done is concerned. There is not much sense in kicking Ridley in the teeth at this stage of the game; I am almost there, and instead of falling apart, I may as well retreat gracefully. Which means writing at least enough stories to keep ahead of them financially.

At the moment—sadly enough—my main reason for wanting to rush back is to get into bed with you, but for that we at least need a bed, and preferably, a house with doors and locks. And, as you say, a big winter to make us work. When I get back I think we deserve a good year. And some royal, highlife humping, because I agree that we are “pretty fine.”

OK, goodnight,
H

next address:
U.S. Consulate
Guayaquil, Ecuador

April 28, 1963
Lima, Peru

Dear Cliff:

If I read your gram correctly, it says in effect that I am cut off the dole until I send two pieces. Hell, you should have said that before I left Rio. As I said, the only reason I left was because I figured I'd be $100-a-week solvent—and that's at least what I need in order to keep my mind on my work, instead of forever kiting checks and sweating hotel bills. It is not the best thing for my peace of mind to be in Lima, Peru, with no friends, $20 to my name and a lot of people pressing me for immediate payment on god knows how many bills. And hating the hell out of the place, to boot.

Jesus, the temptation to go out to the airport and get on a plane for New York is awful. When I got your cable I was ready to do it. But we have had a fairly decent relationship thus far and I believe that might queer it, eh? If not, old sport, all you have to do is say the word & I'm off like a big bird. Nothing would make me happier.

But we've gone over that & I'm resigned to this trip. I had even begun to prick up a bit in the brain when that horrible thing came yesterday. When I went to the cable office today I had a fleeting fear that my credit had been cut off. Suddenly I feel like a bum and a thief and a con man.