Proud Highway: Saga of a Desperate Southern Gentleman, 1955-1967 by Hunter S. Thompson

Author:Hunter S. Thompson [Thompson, Hunter S.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Non-Fiction, Biography, Politics, Writing, History
ISBN: 9780307826626
Google: MBZFIHiJgI8C
Amazon: 0345377966
Goodreads: 15798502
Publisher: Ballantine Books
Published: 1996-12-31T11:00:00+00:00

TO PAUL SEMONIN:

After spending ten days with William Kennedy in Puerto Rico, Thompson landed in Aruba, about which he wrote a story for the National Observer. He spent nearly a week on the island before hitching a ride aboard a smuggler’s boat headed for Puerto Estrella, Colombia.

May 5, 1962

Aruba

Dear Spic:

I have too much to tell you to even get started on a small sheet like this one. Which is why I am using it. The big noise will have to wait. I just wanted you to know what happened to me if you don’t get any word for several months.

My situation is as follows: I am in Aruba with $30; tomorrow afternoon I have a free ride to Colombia aboard a small sloop that will also carry a load of contraband whiskey; I may be in jail within 48 hours—a Colombian jail; if I get to Barranquilla, my goal, I will have no more than $5; what happens then is up to god. It is an odd situation when the best that can happen to a man is that he might arrive in South America with $5. Right now my big worry is jail; my second biggest worry is having all my gear stolen (specifically, camera gear), which would cripple my plans severely. My only hope for money rests with the fate of 5 identical articles I sent from San Juan. If they are used, I may have anywhere from $20 to $100, over and above my $5, when I get to Barranquilla.

This moving again is a wild and greasy feeling. I am red-brown and peeling, full of rum and Dutch beer, lying constantly, plotting without cease, and generally running amok. I am staying with a Dutch journalist and his wife here and they are treating me well indeed. I sent off two more articles today and five rolls of film for developing. Maybe something will come of it.

I spent 10 days in San Juan and did almost nothing but drink and talk with Kennedy. He was excellent beyond any expectations, jobless and full of hell and vinegar—a champ if ever the word still goes. San Juan is more gutless than ever and overflowing with American queers—so many that the government is investigating the influx. They are poking a four-lane highway toward the Loíza River. It is already to the Yacht Club, but the rest of the road is miraculously—if temporarily—the same. Another few months and it will be four-lane asphalt.

(Just killed a scorpion that crawled out of my camera bag. The other day I found one in my coat-sleeve.)

Well, I am getting too sleepy to write and tomorrow is Ugly Day. God only knows what will happen once I go aboard. It is terrifying to think of landing, via smuggler boat, in South America, with only $30 and 400 miles between me and the nearest town. Only indians where we beach. No hablo. No comprendo. No tengo. I am going to have to do a lot of smiling. Send word on you—I feel the contact slipping.

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