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The Curse of Lono

by Hunter S. Thompson

Illustrated by Ralph Steadman

a.b.e-book v3.0

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illustrations.

Back Cover: Hunter Thompson

The King of Gonzo returns in

The Curse of LONO

an hilarious, brain-curdling South Sea adventure, the story of Hunter Thompson's epic

escapades in Hawaii. Weird Tales from a Weird World by the quintessential outlaw

journalist and best-selling author of:

THE GREAT SHARK HUNT

"Elicits the same kind of admiration one would feel for a streaker at

Queen Victoria's funeral."

-- William F. Buckley, Jr.

FEAR AND LOATHING ON THE CAMPAIGN TRAIL

"The most creatively crazy journalism. . . brilliant and honorable and valuable. . .

the literary equivalent of Cubism: all rules are broken."

-- Kurt Vonnegut, Jr.

FEAR AND LOATHING IN LAS VEGAS

"A scorching epochal sensation!'

-- Tom Wolfe

HELL'S ANGELS

"Superb and terrifying."

-- Studs Terkel

Profusely illustrated in black and white and

blazing color by Ralph Steadman

THE CURSE OF LONO

A Bantam Book / November 1983

Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission

to quote from copyrighted material:

From The Last Voyage of Captain James Cook by Richard Hough,

Morrow & Co., Inc., and Macmillan London Limited.

From Hawaiian Monarchy: The Romantic Years by Maxine Mrantz,

Used by permission of Aloha Graphics & Sales, Inc.

From "Hula Hula Boys" by Warren Zevon. Lyrics reprinted permission of

Produced by Laila Nabulsi

Book design by Yaron Fidler.

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by

mimeograph or any other means, without permission.

For information address: Bantam Books, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data

Thompson, Hunter S.

The curse of Lono.

1. Thompson, Hunter S. 2. Journalists -- United States -- Biography.

3. Hawaii -- Description and travel -- 1981- . I. Steadman, Ralph. II. Title.

PN4874.T444A33 1983 070'.92'4 [B] 83-90660

ISBN 0-553-01387-4 (pbk.)

Published simultaneously in the United States and Canada

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

WAK 0 9 8 7 6 5 4

Now it is not good for the Christian's health to hustle the Arian brown,

For the Christian riles, and the Arian smiles, and it weareth the Christian down;

And the end of the fight is a tombstone white with the name of the late deceased,

And the epitaph drear: 'A Fool lies here who tried to hustle the East.' Rudyard Kipling

"The Naulahka"

The Romantic God Lono

I have been writing a good deal, of late, about the great god Lono and Captain Cook's

personation of him. Now, while I am here in Lono's home, upon ground which his terrible feet

have trodden in remote ages -- unless these natives lie, and they would hardly do that I suppose -

- I might as well tell who he was.

The idol the natives worshipped for him was a slender unornamented staff twelve feet

long. Unpoetical history says he was a favorite god on the island of Hawaii -- a great king who

had been deified for meritorious services -- just our fashion of rewarding heroes, with the

difference that we would have made him a postmaster instead of a god, no doubt. In an angry

moment he slew his wife, a goddess named Kaikilani Alii. Remorse of conscience drove him mad,

and tradition presents us the singular spectacle of a god traveling "on the shoulder"; for in his

gnawing grief he wandered about from place to place, boxing and wrestling with all whom he met.

Of course this pastime soon lost its novelty, inasmuch as it must necessarily have been the case

that when so powerful a deity sent a frail human opponent "to grass," he never came back

anymore. Therefore he instituted games called makahiki, and ordered that they should be held in

his honor, and then sailed for foreign lands on a three-cornered raft, stating that he would return

some day, and that was the last of Lono. He was never seen anymore; his raft got swamped

perhaps. But the people always expected his return, and they were easily led to accept Captain

Cook as the restored god. Mark Twain

Letters from Hawaii

Running

May 23, 1980

Hunter S. Thompson

c/o General Delivery

Woody Creek, CO

Dear Hunter:

To keep a potential screed down to a few lines, we would like you to cover the

Honolulu Marathon. We will pay all expenses and an excellent fee. Please contact us.

Think about it. This is a good chance for a vacation.

Sincerely,

Paul Perry

Executive Editor,

Running Magazine

October 25, 1980

Owl Farm

Dear Ralph,

I think we have a live one this time, old sport. Some dingbat named Perry up in

Oregon wants to give us a month in Hawaii for Christmas and all we have to do is cover

the Honolulu Marathon for his magazine, a thing called Running. . .

Yeah, I know what you're thinking, Ralph. You're pacing around over there in the

war room at the Old Loose Court and thinking, "Why me? And why now? Just when I'm

getting respectable?"

Well. . . let's face it, Ralph; anybody can be respectable, especially in England.

But not everybody can get paid to run like a bastard for 26 miles in some maniac hype

race called the Honolulu Marathon.

We are both entered in this event, Ralph, and I feel pretty confident about

winning. We will need a bit of training, but not much.

The main thing will be to run as an entry and set a killer pace for the first three

miles. These body-nazis have been training all year for the supreme effort in this Super

Bowl of marathons. The promoters expect 10,000 entrants, and the course is 26 miles;

which means they will all start slow. . . because 26 miles is a hell of a long way to run,

for any reason at all, and all the pros in this field will start slow and pace themselves

very carefully for the first 20 miles.

But not us, Ralph. We will come out of the blocks like human torpedoes and alter

the whole nature of the race by sprinting the first three miles shoulder-to-shoulder in

under 10 minutes.

A pace like that will crack their nuts, Ralph. These people are into running, not

racing -- so our strategy will be to race like whorehounds for the first three miles. I figure

we can crank ourselves up to a level of frenzy that will clock about 9:55 at the three-mile

checkpoint. . . which will put us so far ahead of the field that they won't even be able to

see us. We will be over the hill and all alone when we hit the stretch along Ala Moana

Boulevard still running shoulder-to-shoulder at a pace so fast and crazy that not even the

judges will feel sane about it. . . and the rest of the field will be left so far behind that

many will be overcome with blind rage and confusion.

I've also entered you in the Pipeline Masters, a world class surfing contest on the

north shore of Oahu on Dec. 26.

You will need some work on your high-speed balance for this one, Ralph. You'll

be shot through the curl at speeds up to 50 or even 75 miles an hour, and you won't want

to fall.

I won't be with you in the Pipeline gig, due to serious objections raised by my

attorney with regard to the urine test and other legal ramifications.

But I will enter the infamous Liston Memorial Rooster Fight, at $1,000 per unit

on the universal scale -- e.g., one minute in the cage with one rooster wins $1,000. . . or

five minutes with one rooster is worth $5,000. . . and two minutes with five roosters is

$10,000. . . etc.

This is serious business, Ralph. These Hawaiian slashing roosters can tear a man

to shreds in a matter of seconds. I am training here at home with the peacocks -- six 40-

pound birds in a 6' x 6' cage, and I think I'm getting the hang of it.

The time has come to kick ass, Ralph, even if it means coming briefly out of

retirement and dealing, once again, with the public. I am also in need of a rest -- for

legal reasons -- so I want this gig to be easy, and I know in my heart that it will be.

Don't worry, Ralph. We will bend a few brains with this one. I have already

secured the Compound: two homes with a 50-meter pool on the edge of the sea on Alii

Drive in Kona, where the sun always shines. OK

HST

THE BLUE ARM

We were about forty minutes out of San Francisco when the crew finally decided

to take action on the problem in Lavatory 1B. The door had been locked since takeoff and

now the chief stewardess had summoned the copilot down from the flight deck. He

appeared in the aisle right beside me, carrying a strange-looking black tool in his hand,

like a flashlight with blades, or some kind of electric chisel. He nodded calmly as he

listened to the stewardess's urgent whispering. "I can talk to him," she said, pointing a

long red fingernail at the "occupied" sign on the locked toilet door, "but I can't get him

out."

The copilot nodded thoughtfully, keeping his back to the passengers while he

made some adjustments on the commando tool he was holding. "Any ID?" he asked her.

She glanced at a list on her clipboard. "Mr. Ackerman," she said. "Address: Box

99, Kailua-Kona."

"The big island," he said.

She nodded, still consulting her clipboard. "Red Carpet Club member," she said.

"Frequent traveler, no previous history. . . boarded in San Francisco, one-way first class

to Honolulu. A perfect gentleman. No connections booked." She continued, "No hotel

reservations, no rental cars. . ." She shrugged. "Very polite, sober, relaxed. . ."

"Yeah," he said. "I know the type." The officer stared down at his tool for a

moment, then raised his other hand and knocked sharply on the door. "Mr. Ackerman?"

he called. "Can you hear me?"

There was no answer, but I was close enough to the door to hear sounds of

movement inside: first, the bang of a toilet seat dropping, then running water. . .

I didn't know Mr. Ackerman, but I remembered him coming aboard. He had the

look of a man who had once been a tennis pro in Hong Kong, then gone on to bigger

things. The gold Rolex, the white linen bush jacket, the Thai Bhat chain around his neck,

the heavy leather briefcase with combination locks on every zipper. . . These were not

signs of a man who would lock himself in the bathroom immediately after takeoff and

stay inside for almost an hour.

Which is too long, on any flight. That kind of behavior raises questions that

eventually become hard to ignore -- especially in the spacious first-class compartment on

a 747 on a five-hour flight to Hawaii. People who pay that kind of money don't like the

idea of having to stand in line to use the only available bathroom, while something

clearly wrong is going on in the other one.

I was one of these people. . . My social contract with United Airlines entitled me,

I felt, to at least the use of a tin stand-up bathroom with a lock on the door for as long as I

needed to get myself cleaned up. I had spent six hours hanging around the Red Carpet

Room in the San Francisco airport, arguing with ticket agents, drinking heavily and

fending off waves of strange memories. . .

About halfway between Denver and San Francisco, we'd decided to change planes

and get on a 747 for the next leg. The DC-10 is nice for short hops and sleeping, but the

747 is far better for the working professional on a long haul -- because the 747 has a

dome lounge, a sort of club car on top of the plane with couches and wooden card tables

and its own separate bar, which can only be reached by an iron spiral staircase in the first-

class compartment. It meant taking the chance of losing the luggage, and a tortured

layover in the San Francisco airport. . . but I needed room to work, to spread out a bit,

and maybe, even sprawl.

My plan, on this night, was to look at all the research material I had on Hawaii.

There were memos and pamphlets to read -- even books. I had Hough's The Last Voyage

of Captain James Cook, The Journal of William Ellis, and Mark Twain's Letters from

Hawaii -- big books and long pamphlets: "The Island of Hawaii," "Kona Coast Story,"

"Pu'uhonua o Honaunau." All these and many more.

"You can't just come out here and write about the marathon," my friend John

Wilbur had told me. "There's a hell of a lot more to Hawaii than ten thousand Japs

running past Pearl Harbor. Come on out," he said. "These islands are full of mystery,

never mind Don Ho and all the tourist gibberish -- there's a hell of a lot more here than

most people understand."

Wonderful, I thought -- Wilbur is wise. Anybody who can move from the

Washington Redskins to a house on the beach in Honolulu must understand something

about life that I don't.

Indeed. Deal with the mystery. Do it now. Anything that can create itself by

erupting out of the bowels of the Pacific Ocean is worth looking at.

After six hours of failure and drunken confusion, I had finally secured two seats

on the last 747 flight of the day to Honolulu. Now I needed a place to shave, brush my

teeth, and maybe just stand there and look at myself in the mirror and wonder, as always,

who might be looking back.

There is no possible economic argument for a genuinely private place of any kind

on a ten million dollar flying machine. The risk is too high.

No. That makes no sense. Too many people like Master Sergeants forced into

early retirement have tried to set themselves on fire in these tin cubicles. . . too many

psychotics and half-mad dope addicts have locked themselves inside, then gobbled pills

and tried to flush themselves down the long blue tube.

The copilot rapped on the door with his knuckles. "Mr. Ackerman! Are you all

right?"

He hesitated, then called again, much louder this time. "Mr. Ackerman! This is

your captain speaking. Are you sick?"

"What?" said a voice from inside.

The stewardess leaned close to the door. "This is a medical emergency, Mr.

Ackerman -- we can get you out of there in thirty seconds if we have to." She smiled

triumphantly at Captain Goodwrench as the voice inside came alive again.

"I'm fine," it said. "I'll be out in a minute."

The copilot stood back and watched the door. There were more sounds of

movement inside -- but nothing else, except the sound of running water.

By this time the entire first class cabin was alerted to the crisis. "Get that freak out

of there!" an old man shouted. "He might have a bomb!"

"Oh my God!" a woman screamed. "He's in there with something!"

The copilot flinched, then turned to face the passengers. He pointed his tool at the

old man, who was now becoming hysterical. "You!" he snapped. "Shut up! I'll handle

this."

Suddenly the door opened and Mr. Ackerman stepped out. He moved quickly into

the aisle and smiled at the stewardess. "Sorry to keep you waiting," he said. "It's all yours

now." He was backing down the aisle, his bush jacket draped casually over his arm, but

not covering it.

From where I was sitting I could see that the arm he was trying to hide from the

stewardess was bright blue, all the way up to the shoulder. The sight of it made me coil

nervously into my seat. I had liked Mr. Ackerman, at first. He had the look of a man who

might share my own tastes. . . but now he was looking like trouble, and I was ready to

kick him in the balls like a mule for any reason at all. My original impression of the man

had gone all to pieces by that time. This geek who had locked himself in the bathroom for

so long that one of his arms had turned blue was not the same gracious, linen-draped

Pacific yachtsman who had boarded the plane in San Francisco.

Most of the other passengers seemed happy enough just to see the problem come

out of the bathroom peacefully: no sign of a weapon, no dynamite taped to his chest, no

screaming of incomprehensible terrorist slogans or threatening to slit people's throats. . .

The old man was still sobbing quietly, not looking at Ackerman as he continued to back

down the aisle toward his own seat, but nobody else seemed worried.

The copilot, however, was staring at Ackerman with an expression of pure horror

on his face. He had seen the blue arm -- and so had the stewardess, who was saying

nothing at all. Ackerman was still trying to keep his arm hidden under the bush jacket.

None of the other passengers had noticed it -- or, if they had, they didn't know what it

meant.

But I did, and so did the bug-eyed stewardess. The copilot gave Ackerman one

last withering glance, then shuddered with obvious disgust as he closed up his commando

tool and moved away. On his way to the spiral staircase that led back upstairs to the flight

deck, he paused right above me in the aisle and whispered to Ackerman: "You filthy

bastard, don't ever let me catch you on one of my flights again."

I saw Ackerman nod politely, then he slid into his seat just across the aisle from

me. I quickly stood up and moved toward the bathroom with my shaving kit in my hand -

- and when I'd locked myself safely inside I carefully closed the toilet seat before I did

anything else.

There is only one way to get your arm dyed blue on a 747 flying at 38,000 feet

over the Pacific. But the truth is so rare and unlikely that not even the most frequent air

travelers have ever had to confront it -- and it is usually not a thing that the few who

understand want to talk about.

The powerful disinfectant that most airlines use in their toilet-flushing facilities is

a chemical compound known as Dejerm, which is colored a very vivid blue. The only

other time I ever saw a man come out of an airplane bathroom with a blue arm was on a

long flight from London to Zaire, en route to the Ali-Foreman fight. A British news

correspondent from Reuters had gone into the bathroom and somehow managed to drop

his only key to the Reuters telex machine in Kinshasa down the aluminum bowl. He

emerged about 30 minutes later, and he had a whole row to himself the rest of the way to

Zaire.

It was almost midnight when I emerged from Lavatory 1B and went back to my

seat to gather up my research material. The overhead lights were out and the other

passengers were sleeping. It was time to go upstairs to the dome lounge and get some

work done. The Honolulu Marathon would be only one part of the story. The rest would

have to deal with Hawaii itself, and that was something I'd never had any reason to even

think about. I had a quart of Wild Turkey in my satchel, and I knew there was plenty of

ice upstairs in the dome bar, which is usually empty at night.

But not this time. When I got to the top of the spiral staircase I saw my fellow

traveler, Mr. Ackerman, sleeping peacefully on one of the couches near the bar. He woke

up as I passed by on my way to a table in the rear, and I thought I saw a flicker of

recognition in the weary smile on his face.

I nodded casually as I passed. "I hope you found it," I said.

He looked up at me. "Yeah," he said. "Of course."

By this time I was ten feet behind him and spreading my research materials out on

the big card table. Whatever it was, I didn't want to know about it. He had his problems

and I had mine. I had hoped to have the dome to myself for these hours, to be alone, but

Mr. Ackerman was obviously settled in for the night. It was the only place on the plane

where his presence wouldn't cause trouble. He would be with me for a while, so I figured

we might as well get along.

There was a strong odor of disinfectant in the air. The whole dome smelled like

the basement of a bad hospital. I opened all the air vents above my seat, then spread my

research out on the table. I tried to remember if the British correspondent had suffered

any pain or injury from his experience, but all that came to mind was that he wore heavy

long-sleeved shirts the whole time he was in Zaire. No loss of flesh, no poison oil in the

nervous system, but three weeks in the heat of the Congo had caused an awful fungus to

come alive on his arm, and when I saw him in London two months later his hand was still

noticeably blue.

I walked up to the bar and got some ice for my drink. On the way back to my desk

I asked him, "How's your arm?"

"Blue," he replied. "And it itches."

I nodded. "That's powerful stuff. You should probably check with a doctor when

you get to Honolulu."

He eased up in his seat and looked back at me. "Aren't you a doctor?" he asked.

"What?"

He smiled and lit a cigarette. "It's on your luggage tags," he said. "It says you're a

doctor."

I laughed, and looked down at my satchel. Sure enough, the Red Carpet Club

baggage tag said, "Dr. H. S. Thompson."

"Jesus," I said. "You're right. I am a doctor."

He shrugged.

"Okay," I said finally, "let's get that weird shit off your arm." I stood up and

motioned him to follow me into the tiny "crew only" bathroom behind the flight deck.

We spent the next 20 minutes scrubbing his arm with soap-soaked paper towels, then I

rubbed it down with a jar of cold cream from my shaving kit.

A nasty red rash like poison ivy had broken out all over his arm, thousands of

filthy little bubbles. . . I went back to my bag for a tube of Desenex, to kill the itching.

There was no way to get rid of the blue dye.

"What?" he said. "It won't wash off?"

"No," I told him. "Maybe two weeks in saltwater can dull it out. Get out in the

surf, hang around on the beach."

He looked confused. "The beach?"

"Yeah," I said. "Just go out there and do it. Tell them whatever you have to, call it

a birthmark. . ."

He nodded. "Yeah. That's good, Doc -- what blue arm? Right?"

"Right," I said. "Never apologize, never explain. Just act normal and bleach the

bugger out. You'll be famous on Waikiki Beach."

He laughed. "Thanks, Doc. Maybe I can do you a favor sometime -- what brings

you to Hawaii?"

"Business," I said. "I'm covering the Honolulu Marathon for a medical journal."

He nodded and sat down, stretching his blue arm out on the couch to give it some

air. "Well," he said finally, "whatever you say, Doc." He grinned mischievously. "A

medical journal. Jesus, that's good."

"What?"

He nodded thoughtfully and put his feet up on the table in front of him, then

turned to smile at me. "I was just wondering how I might return the favor," he said. "You

staying long in the islands?"

"Not in Honolulu," I said. "Just until after the Marathon on Saturday, then we're

going over to a place called Kona."

"Kona?"

"Yeah," I said, leaning back and opening one of my books, a nineteenth-century

volume titled The Journal of William Ellis.

He leaned back on the cushions and closed his eyes again. "It's a nice place," he

said. "You'll like it."

"Well," I said, "that's good to know. I've already paid for it."

"Paid?"

"Yeah. I rented two houses on the beach."

He looked up. "You paid in advance?"

I nodded. "That was the only way I could get anything," I said. "The whole place

is booked up."

"What?" He jerked up in his seat and stared back at me. "Booked up? What the

hell are you renting -- the Kona Village?"

I shook my head. "No," I said. "It's some kind of estate with two big houses and a

pool, pretty far out of town."

"Where?" he asked.

There was something wrong with the tone of his voice, but I tried to ignore it.

Whatever he was about to tell me, I felt, was something I didn't want to hear. "Some

friends found it for me," I said quickly. "It's right on the beach. Totally private. We have

to get a lot of work done."

Now he was definitely looking troubled. "Who'd you rent it from?" he asked. And

then he mentioned the name of the real estate agent that I had, in fact, rented it from. The

look on my face must have alarmed him, because he instantly changed the subject.

"Why Kona?" he asked. "You want to catch fish?"

I shrugged. "Not especially. But I want to get out on the water, do some diving. A

friend of mine has a boat over there."

"Oh? Who's that?"

"A guy from Honolulu," I said. "Gene Skinner."

He nodded. "Yeah," he said. "Sure, I know Gene -- The Blue Boar." He leaned up

from the cushions and turned to look back at me, no longer half asleep. "He's a friend of

yours?"

I nodded, surprised by the smile on his face. It was a smile I had seen before, but

for a moment I couldn't place it.

Ackerman was still looking at me, an odd new light in his eyes. "Haven't seen him

in a while," he said. "He's back in Hawaii?"

Whoops, I thought. Something wrong here. I recognized that smile now; I had

seen it on the faces of other men, in other countries, at the mention of Skinner's name.

"Who?" I said, standing up to get some more ice.

"Skinner," he said.

"Back from where?" I wanted no part of Skinner's ancient feuds.

He seemed to understand. "You know anybody else in Kona?" he asked. "Besides

Skinner?"

"Yeah," I said. "I know some people in the whiskey business. I know some real

estate agents."

He nodded thoughtfully, staring down at the long fingers of his freshly-blued

hand as if he'd just noticed something odd about it. I recognized the professional pause of

a man long accustomed to the sound of his own brain working. I could almost hear it --

the high-speed memory-scan of a very personal computer that would sooner or later come

up with whatever fact, link, or long-forgotten detail he was waiting for.

He closed his eyes again. "The big island is different from the others," he said.

"Especially that mess in Honolulu. It's like going back in time. Nobody hassles you,

plenty of space to move around. It's probably the only place in the islands where the

people have any sense of the old Hawaiian culture."

"Wonderful," I said. "We'll be there next week. All we have to do in Honolulu is

cover the Marathon, then hide out in Kona for a while and lash the story together."

"Right," he said. "Call me when you get settled in. I can take you around to some

of the places where the old magic still lives." He smiled thoughtfully. "Yeah, we can go

down to South Point, the City of Refuge, spend some time with the ghost of Captain

Cook. Hell, we might even do some diving -- if the weather's right."

I put my book down and we talked for a while. It was the first time anybody had

ever told me anything interesting about Hawaii -- the native legends, old wars,

missionaries, the strange and terrible fate of Captain Cook.

"This City of Refuge looks interesting," I said. "You don't find many cultures with

a sense of sanctuary that powerful."

"Yeah," he said, "but you had to get there first, and you had to be faster than

whoever was chasing you."

City of Refuge at Honaunau

Adjoining the Hare o Keave to the southward, we found a Pahu tabu (sacred enclosure)

of considerable extent, and were informed by our guide that it was one of the puhonuas of

Hawaii, of which we had so often heard the chiefs and others speak. There are only two on the

island; the one which we were then examining, and another at Waipio, on the north-east part of

the island, in the district of Kohala.

These puhonuas were the Hawaiian cities of refuge, and afforded an inviolable sanctuary

to the guilty fugitive who, when flying from the avenging spear, was so favoured as to enter their

precincts.

This had several wide entrances, some on the side next the sea, the others facing the

mountains. Hither the manslayer, the man who had broken a tabu, or failed in the observance of

its rigid requirements, the thief, and even the murderer, fled from his incensed pursuers, and was

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