Writing and Cigarettes

Mr. Timmerberg, for those who haven’t heard of you: Who are you?

Well, what I can say for sure is this: I’m Helge Timmerberg. Professionally, I’m a writer – that’s what I trained for from the ground up. I started with an internship at a local newspaper, became an editor, and from 1982 on I wrote for magazines – first Stern, later Playboy, and starting in 1985 for Tempo. I was probably the first writer in the German-speaking world to practice New Journalism. This was in the early eighties. I discovered Hunter S. Thompson, and it was like turning a key. Suddenly people knew who I was. Starting in 2004, I began writing books – and I’ve published one nearly every year since.

What drives you?

Mostly money. I’m bad at handling it, so I never have enough – which means I have to write something new. Maybe it’s a subconscious trick I play on myself. But one thing’s clear: when I’m not writing, I feel lousy. Writing helps me organize the chaos in my head. When I’m in the flow of a text, I feel good. Then I’ve achieved something and can end the day with a sense of satisfaction. If I go weeks without writing, I get restless.

So writing is a kind of therapy for you?

Writing is brainwork. If I stop, the motor still runs – but out of control. That’s the hardest time for me. Writing is my passion. I loved it even as a kid, as soon as I could string words together. My school essays went on forever. I guess it was in my blood.

You mostly write about traveling. What fuels that?

A thirst for adventure and wanderlust. I took my first major trip at seventeen – overland to India. LSD, hippie culture, and the idea of cosmic consciousness were big influences. Goa became a place I longed for. I read Hermann Hesse while on acid – which, looking back, I’d call literature misuse. The effect was: Germany wasn’t enough for me – I wanted the Himalayas. That’s how it started. I had no life experience, and suddenly I was riding a bus through Persia, getting scammed and hustled – but it was incredible. At the Turkish border, we met an Afghan guy who was transporting used buses and trucks to Afghanistan. His drivers had bailed. There were six of us, all hippies, and he offered us a deal: drive his caravan and travel for free. I drove a bus without even having a license. An older travel companion showed me how to shift, clutch and brake. The first thousand kilometers were straight ahead. In Tehran I learned to drive under real conditions, and after that it was mostly dirt roads. I got to know quicksand. By the end, I could actually drive – and that feeling, wearing a headband, hands on the steering wheel, desert stretching out in front of me – I’ll never forget it. Our caravan always met up at oases. The first one there would wait for the rest. Old Hanomags emerging from the dust clouds – that image has stuck with me. I think on every trip I’ve taken since, I’ve tried to recreate that original feeling of adventure.

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→ Read the entire story in rampstyle #35 »There Is No Substitute«.