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    Breadline
    Breadline
    Breadline
    Ebook112 pages1 hour

    Breadline

    By Alain Dizerens

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    About this ebook

    Impatient to find his place and escape the endless cohort of the damned factory, he combines the odd jobs to make a living: distributor of “Dixan” samples, volunteer in a kibbutz after the Yom Kippur War, a hunting guide in Cameroon without ever having held a gun in his life.
    Having swapped his hat of a museum patrol for that of a night guard, he takes on the job of a substitute in a training school before facing the brotherhood of sworn methodologists.
    Always dissatisfied, the aching void in his being urgently needing to be filled, the map of the world poacher keeps chasing his shadow, multiplying his round trips between the tropics, overseas and Europe plunging into the heart of stifling barbed cities of rules where all possibilities seem to be locked away.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAlain Dizerens
    Release dateNov 14, 2013
    ISBN9781311524904
    Breadline
    Author

    Alain Dizerens

    [ENGLISH] · Alain Dizerens was born in Geneva in 1948. In his 20s, feeling restless and with a constant urge to explore the world, he finds a job with a humanitarian organization and so his adventures begin, often more life threatening than recreational. In his book Breadline one can discover the autobiographical account of a young man impatient to find his place in this world and escape the endless cohort of the industrialized society, he combines the odd jobs to make a living and saves up just enough to finance his trips abroad. From Switzerland to the Vietnam war, back to Europe and again off to Cameroon, the author describes his personal story of survival through continuous curiosity and courage to face life in most dangerous of places. Throughout his life, Alain Dizerens has also worked in kabbutz (Israel) and in Hong Kong among other places around the world. After a Bachelor of Arts in Philosophy and several decades of teaching, Alain Dizerens also presented a variety of “crosstalk kinetic” (dance, electro) performances, particularly in the context of the Swiss summer in Geneva in 1986. He has written other books – Miroir-Temps and l’Arpenteur sidéral among many as well as published a number of photo e-books. Written with a poetic touch, his books quickly absorb the reader in a realistically magical universe, which at the same time never lacks a bit humor. [FRANÇAIS] · Alain Dizerens est né à Genève en 1948. Dans ses jeunes années, avec l’envie très profonde d'explorer le monde, il trouve un emploi dans une organisation humanitaire et se lance ainsi dans des aventures souvent périlleuses. Dans un de ses livres, «Casse-croûte», on peut découvrir le récit autobiographique d'un jeune homme impatient de trouver sa place dans le monde et d'échapper à la société de consommation. Il combine les petits boulots pour gagner sa vie en économisant juste assez pour être en mesure de financer ses voyages à l'étranger. Du Cameroun au kibboutz (Israël), de la guerre du Vietnam à Hong Kong, l'auteur décrit son histoire personnelle en affrontant avec courage la vie dans des lieux parfois dangereux. Après un baccalauréat en philosophie et plusieurs décennies d'enseignement, Alain Dizerens a également présenté des concerts de " diaphonie cinétique " (danse, électroacoustique), en particulier dans le cadre de l'été suisse, à Genève, en 1986. Il a publié d'autres livres - Miroir-Temps, Mica D’eau, l'Arpenteur sidéral ainsi qu’un certain nombre de photos e-books. Écrits avec une touche poétique, ses récits plongent rapidement le lecteur dans un univers magique qui ne manque pourtant jamais d’humour. BIBLIOGRAPHIE - 2007 - Casse-Croûte, traduit en anglais sous le titre Breadline - 2008 - Miroir-Temps - 2010 - L'Arpenteur sidéral et Le Pèse-Providence - 2012 - Coquards pour Somnambules - 2013 - Miroir-Temps 2 - 2014 - Babouchier Migrateur - 2014 - Mica d'eau

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      Book preview

      Breadline - Alain Dizerens

      Breadline

      Alain Dizerens

      Smashwords Edition Copyright 2017

      This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Original Translation by Thomas Mengebier

      Editing Natalia Krylova, Ngoné Mdiaye and Brigitte Vinci

      Table of Contents

      I. Rainbow blower in a Peugeot203

      II. Frozen terror in Vietnam

      III. Washing death whiter than white

      IV. Moonstroke at Kobro

      V. Slaughter Picasso

      VI. Vakacha at Ruhama

      VII. Arm-wrestling at CEPTA

      VIII. Boson's seducer

      I. Rainbow blower in a Peugeot203

      July 1969: we walked on the moon.

      One small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.

      Billions of human ants discover with fascination their unique anthill: the Earth.

      A Blue Planet floating in the midst of a dark silence.

      Bubble in the universe, cosmic speck of dust?

      Nothingness circled by abyss.

      Infinity of the night.

      Five in the morning: freezing cold.

      Snow.

      Bundled in an old salvation army coat, I am lying down on the rotten mattress that has replaced the backseat of my Peugeot203. I crack open an eye: the windshield is completely white. My teeth are chattering.

      With every breath, a misty halo forms on the windows.

      Supporting my elbows on the steering wheel, I shave wearing my mittens facing the rear-view mirror, waiting for the first bistro to open.

      The chilly silhouettes of a few passers-by walk along the walls while in a distance, a throbbing call, the siren of an ambulance resonates in the wadded silence of the city.

      Lights on – several vehicles move with infinite caution through an unreal dawn where trees, cottony spectres, form unusual boreal scenery stretching their frosty ramifications toward the sky.

      Blank day.

      White day.

      Broke day.

      Exhausted from having knocked on every door and filling out countless job applications in vain, I walk relentlessly through the city until worn out. I get back into my bunker of a car.

      Nose stuck to the window, I watch my ritual evening show: the plush intimacy of light-filled apartments that spill their cosy happiness onto the street.

      That bourgeois comfort makes me so pale with envy that the light in the cabin of my car becomes far gloomier than that of a morgue…

      Hung from the sunroof handle, my watch shows it's six in the morning.

      While washing up at a fountain near my igloo of a car, a brilliant idea comes to mind: working for a non-profit organization.

      Get paid to travel: superb solution.

      After having plucked a bottle of antifreeze stuck in my armrest and given my Peugeot a drink, I begin to contact humanitarian organizations.

      Incredible stroke of luck: there remains an open position for a project in Vietnam.

      No qualifications required but a pitiful wage: to hell with it! I'll do anything to avoid vegging out in my 203.

      Nothing is certain yet but the countdown has begun.

      In three weeks, if everything goes well, I'll be on a plane to Saigon.

      Dream? Reality?

      A magic carpet ride of illusions?

      Everything is bleak and drizzly.

      Sitting on my mattress, I listen to the metallic sound of my transistor radio, duct taped to the ceiling, it is looking like a wasp trapped at the bottom of a bucket...

      In this freezing fog where night falls at 5 p.m., I gaze from afar at the luminous windows, dreaming of bewitching dawns or miraculous tropical lights by a turquoise ocean with only the leaf of a palm tree for a pillow!

      A craving for sun begins to kindle within me and I long to shed my skin, my life and my desires through the pink and white cities of Asia.

      In the background some old refrains run through my head:

      "Make love, not war.

      Don't get shaped by productivity.

      Run away from alienation and conformism.

      Raise the alarm on work and consumer society.

      No to profits at any price.

      Spit on money and success.

      Leave this old world behind without ever turning back.

      Walk the road with long hair, ripped jeans, floral shirts or Indian dresses.

      Get high in Madras, Calcutta or Kathmandu.

      Guitar, shoot and nirvana.

      Folk-rock-pop and Woodstock.

      Dope, weed or acid.

      Down with the bourgeois.

      Down with this damn straight jacket of morality.

      Yes to the hippy dirt, the suave sweat, the stubborn reek, and the heady smell of rut.

      Hurry up: life is short.

      Live your life like a long hitchhiker’s journey, barefoot, a hobo’s bundle over the shoulder with eyes full of stars.

      Citizens of the world, settlers of a new Promised Land, flee as quickly as rainbow blowers and diggers of budding eternity who take a walk on the Wild Side to find their oasis of happiness."

      The time is now: signed up for Vietnam!

      As I continuously ponder my new volunteer status, I can barely stand still.

      I wait until the very last minute to sell my 203, my true symbol of independence, I cannot bear to part with.

      The big day is approaching.

      An incredibly intense period when anything seems possible for the first time…

      With its backseat and blue body carefully scrubbed, my Peugeot still looks a piece of art taken out of a museum and I am totally heartbroken to leave it in someone else's hands.

      The minute the new owner drives off, I turn around one last time and suddenly start running after it like crazy.

      It felt like I had broken a secret pact and a part of myself was forever vanishing.

      Wandering around the city in search of my shadow, I find myself oddly naked and disorientated.

      Lost symbiosis.

      Amputated.

      It is time to leave.

      Visa, vaccines, suitcase and plane tickets: everything is ready.

      Tonight, I am taking off for Vietnam…

      II. Frozen terror in Vietnam

      "You do not know life,

      so why do you care about death?"

      Confucius

      1970: the country is at war.

      Urgency is all around.

      On the cluttered runway of Saigon's airport, the few airliners seem remarkably odd among an impressive armada of bombers, armoured vehicles, half-tracks, Jeeps and military trucks moving around in a furnace, a smell of burnt powder and nauseating gasoline.

      Chaos and mess on the tarmac, which is swarming with soldiers in camouflage uniforms who frantically go about their business, weapons pointed in a dazzling light that tremble under the high noon sultriness.

      Under a ceaseless ballet of helicopters and their shiny Plexiglas bubbles, screams lash out in the middle of the screeching take-offs of air fighters that tear across a cotton sky.

      Saigon burns with an ardent fever, a real hot bath bustling with shouts, horns, ambulance sirens, a jungle of three wheelers, a flood of Jeeps, bikes and old blue and white-roofed 4CV's converted into taxis that trudge under a damp-chalk-filled sky.

      This infernal anthill has a bewildering pulse that throbs with a perpetual shudder amongst the checkpoints surrounded by barbed wire, potholed roads and sandbag walls erected under the coat of mail of low-hanging telephone lines that strangle the city like black spiders, spinning their metallic thread along the streets.

      Sitting side-saddle on the back of motorcycles, slender women in silk laugh, holding onto their hats while others, very rigid on their bicycles, look like herons with their white gloves and ao dai (1) floating in the wind.

      Under the lean bare trunks of mushroom-shaped trees, peddlers exchange their piastre on the black market. Not far off, a few easy girls hustle and cry, Hey, honey! as they throw passionate glances at a bunch of Rambos walking around in tight t-shirts, munching chewing gum... that sometimes gets stuck to their noses!

      In this besieged city, everything remains in respite, on the verge of tipping any minute.

      The weather threatens to strike at any instant and the slimy heat gives the tobacco a taste of stale wool.

      Everything becomes rancid, wears out and decomposes in the sun.

      By a river polluted with oil and mud, as stinky as the foetor of putrid algae, thousands of Cholon stalls abound with spices, cobra heads compressed into tiny bottles, piles

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