On being a "Flaneur"

Although I have been in Zambia for over 6 months now, I still marvel at how often I start each day looking into my pair of western lenses. Even though I have had more occasions when things do not go according to plan in comparison to when they do, I still have this belief that things may actually turn out the way I hope they would. Oh, how much I still have to learn.

Last week I was on my own for my first week of monitoring Peace Clubs in Southern Province. I was excited to begin this new part of my job, and was feeling hopeful that everything would go just according to plan. On Tuesday I was told to be at a school in a village called Batoka at 12 hrs. How wrong I was. I leave home at 9am since I will know it will take me at least an hour to walk into town to catch my bus, and also accounting for time that I may get lost trying to take a bus out of Choma. I get into town at 10:30, and call the teacher at Batoka to confirm the meeting time. He responds:

“Oh, im not even at the school yet. You could come for 13:30, 14, or even 15hrs… that would be good”

I respond hesitantly, “..so.. which one is it? Should I be there by 14 or 15 hrs?”

“Whichever one.”

“So… 14hrs?”

“Sure sure. I’ll see you then”

So I stall in town for a few hours, taking in the oh-so glamorous museum in Choma for a total of 25 cents, and finally try to look for a bus to Batoka. “Where might I find a bus to Batoka?” I ask one of the buss conductors. “Uh, right here… get on this bus.” I’m skeptical, but hop on the bus anyways, just praying that I will arrive safety, someday. So we start off, going double the speed limit for a few km, then suddenly make a sharp U-turn and go back quickly to the bus station where we came from. And then, the yelling starts. Now I’ve gotten pretty used to being the center of attention here (weather asked to be or not) and although they are speaking in their local language, it only takes me a few seconds to figure out that they are infact, yelling about me. “blah blah blah 5,000! Blah blah 10,000! Bicker bicker Mazungu!!” Yup, they are definitely talking about me. As they lean in and rip the receipt out of my hand, I begin to piece together that I had paid double for the bus fare, and the conductor wanted to prove to the driver that he had scored a deal with the white girl. Oh well, I hope they enjoyed their huge monthly bonus of a whole dollar. Don’t spend it all in one place guys.

I sink into my seat and just as I begin to tune out and get into my book, I realize that I have absolutely no idea where Batoka is. I pass a few markets, and I turn to the person next to me and say:

“uh, excuse me, do you know if Batoka is near?”  

“Oh no, madam, its very far from here. Very very far.”

Perfect. Definitely going to be late for this Peace Club even by African standards. However, 2 minutes pass, and I see a storefront sign that says Batoka. Wait, is this the place that is suppose to be very far? I confirm with the person beside me that this is the same “very far” Batoka he was mentioning, and I get off.

I look around me and take in the sights of the Batoka market. 50+ women holding identical bundles of tomatoes up to bus passengers, fish and meat sellers, and crowds of people hanging around local stores on a Tuesday afternoon. Clearly there is not much entertainment in Batoka, because I am pretty sure that this is their hot spot hangout. I quickly come to the realization that once again, I had not thought this whole thing through. I am suppose to meet a teacher here, but I have absolutely no idea what he looks like. But then again, I am the only white person, so I don’t think he will have too much trouble finding me.

I hear my name. “Rachel! Over here Rachel!”

I turn around and smile. Finally the teacher has arrived and I can stop looking out of place in this crowded Zambian market and get going to this peace club. I gesture to start off towards the school, and I realize that he is not following me.

“Sorry, you are the teacher from Batoka, right?”

“What? No no, I am not a teacher, but I know your friend that stays with you in Lusaka. Tiffany is it? How is she these days?”

What?! That awkward moment when you know you should know who a person is but don’t, and absolutely do not want to ask them. I ask more subtle questions and try to figure out who this man is, but like a true Zambian would, he finds a way to completely divert the conversation by being as vague as possible. I still to this day, have no idea who that man from Batoka is, or why he knows my name. But he did become a friendly conversationalist as I waited patiently for the real Peace club teacher to show up.

It is stories like this. At the time they make me feel so vulnerable, but they also fill me with this crazy joy because I know that someday, they will make great stories. Someday I’ll be sitting around with my kids saying, “this one time in Zambia…” reminiscing about the time when I gave myself over to the world and experienced the richness of life in return.

I was reading a chapter in a book called “The Practice of Getting Lost” by Barbra Brown Taylor and there is a French word she describes in it called “flaneur”. It basically means to walk with no particular direction in mind. To saunter aimlessly, open to experiencing the world around you instead of passing through it on your way from point A to point B. In my week in Choma, I learned the art of “flaneur”. I would walked in the direction of town, trusting that I would get there eventually, but mostly relying on the warmth of local people to point me in the right direction when I began to lose my way. There is something blessed about being lost. Though our default is to hate the insecurity that comes with a felt “lostness”, we also can’t help but feel freed when we come to end of the road. Suddenly you are not expected to be anywhere but where you are, and you discover a relief in the giving up of control. Barbra writes, ”At this level, the advanced practice of getting lost consists of consenting to be lost, since you have no other choice. The consenting itself becomes a choice, as you explore the possibility that life is for you and not against you, in spite of all the evidence to the contrary. The point is to admit that you are lost, and maybe even to allow that you are in no hurry to be found.”

Although there are days that I ache to be home, a part of me has a growing sense that I will crave the unpredictability that each day in Zambia grants me. I will miss the total surrender to each day. The “hopping-on-a-bus-and-hoping-it-takes-me-there-eventually” mindset. Though I can’t help but see through my Western lens sometimes, I also foresee a great struggle to fit neatly back into structure and routines. Back to deadlines and schedules, to productivity as measures of success. If only I could live in a land where a flaneur is embraced!