98.6: A Fever

Yesterday, I was sick; I had a chill-inducing fever, a lingering cough, an undiagnosed sinus infection, three forms of medication, a doctor-approved – aka, my Georgian doctor/mom – sick day from school, and a headache that made it seem like my head would be better off exploding.

Today, while not sick enough to merit another day off school, I still feel the lingering effects of my cold, or as I nicknamed it, “my 3-packs-a-day habit.” (Don’t worry, mom; I’m talking about Kleenexes, or in Georgia, Selpaki.) Having a clear enough head to think today, I began to think about how it feels to be sick in another country. After considering it for a good five minutes, I’ve decided…I don’t like it. And here’s why.

•   There’s no one to bring me soup. I mean, I have soup every day for lunch, but when I’m sick, I just want some chicken noodle – from a can – soup drowning in crackers.

•   No one believes I’m sick until I sneeze more than twice in a day, cough for a significant period of time, or have a fever, which means that if I don’t have any of those symptoms, I’m fully expected to complete the regular daily activities of teaching classes, playing with children, dancing at dance lesson, and staying up to watch a two-hour dance show that doesn’t start until 10.

•   Sickness doesn’t have the same origins in Georgia as it does in America. In America, if I’m sick, it’s probably because someone else was sick, and they didn’t wash their hands or because the weather is switching rapidly and my body can’t keep up. In Georgia, however, it’s probably because I wore a short-sleeved shirt outside two weeks ago or my feet were cold or my room isn’t warm enough. And this is coming from my host mom, who’s a doctor.

•   Selpaki – aka Kleenexes – aren’t soft.

•   Medicine isn’t the same. Having a doctor as my Georgian mom has its advantages; I said I was sick, and she grabbed a piece of scrap paper and wrote a prescription for me. However, upon going to the pharmacy, I realized that I have no idea what I’ve been given. Therefore, I have no idea what I can and cannot take with it.

•   In America, when I’m up all night due to incessant coughing, I sleep in the recliner chair to sit upright and still be comfortable or eat ice chips. In Georgia, I fluff my pillows up as much as possible and chew a couple cough drops.

•   The remedy for sickness changes with the border. For example, today I was told that I should definitely wear a coat if I want to get better, which may or may not have merit. The problem was that it was approximately 20˚C (70˚F) today on my way to school, so it was all I could do to wear a thin sweater and scarf, let alone a coat. In America, I just need to sleep and drink lots of fluids.

•   98.6 isn’t a consistent body temperature. My host sister insisted on me taking my temperature the last time I was sick. I was sure I didn’t have a fever; it was just a headache, intensified by her screaming as my Georgian dad tickled her. I took my temperature and read it, “37˚C.” After doing a quick conversion on my phone, I assured her it was fine: 98.6. However, she refused to drop it until I let her see the reading, at which point she declared I had a fever. I explained many times that 37˚ is NOT a fever; it’s normal. After failing to convince her, and my doctor/host mom who had walked in, I said, “37˚ is normal in America.” My host mom thought for a moment and responded, “Here…it is not.” Since when did body temperatures vary by country?

New Uses for Old Things

In the past seven months, I have been confused by many occurrences. Interestingly enough, cultural differences are typically not the main culprit. Sure, I’ve had my share of surprises in terms of what I’m eating, where I’m going, and how I’m getting there, but overall, I’ve kept up. It’s in the comfort of my own home, where I feel the most relaxed and “off guard” that I’m taken aback most often, which has triggered the not-always-silent question, “You do what with that?” Perhaps you’ve encountered a few of these surprises yourself.

Cotton, bought in small bags like stuffing, can be rolled around matches to create Q-tips; it’s how the family cleans their ears.

A propane tank lit with a burning piece of paper taken from the pechi is an acceptable way to start a burner.

Cupboards are not only for storing plates, cups, and utensils; they also store the dinner leftovers, cheese, and extra fruit.

The refrigerator, which is unplugged during the winter, stores the pots and pans as well as small appliances.

The refrigerator can be unplugged during the winter because it’s so cold outside that the windowsill does a perfectly good job of keeping things cool.

An old door handle can be jimmy-rigged into a razor, which also happens to entertain 12-year-old girls as their uncles show it off by cutting their arm hair.

Bundled bird feathers are the best way to sweep out the cracks in the floor and the corners near the wall.

The string used to hold nuts for churchqkhela can also be used as floss.

Tiny scissors are not for cutting paper or thread; they’re for clipping fingernails.

Filling water bottles with hot water and setting them in between the blankets before bed is a legitimate way to keep warm at night in the winter.
 

One of Those Nights

Have you ever seen one of those movies that has kids running around on a street in their neighborhood in the summer? Women are usually sitting on chairs as they look on to the activities around them. The men are barbequing or throwing out comments about the games. It slowly turns to dusk, but no one cares because it’s just one of those nights. 

I thought they didn’t exist anymore; I thought it was reminiscent of a time when life was slower and kids liked playing outside more than sitting indoors watching TV or playing on the computer. I realize that even in my childhood, these were few and far between, and it was still never exactly like this.

And then I came to Georgia. 

My night could have been shown in those movies. The neighbor kids and I played Hide and Seek on the gravel road in the summer air while the women sat on a bench, gossiping about the week’s events. At times, they would take pity on me, and soon became the reason I continued playing. They motioned to the kids’ hiding spots when I was the seeker. When I was hiding, they let me crouch behind them or motioned to stand inside their gates. They told me when it was safe to come out and run to the wall, and they laughed with me when I could no longer use the excuse of not understanding the game for losing so many times. 

On the other side of the street, the men gathered and, although at first seemingly uninterested, they quickly found themselves sucked in to the movements around them. Playing antagonists, they threw the seeker off the hider’s trail and pointed out hiding spots. 

Slowly, it turned to dusk, but no one noticed. The cows had long gone through and the last of the horses were returning home from the fields. But none of it mattered. We were too busy running, hiding, yelling, laughing, and seeking to care what time it was, whether dinner was ready, or if the chickens had been fed. How can I ever leave?

Headscarves and Candlesticks

This past weekend, I had the opportunity to travel to Mtskheta, which used to be the capital of Georgia, until it was moved to Tbilisi hundreds of years ago. The most important thing about “tourism” in Georgia is that it centers on the religious traditions of Georgian Orthodoxy. For example, I visited Samtavro, a church where, according to legend, St. Nino lived and prayed. One of the churches dates from the 4^th century while the second was built in the 11^th century and contains the graves of Mirian, the Georgian king who adopted Christianity, and his wife. I also walked through the Sveti tskhoveli complex, which is one of the most sacred places in Georgia as it is built on the site of Georgia’s first church and contains the graves of various Georgian kings, including one who is said to be buried holding Christ’s robe. These sites, too numerous to count, are considered holy.

As people poured into these churches to worship, I was struck by the tradition of it all. Georgian Orthodoxy, from what I have gathered, is primarily based on the acts one can do to gain closeness to God. Through prayer, fasting, attending church, taking communion, lighting candles, and kissing the pictures of saints, amongst other actions, one performs his or her duty to God. 

Almost every person in Georgia is Georgian Orthodox; it’s a part of the culture. For many, it is a very real part. For a large portion, however, it is part of who they are but not part of what they do; beliefs do not connect with the rituals. Women wear scarves and skirts to church; an entire bus of people crosses themselves when driving past a church; children do not play cards the day they take communion. They are a religious people, but most cannot explain the justification of their actions.

Traditions – in connection with a belief system – can be healthy. If it didn’t mean something to those around me, I wouldn’t have a problem lighting a candle when I pray. I like the outward symbolism of my beliefs. However, as I walked out of these churches, women, covered in black from head to toe, put out flames and removed candles where there were too many. They washed the kisses off the glass. Headscarves were removed outside the doors. And herein lies the problem; they are empty symbols – temporary actions – meant to fulfill some obligation to God.

In Protestantism – which is the distinction I have to make to my Georgian friends as they consider themselves Christian – there is very little that is so physical. Sure, I go to church every week, but I can pray whenever I want. I can read my Bible, which is not typically allowed in Georgian Orthodoxy – in the morning or at night or whenever I remember. No one is keeping tabs; no one can judge the level of “Christian” that I am. In Georgia, however, everything is physically done. I know when my host mom is praying because she gets a hat to cover her head, reads from a book of prayers in the kitchen, and crosses herself throughout the process. I know that my family is more religious than the neighbors because Nana is not eating meat during “Lent”, and Ani goes to church three times every weekend.  And maybe that makes it easier to understand the emptiness that comes from this religion, from a belief system rooted in ancient ideology. Everything is literal and very physical. 

I know she is finished praying when the headscarf comes off, and I know religion won’t be thought of again until we walk to school and my students cross themselves as they walk past the church or until the next night when prayers are repeated. 

But, according to my faith, what’s supposed to be different between this and my relationship with Christ? I have these rituals, and I have things that I do to try and be closer to God. What makes me different? Maybe a better question is “What is supposed to make me different?” 

I’ve mulled it over a bit, and I keep coming back to the idea that my faith should be a part of my daily life. I act differently because I love with Christ’s love. My purpose is secure because I am following where God leads. I am motivated to do what Jesus has commanded me to do because I love him, and I want to be like him. I worship with everything I am, in every part of my life. My headscarf – the symbol that represents the attempt to be closer to God – should never be removed.