Loaded with lasting memories of Armenia, we’re back in Georgia. After refueling and buying supplies, we leave Rustavi on our way to the David Gareji monastery located along the Azerbaijani border. While night is falling, we park along the dirt track, assuming that not much traffic will pass through here. As so often happens, what we call a dirt track is a necessary daily route to work, relatives or friends for the locals. Contrary to our expectations and even while it’s completely dark now, several cars pass by. Or should I say, they stumble by. These drivers must have the exact geography of the road imprinted in their minds in order to save their cars. While tackling the track with ease, they loudly fire their music through open car windows into the pitch black sky.
Grassy hills east of Rustavi: somehow a preview of the landscape in Kirgizstan
Again, it strikes me that most of the world’s music today shares the same basic package. At least the music that comes from radios. A four time beat in a quite narrow, medium tempo. A four bar structure with a lot of repetition. The same basic harmonies. The same basic rhythms. No dynamic variance. Often silly melodies using un-elaborate building blocks. The only aspects that somewhat intrigue me, are the language and the timbre of the voices. To summarise: there’s a lot of sheer universal predictability, often without any surprises. Probably, that’s what most people are looking for and this puts them at ease. Even in a country with such an idiosyncratic musical tradition like Georgia. Luckily this tradition still happens to be alive.
It drizzles at dawn. A herd of cows passes by. There really are a lot of cows. Having climbed one of the hills, I’m sure the fenceless land can handle them. There is nothing but wavy greenness as far as the eye can see. The cows receive orders from their shepherd. Although I don’t understand a word of it, I’m very confident that these are orders. The cows aren’t bothered and just follow their daily routine through the sticky mud, as if fences were there after all. They leave the shepherd with the illusion of some mutual understanding.
Spring is in the air
But, who knows, maybe indeed there is some mutual comprehension. Even though I don’t understand a word in Georgian, I’m pretty sure of what this shepherd wants to say. Clearly, language is not only about meaning in the symbolical sense. It’s about emotional connection in the first place, by means of dynamics, timbres, accents and rhythm. Probably, that’s the way language emerged. Based on aspects that we now would call musical. Maybe these cows are sensitive enough to understand at least a tiny part of the message.
Whilst traveling, we often meet big herds of sheep and goats as well. Their shepherds shout and whistle all the time, but apparently nothing happens as a result of their messages. Honestly, I think the cattle only really listen to the shepherd when he hits them on their back with his stick. There is a clear intellectual difference between these beasts and the shepherd’s dogs. Definitely for cows, goats and sheep there’s still a long evolutionary road ahead, at least as far as language is concerned.
David Gareji monastery (Georgia)
Overlander’s tip: Track from Rustavi to David Gareji monastery (Georgia)
This track straight over the greeny hills almost precisely marks the border between Georgia and Azerbaijan. A big part is muddy, sometimes unclear, but no chance to miss it out. 4×4 recommended. There is one steep and – as a result of erosion – worn out part that might be a challenge to tackle with a 4×2 vehicle.
The better part of the track to David Gareji monastery