We find ourselves between lovely meadows crowded with cows in the lowlands near Chobi in Georgia. Preparing for sunset, dozens of frogs croak at their loudest. I wonder if the difference between their bass or treble sounds corresponds linearly to the size of their body, as is more or less the case with acoustic musical instruments.
I try to make a clean field recording of this fascinating frog polyphony. I wonder if, in ancient times, it might have been frogs that instigated the emergence of the peculiar Georgian polyphony. In my headphones I become aware of a distant tractor. Is it really impossible to flee human presence? Imagine if we had succeeded in doing so, we would still be there intruding on these enthusiastic frogs’ private territory. When we flee human presence, we do nothing else but bring human presence to a place where there would otherwise be no one, except for croaking frogs and chattering birds.
Svaneti song. A simple example of Georgian polyphony
Early the next morning and a few kilometres from Zugdidi we meet a lot of families preparing for a picnic along the road. On this sunny Sunday they gather on small stone or concrete platforms, about one meter high, each surrounded with a balustrade, some even with a roof on top. Each family occupies one platform. The atmosphere seems relaxed and pleasant. Even the most silent family members are part of the picnic, as these gatherings take place right on top of the graves of loved ones.
In a way, the scene gives us a sense of déjà vu, reminding us of the people of Catalhöyük in Turkey. Their terraces weren’t solely meant for Sunday mornings. These people permanently lived with their dead family members, who were buried under the floor of the house. Luckily, modern Georgians don’t dig up the dead for breakfast on Sundays, as was a common practice, at least on special occasions in Catalhöyük some 9,000 years ago. The Georgians simply share some relaxed moments, literally with their whole family, meeting in the village’s cemetery. While the deceased can’t come by themselves, the ones who are still alive simply join them.
Interior of a reconstructed house at Catalhöyük (Turkey). People were buried under the floor of the living space
Soon we enter the rough valley of the Enguri river and head to Svaneti along steep and stony slopes. According to the Lonely Planet Guide Svaneti is a beautiful, wild and mysterious land locked in the Caucasus, so remote that it was never tamed by any ruler. Indeed, the road is long and very winding. The scenery gets more and more dramatic. Only a handful of individual cars enter this valley each day. Most of them are marshrutki and 4×4’s bringing backpackers up to the high mountains.
From Zugdidi, it’s about 182km to Ushguli, a remote community of four tiny villages in the Caucasus. They are said to be the highest permanently inhabited settlements in Europe. From there, one has a beautiful view of Shkhara with its 5,193m peak, the highest in Georgia. From Ushguli the only way out of the Enguri valley at this time of the year is to return the same way down, while the 2,623m high Zagar Pass only allows crossing to Lentekhi from late May until September.
Reaching the first hamlet of Ushguli, the highest permanently inhabited settlement in Europe at 2200m
The weather is changeable and cloudy when we arrive at Mestia, Svaneti’s ‘capital’. In these circumstances, and due to Mestia being a completely uninspiring village, it feels like coming all the way up has been much ado about nothing. Some backpackers hanging around in Mestia’s almost empty main street leave us with the impression that they share the same feeling. Why did they take the long road up here in an overloaded marshrutka with a crazy driver? But then, the sun breaks through and the Caucasus reveals itself with its impressive views. It’s clear that the reason for all the effort to get here is situated somewhere higher up in the valley. There is so much beauty on this planet.
We decide to look for a sleeping spot out in the mountains and end up in an alpine pasture close to a little river. Waking up the next morning with only the sounds of birds and quietly rippling water caressing one’s ears is a lovely experience. Now that we’ve been on the road for several weeks, and knowing that there are still months ahead of us, we become aware that we have started going to bed shortly after sunset and wake at dawn. Although we carry many clocks on board through all of our electronic devices, we aren’t interested in knowing the time anymore.
Shark-teeth-like peaks in the Caucasus – Svaneti, Georgia
While we are on the right track to finding our own biorhythm again, we start to feel time by listening to our bodies. We eat when we are hungry, go to sleep when it’s getting dark and awake at dawn. We become aware that we have transitioned from a life being driven and organized by Kronos or sequential time, to one that has started floating on Kairos, the Greek god for the proper moment.
From now on Kairos has taken over the rhythm of our journey. It’s Kairos who decides about the urge to come and go in the months ahead. What a fantastic discovery once again!