Let it happen
Rhododendrons
October 16, 2025
Thursday 18th of September - Borjomi
The minibus stops in Borjomi. We’re the only passengers — no locals, no tourists. Just us. That suits us fine.
Borjomi is actually quite a pleasant town. Once, it was a renowned holiday resort for the Russian tsars and later for the Soviet elite. In several places across the city, carbonated mineral water bubbles up naturally from the ground. Its healing power — or so people believed — made Borjomi famous and popular with visitors. We taste the water at one of the springs, but honestly, it’s like drinking a bottle of sparkling water that’s been sitting open on the table for a few days. Ah well. We didn’t come for the town or the healing waters — we came to find horses.
At the national park information center, where they supposedly offer horse tours, the staff member looks at us in surprise when we ask our very specific question. Clearly, no one’s ever asked this before. He immediately grabs his phone and starts making calls. On the paper in front of him he writes: 3 horses, 2 weeks, 1,700 lari. After the first two calls, he shakes his head.
“They find it too risky to let their horses go for two weeks,” he says.
“They think the horses can’t handle that,” he adds after the next call.
We understand the concern. A few phone calls later, he finds someone who might be interested — but they’re asking for 2,500 lari. Still within our budget, and cheaper than two horses up north in Georgia. We’re not in the mood to negotiate. We nod and say we agree. He writes down the owner’s name and the village we need to go to.
“You’ll take the bus there tomorrow, and he’ll pick you up,” says Georgi - a quarter of all Georgians are named Georgi.
This feels right — it feels us. We have no idea where we’re going, if someone will actually be there waiting for us, or if we’ll even be allowed to borrow their horses. But we know one thing: this is exactly how we want it to go. We’ll just let it happen.
Let it happen
The next day, our bus arrives in the village. It’s drizzling, the streets are muddy, and the place looks gray and deserted. We’re in Bakuriani — a ski resort town. There’s no one at the bus station. We sit patiently on the benches, some of which are missing screws. The woman selling tickets has her head resting on her arms, fast asleep. The bus driver who just dropped us off throws his hands in the air, clearly wondering what these two tourists are doing here. We try to explain that someone’s coming to pick us up.
And indeed, half an hour later, a small car pulls up outside. The steering wheel’s on the right-hand side — like many cars in Georgia. Our contact person is named Kote, but the two men introduce themselves as Cacha and Reso — a brother and a friend. We hop in, pull out our phone with Google Translate, and then a familiar kind of day begins — one we’ve had many times during our world trip. A day of “just let it happen.”
We first learned that lesson while looking for a sailboat in Gran Canaria. Lina and Jean-Marie used to take us along to random places. We’d always hop in their car without any idea where we were headed. Sometimes we ended up in a village, sometimes at a local radio station, with friends, or in a shopping mall. Whenever we just went along and didn’t worry, everything always worked out.
We drive through the village at a maximum speed of 5 km/h — the potholes are so deep that going faster isn’t even possible. Just outside the village, Cacha points to a field on the right. “Zorro,” he says, pointing to the black horse. Then he points left, to a brown one. “Tornado.” We get out to say hello to the horses and then continue driving.
Are these two the ones we’ll take on our adventure, we wonder?
We keep driving, this time to an even smaller village with even worse roads. We stop by a house, walk through a field toward a white horse named Tetra. Then back into the car, another hundred meters, another stop. This time, we’re in front of a large, crumbling house.
“Reso home,” says Cacha.
The second floor has a big veranda piled with saddles, halters, bags, and ponchos. We learn that Reso runs a small business organizing horse tours. Sitting on a garden chair, Reso lays out some sausage and smoked cheese. From a plastic bottle, he pours us each a glass — it’s wine. In Georgia, we learn, wine usually comes in reused plastic bottles and in all kinds of colors.
Cacha walks to the car and returns with another bottle — judging by his gestures, this one’s much stronger.
“We have to catch horses. Do you want to join?” we read on Google Translate.
We thought we already had three horses, but sure — we’ll come along.
We drive back through the village, over the same awful roads. Reso and Cacha scour every corner, searching. Then we continue to another village, through forests and open fields, still looking for horses. We see plenty, but apparently not the right ones. Most horses roam freely here, and we can’t imagine how anyone ever finds their horse again.
Suddenly, we stop. Reso points to a black horse. It takes more than an hour before he and Cacha manage to catch three horses. They tie them with long ropes and metal pins in the ground. Which ones are ours? We still have no idea.
Back in the car, we drive off again in another direction and stop at a small building — a tiny shop, like the ones we’ll come to know so well in the coming weeks. Reso buys sausage, bread, and something from the fridge. Cacha asks if Olivier wants a beer. We have no idea what the plan is, so we buy some pastries to share in return. We pay the old man behind the counter, who calculates the price on an abacus. When he sees we don’t understand, he switches to a calculator.
The beer is opened in the car. With a pastry and a beer in hand, we ride off again — in yet another direction. We stop at a cemetery and sit down on a bench. It’s four in the afternoon, apparently time for a late lunch. Reso takes out the food, slices the sausage, and mixes ketchup and mayonnaise on the bread bag, dipping the sausage into it.
Another car stops, and four young people join us. Cacha quickly fetches his bottle of strong liquor. Reso cuts the top and bottom off a Fanta bottle to make two shot glasses. Before each toast, they say words of gratitude — to friends, to health, to life — then pour a bit on the ground to honor the dead before downing the shot and chasing it with Coke or Fanta. One of the young men speaks a little English. We learn that Reso has a horse tour the next day with 13 people from Poland. The horses we’ve just found are for that trip. We also learn that tomorrow we’ll ride with the group for the first part of the route, and then they’ll show us the way toward Vardzia. Perfect. Our “control switches” are off. We’ll just let it happen.
Hospitality
That evening, we drive back to the village where Cacha and Reso live. We pass Zorro and Tornado again and stop. Cacha tries to explain something using ropes, the car window, and the horses. Finally, we understand: we’ll lead the horses home — by car.
Olivier gets Tornado’s lead rope, holding it out the passenger window, while Cacha holds Zorro’s rope from his side. The horses trot along beside the car, five kilometers to the next village.
We stop at another house. Outside, an old man wearing a hat stands by the stable while a few children herd cows inside. The oldest boy proudly says, “Come, come,” and leads us in. The stable is small, room for maybe fifteen cows, but it’s clean and warm. A grandmother and another woman sit on low stools, milking by hand. A cat and two kittens wait patiently beside the door for a bit of warm milk.
Zoë immediately asks if she can help. She’s given a wooden stool and a cow. Compared to the strong streams filling Grandma’s bucket, Zoë’s milk comes in two tiny trickles. Grandpa watches with amusement and says something to Grandma — probably that Zoë clearly doesn’t know what she’s doing. Grandma replies with something that seems like, “She doesn’t do this every day.” Whatever they say, it’s a beautiful, grounding moment — leaning your head against the warm cow and feeling the rhythm of life in your hands. The cows here seem happy.
The whole house is full of people — grandparents, four children with their spouses, and a handful of grandkids. We’re seated at a table overflowing with at least ten different dishes. They urge us to eat, to try everything, while the whole family watches, smiling each time we take another serving. Whenever we talk too much, they gently insist we eat more.
One of the children speaks English, making conversation easier. Grandpa asks about our route and our riding experience. Tetra, it turns out, is his horse — and he’s a bit nervous about letting it go with us.
The next morning, it’s pouring rain. Grandpa brings Tetra from the pasture and ties him to a post by the stable. Kote — who turns out to be the brother of the men who picked us up — and Roman check Tetra’s horseshoes. With a hammer, pliers, and some nails, they tighten all four. Tetra stands calmly the whole time. Grandpa saddles him and gestures to Zoë. She swings her leg over, gives a little tap with her foot, and walks down the driveway.
“Good!” Grandpa shouts, grinning from ear to ear. Half of his worry disappears instantly.
Then we saddle Zorro and pack Tornado with the gear. Just in time to join the Polish group. Olivier rides Tetra, leading Tornado by the rope tied to his saddle; Zoë rides Zorro. Grandpa and the family wave as we leave. We promise to send updates via WhatsApp.
And suddenly — we’re off. We can hardly believe it. Horses are herd animals; they stick together. When one moves, they all move. So, in a way, we don’t have to do anything. We have no idea where we’re going or if it matches the route Olivier carefully mapped out. It still feels like a short riding tour from a stable — except our packhorse Tornado reminds us it’s not.
It’s freezing cold, and we’re not used to being unable to warm up by moving. Zoë keeps her hands on Zorro’s neck for warmth. The thick fog surrounds us as we climb higher and higher, past the treeline, until only grass remains. We can’t see much, but the landscape feels vast and empty — like Mongolia. Even in the mist, it feels right. Every now and then, we look at each other in disbelief.
Suddenly, the group stops. Reso rides up and points toward a faint path leading south — nothing more than a track across an empty plain. “Vardzia,” he says. We understand. That’s the way we need to go. It’s still about 100 kilometers to Vardzia — several days of riding ahead. A short goodbye, and the group continues eastward, soon disappearing into the mist. And there we stand. Just us — and our three horses.
We’re still shivering from the cold and quickly look for a place to camp. The trail crosses a winding river lined with a few small trees that offer some shelter from the wind. For the first time, we tether the horses — far enough apart that their ropes won’t tangle. The lines are 15 meters long, giving each horse about a 30-meter circle of space. We loosen the girths, unload Tornado’s packs, but keep the saddles on for a while — it’s cold, and after sweating, removing the saddle too soon can cause a chill. Once the tent is up and we’ve changed into warm clothes, we take the saddles off. Tornado immediately rolls in the grass, clearly thrilled to scratch his back.
In front of the tent, we heat up a khachapuri — a round cheese-filled bread we bought yesterday in Bakuriani. We warm it on our stove, and ourselves a little with it. The three horses stand nearby, peacefully eating. They look content. We smile at each other.
This feels right.
The adventure has begun.
Once again, “let it happen” has brought us here.
