Paganism is Pretty Fun

After a trial by vodka-soaked mountain walking and dog-induced emotional guilt, I was on the marshrutka back to Yerevan to see if Brendan had made to the city in one piece. The journey was bumpy, sweaty and, above all, painfully sociable. The man next to me, Artur, decided to strike up a conversation and unfortunately, Artur’s need to wheedle out faux-philosophical points from a normal conversation, combined with his almost asthmatically breathy attempt at a hearty laugh every time he made a terrible joke, made him a pretty dreary travel companion. Damn my tight-fisted refusal to buy new headphones (the universal signal to end a conversation or, even more enticingly, stop one before it begins). Artur and I exchanged numbers and I planned never to talk to the man again.

Yerevan

Back in Yerevan, the capital and largest city in the country, I made my way to the hostel and asked the receptionists if Brendan was around/alive. They confirmed he hadn’t died and was out and about somewhere or another. It wasn’t long before we were reunited and while Brendan’s foot was on the mend, his groin region was still burning with a fiery infection. He had decided to call it quits on the trip and booked a flight home. But that wasn’t for a few days so, in the meantime, we had time to hang out and find things to do. On our days before heading off to the trail, we had done a pretty extensive recce of the city by foot and now we couldn’t think of much to do in the coming days apart from art galleries and play pool.

I Think I Laika The Look of This Place

One slow morning, an absolute Springer Spaniel of a man came bounding into the common area of the hostel spouting off about his travel plans, twiddling his sea shell necklace and I would assume raising his blood pressure to dangerous highs. Through his excitable nasal ramblings, in his thick Andalusian accent, we caught on that he was going somewhere cool for the day. It was an abandoned Soviet telescope station an hour or so outside of the city, and it apparently contained lots of original equipment. We asked if we could join him but he said he was going with a friend, so we decided to make it to the place alone (thank you, Fate. You did us a favour there). We booked a taxi and headed to the village of Orgov.

Our taxi driver, clearly thinking we were out of our minds but also very clearly not caring in the slightest, took our money and spun around. We headed up through the village on foot, reaching the guard’s gate in no time. From the little information online about the place, the consensus seemed to be that the guard was a whip cracking, money hungry fiend. But, when we arrived there was just a man in plain clothes sat on a bench. We reverted to our well-practiced walking personas, we were those nice boys that you can trust and let into your abandoned government facility. The man was friendly, polite and soon showed us the letter from the government saying that you needed written permission five days in advance in order to enter the facility, and then, only with a registered tour guide. I was ready for this potentially fatal blow. We parried using a sophisticated look of acknowledgement and bewilderment and then, with a brash sweep of confidence hidden below a comically questioning face we asked him, ‘What if we give you money, just to look around?’. He told us to wait as he called people. At that moment, I was confused as to why a bribe required further communication, but seeing as we had no idea what he was saying, he could’ve just been ordering a Domino’s. If the man wants a stuffed crust meat feast then let him have it, that’s what I say. While we waited we tried to remain chilled and friendly, then, luckily for us, a car pulled up. This was our in. The car was heading up the road and the “guard” chatted with the driver while gesturing towards us, waiting patiently. He agreed that we should pay him three pounds each and then get a lift up the hill with this random man and his passengers. The bribe was cheaper than expected, the car was a strange American knockoff with a shaggy carpeted interior and the ride to the top was quick. Time to see what those pesky Soviets were up to.

The Orgov Radio-Optical telescope was built between 1975 and 1985 and was once considered one of the most powerful telescopes in the world. It has been operational on and off since then, finally closing down for good in 2012. The first thing you see as you come down the road into the site is the main telescope. It is sunken into the ground, meaning from a distance all you can see is the pendulous central scaffold, but as you reach the edge, the true size of the dish becomes clear. From the rusting, metal walkway around the circumference of the dish, the mirror curves in and under you, giving you a vertigo-inducing look down to the telescope’s surface. The diameter of the dish was 54m and we were blown away by its scale and the fact it was just abandoned. Inside the rim, some swallow-type birds flew across its curved surface, rising at one end only to tuck in their wings and dive back into the dish, zipping along just out of reach. I doubt we know whether birds can have fun, whether fun is even a concept to them. But, these birds seemed to be having a great time, zipping along in the warm air of their mirrored home.

Dragging Brendan from the telescope’s edge (that he said was almost beckoning him to jump) we entered one of the adjacent buildings and went for an explore. In there we found a strange room covered in black concertinas arranged in fan shapes. The broken ones showed they were hollow and made of tubes. We had absolutely no idea what was going on but it was the perfect level of weird and the mystery of the room only helped us love it even more. We found our way through some drywall, then upstairs and onto floors with barren rooms, containing only unused mirror segments.

Next, we headed towards the most visited and photographed building, the control room. It was eerily silent as I climbed the stairs, and then out of the darkness assorted chimes from a piano could be heard. Odd out of tune notes, ringing off the stonework, reverberating through the growing grandeur of the space. Brendan had of course nipped into a room and found a rogue piano, but the strangely ethereal sounds seemed almost needed for the grand entrance to this centre of interstellar sight. Walking towards the windows, with the curtains stirring into life with the occasional breath through the panes, the room opened up, first through the growing height of the ceiling and then through the open archways to either side. Light from the bright but cloudy day streamed in and lit the marvel before us. Huge, clunky but elaborate control desks, strewn with blueprints and manuals were situated in each section of the room. A complicated array of satisfying metal switches, knobs, dials, gauges, rotary telephones and long extinguished lights lay spread at our fingertips. As we fiddled, clicked, flicked, twisted and stabbed at every part of the cream coloured desks we couldn’t believe where we were.

On the wall to our right was a strikingly vivid mural. It showed the telescope pointing towards the solar system, an incorporeal head of an unnamed bearded man (weird right?) and the ever present Mount Ararat in the top corner. On the opposite wall, a host of clocks that had long since stopped, tried to show us the time in various cities around the world. Not long after our look around, the Spanish guy and his very annoying American friend turned up. They tore around the gaff, a whirlwind of Instagram stories, exclamations of ‘wow’, followed by the unsatisfyingly silent shutter of a touchscreen camera phone. The American offered to take photos of Brendan and I, so of course we got down to work.

Luckily, after our photoshoot they left as fast as they had arrived, and we continued our leisurely self-guided romp through the facility. First, we delved into the underbelly of the control centre where there were assorted machines that looked as though they used to snort out deeply carcinogenic fumes, arc lightning bolts between different towers in the style of a movie villain’s lair and generally make a bloody racket. There was also a room filled with sand, one covered in some sort of glitter and a particularly satisfying lever on a random green metal closet.

We emerged into the sunlight from our subterranean wanderings, took a cursory look into a building occupied by some messy bovine tenants and then headed off towards the skeleton of a telescope on the hill. As soon as we got to the structure, we started to climb. A storey or two up though, I was starting to lose confidence in the rusting rebar used to construct the telescope and its walkways. So, while I went down and found another vantage point, Brendan climbed to the highest point. He was shimmying along the outer rim of the rusty old dish for a while until he came down and joined me atop a van outfitted with another small dish. From there, we could see the whole deserted facility nestled into the slopes of Mount Aragats, lying across the valley from an ancient early 13^th century monastery. Soviet telescopes and monastic towers framed the hazy lowlands below and we began to make our way back to them.

We knew there would be no taxi back, so we decided to walk to a main road in order to hitch a ride. Unbeknownst to us the Fates were smiling on us again and an empty Yerevan-bound bus rocked up as soon as we got to the road. We caught it all the way into the city, avoiding the rain and having plenty of time to work ourselves into a hysteria. The cause of our new found madness was the absolutely ridiculous number of petrol stations. They appeared every few hundred metres and we found it endlessly entertaining to call out when a petrol station or, more often than not, three rolled past the window at a time. We were giddy, sniggering little children laughing at a nonsensical in-joke and it was glorious.

On The Road Again

Going Toe to Toe with Zeus

After a touching cross-balcony wave to say goodbye to Brendan, I set off to re-join the trail. However, I decided this time to walk north from Sevan, aiming either to join back up with Alaverdi (where I ended my last stint) or at least make it to Dilijan. The marshrutka dropped me in Sevan around noon, and the place looked like a rather bleak and unlikeable town. With no time or desire for sightseeing, I headed up to the base of the mountains on the edge of town, and began my climb.

The climb was on an easy path but it was long and steep. Luckily, it was an overcast day so I wasn’t melting in the usual summer heat. At the top, I was sucking in the cool air and looking forward to the relatively flat remainder of the day. Unfortunately, after a brief but pleasant view over a long wide valley to my left and the terminus of the huge lake to my right, the rain began. It started gently to give me time to put on a jacket, then ramped itself up to Welsh standards and didn’t stop for 4 hours. It was surprisingly cold and the only thing that kept me warm was my indomitable pace. Thunder was my unwelcome walking companion in these highlands, but I was ever thankful for the lack of dogs. As I started to come towards the end of the wide ridge, I saw my first lightning bolts. This was not good. Ahead of me, I saw a row of large pylons traversing the hills in an orderly line and knew that it wasn’t a good idea to be around these huge conductors in the middle of a lightning storm. So, I hedged my bets and tried to get under the lines and through the other side before the next strike. However, before I got there a scar of light tore through the greyness a few feet above my head. At the sight of this horizontal near miss, I dropped my “kill me first” metal walking poles and legged it downhill assuming the lightning squat (a wilderness methodology to make you look as unattractive to lightning, and other humans, as possible). After a minute or two without any more lightning bolts, I made a move. I regained my poles, made it under the pylons and onwards. After rounding a corner and dropping down to a stream, I pondered the missed opportunity of getting hit by a billion joules of energy (a great story if you survive) and the rain started to ease off.

Following the stream and constantly being reminded of the morning deluge by the dripping of water from my hat, I made it into a valley with a gravel track. With this sign of civilisation also came farmsteads and therefore dogs. I was on full alert, eyes on a swivel and ears trained to the hills. This was when the sky fell. The clouds that had been oppressing me from above, had decided to drop suddenly from the heavens and envelop me in their greyness. The grey atmospheric broth I waded through inspired in me something between an appreciation for the eerie beauty and a feeling of isolated suffocation. I knew there were dogs out there, but now there would be little warning of an attack. I kept moving, aiming for Semyonovka, a small village that promised a shop and a municipal water fountain.

Out of the cloud unscathed, I climbed the final hill to Semyonovka and into the village. The shop was closed so I sat by the water fountain and roused in myself the energy to find somewhere to camp for the night. I found a spot above the village, a little too close to a well-worn 4×4 track, but I was done for the day. After a pitted battle between a tired human being and a glorified scrap of canvas, my tent was up and I swore never to use it again. As I sat down on the wet grassy hillside to make my dinner though, I did feel content. The clouds were energetic in their mountain traverse and I watched them struggle for structure in the wind, as the pink seeped into sky behind them.

Getting Wild at My First Frog Concert

Apart from being disturbed by a screaming fox and some Armenian cowboys moving their cattle through my little camp, shouting and making theatrical noises as they did, I slept fairly well. I started the morning by spilling freezing cold butane on my hand (widely regarded as a bad idea), then got on the trail by 6:15am, hoping to make it to the town of Gosh nice and early.

The sun was out but the morning air was chilly, which made for lovely hiking conditions. The first plan of the day was to refill my water bottles at the spring a few hundred metres down from my camp. However, sat either side of it were two large sheepdogs. The coolness of the morning made me think I could make it a while with the dregs of water I had left and so the dog detour began. They chased me from the path, while I eyed them from the slopes on the other side of the stream. Eventually, the bends of the path and track meant they lost sight of me and I re-joined the trail. I powered my way through the valley and all of its farmsteads, moving at a speed that I hoped would keep me ahead of my four-legged foes. I began congratulating myself on my unbelievable turn of pace but it turned out that the two dogs’ stroll down the track had attracted the other dogs and now at least five dogs were making their down the track towards me. I wasn’t in the eye line of a farmstead to wave for help, so instead as the barking dogs crested the final hill towards me, I waved my walking poles menacingly (or so I imagined) and shouted an assortment of primal sounds their way. It worked and I was rewarded with a lovely, downhill track to follow. Dipping in and out of a woodland for a few hours, splashing about in streams and startling a rogue camper with my forceful early morning rendition of Karma Chameleon; I was enjoying life. By 9am the sun had reignited and I was keen to get some water. Luckily, there was a place to refill up ahead, unfortunately it meant walking straight through a farm.

I established a wave with the farmer early on, which made me a little more comfortable to enter the hamlet. At the edge of the muddy slop that radiated from the buildings, I saw the two big dogs. One came bounding over to me but thankfully it was wagging its tail. It bowed its head and obviously wanted to be petted, but also had its front teeth bared, maybe it felt guilty for being too friendly? That dog was Leslie. The other, even bigger creature was Rex. I approached the farmer and asked him where to fill up my bottle and he gestured me to follow. He generously filled it up from his own supply and then offered me a coffee. It would’ve been rude not to. So, I sat on this pig farmer’s porch (yes, I learned his dog’s names and forgot his) and tried to communicate in my shaky Armenian for a while. But it wasn’t long until I thought I should keep going, so I left him to his simple way of life, surrounded by birdsong, gorgeous views of tree covered mountains and vast quantities of pig excrement.

The rest of the way to Gosh was fairly easy, passing through steep inaccessible forests housing Armenia’s large bear population and then descending to Gosh Lake which was clamorous with frog song. ‘Song’ maybe isn’t quite the right word. ‘Competitive amphibian death metal’ is probably closest.

In Gosh, I checked into my hotel and then went out to explore the popular Goshavank monastery, very aware how strongly I smelt of mud. Luckily, Jesus doesn’t care if you are smelly, ugly, don’t know who your local MP is, have a shaky grasp of your timestables, fantasise about stealing a child’s party bag or pour milk into your bowl before the cereal. Big J doesn’t care, as long as you pledge your undying soul to him at the moment of your expiry, you’re golden. So muddy boots and aggressively antisocial body odour were coming in with me.

The inside of the monastery was dark and sparsely decorated. The only light came from the tiny windows and the crackling, sputtering candles lit by the constant stream of believers. As people made their way to the main room, where they stood under Jesus’ gaze and the faded inscriptions on the walls, I took most interest in a lone candle tray. It was stood at the side of the room and mostly ignored, but the sunlight had deemed it the most important feature of all. A beam of light struck it so perfectly that it elevated those believers that stood around it from the weighty gloom. I loved watching the families and individuals lighting candles and saying a silent prayer. Seeing the living fire’s light dance on the faces of the solemn, pious or hopeful was mesmerising.

Back at the hotel, I ordered Ojahuri for dinner and enjoying it so much I ordered another portion of exactly the same thing. This took a surprisingly long time to explain to the ladies working in hotel. They obviously thought I was just trying to complement them on how tasty it was. No, no. I want another. Give me more garlicy pork and potatoes. 

The Simple Joy of Shaving the Ground

The next day, fuelled by a Turkish coffee and the Armenian triumvirate of tomato, salty cheese and cucumber, I was on the trail just before 8am. The climb out of Gosh was steep but easy, but I was regretting that coffee. I thought I could hold out against the biological processes of my body but it turns out diuretics mixed with intense exertion makes for a frighteningly sudden situation. Incredibly, on the trail there was a picnic area and a long drop toilet shack hidden behind a hedgerow. So, I made a beeline to this already dug hole in the ground and luxuriated in the act of pooing with the door open. You can’t waste a view that good.

Feeling a whole lot better, I was back to walking and for a long time it seemed I was going downhill through the New Forest; a homecoming of sorts. Deciduous woodland housed piercing birdsong while mosquitoes and flies danced in the occasional wells of sunlight. The trail itself was narrow, well-trodden and well-marked, meaning I didn’t have to use my phone for maps. Instead, the long downward march was almost meditative. I felt happily mindless.

All good things must end though and after crossing a stream, I spent ages zigzagging my way up through the same woodland. It was pretty dull but the threat of mosquitoes kept me moving. The one positive was spotting a red squirrel which legged it upon seeing or smelling me (at that point, both were just as potent in their repelling powers). At the top, I came out of the trees and an eagle got the fright of its life, taking flight above my head and heading out across the beautiful but desiccating wildflower meadow.

Before dropping down into the next set of woods, two women emerged and from their “Hi” I knew they were British. We exchanged pleasantries (they were from South Devon and had just come over from Georgia) and it was nice to chat to them, apart from their offhand comment, ‘You’re a long way down the trail from Gosh, you must have started early’. Urrrrrrrmmm excuse me… no… The reason for my current position is that I’ve got a ferocious power in my body that you couldn’t even begin to comprehend, lady.

The rest of the day was mostly downhill, fairly overgrown and forgettable. Nearer to Dilijan, I came out into something that looked like park land and that is where I met him. An Armenian icon. I was confused where I was going and decided to ask the large topless man, looking around conspicuously. I approached and then realised he had a massive bloody scythe. Turns out he wasn’t ferrying souls to the underworld, instead he was cutting the grass for some reason. I like to think that he was up there scything away purely for his own enjoyment. 

My time in Dilijan was incredibly chilled. I chatted to some introspective and inspiring people at the hostel and decided that this would be the end of my Armenian hiking adventure. The soles of my £150 boots were peeling off at a rate of knots, my tent was aggressively unreliable and perhaps most importantly, my walking partner was gone. While the walking fun to do alone, the evenings weren’t the same. A one man battle to reach a goal we had set together didn’t seem right and so I set my sights on Georgia. I knew Georgia was a much more popular destination and I was keen to see as few tourists as possible and so began the research.

Before I could get there though, I wanted to swap my big rucksack out for my tiny 22 litre daypack, leaving all my gear in Yerevan while I crossed the border. So, I hitchhiked back to the capital. It took four rides, some girls from the hostel pleading their creepy driver to pick me up, an inner city bus and a horrible cross-city walk in flip flops to get to where I wanted to be. But I was back and just in time for Vardavar.

Painting the town… not red… What colour is water?

Vardavar is an ancient pagan festival still celebrated across Armenia every year. It traditionally celebrated Astghik, the goddess of water, love, beauty and fertility, but when Gregory the Illuminator rolled into town in the early 4^th century AD, he converted the king and made Armenia the first country in the world to adopt Christianity as its state religion. Greg roved around destroying pagan temples and building churches in their place, but despite all this, Vardavar remained. The reason for this was that during the festival, roses would be offered to Astghik and when the Armenian Apostolic church saw this, they associated the roses with the Transfiguration of Jesus and the festival was allowed to remain alongside Christian practices.

The festival itself is a countrywide water fight. There are no rules and there is nowhere to hide. When I checked into my hostel the day before Vardavar, I found 8 Brits, two of them being the most one-dimensional terrible laddy representations of Britain, but I also found Camille, one of the people I had hung out with in Dilijan. We chatted, ate a ridiculous amount of lavash and chocolate and decided that we should get involved in the festival in the morning.

Camille and I headed out to get a late breakfast, which accidentally turned into a fruit eating contest. While we ate, the city seemed quiet and serene, maybe the water fight wasn’t everything it had been hyped up to be? After returning to the hostel, reading and trying to ignore the incredibly annoying Brits around me, I went out to find some bread for lunch and instead found utter chaos. Water was flying everywhere and everyone wore maniacal grins on their soaked faces. I messaged Camille to get some buckets on her way and then armed with brightly coloured water throwing implements, we started filling buckets and taking names. Firstly, every fountain in the city was full of people. People of all ages were dunking, pushing, splashing and having a great time. The greatest part of the fountain warfare was the moment when you locked eyes with someone and you knew there was going to be a throwdown. Everyone was laughing, smiling and inhaling far too much of the very murky and brown water from the fountains. All semblance of a language barrier was gone, joy transcended all.

Away from the fountains, gangs roamed the streets armed with super soakers but you’d be a fool to worry about them. They were only protecting themselves from the bucket wielding, hosepipe spraying cowards on their balconies. Waiters interrupted taking orders to spray passersby, assistants at expensive clothes shops waited in doorways with buckets and car passengers shot indiscriminately at pedestrians. Ducking and weaving through the city, it felt like we were in The Purge.

That night after a shower, the tiredness hit me and I begged for that deep sleep that comes after physical activity, but no. Instead, I was forced to listen to one of the English guys move phlegm around his various tracts. Just get a tissue, you cretin.

Final Thoughts

Armenia is a country of contrasts. On one hand you have the cities that inspire little awe, surprise or intrigue. They’re not ugly, beautiful, eerie, ancient, modern, lively or strange. From these cities you are directed to the main sights of the country, namely, the seemingly endless wealth of monasteries. But there are only so many of these you can see. This normal Armenian itinerary ignores what makes Armenia great. They miss the wild and remote mountains that still house bears, the deep canyons where you can walk eye to eye with eagles and the indomitable, heart-warming hospitality of the Armenian people. I have never experienced such warmth outside of the Middle East. So, if you want adventure, look no further than Armenia and its remote and rustic charms.