After behaving in no less than the utter depravity that you would come to expect of me dear readers, I have finally admitted that it’s time to move on. Living la vida licentious loca has been taking its toll, and I’ve not had a proper sleep, healthy lungs or successful visits to the bathroom for days. Of course this happens to pretty much everyone that passes through here, and they even advise you against drinking from the water fountains. Those damn nectarines from three weeks ago keep repeating on me. That, and copious amounts of booze and cigarettes. There are stories I could tell, but one in particular resonates, its like I’ve not regaled in some time.
About a week back I was hanging out with a super nice chap from LA. My age, my penchant for hedonism, my lack of ability to take care of myself. A match made in hell. I was on the cusp of leaving, when he offered his place up to me, sleeping for nothing in a spare room. Well now this was too good an offer to turn down (considering I still had fish to fry), so I happily accepted, and moved out of the hostel forthwith.
This couldn’t have come fast enough, considering the recent influx of outstanding discourtesy from a dorm room full of dying animals. A cacophony of snores became my lullaby, followed by inconsiderately raucous chatter in a variety of languages throughout the morning. Not to mention the constant aggressive rustle of plastic bags at all hours. I’m telling you they need to ban plastic bags from hostels. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD; BAN PLASTIC BAGS. Forced, plastic bag insomnia. I will point no fingers at the French or the Asians.
So I accepted my friends offer and took the opportunity to get well, nurturing myself back to health and gaining a modicum of sleep in the process. While my LA friend goes out, I decide to remain in, true to my goal of cleaning up my act. Unfortunately, it’s here that the wheels came off my grand plan.
Around 6 am in the morning, he busts in and wakes me up, before cavorting round the flat and not giving me a chance to have that sleep I so desperately crave. Out of his mind on the sauce, he leaves for two hours, before exploding back in like a bull in a china shop.
“THEY’RE PANIC BUYING IN THE STREETS MAN! IT’S THE FUCKING APOCALYPSE DUDE! WE NEED TO GET THE FUCK OUT!” I’M SERIOUS MAN! THEY’RE FIGHTING OVER WATER IN THE STREETS! GET THE FUCK OUT NOW!”
Wide eyed, incensed, reeking of liquor with murder in his eyes, he proceeds to tell me that he’s just witnessed a number of people fighting over bottles of water, and how he only just managed to escape with a couple of litres himself.
“TRUST ME MAN! LOOK INTO MY EYES! I USED TO BE IN THE MILITARY, AND I KNOW WHEN SHIT’S GOING DOWN!”
Wailing like a screaming banshee with a mouth ulcer, he’s apparently booked a flight out the country, there are only two bottles of water left, and if I value my life I’d better leg it to the airport.
“DO YOU HEAR THAT?! (airplane sound) THAT’S THE FOURTH PLANE THAT HAS GONE OVER IN THE LAST TEN MINUTES! PEOPLE ARE GETTING OUT! WE NEED TO GET THE FUCK OUT MAN! YOU WANNA KNOW WHY?! I’LL TELL YOU WHY! IT’S THE FUCKING APOCALYPSE!”
I could go on. And indeed it does for sometime, to the point where I either believe it’s an elaborate practical joke I’ve not fallen for (don’t kid a kidder) or he’s on speed. He’s not a small lad either, so it’s actually pretty terrifying to have someone yelling about the end of the world the same size as Shrek. Eventually he’s dumped all his stuff into a suitcase, left me a phone, a set of keys, and bolted out the door.
“GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAN!”
He’s removed the router, I can’t unlock the phone, and I’ve no way of contacting anyone. There’s little course of action but to go to find coffee and wifi. It’s a good job he’s left before school kids start screaming out the back. Christ knows what he would have made of that.
The phone rings. It’s the landlady.
Half an hour later I’m standing back in the living room of the apartment which looks like the apocalypse has indeed happened. Remnants of day long benders, ash everywhere but ashtrays, computer parts and components scattered like a failed KGB cover-up, and two very pissed off, suspicious Armenian women. And then me, standing holding the baby, receiving the third degree from the landlady and daughter as to why their flat looks like a scene from Brazil. I washed my hands, handed back the key, and left to return to the hostel.
I mentioned nothing of psychological meltdowns and fearing the end of days. I covered over as best I could, but apparently I made the mistake of handing the keys back. I’m still in the dark as to what was really going on, but an educated man would guess something to do with monies owed. I only hope the dude is alright, as I found myself deleted and blocked shortly after, but still with a lot of questions. Certainly one of my more unique experiences on the road, but perhaps it’s for the best, as I could easily have been tempted to stay for this kind of regular entertainment.
And so my Yerevan adventure is finally at an end. I’ve had a wild time here, seeing some beautiful things, seeing some very sad things, meeting some amazing and crazy new friends, and even things I’m might come to regret leaving behind. But now it’s time to gather my shit and do a runner myself. Iran calls.
Not quite ready to go
In the passed few months, I’ve been told countless times that the hospitality and friendship there is second to none. It’s going to have to go a long way to beat Armenia.
The apocalypse
After behaving in no less than the utter depravity that you would come to expect of me dear readers, I have finally admitted that it’s time to move on. Living la vida licentious loca has been taking its toll, and I’ve not had a proper sleep, healthy lungs or successful visits to the bathroom for days. Of course this happens to pretty much everyone that passes through here, and they even advise you against drinking from the water fountains. Those damn nectarines from three weeks ago keep repeating on me. That, and copious amounts of booze and cigarettes. There are stories I could tell, but one in particular resonates, its like I’ve not regaled in some time.
About a week back I was hanging out with a super nice chap from LA. My age, my penchant for hedonism, my lack of ability to take care of myself. A match made in hell. I was on the cusp of leaving, when he offered his place up to me, sleeping for nothing in a spare room. Well now this was too good an offer to turn down (considering I still had fish to fry), so I happily accepted, and moved out of the hostel forthwith.
This couldn’t have come fast enough, considering the recent influx of outstanding discourtesy from a dorm room full of dying animals. A cacophony of snores became my lullaby, followed by inconsiderately raucous chatter in a variety of languages throughout the morning. Not to mention the constant aggressive rustle of plastic bags at all hours. I’m telling you they need to ban plastic bags from hostels. FOR THE LOVE OF GOD; BAN PLASTIC BAGS. Forced, plastic bag insomnia. I will point no fingers at the French or the Asians.
So I accepted my friends offer and took the opportunity to get well, nurturing myself back to health and gaining a modicum of sleep in the process. While my LA friend goes out, I decide to remain in, true to my goal of cleaning up my act. Unfortunately, it’s here that the wheels came off my grand plan.
Around 6 am in the morning, he busts in and wakes me up, before cavorting round the flat and not giving me a chance to have that sleep I so desperately crave. Out of his mind on the sauce, he leaves for two hours, before exploding back in like a bull in a china shop.
“THEY’RE PANIC BUYING IN THE STREETS MAN! IT’S THE FUCKING APOCALYPSE DUDE! WE NEED TO GET THE FUCK OUT!” I’M SERIOUS MAN! THEY’RE FIGHTING OVER WATER IN THE STREETS! GET THE FUCK OUT NOW!”
Wide eyed, incensed, reeking of liquor with murder in his eyes, he proceeds to tell me that he’s just witnessed a number of people fighting over bottles of water, and how he only just managed to escape with a couple of litres himself.
“TRUST ME MAN! LOOK INTO MY EYES! I USED TO BE IN THE MILITARY, AND I KNOW WHEN SHIT’S GOING DOWN!”
Wailing like a screaming banshee with a mouth ulcer, he’s apparently booked a flight out the country, there are only two bottles of water left, and if I value my life I’d better leg it to the airport.
“DO YOU HEAR THAT?! (airplane sound) THAT’S THE FOURTH PLANE THAT HAS GONE OVER IN THE LAST TEN MINUTES! PEOPLE ARE GETTING OUT! WE NEED TO GET THE FUCK OUT MAN! YOU WANNA KNOW WHY?! I’LL TELL YOU WHY! IT’S THE FUCKING APOCALYPSE!”
I could go on. And indeed it does for sometime, to the point where I either believe it’s an elaborate practical joke I’ve not fallen for (don’t kid a kidder) or he’s on speed. He’s not a small lad either, so it’s actually pretty terrifying to have someone yelling about the end of the world the same size as Shrek. Eventually he’s dumped all his stuff into a suitcase, left me a phone, a set of keys, and bolted out the door.
“GET OUT! GET THE FUCK OUT WHILE YOU STILL CAN!”
He’s removed the router, I can’t unlock the phone, and I’ve no way of contacting anyone. There’s little course of action but to go to find coffee and wifi. It’s a good job he’s left before school kids start screaming out the back. Christ knows what he would have made of that.
The phone rings. It’s the landlady.
Half an hour later I’m standing back in the living room of the apartment which looks like the apocalypse has indeed happened. Remnants of day long benders, ash everywhere but ashtrays, computer parts and components scattered like a failed KGB cover-up, and two very pissed off, suspicious Armenian women. And then me, standing holding the baby, receiving the third degree from the landlady and daughter as to why their flat looks like a scene from Brazil. I washed my hands, handed back the key, and left to return to the hostel.
I mentioned nothing of psychological meltdowns and fearing the end of days. I covered over as best I could, but apparently I made the mistake of handing the keys back. I’m still in the dark as to what was really going on, but an educated man would guess something to do with monies owed. I only hope the dude is alright, as I found myself deleted and blocked shortly after, but still with a lot of questions. Certainly one of my more unique experiences on the road, but perhaps it’s for the best, as I could easily have been tempted to stay for this kind of regular entertainment.
And so my Yerevan adventure is finally at an end. I’ve had a wild time here, seeing some beautiful things, seeing some very sad things, meeting some amazing and crazy new friends, and even things I’m might come to regret leaving behind. But now it’s time to gather my shit and do a runner myself. Iran calls.
Not quite ready to go
In the passed few months, I’ve been told countless times that the hospitality and friendship there is second to none. It’s going to have to go a long way to beat Armenia.
First thing tomorrow morning, is hitch number 43.