Armenian soldiers pose for a photo outside the Tsitsernakaberd memorial in Yerevan, 2015

Over the years I have been fortunate to have a traveled as much as I have. I’ve spent almost every summer that I can remember bathing in the sea and sun of my father’s native homeland Cyprus. Winters have seen me travel to North America, arctic Norway and the mountainous regions of Europe, and London’s proximity to pretty much everything has given me countless opportunities to add more stamps to my passport whenever a cheap flight or a long weekend landed in my lap.

I’ve been living in Australia now for close to six months, and no matter how much I love the lifestyle, weather and the regional travel opportunities, I can’t help but look back at past adventures with nostalgia and a touch of sadness; moving here has reduced the opportunity for travel ten-fold, especially travel outside of this (admittedly stunning) land of red dirt and endless shorelines.

Forever the optimist, instead of wishing for everything I don’t have, I’ve been thinking back to past trips that have left a lasting impact on me, and one trip that has remained as one of the most memorable was when I travelled to Armenia in 2015. Everything about that trip was different, I was travelling during a historically important time, where the country was simultaneously mourning and standing proudly with their heads high in a year marking 100 years since the genocide that took place in 1915.

Mount Ararat, seen from the rooftops of Yerevan, 2015.

Arrival was followed by a complete sensory overload: the smell of ethanol shooting out from the exhausts of Soviet-era cars; lavash, soujouk, lahmajun - all available almost everywhere and washed down with a customary shot of hard liquor similar to that of raki - sent aromatic smells wafting through the air; the oddly familiar sound of Eastern Armenian heard peddling and bargaining from within shops and market stalls; the distinctive peaks of Mount Ararat that crowned the city, acting as a visual reminder of the raw beauty that existed past the housing projects and remnants of a communist past.

Market seller, Yerevan 2015

I spent the week staying in Ujan, a small village in the province of Aragatsotn almost an hour outside of the capital city. I slept in a traditional Armenian home with little hot water or the modern amenities I am so used to taking for granted. Along the village tracks, gas pipes were found protruding overground as if the decision to build them had been made at the last minute, while cows aimlessly wandered between homes, settling now and then to graze on a spot of grass. It felt a world away from the city-breaks in Europe and beaches of southern Spain.

What blew me away most during my time in Armenia was the hospitality of those who I met. Despite being a nation that had endured such adversity, people were full of life with an incredible sense of generosity and kindness. Everywhere I went, I was met with some kind of offering, whether it be food, animated directions or the sharing of a past lived story. It certainly was a world away from the travel I was used to, but it showed me that a world away was a beautiful thing.

Gardener in Ujan, 2015

Man and his children watch a local village performance in Ujan, 2015

Old men playing Narde in Yerevan, 2015

Thinking about future travel, I want to continue to explore off the beaten track and experience travel that will leave a lasting memory with me that I can look back on. I would love the chance to go to Tanzania because it’s somewhere completely different to anywhere I’ve ever been before. From the landscape to the wildlife, the people and culture and of course the food, having the chance to see another corner of the world would make for an unforgettable experience, which is why I’m entering Yellow Zebra Safari’s competition to get the once in a lifetime chance to go on safari, see the Serengeti, bask in the views of Mount Kilimanjaro and get to see big cats, elephants, zebras and more - all in their natural habitat.

The familiar smell of ethanol that I had picked up earlier that day when stopping for gas was at first overwhelming when we entered Yerevan. We were staying almost an hour outside of the capital in Ujan, a village in the province of Aragatsotn, and until this point aside from my travel companions I had enjoyed the solitude of the mountainous landscape. The contrast between the city and all that's outside of it was notable; after the collapse of the Soviet Union vast resources have been poured into building a cosmopolitan city out of Yerevan, and with tree-lined avenues and grandiose buildings like those found in Republic Square, you can see the Parisian streets the city's architects were trying to mirror. It's only when you venture away from the quaint squares and trendy cafés and into the district of Nor Nork, the last remaining Soviet housing projects, that you get a true understanding of how life once was here.

Outside of the capital city improving the standards of infrastructure, health and social care seem to have been overlooked, resulting in around one million Armenians, many of whom are from the poorer regions, leaving for pastures greener - even if that means without legal immigrant status. Our temporary home in Ujan was a world away from Yerevan and its traffic-filled streets. 

However, despite the economic disparities Armenia certainly shares one heart. The people who we encountered throughout our travels were full of life and with an incredible sense of generosity and kindness. Food was a central theme: an offering, an act of celebration, moments to break bread and share stories with one another. Traditional sharing plates comprised of khorovats, fresh salads, lavash, dolma, cured meats and pickles, and pouri havov pilaf (roast chicken with rice) adorned tables and would become quickly devoured in between the ongoing clink of glasses filled with local cognac as we'd say cheers for various things - a practice I myself know well from my own Armenian family.

Maybe it was this familiarity, the unexplained understanding of a place where I was a stranger yet connected by history, that made me feel welcome wherever I went. After all this was my ancestral homeland, and even though my family had left 100 years before I could still feel a part of them and their story in this now not so alien land. 

Head 250 miles north of the Arctic Circle and you’ll find an island surrounded by mountains under the cover of darkness: Tromsø. As capital of Northern Norway and home to breathtaking fjords, snow-covered landscapes and some of the best Auroral activity in the world, this is a destination that you’d be hard-pressed to forget.

Given Tromsø’s northerly position, between late November and January the sun remains below the horizon resulting in almost two months of polar nights, enveloping all life in a fascinating faux light that glows blue. It is quite an experience in itself, yet it’s another kind of light that brings in visitors, and one that comes and goes as it pleases: the Aurora Borealis. The city’s geographical position means your odds of witnessing this natural phenomenon are fairly high, but never guaranteed. Taking my chances and with my camera at the ready, I set off on my own chase of the Aurora and found much more than I had bargained for.

And Then There Was(n’t) Light

Landing into darkness just after 10pm, we couldn’t tell the difference at our new latitude. You’d be forgiven for being dubious about whether the sun could cease to exist until you see it for yourself. My body clock switched off without the usual rise of the sun and I managed to sleep through until midday, awaking only to find a colourless sky and the city’s snowy, lamp-lit streets. I began to find the notion of daytime a distant memory. 

Dramatic as I was, I took to the city and headed across Bruvegen bridge  to get a better look at my surroundings. Battered by Arctic winds I stopped midway and felt a sense of being on the world’s edge; cold yet humbled. Suddenly the lack of light didn’t seem to matter so much, the landscape had more than made up for what was missing.

Reaching the other side of the bridge our next stop took us 420m above sea level up to mount Fløya to see the city below us sparkle. Up here you could see the sun light the sky from behind mountain peaks, and without a watch it could pass as the break of day. I contemplated this before the light slipped away, returning us to darkness for the next 20 hours.

Dog Sledding in the Lyngen Alps

Anticipating 3-4 hours of light, the Lyngen Alps required an early start to get to. After travelling a little over an hour we arrived in Svelsby town where we got weather-ready suited and booted before we met our dogs. We seemed to get the seal of approval after a few affectionate dog noises were exchanged between us and we concluded that they liked us. Apprehensions at bay, we set off into the blue light.

Quickly we were out in the wild, encased by vast white plains and crystallised mountains – the experience was exhilarating. I could have gone off course then and there, fulfilling my Iron Will childhood dreams, but before I could try and ya! the dogs where the wind would take me, the light told us it was time to head back.

We began our short journey across the fjord to Tromsø, this time welcoming the darkness with open arms and hopeful thoughts.

Solar Winds and Silence

‘Like most women, Aurora is a little temperamental’ our guide told us as we clambered onto the bus wielding tripods and gear. I agreed to disagree with his statement and kept a firm eye out of the window.

One hour into our drive north to Kvaløya Island we made our first stop by a lake where the Aurora was out in full force, filling the night’s sky with a dusting of green. I fumbled with my camera as our guide took pleasure in explaining the science behind the lights, failing to capture what was my first experience of them.

Eventually complaints from the group were made about the light pollution coming from nearby houses, so back on the bus it was to find another spot where we wouldn’t be bothered by lights in a place where the next sunrise was 4 weeks away.

20 minutes, winding roads, daring not to look away from the window in case she vanished without a goodbye.

But then we made it. On a curve of the mountain we stopped at a point overlooking the sea, and there she was. This time bold and unafraid, first snail-like, trailing across the star-studded sky, then dancing furiously. Greens and reds, then greens, then reds; we all watched without saying a word.

It was just her and us, and it was silent.