Author: Andranik Taslakhchian

For an open-air facility with no security presence (that I came across), the four-decades(ish) old theme park is actually relatively unharmed by human hands. In my hometown, it would have been graffitied, pillaged, and burned to the ground two decades ago. But time has claimed some victims, such as the Giant Yellow Dragon, who lies immobile in a weedy, nettled grave, just below her amusement. I deduced that GYD died more or less of natural causes, judging by the lack of wounds, fractures, and punctures. Although judging by the deathly stare frozen onto her face, perhaps she was a genuine challenge to the actual food chain here, mercilessly dragged down from her perch by one of the lynxes, mountain lions, or brown bears that frequent the bordering national park.

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Exploring abandoned spaces comes with risks, but the challenges of tip-toeing on decaying wooden gangways and perpetually sidestepping tetanus-rich nails is actually a refreshing, life-affirming obstacle course; thoroughly recommended to sharpen the mind and reflexes. While I cannot in all good conscience recommend that you trespass in such spaces, if you choose to do so, ensure you pack your common sense, wear thick-soled shoes, and walk ‘where the nails are’, on boards supported by beams. Oh, and you might want to don a pair of long pants–a single layer of defense against Armenia’s four deadly vipers, which may or may not be lurking in the feral shrubbery. 

Humankind arrogantly assumes its control over nature is absolute, but eventually, inevitably, the abandoned is always usurped. When I visited Dilijan, the forest around the park’s perimeter was budding ferociously with Caucasus wildflowers yet strangely, few seemed to hop the fence, unsure of whether this eerie garden was fertile or foe. Then, early in the afternoon, when the sun rose above the valley walls, shafts of sunlight illuminated advancing swathes of these sweet little floral vanguards that I had missed. Encircling the rusting steel, they were re-staking nature’s claim, one apparatus at a time.

Soviet thrill-ride engineers subscribed to the “what doesn’t kill you makes you happier” school of theme-park design. Clearly, these amusements were forged in an era before minimum heights and safety bars as evidenced by the alarmingly sharp edges of the segmented citrus-fruit centerpiece on this rotor ride. And only chicken-wire and centrifugal force would have stopped Armenian children from being flung into the wild fruit trees beyond. The under-jungle-gym rubber-matting in the nearby modern playground provides a historical juxtaposition between then and now.

As daylight ducked under the ridgetops, the murals’ moods darkened. I wrongly assumed this to be a creepy Sovietisation of Humpty Dumpty – perhaps being shamed as a fat-cat capitalist. But this is actually Italian writer Gianni Rodari’s anhomomorphic onion Cipollino (so cherished in Russia that he even scored his own opera). Some say the Adventures of the Little Onion is simply a tale of good versus evil. But in this ominous space, the allegory–at least in my mind–strays into dystopian political propaganda; Comrade Onion, representing the oppressed underclass, feels the full fruity fury of tyrannical Prince Lemon and his cohort. Even stray dogs are against him. Enough to make a grown vegetable weep.

At some angles, the 1980s Soviet engineering exudes a timeless solidity that, left undisturbed, could last for generations. As solid as it might be, however, in the minds of locals this theme park is long dead–a pariah from an era of Armenian history that people are actively trying to forget. Even those old enough to recall, struggle to remember the exact year when the park was built (“sometime in the late ‘70s/early ‘80s” was a common refrain). However, Dilijanians are happy to direct visitors to the area’s plethora of ancient monasteries and fortresses that fan far into the forest. They still “hear God whistle through the trees”, as a local saying goes, but metaphorically stick their fingers in their ears when Stalin opens his big steel trap again.