IT’S not the first place I would think of to visit on holiday — more like the
last. But one sunny Saturday last month, I found myself driving from the
Ukrainian capital Kiev in a battered Lada towards Chernobyl, site of the
infamous 1986 nuclear disaster.
Chernobyl lies two hours north of Kiev by car, through idyllic, low, rolling
hills. Fields of maize and golden seas of wheat spread across the landscape,
while islands of pine, cottonwood and birch trees break up the near-flat
panorama. The sky is big; the prevailing winds blow city-sized clouds across
its vast expanse.
Until the late 1990s it would have been impossible for me to come here. The
whole area was sealed off. Though still tight, security is now more
perfunctory than intimidating. After passing through two checkpoints, one at
the 30km (19 miles) mark and one at the 20, my driver Nikolay and I were on
our way to Reactor No 4. But first we had to pick up Yuiry Tatarchuck, my
guide.
As we approached the reactor, with its concrete sarcophagus, Jim Morrison’s
lament, “This is the end, my only friend the end,” blasted out of the Lada’s
crackling speakers. My two companions in the front seat didn’t seem to give
it a second thought. But dread is probably the best way to describe what I
felt at this particular moment.
The impetus behind tours to Chernobyl came from an unlikely source. The United
Nations Development Programme (UNDP) and the United Nations Children’s Fund
(Unicef) released a report in January 2002, outlining the continuing
problems facing Ukraine and its neighbours, Russia and Belarus.
The aim was to highlight the human consequences of the Chernobyl accident 16
years earlier. Experts in ecology, health and economics compiled detailed
information, part of which was a recommendation that ecotourism is viable in
certain sectors of the disaster area.
“The normal environment has returned (to many parts of Chernobyl),” said
Kalman Mizsei, an official with the UNDP. “It is a huge area that is very
natural, with lots of wildlife and unique plants.”
Citing “Chernobyl fatigue” among donor nations, the UN says it’s time to stop
viewing the area as a crisis zone, and start helping it to help itself.
“By continuing to treat area needs as emergency problems, we have exhausted
most of our funding,” Mark Malloch Brown, a UNDP administrator, explained.
“A self-sufficiency programme is the next logical step.”
But even the UN’s blessing didn’t stop me feeling nervous as we drew closer,
and Tatarchuck switched on his Geiger counter, a little grey box that stood
between the world’s biggest nuclear accident and me. But once Tatarchuck
explained how it reads radiation levels, I felt better. A normal level —
ambient radiation at any given place in the world — is 14 microroentgens. A
roentgen is a unit of exposure to X or gamma rays. It takes 500 roentgens to
be fatal and there are one million micro-roentgens in one full roentgen.
Then Tatarchuck placed the counter next to some moss at the side of the road
and the numbers increased rapidly and disconcertingly from about 250
micro-roentgens to more than 1,000. Both figures fell within the safety
zone, but the sudden leap was worrying.
“Moss is like a sponge,” he said. “It soaks up radiation from contaminated
topsoil. You have to be careful not to walk on it because too much exposure
can be dangerous.”
At the moment all that can be seen of Reactor No 4 is a building encased in
concrete: there appears to be no human element at all.
It was a very different scene on April 25, 1986. Reactor No 4 was shut down
for routine maintenance; plant officials thought it would be a good time to
see if enough electrical power could be maintained to operate emergency
equipment and the cooling pumps for the reactor core.
At 1am on April 26 it all went awry. As the system began to break down, the
reactor was starved of water and temperatures rose dramatically. Operators
could not prevent a power surge, estimated at more than 100 times normal
levels. The increase in temperature caused part of the nuclear fuel tank to
rupture. Fuel particles then mixed with water, triggering a steam explosion
that destroyed the core.
A second explosion two minutes later finished it off. Thirty men were
vaporised in the initial blasts. It’s thought a further 100 died fighting
the blaze.
Thousands of tons of radioactive dust and debris escaped, sending a deadly
radioactive cloud over Ukraine, Russia, Belarus, Western Europe and
eventually the whole northern hemisphere.
Nowadays the reactor looks like a large disused hangar that’s been given a
concrete overcoat. This building, which houses the core itself, is
completely out of bounds. But because of its size — almost as big as the
Houses of Parliament — there’s no need to get closer than half a mile.
However, at Pripyat, the abandoned city next to the site, the human scale of
the disaster is in full view.
After the explosion the Soviet authorities failed to warn the people of
Pripyat for 24 hours. It wasn’t until the radiation was picked up in Sweden
and subsequently made the news that they were forced to act. Finally the
people of Pripyat were asked to leave, but were told that it would be for
only three days. They were never allowed to return.
Now radiation levels are almost normal. But in the derelict buildings
everything is decaying. Water damage is rampant; the ceilings leak; floors
are mushy; paint is peeling in clumps. In the classrooms, blackboards are
still covered in writing, the chalk faded but still visible. Desks are
scattered haphazardly, bleached white with age. Exercise books lie open on
the last lesson; in the hall lie hundreds of unused gas masks next to piles
of skipping ropes.
A short walk from the school is the city’s amusement park, under construction
at the time of the accident. Dodgems sit in piles, and a Ferris wheel stands
silent except for eerie movement in the compartments generated by the
incessant wind.
At the edge of the tarmac, Tatarchuck knelt and called me over. He was holding
his Geiger counter over the vegetation. “Great,” I thought, “more killer
moss.” The number on the counter quickly jumped over 1,000 micro-roentgens,
the highest reading so far.
“Don’t stand on it,” he said. “Otherwise you will have to throw away your
shoes.” My shoes? I was more concerned about my feet.
Hopscotching around the moss, we walked to the nearby Central Culture Club, a
broken time capsule of Soviet entertainment. There is a disco, which forbade
dancing, as well as smoking and drinking.
The most striking feature of Pripyat, though, is simple: no people. It is a
ghost town, the real tomb of Chernobyl.
But it’s not all decay and evacuation. Some people refused to leave or
returned after only a few days. In the tiny village of Parishev, seven
kilometres from Pripyat, Maria Urupa, a sprightly 70-year-old, is a survivor
of Chernobyl. After the accident she and her family left the village, but
only for a few days.
“When the police told us to leave we knew we would be back,” she said. “We
left all the food in the cupboards and the animals in their pens. By the
third day of the evacuation it was time for us to go home. Along with 15
other families, we returned and have been here ever since.”
Although the village was without electricity for a year, Maria never
considered leaving for good. “We have a well for water,” she said. “It was
covered with a concrete lid during the accident so it wasn’t contaminated.
And the land provides what we need. There are wild boar and deer, and we
grow plenty of fruit and vegetables.”
As much as Maria loves her home, other factors have changed Parishev. Although
the prevailing winds blew most of the radiation in the opposite direction,
the village is still dying. With the power plant slowly being decommissioned
most of the work has dried up. Now the village population is only 18, mostly
people of Maria’s generation. Sons and daughters have moved on, mostly to
Kiev in search of work.
As we left Tatarchuck showed me the Geiger counter again. The radiation level
was negligible, normal.
Need to know
Getting there: Doug McKinlay travelled to Kiev with Bob Sopel
Ukraine Travel (0161-652 5050, www.ukraine.co.uk) and Ukraine International
Airlines (01293 596609, www.ukraine-international.com). UIA flies daily from
Gatwick to Kiev from £223 return.
Bop Sopel Ukraine Travel offers a three-night weekend package from £320pp
including flights from London to Kiev, B&B in a three-star hotel and
transfers. A day-trip to Chernobyl can be arranged. The cost for up to four
people is £250, and includes a car, driver, guide and lunch.
Red tape: UK passport holders visiting Ukraine need a visa.
Tourist visas cost £25 plus a £10 handling fee, payable by postal order.
Details: 0906 5503550 (£1 a minute),
www.ukrainianembassy.org.uk.
Reading: Ukraine (Bradt, £13.95).
CHERNOBYL FACTS
- 30 people were immediately killed by the explosions.
- From 1986-87, 240,000 people took part in the clean-up operations at the plant
and up to 30km around. The clean-up continued until 1990 and eventually
involved 600,000 people.
- 116,000 people were evacuated from the surrounding area in 1986; later a
further 220,000 people were relocated in the former Soviet republics of
Belarus, Ukraine and the Russian Federation.
- Highest radiation doses were received by about 600 emergency and plant workers
on site the night of the accident. An estimated 100 people died, but
because of Soviet failure to keep records, the exact number is not known.
