My Chornobyl vacation: Yes, I took a side trip to the site of a nuclear disaster
Our rule of thumb was simple: if you don't need to touch it … don't touch it
A sign up ahead grew larger as we drew closer on the bus; soon I could see red Cyrillic lettering against the weathered concrete slab.
Translation: "District of Chornobyl."
We'd been driving north from Kyiv for the better part of two hours when our tour guide, Yana, switched on her microphone and announced that we were nearing the military checkpoint.
It had been an early morning, and the bus quickly filled with the sounds of several groggy tourists shuffling in their seats and fumbling for their cameras.
During the drive from the city, a documentary broke down the chain of events which led to an explosion at the Chornobyl nuclear power plant in April 1986. [In English, we usually spelled it Chernobyl back then.] A botched safety test on reactor No. 4 resulted in the most calamitous nuclear accident in history.
Why on earth would I want to visit this place?
Why is it that, every year, more and more people find themselves meandering through Chornobyl's "exclusion zone," sporting Geiger counters around their necks, and peeking into the derelict homes and buildings which were abandoned over three decades ago?
For me, there is an irresistible mystique surrounding all things nuclear, and something astonishing about humanity's ability – or inability – to command them. Call it a morbid fixation. Catastrophe on this scale lends itself well to myth and misinformation so I wanted to see it for myself.
After a brief stop at the checkpoint, where Ukrainian soldiers examined our passports, we headed for the village of Zalissya, about 15 km south of the reactor.
Zalissya was my first taste of the forsaken place that I'd imagined.
If you don't need to touch it …
The sky was blue and cloudless and the cold seeped through me as I followed Yana into a small building.
Leaves, dust and debris littered the floor and peeled paint clung precariously to the walls. The November sun peered in through holes in the roof and ceiling of what was once somebody's home.
Even though we'd been advised against touching most surfaces, not everything in the 2,600-square-kilometre zone was smeared with radioactive dust.
Most areas are reasonably safe and the tour tends to avoid locations that might alter your DNA.
Our rule of thumb was simple: if you don't need to touch it … don't touch it.
A secret place, at least during the Cold War
After leaving Zalissya, we headed for the DUGA-1 radar array. This installation was top secret during the Cold War and was designed by the Soviets to provide ample warning in the event of an impending nuclear strike — more time for retaliation.
Visually, I cannot understate the impressiveness of DUGA-1. It is massive. At 750 metres long and 150 metres high, it gives the impression of a jungle gym made for a giant.
Functionally, however, it was less impressive. The array was supposed to operate in conjunction with two others elsewhere in the USSR but there is some doubt about whether the system ever actually worked.
In fact, there are some who believe that the Soviets purposely blew up the reactor to cover up the failure of this very expensive warning bell.
I don't put any stock in that theory, and neither did Yana, but it's a bitter truth that officials actively denied the accident until nearly three days later. By that time, radioactivity had been detected as far away as Sweden.
One can understand how such extreme conspiracy theories gained traction under a government so lacking in transparency.
Despite the poisoned landscape, the local wildlife has thrived over the past 30 years in the absence of human activity.
In 2016, much of the zone was listed as a "biosphere reserve" which legislates the preservation of the animals and their habitat.
In fact, a number of wild dogs vied for my attention throughout the day and they routinely won it. Yana pointed out one pup in particular who was a master manipulator. She'd seen him "limping" to provoke the sympathy and generosity of past tour groups only to make a miraculous recovery once he thought he was out of sight.
As if he needed to persuade anyone.
The 'crown jewel' of the Eastern Bloc
Evening was fast approaching when we pulled up to the central square of Pripyat, a city that was intended to be the "crown jewel" of the Eastern Bloc.
This was the stop I'd anticipated the most. Pripyat had been home to almost fifty thousand people and it boasted top-tier amenities, gorgeous parks, and a plethora of shops and entertainment all aimed at attracting the best engineers and workers for the power plant.
Today it is a desolate relic of Soviet ambition.
Where pristine facilities and apartment complexes once proudly stood, only their decrepit shells remain. Parks and walkways, once enjoyed by locals, are slowly being reclaimed by creeping weeds and shrubs. It was breath-taking in every way that a city should not be.
The group quickly dispersed in all directions when we were given time to explore and they were soon just faint, distant voices.
A stroll in Pripyat. Alone.
I still can't quite believe that one is off the bucket list.
The rapid chirping of my Geiger counter
I won't soon forget the silence that swallowed me or how it was broken by the sudden, rapid chirping of my Geiger counter warning me of the elevated radiation levels nearby. It was a short walk; that seemed like as good a time as any to reconnect with the tour group at Pripyat's iconic ferris wheel before heading out.
I won't soon forget the silence that swallowed me or how it was broken by the sudden, rapid chirping of my Geiger counter warning me of the elevated radiation levels nearby.
There was one final stop before leaving the zone, at a very special memorial. This monument was erected to commemorate the first responders who lost their lives in the aftermath of the accident. Their coordinated efforts helped prevent contamination of their entire country and the rest of Europe.
Unfortunately, the official stance on the events at Chornobyl had always been ambiguous at best so the government refused to commission this tribute to the fallen.
In a dutiful and heartfelt speech, Yana explained the monument was built and financed entirely by the family members of the first responders that it memorializes.
She told us that some people don't find it very visually appealing — they say it's a bit plain.
She also told us of her own appreciation for the blood, sweat, and tears that went into its construction and of her admiration for the story that it tells.
I definitely share her conviction.
More on 'dark tourism' from CBC Radio
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