The catastrophic event at the Chernobyl nuclear power plant in April 1986 transformed a landscape that was previously only imagined. The Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant Zone of Exclusion is an area as large as Luxembourg, spanning a thousand square miles of marshes, ponds, forests, villages, towns, and abandoned industrial remains, frozen in time. Images of playgrounds and classrooms consumed by overgrown vines, deserted high-rises in Pripyat, and accounts of wildlife reclaiming their habitats with potential genetic mutations have captured our attention. The Red Forest stands as the most hazardous site on the planet, while in a hospital basement, a stack of firefighters’ uniforms remains dangerously radioactive for centuries to come.
So, who frequents this area? Engineers responsible for monitoring the fuel beneath the sarcophagus at Nuclear Power Plant Number Four, scientists, security staff, local law enforcement, adventurous tourists seeking a glimpse, and surprisingly, a variety of other individuals.
Markiyan Kamysh, a resident of Kyiv, is not only a novelist and photographer but also the son of a Chernobyl liquidator, individuals who worked to contain and minimize the disaster’s impact. For him, the Zone serves as a retreat. His slim volume serves as an introduction to the intricate ecosystem that exists on the edges of society within this “beautiful land of deserted homes, waterways, and farming equipment.” Meet the stalkers, wanderers, hermits, scavengers of scrap metal, hippies, looters, drug users, guides, tourists, grandmothers, police, hunters, and young thrill-seekers. “Ordinary people have no place in a radioactive wasteland. Remember that.” The unauthorized visitors show no regard for norms or regulations, even as the elements in the lower rows of the periodic table course through them.
Imagine if Hunter S. Thompson authored a Lonely Planet guide to the Zone; it might resemble Stalking the Atomic City. Yet, Kamysh’s scope is wider, his observations and language more nuanced. The book interweaves accounts of journeys through the Zone with reflections, historical insights, and commentary. There are accounts of solo and group ventures through snow-covered landscapes to climb Chornobyl-2, a deteriorating array of radar antennas towering five hundred feet high and sixteen hundred feet long, originally designed for detecting incoming missiles—an ideal spot to witness the sunrise. Stories of dragging an inflatable boat for miles into the Zone to glide on the lake near the cooling tower of Plant Number Four. Of trudging through swampy areas infested with leeches, sipping metallic-tasting water, waking up beside a dead wolf or the sounds of lynxes. Thirty-day treks into the farther reaches of the Zone, visiting villages erased from maps, camping in decaying houses, igniting fires with furniture and panels, and savoring vodka by the warmth.
But why engage in these risky excursions? Because “the tranquility and harmony my soul craves are found here.” In the deserted village of Krasno rests an ancient Orthodox church “with a pristine floor, prayer paraphernalia, and a collection box. With candles, [his owl named] Armavir, and peaceful bees.”
Kamysh imparts insights on immersing oneself in the natural allure of these forsaken settings:
