Was it possible to negotiate? Ukraine’s extremely difficult economic situation made corruption easy. A few words exchanged and a 50 euro note were more than enough to persuade the soldier who had intercepted me. Despite the smoking ban in the exclusion zone, the guard offered me a cigarette and we left each other good friends. I could go back on the road calmly. The first obstacle was overcome.
I was now warned: I had to be discreet and avoid patrols. The curfew for the Zone was set at 8 p.m. by the authorities. The last groups of tourists had to leave the Zone’s perimeter, otherwise the agencies would be subject to heavy fines. My expedition would only be beginning.
Driven by excitement, I trotted through the forest, amazed to be achieving what I had been aspiring to for many years.
With the help of my compass, I tried to head towards what I thought was Pripyat’s position. My breathing was gasping, but I didn’t feel tired. Here and there, I could see shadows emerging through the mist and snowstorms. Pale and mysterious shapes followed one another, reinforcing my amazement. Then came the long-awaited contrast. A dark silhouette appeared behind the trees, hinting at the proximity of the city. I finally arrived in Pripyat with a tight heart and shortness of breath.
Discovering this place without Oleksandr was much more appealing. A rather prodigious feeling of freedom overwhelmed me. I was walking around the city like exploring a dream kingdom. The blocks of buildings stood one after the other in a completely Soviet anarchy. The boulevards of Pripyat were once intimidating. Of course, they did not have the grandeur of those in Paris or Bucharest, but they aerated the city and made traffic flow more smoothly. Thousands of broken windows opened up to my observant gaze. They had sheltered scenes of life, dramas, joys, loves. A little further on, I was following an old bicycle path. Almost invisible, it was totally devastated by the growth of wild shrubs. No one could have imagined that she had been there, but I was convinced of her past existence. I had cycled it many times on my blue tricycle, pedalling at full speed as if to defy gravity and escape boredom.
The night was beginning to fall, the cold was settling quietly, gradually catching me off guard. The fog was back too. I had to find a refuge, a place to slumber. For no specific reason, I chose an imposing building that would serve as a shelter for the night. It seemed high enough to contain many apartments, some of which I hope would be suitable for peaceful sleeping. The elevator was on the ground floor, with its doors wide open and ready to swallow the reckless people who would dare approach it. I preferred to attempt the stairs and started climbing the dusty steps, listening only to the sound of my panting breath. I stopped at random on the 7th floor of the building, looking for an apartment where I could spend the night in peace. The vast majority of the dwellings were either totally empty or damaged, victims of looting and other prowlers who had degraded the premises over the past thirty years. However, I finally found the Graiclass="underline" a small hovel with a view of Pripyat and its Ferris Wheel.
The main room was almost bare, but inspired rest and confidence. Despite the smells of dust and cement, I almost felt a warm atmosphere, like the one that characterised the return to a home. Children’s posters covered the floor. They were illegible and discoloured, but looked authentic. I quietly unfolded my down while humming an old Scandinavian tune. I would use my bag as a pillow. I couldn’t help but barricade the door in case someone tried to get in while I was sleeping. Reassured, I snuggled up in my sleeping bag, rocked by the regular whispers of the Geiger counter. The night would be chilly, uncomfortable and dangerous. But it doesn’t matter. I was in Pripyat.
In the early morning, I woke up serenely although slightly sore, joyfully attending the early morning show. The sun gradually rose, its rays caressing the surface of the trees. In the distance, the Belarusian peaks could be seen, piercing the few pale orange clouds that accompanied the first rays of daylight. Seduced by this scenery, I almost forgot to restart my Geiger counter.
0.2 microsieverts: the repeated and almost comforting sound signal was back, the day could start.
I promptly repacked and pulled myself out of the room with the concern of leaving no trace of my passage, rushing down the stairs to get back outside. Pripyat in the early morning was sumptuously calm. Not even the wind could be heard. My senses were not yet fully effective and the daydream had not completely deserted my misty mind. A certain nonchalance dwelt in me as if I was moving forward on familiar ground.
There was something supernatural to wander the avenues of Pripyat. This succession of empty buildings, which seemed to be staring at me more than I was contemplating them, created a paranoid feeling in me. The similar appearance of the buildings and the maniacal geometry of the place gave the impression of being in a labyrinth, a post-apocalyptic dream of which I was both the instigator and the witness. The city was not that large, but the growth of trees through the asphalt misled and confused my sense of direction. Winter and its pale shades caused confusion by increasing the contrast in my field of vision. The calm was only upset by the sound of my footsteps in the snow. Light steps, naive steps.
I dreamed of a breakfast while knowing that it would be illusory. The berries were contaminated and I wasn’t ready to take that risk. I walked my way on an empty stomach, driven by the crazy desire to find the building of my childhood; my first home abandoned more than 30 years ago.
I walked alone through this orphaned maze in search of the cultural centre. The building was easily recognisable, it would be my landmark in this labyrinth. The Ferris wheel that had observed my sleep was no longer distinguishable. I was struck by the atmosphere of the place. Not a single bird was slipping into the sky. There was a striking calm, an almost magical and yet very natural tranquility. Here, the human senses are disoriented. They who are so used to associating these wide streets lined with buildings with a bustle of activity, with sounds of everyday life, saw themselves here disoriented by their landmarks, forced to reinterpret the environment around them.
In Pripyat, perceptions are alert, but the mind is relaxed. Silence found a particular resonance in these snow-covered trees that grew here and there, in defiance of all urban planning considerations, of all human planning. The icy appearance of the surroundings gave the illusion that the city had indeed been preserved despite any chronology. A telephone booth, Soviet propaganda signs… No doubt about it, time had really gone wrong in Pripyat. The city had fully perpetuated its jewellery from the 1970s. At least that’s what I thought until my eyes distinguished a caricature of Donald Trump painted on an ordinary wall. Thus, Street-art had not spared the Zone. Other drawings, quite successful, adorned facades or walls: animals but also radioactive pictograms. Travellers of all kinds had to have a good time decorating the area. The Zone had become their favourite playground.
I couldn’t find my apartment. I had been walking around for several hours now without any real purpose. I was hungry and exhausted by the cold. I chose to leave Pripyat and turn back towards the city of Chernobyl, which took me a good hour. I had an idea to find something to eat. I decided to go to the cafeteria where the workers of the Zone and some tourists ate lunch. Inside, I pretended to be a journalist who had just arrived in search of testimonies to feed my report. At first, no one really paid attention to me, everyone was focusing on food. This one was basic, but tasty. There was no health risk, because it came from outside the Zone, at least that’s what they said. Potatoes, onions, cabbage… No doubt about it, I was in the Slavic country. The workers were happily seated and chatting loudly. All these little people were eating without restraint. Once the belly was well filled, everyone would return to their various occupations and face the becquerels.