So where do Aktau’s addresses come from?
Some suggest that they’re deliberately abstruse. Aktau was once a closed city (meaning permits were required to enter) while uranium mining was carried out in the surrounding hills. Perhaps the Soviets wanted to make it difficult for outsiders to navigate a city that contained sensitive information linked to the country’s nuclear program?
I was never able to find a good answer. But I do know that Aktau is a good place to be lonely. The confusing streets force you to interact when you otherwise wouldn’t, which might lead you to befriend a stranger you meet in a convenience store, or to groove out beside a couple salsa dancing through a wall. Worst-case scenario: you end up a German ghost.
Two: Eastern Europe
14
An Afternoon in Chernobyl (Ukraine)
“So how many people died here?” Janice asks. This is her favorite question; she has asked it, in various forms, at the power plant, at a school, in a swimming pool, and now most sensitively, at a memorial to the victims.
“No, no one died here,” our guide, Misha, explains. “This is just, like, maybe art project to remember people who is died.”
“It’s a memorial,” Daniel, a thin, serious British student, adds quietly.
“Oh,” Janice replies, sounding disappointed.
Janice is an older Canadian schoolteacher on her way back from somewhere that doesn’t seem like the type of place Janice should go—I think Kazakhstan, or maybe Mongolia, possibly Thailand. Janice seems like the type of person who should stick to Canada, maybe occasionally venture down to the United States, and even then, not do much talking around people who may have experienced any kind of hardship.
As we’ve learned, Janice’s flight back to Canada includes a twenty-four-hour layover in Kiev, and there is only one thing she wants to see in all of Ukraine: the site of the Chernobyl nuclear disaster. She has gotten off the plane and boarded a bus she prebooked with a tour group to take her straight to the reactor. She keeps telling us how grateful she is to be here.
Janice probably came to Chernobyl for the same reasons we all travel to unfamiliar places: to see something unlike anything we’ve seen before. The novelty of new locales can be exciting, eye-opening, sometimes frightening. Perhaps Janice thought, as I did, that in coming here she would learn something new and gain a greater understanding of the infamous disaster. But as I’ve learned time and time again on this trip, direct observation doesn’t always yield insight.
People often point to the Chernobyl disaster as the beginning of the end of the Soviet Union. They say that the accident became a flashpoint for people’s unaired grievances against the government that set the wheels of regime change in motion, and that those wheels would later drive Boris Yeltsin into Moscow on a tank to declare the end of the communist party.
The more I learned about the Chernobyl accident, the more I became interested in the causes instead of the effects. The explosion at reactor four in the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant came to look like the perfect embodiment of all that was wrong with the Soviet system, each event leading up to its destruction representing a different ill that was undermining the foundations holding the country in place.
If you’re anything like Janice, or me before I visited Chernobyl, most of what you know about the accident might be a little bit off.
You probably assume, as I did, that it happened in a place called Chernobyl, which it didn’t, and that the surrounding area was immediately abandoned, which it wasn’t. How many people died in the initial explosion? If you’d asked me before I went to Ukraine, I would have guessed somewhere between a few hundred and a few thousand. The actual number is two.
This isn’t to say that the Chernobyl accident wasn’t bad, because it was, or that its victims weren’t numerous, because they were.
But in visiting I feel, above all, I’d spent my whole life being told the wrong story.
Just before one thirty a.m. on April 26, 1986, two explosions destroyed a reactor at the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant. In the days that followed, the reactor released large quantities of radioactive material into the atmosphere.
As a result, radioactive particles covered the surrounding areas and were carried by winds as far as Western Europe. The majority of the waste fell in Belarus, which received 70 percent of all radioactive material released in the accident.
It can be difficult to quantify Chernobyl’s human toll. Death estimates are hard to come by and subject to heated debate, because the diseases caused by radiation can take a long time to appear.
The problem in Chernobyl was less initial exposure, which caused thirty-one deaths in the days and weeks immediately after the accident, but rather, the long-term effects of contamination. In Belarus, and also, to lesser degrees, in Ukraine and Russia, land, water, agriculture, livestock, and wildlife all absorbed radiation to which humans would eventually be exposed when they ate, drank, bathed in, or otherwise came in contact with these contaminated entities.
Many people did so unknowingly, because the Soviet government’s overwhelming response to the Chernobyl accident was to try to cover it up.
I haven’t come to Ukraine intending to visit Chernobyl. Before I arrive, I’m not even sure it’s possible. Chernobyl is, after all, the site of the world’s worst nuclear disaster, and I figure the area would be off-limits to everyone except scientists, well-connected journalists, and maybe the occasional boy band trying to launch a comeback.
I’m therefore surprised to learn, at an insane-asylum-themed bar in Kiev, that Chernobyl is a quick, easy day trip from Kiev. A tour company will arrange all the permits, pick me up in Kiev, and return me at the end of the day, taking care of all food, transportation, and guiding in between.
I don’t know much about Chernobyl. I know it was an accident at a nuclear power plant, and that the radiation it released caused health problems for thousands of Soviet children. Children were the face of Chernobyl in 1990s America. A family in my neighborhood hosted Chernobyl children each summer—just being in the U.S., we were told, added years to their lives. As a result, the image I have of Chernobyl is of a place still teeming with fallout.
Presumably because I’m not the only one with this picture, the agencies that run trips to Chernobyl produce videos and detailed reports explaining how safe it is to take a day trip to the Exclusion Zone, a one-thousand-square-mile territory that was evacuated after the accident. Though I get the sense that no scientists have been consulted in the making of these materials, I also get the sense that enough people go that it can’t be that bad. The agencies pitch Chernobyl not as a nuclear fallout zone, but rather as a unique example of a once-thriving city that has now been abandoned, like a modern-day Pompeii.
I e-mail one of these tour companies because I’m curious. I feel guilty about doing this; it seems like gawking at tragedy. But despite my efforts to divert my attention to more wholesome sightseeing, like . . . churches?, I keep wondering what it would be like, a place so haunted by its past, a town that has been so quickly and irrevocably abandoned. I tell myself I won’t hurt anyone by going. All the bad stuff has already happened. Besides, I’m so close. What harm is there in getting closer? Well, you know, besides radioactivity.
Maybe as a way of easing my conscience, the day before I leave for Chernobyl I go to a cave monastery.
I’ve never been to a cave monastery before, but it’s pretty much exactly what it sounds like: an underground network of churches, living spaces, and tombs that monks started digging in the eleventh century.
I’ve learned that the Russian Orthodox churches across the former Soviet Union are usually worth ducking inside. The interiors are festooned in spectacular paintings, the altars covered by gold-leaf grates. The most striking difference between these and Catholic churches is that here you aren’t allowed to sit down. There aren’t any pews, because worshipers remain standing throughout services. If you do find a bench and sit down for a moment of reflection, you’ll be shooed away b
y an angry babushka.
I’ve also developed an irrational fear of Orthodox holy men, who roam church grounds in floor-length black robes, long beards, and sometimes black veils. They exude a heavy masculine vibe and remind me of the time one publicly chastised me for wearing shorts.
Unbeknownst to me, I’m standing in line to descend directly into the tomb portion of the cave monastery, where the remains of Orthodox monks are displayed in glass cases.
I’ve covered my head, using the scarf bestowed upon me at the Tajik stranger’s baby’s birthday party, but apparently this is not a sufficient display of modesty, because a monk is now pulling me out of line and pushing me back up the stairs muttering, in English, “No, no, no, no, no.”
For a moment, I’m too flustered by the fact that someone has correctly read me as an Anglophone to process what is happening. A strange quirk of traveling in the former Soviet Union is that most people of European and Asian heritage can pass for local. The USSR spanned such a large swath of the world that everyone from fair-skinned redheads to Mediterranean Turkmen to ethnic Koreans can easily be native Russian speakers. Like many Americans, I’m used to traveling to Europe in clothes purchased from Europe, and before I even open my mouth to butcher the local language, the person in the shop says, “How can I help you?” in English. It’s refreshing to visit places where locals are surprised when my accent gives me away as an Anglophone, and also as someone with truly horrendous Russian grammar. How has this monk seen through me? Does he have special powers?
Then I remember that I’m being pushed up the stairs by a monk, of whom I’m technically afraid. It’s one thing to face your fears, but it’s another thing to find them affixed to your shoulders, like you are a horse, and they are the carriage.
We conga-line over to a rack holding the kind of smocks you put on a preschooler who’s about to make art. Still murmuring a steady chant of “No, no, no, no, no, no, no,” the monk points to a sign with a picture of shapely women’s legs in pants, covered by a giant X, beside a picture of the same legs under a floor-length skirt, which does not have an X.
The smocks apparently come in different sizes, and the monk looks me up and down while flipping through the rack to find the one that will best suit me, all the while continuing to mumble, “No.” He pulls out a smock and holds it up to me before nodding approvingly and handing it over. Then he turns and walks away before I can thank him, or even make sense of his eye for smock fitting.
I tie the smock around my waist and get back in line, feeling somewhere between shaken and silly. If you’ve never worn a unisex smock in public, let me assure you: it’s not flattering.
I descend into the cramped, candlelit caves. The flickering candlelight makes only a minimal dent in the vast darkness of the caves, which is probably for the best, because they are jammed full of glass coffins. These are not tombstones marking the graves of deceased holy men; these are mummified monks.
This I did not sign up for. I like to think I’m semicomfortable with the idea of death, but I don’t particularly enjoy staring it in the face. And I mean that literally: here, inches away from my nose, is the actual face of a person who died four hundred years ago.
After approximately twenty seconds, I’m thoroughly creeped out and ready to leave. But because the caves are arranged in a narrow, winding labyrinth, ducking out early isn’t really an option. We all have to file through in a line. To make matters worse, most of the grown men in that line are silently weeping. I remind myself that many of these people are pilgrims who have come to be somber and reverent. I will add to that atmosphere. But I will not kiss the coffins right above the feet.
I shuffle past on the slow conveyor belt of devout believers, trying my best not to gawk at the bodies or ruin the mood for the people to whom this is meaningful. Soft chanting plays in the background.
Suddenly, the chanting cuts out and overhead fluorescent lights flicker on. A group of living monks appear to usher us out of the tombs, like it’s long past closing time at a bar and we’re the bachelorette party needlessly debating whether to order another round of shots.
The harsh lighting is not doing wonders for the nonliving monks. They look significantly less miraculously preserved than they did in the soft glow of candlelight. Their bodies seem small and shriveled; it’s a reminder of my own mortality that I did not exactly go out looking for.
The live monks usher us out of a fire exit that dumps us straight onto the sidewalk, like a secret escape from a mad scientist’s castle. If this ruined the experience for any of the pilgrims, they don’t let on. The women remove their head scarves. The men wipe tears from the corners of their eyes. We all depart to get on with the rest of our days.
I’m halfway to the metro when I realize I’m still wearing the smock.
By the 1980s, unrest was spreading across the Soviet Union. Growing disillusionment had been spurred at least in part by the economy, which had begun to falter in the previous decade. Wages stagnated; consumer goods were less readily available. The government’s efforts to keep out information from the West were increasingly futile. Through radios and smuggled publications, Soviet citizens were catching glimpses of a different way of life, which, to many, looked more appealing.
The Soviet system centered around a planned economy in which the government set everything from the number of employees at a company to the prices people paid at department stores. Each year, the central planning committee handed down production targets and quotas for each farm and factory in the country.
Managers were often expected to exceed these production quotas. In practice, this was almost always impossible. So it had become common for the managers to instead fudge numbers on their own production reports to make it look like they had surpassed the requirements. This behavior wasn’t limited to factory managers. Unrealistic targets handed down from Moscow encouraged everyone from elite government ministers to the lowly assembly line workers to lie, cut corners, and cover up mistakes so that everything looked good on paper.
On paper, the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant was a model power station. In reality, it blew up twice.
In 1984, the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant launched reactor four into operation two months ahead of schedule. This was no small feat for the time and place. In the 1980s, the Soviet Union was experiencing increases in demand for energy and decreases in pretty much everything else—money, available construction materials, morale.
For all of these reasons, Moscow was eager to develop alternative sources of energy. Nuclear energy was particularly attractive, because the Soviet Union was also blessed with vast deposits of uranium.
The Soviet Union was notorious for delays in virtually all construction projects, both because project managers knowingly underestimated the time required to complete a project in order to ensure approval, and because the central planning committee regularly overpromised resources.
Thus, when Chernobyl was able to launch its newest reactor ahead of schedule, it was celebrated as a major victory.
Nuclear reactors launched in two phases. The first phase was a soft launch devoted solely to testing and, if necessary, repairing each of the reactor’s complex systems and components. After successful testing, the reactor launched into full commercial operations.
The full battery of inspections and tests usually took at least six months to complete, and even longer if there were problems. But it was here that the Chernobyl team was able to shave two months off the schedule. The way in which it did that may be the reason you’ve heard of Chernobyl today.
To prep for my visit to the actual power plant, I take the metro from the cave monastery to the Ukrainian National Chernobyl Museum, which is located in Kiev.
The building that houses the museum was originally a fire station. From the outside, it still looks like one. The ground level has a row of polished wooden doors the rough dimensions of something a shiny red fire truck would drive out of to save a burning building. Perhaps to reduce the impact of visu
al association, the museum had inexplicably parked a tank out front.
Inside, the museum tells the entire story of the Chernobyl accident and its aftermath in incredible detail. Some might argue, too much detail.
Russian museums tend to be very thorough. “I’m not sure visitors need to see this candy wrapper that was made two decades before Lenin was born” is a sentence I doubt any Russian docent has uttered.
The Chernobyl Museum’s collection features such objects as spoons similar to those used in the power plant’s cafeteria. I have opted for the audio guide, which lists every fact pertinent to all fifty objects in each display case. “The booklet on the bottom right is a ration booklet for a typical family of four. It contains coupons for three kilograms of meat, twelve kilograms of potatoes, one kilogram of flour, seven kilograms of rice, and three oranges, which the family could use at one of seventeen markets operating in the city, which took up seventy-six hectares of land. Beside this, you’ll see a photograph of a playground, typical of those found in each of the city’s forty-five residential compounds.”
I can tell that the voice actor who recorded the English audio guide found this script just as exhausting as I do. As the audio guide goes on, the actor becomes noticeably bored, sighing more frequently, and then flubbing his lines, clearing his throat, and starting over from the beginning. These stumbles are not edited out. “Track twenty-eight,” he begins wearily. “There were three men in charge of reactor four that flight. AHEM. Track twenty-eight. There were three men in charge of reactor four that night.”
The final exhibit is a large, dimly lit room that the museum would have no trouble renting out as a set for horror movies. Creepy music plays in the background while a seemingly random assortment of objects dangles from the ceiling: a doll, a map of the world, large furniture.
“The floor looks like a chessboard,” the audio guide announces, “reminding us of the game of life.” The guide moves on, leaving me to wonder if I’m missing a very obvious connection between the Chernobyl disaster and the game of life, and also what, exactly, the game of life is.
Open Mic Night in Moscow Page 24
