Sneaking Into Chernobyl

Sneaking past security, hiking sixty kilometres at night and sleeping in an abandoned apartment: my five-day stay inside the Chernobyl Exclusion Zone.

My fascination with Chernobyl developed at a young age. The idea of exploring a post-apocalyptic world, devoid of human activity, captivated me. I knew it was possible to enter as part of a tour group, but the tours were strict, visiting only a few places for a brief time. That wasn’t what I wanted. I sought the freedom to explore without restrictions, to see sights deemed unsafe. The thought of being stuck in a guided group bored me; it didn’t involve any real adventure. I wanted to sneak in.

After months of research, I found a contact willing to help me achieve my goal. We brought in another adventurer, and the three of us organised our trip and discussed our route together. Climbing over barbed wire, crossing rivers and traversing forest at night — it wasn’t going to be easy. A gruelling sixty-kilometre journey, with an abandoned city as our reward.

We sat in silence, my stomach twisting with nervous excitement, as our car sped toward the exclusion zone. My heart had been pounding with anxiety since arriving in Kiev earlier that day. Then the reality of the situation hit me: I was about to enter one of the most radioactive places on earth. Our car stopped; we climbed out quietly and scrambled into the cover of nearby trees. Branches scratched my skin as we blindly made our way through the woods. A barbed-wire fence appeared in front of us, marking the border of Chernobyl. We crossed it and entered the exclusion zone.

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That night consisted of a lot of walking. We hiked through kilometres of overgrown trails, forest tracks and tar-sealed roads. The roads were the hardest; police cars often patrolled at night, hoping to catch illegal visitors. While trekking down a long, straight road, we saw headlights approach behind us. We scurried off and lay down amongst the trees. As the car passed, we held our breath and prayed we wouldn’t get caught, staying motionless until the lights faded into the distance. Brushing ourselves off, we resumed our journey.

Hours passed, and eventually we approached a river. We removed our boots, stripped down to our underwear and waded into the fast-flowing water. I felt relieved to reach the other side without getting soaked. Thorny bushes hindered our progress as we continued deeper into the zone. After hours of walking, the three of us grew weary, and we knew it was time to sleep. We found a clearing, rolled out our sleeping mats and passed out under the bright, star-filled sky.

The sun rose, bringing our surroundings to life with colour. A dense pine forest encircled the sandy-brown tussock where we had set up camp. We set off, heading towards a Soviet radar. Now abandoned, it had been used during the Cold War to detect missiles. As we arrived, I realised how massive the structure was. It loomed above us, standing almost five hundred metres tall. We decided to climb it. The steel beams creaked and moaned in the wind. A nerve-racking ascent followed as we climbed the frail ladders, platform after platform. The effort proved worth it: a phenomenal view greeted us at the top, the sun setting over a sea of dark green.

That night we passed through abandoned farms and villages. Barns and farm vehicles had been left to rot in the fields. We cooked our dinner in an old, boarded-up bus. Our bellies full and spirits high, we carried on toward the abandoned city: Pripyat. Walking through the forest, I noticed tall, dark shadows on either side of me. My eyes focused, and I realised the shadows were actually lifeless buildings — we had arrived. Our unofficial guide, Oleg, had an apartment set up for us. He led us through overgrown streets until we reached our home for the night. It was on the fourth floor of a nine-storey block: a humble flat, filled only with a few beds, a cupboard stocked with supplies, and a small desk covered in books and magazines.

I awoke to the sun shining through a dusty, cracked window. It illuminated the peeling paint and indent-covered walls of our room. After breakfast, we emerged cautiously from our apartment and began to explore the city. Our first stop was a Soviet-style nursery: a large, square block with a central courtyard. Its rooms were littered with decaying dolls and child-size gas masks — relics from a time when nuclear war was an imminent threat. It filled me with a sense of dread.

Following footpaths overgrown with leafy trees proved difficult. I felt like an explorer pushing through a jungle trail en route to a lost city. As we approached each road, Oleg would caution us to stop while he went ahead. His head scanning from side to side, he would beckon us forward when the coast was clear. From the undergrowth emerged an elevated set of stairs. They formed a decrepit, unfinished stadium. The climb up the stairs was hot and sweaty, the sun beating down on our backs. I found a cool spot in the shade and settled onto a rotting bench seat. Peering down at the ground below, I imagined athletes running sprints and playing sports.

Oleg answered his phone, speaking rapidly in Ukrainian. After a short exchange, he hung up and turned to me with a smile. “I have a present for you.” He disappeared behind a derelict building. Moments later he returned with a large, brown plastic bottle: one litre of lager. “Magic!” he proclaimed, a sly grin on his face. I laughed in astonishment. Weaving through Pripyat, we found ourselves at a huge concrete square: the city centre. The scorching midday sun sent us in search of shade. Inside a dull, grey building we discovered a dark cinema. Resting our weary legs, we pulled down the fold-out seats and kicked up our feet. Staring at the blank projector screen, we discussed how grand the cinema would’ve been in its prime. I imagined the Soviet propaganda films that would have played there. Pausing to ponder, we took turns swigging the fizzy beer. Despite being warm, the malty drink tasted divine.

When the charm of the cinema faded, we returned to our apartment, seizing the afternoon as a chance to rest. Oleg had a plan to meet his friends on the roof of a fourteen-storey block. He decided to freshen up first, so he led us to the Pripyat River for a swim. I was initially hesitant about the idea, worrying that the water could be contaminated with radioactive particles. Thomas, our German companion, jumped straight in without hesitation. I followed reluctantly at first, but eventually my anxiety faded; I swam and enjoyed the crisp water. The scenery was gorgeous; fields of tall grass spanned far into the distance. Upstream, a dilapidated, half-sunken structure was reflected in the water. Golden hues from the setting sun began to appear in the afternoon sky.

The city sat in silence, broken only occasionally by the chirping of birds. We reached the fourteen-storey building and began ascending its seemingly never-ending flight of stairs. The sound of our boots on broken glass echoed harshly through the levels. When the upward climb finally ended, we stepped outside and were greeted by a spectacular view. Blocks of high-rises struggled to poke through the treetops, slowly succumbing to the nature reclaiming the land. I heard footsteps far below. Looking down, I could see a couple entering the building: Oleg’s friends. They joined us on the roof, and we ate traditional Ukrainian food: thick rye bread, pork fat and raw garlic. We washed it down with vodka infused with honey and chilli, and admired the serenity surrounding us.

 

The next morning we struggled to pull ourselves out of bed. The previous night had consisted of drinking and sharing stories into the early hours of the morning. After a strong cup of coffee and a bowl of porridge, we set off for the Pripyat Hospital. On arrival, we explored the ground and upper levels. Cabinets filled with syringes and medicine bottles were everywhere. Hospital beds with dirty linen looked as though they hadn’t been touched since they held their last patients around 30 years ago. We came across a desk with a dusty fire-fighter’s mask sitting on top. Oleg warned us not to get too close. He pulled out his Geiger counter, and it immediately started screeching. The radiation coming from the mask was extremely high. It had belonged to one of the fire-fighters who extinguished the blaze at the nuclear reactor. They were treated at the hospital afterward, but due to lethal radiation exposure they didn’t survive more than a few hours.

Evening arrived, and we were eager to explore more. We passed through the ghost city and weaved our way through the now-familiar trees and buildings. On the far side, we arrived at a place known as the graveyard. It looked like a desert; sand stretched for hundreds of metres. Radioactive hazard signs cluttered the area, like red flags marking a minefield. “What is this place?” I asked. “Contaminated soil was dumped here,” Oleg responded. I felt uneasy, but he reassured me it was completely safe.

A lake appeared, glimmering like a mirage at the far end of the graveyard. Three massive, rusty cranes stood tall like giraffes on the far bank. They had been sitting unused since the catastrophe. Their final task had been building a sarcophagus over the power plant — a job that had left them incredibly contaminated. “Let’s climb one,” Thomas urged eagerly. Excitement rushed through me at the idea. Oleg pondered for a moment before warning us of the danger. “The metal cranes still emit a large amount of beta radiation. It would be a bad idea to touch them with bare skin.” He lent me his gloves while he waited at the base. Thomas and I began to climb. The ladders groaned with every step; each rung felt more fragile than the last. Reaching the top, I gazed out over the lake. The tranquil water was a mix of pink and blue, the sun a glowing orb gradually descending beneath the horizon.

It was dark by the time we arrived back at the apartment. Oleg suggested having a shower and tea on the rooftop. “We have some spare water bottles filled from the river; we can use them to bathe,” he told us. We brewed some tea and scaled the stairs. I found myself standing under the starry sky, overlooking the empty city. In the near distance a red light was shining; it glowed from the top of the power plant. Four days earlier, I couldn’t have imagined myself in this scenario — bathing naked on a rooftop in Chernobyl, so close to the worst radioactive disaster on earth. After the shower I warmed myself by drinking tea, then went downstairs to sleep.

I awoke to water bubbling above the blue flame of the gas cooker. We dug into our final breakfast: porridge with meat and vegetables. After sipping some hot coffee, we packed our bags and said our final goodbyes to the apartment. We walked in silence as we made our way to our last destination: a boom box factory. That’s what it was known as during the Cold War. The plant contained only one room dedicated to producing stereos; the rest of the factory focused on top-secret military technology.

Before we entered, we needed to refill our water bottles. Oleg stopped at a wooden crate covering a sewer manhole. He asked for our empty bottles before disappearing down the hole. “Stephen, catch!” he yelled as a water bottle came flying out of the darkness. It was filled with cool, clear water. Two more bottles followed. We rehydrated and then proceeded into the factory. Half of it had collapsed due to poor construction, unable to withstand the weight of snowfall in the harsh winters. Some of the rooms had been used more recently by engineers. Designs for radiation-resistant robots lay scattered across the tables.

We had arranged a driver to take us out of the exclusion zone: a high-ranking official who made extra cash by giving illegal visitors rides. Not long after leaving the factory, we reached the pick-up point. It felt like something out of a movie: a quarry filled with rusty machinery, surrounded by railway tracks and trees. We found some bushes and hid while we waited for our unconventional taxi.

A white van sped down the bumpy dirt road and into the quarry. A cloud of dust engulfed the vehicle as it came to a sudden stop. We held our breath and waited in anticipation. Could this be our ride, or were we about to be caught? Oleg slowly reached for his mobile and dialled a number. He spoke softly before giving us a nod. “I’ll go first, but don’t follow too close,” he began. “If anyone else is in the van when the door opens, run!” Hearing Oleg’s distrust of our driver, I began to feel nervous. We hustled out of the bushes and approached the vehicle. A middle-aged man wearing a baseball cap, shorts and sandals stepped out. He opened the back door. Empty, I thought to myself, and let out an audible sigh of relief. There were no seats in the back. We jumped in and tried to make ourselves comfortable on the oily floor.

The van flew down the road, and every pothole slammed my body against the hard floor. An hour or so passed before Oleg turned and spoke to us. “Get ready, we’re almost there.” The van came to a stop. We grabbed our backpacks and rushed out the back door. Our driver looked nervous as he scanned the surrounding landscape. Oleg expressed his gratitude and shook the man’s hand. We thanked him hurriedly and then scurried into the nearby trees.

After hiking two kilometres, we arrived at a clearing — our final obstacle before we reached safety. The sun glared down intensely from the centre of the cloudless sky. Any nearby police patrol would see us for certain. Oleg moved into the open first; he ordered us to wait for his signal. Creeping forward, watching vigilantly with every step, he eventually reached the opposite end of the clearing. When he lifted his hand, Thomas started to sprint and I tailed closely behind. We reached the safety of the other side and then triumphantly crossed the barbed-wire fence. We had made it! I felt extremely satisfied knowing I had escaped Chernobyl without getting caught. It had been everything I had hoped for and more: rough at times, but ultimately rewarding. I will remember the experience for the rest of my life.