The main access roads are filled with heaps of sand prohibiting cars to advance toward Chernobyl. But there are alternate routes through the forest. One such path was a dirt road that partisans used in WWII to ambush Nazi encampments. As if possessed by a demonic spirit, Nikolai is driving  full throttle through the forest as if there was no tomorrow and after a hellish ride of about 20 minutes on this unmarked path we arrived at a clearing with a little lake.

Petr Wasiliejvitch and his friends had set up a makeshift table under a protective rain cover mounted to the trees. The table was set with a rich assortment of food. While the sons were preparing the fish over a provisional BBQ station, Petr’s friends were serving self-made lukewarm Vodka in plastic cups filled to the rim. It is 9:45 in the morning, we had not had breakfast yet but find ourselves in the middle of a Vodka toast with six pairs of eyes watching us closely during consumption. Eventually, were seated at the table, the gentleman to my left kept filling our and his cup with more Vodka. While our host emptied  his cup with one sip, I waited for an opportune moment to toss the contents of mine under the table. Soon after the food was ready. It consisted of fish, potatoes, mushrooms, onions, tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers, grapes and apples, all of which gathered and caught from the most contaminated soil and water on the planet.

Soon after we left the “weekend hideout” and proceeded to drive to Narodichi. Well, the day had started out rather strange, but little did we know that it soon should get even weirder.

While Nikolai was off to meet the mayor of Narodichi, we took a stroll through the small city park filled with memorials to both WWII soldiers and Chernobyl victims. In essence, nobody is supposed to live within the forbidden zones I to IV. When the residents of the Chernobyl region were forcefully evacuated after the reactor explosion, Russian officials told them that they should take food and clothes for three days with them. After that, they would be allowed to return to their homes. Over those three days, thousands of families were crammed into buses and trains without informing them about the end destination. Countless families got displaced in this manner and forced to settle in regions alien to them and where they were most unwelcome. If people learned you hailed from the Chernobyl region, the stigma was instant and unforgiving. Over the years, some people moved back into the forbidden zone clandestinely. Their rationale was that radioactivity was the lesser evil, living sigmatized in the diaspora without work, social mobility, or acceptance was significantly worse. All in all, as per 2012 as many as 4,000 people were assumed to be living within the contaminated zones. As a result, the Ukrainian government requested these people to move to Narodichi, so they could at lease create a small community with some form of infrastructure. By and large, most of the returned dwellers settled in and around Narodichi. A school was put in place, an infirmary was established with doctors on rotating schedules, there is even an ambulance for emergencies. And Narodichi even has a jail.

All in all, that day we saw maybe 3 people in and around Narodichi. It is a ghost town, plain and simple. Every so often you see a horse drawn carriage from the previous century passing through the streets. A lonely boy with a fishing rod strides along the river bank hopeful to catch his next meal. Now and then you see a lonely horse grazing on the pastures.

As we left the park we took a stroll down one of the adjacent streets and stopped at an intersection. My friend Joseph and I stood and debated which way to go next as I saw what looked like a human body in the gutter at the very end of the street. We were really too far away to see if indeed it was a body or just a pile of clothes. So we took a closer look and as we approached it became instantly clear that this was a human being face down on the edge of the curb. We checked for his vitals and got a pulse. So he was still alive. We gently rolled him over and saw the culprit immediately. He was lying on top of an empty bottle of Vodka that he was still clutching onto with both hands. He had simply drunk himself into unconscious oblivion. But what to do next in a township where there are no people around, where there are no cell towers to place an emergency call? We went from door to door in the hope of finding a person who could make a call on a land-line. We must have knocked on about 100 doors until somebody opened. An elderly woman, clearly not used to receiving house calls, looked at us as if we were from another planet. We gestured vividly signaling her to follow us, which she did eventually. Once she understood what had happened she went back inside and called the local infirmary who sent the ambulance right away. The doctor who arrived at the scene knew the man. He proceeded to pump that man’s stomach right there on the spot. While he did that he also told us that this is a daily occurrence in this region. People who had moved back to this area have nothing, no job, no hope, no future. So they drink their sorrows away. Most of them distill their own Vodka at home, and then they drink uncontrollably to numb their despair.