Amaury Dreher - Opalescence - The Secret of Pripyat

—Where is the sports complex? I asked.

He pointed to a building.

Although I had passed it dozens of times, I would never have recognised it. It seemed new to me.

—I’m waiting for you there, don’t hang around too much, it’s very busy around here.

Unable to know whether his sentence was ironic or not, I was heading for the Azure Pool. This famous swimming pool. Now idolised by gamers all over the world, it was once a commonplace of relaxation, where the youth of Pripyat could enjoy swimming and other aquatic pleasures. Our parents took us there as often as possible, to rest and let us unwind on weekends. The exercise was important under the Soviet Union, as was the greatness of communist ideology, of which Fizkultura was conceived as a driving force. The bourgeoisie had to be evacuated with fathoms and acrobatic dives. You had to become champions, have a sense of effort and be among the best to represent your country in major international competitions.

I walked through the gym and its basketball court with its dislocated parquet floor. Slightly tense, I cross a doorway to reach the pool. He appears in front of me, appearing almost violently in my eyes. I started to have a knotted stomach, but decided to get closer to the edge, remembering the first time. I had learned to swim in that pool. The smell of chlorine, cold tiles, fog on the windows, the whistle of the lifeguard. These feelings came back to me, possessed me. Moody, I felt the need to touch the small diving board, the only one I had dared to use during my childhood. Stripped of water, the basin seemed larger, deeper, more threatening too. Its walls were decorated with quite ugly graffiti. The vandals had been there too.

Surprisingly, the site did not appear to be any better preserved than the rest of Pripyat’s facilities. Indeed, the Azure pool had been abandoned a decade after the disaster; it had benefited from the attendance of workers employed on the damaged reactor and should therefore have been in a much better condition. The workers had been swimming in radioactive water for years. It was only in 1996 that its final evacuation was ordered, as the sanitary conditions were considered too critical. The roof was obsolete and elements had already come off. It was only a matter of time before it collapsed. One of the most iconic places in the city would then become a vast pile of rubble and buried memories.

The glass facades obviously no longer existed, yawning gaps had replaced them, revealing an exterior that had previously been invisible due to condensation. Strangely, the clock was almost intact, the hands were well present and the red marked dial seemed ready for use. Was it the original? Not so sure. Despite an intense effort, I could not remember this detail. My thoughts were interrupted by the vibrations of my phone. It was Oleksandr. The fine man was still waiting outside. The message indicated to me laconically:

“Come back.”

Disappointed, I reluctantly left the sports complex. I would have liked to linger, remain in this symbolic place and confuse my memories with the present reality. This sudden departure made me want to return.

I arrived outside, my heart a little frustrated, as if I had been torn from a sweet dream at the most critical moment, that of its fulfilment. In the distance already, the evening shadows were disseminating. The trees flickered to the rhythm of the wind and the darkness moved forward.

Oleksandr was waiting for me, sluggishly slumped against a dying pine stump. He signalled to me that it was time to leave and we walked a few minutes through the forest, following a meagre path around the city. The mysterious Jeep appeared again, this time with another driver and led us to the breach of our arrival. In a hurry and without exchanging a word, we crossed the barbed wire a little like experienced fugitives. It was only once inside Oleksandr’s vehicle that he agreed to speak.

—So did you like it? Did you see what you wanted?

—In part. It was much too short, I wish I had more time. I feel a huge potential here.

—Potential for what?

—I don’t know. To discover, observe, interpret…

—Are you planning on coming back?” asked Oleksandr, scratching his head, looking thoughtful.

—Maybe. I don’t know if that’s possible, but I’d like to spend more time there.

—All right, I could take you there a second time. Maybe we can camp on site.

—Oh, really?

Oleksandr did not answer. He was driving at full speed, kicking his steering wheel too fast. He wanted to avoid patrols, because we had no authorisation and our expedition was totally illegal. The engine was rumbling and the tires were squealing. The heating was not working. Outside, the mystery of the fog was spreading.

That was the end of my first foray into the Zone. I had only been there for two hours, it was insufficient and particularly frustrating. I felt like I had sneaked a glimpse of my past, of having caressed buried memories. I now wanted to take it and explore these remains. I felt disappointed, I had not entered any building other than the sports centre or visited any neighbourhood. Images were running through my head, building facades, silhouettes of trees. There was so much to see, so much to discover. My brief meeting with Pripyat could not stop there. In Oleksandr’s car, I was slumped on my seat in an almost religious way, my eyes closed and my hands joined. Absorbed by the silence, I was already planning my return.

A few days later. 4:54 p.m., around the Zone.

My GPS was clear, I was less than 300 meters from the breach, the access so much sought. I had taken care to discreetly note the coordinates in my phone during my first incursion. This time I’ll go without Oleksandr. I wanted to confront myself alone with my memories.

I entered the Night Zone, fed by adrenaline and proudly wearing my infrared glasses. For this little adventure, I had meticulously equipped myself. I had brought a tent, a sleeping bag and various equipment: a HD camcorder and a thermal camera to keep track of my observations and finally a distress beacon in case I got lost. Provisions too. There is no question of finding a fast food restaurant or picking up contaminated mushrooms. Finally, I had hidden a knife in a secret pocket with the candid hope of not having to use it. No specific itinerary had been planned. I’ll improvise.

I walked quickly through the forest, following a semblance of a trail. Not very agile, but determined, my steps creaked in the snow while my head avoided as best it could the branches that seemed to want to grab me, dissuade me from continuing my journey. I had no fears. The adrenaline and excitement of the broken prohibition ran through my body, diffusing a new and oh so tasty energy! I didn’t know exactly what I was going to do in the area, the important thing was to go there, to see, feel, touch and breathe. So I left without a clear plan. My instincts alone would guide me.

I was thinking of spending two or three nights in the Zone. Probably more. There was obviously no question of sleeping at the Chernobyl Hotel, this hideous building built to accommodate falsely intrepid tourists. I’ll go to Pripyat to sleep, like in the good old days.

Contrary to popular belief, the exclusion zone is indeed inhabited, and not only by Babushkas. Administrative staff were responsible for managing the huge territory. There were also technicians whose mission was to watch over the sarcophagus and cleaning operations, but also scientists or simply inhabitants who had chosen to return. As a result, anyone entering the Chernobyl exclusion zone can observe buildings with episodically bright windows and where almost normal lives seem to be taking place. According to Oleksandr, the city of Chernobyl even had a bar where a cable TV broadcast old football matches, all to Maradona’s glory. The barter was almost always empty in winter, few workers were present in the Zone at that time.