April 26 marks the 35th anniversary of the Chernobyl nuclear powerplant disaster in Ukraine (then in the Soviet Union). This devastating explosion was the worst nuclear disaster the world had known, leading to the establishment of an exclusion zone in the surrounding region, including neighboring Belarus, which suffered significant fallout as a result of a radiation wind plume.
While the 2019 HBO series Chernobyl sparked an increase in interest in the Ukrainian site, the Belarusian section began to welcome tourists in late 2018. Travel writer Richard Collett journeyed to Belarus to visit the exclusion zone, recounting his unique experiences.
The Silence of Dronki
It’s quiet in Dronki—eerily so. The only sounds breaking the hushed silence are the rustling trees and the methodical, high-pitched beeps of a Geiger counter.
Dronki: A Village Frozen in Time
Dronki has been locked down for thirty-five years. Located deep within a nuclear exclusion zone, guides sweep the ground ahead for radiation before proceeding. Curious tourists peer out from the parked minibus, aware that no one has lived here since the meltdown of Chernobyl’s reactor on April 26, 1986.
Only 16 miles north of the infamous Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant, this location is not part of Ukraine. Dronki lies in Belarus, where up to 70 percent of Chernobyl’s nuclear fallout settled when the wind began to blow north. Once home to over 20,000 people, approximately 800 square miles of irradiated land now forms one of Europe’s largest wildernesses—a remarkable nature preserve where bison roam free in the shadows of Soviet statues, honey-making bees thrive in the forests, and the rare Przewalski’s horse gallops across former collective farmland.
“It’s safe,” our Geiger-counting guides call from the road ahead. This area is as safe as a place can be that experienced extreme nuclear fallout just thirty-five years ago.
The Nature of Belarusian Chernobyl
“Chernobyl is very glamorous now,” remarks Karina Sitnik, discussing the popular dark tourist destination just across the border. “Especially Pripyat,” she adds. “It’s so touristy there. But you are one of the first to visit the Belarusian side.”
Interestingly, while the site of the world’s worst nuclear disaster might not generally be described as “glamorous,” Ukraine’s exclusion zone has become just that since the release of the HBO series. Enthusiasts eagerly sought photos with Geiger counters in front of the iconic Ferris wheel.
In stark contrast to the bustling day tours on the Ukrainian side, Sitnik and her company, Walk to Folk, have only recently received permission to organize a limited number of tours in Belarus’ exclusion zone since late 2018. Originally, Sitnik had only made about ten visits prior to the pandemic-induced restrictions.
Dronki: The Abandoned Village
“Pripyat was a model Soviet town,” Sitnik explains as we carefully navigate the abandoned school of Dronki, where a person-sized portrait of Lenin’s head dominates a dusty corner. In Belarus, these villages were ordinary places to live but, like Pripyat, they were caught in a Soviet-era timewarp when residents were evacuated from the fallout zone.
Dronki was home to 232 people before the disaster. Unlike Pripyat, the rural south of Belarus did not have high-rise apartment blocks or shopping complexes.
In the classroom, Sitnik spots fascinated dark tourists examining maps of the Soviet Union, communist portraits, newspapers dating back to 1986, and books stamped with hammers and sickles. “Don’t take anything from the exclusion zone back home,” she warns. “No souvenirs; they can be radioactive. It’s better for your health to leave them here.”
While the Soviet Union may have disappeared, radiation remains. Authorities deem radiation levels ‘safe’ for brief visits; older people are permitted back once a year to visit cemeteries and war memorials, but no one has ever been allowed to permanently return to Dronki or any of the other 95 abandoned villages in the exclusion zone.
As we follow the Pripyat River, we notice barges and boats rusting along the banks. The next village we visit is encircled by open farmland, and it’s even possible to glimpse Pripyat and the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant from the top of a 30-meter high fire watchtower on a clear day.
“Pripyat is always busy,” Sitnik notes, pointing toward the city in the distance. “However, you can visit Belarusian Chernobyl and find yourself among only twenty people and a few dogs!”
Belarusian Chernobyl is certainly home to more than just a few stray dogs. As we travel down a heavily wooded road, the driver abruptly halts the minibus.
“Bison,” Sitnik announces. “Look through those buildings!”
Through the shattered windows of a derelict house, we spot the unmistakable silhouettes of two bison; one large, one small. Since their introduction in 1996, the population of rare European bison has risen to 145.
“The exclusion zone is essentially a large wildlife sanctuary,” Sitnik explains. Officially titled the Polesie State Radioecological Reserve, this off-limits area has unintentionally become Belarus’s largest nature reserve, encompassing 1251 species of plants, 54 mammals (including wolves, wild dogs, and the endangered Przewalski’s horse), and 280 species of birds.
The final stop before decontamination is the exclusion zone’s research center. A radiochemist in military fatigues guides us through the facility, with Sitnik serving as our translator. Approximately 700 people are employed to study radiation’s effects on ecology, carry out conservation projects, and pursue economic activities such as sustainable logging. Interestingly, the latest initiative involves beekeeping, with bees thriving in the zone, and the radiochemist is currently testing honey for radiation levels.
Plans are underway to create accommodation for adventurous tourists willing to spend the night within the exclusion zone. However, this tourism focus is not strictly based on dark tourism, as observed in Ukraine’s Chernobyl, but rather reflects an emerging interest in wildlife tourism.
The tour concludes at a checkpoint on the edge of the exclusion zone. Before we can leave, the minibus is decontaminated with pressure hoses, and we each pass through human-sized Geiger counters. My shoes are scrubbed, and my feet undergo one final Geiger counter test to ensure no hidden plutonium isotopes escape the zone.
Sitnik is keen for more people to witness not only the incredible wildlife within the exclusion zone but also the enduring impact the Chernobyl disaster has had on Belarus. As tourism in this area is still in its infancy, Sitnik’s greatest concern is that the exclusion zone could eventually be opened to trophy hunting—a scenario she doesn’t envision for her country.
“The bison aren’t meant to be hunted,” Sitnik expresses anxiously as we pass through the last checkpoint, beginning our journey back to Minsk, the capital of Belarus. “But this is Belarus.”
