John O'Mahony 
               reports from the world's only radioactive nature reserve 

              Picnic at Chernobyl 
               "We gather round the tableto dine on local honey, apples and grapes - 
               and no one understandswhy I'm not hungry." 

               Saturday October 9, 1999 
              The Guardian

               In the deserted village of Lomachi, a tiny, scattered settlement on the border of Belarus and Ukraine, the forces
               of nature are running riot. Rows of abandoned peasant cottages, their carved wooden facades now bleached
               the colour and texture of lace, lie half-submerged under a tidal wave of hedgerow. At the back of a dilapidated
               barn, half a dozen wild boar are snuffling through vegetable plots left untended for over a decade. 

               Nearby, the pine trees have been stripped of their bark, a favourite habit of the bison that roam these
               woodlands in recently restocked numbers. On the way back to the car, we surprise three milk-white storks,
               trundling along the path, flapping their wings, refusing to let us pass. Only the accompanying chirp of the
               Geiger counter, now clocking up an alarming 572 micro-roentgens per hour, almost 40 times higher than
               normal background levels, gives any indication that Lomachi and its highly contaminated hinterland are
               actually part of what is officially known as the Polessky Radioactive Ecological Reserve, the only radioactive
               nature reserve in the world. 

               Barely 10km away is the hulking sarcophagus of Chernobyl's infamous reactor number 4, which exploded on
               the night of April 26 1986, releasing 10 times the amount of radiation of the bombs dropped on Hiroshima
               and Nagasaki put together, showering the ground here with almost 150m curies of radioactive strontium,
               caesium and plutonium. 

               It took the Soviet authorities two years to fully evacuate the area, currently marked on local maps with an
               ominous purplish blotch. When mankind moved out, the reserve was set up to monitor the effects of radiation
               on the plant and wildlife. Now the Polessky reservation stands as a curious monument to the nuclear power
               industry, the catastrophic failings of which were demonstrated again by last week's major accident at Japan's
               Tokaimura reprocessing plant. Covering almost 215,500 irradiated hectares on the Belarusian side of the
               border, the reserve employs 800 people dotted across two compounds and numerous observation posts. 

               Much of its resources are expended on fire prevention: a fleet of ancient Soviet fire trucks stands by to prevent
               the major conflagration that might result in a "second Chernobyl", with contamination carried by the smoke.
               Equally conspicuous is the army of scientists who don combat jackets and dosimeters to collect samples,
               measure ground radiation and monitor animals. As well as bison and boar, other inhabitants of the
               contaminated flatlands include roe deer, elk, Asiatic wild ass, lynx, fox, herons, swans and wolves. 

               Some 57 of Belarus's 85 species of rare birds live here. Many of the forests have been replanted and rivers
               restocked. Next year, bears will be added to the ecological cocktail. In the "cleaner" sectors of the 50km
               exclusion zone, officially off limits to agriculture, it's now possible to find a stud farm, a piggery, an aviary, an
               orchard, a peach grove, a hop field and a vineyard.

               "Everyone predicted that the radiation would wipe out everything in the zone," says Nikolai Voronetsky,
               reserve director. "But none of that has happened. I'm not even sure that the radiation influences the animals
               greatly. There are no 'mutants' wandering around, and we've found little evidence of ill effects. If anything, the
               animals live far better here than they would in other places. There are no hunters to kill them, no people to
               interfere in their natural habitat." 

               Any tour of the Polessky Reservation offers the added macabre attraction of being plunged back into the
               darkest depths of the Soviet Union. Under the backward, repressive regime of President Aleksander
               Lukashenko, Belarus has spent most of the post-Soviet period in suspended animation. Khoiniki, a few
               kilometres north of the 50km exclusion zone and site of the reserve's base compound, is perhaps the system's
               most shining example: a drab collection of ragged apartment blocks, served by rudimentary shops, a dismal
               restaurant, a café and "the night bar". 

               The centre of the clean-up operation in 1986, Khoiniki also bears the scars of the Chernobyl disaster.
               Childhood thyroid cancer rates run at 30 times the norm. "There is barely a family here without at least one
               child suffering from either cancer, birth defects or mysterious ailments," says Tatyana Loban, the reserve's
               chief engineer, a gregarious, maternal woman of 47 who was my guide. "At the hospital in Gomel, snipping
               away tumours has become routine." Approximately half the population has fled. Of the 20,000 people who
               remain, a significant proportion is supported by the reserve and its monthly salaries of $30-40: relatively high
               and, more importantly, paid regularly. 

               Crossing through a set of barriers emblazoned with radioactive symbols, we entered the reserve's inner
               compound, a clutch of former farm buildings that now serve as administration offices and laboratories. In the
               surrounding fields, the cleanest land on the reserve, with radiation levels not much higher than in Khoiniki,
               Tatyana proudly showed off agricultural projects: the lush peach groves, a vineyard bristling with tiny, purple
               grapes and an aviary where two hooded beekeepers were extracting honey from a hive. 

               While all of these projects have been termed "experimental", they also serve other, entirely non- scientific
               purposes: "We're not supposed to pick berries or mushrooms either," says Tatyana, sucking at one of the
               honeycombs. "But our poverty forces us. People simply shrug their shoulders and say, 'Does it really matter
               what we die of - hunger or radiation?'" 

               Venturing into the 30km section of the exclusion zone, the next stop was the log cabin of Valodya, one of
               about 20 people still living on the reserve. After he was discovered living in the shadow of the reactor in
               1989, he was moved to a less irradiated spot and given bison to tend: "I call them all Masha," he says with a
               smile. "The males and the females." 

               For Valodya, this land is a godsend. Radiation levels here are actually far less than he was exposed to when,
               in his youth, he lived in the vicinity of Chelyabinsk 40, the Soviet Union's first nuclear test and development
               site. "We've adapted to it," he says. "I've seen it all before in Chelyabinsk in 1957. The only difference is that
               the people who worked there were not free and had to sign papers to keep it all secret." 

               After leaving Valodya's cabin, it was a 20-minute drive through dense forests to our final destination: the most
               southerly point in Belarus and a clear view of reactor number 4. The observation base at the border is the
               responsibility of specialist Josif Skot, whose daily duties include measuring the effect on radiation levels of
               such variables as soil depth, wind speed and seasonal weather conditions. 

               Yearly levels here expose workers to as much radiation as is permissible in many of the hazardous extremes
               of the nuclear power industry, where precautions and protective clothing are mandatory. Skot and his
               colleagues wander around in T-shirts. We notice tomato plants, laden with bulging red tomatoes, just eight
               kilometres from the scene of the world's worst nuclear accident. "No, I didn't take them to be tested," said
               Josif. "I'm sure you've heard the adage: the less you know the better you sleep." 

               A few minutes later, we gathered around the table preparing to dine on the fruits of Chernobyl: honey, jam,
               apples and grapes produced on the reserve, perch caught two kilometres away and the homemade moonshine,
               samogon. No one can understand why I am not hungry. Afterwards, we climb the observation tower to view
               the reactor itself, the sarcophagus and smoke-stack, both still gently exhaling radiation. All around is the
               loamy farmland, dense forestry of the reserve, bound by a network of sparkling rivers and lakes. "This region
               was once known as the Pearl of Belarus," says Tatyana Loban. "They were the best agricultural lands. There
               were good villages and people were wealthy. Now, it's just a beautiful desert." 

               While attention has been focused on the human toll of the Chernobyl disaster, the impact on nature has been
               equally significant. After the explosion, radiation killed off an estimated 1,500 acres of forest, and about 5m
               acres of farmland in Ukraine and Belarus were irradiated. 

               Researchers at the time noted a steep decline of all types of wildlife. Newspaper reports gave sensational and
               possibly exaggerated accounts of animal mutations, citing the birth of foals and calves without eyes or anal
               passages. One of the most extreme stories concerned a colt born with eight legs, dubbed Gorbachev's Colt
               after a picture of the animal was supposedly shown to the Soviet leader to convince him of the cataclysmic
               changes around Chernobyl. 

               After nature recovered, the effects of the contamination seemed to be altogether more mundane: the percentage
               of the black variety of Colorado beetles in the zone has jumped from about 10% to 40%, the extra melatonin
               possibly offering added protection against radiation. Albino barn swallows have also appeared. While most
               species on the reserve show no physiological indications of mutation, many, particularly lactating mammals
               and amphibians, have undergone astonishing genetic changes. 

               "In certain cases, chromosomal mutation of the animals has accelerated by a factor of 30," says Mikhail
               Pikulik, director of the Minsk Institute of Zoology. "The same species just 30km away remain practically
               unchanged. At the moment, these changes have been confined to the area of chromosomes and genes." 

               One particularly interesting example is that of voles, a kind of field mouse now thriving. While they look
               exactly the same as before, an analysis of their DNA has revealed a phenomenally high rate of mutation.
               Under normal circumstances, a gene found in the cell's mitochondria called cytochrome b changes at a rate of
               one mutation in every million letters of genetic code per generation. However, voles on the exclusion zone are
               producing one new mutation for every 10,000 letters of DNA code per generation. The genetic differences
               between these voles and others living outside the exclusion zone are greater than those normally found
               between mice and rats, species which diverged around 15m years ago. Evolution has been shunted into
               overdrive. 

               Why these changes haven't resulted in abnormalities and sickness on a massive scale may be an indication that
               nature is far more adaptable than previously imagined. It might also signify that the limits of its resilience have
               yet to be fully tested, though scientists on the reserve readily admit that even they don't know what is really
               happening deep in the forests: "If an animal dies of cancer in the wild," says Mikhail Pikulik, "it is simply
               eaten by wolves. The deaths of two or three animals of the population is not a grave matter. The health of an
               animal population is reflected in overall numbers." 

               In any case, the ability of the reserve to answer the most problematic questions posed by Chernobyl is limited
               by a dearth of funding and by the primitive nature of equipment. Workers lack even the most basic safety
               facilities, such as air filters or air conditioners. The laboratory is barely more than a converted cabin. Scientific
               discoveries are confined to simple monitoring and practical advice: "If such a thing as Chernobyl ever
               happened again, and if people were forced to live on the land as we are," says Tatyana Odintsova, the chief
               Polessky biologist, "we would advise them not to grow potatoes, or any kind of grain such as wheat. But
               hops are permissible, or apples, as long as you don't eat the seeds, which are contaminated." 

               The reserve's official survival strategy has now become "farming the zone". Later this year, the pig farm will
               begin providing meat for the staff canteen and will soon be expanded to 100 animals. Horses from the stud
               farm are either sold as thoroughbreds or to a local meat factory. The hops are used in local beers. 

               Though this produce meets local contamination limits, whether it is truly fit for consumption is debatable:
               "Our norms are far higher than in the west," says Odintsova. "Take milk - abroad you can't have any
               radionuclides in milk. But we have an acceptable level of 3.7 becquerels per kg. If you look from the
               international point of view, our produce cannot be used at all. But we have to eat." 

               The reserve's own statistics would suggest that self-sufficiency is a dangerous gamble: average life expectancy
               among its workers is just 46 years; many employees, including Tatyana Loban, have had tumours removed;
               others hide illnesses to protect their miserable livelihood. But then these are people who consider themselves
               already doomed. Most have already been exposed to massive doses of radiation when sent there immediately
               after the disaster as part of the clean-up operation. 

               At the time, the true extent of the dangers was concealed or ignored by the Soviet authorities: "I remember
               back then we were eating pears that measured 800 micro-roentgens per hour. Nobody thought anything of it,"
               says Odintsova. In comparison, the levels of radiation now detectable seem quite trifling. 

               Even among the reserve's highly educated scientists and engineers, there seems to be a strong affinity with the
               contaminated land, a reluctance to believe that a place so beautiful could be so poisonous. Stocking it with elk
               and bison seems in accordance with objectives less scientific than emotional. Even the idea of establishing a
               nature reserve on the Chernobyl heartlands could itself be considered a denial of reality. 

               "One of our main goals is to keep this land alive, to preserve the animal population and to keep it growing,"
               concludes Voronetsky. "Who knows, perhaps one day it may be possible for people to live in this place again.
               In the meantime, it can't just be abandoned. Someone has to watch over it." 
                                                                      © Copyright Guardian Media Group plc. 1999

The All Planet Euro 2000 Team