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Note: The Ukrainian preferred spelling of the Ukrainian placename in English is "Chornobyl." For some reason, many media organizations have a lot of difficulty with proofreading Belarusian and Ukrainian proper nouns, etc. (and often appear to prefer the Russian spellings). -- ed.
A park ranger offers a toast: "Our reserve is unique, and may God grant there will never be another like it." Mikalai Varanecki, head of the reserve, is studying the animals for clues about what life on Earth might be like after a global nuclear catastrophe.
"Who knows what would happen to us and our descendants? The half- life of plutonium is 234,000 years. Compared with our life spans that is an eternity."
If there is one lesson to be learned from the reserve, it seems to be that nature has a way of adapting to human destruction. Take mice, for example.
Chernobyl's mice nearly died out after the blast. Of the handful of survivors, the first several generations included almost no males. Then, at about the third or fourth generation, the species adapted. Today, the zone is teeming with mice.
Woodlands and swamps abandoned by humans are now brimming with life. The helicopter startles a group of wild boar, some elk and deer and the occasional lone fox on the prowl.
"There is no emptiness in nature. Man has left. His satellites, pigeons and rats, have disappeared. In their place are other beasts," zoologist Viktor Dunin said. Of all the species that have thrived here, perhaps the most dramatic is the wolf, he said. "It is the wolf that rules in the reserve."
Chernobyl wolves are smaller than those in other areas and like other animals in the park tests show their internal organs are radioactive. It is not known what the long-term effects of radiation will be but for now the packs are thriving. There are now about 200 wolves in the zone, posing a threat to nearby farms. They have killed about 300 horses and cattle and gamekeepers have been ordered to cull the packs.
The reserve has become a shelter for animals once rare or endangered in the area. It first became home to previously absent reindeer and lynx. Now, most impressively, it has become the haunt of a relative of the country's most famous natural icon, the aurochs -- the near-mythical giant bisons of Belarus, a gargantuan prehistoric species of wild ox.
"Masha, Masha," park ranger Uladzimir called affectionately, tapping on buckets of oats as one of the beasts broke noisily through the thicket.
The last of Belarus' original giant bison died at the start of the century, but for the past 50 years zoologists have struggled to introduce a slightly smaller cousin, the European bison, hunted for centuries to near extinction and now surviving only in parks. "I call them all Masha, the males and the females," said Uladzimir, who goes by the nickname "King of the Tundra" because not another soul lives within miles of his hut. All of his bison are named Masha -- except one, known as Ira.
Ira is the only one rangers managed to capture, brand and give a name of her own. Now she has become the head of a herd who dig up crops and run wild on Volodya's small farm. The bison were brought to the Chernobyl reserve from Belaveskaya Pushcha, Europe's oldest forest and one of the original habitats of giant bison in southeast Belarus. In the past year their number has already grown from 14 to 21.
In the wild they can be an awesome sight. "They look like calm, well-fed, lumbering animals, but you should see them when they get wild," Volodya said.
Just a few days earlier the herd stampeded near his house, trampling one of his two pet wolves to death and nearly breaking through an iron pen to catch the second. The onslaught was stopped only by a helicopter returning from a routine patrol, which made the bison flee in panic.
Although some animals have thrived, many of the scientific workers sent to the reserve, especially in the early years, have paid the ultimate price.
Vladimir Piskunov, deputy head of the park's research department, has a picture on his desk of the first team of botanists who came in 1986 -- 10 sturdy men in overalls. Next to three of them he has written the dates of their deaths in black ink.
"For some reason foreign scientists do not come here. Maybe the world thinks there will be no more man-made disasters in the future?" he asked.
"Meanwhile, religious sects do come. The Japanese, for instance, came here, stayed for a while, took a look around. We also got their greetings recently," he said, showing a card that says in English: "Do not worry. Everything will be all right -- we pray for you." Yet for some who have chosen to live there, the radioactive park is as much a sanctuary for humans as for animals.
Uladzimir shows his blue tattooed fingers, a sign of the 24 of his 50 years he spent in prison. After serving out a term in camps in the Soviet Far East, he returned to Belarus to live in seclusion on the contaminated land. For a while he was homeless. Now he has been given a job, a house and a herd of bison to take care of.
Go to the A Belarus Miscellany Topic List
Go to the Environmental Organizations, Issues, & Related Information Section
Go to the Parks and Environmental Reserves in Belarus Section
Search the A Belarus Miscellany Web site
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