It was around noon when the rust-coated sign that marked the town’s entrance came into my view. Sighing in relief that Google Maps hadn’t failed me, I guided my car off the main road and down one of the concrete paths that lead through the woods and into Orbita. For those of you who haven’t heard of it before, Orbita is a ghost town that was designed in the image of Pripyat, the satellite city for the Chernobyl power plant. Much like its inspiration, it too would have served as the closest satellite settlement for a planned nuclear power station, but the project was cancelled in the wake of the 1986 tragedy. Currently, there are only around a hundred people living there, barring the occasional squatter that remains unaccounted for and… well… something altogether different, apparently.

As the dense forestry began to recede, I was greeted by a set of presumably abandoned high-rises, their uniform, brutalist aesthetic standing in defiance against the unkempt vegetation surrounding them; a jarring contrast between nature and industry. After graduating university, I started getting into urban exploration, which conveniently coincided with my passion for photography. At first I was joined by a small group of friends, but they clearly saw it as more of a one-off adventure and weren’t willing to travel beyond the few vacated sites that were close to where we live. Despite being strongly cautioned against it, I began setting out on my own, scouring the Ukrainian countryside for places that embodied that post-societal vibe that I was so determined to capture. I had already built a sizable portfolio by the time someone on a forum I was frequenting tipped me off about this place called Orbita. Given that my goal at the time was to eventually visit the iconic Exclusion Zone around Chernobyl, it had seemed like a decent starting point— no bypassing security outposts or hopping over fences required.

Excited, perhaps unreasonably so, I parked my Volkswagen next to what looked to have once been a corner store, retrieved my backpack from the passenger seat and stepped outside. The air smelled humid from the recent downpour, which had thankfully dissipated to a light drizzle— nothing my hoodie couldn’t protect me from. Something crunched beneath my boots, causing me to wince and look down. A layer of shattered glass covered the street, glinting against the wet asphalt and sprinkled around other fallen rubble. As far as knew, and also judging by the comparatively decent condition of the nearby playground, there were a handful of families still occupying some of the houses and five-story flats, which reminded me of old school dormitories. I had no intention of trespassing on other people’s property, so I kept my attention solely on the conjoined nine-story apartment buildings that made up the majority of the ghost town and were clearly abandoned a long time ago.

Flashlight in hand, I felt immediately in my element from the moment I walked through the dilapidated entrance hall. The ground floor was in about as good of a condition as you’d expect. I had to wade my way through literal heaps of trash in order to get to the stairs. Some of it looked recent and included items such as condom wrappers, beer cans and discarded needles. I wasn’t about to pick through any of that. The eroding walls were covered in crude graffiti— all of the classics, from “So-and-so likes to suck giant cock” to “Abandon hope all ye who enter here”. And, of course, a few tastefully scribbled swastikas...