Where We First Touched Outer Space

As the aged Tu-154 touched down in the Kazakh steppes not far from Baikonur Cosmodrome, it immediately became evident that we were in the middle of nowhere. It might not have been the end of the world, but we could see it from here.

We de-planed into something that looked less like an airport than a huge shed with metal gates. Our suitcases were deposited directly on the ground, in the dirt. It was amazing to think that it was here, just over 50 years ago, that humankind made first contact with outer space.

Baikonur is our planet’s first and largest spaceport. It is located 200 kilometers from the dying Aral Sea, in the Kyzylorda region of the former Soviet republic of Kazakhstan. In Kazakh, the word “baikonur” means “fertile land with many herbs.” Yet the fruits of this land are completely inedible.

It was from here, on April 12, 1961, that Vostok-1 took the first human being – Yuri Gagarin – into space. It was from here that the first artificial satellites were launched into orbit, the first animals were propelled into space (Baikonur was the last place on Earth seen by the dogs Belka and Strelka), and it was from here that the first probes were sent to study the moon, Mars and Venus.

“I can just imagine,” said Sergei Arzubov, an officer in the space forces, “how it was for them in this steppe, in this heat, where it is +55º C in the summer and -20º C in winter. Yet they built all this, and they even put rockets into space under these conditions.” Arzubov has spent his entire life in Baikonur, working as an engineer. This is the place where he met his wife and where his daughter was born.

Baikonur occupies some 6717 square kilometers, almost exactly the same size as Brunei or the U.S. state of Delaware. Yet it does not show up in old maps. This cosmodrome, one of the USSR’s most secret and enduring locations, was long a strictly guarded secret. To further obscure the matter, its name was changed several times over the years.

“Even though foreign intelligence knew all about it,” Arzubov said, “the fact that it was not on any maps spoke to the fact that it was a significant military asset.”

At the time of its creation, no similar facility existed anywhere in the world. Originally, the cosmodrome was created as a proving ground (a bombing and artillery test site) for testing intercontinental ballistic missiles. Notably, the Central Committee and USSR Council of Ministers decree of February 12, 1955, that created Baikonur called for the creation of a scientific-investigative proving ground that would also be a test site for space technology.

The site was perfect for ballistic missile testing. Its utter desolation and flat topography meant that there were no terrestrial obstacles to transmission and receipt of radio signals. As to the space launches that would come later, the closer you are to the equator, the less energy is required to launch a rocket, and the easier it is to place it into orbit. What is more, 300 cloudless days a year offered the prospect of safer and more viewable launches, and then there was the ease of tracking and finding rockets that fall to earth in the expansive zone – one that had little or no population and was not being used for farming.

The first rocket tested in the proving grounds was the famous R7, designed for delivering the hydrogen bomb. Back then, during the early years of the Cold War, the world lived in fear of the atomic bomb. The U.S. had the means to deliver its deadly arsenal via bomber plane, so the USSR sought strategic advantage by developing intercontinental ballistic missiles, of which the R7 was to be the world’s first (a derivative of the R7 later launched Sputnik; the CIA discovered the R7 launch site in 1957, during a U2 overflight). Yet the famous rocket scientist Sergei Korolev had bigger plans for Baikonur.

An outstanding scientist and inventor of Soviet strategic weapons, Korolev was also the founder of modern space exploration. He spearheaded the proving ground’s transformation into a spaceport. It was he who first suggested to Soviet leaders that a satellite should be launched into outer space from Baikonur. Beginning in 1957, the year of Sputnik’s launch, the cosmodrome was effectively born, whence it went on to be the site for regular launches of Vostok, Soyuz and Voskhod class ships, as well as for the space stations Salyut and Mir.

Neighboring the cosmodrome is a city of 36,000 that is also called Baikonur.[1] Its homes arose from the desert on the site of tents and barracks that once housed troops sent to build the cosmodrome.

The town’s central street, Arbat, brims with young mothers and their strollers. Life proceeds with little fanfare or fuss. People seem to move a bit more slowly here, and goods can be purchased either in tenge (the Kazakh currency) or rubles. This city, after all, has a special status. The cosmodrome may be located on Kazakh territory, yet for the duration of its lease period it has been granted the status of a “city of federal significance to the Russian Federation.” Baikonur city’s top administrator is appointed jointly by the presidents of the two countries.

One cannot help feeling that the city is frozen in time. Or living outside of it. There are no advertising billboards, no McDonalds, and the internet is tightly controlled. In the main hotel, the internet works until just 6:30 p.m., while just a stone’s throw away they are launching some of the world’s most sophisticated communication technology into orbit. There are courtyards here that are still unpaved, and there is practically no trace of either Kazakh or Russian culture. Were it not for the souvenirs in the central market or in stores, it would be easy to forget one is in Kazakhstan.

Planes land here just twice per week and it is far from simple to get a ticket on one of these flights. Upon our arrival at the airport, each Russian journalist in our group is questioned by Kazakh customs agents about the reasons for their visit, and how they got here. Yet the agents clearly know that an entire airplane full of journalists has just arrived to witness a rocket launch. First and last names are checked off a special list.

As we exit customs, our guides are waiting for us in the courtyard, holding up signboards with our names on them.

“You must pay for everything here, every step of the way,” said Lyudmila, our appointed guide, as she led us to the bus.

To get into the cosmodrome you need special permission from Roskosmos. Once on the territory of the cosmodrome, you must travel in a rented car (price dependent upon model and make) and pay for the services of a guide ($15-20 per hour, on average). It is impossible to simply enter and exit the cosmodrome, even to or from its namesake city. This is a secret location, and all residents have special passes: Russians have one type, Kazakhs another.

Baikonur... in our childhood, this word had the sense of something huge and unfathomable, like outer space. And now, once we have arrived, we find it is rather difficult to get a handle on the place. You drive and drive, wondering if you will ever see anything but desert. Silence stretches in every direction... dried up brush... camels... At first glance, the place seems to stretch to infinity, like the cosmos. It turns out the desert is hiding its rockets in hangers.

There are hundreds of facilities here, or, as they are called here, ploshchadki (fields or zones), be it the Gagarin Museum, an assembly and testing complex, or the world’s largest factory for the production of hydrogen and nitrogen. Even our guide finds it difficult to say just how many ploshchadki there are in the Baikonur Cosmodrome. After the USSR collapsed, many of them closed, and we see many that are in ruins. The distance between ploshchadki can stretch up to 35 kilometers.

Zone 112 – the assembly and testing complex – is one of the most famous ploshchadki. Its high ceilings and green floor evoke a film about some sort of secret mission. This is where the so-called primerka (run through) takes place, when cosmonauts check their payloads. Doctors and engineers accompany the crew into the capsule. Journalists, like the crew and support staff, don white robes and masks. It is a precautionary measure, so that no one will infect the cosmonauts with some sort of earthly bacteria or virus just before their launch.

Only those who have passed a special medical exam can enter the capsule. The mission and back-up crews check their seats, documentation and equipment. Each has an individually designed seat, because when you are launching into space every millimeter counts.[2] The crew has an entire book they need to run through regarding pre-flight inspection of their capsule.

Cosmonaut Sergei Krikalyov went through six such pre-flight procedures, the same as the number of times he traveled into space. A legend in the annals of space flight, Krikalyov has spent over 803 days in space, more than any other human being. He has been awarded numerous titles, including of Hero of the USSR and Hero of the Russian Federation, and today oversees the Yuri Gagarin Cosmonaut Training Center.

“These days,” Krikalyov said, “I experience somewhat different emotions from those when I was looking at all this from the other side of the glass. Naturally, when you are sending your friends and colleagues into space, you think through every step and try to do everything in your power to help them fulfill their mission. Just as our veterans helped me in my day.”

Yet there was a time when it was not possible to help Krikalyov. One of his flights to the Mir Space Station was in 1991. The country was in crisis and financing of the space program had already been cut to about one-fourth of its previous largesse. Yet international obligations had to be met. As a result of some crew shifting, lack of engineer experience among international astronauts, and cost cutting (meaning loss of seats back to Earth), Krikalyov and Commander Alexander Volkov were “stranded” on Mir during the meltdown of the USSR, leading them to be dubbed “the last citizens of the USSR” – a fate chronicled in the 1995 documentary Out of the Present. After his return, Krikalyov went on to make numerous space flights, including on the U.S. space shuttle, and was part of the crew that traveled to the International Space Station to turn on the lights.

It takes the work of hundreds to put a rocket in space. After everything checks out in the capsule, the engine is mounted, followed by joining the capsule and the launch rocket.

“The hardware, or as we call it, the ship, is first tested in the factory, then we have another 60 days for assembly of the manned Soyuz, or 40 days for the transport ship Progress,” said Alexander Kozlovtsev, one of the leading engineers at the cosmodrome. A Progress ship takes less time to assemble because it is unmanned.

“We are methodical types, and our task is a safe launch,” he quickly adds.

Suddenly a horn sounds – first warning. Use of mobile phones is forbidden here, and if you touch anything above waist height, everything will come to a halt and each detail will need to be re-checked, down to the last screw.

The capsule bearing the image of Yuri Gagarin and the inscription, “50 Years since Y. Gagarin’s flight into space” lies on its side. It’s the first time a Soyuz class rocket has been “named” something other than with a technical designation (e.g. TMA-21), in honor of the anniversary of the 108 minutes Gagarin spent in orbit just over 50 years ago.

“For us, each launch is exciting, because it is a huge spectacle, and because people’s lives are in our hands,” Kozlovtsev said.

In order to touch the stars, a cosmonaut must train, on average, for 10-12 years and take some 250 tests. First, there is general cosmonaut training, then group training. One must be fitter and healthier than a top professional athlete. And even after all that, all you are guaranteed is a chance to ride into space. Many who train never go into space.

“We grew up in the years when Gagarin and Titov flew,” said Pavel Vinogradov, deputy director of the Energia RKK Experimental Flight Center, “when all little boys of course dreamed about it.” Vinogradov went into space twice, during which he took six space walks, so he knows firsthand about the difficulties involved.

“In order to become a true cosmonaut, one has to work a great deal,” Vinogradov said. “There is no easy path. The most difficult thing is studying for such a long time and needing to constantly be at the ready. Thus, at the time of launch, there are no special feelings; the main thing is the task at hand, fulfilling the mission. The feelings arrive later, when you return to Earth.”

At exactly 7 a.m. (per tradition), two days before the launch, the huge hanger gates open. From here, the rocket creeps along on rails at 5 km/hr toward the world’s most famous ploshchadka: Gagarin Start. This is where all manned spaceships are launched. Guests put coins onto the rails; the flattened bits of metal will be one of their best souvenirs from the cosmodrome. The journalists record ever meter of the ship’s progress. At the Soyuz TMA-21 launchpad, the rocket is maneuvered into a vertical position. The crew boards the capsule three hours prior to start.

Fifty years ago, on this site, Yuri Gagarin uttered his famous “Poyekhali!” (Let’s go!) Khrushchev’s dreams had been realized: a Soviet flier beat the Americans into outer space. Yet Soviet citizens learned of his triumph only after Gagarin had returned safely to Earth. President Kennedy, meanwhile, learned of the launch 15 minutes after it happened, when an American radar station received signals from the Vostok craft. The decoded message was sent to the Pentagon and soon the entire world learned of the “event of the century.” It was only later, in a TASS release, that the word “Baikonur” was pronounced.

The locals who live alongside the cosmodrome seem rather nonplussed by the goings on there. “It’s not really interesting for us any more,” said 33-year-old taxi driver Zhalgas Alibekov. “Just as long as they [the rockets] don’t upset the weather.” Born and raised in Baikonur city, he complains about the wind and dust that he said the rockets raise.

“This is my native land, I have nowhere else to go,” he said, echoing the sentiments of all the Kazakhs we spoke with.

In the city center, near a monument to the Soyuz rocket, a man comes up to us, begging for 15 rubles for bread. Baurzhan Kinzhaliev said he worked for 15 years in the Kazakh Customs Service. He said Russia supports the city and has done a great deal for it, but that nonetheless local Kazakhs don’t have it very good. He complained of high taxes and a low pension, called himself a citizen of the USSR, and said that for 10 years he has dreamed of connecting to the internet. But he doesn’t have money to spare.

“By all appearances, the city is secret, there’s no getting in, but everything is bought and sold here,” Kinzhaliev said.

The sun has almost set, and in the distance we can see Tyuratam, the Kazakh village that was here before the cosmodrome was founded. It is separated from the city of Baikonur by a cement barrier. A hundred meters away there is a checkpoint. Going outside the bounds of the city is forbidden. Everyone is stopped and examined at the checkpoint. One of our group’s camera operators waits for an opportune moment and hops the barrier. He spends several hours on the territory of another state.

“No one stopped or detained me,” he said. “I was a guest of the Kazakhs for three hours. I wandered through local streets. Kazakh culture is surprising.” He returned to the secret city the same way he left.

“Understand, you are guests here, and we are locals,” said one local resident who was strolling not far from the city’s border. “For guests there is one set of rules, for locals, another.”

all the journalists know about Zone 2, the location of the famous Gagarin Museum. Yuri Gagarin and his instructor, Sergei Korolev, lived in little houses not far from one another inside the cosmodrome. Back then, Korolev felt certain that, of all the candidates for the first space flight, Gagarin was the only one who would tell the truth about what happened in space.

The following is from the full transcript of the communications between Yuri Gagarin and Earth from the moment of embarkation to Vostok-1’s passage out of the radio contact (when it was on the other side of the Earth).[3]

Korolev: This is Zarya. Yura, how are things? Over.

Gagarin: As expected. All is fine. Good. Do you read me? Over.

[A few other remarks follow.]

Korolev: You’ll find in the stowage some tubes – lunch, dinner and breakfast.

Gagarin: All clear.

Korolev: You got me?

Gagarin: Got it.

Korolev: There’s kolbasa, some candies and jam for tea.

Gagarin: Aha.

Korolev: Got it?

Gagarin: Got it.

Korolev: There.

Gagarin: Understood.

Korolev: 63 pieces. You’ll get fat.

Gagarin: Ha-ha.

After his flight, Gagarin traveled the world. He received keys to the cities of Cairo and Alexandria. His name was bestowed on a crater on the dark side of the moon and on planet number 1772. Yet he died tragically early, just seven years after his triumph, in a training flight. In the pocket of the coat he was wearing when he died there was a photo of Sergei Korolev.

It is said that, to this day, before each launch of a manned rocket, the bed in Yuri’s little house at Baikonur appears slightly rumpled.

just around the corner from the Gagarin Museum, a mock-up of the huge Buran shuttle basks in the midday sun. It seems like a discomfited guest in the twenty-first century. Buran was the first and only Soviet multi-use orbital space ship. Designated for transporting various payloads and personnel into orbit and to and from interplanetary stations, it was the Soviet answer to the American Space Shuttle. It was capable of lifting 30-ton payloads into space and returning with up to 20 tons. This particular Buran did not fly into space; it was used for terrestrial testing.

“This is my pride and our tragedy,” said Alexander Kozlovtsev. “We invested our souls and huge sums into the Energia-Buran program. More than 2000 factories worked on it.” Kozlovtsev worked as an engineer in the cabin of the legendary ship and speaks of it as if it were a living thing.

Inside the Buran there is now a museum. Practically all the equipment has been removed. In the tight pilot’s cabin, indicator lamps still work decades later. The control lever is still in place, along with a pilot’s chair made in the USSR.

Suddenly, we hear steps. A few minutes later we see the face of cosmonaut Andrei Borisenko, followed by all the other members of the mission and back-up crews. All outside the containment chamber! With a photographer in tow, but without their white jumpsuits and masks. They joke and sit in the pilot’s chair which we ourselves just occupied. There is not an ounce of reservation or worry on their faces. For them, a photo in Buran is a tradition. For us it is a lucky coincidence, a one in a million chance to meet the cosmonauts face to face on the eve of their flight. (See photo, page 6.)

Buran made its first and only flight in 1988. The unmanned flight made two orbits of the earth before an impressive landing at Baikonur during significant side-winds. A second flight was planned for 1993, but never took place, because of the collapse of the Soviet Union.

The Energia-Buran project was just one of many projects rolled back when the USSR ceased to exist in December 1991. Many scientists and engineers left the cosmodrome for former Soviet republics. The number of launches was sharply reduced.

“After the collapse, the situation at Baikonur was horrific for about five years,” Kozlovtsev said. “There was no water or electricity. It was so cold in my apartment that the water turned to ice. No one knew what would happen next or what to do.”

In 1994, russia and Kazakhstan signed a lease agreement through 2050. Gradually, Baikonur was transferred from the Ministry of Defense to the Russian Space Agency. Troops were withdrawn and Baikonur began to show up on world maps. Foreigners were even allowed to visit certain locations, and the names of foreign companies began to appear on several doors in the assembly-testing facility.

“Space does not rest on the shoulders of a single government,” one of the engineers commented.

“They gave up on Baikonur,” an old driver we met near the museum said sorrowfully. “It stopped being a secret place the day the Defense Ministry handed over the cosmodrome. They don’t let Russians take photographs here, but Americans can.”

Midnight. the desert is not sleeping. A crowd of people bustles about in the observation zone three kilometers from the launch site. The cosmonauts have reported to the state commission, watched the film White Sun of the Desert the night before (another time-honored tradition), and their rocket with its little toy dog (used as an indicator of weightlessness) is proceeding through its countdown. As the crew is sighted, the cooks send them off with a song, and the journalists stop taking pictures to join in the clapping.

“For the first time in my life, I feel proud of my country,” said one of the camera operators in the crowd.

Over the loudspeakers we hear the command, “Launch!” and the rocket begins to slowly leave the bounds of Earth. The thundering rattles our bones. A few seconds later and the ship is like a sun against the black sky. A few seconds more, and it is a distant star.

“It’s worth it,” said cosmonaut Vinogradov. “There is nothing better than to see the Earth from a distance.” RL

[1] The cosmodrome actually stole the name Baikonur from a smaller town a few hundred kilometers away, as part of the deception about its location. For a time, that town’s residents used the confusion to obtain scarce goods. Baikonur city was originally named Leninsk.

[2] Indeed, previously, cosmonauts for the Soyuz program were chosen based on whether they fit well in the rocket’s seats.

[3] From V. Artyomov’s book, Yuri Gagarin: Chelovek Legenda.