Eight years ago, I worked the Olympic Games for the fourth and final time. It was a sad experience that stopped just short of being outright miserable, sharply contrasting with my previous Olympic trips to Beijing, Vancouver and London. Throughout the entire two-week ordeal I felt like something was coming to an end: my time with Sport-Express (back then, still a respected sports publication in Russia; now, a Putin-affiliated dung pile of rah-rah patriotism and soft porn click bait), perhaps my career in journalism and maybe even my long period of trying to identify with Russia.
I was right on all three accounts. Sport-Express, after being sold to a new owner, experienced an exodus of most of its writers later in 2014, myself among them. Feeling that I no longer had a place in Russian media, I decided to not look for another outlet and opted for a career change, becoming an educator. And Russia, upon invading Ukraine and annexing Crimea, had permanently alienated me from itself. No amount of common culture and history could get me reconciled with a fascist, colonialist state, a fact I had no compunctions stating out loud, which ended most of my relationships with fellow Russian journalists.
But all of this began with the article below. The article I wrote exactly eight years ago, immediately upon arrival in Sochi. A happy, kind, mildly patriotic, optimistic piece of writing, completely typical of my columns in style (though the epithets “kind”, “patriotic” and “optimistic” did not always apply), that never saw the light of day. It was censored in Moscow, despite our team leader’s frantic attempts to convince the editors to reconsider.
I didn’t know back then that the editors were warned by the Minister of Sport himself that I, an American, was to be watched. That my articles were to be subjected to the most rigorous scrutiny. That not even a hint of disloyalty was to be allowed. The editors decided to err on the side of extreme caution. For the rest of the Olympics, they attempted to relegate me to the position of a tape recorder monkey, allowing me to contribute nothing but hockey player quotes. They weren’t always successful. I did write a few opinion pieces that got through. The Olympics are hectic, deadlines are ruthless, space needs to be filled, manpower is limited, having a completely muzzled reporter is not really an option.
But I knew the score. I sensed the time was up. Russian tanks hadn’t yet started rolling into Crimea and Eastern Ukraine, but I could feel personal and professional ties being severed. In the eight years that have passed, Russia has done nothing but grown more distant to me. I am now actively repelled by the path it is traveling, politically and culturally. And my innate Russian (yes, Russian) pessimism doesn’t allow me to hope that things will change in my lifetime. Certainly not now, as the tanks are once again poised to roll in.
But hey, I still have the article. I don’t know why the recent news from Ukraine has reminded me of it, but there it was, in the “Sport-Express/2014” folder on my hard drive. I offer it as a memento of a personal world, killed long ago. You be the judge of the rest.
HEY, LET’S SCARE US SOME FOREIGNERS!
by Slava Malamud
SOCHI – I will start this on a cheerful note: fly Aeroflot! No, seriously, fly Aeroflot, fly it with all your might and do not let motley ads of the various “deltas” or, Allah forbid, “uniteds” lead you astray from the righteous heavenly road. See, you might still consider free, edible airplane food something that should go without saying, but Americans are so unused to the concept, they practically go into toxic shock. In the States, you will be fed exclusively garbage and a sense of your own inadequacy, and you shall have to pay for both. And here they are, Aeroflot-flying Americans, reaching with trembling fingers in their search for a $5 packet of pretzels and, unable to locate one, immediately conclude that the plane must have been hijacked by terrorists. At this stage of the flight, attempting to stuff the smoked fish, served by the lovely Aeroflot attendants, into them is an endeavor only achievable with the help of a plunger.
Additionally, by flying Aeroflot, you will be treated to the sight of the dramatic change on the face of a boarding American who, during his connection in Moscow, will be repeatedly asked (against his own stubborn and foolish resistance) to not remove his shoes at the security check. He also will not be subjected to a detailed and systematic frisking and a seance of an X-Ray-vision machine, as he would have undoubtedly be back home.
And here is a verbatim dialogue between your correspondent and the security worker at Sheremetyevo.
“What do you have in your backpack? Looks like food products.”
“Affirmative. I have pirozhki.”
“Ooh, with what?”
“Meat, I believe. My mother-in-law gave them to me.”
“Oh, if it’s your mother-in-law, then I am sure they are safe.”
“Well, I guess, this depends on your particular situation.”
“Bon appetit!”
In America, they’d call for a bomb squad.
And how about the PA announcements at the departures terminal! One can surmise that the Muscovites’ favorite pastime is forgetting their iPads, iPhones, laptops, suitcases and all winter clothing in the Shokoladnitsa Cafe on the second floor – just so they could be politely asked to come and get them, with the whole airport to hear. In America, they’d call for a bomb squad and a unit of the National Guard.
I was awaiting my flight in the company of a puppy of a breed called “beagle”, who was running laps around the boarding gate, not overly burdened either by a collar or by the attention of his 12-year-old owner and the airport personnel. The floppy-eared ball of charm was named Sergei Ivanovich, and we quickly became friends. In America, they’d call for a bomb squad, a unit of the National Guard and Iron Man. In short, as you can see, East is East, West is West and all that jazz…
As soon as they arrive in Sochi, American colleagues begin to realize that they are about to visit a parallel reality, a more flighty and carefree one, where rules are more along the lines of good advice, prohibitions are never absolute and the legal field of social life is easily tilled with the plow of personal relations. The first obvious example is given to them right at the shuttle stop at the Adler airport.
“Please, sir, could you tell me why the shuttle door is open, but nobody is being let in?”, asks the correspondent of USA Today, who is about to be introduced to Russia of, presumably, tomorrow.
“This is because, ahead of us, people without credentials are attempting to board the bus”, I explain the pretty self-evident thing to the colleague.
“But where is the police?”, the colleague takes a glance at passing Cossacks and quickly averts his eyes. “What is going to happen?”
“What is going to happen is something that you need to get used to”, I patiently continue the course of social education. “They will argue for about ten minutes and then let everyone in anyway.”
Ten minutes later, the USA Today correspondent is looking at me with respect and even a degree of obsequiousness. Get used to this, I repeat, this is normal. Meanwhile, two of his compatriots, endowed with credentials and everything, are staying on the curb and not daring to board. “Get on, you bumpkins!”, yell the uncredentialed passengers in Russian and, with gestures, invite the Americans to do just that. The Americans back away carefully. One of them bumps into a Cossack, drops his credential on the latter’s boot and squints in terror.
“Ey, mister! Nutko!”, the uryadnik with an authoritatively bristling mustache suddenly erupts in foreign speech. Then, he gestures to the mister to pick up his property. The bus leaves, not allowing us to see the conclusion of the surreal scene of friendship of the peoples.
On our way to the media hotel, the bus driver is furiously gesticulating and yelling at his fellow automobile operators. The group on unaccredited passengers (they turn out to be officials of the upcoming events, which makes total sense, considering their ability to interpret the rules in their favor) is involved in a long and loud discussion with their leader. The leader is directing his team with a sergeant’s growl (“Evrrreyone! Afterrr arrrival, we all check in at building numberrr thirrrteen!”) that makes the foreign population of the bus squeeze themselves into the backs of their chairs.
A French woman sitting behind me has probably decided the time is ripe for a nice, old-fashioned hysteria and strictly demands that I translate everything for her, word for word. I choose not to translate the fact that the bus window next to us is offering to turn itself into an emergency exit by way of smashing the glass with a hammer. She might think that Russians never board a bus without a hammer on them.
Misunderstandings and difficulties of translation form an altogether painful experience that gives birth to many fears. Americans, for example, have already been instructed by the State Department to not go into the city in star-spangled gear. “No worries”, laugh Americans, hinting at the garish design of the official sweaters of Team USA. They are much more worried about the price tag that says “Language in Test”, which is how the locals have translated “Beef tongue in dough.”
Foreigners try to clear out of the bus at the first stop, until I explain to them that nobody will be let out there. If I told them they would never be let out of the bus again, they would have eagerly believed me. What awaits them is a long and arduous process of filling out the forms at the reception desk and doomed attempts to secure a spare key for their rooms. For myself and my colleague Artyom Agapov, the road ahead includes the task of explaining to the hotel management that the room allocated to us, though it does contain two orphanage cots 30 cm in width, is actually a single, not a double, and can in no realistic way be inhabited by two people not connected by bonds of matrimony or the criminal justice system.
I have to admit that evidence doesn’t support our claim because, upon visiting the room, we encounter no fewer than five electricians trying to fix a single outlet. The guys are trying their best but are clearly outmatched.
“The way I see it, Germans could’ve probably staged four Olympics for this kind of money”, informs me one of the wizards of the screwdriver. This gives me an opportunity to compute that for each Sochi outlet there would be needed 1.25 Germans. The electricians is a friendly young man, and we chat amiably. The outlet remains non-functioning, but the AC sprouts a plug.
“So, anyway, are you allowed to write about how everything’s going here?”, asks the young man. I say that, yes, we can. If we do it kindly.
“Ah, don’t you worry”, he smiles. “Everything will be ready in the last moment. You know, the usual stuff around here.”
In the elevator on the way down, two of his colleagues engage in a lively discussion about some Koreans they have just encountered. The conversation hinges on the concept of which of the two Koreas is “our Korea.”
The young electrician is right! Let’s be kind. What else can we be? After all, one way or another, everything will work out. The daring officials will be situated around their building number 13. Agapov and I will be moved to a different, more spacious room. The AC current will eventually begin its flow from the long-suffering outlet for another lucky guest. And someday the wi-fi will start working as well. And the Olympic flame will be lit for the happiness of humanity. And the electricians and construction workers, hastily bussed here from nearby regions, will be let go home, tired by satisfied. And we will get situated in this haphazardly constructed sports paradise and will commence to happily observe the biathlon.
“You will see,” I instruct “my” Americans, while shaking their copiously sweating hands. “Two weeks from now, you will not want to leave.”
I am willing to bet that I am right.
