It Might as Well be Gitmo

The gifted NBC News producer Clare Duffy put the idea in my head yesterday. The jet lag and the bizarre location has added a surreal fuzz to my brain. I couldn't quite figure out why I was still feeling weirdly displaced. "It's Guantanamo" she offered . . . She didn't mean the prison camp, she meant the outpost. An American outlier on the island of Cuba, bearing no resemblance to the Commie country outside the barbed wire.

On second thought this whole thing could be the Truman Show come to life. As I've said, nothing is as it appears.

Essentially we have all we need to survive the Games. However, Uncle Big Al was stunned today when he learned that there indeed is only ONE restaurant in this hotel. There is no "town" to go to. And being the gourmand that he is, this is troublesome. There are no other places to eat except the NBC commissary at the International Broadcast Center. Scott Hamilton said there may be a German place within a 20 minute drive but as of now there is no appetite to find it.

There is something very odd about our boundaries. It's almost like being in some strange Sci-Fi movie. Walk out the back door of the hotel and you will hit a Promenade on the Black Sea. It is quite idyllic. Lovely beach, comfortable benches with a view to the Sea. This morning the bright orange-tinted sunlight reminded me of the morning light in Maui (Hmm, that may be a stretch, but it was pretty). But. . . . turn to the left and you will hit an impassable barricade about 1km down the way. Turn to the right and all paths lead to the Security Checkpoint.

I think it's Day 5. Sleep is still elusive. Night 2 was great with 8 hours of shuteye. The next night I'm up reading at 2:00 am. Then I'm asleep the next day at 7:30 pm. The 12 hour time difference is daunting. Last night was particularly interesting as I was awakened by the roar of the crowd at 3:45 am watching the Super Bowl in the lobby bar. By the time I was able to get online it was already 36-0. Back to sleep at 5:30 . . . up at 6:30.

I wish the Games would start already. I'm always filled with anticipation leading up the Games themselves. These "Pre-Production" days are their own unique type of torture.

Today we heard from the CEO of the Games, Dimitry Chernyshenko at our NBC seminar. He's a Sochi resident and quite a likable character. He is very proud of his country. In the past 5 years they have constructed what is probably the largest single project in the history of Russia. When you hear him talk you begin to believe that all this is nothing short of a miracle. By the time he was finished I truly wanted these Games to be a smashing success.

At the IBC one only needed to see the happy faces of the kids selling pizza to understand that this is a great opportunity for this country. They really do want us to like and understand them.

My walks over to the venue are keeping me grounded. I'm always in awe of the Rings and the Torch. The stunning Olympic Park will be the centerpiece for World TV viewers and I do try and find a new path through it each day.

There is however, a backstage to all of this as the work continues around the clock to get ready for Friday's Opening.

On my walk to the venue yesterday these guys were getting set to layout a new walkway with steel mesh. Tons of concrete was at the ready. I assume it will harden quickly.

A bit further down the road I ran into one of the workers making a cell phone call. There are no pretty benches on the Promenade for these guys. The colorful Camo material is a nice touch. So is the big rock in the road. Like I said, it's backstage. The van back there sells water bottles to the workers.



He reminded me of what this place looked like a year ago. I know this blog is supposed to be about the present, but indulge me here . . . . I just re-read something I wrote a little over a year ago in November of 2012. This guy took me back to that time when I took my first car trip over to the venue from the other Radisson Blu:

It's dark and dreary as we leave the hotel driveway. We are headed to the new "Sochi" Olympic arena. It's miles from the real city in a place called Adler. We are driving through recently drained swampland. The hotel pavement ends suddenly. We are deposited on a flat plain full of mud, gravel and rocks - large rocks. The sun is setting. It is 4:00 pm. For two miles in every direction there are dozens of trucks, hundreds of men. The roads are not real roads. They have been scraped out of the rock by bulldozers. Cars and trucks bounce around like toys. Groups of men working in ditches resemble some sort of Egyptian pyramid-building tableau. Nearby, hard hatted workers with reflectorized jackets pass through dimly lit barbed wire covered gates illuminated by a string of single blue light bulbs. They present their papers to a guard bathed in green fluorescent light in a fogged windowed booth. Without making eye contact, he opens the gate for each man to pass. The day shift is over. The night shift has begun. As far as the eye can see there are concrete buildings under construction above a veritable sea of mud and rock. Men are moving in every direction.

Dormitory camps are arranged symmetrically like buildings from a Lego set. The camps have all the charm of a prison Gulag. Barbed wire encloses the encampments. The rooms in the aluminum covered dorms are lit by dim fluorescents . . . each room has at least 4 double bunk beds. The rooms are empty. Everyone is smoking out in front while they wait for their turn to eat.  Dozens huddle around tables for the evening meal in hastily built shelters of 2x4s and clear plastic. Strings of bare light bulbs illuminate the benches and tables. 

Not a 100 hards away their brethren move rocks and dirt under the light of a tractor's headlights. A line of a dozen or so cement trucks wait to dump their loads. Imported Turks, Uzbeks and Georgians seem to be doing all the dirty work.

We have gone less than a quarter mile from the hotel towards the big Blue Arena when all comes to a standstill. Drivers are out of their vehicles smoking and talking while policemen in shiny vests wave their striped traffic sticks at anyone who moves yelling at them to relax. A line of 20 trucks loaded with yet more gravel form a giant convoy trying to force its way into the area. Traffic is jammed. No one can move. The police chase some drivers back into their cars so that they can make a clear path. Thirty minutes later we can move towards the arena which is only another quarter mile ahead.

The Radisson Blu we left behind was brand new, having opened two weeks ago. Just prior to leaving, the power went out in the entire complex. The internet hadn't worked for 12 hours and the single restaurant wasn't serving lunch. The hotel is so remote that the normal compliment of Russian hookers hasn't figured out how to get here yet. It may be the only western "luxury" hotel in Russia without those ladies of the night. The night before giant cranes unloaded building materials from a huge barge until 5:00 am just outside my balcony.

Finally, we arrive at the security checkpoint several hundred yards from the entrance to the arena. Gleaming new metal detectors are there but no one seems to trust them yet. Everyone has a green cast to their face as the lighting is the same as it is in the Camps.

In the gloaming I pass through the tent where trainees are being taught new lessons. They are pimply, fresh-faced kids. Even though I pass through the metal detector with no sound I'm wanded and then fully searched.

The arena is beautiful. The lighting is perfect. The event runs like clockwork. It's probably no accident that the event is run by the Swiss and the Germans. In the hallways there are many Russian soldiers. They must have orders not to smile because everyone looks pissed off. It is a maze of hallways. At various junctions young Russian women inspect your credential. They smile briefly . . . like they are probably "ordered."

The head of the US Figure Skating Association is upset. His hotel is in Sochi over 20 miles away. He says the bus took a full hour to get here. The skaters and the staff are staying at a Soviet-era sanitarium. "Bedbugs," he says, "bedbugs everywhere."

The event ends and I look for my driver amid dozens of Russian busses which brought in the locals parked helter-skelter on the dirt road. My driver is smoking with the rest of the drivers in the middle of the road. When we arrive back at the van, the driver hands me a black plastic bag. He explains in Russian that the hotel has no liquor license and that he has brought me a gift . . . a bottle of Beluga Vodka. He gives me a big smile. He reeks of black tobacco but he's a pleasant enough fellow. I open it and take a big swig. We exit a different way, passing monolithic white marble faced structures rising out of the mud. They will soon be the IBC and the IPC. What happens after the Olympics to those palaces is anyone's guess.

These gleaming white buildings rise like ghosts in the night above the rock strewn mud as lines of a dozen or more cement trucks arrive at 9:00 pm. 30 foot high piles of sand and gravel are everywhere. Another slug of Beluga. The smell of diesel is overwhelming.

All this for 17 Days of Glory. This is a Second World country in a First World disguise.