How much I was looking forward to these Olympic Games: starting with the news that I was accepted at all, the realization that I had a more interesting position than just assigning seats, to the certainty of having the honor of supporting an Olympic team. Of course, I was aware that my role would be limited.
Just considering that my entire preparation consisted of watching a few hours of videos and attending a seminar that was more like a motivational course.
Of course, at over fifty years old, I might lack the flexibility, spontaneity, and learning capacity of someone in their mid-twenties. And of course, people here sometimes get along better or worse with each other. But the fact that my greatest highlight might be that I’ve almost reached the halfway point of my time here is rather a sad conclusion.
The large Olympic committees like Germany, France, and the USA come to these major events well-prepared, with a huge team and a plan. The processes are clear, everyone knows what to do, and everyone has their area of responsibility. And then there are the small teams. I don’t know if it’s their fault—because they generally show up unprepared—or if it’s the organizer’s fault. Several conversations with volunteers from smaller teams suggest the former.
Since my first day with the Bahamas, I’ve tried to convey to the team leader’s assistant that my knowledge and scope of action are more than limited. I was even denied the opportunity to inform myself at the control points because they only communicate with the team leadership, not with me. On Saturday, the assistant asked me about tickets for the athletes’ relatives, and I told him who he should contact. I’ve picked up that much by now. He simply replied that he would ask me and no one else, which is hard to beat in terms of arrogance. For every topic, there are contact points where you meet more or less well-prepared staff who have been preparing for the Games for years. The fact that I am an uninformed volunteer who can be entrusted with smaller tasks, such as accompanying a team member to their accommodation or fetching things, and not a walking encyclopedia who knows all the processes, was initially interpreted as my incompetence. One’s own incompetence is best masked by arrogant behavior. Meanwhile, some of us have been granted access to the sacred halls of the NOC Center because these problems have been noticed by those in charge.
Unfortunately, I’m also someone who tries to please everyone. So, I was supposed to act as a driver for the players and take them to the competition venues.
First of all: I’m actually not an inexperienced driver. I’ve driven around 800,000 kilometers and have driven minibuses and small trucks, even over long distances. I found myself in an electric—and thus automatic—bus in one of the tightest multi-story parking garages you can imagine. Additionally, there were two driving instructors in the form of the team leader’s assistant and the team doctor in the vehicle, constantly talking to me. The edge protectors of the parking bays were not rounded, as is usually the case, but razor-sharp, so that I destroyed a tire while maneuvering, which blew out after driving one kilometer. If I had been given the opportunity to practice for half an hour on a normal parking lot and a quiet route, everything would have been fine. As it was, the disaster was preprogrammed. As the breakdown service later told me with a laugh, he had been called out six times the day before to change a tire at the multi-story garage. The Bahamas and I agree that I won’t drive another vehicle. For the Paralympics, however, I’m keeping this option open if the conditions are right.
While I was waiting three hours on the side of the road for the breakdown service, I received an SMS from the organizer reminding me of my participation in the preparation for the opening ceremony. Of course, I couldn’t attend this appointment. After all, I was alone with the vehicle, which was stuck in the middle of the road. And of course, I had never received an email announcing this meeting days in advance. This is a phenomenon that has accompanied me since the beginning of the Games and is likely due to an SMTP filter that only allows known domains. My request to simply use another email address of mine (I have a Gmail address, for example) could not be fulfilled because the server does not allow it. Here, the system becomes inflexible for security reasons, and I would have liked to participate in the opening ceremony instead of watching it on TV.
Speaking of inflexibility. Yesterday, after a day off, they wanted to deny me access to the village because I had exceeded the maximum number of hours. It was only when I presented the correspondence between my team, the NOC assistants’ supervisors, and myself that they graciously granted me entry.
I could also talk about air conditioning that has failed in almost all office spaces. Or a Wi-Fi network that doesn’t work in several buildings and elevators that drop a few centimeters or haven’t worked at all since the beginning of the Games. The latter should urgently be fixed with the Paralympics in mind.
There is one positive aspect to all of this: At the beginning of my mission, I put aside a pair of shorts because they had become too tight. Now, after walking 20–30 kilometers daily, I can wear them again without having to squeeze into them. It’s a shame, but my greatest highlight is that I’ll soon be halfway through and want to push through on principle. If it doesn’t work, then I’ll have to accept that too. But we’ll forget about the tattoo thing. The last few weeks really haven’t been great, so I don’t need to be reminded of Paris 2024 every day for the rest of my life.
