YOG: The Beginning

The build-up of apprehension and excitement was gradual, subtle. The graph of my adrenalin against time was rising with a increasing gradient, but presently it was a gradient tending to zero.

Indeed, the games have begun. The Youth Olympic Village (YOV) is slowly, slowly coming to life. I’m sitting here, now, at the French desk of in the room housing the multilingual switchboard, waiting for my turn to address a panicking athlete over the phone.

My centre of operation

Call ext +5601

No, I don’t actually wish to deal with emergencies. But because it’s only been two and a half days since the opening of the Village halls of residence, there hasn’t been an overwhelmingly pressing need for interpreters like myself. Yet.

Few things enroute to the Village announced the imminent commencement of the Youth Olympic Games (YOG). How peculiar, I noted at the beginning of my journey: the Olympic Lane markings were absent from that stretch of motorway that I was travelling on. A few minutes later, the first reminder: a bus bearing YOG colours approached from behind. I retrieved my YOG handbook from the depths of my haversack. Running through the list of event venues I noticed I was in the vicinity of one of them: Singapore Turf Club, the home of all equestrian events. Upon returning my gaze to the motorway I smiled as the first Olympic Lane markings came within sight.

The further away from home — and hence the nearer to the YOV — I drew, the more consistent the lane markings grew. Fluorescent yellow signs screamed for attention on the left of the motorway. GIVE WAY, they ordered.

Taking the appropriate exit out of the motorway and crossing the junction to Nanyang Technological University (NTU — they cleverly avoided calling themselves Nanyang University of Technology: NUT), my eyes scanned the entrance for signs of YOG-related activity. Left, right — none. Bizarre.

Suddenly — a massive welcome sign: WELCOME TO THE YOUTH OLYMPIC VILLAGE. The tiniest amount of adrenalin kicked in. Then finally, after traversing the hilly, complicated network of roads in the depths of NTU’s campus, numerous white marquees, security vehicles, taxis, and several others dressed in the same combination of rich purple and khaki: the Village entrance.

Or at least it was what I thought was the Village entrance. As I proceeded briskly to the marquees, I noticed I wasn’t where I thought I was. It was instinct that took me to where I was supposed to be — approximately three minutes’ walk away.

The Village entrance was surprisingly peaceful; chatter was minimal, people weren’t aplenty, panic was absent. The entrance also looked surprisingly unimpressive. The Main Accreditation Centre was another one of those marquees, only fitted with glass panels, air-conditioning and presumably some other facilities on the inside. The metal detectors and various other computerised devices were all too familiar; they’re stuff from the airport. There wasn’t anything particularly grand about the entrance. Neither were there futuristic turnstiles that I had hoped would be specially fitted for the games. Even the damn mascots Lyo and Merly weren’t there. Disappointing. On the other hand, it was an unassuming, unpretentious entrance — nothing reeking of ostentation. Pleasant enough. Clean. Safe. But one would hope that the inside of the Village would be the real spectacle.

I approached the first barrier of entry. Beep. Negative. Problems? Already? Oh wow, I cheered loudly muttered, mildly irritated. Directed by a bored security officer to the Main Accreditation Centre, I calmly made my way there.

Incompetence greeted me there. She was joined quickly by Ignorance and Indifference, being the inseparable triplets they always are. Incompetence refused me entry; Ignorance gave no suggestions for a follow-up procedure; Indifference stared back at me.

I shall spare you the details of my encounter with them. But one segment of the incident I must share: after I related my problems to Javier in the most unaffected tone I could manage — and in French, too — Incompetence and her two sisters Ignorance and Indifference transformed, magically, immediately, into Initiative, Importunacy and Interest respectively. You’re an interpreter? You speak French? For long have you been learning French? Is it difficult? GLKFJSLDJSF? SLFAJSDLKFJ? FJDKJSFLJ?

Imbeciles.

I was not amused.

Thankfully fifteen minutes later Javier came to the rescue, signed me in, and off we went, pass the clinical machinery and the blank-faced guardians of the gates, pass the few athletes wandering down the corridors alongside the Village Square (which is triangular)…

The minor disarray the Language Sub-Centre was in was certainly not what I expected to see. Various unfamiliar looking persons were collecting their uniforms, some others were running around pulling documents out of drawers…

Authority, in paper form

I hate people who don’t understand the concept (oh goodness it’s not even a concept) of punctuality, and I was late for duty — twenty-two minutes late, to be exact. Yes, I’m pedantic that way, and I was soon to be punished for my pedantry: upon entering the switchboard room where the venue coordinators were explaining phone call procedures, twenty-odd pairs of eyes directed their annoyed gazes at the latecomer, who, this time, was I. I apologised for interrupting as I silently cursed myself for being the Medusa of death stares myself, and for trying to petrify every latecomer I’ve encountered.

Slinking quietly into the nearest chair at the nearest desk (Bahasa Melayu — not my area), I sheepishly smiled at everyone around, who, to my relief, returned smiles. My muscles relaxed. My posture slackening slightly to a more comfortable one, I caught up on switchboard procedures and eased into the job. Overlapping rosters meant I could spend my dinner voucher at 1730hrs+, returning at 1800hrs+ to hold the fort at one of the French desks.

Français -- avec plaisir

After having my already slightly-sore throat severely aggravated by the Sichuan-style fried fish from dinner, I put out the fire with nearly a litre of water, returned to the switchboard room and claimed one of the vacated French desks as mine for the rest of the night.

While settling in I noticed my fellow interpreters in the neighbouring desks/compartments were all native speakers, save for two young ones with MOELC written conspicuously on their faces. The three Portuguese desks to my left were occupied by Portuguese and Brazilians, the remaining French desk by a French, and as for the Russian desk…. unambiguously Russian operators.

Irrational fears gripped me. Hold the fort? Me? I’m not even remotely French or Francophone… Nervousness defined my entire being. I fiddled absent-mindedly with the equipment at the desk: a Panasonic headset, a Panasonic telephone, the YOG notepad.

My equipment

Attempting to channel my nerves into aesthetic inspiration I doodled Bienvenue tout le monde! on a sheet of paper. I was about to construct the fanciest word art imaginable when I felt a light tap on my shoulder.

Technological assistance was needed. Inside, I laughed hysterically; technology? Me? Peerless irony. But thank goodness it was something I’d done before — and successfully, too: activating the YOG debit card.

Enter the card number here…
Now this…
Enter your first name here…
Last name…

I was doing well. Expertly (really!), in fact.

Now you enter your address here…

Germany, he chose from the drop-down list of countries.

Germany. The word registered in my mind as if with a loud clash of cymbals. Words tumbled from my lips before I had time to think.

Du kommst aus Deutschland?
Ja! Und du?
Aus Singapur.
Oh cool! Und… und also hast du in Deutschland gewohnt?
Nein.
Aber hast du…?
Ja. Für ‘nen Urlaub… Und auch Austauschprogramme…
Wo hast du denn Deutsch gelernt?
Hier.
Hier? In Singapur?
Ja doch.
Wo denn?
In einen Sprachzentrum.
Aber du hast kein Akzent, kein, kein… Kein Akzent! Uberhaupt kein… Es gibt keinen Unterschied… Kann man nicht feststellen dass du nicht…  deutsch bist… ‘st wirklich sehr, sehr, gut Deutsch…

I have never been more flattered.

I didn’t know what to say, and I couldn’t find anything to say, except an uncharacteristically shy and stifled danke. The above conversation and the seconds during which it was conducted are precious, precious memories I shall attempt to preserve. Already the memory of some sections of our conversation has faded almost indefinitely. Cruel Mnemosyne never meant for mortals to retain every one of our increasingly fragmented memories.

As I continued my conversation with my new friend I soon noticed the four badges he wore above his interpreter badge. Four. Now that was distractingly stunning. We interpreters are given one badge per language we are authorised to interpret in, and four was a formidable number of badges to have shining on one’s YOG uniform. I was given three — for French, German and Chinese — by my trusting supervisors, and from the amazed stares and raised eyebrows I had received I knew three was an impressive number. Four — for Russian, German, Italian and French — was out of this world. If these were military insignia, our entire army of interpreters would have to form a permanent guard of honour to salute his status of superiority.

Three? Formidable? Not really.

Close-up of my insignia

Only thirty minutes into my shift did I begin understanding the dynamic of a multilingual switchboard room. The ringing of a phone ushers in a sudden dip in volume of all our conversations. Tension hangs in the air. All eyes are fixed on the speaker, or at least in his direction. For the duration of the phone call nessun dorma, e nessun parla — no one sleeps, and no one speaks. Only when the phone call ends do all sinews relax. All expectantly await a post-mortem of the incident, as the operator completes the necessary post-query paperwork. Then, finally, a chorus of exhalations; the room is awash with relief.  Should the situation remain unresolved, however, the tension is protracted, stretched, painfully over our heads. Should the caller be a listless athlete testing out the phone lines, on the other hand, the brevity of the phone call and the operator’s amusement heralds an instant diffusion of tension, and idle chatter swiftly resumes.

As the hours went by, the number of interpreters in the room fell: 36… 30… 22… 15… 10… However, due to my multilingualism, I was obliged to stay, with six desks — three French and three German — under my responsibility. A few moments later, an announcement: a delegation requiring French interpretation was due to arrive at 2255hrs.

Which delegation is this?
Congo.

Congo.

Blinking back my mild shock I took a step backwards. Congo. I knew this entailed a slim, slim chance of there being an escape clause — an escape clause of retreating into English territory. My mind at 2205hrs was already clouded with fatigue, but this call to duty reinstated my obligation to remain on my toes with all senses sharpened. I returned to my desk with a renewed sense of urgency. The translation facility in my mind coughed to life.

I waited.

At 2300hrs, a grand total of four people occupied the switchboard room: two Russians, the venue coordinator and myself. Fighting the flu bugs and the sand man I kept myself awake with the tried and tested method of self-entertainment.

Singapore = Paris? I WISH.

With the Congolese delegation still nowhere in sight at 2345hrs, my kind supervisors thanked me for my patience, I bid them all good night and began the long walk out of the Village. It’s been an unexpectedly uneventful first day at work, but surely, the excitement will escalate dramatically from tomorrow. I await tomorrow’s duties with eagerness.

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