Reporting: it’s been a privilege

Go for the Gold, Stay for the Silver

When a journalist friend told me Mongolia’s Olympic athletes would come to Sukhabatar Square for an award ceremony, I expected mania.
“Yavtsgaay,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Saihkhna didn’t sound keen about the idea. She doesn’t seem to care much for athletics, but she agreed to come along. At least I could promise her dinner out of it. I owed her for teaching me some Mongolian, translating a press conference, and convincing a bank employee to take my money and keep gas and electricity coming to my apartment.
It was a frigid Tuesday, and rain fell as Saikhna and I headed toward Ulaanbaatar’s main square. Police had cordoned off a section of the plaza directly in front of Mongolia’s Parliament building—and its imbedded Chinggis Khaan statue—where a recently erected platform stood. Officers lined the no-go zone and a cluster of people surrounded this protected area. The speaker-laden stand, however, remained empty, and the crowd looked generally sparse.

Fair-weather or Not

I thought officials had canceled the event. Mongolians can handle -30 temperatures and biting wind, no problem, but people here don’t cope well with damp cold. Looking around, I was disappointed, until I saw hundreds of people sheltered beneath overhangs of nearby buildings. No drizzle could keep Ulaanbaatar from welcoming home its Olympians. A believer again in Mongol sports culture and heartiness, I searched for a good spot to view the event.
My plan was simple: tuck in behind some spectators, take photos of people applauding, speak with bystanders, and write an article from ‘the common man’s’ slightly restricted point of view. Saikhna had a different idea. She worked for Onodoor (Today), the big daily owned by the UB Post’s parent company. A year my junior, she was her paper’s only female reporter covering Ulaanbaatar’s post-election riot. (She used to work seven days a week, but recently her student-employment contract expired; now, as she enjoys reminding me, she wakes up at noon and spends all day eating or at the gym while she prepares to return to school).

Plough Bella

Instead of hanging back, she grabbed me and we barreled through a column of surprised onlookers until we arrived at a rope barrier and a police officer. “We’re reporters,” she said several times over the shouting group into which we had wedged our way. Wow, I thought. This is journalism.
After more pushing and yelling, the officer directed us to the press entry point. We headed in that direction, and while Saikhna discussed our situation with another journalist—I had no press credentials—I looked around at the swelling assembly. The rain had stopped and people streamed onto the courtyard from nearby buildings. Many ran toward a road on the square’s east side. Over a mass of heads, I saw the object of their attention: a convoy slowly progressing toward the Parliament House.
In a hulking military truck-bed, judoka N. Tuvshinbayar—Mongolia’s first gold medalist—gripped a guardrail and waved to admirers reaching toward him from the street. 100 kg wide and about 5’10,” he looked just a little larger than life. With some encouragement, people cleared the road and his vehicle sped up, driving onto the square in front of me, bypassing the police guard, and stopping near the platform.
Another truck and two busses packed with Olympic athletes and personnel followed. I recognized the faces of boxer E. Badar-Uugan—Mongolia’s second gold medalist—and shooter O. Gundegmaa—who won silver in Beijing—as they cruised past.

Paths of Story

Saikhna and I followed the vehicles to the entry point. She explained our situation to several officers, and eventually one lifted the rope for us. I had luck before using the phrase ‘I’m a journalist’ with police, but man that was easy—this is a country where the press has power.
Of course it was too easy. As we approached the platform, a man wearing an earpiece and black coat stopped us. He wanted to see my press pass. I have no press pass. He looked at Saikhna’s Onodoor ID. “You can go,” he said. He pointed at me: “You stay.” Saikhna argued, but this guy did not look like the flexible type.
We stood there, inside the restricted area, but as far from the ceremony as everyone else. I looked at the crowd. An older agent approached us and Saikhana rapidly gave him our explanation. “He’s with the UB Post,” she said. This silver haired gentleman turned to me and asked in perfect English, “do you have your passport?” I hadn’t brought my passport.
“Do you have any ID?” I didn’t think so. I rifled through my wallet. There was an Energy gym membership card, other peoples’ business cards, a Visa card. I handed him the later.
“This isn’t an ID.”
“I know.” I gave my wallet a last, sheepish look. There was my California driver’s license (I thought I’d taken it out for safe keeping). He checked the picture, handed it back and then waved us through. God bless the Golden State.
Saikhna and I walked up to 20 other reporters, photographers and cameramen parked beside all of Mongolia’s Olympians. On the platform stood Mongolia’s president, its Prime minister, Ulaanbaatar’s mayor, and other dignitaries.

Memo to world: Blue Cravates = Mongol Spot

Most importantly, the nation’s four Olympic medalists stood before the temporary structure, each holding a corner of a Mongolian flag: silver medalists in the rear, gold medalists in the front. I got my first live look at P. Seremba, the light-flyweight boxing runner-up whose heroics and boyish looks charmed Mongolia. At 48 kilograms, he made Tuvshinbayar look like a mail truck, but from where I stood, I could have easily beaned either one, slender of stocky, with my camera.
All the athletes looked sharp in their yellow jackets, white trousers, and blue ties (added to the ensemble, after 12 hours of deliberation, when someone discovered China and Mongolia had identical Olympic outfits), but silver and gold attracted the most attention.

Green for Gold

Everyone wanted a glimpse of Mongolia’s decorated Olympic heroes, and while politicians spoke, the crowd jostled against one another, the ropes, and police officers to get a better look. Sometimes the view is just better away from ‘the common man.’
I couldn’t tell how many people crowded the square, maybe a few thousand, but a combination of weather and formality seemed to tax the crowd’s enthusiasm. Polite applause rather than wild cheers characterized the ceremony and it was hard to imagine that among these people stood the rambunctious individuals who scaled Sukhbataar’s statue immediately following Mongolia’s Olympic victories.
With the final speech concluded, the nation’s four medalists ascended the platform and Tushinbayar presented Mongolia’s President with the flag. Then, he and his three compatriots received oversized checks modeled after Mongolia’s 20,000 togrog bill. Gold medalists received about US$1 million and silver medalists received $500,000.

Frenzyless Media

Some sparklers lit up the stage and a military band played Mongolia’s National Anthem as athletes and politicians filed off the stand and up Parliament’s steps to the statue of Chinggis Khaan. After posing for a group photo, athletes waded through members of the media toward their buses.
I had juggled a video and regular camera for the last 30 minutes. My cold hands stopped functioning and my machines ran out of batteries just as the athletes boarded their vehicles. A concert began on the square, but I had the story I wanted.
I had not experienced another episode of mass communal elation, however, I had seen reporting privilege and I felt, as a journalist, I better understood my duties. Packing it in, I went home to watch the news give me a close look at events most people see from far away.