Welcome to Hell: Rio Olympics 2016

            It is difficult to imagine a more perfect disaster than the emerging realities of the Rio games. I’d originally intended to focus solely on the Zika virus, which itself could potentially blow up into a global pandemic, but the past few weeks have made it clear that the risk of Zika is not the most severe concern facing these Olympics. The broad categories of known issues are unique in their scope and severity, but they’re the sorts of problems you get when developing countries host major international events: pollution, safety concerns, governmental chaos, cost overruns, facility issues, and the like. What makes Rio unique, however, is that Rio’s got them all.

            As Rio gears up for the Olympics, even the pageantry has been tragic.  The Olympic mascot, Juma the Jaguar, escaped from the zoo, and ended up being shot and killed by the soldiers sent to recapture her. Skydivers attempting to depict the famous Olympic rings got tangled together, and two of them fell to their death. An oceanside bike path, key component of the city’s infrastructure improvements, collapsed beneath a giant wave, killing two cyclists as a 150-foot segment fell into the sea. A crowd of government employees—upset at recent budget cuts—surrounded the torch procession, and managed to successfully extinguish the ceremonial flame before being dispersed with tear gas and rubber bullets. Protests continue to follow the Olympic torch as it tours Rio. This anger stems from how, as poverty and crime surge in Brazil, $12 billion has been spent on the Olympics, the windfall from which will almost exclusively benefit the elite. In light of the surrounding concerns, one cannot help but recall the sign held up at the Rio airport by police officers, there to protest after not getting paid overtime for six months: “Welcome to hell,” it said. You “will not be safe."

            The unrest simmering beneath the surface of these Games reflects the major ethical question of the Olympics as a whole: What are the ethics of awarding the Games—a responsibility that requires building numerous facilities and luxury accommodations, and from which no long-term economic gains result—in countries where the money used to host them could instead be used to benefit populations in need?

            It was not this question, however, that first brought the Rio games into public consciousness as a potential disaster. It was the Zika virus. Zika is behind a wave of microcephaly currently spreading through the Americas—in Florida, the CDC has issued a travel warning over the fifteen cases just reported this week. It is this risk of an “explosive pandemic” that led hundreds of doctors, academics, and scientists to sign a public letter in favor of moving or cancelling the games. The actual risks in Rio, however, appear to be fairly minimal. Perhaps surprisingly, this judgment is supported by data: over the course of 44 test events, with over 7,000 athletes and 8,000 volunteers present, zero cases of Zika were reported. What’s more, cases of infection plummet as the mosquito responsible for transmitting the virus goes dormant in the Southern Hemisphere winter, which stretches from June until September. That explains why the World Health Organization has repeatedly declined to issue any sort of advisory, leaving the decision to the individual athletes. The few athletes who have chosen to withdraw have largely cited Zika’s particular harm to pregnancies, and its uncertain effects on reproduction in general. Considering the other concerns swirling around Rio, Zika may end up being something of an afterthought.

            For example, there is the deadly, antibiotic-resistant superbacteria endemic to the waters through which athletes will row, sail, and swim. One recent study found the microbes present at five prominent local beaches—all of which will host events—in addition to 90% of water samples taken from the sailing venue, and 10% of samples from the waterway where triathletes will be swimming. An AP investigation perhaps summed it up best: “Just three teaspoons of water from Guanabara Bay [where some events will be held] would result in a 99% chance of infection.” The consequences of exposure vary with the individual, but can be extremely dire: after a test event last year, one sailor reported to a Berlin hospital with MRSA, a flesh-eating infection. Kristina Mena, an associate professor of health at the University of Texas-Houston, called the situation “an extreme environment, where the pollution is so high that exposure is imminent and the chance of infection likely.”

            You might be wondering how an infection like MRSA could end up in Olympic waterways. In short, Rio has been dumping vast amounts of raw sewage, including human waste, into the city’s rivers for decades, which then drain out into the bays. The result is an environment where both bacterial and viral infections thrive. In independent testing last summer, the water used for rowing competitions tested out at 1.7 million times the quantity of disease-causing viruses required to be called “hazardous” in California. Upon seeing the results, the medical director of the IOC responded with a statement that they’ve been assured “there is no significant risk to athlete health.” In the future, they added, authorities should stick to the official policy of testing only for bacteria.

            The concerns with Rio’s water, however, don’t end there. Guanabara Bay, in the time since the AP released its results, has also suffered an oil spill, turning many of the boats in its harbor brown. Meanwhile, at Copacabana Beach, where beach volleyball will be played, several human body parts washed ashore. There is an additional irony to all this: in 2009, Rio pledged to clean 80% of the sewage from local waterways as a condition of hosting the Olympics. Eduardo Paes, Mayor of Rio, admitted last summer that no such cleanup would happen, calling it “a lost opportunity.” As a result of this lost opportunity, thousands of athletes will be placing themselves at risk for serious infection, disease, or even death.

            The body parts washing ashore—one of which still has not been identified—are a dramatic example of a simple fact: Rio is not a safe place to visit right now. With a third of the country in poverty, the economy failing, and police budgets slashed, the city finds itself beset by significant unrest and unprecedented crime. Despite Mayor Paes’s promises to focus on erasing the harsh class divides that define Rio’s social strata, the direct proximity of the poverty-stricken favelas to wealth—and to Olympic venues—has led to some of the highest crime rates in recent history: homicides are up 15%, as compared to last year, while street robbery is up 24%.

            Numerous incidents have highlighted the sorts of security concerns that may arise when the expected 300,000 visitors descend on Rio this week. Last month, nine laptops were stolen from the Olympic Center by security guards, while street crime itself is at such a fever pitch of lethality that Brazilian soccer great Rivaldo warned tourists: “I advise everyone with plans to visit Brazil for the Olympics in Rio to stay home. You'll be putting your life at risk here. This is without even speaking about the state of public hospitals and all the Brazilian political mess. Only God can change the situation in our Brazil.”

            His warning would seem to be apt, as an MMA fighter was recently kidnapped by a group of men claiming to be “cops,” and forced to pay a ransom before being released, then later harassed by them a second time. Tourists have been robbed. And, on a larger scale, a local group recently pledged its allegiance to ISIS, raising fears of terrorism only days before events are set to begin. Twelve extremists were recently arrested on suspicion of actively planning an attack. As organizers scramble to determine who will be screening for weapons at Olympic venues, terrorism raises even more serious concerns, especially since the 315 surveillance cameras originally planned for Olympic venues will not, as it turns out, be in place.

            Even as athletes have only begun trickling into Rio, problems have arisen. A Chinese hurdler was vomited on in a hotel lobby, only to have his luggage stolen as he cleaned himself up. In a similar scheme, Australian athletes evacuated their quarters in response to a fire, then returned to find their luggage gone. Two Australian Paralympians were robbed at gunpoint. What’s more, the security firm tasked with policing the Olympics was recently fired, citing “incompetence and irresponsibility,” as only 500 of the promised 3,400 personnel had been brought on board. As it stands, it seems the tasks of screening and patrolling these Games will fall to the local police—the same ones who held up protest signs at the airport.

            These security issues are exacerbated by how the financial crisis has affected officers, who have already threatened to strike over the lack of payment resulting from the government’s recent budget cuts, and who are already stretched thin by the increase in violent crime. Those two facts are, in many ways, related, as what is fueling public outrage and instability is the same crisis that has left many police officers unpaid, their stations having to rely on public aid for things like toilet paper, fuel for their cars, and pens. Connecting the two is the stark reality that, after 85 officers died in the State of Rio in 2015, 53 have already been killed this year, while, on the other side of things, an Amnesty International report attributes over 2,500 deaths to Rio security forces over the past seven years. When the city hosted the World Cup in 2014, the report notes, similar tensions and “public security” plans resulted in a 40% increase in police killings.

            The financial crisis at the heart of this was driven by the crash of the Brazilian economy and reached a head in June, when the acting governor of Rio de Janeiro’s State Government, Francisco Dornelles, was forced to declare an official State of Financial Disaster. He claimed that the depth of the current recession—its worst since the 1930’s—was preventing the region from “honoring its commitment” to host the Games. If “steps are not taken,” he warned, the Olympics could be a “big failure.” The pragmatic effect of his declaration was to allow the state government—which is not responsible for the majority of Olympic obligations—to borrow funds without approval from the legislature, while depending on a federal bailout of $900 million to meet Olympic and public-sector obligations. The money finally came through in late June, which gave the region 36 days to pay police officers, clean up sewage, and complete a Metro extension required to link the largest venue cluster with the rest of the city. On the eve of the Games, much of this has not yet been done.

            What’s more, if something were to go wrong at these Olympics, the prospects for healthcare are grim: the crisis has essentially destroyed the public sector, leaving the State unable to run the hospitals in Rio. Although the governor attempted to pass those responsibilities over to the city, which would at least have allowed doctors to get paid, that has not worked particularly well—although the city took over two public hospitals, others may still be forced to close, and those remaining open still appear to lack medications, syringes, and available space. According to a report in mid-July, the five hospitals recommended to tourists faced such dire overcrowding that patients were being admitted onto gurneys in hallways. On the whole, the report concluded, the situation did not “allow for the accommodation of new patients.” The health ministry, which purchased 146 new ambulances for the Games, contests the report, claiming to have provided sufficient equipment and funding to alleviate the pressure. But given the high potential for both infection and physical harm, even minor disruptions to medical care could easily become a crisis.

            The value judgments implied by this contrast—doctors, firefighters, and police officers going unpaid while the city’s elite benefit from Olympic spending—carries an even greater air of inequality because of the corruption endemic to Brazil, including the impeachment trial of suspended President Dilma Rousseff, which has paralyzed the government for months. Much of the corruption implicates the state-run oil company Petrobras, which finds itself at the intersection of political and financial crises. A 2014 probe known as Operation Car Wash revealed the company’s involvement in the purchasing of numerous votes, and is currently before the country’s Supreme Court. All the while, it is falling oil prices that have largely driven the country’s current recession, as Brazil saw its economy contract by 3.8% in 2015, with a similar drop predicted for this year.

            The declining revenues to the State have eviscerated a 2008 plan to “pacify” the favelas—sprawling, impoverished slums that abut wealthy areas of the city, largely governed by warring drug gangs. Although crime rates initially dropped as officers began pursuing a more community-involved approach to policing, the inability to pay for even basic needs has crippled the plan. The 38 police bases set up in shipping containers across the city are today often unmanned, and, even when occupied, officers have become unwilling to venture out into the extraordinarily dangerous conditions. Crime rates, as a result, have rebounded to reach unprecedented levels.

            This combination of underfunded public works and extravagant Olympic spending, all orchestrated by a political elite largely viewed as corrupt, has left the population in a near-constant state of revolt, with riots, protests, and large-scale engagements with security forces common occurrences as the Games approach. It’s easy to see how, in such an atmosphere, large-scale construction projects could fall short.

            Which is why it’s unsurprising that, as teams began to arrive in Rio for the games, substantial concerns quickly emerged with the housing facilities. The Australian team was the first to call attention to the issues, citing a strong smell of gas, exposed wiring, and water flowing down the walls as they declined to move into the accommodations. Although many athletes have moved in, they are doing so among a staff of 1,000 new maintenance workers being brought on, and “stress tests” are only now being performed on the plumbing infrastructure. The Great Britain and New Zealand delegations also reported  issues, and Belarus declined to move in over a lack of hot water, failing sewage systems, and dirty showers and windows. All those teams eventually occupied their facilities, but as of July 26, only 12 out of 31 buildings in the Olympic Village had passed inspection. Argentinian officials, citing the broad scope and “impressive length” of the list of problems, have opined that sabotage is the only possible explanation.

            But there have been other, less dramatic, concerns with building quality. The main ramps for the sailing events at Marina da Glória, for example, were recently destroyed by wind and waves, while the broadcast center at Copacabana Beach, which will house foreign journalists as they cover the numerous events hosted there, was flooded for the second time by rising tides. When subjected to the round-the-clock stresses of an active Olympic Games, other flaws will certainly emerge.  

            Even given all this chaos, the vast majority of athletes have not altered their plans—they have, after all, worked for their entire lives to reach the Olympics, with no guarantee of a second chance. But as reports on Zika, safety concerns, and other issues have grown, some participants have decided the potential costs are too high. One television anchor, Samantha Guthrie of NBC’s Today show, has declined to attend due to her pregnancy, and an American cyclist, Tejay van Garderen, has officially withdrawn, because his wife is currently pregnant as well. Few other athletes in traditional Olympic sports have withdrawn, though many have expressed their concerns.

            Sports such as golf and tennis, however, do not rely on the Olympics for exposure or financial compensation, which may explain why golfers have been withdrawing at an unusually high rate. Not a traditional Olympic sport, golf will be returning to Rio as an Olympic event for the first time since 1924, and is only slated for inclusion through the 2020 Olympics. As a result, over a dozen participants have withdrawn, including eight out of the top twenty male golfers on the PGA tour. Included among them are Jason Day, Dustin Johnson, Jordan Spieth, and Rory McIlroy, the current top four golfers in the world, each explicitly citing concerns with Zika as the reason. For similar reasons, many notable tennis players have also chosen to stay home.

            Other high-profile athletes have decided to attend and compete for their countries, but publicly declared their precautions. Hope Solo, goalkeeper for the US Women's Soccer team, will “begrudgingly” attend, but will reportedly remain sequestered in her quarters for the duration, while Michael Phelps, four-time Olympian and flagbearer for the United States, has hired a private security firm to protect him and his family while in Rio. After three Spanish sailors were robbed at gunpoint last month, the Spanish Olympic team has taken similar measures. Many others who attend will be taking whatever steps they feel necessary, including freezing their sperm, to balance the competitive necessities of the Olympics with the risks of visiting Rio.

            These problems are not, of course, wholly unique to Brazil. Although perhaps an extreme example of corruption as a result of its clout on the international stage, Brazil remains a developing country, with all of a developing country’s issues with disease, pollution, population distribution, wealth inequality, crime, and economic instability. What differentiates Brazil is the spotlight of the Olympics, and the resulting contrast, ethically speaking, between where that $12 billion could have been spent, and where it was.

            What good is the Olympic spotlight, then, if all it does is demonstrate how consistently the country has failed to live up to its obligations as host? Instead of a vehicle for demonstrating ethical failures, could not the Olympics be used to leverage ethical success?

            Awarding the Olympics to Rio, after all, was based on a number of promises: favelas would be improved, sewage cleaned up, metro lines finished, corruption minimized. The hypothetical economic boon resulting—which itself is subject to much skepticism—was obtained on the backs of those promised improvements. It was a better, future Rio that would host the Olympics, an exchange of future prestige for present civic improvement. Why not, then, give teeth to that trade-off? The IOC could, and should, leverage its influence to hold would-be host countries to their word: promises made in the course of a country’s successful campaign to host the Games could become more than empty statements. They could be enforced as conditions that must be met for the Olympics to be hosted there.

            After all, if they fell short, there are countries around the world that could host an event like the Olympics on relatively short notice. That would effectively take the ethical question haunting the Olympics as a whole—how can the IOC justify imposing an additional short- and long-term economic cost on a region already suffering?—and turn it around: how can the Olympics have a positive impact on a host country before they even begin? Whether such a strategy would translate to lasting change, it’s impossible to say. But at the very least, it would shift the equation toward something more ethically defensible.