Adventures in the Land of Singing Garbage Trucks

by Adam Tervort

  After class we shuffled off to dinner, numbed and reeling. After dinner when we entered the classroom for our evening class I was scared to death to see that our teacher was an actual Chinese person. The thought of listening to any more Chinese made me want to cry! Sister Li turned out to love speaking English, which was a great thing for us. We used this to our advantage a lot in the following weeks, whenever it got to be too much to cram any more language into our heads. The American teachers were not nearly so forgiving or willing to let us off the hook, and while we respected them for it I was always grateful to come into class and see someone Chinese because they were much more likely to give us a break.

  I learned to love meetings. Missionaries have a lot of meetings to go to, some were training meetings, some were devotional meetings, some were church meetings, but no matter what type of meeting it was it meant that you didn't have to learn Chinese during that time. Meetings were a blessed relief. One of my favorite meetings was the Asia-bound missionary training meetings. The man who trained us had been a missionary in Japan years before, and told really good stories. One of the stories I still remember was about cultural sensitivity. Two missionaries in Japan came upon an injured dog one day, and they wanted to help. (Missionaries are supposed to be helpful, right?) One of them was from a ranch in Texas, had been around animals his whole life, and knew that this dog had been hit by a car and was going to die. He wanted to kill the dog quickly and put it out of its misery, so he found a large hunk of concrete and used it to put the dog down. The problem was, they were next to a very busy street in Tokyo, and all the hundreds of commuters saw was a huge white guy pick up a hunk of concrete and use it to smash a dog. Missionaries couldn't get in any doors in Tokyo for months after that. While not a really uplifting story, it served its purpose, I knew that under no circumstances should I allow myself be caught euthanizing animals anywhere near major roads, especially with big rocks. And I never have.

  Meals were our other big distraction. The menu at the MTC was on a two week rotation, so it didn't take us long before we had it memorized. After three times through the rotation I was desperate for a change, and so Elder Lai introduced me to the wonders of Tabasco sauce. He squirted some on my eggs one morning, and I couldn't believe how much it changed the taste. Howling like a baby because it was too spicy was embarrassing, but I was hooked. In the afternoon when I had to spend a large hunk of class time on the toilet with diarrhea I knew I'd found a great learning tool. I'm still pretty hooked to Tabasco, although the trips to the bathroom are much less frequent, thank goodness.

  After six weeks we had a shakeup in our teachers. The new semester had just started at BYU, some of the old teachers changed schedules and some new teachers began teaching. Brother Shi continued to teach us, as well as a second Brother Shi (who we promptly christened Brother Shi #2), and Sister Su. Sister Su was a petite Taiwanese who worked us hard, but still gave us more slack than either of the Brothers Shi who seemed to think that because they had learned Chinese it shouldn't be a problem for us either. Such wishful thinking on their part. Learning Chinese was still like pulling teeth for me, I just couldn't get it. I knew that I wasn't a genius, but being so bad in class for seven hours a day was really difficult to handle. I don't think I'd ever felt so stupid in my life. I tried to work hard, memorize what I was told to memorize, but things just didn't click.

  Brother Shi #2 helped solve two of my big Chinese problems. In Chinese there are some sounds that can only be made by rolling your tongue towards the middle of the roof of your mouth and then making the sound, in Chinese this is called 捲舌 juanshe. Because this sound occurs nowhere in English it was difficult for us to understand. What made it even harder is that Taiwanese (and those who have learned Chinese in Taiwan) seem to do this only very lightly, making it doubly hard to hear. I would roll my tongue in the wrong places and forget to roll it in the right places, making whatever I said incomprehensible as well as nearly choking me. (I also had a nasty tendency to roll my eyes whenever I rolled my tongue, so I looked like I was having some kind of fit.) Brother Shi #2 had been a missionary in Canada, and was the first Chinese speaker I met who had learned to speak like a Mainland Chinese, not a Taiwanese. His tongue rolls were so overdone that the Taiwanese laughed at him, but I thought it was the coolest thing in the world. Plus Brother Shi #2 was ripped and played quarterback on the BYU football team. We loved him. Because of him I was sure that speaking like my mouth was full of marbles was the greatest thing in the world. No one understood what I was saying yet, but my tongue rolls were intense and in the right place.

  The second problem Brother Shi #2 solved for me was tones. The first tone in Mandarin is a high tone, the second tone is rising, low to high, the third tone is low, and the fourth tone is falling, high to low. Sounds simple enough, right? The problem was that the third tone isn't quite that simple. Anyone can speak good fourth tones, you just have to say it like you're angry, second tones sound like a question, first tones sound pretty sissyish until you get the hang of how high your voice needs to go, but saying it right is just a matter of saying the word in a high voice. The third tones were just hard to keep down, and if your third tone rises then it turns into a second tone, and once again, no one understands what the heck you're saying. (Do you see the theme of this chapter yet?) Our native teacher, Sister Su, could say the third tone right, she was a native! But to me it sounded like her third tones were exactly the same as second tones, and to her my third tones sounded exactly the same as second tones. I was screwed both ways. One day in class Brother Shi #2 got angry and yelled "Stop bringing your third tones up! Can't you speak in a low voice?" All of the sudden the clouds cleared, and the sun came out. I stammered in amazement, "You mean the third tone doesn't need to come up?" "Only native speakers can pull that off, just use a low voice!" Third tones have never been a problem since.

  In the last weeks before we were scheduled to leave for Taiwan, three things happened: my grandpa died, I got to call home, and I finally understood a whole conversation with a real Chinese person. I have forgotten the exact date that my grandfather passed away, but that morning I was called to the front office to meet with one of the Mission Presidency. He told me that my mother had called and that grandpa had died at home that morning. While this was difficult, it wasn't surprising, he had been very sick the last time I saw him. I was told that I couldn't go back for the funeral (this is standard policy for missionaries everywhere), but that I could take the day off if I wanted. I did that, and was able to spend the day grieving for a man that meant a lot to me and who I still miss to this day. A few days later we were told that the date of our airplane tickets had changed. We could call home to tell our parents the new date and time, the first time we were able to call home while at the MTC. At that time, before September 11, you could still meet people and see them off to the gate, and since so many missionaries have family within driving distance of the Salt Lake Airport many families got a last chance to be together in the time before the plane boards. My folks live in Kansas City so they wouldn't be coming to the airport, but it was still nice to call them and talk for a few minutes and hear about grandpa's funeral. My dad was encouraging, my mother told me she was "so proud" of me, and then it was back to another day of class.

  Three days before we were set to leave for Taiwan, the miracle happened. Sister Su was our teacher for that class, and at the end of class she gave us a pep talk and shared some experiences with us in Chinese. Usually this meant snooze time for me, but I tried really hard to concentrate that day, and I understood what she said. The longer she talked the more startled I became. Not only did I understand what she was saying, I wasn't straining the way I usually did. When she finished I was exhausted and happier than I had been in weeks. Maybe I did stand a chance of learning Chinese, or at least of not making a total fool of myself!

  On the morning of Thursday, October 5th we boarded the buses for the airport. Sister Su and some of the other Taiwanese teachers came and waved
to us as we drove off, crying harder than any of us were. I was surprised to see my Grandma and Grandpa Tervort waiting at the gate along with some other relatives. Not long after that we boarded the plane and were off into another world. We landed in Taiwan two calendar days later on the morning of Saturday, October 7th, 20 hours after leaving Salt Lake City.

  Chapter 4 - Yes, I eat my rice with butter

  Taiwan smells. Not really a bad smell, but I was aware of it as soon as I got off the airplane. Taiwan is so very green. I left the US in October, at a time when everything is either already dead or nearly there, and arrived in a place that was still verdant. Taiwan is hot. Really, really hot. I left wearing a heavy winter overcoat and was sweating before I'd even made it through customs. And Taiwan is filled with really nice people.

  My first linguistic humiliation came at the immigration counter. Being very obviously white, the immigration officer at the CKS Airport spoke English to me which I was grateful for, and then as I was passing through the gate he asked me, in Chinese, how long I would be staying for. It was a friendly question, and I understood just enough of it to get panicked when I couldn't answer him right away. It took almost a whole minute of stuttering "I'm sorry, could you repeat that again slowly?" before I understood what he'd asked, and I promptly answered that I was staying for 20 years. The look on his face said that he didn't believe me, and by the time I figured out what I'd said it was too late to go back.

  We'd arrived in the morning, and got back from the airport just in time to be taken to breakfast. I can't remember ever drinking a full glass of soy milk before that morning, and it took all of my fortitude to slug down the one I was given. This is ironic since I make my own soy milk every day now, but my palate was not very broad back then. Breakfasts in Taiwan have no cold foods, even in the blistering summer heat. That first morning I had a steamed bun with egg, an egg pancake, and soy milk. I hated all of it, but of course I couldn't say that, especially with 20 other new missionaries around me who were proclaiming it to be the best breakfast of their entire lives. I stuffed it down and then wondered when I could go back to a place with air conditioning.

  New missionary orientation took up most of the afternoon, and then we had dinner with the mission president and his wife and the "trainers." Since we were "greenies" who knew exactly nothing, we were assigned to go with missionaries who were supposedly experienced, good with the language, and well equipped to help us make the transition to a new country and a new lifestyle. Later in my mission I trained twice, and I can tell you that I wasn't prepared to do any of those things, but we never told the new missionaries that. My companion was Elder Shi, a tall, skinny blond missionary from Washington State who, I was told, had amazing Chinese. After a great dinner, (anything that even vaguely resembled Western food was gourmet to me by this point) we were shuffled out the door to head home to our apartments. I discovered then that Elder Shi was not a great talker. Other than telling me where we were going, which made no sense to me, he didn't say anything.

  After dropping off luggage at our apartment we went to a convenience store to buy some food for Sunday, just enough to tide me over until we could go to a proper supermarket on Monday. We were living in downtown Taipei, a city of six million people, with skyscrapers everywhere and no grass to be seen. The roads were packed full of so many cars as to be laughable, and the scooters were driven by people with a death wish. We made our way through the back alley our apartment was situated on to the convenience store. If the crush of people and the insane traffic weren't enough, the sheer number of convenience stores was simply overwhelming. These weren't the 7-11s I had seen as a child; those were gas stations that sold Slurpee’s. Taiwanese 7-11s were storefronts with all kinds of crazy stuff for sale inside, which I could recognize perhaps 35% of. Just inside the front door was a square-shaped pot filled with seafood shishkabobs, including bright purple octopus tentacles, eggs simmering in some kind of dark brown broth, and 100 different kinds of soft drink, Coca-Cola being the only brand I recognized. I had no idea what to buy, so I bought a package of instant noodles and a liter of juice that looked palatable. As we started to walk home I decided it was time to try out my Chinese skills on the man waiting at the crosswalk with us. I turned to him and said nihao (hello) and he replied with a stream of gobbledygook that may well have been Klingon. He went on and on, saying not a word that was even vaguely recognizable to me. I was crushed, 10,000 km from home, and now discovering that I'd studied the wrong language for the past 12 weeks. On the verge of tears, I was saved when the light turned green and we could cross the street. As we started to go across the street, Elder Shi leaned over and said, "Don't worry, he was just speaking Taiwanese, I didn't understand him either." It shouldn't have been much of a comfort, but somehow it was. But what in the world was Taiwanese?

  It turns out that everyone in Taiwan speaks at least two languages, Taiwanese being the "local" language that many people speak at home, and Mandarin is the language of official business and schooling. Hakka is another local language that is heard in some areas. I was actually lucky; if I had gone to China I would have found the same thing on a much bigger scale. Most Chinese speak Mandarin, but for many it isn't their first language and they may not speak it comfortably (like the old man I met that first day).

  My first month in Taiwan was a nightmare. Elder Shi was one of the most spartan people I had ever encountered. He made a huge bowl of Raman noodles for lunch, reheated the leftovers for dinner, and sometimes again for breakfast the next morning. I didn't know that people bought food outside until I was on "exchanges," (where two sets of missionaries switch companions for a short time,) and the missionary I was with told me he didn't want to cook and so we ate out. When we were at home, Elder Shi would make his noodles, eat quickly and then go sleep for the rest of the lunch or dinner time. I didn't know what to cook, so after he taught me how to use the rice cooker I began eating rice with butter twice a day. Breakfast was usually oatmeal.

  We didn't like each other very much. He spoke to me only when necessary, and I withdrew into the only world that I still had so far away from home, books. I read the entire King James Bible in a month, as well as most of the missionary materials that we had in our apartment. As he slept off his noodles I read, and it was the only time I was happy.

  I remember riding my bike to go contacting at the park. It started to rain, and I didn't have a slicker on. It was the lowest point in my life. As I cried and rode, I decided that since he wasn't going to change that I would, and I would "kill him with kindness." The next morning I got up a few minutes early, shined his shoes after shining mine then ironed his white shirt when I ironed mine. I even starched his. I did this every day for the next month. Once I figured out how to cook something besides white rice, I sometimes cooked for him as well. We started talking again, and I found out that he wasn't such a bad guy, just really quiet. Although I can't say that we ever became friends, we learned how to live and work together without animosity.

  Every six weeks missionaries have a move call. The mission president evaluates each missionary and their situation and decides if they need to move, and then the move calls are sent out, sending missionaries scrambling around the mission to get to their new areas. When my first move call came around, I actually prayed that Elder Shi would be transferred. Probably a horrible, wicked thing to do, but I did it and he did get transferred. No tears were shed when he left, but I eventually came to appreciate our time together.

  My new companion was Elder Ke, a very different type of guy than Elder Shi had been. He was newer on his mission than Elder Shi had been, and not happy to have moved. He felt that things were going very well in his old area, and didn't want to move to Taipei. How do I know all of this? He told me. I was so happy to be living with someone that talked that I could hardly contain my excitement. I didn't care that he wasn't happy, I was. The next six weeks were great. We worked hard, he taught me a ton of Chinese, and we became friends. I decided to keep up my ironing
and shoe shining campaign, and I didn't miss a day for the next year, no matter who my companion was.

  My first Thanksgiving and Christmas away from home came when I was with Elder Ke. I'd never been away from home on a holiday before, and the Taiwanese apathy for turkey dinners struck me as something close to heresy. Not only did no one invite us to eat Thanksgiving dinner with them, no one ate Thanksgiving dinner at all! We ended up eating our dinner at TGI Friday's, my first time in an American restaurant in the two months I had been in Taiwan, and it made me unspeakably happy. The food was mediocre, the atmosphere pretentious, but it was so good to feel American if only for a few minutes.

  Christmas was a different. For missionaries in foreign countries there is a strong tradition of receiving huge packages of stuff from family. My family had been financially strapped for a few years before my mission, and I knew not to expect much, but I still hoped that I would get something. What I really wanted was a sweater. I wrote about this in a blog post in early 2011, describing what happened that Christmas.

  The sweater that saved me

  When I was 20 I spent my first Christmas away from home. While White Christmas was playing itself out in Missouri I was shivering in the cold rain on the other side of the world, miserable to the core. I had decided to serve a two year mission for the LDS Church and was in Taiwan, trying desperately to learn Chinese and adapt to a life that was alien in every sense of the word. Not only was I not prepared mentally or psychologically, my wardrobe was lacking as well. No one told me that tropical islands had winter, and so all I had to wear were white shirts, suit coats, and an overcoat. What I really needed was a sweater, a nice one that I could wear under my suit jacket and around the house to help me deal with the biting cold. (It doesn't freeze in Taiwan, it stays a balmy 10 degrees C in the winter, around 50 degrees F, but that is really cold when you don't have a heater and it rains every day all winter long!) As Christmas approached and my family asked what I wanted for a present, I asked for a sweater. I begged for a sweater. I couldn't find one in Taiwan, and I was freezing. They said they would try their best, but to remember that international shipping was expensive. So I waited.