I loved studying Chinese from the start. I was somewhat of a musician anyway, and I found a close tie between music and the tonal qualities of Chinese. As with espionage and paramilitary training, Agency language training was second to none. I began my study with only three students in the class, allowing for a great deal of individual attention and permitting no room for the unprepared to hide. The teaching staff of two females and one male was tremendous. Their primary role was to teach us the things, not from a textbook, that anyone who wished to be fluent should know. For instance, we learned the Chinese equivalent to, “It’s better to fart and bear the shame than keep it in and bear the pain.” I also learned the real Chinese words for the various body parts—information of great importance when traveling in Asia.
The fellow who ran the Chinese department was considerably interesting. Like many colleagues I would meet over the years, he was something else. He had a beard that looked like pork chops and a mustache—which led to the nickname “Weird Beard” in Chinese. (The Chinese are very fond of nicknames, normally calling attention to some defect or odd part of someone’s character—all done without conscious intent to harm.)
One of the great ceremonies and important steps in starting out as a Chinese expert is acquiring a Chinese name—in Chinese, of course. Our male instructor was always assigned this task, and he would put great thought and effort into the process. In my case, he came up with “Pei Fulai” which means “Overflowing Happiness”—a great name, and one that all agreed fit my temperament. It also has a very rare Chinese character for the surname—also a plus when dealing with the Chinese.
However, just as in our other training, the impulse to have fun was simply too much to avoid. I recall vividly one of my two classmates coming into Beginning Chinese class carrying a whoopee cushion and placing it on the chair of our best—and most gorgeous—female Chinese instructor. The inevitable happened. She came in for class, greeted us, wrote a few Chinese characters on the board, and then sat down and “Pffffffffft!” She turned 30 shades of red, and ran from the room. We did not see her for a week and got a lecture about Chinese customs from Weird Beard.
Following one year of this intensive training, we were dispatched overseas to Taiwan. There, at a facility utilized by all elements of the U.S. government, we finished our training with a second year of advanced study living in a Chinese-speaking community. It’s also noteworthy that in this early period my wife presented me with our first child—a beautiful baby girl. She was to spend nine of the next ten years of her life living overseas with us.
The school was superb training at the highest level, yet it also had its moments of fun. The superintendent of the school was a pseudo-intellectual who had adopted the title “Dr.,” although he had not gotten his doctorate degree. It was the subject of repeated struggles—he would insist we call him Doctor, and we would call him by his first name. He almost came to tears over it on a number of occasions. It was further complicated by the fact that he was a practicing missionary, and illegally used the U.S. Government mail system to acquire things for his local church. He had been warned numerous times that this was illegal but continued to use it throughout his stay there. In short, he was considered fair game for a bunch as cruel as any classroom of practical jokers.
I recall three of the most devilish events that took place during the Doctor’s reign. In the first instance, we learned that the good Doctor was using the school facilities (illegally) to bring his flock in to hear his lectures on his missionary work. It was not long until we also found a slide carousel that he used as a visual aid. Needless to say, some enterprising lad (OK, it was me) suggested that it would be interesting if we removed one slide in the middle and replace it with a copy of the most recent bare-ass-naked Playmate centerfold. Having been trained as clandestine photographers, this was a cinch. In any event, the good Doctor had one of his monthly sessions with his flock, put the carousel into motion, and halfway through his session came to the pièce de résistance. It emptied the room, and the Doctor subjected us to yet another crying session the next morning.
He did recover in time for the great gin-and-tonic caper. We were going through a hell of a summer, with temperatures in the hundreds and no fans or air conditioning. Despite repeated pleas to cancel classes under these unbearable circumstances, the Doctor refused, so what follows was inevitable. One of the greatest practical jokers I have known—a non-CIA officer—got together with several colleagues and decided to make life more bearable by filling our classroom water cooler with gin and tonic. By the end of the day, all the students were well aware of the ruse and class decorum degenerated accordingly. Additionally, several of the instructors made one trip too many to the cooler, and by the end of the day the good Doctor was again moved to tears. It was clear that his days as director of the school were numbered. After the Doctor departed, we were blessed with the arrival of a new director who had both a great sense of humor and had mastered the Chinese language. I have never found another linguist his equal in writing Chinese characters. It earned him the immediate respect of both students and instructors.
We did, however, play a great practical joke on him during a trip to climb the highest peak in Taiwan, Yu Shan (Mount Yu). Nearly 13,000 feet at its summit, it was a difficult climb. Our group totaled 12 people, and we made the journey from a scenic resort area at Sun Moon Lake by old steam locomotive—a trip of over four hours to the base camp. It was a beautiful trip, with all of us riding on flatcars, that took us through the highest reaches of the beautiful island. From the base camp, we went by foot—a hike that took more than two 12-hour days. We camped that night at a youth hostel. It was there that the idea struck me to suggest that a few of the large rocks outside would fit nicely into the director’s bag. We loaded his bag with about 25 pounds of rocks and covered it with his material. The next day, he huffed and puffed for hours, noting that he felt like he was carrying a ton of rocks. Finally a few giggles turned him on to the joke, and he emptied his bag—at us. He took it well, and we all enjoyed the climb.
I was present during one of the great scandals at the language school. One of the elderly instructors, a large, portly man with a limp (nicknamed “Limpy Lo”) frequently gave lectures on esoteric subjects such as, where the best clay for making pots for brewing tea comes from. These were also known as “Lo’s Lectures.” We all attended, and we did indeed learn a lot about Chinese culture from this elderly gentleman. However, late one afternoon I stumbled on a group of female instructors tittering away in hushed tones about what to do, what to do. I fetched the director, and without too much prodding we learned that Limpy Lo had expired in distinguished fashion that afternoon—at a local “no-hands bar.” Turns out someone had to go retrieve the unclad body, make arrangements, and, of course, avoid sullying the reputation of the teaching staff in the process. The director handled it admirably, but of course by this time the entire student body and faculty knew the truth—Limpy Lo had died with his boots—and everything else—off. Some felt he grew in esteem.
Toward the end of the time at language school, I also had the occasion to take my family on an orientation trip to several Asian nations, including Hong Kong. While there, I acquired a number of Chinese language materials—including some newspapers that had major articles about the People’s Republic of China (PRC) with front page photographs of the Chinese Foreign Minister, Zhou Enlai. No problem with that, except that I forgot that communist materials were forbidden in my host country. I had also purchased a tricycle for my then-two-year-old daughter. When I returned from my trip and went through customs and immigration, I had a rude awakening, indeed. The customs official opened my bag, only to come face to face with the PRC’s Zhou Enlai. Senior officials were called; my family and I were taken into a side room for questioning. No matter what I said, the officials maintained that I had committed a serious crime—attempting to bring subversive materials into the country. On top of that, the inspectors completely unpacked and disassembled my daughter’s tricycle, leaving her sobbing at the customs desk. Finally, they let us go, but they handed back the tricycle, missing many bolts and nuts, in pieces.
I learned my Chinese thoroughly, and it stood up well over my career. I can still speak it reasonably well now 36 years later. The fact that the school was located in a small village really helped me to learn everything about how to get by and live with the language. I still, for example, remember the Chinese words for flush toilet, having had to repair several during my time at the language school. We learned excellent, colloquial Chinese, and learned a great deal about the culture as well. I was ready for assignment.
*The phonetic spelling for Chinese characters that translate to “Chinese language.”