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Expertise is a narcotic。 As knowledge grows； it throws off pleasure to its possessor； much
like an interest bearing account throws off money。 A pathologist who can instantly spot
the difference between normal and abnormal X…rays grows incapable of believing that
there are those of us who can’t。 I find it hard to believe there are Americans who can’t
even tell the difference between printed pages of Spanish and French or of Polish；
Danish； or anything else written in the Roman alphabet。 Too bad。 If you can’t distinguish
the easier languages from the harder ones； you miss the higher joys of confronting your
first samples of written Finnish。
Finland has been called the only beautiful country in the world where the language
is the major tourist attraction。 It’s utterly unfamiliar to you no matter where you come
from； unless you happen to come from Estonia； in which case Finnish is only half
unfamiliar to you。 There’s always a general knowledge heavyweight around who says；
“Wait a minute。 Finnish is related to Hungarian too！”
Oh； yeah！ True； Finnish； Hungarian and Estonian are indeed all members of the
Finno…Ugric language family； but try to find more than six words even remotely similar
in each。 As you learn more and more about foreign languages； you’re able to laugh at
more and more jokes about languages。 No Las Vegas comic will even knock socks off； or
even loosen them； by standing up and saying； “You know； Finnish and Hungarian are
cousin languages； but Finnish took all the vowels！” Look at the two languages side by
side； however； and you’ll grudgingly accord at least minor wit status to whoever thought
that one up。
You may have experienced the difficulties of tackling Latin and Russian with their
half dozen or so noun cases。 Finnish has fifteen noun cases in the singular and sixteen in
the plural！ Every word in the entire language is accented on the first syllable； which gives
Finnish something of the sounds of a pneumatic jackhammer breaking up a sidewalk。
I covered the Olympic Games in Helsinki but wisely decided not to try to learn
Finnish。 It was the wisdom of the young boxer who’s eager to get in there with the champ
and trade punches； but who nonetheless summons up the cool to decline and wait until
he’s more prepared。 I found a much softer opponent on the ship back to the United States。
A summer tradition that vanished after the 1950’s with far too little poetic
lamentation was the “student ship to Europe。” They were almost always Dutch ships
offering unbelievably low fares； hearty food； cramped but clean accommodations； cheap
beer； and always a bearded guitar player who drew the crowd back to the ship’s fantail
after dinner and led the kids of ten or twelve nations in throaty renditions of “I’ve Been
Working on the Railroad。” The singing； the flirting； the joy of heading over or heading
home； and especially the learning of all the other countries’ “Railroads” in all the other
languages made the summer student ship a delight unimaginable to today’s jet lagged
young Dutch airmen about my age。 They were all headed for the United States to take
their jet fighter training at various American air bases； and we became old friends at
once。 There seemed to be dozens （I later realised hundreds） of Indonesian servants on
board。 After four hundred years of Dutch rule； Indonesia had won its independence from
Holland only four years earlier。 The thousands of Indonesians who chose to remain loyal
to Holland had to go to Holland； and that meant that virtually the entire Dutch service
class was Indonesian。
I was sitting on the deck talking to one of the Dutch pilots； Hans van Haastert。 He
called one of the Indonesians over and said something to him in fluent Indonesian。 My
romance with Dutch would begin （in a very unusual way） a few years later； but my
romance with Indonesian was born in the lightning and thunder of Hans ordering a beer
from that deck chair。
If I had never been drawn to foreign languages earlier； that moment alone would
have done it。 To me at that time； it was the white suited bwana speaking something pure
“jungle” to one of his water carriers in any one of a hundred and eighteen safari movies
I’d seen。 It was Humphrey Bogart melting a glamourous woman’s kneecaps with a burst
of bush talk she had no idea he even knew。
“Where did you learn that？” I asked。 It turned out that Hans； like many of his
Dutch confreres； had been born in Java of mixed parents。 His Indonesian was just as good
as his Dutch。 “Will you teach me some？” I asked。
For the next eight days； until we were interrupted by the New York City skyline；
Hans patiently taught me the Indonesian language。 When we parted； I was able to
converse with the Indonesian crewmen； just as Hans had that first day on deck。 Lest this
come across as a boast； let me hasten to point out that Indonesian is the easiest language
in the world – no hedging； no “almost”； no “among the easiest”。 In my experience；
Indonesian is the easiest。 The grammar is minimal； regular； and simple。 Once I began to
learn it； Indonesian didn’t seem “jungle” anymore。 The Indonesians obligingly use the
Roman alphabet； and they get along with fewer letters of it than we do。 And their tongue
has an instant charm。 The Indonesian word for “sun”； mata hari （the famous female spy
was known as the “sun” of Asia） literally means “eye of the day”。 When they make a
singular noun plural in Indonesia； they merely say it twice。 “Man；” for example； is orang。
“Men” is orang orang。 And when they write it； they just write one orang and put a 2 after
it； like an exponent in algebra （Orang 2）。 Orang hutan； the ape name pronounced by
many Americans as if it were “orang…u…tang；” is an Indonesian term meaning “man of the
forest。”
My Toughest Opponent
For the next four years I avoided taking up any new languages。 I had nothing against any
of them （except one）。 It was just that there were too many gaps in the tongues I’d already
entertained and I wanted to plug them up。
The language I had something against was Hungarian。 Before a summer weekend
with army buddies in Rehoboth Beach； Delaware； I went to the post library and checked
out an army phrase book in Hungarian to look at over the weekend。 The introduction
bluntly warned； “Hungarian is perhaps the hardest language in the world； and it is spoken
by only about ten million people。” I resolved I’d never get any closer to it。
Hungarian was the next language I studied。
When Hungary rebelled against Soviet oppression in 1956； I was invited by the
U。S。 Air Force to join a team of reporters covering Operation Safe Haven； the airlift of all
Hungarian refugees who were to receive asylum in the United States。 That was far from
enough to make me want to study Hungarian – yet。
Every child is treated to fantasies like Buck Rogers and his invincible ray gun；
Superman； Batman； or； in my case； Jack Armstrong and his “mystery eye”； a power
imparted to him by a friendly Hindu who； merely by concentrating and holding his palms
straight out； could stop every oncoming object from a fist to a bullet to a bull to an
express train。 By this time I began to note that similar powers – offensive and defensive –
could unexpectedly and delightfully accompany the mastery of languages。
No Iron Curtains for Language
Many reporters got to the Hungarian border with Austria during the outpouring of
refugees that followed the Soviet oppression of the Hungarian freedom fighters。 They
went to the Red Cross shelters on the Austrian side； interviewed some refugees and relief
workers； and went home。 I was invited to join a secret team of volunteer international
“commandos” who actually slipped into Hungary by night to ferry refugees across the
border canal on a rubber raft。
The centre of the refugee operation was the Austrian border village of Andau。 I
asked a local policeman in German where the refugee headquarters was。 It was Christmas
night。 It was dark。 It was cold。 There were no tour bus operators on the streets hawking
tickets to the Hungarian border。 He told me to go to Pieck’s Inn。 At Pieck’s Inn the
bartender said； “Room nineteen。” The fact that I was getting all this in German without
looking around for somebody who spoke English was a convenience； but that’s not what
I mean by the power of another language。 That came next。
I went upstairs to room nineteen and knocked on the door。 “Who’s there？” shouted
a voice in interestingly accented English。
“I’m an American newspaper reporter；” I yelled back。 “I understand you might help
me get to the Hungarian border。”
He opened the door cussing。 “I’ll never take another American to the border with us
again；” he said before the door even opened。 “No more Americans！ One of you bastards
damned near got us all captured night before last。”
He turned out to be a pleasant looking young man with blond