That's right: You're not paid for it, you pay for it. And instead of earning your freedom, you pay about the price of a decent used Camry. (Apparently, God makes snowballs so much fun purely to test our resolve.) It's pretty much like The Hunger Games, only instead of learning awesome survival skills, you learn the Bible. The next day, the president of the Missionary Training Center gave a lecture about how we weren't there to throw snowballs. I remember one time we started a snowball fight at lunch. You can't leave the training center, you can't read outside writings, and you have no contact with anyone of the opposite sex. Do not, under any circumstances, picture the state of that bathroom. For two solid years, our only alone time was in the bathroom.
Every missionary has to be in sight of their companion at all times. You don't associate with anyone outside your zone while you're training. The whole thing is divided up like the underclass in some dystopian sci-fi world - we're separated into wards, zones, and then six-man districts.