The Chopstick Shtick

'China is a land of contradictions,' a fellow traveller I met in Pakistan told me. I must have been immersed in the food that was spread out before us, because, unfortunately, I don't recall a single one of them. Not that it really matters; I can't even get my head around the one that I've stumbled upon myself. It's something I like to call the Chopstick Shtick and it goes like this.

Tentative beginnings in Tashkorgan

Each time I sit down in a little eaterie for a bowl of noodles, which has replaced rice with lentils as my main staple, I can't help but notice a little smirk on the face of whoever it is who's serving me. I've learnt to ignore this and focus on the food instead. I pick up my chopsticks, examine the bits and pieces that float around in the broth and set to work. Within a few minutes a faint snigger will make itself heard. Now, try as you might, but it's really hard to ignore this. You know that when you look up to find out what the hell is so funny, you're done for. All you can do is keep eating and pretend you're deaf until the moment the sniggering becomes unbearable and you cave in. This is the cue for the imp at your elbow to step forward and start commenting on the way you handle your chopsticks.

Personally, I think my chopstick skills have improved greatly since I entered China. I've never been a great chopsticksman, to coin a new phrase, but within days I found that the better part of that bowl of noodles actually ended up in my mouth rather than in my lap, and that's not something to be sniggered at. Today, I pick up the flimsiest shred of meat without even batting an eye.

For the Chinese, that is not enough. They see a foreigner with chopsticks, and for some reason that tickles them tremendously. A few days ago, one of the customers of the noodle place where I was eating started tutting and then demonstrated with great relish how it's done. He dived in, lifted half of the contents from his bowl and then gave me a triumphant look. 'Who eats like that?' I said. 'No one eats like that. You could never stuff all of that into your mouth.' Clearly, that was not the point. In fact, my indignance only added to the hilarity that spread across the joint like wildfire.

Working on my slurping technique

I looked around. People were using their chopsticks in the same way I did, with a great deal of slurping thrown in for free. As far as I could tell I had mastered the art of eating with chopsticks. Their thoughtless criticism was simply uncalled for. I tried to console myself with the thought that at least they hadn't brought me a fork, as some of the really sadistic noodle place owners like to do.

I'm not quite sure what the deeper implications of all of this are. But I think I've hit upon a pattern. Last week, looking for a bike shop selling tubes of a particular type, I asked a man on a street corner for directions. 'Xiūchē diàn,' I said. Bike shop. I could have asked for directions in Dutch or even in Klingon for all I care, and the reaction would have been the same: a blank stare. 'Xiūchē diàn,' I tried again as the man began to edge away from this stranger speaking in tongues. Then I showed him my little phrasebook and indicated some Chinese characters. 'Aaah, xiūchē diàn,' he exclaimed, and his expression changed instantly. To my amazement, the phonemes that left his mouth were exactly the same as the ones I had uttered. I swallowed hard. His subsequent directions were lost on me.

Now, what I want to know is: is the above an example of the impenetrable humour that the Chinese are famous for? Do they get a special kick out of messing with a foreigner's head? Or am I simply blind to the finer subtleties of Chinese culture?