The Music of KAZAKHSTAN

The sounds of a new language, the clicking of a horse’s hooves on the ground, the howling of the strong winds at night, the barking dogs guarding the herds and the house as I cycle by, the loud crack of thunder in a stormy sky and the drumming of rain pouring down – Kazakhstan brings a new melody to my past days, and the murmurs of the grand steppe are then followed by the silence all around. I am told there is a singing dune nearby. A sand dune that sings! I wonder to myself. Have you ever heard a singing dune? If not, listen!

Upon reaching the entrance gate of the National Park Altyn-Emel in the southeastern corner of Kazakhstan, a burst of rain turns quickly into a hailstorm. I can feel the pain as tiny hailstones hit my body as if some short-tempered furious child in the middle of a tantrum was throwing solid balls at me. By the time I cycle the three kilometers to the park office centre in the small village of Basshi, the weather torture had stopped and the sky had opened up again into a clear blue sky. At the park office, Timur, the staff manager, welcomes me with a firm handshake and after the usual series of questions and answers, he guides me to the backyard where I am allowed to set up my camp.

Quickly enough, the Kazakh lady that works for the guest house of the park notices the whole scene of my arriving with a fully loaded bike, unloading the panniers and unfolding the tent. She gathers around my camp with a couple of journalists that had come to document the sights of the park. They can speak some English and through them, the curious lady finds out about my journey and what I am doing there on my bicycle. She can hardly believe I have cycled all the way from Japan and she invites me for dinner. Her name is Tursenai, and even though she cannot speak a word of English, she communicates incredibly well with the language of gentleness. The next morning again, she beckons me inside for breakfast. “Chai, chai”, she says.

That day, the prospects of finding a group to the singing dune, 50 km away inside the park, fail and I take a day off to rest and catch up on some tasks that I have been putting off due to the demands of the road and the lack of connectivity of the past weeks, like answering emails and updating my blog. At the end of the day as I am preparing dinner on the fuel stove, a young lady appears through the backgate. Timur has told her about my whereabouts and, intrigued, she has come to meet me. Saltanat is accompanied by one of the tour guides that bring foreign visitors to the park and interprets for her. She owns the guesthouse across the road and comes to invite me for dinner. I am delighted by her hospitality. I thank her and I make her notice that I have just eaten and I don’t think my stomach can welcome a second meal, but that I can join her for tea if it’s fine with her.

Saltanat is also kind enough to offer me the use of the facilities in the guesthouse and I take a hot shower before I join her in the dining room where tourists from Germany, Holland, and a group from Taiwan or Hong Hong, I guess, are having their dinner. As it is the norm of Kazakh hospitality, on the table lies an assortment of biscuits, chocolates, and candies, butter, homemade jams and honey. And this is available at every meal! While we have tea, we maintain a triangular conversation: she asks me questions in Kazakh, the tour guide sitting next table with his group interprets into English, and my answer is interpreted back into Kazakh to Saltanat.

It goes on for a while answering what most people in many parts of the world want to know when they meet for the first time a strange foreigner living in the saddle and on the road for lengthy periods, and coming from so far – typical questions ensue; where I am from, where I am going, what countries I have visited, my age, what is my job, whether I have children or a husband, or both, whether I have sisters and brothers, whether my parents are still alive and how often I talk to them, which is my favorite country, how much money I earn and how much I spend, if I am afraid; how I find my way around, whether I have GPS, where I wash my clothes and where I buy food. And at last the question that seems to intrigue everyone: how one ends up spending four years cycling around the world and still continuing?

The next day, Saltanat invites me again for breakfast, and for lunch. I spend all day in the guest house updating my blog, charging my electric devices and chatting with Saltanat and the ladies in the kitchen cooking and baking bread. A Dutch couple traveling with a guide and a driver in a 4 x 4 has accepted to give me a lift to the singing dunes later in the afternoon. The ride takes less than one hour on a corrugated trail, and when at last we reach the dunes, it has the effect of surprise: you would never expect to find a crescent-shaped pyramid of sand rising in the flat and monotone landscape.

Due to the soft surface of the sand, it is a strenuous hike up to the 150 m high dune, progressing at a slow pace. I alternate between a few steps on the side slope and a few more on the ridge. Walking barefoot my feet sink into the warm sand and instantly I feel the cool sand below the surface, enjoying the fine grains around my toes. I always find it very relaxing walking barefoot, a sensual way to connect with space and time, with nature and the present moment.

The oddity of the place is that when an avalanche of sand is triggered by the wind, or even by pushing sand away with your feet or hands, it creates a vibration that emits a rumbling sound; if loud enough, it can be heard kilometers away and can last several minutes. It is a unique phenomenon that has been studied by scientists and not yet completely understood. As I sit alone on the ridge at the top of the dune contemplating the uncanny spectacle of light being cast onto the waters of the Ili River flowing from China, I play with the sand and the tiny grains slip through my fingers. Below, the tour guide is shearing away the sand with his feet, and the deep roaring rises in the air, as if a cry of rage from a distant background, letting the imagination soar into a world of legends and invisible forces, of fantastic animals and spirits of the desert, in the way singing dunes are surrounded by folk superstitions all around the world.

I am not allowed to camp there due to Park restrictions and return to the village with the same group I came with. On the way back, we see marmots and gazelles venturing out as the sunset presents its vivid colors. I assemble my tent one more time in the backyard, and the next morning, after breakfast, I thank Saltanat for her hospitality and say goodbye. As I cycle away, I feel as if my time in Altyn-Emel has been woven with sounds of mystery and great acts of kindness.