A Conjuring of Dust and Light

Getting off the train in Kazakhstan felt like starting the Silk Road afresh, only properly this time, because we didn’t miss our stop. People mobbed the platform in Beyneu, little more than a stretch of bare dirt bordering the rails, which vanished in a hot blur in both directions. We unloaded our gear and bikes in the only empty space we could find, against a whitewashed building flanked by poplars, then Mel, my friend and traveling partner, went off in search of water. Only when the wind changed direction did I realize why such an enticing, shady spot had been vacant, and why those trees were flourishing in a desert: We’d parked ourselves next to the public restroom.

The stench didn’t stop an ample-waisted Kazakh woman from shuffling over to me. The red velour bathrobe she wore gave her a disheveled but oddly glamorous look, like an opera singer who’d just woken up. The woman gestured at my bike and made pedaling motions