By Angie Teater

“It’s out of respect for the tiniest creatures,” explained my interpreter, Tonya, who caught me gazing at the musician’s boots. The toes, curled backwards in an elfin fashion, were characteristic of traditional Tuvan footwear, demonstrating their deep compassion for any living thing. I wondered if he mourned the bugs squashed under the heel. Fur-lined and tightly laced, the boots were adorned with golden swirls that matched his dazzling crimson robe. A conical hat, also trimmed in fur, perched on his head as if pointing toward the heavens.

The heavy fabric swished as he made his way to the open-air stage, set up in a stadium that resembled my high school football field. In the distance, foothills rolled lazily along the tundra, eventually colliding with the jagged, purple ridges of the Sayan Mountains that frame Tuva to the north. Even on that warm July evening, traces of snow still frosted the peaks, a lasting reminder of the harsh Siberian winters that can dip to -70°F. After such a deep freeze, Tuvans understandably relish the summer months when temperatures soar to 100°F and the region’s dense taiga is in full bloom. Women work in dachas, laboring over their family’s yearly supply of vegetables, while men fish along the banks of the Yenisei River, believing their organic tasks unite them with Nature. Assembled in the stadium’s metal bleachers, cheeks flushed from another day in the sun, the crowd cheered when the costumed singer stepped on stage. He sat on a little stool in front of the microphone, eyes twinkling as he grinned at the audience.

Throat singing, or khoomei, is one of many ancient arts springing from what is now the Russian Republic of Tuva. Just north of Mongolia’s border, the remote area of Siberia that has captivated explorers for generations. I had decided to spend a summer living in Kyzyl studying Tuvan culture for my senior thesis project, eager to delve into the history of a place once an independent country before sinking into the bosom of Mother Russia. Though Kyzyl is nearly three-thousand miles from Moscow, I still had to wonder if the Kremlin could hear the hauntingly resonant sound from the little man on stage serenading the city fabled as the Center of Asia.

The first note sounded like a baritone chain-smoker singing into a whirling fan. His deep voice, so low it seemed to scratch the soles of his curly-toed boots, reverberated into the microphone. The metal bleachers quivered. He closed his eyes and, in the same droning note, began singing verses in the Tuvan language.

Tuvan tradition is rooted in a history as nomadic herdsmen, which is reflected in their folksongs, combining a love of nature with the love of a sweetheart. Some songs even compare the beautiful attributes of a singer’s horse to that of his wife.  Read More...