In 2004, a friend of mine, Dmitry  Voskoboynikov, handed over to me a letter from Mr Imangali Tasmagambetov, author of the book The Centaurs of the Great Steppe and an expert on Kazakh culture, who provided me with much important information about the political and cultural situation in Kazakhstan, both past and present.
This trip took place in a moment of my life while I was writing my book The Zahir. I was travelling a lot that year, making one of my many pilgrimages throughout this world. That’s why parts of the book were written in France, in Spain, in Holland, on a road in Belgium, in Almaty and on the Kazakhstan steppes.
Yet, when I was invited by this same friend to visit Kazakhstan I didn’t plan that this region of the world would have such a decisive place in my book.
I knew very little about this country – besides that it had a difficult past under communist rule and that it had suffered many atomic tests and harbored the nightmarish gulags. I had also heard of the disappearance of the Aral Sea in less than a generation.
Yet, despite this dark past – I felt there was much more to be discovered about this country and so I accepted my friend’s invitation on the spot and headed towards central Asia.
I arrived in Almaty during the night and went directly to my hotel – I saw bits and parts of the city but the land still remained a mystery to me. I was warmly received by all and was told that the next day I would be setting off towards the steppes.
The idea of setting off pleased me but what I discovered went beyond my expectations.  I portray in my book the feeling that descended upon me when I was face to face with the infinite steppes:
“I was astonished by the vastness and emptiness of the place. When I saw the endless steppe, which looked like a desert, I felt as if I was looking into my soul. First the bareness seemed total but little by little I started to realize that life was hiding amongst the low-growing vegetation.
I saw the flat horizon, the vast, empty space, heard the sound of the horses' hooves, the calm wind, and nothing, absolutely nothing around us. It was as if the world had chosen this place in order to reveal its immensity, simplicity and complexity.
It was as if we could - and should - become like the steppes, empty, infinite and, at the same time, full of life.
I remember looking up at the blue sky, taking off my dark glasses, and allowing myself to be filled by that light, by the feeling of being simultaneously nowhere and everywhere. We rode on in silence, stopping now and then to let the horses drink from streams that only someone who knew the place would have been able to find. Occasionally, we would see other horsemen in the distance or shepherds with their flocks, framed by the plain and by the sky.
The day was passing and a sense of Paradise descended from the skies. And I felt aware that I was living through an unforgettable moment in my life; it was the kind of awareness we often have precisely when the magic moment passes. I was entirely there, without past, without future, entirely focused on the morning, on the music of the horses' hooves, on the gentleness of the wind caressing my body, on the unexpected grace of contemplating sky, earth, men. I felt a sense of adoration and ecstasy. I was thankful for being alive. I prayed quietly, listening to the voice of nature, and understanding that the invisible world always manifests itself in the visible world.
I remember the voice of the steppes with the constant sound of the wind.”
This incessant blowing of the wind – I came to discover – was also called the song of the dunes. Indeed in some places the sound had a distinctive quality as if the earth was talking back to us, giving voice to its infinite mystery and allowing us to sense the divine.
I knew I was living one of these moments in life that never again leaves the memory. One of these moments that even though are new to us – bring us back to our souls.
Later on that day, I came to discover another treasure of the steppes – its people. Indeed, when night approached and I came back to the city, I was told about the Tengri culture by Imangali Tasmagambetov. He described to me that the word meant "sky worship" and that the Nomads, despite the many religions that passed by these mountains, continued to profess the idea that the Divinity is everywhere all the time.
I felt, while listening to him that I had experienced this blessing throughout the day and felt extremely close to the tradition and beauty of this vast country.
Being a pilgrim myself, I felt as I was part of this nomadic culture because its main teaching is to keep moving, so that life and the world are always new.
It didn’t take more than 24 hs. for me to realize that Kazakhstan was planting a seed in my imagination.

This intense contact with the vastness of the steppes and the wisdom of the nomads reminded me of the importance of emptiness. Because it is precisely because everything was empty that the wind brought with it new things, noises I had never heard, people with whom I had never spoken.

As I say in my book:

“That is why it is so important to let certain things go. To release them. To cut loose. People need to understand that no one is playing with marked cards; sometimes we win and sometimes we lose. Don't expect to get anything back, don't expect recognition for your efforts, don't expect your genius to be discovered or your love to be understood. Complete the circle. Not out of pride, inability or arrogance, but simply because whatever it is no longer fits in your life. Close the door, change the record, clean the house, get rid of the dust. Stop being who you were and become who you are.”
“The Zahir” is now published in more than 80 countries, with sales over 9 million copies, and in nearly all signing sessions I meet Kazakhs that are very proud of their country. I feel honored by their presence, and this is my contribution to the hospitality and warmth that I had while being in Kazakhstan.
Kazakhstan gave me this present and I wish to return in the future – to continue exploring its richness, and also to visit the new capital Astana, fruit of the vision of President Nursultan Nazarbaev.
Being Brazilian I can completely understand this decision of moving the capital towards the symbolic “middle” of the country. In my early twenties I saw the capital being moved from Rio de Janeiro to Brasilia. I remember the exaltation of people, heading towards a new place, following the vision of our great architect Oscar Niemeyer and of our president: Juscelino Kubitschek.
Brasilia, as Astana, is more than a capital – it is an idea: of progress and of transformation in the soul of a country. It embodies the vision of the future, the beginning of a turning point in the lives of its citizens.
I can already picture Astana, as a wild flower, springing from the steppes. This new capital will certainly remind the perpetual nomads and pilgrims of this world about the importance of renewal. When a country decides to look forward, towards its dream.