I fall to my knees.
Tears in my eyes.
Overwhelmed.
I had walked and walked and walked.
And then, when I finally looked up, I saw something in the mountain.
A strangely square shape.
Can that be?
...
Yes.
It can.
Oh my God.
This has to be one of the coolest places on the entire planet.
Deep in the Himalayas.
Built straight into the cliff.
Zongkhul Monastery.
I fall to my knees in awe of the place.
The river.
The rocks.
The plants.
Everything is shining.
And I stay there.
On the ground.
I cry.
I realize:
The quest for the most remote monasteries in Ladakh?
After seeing, living and visiting more than ten of them.
It's done.
There had been this strange energy building inside me.
Even though I wanted to talk, I couldn't.
Silence was flowing through my body.
Peace.
Bliss.
It's rare for a place to completely overwhelm me.
Most places are simply space.
Beautiful space, maybe.
Interesting space.
But still space.
This one was different.
Simply because of what it did to me.
For me?
This one had to be number one in Ladakh.
And somehow I had already known something was waiting for me here.
...
I just lie there.
Perfect 25 degrees Celsius.
Wind moving across my skin.
Sun shining.
Blue sky.
I hear the river sing.
Watch the clouds paint shadows across the mountains.
Feel the sand beneath me.
Smell the cows' presents.
Taste the biscuits Chomo Wangchuk had blessed me with.
Marvel at my loyal companion.
In the distance, Umri La rises above everything.
Steep cliffs on both sides.
And somehow...
everything becomes one.
No wonder my mind goes to Naropa.
The great Buddhist scholar and yogi whose story is connected with this place.
Centuries ago, someone like him had found something here worth staying for.
Maybe that's why someone built a mani stone shrine.
Pointing directly at the monastery.
And now I was lying beneath the same cliffs.
I suddenly realized the craziness of what I was actually doing.
Exploring the Himalayas.
Without much comfort.
Without the language.
Mostly on foot.
Following little more than curiosity, trust, and whatever opened next.
Alone.
People ask me that all the time.
"Alone?"
And somehow, in that moment, the word hit differently.
Yes.
Physically, I was doing this alone.
To remember that maybe none of us ever really are.
All-one.
And besides...
I wasn't alone.
You were there with me.
After thirty awe-full minutes — that's a compliment, Zongkhul — I finally decided to get up.
And start the climb.
On the way, I collected every piece of litter I could find.
By the time I reached the monastery, the trash bag was almost as big as my backpack.
Crazy.
How could people come somewhere like this...
and leave that behind?
Don't they see it?
Don't they feel it?
Eventually I reached the entrance.
I turned around.
Looked back at the path I had just walked.
And had one of those moments.
Man.
I'm in the Himalayas.
Walking toward places I barely knew existed a few weeks ago.
Still not entirely knowing where I'm going to sleep.
Still trusting that somehow things will work out.
And somehow...
they keep doing exactly that.
I felt incredible.
Strangely familiar.
Almost as though I had been here before.
As though I would be here again.
For a moment it felt like Dune.
Time and space losing their grip a little.
Then I noticed people behind me.
People around me.
I turned toward the monastery.
And there actually were people now.
For real.
Indian tourists.
International visitors.
Ten.
Fifteen.
I don't know.
Some of them looked familiar.
Maybe I had seen them somewhere before.
And for some reason...
they were looking at me.
Greeting me almost ceremonially.
A few practically bowed.
Then they opened a path through the middle of the group.
People standing on both sides.
I walked through.
Slightly confused.
And then one woman asked:
"Are you the one?"
I stopped.
Turned around.
Looked at her.
"The one?"
"The one who stays here?"
Now I was really confused.
"Yes."
Something changed in her expression.
And apparently not only in hers.
I stood there in my poncho.
A huge bag of rubbish in one hand.
Looking considerably less like a normal sightseeing tourist than I probably realized.
Then she said:
"I heard your story."
"Oh. Really?"
"Yes. Do you want to share more about yourself?"
"My story? Well..."
I was about to begin.
Although I wasn't sure what exactly was supposed to be so special about it.
Then she said:
"Naropa. Right?"
I paused.
"Wait... Naropa?"
I started explaining.
"Naropa was one of the great scholars—"
She interrupted me.
"That I know. But you're the international who stays here, meditates in the cave, and talked to Naropa, aren't you?"
Ah.
Now everything made sense.
That explained why everyone was looking at me like that.
I started laughing.
"Oh wow. That's one hell of a story.
I am staying here, yes.
But it's not my story.
...
Not yet."
Everyone laughed.
I continued toward the monastery.
They continued down.
And once again, I realized how fortunate I was.
They were leaving because they had to.
I could stay.
Not because I had discovered some secret route into a hidden world.
Not because I somehow deserved access more than they did.
But because someone had trusted me enough to introduce me to someone else.
Wangtak.
Again.
The man who had helped me with the message to the Dalai Lama.
The man whose brother lived here.
One human connection opening the next door.
And somehow that kept becoming the story of Ladakh.
...
There were lots of workers around the monastery.
I asked where I could throw away the rubbish.
They vaguely pointed somewhere.
Probably not the best people to ask, considering where most of the rubbish had apparently come from.
So I kept going.
Up.
Then someone greeted me.
"Come!"
"Julley, Acho Lama! Are you Padma Tashi?"
He laughed.
"Hi. I'm Tashi. But not Padma Tashi. Lunch? Rice?"
"Anything."
"Rice?"
Ah.
Same game as on the Sham Valley Trek.
"Yes. Sure!"
We ate.
And maybe five minutes into lunch, Tashi looked at me and said:
"Okay. We leave. You cook?"
That was it.
After lunch and a quick introduction to the place...
I was suddenly being left alone.
Well.
Almost alone.
There was Mutuk Meme, a 65-year-old monk who preferred spending most of his time in his room.
Three monks had been there.
Two were leaving.
Tashi handed me the keys.
And left.
Just like that.
One minute I had arrived at one of the most extraordinary places I had ever seen.
The next minute I was standing in its kitchen.
Keys in my hand.
Milk in front of me.
Making chai.
Like a pro.
For Mutuk and me.
We drank tea.
Ate biscuits.
And somehow even managed a tiny conversation in Ladakhi.
Very tiny.
But still.
"You. Where. Tomorrow? Here?"
"Tomorrow. Zongkhul. If possible."
Even when I had still been down in the valley, I had already known I wanted more time here.
Mutuk had spent 65 years of his life in this place.
He seemed like the embodiment of peace.
He looked at me and asked:
"You do...?"
Then moved into a meditation posture.
I smiled.
"Yes."
And copied the posture.
He pointed upward.
"Cave."
There were two meditation caves here.
Mutuk showed me his room.
Explained that he cooked his own dinner there.
And then began a Puja that would last about three hours.
I left him to it.
And once again couldn't quite believe what was happening.
They had really left the place to me.
I cleaned the kitchen.
Prepared vegetables for dinner.
Then went to my room.
Which was actually the dining hall.
Overnight guests were not common here.
I felt honored.
I opened my laptop.
Started writing.
And watched the sunset move across the mountains.
...
But how had I even ended up here?
To answer that, we have to go back to the beginning of the day.
Morning Prayer
The day started with the sound of a horn.
6:30.
Morning prayer.
My first thought:
"Ah man. Should I really go today? I'm already late anyway. Maybe I should skip it and write."
Then I needed the toilet.
After the toilet, I needed to wash my hands.
And after washing my hands...
I saw the nuns themselves walking toward the prayer room.
Ah.
So I wasn't late.
I was perfectly on time.
They waved me inside.
When words don't work... gestures do.
I entered.
Bowed.
Still hit my head on every 1.5-meter doorway.
Even when bowing.
They gave me a place in the prayer room.
A cushion.
A wall behind me to lean against.
Nice.
And one thought immediately appeared:
"Let's see how long this takes."
The monks in Karsha finished in about an hour.
The nuns in Karsha...
might still be praying.
At least that's what it had felt like.
That prayer had seemed never-ending.
And in fact, I still don't know exactly how long it continued because after three hours I had eventually needed to leave.
Lobsang Sonam and Ketang Angchuk had been waiting for breakfast.
So this time I wondered:
What was it going to be?
The only real problem I'd had during the previous long prayer sessions had been my knees.
In fact I've been having those issues for some time already.
Worried that it might limit my Ladakh experience.
It was not.
But it was about to become a topic.
I simply couldn't find a sitting position that stayed comfortable.
And painful knees make chanting, meditation, and sitting in anything resembling lotus position considerably less fun.
Obviously.
Apart from that, I could sit in places like this for hours.
And now...
Tungri.
We began a little late.
A few minutes before seven.
The sun was rising.
Our prayers seemed to rise with it.
My phone was lying in my lap.
And suddenly I noticed something.
In a place so silent we suddenly notice more about ourselves.
My heart was beating like crazy.
It wouldn't settle.
I moved the phone away.
Et voilà.
Calm.
Interesting.
After about thirty minutes, the nuns stopped chanting.
Silence.
Hot water was served.
I remained sitting there with my eyes closed.
About to sink a little deeper.
Thinking:
"Wow. That was quick."
Then:
"Hey! Hey! Bhaiya! Water!"
Apparently meditation was over.
Or at least temporarily.
My water was already cold.
They gave me a container to pour it into.
Because apparently...
it was time for the second course.
Milk tea.
Chapati.
Biscuits.
More chapati.
More biscuits.
More milk tea.
Then, out of nowhere:
Chanting again.
I tried another sitting position.
My knees began complaining.
I ignored them.
For a while.
The chanting stopped.
Next course.
Butter tea.
With thick chapati.
Still no comfortable position.
Chanting again.
At some point I remembered the quote usually attributed to Einstein:
"Two things are infinite:
the universe
and human stupidity.
And I'm not sure about the universe."
I needed to add two more.
Morning Prayer at Tungri Nunnery.
And...
Breakfast during Morning Prayer at Tungri Nunnery.
The kitchen Chomos joined in.
And something changed.
The chanting suddenly had more depth.
More balance.
My personal 12.1 Chomo Surround Sound System had activated.
The sound waves seemed to carry me deeper.
I relaxed.
And then came the best news of all:
I finally found a comfortable sitting position.
Excellent.
Ready for however long this was going to take.
And it was still going to take a while.
I was sitting in the middle of everything.
As included as they could make me.
At first, I had actually been unsure whether joining a nunnery as a man was appropriate.
But everyone had told me:
"Yes, sure!"
And that had been my experience throughout Zanskar.
The nunneries had been incredibly welcoming.
The monasteries too.
Especially here in Tungri.
What had initially felt slightly distant, respectful, careful...
had transformed into something warm.
Familiar.
Playful.
The question had changed from:
"Will you stay?"
to:
"When will you return?"
And meanwhile...
the prayer continued.
One hour.
No end in sight.
New food.
Soup.
"Like it?"
"Good!"
Chanting.
Another hour.
More food.
Tsampa.
The dry powder stuff.
I declined.
Chanting.
Half an hour.
More food.
Chapati and eggs.
"Like it?"
"Good!"
More chanting.
Another drink.
Warm milk with sugar.
More biscuits.
More chapati.
You get the idea.
Thank God I had found that sitting position.
Finally, at around 10:30...
we stopped.
For real.
After so many unexpected starts and stops, I couldn't believe it was actually over.
More than three hours.
Wow.
They seemed impressed that I had stayed for the whole thing.
At the end, they started touching and examining my homemade poncho.
I heard someone say:
"Lama."
Then they all laughed.
Meditation and food.
I had never heard of that concept before.
Maybe there's a market gap here.
Either way...
it was one of the most unexpected, unique, authentic experiences of my entire journey.
Exactly why I had come to Ladakh.
And then I wondered:
Was the length of the prayer simply coincidence?
Because the nuns knew why I was here.
Lama Angchuk.
And somehow it had almost felt like:
Pray until Lama Angchuk arrives.
Eventually...
he did.
Lama Angchuk
I have closed the circle.
From the story of Arif about a man who turned monk after his wife passed away early.
A monk who was not accepted in traditional monasteries because he married once.
A monk has passed away three years back.
About his sons, that might have received some teaching.
Arif didn't succeed in meeting the family.
I did.
In front of me stands the son of the man.
Another door.
Another piece.
He confirmed what I had been tracing regarding Om Mani Padme Hum and Avalokiteshvara.
And he told me something else:
Within Tibetan Buddhist tradition, the Dalai Lamas are regarded as manifestations of Avalokiteshvara.
The deity of compassion.
That was a big statement.
Something I wanted to understand much better.
Sadly, his father was no longer alive.
A doctor.
Teacher.
Scholar.
Monk.
Father.
A very unusual person by the sound of it.
And because of the language barrier, Lama Angchuk and I could only go so far.
But instead of ending the trail...
he pointed me toward someone else.
A scholar who knew more about Buddhism and spoke English.
Galong Palden.
In Leh.
Another name.
Another possible door.
On one hand:
Apparently I had to go back to Leh.
On the other:
Why chase it?
Maybe the whole journey had already taught me something about that.
Let's see what happens.
The following saying says a lot about him.
What is the difference between I like you & I love you?
Beatifully answered by Buddha:
When you like a flower you just pluck it. When you love it, you water it daily.
To reach his classroom everyone has to walk past it.
Into The Beyond
I packed my bag.
Said goodbye to the nuns.
It was 11:15.
They refused to let me leave without lunch.
The problem was that their actual lunch wouldn't be until around 3 PM.
Too late for me.
Then Tenzing Wangchuk disappeared.
The nun with a portion of my mother's energy.
Five minutes later she returned carrying a treasure chest.
Biscuits.
Juice.
Food for the road.
Man.
That was beautiful.
That glow in her eyes.
She knew it might be difficult for me to find food on the way.
Another person opening the next little door.
Even if this one was technically made of biscuits.
Leaving the Nunnery
I left.
The wide world was open before me.
I called Wangtak.
The friend who had helped me figure out what to write in the email to the Dalai Lama.
The friend whose monk brother lived in Zongkhul.
I had tried reaching him before.
He had tried reaching me.
Four missed attempts.
This time...
he picked up.
"Hi Felix, how are you?"
"Good, good. Kam sang ina le, Acho?" (How are you, big brother?)
"Kam sang, kam sang. Where are you?"
"I'm heading to Zongkhul now."
"Nice. I already called my brother. He knows. Everything is ready."
...
Everything is ready.
How cool is that?
Then he added:
"On the way back, you have to stop at my parents' place. It's on your way."
Even cooler.
I told him:
"I might even come back to Leh."
"When?"
"Possibly for the Dalai Lama's goodbye in Choglamsar."
"Oh, I see. Then you also have to stop at my place. I invite you for lunch. Or dinner."
...
Man.
What an angel.
He had opened so much of Ladakh for me.
And all I could think was:
I should be the one inviting them after everything they've done.
But I already knew.
They wouldn't allow it.
We hung up.
And I felt like I had wings.
Tungri Nunnery.
Amazing.
Lama Angchuk.
Check.
Zongkhul.
Ready.
Everything was set.
Not because I had planned it perfectly.
Quite the opposite.
The plan had appeared while I was moving.
Life brought the plan.
Now life only had to bring one more thing.
A lift.
I checked the time.
11:30.
Pretty late to begin a 20-kilometre walk with more than 500 metres of total ascent.
And...
my knees were starting to complain more and more.
The wind was trying to push me backward.
But looking at the map, there was one advantage.
For the first part, I would be on a main road.
A lift should be possible.
And frankly...
walking for hours on a newly constructed road that still smells like fresh road isn't exactly my idea of Himalayan adventure.
Not many cars came by.
I had to walk.
And walk.
And walk.
With direction. Dedication. Conviction.
This time, I walked for almost an hour before one finally stopped.
All hail Sri Namgjal and his family.
A lift.
Again.
Another door.
Another person.
Guided.
They dropped me off.
And from there it was only about fifteen more minutes until I reached the turn.
The road ended for me.
The mountain began.
And the moment the real hike started...
A beauty.
The mountains changed everything.
With every minute.
Every step.
Reminded me of the hike toward Rizong.
It was as though I was being lifted out of my normal state.
I wanted to sing.
I wanted to talk.
And somehow...
I couldn't.
Silence started flowing inward.
Peace started radiating outward.
It became one of the most beautiful hikes I had done.
That's for sure.
At some point, I met a mysterious man sitting on a wall.
I tried talking to him.
He only used one word.
"Ladakhi?"
"Nothing."
"Hindi?"
"Nothing."
"I walk."
"Nothing."
"To Zongkhul."
"Nothing."
Well.
Fair enough.
In some strange way, that was almost exactly what I was here for.
Nothing.
Which is everything.
I kept walking.
Further into the mountains.
Until eventually...
I saw something.
A strangely square shape in the cliff.
And suddenly we're back where this story began.
I stopped.
Looked up.
Zongkhul.
The place I had been searching for.
And before I really understood what was happening...
I fell to my knees.
Tears in my eyes.
Overwhelmed.
"What am I here for?"
I said it out loud.
Again.
"What. Am I here for?"
Again.
"What. Am. I. Here. For?"
I didn't get an answer.
Not in words.
Maybe I wasn't supposed to.
Yet.
I simply lay there.
The river.
The wind.
The mountain.
The monastery.
Silence.
After thirty minutes, I stood up.
Climbed toward the monastery.
Met the visitors.
Got mistaken for another mysterious foreigner.
Met Tashi.
Had lunch.
And then...
he handed me the keys.
Two monks left.
Mutuk went to his room for Puja.
And just like that...
the day that had begun with a horn at 6:30 in the morning ended with me standing almost alone inside Zongkhul Monastery.
Not with a revelation.
Not with a voice from the mountain.
Not with Naropa appearing in a cave.
With something much simpler.
A key.
A kitchen.
Milk.
An old monk.
Chai.
And silence.
I cleaned the kitchen.
Prepared dinner.
Ate.
Opened my laptop.
And watched the sun disappear behind the Himalayas.
Maybe that was the answer.
Not every door has to be forced open.
Sometimes someone simply hands you the key.
Be Your Own Light
