At 5:30 I hear a car honking like crazy.
At first I try to keep sleeping.
But damn, that guy is persistent.
Five minutes.
Probably more.
"Never mind. I'm getting up."
It wasn't exactly the most restful night anyway.
Once Zongkhul became silent and dark, the energy of the place changed.
More mysterious.
The room was kinda spooky.
I woke up again and again.
For different reasons.
Once, a deep male voice speaking in a foreign language woke me.
Once, an image of the statue of Naropa.
Once, an image of the Rimpoche.
Was I looking into a mirror?
Working Conditions
At 5:55, the Nepali workers are already at their posts.
Thirty-five of them are building the Rinpoche's new home. More than ten additional rooms for Lamas are being built across three houses, sponsored by an American called Blake for roughly $50,000.
The whole place is being upgraded.
Supposedly finished by October 15.
Next time we come here, Zongkhul will shine.
Yesterday, I think the workers were still going at six in the evening.
Their days are long.
Very long.
No Sunday off.
No holiday.
Low wages.
A carpenter I spoke to told me he earns 3,000 INR per month.
Around 30€.
They don't complain.
They are happy they have a job.
Standing there and watching them work makes discussions about working conditions back home appear in a different light.
Blue-collar work in Germany is hard too.
But the pay, protections and vocational system are worlds apart.
Sometimes I really wonder whether Germany understands how valuable that system could be to people elsewhere.
Padma Tashi
Back to now.
The door opens.
6 AM.
A monk walks in.
"Ui."
He looks slightly surprised to find me sitting in the corner.
"I am Padma Tashi. How are you doing?"
"Oooh. Julleeey Acho Lama. Kam sang ina le?"
"Good, good. Where you from? Germany?"
"Yes."
"Wangtak?"
"Yupp. Exactly."
"Come, Philips. Let's have tea."
"Five minutes."
I brush my teeth.
Then we have tea.
"How many Lamas here?"
"One or two. Sometimes five. Sometimes ten."
He introduces himself almost casually.
Turns out he isn't just some monk.
Padma Tashi is the supervisor of Zongkhul.
Open doors.
"You leaving today?"
"Could I stay one more night here?"
"No problem."
Done.
Just like that.
He starts showing me around.
We water the fresh concrete.
Construction is already running at full speed. Padma Tashi moves between the workers, checking progress, discussing plans, giving instructions.
Then we walk through the future rooms of the Rinpoche.
Puja room.
Sleeping room.
Washroom.
Kitchen.
Kitchen helper's washroom.
Dining hall.
Rooftop.
Then he shows me the second cave.
It's quite a climb to get there.
It's a cool spot.
But strangely, I don't feel like meditating up there.
I feel like using the toilet.
And afterwards, the washroom.
And what shall I say.
Those are what I had expected monastery facilities to look like.
If you thought the toilets in Leh, Yangthang, Tar, Karsha or Tungri were basic experiences:
Welcome to another level.
A toilet without soil to cover the brown presents.
No toilet paper.
Food cartons instead.
To contain the smell, somebody has ingeniously engineered a wooden board attached to a stick.
Guess what.
It doesn't work.
Don't look if you don't want to know what it looks like.
And the bathroom?
It doesn't actually exist.
The shower is outside.
Mountain stream water.
Not hot.
Not warm.
Not cold.
Flowing ice.
In that regard, my stay in Bihar was actually more developed.
And personally?
All of this adds to the experience rather than ruining it.
The kitchen here is better, though.
We have gas.
In Bihar, we cooked over fire.
While I'm washing my upper body in the freezing water, the Nepali workers keep walking past me with huge loads on their backs.
Concrete.
Soil.
Bricks.
Back and forth.
They see me and start cheering.
"What a body!"
It feels funny.
And also slightly wrong.
I should be the one cheering them on.
Afterwards, one tourist group after another arrives.
And suddenly I understand why I don't feel like meditating anymore.
School classes.
Visitors looking for blessings.
People enter the caves, stay for two seconds, click a photograph and leave again.
They clearly like what they see.
But they bring a faster energy with them.
Not ideal for meditation.
Perfect for observing.
After the rush, I see Mutuk Meme outside my room and capture one of those moments that somehow feels outside of time.
During lunch break, the whole place slumbers.
I don't know whether you can see it properly in the photo, but the workers are actually resting on little pieces of rock with a drop of several meters right beside them.
Tiny gaps.
Enough for a body.
Apparently enough for a lunch break.
I had to take a picture.
Then I receive a message from Tashi:
tashi ngato delek che cho yt tselma chi hol shy enn
Not entirely sure what that means.
Good morning...
And then?
Breakfast isn't ready?
Inspiring words.
In Ladakhi.
Slowly, the place becomes calmer again.
Minute by minute.
And I join its flow.
I'm relieved.
Because suddenly I realize:
The trip is a full success.
Work.
Check.
Mustafa's wedding.
Check.
Hunam.
Check.
Adventure.
Check.
Pilgrimage.
Check.
Everything I came here for is somehow...
done.
And with that knowing, I let go.
Of everything.
And finally face what has been growing inside me.
I'm really empty.
Not sad.
Not happy.
Not searching.
I'm not in the mood to write.
I'm not in the mood to speak.
I'm not even in the mood to be silent.
I'm not in the mood to interact with the illusion.
I'm empty.
I am.
Here.
I listen to "The Most Beautiful Words" by Lydia Fellinger.
https://suno.com/s/TX46Kd6auPfUN5Lz
Then my own music.
My playlist.
I sit on the ledge of the building.
For more than an hour, I simply let everything pass.
People.
Time.
Space.
Above me, birds glide through the sky.
Majestic.
Do you know those moments when you put your playlist on shuffle and somehow every song seems to know exactly where you are?
That happens here.
Without exception, my phone pulls one meditative song after another.
As if even my phone got the memo.
Nothing more to search for.
Nothing more to do.
Then it's 2 PM.
We're called for lunch.
Rice with vegetables.
Tashi casually eats a whole chili.
I clean up.
Duty done.
And yet, after lunch, something changes.
The emptiness starts feeling unusual.
Less like peace.
More like restlessness.
Almost uncomfortable.
I remember the mysterious man's words from yesterday.
"Nothing."
I had half-jokingly tried to protect myself in case it was some kind of spell.
Now it almost feels as though something has taken effect.
Suddenly I feel compelled to leave.
Immediately.
Is something about to happen?
But I don't leave.
Instead, I ask myself whether there is anything left here that still calls me.
Anything.
And there actually is.
One thing.
The valley.
The route towards Omasi La.
So I start walking.
Into Nothing
Down in the valley, I almost can't believe what I'm seeing.
Sand.
At 4,000 meters.
Fine, granular sand.
Lots of it.
There is actually a beach here.
I'm startled.
Water.
Grass.
Flowers.
Plants.
Shining rocks.
Silent rocks.
Sand.
Mountains.
Snow.
Sun.
Rain.
Waterfalls.
What on earth does this place not have?
And then, somewhere along the walk, looking at this view, something hits me.
Damn.
I'm really in the middle of nowhere.
And it is gorgeous.
I stroll around.
No goal anymore.
No checkpoint.
No monastery to reach.
No Lama to meet.
No answer to extract from anything.
I feel the sand beneath my feet and simply enjoy walking.
And somewhere out there, surrounded by absolutely nothing...
I am fulfilled.
I don't know what else to say.
I reached.
Not a destination.
Not an answer.
Not enlightenment.
Just...
I reached.
And apparently the rocks even have faces watching me realize it.
There is nothing left to chase.
Maybe that was what the emptiness was trying to tell me.
Not:
Something is missing.
But:
Nothing is missing.
I turn around.
And walk back to Zongkhul.
When I arrive, it's around 5:30.
Mutuk Meme and I sit together with tea and biscuits.
Simple.
Quiet.
Enough.
And I think the day is basically complete.
However, life has one tiny test left.
Rice or Thukpa?
The plan, as I understand it, is simple:
At eight, we cook Thukpa together.
I take a nap.
At 7:15, Tashi suddenly explodes into my room.
"Come bro."
Still half asleep, I follow him into the kitchen.
Tashi, Galsan—a Nepali worker who translates into English—and I discuss dinner.
Or rather:
They distribute the work.
"You cook. We go store, okay?"
"Okay."
Then comes a suspiciously unrelated question.
"Do you drink alcohol?"
"Nope. Only on very special occasions."
This is not one of them.
"Do you know how to cook?"
"Let's say... I cook."
They seem to be in a hurry.
"Just make same as yesterday, okay?"
"But Mutuk Meme and I agreed on Thukpa?"
A little confusion.
Some back and forth.
Then:
"Okay. Bye. Try finish at eight. We will be back soon."
It's already around 7:40.
Eight is optimistic.
And somehow, somewhere between Ladakhi, English, Nepali and hand gestures...
Thukpa becomes rice.
I cook.
Mutuk Meme arrives.
He looks at the pot.
Rice.
His face falls.
He wanted Thukpa.
Very much.
Apparently rice for lunch and rice for dinner crosses a line.
And for a few minutes, something almost comical happens:
A monastery hidden in one of the most remote valleys I've ever seen is plunged into an emotional crisis...
over rice.
I had cooked enough for everyone.
They had expected something else.
Nobody had communicated clearly.
And suddenly disappointment is sitting with us in the kitchen.
At first, I resist it.
Part of me thinks:
Really?
We talk about overcoming desire.
About mastering emotions.
About appreciating what is there.
And now two portions of rice in one day are enough to disturb the peace?
But then I notice something else.
Maybe I had expected monks to somehow stop being human.
They haven't.
They get irritated.
They have preferences.
They misunderstand.
They become disappointed.
Just like everybody else.
And perhaps that's another answer Zongkhul gives me.
A sacred place doesn't automatically make every person inside it a saint.
A robe doesn't remove the human underneath.
And practice is still practice.
For all of us.
Eventually, Tashi takes over and prepares Thukpa anyway.
The atmosphere settles.
The great Rice Crisis of Zongkhul comes to an end.
And strangely, I'm glad I stayed.
Because had I followed that impulse to leave earlier, I would have left with a perfect image.
Instead, Zongkhul gives me something better.
The whole picture.
Beauty and irritation.
Silence and construction noise.
Meditation caves and tourists taking selfies.
Ancient spirituality and dinner arguments.
Nothing here needs to be perfect.
Neither the monastery.
Nor the monks.
Nor me.
The wave passes.
And underneath it, something remains completely untouched.
That feeling from the valley.
I reached.
Fulfilled
That night, I know.
My adventure has come to an end.
Not because I'm exhausted by it.
Not because something went wrong.
Not because I want to escape.
Quite the opposite.
Because there is nothing left I need from it.
The seeds have been sown.
My spiritual spring and summer are over.
Now comes autumn.
Then winter.
Time to go inward.
Time to let everything settle.
Zongkhul completed the journey.
I had thought everything after meeting the Dalai Lama would merely be a bonus.
But apparently, I wasn't empty yet.
There were still things on my inner agenda.
Zanskar.
The valley of the courageous.
The monastery pilgrimage.
The road into nowhere.
The caves.
The silence.
The people.
And finally...
Nothing.
Now I'm here.
And I know the answers to my questions are not hidden in another monastery.
Not behind the next mountain.
Not inside another cave.
Not inside another person.
My knees are telling me to rest.
My checklist is complete.
My mind isn't asking for another destination.
There is no unfinished sentence pulling me onward.
It is fulfilled.
That's the difference.
I don't feel like I am ending my Ladakh trip.
I feel like Ladakh has finished what it came to do.
And now...
I can go home.
For family.
For work.
I don't want to miss Max's 30th birthday party.
I don't want to miss my brother's birthday.
I want to revolutionize German language education.
I want to work in our gardens.
I want to return to the life that has been waiting for me while I was out here re-membering.
And the cool thing, home doesn't feel like the place outside the adventure.
Home feels like the next part of it.
Here, it is fulfilled.
Home
And there is one thing I can finally share with you.
I actually booked my return flight two weeks ago.
An unbeatable offer.
Emirates.
Half the usual price.
Delhi to Munich.
211€.
September 3rd.
August 3rd to September 3rd.
Exactly one month in Ladakh.
I came here exploring.
I leave without needing any more.
Life opens portals.
It's our choice whether we step through.
Good night!
