Does my Lonely Planet Travel Insurance cover psychiatry?

I'm on assignment, researching a Lonely Planet guide in a nation the name of which I do not know. The country is mountainous, filled with jungles; it reminds me of Laos, Cambodia, or Northern Thailand, except that it boasts a state-of-the-art subway system connecting each of its tiny towns with its scenic, noteworthy spots. The subway line is itself very odd; rather than going through the mountains it actually climbs them, running underground but parallel to the incline of the land, rising and falling with the mountains themselves.

I find this very interesting, that a country I'm meant to be writing a guidebook about has chosen to spend so much money building an underground train connecting the entire nation; checking my research notes I discover that all the money for this massive project is the result of a series of loans from the world bank. According to my notes, these loans have completely crippled the country's economy.

I begin making my own notes for the next edition.

"Whoever conceived of the idea of lifting a third-world agrarian economy out of rural poverty by constructing a massive network of underground subways spanning hundreds of miles had strange economic notions indeed. The effect is futuristic, to say the least, but not in a good way."

I feel my last line is clever indeed. Note to self: Recall name of country before handing in manuscript!

There's still time before the subway reaches its stop, a tourist town located somewhere in the mountains. The inside of the subway car offers a vision that belies the technological marvel of an underground train that climbs mountains. Inside the car are dozens of farmers with straw hats each with bushels of produce, or crates of squawking chickens. Some have crying babies, and all of them have clearly been traveling for hundreds of miles. I wonder if they're bringing their goods to market or just going to visit family. The farmers don't look particularly happy or unhappy, they just seem kind of numb. Looking out the window of the subway car I notice people hanging off the sides, squeezing in between the car and the walls of the subway tunnel.

I hope the place I'm going to write about is worth the trip!

I find myself on a series of escalators, looking for my guest house, which I've already been booked into. Though I see occasional patches of sky from windows high above various landings, I realize that I am still underground, in a gigantic complex built for tourists in the side of the mountain. I am looking for one guest-house in particular that's been set aside specifically for guide-book writers. I ask the nearest local, an old woman, where this might be; she takes my blue Lonely Planet business card and scrutinizes it carefully, wizened face scrunching up as if looking for signs of forgery. She gestures indifferently - "Follow me."

The old woman leads me through a massive complex that reminds me of Chungking Mansions in Hong Kong. There are several levels devoted to tourist guest-houses, crowded with hundreds of western fraternity types there to celebrate a festival of some sort. Eventually we get to one hole-in-the-wall that's been painted a dirty blue. The old woman hands my card (which I wish she'd give back) to a group of people behind the counter and they speak in an unknown tongue. One of them comes over to me and tells me that my stay has been arranged.

"You write for Lonely Planet," she says. "I show you to your room."

She leads me to a dirty, windowless dorm with several mattresses on the floor. There are a few people snoring on their sheet-less mattresses, and somehow I know that they, too, are writing guidebooks about this place. "You can walk around if you want, but if your bag is stolen from room we are not responsible."

I want very much to get out of this guest-house. I know that I can afford a better place, but I somehow realize that it isn't about money - this is where the guide-book writers sleep. I walk around the corridors, lugging my bag, trying to find a place with internet access so I can work. But what am I going to write about this place? Why isn't my camera where I left it? And where am I, anyway?