Lonely Planet, Part 2....okay Part 1 for real.

In my family's final week, we are traveling up north at the foothills of the Himalayas - Haridwar, Rishikesh, Mussoorie. In an effort to wing it with some structure, we tried to book hotels in advance based on the Lonely Planet's good name. We failed, miserably, in every capacity. We got the dates wrong, somehow reserved a cattle farm in Poland for 3 weeks, and killed a man. We have been lucky, and found an excellent hotel in Haridwar that has continually found availability for us through its fully booked schedule. But before we knew that, we stayed there for one night, not knowing our fate, and went to check out the hotel my sis Shari blindly booked for us for the following two nights. It is called Bhaj Govindam, and it is in the mid-range price range in the LP. They offered us the rates of 800 rupee's a night per room. Here is what the Lonely Planet says about Bhaj Govindam: "Haridwar's most relaxing accommodation in a wonderful location on the bank of the Ganges, these comfortable bamboo huts are set in a pleasant garden adn are equipped with fans, air cooler or AC, and tiled private bathrooms. The accomodation is absolute riverfront with its own private ghat (space on the Ganges) - ask to be dropped at 'Bhimgoda Jhula.' " Sounds great!

While trying to book the rooms from afar, they often didn't answer the phone, and gave us mixed answers on basic questions like whether they had hot water in the rooms. This was in both English and Hindi.

This morning, Dad Sharon and I walked there. We navigated through this holy cities gauntlet of beggars to eventually find a large sign for the hotel directing its readers nowhere. Through inquiries, we were led down a dark, deserted alley (this is at 11am), whose sides were lined with dilapidated, crumbling brick buildings, whose floors were too mangled with debris for even the most desperate beggar to sleep on. 100 meters later, there is another large entrance sign for the Hotel over a courtyard. Entering, the L-shaped building inside seemingly came from the same family as those in the alley, only at its infant stage of repairs with about 20 builders in site, working in various rooms. The grass in the field looked as if it had died a terrible death.

A security guard eased our concerns by pointing us out of the coutryard, down another side alley towards a man in a orange plaid shirt welcoming us to the Bhaj Govindum. Entering the property, it was indeed along the water, and the grass's struggled greenish hue was grateful. The exterior of the thatched huts brought first to mind a Hollywood set, built by handicapped infants, on a budget of whatever they could make on black market sales of breast milk. For those of you that have no idea what that sentence means, they looked like shit, and possibly ready to collapse.

Then we saw the warning sign, like a beacon, a stop light flashing in our faces. A white guy in a red robe. Sadhus, or the religious men, come in droves from all over the world to live here, wear these stylish outfits and pray in this holiest of locations. Many are true, respectable priests, and many are convicts fleeing the law and hiding in plain site. There have been cases of these bad sadhu's robbing tourists and raping women. I am sure that many of the white folk joining the party are also religious scholars seeking enlightenment, but often they are just confused, spiritually lost ex-surfers. Westerners choosing to join this post-hippie bandwagon can often find rooms to rent for as cheap as 50 rupees a night for long term stays, and I could only imagine this was the case here. He said hello. Not taking any chances, I made a cross with my fingers and walked past.

The orange shirt man showed us a room for 4 as we requested. He didn't turn on the lights, probably out of fear or knowledge they didn't work. Inside was 4 bare mattresses. No sheets, no pillows. There may have been an attached bathroom, possibly hanging fans, I'm really not sure. The only light was coming through the doorway and tiny holes in the walls, and I'm pretty sure the bed bugs were on strike for cleaner living conditions.

I wish there was a dramatic conclusion to this story. But there isn't. My Dad said, "Nahee danyavad" - no thank you, and we left. We cancelled our reservation over the phone with no trouble beyond ignorance. We got lucky enough to find accomodation in the same hotel as last night for the next 2 nights, and may take advantage of the ayurvedic spa. And I'm already plotting out my slightly more diplomatic letter to the Lonely Planet.