It starts with a phone call at 8:30 p.m. as we are sitting down to dinner in Gaza City.

The Popular Resistance Committees tells us to be at a certain place in half an hour; they are training. No further details. After a phone call to our Jerusalem bureau chief to weigh up the risks, we all decide it is rare enough an opportunity not to be missed.We grab our equipment and jump into the armored car.

Members of the Popular Resistance Committees perform at a graduation in Gaza City.

Revered as freedom fighters by many here, reviled as terrorists in the West, the PRC, just one of the many Gaza based militant groups, has been involved in countless rocket attacks on Israel and the kidnapping of Israeli soldier Gilad Shalit two years ago.

Now, in a rare public relations display intended to be viewed by Israel and the rest of the world, the PRC will show off its training techniques and a rocket factory to journalists.

The “training ground” is basic: A dead-end road for marching drills, a wall with tires stacked up against it for target practice. Burning tires surround the area, giving off putrid thick black smoke so nightly training is invisible to Israeli eyes in the sky.

The gunmen say they are training for what they see as an imminent Israeli incursion into Gaza.

As a Western female journalist working in Gaza, I rarely have to wear a head scarf, but here I am told to cover my head. The militants cover their faces.

One masked man brings me a chair and a heavily sugared tea so I can watch target and hostage-taking practice in comfort. It is horribly surreal.

One fighter tells me he will never let his son fire a gun. He says he fights only to make a better future for his family. But he’s wearing a balaclava, with a rocket-propelled grenade over his shoulder and vowing to destroy any Israeli who enters Gaza. I struggle to marry the two.

The next morning, another phone call.

The same group wants to show us and other news organizations a rocket factory. Precautions this time are more stringent. We drive just outside Gaza City and are transferred into the back of an unmarked van; we are blindfolded, and our phones are taken away.

You know this is standard procedure to protect the location of the factory, but allowing yourself to be blindfolded by a masked gunman in Gaza feels incredibly unnatural. It’s hard to stop the worst-case scenario playing out in your head.

My arrival at the location caused some surprise, a woman in a rocket factory is hardly the norm. I am closely watched and discussed. I have covered my head and dressed conservatively, but it’s not enough. I am given a jilbab, a long loose-fitting coat, to cover my whole body before I am allowed to enter the “factory.” Once the novelty wears off, I am completely ignored.

The “factory” is anything but; it’s a tiny room with rockets lining the walls and masked men trying to light a fire from a gas canister to heat the explosives.

First, the lighter doesn’t work, then there’s a gas leak and the room becomes filled with suffocating gas.

You hear of unexplained explosions in Gaza from time to time, euphemistically called “workplace accidents.” That thought is enough to make us squeeze out of the room and wonder whether we’ve gotten just a little too close to the story.

In a more ventilated area, the preparations begin. I’m struck by the relaxed manner with which these men handle deadly ingredients and warheads. One slip, and the story would be very different, and we probably wouldn’t be around to tell it.

As I watch the rockets being made by men who have clearly done this many times before, I glance at the row of rockets made earlier lining the walls. I wonder which will be fired first and whether there will be civilian casualties.

Hamas, which controls Gaza and the militant factions there, including the PRC, are two months into a truce with Israel — not that you’d know it here. They even unveil a longer-range rocket, which could reach some of Israel’s larger cities. We’re told it is a drop in the ocean of Palestinian surprises should Israel return to Gaza.

There’s no doubt the PRC wants Israel to see these pictures. Rocket makers are positioned to give the camera the best angle; the production of deadly weapons is highly choreographed. It’s a militant’s PR event, an event the Israeli prime minister’s spokesman tells us could force an Israeli response if the truce is just a front for militants to rearm and regroup.

LONDON — As Georgians and South Ossetians began sweeping out burned buildings and gathering up the shrapnel fragments one thing was clear, this is a fragile cessation of hostilities, not yet a peace settlement. Russian and Georgian authorities are each accusing the other of violating the cease-fire terms and of as-yet unverifiable war crimes and genocide. Resolving such accusations could take years in the international court.

A Russian soldier flashes a victory sign from his truck on a road near Gori in Georgia.

More immediately, key questions about the status of the disputed territories of South Ossetia and Abkhazia remain to be settled. Russian Foreign Minister Sergey Lavrov seems now to be suggesting that the populations of the two disputed territories should be involved in that decision.

Negotiating on behalf of the European Union, French President Nicolas Sarkozy insisted: “We need and require that the Russian side guarantees the sovereignty of Georgia.”

Back came his Russian counterpart Dimitry Medvedev to warn: “We recognize the sovereignty of Georgia … but this does not mean that a sovereign state should have the possibility to do what it wants.”

That has not stopped Russia using its vast military strength to crush a neighbor of whom it disapproves, mostly because Georgia wants to join the EU and NATO.

The Russian military action in Georgia was not undertaken just with President Mikheil Saakashvili and Tbilisi in mind. Russia’s first military incursion into another country since the break-up of the old Soviet Union was a deliberate demonstration that Vladimir Putin’s Russia (and the conduct of the conflict made absolutely clear that it is still Putin’s, not Medvedev’s Russia) does not care about popularity.

Russia will settle for the respect due to a re-emerging power ready to make cynical use of its military might. It is not operating in the 21st century style of diplomacy. It has succeeded in re-drawing the map by the force of arms and shows no regrets about having done so.

The action in Georgia was also a deliberate signal that Russia does not forget slights and that, sooner or later, it will revenge itself for them. Calling the military action in Georgia a “peace enforcement operation” deliberately echoed NATO language over Kosovo’s breakaway from Serbia, a reminder that Russians see the West as employing double standards over separatist movements there and in South Ossetia.

The message Russia wanted above all to deliver to its near neighbors was that Moscow still remains determined to resist “encirclement” and that those who flirt with joining NATO, entering the EU or co-operating with the U.S. missile defense plan in Europe will rue the consequences.

NATO’s promise to Saakashvili at its Bucharest summit in April that Georgia’s membership was a matter of when rather than if seems to have emboldened Georgia’s president and his country to launch the assault on South Ossetia’s separatists, thus falling into a Russian trap and enabling Putin and Medvedev to claim they were intervening to protect Russian passport holders in South Ossetia.

And although France, Germany and others refused in April to grant Georgia and Ukraine the NATO Membership Action Programs demanded by President George W. Bush, the encouraging noises issued then about the longer term prospects for joining the alliance clearly stoked up false expectations in Tbilisi.

A cry that journalists in Georgia have encountered this week from puzzled, bombed-out civilians was “Where was NATO when we needed it? Where were our supposed friends in the U.S.?” That sort of support was never, ever going to be forthcoming.

For Saakashvili, who came to office pledging to restore to Georgia the de facto separatist provinces of South Ossetia and Abkhazia, the sadness is that premature action has now probably lost him all chance of ever achieving that reunification.

The turnout at his post-invasion rally would seem to suggest that his presidency has at least temporarily been strengthened rather than weakened despite the dismemberment of the Army. As one Georgian put it to a reporter: “We elected him and if we don’t like him we’ll get rid of him ourselves, without Russia.” But the pulling together in adversity factor will not last him for ever.

As for Saakashvili’s hopes of taking Georgia into NATO, those too have taken a dive. Countries like France and Germany which were unwilling in April to anger Russia by giving Georgia a MAP will be even more reluctant to do so now when the issue formally comes up again in December.

And while some NATO members will argue that Russia cannot be allowed to wield a veto over NATO’s club membership, the opponents of Georgian entry will argue that would-be members have to demonstrate firm territorial borders, plus economic and political stability, qualifications which Georgia may have trouble in meeting in the near future. What shape is the Georgian Army in now to make a contribution to NATO?

The other question which arises is how those countries who wish to can penalize Russia for what they see as brutal over-reaction in Georgia. It is all very well for U.S. Vice President Dick Cheney, even Condoleezza Rice, to suggest that Russia’s world standing will fall and that Moscow must be punished. But do they have anything better than plastic sabers to rattle?

The West has spent two decades drawing Russia into the solving of communal problems like climate change and terrorism. It needs Moscow’s cooperation in persuading Iran not to develop nuclear weapons.

Even in a gentler version of realpolitik than that espoused by Vladimir Putin, it is not going to throw away all that to please four million affronted Georgians, whatever gesture politics we may now see over cancelled joint military exercises and cultural exchanges.

Every evening here in Tbilisi, convoys of cars drive past our hotel, horns blaring, draped in this country’s red and white national flag.And most evenings too you hear the strains of Gregorian chants floating through the night sky. The sounds of solidarity for a country at war.

From our hotel balcony we look out over Tbilisi’s graceful sand-coloured parliament building where the car convoys pass and where on Tuesday the people of Tbilisi gathered for two huge demonstrations.

“Stop Russia” over a picture of Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin with a Hitler moustache said some banners; on others, “Georgia now, who’s next?”

But these demonstrations were infused with the sense that morale must stay strong.

Boxes filled with ice-creams were distributed through the crowds. At the night-time rally, young and old held tiny white candles as they listened.

Just the one child, dirt all over his face and clothes, crying and alone, gripped with panic perhaps from what he’d seen in the days before.

So far Tbilisi is safe. Russian strike aircraft have bombed isolated targets on the outskirts of the city, one of which we were visiting just as an air strike took place.

But no civilians here have been killed.

The Russians say they have no intention of marching on the city, but the worry that they might is never far from people’s minds.

At Tuesday’s rallies people cheered their President’s cries for unity. But there were Georgians who stayed away — who feel that this President has a lot to answer for in the way this conflict has played out.

You can expect to hear that critical voice grow louder as the scale of Georgias losses becomes clear.

At the presidential palace today, a press conference given by the presidents of Latvia, Lithuania, Poland, Estonia and Ukraine — and of course, Georgian President Mikheil Saakashvili.

Five countries who know what it is to feel Russian aggression.

The presidential palace is under construction. It’s strangely similar to Germany’s Reichstag, just on a smaller scale, and crumbling Georgian homes which saw better days a couple of centuries back look out over its backyard.

We were introduced to Saakashvili’s chief of staff by our Georgian producer, Eka.

“You couldn’t have picked a better person to help you here,” he told us. “I just wish you’d come for a tourism story.”

MEXICO CITY, Mexico — Twenty-two thousand people from all over the world, gathered in one conference center for a week. All of them have different takes on the AIDS epidemic, and all of them are keen on making their points of view known.

It’s like being a kid in a candy store for a journalist. All these people, all eager to talk to you, all vying for your attention as a representative of the global media.

But that’s what makes covering an AIDS conference so difficult: How do you sort through all the information, all the public relations pitches, all of the staged events to get to the story?

In the space of three days, I’ve talked to prestigious scientists, sex workers from Thailand, proud parents of gay teenagers, hard-working community outreach workers from Bolivia, earnest activists from France, nervous press officials from the Mexican government, eager sales reps from the pharmaceutical companies. All have a story to tell, but I only have a few minutes a day to get all those stories out.

“It is a bit of a circus, isn’t it?” asked the head of a major non-governmental organization as we prepared to do a live interview. I had to agree — but then proceeded to be amazed at how she shifted from that rather blasé remark into a perfectly executed 30-second quote about the essence of her organization’s work in HIV prevention.

For me, the challenge was in attempting to do the same — distilling all the information available into perfectly executed and well-informed short reports on the essence of the gathering. After all, everything usually boils down to one essential message.

Gotta go. A group of drummers and dancers — AIDS activists from Pakistan — is threading its way toward me, and is headed straight for our camera.

PIETERMARITZBURG, South Africa — The first sign of the way things were going to be was the confusion over the media accreditation cards.

Zuma addresses his supporters at the courthouse.

“It’s Lazarus, the guy with the dreads, you’ve got to find.” one of my colleagues told me. “He’s got the cards. The green ones are the important ones; the other-colored ones are not the same.”

By the time I finally got hold of Lazarus, he was incredibly friendly and helpful, but he told me sadly: “I’ve run out of media cards. There’s nothing I can do to help you.” Then he hesitated for a moment. “But don’t worry, you stick with me and you can come in.”

We waited along with the rest of the media while Lazarus and the court officials — apparently acting on instructions from the presiding judge — argued over whether we had access to the court or not.

It was my second glimpse into the bitter political turf wars that the trial of ANC President Jacob Zuma has thrown this country.

Lazarus is part of Zuma’s entourage with no official power in the court system of this country. His fight with the court security ended in a compromise.

The judge allowed us in for 10 minutes before the proceedings began. How much was Lazarus’ influence; how much was the judge’s sense of necessary compromise? We don’t know.

The rule of law in South Africa is under threat, say both sides in the Zuma trial. The truth remains deeply murky.

Then, just outside the court proper Zuma and his entourage emerged. The cameras followed him eagerly, swirling around him in their anxiety not to miss the crucial shots — all the way into the bathroom.

Heavily-armed police prevented anyone from breaching the privacy of the urinal. He came out; and we all got more shots of him — this time actually going into court.

There is something both farcical and ominous about this saga.

It is a crucial watershed in South Africa’s growth as a democratic society. What is needed more than anything is transparency.

If Zuma is indeed innocent, then that truth must be shown in front of the world’s media. So, too, if he is guilty the world, and more importantly, South Africans must be able to see that for themselves.

Outside all day, about 2,000 of his supporters danced and sang to the accompaniment of taped music, including his trademark song ‘Umshini wam’ — ‘Bring me my machine gun.’

Many had been bussed in from all over the country; many were also visibly drunk. There was something like a ragtag, failed rock concert about it.

Zuma’s supporters had threatened to shut down the city. That they had not done.

And yet, it would be a mistake to dismiss them. Under the drunkenness and the simplistic, even violent, slogans lies a real desperation.

These people are the victims of the brutality of apartheid for whom the golden promise of Nelson Mandela and the lesser hopes of Thabo Mbeki have brought nothing.

They are the true heartland of this country, and they see Zuma as their savior.

SHENZHEN, China — I had heard that China is tightening its borders ahead of the Olympics in August, but I didn’t think getting through customs was going to be this tough.

My crew and I have been stuck at the border between Hong Kong and Shenzhen for more than an hour now. For the first time since moving to Hong Kong four years ago, I have had to drag all my luggage to a special room to get everything X-rayed.

Customs officials are painstakingly looking through all our camera equipment and scrutinizing our papers and documents. (My cameraman looks tired and we haven’t even started working yet.). Every car making the short trip from the Hong Kong side of the border to Shenzhen is driving over with an open trunk ready for inspection by dozens of Chinese officials.

Normally, crossing the Chinese border from Hong Kong is a breeze. Chinese immigration officers happily stamp your passport and off you go. A lot of business people, especially in the manufacturing industry, actually live in Hong Kong and choose to zip back and forth to their factories in China from the comforts of the freewheeling former British colony — what many refer to as China’s doorstep.

Some manufacturers have told me shipping goods to and from China has been a hassle because of the government’s extra precautions. Many of them are choosing to schlepp their samples across this border instead of relying on the mail. I wonder if they are going even to want to do that if security gets tighter during the games.

Oh, wait. Enough talking. The Chinese are letting us through. I better get out of here before they change their minds!

TOKYO, Japan – Occasionally as a journalist, you run across a story that leaves you gaping with surprise. Such is the case of my story on Shigeo Tokuda. 

73-year-old Tokuda has chosen an unusual way to spend his retirement: starring in more than 200 porn videos. According to Ruby Productions, a company that specializes in adult movies for seniors, elderly porn is a growing genre in the adult video industry and Tokuda is its leading man. I was interested in doing the story because Japan, a nation with the world’s highest percentage of people over the age of 65, was certainly finding an unusual way to meet the demands of its aging society.

I’ll begin with his movies, for they’re something that I truly never imagined. He is the star of his movies in every way, romancing his co-stars, no matter their age, no matter their needs. It’s a little like watching your grandfather in a situation you never dared to dream. It is not easy to watch.

 When we began to edit our story for broadcast on CNN, we had to go through three of his videos the production company gave us permission to air. My editor must have said “eew” a thousand times during our edit. It was a challenge finding appropriate material to air on CNN, so robust were Tokuda’s scenes. One of the DVDs had zero appropriate material.

But meeting Tokuda the retiree is very different from watching Tokuda the porn star. Tokuda has been married for 44 years to the same woman (who gives her blessing to his second career) with an adult daughter he loves very much. He’s a polite and humble man, saying he’s glad to have some use in his later years. He said his friends are envious, because he’s valued. Tokuda says, “I don’t know how long I can keep living, but I want to enjoy the rest of it.”

People will judge Tokuda for his unusual choice in how he’s living out his retirement. But he is living fully and he seems truly happy. And while I can’t say I admire his work, I can say his drive to be happy is certainly something from which to learn.

CNN Correspondent David McKenzie traveled to Kenya’s Masai Mara to film the epic annual migration of the wildebeest. He also filmed a video blog about his journey.

“It’s natural wonder on a grand scale, massive expanses of grassland stretching past the horizon. It is a haven for both the graceful, and the deadly.”

Watch McKenzie’s report about how the migration provides a bonanza for poachers

Watch more footage of the migration

RAJASTHAN, India – We drove about four hours, passing the occasional camel and rider, as we made it from Delhi into Rajasthan. During monsoon season the moment you get out of an air-conditioned car it feels like someone wrapped you up in a hot wet blanket. You sweat without moving a muscle. Today was one of those days.

Manju has to scrape out the cave, and gather up its repulsive contents.

We met our subjects on a neighborhood street corner where an enormous pig was enjoying a nap inside what could only be referred to as a pig house. Several of the women from the town of Alwar stood there waiting patiently for us. I, on the other hand, fidgeted and grimaced as drops of sweat turned into streams of water running down my back. I should be used to the heat by now. I’m not. They however seemed to defy God’s will, standing there with no visible sign of sweat anywhere. It was 6:30 in the morning time for all of us to go to work.

We begin our trek through town on foot. None of these women can afford a car. The town of Alwar has claustrophobically narrow streets that are shared by vehicles, bicycles, stray dogs, sacred cows, pigs and humans all at once. The women we’re following don’t seem to notice, they’re late to work. We reach the first house five of them step back to let one, Manju, greet the owner. The owner is not happy to see her and scolds her for being late like any boss might. Except in this case the “boss” would never dare to shake Manju’s hand in return for a job well done. No one in this neighborhood wants to touch Manju for any reason. Manju is an “untouchable” in this community along with 300 other women.

I am suddenly ashamed of being annoyed at the heat when I see what Manju has to do next. It is Manju’s job is to manually clean away the excrement left by her upper caste neighbors and for that she is considered an “untouchable.” I watch as she squeezes through an alley way to the so called bucket toilet of the house. It is simply a toilet seat with a hole that opens up to a small concrete cave below. No plumbing, no water. Manju has to scrape out the cave, and gather up its repulsive contents and then carry it away in a rusted metal bowl on her head.

The work is still necessary in this town because the bucket toilets, banned in 1993 by India, have never been replaced. I can’t imagine what this place would look and smell like if it wasn’t for people like Manju. Certainly disease would increase here. But not many here think of that. Your caste is your caste. If you are in the lowest caste like Manju this is your duty, period. Manju moves on to the next house. She says she hates this work but cleans about 20 to 25 of per month to help feed her six children.

At the fourth toilet job another owner comes out and wags his finger at some of the women cleaners for being late. They cover their faces with their Saris out of respect but don’t budge. We’ve gone to four toilets so far. By this time my photographer, Sanjiv, is covered in it. He’s trying to get video but it’s difficult. The spaces are so tight. He’s been kneeling, standing, squatting, doing whatever it takes to capture the reality of their situation. He soldiers on. My sense of smell betrays me and I gag at the last cleaning job we shoot.

We are being followed. The group of women won’t leave our sides. We tell them we don’t want them to get in trouble and they should go. They refuse. Each one begs us to tell “their” story. It is partly because a new opportunity has arisen in the community that could get them out from underneath the stifling caste system that binds them to this work. They believe having their story told might give them a better chance at getting into a community center run by Sulabh International in their town. The center is already training 56 women in other work and giving them stipends so that they can afford to leave manual toilet cleaning while they train. But right now the center is out of room and has to expand to accommodate more. It’s harsh and I feel guilty for not being able to do more.

I want to tell all their stories, just like they asked, but I can’t. Television news can be cruel that way. Time is always short. There is a finite amount of time that must be shared by CNN correspondents across the world. There are always too many important stories to tell.

Read my story and watch my report

(CNN) – There are your tough assignments and then there are those that border on the impossible.  Myanmar is one of the world’s most secretive nations for a reason. 

By nightfall, we were stowing away like fugitives.

Foreign journalists are banned from the country.  Tourists are even finding it difficult to get a visa, especially Americans.  So the odds were already stacked against us. 

I can’t say how we got in the country but that was only half the battle. Devising a plan to get down to the area devastated by Cyclone Nargis in May would be much harder.

The junta government has sealed off all entrances to the Irrawaddy delta.  Checkpoints are set up in nearly every town.  For days we pored over maps and scouted out the safest routes. 

Spinning with frustration, we finally came up with an idea.  It was risky.  If caught, we could be deported and the locals helping us faced prison time.  We had to move quickly and carefully.

By nightfall, we were stowing away like fugitives and hopping from one mode of transportation to the next.  It took us 21 hours to reach the delta — a trip that typically takes 4 hours by car.

A quick glance is all it took to see why the Myanmar government wants to keep the rest of the world out.  Devastation was everywhere.

Bodies were still scattered along the delta two months after the cyclone.  I knew we’d see them, I just didn’t know how haunting it would be. There was no avoiding the stench of death.  It’s an odor that sends chills through the soul.

All I could do was say a silent prayer.  These were people who deserved better.  It was shameful to see them rotting like their lives didn’t matter.

I kept thinking somewhere their families were grieving, wondering what happened to them.  Or maybe the bodies of other family members were scattered elsewhere, and there was no-one left to bury the dead. Perhaps, it’s best these remains can’t be identified.  This horrific discovery would only compound the pain.

And pain was the only thing in abundance along the delta.  I met a tearful woman who sat clutching a picture of her only child.

The smiling 17-year-old was this poor farming family’s best shot at a bright future.  They spent all their extra money making sure she got an education. Two weeks before graduating high school, she died in the storm.  Her body was never found.

Yet, others had no time for tears.  A young farmer briefly stopped working in the rice paddies to describe how the tidal surge swept his baby boy right out of his hands.  There was no emotion on his face or in his voice.  I couldn’t help but wonder if the cyclone had robbed him of that too.

We worked quickly trying to capture these stories, never knowing when we would get caught by the junta.  As night fell on the delta, it was time to set up camp.  We slept in stifling conditions, didn’t shower for days and lived off little more than bottled water and energy bars.  I kept reminding myself that our misery was temporary; for the people of the Delta it was a constant reality. 

Still, I was struck by how few complained about the lack of aid since the cyclone.  It was as if they didn’t expect much in the first place. 

Some of the villages we visited were given bags of rice, while others got some tarp and roofing material.  I saw a total of two tents.  None of it was nearly enough.  Most of the relief supplies came from aid organizations or small groups of locals banning together to help.  There was little sign of any significant assistance from the government. 

It’s a place where you could get lost in your anger and sorrow.  Too many questions and not enough answers.  Maybe that’s why survivors don’t waste their time stewing in frustration. 

As we headed out of the delta, I made a point to take one last look.

The cyclone’s destruction seemed to fade away into the palm trees that lined the shore. From afar, it becomes easy to ignore what you cannot see. And that’s the very reason this assignment was worth the risk.

Watch my report about the difficulties of reporting from Myanmar

Watch my report about life in Myanmar after the cyclone

Watch my report about students returning to school in Myanmar

Watch my report about devastated crops