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

BAGHDAD, Iraq – I don't think I have ever worked harder to get beat up. To do a story about Baghdad's best boxing gym, in the Adamiyah district, first, we had to get permission from the local "Awakening Council." The "Awakening Council" is a militia, allied with the United States that controls Adamiyah. When we got
to the area, armed gunmen were already waiting for us, some of them not older then 14 or 15, and they led us to the gym.

Farouq Chanchoon at his boxing gym.

"Ah, good to see you," Farouq Chanchoon says in very broken English. He's the head coach at the Adamiyah gym and a boxing legend in Iraq. The first thing he shows me is his collection of medals. "Bronze medal, world cup 1981," he keeps saying. Chanchoun is a former Iraqi Olympian. He fought in the 1976 games in Montreal, and in Moscow in 1980. He won the bronze at the boxing world cup in Montreal in 1981.

With all of Farouq's stories I didn't even notice, he already put on his boxing gloves and ushered me into the ring. For a 53 year old, he hasn't lost his speed or his eye, and I can feel the punches rain on my body and face as I try to escape and fight back. All the while, Farouq's youngest students, about 20 kids between the ages of 7 and 14 clap and chant. You can tell Farouq has boxing in his blood. The way he moves, the ring is his natural environment.

But to the kids here, he is more than a coach. In war-torn Baghdad, Farouq is like a father and guardian to many of those who train here. He teaches them discipline, respect for each other, no matter if they are Sunni or Shia. "My doors are open to anyone who is serious about boxing," Farouq
tells me later. "No matter if they are Sunni or Shia, anyone can come here."

Ali Hassan is serious about boxing. He's 21 years old, Iraq's welterweight champion and my next sparring partner. I can escape his punches for about a minute until I take a right hook to the jaw that stops me in my tracks. "Some day, I hope I can fight in international championships and win
gold and silver medals," Ali says, and judging the way he beat me up, I don't doubt he has what it takes.

Ali often leaves work early to come to the Adamiyah gym, but for a long time that was impossible. For decades, the gym was Iraq's premiere address for boxers, but after the fall of Saddam Hussein, violence engulfed the streets of the neighborhood, Al Qaeda took over, and the gym was shut. Much of the boxing equipment was looted, the old boxing ring was later torn apart by some of the local residents and used as building material. "I always kept training," Farouq says, but it was hard and dangerous.

Adamiyah is almost 100 per cent Sunni, but Shia fighters regularly make their way to the gym. Farouq says even during the worst of the sectarian strife in Baghdad, he still welcomed Shia boxers. "It has never made a difference to me," he says. When the gym was closed, they would train in other locations and some shia risked their lives to learn from him.

Now that violence is receding in Baghdad, and with Adamiyah under the control of the awakening council, the gym has reopened. About a dozen new punching bags line the ring and classes are full, especially with younger fighters. Farouq says he's proud of his achievement and believes that Iraq will make a comeback in international boxing.

"I think it will take at least four years," he tells me, "but then we will have world class fighters again. I have no doubt in my mind."

Until then, the young fighters look up at the old, fading photos of Farouq in his glory days, throwing punches at international tournaments. And many of them hope they can achieve the same.

FORWARD OPERATING BASE DELHI, Afghanistan – I normally don't worry too much going out on patrols in Afghanistan or Iraq.  I trust the troops to be doing their job to the hilt. I mentally rehearse what I should do in case of ambush or IED, check my medical kit, tourniquets etc are in order and accessible and that's it, we set off. I'm not fatalistic, I know there are risks and I know we are doing all we can do to mitigate against them.

Robertson was embedded with the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders – A Company 5th Battalion

I've been on scores, possibly hundreds of foot and vehicle patrols over the years. None are routine, none are the same. You tense up as you leave the base gates, calculate when you should be back, look around, pace yourself for what's to come.

That's how it was when we left FOB Delhi with Captain Ross Boyd and his troops from the ‘Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders – A Company 5th Battalion.' Many came from just outside Glasgow, Scotland, where I lived 20 years ago. There's a comfort in hearing their accents, good lads, hard workers, the salt of the earth.

It must have been around 6 p.m. and still incredibly hot. I recognized the first little hill we passed. JTAC hill where Prince Harry was famously filmed firing a heavy machine gun and calling in airstrikes on the Taliban a few months ago.

I knew then we were going in to the heart of the former battlefield. Not quite Paschendale or the Somme, but the bomb craters were big and many of the trees shredded and dead just like those old black and white World War I photos.

We had to follow a Royal Engineer with a metal detector. A soldier told me a story of how on one patrol one of their troop triggered a mine, another soldier panicked stepped out of line, he too went down. In a matter of minutes they'd gone from tactical patrol to two men down, stuck in a mine field.

Our instructions were clear, if anyone hits a mine or IED, we would drop to the ground right were we were. Don't move, await instruction. And so we crept across the fields.

My mind felt sharp, electric, ready to respond. It was almost no surprise when an IED was found.

Sitting in an old Taliban trench waiting for the bomb disposal team I discovered one of the soldiers was a friend of a friend, small world. Captain Boyd was worried. He was the one who cleared the soil from the IED with his bayonet. It can't be easy with your face so close to much explosives but that wasn't what was troubling him. He was having a smoke to calm his nerves and was troubled by the fact now there was a TV camera there his mother might see him smoking.

Like I said a few lines above I don't normally worry on such patrols. But now it was dark, I mean pitch black. We had no lights, so as we walked single file, widely spaced back through the old battlefield I must admit I felt somewhat exposed.

Had I strayed from the tracks of the man in front, had he strayed from the man in front of him. It was a long line and logic was taking me to a bad place, so I dropped those thoughts, concentrated on not falling over and getting through the thorn bushes unscathed.

In the dark I felt the heavy deep sand of the track. FOB Delhi was getting closer. Four hours later we get back, but it felt like it could have been four days.

I didn't tell him but I think Captain Boyd's mother will be happy just to know her son is in one piece doing a great job. The odd cigarette for saving lives, even in today's politically correct world, can't be a bad trade.

BEIJING, China – A month to go and do you want to know how bad the pollution is in Beijing? Check out today's photo from my living room. There's another photo of what it looks like on a clear day (which was Sunday, our one good day after weeks of smog and haze).

View from my living room shows what Beijing looks like on a clear day and then after the smog.

But I have absolute faith the air will be fine by the time athletes arrive. In less than two weeks half the cars will be taken off the road – odd licence numbers one day, even the next – hundreds of factories will be closed, and half a million tourists will arrive and think all the news reports about pollution have been greatly exaggerated. Trust me we're not mad, the air is terrible. I have a four-year-old daughter with a regular cough which seems to clear up whenever we leave. I wonder what the other billion or so Chinese people do who can't get out for oxygen breaks.

There are serious questions being asked about the lasting environmental legacy.

But Beijing will dazzle the world with amazing venues, beautiful gardens, and a population eager to please. It even seems security guards and police may have gone to smile school.

They smile a lot these days when they politely say no. No is a word reporters hear a lot in this country, especially when it comes to Tibet – as in no way on the planet are you going to be allowed to go there, despite press freedom being the one solid promise the Chinese made to the IOC (apart from the bricks and mortar of sporting venues).

One month to go, and after seven years of construction and controversy, billions and billions of U.S. dollars, Beijing is ready and for the most part, they've done all of this on their terms.

As far as a sporting spectacular goes, it's right on the money... It's just hard to breathe easy about anything else.