REYKJAVIK, Iceland - All reporters will tell you from time to time that they do their work out of love of the story, a need to tell the world. This, I’m sorry to say, is not one of those times.

There are some CNN assignments which are performed not from either of those noble motivations but simply from duty, or happening to be in the right place at the right time, which really means you are in the wrong place at the wrong time.

I feel like a voyeur at a funeral. A vile rubber-necker craning to get a fleeting glimpse of the carnage as I pass a road crash, disguising my macabre interest as a considerate deceleration to preserve the safety of the attendant emergency service personnel.

I have come to Iceland to report for The Screening Room on the country’s cinematic prowess.  I shall likely leave it as a leper, cast out by my hosts for invading their time of grief.

“How do you feel?” I ask, cursing myself at uttering the question which has become known as the ultimate journalistic cliché. “How do you feel…about the situation?”

I cannot bear even to mention the name of my subject, but I don’t need to. The first few targets of my intended interview rush past, evading the red and white CNN mike box. Apparently nerves remain raw and emotions are running high.

In less than 48 hours from my filing of this report, Iceland, a country of a mere 300 thousand souls – is destined to become a more soulless place as its three branches of the mighty McDonald's forest are lopped off by the tree surgeon of global finance.

The closure of McDonald's most northern empire sends ripples of fear across the world, reaching even as far as Hobart, whose 300 thousand citizens must wonder whether a similar fate may befall the jewel of Tasmania’s cultural diversity – the world’s most southerly branch of Starbucks.

But such global questions must rest unanswered for now as my brief confines me to this sad volcanic rock in the north Atlantic whose very  geology appears to rise up in surly resentment against this fast food fatality. It hisses steam and spits lava from every nook and fissure. It’s as if the Devil himself is sending a dark warning directly from Hell about the folly of the financial freeze. Forming an unholy alliance, the heavens open and pour liquid gloom upon my presence in this beautifully barren wasteland.

Upon arrival at Reykjavik’s international airport the departure board displays a sign of things to come - the last flights of the day are to Boston and New York, destined no doubt to be packed with deserters as an exodus begins in search of the burger so cruelly denied to the indigenous populace. For those in search of such culinary comfort closer to home, a flight to the Irish capital Dublin will provide the nearest McDonalds outlet - a mere 2,000 kilometers from the runways of Reykjavik.

Iceland’s tiny population provides an obstinate challenge to national supremacy on an international stage. Even in the competition for the world’s most expensive Big Mac it could muster only a bronze medal position, deprived of gold by its Nordic neighbors Norway and Sweden.

When its chance finally arrived, with the Icelandic currency plummeting in the wake of the global financial crisis, the imported ingredients of a Quarter Pounder soared to sensational heights. But just as it seemed destined to become the priciest patty on earth, the Happy Meal was forced to make way for misery as the franchise-holders, brothers Gon and Magnus Ogmundsson, told an unsuspecting world that he would tear down the golden arches and rip the relish from the hearts of hamburger-lovers.

Of course I’m using journalese here. What they actually said was that Iceland’s unique economic circumstances made it impossible to continue and that McDonalds had actually been very sympathetic and supportive during tough times for the business.

Nonetheless Iceland’s polar population, as with many populaces around the world, was polarized by the arrival of McDonald's. The burger brand seems to split communities into fundamentalists who regard it as either a sign of civilization or the evil ambassador of American imperialism.

The Ogmundsson’s plan to replace McDonald's with locally sourced food creates an opportunity to tap into the island’s own culinary heritage.

Iceland’s natural resources – steam and rock – and its lack of other resources – mayonnaise, hamburger relish, sesame buns, onion rings – have shaped its cuisine. But locally sourced food here actually means cheaper food. However, far from pickled herring, moss, minke whale, stewed seaweed or any of the abundant fresh seafood waiting to be steamed in the island’s volcanic oven, the Ogmundssons plan to replace McDonald's with an Icelandic burger bar.

I finally manage to lure a vox pop out of a local. She didn’t want to give her name for obvious reasons. She was about 18, with dyed black spiky hair, 13 earrings and a pierced tongue to complement her abundant tattoos. I tried to add concern and sincerity to my question.

“How do you feel?”

Her reply didn’t surprise me.

“I don’t really care. Never touched the stuff. Good riddance as far as I’m concerned.”

Clearly the young woman was in denial, fortified by the false bravado of youth.

A middle-aged couple, probably out to console themselves by revisiting favorite Icelandic landmarks, mustered what they supposed to be a cheery wave.

The woman brushed away a tear, mumbling something about the bitter wind, but I was not taken in.

“McDonald's.” I said. “I’m so sorry to ask, but how are you coping?”

“Never been in there in my life,” the man lied. "Glad to see the back of it.”

He was a convincing actor who, rare among those who have savored the irresistible blend of egg, sausage and muffin in the gloriously named “Sausage and Egg McMuffin,” could deliver such a damning verdict with a straight face. De Niro would meet his peer in this remarkable Reykjavikian.

Indeed the evidence pointed to the contrary as people headed in droves to the drive-in, queued around the block, with lines of teenagers bursting out of the door, desperate to get their final fix of this forbidden food.

As I stood in the street and watched the light turned off in McDonald's Icelandic flagship store for the para-penultimate time I heard a clock strike midnight.

I knew it was time for me to leave this day of the damned. A wake for the passing of the patty. A wake-javic in Reykjavik.

With a heavy heart and heavy stomach, my greasy finger pressed “return” on my laptop and my report was done. In years to come people may rejoice in the majesty of the northern lights, the music of Bjork or Sigur Ros and the luxury of the Blue Lagoon. But from this time on they will never share the communal joy of a happy meal with a Shrek 4 mobile phone toy or substituting extra fries with a fruit bag just to annoy the kids. Think on this you global bankers as you contemplate your multi-million dollar bonuses. Think on what you have done to the people of Iceland.

It’s a rare story that captures a journalist’s imagination the way this one has.

I first heard of El Mirador from Jeff Morgan, the founder of the Global Heritage Fund.

We were talking about his organization when he mentioned this ancient Mayan city they were working to save. Buried deep in the jungles of Northern Guatemala are the stone relics of an empire. His voice cracked with enthusiasm as he described the amazing discoveries being unearthed almost daily.

The archeologists excavating there say they have evidence now showing Mirador, this remote site almost no one has ever heard of, is home to the largest pyramid in the world by volume, the first freeway system in the world and a newly unearthed piece artwork, the size of a football field, that could rewrite the historical timeline of the Mayan civilization.

As a journalist, I did what I’ve been trained to do and asked calmly, “I’m sorry, can you repeat that?”

He did, so my follow-up question was easy: “How can we get there?”

We arrived by helicopter from Guatemala City along with Morgan and the director of the Mirador Basin Project, Richard Hansen. When you’re in the jungle for the first time, a couple thoughts cross your mind. First, you wonder what else is out there, lurking behind the brush and branches, sizing you up.

And the second thing you think about is where you put your water. The heat is intense. It was 34 C the whole time we were there – day and night – and moisture from the jungle canopy adds a steamy, sticky film to your skin that traps the heat.

Our shoot lasted several days, short by documentary filming standards, but we packed in as much work as possible. Working 14-hour days, we hiked for miles, scaled pyramids, squeezed through tiny corridors to get inside the temples.

But in addition to all the wonderful historical discoveries, there is another, more pressing reason we went to film this story. Mirador is facing threats on several fronts.

Looters are constantly breaking into the sites and stealing priceless artifacts. Loggers and cattle ranchers are cutting down the surrounding rainforest at an alarming speed. And narco-traffickers, flying cocaine-filled planes, are landing in the remote areas then setting them ablaze, sparking devastating wildfires.

For Jeff Morgan, Richard Hansen, and several organizations like PACUNAM and APANAC, the purpose of saving and preserving this incredible site is so that the people who live in the surrounding villages will benefit.

These groups hope that by creating a sustainable tourist destination, it will attract tourists from around the world, and bring badly needed fund to the poorest area of the country.

Looking back, it felt like a whirlwind going from plane, to helicopter, to isolated jungle and then back again. But I came away from the experience with the sense that there are still wonders left in this world to be discovered, and good people fighting with everything they have, to save them.

It’s a story I’ll never forget. And one that I hope, for the archeologists and people of Guatemala, has a happy ending.

CALAIS, France (CNN) - "The Jungle," the notorious makeshift camp set up in the woods on the outskirts of Calais, looks very different to when I was here last in June.

There are only about 200 Afghan men instead of the 600 we saw here last. Many seem to have gotten through to the UK.

Local charity workers tell us that rumors of an imminent closure and total destruction of the camp by French police means the majority of migrants fled in the first week of September.

The raid was rumored to take place Tuesday morning at dawn. We arrived at the camp at 4am, and found a group of 100 or so migrants huddled around a bonfire.

And then the wait began... At 7am, the police arrived - approximately 600 or so.

Local human right protesters formed a circle around the migrants and, as the police swooped in, there were some clashes between the activists and authorities. Read more about the police raid

Some protesters were arrested and carried off violently.

The Afghan migrants did not resist. Many were in tears as they were led away by the police.

The migrants seemed to be processed and separated in groups of minors and adults.

What do you believe should happen to the migrants? Add your comment below

Scuffling continued between the police and protesters. Then, eventually, the police pushed out the protesters and journalists as they cleared out the camp and blocked it off.

The question now remains as to what the French government will do with the arrested migrants.

The Calais police chief who spoke after the raid maintains that the operation was a success, as the mafia and human traffickers who ran "the Jungle" camp have been stopped.

The police also confirmed the minors would not be sent back to Afghanistan.

The camp has now been bulldozed. While the immediate problem may have been moved out of the Calais area, it is obvious to everyone from the migrants to the activists to the authorities that moving the problem on is not the solution.

GREENOCK, Scotland – Embarking on our trip to Scotland early Monday morning to cover the potential release of the only man ever to be convicted for the 1988 Lockerbie bombing, we thought we would return to London barely 24 hours later.

Three days later, we remain here, in Greenock, a small town on the west coast of Scotland, a town which for the last four years, Abdelbaset Ali Mohmed al Megrahi has had to call "home."

In that time, we've visited Lockerbie. We're seen the garden memorial which has replaced the huge crater left by the flaming fuselage when it fell from the sky, it in turn, replacing the homes that had stood there and the families who had lived in them.

We've heard from eyewitnesses and emergency workers who cannot forget what they saw, even over 20 years later. We've heard conspiracy theories from local politicians who have blamed Iran, the Palestinians and the U.S.

We've even heard from relatives of the dead who really believe that the Scottish justice system has got it wrong and that Megrahi is an innocent man.

As we file more reports and speak to more involved parties, this case seems to get murkier and ever more confusing and my thoughts begin to lie with the one man who now has to decide the fate of the Libyan.

Kenny MacAskill, Scotland's Justice Secretary, has been given the sole responsibility of determining the fate of the terminally ill Meghari.

The Scottish Parliament has said that it doesn't need to be involved. Scotland's First Minister Alex Salmond has said that he trusts whichever decision MacAskill will take.

Supportive words, but hardly conducive for a man who needs to weigh up years of evidence, appeals, medical advice and family statements.

Since we came to Scotland, political heavyweights such as U.S. Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton, Senators Edward Kennedy and John Kerry have weighed into the debate, urging MacAskill not to allow Meghari to go free.

The Justice Secretary hasn't even been able to count on the support of his own colleagues with the Scottish Secretary, Jim Murphy, yesterday slamming the ongoing situation as "embarrassing."

And so as we wait, busying ourselves collecting our elements and watching the news wires for updates, I feel rather sorry for the beleaguered Scottish politician who must be now sitting in his office, pouring over reams of material and trying to work out the right thing to do.

NEW DELHI, India - It was a concert backed to the hilt by Indian politicians otherwise opposed to "Western culture."

It was Michael Jackson's first and only show in India in its commercial capital of Mumbai.

Jackson performing in Mumbai.

Amid a row about tax concessions the pop icon landed in the home of Bollywood cinema on October 30, 1996.

It was around 9 a.m. local time and some 10,000 fans had crowded outside the airport, recalled Sabbas Joseph, director of Wizcraft, the company that organized the concert.

Bollywood actor Sonali Bendre, clad in a saree, gave a traditional Indian welcome to him, as a group of artists danced to drumbeats.

The excitement was such that most airport staff abandoned their posts to have a glimpse of the “King of Pop” as he walked out to the cheers of the thousands assembled at the main entrance, Joseph recalled.

He addressed them with the Hindu greeting of "Namaste" from a makeshift podium, before he got into his open-top car and traveled along a route lined with thousands more fans.

Among them were Mumbai's slum kids and the singer would often jump out to cuddle them, Joseph said.

Jackson spent the evening of his first day in India meeting the who's who of Mumbai - from Bollywood stars to captains of industry and politicians - at a banquet.

On his second day he met the slum children again.

This time at poolside in his hotel for a photo shoot that Joseph remembers was for a calendar the entertainer was making in honor of the children of the world.

Jackson also sought blessings from Mother Teresa as he spoke with her on phone, his show organizer said.

But all these activities didn't exhaust him for his big night in Mumbai.

On November 1, 1996, he chose to drive down to the concert venue. No matter, if it meant spending an hour on the congested roads of Mumbai.

Around 20,000 fans packed the stadium as the singer made a spectacular appearance on stage - a touchdown from a specially-designed rocket capsule.

"It was incredible," recalled Joseph. Thousands chanted his name while some fans even fainted. The two-hour show created history in India's entertainment world. Revenues for the sold-out concert were staggering - $1 million.

But organizers say the money is still with the court where a petition was filed against the then state government for exempting the show from entertainment tax.

"Michael Jackson had come to India ahead of India's time," remarked Joseph. "India was a different country 13 years ago."

OLD BEICHUAN, China — The mourners were already gathering at 4 a.m. The government had declared old Beichuan open to the public for four days, yet a growing crowd of people were told to wait outside a steel gate manned by Peoples' Armed Police. "It's for your own safety," an officer told me. "We can't have you climbing around on the rubble in the dark".

Mourners at Beichuan Middle School hold a ceremony for children killed in the 2008 earthquake.

By 7a.m., it was light. We did our first live shot in front of several hundred people, half an hour later the gates opened and the crowds pushed past police. The officer in charge wasn't happy and told us to move on, so we followed the crowd downhill towards old Beichuan.

Look at Wen-Chun Fan’s photos of Old Beichuan

I still vividly recall climbing around on the ruins of Beichuan, which was flattened in the Sichuan quake, a year ago. A pile of rubble seven stories high formed as the ground heaved and buildings across the street from one another slammed together. Smoke was still rising from smoldering fires burning under our feet and people were crying, digging and desperately shouting the names of their loved ones. And, there was that unmistakable, faintly sweet scent of death.

Now as I walked past the same rubble, the smell was of burning incense and the crackle of firecrackers echoing through the valley. Those who desperately searched for their loved ones back then now set up makeshift shrines along a police line. They burned paper money, paper clothes, even little paper houses.

Some buildings that were barely standing after the quake had been worn down by raging floodwaters released from the Tangjiashan "quake-lake" just upstream. Others stood half buried in mud from a huge landslide last September, but for the most part, old Beichuan was still as I remembered it: The huge, house-sized boulders shaken loose from the mountains above that came crashing down into six-story apartment blocks; a Volkswagen that somehow ended up in a tree; furniture in living rooms with only two walls left standing.

After two hours of walking with 100 kilograms of gear split between the three of us on the CNN team, we finally made it to a spot with a decent satellite signal. We did live shot after live shot from almost the exact same spot we broadcast from last year. The crowds kept on coming, it felt as if thousands, if not tens of thousands, had made the pilgrimage to old Beichuan today, some family members of those lost in the quake, others just tourists who wanted to have a look.

Our original plan of doing live broadcasts late into the evening was not to be. By 4:30 p.m., police were asking people to head back. Old Beichuan, at night, was not a safe place. As we started walking, a bright red spot in the crumbled cement caught my eye. It was a geranium flower growing out from the rubble of a collapsed house.

NEW DELHI, India — Covering political rallies in India is never peachy. The weather is gruesome, the wait is long, the music is blaring at its cacophonous best and as we experienced today, there is the chance of being caught in the midst of an excited crowd. Today’s political rally in India’s capital, New Delhi, was addressed by one of India’s most recognized youth politicians, Rahul Gandhi. 

Enthusiasm grips a crowd at a political rally in New Delhi.

Often touted as the prime minister in waiting, the young Gandhi scion swooped down in a helicopter to adoring fans, more than an hour behind his scheduled appearance. As he approached the venue, a party member encouraged the masses to keep shouting slogans. And the masses complied. When Rahul got onto the stage there was welcoming applause. I saw some familiar faces from the other rallies as they screamed and waved toward the stage. 

When Rahul starts speaking, most of the folks in the VIP section climb on top of their chairs and listen, laughing when he says a joke or clapping when he points out why his party is best suited to lead the nation. 

When the 5pm deadline approaches (the public campaign has to end at 5 p.m., Tuesday, ahead of Thursday’s phase four of India’s polls) the crowd starts surging forward. Our cameraman, Sanjiv Talreja, and I make our way to the exit as the podium goes quiet. Little did we expect to be squashed, shoved and pushed. In an effort to catch a glimpse of Rahul taking off on the helicopter, the crowd surged forward and many people rushed toward the same exit that we took. I almost lost the ladder that I was carrying and held on with all my might to the battery bag. Sanjiv, who was carrying both the camera and the tripod, was more or less knocked over. We both managed to get out without a bruise and heaved a sigh of relief! 

As we left the grounds, we could see hundreds of people standing across the open ground watching skyward. As Rahul’s chopper took to the skies, people waved enthusiastically. 

Campaigning in India is never short of drama and the colors, songs, dances and speeches are all vibrant. And no matter how often you attend a rally, there is always some new quirk to take you by surprise.

NEW DELHI, India - India's capital is sweltering and so is the rest of the country. The oppressive heat wave felt across India has sent temperatures soaring well beyond 43 degrees Celsius (110 degrees Fahrenheit) in many parts of the country.

In the midst of this brutally hot weather we have been out covering political rallies.

CNN correspondent Sara Sidner gulps down water during a sweltering rally.

The latest one began at three in the afternoon, the absolute hottest part of the day. One would think this is a bad time to hold a rally but India is right in the middle of a general election.

Elections here take place once every five years. So no matter when rallies are held they are a huge draw, as people attempt to catch their favorite candidate in action.

Inevitably the politicians arrive late, which means we spend even longer at the mercy of the sun. "Under the sun," might sound very romantic for a movie title but let me tell you it’s anything but romantic in this context.

Lugging around heavy equipment, the crew sweats so much it feels like there's no liquid left in our bodies. Between the long wait for the candidate and the quest for the right shot, it is something of a small miracle that none of us have had heat stroke. Luckily water is handed out periodically.

The odd thing is the crowd seems immune to the heat. When the music plays, ladies in colorful saris dance with genuine enthusiasm. The men chant, push and shove to try and get a closer look.

Meanwhile the electric fans set up all along the huge field are not turned on and no one is complaining – well almost no one.

JOHANNESBURG, South Africa – The bikers on their Harley-Davidsons were the first surprise. They roared down the street on their slick expensive machines to the sound of bellowing exhausts and equally thunderous approval from the crowds of ANC supporters who had gathered in downtown Johannesburg to await the arrival of their hero, Jacob Zuma.

Zuma (center) jumps in the air as he celebrates on stage with supporters.

The next surprise was the skinny transvestite in the miniskirt dancing with a poster in and out among the journalists and waving to the crowd.

They were both symbolic of the diversity and freedom that exists in this country that was once ruled by the deeply conservative, right-wing values of the apartheid regime.

The bikers, in particular, symbolize the paradox of the African National Congress's hold on South African society.

Their arrival was, at the same time, both a celebration and flaunting of wealth in the face of the poor. The wealthy bikers represent the wealthy black elite that supports the ANC.

They have benefited most visibly from the organization's hold on power since the first democratic elections; the poor lining the streets and cheering them, have benefited the least – and yet, such economically different groups of people still feel bound together by a common loyalty to the ANC.

It is a paradox that the opposition parties, even the newest one, a breakaway from the ANC called Congress of the People, or COPE, seem unable to exploit.

Not all the votes are in yet, but it is clear that the ANC is set for a landslide victory.

As their president Jacob Zuma took the stage to roars of approval from his jubilant supporters, as the champagne corks popped, and the fireworks soared into the night air above the skyscrapers of downtown Johannesburg, it was clear that the ANC has lost nothing of the massive electoral power it has held since Nelson Mandela was elected as the first president of a democratic South Africa in 1994.

Still, there is a tiny chink visible in their armor. Roughly one in three South Africans did not vote for the ANC – and they are made up of all races and classes.

The ANC rules supreme, but not without some meaningful resentment left in its wake.

Still, two in every three South Africans did vote for them – and they are the ones celebrating tonight.

Zuma is the pivot of this country's political future. And yet, his broad smiles and celebratory dancing cannot hide the fact that things are not quite as simple as they might look.

His detractors probably fear him too much; while his supporters certainly believe in him too uncritically.

He has won a huge victory tonight. He rules the hearts and minds of most South Africans, but how will he govern them?

Underneath the razzmatazz and champagne, many questions remain about Zuma and how he will lead South Africa.

As one man said to me on the streets of Johannesburg tonight. "The ANC will have to work very hard. Things will not be so easy for them anymore. If they don't succeed, maybe Zuma will be thrown out like Mbeki was."

JOHANNESBURG, South Africa – Standing in the queue waiting to vote, I allowed myself a few moments to reflect on some childhood memories.

Voters queue up in Soweto on Wednesday.

The polling station I am registered at is the primary school I attended in the 1960s and 1970s, and just exactly where I was standing was where, every morning and afternoon, one of the younger relatives of the Shah of Iran would roll up with his driver and bodyguard in a Rolls Royce.

He was a popular kid and I have often wondered what happened to him in the tumultuous decades that have followed since the revolution in Iran.

It was another world then, South Africa at the height of apartheid and the Shah resplendent on his magnificent throne. Both have long since disappeared into history.

Standing there in front of my old school, I thought of how much has changed in South Africa. Back in those days I didn't understand much of politics, but I did know that apartheid was wrong.

I remember watching, as a little boy, about 10 years old, with a mixture of fear and innocent outrage as a van-load of police came onto the school grounds.

They headed for the compound where the black workers who cooked our lunches and tended the grounds lived. They were looking for black people who didn't have the correct "passes" - papers that allowed them to live and work in white areas.

There wasn't much we boys could do, but I remember that some of the older kids jeered at the police as they took away two or three black men whose papers apparently weren't in order.

The brutality of apartheid is still very much alive in the collective mind of South Africa's people, so to stand in a long line of black and white people waiting patiently together to vote remains an emotional experience for most of us.

To watch South Africans vote is to see them at their best. There have been a handful of unpleasant incidents: a hundred or so pre-marked ballot papers were found in Kwa-Zulu Natal; there have been one or two angry protests, and one election official was shot in the leg by an armed robber.

Crime and corruption are big problems in the country today, as is entrenched poverty and joblessness. Many of the elite feel dismay that the country's constitution and the rule of law have been threatened by the long saga of ANC President Jacob Zuma's corruption trial; many of the country's poor, on the other hand, feel rage at how little their circumstances have changed since the ending of apartheid.

However, when we look back at the divisions that apartheid created and the rage that existed at its unfairness, it remains a miracle that South Africans are here today 15 years after the first democratic election in 1994, still voting tolerantly and peacefully, still queuing under the African sun for hours, laughing and joking with one another - and still believing that their vote can make a difference to the country they now share.