Banteay Chhmar, Cambodia - It's hot and I have a headache.

The sun is too bright and reflecting off the corrugated tin roofs of tiny shops. And there are so many people, it is dizzying.

Everywhere you look, throngs of people walking from home to store, store to home, milling around street vendor carts, begging for change, or sitting on plastic chairs by the side of the road silently watching it all unfold.

Sitting in this backseat of a cramped crew cab pickup truck, I'm sharing with two other guys, our backpacks, and a 16 kilogram camera.

It's 33 degrees Celsius and I'm told it's winter: The end of the rainy season. I can't imagine it could be any worse than this, so I ask our Cambodian driver what it's like here in the summer.

He looks at me through the rear view mirror.

"Hotter," he replies, focusing his smirking eyes back on the road.

No matter how tropical or humid the climate, dry humor exists everywhere.

Out the window, I see there are far too many people on the road and too many types of vehicles. Bicycles. Bicycles with motors rigged up to their frames. Motorcycles. Motorcycles with carriages rigged up to their backs. The Cambodians call those tuk-tuks: their equivalent of a taxi. Toyota Camrys and well-worn Nissan pickups. All fighting for space on the road with the cattle and chickens and men and children and women carrying woven wicker baskets on their heads.

There are no stop-lights, no stop signs. No rules or order to the roadway that I can make out, except that if you are going to pass, you have to honk.

A man on a motorcycle weaves around an old piece of farm equipment plodding down the road, then swerves awkwardly to avoid an oncoming car. The man's wife and two small children clutch on to each other's clothing, to avoid being thrown off.

It's all too much. I look in my backpack for a bottle of water. All the activity is making me nervous and nauseous.

Some of my crankiness can be attributed to the fact I'm just a few hours removed from an arduous 17 hour trans-Pacific flight that started in Atlanta, crossed the Arctic Circle, dropped me off in Seoul to catch my breath and stretch my cramping legs, and then carried me on to Siem Reap.

We're going to be here for the next 10 days shooting a documentary on human trafficking and the personal impact it has on the lives of families. Before we do that, though, we're taking a side trip to a place called Banteay Chhmar, to file a story about climate change and the effects it can have on a civilization.

Banteay Chhmar is the kind of place I didn't think still existed on Earth. An ancient ruin, it's discovered but still unknown. Built in the 12th century by the great Khmer ruler Jayavarman II, today it sits empty. Historians still don't know why the city was built or why it was abandoned. It's hard even to understand why it's still here. Just a few meters from a village with the same name, there are no tourists, no squatters and very little evidence that there ever have been.

There are only a few dozen local laborers who, under the supervision of project leader John Sanday, are working to restore the site to the point it's safe and attractive to outside visitors. The hope is, they'll be able to train locals to set up a responsible, sustainable tourist industry, where the money goes to members of the local community, not foreign investors from countries like South Korea, the United States, China, or Japan.

The city was abandoned more than 500 years ago. Sanday, who is an architect by trade and lives in Katmandu, is our guide. He tells us that scientists believe that changes in the climate coupled with political instability and an aging infrastructure. He surmises that a period of prolonged drought created water scarcity, food shortages and unrest, which forced the royal family to move south to the area which is now Phnom Penh.

When that happened, like the city's reservoirs, its wealth and economic energy also dried up.

As our truck rambled into the site, we turned onto a pathway that crossed over that same reservoir. Two giant Buddha heads made our welcome at the entrance.

I was amazed they were still there. Two minutes later we were in the main part of the city. Now I was shocked. To me, it felt like re-entering a city that had been evacuated during a bombing raid. Sanday led us around, pointing out why this gate was important, why rulers had created that massive bas relief to show their power, and how this structure had been felled by the roots of a tree. Everywhere you looked were piles of rubble. It went on for hundreds of meters in every direction.

There were large courtyards where only pillars remained. Huge rooms that opened to the sky and jungle canopy. Intricately carved doorways stood, upright and exposed, while the wall that had encased it lay in a heap. Each time you rounded a corner, or even turned your head, there was something new and breath-taking to look at and take a picture of.

My favorite part of the city, though, were faces of the Buddha, carved seamlessly into the towers of the temples, looking out over all of it. A precursor to the architecture you see on the Bayon Temple at Angkor Wat, the entire time we were there they seemed to be looking down at us, smiling knowingly, as we explored their city and pointed our cameras up to take their picture.

We spent two days there, bounding over the ruins, looking at the incredible art and architecture, taking pictures and discussing what led to the collapse of this once-powerful civilization.

When it was time to leave, and we crawled through to the old corridor made dark by dusk's fading light, I thought about the people who passed through these hallways so many centuries ago. I thought how interesting that, thanks to the potential tourism industry, their hard work then, might now bring about a new dawn in the lives of their descendents.

And as we packed into pick-up for our long ride back to Siem Reap, I was struck by another thought and smiled.

This was definitely worth the trip.

Copenhagen, Denmark - It's one of the first messages that I see at Copenhagen airport. "Let's turn Copenhagen into Hopenhagen." Posters displaying this slogan adorn the city everywhere I go.

A 'Hopenhagen' poster on display in the Danish capital.

Over the last few days, covering the events at COP 15, one wonders if perhaps the Danish government itself has been a little too hopeful thinking that a legally binding international document to replace the Kyoto Treaty can ever be achieved.

But while headline-grabbing issues - "Climategate"and the "Danish text" - have cast a shadow over the summit's Bella Center venue, there is still plenty of hope abounding that some sort of framework document or political agreement will be reached by December 18th.

This is down to mainly the overwhelming amount of young people present here. So far, I've seen people dressed as mermaids, robots and a strange version of the Blues Brothers in red suits.

It's their enthusiasm that's infectious and I think also serves as a reminder as to why the international community has a great responsibility to come to some type of accord. It's not for our generation so much but for those who come after us.

As one young activist told me, she doesn't mind looking silly if a strange costume is what it takes so that people hear her message. Looking at the hundreds of forgettable attendees in the halls, she might have a point.

Hopeful too are the non-governmental organizations. They cite U.S. President Barack Obama's visit as the catalyst for their optimism.

Everybody knows that the two key countries that could influence the outcome of this summit are China and the United States. The latter even more so as where it goes, others tend to follow.

In the impressive American Summit Center, while hundreds gather around a big screen watching the U.S. president receive his Nobel Peace Prize, one of his secretaries tells us that if Obama can't drive the COP 15 agenda forward, who can?

It's a message that seems to be shared by many people here who admit that their hopes were much lower even two weeks ago when it looked like COP 15 was not going to be much more than a massive anti-climax. President Barack Obama? Yes! He can!

It's the vibrancy of the Bella Center which is really captivating however. In terms of events that I've helped cover, this is by far the largest in terms of the amount of journalists and participants who are here. Apparently 3,500 journalists are accredited as opposed to the 2,000 which were originally expected.

Here in the halls, people in traditional Peruvian costumes jostle for space with the suited observers from energy companies and over-excited young students. There seems to be a representative from literally every part of the world and everyday there seems to be more and more people...all with a message to bring.

It will be interesting to see if COP 15 really will be remembered by the world as the summit that changed the course of climate change, whether optimism can overcome the deep chasms between the developing world and the so-called developed world, whether negotiators can succeed in managing the delicate balance between economy, industry and our earth's fragile existence.

But for the next week or so the city of Copenhagen continues to be Hopenhagen.

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.