SOLANA MUNICIPALITY, Philippines — The villagers in the northern Philippines have lived with typhoons their whole lives, but many of them told me they weren't prepared for a storm the size of Typhoon Parma.

A farmer crosses a flooded rice paddy on the outskirts of Manila.

I am in a village in Solana, a municipality of Cagayan Province, where Parma made landfall.

We have been driving through some of the low-lying areas. On our way here, we passed downed power lines and tree branches strewn on the roads. Military personnel and local volunteers are working overtime to clear the debris. While we were filming some of the damage, a farmer walked over to tell me that the flooding got so severe that the waters rose as high as his head.

The village I am in now is a community of farmers.  Some of the rooftops on the homes here were blown off by the winds. The power was knocked out. One man told me he was terrified when the storm set in because he could hear his house rattling and the rains pelting his metal roof. The waters on some of the roads come up to our knees.

The villagers told me flooding is normal during typhoon season so many of them build a second floor on their homes. One family of rice farmers was kind enough to show me around their house. All their belongings were elevated, piled on tables, cabinets and shelves. The water was about a foot deep. This is the first time, the family told me, that the water flowed into the house. The ceiling is stained with water marks, Parma's permanent imprint on their home.

The family's home has a second floor but it failed to provide the usual shelter to the storm. The sound of Parma was so frightening, they said, that the six family members chose to huddle on small beds on the ground floor despite the rising waters. They feared the severe winds would blow off their roof, leaving them exposed to Parma's fury. They didn't have time to evacuate.

The winds and rains are gone now as Parma heads away from here. The farmers say the waters will likely take about a week to recede, and they worry about the damage to their crops. The rice plants are likely destroyed, Pinky Rhose Jesalva, a university student told me. Her family owns a tract of land nearby.

Other farmer families have laid out corn kernels alongside the road in hopes that the fermenting seeds will dry out. The Agricultural Department estimates the cost of damage from the two typhoons, Parma and Ketsana, will amount to about 120 million U.S. dollars, mainly because of devastated rice crops.

But the farmers have not given up hope. They are walking on the corn, turning the kernels over with their bare feet, in the hopes of salvaging more of their harvests.

HONG KONG, China – It's the eve of former South Korean President Roh Moo-hyun's funeral and, even though I am sitting in the CNN newsroom in Hong Kong, I can't help but feel melancholic.

President Roh never quite fit the mould of a president. He was an everyday man who altered the authoritarian bent of the job.

I don't live in Korea, but I am Korean-American and have a strong affinity or attachment - "jeong" in Korean - to the country.

I interviewed President Roh while he was on the campaign trail ahead of his election in 2002. I remember how approachable and hopeful he was and how different his demeanor was compared to previous presidential candidates.

He was a human rights lawyer who had passed the rigorous bar exam by studying on his own. He despised the abuse of workers and, in his estimate, fought for the little guy. But because of that, to me, his suicide is even more tragic.

Korean society, though changing, is highly goal-oriented and can oftentimes, I think, be unforgiving for those who don't quite fit the accepted social norms. People have to go to the right school, get the right job, marry the right person. The university system doesn't allow for late bloomers. And though events such as the Asian financial crisis have challenged those expectations, in Korea, as one of my friends always tells me, conformity is a virtue.

President Roh never quite fit the mould of a president. He was an everyday man who altered the authoritarian bent of the job. Many people appreciated his different approach. However, my fear now is the message his suicide sends to young people struggling to find their own way in a nation where calling a psychologist is still seen as a weakness.

I think fondly of my meeting with President Roh and can only imagine his agony as he stood on that cliff. President Roh was unable to fight his demons. Please don't succumb to yours.

HONG KONG, China - Last week, I found myself lying in a coffin watching video images of my supposed demise. No, I am not entranced by the macabre. I was just one of the lucky few to get a sneak peak at the attractions of Hong Kong's newest theme park: a life-size Noah's Ark.

The claustrophobic should probably skip the coffin adventure.

So what does a coffin have to do with a Biblical boat full of animals?

Organizers told us both are supposed to get visitors to reflect on their lives. Spencer Lu, the project director, said, in the story of Noah, a father (Noah) saves his family from pending doom (massive floods). He says his 450-foot long wooden replica aims to remind tourists of the importance of family values. Marketing family or "positive" values, as Lu likes to call them, helps to distinguish his park from others.

The coffin is the most obvious attraction geared to visitors unsure of the afterlife. Before climbing into the box, I was asked to think for 20 minutes about my life and draft my goals over the next five years. Once I had sorted out my life's plan, I was shut into the casket where a computer monitor flashed scenes of doctors hovering over me, darkness, pallbearers carrying my body to a cemetery, human skeletons, a piece of paper fluttering in the wind at, presumably, my grave.

For me, the experience was eerie but not life-altering (though it did make me think about changing my life insurance plan). Lu told me the ride is only for people ages 16 and up - no young children are allowed. I would suggest the claustrophobic skip the coffin adventure as well.

Lu insists that, despite the Judaeo-Christian origins of the story, the ark is not meant to be religious. He says visitors can have fun taking photos with the various animals (male and female) or take a spin around the learning centers for children (where they can marvel at the not-so-Biblical dinosaur skulls).

The park was funded by the Hong Kong government but is run by Sun Hung Kai Properties, a local developer whose leadership includes Christian evangelical billionaire Thomas Kwok.

The park hopes to attract half a million people a year and is targeting the Chinese. Visitors to the ark will bring profits to its creators and, perhaps, also bring them closer to their Creator.

Noah's Ark opened on May 25, 2009, in Hong Kong.

HONG KONG, China - I called a fund manager in Seoul today to get his take on the nuclear test in North Korea.

"There was a nuclear test?" he asked me, half-jokingly.

He was at lunch where he said everyone was talking about the suicide of former South Korean president Roh Moo-hyun. No word on the secretive neighbor to the North.

I know it seems unbelievable to people outside of the country, but South Koreans have grown largely immune to North Korea's threats - even a nuclear test. They have been living with the fear of North Korea for decades and have what my colleague Andrew Stevens calls "North Korea fatigue." Pyongyang's sharp rhetoric is discounted in the streets of Seoul as well as in the nation's financial markets, which after falling initially on the shock, bounced back by the end of the trading day.

South Koreans are more concerned today about the political rift that is forming as a result of Roh's death. The ex-president, known as an average Joe with integrity, killed himself in the face of a corruption scandal. His supporters blame the conservative administration of Lee Myung-bak for Roh's death, saying prosecutors went too far. Riot police have gathered in Seoul's city center in anticipation of protests.

The concern now is how Lee, nicknamed the Bulldozer, will bridge the political divide and keep the nation united at a time when the economy is fragile.

NAMYANG, South Korea - I am at Hyundai Motor's research and development center and the PR people have arranged a special treat for me and the crew: a real live car crash test – not something you get to see everyday. In fact, we weren't allowed to bring in our camera. We are standing in a whitewalled control room where a group of Hyundai workers sit behind an elaborate panel of flat screen monitors, lights, and buttons with mysterious functions.

Meet the family: Hyundai's crash test dummies await their next outing.

The panel is protected by glass and looks out onto what appears to be an airplane hangar. At the far end of the room sits a forlorn Hyundai sedan. The car is under bright lights and surrounded by workers who leer at the vehicle. Occasionally one of them scribbles notes onto a clipboard.

We are told this car is the unfortunate volunteer for a side crash test. Our tour guide, senior engineer Paek Chang In, tells us the team is checking that the vehicle meets one of Europe's safety regulations.

Suddenly, the staff disappear and what appears to be a super-sized dolly comes barreling down a track, smashing the side of the sedan.

Paek quickly rushes us downstairs to pore over the remains.

A crash test dummy is seated in front of the steering wheel, head askew, one arm perched awkwardly as if broken. Splashes of red paint stain the dummy's clothing. I feel queasy.

Paek walks us to another room which reminds me of the lab of an evil mastermind.

More than 100 crash test dummies are here - their bodies contorted, their skin a pinkish brown hue. Spare body parts neatly line a wall of grey shelves. Entire families of men, women, children, even babies are dressed in tattered clothes and seated with their arms twisted in eerily familiar positions. One dummy dangles from a rope attached to the ceiling.

Paek tells me the most expensive one is worth $1 million. He pulls back the dummy's jumpsuit to reveal a "real rib cage." The "rib cage" protects a mess of wiring that apparently helps give Hyundai a more accurate reading of how the human body is impacted in an accident.

In the back, rows and rows of dummies sit in chairs holding their arms motionless outstretched over their heads, a punishment sometimes used at strict Korean schools.

As if these crash test dummies aren't being punished enough, I think to myself. Most have endured years of relentless torture as part of Hyundai's drive to improve quality standards and transform the South Korean carmaker from an industry laughingstock to a leader in the global auto industry.

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!