The captain turns off the “fasten seat belts” sign and every passenger rushes to get their bags and get off the plane. Every passenger but me. I am in no hurry, and I see no reason to rush. The calmness of an airplane in flight morphs into the chaos of an airplane at the gate, but I move without haste, deliberately trying to remember every detail of these moments, which will be the last of our trip.
Slowly at first, then all at once, passengers step out of the cabin and onto the gangway and into the airport. It will be my turn in a few seconds. I grab my camera bag and make my way to the door, passing the handful of flight attendants remaining on board. They will clean up the cabin and prepare it for the next flight, as they have done countless times before. For them, and for many of the passengers, this flight was nothing special. It was an ordinary means of transportation from point A to point B. Not for me. Not for us.
As I take one last look at the airplane before heading into the terminal, to customs, to baggage claim, to our taxi, and to home, I realize something.
The journey isn’t over.
It’s just beginning.
Epilogue
April 28, 2015
28°04’30.6”N 34°30’38.5”E
Gulf of Aqaba
There is no good reason for me to be on this flight. There are, however, quite a number of reasons for me not to be on this flight, all of which I knew in advance and none of which I paid attention to. Like many journalists chasing a story, I kept pushing and pushing until I got exactly what I asked for: a free trip to Kathmandu.
A massive 7.8 earthquake had rocked the Nepali capital. The number of dead was in the hundreds and climbing fast. Buildings in Kathmandu had either collapsed or were teetering dangerously close to collapse. Streets were covered in rubble. There was no way of knowing how many people were trapped in the wreckage … and still alive.
Nepal was suddenly the biggest story in the world. Foreign aid flooded in. Or at least it tried to. The earthquake had damaged Kathmandu’s single runway, making it impossible for planes over a certain size to land.
Israel had a 747 loaded with personnel ready to go, along with a few C-130s full of medical supplies and a field hospital. I had begged the Prime Minister’s Office, the Foreign Ministry, Israel’s military aka the Israel Defence Forces (IDF), and a few politicians for a seat on that flight. We had to wait an extra twenty-four hours at Tel Aviv’s Ben Gurion Airport until we were sure the Kathmandu runway was in suitable enough condition to support the weight of a jumbo jet.
I was on my own. The IDF had only allowed me one seat, so I couldn’t bring a cameraman. In TV terminology, I was a one-man band. Instead, I packed a camera, batteries, laptop, charger, satellite transmitter, lights, stands, cables, clothes, and notepads into a few bags and boxes and hopped on the flight.
I found myself heading toward an inhospitable destination with no friends, about to face demons that I was not remotely ready to face. The moment I left Nepal, I knew I would one day return to thank my host family and the doctors who treated me. I also wanted to see with healthy eyes all that I had experienced as my body broke down. And I wanted to see our students again at the monastery.
But not like this. Not in the wake of a natural disaster, without Cassie, with my new job, and with our future on the line.
Let’s backtrack a bit.
If you had asked me at any point during or immediately after our journey if I would be in this position, the answer would’ve been a resounding no. I don’t mean about being on a humanitarian flight to Nepal following a devastating earthquake. I mean being a reporter in general.
When I left local TV news, I was absolutely convinced I was never getting back into news. I had had my fun being on TV, but I was ready for something new. Something different.
But something different was hard to find. Four months after we finished our trip, I was freelancing in public relations and video production, but I had yet to find a full-time job. We were living in Harlem, where Cassie was teaching English at a demanding but excellent charter school called Democracy Prep, which drew in students from Harlem, Queens, and the Bronx. We were definitely enjoying Big Apple life, but I was getting frustrated with the job hunt.
Out of nowhere, I landed an interview in December with CNN for an international correspondent position. They were looking for someone for Jerusalem or Beijing.
Frankly, I thought the interview was bullshit. Back in 2012, I had interviewed with CNN once for the Jerusalem position. My agent set up the interview when I told her I was thinking of quitting my job and traveling the world. No job means no money for her, so I suspect she called in a favor and set that interview up really quickly.
The interview was meaningless. It became evident ten minutes into the interview that they weren’t serious about me. In return, I wasn’t serious about them. Another interview with the same person felt like déjà vu.
Until it didn’t. A few minutes in, as we talked about how much I enjoyed traveling the world and how much I loved both Jerusalem and Beijing, I realized they weren’t kidding. They were serious. Very serious. This was for real. Beijing quickly dropped off the radar. We focused on Jerusalem.
As I shook hands with my interviewer, he said, “We’ll try to get you back in here next week to meet more people. Let us know your schedule.” The first interview hadn’t ended anything like that.
He kept to his word. A week later, I was back in CNN’s offices for another interview. A few weeks later, I was brought back to meet the top boss at CNN. And a day after that, I came in to meet the boss of CNN International.
I’ll never forget that interview. It was January 12, 2015. The attacks at Charlie Hebdo and the kosher supermarket were the big story. In between following the latest updates, I was brushing up on the leadership of the Middle East. I felt fully prepared.
A second after walking in, the boss of CNN International hit me with a forceful spear of directness, blunted only slightly by his British accent.
“We’ve decided not to air the new Charlie Hebdo cover. What do you think about that?”
Great question. And I would’ve had a great answer had I ever actually seen the cover. Unfortunately for me, I hadn’t. I was too busy all morning studying the latest developments in the Middle East to have a quick look at the planned Charlie Hebdo cover. (It showed a picture of Mohammed holding up a sign that reads, “I am Charlie.”)
Even before the interview, I had heard stories about how quickly and ruthlessly this man sniffed out bovine excrement. He can spot bullshit even before you know you’re planning it. In a very real and intimidating way, it is his superpower. And now it was directed at me. If I spat out even the slightest hint of bullshit, he would sense it and destroy me, or at least destroy my chances of landing a job at CNN.
Stuck in a corner with no other options, I committed fully to my only out. I spouted a line of bullshit.
“Well, you can argue it either way. There’s no easy answer here, and you’ll catch flak for whatever decision you make—airing the cover or not airing it.” I kept going, all-in on an answer I was making up as I went.
Whatever answer I expressed confidently and without anything resembling a modicum of a clue, it worked. A few weeks later, I was in Atlanta for even more interviews. (Incidentally, when I saw him—then my new boss—a few months later, I told him about our exchange at the beginning of the interview. He didn’t remember it but said it was a great question. I said, “Wonderful! I don’t remember my answer, but I’m sure it was a great answer.”)
A week later, CNN called to tell me they were going to offer me a job soon. This was great for two reasons: first, I would have a job, and second, we wouldn’t have to cancel our trip to Panama the following week. Cassie and I had two trips on our agenda to keep our travel going: Panama in February and Scotland in April. I knew Scotland was out—we’d have to eat the price of the tickets—but it looked like we could still pull off the Panama trip, which suddenly took on new importance. It would be our last t
rip together before we spent a few months apart with the new job, and it would also mean that we would be overseas for the one-year anniversary of my diagnosis. It was a small but symbolic gesture that diabetes would never keep me from traveling.
I planned on making Cassie a nice dinner to celebrate—baked salmon with lemon dill sauce, sautéed spinach, and a good bottle of wine. As I started chopping the dill for the sauce, I looked away for a split second. Big mistake. With my razor sharp knife, I took off a chunk of the tip of my left index finger. One bandage didn’t stop the bleeding. Neither did two. Or three. I pulled out gauze and wrapped my index finger. That helped, but only a little. Blood was everywhere. The bathroom looked like a crime scene. I had committed assault and battery against my finger. I eventually had to tourniquet my finger to stop the bleeding.
Cassie and I ordered takeout.
At least we were going to Panama!
While going through Panama immigration, I had to scan my fingers for security. Because of the partial finger-otomy I had performed on myself, my finger was wrapped in a few layers of cloth bandages. I could only scan nine fingers. By the time I left the country, my finger had healed and I could scan all ten. I really wonder what the immigration officials were thinking when they saw someone grow a new finger while in the country.
Why Panama?
First, why not? We found cheap tickets to a country we’d never visited. It was the only reason we need.
Second, we really wanted to see the Panama Canal. In Chile, we had visited Valparaiso, which was once the richest city in Latin America. Ships rounding the southern tip of South America had to stop in Valparaiso to resupply. The marine traffic made the city and its residents incredibly wealthy, driven by an economy focusing on trade. The Panama Canal destroyed this economy practically overnight. When it opened on August 15, 1914, there was suddenly no need to go all the way around South America, which meant no need to stop in Valparaiso. Having seen Valparaiso, we now wanted to see the canal to learn about the rest of the story.
Third, I love ceviche. And Panama has lots and lots of ceviche.
CNN offered me the job while we were in Boquete in northern Panama. I’ll never forget the day because it was Ash Wednesday. Since Panama is a very Catholic country, everyone had ash in the shape of a cross on their foreheads. We had just been to a coffee plantation and on a birding hike, and the offer came in while we sat down for dinner. (We thought the birding hike was a waterfall tour—either way, it was quite fun and we got to see the quetzal, one of the rarest birds in the world.)
My new bosses asked via email if I could leave for London the following Thursday before heading to Jerusalem. Since I would get home on Sunday, that gave me four nights at home. I told them that would be fine.
Then another email came in. Could I be there Wednesday? Sure, no problem. What about Tuesday? Begrudgingly, yes. Then they sent me the tickets. I flew out Monday night. I would have one night at home.
To say that my one night at home was overwhelmingly hectic would be an understatement. I said goodbye to my parents and my in-laws, unpacked from Panama, packed for Jerusalem, sent off a bunch of emails, and tried to prepare myself for a new life overseas. Not a traveling life, but a “regular” life. Working during the week and having weekends off and that sort of thing.
I hopped on an overnight flight to begin my new job. After four days in London to meet my new bosses, I boarded a plane for Jerusalem. I had precisely one day off before I would be on-air. Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s speech before the US Congress was on March 3, and I was providing the Israeli reaction. It kept me busy. That led into the elections, which transitioned into coalition building in the Israeli parliament, and that turned into the general chaos of reporting in the Middle East.
Then the earthquake hit. As soon as I heard rumors that Israel was sending a humanitarian mission, I tried to get on the flight, not really thinking about what it would mean for me personally or emotionally. I knew I wanted to make it to Pokhara if I could, but I also knew that wasn’t likely, since I would be outrageously busy the moment I touched down.
I was absolutely right.
We land at two in the morning in Kathmandu. The airport looks like the kind of nightmare that makes civil aviation authorities snap awake at night drenched in cold sweat. People are everywhere, sprawled out among luggage that is equally spread out everywhere. It’s impossible to tell who is coming and who is going, although it becomes quite clear that almost everyone at the airport will take the first flight to anywhere that is not here. It looks like more than a few people have been sleeping at the airport since the moments after the quake, hoping to catch any flight out that has a spare seat. Food wrappers and empty water bottles litter the floor. Everyone with a cell phone crowds around the few charging outlets available in the departures wing of the airport.
The Israeli flight that brought me in was on the ground less than two hours. It loaded up with a group of Israelis waiting to fly out and took off almost immediately. The soldiers and medical teams that flew in with me board buses and head straight for the site outside the city where they will set up a field hospital. I notice they carry with them a full-sized Torah in a protective case—not exactly a small piece of equipment. In a foreign country that is in desperate need of help, I suspect the Torah will bring them a spiritual peace in the midst of so much chaos. I’d bet many of the secular Israelis will pray as well. It will keep them grounded. Given the baggage I am carrying with me on this trip, I would need a new pancreas to keep me grounded.
Within thirty minutes of touching down, I am alone with my gear and a terminal full of foreigners, all of whom are trying to leave the country by any means possible. I do the only thing I can do. I start reporting.
I pull out my camera and roll on a few shots of the people at the airport. I set up all my gear and try to establish a satellite shot so I can go live. Since that’s unsuccessful, I start doing live shots from my phone, using the breaks between lives to try to get in touch with our team on the ground in Kathmandu.
My demons are always lingering in the back of my mind. I remember how this airport feels and smells from the last time I was here—when I boarded a plane home after my diagnosis. I remember the departure wing. I remember the security check and the waiting area. And here I am again. Little things remind me of the time spent in Nepal. Little things that hit me in very powerful waves. An elderly woman hunched over, sweeping the floor with a bundle of straw, reminds me of Bimala cleaning the house. The taxi drivers cramming the arrivals hall reminds of my first entrance into this country.
At 10:00 a.m., a Nepali airport security guard approaches me outside the departures wing while I am trying, once again, to set up a live shot on the tarmac of the airport.
“Are you allowed to be here?”
“I’ve been here since two in the morning.”
“Does anyone know you’re here?”
“Yes, airport staff have seen me all morning here.”
He walks off. After eight hours of me standing in the same spot with all of my equipment out, someone finally takes notice. Probably the new guy on the morning shift now that the overnight shift has gone home.
A few minutes later he returns with two more guards.
“You need to come with us now.”
“What? Why?”
“You need to come with us now.”
“Okay, give me a few minutes to put away my gear.”
“You need to come with us now.” I’m not sure he is trained to say anything else. I try to point out to him that I have a few thousand dollars of equipment that I am not going to leave there, but to no avail.
Admittedly, I am probably breaking a few rules. Broadcasting (or trying to broadcast) from the tarmac at an international airport without prior approval is generally frowned upon in every country on earth. But they’ve just had an earthquake, need all the help they could get, and I am attempting to show their problem to the world. I really think the guy has bigger probl
ems to worry about.
Regardless, he drags me to the airport manager or head of security or something like that. Thankfully, this man is far more amenable to listening to reason.
“Hi. I’m with CNN. I just arrived a few hours ago with the Israeli humanitarian aid mission.”
“Oh! You just arrived. Thank you for coming to report here. Welcome to Nepal.”
He stamps my passport, gives me two minutes to pack all of my gear, and then promptly kicks me out of his airport.
It is perfect timing. My field producer and cameraman pick me up, and we keep working. We stay busy until midnight, shooting stories, grabbing interviews, and sending in photos. Late at night, I meet the field manager, make plans for the next day, and finally head to the hotel.
I hop in the shower to wash off a day of grime and sweat. I take a few deep breaths, and the baggage I’ve carried with me all day—the demons I have so far managed to avoid—hit me full force now that my defenses are down.
I had sworn that Laos would be the last time I’d shed any tears about diabetes. I break that vow. Heaving sobs rack my body as I gasp for air. Memories I’m not ready to face come flooding back. The moment of my diagnosis. My wait in the emergency room. The long nights in my hospital room. It all hits me, paralyzes me, incapacitates me.
Twenty minutes pass before I am finally able to regain some composure. An open window in the bathroom lets in some cold air—a welcome contrast to the scalding hot water of the shower.
I hop out of the shower, wrap myself in a towel, and lie down on the bed. Within moments, exhaustion overcomes me, and I am dead to the world. In a few hours, I will wake up and jump right into the relentless grind of news once again. In any rational way, I cannot connect the dots between us leaving to travel the world and me landing a job as CNN’s Jerusalem correspondent. It doesn’t make sense. A does not lead to B, and X definitely does not mark the spot. There is no sufficient explanation for how I’ve ended up with such an incredible job after throwing aside any chance of reasonable employment, waving goodbye to home, and being out of touch for a year. Somehow, it all just worked out for the best. And for that, I am eternally grateful.
The Insulin Express Page 29
