KAREN STATE, Myanmar – At first light, a haze from dry-season fires hung low over the Moie River, which marks the border between Thailand and Myanmar (also known as Burma).

It was a good time of day for a discrete crossing from one of the many small clearings in the thick tropical undergrowth lining the Moei's muddy waters.

It took just moments for our long-tailed boat to reach the Myanmar side, where after making our way over a rickety make-shift bridge and climbing the steep river bank we were welcomed to the seventh brigade headquarters of the Karen National Liberation Army (KNLA), the military wing of the Karen National Union (KNU), which has been fighting the Myanmar government for decades.

We were greeted by Saw Hla Hgwe of the KNU, a short bespectacled man, wearing a red Ferrari baseball cap.

"We have two big problems in this country, ethnic rights and democratic rights," he said, "and until both these problems are solved there can be no peace and stability."

The mostly Christian Karen people have been fighting against Myanmar’s central government for 62 years, which makes this one of world's longest-running – and most brutal – civil wars.

It's also one of the world's great forgotten conflicts. Not even Rambo could change that; his last movie was set here (though filmed in Thailand), with Sylvester Stallone taking on what appeared to be the entire Myanmar Army in an effort to rescue a bunch of Christian missionaries kidnapped by soldiers as they were taking aid to Karen villagers.

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New era?
In January, though, the KNU signed a ceasefire deal with the Myanmar government, and KNU leaders are in Yangon this weekend for further talks. They are also planning to meet pro-democracy leader Aung San Suu Kyi, whose election to parliament last weekend is just the latest and most significant development in a fast-moving reform process.

But it’s a reform process that has been greeted with extreme caution by the KNU.

"Right now I think that they are not trustworthy," Saw Hla Hgwe told me. "We have heard this kind of talk many times, but it never comes to reality, so this time we are being careful and cautious."

It doesn't help that the KNU itself is faction-ridden and has been much weakened by successive army onslaughts. It is also just one of a patchwork of ethnic groups that make up 30 percent of Myanmar's population. Most have their own militias, and the U.S. has said that ethnic peace is a precondition for fully lifting sanctions on Myanmar.

"For genuine peace, the government must prove that it is willing to share power," said the KNU's Saw Hla Hgwe.

Soldiers in flip flops
The seventh brigade camp consisted of a series of small wooden buildings, set around a dusty parade ground, where their commander, Saw Jorny, gathered about 50 members of his rag-tag army for a pep-talk, reminding them not to break the ceasefire – but to remain on their guard.

His soldiers carried a variety of weapons – from ageing AK-47s to newer-looking M-16s. Many wore only flip flops on their feet.

One young soldier had a prosthetic foot, and when I asked him what had happened he just shrugged. "Landmine," he said. "Over there, behind the mountain."

In fact I was surprised not to see more missing limbs, since this is one of the most mine-infested areas on the planet.

The Myanmar army has been accused of gross human rights abuses against the country's ethnic minorities – ranging from rape and forced labor to torture and murder.

Tens of thousands of Karen have been forced from their homes, their villages destroyed. Many have fled across the Moie River to take refuge in sprawling camps that cling to the Thai side of the river.

Aid groups say there are around 160,000 refugees in Thai camps and hundreds of thousands more have been displaced inside the country. The biggest single group is the Karen people.

‘Hope to go back’
Most Karen refugees we met said they wanted to return to Myanmar – someday. Few had heard about the reform process in Yangon, and for many the horrors they'd experience were still raw.

"They came to our village, shooting at us and planting landmines," said Ma Aye, who fled to Thailand with her children two years ago. "We just couldn't stay anymore."

Nearby, Wee Thwa was building a new home from wood and dried leaves. "We were afraid. We couldn't stay after the army came to our village," he told me. He too had heard nothing of the reforms sweeping Myanmar, but he added: "I hope to go back when the situation is good."

By all rights, Karen State should be a prosperous place, sitting on a wealth of raw materials and minerals, including rich deposits of gold. But the conflict has impoverished the area, now riddled with malaria and malnutrition.

The success of Myanmar's reforms may well be determined here, and in other ethnic areas, rather than in Yangon or Naypyitaw (the newly created capital city), and by the government's ability – and willingness – to make a lasting peace and overcome decades of conflict and mistrust.

"It's all about trust," Saw Jorny, the seventh brigade commander, told me. "The Karen people want peace – but genuine peace."

YANGON, Myanmar –  A dilapidated  three-story house on Yangon's busy Shwe Gone Dine Road has become the unlikely focus of celebration and hope over the last few days.

It used to be a place of fear.

The house is the headquarters of Aung San Suu Kyi's pro-democracy political party, the National League for Democracy (NLD), which swept most of the votes in Sunday's by-election.

There were wild scenes here as thousands gathered after the polls closed Sunday and reports began to emerge about the scale of the victory – the NLD won 43 out of the 44 seats in parliament they contested. Suu Kyi, the country’s longtime democracy icon who won one of the parliamentary seats, gave a speech from the gate of the NLD’s headquarters Monday. She proclaimed the election a triumph for the people and the start of “a new era” for the long-repressed country.

Suu Kyi hails 'triumph of the people' after Myanmar election win

When I visited the house on Tuesday, the cramped and usually gloomy reception area was packed with well-wishers. On the sidewalk outside, stalls selling t-shirts, caps and bandannas were doing a brisk trade.

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Yet there was a time not so long ago when visiting here could be a nerve-racking experience.

Close call
Across the road sits a small tea shop that was always packed with military intelligence officers who would photograph people coming and going from the house. They would note car registrations and follow visitors in their beat-up white Toyotas when they left.

A few years ago, during a time when Suu Kyi was briefly at liberty (she was under house arrest for about 15 years) I did a TV interview with her at the party headquarters, only to be followed to the airport by one of those beat-up Toyotas. I was detained with my cameraman and taken to a small room where military intelligence officers methodically went through our luggage, confiscating several video tapes.

Eventually, minutes before our flight, they told us to go. We slipped on our shoes, which in accordance with Buddhist tradition, had been left outside the room.

My cameraman appeared to be walking awkwardly toward the plane. It was only after we had boarded the plane and were well on our way to Thailand that he produced from his left sneaker the key tape from the interview.

It had sat there tucked in his shoe outside the room throughout our brief detention.

Of course, after we broadcast the interview, I was black-listed from entering Myanmar for about a decade.

A new era
Among journalists there are many similar stories about the NLD headquarters. Some of the funnier ones focus on the sometimes extreme lengths reporters would go to disguise themselves from the prying cameras of the spooks, who in turn would go to absurd lengths to creep up on the reporters with their large and unwieldy cameras. They sometimes resembled a grotesque cross between George Orwell and the Keystone Cops.

There was, however, nothing funny about them to those who risked their lives working for the NLD and whose latest and usually disheartening briefings we went to hear.

How things have changed.

On Monday, television crews were traipsing through the military intelligence’s tea shop to climb a hill behind it in order to get a better shot of the NLD house. It seemed like the ultimate indignity for the men whose word has been law here for decades.

But they haven't completely abandoned their old haunt. As we came back down the hill and around the back of the tea shop we were confronted by an officious-looking man with a dog-eared notebook demanding to know our names.

We ignored him and left.

As our van pulled away I couldn't help but look behind, searching for the beat-up Toyota on our tail.

It was nowhere to be seen, which might sound trivial against the background of the weekend's historic elections, but in its own way it's an enormous sign of change.

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UTATSU, Japan – At first light, the cove at Utatsu is a picture of tranquility, the silence broken only by the chugging of engines as a fleet of small boats makes its way out across the flat blue water.

But the small harbor from which they leave is cracked and has sunk by two and a half feet. Beyond the beach is the crumpled remains of a seawall, tossed aside by the tsunami, and behind that the foundations are all that are left of a cluster of homes.

"I can't even find the words to describe it," said Hiroko Mirura, who heads a local women's fishing association, and who lost her husband in last year’s tsunami.

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Before the disaster, the local economy was built around scallops, oysters and seaweed – with the seaweed from here prized across Japan. But Utatsu lost 80 of its 100 fishing boats.

 

The boats that survived were mostly out at sea when the raging water swept in, but for the first time since the disaster, they are now back out, harvesting seaweed.

 

"It's a start," Mirura told me, "but we still need to fix the fishing facilities." Now up to 200 people are back at work.

Slimy mess tastes good
We joined the seaweed farmers on a bitterly cold morning as they pulled from the water giant branches of the slimy weed, known in Japan as wakame. It's grown from long frames, marked by rows of buoys. Mostly this is a family business, and men and women with craggy weathered faces worked methodically at the weed with their curved knives.

Few words were spoken, though one man, taking a break, cigarette hanging from his lips, told us: "It's good, the quality is very good this year." They expect it to fetch high prices in the market.

Back on shore, the Wakame is dunked in boiling water, to soften and clean it, before being salted as a preservative. In the past this processing machinery had been kept at their homes, but was mostly swept away with those houses.

The new equipment has been provided under a program backed by the U.S. charity Mercy Corps and their Japanese partner Peace Winds. The giant U.S. retailer Walmart also provided support.

"This is really the beginning of seeing their economy come back to life," said Randolph Martin, who heads Mercy Corps' East Asia operations, and has spent a good chunk of the last year in Japan looking for this type of high impact micro-investment.

"It’s more than just getting the economy going. It's about getting their lives and livelihoods back," Martin told me. "You look here and you don't see helpless victims of a disaster. You see resilient survivors."

 

Around 100 sets of processing equipment have been supplied to the community here. One elderly man bent over his tank of boiling water, stirring the weed with his gloved hand. He stepped back to hand me a stalk of Wakame with a sort of cork-screw type head on it, and regarded as a particular delicacy. It was slimy, crunchy and salty – but surprisingly tasty.

The elderly man laughed, so did several women seated on the ground nearby, sorting through more seaweed, just dragged like some slimy alien off another boat.

The task of rebuilding this battered coast is enormous, but for the small hamlet of Utatsu the return of their seaweed business is an important step towards restoring their livelihoods and sense of community.

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OTSUCHI, Japan – When 79-year-old Junko Takashi saw the tide fast receding in the bay below her house, she remembered the warnings of her mother and her grandmother, that this was a sign of a tsunami.

But still she hesitated.

"I lived on high ground, on the hillside," she said. "I never thought the water could reach here."

She decided to take no chances, and leaving all her belongings behind her, she climbed to higher ground. She didn't see the tsunami rolling in, but remembers the terrible noise – like a waterfall, only far, far louder, she recalled.

By the time it was over, all that was left of her house were its foundations.

Some 70 percent of her town, Otsuchi, was destroyed and 10 percent of the town’s population of 16,000 are dead or missing. Its fishing industry, the backbone of the local economy, was obliterated.

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Yellow flag marks sign of life
One year on and Takashi lives in a temporary home, consisting of a tiny living room, narrow kitchen and bathroom. It's one of a cluster of 80 temporary homes erected on the outskirts of what remains of Otsuchi.

She lives alone, her belongings neatly arranged in little cubicles around her. We could barely squeeze into her living room as she pointed to the television, fridge, microwave and heater, all donated by charities who were at the forefront of a massive aid operation in the weeks and months after the disaster.

Now much of that initial support has gone. "We're on our own now," she said.

"You've got to be positive. I am 79-years-old, who knows how many years I have left."

She told me that before the tsunami she was pretty self-sufficient, since she had land to grow all the vegetables she needed, and her two brothers were fishermen. Now she had to buy everything with her pension, while trying to save for an uncertain future.

But free temporary housing, in which 2,000 of Otsuchi's people now live, is only available for two years.

Outside her home, and outside those of many of her neighbors, flutters a little yellow flag. I asked her what that was for.

"They are for everybody over 65 and living alone," she replied. They are asked to put the flags out in the morning and take them down in the evening. If no flag appears in the morning, then officials will come and check on them.

Mountains of debris and uncertain plans
Otsuchi appears to have made great strides in cleaning up the twisted wreckage that was once their town, and removing the fishing boats flung inland.

Looking down from the surrounding hills and all you see is a flat plain with a dusting of snow, just the foundations marking where buildings used to stand.

But the remains of the town has essentially been scooped up and piled into vast mountains of debris, which will take years to dispose of.

Takashi believes she will be allocated a new apartment once she leaves her temporary home, but the town of Otsuchi has been slow to draw up plans for the future. There is still no blueprint for what will replace a town virtually wiped from the map.

The local mayor has pledged to build a new 50-foot high seawall, more than twice the height of the one tossed aside by the tsunami. But there is no agreement as to where any new town will be built, nor how it can be made economically viable.

Elderly people, who dominate many of these small coastal towns, are wary of grand plans for new (and more economically sustainable) towns. They form an important political group.

"I want to live where I used to live," Takashi said. "I was comfortable there."

Staying positive
The future looks daunting, but Takashi is remarkably upbeat, showing me photos of some of the charity workers and celebrities who have visited over the months.

"I like visitors. I like to talk with people," she said.

"It's always been my policy to be positive about what lies ahead."

NAYPYITAW, Myanmar – U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton could be forgiven for believing she's visiting two different countries – one called Naypyitaw, the other Myanmar.

Naypyitaw is the new capital of Myanmar, the country formerly known as Burma. It’s been built from scratch in the middle of nowhere. It's still a work in progress, it was only designated as the administrative capital in 2005, and until recently was largely off-limits to foreigners.

It’s a sprawling, surreal place with so few people that its eight-lane highways are almost deserted – a somewhat shocking site in this congested part of the world.

For several miles down one stretch, I saw just three motorcycles and a truck transporting a group of workers who had been tending the landscaped gardens on either side of the road.

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Despite the apparent lack of people, Naypyitaw does have plenty of monstrous government buildings and villas, and several hotels and an international airport are under construction.

"Where's downtown?" I asked a Myanmar journalist. "I keep asking them that," he replied, “But nobody seems to know."

For many, Naypyitaw is a symbol of military ego, a metaphor for the former junta's isolation from the world – and its own people.

Myanmar's new president, Thein Sein, a former army officer, is reportedly a modest man. But there's little modesty about his sprawling palace, where he and other officials from the new and nominally civilian government received Clinton in an ornate reception room. It was so new you could almost smell the paint.

The police made a big show of stopping what little traffic there was to make way for the Clinton cavalcade as it crisscrossed the city.

There was never any danger of congestion.

Myanmar has been so secretive that it's not clear precisely when work began on the city, nor how much it cost. It is lavish by any standards, but almost obscenely so against the backdrop of the enormous poverty elsewhere in the country.

It's hard to say where the money came from – but the military had its finger in many business pies, of various degrees of legitimacy. China has also been a big benefactor.

The government justified the move by saying Yangon was too crowded, and that Naypyitaw was chosen because it is smack in the middle of the country. Though one bizarre explanation was that former military strongman Than Shwe was shaken by an astrologer's warning that an American attack was imminent and Yangon was too exposed. Cynics suggested he was afraid of his own people as well.

The real Myanmar
Clinton flew late in the afternoon Thursday to the country’s old capital, Yangon, the city also known as Rangoon, seemingly a world away. Yangon, 200 miles from Naypyitaw, is a city of stunning pagodas and dilapidated, colonial-era buildings, including the run-down lakeside residence of pro-democracy leader Aung San Suu Kyi.

It’s a real city, with real people and a real soul. And for the most part, its residents are giving the benefit of the doubt to the reforms coming from Naypyitaw.

Clinton met Suu Kyi for a private dinner Thursday evening, the meeting itself a remarkable sign of change.

Many are still skeptical about the government's intentions – although Suu Kyi isn't among them.

She was expected to tell Clinton she thinks President Thein Sein is sincere in wanting change, that he truly believes it is the best way forward for the country.

Suu Kyi will likely test the reforms by standing for a vacant parliamentary seat early next year.

It is an unusually positive response to the government’s claims of reform – she’s been persecuted for years by the regime for her pursuit of democracy, spending 15 of the last 21 years under house arrest.

Thursday evening was the first time the two have met, and Clinton, while welcoming the reforms, is taking a more cautious public line.

That, after all, is her job.

Though it’s my guess that she'll be enchanted both by Suu Kyi and Yangon – a good deal more so than the sterile meeting rooms of Naypyitaw.

 

Updated at 5:15 a.m. ET: Hillary Clinton arrives in Myanmar, becoming the first U.S. secretary of state to visit the country in decades.

YANGON, Myanmar – U Nine Nine has spent 17 of the past 21 years behind bars as a political prisoner, and on the face of it, he would seem to have little reason to be upbeat about Myanmar's recent reforms.

"Time will tell," he told me. "But I'm cautiously optimistic. It is difficult for them to turn back now [from the recent changes]. The next few weeks will be crucial."

After 49 years of totalitarian rule, Myanmar’s military junta is beginning to loosen up.

Just last November, in what was widely condemned as a rigged election, Myanmar's ruling generals exchanged their uniforms for civilian suits. There was little hope for change.   

Yet beginning in October of this year, the government has introduced a series of dizzying changes: The new government led by a former general, Thein Sein, has eased censorship, released political prisoners, introduced a limited right to strike and protest, and started a dialogue with the pro-democracy leader Aung San Suu Kyi that has convinced her not only of their good intentions, but also to run for what she had dismissed as a rubber-stamp parliament. 

U.S. Secretary of State Hillary Clinton is flying in here Wednesday to judge the "Burma Spring" for herself – she is the highest-ranking U.S. official to visit the country in more than 50 years.

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Political party back in action
The recent developments are cause for excitement at Nine Nine’s office. He runs an assistance program for political prisoners and is also in charge of the Yangon division of the National League for Democracy (NLD), the party of pro-democracy leader Suu Kyi, which has just decided to contest elections again.

Suu Kyi, who spent 15 years under house arrest, is now planning to stand in an election before the end of the year.

I met Nine Nine at the bustling office of the NLD, which is close to Yangon's famous Shwedagon Pagoda. He told me that by his calculations around 290 political prisoners have so far been released, but close to 500 remain in jail.

There's a real buzz at the NLD office, but they are quick to remind you that they won the last freely contested election, in 1990, by a landslide, only to have the result annulled by the generals. That heralded the beginning of Nine Nine's first stint in prison.

Yet something is stirring in Myanmar, the country formerly known as Burma.

‘Hillary repairs’
Myanmar authorities have thrown the door open to international journalists to cover Clinton’s trip. It's the first time that I have been issued an official visa in 10 years, and while they didn't quite roll out the red carpet, our welcome has been warm.

My guide pointed to the hasty road repairs on the drive in from the airport. "Hillary repairs," he called them. And later, on a visit to the Shwedagon Pagoda, I came across a group of giggling young women scrubbing the floor. "Hillary Clinton is coming," they said.

Along one of the city's many dilapidated streets, I came across a stall heaving with photographs of Suu Kyi and her father, the independence hero Aung San. That would have been a dangerous act of defiance and almost unheard of just a few weeks ago, but no longer. It was clearly still a novelty, though, and I watched as passersby stopped and pointed out the signs to friends. 

An elderly monk stopped me in the street and handed me an old currency note, no longer in circulation, but sporting a picture of Aung San. "For you. A real hero," he told me, before moving off into the crowd. A monk-led uprising four years ago was crushed by the generals.

Local newspapers, which have been carrying prominent stories about Suu Kyi – again unheard of until very recently – were carrying upbeat features Tuesday about the desire for closer relations with the U.S. (and by implication, a little loosening of their dependence on China, which goes down well in Washington these days).  

Real change?
There certainly does seem to be hope here, but many remain wary. Can one of the world's most thuggish regimes really change its stripes so quickly?

Clinton will meet with President Thein Sein on Thursday and will likely push for faster democratic change. She'll meet Suu Kyi on Friday to gauge more fully how Myanmar's pro-democracy leader judges the reforms, and whether an easing of international sanctions might be merited.

Among the former political prisoners released so far is Zarganar, Myanmar's most famous comedian, who got into hot water for poking fun at the generals. He was jailed for criticizing their response to Cyclone Nargis, a 2008 disaster that left 135,000 people dead or missing. 

On his release from prison he reportedly cracked another joke at the expense of the president. This time he got away with it, and is expected to be among those briefing Clinton on Friday about the intentions of the former generals, not known for humor or compassion, but who just might have decided that change and dialogue is the only way forward for impoverished Myanmar.

By Ian Williams, NBC News Correspondent

BEIJING – The first time I met Andre Kajlich he was dodging Beijing traffic – in a racing wheelchair.  

"Oh yeah, it was good out there," he told me, a huge smile on his face. "You should have seen the look I got from the bus driver."

Kajlich had traveled from his Seattle home to the Chinese capital to take part in the world championship of one of the world's most demanding sports – the paratriathlon. And taking his wheelchair for a spin on the highway was just one of his ways of tuning up.

Kajlich is a double amputee. When he lost his legs in a subway accident eight years ago, doctors doubted he would ever walk again – even with prosthetics. But he was determined to prove them wrong.

"No matter what, I was going to do everything I could do," he said. And entering the grueling world of the triathlon is just his latest challenge, winning a place in the Beijing contest after just one year in the sport.

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"It gives you perspective on what you are capable of, really of what everybody's capable of," he told me. "You can choose what you want to do, and once you make up your mind you are going to get there no matter what it takes."

Inspiring others
It's an inspirational message he's been taking to other young American amputees. He and his sister Bianca, an actress,  are counselors at the annual Paddy Rosebach youth camp, a summer gathering for 10- to 17-year-old amputees, which was held this year in Clarksville, Ohio.

"I try to get them to look at their goals and to focus on those and to make up their minds, make the same choices I did, that you are going to get there no matter what, and try to put the other stuff aside."

And he told me that he in turn had found the young amputees a huge inspiration as he prepared for Beijing.

The triathlon took place around (and in) the Ming Tombs Reservoir at the foot of the mountains that rise to the north of Beijing. It had been the triathlon venue during the 2008 Olympics.

There were nine contestants in Kajlich's category. "It's going to take a special effort from me," he said.

The first part of the race was a half-mile swim that left him in fourth place, followed by a quick change to his hand bike, where he made up a further place over the twelve mile course. The final three miles were in racing wheelchairs, where Kajlich clawed back another place - finishing second. It was a silver medal for the paratriathlon rookie.

His smile after the race was broader than ever: "How about that? Dude, I was just knocking them down."

A celeb on the Great Wall
On his last day in Beijing we traveled with Kajlich to the Great Wall of China, where he was determined to climb amid the holiday crowds along some of the steep sections that are tough enough at the best of times.

But it didn't surprise me by then. This is one very determined young man, and he became an instant celebrity. At one point, people were lining up to shake his hand and have their photographs taken with him.

There is a tendency in China for people to stare at those who are different. Kajlich was wearing shorts, his prosthetic legs clearly showing. I asked him whether all the attention bothered him. Not at all, he said.

"They're nice about it. They're not poking fun at me or anything,” he said.

Then came another request for a photo. "Send me a copy," he said. "Maybe one day I'll see you in Seattle."

At this point I was getting a bit worried about how far we'd come and suggested we make our way back. I was afraid he might be getting tired, but he wasn't through yet.

"One of the reason I made up my mind to use the prosthetics was to get around in places like this," he said.

We did take a break though, because by then I was the one wanting to pause for breath. I asked him what he planned next. Maybe skiing, maybe bobsledding, he said. "There are so many things I'd like to get out there and try and do. I'll do them. I'll figure a way."

As if to stress that point, he'd gone on after Beijing to Kona, Hawaii to compete in the Ironman World Championships, where he beat his own time goals, and came second in his division.

"I've made it through my first Ironman," he told me in an e-mail. "And did pretty well."

And having spent some time with Kajlich I wouldn't have expected anything less.

BANGKOK, Thailand – One of the most striking things about the Thai floods is the sheer ingenuity people have shown to simply get around.

I've seen all manner of aquatic contraptions, from rafts made from empty drinking water bottles to crafts fashioned from larger plastic drums, with a bicycle mounted on the deck driving a home-made propeller through the increasingly fetid waters.

Thailand's National Science and Technology Development Agency even ran a competition called "Mobility in the Time of Flood," which attracted 89 entries and was won by another bicycle-driven raft cobbled together by a bunch of students. The Bangkok Post devoted most of its back page to the contest Tuesday under the headline "Amateur Inventors to the rescue.”

It provided a note of humor amid increasingly angry recriminations over who's to blame for a deluge that's swamped a third of the country and killed more than 600 people. The floods have also affected some 10,000 factories, and hit the global supply chain for automotive parts and hard disk drives.

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Nearly half a million workers have been affected. Japanese-owned factories are particularly badly hit, and the government fears that many will curtail future investment plans. Japan is the largest foreign investor in Thailand.

The clean-up and recovery will cost billions of dollars, and shave an estimated 2.5 percent off economic growth.

The good news is that the floodwaters are receding to the north of the city. In Bangkok, the authorities say the eastern suburbs should be dry within a week or so, though it could be the new year before the water drains from western areas.

Don Muang airport and its surrounding areas still resemble a lake. The airport is only home to a couple of low-cost carriers these days, most flights now departing from a new airport, but it’s still a remarkable sight.

Blame game begins
Of course, few people now trust the predictions of the authorities, which have changed constantly, with officials frequently contradicting each other from day to day.

National government officials are in a constant sparring match with their city authorities, and, of course, rival political camps are accusing each other of mismanagement.

There's anger in the outer suburbs, where many believe they were sacrificed to keep downtown Bangkok dry. Angry residents have even ripped down dikes in some areas to allow the floodwaters to shift.

Some blame irrigation officials for failing to release water from up-country dams earlier in the year.

Deputy Prime Minister Kittiratt Na-Ranong had a simpler explanation in an interview with Dow Jones Newswires. It was unfair to accuse the government of mismanagement, he said. "This has to be the result of climate change and global warming."

Well, up to a point, Mr. Kittiratt.

Many reports have suggested that low-lying Bangkok is vulnerable to rising sea levels, and, yes, Thailand had heavy rain this year – roughly 25 percent more than normal by some estimates.

But the great flood of 2011 was a largely manmade disaster.

The country has seen years of mindless development, much of it on what has historically been a flood plain to the north of the capital. Paddy fields have been paved over with concrete to make way for vast industrial estates and urban sprawl. Natural drainage routes have been blocked.

In the city, too, a once massive network of klongs (canals), the city's drainage system, has been replaced by roads; housing developments sit where water used to flow.

That so many people and businesses were in harm's way in areas that are historically vulnerable to floods, with the waters left with nowhere to go, is the result of decisions taken over the years by short-sighted and often venal politicians. To blame it all on climate change is an enormous cop-out.

Photoblog: Thais adjust to life in waist-deep water 

 

By Ian Williams, NBC News Correspondent

PHNOM TAMAO, Cambodia – "I really thought he would never make it," said Nick Marx, stroking Chhouk's trunk with a sense of pride and affection.

"He was seriously injured. He was extremely young, emaciated and very, very sick."

Chhouk, a bull elephant now 5 years old, was found in the Cambodian jungle in 2007, alone and close to death, his left front foot mangled by a poacher's trap.

Marx, the Director of Wildlife Rescue and Care at the Wildlife Alliance, a conservation group, was one of the first to the scene, nursing Chhouk in the jungle for a week.

"I stayed with him, slept beside him, hand-fed him everything he ate.”

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Chhouk was taken to the Cambodian government's Phnom Tamao Wildlife Rescue Center, outside Phnom Penh, and nursed back to health.

"The damage was severe," Marx says. "He's lost six to eight inches of his leg."

Marx turned to experts at the Cambodian School of Prosthetics and Orthotics, who'd learned their skills during the terrible conflicts (and landmine legacy) that once afflicted this part of Asia. They'd never tried anything on this scale before.

"It's a kind of plastic resin. The inside is quite soft, and the outside is very hard," Marx told me, as Chhouk's keepers removed the artificial foot for its daily cleaning, a procedure that the young elephant has now gotten used to, lifting his leg into a small
compartment for the keepers to work on.

Though now his keepers have to exercise more care. Chhouk's entering the equivalent of jumbo adolescence. He's getting a bit of attitude. "We've certainly got to be more cautious," said Marx, who can read the elephant's mood better than anybody.

Then he was into the forest with Lucky, an older elephant that seems to have adopted the youngster. On the narrow path, then playing in a small lake, he seemed comfortable and confident.

"It's changed his life," says Marx. "From being a tired little chap who slept a lot when he went on his walks, he's now lively and energetic. He never stops.”

He's now on his fourth prosthetic leg, because of heavy wear, but also because Chhouk is growing up fast.

He's become the best known resident – and a symbol of resilience – at Phnom Tamao, which is maintained by the Wildlife Alliance and supported by the Sea World and Busch Gardens Conservation Fund. The rescue center now houses more than 1,000 animals, ranging from elephants to tigers, gibbons, bears and birds, many of which, like Chhouk, arrived close to death.

"We've rescued so many animals from the illegal wildlife trade – an incredibly cruel business. All of them would be dead without us," says Marx.

Where possible, animals once healthy are returned to the wild.

When we think about organized crime, the first thing that comes to mind tends to be drugs, or perhaps arms smuggling or human trafficking. Yet the illegal wildlife trade is thought to be the biggest illicit global business after drugs. It’s estimated to be worth between $5 billion and $20 billion annually.

"It's decimating the world's forests," says Marx.                        

Asia has become a center for the trade. China is the biggest market for endangered and protected animals, destined for the cooking pot or for folk medicine. The United States is reckoned to be the second largest market, though the demand there is largely for exotic pets.

There are thought to be 300 to 500 elephants left in the wild in Cambodia, threatened by poaching and a loss of habitat. Youngsters like Chhouk are prized by entertainment venues which often keep them in appalling conditions.

Chhouk will never be able to return to the wild, but can at least now live a reasonably full life in the rescue center, where his story serves as inspiration, but also a warning – raising awareness of the terrible threats to the region's wildlife.

Related links:
www.wildlifealliance.org

www.swbg-conservationfund.org 

  

By Ian Williams, NBC News Correspondent

BANGKOK, Thailand – The floodwaters that had swamped the riverside community of Sam Sen receded Monday, but nobody was taking any chances as they worked to reinforce a wall of sandbags that had been overwhelmed by Sunday's all-time record high tide in the Chao Phraya River.

Men and women formed a relay team, passing sandbags from hand to hand along the length of the wall. All the time keeping a wary eye on the bloated waters of the river – known as “the river of kings” – which swept by in front of their small wooden houses. There were smiles and jokes.

A small boy pointed to the water line on the side of his house, a full three feet up the wall, as tall as him. But now, just a couple of inches of water flowed across his bare feet.

On Sunday, Thai soldiers had formed a human wall in a forlorn attempt to block the flood water in this area.

Thailand’s prime minister has told the city that with the passing of the weekend's high tides, they may be over the worst. But the information from the authorities has chopped and changed, and there's a good deal of skepticism in these frontline communities.

---

Now what?
Kritsada Rakwongchai just smiled when I asked him what he thought of the prime minister's comments.

Rakwongchai is in charge of drainage on the other side of the river from Sam Sen, and we had followed him through chest high water to one of the dikes he supervises.

"I watched the water surging in," he told me. "It flooded this high in just 30 minutes."

He said he's seen nothing like this in his 10 years in the job.

Rakwongchai, a good 6’ 5” tall, led the way, and though the water was murky, he knew the route well, cautioning us about hidden stones, steps, holes or dips. Bangkok's streets and sidewalks are not easy to navigate – even when you can see where you are going.

We waded gingerly past semi-submerged wooden homes, where whole families had taken refuge on the upper floor.

"They are frightened," Rakwongchai said, a dog suddenly appearing and paddling frantically between two houses. "Some have started to move to evacuation centers, but many are staying to look after their belongings."

One woman pleaded with him to find her baby milk. While another sat in her window watching the water go by. "Because my house is high, I didn't expect to get flooded. Now, what can I do?" she asked.

While many riverside and canal-side communities were swamped by the weekend's high tide, the center of Bangkok was largely unscathed and remains dry. For the most part the flood defenses did hold.

‘Water everywhere’
But this is really the story of two floods: those caused by the high tides, and those more directly the result of the massive run-off from flood waters almost surrounding the capital, the result of weeks of flooding in surrounding provinces, which has been slowly bearing down on Bangkok, picking off the northern and eastern suburbs one by one.

There was no let up for those areas Monday, though the more optimistic of the authorities predict that with lower coastal tides, the water will drain more quickly to the sea.

I asked Rakwongchai what he thought.

"There's water everywhere," he said, with a shake of the head. "Water everywhere."

By Ian Williams, NBC News Correspondent

THIMPU, Bhutan – It's not every day you get to meet royalty.

And when I found myself just feet away from the king of Bhutan and his new queen, I have to admit that I wasn't entirely sure what to do.

Our Bhutanese coordinator had given me a white silk scarf and demonstrated how to hold it out as an offering, a mark of respect to the king – but only if he approached. Protocol in Bhutan – and there is a lot of protocol in Bhutan – dictated that you don't approach him, you don't doorstep the King of Bhutan.

Yelling a question from the midst of a crowd lined-up in silent and solemn respect seemed the surest way for an early flight out of the country.

We'd traveled out of Thimpu, Bhutan's capital, to a small village high in the mountains and on the route the royal couple would be taking back from the monastic fortress where their stunning wedding ceremony had been held.

Two or three hundred people had lined up along the road near the village, while from a hillside monastery barely visible through thick incense, the sound of horns and cymbals reverberated around the valley.

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I joined the villagers, towards the end of the line, and waited, until the king and queen were directly in front of me.

"Congratulations your majesties," was the best I could go, completely forgetting about the scarf. To my utter surprise, King Jigme Khesar immediately approached extending his hand for me to shake.

"Thank you, thank you," he said.

"It seems as if the whole country is out to meet you," I replied.

"I am very fortunate, very fortunate," he said.

I felt the disapproving stare of a legion of protocol officers and some pretty rugged looking security types. But the king was smiling. The queen was smiling. They seemed eager to talk.

"It was a wonderful ceremony yesterday," I said, stating what I guess is the blindingly obvious.

"We enjoyed it," said the King, turning to his wife.  "Yes we did," she agreed.

Then I thought, well, I might as well pop THE question.

"Do you have plans for a honeymoon?"

I felt those protocol daggers. But the king was keen to talk.

"No. We start working right after the day we were married," he said. "And if we travel we'll travel around the country. We like to meet more people."

Absolutely convinced I'd probably overstepped every mark, I once again congratulated the couple, who both came forward, smiling broadly, the king again reaching to shake my hand.

"Thank you. Thank you. It means a lot to us."

Then they were gone. Then they were back in their car heading down to the next village. In fact it took them 11 hours to cover the 50 miles back to Thimpu, hopping from village to village, receiving offerings, and meeting as many people as possible, and all with an incredible air of warmth and humility.

The King of Bhutan is often called a king of the people, renowned for his common touch. I'd heard that dozens of times since arriving in the country. But journalists are skeptical folk. The more somebody tells you an object is black, the more convinced you become that it must be any color but black. You learn to suspect motives, to question supposed certainties.

When officials in Thimpu had spoken to us about the royal couple's journey home, they'd been unable to give us any sense of how long it would take.

"It's really up to him. He might linger. He does like to meet people," they'd said.

And with hindsight I was probably being way over-sensitive about offending protocol. There probably weren't any protocol daggers, for the simple reason that the king had decided he wanted to talk, and what the king decides IS protocol. And this is a king - and queen - who thrive on personal contact with their people, and even the occasional pushy foreigner.

Bhutan is often described as a magical place. I think I'd go along with that.