Dispatches From the Edge Part 2

"He was like a gymnast," my mother remembers. "He went over the ledge and hung on the edge like it was a practice bar in a gym."

"I shouted, 'Carter, come back!'" she told me later, "just for a moment I thought he was going to. But he didn't. He just let go."

IN ANCIENT ROME, priests called haruspices, charged with predicting the future, would push their hands deep into the innards of freshly killed animals. They removed the heart, the liver, the entrails, and splayed them out on an altar to divine the will of the G.o.ds. I see no signs in Sri Lanka's bloodied remains, no augury of what 2005 will hold. I'm searching for stories about what has already happened. I've missed the warnings about what lies ahead, the signs of what's to come. priests called haruspices, charged with predicting the future, would push their hands deep into the innards of freshly killed animals. They removed the heart, the liver, the entrails, and splayed them out on an altar to divine the will of the G.o.ds. I see no signs in Sri Lanka's bloodied remains, no augury of what 2005 will hold. I'm searching for stories about what has already happened. I've missed the warnings about what lies ahead, the signs of what's to come.

After two weeks in Sri Lanka, I return to New York. I thought I'd dream of that train wreck, of Sunera and Jinandari, Maduranga, Father Charles, and all the others whose gazes I held and hands I touched. I don't. Instead, I dream of the ocean, and all those still trapped deep beneath. Their eyes open, their hair swaying with the tide. Thousands of people submerged in silence, preserved in the cold salt.w.a.ter, entombed. Thousands of people. Together. Alone.

IT TOOK SEVERAL hours for my mother to find me after my brother's suicide. By the time I got her call, the last shuttle had already left Was.h.i.+ngton, so I rented a car at the airport and drove through the night. hours for my mother to find me after my brother's suicide. By the time I got her call, the last shuttle had already left Was.h.i.+ngton, so I rented a car at the airport and drove through the night.

I can't remember what she said to me on the phone, the actual words she used. I just recall the shock in her voice. I could picture the stunned look in her eyes. I didn't want to talk to anyone, didn't want to be consoled. Since my father's death, I'd wanted to control my life, control access to my emotions. When I heard that my brother was dead, I dove deeper into myself. I retreated, hoping to block the shock, the reeling fear, the wave of nausea that made me clutch my stomach.

I was sad, of course, but I was angry as well. How could he have done this to our mother, killed himself in front of her? How could he have left me behind to deal with the mess?

It was dawn when I reached New York. On the FDR Drive I searched the skyline for my mother's apartment building. Out of habit I counted, seeing how long it would take me to find my balcony. Five seconds. When I spotted it I realized that it was the ledge my brother had jumped from. I wondered if someone driving on this road had seen him do it. He would have appeared as just a small speck hurtling through the air, disappearing into the sidewalk below.

In the four days between my brother's death and his funeral, it seemed as if we were marooned on an ice floe broken off from a glacier. We didn't leave the apartment. A giant chasm had opened up around us, and we were suddenly separate from the rest of the world.

My mother lay in bed retelling the story of Carter's death to each person who came to visit her, as if by repeating it she'd discover some new piece of information that would explain it all, would perhaps reveal that it hadn't really happened, that it was all a misunderstanding, a terrible dream.

"Like a gymnast," she'd say to each new visitor. I knew it helped her to go over and over it, combing the sand for some clue, some shard that would bring Carter back. No matter how many times I heard the story, however, it still didn't make any sense.

After a while I stopped listening. The story didn't get me any closer to understanding. If anything, it pointed out what wasn't known, and what might never be. "Why?" That's the question everyone asked: Why kill himself? Why do it in front of his mother? Why didn't he leave a note?

Sometimes my mother wept, and screamed. I think I envied her that. I cried, but at night, in my pillow, not wanting others to hear. I suppose I worried that if I let go, I, too, would fall off the edge, plunge into whatever blackness had swept my brother away.

A handful of reporters and cameramen waited outside the building. It didn't occur to me that this had become a media event until my mother's lawyer accidentally left a copy of the New York Post New York Post in the apartment. in the apartment. HEIR'S TRAGIC LAST HOURS HEIR'S TRAGIC LAST HOURS was the headline on the front page. They kept referring to my mother as the "Poor Little Rich Girl," a tag that tabloids had given her as a child at the height of her mother and aunt's custody battle. I threw the paper out. I didn't want my mother to see that she was once again in the headlines. was the headline on the front page. They kept referring to my mother as the "Poor Little Rich Girl," a tag that tabloids had given her as a child at the height of her mother and aunt's custody battle. I threw the paper out. I didn't want my mother to see that she was once again in the headlines.

When we arrived at the Frank E. Campbell Funeral Chapel for Carter's wake, about a half-dozen photographers snapped pictures as I helped my mom out of the car. I hated them: circling like vultures over our barely breathing bodies.

I'd forgotten that moment, that feeling, until this past year, when I found myself reporting outside Terri Schiavo's hospice watching a jostling crowd of cameramen follow her father's and mother's every move. Schiavo was in a persistent vegetative state, and her feeding tube had been removed. Her parents were fighting to have it put back in.

"Khraw, khraw," a producer standing next to me screeched, mimicking the sound of circling buzzards. a producer standing next to me screeched, mimicking the sound of circling buzzards.

"I've become what I once hated," I thought to myself-sadly, not for the first time.

Carter's casket was in the largest room the funeral home had, but the line of mourners stretched down the block. My mom stood receiving people, one by one looking into their eyes for answers.

There had been no invitations issued, so it wasn't possible to control who got on the line. I ended up screening those gathered, pulling some close friends off the queue and telling them just to come in. Occasionally I'd approach a stranger, trying to find out who he or she was. Several were merely curious pa.s.sersby. One man was holding a copy of the New York Post New York Post and wanted my mom to autograph it. I thanked him for coming and asked someone to show him out. and wanted my mom to autograph it. I thanked him for coming and asked someone to show him out.

My brother was wearing a gray Paul Stuart suit. I'd gone to his apartment the day before the wake to pick it out. When I'd seen the suit in his closet, I'd wanted it for myself, then felt guilty for being selfish, so I decided that that was the suit he should be buried in. In the taxi on my way home, I sat with it on my lap. The radio was on, and an interviewer was saying to a caller, "Hey, I mean look at that Vanderbilt kid. I mean the interest on his trust fund was probably more than I'll make in my lifetime, and that didn't stop him from jumping off a building. I mean, am I right or what?"

The morticians had parted my brother's hair on the wrong side. "Oh, no, that's not him," I almost said. "There's been some kind of mistake."

I noticed a silver screw with a bolt sticking out of the back of his head. I hoped my mom couldn't see it. If she did, she showed no sign. Before we left, we stood together by the casket. My mother looked at my brother's face, and closed her eyes for a moment. Then, just as she had with my father, she asked for a pair of scissors, and cut off a lock of Carter's hair.

MY FINAL YEAR of college was a blur. I spent most of my time trying to understand what had happened, worried that whatever dark impulse had driven my brother to his death might still be lurking somewhere out there, waiting for me. of college was a blur. I spent most of my time trying to understand what had happened, worried that whatever dark impulse had driven my brother to his death might still be lurking somewhere out there, waiting for me.

Many times that year, I wished I had a mark, a scar, a missing limb, something children could have pointed at, at which adults could tell them not to stare. At least then they would have seen, would have known. I wouldn't have been expected to smile and mingle, meet and greet. Everyone could have seen that, like a broken locket, I had only half a heart.

Senior year became a series of holidays and celebrations to avoid. My mother and I ordered Chinese takeout on Thanksgiving, watched movies on Christmas. We stopped giving gifts, ignored each other's birthdays. Each event was a reminder of what we'd lost. On weekends I'd take the train back to New York. We'd eat dinner at home, mostly stay indoors. For the first few months, I slept in the guest room downstairs, unable to set foot in my own room or look at the balcony outside it. My mother talked about Carter, went over theories in her head. I listened but couldn't add much. It was like staring into a bottomless chasm. I worried that there was nothing to stop me from falling if I took the next step. I was there, I listened, we were together. It was all I was capable of.

I graduated college nearly a year after my brother died. My mom came up to New Haven, we took some pictures, and that was it. She returned to New York to pack up the apartment and move to a townhouse on the other side of the city. She no longer wanted to live in a penthouse. After my brother's death, both of us developed a fear of heights. I asked her what she thought I should do for work, now that I'd graduated.

"Follow your bliss," she said, quoting Joseph Campbell. I was hoping for something more specific-"Plastics," for instance. I worried I couldn't "follow my bliss" because I couldn't feel my bliss; I couldn't feel anything at all. I wanted to be someplace where emotions were palpable, where the pain outside matched the pain I was feeling inside. I needed balance, equilibrium, or as close to it as I could get. I also wanted to survive, and I thought I could learn from others who had. War seemed like my only option.

Iraq

INKBLOTS OF BLOOD.

IN COLLEGE I'D read a lot about the Vietnam War and the foreign correspondents who covered it. Their tales of night patrols and hot LZs made reporting sound like an adventure, one that was also worthwhile. News, however, is a hard business to break into. After college, I applied for an entry-level job at read a lot about the Vietnam War and the foreign correspondents who covered it. Their tales of night patrols and hot LZs made reporting sound like an adventure, one that was also worthwhile. News, however, is a hard business to break into. After college, I applied for an entry-level job at ABC News- ABC News-photocopying, answering phones-but after months of waiting, I couldn't even get an interview. Such is the value of a Yale education.

I finally got a job as a fact-checker at Channel One, Channel One, a twelve-minute daily news program broadcast to thousands of high schools throughout the United States. I knew that fact-checking wasn't going to get me anywhere close to a front line, but I needed to get my foot in the door somehow. After several months of working there, I came up with a plan to become a foreign correspondent. It was very simple, and monumentally stupid. a twelve-minute daily news program broadcast to thousands of high schools throughout the United States. I knew that fact-checking wasn't going to get me anywhere close to a front line, but I needed to get my foot in the door somehow. After several months of working there, I came up with a plan to become a foreign correspondent. It was very simple, and monumentally stupid.

I figured if I went places that were dangerous or exotic, I wouldn't have much compet.i.tion, and if my stories were interesting and inexpensive, Channel One Channel One might broadcast them. A colleague of mine agreed to make a fake press pa.s.s for me on a Macintosh computer, and loan me one of his Hi-8 cameras. I didn't really know what I was doing, but I'd watched a lot of TV news growing up, and had some idea how stories were put together. The rest I figured I'd learn along the way. might broadcast them. A colleague of mine agreed to make a fake press pa.s.s for me on a Macintosh computer, and loan me one of his Hi-8 cameras. I didn't really know what I was doing, but I'd watched a lot of TV news growing up, and had some idea how stories were put together. The rest I figured I'd learn along the way.

I quit my job as a fact-checker, but didn't inform the producers who ran Channel One Channel One of my plan. I figured they'd tell me not to go, or refuse to look at whatever material I shot. In December 1991, I flew to Thailand and met up with some Burmese refugees who were working to overthrow their country's military dictators.h.i.+p. Apparently, my fake press pa.s.s was convincing because they agreed to sneak me across the Thai-Burmese border so I could shoot a story about their struggle. of my plan. I figured they'd tell me not to go, or refuse to look at whatever material I shot. In December 1991, I flew to Thailand and met up with some Burmese refugees who were working to overthrow their country's military dictators.h.i.+p. Apparently, my fake press pa.s.s was convincing because they agreed to sneak me across the Thai-Burmese border so I could shoot a story about their struggle.

Their camp was in dense jungle. Throughout the day, you could hear mortar fire in the distance from an unseen front line. I found it all very exciting, and loved being in a position to ask questions and shoot pictures. None of it seemed very real to me, however, until I went to the field hospital where young soldiers, many just teenagers, lay with b.l.o.o.d.y wounds and missing limbs.

A doctor in surgical scrubs was operating on the leg of a young man whose face was badly bruised; his eyes had turned milky white. I saw the doctor reach for a stainless-steel saw, and at first didn't understand what he was going to do with it. When he began cutting the teenager's leg off, I nearly pa.s.sed out. The soldiers who were escorting me laughed.

Channel One bought the video I'd shot, and when I arrived back in Bangkok, I knew that this was the career I wanted. I couldn't imagine doing anything else. I called my mom and told her, "I think I've found my bliss." bought the video I'd shot, and when I arrived back in Bangkok, I knew that this was the career I wanted. I couldn't imagine doing anything else. I called my mom and told her, "I think I've found my bliss."

SHORTLY AFTER I get back from Sri Lanka in the middle of January 2005, I notice that, professionally, something has changed. TV reporters call me requesting interviews about the tsunami. Colleagues tell me what a good job I've done. I appreciate the compliments, and don't want to seem ungrateful, but the praise makes me uncomfortable. I'm glad people are interested in the story, but when they ask me what it was like, I'm not sure what to say. I don't know how to sum it up in a sound bite. I don't know what to do with the sudden spotlight. It's easier just to go back overseas, so I volunteer to go to Iraq. get back from Sri Lanka in the middle of January 2005, I notice that, professionally, something has changed. TV reporters call me requesting interviews about the tsunami. Colleagues tell me what a good job I've done. I appreciate the compliments, and don't want to seem ungrateful, but the praise makes me uncomfortable. I'm glad people are interested in the story, but when they ask me what it was like, I'm not sure what to say. I don't know how to sum it up in a sound bite. I don't know what to do with the sudden spotlight. It's easier just to go back overseas, so I volunteer to go to Iraq.

Elections for a new interim government are scheduled to take place at the end of January. They'll be the first real elections Iraq's had since Saddam.

This is my second trip to Iraq for CNN, and I'm still not sure what I've really seen. "Everyone has a different war," a soldier once said to me. "We all see our own little slice; no one ever sees it the same." Roger that.

Iraq is a Rorschach test. You can see what you want in the inkblots of blood. Number of attacks is down, lethality is up. Kidnappings fall, IEDs rise. More Iraqis are trained, more police desert. Fewer Americans die, more Iraqi cops get killed. One step forward, a bomb blast back. So many words written, so many pundits positioned. The closer you look, the harder it is to focus.

On the morning flight from Amman, Jordan, to Baghdad you see all kinds: the desperate, the downtrodden, the curious, the convinced, true believers, truth seekers, patriots, and parasites. In Iraq they hope to find money or meaning, or something in between. The plane is Jordanian, the pilots and flight attendants South African. In Iraq, they know there's money to be made.

War is h.e.l.l, but h.e.l.l, it's also an opportunity.

The flight proceeds normally, until the last few minutes. Rather than making a long slow descent to the runway, the plane banks sharply, turning in a corkscrew motion directly over the Baghdad airport.

"The final part of our descent will be from overhead the airfield in a spiral fas.h.i.+on," the pilot announces. "It may feel a little uncomfortable on the body but it's a perfectly safe maneuver."

Of course, if it were perfectly safe they wouldn't be doing the maneuver, but it's the best protection they have against getting shot out of the sky by a rocket-propelled grenade.

WELCOME TO FREE IRAQ. That's what it says on the T-s.h.i.+rts they sell at Baghdad International Airport. Freedom's great, but so is security, and right now most Iraqis would trade a lot of the first for even some of the second.

In the Arrivals terminal, a Filipino clutching a machine gun shouts instructions to a gaggle of Halliburton employees who've just arrived. Printed on the back of the Filipino's baseball cap is the name of the security company he works for: CUSTER BATTLES CUSTER BATTLES. It doesn't exactly inspire confidence.

Every reporter likes to believe that what they're seeing and feeling is unique, that it hasn't already been seen and felt a thousand times in other places, other conflicts. I try to keep the stories separate, not allow what I've seen in one country to change how I see things someplace else. It's not always easy. I set up barriers in my head, my heart, but blood flows right through them. A corpse I see in Baghdad will remind me of a body back in Bosnia. Sometimes I can't even remember where I was or why. I just remember the moment, the look, a sudden snap of a synapse, a blink of an eye, and I'm in another conflict, another year. Every war is different, every war the same.

SARAJEVO. MARCH 1993. Bosnia wasn't my first war, but at the time, it was the deadliest one I'd seen. It had taken me nearly a year after Burma, but Bosnia wasn't my first war, but at the time, it was the deadliest one I'd seen. It had taken me nearly a year after Burma, but Channel One Channel One had finally hired me as a correspondent. I was twenty-five, still shooting my stories on a home video camera, and traveling all alone, but at least now they were picking up the bills. had finally hired me as a correspondent. I was twenty-five, still shooting my stories on a home video camera, and traveling all alone, but at least now they were picking up the bills.

It was the first year of the war in Bosnia, and Sarajevo was under siege. Serbs in surrounding mountains lobbed sh.e.l.ls into the city, mortaring the marketplace where old men sold their broken watches and tried to hold onto their dignity. A sh.e.l.l would land, blood splattered the street. You could feel the impact blocks away. There were snipers as well. Their bullets cut through the air, silent, spinning. No tracer fire, no warning. Just snap, crackle, pop, and a body would crumple to the ground.

Anyone who tells you they aren't scared in a war zone is a fool or a liar, and probably both. The more places you've been, the more you know just how easy it is to get killed. It's not like in the movies. There are no slow-motion falls, no crying out the names of your loved ones. People die, and the world keeps spinning.

I flew into Sarajevo from Zagreb, Croatia, on a UN charter. Channel One Channel One had just given me a brand-new flak jacket, but I hadn't bothered to take it out of its plastic wrapping until the plane was just about to land. When I did, I noticed something sewn inside. It was a warning label: had just given me a brand-new flak jacket, but I hadn't bothered to take it out of its plastic wrapping until the plane was just about to land. When I did, I noticed something sewn inside. It was a warning label: THIS VEST DOES NOT PROTECT AGAINST ARMOR-PIERCING PROJECTILES, RIFLE FIRE, SHARP OR POINTED INSTRUMENTS THIS VEST DOES NOT PROTECT AGAINST ARMOR-PIERCING PROJECTILES, RIFLE FIRE, SHARP OR POINTED INSTRUMENTS.

It was useless against snipers, effective only against pistols, close-range stuff. In Sarajevo, they killed you from far away.

I put the vest on anyway and walked alone into the sandbag maze of Sarajevo's airport. On the flight, there had been only one other pa.s.senger: a young German kid with a camera. He looked more scared than I did, and seemed to have even less of a clue about what he was getting himself into. He never even left the airport. I heard he flew back to Zagreb that same day.

I was afraid to sleep in the bed in my room at the Holiday Inn. I kept thinking some shrapnel might kill me during the night. So I'd lay on the floor, trying to sleep, listening to the dull thud of mortars landing on nearby buildings. Like a mangy dog, the Holiday Inn had sunk its teeth into Sarajevo, and wasn't letting go. Most of the gla.s.s in the hotel was already cracked or broken. It had been replaced with heavy plastic sheeting. During the winter, the wind whipped and whistled down the darkened corridors.

Everyone still called it the Holiday Inn, though I heard that the chain had revoked its franchise. Given the constraints imposed by the Serbian stranglehold on Sarajevo, the hotel just couldn't maintain the high standards demanded by the parent corporation. The bed mints had run out a long time ago.

During the 1984 Winter Olympics, the location of the hotel was ideal; it was in the heart of the city, near the river, with views of the mountains. During the war, however, the location couldn't have been worse. The ski slopes that once hosted compet.i.tors from around the world were now home to snipers. The boxy Holiday Inn was a top-heavy target. It faced the front line, and at night, tracer fire whipped past the windows like shooting stars.

Channel One hadn't bothered to rent me an armored vehicle, but they did get me a two-door Yugo. Not exactly an equal subst.i.tute, but it was better than nothing. I hired a local reporter named Vlado to show me around. He kept calling the Yugo a "soft-skin" car, which didn't exactly fill me with confidence. The morning after I arrived, I came downstairs to find that someone had stolen the car's winds.h.i.+eld wipers. Just the wiper blades. They left the sticks that held them. They were bent forward, jutting out from the base of the winds.h.i.+eld. As we drove, they rotated like spinning horns. It made us laugh at first, but after awhile there was something sad about them. The next day, Vlado ripped them off entirely. hadn't bothered to rent me an armored vehicle, but they did get me a two-door Yugo. Not exactly an equal subst.i.tute, but it was better than nothing. I hired a local reporter named Vlado to show me around. He kept calling the Yugo a "soft-skin" car, which didn't exactly fill me with confidence. The morning after I arrived, I came downstairs to find that someone had stolen the car's winds.h.i.+eld wipers. Just the wiper blades. They left the sticks that held them. They were bent forward, jutting out from the base of the winds.h.i.+eld. As we drove, they rotated like spinning horns. It made us laugh at first, but after awhile there was something sad about them. The next day, Vlado ripped them off entirely.

The front entrance to the hotel was boarded up, and to get in you had to go through a side door. Vlado would drive us around the back of the hotel, trying to keep the car protected from snipers for as long as possible. Just before he reached the side entrance, he'd have to jump a curb, and every time he did, I was sure the tires would blow out.

The day before I left, I was out on my own, a few blocks from the hotel. I thought I was in a protected spot. I was planning on doing what TV reporters call a "stand-up"-in which they talk to the camera-and I'd just set up my tripod when I heard a loud crack. I turned and saw a tile fall off a nearby column. By the time it hit the ground, I realized that it had been struck by a bullet. Someone had taken a shot. I didn't know if they were shooting at me or someone else, but it didn't matter. I ran behind a nearby building, and the sniper peppered the area with automatic fire. I captured some of it on camera, and narrated what I was seeing. I was white as a corpse. When I looked at the tape recently, though, I saw something I hadn't remembered. I noticed the faint hint of a smile on my face.

SOMETIMES THE PLACES that are the most dangerous don't feel that bad at all. In Baghdad there are moments when you think nothing can touch you. Encased in Kevlar, puffed up like some B-movie cyborg, you peer through double-paned bulletproof gla.s.s at the dust and decay, the cement blast barriers. You watch people on the street and wonder who's good, who's bad, who'll live, who'll die. You're surrounded by guys with barrel chests and ceramic plates hidden underneath their s.h.i.+rts, machine guns ready, safeties unlocked. Who knows what else they have in their bags? that are the most dangerous don't feel that bad at all. In Baghdad there are moments when you think nothing can touch you. Encased in Kevlar, puffed up like some B-movie cyborg, you peer through double-paned bulletproof gla.s.s at the dust and decay, the cement blast barriers. You watch people on the street and wonder who's good, who's bad, who'll live, who'll die. You're surrounded by guys with barrel chests and ceramic plates hidden underneath their s.h.i.+rts, machine guns ready, safeties unlocked. Who knows what else they have in their bags?

You're trapped in a bubble of security; you can't break out-with guards and guns, and no time to linger on the street, it's hard to tell what's really going on. Bulletproof gla.s.s protects but it also distorts. Fear alters everything.

It's late January 2005, and I've come to Iraq to cover the interim elections for CNN. We're driving in from Baghdad's airport, on a road the army calls Route Irish.

"They say this is the most dangerous road in the world," my driver says.

"They always do," I say, and I realize I sound like a jerk.

Every war has a road like this one, the most dangerous, the most mined. I don't know how you can judge.

Baghdad's Route Irish connects the airport to the Green Zone. It's an eight-mile haul but there's a two-mile stretch that's particularly bad. Snipers, improvised explosive devices, ambushes, suicide attacks-you name it, it's happened on Route Irish. U.S. soldiers patrol the road and the surrounding neighborhoods, but the attacks keep happening.

After Wall Street Journal Wall Street Journal reporter Daniel Pearl was kidnapped and murdered in Pakistan in 2002, news companies began to take security much more seriously. In Baghdad most major American news organizations contract with private security firms. Big guys with thick necks meet you at the airport and give you a bulletproof vest before they even shake your hand. reporter Daniel Pearl was kidnapped and murdered in Pakistan in 2002, news companies began to take security much more seriously. In Baghdad most major American news organizations contract with private security firms. Big guys with thick necks meet you at the airport and give you a bulletproof vest before they even shake your hand.

The company that CNN contracts with provides former British Special Forces soldiers-tough professional men who've done things you can't imagine, in places you've never heard of. They don't talk much about where they've been, but they'll tell you right away: Baghdad's the worst they've seen.

The city is crawling with security contractors, contractors, a ghost army of more than 10,000 private guards. In other times, other places, they'd be called mercenaries, but here a ghost army of more than 10,000 private guards. In other times, other places, they'd be called mercenaries, but here contractors contractors is the preferred term. is the preferred term.

"Look at that GI Joe," one of my guards says, pointing to a contractor manning a roadblock. "Isn't he all decked out."

You see all kinds: from former Navy SEALS who know what they're doing, and keep a low profile, to weekend warriors you don't want to get anywhere near. The latter swagger around the city tricked out in ninja gear: commando vests, kneepads, pistols on hips, knives in boots, machine guns at the ready. A little overweight, a lot down on their luck, for them Iraq came along at just the right time. A year here, and they can earn two hundred thousand dollars. The ones who worry me the most are South Africans-Afrikaners: big buzz-cut blonds with legs like tree trunks. They come for the money and the frontier freedom. One of my security guards complains that they're out of control.

"I saw some South Africans shoot up the grill of a car that was driving behind them," he tells me, shaking his head. "There was no reason, they did it just because they could."

There's not a lot of talking in the car on the way from the airport. I want to shoot a story about driving on Route Irish, and planned to videotape my guards, and the drama of the ride into Baghdad, but when I take out my camera, they strongly suggest that I put it away. They don't want anyone knowing who they are.

Even in an armored car, we have to wear Kevlar vests. If we got ambushed, insurgents might be able to disable the car, then we'd have to take our chances outside. That's when the vest could come in handy. The guards radio our location constantly to CNN's office so that if we're kidnapped, CNN will at least know where it happened.

Thousands of Iraqis use Route Irish each day. The traffic moves in fits and starts; cars merge from unseen on-ramps. That's often from where attacks are launched.

We drive fast, constantly scanning the traffic around us. A car suddenly appears out of nowhere. It's coming up quickly behind us. Eyes dart. Bodies s.h.i.+ft.

"Four guys, young, bearded," one of my guards says into a walkie-talkie.

"Ali Babas," says another, using the universal term for bad guys.

We stay tense, expect an attack, but nothing happens. The car swerves off; another takes its place. After awhile I stop paying attention, stop noticing my heart pounding against the Kevlar.

"THIS ROAD, I think it's the most dangerous in world, you know?" my driver said, smiling. think it's the most dangerous in world, you know?" my driver said, smiling.

"Yes, I know," I said. "Thanks for reminding me."

This was on another trip to Sarajevo. I think it was 1994, into the war's second year. I had an armored Land Rover this time. The airport was shut down-too many mortars, too many snipers. The only road in and out of Sarajevo zigzagged down Mount Igman, a small dirt-and-gravel lane with hairpin turns. It scared me more than I liked to admit. Every now and then we'd pa.s.s the rusted remains of shot-up trucks, which only added to the Apocalypse Now Apocalypse Now feel of the trip. feel of the trip.

At first I kept quizzing the driver at every turn: "This stretch, coming up, is this dangerous?"

He'd just smile. After a while, I stopped asking. It was all so dangerous; there was no point talking about it. You just had to sit back and hope the morning mist held long enough to cover you, or hope the Serb snipers were too hungover to aim straight. Luck, fate, G.o.d-you believed in whatever got you down the mountain. I put my faith in the Clash, and made a couple promises to G.o.d just in case. (I like to cover all my bases.) My driver seemed crazy, perhaps manic-depressive, but in Sarajevo that wasn't unusual. He was a big, bald, good-looking Bosnian, who attempted to screw just about every woman we came in contact with. He seemed to succeed more often than not. I'd get into the armored Land Rover in the morning, and there'd be a used condom on my seat.

"Jesus Christ, do you have to have s.e.x in the car?" was usually how I greeted him.

"I know," he'd say, "but what can I do? It's the safest place to f.u.c.k."

It was hard to argue with his logic. In another place I would have been annoyed at having to work with him, but in Sarajevo, especially on the Mount Igman road, he was exactly the kind of guy I wanted behind the wheel. He always drove fast, but when the road got bad, he'd floor it. Sometimes he'd curse the Serbs, call their mothers jackals and their daughters wh.o.r.es. That's when I knew we were on a particularly bad stretch. When he began to spit, I'd buckle up.

The last time I came down the Mount Igman road, I caught a glimpse of myself in the side-view mirror. "Charlie Don't Surf" was blaring from the ca.s.sette player and my face was completely drained of color; my eyebrows were furrowed, my mouth frozen in a lunatic grin. When we finally made it into the city, I was so relieved, all I could do was laugh. The driver looked at me as if I were the one who was crazy. Then he started laughing too.

FROM THE HEADLINES and pictures you'd think Iraq was complete chaos, but the truth is much more complicated. I learned this during my first trip here for CNN. It was June 2004, and I'd come to cover the handover of power from the Coalition Provisional Authority to an interim Iraqi government. I went on patrol with the U.S. First Cavalry in charge of Route Irish. A routine recon-b.u.t.toned-down Bradleys, up-armored Humvees. and pictures you'd think Iraq was complete chaos, but the truth is much more complicated. I learned this during my first trip here for CNN. It was June 2004, and I'd come to cover the handover of power from the Coalition Provisional Authority to an interim Iraqi government. I went on patrol with the U.S. First Cavalry in charge of Route Irish. A routine recon-b.u.t.toned-down Bradleys, up-armored Humvees.

"It's nowhere near as bad as you see on TV," a young soldier said to me. "Sure, you get shot at sometimes, but mostly it's real boring."

On TV they fast-forward to the most dramatic images; they rarely mention the downtime. On patrol it's the opposite: the hours tick by slowly; it's easy to become complacent. It was 110 degrees, and the young reservists were drenched in sweat, their skin wet under camouflage vests and behind wraparound gla.s.ses. In Baghdad you can't see anyone's eyes.

"I'm sweating more than an E-six trying to read," Ryan Peterson joked, poking fun at his staff sergeant, his hands never far from the machine gun mounted on the back of the Humvee. Peterson had been on a patrol that was ambushed two months before, and he knew d.a.m.n well there was nothing he could do to stop it from happening again. The truck's armor plating reached only up to Peterson's waist, so standing in the back together, we were partially exposed. We didn't have much choice.

"What do you think about Iraq?" I asked him.

"This place?" he said, shrugging and looking around as if he'd just noticed it for the first time. "Could go either way at this point, either way."

I didn't bother asking him if he cared.