Lessons in life from the hell of Haiyan

This miserable and ruined hovel becomes our headquarters. We spend the first nights there, 15 of us crammed onto wooden planks with other journalists, soldiers and rescuers. The ground is muddy and disgusting insects teem around us. It smells of urine (of course there are no toilets) and the stench mixes with the odour of dozens of decaying bodies, which under the blazing sun are quickly decomposing around us.