The Road to Reality

by Dianne Burnett

  The road turned even more slippery with the sudden outpouring of accolades, money, power, and fame. That coveted status of being on the “A list” (not to mention the money that it implies) is an aphrodisiac—all the more so in L.A. Lovely ladies of all sorts were swooping down from the rafters—destination: my husband, Mark Burnett. And to top it all off, I was a pencil-test flunky. For years, I’d demonstrated that my breasts were still perky—showing Mark that a pencil inserted under them still fell. Then one day it didn’t.

  So I wish that back in 2000 when Mark had sold the show to CBS, someone had handed us a map, warning of the upcoming storms and the stretches of quicksand ahead, and pointing out that certain patterns repeat. But nobody warned us. Besides, even if they had, I probably wouldn’t have listened. So no, I didn’t see the potholes ahead. But once I did, I kept thinking, This is just a rocky phase; it will get better.

  The smashing success of the first season of Survivor led CBS to not only renew the series, but to grant it a much heftier budget. That wasn’t the only thing that was different, though. When I flew with the boys to the taping of Survivor Australia in October 2000, Mark was beaming when he picked us up in the gleaming capital of Sydney, and we checked into a luxury suite. We dined at fancy restaurants and embarked on family outings—checking out the sanctuaries, the crocodile parks, and the beaches. So it all started out on a distinctly “up” note. But things started nose-diving around the time we stepped aboard a small plane and took off for the Outback.

  The turbulence en route to Queensland was terrible: From takeoff to landing, the plane felt like a roller coaster with wings. It knocked around like it was made of paper, and every time the plane dropped or soared thousands of feet in a few seconds, I pulled Cameron and James closer, sure that we were goners. All of us passengers were gripping our armrests until our knuckles turned white, and our stomachs felt like they were rolling down the aisles or had been flung out on the wing. The collective queasiness only grew worse when several passengers put those little white bags to use. When I finally emerged from the plane, I knelt down and kissed the ground.

  The Outback, previously the setting for Eco-Challenge Australia, was the location for the second season of Survivor. We lived there for three months, camping out in tents. It was rough and dusty, covered with scrub. Alligators, crocodiles, snakes, and scorpions were but a few of the creatures that lived among us. Nevertheless, it was thrilling to be there and watch another season unfold, although this one was unlike the first.

  From the start, this line-up of castaways—selected from 50,000 audition tapes—was more vicious. Jeff Probst remarked early on that if this bunch had met Richard Hatch—the first season’s most conniving castaway—they would have devoured him for lunch. Of course, I didn’t know what the future held that first day when we arrived at Survivor’s tent camp. I was taken aback to discover that there was a new arrangement: James and Cameron were sleeping in Mark’s tent—quarters exclusively for “The Burnett Boys”—and I had my own tent next door.

  “Come on, guys,” said Mark, as they performed The Burnett Boys’ bonding ritual, making a “tower” of their alternating hands. The number one rule of The Burnett Boys Club was “no girls allowed.” I tried not to take it personally.

  “Di, you’ll have more room,” Mark said by way of explanation, and besides, since it was right next door, my tent felt like more of an annex, even if, given my nonmembership in the “Club,” traffic could only flow one way—from their tent to mine.

  There was another notable difference that year in Australia: affairs among crew members were sprouting up like mushrooms in a moist cow patch. Camp Lust or Infidelity Isle would have been more appropriate names for the crew’s tent camp, given all the late-night liaisons and secret rendezvous and trysts. The unwritten motto was: “What plays on the island, stays on the island.”

  If I had cause to raise an eyebrow at some of the behind-the-scenes antics, I was even more taken aback the day I caught Mark heading off with an Australian staff member—a young woman—who was holding two glasses, while Mark, gaily laughing by her side, carried a bottle of wine. I noticed around then that he was no longer wearing his wedding ring.

  When I asked him about it, he waved off my fears as paranoia. She was just an assistant, she had a boyfriend on the crew, and no other woman could ever enter “our bubble.” He said that his fingers were swollen, and the wedding ring was too tight.

  Every day I watched from the sidelines, taking in the unfolding dramas during the challenges and tribal councils—and the steamy romances at the staff tent camp. When Mark and the kids went off to bed, I played backgammon at the Survivor bar with the crew.

  We returned from Australia in time for the 27th Annual People’s Choice Awards, held in early January 2001. At the event, the presenters were as famous as the winners: among them Ricky Schroeder and Sandra Bullock, as well as the lovely star of the CBS hit Touched by an Angel, Roma Downey. Talk-show host Craig Kilborn, presenter of the Best Reality-Based TV award, called out the nominees: Cops, The Real World, and Survivor.

  When Survivor won, Mark stood at the podium with a half-dozen producers. The previous 12 months, he said, had been “the best year” of his life, and he was thrilled that he and his team had brought something new to TV. He expressed his gratitude to Les Moonves and the other CBS execs; thanked his “incredible host” Jeff Probst; and “lastly, my beautiful wife, Dianne, and my children, James and Cameron, who suffered with me spending 75 days in a tent in Australia.”

  I was touched—and motivated. Surrounded by actors, producers, and other creative types, I realized how much I’d veered off my original course—acting.

  With the boys in school by then, and Mark always busy—all the more so since Survivor Australia had become the country’s number one show—I signed up for acting classes and introduced myself to network casting agents. Before long, I landed a role on Everybody Loves Raymond, being cast as “Woman.” In that episode, “Ray’s Ring,” Ray’s wedding ring rolls down a grate—and without it, he’s hit on by women everywhere he goes. I was one of the women who flirted with him. Back then, I didn’t see the irony—and the message the universe was sending me—given the fact that my husband had stopped wearing his wedding ring around that time.

  For the final taping of Everybody Loves Raymond, I should have flown in my mother, although her front-row cheering (“Yay!”) would have messed up the taping. But I did invite my husband—with whom I’d once read plays at Montauk.

  “So when is Mark coming?” Ray kept asking.

  “He should be here anytime,” I kept answering. At the last minute, Mark called and canceled. He was, as usual, overwhelmed with projects—and between Survivor, Eco-Challenge, another book, a new show called Combat Missions (starring Rudy Boesch), and other projects in various stages of development, his schedule was full.

  We planned a getaway at San Ysidro Ranch to celebrate our ninth anniversary in June 2001. But just before we were about to leave, Mark cancelled that, too.

  “Mark, what is happening to our marriage?” I finally asked, only to receive the standard line about nobody being able to enter our bubble. He claimed he was simply overworked, tired, and stressed—and on his way to Kenya. The boys and I followed him there three weeks later.

  Arriving at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport, we were greeted by a government official, who whisked us through the heart of the eastern African country’s bustling capital, Nairobi. Driving through the downtown area, I was surprised to see grown men in business suits running down the street to their next appointment, briefcases in hand, rather than taking taxis.

  After a long drive, we finally arrived at a small dirt airstrip. There we were met by Russ Landau, who upon catching sight of us flashed a huge grin.

  “Where’s our plane?” I asked, surveying the field.

  “I think that’s it!” he said, pointing to the airstrip.

  I thought he was kidding. I was accustomed to flying on tiny air
craft, but that contraption didn’t look air-worthy; it looked like a box kite with a motor. We stepped onto the entirely open plane, and I kept waiting for them to put the top on, but they didn’t. It looked like something the Wright Brothers might have tried out at Kitty Hawk, or the rickety flying machine in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. Something smelled unusual, and we noticed that tucked away under a dozen seats were crates of squawking chickens. Predictably, there weren’t any flight attendants rolling beverage carts down the aisle; this thing didn’t even have white paper bags in the seat pockets. I wished I’d brought flying goggles and my own white paper bags.

  My deep fear, however, soon turned to awe as this tiny winged thing took off, then swept down the Serengeti—as the 5,700-square-mile region of savannahs, forests, swamps, and grasslands in southwest Kenya is called. Home to the wildest variety of mammals in the world, the Serengeti is considered to be one of the top-ten natural wonders of the world for good reason. As we sailed over the tens of thousands of wildebeest, giraffes, zebras, and gazelles, it felt like we were gods surveying the animal kingdom.

  “Wow!” exclaimed James and Cameron in unison. It was mystical to see Africa in its natural beauty.

  When the plane touched down that first morning on a dirt airstrip in the Shaba National Reserve, we were greeted by Samburu warriors clad in spectacular bright-red clothing—their chests layered with jeweled ornamentation. Throughout the taping of Survivor, the Samburu were our local “consultants”—and since they always carried spears, they were good friends to have.

  A few weeks before, an unchaperoned supply truck driving from the Survivor camp to a nearby town was assailed by a dozen guerrillas. From then on, the Samburu were at our side whenever anybody from the crew left camp. They threw our luggage into Range Rovers, and we drove off amid the dust, passing tiny towns where kids ran after us, and continuing on deep into the savannah—the Survivor staff’s tent city. From our camp, we could hear lions roaring and elephants trumpeting not far away, a frequent reminder of the beasts in our midst—and some of them were small: we were warned about centipedes and scorpions crawling into our shoes.

  Upon arrival, I was surprised to see additional changes around the Survivor tent camp. The bolstered budget allowed for more extravagance: a fiberglass pool stood in the middle of the tents and the camp now featured a fully-equipped gym—where Mark spent nearly every free moment, even using it as a site for meetings.

  I couldn’t wait to see him. When Mark was leaving, we’d had some tense words. He’d said that Kenya would be the “make or break” test of our marriage. I was entirely clear on my position: I wanted to make it—make it work again, make it better, and make it through this rough patch. When I arrived, however, it appeared that some sort of decision had already been made for me.

  The sleeping arrangements were similar to that of Australia: The Burnett Boys, who immediately went through their hand-tower bonding ritual, would be sleeping together in one centrally-located tent. This time I wasn’t in the tent next door; to me, it felt like my lodgings were situated in the tent camp boonies, near the grips and the go-fers. Some of the staff looked at me with a mix of pity and fear—like co-workers do when they know somebody is about to get canned. I felt like an outcast, at least until I ran into my friends from the art department, who always had the most beautiful tents. I spent hours playing backgammon with Grant, whose tent was decked with colorful rugs and didgeridoos.

  Over the next few days, Mark took us all out at 5 A.M. on nature treks, and as dawn was breaking, we set our eyes on the graceful animals and the softly-rolling land again and again, sometimes from planes, sometimes in Jeeps on (nonhunting) safaris. The Survivor crew had been on location for months, but nobody had seen one lion. We were honored to spot four of the majestic beasts stretched out on a large boulder—what looked like Pride Rock from The Lion King.

  Being in that astounding nature was the pinnacle in Kenya for me: I’d never seen anything like it before or after. For much of the six-week stay, however, I wondered what I was doing there. Mark often left me behind, reading at the pool, while The Burnett Boys went out on another excursion. How strange to be shut out of Mark’s world, which I had helped to build.

  July 18, 2001

  For me, Kenya is a land of extremes.

  The nature here is at its most intense, a reminder of what life on this planet used to be; seeing elephants, lions, zebra, rhinoceros and giraffe in their natural habitat, running around the savannah, is stirring and exhilarating, and it connects me with something I never fully realized existed before. The experience is profound, and whenever we come back from the reserves, I am literally on a “natural” high.

  But then there’s “the Mark factor.” Who is that man who’s always in the gym tent, working out? That handsome fellow, who looks so much like the one who used to smile when he heard my voice, except this man greets me with a shrug, and won’t look me in the eyes.

  I brought our kids across the planet to be here, knowing how much family means to Mark, only to discover I’m not part of the family anymore. You’d have thought I was merely the nanny; no, the nanny would have rated more attention and respect. What I’m getting from that strange man, the one who looks like my husband, but no longer acts like the man that I love, is contempt. I don’t know what I’ve done. God, universe, somebody, please help me. I’ve never felt so lonely. I’ve never felt so alone. Please show me the right path to take.

  A few days later, we took another, more somber, excursion to a local hospital to deliver medication for women and children who had AIDS. Touring the facility, with its rooms crammed with cribs and small beds, served as a jolt of reality. For all the emotional pain I was going through, I was shaken to see these women and children facing the daily struggle to stay alive. Nevertheless, the kids in the hospital got such a bright light in their eyes, such big smiles on their faces, whenever we popped into their rooms and said hi.

  It put things into perspective, and reminded me how important it is to appreciate every moment we have on this planet.

  To keep my mood up in Kenya, I also delved into event planning. James’s eighth birthday was coming up, and we wanted to throw him a party in a village of the Maasai, a semi-nomadic group famous as warriors, who dressed in red; around their necks, the women wore dramatic metal jewelry, the same size and shape as dinner plates. The Maasai village consisted of hundreds of mud huts that housed their few possessions, including the goats that produced their milk.

  Mark and I had always emphasized the importance of the gift of giving with our kids. We brought bags of American toys to the birthday party, and James and Cameron gave them away to the Maasai kids. James was happy to give away his toys; Cameron wasn’t so thrilled to part with his favorite material possessions. His face broke into a wide grin, however, when the kids gave him a gift in return–a hand-carved Maasai hunting stick.

  For James’s birthday, I asked the cooks to prepare spaghetti and meatballs, his favorite dish, and we sat on the ground with the Maasai kids, who looked intrigued as they twisted the pasta on their forks, while we sampled their ugali, a maize-meal porridge that was delicious.

  After dinner, James was given the honor of participating in a Eunoto ceremony, which is the traditional Maasai “coming of age” rite. James was invited by the young warriors to join in a ritual called Adumu. During the ceremony, all of the young warriors gathered in a circle, jumping straight up and down in unison, with heels never touching the ground. They jumped higher and higher and sang out loud to the rhythm of trance-inducing drums. James was elated, realizing that this was a birthday party that could never be repeated back home.

  As the taping wound down in Kenya and the tents were being dismantled, Mark announced a change in plans. He wasn’t flying back with us, as previously scheduled. He was going to “hike a mountain with the guys.”

  I expressed concern that the kids and I would have to travel alone to Nairobi, well known as a dangerous city. “Di,” he said
, “don’t worry! The driver will take you to the airport. You’ll be fine.” He hugged us goodbye. “See you guys back home!”

  I later heard that the only mountain Mark had gone to climb was Mount Twenty-Something: apparently, he’d flown in a young woman from New York and had taken her on a safari. An acquaintance of mine was on the same safari; the word I heard was that Mark was introducing the young woman as his fiancée, although that information wasn’t relayed to me for many months.

  That day, upon arriving at the Nairobi airport, I discovered that our flight back to the States had been cancelled. I grabbed the kids by their hands, and we hightailed it across the parking lot, running after the driver. We flagged him down, got to a hotel safely, and flew out the next day, but I was a little spooked by the experience.

  Not long after our return, air travel from anywhere, to anywhere, suddenly appeared dangerous. Mark was heading to LAX to fly to New York. He planned to travel from there to Jordan, the stunning Mideast country where the next season of Survivor was supposed to be shot. He called me that morning en route to the airport. “Di, turn on the TV! The world will never be the same.”

  September 11, 2001—the most frightening, devastating, and tragic day in American history—did change the world. After 9/11, there was just a sick, sad feeling where trust in humanity used to be. Life for everyone turned upside-down; my marriage went with it.

  And gorgeous Jordan—which had stood to gain immensely in tourism, its main source of income—suffered as a result. After the Twin Towers crumbled and more than 3,000 people died, the king of Jordan himself called Mark—who was at the gym at the time—asking him not to change the site of the next Survivor. Mark, however, had no choice—he abruptly switched the locale, which is how we ended up flying to the Marquesas, an island chain in the South Pacific, that fall. From the minute I arrived, it was more of the same. Fabulous setting, sick feeling in my heart.