Today, I saw a guy wearing a politician’s face on his t-shirt. I see his face on posters in people’s windows, and his words on baseball caps being sold by street vendors. And they’re not official either- not a single one carries the politician’s campaign logo or official portrait.

They’re different colours, different designs, carrying different slogans- products of at least a dozen different politically opportunistic entrepreneurs, and far beyond the scope of being orchestrated by the candidate’s own campaign organisation.

Coming off the subway in downtown Atlanta, there are people encouraging you to register to vote. They don’t wear badges or a uniform, their clipboards have ragged edges, and the pens are attached to strings with sticky tape. As far as I can see, they’re out here in the searing, late summer afternoon heat on their own initiative.

And in all of the scenes I’ve mentioned, the participants have been black. 90% of the people you see in downtown Atlanta are anyway, and for at least half of the remaining 10%, venturing here seems to be considered a risky, and, at best, unsavoury experience.

And the politician is Barack Obama, who appears on t-shirts alongside Atlanta native Martin Luther King with the slogan ‘The change began with the dream’. Groups of African-American kids in gaudy trainers, and low-rider shorts wander the city as they always have done, but then you do a double take and realise ‘bloody hell-they’re wearing the face of a politician’.

Whether due to genuine policy or the more unsavoury reason of racial identity, Barack Obama has, in less than a year, become an icon amongst people from all kinds of communties, notably ones with little previous political involvement. Whatever the outcome of the election, even his most ardent critics accept that his place in history is assured. The image, and everything that individual people have invested it, has already transcended the man, whatever his political fate may be.

If the Republicans, as McCain’s slogan claims, genuinely believe in putting “country first” above politics, then patriotism dictates that they must proceed with caution. Barack Obama, whatever your opinion of his character or political substance, has become a phenomenon. Whatever you think of the man, the icon has become a rallying point for the sincerely-held dreams and concerns of millions of Americans and indeed, millions across the World.

Whether you view this development as sinister or benign, it’s naïve to consider him an ordinary adversary. Mocking or simply dismissing the sentiments of his supporters and their genuine hunger for a political voice is a dangerous strategy. If persued, it seems highly likely that a Republican victory would be at the expense of the country.

The highly possible defeat of Obama could further marginalise millions of black Americans and millions more overseas, dangerously undermining perceptions of American democracy. The current disillusionment felt towards the US government, set against a backdrop of economic difficulties has the potential to boil over into altogether more alarming forms of generalised anti-Americanism overseas, and civil discontent and instability at home.

The threat of violence or fear of disagreement is the mortal enemy of democracy, and one which should sway no voter. None of the above scenarios are a good reason why McCain shouldn’t win.

But whether or not you believe Obama has been irresponsible in stirring passions to such a fever-pitch, the real measure of the victor’s love for this country will not be how they wear their lapel pin. Rather, it will be their willingness to reach out, listen to and, where possible, accommodate the voices and concerns of the millions of Americans who have spoken up in this election, many for the first time. Ignoring them would be the real tragedy of this election.

Arriving at 7:05 in Warsaw, we decided we better buy our ticket for Cologne or, failing that, Berlin. This would be the third time in a week that we’d queued for tickets. The first two times, it had taken over an hour. Ladies with expressions of varying degrees of boredom and indifference had dealt with our requests, scrawled in (admittedly poor) attempts at ukranian on scraps of paper, with varying degree of unhelpfulness and downright hostility.

The tickets themselves had been slips of thin, brownish paper covered in all kinds of incomprehensible numbers, codes and figures which remained incomprehensible even after we’d decoded the Cyrilic labels. These were tickets that appeared to be some kind of Soviet hangover- tickets designed by committee and designed to primarily to meet the needs of an impractical computer system rather than to be read by passengers.

And the trains- well- the first time we were robbed, although second time round, we were a bit more lucky. Either way though, rickety wooden boxes with charmingly flowered carpets, vinyl beds, dangerous-looking metal fixtures and even more dangerous-looking toilets had ceased to be a novelty.

I don’t point out these things to complain, by any means. Real travel means living as much like the people around you as you can, accepting inconvenience and discomfort with a dose of good humor, and savoring every moment of it. If you’re prepared to do that, then places like Ukraine will more than reward you for your efforts.

But the point is, Warsaw was different. I’ve never been to Poland before, but the border guard on arrival only had to glance at my British passport before handing it back with a smile, and none of the anxiousness or severity I’d come to expect at borders. I don’t know Polish, but the letters which formed it were easily comprehensible, and my ticket had symbols such as a clock and a picture of a train to indicate which platform to go to, and the time my train would be leaving.

And as much as I hate to take it for granted, the lady at Warsaw ticket office was efficient and spoke comprehensible English, and getting a ticket to Berlin was done and dusted within ten minutes. Checking my European rail timetable, we can be there in time to catch a train to Brussels, and, although it’s a bit tight, conceivably be in London by tomorrow morning.

That’s just over 24 hours from the edge of Europe to London. The woods this familiar looking train with automatic doors is speeding through has seen countless armies sweep across them, centuries of trade, cultural exchange and unimaginable barbarity. Empires and kingdoms have been built and have receded across these few thousand square kilometers of trees, rain and farmland, but it has never seen anything like what has transpired over the past 15 years.

There’s still a few hundred miles to go, but, as much as it may irritate some of you to hear it, I’m home already.

I can faintly hear grasshoppers chirping across the waves of fields ahead of me. “It is ok to use my camera? I ask, employing the ancient art of comic pantomime to reinforce the message. My Syrian police escort nods his head disinterestedly. I have interrupted his conversation with the army-uniformed border guard. From the looks of things, they’re old pals who only get to chat when tourists such as myself stray into these parts. Everyone knows their neighbor down here.

The camera is aimed deliberately, poised to capture the scene from all angles. I must record it as I said I would- capture it so that I remember it exactly and can describe it to you accurately. I am, after all, standing amongst living history.

And so I will chronicle all angles of this anonymous place- except for the border post behind me. My chaperone has made it pretty clear that photographing Syrian military installations isn’t allowed, and I’m not about to find out what the penalty might be.

The enemy encampment and UN and Red Cross installations in between however, are fair game. Still, I try to be discrete as the last thing I want is to be spotted and subsequently hunted by Mossad as a Syrian spy.

The final border Syrian border checkpoint in the Golan- Al Jolan, is a strange place, but curiously, doesn’t feel like the flashpoint of modern history that it is. There isn’t that sense of tension or precariousness I was expecting. There aren’t rows of tanks here, or the thousands of men staring each other down just a few metres away, as there are, apparently on the 39th parallel in divided Korea.

Instead, on the Syrian side at least, a bored 19 year old in fatigues and a Kalashnikov sits on a stool in a shed trying to make his last cigarette last. The WELCOME TO ISRAEL sign, of course is just propaganda- either a taunt or wishful thinking, depending on your point of view. Nobody has crossed this border in at least 40 years, save a few dozen Druze brides whose people, split between the two countries, are prohibited from marrying outside of their community and thus were allowed to exchange Syrian passports for Israeli ones several years back.

The overwhelming emotion here isn’t of fear, tension or (perhaps as part of me hoped) the thrill of standing in the epicentre of a major geopolitical quake zone. Rather, it’s one of sadness. This is sodding ridiculous I find myself muttering under my breath.

We’re not in a war zone- this is the countryside. By all rights, tractors and pickup trucks with farm kids piled in the back should be working their way back and forth along this road right now, with nobody in the next town, let alone anywhere else in the World, taking the slightest bit of notice. Instead, 40 years of deadlock and political posturing give us barbed wire and bored sentries, and if I were to walk 100m further down the road, I’d probably be covering the last 50 in a body bag, courtesy of the Syrian Army and/or the IDF.

This strip of land has had so much invested in it, given so much value, that it’s easy to forget that, at the end of the day, it’s just a tragic waste with very little in it.

For most Israelis, this scrub land is just a buffer zone, although for some this is just the beginning of a larger, all-encompassing ‘Greater Israel’ across the Middle East. It represents security, a check against neighbours with whom it has never come to terms, a water supply, and, at the most mercenary, a bargaining chip for when the time eventually comes- at American urging- to make a deal.

For the Syrians I have spoken to, Al Golan is their nation’s pride, embodying a self confidence so rudely lost in 1967 and never fully recovered. The years since have offered little but economic difficulties, political isolation and further military humiliation by way of consolation.

For decades therefore, regaining the Golan Heights has been the cause célèbre of Syria’s political classes, and held as a precondition of any deal with Israel. Grandiose speeches and even threats are still sometimes delivered too. With the USSR gone though, the days when Syrian tank columns and flocks of fighter jets might threaten to rumble across the border are long past, and however ruefully, every Syrian knows it. Besides, president Al Assad has other priorities- economic development above all. He’s no fool- foreign investors are scared off by too much sabre rattling.

And so the routine continues. The Golan may be an open sore in Syria’s side and a generation of its residents removed by Israeli soldiers may still reminisce of homes and memories lost, carrying their old house keys with them in the hope of one day returning, but nonetheless, the routine will continue:

Some rhetoric but not too much, Israel and the World’s attention diverted from this quiet place to fires in Gaza and the West Bank, and quiet and creeping acceptance of the status quo.

And when the time finally comes to make peace, the Golan, and the people tied to it, will become mere symbols- trophies to be bargained with, prioritized against other demands and concessions, traded and dealt.

The battle for this place, whether played out with tanks or around tables of negotiators, is about lots of things- pride, security, economics and perhaps, if some have their way, even arcane matters of religion and history. The argument over this place is about just about everything- except the land itself, and least of all the people who have fallen through this tarmac crack across it.

Having only taken up the art of shisha a few days before, I was amazed how he managed it, my own efforts being limited to sporadic puffs of the apple & melon flavoured smoke. Sitting on the alleyway watching the world go past, we both laughed heartily at his imitation of an extremely attractive Canadian woman who, several nights before had enthusiastically endorsed his cooking.

‘Probably the Best Restaurant in the World’ read a dog-eared computer printout sellotaped to the shutter of the restaurant, and I was inclined to agree. Bashar, in his various guises of president and war hero looked down on us from a pair of portraits hung over the door, along a further printout declaring that “No milk rocks like our milk shakes”. This place was a positive well of Earthly wisdom, and with the shisha (or perhaps lack of oxygen to the brain) kicking in, an ideal vantage point from which to contemplate the day.

The first time I’d eaten at Hussein’s a few days before, I was sure I was going to get hepatitis. A group of us had been guided there by the recommendation of a guy at our hotel, and once lured in by Hussein’s considerable charm and irresistible personality (both crucial skills for any Syrian businessman), none of us could walk away. Come what may, we would deal with the hepatitis. We all sat there, around a table looking nervously at one another, as the food began.

I hesitate to call Husseins’ joint a restaurant, because to do so takes a fair bit of imagination. The whole place consists of a small room of about 10 x 15 metres, perched on a side street in a part of Damascus that specialises in computer repairs. At one end of the room is the kitchen, consisting of a cooker, oven, and mountains of jars and various fruits and vegetables. At the other end, a table which seven or eight people can squeeze around if they’re reasonably friendly with one another and prepared to be eye balled by the goldfish tank which adds gravitas to the corner of the room. Across two-thirds of the doorway is a giant window chiller that may or may not work in all manner of concoctions, sauces, marinades and coatings can be found that Hussein has prepared earlier. There is an upstairs, with enough seating for six more people, but you have to climb a ladder to reach it.

It looks like the kind of place where people catch horrible diseases, but, stopping short of unthinkable scenarios involving chocolate, it’s about as intimate as dining experiences come.

Hussein, as it turns out, is a proper chef. For many years he worked at what sounds like a pretty nice hotel in Switzerland, training under the instruction of a French chef who habitually burned him with hot oil if a anything short of perfection was achieved in the kitchen. And, abuse in the kitchen aside, he had been trained well- damn that man can cook. Aside from a small whiteboard announcing ‘Hussein Specials’, indicating what he fancies cooking that night, Hussein can rustle you up just about anything you ask, while you watch from within the corner of the restaurant.

And on this particular evening, 4 courses in, he was in a particular mood to entertain myself and the guys from the hostel. Sitting down opposite us as we ate, periodically complimenting him on his genuinely good food, he would periodically pause for a second. His eyes would light up: “How does stuffed aubergines sound?” he would suggest, followed by Mexican chicken, Turkish kebab, pasta, milkshakes, watermelon and plates of fresh fruit along with anything else we might be able to manage. As we made suggestions, he came up with ideas and tested new dishes. It was less like a restaurant, and more like having your own personal chef.

As he cooked, we talked. In the Middle East, he maintained, it was impossible to do anything without being born into money. Hard work could get you so far, he argued, but never enough to rule the roost. More important than money though, were women- without them, he said, money was worthless, and happiness unobtainable. I listened to the chef attentively.

On the issue of the US, his views were clear. Syria’s own president had changed since since the last American president of any merit. Bashar al Assad, who, we were told, hardly ever sleeps, had spent the past 8 years working hard to open the country up and move it forward, and with America, he would be no different.

Bush was crazy, he told me, in a matter of fact tone, making shooting gestures all over the room. All he wanted was war, and so it was impossible to deal with him. Did Syrian people want war? Did American people? He was sure not.

“Obama or McCain?” I asked, expecting (I admit) to hear an Obama endorsement. According to Hussein, though, it didn’t matter. “Once this Bush is gone, America’s new president and our new President agree, Syria and America can be friends again and everything will be good”, he pronounced confidently. I haven’t yet met a Syrian who wants anything other than a close relationship with the US, and Hussein was no different.

Following my mammoth meal, and with people in the alleyway starting to settle down to beers and Shisha, Hussein invited me to join him. Sitting there, eating slices of apple and passing the shisha back and forth every so often, I felt genuinely relaxed for the first time since leaving England.

Europe and the Middle East, he concluded, were basically the same place. Unlike the Far East, Africa and the Americas, which had only entered into our histories relatively recently, Europe and the Middle East had been intertwined since the beginning of civilization. Our armies had swept across each other’s lands since before the Romans, with trade and knowledge exchanged over the centuries since then. Every cathedral in Europe, he reminded me, owed its existence to events here in Damascus. Enthusiastically, he remarked that monuments built by Italian Romans could be found in the centre of Syria, and Arab ruins in Southern France and Spain.

A couple of hours later, the red coals on the shisha had started to die down. I got up, thanked Hussein, and asked how much I owed him. He paused for a second, tallying it all up. My wallet was open, andwould have gone home quite happy having paid whatever he had asked. “450, I think”, he replied. I gave him a 500 Syrian note, about GBP 5.50. Shaking his hand, promising to come again, I departed for my hotel, thinking that this guy was just about right.

Within an hour, I was again drinking coffee, this time with the owner of a bag shop overlooking the central clock tower; the city’s colonial landmark. Mahmoud sold bags- rucksacks, duffle bags, handbags- sending them off, he told me, to be adorned with Adidas, Nike, D&G, Manchester United, Real Madrid, and any other logos that would make them sell in a country where brands are no less a symbol of wealth or status than anywhere else.

Before I could politely decline, Mahmoud had pulled an additional plastic patio chair from his shop, and had me sat down alongside him, offering yet more tea while we discussed the fact that I was a student of history. He reciprocated with an impressive knowledge of the ‘Dead Cities’- Roman and Byzantine ruins located in outlying areas around Aleppo, as well as a lengthy description of Syrian history.

It turned out, of course, that, as well as being a purveyor of bags, Mahmoud himself also drove foreign tourists out to the dead cities. My guard shot up, wary after coming across similar ‘friends’ in Turkey. He continued. Despite his in-depth knowledge, he insisted with considerable humility, he was a driver, not a guide. We discussed the various sights to be seen, and possible itineraries. He was clearly passionate about the subject, and definitely not in it for the hard sell.

“So how much would you charge”, I finally asked, a couple of hours later. He was relaxed. “Well, maybe you come down one day, a day or two before you wish to go, we discuss a route and price then”, he suggested, giving me a garish business card with the name of the bag shop already crossed out and his mobile number written in by hand.

When traveling to countries such as Syria, or to places in the developing world, it’s easy to idealize the hospitality or generosity shown towards you, as a foreign visitor. After all, you, as a foreigner are assumed to be wealthy, and at the end of the day, everyone has families to feed. It’s also easy to patronize, as visitors to Africa often do, casting oneself as the ‘strange white man’ from a distant land that these, simple, innocent people neither know of or understand.

But this is a place where people watch bootlegged DVDs of Scrubs, where Mr Bean gets shown on buses and where many of my conversations revolved around Arsenal or Manchester United. Many people are not wealthy, to be sure, but the friendliness, hospitality and enthusiastic interest shown towards you is genuine, and cultural, not economic.

The reception comes from far more than the prospect of a purchase or baksheesh (a tip). As with Mahmoud’s effervescent teaching of Syrian history, there’s a genuine pride Syrians have for their country.

There’s pride that you, of all the countries in the World, have chosen to visit theirs, and a desire to show you, their county’s guest, the very best of what is has to offer. As you walk through a crowd, young and old men can be seen to nod towards you and mutter ‘welcome’, even if that is the only word of English that they know.

In the evening, walking home, I glanced over to the other side of the expressway and in the shadow could just about make out a pair of boys, I guessed at about 12 and 16 years old, gesturing loudly for me to join them.

Anywhere else, I would’ve kept walking, and probably at a slightly faster pace. Instead, I dashed across the four lanes of traffic- weaving through cars, one lane at a time, Syrian style as I quickly learned to do.

This time I was ushered into a carpet shop, closed up like the rest of the shops in the well-to-do part of town by this time in the evening, but where the boys, their father and their uncle had taken up residence with a medical documentary on in the background; squeamish images every so often being flashed up on screen.

Sitting me down and thrusting a coffee into my hands, it became clear they wanted to practice their English homework on me. The Father and Uncle seemed just as enthusiastic as the children, and so began another exchange of simple questions, and the occasional misunderstanding which would lead to laughter all round.

You don’t have to look around to find the ‘real’ Syria- it comes to you.

This is partly because there’s just so much to compute and get used to, so much to write about and observe that I’ve been reluctant to get started or to work out how to approach it. Do I give you a day-by-day, blow-by-blow account? That could be very boring. A series of polemics on history, politics and religion wouldn’t really do justice to me being here- all that can be read and regurgitated from a library. So how to crack this?

The other, more mundane reason is a couple of bad kebabs which have had me staggering around and not really in the mood. When I have been in a fit state to do something productive, to be frank, I’d rather be off doing stuff than reporting back to you all. Finally, some of the thoughts I have published, I think are probably best left until I have departed the country.

Arriving in Aleppo, I asked the driver (through my Ukrainian-Arab friend) to drop me off at Baron street, which is where my Rough Guide told me all the budget hotels are located.

I chose one that sounded reasonable; the subtly named ‘Tourist Hotel’ and went for it. Baron Street in Aleppo, as well as being the place to find a good hotel also seems to be the grease pit of Syria. In a grid of narrow backstreets and alleyways off the 4 lane route into town, there seems to be row upon row of car workshops and auto-parts stores; dingy little grottos of dirt, cigarette ash and oil.

Occasionally, you might see a glint of silver amongst it all; a handle or lever for some sort of machinery where the layers of grease had been smudged away, or a welder whose sparks make the shadows flicker against breezeblock walls, exposing various posters of The President and his father. In the background you could hear the unmistakable catchy beats and repetitive wails of Arabic pop music on someone’s radio.

I found the door to my hotel squeezed in between two of these workshops, and climbed several flights of stairs, where the hotel lobby was located.

Hotel Tourist is somewhere between an English retirement home, a seedy Brighton bed & breakfast, and a typically British colonial outpost. The lobby is floored with periodically cracked terracotta tiles, and whitewashed walls adorned with long-faded SyrianAir posters from 1994. The space itself, dominated by wicker furniture that has seen better days and potted plants, along with tasseled lampshades, grandiose furniture and ornate blinds in need of a decent dusting.

All in all, I liked the place. It was basic, but clean and with a fair amount of character. It was how I pictured the Hotel Baron, an Aleppo icon up the street which had received mixed reviews and which I had decided to leave for another night.

By us, I mean me, my backpack, Yuri, his Adidas holdall and tarpaulin shopping bag. Despite us having only met 15 minutes before, Yuri was my new best friend. Yuri is Ukrainian and speaks both Arabic and English, being a little shaky in the latter. His reasons for being in Syria were unclear, but on the plus side, he was heading for Aleppo too, and so we were in it together, and, unless he happened to pull out a knife, I didn’t intend to leave his sight until we were safely in Aleppo.

“They are bad men”, he assured me, pointing over to the three guys with their Mazdas. Al Qaeda, most likely, I murmured to myself, glibly.

“They want 1000 pounds for each of us to take us to Aleppo”.

By my calculations, they didn’t have seatbelts either. And 10 UK pounds for a 40km drive that, according to my Lonely Planet should cost 2? They were having a laugh. I wasn’t being tight- it was the principle of it.

“So we wait?”, I enquired.

He nodded.

From the looks of things, so would the Mazda men, quite happy to wait in the shade until we gave in. In this part of the world, brinkmanship is taught in schools, and with over an hour since the bus had dumped the pair of us there, they were winning.

Every ten minutes or so, another white Mazda or a yellow taxi would come into view, various limbs hanging out the doors and windows. Every so often, it would slow down for us, and my Ukranian friend would shout an unfathomable Arabic phrase, and the driver would keep driving. After the first couple of occasions, I caught on, with each taking a different branch of the intersection and trying to flag down any vehicle that would listen, before it then sped off.

We were going to die there, I was sure of it.

Yuri was in luck- a yellow taxi had pulled over, and they were talking in Arabic, with negotiations appearing to go positively. “He wants 200″, Yuri finally announced. Dollars? I scoffed- so far we had received offers of $10, $20 and one for $70 from a farmer in a pickup truck- which, in a country which you can travel across for $2, is basically a rude way of saying fuck off.

“No, you are familiar with Syrian Lira?”, “Of course”, I replied….200 Syrian pounds? We were in business, and piled in before he had the chance to drive away.

I took the back seat, with my Ukrainian friend in the front, discussing the ‘bad men’ with our honest savior taxi driver, the two of them passing his mobile phone back and forth, presumably to let the authorities know. The Mazda men were taking an interest. Yuri glanced over at them, furrowed his brow and closed his door. Following his lead, I did the same.

A few moments later, I glanced over to the cabbie. Shit. The Mazda men were at his door, not looking happy and were arguing with him loudly. When the hand gestures begin, you don’t need to know Arabic to know you’re in trouble.

Yuri gingerly edged his passenger side door back open, placing a foot outside onto the curb. I did the same, and prepared to follow him in getting the hell out of here.

The Mazda men were clearly not happy about having their extortion attempt rumbled, and one of them had reached into the driver’s side, and had grabbed hold of the taxi driver’s keys in the ignition. The savior taxi driver wasn’t giving in.

We were going to die.

A lengthy standoff of about 10 seconds ensued, and into the fith second, I knew that had this been the US or UK, we’d be shot or stabbed by now…how long did a hostage-taking take in this part of the world?

The cabbie grabbed Mazda man #1′s hand, pushing it back out the window long enough for him to turn the ignition and jam his foot on the gas. Mazda men leaping away from the speeding car in every direction, we made our getaway. I was Indiana Jones.

“This is honest man”, said Yuri. I nodded eagerly. I pulled out my Arabic phrasebook, looking for the word for thank you. “Shukran”, I attempted. He smiled in reply as Aleppo’s outer suburbs emerged from the dust.