A beautiful Baghdad morning. I'm riding shotgun with Hussein, who's behind the wheel of a 1983 Toyota hoopty. The air conditioner is broken. Windows down, clear skies, Hussam al Rassam on the radio singing about his lying lover.

We drive through palm groves, checkpoints, abandoned soccer fields. Past bored guards, wary militiamen, SUV convoys with commandos hanging out the windows, five U.S. Strykers that look like visitors from another galaxy.

Past American graffiti: Long live USA! 100% Samoan. I love April Renee. Past Iraqi graffiti: Long live Jaysh al Mahdi! Welcome back, returning families. At your service, Hussein.

Past billboards and storefronts with unintentionally funny English translations. "Hear Dressing" outside a beauty shop. "Al Hussein infant is an obiation for religion and humanity" at an Iraqi army checkpoint.

Animals have the run of deserted alleyways: wild dogs, emaciated cats, filthy sheep, goats grazing on trash. Banners are ubiquitous. Black funeral banners, green banners, red banners, banners for the Prophet's birthday, banners for the imams, banners for the Mahdi Army. And Iraqi flags, with and without the controversial stars.

We visit all the places that would get us into trouble with our British security adviser, but we drive quickly and don't stop anywhere for too long. Besides, white guys don't get to call the shots here anymore, not even the ones in Kevlar spaceman outfits, clutching M16s with the safetys off, wishing they were back in Kansas instead of in an up-armored Humvee patrolling Jihad.

These streets -- in the districts of Jihad, Amil, Saidiyah, Bayaa and many more -- mostly belong to the Mahdi Army now, with Sunni pockets where fighters and families only now are grasping that they've lost. And Shiites are either the world's worst sportsmen or they don't realize they've won. Their clerics and saints and martyrs and militia leaders gloat from posters in every public space. Bus depots, police stations, recruiting centers, hospitals, parks, ministries and train stations might as well be husseiniyas.

We visit a family in Janabat,  a district named for a Sunni tribe but now controlled by Sadr's foot soldiers. Inside the home, we nibble chocolate cake and sip 7-Up, pinch the baby's cheeks and chat with his adoring grandmother, a Shiite. She whispers that the villa next door is a Mahdi Army safehouse. She keeps her beautiful daughters indoors, she says, and tries not to make eye contact with the new neighbors.

At the national reconciliation conference, they say the new Iraq is for everybody, meaning everybody who prays with their hands at their sides and murmurs, "Ya Ali!" at the sound of an explosion. This is what Hussein, a Sunni, tells me from the driver's seat.

Where are we now? I ask. Saddam neighborhood, comes the reply. Hussein, you know it's not called that anymore! He smiles, lights a cigarette. They call it Salaam neighborhood now, he concedes.

We drive and drive and drive, could've driven all day in such perfect spring weather. But we're re-routed by a dismounted U.S. patrol. An American is somewhere inside all that body armor, but all we can see is his arms waving frantically, shooing us down another road.

The diversion takes us to a checkpoint under a bridge in Shurta. This is where Iraqi government forces decided to stop Mahdi Army vehicles a few days ago. They found weapons and reported the militants. The militia responded by kidnapping all the officers they could from every checkpoint along this stretch. We hear they were released last night, chastened but unharmed. Rumor is, the Mahdi Army burned all their uniforms and ID cards as a warning. You can bet they won't be stopping any more Mahdi Army vehicles.

We get a call from the worried office manager, who tells us, "That's enough." So we head back to the hotel, fast-forwarding the cassette until we find the song we're looking for, the one that goes, "I have a country that I always miss." We sing along and pick up speed to create a breeze inside the hot car. We check the rearview window to make sure our chase vehicle is still within sight. The driver of the second car is a Dulaimy, from a famous Sunni tribe, so he can't afford to be stopped at a checkpoint in these parts. He's fine.

A guard holds a mirror under our car to look for bombs before allowing us into the hotel compound. All clear, we park and Hussein and I exchange the customary Arabic greeting for travelers who arrive safely at their destination. As we wait for the elevator, the driver of the chase car turns to me. He looks pale.

"I haven't driven those streets in two years."