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Our arrival into the De-Militarized Zone (DMZ) came with a stern warning from our bus tour guide. As we drove under a series of collapsible concrete overpasses that could be blown up to slow a military invasion, she turned to caution us: "Remember, once you get to the De-Militarized Zone. There is no more De."

The DMZ is the world's most heavily fortified border, with an estimated 10,000 heavy artillery pieces, 4 million landmines and over a million soldiers standing armed and ready to attack at a moment's notice.

At the close of the Korean War, the major combatants, including the United States (under the auspices of the United Nations), China and North Korea, sat down and roughly drew a line along the 38th Parallel to effectively divide the Korean peninsula. It was a decision that sealed the fate for millions of Koreans and led the two countries down radically different paths for the next fifty years.

Officially known as the Military Demarcation Line, under the terms of the armistice both sides agreed to withdraw their forces a minimum of two kilometres from the line. The space in-between became known as the DMZ and it is the frontline to an ongoing conflict steeped in rhetoric, intrigue, ideology and fear.

Laying only 61 kilometres north of Seoul, and only a short bus ride away, the DMZ remains today a potent relic of the Cold War – an explosive flashpoint and an echo of a more dangerous era. On the other hand, it’s also a hugely popular tourist destination that attracts over 180,000 visitors each year, making it possibly the most easily accessible war-zone in the world.

As we left Seoul early that morning, the mood on the bus was sombre and reflective, perhaps an indication of what was to come. Idle conversation floated about, but many of us just stared out the windows, past the hazy cityscape, deep in our own thoughts. We headed north along the Han River driving along the newly completed Freedom Highway.

The Freedom Highway is a sparkling, modern thoroughfare with an appropriately jingoistic name. But it’s quiet and tranquil setting innocently belies a more sinister purpose. It slowly becomes evident there was a dual function in its construction as the road is just wide and flat enough to allow for a succession of tanks to roll northwards and the route is lined with razor wire and punctuated by machine-gun emplacements and hardened tank bunkers.

After passing under the concrete overpasses, we arrived in a small park near the Imjin River, which was the scene of some of the fiercest fighting during the war. Spanning the river in front of us was the Freedom Bridge, a wooden trestle bridge across which 13,000 prisoners of war walked to freedom in the South at the close of the war. Story has it that as the former captives crossed the bridge, they cried out in thanks for their freedom, giving the bridge its name.

Fifty years later and it would seem the Freedom Bridge still embodies hope for a reunited Korea. Seven million Korean families are still separated by the DMZ and intertwined with the razor wire at the gate to the Freedom Bridge, with its colourful banners with pleas for information on lost family members as well as handwritten notes appealing for a unified peninsula.

Near the bridge, small vigils and photo displays have been set up recognizing a few of the families that have been reunited over the years. The park's imposing stone monuments to the war-dead stand in stark contrast to these frozen scenes of joyful and tearful reunions.

Leaving Imjin Park, we were cleared through the first military checkpoint and we proceeded slowly across the river over the new four-lane Grand Unification Bridge. Our bus travelled at a snail's pace, as it had to slalom in and out of iron tank barriers for several hundred metres. We wound our way past camps full of bare-chested South Korean soldiers playing soccer in the mid-day sun and arrived at the 3rd Infiltration Tunnel.

The 3rd Infiltration Tunnel is one of four officially recognized tunnels under the DMZ, the latest having been found as recently as 1990. It is generally believed there are upwards of twenty additional tunnels dug beneath the DMZ, but the South Korean government will not confirm exact numbers, presumably to prevent panic amongst an already skittish population.

To get to the tunnel that is nearly 300 metres underground, we descended on a little monorail at a sharp 45-degree angle. This is definitely no trip for claustrophobics, as the walls of the tunnel brushed our hardhats and shoulders the entire descent.

The tunnel itself is over a kilometre and a half long, most of it lying in North Korean territory. Designed to allow an entire battalion of troops (10,000 men) to pass through each hour, it was intended (had it not been discovered) to reach the outskirts of Seoul. Underground, the sheared granite faces of the tunnel walls dripped ground water and you could even stop to sip 'official' DMZ bedrock water from a small filled cistern.

Despite the repeated denials to the contrary from the North, all evidence seems to indicate that they were responsible for tunnel's construction. They even went to the extraordinary length of claiming it was a coalmine and painting coal dust on the walls.

Back to the surface and after momentarily adjusting to the bright sunlight, we re-boarded our bus and set out to the Dorasan Observatory, which sits atop a small mountain and overlooks the DMZ.

Following a perfunctory briefing from a South Korean soldier we were led out onto Observatory's deck, where we powered up large binoculars and scanned the length of the razor-wire fence and got a glimpse, albeit from a distance, of one of the most secretive and reclusive regimes in the world.

In the distance was Gaesong, North Korea's second largest city. In the heart of the city stands a massive gold statue of Kim Il Sung, one of the more than 25,000 statues of the Great Leader that dot the North Korean landscape. Standing three to four storeys high, it is easily visible on a clear day. We were not as lucky as on the day we visited a murky haze had descended over the hills, obscuring most of the view.

We were able however to spot the North Korean 'propaganda' village of Gijeong-Dong. Built to showcase the prosperity of the North, apparently the only permanent residents are the hired hands that tend to the rice paddies, or so we were told anyway.

Directly opposite Gijeong-Dong, on the other side of the razor wire, is the South Korean city of Taeseong-Dong, home to roughly 300 people. In 1981, the South Korean government gave the residents of Taeseong-Dong a new 100-metre flagpole. Not to be outdone, the North set about building an even bigger flagpole in Gijeong-Dong. Completed at 160 metres, the North Korean flagpole at Gijeong-Dong is the largest in the world - the dry weight of the flag alone is over 300 kilograms.

>From the Observatory, our last stop of the day was Dorasan train station. Just south of the DMZ, it is the northern-most station in South Korea and is currently the end of the line for all northbound trains. The station itself is in many ways a reflection of the dual nature of modern South Korea – a sleek, modern edifice that is loaded with hopes for the future but haunted by ghosts of its past.

Many hold out hope that the completed railroad, dubbed the new 'Iron Silk Road', will serve as a beachhead towards an eventual reconciliation between North and South. The last few segments of the railroad will soon be laid down through the minefields of DMZ, finally linking the capital cities of both North and South Korea for first time since the outbreak of the war.

These days however, most visitors to the station still come by bus and the South Korean guards and border officials posted there seem to have little else to do than to pose good-humouredly with the tourists.

On the bus ride back to Seoul I had ample time to reflect on our visit. Both as one of the last remaining relics of the Cold War and the frontline of conflict on the Korean peninsula today, the DMZ is a complex place difficult to describe in words – it’s part tourist attraction and part amusement park. It’s also a living museum and an active war-zone.

It seems the Korean War has been overshadowed in our collective memories by the enormity of Second World War and by the larger political and social consequences of the Vietnam War. And while the Korean War is often called the Forgotten War, after my trip to the DMZ I don’t think I’ll forget any time soon.

It’s a profoundly intense and emotional place, revealing and captivating and yet strangely surreal all at the same time. Whether you are a first time visitor to South Korea or a long term resident, the DMZ is one place you should not fail to see.