Accidental Tourist: Road to lewd advances

People feared for my safety, when they should have feared for my innocence

'You're going where?!" people would gasp when I bragged about my plans. "Syria," I would reply smugly. "And Jordan, Lebanon and Egypt!"

But it was always Syria that got their shocked attention. As my vacation drew near, there was no bloody way I was cancelling my visit to Syria, despite the ongoing violence, civil unrest and all hell breaking loose.

To add insult to any potential injury, I was crossing Syria by car, in via the Lebanese border, out via the Jordanian border - no luxury air travel for me. As we approached the Lebanese-Syrian border, my cellphone signal died and a slight panic crept in, boosted by the empty immigration hall.

The biggest threat I encountered during my border crossing was the immigration officer's inability to speak much English, but he seemed genuinely welcoming of tourists. I realised why when I read my visa stamp, number 001, their first visitor for the day (or month) - and it was already a sweltering mid-afternoon.

Damascus residents were even more surprised to see a lone female tourist on their cobbled streets, snapping photos.

Passing by the modern metropolis, I made my way into the old city through one of its many ancient gates, Bab Sharqi. I instantly became the target of every local wanting to show me around, ravish me with their eyes or to sell me something, including live leeches.

To avoid being harassed, I beat a hasty retreat into the famous Bakdash ice-cream parlour to try out their speciality, which has a creamy consistency that comes from its unique preparation - large wooden pestles are banged into cool metal tubs to stretch the chewy ice cream. No one warned me not to stand too close to take photos. I left with more ice cream than I bargained for - in my hair, on my clothes and a giant cone in my hand.

Later I visited the Omayed mosque and many locals lined up to have their photo taken with me.

My novelty factor still had not worn off the next day, when I travelled up to the ancient ruins of Palmyra, a three-hour drive north of Damascus.

Things went from friendly to creepy when the Palmyra museum curator insisted on accompanying me around the underground tombs, promising to show me things other tourists had never seen.

Despite my being the only other occupant in a 12-seater minibus, he sat half on my lap. He thrust into my hand a huge bunch of keys, insisting I open the giant stone doors of the tombs while his hand on the small of my back encouraged me on.

I had the distinct sense the "things" I was about to see did not include antiquities. The lack of tourists just added to my unease. Photo taking also became a prime opportunity for him to cop a feel or three. The temperature was in the mid-40s, but was steadily rising in the ancient tombs as I did my best to avoid the lecherous onslaught of the curator, almost falling into one of the empty tombs to avoid his creepy advances.

On the up side, I did get to see the Tomb of Artaban, or as the sign read, the "biggest and most richness underground tomb in Palmyra", which dates back to the second century. My guide assured me only diplomats and VIPs ever got to see this tomb. Of course, the price was fending off the advances of the crazy curator, whom I successfully managed to outrun in the Temple of Bel!

So much for the dangers of Damascus, I was more worried about the pest of Palmyra. - Johannesburg-based Tania Auby is a communication specialist