I’ve just returned from the magical Houghton Festival—a few days surrounded by music, dancing and like-minded souls—and I’m still riding that beautiful energy.

And excuse the slightly husky voice—clearly I left a little too much of it on the dance floor at Houghton!

So, what better time to finally bring you the last chapter of my South African adventure?

This time, we go deeper—into Cape Town, ayahuasca, mushroom medicine… and a message I never expected to receive.

So, buckle up. Here we go.

The 8th of January arrived sooner than expected.

The journey into Cape Town was long, but never dull. Although Simon was behind the wheel, I could almost hear John’s voice bringing the passing landscapes to life. Every mountain, valley and tiny settlement came with a story, a piece of history, or an amusing anecdote he’d shared with me over the previous weeks.

Although I’d been warned about the dangers of Cape Town, I felt only excitement. After checking into the President Hotel, where we had stayed with my parents some 50 years earlier, I couldn’t but reflect on how surreal it felt to return after all those years, although I must say, everything had changed.

I headed straight to the V&A Waterfront. Surprisingly, I had no desire to shop. Instead, I wandered around the marina before ending my first day watching the sunset at Saunders Beach.

It was the perfect start to my week alone.

On the Saturday, after spending the afternoon at the bustling Camps Bay, soaking up the sun, I quickly discovered there would be no swimming; the Atlantic was absolutely freezing. I headed back to the hotel for a change before making my way into the city for the big night out at the Old Castle, joined by Simon and his friend. As we walked through downtown Cape Town, I was struck by how eerily empty the streets were. It felt a little spooky.

Inside, however, it was another world. We made our way to the VIP area, where the ancient U-shaped walls of the castle were transformed by mesmerising projections into what looked like a magical mushroom kingdom.

While the boys settled into a couple of seats, I went in search of my London friends. Just around the corner at the bar, I was delighted to spot Maria and her partner. They welcomed me with open arms, introduced me to their friends, and before long I was swept into hours of dancing, laughter and mingling with their entourage.

I never saw the boys again for the rest of the night.

Over the following week, I met up with a girl from Miami; Skye, who had made Cape Town her home. We spent a day at Queen’s Beach before she suggested a hike. Following her advice, I tackled the trail in flip-flops. Not my brightest idea. At one point I slipped down the rocky hillside, clinging desperately to a branch, convinced I was about to tumble over the edge, until Skye came to my rescue.

I also wandered through the colourful streets of Bo-Kaap, browsed a few art galleries, and explored the local market, where I found the perfect handmade beach bag.

The first week flew by. I’d hardly spent any time on the beaches, and truthfully, I wasn’t quite ready to return to the farm. So I booked myself into a newly opened studio apartment in Sea Point for another week.

On John’s recommendation, I spent a blissful afternoon beach-bumming at the tiny, boulder-fringed Bakoven Beach before making my way to Clifton’s famous beaches. I also finally visited the magnificent Kirstenbosch National Botanical Garden—a place of extraordinary beauty, nestled against the eastern slopes of Table Mountain.

Solo travel gives my mind a rare kind of silence—a chance to confront, question, and better understand myself and the choices I’ve made, free from the noise of everyday life.

My thoughts kept returning to the heartbreaking news coming out of Iran. I would spend hours sitting by the ocean, mesmerised by the relentless waves crashing against the rocks.

With every painful thought, I imagined releasing it into the sea... watching the waves shatter it against the rocks before carrying it away.

And with every wave, I felt a little lighter.

As though the ocean was absorbing my sorrow... leaving behind only calm.

After a long minibus journey, John picked me up from a nearby town, and farm life resumed.

The days slipped into a familiar rhythm; light lunches at local cafés, collecting hay, and braais at neighbouring farms, where I was always welcomed with genuine warmth and generous hospitality. For that, I was truly grateful.

As for life back at the farm, I mostly kept to myself, careful not to impose or become too much of a burden to my host.

Finally, the day I had been waiting for arrived. I felt a mixture of excitement and apprehension as I wondered what my first ayahuasca experience would be like.

John lent his car to Ayanda, who was also taking part in the ceremony, and together we drove back to the farm where my New Year’s Eve mushroom medicine journey had begun.

On arrival, we were shown into the ceremonial dome—a dimly lit, cocoon-like space where the ayahuasca ceremony would take place. We unpacked our mattresses, cushions and blankets, each of us quietly preparing a place to settle in for the journey ahead.

As night fell, we were called to the outdoor kitchen, where each of us was handed a cup of the ayahuasca medicine and quietly asked to return to our places in the ceremonial dome.

The journey was about to begin.

What had stopped me from trying ayahuasca during my travels through South America was, above all, the fear of being sick. I’d always struggled with that.

This time, I chose to let that fear go.

Lying quietly on my mattress, I calmed my mind and surrendered to whatever the medicine had in store.

Unlike my first ceremony, there wasn’t the slightest thought of anyone watching me or judging me.

For the first time, I felt completely at ease.

Completely in my element.

After a while, I was asked if I’d like a second dose of the medicine.

By then, the ayahuasca had well and truly taken hold. I could barely stand, so the answer was obvious, there was no need for more.

I lay back on my mattress and surrendered to whatever was about to unfold.

The raw sounds of people purging all around me didn’t disturb me in the slightest. I was completely immersed in my own journey.

When I eventually tried to stand, my head spun slightly as I made my way to the dark outdoor toilet.

We had been told that the medicine purges what no longer serves us; whether through vomiting or through the bowels. It was simply the body’s way of releasing and cleansing.

Once my stomach had settled, I lay quietly on my mattress a little longer before sitting up.

The fire still flickered gently in the darkness. Mara’s voice drifted through the dome as she sang her shamanic songs, accompanied by the haunting sounds of the instruments she played.

Then it came.

With my eyes closed, a single word appeared before me, as though projected onto a screen.

RESILIENCE.

Your resilience.

The word echoed through me.

I found myself reflecting on the many times resilience had carried me through life’s darkest moments—how it had lifted me, strengthened me, and quietly guided me through the roughest edges of my journey.

It was as though the medicine wasn’t revealing something new... it was reminding me of a truth I had always carried within.

The following morning, Ayanda drove us back to the farm.

A few days later, John, Simon, Ayanda and I headed to the warm Indian Ocean beaches near Riversdale for a picnic. But the real adventure began on the drive home.

Cruising along the motorway, John accidentally ran over a black cobra. He pulled over, woke Ayanda from her nap and casually asked, “Do you want the skin for your handicrafts?”

Before I knew it, Ayanda stepped out with a hook, expertly retrieved the snake and placed it in the back of the bakkie.

Back at the farm, she laid it on the garden table and, with remarkable skill, carefully skinned it.

As for me... I was exactly where I belonged—camera in hand, happily playing paparazzi.

The weekend finally arrived, along with my last medicine ceremony; a deeply personal, one-to-one journey at Sienna’s. I was longing for that warm, nurturing female energy.

John dropped me at the station, where I boarded a local minibus—an hour and forty minutes late—for the next leg of my adventure.

Let’s just say I spent the journey wedged into a tiny corner by two gloriously voluptuous ladies who looked far more comfortable than I did. By the time we arrived, I emerged folded into a shape I’d never attempted in Pilates!

Back at Sienna’s farm, an immediate sense of peace washed over me. She showed me around the farm, her dog and cat quietly padding alongside us, as though they too were part of the welcome.

The following day, I spent a couple of blissful hours by the hanging pool, suspended above an endless wilderness of rugged hills and untouched valleys beneath an immense African sky. The silence was almost tangible. After a light salad lunch, I rested until darkness settled over the landscape.

Sienna then handed me a glass of fresh orange juice blended with five grams of powdered mushroom. I lay down on the mattress beneath the high wooden ceiling of her living room, while she settled opposite me. Gentle shamanic songs filled the space as, with her calm and reassuring presence, she softly guided me into the journey ahead.

Before long, with my eyes closed, I found myself moving through what felt like a dark tunnel beyond time.

There she was again... my great-grandmother, Aneh jun.

She silently guided me backwards through generations, revealing fragments of lives that had come before mine, as though I were witnessing the unfolding story of my own lineage. And somewhere within it all came a profound understanding of why I had chosen to come into this world.

Time ceased to exist.

Again and again, I heard myself whispering, “Oh... wow.” Then, “I see...” followed by, “Fucking wow!” and, “Shoo...”

The overwhelming message wasn’t that I was being shown the future, but that life itself is meant to be lived as a journey of discovery. We are not here to know everything—where we came from, where we’re going, or how the story ends. We are here to experience it.

Then one thought rose above all the others.

“I’m so blessed to be alive to witness what’s coming.”

And again...

“What a time to be alive.”

Those words echoed through me.

Whether it was the medicine, my subconscious, or something beyond explanation, I came away with an overwhelming sense of hope. That even in humanity’s darkest moments, change is unfolding. And that gave me a deep trust that light can ultimately prevail over darkness.

The journey continued for hours.

At one point, I became aware of Sienna quietly by my side, offering me water and gently making sure I was alright.

It was the night of a full moon.

Wrapped in layers against the cool night air and leaning on Sienna for support, we stepped outside. Above us, thick clouds concealed the sky.

“Look up,” she whispered.

Almost on cue, the clouds slowly parted, revealing the full moon in all its brilliance.

For a few breathless moments, I stood completely mesmerised, bathed in its luminous glow... before the clouds gently closed again, hiding it from view once more.

It felt less like coincidence... and more like a gift.

The following day, another journey had come to an end. John joined Sienna and me for lunch before we drove back to the farm.

By then, things between John and me had become a little strained. I spent much of my time quietly in my room, reflecting on everything the ceremonies had revealed, or simply sitting outside, watching the magnificent Karoo sunsets.

One particularly memorable stay came while John was away. I booked myself into a beautiful ranch and vineyard, where each chalet had its own private plunge pool. We’d dined there a couple of times before with some of John’s friends, enjoying wonderful three-course dinners, though I had mostly kept to myself.

This time, it was just me.

I settled into my cosy suite, spent the afternoon by the pool, then wandered through the silent vineyard, picking sun-ripened grapes straight from the vines. They were so irresistibly sweet that I ate far too many... until my stomach politely suggested I’d had enough.

That was followed by a blissful open-air massage, accompanied only by birdsong and the gentle chorus of crickets.

When I arrived for dinner, ready to enjoy a quiet table for one, the elegant, statuesque Margot approached me before I’d even had a chance to sit down. We’d met over dinner on previous evenings.

“Hello, Haldita,” she smiled. “I came looking for you earlier. Please come and join Richard and me for dinner.”

graciously accepted.

On previous evenings, our conversations had usually revolved around more serious subjects. Margot began by asking how things were in Iran and whether my family and friends were safe.

After I gave a brief update, Richard looked at me, shook his head and suddenly exclaimed,

“Those fucking politicians!”

My face lit up and we all burst into laughter.

“Yes,” I replied. “Fucking politicians.”

That only made us laugh harder.

“They’re cunts!” Richard declared.

“Fucking cunts!” I echoed, and by then our laughter must have reached every corner of the restaurant.

Once we’d recovered, I asked Richard if he’d ever known Professor Christiaan Barnard, the surgeon who performed the world’s first human-to-human heart transplant in 1967. I told him I’d briefly met him almost fifty years earlier at the President Hotel, where he was being interviewed by German journalists.

It must have been January 1977. At the end of a day’s sightseeing, my father retired to his room while my mother took my sister and me down to the elegant hotel club. It looked like a scene from a glamorous 1960s film, with sleek black tiled floors and powder-blue sofas. We were seated beside a sophisticated German couple, champagne on ice, the gentleman proudly pointing out the diamond studs on his tuxedo.

My mother’s effortless elegance soon sparked a conversation.

Then the room seemed to pause.

A group of strikingly handsome young men in immaculate suits walked in, followed by Professor Barnard himself, carrying an unmistakable presence.

One of the German journalists invited me to dance. Encouraged by my mother, I accepted. The only image that has stayed with me all these years is standing outside beneath a full moon, watching it shimmer over the ocean.

Strangely, that is almost all I remember of Cape Town from that first visit.

Dinner with my charming hosts ended on the warmest of notes. Margot generously invited me to stay another night as her guest if I wished. I thanked her sincerely, spent one final peaceful day by the pool, and returned to the farm carrying yet another beautiful South African memory.

Back at the farm, John had lined up more visits with friends and, of course, more braais. At one gathering, I introduced everyone to a taste of Persia by cooking Zereshk polo, using the barberries and saffron I’d brought from London.

Then, at what would be my final braai at Ayanda and Henry’s, Jado appeared.

The eight of us gathered around Ayanda and Henry’s long dining table, and Jado found himself seated beside me.

He was curious about Iran, asking about my homeland and the family I’d left behind. As I spoke, he edged his chair a little closer, listening intently. His compliments were heartfelt, generous, and delivered with such disarming sincerity that they were impossible not to believe.

Before long, he was insisting I postpone my flight and move in with him.

The wine had undoubtedly loosened his tongue and amplified his romantic spirit, but somehow his words still found their way straight to my heart.

As we all prepared to leave, he gently took my hand, hoping I’d go home with him.

I couldn’t help but smile.

“If only I were sixteen again,” I thought.

But some moments are simply meant to remain moments.

We said our goodbyes, I drove away with a heart that tingled, and to this day, I still wonder how those wonderful souls managed to navigate the dark Karoo roads after our braais.

Then, almost as if the Karoo itself was saying goodbye, the long-awaited rain finally arrived, accompanied by rolling thunder and spectacular flashes of lightning.

By then, I’d lived so many adventures and pushed myself far beyond my comfort zone that very little seemed to faze me anymore.

As I settled into bed, I noticed water dripping steadily from the ceiling. Having already said goodnight, I called John and asked if he could bring me a bucket or a bowl to catch it.

“It’s fine,” he replied. “Just leave it.”

Normally, I’d never have been able to ignore something like that. But this time I simply smiled to myself. The water was only dripping onto the floor.

So I rolled over, listened to the thunder outside and the gentle dripping inside... and fell fast asleep.

My time on the farm had come to an end.

It was time to say goodbye to Blaze and Rusky, John’s two faithful four-legged companions. They had quietly become part of my daily life, and I knew I’d miss them.

And so, I packed my oversized suitcases and returned to Cape Town for one final week, staying in an Airbnb with a warm and welcoming couple; a German wife and her South African husband, in a beautifully designed home with a pool. They made me feel instantly at home, even inviting me to dinner one evening.

I revisited some of the beaches that had first captured my heart, soaking in every last moment.

Then a London friend reminded me that Gaby had moved to Cape Town with his husband and their young daughter. We arranged to meet for lunch, and before I knew it, I was invited to celebrate his birthday at a friend’s apartment high above the city, overlooking the magnificent Clifton beaches.

It was the perfect way to bring my South African adventure to a close.

It was finally time to go home.

And so, I left South Africa with full suitcases... but an even fuller heart.

It had given me far more than breathtaking landscapes and unforgettable people. It had challenged me, softened me, reminded me of my resilience, and opened doors within myself I never knew existed.

Some journeys change where you go.

Others change who you become.

And who knows where life will take me next…

Until the next episode,

Ta ta

P.S. Want to see more from my South African adventure? Come find Haldita on Instagram.

Hello… it’s Haldita.

I’m back from a very different kind of adventure in Lisbon.

But before we continue my South African journey into the world of mushroom medicine, I’d like to share something a little more personal.

As my 67th birthday is approaching, I thought it was the perfect time to recite a poem I wrote.

It’s called OA Symptoms.

In case you’re wondering what OA is,

Old Age, dear ones — it shows up like a tease.

“Oops! Where’s my phone?” I say with dread,

“Is it flying somewhere overhead?”

“You’re speaking on it!” my friend says on the line,

Goodness, yes! Could this be a sign?

And where did I leave that wretched key?

Never where it’s easy for the eye to see.

My glasses too — where did they drop?

Surely not where I left them… will they just pop?

Did I leave them somewhere on the bed?

Oh no! Of course — they’re here on my head.

My mama once said, with a twinkle and a tease,

“If you wake up one day and rise with ease —

No pain, no creaks, no ache, no dread —

Then, my dear, you might just be dead.”

But ageing’s not bad, not at all grim,

Not when you’ve friends to lean on, on a whim.

I take bolder steps than I could ever dare,

And what I cannot do, I simply share.

I give fewer fucks — it’s liberating bliss,

And those who get me, raise a glass to this.

I’ve gained wisdom, and lost the weight

Of caring what others love or hate.

Messy hair or perfectly curled —

I’m not fussed, not in this world.

I’ve been manifesting a love worth the ride,

Someone to walk with, right by my side.

With all its pain and old-age quirks,

Life feels lighter — and that, my dears, works.

I love my sixty-six years on this earth,

For I feel, at last… my glorious rebirth.

And now… let’s return to South Africa.

To a place beneath ancient trees, under a sky full of stars… where an extraordinary journey was about to unfold.

Let’s go…

I stepped into medicine ceremonies: mushroom, peyote, ayahuasca.
not out of curiosity, but out of an intuitive knowing that something was waiting for me there.

What I found was, revealing of our times.

So in this episode, I’m taking you there into the unseen… the surrender… the awakening.

And so, the first ceremony on New Year’s Eve was a journey into the world of mushroom and peyote; the sacred medicine of an ancient cactus.

John drove us once again across the vast South African landscape, a six-hour journey into the unknown. As we arrived at a remote winery and farm, the scene felt almost dreamlike; vineyards stretching out, horses grazing in the distance, and the stillness of the land holding its own energy.

We arrived around 5pm and were welcomed by Elias, a 70-year-old South African farmer and winemaker, a man who carried the wisdom of the land in his presence.

We were greeted not only by Elias, but by his extraordinary pack of companions; eight dogs in total, including majestic Great Danes, who seemed to roam the farm like gentle guardians of this sacred space.

We unloaded the car; cushions, low seats, blankets and flannel covers for the cold night ahead and began creating our circle beneath two ancient, magnificent trees. Their enormous branches stretched above us, as if they had witnessed centuries of stories, ceremonies, and secrets.

We were offered a refreshing drink while the men chatted, waiting for the other participants and Mara; Elias’s wife; the shaman who would guide us through the night, to join us.

By twilight, all twelve of us had arrived. The fire was lit beneath the ancient trees, its flames dancing against the darkening sky, as Mara called us into the kitchen, where she had carefully prepared the medicine; a blend of mushroom and peyote, mixed into a warm cocoa drink.

One by one, we received our cups.

The journey was about to begin.

Everyone had prepared their place around the fire—some in comfortable chairs, others lying on mattresses, wrapped in blankets and surrendering into the stillness, ready for the ceremony to begin.

Above us stretched an ebony sky, scattered with countless stars. The vastness of the universe seemed to surround our small circle beneath the ancient trees.

Mara, accompanied by her friend Thandi, a South African woman whose presence carried an earthy warmth, began the ceremony with her shamanic songs.

Her voice rose into the night air, ancient, haunting, and hypnotic.

The fire crackled.
The stars watched.
And slowly, we began to cross the threshold into another realm.

Time seemed to stand still for a while… until suddenly, tears began to pour from my closed eyes.

I cried uncontrollably, without knowing exactly where the emotion was coming from. Then my mind began to drift, and the inner dialogue started.

Why is everyone looking at me?

No one is looking at you… your eyes are closed.

No… why don’t they stop looking at me?

Even though a part of me knew everyone was deep within their own journey, those thoughts continued to move through my mind, battling for attention.

And then, without warning, my great-grandmother, Aneh Jun, appeared before me, against a dark, endless background.

She revealed the pain carried through generations of women before me… the wounds, the suffering, the unspoken emotions passed down through the female line.

And her message was clear:

I needed to release these tears.

I needed to let go of what had been carried for generations… so that those who came after me would not have to carry the same pain.

As the tears streamed from my closed eyes, I became aware of a presence beside me.

Without opening them, I turned inwardly to my right… and she was there.

My grandmother.

Not as a memory, but as a presence.

She stood beside me, just as she had always been; dressed in her fitted black dress, her tights, her familiar shoes. Her face was indistinct, almost blurred… yet I knew it was her.

And beside her, holding her hand, stood my grandfather; Bababozorg, elegant in his suit, exactly as he had lived.

The tears flowed endlessly.

And in that moment, something within me surrendered—
this is real… they are here.

I could feel her.

The warmth of her body. The closeness of her spirit.

Then, slowly, she lifted her right hand and placed it on my left shoulder.

And in that touch, a silent reassurance, came the message—

We see you.
We are with you.
You are held.

They had crossed into my world…
just long enough for me to remember I was never alone.

Then, gently, I felt a tap on my right arm.

I opened my tear-filled eyes… and the physical world began to come back into focus.

One of the participants stood before me, holding a long, pipe-like instrument. Moments later, Mara appeared beside me, her presence calm, grounding.

She guided me softly—placing the base of the pipe into my left hand, close to my heart, and the top into my right.

“Inhale,” she said, “and make a wish.”

Somewhere between worlds, I realised—the New Year had begun. The pipe was being passed from one to another, each of us offering our wishes into the unseen.

As always, my first thoughts went to my children.

And then… my heart turned to my motherland.

To Iran.

The unrest that had begun only days before… the pain, the uncertainty, the helplessness.

And in that moment, there was nothing else I could ask for—

only love…
peace…

Eventually, I began to settle back into myself… into some sense of normality.

Before leaving, I took one last look at the sky—the stars shimmering above, the ancient trees standing quietly around us.

And in that moment, I felt it…

Gratitude in every cell of my body.

A deep, silent knowing.

I quietly rose… and went inside to rest.

However, before the ceremony, I found myself drawn into conversation with Sienna. She was South African, slim, and dressed in an effortless Ibiza-like style; simple, natural and free-spirited. There was something in her presence… calm, grounded, quietly magnetic.

The following morning, before we left for the drive back, Sienna suggested that I come and spend a weekend with her for a more intimate, one-to-one mushroom ceremony—possibly in February.

The idea immediately resonated with me, so we exchanged numbers and made our way back to John’s farm.

By then, sadly, things had begun to shift a little with John.

The warmth and ease of the first days had changed, and I started to feel more like an unwanted guest than someone sharing in the journey.

At one point, almost in passing, he mentioned that I talked too much. It also became clear that my stories—especially those about Iran and my memories of my homeland—were not something he was particularly interested in hearing.

I found myself feeling a little uncomfortable, so I quietly began making other plans.

London’s Fabric nightclub was hosting an event in Cape Town at the beginning of January, and I decided it was the perfect opportunity to spend some time there.

I treated myself to a week’s stay at the President Hotel—the very same hotel where, almost 50 years earlier, I had stayed with my parents as a teenager.

And so, another chapter of my South African journey comes to a close.

But as one chapter ends, another begins… leading me to Cape Town, ayahuasca, and a deeply personal one-to-one mushroom journey.

And within it all… a message.

Not just for me—
but perhaps for all of us, as we navigate this uncertain existence.

But that… is for next time.

Until then,

Ta ta

Let’s get into it.

The December African summer was in full swing, and a cool breeze was always welcome in the night air. I quickly got the hang of hanging clothes out on the lines to dry under the strong sunshine.

There were worries of another drought, the rain had been scarce, and the nearby lakes seemed to shrink a little more each day. But John had a large water tank up on the hills as a reserve, feeding into a swim tank raised high above the ground, close to the farmhouse.

I’d take a dip there sometimes, paddling gently through a few exercises in the natural flow before stretching out into a short sunbathing session.

It did get hot in the afternoons.

It was only five days into my arrival when John drove us to Barrydale, a quirky little town with colourful charm, full of art and a wonderfully open LGBTQ vibe. At the creatively decorated Karoo Art Hotel, we sat on the balcony overlooking a main street, in name more than in traffic.

John was meeting his eccentric artist friend Beezy, originally from Jo’burg. From a distance, a figure appeared; small in stature, but large in presence. He wore a dark brown, African-inspired caftan, large pearls resting against his neck, and worn, Hermès-esque sandals clinging to his feet. His eyes, rimmed in black, seemed to tell stories before he even spoke.

Every gesture carried flair, each movement distinctly theatrical in manner.

After an introduction and a glimpse into Beezy’s adventures, I was told a band was playing in the main hall behind the hotel. Drawn by the sound, I followed the music and stepped into a white, chapel-like room with a high ceiling. On stage, a local band played with heart, while the crowd; some seated in rows, others dancing at the back swayed and smiled, wrapped in the joy of it all.

John and I then followed Beezy to an artist’s house, where a light show was about to begin. A crowd of locals mingled on the garden lawn with their dogs, beneath the trees, their voices buzzing in the fading light.

I was momentarily lost in the blaze of the sunset melting behind the mountains. The host appeared in a sarong to describe the installation; delicately crafted from scrap and then lit it up, bringing it flickering to life.

Once more, I looked up at the ebony sky, scattered with stars like an art show of its own.

The following day, under a sky of promised clouds and cooler air, we were meeting Beezy and his writer friend at the much-acclaimed Ronnie’s Sex Shop. To be honest, “sex shop” felt like a wild exaggeration.

The main bar room had a ceiling festooned with hanging bras in every shape and size, and colour, while another room had its walls plastered with scribbled-on banknotes from all corners of the world. It was our first and last visit to the spot.

After a quick look around and a few laughs, we made our way to the long-awaited hot springs—the weather couldn’t have been more agreeable for it.

We soon said our goodbyes to our friends, and I made the most of the time ahead, slipping into the warm water and soaking for a while, letting everything slow down for a bit.

One week into my arrival, post shower, I spotted a suspicious round bruise just under my right breast. Coincidentally—and lucky for me—John had a doctor’s appointment that morning, and after one quick look, the diagnosis: a spider bite! Ouch. I didn’t for one second want to think about how the spider got its way there. And so, antibiotics in hand, we headed back home.

That evening, a burger feast awaited with a group of ten, the best burgers being served on the balcony of a house with sweeping views of the golden sun sinking behind the mountains and a field of towering cacti stretching out before us.

And with that many new faces around the table, there were suddenly more names to remember than burgers to finish.

It was during the afternoons, while John got on with his daily farming chores or took a nap, that I began working on the interview podcasts I had recorded with friends—talking freely about life. Little did I know that in just a few days, trouble would erupt in the motherland, and the podcasts would have to come to a halt.

The evenings mainly ended with yet another braai or barbecue, with neighbouring farmer friends, each in their individual fields. One such evening was at Simon’s, a one-storey home planted right in the middle of a game reserve. The usual gang of eight turned up and lined themselves neatly along a narrow wooden balcony, overlooking the open field ahead.

Kudus and elands lingered further out, semi-circling the fence beyond the sheep, each minding its own business with the calm indifference of wild things. The sheep milled about, except for one, lifeless and unattended. The hadedas, with their piercing screeches audible even from afar, pecked at the carcass in the background, fiercely guarding their grim prize while keeping a wary eye on lurking mongooses.

The sunset behind the mountains was partially veiled by a stretch of cloud, intermittently lit by flashes of lightning, zigzagging like a giant “Z” or flickering deep within the cloud mass. Not a single drop of the much-awaited rain reached us.

Music flowed, conversation buzzed, with Jaco; a tall, thin character with a dry sense of humour, tossing out sharp one-liners that sparked bursts of laughter.

The braai was a success, Henry helping of course, and as night fell, it ended under yet another magical, starry sky.

Simon, I later learned, had once been part of the music industry. He kept the atmosphere alive long after the sun had set, curating the soundtrack of the evening with an ease that felt second nature. At some point, he offered to drive me into Cape Town the following January for a one-night event hosted by Fabric, set inside an old castle. In return, I’d get him and his friend VIP entries. A tempting trade… and one that added yet another unexpected thread to this unfolding journey.

Christmas Day came too soon. On the way to Christmas lunch at Elsie’s restaurant, where we met up with the neighbours—whose names I was still getting used to learning—John made a pit stop since we were early. It was at a small cluster of short-let houses designed by a well-known Cape Town architect.

The hosts weren’t present, but the locals working on site seemed pleased to greet John. The smiley lady in charge, however, looked highly stressed. She explained their fear as a group of five stood outside the laundry room, one of them holding a stick, insisting a cobra; yes, a snake was hiding under the cupboards. They needed access—but no one dared go in.

I stood at a distance, watching the scene with concern. Then the man with the stick went inside. Even with John’s plea not to kill the animal and to let it move on, we heard a few heavy thuds.

Moments later, the man came out with a victorious smile, holding a dead yellow cobra that stretched from his head to his toes.

“Oh my Lord,” I thought. Quick—this needed a photo.

An early rise one morning, and we headed off on another 350km drive across shifting landscapes, the road unfolding through ever-changing scenery. In the back of the vehicle was a truckload of carefully wrapped, camouflaged farm goods.

John left me at the guesthouse we had booked and went on to his business, while I checked in and headed straight to the recommended beach by the concierge.

I wandered under the heat of the sun and eventually settled on a bench, hat on, watching locals enjoying the shore. It felt like a public holiday—happy families playing music, dancing, tossing balls across the sand—while I sat back with my book, quietly taking it all in.

As the sun grew too strong, I wandered further along the beach. My first stop was a charming Bikini Beach bookshop, where You’ve Lost That Lovin’ Feelin’ by The Righteous Brothers was playing softly in the background.

The first book that caught my attention was The Celestine Prophecy; a book exploring spiritual awakening and synchronicity, following a man’s journey through a series of ancient insights in Peru. It was one of the first books I had read when my own spiritual path began to take shape, some 30 years earlier.

I did manage a spot of shopping—a fabric bag with an African print of geometric shapes, adorned with long brown suede-like tassels swinging from each side; naughty but nice.

I eventually ended up on a small rocky stretch of beach further along, where mostly white locals gathered in the sun. I had a brief chat with a South African couple, holidaying to escape the grip of the Canadian winter.

I couldn’t help but notice the contrast between the beaches, each with its own rhythm, its own familiar faces. It made me quietly wonder how much had truly shifted since my last visit, some fifty years ago, when even the simplest public spaces were clearly divided. On the surface, things had changed… and yet, as a visitor, I still sensed faint traces of separation lingering in the background.

Just before I mustered the courage to brave the cold ocean, John arrived to pick me up.

I thought I was getting into the rhythm of the South African way of life. I do take my gardening seriously at home, but farming was a whole different way of getting one’s hands muddy.

I did take pleasure in cutting back the dead flowers, making aromatic fresh mint tea a daily ritual, and occasionally arranging simple bouquets from whatever flowers and foliage were at hand.

As for the dogs, somewhat unruly, I was developing a particular liking for the attention I was getting from Blaze, who followed me around and looked up at me with a gaze that could have said many loving words.

And yet I couldn’t show him too much favouritism, as Rusky, his equally enthusiastic but slightly more… unrefined companion, was never far behind—bringing a level of chaotic charm that was, in truth, easier to ignore than to engage with. Well, I’m being honest here.

Considering we were tucked away in a far-flung corner of the world, John kept a surprisingly vibrant social circle. What followed was an extraordinary exploration into medicines that quietly opened doors within me, revealing a sense of what lay ahead. Mushrooms had never felt so profoundly enlightening as they did on those journeys.

So, until the next chapter unfolds…

Ta ta

PS

Pictures posted on Haldita’s Instagram

Hello, this is Haldita. Let’s dive straight into what came next on my South Africa adventure.

So, where did I leave off?

Oh! Yes. I had traded the cold London winter for mornings that began in sunshine, and it felt like pure bliss. Goodbye thermals, hello glow; the kind of warmth that seeps into your bones.

And just like that, I was fully immersed in a very different rhythm of life. The cupboards were filled, creams neatly lined across the dressing table; small rituals that made the space begin to feel like my own.

My bedroom door opened onto an outdoor corridor overlooking the back garden. Tall trees stretched skyward, forming a natural wall along a quiet dirt road where only the occasional car would pass. We were, quite literally, in the middle of nowhere. And strangely, I loved it.

Scattered across the garden were striking agave plants, interspersed with sculptural installations created by a friend of John’s, unexpected and captivating. And along one side of the lawn, bursts of vibrant fuchsia bougainvillea spilled into view, breathing life and colour into the landscape.

Steps to the right led down into the garden, while directly opposite stood the entrance to the farmhouse. Beyond the door, the first room revealed itself with a distinctly gentlemanly air; an elegant blend of antiquity, where each piece of furniture and every painting spoke of John’s travels and discerning eye. A touch of museum, though it was a room we hardly ever used.

Beyond that lay the entrance to the kitchen, which opened seamlessly into the dining area, where, in truth, we spent most of our time.

By the time I would appear each morning, John was already seated at the head of the table, coffee in hand, quietly scrolling through his phone. He would look up to greet me, always with a perfectly enunciated “good morning”, before outlining the plan for the day.

I, meanwhile, was still negotiating with my first sip of caffeine.

Neither of us were particularly drawn to breakfast, so more often than not, we would set off for the nearby town. It was the kind of place that seemed suspended in time, centred around a single road, as many small South African towns are, serving the surrounding countryside with only the essentials. (Wikipedia)

There was an old church turned into a museum, and then, a newer one, and a derelict synagogue standing as a quiet echo of another era. Our routine soon formed around familiar stops, the only supermarket along that stretch, the newly opened pharmacy, a Chinese shop, a liquor store, and a couple of so-called boutiques displaying clothes that looked as though they hadn’t changed in decades. Vintage… but not in the trendy sense.

Shopping, clearly, was not going to be part of this chapter. Which, in its own way, felt rather refreshing.

There were always errands to attend to; small tasks that somehow filled the day with purpose. And along that single stretch of road, John seemed to know a familiar few; a greeting here, a passing remark there. Small-town currency: eye contact and a good “hello.”

Most evenings, dinner took the form of a braai; never simply a barbecue, as I quickly learned, but something far more ingrained in South African life. And taken very seriously.

The first guests I was introduced to were John’s closest friends and, as it turned out, neighbours; Ayanda and Henry.

Ayanda was petite in stature but unmistakably spirited, with a sharp mind and an impressive knowledge of natural plants. With her striking features and blue eyes, she carried a kind of wild, earthy beauty, reminiscent of Pocahontas in both presence and essence.

Henry, her partner, was introduced as a farmer, quietly assured and deeply knowledgeable, particularly when it came to plants and, in particular, bees. Together, they embodied a grounded, intuitive connection to the land.

She spoke of the six months she had spent in London a couple of years earlier, but the city had never quite settled with her. It felt confined, missing the vast openness of nature she instinctively longed for.

And the weather… well, we all know London wears its moods in shades of grey, rain-soaked, cloud-laden, and cold. Character-building, they call it.

So she returned to South Africa, retreating almost immediately into the mountains to undertake her Vision Quest. But it wasn’t just a return, it felt more like a calling.

Naturally, I was intrigued.

As the fire crackled on the bbq beside us and the evening began to settle, she gently unfolded the rituals, each detail more unexpected than the last.

It started with a group gathering, spending the night together around a fire in an igloo-shaped dwelling, immersed in shamanic singing and preparation for what was to come. The following day, each person would venture out alone into the surrounding fields, carrying only the essentials; a sheepskin cape, a cloth to sit or lie upon, a wooden stick, and a few personal items.

Once they found their chosen spot, they would mark it with a circle of stones. That circle became their boundary; their world for the duration of the quest. They were not to leave it.

The first Vision Quest lasted four nights. But Ayanda spoke of her most recent one, where she had remained alone for thirteen nights; within that circle, beneath a tree. For five of those days, she had taken no water at all.

“Oh Lord…” I remember exclaiming, my eyes widening in disbelief; somewhere between awe and sheer horror. I couldn’t fathom it. Not even remotely.

Part of me recoiled at the very thought - no chance, absolutely none - and yet, beneath that, there was a quiet thread of admiration.

“Weren’t you frightened?” I asked. “At night… all night? And without water for five days? That sounds less like a quest and more like torture.”

Dinner was served soon after; steaks from the braai, cooked to perfection. Ayanda laid out three salads, each made from the produce of their garden; my favourite was the beetroot with feta, simple, fresh, and full of flavour.

And then there was the corn; sweet, braaied over the fire, picked fresh from the ground. So incredibly good.

After dinner, the conversation drifted to bees and honey, though not quite the birds and the bees. Curious, I began asking about the differences in Manuka honey, how it’s made, and the much-talked-about royal jelly, so often hailed as the answer to eternal youth.

With Henry’s thoughtful input, it became clear how much of its reputation, particularly in the West, is shaped by clever marketing, often justifying the higher price rather than any extraordinary distinction. So, I guess, no miracle in a jar then.

John spoke in detail about our first little adventure; a long drive in the bakkie; a pickup truck with an open back used for carrying goods, tools, and supplies, and seemingly the standard vehicle for most farmers out here. Functional, unfussy and built for real life.

We were heading towards Nature’s Valley in the Western Cape, some five hours away. Once again, I found myself quietly immersed in the scenery unfolding around us. The landscapes shifted with every stretch of road; vast, open, and impossibly alive, air so fresh it felt almost excessive after city life, where clean oxygen can feel like a luxury rather than a given. Deep breaths became a hobby.

As we drove deeper into the journey, everything became greener, denser, more enveloping. And with each change in the landscape, the temperature gently dropped, until my cashmere cape made its familiar reappearance, wrapping me back into warmth as the world outside continued to unfold. Fashion meets survival.

After the long drive, we settled into a cabin perched at the top of an endless stretch of mountains; utterly picturesque. John, still recovering from his ongoing virus, went off for a nap.

I, on the other hand, found myself on a balcony chair, lighting up a fully legal joint (or as it is more fondly known, Santa Maria) and sinking into the stillness and peace of Nature’s Valley.

Before sunset, we drove to a nearby restaurant where I was introduced to Sebastian, a man of privileged upbringing, hailing from a once-prominent family whose wealth had long since been squandered by his father. He was accompanied by his third wife, Arabella, an enterprising woman who had launched a tea company bearing Nelson Mandela’s image. The venture, to her credit, was thriving, with the blessing of the Mandela family no less. Dinner with a side of legacy and reinvention.

I had my first taste of the Mandela honeybush and rooibos tea; exactly what I needed to warm myself at the chilly outdoor table.

Back at the chalet, I returned to the balcony once more, this time to gaze up at the black velvet sky, scattered with a quiet brilliance of stars. I had half expected a meteor, but even a glimpse of a shooting star felt like more than enough.

And so, with the night settling in around me and a long day ahead, I eventually retired.

The next morning, the cold air gave way to a bright, sunlit start. After a refreshing shower overlooking the mountains, we left the lodge for a breakfast invitation at our dinner companions’ home.

Their spotless cottage opened out onto sweeping mountain views, and Arabella’s hospitality was as warm as it was effortless. After some light conversation, we parted with thoughtful gifts of Mandela tea and set off towards our next destination, a visit to the plantation.

At the farm, I was introduced to a South African couple, and then to Graham, originally from Manchester, whose presence carried both the air of a boss and an unmistakable sense of control.

Before we settled by the pool, Graham was keen to show us around what he called home; a single-storey house, rich with warm woodwork, opening out onto a bush garden gently shaded by trees.

After some easy conversation over a shandy, we were led through the nursery to pick fresh crops to take back with us, an experience that felt both simple and somehow satisfying.

And on the drive home, there was almost always a stop at some charming bakery along the way, just enough to pick up something indulgent and filling for the journey back.

With over 750 kilometres covered in just two days, we arrived home utterly knackered and retreated to my room or my little headquarters, as I had come to call it.

As I share these moments, I’m gently leading you along the path of the life I experienced in the Western Cape, there is so much more still to come.

In telling this story, I find myself stepping away, if only briefly, from the world as it is now. This journey has become my quiet escape… and perhaps, in some small way, it might become yours too.

And on that note, for now, I bid you farewell.

Ta-ta

Hello. This is Haldita, I’m back after a long break.

The past few years have been a constant reminder that I can’t really plan life too far ahead. Which, honestly, suits me fine… I’ve always been a bit of a last minute dot com kind o’ girl and I’ve never had a particularly committed relationship.

So, I’m going to take you with me through what the past four months have really been like.

I just spent ten adventurous weeks in South Africa.

The plan was simple. Before leaving London, I had recorded a dozen or so interviews with friends; open conversations about every day general life stories and sex, drugs, rock and roll and all between. My intention was to edit them while I was away and release one episode at a time during my stay.

But while I was there, spending hours editing and preparing them for the new year, deep in rural Africa, with patchy internet, the situation in Iran began to unfold.

I found myself drawn into the news on social media, pulled into the gravity of what was happening, and the podcasts had to be put on hold.

Instead, my time in South Africa became a journey I kept to myself, to be told only once the experience was complete.

It became a journey of pushing boundaries and stepping far beyond my comfort zones… and I feel incredibly grateful for every part of it.

But to truly understand it, I have to take you back to the beginning.

It all began last Christmas, with a promise to myself, that by the following year, I would be somewhere far, far away. Somewhere hot, drenched in sunlight. An escape… or maybe something deeper; a renewal.

The past couple of years had taken more out of me than I’d like to admit. But somehow, found my way through with meditation, and a daily ritual of writing down ten things that I was grateful for.

And then, in February last year, came the moment that really shook me. I got scammed. Oh yes.

I managed to recover most of the money through the bank, but the emotional impact lingered. The feeling of shame and foolishness, of being caught off guard, stayed with me far longer than I expected. It took me nearly two months to truly move past it.

By April, I knew I needed grounding. So after a three-year break, I spent April and May reconnecting with family and close friends in the motherland. And something felt different this time.

Iran had changed since my last visit.

For the first time since the revolution of 1979, I spent seven weeks there without once wearing what used to be the mandatory hijab.

I could let my hair loose under the sun, feeling the warmth on my skin in a way I hadn’t for decades. Not completely at ease, but everything went smoothly during my stay.

Visiting Iran is always a marvel for me. Every time I go, I feel my soul nourished by the warmth and love of the friends I’ve made over the years.

Most of my childhood friends left the country after the revolution, scattering across the world. But the friends I’ve met on my visits since then, hold a very special, dear place in my heart. Spending time with them is pure bliss.

Then there are the everyday people I met and my first impression was always the same: humour and humility in abundance.

Walking through the colourful lanes of Tajrish Bazaar; fresh fruit of every sort in vibrant displays piled high, shopkeepers calling out with friendly banter, and spices filling the air with their rich aromas. Once more, I felt the rhythm of life there. It was joyful, vibrant, alive, even amidst the uncertainty around us.

Elsewhere, the city had its own pulse. The restaurants were buzzing, DJ sets were playing, and the streets were lively, yet there was a hint of underlying tension all around.

Whether wandering the streets or exploring the bazaars, I was met with humour, warm greetings, and that effortless sense of welcome that is always heartwarming.

Normally, I try to visit at least a couple of other cities in Iran, but that trip, I wanted to spend most of my time with close friends in the capital.

The only exception I couldn’t miss was a visit to Qeshm Island with a close friend. It wasn’t just the sun in the endless blue skies, the soft sandy beaches, or the turquoise waters that warmed my soul, it was the company of the people around me that keeps this memory alive, long after I’ve returned.

Yet beneath it all, there was a cloud of war hanging in the air, an unspoken uncertainty about what might come next.

Iran, for me, is not just a place. It is a feeling that keeps calling me back.

I was in Greece just two weeks after returning, in June 2025, when news of Iran being hit reached me.

The stress caught up with me, and I ended up in A&E on the island of Kefalonia.

By the time I returned to London, the twelve-day bombing had ended, leaving me exhausted, shaken, and reflective on everything that had happened.

It was at the end of that summer when an old friend of eighteen years, who had moved to South Africa, got in touch while visiting London.

We managed to meet up on his last night in the city. It had been six years since his previous visit, so there was a lot to catch up on.

He had shed some weight, looked tanned, and fit for his years, just a few years older than me, though he carried the kind of energy that made you forget numbers entirely.

In sharing our stories and the parallel struggles we had been through, John suggested that I consider visiting him in South Africa.

It wasn’t planned. It wasn’t analysed. It was one of those moments where life quietly opens a door and waits to see if you will walk through it.

Somewhere deep inside me, I felt the pull of that distance, sunlit place I had once manifested.

After he returned to South Africa, we stayed in close contact. He suggested I book my stay for the maximum allowed time of three months.

My heart was racing with a mix of emotions: excitement, the thrill of a huge leap into the unknown, and anxiety at the thought of staying with someone I had barely spent twenty-four hours with.

But amidst it all, I knew this was it. I had to go.

So, before I could overthink it, I booked a return ticket to Cape Town for ten weeks, with an option to pay a little extra later if I needed to change the dates. I also gave the keys to my flat for a rental for that period and signed a contract. No chance of coming back. I would be staying on a farm about five hours outside the city.

Despite friends warning me about the dangers they associated with South Africa, what was done was done.

I was determined to go ahead.

I packed my two large suitcases, and in pursuit of adventure, prepared to disappear into the wilderness that awaited me.

The warm December air felt different the moment I stepped off that plane.

It was only while waiting for my luggage at Cape Town International Airport that it truly hit me — what had I done?

This was one of the most adventurous trips of my life. And I must admit, I’ve had many adventures, but this one felt different.

Outside, I was greeted by John’s towering smile; yes, he really is that tall, and a warm, friendly hug.

He launched into one of those classic British greetings, full of charm and cheek, though I could tell he wasn’t quite himself. He was still recovering from a long virus, and there was a faint distance in his energy that made me briefly wonder if I was making the right decision coming on this trip.

Still, too late now! Here I was, all ready for my adventure.

I had been well fed on the plane and was more than ready to begin the five-hour journey to his farm, some 380 kilometres from the city.

The first, and last time I had been to Cape Town was almost fifty years ago, with my parents. A lot changes in half a century.

Apart from our stay at the President Hotel, I remember very little from that trip.

And now, I was returning, not as a teenager, but as a woman stepping into the unknown.

The journey began with the magnificent views of Table Mountain as we set off, followed by hours of bewildering, mostly mountainous scenery - the kind only nature can present when it is really showing off.

Thank goodness John turned out to be an excellent driver: fast and furious, yet cautious… which, as you can imagine, is a very comforting combination when you are being driven through winding mountain roads.

The number of times I said “wow” or “beautiful” during that long drive was beginning to drive even me slightly mad. But I simply couldn’t stop myself. Every turn revealed something more breathtaking; valleys that seemed endless, trees that glowed in the afternoon sun, and tiny villages tucked into cliffs that looked like they belonged in a painting.

Fortunately, my host seemed genuinely pleased with my enthusiastic appreciation of his chosen home.

We arrived at the farmhouse and were greeted by John’s loyal companions; his two dogs, barking excitedly and, in their enthusiasm, jumping on me with their heavy paws.

I must admit, although I love animals - well, perhaps not all - definitely not the cobras. John, in preparation for my visit, had even sent me pictures: one lounging under the wooden house in his garden, and another being caught on the road by his neighbour.

As for pets… I’ve never actually kept any.

My host eventually managed to calm his four-legged welcoming committee and showed me to my room at the end of the house, ensuite included, and, to my great relief, plenty of cupboard space.

He had already warned me that this was, in fact, a farmhouse… and I’m pleased to say, my expectations were somewhat met; satisfactorily, and with a quiet sense of… this is going to be interesting.

I freshened up, unpacked a little, while John prepared supper, and after a long day for us both, we turned in early.

Before turning in, I took a moment to absorb my first impressions of my new domain. There I was, standing in the warmth of the evening air, beneath a dark, velvety sky scattered with stars. The sound of crickets filled the night, and a gentle breeze swayed the leaves of the pepper trees, creating a quiet kind of magic all around me.

And so, I slipped into my familiar gratitude mode, knowing I was exactly where I needed to be.

And what unfolded in the weeks that followed was beyond my wildest imagination.

In the next episode, I’ll take you deeper into the journey; from sacred ceremonies of mushrooms to ayahuasca, the moments of solitude in Cape Town that revealed more than I expected.

On that note, with prayers and wishes for love, peace and harmony in our universe, I bid you farewell, for now…

Ta ta

Hello again, it’s haldita - and today, we’re trading childhood sparkles for teenage years, with all the blushes, crushes, and growing pains in between.

As I entered the tender, uncertain years of early adolescence; those gloriously awkward teenage years, I found myself boarding a plane to the Uk - off to a new chapter at boarding school.

First came the summer school in Margate, where afternoons were often spent at a little café where the cool crowd would gather. Among them were three boys from the former Yugoslavia — and the one I secretly fancied was called Tito, as I later discovered. Tall, dark, and handsome... the classic heart-throb. Every time our eyes met, I’d flutter away, shy and tongue-tied in my barely-there English. And just like that, my summer romance lived and died in a flurry of stolen glances.

At boarding school, I was usually quiet in class and never the one to speak up. So when I raised my hand during Mr. Smith’s science lesson on heavenly bodies, he blinked in surprise and said, “Oh! Haldita has a question. Go ahead.”

So in an unsure, half-serious tone I asked, “Mr Smith… is my body heavenly?”

The class erupted — and even Mr. Smith, whose eyes usually scanned the girls with quiet amusement, looked genuinely stunned as his eyes nearly popped out.

Seems my English was improving… just not quite in the way anyone expected!

For the Christmas holidays of our final school year, my sister Hala and I were sent to a mixed ski college tucked away in the Swiss Alps.

After surviving the grey gloom of our all-girls’ boarding school in Sussex, Crans-Montana was basically paradise — and with a boy-to-girl ratio of 80/20, let’s just say Mum earned major cool points with that move!

We made some great friendships there, but from day one, my sister and I knew skiing just wasn’t our vibe — way too cold, and lugging those clunky skis around? Not exactly our idea of fun.

So, we ditched breakfast and let our days begin with the lively lunchtime buzz, laughing and chatting with the crowd we’d effortlessly melted into. By afternoon, we’d hitchhike into Crans, land at a café, and treat ourselves to rich hot chocolate and decadent pastries. Who needs slopes when you’ve mastered the art of après-ski indulgence?

Truth be told, we only braved the slopes when we spotted a couple of irresistibly cute instructors. As for my Alpine charmer - he was blonde, blue-eyed, with a snow-melting smile. I expertly positioned my skis into his, clung on for dear life — strictly for safety, of course — and let him glide us down like a scene from a rom-com. Skiing? Please. I was there for the views — and I don’t mean the mountains.

During camp, I happened to meet the older brother of one of the Lebanese boys. I was sweet sixteen and Youssef, a worldly 23—blue eyes, perfectly tousled light brown hair, beard perfectly groomed, and dressed so sharp he looked like he’d just stepped out of a Hollywood set. I can still picture his tweed suit and the raincoat casually draped over his arm like some kind of stylish secret agent. He took me out for coffee and, on a few nights we went dancing. I was hoping for a kiss - desperately - but nope. We just slow danced close enough to share the moves, but not quite close enough for a French kiss. Apparently, Youssef was on a strict no-kissing diet! Quel dommage.

Oh well, I had loads of fun, but it was time to head back to boarding school - mission unaccomplished! While the girls swapped their cheeky stories about boys, there I was, still waiting for my first kiss!

Summer arrived, and it was time to return home to Tehran. It was the mid-seventies, and Iran was buzzing with energy and change.

My parents’ lively parties were in full swing, and weekends meant trips to our villa by the Caspian Sea - always with a crowd of friends in tow. We journeyed to Mashhad for the warmth of grandma’s hugs, Bababozorg’s gentle presence, musical evenings filled with poetry and song, and enjoyed the colourful parade of family and guests… and of course, the customary single visit to the mosque.

Summer came to an end far too quickly, slipping through our fingers like warm sand. But I still had a mission to accomplish. On our last night before flying back to London, my parents threw a farewell party in our honour, inviting all their friends.

Across the street lived our neighbours, whose two sons were the same age as Hala and me. Over time, in that innocent, mischievous way of teenagers, we’d built a playful rapport — full of glances, teasing remarks, and bursts of laughter whenever we were near each other. That night, with the scent of jasmine in the air and music drifting from the garden, it felt like something might just happen…

When their parents came to our party, Hala, our friend, and I took the chance to pop over and say goodbye to the boys. But I had a slightly different plan. While the girls chatted with one brother, I slipped away to find the other — lounging on his bed, TV humming in the background.

I stood there, slightly nervous, and said with faux innocence, ‘I’ve come to say goodbye.’ He looked up with a mischievous grin and replied, ‘Well then, come a little closer.’ One flirty tug, a bit of resistance — and then I caved. One thing led to another… et voilà! Mission accomplished. First French kiss — officially ticked.

Leaving for London was always tough, but this time felt different. Mum had agreed—no more boarding school. We were finally free, starting a new chapter: living at home and going to college locally. It felt like a new kind of independence, with a touch more freedom and a lot more excitement.

To look back is to marvel at the distance travelled, all that has shifted along the way - and oh, how we change!

And just like that, we’ve reached the end of these cheeky little tales. But hold on — before I vanish, here’s a poem I wrote a decade ago…

This one is called…

My Imaginary Lover

The man with no name... He

Here I am,

Glued into the velvety warmth of a sofa,

Drenched in the reverie of a man made of dreams...

Gazing outside onto the autumn air,

The colourful leaves resembling my inner being;

An ensemble of a fire’s glow and a river’s flow,

Painted vividly in a vision in my mind.

Grey clouds dim the mood yet whisper the thoughts,

Of a man with no name.

Only the heavens could have placed him on earth,

With a heart full of yearning,

He enters my soul.

From the moment our eyes meet,

He grabs me —

His hungry look opening the door to desire.

He eyes me, head to toe,

Every glance igniting sparks across my skin,

Each touch reaching deep into the barest part of my soul.

A passionate embrace, and the earth beneath my feet

Drifts away, swaying like a feather into boundless infinity.

He devours me like a lion on prey —

With the same wild devotion,

Over a decade on,

Yet each time as new,

Fresh as morning air.

Words fail the splendour of it all.

I crave the passion,

The sensual seconds suspended in time,

Where bodies entwine and souls unite

In utopia.

He is the song I cannot sing.

He appears, sweeps me off my feet,

And disappears again,

Like a phantom

In an opera filled with ecstasy.

The hours pass in a state of delirium,

A declaration of lust,

The sensation of each caress,

Turning the world upside down;

Encounters enriched with passion.

Our lives, oceans apart,

Yet destiny brought us together -

and it will take its course, doing as it pleases.

He returns to his life,

And I to mine —

One full of joy and blessings.

There are no guarantees in life,

So I live without expectation,

Only the thrill of the journey ahead.

He is gone again.

I don’t miss him.

But I smile at the memory,

And at the unknown future that awaits.

I am life.

Now, from those naughty yet innocent glances,

To daydreams of a mysterious lover,

Life certainly has its way of keeping us on our toes.

Until next time, keep dreaming.

Ta ta

Today, I’m slipping into those tender, half-forgotten corners of childhood - where shy glances and sweet little chances hinted at something new.

Those early flutters of affection, tucked between trays of Persian sweets, endless tea, fruit mountains, and the polite hum of grown-ups chatting away.

Looking back, those early feelings were laced with proper childhood innocence - and just a hint of mischief.

They were always boys around - mainly sons of my parents’ friends - neatly dressed, well-mannered, and bashful enough to match my own quiet nature. The glances were fleeting, the smiles awkward but somewhere between the cautious hellos and polite goodbyes, a sweet little spark would quietly slip in.

There were always children’s birthday parties and weekend get-togethers where we kids tagged along, dressed-up and on our best behaviour - at least to start with.

Sometimes in the city, other times in countryside retreats like Karaj. I remember vast gardens, echoing with music, laugher and chatter. The swimming pools were mysterious - shaded by tall trees, their waters looked murky until Babouli, my dad, the champion sportsman, urged us in. And bouffe! The moment we plunged in - iced, crystal-clear water shocked every cell awake, all the way to the mind.

Swimming came just before lunch, when our hair still dripped and towels clung like capes. After drying off under the sun, we’d gather around a long table groaning with summer’s best - saffron rice studded with barberries, slow cooked lamb stews, aubergines in all their glorious forms. You see, Persian cuisine never met an aubergine it didn’t love.

Then came desert: sholeh zard - a golden, saffron-scented rice pudding dusted with cinnamon, and there were of course, biscuits stacked high, and always, always black tea poured into delicate glasses.

The grown ups would drift into two camps - those who vanished for a siesta and those who played behind tables, games of cards, the click of tiles and gentle gossip filling the afternoon air.

We kids? We just ran wild through the garden - boys, girls, laughter echoing between fig trees and rose bushes. Probably, playing hide and seek.

Romance? Please. That was for the adults, or the movies. At least, that’s what I remember… more or less.

And if those Persian garden days were all sun and saffron, Swiss camp was another flavour entirely.

High up in the Swiss hills at La Belle Maison, in Caux-sur-Montreux, I had my first sip of independence - along with the rude awakening that boys weren’t always charming. In fact, they could be very annoying.

One Italian boy, cheeky as ever, would chase me relentlessly around garden benches and classroom tables in pursuit of a kiss. I’d scream, run, hide - while the adults remained blissfully unfazed.

Let’s just say, he didn’t exactly make the shortlist for my future Prince Charming - but he clearly left a mark - the cheeky little menace!

That summer in Caux was my first time away from my parents. Naturally, the first few nights were tear-soaked - I was only seven! But once the other students trickled in, the mountain chalet tucked among the trees became a nest of fond memories.

That said, I did write a dramatic letter to my grandpa, complete with a drawing of a giant mountain and a weeping little girl on top, with an arrow: ‘This is me!’

Bababozorg later confessed it broke his heart and promptly begged my parents to bring me home. They, of course, didn’t flinch.

Honestly, it wasn’t that bad after all, but I clearly had a flair for the theatrical.

After the morning’s French class came horse-riding. My tiny frame was swallowed by the saddle. They were big and muscular. Not only they were big, not your friendly village pony for sure! I pleaded with my light-brown steed, “Arrête!” “Arrête!” Stop - and bless him, he actually listened - standing frozen in the middle of the ring. like a loyal accomplice. But the instructor, Cruella in riding boots, was less sympatique, or less sympathetic.

Later, we’d swap hooves for rackets, playing tennis beneath endless blue skies, the crispest Alpine air humming with cowbells echoing in the slopes - nature’s own soundtrack.

Sundays meant morning church - hymns sung with solemn faces, the vicar placing white ‘pills’ on our tongues, all under the gaze of those stained-glass windows - holy figures dancing in colour as sunlight pierced through, scattering across the church hall.

I was mesmerised. Or was it the mysterious white pill? Haha

There was a boy called Taymour, with a mop of curly hair. How his name resurfaced after all these years? Heaven knows.

One Sunday after church, with full parental approval, his father, in a classic tweed jacket, with the kind warmth usually reserved for family, picked us up for a trip to Montreux.

He bought Taymour a toy car and for me… my first Francine doll - a stylish new buddy for my Barbie back home. After all, Barbie and I were technically born the same year.

Quelle dommage! What a shame that the charm and simplicity - in words as in gestures - have all given way to dating apps, awkward texts and ghosting!

Those shy glances of yesterday feel like pure poetry compared to today’s swipe-left chaos.

Being a child was carefree… and love, far less complicated.

So, there you have it - from shy glances to rebellious horses, Barbie’s rival to fading crushes, Haldita gallops through the wild charm of girlhood memories.

For now

Ta ta

corridors of my childhood in Iran - a place steeped in stories, traditions, and

the sweet taste of nostalgia.

It was in the mid-sixties, when we moved into a corner house, with a

swimming pool, where the garage doors opened onto a wisteria-covered

roof. Its cascading blue flowers filled the air with a sweet scent. It was

located off Elizabeth Boulevard. Of course, many street names changed after

the revolution, but some names simply stick - etched in memory, no matter

what the signs now say.

The house was modern for its time: cool tiled floors softened by Persian

rugs, and a garden entrance that led straight into the TV room. The living

room or salon, as we called it - was separated by a long accordion-style

sliding door.

Just to the right of the entrance, a tiled staircase led up to the bedrooms and

bathrooms. First came the room Hala and I shared. My most vivid memories

of that room were at bedtime - on the nights my parents weren’t out at some

party - when Mum would sit at our bedside and lull us to sleep with her

soothing voice, spinning tales of Cinderella and Snow White and her seven

tiny housemates.

No wonder I ended up so disillusioned with Prince Charming. Hah!

Anyway… By day, I often tagged along with Mum on her routine expeditions

- errands that, to her, were effortless rituals of charm and precision.

On one of those visits to her couturier, as the tailor fussed an bossed her

around a little too confidently, I tugged on the lead of my wooden barking

dog and said, with the seriousness a six year old could muster:

“Go bite her!”

Mum, of course, laughed out aloud but I was quite sure I was defending her

honour.

After the visit, we wandered through the alleyways hand in hand, hopping

over narrow streams that trickled along the quiet roads lined with parked

cars.

A flash of movement caught my eye - a stray cat darting under a car. I was

so enchanted by its beauty, I let go of Mum’s hand and crouched down into

the dust to coax it out.Mum didn’t mind the dirt, and with her gentle encouragement,

I managed to scoop the cat into my arms - a few scratches, but mission accomplished.

Back home, Madar jun, our nanny, gave her a bath and some food, and then

had to turn her attention to me and my top-to-toe dirty laundry.

We had a new family member - and I was over the moon. Mind you, it wasn’t

the first cat I’d rescued with Mum’s approval.

Summer days were spent by the pool, practicing our dives under the

watchful eye of Dayee Jan - Mum’s older brother. In the midst of becoming a

scholar, his visits back and forth from abroad always included time with us.

Between lessons, we’d be served watermelons and other deliciously sweet

summer fruits - the kind that dripped down your chin.

If it wasn’t diving, Mum would dress us up and we’d turn up at his atelier for

a photo session - always with my inseparable favourite doll, Bella, in tow.

My younger uncle Doyee, on the other hand, had a mischievous streak a mile

wide. One summer, when my parents hired a Swiss au pair to live with us, he

decided to charm her with a dinner out. But instead of romance, the night

ended in sirens. A call from the hospital informed us they’d had an accident.

Turns out, the evening ended not with desert, but with a crash! The car was

towed to a scrapyard. Our poor au pair stitched up and soon after, vanished

back to Switzerland. Probably thinking Iranians were utterly mad or

something.

At the end of that summer, mum’s growing belly was impossible to miss, and

the joyous news of a new baby soon blossomed in our lives.

With Iranians, the wish for a son is never exactly a secret, it’s felt even when

left unspoken. the hope runs deep - they even call their sons ‘Doodool Tala’

or ‘Golden Willy’. Yes, with capital letters.

Now, imagine if they gave girls that nickname - chaos would surely follow!

So, in preparation, I accompanied Mum on several trips to the florist while

she arranged for the newcomer’s cot to be handmade.

A tailor was tasked with crafting a custom white cover to surround it - complete with wheels.

The room was ready, and proud Babouli arrived, smiling from ear to ear,

making way for Mum as she walked in cradling their boy - Soltan. A joyous

moment for us all.

Our cat Pishi didn’t take kindly to all the attention Soltan was getting.

One night, when Mum went to check on the baby, she found Pishi by the cot,

hissing in protest. The next morning, our driver quietly took her away - and

just like that, pets were no longer part of the household plan.

A gentle way of learning that life, love and attention can shift without warning - even

when it doesn’t feel fair.

As Rumi wrote: “Don’t grieve. Anything you lose comes round in another form.”

And so, with Pishi’s purrs replaced by the wails of Soltan, my arms cradling a

newborn instead of a cat, diving lessons from one uncle and ER trips thanks

to the other, I learned a thing or two about growing up. Mostly that it’s never

dull in our house.

Once more, it’s Haldita saying arrivederci.

For now.

Ta ta.

Hello et bonjour.  It’s Halita here. Now, let’s slip into the fragrant folds of Persian culture where tea is always simmering on the samovar, eyebrows arched with unspoken judgment, and heaven forbid the neighbours start whispering. We grew up in a world. Where being a ‘Khanom’, a proper lady meant being graceful, polite, particularly to your elders and composed.

In other words, don’t share your secrets. Don’t raise your voice, and above all, please everyone. My mother, however, had little patience for such nonsense. She moved to her own rhythm while others tiptoed around appearances.

If there is one sentence I truly detest, it’s:

“Vay! Mardom chi migan!” Or “Oh! What will people say?”

And that was usually said with a dramatic bite of the lower lip.

In Iran, reputation wasn’t just important, it was currency. And then layered on top of that came the French influence, not just in language, but in lifestyle. You see, many men had mistresses. It was an open secret.

My parents’ first divorce came when I was 11. Mom had discovered Babouli was seeing someone. One night at dinner, she got angry, picked up a bottle of Evian, a plastic bottle and flung it at him. Not long after that, at 31, she packed her bags and moved to London, determined to learn English and start afresh.

It was a hard year for us. Babouli, forever the workaholic and never short of female admirers was rarely home.

I found myself managing the house, the staff, and the silence that had settled in her absence. The Iranian calendar follows the horoscope, so with the spring equinox, on 21st of March arrives Eid Norouz, Iranian New Year. Schools would close for 13 days, and we’d head to our villa by the Caspian Sea, or Shomal as we call it.

My dad had entrusted our kind and reliable driver, Parviz Khan and his wife Monir Khanom to drive us, Babouli’s three prize possessions; myself, my sister Hala, and much younger brother Soltan, through the winding mountain roads of Jadeye Haraz, to reach our holiday home. By rare chance that year snowflakes began to fall in mid-March.

As we climbed higher and emerged from one long tunnel, everything had been transformed, blanketed in thick white snow, traffic had slowed to a crawl. A long trail of cars inching forward. Parviz Khan, sensing danger, decided to turn back but it was too late. News came fast, a massive avalanche had buried the road behind us.

As we moved forward just beyond the tunnel, another avalanche thundered down one of the largest recorded crashing, barely 20 meters ahead in an instant. It swallowed the cars in front of us. Everything turned white. The rest of us were ordered back into the tunnel, where we spent the night huddled in our cars, shaken but safe. We were trapped.

Our car boot was packed as usual with fruit and delicacies on that trip, especially the almond perfume biscuits from Yazd, that my father had ordered just for Soltan.

But it was Parviz Khan, forever resourceful, who wandered off and returned with a pot-lid brimming with warm rice. He shared it with us, bless him, and to this day, I can still taste the soothing flavour that somehow calmed our nerves.

Bundled up in every layer we could find, it was cold. Hala dove into her holiday homework, in the back of the car by dim light. While I took charge of divine negotiations, reciting every prayer I knew, “please, Lord!” Just in case.

On the following day, the tractors finally arrived to clear the road, and around 200 holidaying families began moving in a single file. We were ordered to stay completely silent. Even the smallest sound could set off another avalanche. So slowly and breathlessly, we followed one car after another until we reached the first town, Amol, where there was a telephone station. This was of course, in the days of landlines, long before mobile phones.

I went in with Parviz Khan to call Babouli. As I heard his trembling, anxious voice on the other end: “Alo? Alo?” he said. I said “Babouli, it’s me, Haldita.”

There was a pause, the silence, and in that silence I could hear him cry.

But men didn’t cry.

At the end of the summer term at Jeanne d’Arc, my father took the three of us on a European tour, accompanied by the ever-watchful Monir Khanom.

But the real destination wasn’t the Eiffel Tower or the canals of Amsterdam. It was London, where he hoped to win back my mother’s heart and ask for her hand in marriage once more.

After an overnight pit stop in Amsterdam, where my father had to hold my hand and drag me away. As I curiously watched the hippies lounging in the streets, all flared trousers and free-floating vibes, playing guitar and smoking away.

From Amsterdam, we flew to London where mum accepted Bobouli’s proposal. The journey continued with him driving us through the scenic routes of France and into his beloved Switzerland.

We then rolled back into Tehran, just in time for a summer wedding at home. Mum stunned in a soft pink gown, straight from a glossy fashion magazine.

While the house buzzed with live performances from some of the era’s most iconic performers; Haydeh, with her soul-stirring voice, Mahasti, whose silken melodies lingered the heart and Dariush, with his brooding, rebellious tone. Just a few who come to mind.

Mum was back - the Khalehs returned, and once again, our home was alive with laughter, music and the gentle buzz of joy.

But, before we wrap up, let’s slip back into the polite chaos of Ta’rof; where paying the bill can spiral into a full-blown theatrical spectacle. It goes as:

“Please let me pay.”

“No, no. I insist I’m older. ‘Zeshteh’. It would be shameful otherwise.”

In another classic Ta’rof scene, people fetch at a doorway each insisting:

“Please you go first.”

“No, no, impossible. You go.” And on and on, and just like that, the entrance gets jammed, all in waiting to go last. Ouffffff.

Oh well, from the watchful whispers of what will people say, the heart-pounding fear of avalanches in snowy tunnels, to the lavish wedding discreetly celebrated in the ‘Hiss’ pages of a ladies’ magazine. Life in Iran was a tapestry of drama, grace, and unspoken stories.

Thank you for sharing these moments with me. Until next time, may your days be as rich and layered as the tales told.

This is Haldita, signing off with a wink.

Ta ta

When I was barely three, my parents jetted off on a whirlwind tour around the world. Clearly not one for toddlers. I was left in the capable hands of my aunt and her lively household, while my younger sister Hala was off basking in grandparental glory in Mashhad.

By the time they returned, my grandparents had grown so attached, they insisted on keeping her a little longer - while my father focused on building his business.

So, until I started school, I grew up as an only child, with Hala a distant but ever-present part of my world.

Then came our adventurous - travelling back and forth to see my grandparents, either on those overnight, fun-filled train rides or on small planes, sitting face-to-face with a table between us - quite the contrast to today’s cramped legroom!

My nanny Madar jun, who had moved in with mum after she married, would always accompany us on those journeys.

In Mashhad, grandma would be busy preparing for her religious gatherings, known as Sofreh. The guest room would be transformed - furniture cleared out, replaced with delicate white lace sheets spread over the carpets, and cushions scattered for seating. At the centre, a striking display of floral arrangements, colourful dishes, and traditional deserts like ‘sholeh zard’, alongside bowls of Persian nuts, would take shape.

One by one, the ladies - draped in the latest, most stylish chadors, worn loosely - would arrive, filling the room with laughter, chatter and the unmistakable hum of good gossip. That is, until the mullah entered, seating himself on a raised platform.

At once, the room fell into reverent silence, as he launched into his melodious, dramatic recitation of the holy book.

After the tears shed during the mullah’s dramatic recitals, the moment he left, silence gave way to ladies’ chatter. Chadors were lifted to reveal elegant two-piece skirt suits, and the room filled once more with the buzz of chatter and gossip.

The star comic in my granparents’ home, however, was Hamideh. Legend has it she’d once left her baby at the doorstep of a prominent family in the Caucasus, then wandered straight into our lives, in Mashhad.

She had an uncanny knack for mimicking grandma’s posh friends - bum stuck out, swinging a handbag à la Her Majesty, and parading around the room with playful exaggeration. The room would erupt with laughter at her every move. She sure upstaged the mullah.

Bababozorg (or grandpa) on the other hand, held court every Friday morning in his library; a cosy maze of bookshelves stacked to the ceiling. Doors wide open to celebrated poets like Rahi Moayeri to esteemed writers and thinkers such as Ali Dashti, welcoming anyone with a passion for Farsi prose and poetry. It wasn’t quite today’s open mic night - less snapping fingers, more clinking tea glasses - but the love of literature flowed just as freely.

One bright morning, Bababozorg appeared like a magician - his driver trailing behind him, arms full of birdcages - not one or two - but dozens! A full-on feathery parade.

We all rushed to the garden, buzzing. My favourite? Tiny birds with brown feathers, red polka dots, and the sassiest red beaks. At the end of the garden, in a room where sunrays slipped through high windows, we fed the tiny birds with tender hands and soaked bread. The room was shared with the family parrot, who thanks to Hamideh’s colourful tutoring, had a vocabulary that would make sailors blush. He recited its naughty repertoire to everyone’s delight.

Once the birds had eaten and the grown ups rested, Bababozorg gathered us again and with a twinkle in his eyes and a warm smile, he said:

“Now, open the cages and let them be free.”

And just like that, the sky filled with flapping joy. Honestly, I’m not sure who felt freer - the birds or us.

Those were my thoughts when I wrote the verse:

On a sunny day, birds are singing on a tree,

It must be such a blessing, to be so free.

And from sacred verses to cheeky parrots, and rose-scented sofrehs to grandpa’s poetic gatherings - Mashhad wasn’t always so saintly.

Until next time, keep your stories spicy and your memories just a little scandalous.

Ta ta

My first recollection?

Mum, styling my hair While getting herself ready for a visit from the khalehs - that’s her girlfriends, all of whom we addressed as aunties, naturally.

They’d arrive coiffed and fabulous - A-line skirts, round neck tops, low heels clicking on the entrance tiled floor, eyeliners flirtatious enough to write sonnets. Think: American sixties, but Persian flair.

The house brimmed with laughter, music, endless cups of tea and delicacies served in silver or crystal, and yes, pistachios always and without fail. Mashti, our devoted cook, would unveil a feast of Persian dishes.

Mum would play the piano - elegantly, effortlessly - and one of the khalehs would sing. Angelic. Meanwhile, little me, always ready to dance. Mais bien sure.

Then there were the parties, oh! The parties.

Our living room often transformed into a salon of song and celebration.

Musicians dropped by as casual as neighbours and my absolute favourite guest - Pouran - a famous singer gifted with beauty and the kindest smile. I’d settle myself beside her, like her most devoted admirer. She held my hand while she sang and I would drift into reverie.

There was always one song - ‘Ma ra Beboos’, the Persian echo of Besame Mucho. Sung only by Amoo Hassan, or as the rest of the country knew him; Hassan Golnaraghi. He was closer than kin, and though it was the only song he ever sang, it became our unofficial anthem - sang at parties, remembered like a kiss, and still hummed to this day.

There was even a song, played by my dear amoo, or uncle as we called dad’s friends; just for my dance. Oh, what pride!

Dinner? Oh! Divine.

A dazzling display of Persian delicacies, followed by the star of my childhood sweet tooth: home made creme caramel. There were waiters in white gloves gliding around with hors d’oeuvres and drinks. Long distant memories, yet fresh in my mind.

When it came to party preparations, I’d accompany Mum to the renowned hairdresser of the time, André - a haven of hairspray, chignon and glamorous bouffants. I’d sit admiringly, watching ladies transformed, one elegant curl at a time.

And then… there were the tailor’s visits.

Mother, as elegant as ever, would bring magazine clippings of French couture to her trusted society dressmaker. I’d sit quietly - but eyes wide - watching magic happen.

One unforgettable moment: my uncle’s wedding at the Hilton Hotel ballroom. Mum wore a turquoise velvet dress, sleeveless, pearls cascading from her décolletage. Hair, a perfect André chignon.

My sister and I wore matching velvet dresses, holding the bride’s trailing gown, as flower girls.

Father walked beside her in a grey silk suit and matching tie, looking as if he’d been styled by Armani for a GQ shoot.

Sadly, the revolution swept many things away - including all our photo albums. Confiscated. Gone.

But the material things fade. What lingers? The memories. The music, Golhaye rang a rang. The scent of jasmine. The laugher that lightens the heart and the way life flowed; carelessly.

Our holidays were pure magic.

After a five hour drive, we’d arrive in Babolsar, by the Caspian Sea, a row of rooms packed with family, friends and laugher that lingered deep into the night.

We’d spend our days sun-kissed and barefoot, chasing waves.

Just down the road stood the legendary Motel Ghoo or The Swan, as it was known. I remember my mum in straight-leg trousers and a sleeveless roll-neck, a band tied around her head like one of the girls in an Elvis film. The grown-ups vanished into the music, while we kids ran wild under the stars.

So yes, that was Tehran in the sixties.

Now, that’s a wrap on this little stroll down velvet-lined memory lane.

From the Caspian’s sandy shores to candlelit parties in Tehran, these memories still shimmer.

Until next time, this is Haldita signing off with a wink and a whisper.

Ta ta

Hello and welcome. You’re listening to Haldita.

Let me take you back in time, to where my stories began.

I was born in 1959, in a Tehran that sparkled not just with lights but with hope. My parents were both from Mashhad, in the North east of Iran. They moved to the capital Tehran, to build a new life and build it, they did. Our home was filled with music, laughter and in later years, caviar. Naturally.

My father, whom I called Babouli, was a self-made businessman with big dreams. He played the strict one at home - but underneath it all, he was a softie with a sharp, very Babouli sense of humour.

Mum on the other hand, was pure flair. A gifted pianist, a beauty with a taste for style, great humour and years ahead of her time. An avant-garde woman. She divorced my dad twice! Yes, twice. She married him, divorced him and did it all over again.

With two brothers on either side, my mother was the beloved only daughter - and yes, thoroughly spoiled by grandpa. She wore her father’s affection like a scarf, a silk scarf, with grace and charm and just enough mischief to get away with it.

My grandfather on my mother’s side, was a poet and a philosopher. A man who could say a lot with very few words. Grandpa carried a warm smile. Gracious in manner, generous in spirit and hospitality.

He was and remains my role model.

Grandma was the kindest soul - when she wasn’t entertaining guests, she was baking something exotic she’d picked up abroad or knitting cardigans straight out of French and Italian magazines.

One sweet memory of her: grandma scented the sugar bowl with jasmine petals, and just as mysteriously, her bra too. Some secrets she kept beautifully.

And then, there was Aneh jun - my great grandmother. All I know, she was from the Caucasus & fully in charge of the household. Everyone looked up to her. In her younger days, she left a betraying husband, who was also her cousin, and with her two year old daughter, travelled to Mashhad , to her parents’. Courageous for sure.

Now, on the paternal side, things were far more dramatic. My grandmother, Khanom Jan, had buried two husbands and birthed over a dozen children - some of whom had passed before I was born. Tiny in size but towering in presence, she had a wicked Babouli-style humour. She wore her chador like a queen’s robe and ruled her home with the help of her devoted butler; Esmail Agha.

Back in Tehran, our first home was on Soraya Street, named after the Shah’s second wife; a renowned beauty from a prominent family.

At the time, the second language in Iran was French and my younger sister and I went to Ecole Jeanne D’Arc, run by nuns. Yes, there were no rulers - but there were rosaries and discipline was never in short supply.

In summer, we were packed off to holiday schools in Switzerland, mingling with International students, learning etiquette, French verbs and how to serve a tennis ball - all rewarded with a piece of freshly baked bread and a Swiss chocolate bar. I can still taste it. Call me gourmande if you will.

Then came the big move; my mother decided we should be brought up like ‘proper ladies’. So, off we went to boarding school in Sussex.

At Battle Abbey we sang hymns we barely knew, sat through meals where fidgeting was a crime, and a language we didn’t quite grasp. And as for mornings - forget peace and quiet: the matron’s giant bronze bell rang like we were under siege!

One minute I was surrounded by Persian poetry, musical soirées, and saffron rice, the next, I was being served gravy over fatty sausages, tea with milk and playing hockey in a mini-skirt - in hail and storm.

There is no denying I had a privileged upbringing - but what stayed with me the most was: ‘You treat everyone with the same respect, good manners and kindness. No matter.’

Here and now, under the gaze of the moon, I’m carried back to those golden summers at our villa by the Caspian Sea - where music drifted through the open windows, laugher spilled from every corner, and my mother’s joy lit up the room like candlelight.

Some memories don’t fade; they simply wait for a moonlit night to return.

Now, if it’s cheeky tales or in other words, saucy stories you’re after - Oh! They’re coming.

Patience, my darlings.

Rome took time and even Shehrzad didn’t spill all her secrets in one night.

Thank you for stepping into my world - where the music sways, the stories smoulder and the next chapter… well, nobody knows quite what that will bring.

Until next time

Ta ta

You shall get to know me here as Haldita.

I began writing a blog, in August 2010, that was 15 years ago. It was about the life of a free-spirited woman. A woman who turned a new leaf after twenty years of marriage, who went from being under control to uncontrollable. Or in other words, from Stepford Wife into a MadGoddess. It was about one person, surpassing the boundaries of country, religion, sexuality and basically anything that separates us in humanity. We have to accept that we are each one unique, each in our own way. A unicorn living in one world. After a few years of writing, I went through a writer’s block. It happens. And it wasn’t until couple of years ago, on an Ayurvedic retreat, that the thought of writing a poem enlightened my thoughts.

Now, before I read the poem, let me tell you a little more about this podcast. The aim here is eventually, having a selection of mostly worldly people, one at a time, on my couch, drinking specially brewed herb tea that I make and chatting openly. Without inhibitions, about life experiences.

Now, what subjects does haldita here have in mind, you may ask. Well, how about sex, drugs and rock and roll, for three, or anything else in between. There are so many subjects in life to discuss. Just enough secrecy and hiding behind masks. Enough of that. Let’s just be open to life. So, to start off with this brief beginning, I’d like to read you the poem that I wrote on that retreat in India.

It’s very true to today’s world. It’s called: ‘A Life Without Judgement’.

Hey you, mysterious little thing we call life,

You come one day gentle, another sharp as a knife.

On a sunny day, birds are singing on a tree,

It must be such a blessing, to be so free.

Yet, there are rainy days as stormy as my mind,

I turn to the Universe, please will you be kind?

What I see in you, is only a reflection of me,

What you see in me, is perhaps whom you’d like to be.

When you look at someone’s life and all you see is good,

Think twice honey, you ain’t got a clue dude.

What you see on the outside, is not what lies within,

You should know that by now, when you’re sad but raise your chin.

Let us put judgement aside, turn on a new leaf,

We are human after all, let’s be done with mischief.

I’m all for reform, change is a must,

Nothing can settle in and lay over like dust.

The past is history, tomorrow a mystery,

What will happen today, would it be blistery?

Now, close your eyes and let the opulent scent of jasmine,

Take you to places, you have never been.

And on that note, with excitement and always gratitude, that is my attitude. I have finally done what is my first podcast. Will keep you posted on this and this one is gonna be short and sweet.

Till next time,

Ta, ta.

It goes without saying that my thoughts get diverted, at times, towards the suffering caused by corona, but I keep telling myself, this too shall pass, and life goes on. We each have a story and go through various cycles at different times. Recently, the central part of the news has been based on a C-worded letter that has occupied all our time and energy with the madness surrounding it.

And my Corona story goes...

I travelled to Goa in India at the end of January 2020, as I have done for the past five years. After the health scares of earlier months, the Goa trip accelerated the healing process. Morning yoga classes with Jo, the afternoons lying under a pergola on the beach accompanied by sis Hala and friends we made on previous visits there, healthy delicious food, away from any stress and overthinking was everything the doctor advised. We still managed to dance under the stars at the Ecstatic Dance. On my last day, the 1st of March, I was introduced to Watsu, which is Shiatsu (a form of massage from Japan that supports the body's natural ability to self-heal); only Watsu takes place in water. 

Glowing with youth, with shoulder-length hair, big blue eyes, and a tender smile, Mitch, the therapist, awaited me on the beach. The sky was semi-cloudy, unlike other days. We sat on the calming warmth of the grey sand, and he explained the process of floating at sea while holding me from beneath. He spoke gently and mentioned the spirit of my father and mother, who have both passed. The tears began to fall uncontrollably. Laying face-up on the water in the Arabian Sea, Mitch moved my body, swaying like a boneless fish in the water. When he pulled me underwater and held me by the ankles, with eyes half-open, I could see the bubbles floating out of my mouth into the blue sea. It felt like being in the womb again. Not that I remember the first time. He had told me to completely let go. I recall holding him around the neck at some stage and sobbing. He was my mother and father, and I have been blessed with so much love. The tears were simply a sign of missing them on Earth.

The session ended with Mitch laying me on the sand with my eyes shut; he covered me top to toe with a thin cotton-white sheet. As he spoke or sang, I imagined a white light all around. When I finally opened my eyes, his angelic face with the sweetest smile shone above, in front of a cloudy sky in the background. I said surprisingly with a cheeky smile: 

"Goodness! Are you Jesus?!"

Returning to London on the 2nd of March was the beginning of Covid for me. Keeping away from the media in Goa was easy, so I continued with a similar vibration in the city. The world had shut down, and it was clearly time for reflection. I was blessed with a roof over my head and enough means to carry on without worry. Online slow flow and kundalini yoga classes, a month of dancing daily with friends on Zoom to Bob Sinclar playing on Facebook, going for walks in parks, social distancing with a couple of friends and taking up cookery again kept me relatively sane. I did have a go at baking but decided to avoid that department as I have a sweet tooth, and sugar is the worst legal drug in almost everything we eat. Yet, no one warns us of the health hazards it actually causes. 

Burning sage around my apartment in the invitation to joy and positive vibes while shooing away any negativity. I read happy articles and avoided watching the news as I have done for almost two decades now. Fear is not healthy. The summer of 2020 in London was kind to us weatherwise. So, I partook in gardening, prepared healthy lunches of varied salads, and sat in the garden to eat them under the shade of the olive trees. They may not produce much olive in this climate, but they look good all year round. Keeping a positive mind, I talked to friends and found subjects to laugh about. There is always much to be grateful for if we look in the right direction.

In looking inside the soul, there were, of course, moments of loneliness. Missing that human touch and the face-to-face chats with loved ones. As it happens, the Universe sent a lover to my door. Haha. The two weeks of lust and fun were great for what it was. But often, after passion comes the comedown. Lust is like a drug; once you feel it, you want more. Yet, I knew from the start it was not going anywhere and that this would pass in time. Or, another one has gone to dust. C'est la vie! 

When the daily, smiley one-hour dance sessions gradually ended, again, there was a void where the intense joy had turned into the silence of another day passing by. I wanted to dance again. 

I found joy in gardening and trying out different recipes. One thing I learned to make at home was hummus—chickpeas and tahini, basically! But boy, was it messy! The dried chickpeas took forever to cook in boiling water. Phew. Humus made by supermarkets is good enough, I decided. The hash cookies, however, turned out pretty good. 

We are so obsessed with learning, knowledge, and news that it constantly occupies our whole being. Sometimes, it is good not to learn. It is okay not to be okay. For peace of mind, get writing. Pick up a pen and paper.

Firstly, WHAT is making me ANXIOUS?

Secondly, WHAT has caused me pain and HOW?

Thirdly, what excites me?

These Covid times have had an effect on everyone. The youth are concerned with their future, and the elders are lonely, being told this is for their benefit. What is life about? It is to be lived, not imprisoned in our homes, and to be away from any human interaction. Who makes these rules? I question our leaders and their actions constantly. Politics seems like a dirty business that is far from the good of mankind. My most significant learning after forgiveness and self-love has been letting go of fear. Liberating my mind of expectations, accepting whatever life throws my way, and patiently waiting for any outcome. 

I travelled to Portugal with Sis at the beginning of November and attended Jade's engagement, an intimate gathering of her close friends in the mountains. The theme was Alice in Wonderland! The four-day event was simply out of this world. The Mad Hatters Tea Party began at 16:00 hour and ended at six in the morning. Need I say more? The music played by several DJs gave way to hours of dancing and socialising. It was so good to be amongst like-minded people who were just as pleased to be interacting with one another. I spent a week with my Girl and her friends in the Algarve, Southern Portugal, and when I returned to London, the loneliness of the past few months was cured. 

Another travel awaits. I'm going to a destination that is home to me yet dangerous to most worldly travellers. Keep safe, everyone. 

Love 

Haldita

Life is a school we attend throughout our physical time on Earth. 

From what I have learned, we are here in this physical form by choice. Although sometimes hard to believe, considering all the crap we go through, the question is... 'Seriously? I chose this?' Life is a school, and the faster we learn the lessons, mainly to let go of the heartaches and pain we endure, the better quality of life we shall lead. We find it can be challenging in time, but what is my choice? To seek and survive or to sink?

Once more, I escaped the London winter blues last February and travelled to India to join Sis Hala for some sun and fun. Our yoga teacher, Joe, could not make it over this time, and the search for a replacement led us to Raj, practising his daily routine in a large tent covered by see-through orange and green netting. One day, at the beginning of our practice, I looked across the lush green field ahead and noticed a white heron elegantly posing on the neck of a white bull. The site resembled a surreal painting enlivened with the melody of the birds and the gentle sound of the leaves swaying swiftly to the breeze. It was as though the two were deep in conversation, not by any sound but by flowing energies. 

The bull barely moved throughout the yoga class, which lasted over an hour, and neither did the heron. The questions raised in my mind were numerous. There was obviously a connection between animals, but this seemed unlikely, like a friendship. What could they be discussing? The weather? Gossip perhaps? Nah, nature's peace indeed leaves no leeway for such nonsense. The only thing that made sense to me was that almost hypnotising moment when you don't need sound, words, or any noise to feel at peace next to one another. After all, we are all nature's creatures. 

On other days, during the yoga session, the white heron would stand on a rock next to the white bull, facing each other peacefully. The heron would fly away momentarily, only to return to its beloved companion. The connection between the two was so compelling that I could barely concentrate on my downward dogs, as it was hard to set my gaze elsewhere but this magical scene. 

Now, back in London, sitting on my comfy couch, covered with a soft blanket, listening to the drizzle of rain on the conservatory glass windows, I long for the heat. The rays of sunshine gleamed on my tanned skin. What I am missing is being held against another body, the embrace of a man. But buffffff, that last thought comes with too much baggage. Well, let's leave it for now and work on the sunshine.

'I wrote this blog last year and never posted it! The writing block, as a travel ban, is now lifted from my mind, so I feel free to share again.' 

Writing down one's thoughts and feelings is therapeutic. I encourage it to everyone I meet. Pray for happier days. Stay as positive as you possibly can. This, too, shall pass.

The way to a higher being is to experience life on many levels, to let go of all the troubles and the past aches, the ego, the self-pity, and, mostly, to let go of any fear that has haunted us. It is all perfect to work on one's state of mind and live a relatively happy life with a positive attitude. Still, there is no denying that certain recreational drugs enhance feelings and, to a certain extent, give us an out-of-body experience. 

Please let me be clear, I am not in any way promoting the notion or encouraging anyone to take drugs of any sort. But we live in a world where the consumption of cannabis, for example, has been legalised to some extent for medical and recreational use, of course. Yet, psychiatric wards are filling up with young patients suffering from schizophrenia due to the consumption of skunk (a chemical method of growing marijuana).

The latest form of enjoying substances is called 'micro-dosing'. Essentially, it involves taking drugs in tiny quantities instead of abusing them, using the substance, literally, for recreational purposes, a buzz. Then again, the word abuse is questionable.

I was holidaying on an island in the Persian Gulf with some girlfriends. There are sites on the island of Qeshm that reminded me of the Grand Canyon but in a sandy-coloured tone as opposed to red. There were salt caves and long beaches with no one in sight. The place had an air of magic, although we had yet to reach the main town and shopping area.

Instead, one day, we took a fifteen-minute ride in a motorboat, mostly owned by fishermen, to cross to the next smaller island. The sun shone in a literally unfiltered blue sky, and the winter temperatures were no higher than 24/25 degrees centigrade at midday. 

Huey instructed us to approach a stall on the beach and ask for directions where someone would pick us up and drive us to him. It was all confusing at the time, but it worked out well. I sat in the front seat, next to our friendly driver, while the girls sat at the back. The scenery was, again, something out of a Western movie; unreal. The driver pointed out the sparkles through the sand in some areas, which shone through to our hearts. 

After a short drive, he stopped, and Huey appeared from the middle of two rocks to greet us. His smile was pleasant and welcoming, the kind you can trust at first sight. We chit-chatted as we followed him to the campsite, where a fire was lit, surrounded by a girl and three other fellows. Everyone was super-friendly, and we felt their warmth as much as the fire, which was mainly used for cooking, just after midday. 

After an introductory chapter, the three of us girls, with Huey and his close friend, Bobby, decided to go on a long hike after taking a micro-dose of LSD. The walk, which, according to Huey, was meant to take fifteen minutes, lasted over an hour. But the scenery was mesmerising, and the company was great fun. We finally reached a rocky bay with a sandy beach in between and decided to go for a swim. The water of the Gulf was too chilly in January, so we partially set foot in the sea while my sense of humour was warming up. 

Our roars of laughter must have reached the angels in heaven above, as there was no other soul in sight. We felt hungry and thirsty in a short time, as we began to realise we had made the trip quite unprepared. We were in the middle of nowhere! As we discussed where to source refreshments, a figure appeared on the rock. It was a young man, rocking the look of a Red Indian, fit, tanned and with black straight shoulder-length hair.  
"Hello!" he said with a friendly smile. I could hear your laughter in the distance, so I came over to invite you all to our campsite for a bite to eat."

Totally gob-smacked, we stared at him in disbelief. So, I asked:

"Did you just fall from the sky?!"

He answered without hesitation: 

"No! I came from the back of that mountain," he said, Pointing to the mountain range in the distance. 

We all laughed. 

The green-eyed man then continued: "Please come join us. We'll be waiting for you."

And he walked back towards where he had pointed out earlier. 

We looked at each other, and as the crew was wondering what to do next, I intervened:
"C'mon, guys. Our host insisted we join them for lunch. I'm starving. Let's go. Quick!"

We soon made our way to the spot indicated to us and came across three guys who stood up in our presence to introduce themselves. Later on, we named them 'Jesus', 'Moses' and 'Ibrahim', simply because they might as well have been those characters. 

The boys sat on a rock and offered us, girls, a seat that I just have to describe: Two large, evenly cut rocks, one as a seat, like in a sofa, and the other as the back. They were covered by a sarong-like fabric with a stack of rocks in front, dressed with a piece of cloth as a table would be. When I asked innocently, "This setting is unbelievable! You don't happen to have any issues here. Do you?"

Guess what? One of the boys lifted the edge of the textile and brought out a box of tissues. Seriously?! 

A large pan of rice with soya was cooking on the fire next to the table. Jesus, the guy who had first approached us on the beach, had made it. He served the food on plates while chatting with us. 

Moses had light brown dreadlocks with hints of blonde; a very original face, like a character in a Hollywood Western, with haunting blue eyes; and, last, Ibrahim was a picture from a Persian miniature. Now I can't say whether it was merely the effect of the LSD but these guys were drop-dead gorgeous! In any state, they were also super-friendly, and we laughed well with them, though our appetite had disappeared due to much excitement. 

Although the girls insisted we should make our way back, I could not possibly agree with them: "Leave! Leave where? We're in heaven. Where else does one go after heaven?"

One of the girls then asked: "I hope we haven't died and gone to heaven!"

I replied, "It sure seems that way. But oh no! I've got to go back to Earth. There's much to do before I leave."

After an enjoyable time (no idea how long), we left the three heavenly creatures and followed Huey to another bay to watch the sunset. The smooth rocks on the sandy beach were covered with algae. They looked like deep green velvet seats to enjoy the magical sunset. Simply amazing!

Huey informed us of the time and said we had to return to their campsite and decide when to leave before the last boat ride. Walking back after an unbelievable journey, we mentioned how much we'd like a hot drink; some tea. As we climbed the rocks to get back, the girl in her army uniform outfit whom we'd met earlier surfaced with a flask!

She said: "I thought you'd be back around this time, so I got you a hot drink."

"Don't tell me you got us some tea?! Did you?" I inquired sceptically.

"No," was her answer immediately. "I got you some cappuccino!"

"Cappu-fucking-ccino?" I asked in disbelief.

Indeed, she had brought us just that, a cappuccino in a flask. We could not have felt luckier. 

We gathered around the campfire, which had been kept alive in our absence and was now glowing at full strength, and drank tea while discussing our return. I butted in as usual...

"I ain't going anywhere now! I'm certainly not ready to return to reality. We'll just have to camp here, I guess."

The girls were in agreement, although we had turned up in swimsuits covered with long cotton dresses and shawls. We were not in any way ready for a cold night of camping, which would have been a first for me. But what to do? 

As darkness fell, the stars twinkled with the glory I had never experienced. We kept singing 'Twinkle twinkle little star' just like contented children. Hunger struck again when another good-looking character appeared with a sack hanging from a branch on his shoulder. Sobhan was his name. The boys greeted him as he introduced himself and sat by the fire beside me, lying on the solid ground, my head supported by a beach bag. My gaze drifted from the stars to Sobhan's face, lit by fire, while he swiftly peeled potatoes with a Swiss knife. I literally had to pinch myself to know this was a reality. He fried the potatoes in onion and garlic and made another pan of rice on the other side of the fire with Turkish coffee coming to a boil next to the different pots. 

Before food was served, Huey suggested we walk to the beach to watch the plankton in the sea. Sobhan kindly held my arm as our tired legs stepped towards the Gulf—yet another unimaginable sight! 

Under the velvety indigo sky, 
The twinkle of the stars made me wanna fly.
A deep blue sea may as well have been dry,
By the plankton gleaming. Oh my!
Don't take me anywhere, don't even try,
'Coz it's here, I wanna die.

The air was getting colder by the hour, and Bobby, who had gallantly carried my heavy beach bag all day, offered us his thick jumpers and socks and their tent. While we all scattered around the fire and everyone fell asleep, at 03:17am, while I stared into the sky, a shooting star flew right above me, sparkling all the way. 

Magic follows you when you seek it. The experience confirmed that your every wish becomes a reality when you're in a good place.