Back to the Country: Chacao, Caracas, Venezuela, February 2026

More than a week has passed since I returned to Caracas.

Already it feels as though my wonderful journey through Lima, Montevideo, Colonia del Sacramento, and Panama happened long ago — like a chapter I finished reading and then slowly carried in my pocket. Yet whenever I open the photo galleries from that trip, I am again carried away by memory: the light on the ocean cliffs in Lima, the slow river light in Montevideo, the cobblestone curves of Colonia at dusk, and the familiar streets of Panama that seemed to welcome me back with quiet warmth.

🇵🇦 Panama
Even a brief stay there felt like returning to an old conversation. Casco Viejo’s pastel façades, balconies that lean gently into time, and the soft, forgiving quality of light at dusk made me feel seen by the city rather than merely passing through. Walking Avenida Balboa and letting the Pacific stretch its vast calm before me felt like inhaling deeply — the way you breathe when you first wake and realise you slept soundly.

Panama photos: https://photos.app.goo.gl/C3MkWdfQmuFyHjwE8.

🇵🇪 Lima
Three days in Lima taught me how a city can unfold slowly if you are willing to walk with no destination in mind. In Miraflores, mornings began quietly, tree-lined streets filtering sunlight and cafés waking with gentle rhythm. Then the land dropped away to the Pacific below — a presence more than a view — and I stood for longer than I expected, watching waves shape themselves into patterns of calm repetition. Barranco felt like a place that remembers its own stories, each narrow street and balcony whispering histories I was only beginning to hear.

Lima photos: https://photos.app.goo.gl/FwN4vSnLzoZcEXSp9.

🇺🇾 Montevideo and Colonia del Sacramento
Montevideo was a slow unfolding, like finding your footing inside a different kind of quiet. The rambla along the river that stretches and pretends to be an ocean welcomed me with its open pace — walkers, mate flasks, dogs, light shifting slowly across water. Guided strolls through Ciudad Vieja and markets where voices rise and settle made me appreciate how ordinary life, lived generously, shapes a city’s heart. And Colonia del Sacramento, with its timeless cobblestones and warm dusk light, felt like stepping into a memory I hadn’t yet lived but somehow recognised.

Uruguay photos: https://photos.app.goo.gl/2S2KjPqdSWTcDp6W6

It was a solo trip — not out of solitude, but out of that rare, quiet freedom that comes when you travel by yourself. I like travelling with people, and I treasure shared explorations. But there is something about wandering new places alone — and returning to familiar ones in that way too — that makes you feel more fully engaged with your own thoughts, with the world as it moves around you, and with the subtle unfolding of your own self. It left me happy, refreshed, and invigorated — as though something inside me had been gently tuned before returning to the usual rhythms of life in Caracas.

And I am enjoying my time here a lot.

Caracas is not just a home base; it is home in the way certain cities quietly become part of you. I have wonderful friends here, and I appreciate every shared meal, every conversation that stretches long into the evening, every unexpected moment of laughter. Even when I get tired — and I do at times — there is a deep sense of belonging in this city that I am grateful for.

We are not entering a calm period at work — but the pace is different now. We are in the midst of allocating funds for our projects in 2026 and beyond — a huge amount of work that demands careful reading of proposals, thoughtful analysis, and difficult decisions about where our resources will make the best impact. It is challenging, dense work, and often not easy. Yet it is engaging in ways that make me feel grounded in purpose. This is a very interesting time — demanding, yes, but also rich with possibilities.

Even as some of these plans still seem distant, my thoughts turn gently toward what comes next.

I find myself thinking about my next deployment in Ethiopia — about moving to Addis Ababa, about how the city has changed since my last visit, about the rhythms of life there, and about the work that will unfold in that chapter. I have been reading, learning, preparing quietly in the background of each day. Already I have a feeling of how things may go, though of course the reality will have its own shape and pace. But before that chapter begins, there are still months here — hopefully with trips to the field across Venezuela, to see and evaluate our projects where they live, on the ground, with the people they touch.

Then in June, I will be heading to Brussels, and likely to Poland as well — another kind of return, another reconnection. And after that, there are provisional thoughts in my mind about what I may be doing with my mum and with friends before Ethiopia begins in earnest… but that is a story for another time, when the right moment arrives.

For now, I sit with these memories — letting the quiet of Panama linger a little longer in my bones, letting the images and sounds of strange and familiar streets unfold again in my mind, and letting the slow rhythm of life here in Caracas fold gently around me.

Around my hotel, Panama City, Panama, February 2026

I am sitting in Panama again, in my hotel room where the city hums quietly below, thinking about these past two weeks. Tomorrow morning I will be flying back to Caracas, but today is still filled with small rhythms of work — a final visit to the office, a last coffee with colleagues, conversations that feel both familiar and slightly changed by absence.

This trip was exactly what I needed: a chance to recharge my batteries in a way only travel seems to allow. There was no stress, no strict plan — just openness and the willingness to let each place reveal itself at its own pace. It was a holiday born out of a subtle window of time between other responsibilities, and it turned out to be one of the most peaceful and refreshing breaks I’ve had in a long while.

Panama felt like an old friend from the first steps. One day there, but enough to walk Casco Viejo again, to let its layers of memory settle differently in my mind. Familiar streets, pastel façades, and that quiet sense of continuity — places that remembered me even before I remembered them. Panama always offers more than transit; it offers pause and recognition.

Lima followed with its own gentle lessons in attention. Three days of walking — not rushing, just letting the city’s rhythm meet my curiosity. Miraflores in early light, coffee in quiet cafés, then the sudden drop to the Pacific below the cliffs, waves rolling in their quiet discipline. In Barranco I wandered narrow streets where stories cling to balconies and walls, and I crossed the Bridge of Sighs almost by accident, a small ritual that felt bigger than it needed to be.

In Montevideo I found a different sort of calm — unhurried, gracious, rooted in ordinary life. I walked the rambla beside the wide river that feels almost like an ocean, passed people with mate flasks and dogs by their sides, and let the city’s softer rhythms unfold. One day brought light rain after bright sunshine, a small reminder that nothing stays the same from one moment to the next. With a guide, I visited key corners of the city and even began planning a visit to Colonia and perhaps further east to Costa del Este — places that now sit quietly on my list of “somewhere else.”

And through it all, I walked. Every day was measured not in flights or bus rides, but in steps — fifteen thousand most days, and once in Lima more than twenty-thousand. My legs felt it by the end of each evening, in that satisfying way that tells you you’ve truly seen a place with your own two feet.

Now, in this calm moment before departure, I realise how much this journey has refreshed me. There was no rush, no checklist, no pressure to perform curiosity — just a letting be, a going with the flow, and the simple joy of exploring. I needed that. And I am happy to be returning to Caracas tomorrow — not reluctantly, not tired, but full of stories, calm in my mind, and grateful for the days that helped me breathe a little more deeply.

More soon from home, and pictures will follow!

Walking around the city, Montevideo, Uruguay, January 2026

After a few days of movement and discovery, I find myself in Montevideo.

The journey unfolded gently. One day in Panama City, just enough to let memory walk beside me again. Three days in Lima, where the city revealed itself step by step, patiently, through walking rather than explanation. And now Uruguay, arriving not with spectacle but with a quieter promise.

Panama was brief, but full.

Returning there always feels layered. Casco Viejo held me again in its narrow streets and softened façades, shaped by centuries of destruction and reinvention. I walked past places where earlier versions of my life unfolded — cafés where mornings once stretched lazily, streets whose rhythm I still carry in my body. Panama never feels like a stopover. It feels like a place that remembers, even if the remembering happens mostly inside me.

Beyond the old quarter, the city opened outward. Avenida Balboa, where the skyline meets the Pacific and ships wait patiently offshore. Vía Argentina, alive with conversation and shade. And Ciudad del Saber, where ideas once mattered more than speed, where I worked, worried, hoped, and believed deeply in cooperation. Being there again felt like opening an old notebook and recognising your own handwriting.

Then Lima.

Three days of walking until the city began to speak.

I arrived without a plan, which felt exactly right. Lima does not demand preparation; it asks for attention. Miraflores welcomed me with calm streets and filtered light, before suddenly giving way to the cliffs and the Pacific below. The ocean there is not decoration — it is presence. Constant, steady, indifferent.

Barranco followed, narrower and more introspective. A place that remembers. I crossed the Bridge of Sighs almost accidentally, held my breath, made a quiet wish, and smiled at myself for participating in a legend I had just learned. Cities endure not only through architecture, but through these small agreements to keep stories alive.

The second day deepened everything. With Sebastián, the historic centre opened its layers — the cathedral heavy with centuries, a discreet library behind the presidential palace where silence felt intentional, protective. Then Chinatown, alive and unapologetic, where fusion has long since become tradition rather than novelty. And later, fountains rising and dancing at dusk, joyful and slightly absurd, children running between jets of light. Lima does not resist contradiction. It embraces it.

The final day was deliberately simple. Shopping, coffee, familiar streets that had already begun to feel known. That moment when a place stops being new is always bittersweet. I packed slowly, knowing I was leaving unfinished conversations behind — with the city, and perhaps with myself.

Since leaving Caracas, I have been walking constantly. Fifteen thousand steps a day has become the norm, and one day in Lima reached just over twenty thousand. My legs feel it — but in the best way. Walking remains my favourite way of understanding a place. It aligns thought and movement, quietens noise, sharpens attention.

And now Montevideo.

Yesterday was bright and full of sun. Today it is raining lightly, and the change feels welcome. The city seems to soften under rain, colours deepening, sounds lowering. Later today I will meet a guide who will show me the highlights of the city — an introduction, a first conversation. Together we will also plan a visit to Colonia, and perhaps further east along the coast, to places where the map loosens and the rhythm changes.

I am looking forward to all of it.

Being here feels like the right pace. Not rushing, not accumulating, just moving attentively from one place to the next. Travelling like this — walking, listening, letting cities unfold rather than perform — reminds me why distance matters. Why change of place changes something inside us too.

More soon, from this side of the river that pretends to be an ocean.

Casco Viejo, Panama, June 2024

The day of travel has come.

The bags are packed, the apartment unusually quiet, and that particular mix of anticipation and calm has settled in. In a short while I will head to the airport and let the journey begin.

First stop: Panama, just for a night. A pause, a threshold, a familiar in-between. Then onward to Peru, where I will spend a few days letting Lima reveal itself slowly, without expectations. After that, Uruguay awaits — Montevideo, the river that feels like an ocean, streets I have never walked before. Before returning, I will pass through Panama once more, this time for meetings, closing the circle before heading back.

I cannot wait.

Travelling has always felt like oxygen to me. Not escape, but alignment. A way of breathing more fully, of remembering who I am when routines loosen their grip. New cities sharpen my senses; unfamiliar streets quiet my thoughts. Exploration, in its simplest form, brings me back to myself.

So this is the moment to disconnect, at least a little. To put distance between schedules and alerts, and to focus on what makes me genuinely happy: moving, observing, learning, wandering.

I will write again from elsewhere.

Panama, City, Lima & Montevideo: Here I come!

Life sometimes brings unexpected surprises.

After weeks of closed skies and constant adjustments, things have begun to open again in Caracas. A few international lines have quietly resumed their services, and with the calendar offering a rare moment of breathing space, the decision came almost naturally. I am going on holiday.

It feels strange to say it out loud. Even stranger to need it this much.

In the coming days I will first pass through Panama City, a place that for me is never just a transit point but a collection of faces, conversations, shared meals and unfinished stories. I hope to catch up with friends there, to sit somewhere familiar, to let time slow down for a moment before the journey continues.

From there I will head south, towards two cities I have never known before: Lima and Montevideo.

Lima, resting between desert and ocean, carries the weight of centuries in its stones. I imagine walking through Barranco at dusk, tracing the edges of Miraflores above the Pacific, tasting something simple and local in a market whose rhythm I do not yet understand. I want to stand on the Malecón and watch the sea stretch endlessly north and south, as if the continent itself were breathing.

Montevideo feels quieter in my imagination, more inward. A city of worn cafés, long rambla walks, bookshops and river light. I look forward to wandering Ciudad Vieja, to the hush of museums, to the slow curve of the Río de la Plata where the water pretends to be an ocean. Perhaps I will take a bus and leave the capital for a day, just to see what lives beyond the map’s main lines.

This is not the kind of journey built around checklists. It is a pause. A space between responsibilities. A chance to let unfamiliar streets speak before returning to what waits.

I so much look forward to the break.

As always, I will keep you posted.

La Castellana, Caracas, Venezuela, January 2026

Caracas, early hours of 1 January 2026

I wasn’t necessary for the clock to announce midnight — I slept through the arrival of 2026. There were no fireworks from my bedroom window, no shouting from the street below. Instead, at 3 a.m. I woke, pulled aside the curtain, and looked out over the soft, low hills of Caracas, where lights blinked like uncertain constellations in a city that never really stops trying. The sky was deep and quiet, and in that hush I began to wonder what this year might hold.

The night was neither spectacular nor silent — just that familiar murmur of distant horns, of life continuing without grand declaration. It reminded me that time’s turning point is not always a moment of brilliance; sometimes it’s simply a breath taken in stillness.

Much like the many mornings in foreign cities — dawn in Kabul before the streets have begun their clatter, the Atlantic’s hush at first light on Portugal’s coast, or the glow of lanterns among graves in Przemyśl — this early hour felt like a quiet threshold. There is something tender in these hours before daybreak: a sense of possibilities resting like mist over familiar terrain, fragile and waiting.

2026 will not arrive with certainty. It comes to each of us shaped by our presence, our choices, and the way we sit with both light and uncertainty. The world will carry on its vast dialogues — the troubling headlines and the quiet acts of kindness alike — and we will, as ever, find ourselves part of that ongoing, imperfect story.

In this year ahead, may we lean into questions as much as answers. May we listen more than speak. May we hold the small wonders — the kindness of a stranger, a city waking gently, a book that expands our understanding — as dearly as the grand visions we carry in our heads.

To friends near and far, to the strangers we haven’t yet met, and to the memories that keep us rooted even as we wander:

Happy 2026. May it be a year marked by clarity, compassion, presence, and a deep, abiding curiosity about what it means to be fully alive.

El Hatillo, Caracas, Venezuela, December 2025

Christmas and End of the Year Newsletter to Family and Friends:

Dear friends,

Like for all of us, 2025 has not been an easy year.

The world feels as if it has shifted a few notches in directions that make it harder to recognise. Political changes, conflicts, and the tone of public debate have challenged the way I perceive the world, and even some of the core beliefs that have guided me for a long time, especially those connected to humanitarian work and solidarity.

I do not want to make this overly dramatic, but as I understand and observe the world, it feels as though we, as humanity, have taken a few steps closer to events whose consequences we will all have to bear. I still hope things can be reversed. That we can pause, learn from the ills of the past, and manoeuvre our societies, our politics, and ourselves away from self-destruction, self-inflicted conflict, and suffering imposed on millions.

These thoughts come from what I see around my work, from the fate of people caught in unspeakable misery, and from the fading willingness of the more fortunate among us to extend support or a helping hand. They also come simply from reading or watching the news, and sensing that our planet is quietly (or not so quietly) crying for help, while our capacity, or willingness, to listen seems to be shrinking.

It may well be that I am getting older and seeing things pessimistically where there is no reason to. That is entirely possible. But this is how I feel.

And yet.

On a personal level, 2025 has been a genuinely happy year.

It all started in Spain, with a trip to Madrid and Sevilla (https://photos.app.goo.gl/YXv3eKAdSSS8NcNr9). Cities that remind you that life should include long walks, good food, and conversations that last longer than planned. The trip was also about helping Leo settle into his new country. Many of you have been part of his support along the way, and for that I am deeply grateful. He is doing well. There are still administrative challenges around his permits (Spain remains loyal to its bureaucratic traditions), but we are taking things step by step, and optimism remains stubbornly alive.

In April, I travelled to Poland (https://photos.app.goo.gl/b9E9DixmJJ7QzYWH9 & https://photos.app.goo.gl/tSgvoXXmsRYV1ALz6) to enjoy spring in southern Poland with my mum. There is something deeply reassuring about Polish springtime: the light, the smells, the way everything seems to wake up slowly, without rushing.

From there, mum and I continued what has become our tradition: exploring the world together. First Malta (https://photos.app.goo.gl/3Hh9EDSzH22Z2biK8), sunny, layered with history, and perfect for conversations over coffee that somehow always turn philosophical. Then further east, to Asia, to explore beautiful Uzbekistan and Kazakhstan (https://photos.app.goo.gl/2T2m23SnzcmF2sMc6), with vast, generous landscapes, extraordinary cities, and a sense of scale that gently puts one’s own worries into perspective.

Back in Poland, I still managed to reconnect with my favourite places in Nowy Sącz and Kraków (https://photos.app.goo.gl/cMFjzBPNjJNGQ5v67), and with mum and friends we went on a small but delightful journey through borders and histories, visiting Cieszyn, Český Těšín, and Žilina (https://photos.app.goo.gl/dpmkKqqwJ8AiXUdx9) — three countries, one shared coffee culture, and the pleasant feeling that Europe, at least at that scale, still makes sense.

It was also during this time that Leo came to visit us in Poland from Spain. We showed him some of our favourite corners of this part of the world — Kraków, Krynica, Zakopane — and then crossed the border into Slovakia together (https://photos.app.goo.gl/u8ZRBNB1P1pk31N16). It was such a joyful time, and I loved sharing this part of Europe with him, watching familiar places through someone else’s fresh eyes.

I also discovered (or rediscovered) Krosno (https://photos.app.goo.gl/mVFT4tn9itLqDi1o7), a town that charmed me quietly and decisively. From there, it was time to return to Caracas, via Kraków, Amsterdam, and Lisbon (https://photos.app.goo.gl/dYMHiqAGjgewq6LA7) — a reminder that airports remain strange emotional spaces where excitement, nostalgia, and mild exhaustion coexist very naturally.


In August, together with my Venezuelan friend Giovanni, we travelled to Europe. We started with a day in Madrid, where we also met Leo (https://photos.app.goo.gl/x4azh9yB89y5mV26A), and then moved on to Portugal (https://photos.app.goo.gl/sh4z28YRsbEVdurA6), sunlit, generous, and slow in the best possible way. I returned to Caracas, while Giovanni stayed on for a few more months, helping us renovate the house in Portugal.

Thanks to the kindness of friends and family, Giovanni also got to see a good part of Europe — Brussels, Paris, Amsterdam, Copenhagen, Kraków, Nowy Sącz, Zakopane, Krynica, and the Vysoké Tatry in Slovakia. Watching him explore places he had dreamt about for so long brought me immense joy. Few things are as moving as seeing someone experience their long-held dreams with wide-open curiosity.

At this point, it is probably fair to say that my Polish family in Nowy Sącz has become one of the biggest groups of Venezuelan enthusiasts in the world, despite never having set foot in Venezuela. Hosting Giovanni (and earlier Leo), hearing stories, sharing meals, and exchanging perspectives seems to have done the job rather effectively.

And then, of course, there is Venezuela. My beloved country. Travelling here is not always easy for administrative reasons, but whenever I could, I walked through Caracas, travelled, and marvelled at the country and its extraordinary people (https://photos.app.goo.gl/8YkSf9soc9jzPPPu6 & https://photos.app.goo.gl/XHGGAFQU9QnMMc6T7 & https://photos.app.goo.gl/KDTLuGUgbyiySLqR8 & https://photos.app.goo.gl/vByhYKcU3nBP5WXbA). Venezuela has a way of staying with you. Its warmth, humour, resilience, and generosity continue to humble me.

There was also some lovely personal news. Some of you may remember Tahir and his wife Amna welcoming little Hania into their lives. And just a few weeks ago, Tahir became a naturalised citizen of Canada, more than ten years after I first met him on the streets of Bangkok. An achievement that made me feel proud, emotional, and very aware of how long and winding some journeys are.

So yes, despite the gloom I sometimes feel when looking at the world, I also realise how incredibly lucky I am. Lucky to have a wonderful family and friends across continents. Lucky to live and work in Venezuela. Lucky to be part, in however small a way, of the lives of so many generous people.

Change is coming, though. As of August 2026, still with my organisation, I will be moving to Addis Ababa to take on responsibilities related to projects in Ethiopia. I am excited to return to eastern Africa, a region that has shaped me deeply. I am also aware that this means my time in Venezuela and the wider LAC region is slowly coming to an end. But I am still here for another six months, which means there is still plenty to enjoy, appreciate, and celebrate (including walks, conversations, and probably too much coffee).

Thank you for being part of my year, in big ways and small ones. I wish you a peaceful Christmas, moments of rest, laughter where possible, and a New Year that treats you gently.

May 2026 bring clarity, kindness, and perhaps a bit more listening, to ourselves and to the world.

With warmth and affection,
Roman

Hallacas made by Giovanni's Family, Caracas, Venezuela, December 2025

Caracas, December 2025

The streets of Caracas are glowing with Christmas.

Not in the polished, choreographed way you might see in New York or Paris — but with a joyful, almost chaotic brilliance all its own. Strings of lights stretch across streets, stars blink from apartment balconies, and inflatable Santas cling courageously to windowsills despite the tropical heat. Entire neighbourhoods seem dipped in glitter, as if the city decided to paint over its worries with colour and sparkle.

And yet, for many, Christmas here will be modest. There won’t be heaps of gifts or luxury feasts. But there will be laughter, shared meals, and togetherness — which, in the end, feels far more powerful than anything wrapped in ribbon. Caracas is a place where joy shows up quietly, insistently, even when it’s least expected.

In the background, life moves with its own rhythm — often surprising, sometimes a bit improvised. Travel plans shift. Packages arrive fashionably late. Traffic finds its own logic, with rules that seem more like gentle suggestions. Caracas teaches you to live in the moment and be flexible. But perhaps because of that, people here are incredibly kind to one another. There’s a generosity that smooths the edges of daily life: strangers hold doors, neighbours share chocolate, and friends check in not just out of politeness, but true affection.

And then, of course, there are hallacas.

I was first introduced to hallacas two years ago, during my very first Christmas in Caracas. Some dear local friends swept me into the tradition with warmth and laughter — insisting (rightly!) that one cannot understand Christmas in Venezuela without participating in la hallacada.

That year, we gathered in someone’s kitchen, armed with cutting boards, giant pots, stacks of banana leaves, and good humour. Everyone had a task. Someone chopped onions. Someone else marinated the meats. Another cleaned and softened the leaves. And there was me — the beginner — carefully spooning filling into the centre, trying not to mess up the folding technique (which is a lot harder than it looks).

The kitchen was loud and happy. Music playing, stories shared, flour on foreheads, laughter over lopsided hallacas. It reminded me of my own family holidays — different food, different climate, but the same warmth. That human instinct to gather and cook, to pass on tradition through hands and memory.

This year, I haven’t made them myself — not yet — but my adopted Venezuelan family is already well ahead of me. Preparations are in full swing. Pots are bubbling, leaves are being cleaned, and plans are being made to ensure there are plenty of hallacas for everyone when Christmas actually arrives. And I know — without doubt — that I’ll be invited to share in the eating (and maybe a little bit of wrapping duty, too).

In Caracas, the hallaca is more than a dish. It’s a symbol — of home, of family, of joy that insists on showing up, even when times are tough. I’ve come to love them. Especially when they’re reheated the next morning, with a cup of strong coffee and no urgency in the air.

And speaking of reheated things… some old memories are warming up this season too.

I recently received some bittersweet news. Bitter — because I will be leaving Venezuela, a country I have come to love in a way that’s hard to explain. Sweet — because I’ve been offered a new adventure. As of August 2026, I’ll be relocating to Ethiopia, to take on a new role in Addis Ababa.

It’s a return of sorts. I lived and worked in Ethiopia years ago, and the memories have stayed with me — the light in the highlands, the sound of Addis mornings, the incredible food (yes, I’m already dreaming of injera), and the strength and grace of the people I met there. So this next chapter feels like coming home to a place I once had to leave too soon.

But right now — I’m still in Caracas.
And I’ll be spending Christmas here — not in Poland with my family, not in Portugal where I lived for years… but here, under the warm, blinking skies of a city that’s somehow crept into my heart. And I feel lucky. Lucky for the friends I have here, for the kindness I’ve received, for the stars across the rooftops, for the hallacas in the fridge, and for one more Christmas in this vivid, resilient place.

Wishing everyone reading this a peaceful, delicious, and hallaca-filled holiday season. May it be full of kindness, surprise, and maybe even a little music in the kitchen.