La Castellana, Caracas, Venezuela, July 2025

It started with a plan: to do nothing.

A noble, deeply necessary plan. A Saturday to be gently idle, unbothered, and gloriously unscheduled. I had visions of reading, staring out the window, maybe making a heroic decision like not checking emails until at least lunchtime.

Naturally, it all fell apart.

First, I opened the manuscript — just for a minute. And, well… five hours later, I was still there, knee-deep in memories, scribbles, edits, footnotes, and one or two “what was I even trying to say here?” moments. The book — Memoir of a Wandering Spirit — clearly didn’t get the memo about Saturdays off. But it felt good. Tangled and demanding, yes, but good. It’s moving forward. Slowly. Honestly.

Then came a moment of travel admin: I booked a rental car for my upcoming trip to Lisbon — which, yes, is finally happening! Tickets are secured, and the thought of wandering through Óbidos with a bica in hand is keeping me more grounded than any meditation app could.

But those small acts of productivity set a tone. Suddenly I was responding to messages I’d planned to ignore, and — the real twist of fate — I agreed to accompany Giovanni on the weekly food shopping mission.

Let me be clear: this was not part of any restful plan. But somehow, I found myself in a busy Caracas supermarket, negotiating over plantains and trying to convince a young woman in overly cool sunglasses that it really wasn’t a good idea to keep her dog — however cute — inside the shopping trolley. “People put human food in there,” I ventured gently. She did not appreciate my argument. Giovanni, of course, was in his element — charming, chatty, completely unbothered. I, on the other hand, was clinging to my shopping basket like it was a lifebuoy.

And yet… it wasn’t terrible. The chaos had its rhythm. The shelves offered stories. And the mangoes were cheaper than last week. There’s a kind of intimacy in the ordinary when you let yourself notice it.

So no — I didn’t rest. I didn’t read. I didn’t sip tea on a quiet balcony like some aspirational Instagram account.

But I worked on the book. I booked my wheels for Portugal. I survived the shopping trip. And I laughed more than once.

Not bad for a Saturday that was supposed to be nothing at all.

Caracas, Venezuela July 2025

As Memoir of a Wandering Spirit continues to take shape, I’m excited to share that I’ve created a new space dedicated entirely to this writing journey.

📚 The new sub-page will be the place where I post updates on the progress of the book — including selected extracts, behind-the-scenes notes, and (whenever possible) a few fun facts and photographs to offer context to the stories I’m telling.

The idea is to make it easier for those of you following the project to keep track of what’s unfolding — whether you’re just curious about the process, interested in the places and moments described, or simply rooting for me from afar.

At this stage, the page is still very much under construction, but new content will be appearing there over the coming days.

Thank you for your encouragement, curiosity, and for accompanying me on this rather long (and winding) road of writing.

More soon!

La Guaira, Venezuela, July 2025

I’m sitting in my Caracas apartment with the windows open to the sticky warmth of the afternoon, a mug of strong coffee growing cold on the desk beside me. The city hums in the background — not too loudly today — and my thoughts are travelling far.

It’s planning season: I’m looking ahead to the next few weeks and beyond. If all goes well, I’ll be heading to Portugal sometime soon, which excites me more than I can say. Óbidos has become a place of light for me — not only because of its sunlit hills but because of the history I now carry in my pocket: my Portuguese passport, finally used for the first time just weeks ago.

Other possible chapters are shaping up too: a regional humanitarian seminar in Panama in November, and maybe — if I’m really lucky — a short trip to Canada to visit Tahir’s family and other cherished friends before that.

But most of my energy these days goes into the book. Memoir of a Wandering Spirit is no longer just an idea — it’s a companion. A demanding one. It asks for time, memory, honesty. It keeps me up some nights and carries me through others. The project is far from over. There’s still a great deal of writing ahead… and even more editing. But the heart of it is beating strong.

I write because I feel I should. Because what I’ve seen — what I keep seeing — in this line of work, in these places, in this life, would otherwise overwhelm me. Writing doesn’t solve anything. It doesn’t rescue anyone. But it allows me to bear witness. To hold onto truth. To protect myself, yes — but also to honour those whose stories have touched me.

So today, I wanted to share a few raw pages. Real ones. Unedited, perhaps imperfect — but written with care and gratitude. These are not mere anecdotes. They’re small windows into a life constantly shaped by motion, friendship, loss, and surprise.

📖 Extracts from Memoir of a Wandering Spirit:

❄️ Zakopane, Poland (1981)

When he woke, there was pain, but more than pain— confusion. A strange, underwater quiet filled the intensive care unit. He was connected to tubes, monitors, drips. Something hummed near his ear. His chest was tight. Breathing hurt. There were drains in his back, collecting blood. His body, stitched and patched, was trying to hold itself together.

And across the room, a nurse stood frozen by the television.

General Jaruzelski stared out from the screen in his heavy glasses. Tanks rolled across Polish cities. Martial Law had been declared.

The nurse cried. Not loudly. Not theatrically. Just a quiet unravelling, the way snow falls from a ledge when no one is watching. Kacper didn’t understand exactly what had happened. But he knew what war looked like. He had seen pictures. And now it was on every screen. A country sealed, curfews set, voices silenced.

🌆 London, United Kingdom (1992)

He introduced him to friends — mostly girls. Loud, smiling, kind Polish girls who spoke with a bounce in their voice and wore worn-out shoes from walking the city. One of them, Edyta, was especially sweet. She had three jobs — waiting tables in pubs and working in the kitchen of a boutique hotel near Oxford Circus.

One evening, after tea and laughter, she leaned over and whispered, “I spoke to the manager. They’re looking for help. Come tomorrow.”

Kacper did.

The manager — a wiry man from Sri Lanka named Mr. Liroy — looked him over for a long moment, then said:
“You can clean dishes. Scrub floors. But no one must see you. You limp. People will say we exploit the crippled.”

Kacper blinked.

He didn’t even register the cruelty in the words — not at the time. He just nodded. “Yes,” he said. “Of course.”

Because there was money.

Not much. But enough.

Enough to buy food.

Enough to pay rent.

Enough to stop borrowing.

It was the smallest victory. But to Kacper, it felt like a continent.

So Kacper started working.

🌃 Delhi, India (1995)

Delhi came alive.

Shops lit up in pinks, greens, and pulsing neon. Bonfires burned in patches along the pavement — families gathered around, warming themselves, cooking food in tin pots. Children chased one another between tuk-tuks and carts. A man sold strings of jasmine flowers that smelled like memory. A woman in gold earrings sang quietly to herself as she swept the dust from her shopfront into the street.

It was light and dark. Noise and silence. Scent and shadow.

On the walk back to the hotel, Kacper looked at himself in a shop window.

He saw two black rings around his nostrils — soot from the city’s air, from the exhaust of buses and the open fires on the kerbs. He rubbed his face and laughed. Delhi had already marked him.

That night, lying on the narrow bed in a room that smelled of too many lives, Kacper stared at the ceiling and thought: this is paradise.

Not the paradise from travel brochures or Sunday sermons. But his paradise — strange, flawed, luminous with human noise.

🕌 Near Lahore, Pakistan (1995)

It was late enough now that the iftar — the breaking of the fast — had begun. The table was laid out richly: plates of marinated meat, yoghurt sauces, heaps of rice, piles of spiced flatbreads. Silja and Kacper were asked about everything — Denmark, Finland, Poland, their schooling, their bus, their thoughts on Pakistan.

The mood was festive, chatty, welcoming. And yet, beneath it all, Kacper felt a strange, slow cloud forming. He was tired. Foggy. His head heavy. He blinked hard, rubbed his temples.

Then came the tea.

Kacper tried to politely refuse. “I’m full,” he said, “I never drink milk tea. Really.”

But their hosts insisted. Firmly.

“No, no,” one of the women said. “You must. It is tradition.”

They were visibly upset when he hesitated. The smiles stiffened. Something about the room dimmed.

So he drank.

It was sweet. Too sweet. Thick. It clung to his tongue like syrup.

He remembers the light — a single bare bulb high on the wall of the guest room. It buzzed faintly, flickering once or twice. He tried to turn over, to switch it off. But his arms didn’t move. Or maybe they did. He couldn’t tell.

And then —

Nothing.

He opened his eyes.

Trees. Branches swaying above. Sky between them, pale and unmoving. His head throbbed, deep and dull like an echo. The air smelled of soil and petrol.

He saw Silja. She was on the ground, a few feet away. She vomited into the grass, her hair matted. She wore only part of her outfit.

Kacper blinked slowly. It didn’t register. He wanted to sleep. He turned his face into the earth and let go again.

🌁 Tehran, Iran (1995)

There was something in the air of Tehran that reminded him of home. Not Nowy Sącz, exactly — but Poland in the gloomiest years of its own grey winter. The dull ache of systems too large to fight. The coded jokes. The careful conversations. The quiet rebellions. How people found each other in spite of the noise. He had grown up in it. He recognised it.

They stayed in Tehran for three days. They visited the Golestan Palace with its glittering mirrors and mirrored lies. They walked the hills of Darband and tasted sour plums dipped in salt. But most memorable was their visit to the University of Tehran.

Through a local contact, they were introduced to a small circle of professors who had agreed — cautiously — to meet. The discussion was broad, almost evasive, but peppered with curiosity and candour. “You come to learn?” one of the scholars asked. “Then observe our contradictions. That’s the best teacher we have.”

They sipped tea together in a faculty lounge where a poster of Hafez covered a peeling wall. It was enough. Words were chosen carefully, but eyes said more. These were people who had not given up. Not on truth, not on learning.

When they left Tehran, the city receded behind them in waves of smog and light. But something stayed with Kacper. Not the monuments, not the markets — but the feeling of a people who had not allowed themselves to disappear into their own silence.

He thought again of the woman in 'Daughter of Persia', and the girl in the bookshop, and the driver who made him laugh. And he understood something new: sometimes resistance doesn’t shout. It sings, it whispers, it waits — and it endures.

This book is not finished. Not even close. The memories are vast, and the editing will demand patience. But the soul of it — the wandering, questioning spirit of Kacper — is alive and well.

Thank you for staying with me. For reading. For asking. For caring.

Writing may not change the world, but perhaps it changes the writer — and, just maybe, the reader too.

Sending you all my warmest regards, wherever you are reading this message from!

Avila Hills, Caracas, Venezuela, June 2025

It’s already July — somehow — and I find myself needing to pause for a moment and take stock. Life in Caracas continues at its intense pace. Between professional responsibilities, writing projects, and half-formed travel plans, the days slip by quickly, sometimes too quickly.

Work has been demanding lately. The recent floods in the western part of the country have kept our team fully occupied — coordinating with partners, assessing needs, and pushing forward on response efforts despite all the usual constraints. It’s the kind of work that consumes you — urgent, necessary, sometimes exhausting, but always worth showing up for.

In parallel, I’ve made quiet but steady progress on the book project. It’s a different kind of labour — slow, reflective, emotional. Digging through memory, sorting photos, revisiting stories I’ve carried for years. Writing is teaching me to slow down and listen again — to voices, to places, to versions of myself I hadn’t heard from in a while. It’s not fast work, but it’s honest, and I feel like something meaningful is finally taking shape.

On the travel front, there are a few ideas floating around — nothing confirmed yet, but I might head to Portugal in August. A little time to breathe, reconnect with places and people that bring peace. Let’s see if the stars (and flights) align.

And if all goes very favourably — and I mean very — I might even manage a long-dreamed-of visit to Canada in November, just before our regional humanitarian seminar in Panama. The idea would be to see Tahir’s family and reconnect with other dear friends scattered across that vast and generous country. I’m not getting ahead of myself just yet, but the thought is a comforting one.

As for Panama in November — it promises to be intense, no doubt, but also a chance to reconnect with colleagues from across Latin America and reflect together on the challenges we’re facing — and the opportunities we still have, if we keep our heads and hearts open.

So yes, it’s a full season. Demanding and unpredictable — but also rich in ways that matter. And in the middle of it all, I’m grateful. For work that has purpose. For writing that helps me stay grounded. For friends who keep me laughing. For people who still believe in decency, even when the world makes that belief feel fragile.

More soon — and hopefully from somewhere with a breeze off the Atlantic.

With fellow students, Ulfborg, Denmark, April 1994

Last week, in the quiet Danish town of Ulfborg, something loud, spirited, and unmistakably DNS happened: the reunion. Old students and teachers from across the years gathered once again under the wide Nordic sky to hug, laugh, reminisce, and politely argue over the state of the world (with hand gestures, of course). DNS was doing what it does best — being joyfully chaotic, idealistic, and ever so slightly sleep-deprived.

I wasn’t there. Life, distance, and a Venezuelan to-do list got in the way. But I followed the reunion from afar, scrolling through the photos with a smile that quickly turned into full-blown nostalgia (and yes, a mild, lingering dose of FOMO).

For those who’ve never heard of DNS — well, it’s complicated. This college isn’t your average school. You don’t just attend classes. You live in a commune. You cook for 70 people. You clean toilets. You budget a road trip to India. You question everything you’ve ever believed — usually in the middle of the night — and then wake up at 6am to peel potatoes.

And you love it. Eventually.

When I joined DNS, I arrived with a small-town worldview — thoughtful, yes, but let’s say… contained. DNS took that worldview, gave it a gentle shake, then turned it completely upside down and said: “Have another look.” Suddenly, the world was bigger, more unjust, more beautiful, and more complicated than I had ever imagined. And I was expected to engage with it. Not as a tourist, but as someone with responsibility.

Then came the legendary road trip to India. In a Volvo bus. Packed with idealists, cooking equipment, and duct tape. We crossed borders, broke down, patched things together — literally and metaphorically — and arrived with new stories, and a slightly deeper understanding of the world and ourselves (and how to survive on a diet of rice and instant coffee).

After that came Angola. One year of teaching practice, community living, intense heat, and life lessons. I came to teach English. I left with a degree in resilience, humility, and the art of finding joy in small victories — like electricity returning, or a successful lesson without the chalk disintegrating.

Looking at the reunion photos, I saw familiar faces — older, yes, but still radiating the same mix of passion, warmth, and wild-eyed curiosity that defines a DNSer. I could almost hear the debates over whether someone had skipped their cleaning duty, or the late-night planning of a better world, one communal meal at a time.

I missed being there. I missed the songs, the shouting, the group decisions that took six hours and still nobody agreed. But more than anything, I was grateful — grateful that the DNS spirit is still alive, still kicking, still questioning everything, and still managing to function (barely) on coffee and collective optimism.

To everyone who made it to Ulfborg: thank you. You reminded me that DNS isn’t something you finish. It’s something you carry — in your work, in your friendships, in how you talk to strangers, and definitely in how you organise your dishwashing rota.

Until next time — with love, solidarity, and possibly a slightly better sleeping bag.