Puerto Colombia, Venezuela, April 2026

I have just returned from a long weekend in Choroní.

One of those trips that begins simply — a drive out of Caracas — and slowly unfolds into something much richer. It was made all the more special by travelling with Giovanni and his family, Mayling and Samantha. There is a particular warmth in sharing a journey like this, where the road itself becomes part of the experience, and every stop carries its own story.


From Caracas to the coast

We set off early, heading west toward Maracay, the gateway to the coast.

By the time we reached the city, hunger had settled in properly, and we stopped for what was meant to be a simple late lunch. It turned into something much more memorable — generous plates, flavours that lingered, the kind of meal that anchors a journey before it truly begins.

Then the road changed.

Leaving Maracay behind, we began the climb through Henri Pittier National Park, the oldest national park in Venezuela, established in 1937 to protect its extraordinary ecosystems. The road twisted and turned, narrow and patient, rising into cloud forest and descending again toward the sea.

This part felt almost unreal.

Bamboo rose high on either side, forming natural tunnels. Dense jungle pressed close to the road — layers of green upon green, alive with movement even when still. Mist hovered in places, light filtered through leaves in unexpected ways. It is one of those landscapes that does not need to announce itself; it simply surrounds you completely.

The descent toward the coast was sudden and beautiful — mountains opening, glimpses of the Caribbean appearing between trees.


Puerto Colombia — arrival by the sea

We reached Puerto Colombia in the late afternoon, just as the rhythm of the fishing village was shifting.

At the port, fishermen were returning.

Boats pulled in one by one, painted in bright colours, their engines cutting through the quiet. Nets were gathered, fish sorted, voices carried across the water. It was work, but it had a certain choreography to it — practiced, unspoken, passed down over generations. Fishing, alongside cacao and small-scale tourism, remains at the heart of life here.

We stood there for a while, simply watching.


Climbing above the town

The next morning began with exploration.

We walked through Puerto Colombia, then climbed toward the mirador, where the view opens suddenly — the ocean stretching outward, the mountains rising sharply behind, and the town held gently between them. It is a place defined by contrast: jungle and sea, isolation and openness, stillness and movement.

From above, everything felt balanced.


By boat along the coast

Later, we set off by boat — a small, fast fishing vessel cutting across the water.

The coastline revealed itself in fragments: hidden beaches, cliffs covered in dense vegetation, stretches of untouched sand that can only be reached this way. Much of this coast remains inaccessible by road, preserved by the geography of the mountains themselves.

Our first stop was Cepe.

Cepe felt almost suspended in time. The beach was wide, sunlit, nearly empty. The water carried that deep, inviting blue that makes you forget everything else for a while. There are places where you arrive, and without thinking, you slow down — this was one of them.

On the way back, we stopped in Chuao, a place that feels both remote and deeply rooted in history. Founded in the 17th century and surrounded by rainforest and sea, it is accessible only by boat, which has helped preserve its unique character.

Chuao is known for producing some of the finest cocoa in the world, cultivated here for over 400 years. Walking through the village, you feel that continuity — cocoa beans drying in the sun, the scent of fermentation, the quiet labour that transforms something simple into something extraordinary.

We explored the village in the back of a truck and on foot, moving between houses, plantations, and the beach. Lunch, naturally, was fish — fresh, simple, perfect for the setting.


Evening rhythms

Back in Puerto Colombia, the evening unfolded gently.

Small shops opened, music drifted through the streets, restaurants filled slowly. The village comes alive in its own way after sunset — not loud, not overwhelming, just present. Conversations linger, time stretches slightly, and the sea remains close, even when unseen.


The return

The next morning, we began the journey back.

Before leaving the coast, we stopped in Choroní, the historic village just inland, with its colourful houses and colonial roots dating back to the early Spanish settlements of the 17th century. Narrow streets, simple façades, a quiet sense of history — it felt like a place that has adapted without losing itself.

Crossing the mountains again, the jungle seemed even more vivid on the return.

We paused once more in Maracay, this time for a walk through Plaza Bolívar Maracay, and then for lunch at an Italian restaurant that felt almost indulgent after days by the sea. It was one of those meals where you realise how journeys carry contrasts — simplicity and comfort, sun and shade, movement and pause.


What stayed

This was not a long trip.

But it was full.

Of landscapes that felt almost unreal.
Of conversations that came easily.
Of places shaped by history, by labour, by patience.
Of small, quiet moments that stay longer than expected.

Choroní and the coast of Aragua do not try to impress.
They simply exist — intensely, beautifully, honestly.

And for a few days, that was more than enough.

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A Village Near Puerto Paez, Apure State, Venezuela, March 2026

At the end of March 2026, a small window opened.

After months of constraints and careful navigation, it finally became possible to travel again within Venezuela with a bit more flexibility from the authorities. It was a trip long anticipated — not for its destination alone, but for what it would allow: a return to the field, to places where work takes shape beyond documents and discussions.

The journey began in Caracas, early in the morning, heading south toward San Fernando de Apure. Hundreds of kilometres unfolded slowly, the city giving way to long stretches of open land. The plains extended wide and quiet, shaped by heat, distance, and time.

The landscape changed gradually.

Dry grasslands, scattered trees standing resilient under a strong sun, rivers appearing as calm interruptions in the vastness. In some areas, the effects of drought were visible — the earth tired, colours subdued. And yet, life continued. Always quietly, always persistently.

There were pauses along the way.

Stops for coffee in roadside places where time seems to move differently. Lunch taken in small towns, where conversations with colleagues stretched naturally beyond work — about the journey, about the country, about the people we would soon meet. These moments, simple as they are, become part of the understanding.

San Fernando was not the destination, but a point of departure.

From there, the road led deeper into the municipality of Pedro Camejo, toward places that are rarely visible on maps beyond the local level. La Macanilla, Puerto Páez, Belén de Cinaruco — names that carry weight for those who live there, and stories that unfold slowly for those who visit.

In La Macanilla, a school stood as a reminder that change can begin quietly. Spaces designed for protection and learning had been created within the school environment — places where children can express themselves, where music, tradition, and education come together. The presence of instruments, traditional clothing, and learning materials spoke not only of support, but of an effort to restore normality.

Further along, in Puerto Páez, conversations with local health authorities brought another layer of understanding. Services stretched across large distances. Needs that evolve faster than resources. Practical discussions, grounded in reality, shaped by daily constraints rather than theory.

Then to Belén de Cinaruco, where a school that once did not function now carries life again. From zero students to dozens within a year. Classrooms reopened. Teachers trained. Infrastructure restored — water through a newly drilled well, storage systems installed, sanitation improved, solar panels harnessing the same sun that defines the region. Even school gardens now grow, adding something essential yet often overlooked: diversity, nourishment, continuity.

Between these places, the road remained constant.

Long drives. Dust rising behind the vehicle. Occasional settlements. Children watching quietly as we passed. Houses that speak of resilience more than comfort. Indigenous communities living with the realities of distance, environmental pressure, and limited access to services — yet maintaining identity, structure, and presence.

Life here is not easy.

But it is not static either.

Across the communities visited, there are signs — sometimes small, sometimes more visible — that solutions are taking shape. Not perfect, not immediate, but real. Built through effort, through cooperation, through persistence.

Evenings in San Fernando brought reflection.

Notes reviewed. Observations shared. Conversations with colleagues continued — trying to make sense of what had been seen, what had been confirmed, what still requires attention. There is a particular clarity that comes from these exchanges after long days in the field.

And then, the road back to Caracas.

The same hundreds of kilometres, but no longer the same journey. What had been abstract now had faces, places, voices. The landscape, once observed, now felt known — even if only partially.

This gallery captures fragments of those days.

The long road south.
The plains of Apure.
La Macanilla. Puerto Páez. Belén de Cinaruco.
Moments of pause, conversation, observation.

A journey made possible by a small opening in access.
A return that mattered.

Because in places like these, impact does not arrive all at once.
It appears gradually — in reopened schools, in flowing water, in voices returning to classrooms.

Built step by step.
Across distance.
And carried back, kilometre by kilometre.

Click here to access the gallery.

A View Over the Skyline of Panama City, Panama, January 2026

In January and February 2026, a small window opened.
 
Work in Caracas briefly loosened its grip, and I was able to step away for twelve precious days — just long enough to breathe differently, to walk without urgency, to let distance do its quiet work. I flew out of Venezuela and landed in Panama City, initially for a single night. Then onward to Lima and Montevideo. And finally, back again to Panama for two more days before returning to Caracas.
 
A simple route on paper.
A deeply meaningful one in practice.
 
Panama has never been just a stopover for me.
 
Casco Viejo, remembered
 
Much of this short stay unfolded in Casco Viejo, the historic heart of the city and a place that carries layers of memory for me. Narrow streets, worn balconies, pastel façades shaped by centuries of fire, collapse, rebuilding, and resilience. Founded in 1673 after the destruction of the original Panama City by pirates, Casco Viejo has always been a place of reinvention — Spanish colonial bones, French balconies, Caribbean rhythms, and modern life stitched together.
 
Walking there again felt quietly emotional.
 
I passed buildings where I once lived, streets I knew by heart during a previous posting. Cafés where mornings used to begin slowly. Corners that still seemed to remember me, even if only I felt it. Casco has a way of holding time gently — not erasing it, not clinging to it, simply allowing it to coexist.
 
The city beyond postcards
 
Panama City revealed itself again through movement.
 
I walked along Avenida Balboa, where the skyline meets the sea and the Pacific stretches wide and calm, ships waiting patiently in the distance. I wandered through Vía Argentina, lively and familiar, shaded by trees and filled with conversations, cafés, and the easy rhythm of neighbourhood life.
 
And I returned to Ciudad del Saber — the City of Knowledge — where I once worked, thought, planned, worried, hoped. Built on the grounds of the former Canal Zone, it remains a place devoted to ideas, cooperation, and long conversations about the world and how to make it slightly better. Being there again felt like opening an old notebook and recognising your own handwriting.
 
Friends, pauses, and softness
 
This visit was not about ticking places off a list.
 
It was about meeting friends, some old, some newer. About sitting down without rushing. About laughter, shared meals, stories retold and new ones started. About allowing myself to simply be — not on assignment, not in crisis mode, not counting hours.
 
Panama offered that generously.
 
A quiet closing
 
This album captures a gentle interlude between chapters — a moment suspended between Caracas and the journeys that followed, between past versions of myself and the one I am still becoming.
 
It was a return filled with gratitude.
A pause shaped by memory.
A reminder that some places never fully let go of you — and perhaps never should.
 
Panama remains one of those places for me.

Click here to access the album.
 

Mercado del Puerta, Montevideo, Uruguay, January 2026

After Lima, the road bent south.
 
In January 2026, the journey continued to Montevideo — a city that does not rush to impress, and perhaps for that very reason, leaves a deep mark. Most of my time unfolded there, along the wide estuary of the Río de la Plata, where water stretches so far that it forgets it is a river and begins to behave like the sea.
 
Uruguay welcomed me quietly. And I learned quickly that this is how it prefers to be met.
 
A city opened by walking
 
One of my first days in Montevideo was spent with Elias, a student of history and an attentive guide, the kind who does not perform knowledge but shares it. With him, the city began to speak in layers.
 
We started in Plaza Independecia, where the city negotiates between epochs. On one side, the old city gates once stood; on the other, modern avenues stretch outward. At the centre, Artigas watches patiently — not triumphantly, but thoughtfully — as if aware that independence is always an ongoing project.
 
From there, we drifted into the Ciudad Vieja, where Montevideo feels most itself. Streets narrow, façades soften, balconies lean slightly toward each other. The Catedral Metropolitanastood calm and dignified, carrying centuries without display. Nearby, small streets opened unexpectedly into cafés, bookshops, forgotten corners where the city seems to pause mid-sentence.
 
At Mercado del Puerto, smoke and voices filled the air. Parrillas hissed, conversations overlapped, wine glasses clinked. The market is not curated nostalgia — it is lived ritual, daily, generous, unapologetic. Montevideo does not romanticise its traditions; it simply continues them.
 
We walked toward the port, where cranes and ships reminded me how deeply the city has always been tied to movement and departure. Montevideo has sent people out into the world for generations — and received many back again.
 
Beyond postcards
 
Later, Elias took me north, away from the usual routes.
 
At the Mercado Agricola de Montevideo, life felt resolutely local. Fruit stalls, butcher counters, neighbours greeting each other by name. Around it, we walked streets shaped by earlier waves of migration — former Jewish shops, faded signage, traces of commerce and community layered quietly onto everyday life.
 
This part of the city felt honest and unposed. People living, shopping, arguing gently, getting on with their days. It was one of the most beautiful walks of the trip.
 
Days of wandering
 
The following days unfolded without structure, and that felt intentional.
 
I wandered again through the old city, then across Tres Cruces, near the Italian Hospital — a working district, practical, unadorned. Later still, the city shifted register once more around the World Trade Centre Montevideo, where glass and height speak a different language, one of global rhythm and forward motion.
 
By the coast, everything softened.
 
Near Pocitos, where my hotel was, days ended by the water. I walked along the rambla, watched locals pass with thermos flasks and mate cups, dogs trotting patiently at their sides. At the fish market nearby, silver bodies gleamed briefly before disappearing into paper and bags. Life moved at a human pace.
 
The beach did not dominate the city; it accompanied it.
 
A day in Colonia
 
One day carried me away from the capital entirely, on a bus to Colonia del Sacramento.
 
Colonia is a city of fragments. Portuguese stones, Spanish walls, uneven streets that curve rather than align. Declared a UNESCO World Heritage Site, it wears its history lightly, almost playfully. Cobblestones insist you slow down. Doors open onto gardens rather than statements. The river appears suddenly, wide and luminous, blurring the line between Uruguay and Argentina beyond.
 
Walking there felt like moving through a conversation between empires — unfinished, unresolved, quietly beautiful.
 
What remains
 
Uruguay does not insist on attention.
 
It earns it slowly, through light, through space, through the dignity of ordinary life. Montevideo, in particular, felt like a city comfortable with itself — thoughtful, slightly melancholic, generous in its silences.
 
I left feeling rested rather than exhilarated.
Grounded rather than dazzled.
 
Some places leave you with stories.
Uruguay left me with pace — and the sense that slowing down can be its own form of arrival.

Click here to access the album.

The Water Park, Lima, Peru, January 2026

Three days in Lima
 
I arrived in Lima without a plan, and that felt right.
 
Some cities ask to be prepared for. Others ask you to listen. Lima, I learned quickly, belongs to the second kind. It does not announce itself loudly. It reveals itself if you are willing to walk, to pause, to look twice.
 
I had three days. I decided early on not to rush them.
 
Day One — Walking until the city speaks
 
The first morning opened quietly in Miraflores. Light filtered through tall trees, cafés were only just beginning to wake up, and the streets felt unhurried, almost reflective. I walked with no destination, letting curiosity decide the route. Wide pavements, well-kept parks, occasional bursts of colour from bougainvillea or street art — the city felt composed, thoughtful.
 
Then the land dropped away.
 
Suddenly the Pacific appeared below the cliffs, vast and indifferent, a constant presence rather than a spectacle. From above, surfers looked like punctuation marks moving across long sentences of water. I leaned on the railing for a long time, watching waves repeat themselves with quiet discipline. Lima, I realised, lives with the ocean not as a postcard, but as a neighbour.
 
Hours passed like that.
 
By the time I drifted into Barranco, the mood had shifted. The streets narrowed, the buildings leaned slightly into each other, and stories seemed to cling to balconies and cracked walls. Barranco felt like a place that remembers. Once a retreat for the wealthy, later claimed by artists and rebels, it carries its contradictions lightly.
 
I crossed the Bridge of Sighs almost by accident. Someone nearby told the legend — hold your breath, make a wish — and I did, smiling at myself for doing so. Cities survive not because of facts alone, but because of these small rituals people agree to keep alive.
 
I ended the day tired in the best possible way, legs heavy, mind quiet, the city no longer unfamiliar.
 
Day Two — Stories layered on stone
 
The second day brought a different rhythm. I met Sebastián, and with him the city opened its deeper layers.
 
We stepped into the historic centre, where Lima shows its bones. The cathedral stood firm and solemn, carrying centuries of ceremony, conflict, and faith. Inside, the air felt dense with time. I thought about how many people had stood exactly where I was standing, each believing their moment was decisive.
 
Behind the presidential palace, Sebastián led me somewhere unexpected — a library, discreet and almost invisible from the outside. Inside, the noise of the city softened instantly. Shelves, desks, light filtering through high windows. It felt like a place that exists precisely so power does not forget to listen.
 
Then Lima changed tone again.
 
Chinatown hit us like a wave — noise, colour, heat, movement. Streets alive with shouting vendors, sizzling pans, signs competing for attention. Sebastián explained how Chinese migration shaped Lima’s food and culture, how fusion became tradition. Nothing about it felt curated. It was alive, functional, unapologetic.
 
Later, as daylight faded, fountains rose and danced in the park. Water leapt and twisted, lights changed colour, children ran between jets. It was theatrical, joyful, slightly absurd — and perfect. Lima, it seemed, is unafraid of delight.
 
The day ended with drinks back in Miraflores. Conversation slowed. We talked about life, work, the odd paths people take. The city felt closer now, no longer observed but shared.
 
Day Three — Preparing to leave
 
The final day was intentionally simple.
 
Shopping in Miraflores. A last coffee. Familiar streets that now felt almost routine. It is always a strange moment when a place stops being new and starts being known — even slightly.
 
I packed slowly.
 
Outside, the city continued as if I were not leaving. That felt comforting rather than dismissive. Cities that matter never cling. They trust you will remember.
 
What stayed
 
Lima did not overwhelm me. It did something better.
 
It let me walk into it, step by step, story by story, without insisting on being understood all at once. It offered calm and chaos, ocean and stone, ritual and spontaneity — and asked only attention in return.
 
I left knowing I had not finished with this city.
Some places make that clear quietly.
 
Lima did — somewhere between the sound of waves below the cliffs and the echo of footsteps in old streets.

Click here to access the album.
 

AI Generated Image of Caracas, Venezuela, January 2026

A living album, written as the year unfolds
 
This album is different from the others.
 
It is not a memory yet.
It is a story still in motion.
 
Venezuela in 2026 will be a live and evolving collection, growing week by week, season by season, until the day I finally leave the country for my next deployment. It will gather fragments of daily life, small journeys, conversations, landscapes, celebrations, quiet mornings, unexpected encounters, and all the ordinary magic that makes up a year lived with attention.
 
By the time this album began, I had already spent two and a half years in Venezuela. Long enough for the country to stop being only a destination and to become something closer to home. Long enough for streets, cafés, hills, faces and routines to carry memory. And yet, every day here still brings something new.
 
What will fill these pages over the coming months?
 
There will be Caracas in all its contrasts: the hills breathing green above the city, the sudden rainstorms, the colour of markets, the rhythm of evenings, the quiet dignity of ordinary days.
There will be journeys beyond the capital, small and large, planned and improvised.
There will be friendship, because this country has a way of offering it generously.
There will be tables shared, laughter, hallacas and coffee, conversations that stretch long into the night.
There will be light and shadow, because life always carries both, and Venezuela knows how to hold them side by side.
 
Above all, there will be presence.
 
As this album grows, it will become a gentle record of a final chapter of my time here: six more months of discovery, colour, work, connection and belonging, before the road bends once again toward a new horizon.
 
For now, it begins simply, with gratitude for the years already lived in this remarkable country, and with quiet anticipation for everything still waiting to be written.
 
Venezuela continues to teach me how to stay curious.
How to stay open.
How to keep walking forward with wonder.
 
And so this album opens its first page.

To access the album, click here.

La Huerta, Caracas, Venezuela, December 2025

There is something tender and quietly resilient about spending the festive season in Caracas.

Late December has arrived, and while the backdrop may be complex—economically, socially, emotionally—what continues to shine, perhaps more brightly than anything else, is the spirit of the people. Christmas 2025 in Venezuela has not come without its shadows, but it has brought with it a depth of light that can only be found when joy is chosen, not given.

The days leading up to Christmas were a tapestry of small, meaningful moments. Walks through the city, with its unexpected pockets of colour and beauty, revealed trees wrapped in lights and music spilling out from balconies. Markets bustled with last-minute shoppers. Nativity scenes—pesebres—stood proudly in homes and shop windows alike, each one handcrafted with love and care.

One of the most special traditions I got to be part of this year was preparing hallacas. These parcels of maize dough filled with stewed meats, olives, and raisins, wrapped in banana leaves, are far more than food—they’re family rituals, they’re memory, they’re Christmas itself. Together with friends, we laughed, learned, and folded, our fingers sticky with dough and stories.

Evenings were spent gathering with friends, often around simple meals or under the blinking lights of modest but joyful decorations. In a city that dances between challenge and celebration, these gatherings felt like small victories of connection. They reminded us that festivity is not about excess, but about presence.

Caracas, too, surprises you. Its green hills, wrapping around the city like a protective cradle. Its murals, telling stories of resistance, resilience, and art. Its people—full of warmth, humour, grace.

There were moments of stillness too. Looking at the mountains as dusk fell. Listening to the city hum, not loudly, but steadily. Feeling part of something fleeting and, at the same time, timeless.

This Christmas may not have had snow or pine trees or carols in the traditional sense. But it had light. It had flavour. It had dignity. And it had a kind of magic that can only be found in places that insist on hope.

Feliz Navidad, Caracas. You’ve made this season unforgettable.

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Cementerio del Este, Caracas, Venezuela, October 2025

Just a week before All Saints’ Day—my favourite celebration back in Poland—I found myself wandering through the quiet paths of Cementerio del Este in Caracas. Perhaps it is that Polish reverence for 1 November, with its glowing cemeteries lit by candlelight, that instilled in me a love for these places of rest. Over the years, I’ve made it a quiet tradition to visit cemeteries whenever I travel—whether in Lisbon, Kraków, Luanda or Bangkok. Each one whispers its own story.

Cementerio del Este surprised me. Spread across the rolling hills of La Trinidad, it feels modern, almost minimalist. The flat stones, neatly mown grass, and geometric layout reminded me more of how I imagined North American cemeteries might look—open, ordered, facing the sky rather than enclosed by shadow. There are no gothic tombs here, no moss-covered angels or iron fences—just light, space, and a stunning view of Caracas, stretching out like a living mosaic in the valley below.

I walked slowly, letting the names, dates, and faces on the gravestones speak. Some offered smiles from old black-and-white portraits; others left only carved names to the sun. I paused often. These visits never feel like meditations on death—rather, they feel like celebrations of life. And this one was no different.

When my friend and I left the cemetery, neither of us felt heavy. Quite the opposite. We followed the day into a nearby restaurant and were gifted with an unexpected moment of joy: a group of dancers performing traditional Venezuelan folk routines, their music full of rhythm and colour. We stayed for a while, clapping, smiling, soaking in the joy of it all.

It was the perfect way to honour life—a quiet morning among the resting, followed by music, dance, and laughter among the living.

Click here to visit the album: 🕯️ Cementerio del Este: Life Reflected in Stone and Sky