Los Palos Grandes, Caracas, Venezuela, June 2026

There are moments that remind us how fragile our routines really are.

Only a few days ago, Venezuela experienced one of the strongest earthquakes in its recent history. In a matter of seconds, homes collapsed, entire communities were shaken, and thousands of families suddenly found themselves facing uncertainty. Lives were lost. Many others changed forever.

Working in the humanitarian sector means that events like these are never simply headlines.

Very quickly, days became filled with coordination meetings, situation reports, assessments, phone calls, and countless conversations with humanitarian partners. Information evolved by the hour. New needs emerged. Priorities shifted constantly. Decisions had to be taken quickly, often with incomplete information. It has been an intense, demanding, and emotionally draining period.

Yet, looking back over these days, I realise that what will remain with me are not the statistics.

I will remember the people.

The families who, despite unimaginable loss, welcomed those coming to help with remarkable dignity.

The neighbours who became first responders long before organised assistance arrived.

The volunteers who simply stepped forward because someone needed them.

The firefighters, Civil Protection teams, doctors, nurses, engineers, police officers, military personnel, municipal workers, and countless others who have worked day and night under extremely difficult conditions. Many have barely stopped since the earth first began to shake. Their professionalism, determination, and courage deserve the greatest respect.

What has perhaps moved me most has been seeing how many ordinary Venezuelans simply took responsibility into their own hands.

One example is my dear friend Giovanni. As the emergency unfolded, he volunteered to serve on an ambulance, spending long hours transporting injured people and supporting emergency medical teams. Nobody asked him to do it. He simply felt that, at a moment like this, he could help.

There are undoubtedly thousands of similar stories across the country. People donating blood. Preparing meals for rescue workers. Opening their homes to neighbours. Clearing debris. Comforting complete strangers. Quiet acts of kindness that rarely appear in newspapers or television reports.

And yet, they are perhaps among the most extraordinary parts of this response.

I also want to pay tribute to the humanitarian community. Venezuelan organisations, local volunteers, the Red Cross Movement, United Nations agencies, international NGOs, faith-based organisations, and many others mobilised rapidly, each contributing in different ways but united by a common purpose: helping people survive, recover, and begin rebuilding their lives.

International solidarity has been equally inspiring.

Specialised rescue teams travelled from neighbouring countries and from much further away, bringing expertise, equipment, and experience. Among them were European teams working side by side with Venezuelan responders, demonstrating once again that humanitarian solidarity knows no borders.

Just before sitting down to write these reflections, I read the news that a child had been rescued alive from beneath the rubble by a Spanish urban search and rescue team more than seventy-two hours after the earthquake.

Seventy-two hours.

For anyone involved in emergency response, those numbers carry enormous significance. They remind us why rescue teams continue searching long after many have begun to lose hope. Every hour matters. Every voice heard beneath collapsed concrete matters. Every life saved is extraordinary.

Reading that news filled me with immense admiration—for the rescuers who refused to give up, and for the extraordinary resilience of a child who kept fighting to survive.

Throughout my humanitarian career, I have often thought that disasters reveal two realities at exactly the same time.

They reveal how vulnerable we are.

But they also reveal how extraordinary people can be.

This earthquake has arrived during my final weeks in Venezuela. Soon, I will leave for my next assignment, carrying with me memories of this beautiful and complex country. I could never have imagined that one of my final experiences here would be witnessing such a tragic event, while at the same time seeing such an extraordinary demonstration of solidarity.

Venezuela has taught me many lessons over the years.

Resilience is certainly one of them.

To my Venezuelan friends, colleagues, neighbours, and above all to the families directly affected by this tragedy: you remain very much in my thoughts.

The road to recovery will be long.

Buildings will be rebuilt. Roads repaired. Schools reopened. Services restored.

The invisible wounds will take longer to heal.

But if these past days have shown anything, it is that compassion spreads just as quickly as despair. That solidarity is stronger than fear. And that, even in humanity’s darkest moments, there are always people willing to dedicate their strength, their knowledge, and sometimes even risk their own lives for someone they have never met.

For me, that is what this earthquake will always represent.

Not only the power of nature.

But the even greater power of humanity.

Approaching the Airport of Maiquetia, Caracas, Venezuela, February 2026

I am writing this once again from Caracas.

After several weeks spent between Europe, Canada, Morocco, and back again across the Atlantic, I have returned to Venezuela. The familiar mountains are still there, embracing the city as they always have. The tropical air feels different after the cooler days of Europe and Canada, yet there is also something reassuring about being back.

This return, however, feels different from previous ones.

I am here for only three more weeks.

Three weeks to complete pending work, finalise ongoing processes, prepare the handover to my successor, and slowly begin saying goodbye to a country that has been an important part of my life for several years.

It is a strange feeling.

Part of me is already looking toward Ethiopia and the next chapter in Addis Ababa. Another part remains firmly rooted here, in the people, places, and routines that have become familiar over time. Venezuela has challenged me, surprised me, frustrated me, inspired me, and above all introduced me to extraordinary people. Leaving will not be easy.

Looking back, the past several weeks seem almost unreal in their intensity and variety.

The journey began with a return to Poland after many months in Venezuela. After landing from Caracas, with a brief stop in Lisbon along the way, there were a few precious days to slow down, spend time with family, and prepare for the next stage of the adventure. It was a period of transition — neither fully arrived nor yet departed — marked by familiar places, family conversations, and the anticipation of what lay ahead.

Those first days are captured in:

Between Departures
https://photos.app.goo.gl/4kXSnG97V8BC9XYx8

From Poland, Mum and I travelled to Canada to visit Tahir, Amna, and little Hania. Together we explored Toronto, Prince Edward County, Picton, and parts of Ontario beyond the usual tourist routes. It was a journey filled with family, friendship, nature, and the simple pleasure of spending unhurried time together.

Meeting Hania for the first time was particularly special. Watching Tahir and Amna in this new chapter of their lives brought a great deal of joy. We spent our days exploring lakeshores, vineyards, small towns, and country roads, enjoying long conversations and the kind of relaxed rhythm that is increasingly rare in everyday life.

The gallery can be found here:

Across Ontario and Beyond
https://photos.app.goo.gl/8AdiTYn5QsMQReDE9

Returning from Canada, we spent a day in Warsaw before setting off on our next adventure. Spring had fully arrived by then, and the city seemed filled with light. The Vistula flowed quietly through the capital, parks were turning green again, and there was a sense of renewal in the air before the next flight south.

Those moments are reflected in:

Spring Light Over the Vistula
https://photos.app.goo.gl/7m7NepFWHSvFPNqm8

Then came Morocco.

For a week, Mum and I explored a country that was entirely new to both of us. Based in Agadir, we discovered the Atlantic coast, wandered through the historic streets of Essaouira, experienced the colours and energy of Marrakech, and enjoyed countless smaller moments that make travel memorable. Morocco impressed us with its contrasts: ocean and desert, tradition and modernity, tranquillity and movement.

More than anything, I enjoyed sharing those discoveries with Mum. Travelling together always creates memories that remain long after the journey itself has ended.

That chapter is documented in:

Beyond the Atlas, Beside the Sea
https://photos.app.goo.gl/hvsSofUJ3bRjXR3KA

After Morocco, there was one final period of movement before returning to Venezuela.

Back in Poland, life slowed down for a little while. There was time to enjoy Nowy Sącz, catch up on small everyday matters, and simply appreciate being home. One particularly pleasant day was spent with Mum across the border in Slovakia. We travelled to Tatranská Lomnica, where the High Tatras rose above us in all their beauty. The weather was magnificent, the mountains even more so, and for a few hours there was nothing to do except walk, admire the scenery, and enjoy being together.

Another memorable moment came closer to home. One evening, Mum and I drove to nearby Krynica-Zdrój for dinner. As we sat together enjoying the atmosphere of the town and a leisurely meal, I was reminded how precious such simple moments can be. Much of my life unfolds across airports, humanitarian missions, and distant countries. Sharing an unhurried evening with Mum in the hills of southern Poland felt like a gift.

Soon afterwards, duty called again and I travelled to Brussels.

Yet even there, the journey still held one more highlight.

Leo, a close Venezuelan friend who has been building a new life in Spain over the past two years, travelled from Madrid to spend an extended weekend with me. Together we explored Brussels, Luxembourg, and Amsterdam — three cities, three countries, and countless kilometres on foot.

What made those days special was not simply the destinations, but the opportunity to experience them through Leo’s eyes. It was his first visit to all three cities. Watching his excitement as we wandered through the Grand Place in Brussels, crossed the canals of Amsterdam, and admired the elegance of Luxembourg was a reminder of how extraordinary travel can feel when everything is new.

Perhaps because I have travelled so much over the years, I occasionally take certain experiences for granted. Seeing Leo’s genuine curiosity and enthusiasm brought back some of that original sense of wonder. We travelled by train through the heart of the Benelux countries, admired landscapes rolling past the windows, discovered new streets together, and shared countless conversations about life, plans, and dreams.

Those few days became one of the highlights of the entire journey. Not because of monuments or famous landmarks, but because travel is ultimately about people. Places become memorable because of those with whom we experience them.

The final gallery of this period can be found here:

Between Home and Duty
https://photos.app.goo.gl/Pt5AQc79VPhwpEVr9

Taken together, these five galleries tell the story of several remarkable weeks spent moving between continents, friendships, family reunions, professional responsibilities, and new discoveries. Looking through them now, they already feel like chapters of a journey that passed far too quickly.

For now, however, my attention returns to Venezuela.

There are still meetings to attend, projects to follow, reports to complete, and goodbyes yet to be said. Three weeks is not a long time, but it is enough to close a chapter properly.

And then, before long, another chapter begins.

Addis Ababa awaits.

My Mother's House, Nowy Sącz, Poland, June 2026

I am writing this from Nowy Sącz.

After several weeks on the road, Mum and I are finally back home. The suitcases have been unpacked, at least temporarily, and for the first time in quite a while there is a sense of stillness around me. Familiar streets, familiar views, familiar routines. It feels good to pause for a moment before the next chapter begins.

And yet, despite being back, part of me is still travelling.

I often find myself returning to the photographs from the past few weeks. Looking through them has become a way of revisiting places that already feel slightly unreal, as good journeys often do once they become memories.

The first part of the journey took us to Canada, where we visited Tahir, Amna, and little Hania. We spent time in Toronto and then travelled together to Prince Edward County, staying near Picton. It was a wonderful week of family, friendship, nature, and long conversations. There was something deeply comforting about the lakes, small towns, vineyards, and quiet roads of Ontario. Perhaps even more special was finally meeting Hania in person and seeing Tahir and Amna in this new and happy stage of their lives.

If you would like to follow that part of the journey, you can find the photo album here:

https://www.romanmajcher.eu/blog-2/files/9daadf793c461f47fcb00edbfed18df1-177.html

From Canada, Mum and I continued south to Morocco.

It was our first visit to the country and one that left a strong impression on both of us. We stayed in Agadir, explored the Atlantic coast, wandered through the streets of Essaouira, and spent a memorable day in Marrakech. The colours, sounds, architecture, food, and atmosphere felt very different from anywhere either of us had visited before. Morocco struck me as a place where Africa, Europe, and the Arab world meet in fascinating ways.

The photo report from Morocco can be found here:

https://www.romanmajcher.eu/blog-2/files/16cdb29023eba99dcd0b9894615d839a-179.html

Before all that, there was also the short but meaningful stop in Warsaw and the beginning of our journey together. Looking back now, it feels like the first page of a much longer story.

That gallery is available here:

https://www.romanmajcher.eu/blog-2/files/c94eb2d0b34fadf1d0b14e0c65dc29e4-176.html

The timing of our return is interesting.

On Friday, I leave for Brussels for a week of meetings and preparations connected to my future responsibilities in Addis Ababa. After that, I will return to Venezuela for what will likely be my final three weeks there.

Three weeks.

Writing those words still feels slightly strange.

For years, Venezuela has been the centre of my professional life. It has given me challenges, lessons, friendships, frustrations, and countless memories. Returning there now, knowing that the end of this chapter is approaching, will undoubtedly feel different.

Then, later in July, I will return to Poland once more, this time accompanied by my Venezuelan friend Giovanni. After that, preparations for Ethiopia will begin in earnest.

Addis Ababa still feels more like a direction than a reality.

I find myself reading about the city, looking at maps, and imagining what daily life might look like there. Experience has taught me that no amount of preparation truly reveals a place. Every country unfolds gradually, through conversations, routines, unexpected encounters, and small discoveries.

For now, however, I am grateful for this pause.

A few quiet days with Mum in Nowy Sącz. Time to drink coffee slowly, sort photographs, and reflect on how quickly one chapter seems to flow into the next.

Life feels particularly full of movement these days.

But perhaps that is precisely why moments of stillness matter.

Soon enough, the road will call again.

And I will answer.

Preparing for the travel, Caracas, Venezuela, May 2026

It suddenly feels very close now.

Only two weeks remain until I leave Caracas for what will become a long sequence of journeys, reunions, transitions, airports, oceans, and roads. The tickets are booked, plans are slowly becoming real, and somewhere between excitement and logistics, I find myself already mentally moving between continents.

The journey will begin, appropriately enough, with one of those long TAP flights that seem to stitch my life together these days. From Caracas to Lisbon, then onward to Warsaw, and finally down to Kraków. I already know that familiar feeling of arriving slightly disoriented into the cool European morning light after crossing the Atlantic overnight.

And then — home.

I will spend two nights with Mum before we continue together toward Canada. From Kraków to Warsaw, and from there to Toronto. I am genuinely happy that we will be making this journey together. There is something deeply comforting in shared travel — small conversations at airports, coffee before boarding, the quiet companionship of moving through unfamiliar places side by side.

From Toronto, the plan is to drive with Tahir, Amna, and little Hania toward Picton, in Ontario. I have been looking at photographs of the area already: lakeside landscapes, small towns, open skies, vineyards, wooden piers stretching into calm water. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere where mornings begin slowly.

We will stay there for around a week, away from big cities, sharing time together, exploring the countryside, and likely making small trips around the region — perhaps toward Ottawa too. What I look forward to most is not any particular attraction, but the atmosphere itself: long breakfasts, evening conversations, nature, roads without hurry, finally meeting Hania in person, and seeing Tahir and Amna in this new chapter of their lives.

Then back again — Toronto to Warsaw — only briefly stopping before another journey begins.

This time southward.

Our first trip to Morocco.

We will fly to Agadir as part of an organised tour, which feels slightly unusual for me after so many independently improvised journeys across the years. But perhaps this is part of the charm too: letting someone else take care of the structure for once.

I already imagine the Atlantic coast, warm evening air, the colours of markets, the movement of people in the streets. We hope not only to stay in Agadir, but also to discover more of the country — the coast toward Essaouira, perhaps Marrakech, maybe smaller places along the way where life unfolds more quietly. Morocco has lived in my imagination for years as a meeting point of continents, colours, histories, and rhythms.

I think Mum is excited too.

After Morocco, we return to Poland again, and I will spend some quieter time in Nowy Sącz before another movement begins — Brussels for a week of meetings and preparation related to Addis Ababa. The next chapter slowly becoming real.

And then, eventually, back to Caracas once more. Back through Lisbon. Back to the familiar mountains surrounding the city. Back for the final stretch before Ethiopia.

I would be lying if I said I was entirely calm about all the flights. The ongoing aviation fuel situation and reports of possible disruptions across Europe have created a certain background anxiety around travel plans. Airlines and authorities insist that, for now, operations remain stable, although the wider situation continues to be monitored closely.

And yet, somehow, I remain hopeful that things will work out.

Travel always carries uncertainty. Flights get delayed. Plans shift. Connections are missed. One adapts. Perhaps years of humanitarian work have taught me that movement rarely unfolds exactly as imagined — and that flexibility matters more than control.

What stays constant is the anticipation.

The thought of seeing family and friends. Of discovering new places with Mum. Of coastlines and long roads and unfamiliar cafés. Of conversations unfolding somewhere between Toronto, Picton, Agadir, Marrakech, Warsaw, Lisbon, Brussels, and Caracas.

Life feels very much in motion these days.

And despite the uncertainties, I find myself grateful for that.

A Flower Stand, Caracas, Venezuela, January 2026

Spring, movement, and a few thoughts from Caracas 🌿

Dear friends,

Spring seems to be arriving quietly again, almost without asking for attention. A shift in the light, in the air, in the way one begins to think a little further ahead. It feels like one of those moments in the year when things do not change suddenly, but gently begin to move.

I am writing this from Caracas, having just returned from a week in Apure. It was one of those trips that leaves you both tired and strangely grounded. Long days in the field, conversations that stay with you, and the reminder of how complex and fragile the reality here continues to be. And then, coming back — to a desk, to emails, to a different rhythm — with a sense that both worlds somehow coexist, even if uneasily.

There is also a quiet awareness that my time in Venezuela is slowly coming to an end. It does not feel dramatic, but rather like the closing of a chapter that has been intense, demanding, and, in many ways, deeply formative. What will stay with me most are the people. Over time, this place stopped being just a duty station and became something more human, more personal. I have been incredibly lucky to find here not just colleagues, but a kind of family — Mayling, Giovanni, and Samantha, who have been a constant source of warmth and kindness in these years.

There have also been moments of relief and gratitude recently. We have just learned that Leo’s work permit in Spain has been extended for another year. It is difficult to put into words what this means, but it brings a sense of stability and hope that was very much needed. I feel deeply grateful to all of you who, in one way or another, were part of the support around him.

Looking ahead, a new chapter is slowly taking shape. As of August, I will be moving to Addis Ababa with ECHO. It still feels a little abstract — more a direction than a reality — but I am looking forward to discovering what this next step will bring.

Before that, the coming months will be filled with movement. In May and June, I will be spending time in Europe, including Poland, and I am especially happy that I will be travelling together with my Mum. From there, we will go to Canada to visit Tahir, Amna, and their daughter Hania — whom I have not yet met in person. I find myself looking forward to that moment with a kind of simple joy.

There will be other stops along the way — a bit of travel, a bit of transition — but perhaps what I am most aware of is the passage itself. Moving between places, between roles, between phases of life, and somehow trying to remain connected to the people who matter, even as geography keeps shifting.

I often think of how our lives have spread across continents, and how, despite that, certain connections remain steady and quietly present. This message is, in a way, also just that — a small bridge across distance.

I hope that wherever you are, this season brings you some space to breathe, to rest, and to look ahead with a sense of calm.

Sending you my warmest thoughts,
Roman

Travelling in Venezuela, Camaguan, Venezuela, October 2023

Soon, I will travel again within Venezuela.

There is something about field visits that stirs a particular kind of anticipation — not the excitement of airports or distant horizons, but something deeper and steadier. A return to the ground. To the dust. To the schools and clinics and community halls where plans on paper take tangible form.

In a few days, I will head south, leaving Caracas early in the morning and travelling by road for many hours until the landscape opens into the vast plains of Apure. Long stretches of highway, two brief stops along the way, and then arrival in San Fernando. These journeys are never merely logistical; they are transitions. They allow the mind to slow, to shift from office conversations to the rhythm of communities.

The purpose of the visit is simple, yet essential: to see, to listen, to better understand how the activities we support unfold in practice. Meetings with local authorities, conversations with teachers and health staff, exchanges with community representatives — all part of ensuring that what we fund truly reaches those it is meant to serve.

One of the moments I most look forward to is visiting a school that, not long ago, stood empty. No students. No functioning facilities. Now its doors are open again. Classrooms that were silent hold voices once more. Desks and materials have been delivered. Teachers have received training. Water access has improved through the drilling of a well and installation of storage systems. Solar panels have been installed. Even school gardens are being cultivated — small but meaningful signs of continuity and dignity returning to daily life.

There will also be visits to protective spaces within schools — places designed not only for learning, but for safety and expression. Musical instruments, traditional clothing, educational materials — modest details perhaps, yet in communities that have faced isolation and hardship, such elements matter. They signal normality. They signal investment in the future.

In another community, discussions with local health authorities will focus on the broader situation — the pressures on services, the gaps that remain, the realities behind the statistics. These conversations are rarely dramatic. They are practical. Honest. At times sobering. But always necessary.

Field visits are not glamorous. They involve long drives, early breakfasts, dust on shoes, notebooks filled with observations. Feedback sessions in modest offices. Returning late in the afternoon, tired yet clearer about what works and what still needs attention.

And yet, these moments reconnect me most strongly with why this work matters.

Walking through classrooms, listening to teachers, speaking with community members, observing how infrastructure improvements translate into daily routine — this is where abstraction gives way to reality. Questions are asked. Notes are taken. Assumptions are tested against lived experience.

There is something profoundly grounding about standing where support becomes visible — where children sit at desks that were not there before, where water flows where it once did not, where attendance grows from zero to dozens within a year.

As my time in Venezuela gradually moves toward its final months, these visits carry a particular weight. They are not only moments of monitoring and evaluation, but of witnessing — of standing still long enough to understand what has changed, and what still requires patience.

The road south awaits.
The plains of Apure stretch wide and quiet.

In places like these, impact does not announce itself loudly. It appears in small, persistent shifts — a reopened classroom, a functioning water point, a teacher who stays, a student who returns.

This is where the abstract becomes real.
Where distance narrows.
Where purpose settles back into focus.

And perhaps that is why going back to the field always feels less like departure, and more like return.

Humanitarian Food Drops, Juba, South Sudan, July 2014

Over the past days, the headlines from the Middle East have become heavier again.

Missiles. Retaliation. Escalation. New fronts opening. Borders tightening. Civilian casualties rising in Iran, Israel, Lebanon, Gaza. Words repeat themselves with disturbing familiarity, even as the geography expands.

As someone working in humanitarian response, I read these updates differently. Behind every headline I see not strategy, but people. Families who did not choose the timing of this escalation. Children who do not understand why sirens dictate their sleep. Elderly people who must once again decide what to carry and what to leave behind.

Civilians always pay first. And they pay longest.

What worries me deeply is how quickly humanitarian space begins to shrink when escalation accelerates. Border crossings close. Access routes become unsafe. Aid convoys are delayed. Communication lines collapse. What yesterday was difficult becomes nearly impossible today. And in that shrinking space, food deliveries stall, medical supplies run low, water systems fail, protection mechanisms weaken.

Humanitarian action depends on fragile conditions: access, dialogue, minimal security guarantees, respect for international humanitarian law. These conditions are rarely robust. They are negotiated, delicate, constantly tested. When military logic dominates, humanitarian logic struggles to breathe.

Diplomacy, too, becomes fragile. In moments of rapid escalation, trust erodes quickly, and once lost, it is not easily rebuilt. The space for quiet conversations — the kind that prevent further suffering — narrows. Yet it is precisely in these moments that such conversations matter most.

From Caracas, geographically far yet professionally close, I feel the weight of this familiar cycle. The Middle East does not experience crisis in isolation; instability echoes across regions, affecting economies, displacement patterns, political tensions far beyond immediate borders.

But at the centre of it all are not geopolitical calculations.

At the centre are people waiting for crossings to reopen. Patients hoping electricity will hold in hospitals. Parents trying to create normality in abnormal days. Aid workers attempting to operate in environments where security assurances shift by the hour.

This is not a political reflection. It is a human one.

Escalation always feels sudden. Human consequences are never sudden. They accumulate quietly, day after day, long after media attention shifts elsewhere.

In times like this, I find myself returning to something simple: the reminder that humanitarian space must be defended not as a political position, but as a human necessity. Civilians deserve protection. Aid must reach those who need it. Dialogue must remain possible.

These are fragile principles.

But they are not optional ones.

Changes are coming!

Exciting times, and time moving too fast

Some additional developments have taken place over the past days.

Following further clarifications from headquarters regarding policies and timelines linked to my transfer from Venezuela to Ethiopia, I have finally been able to adjust both my professional and personal movement plans for the coming months. For a while, everything felt slightly suspended, dependent on decisions still taking shape somewhere between offices and calendars. Now things have become clearer, and with clarity comes a certain calm.

All in all, it seems that I will remain here in Caracas until mid-May.

I am genuinely happy about that. These remaining months offer time to close this chapter properly, not abruptly. I hope to use this period to undertake one or two field visits within Venezuela. Plans are still forming, but I am already looking forward to travelling inside the country again, visiting projects we support, seeing firsthand how ideas written in proposals translate into real support for people and communities. Those moments in the field always reconnect me with the essence of the work.

Then May and June will unfold very differently.

For several weeks I will be largely outside Venezuela, combining holidays with some professional commitments. The journey will begin in Poland, where I will travel to pick up Mum. From there, together, we will fly to Toronto for a long-awaited visit. Finally we will be able to spend time with Tahir and Amna and meet their daughter, Hania, whose arrival already feels like part of our extended story even before we have met her in person.

During our stay in Canada, the plan is beautifully simple: together with Tahir’s family we will rent a place somewhere in the countryside, either in Ontario or Québec, not too far from Ottawa. Somewhere quieter. Somewhere surrounded by nature. A smaller place from which we can make daily excursions, explore villages and landscapes, and visit friends nearby without the pressure of large cities. The idea of shared breakfasts, walks, conversations stretching into evenings, and unhurried days already feels like a gift.

From Canada we will return briefly to Poland — almost just to change planes in Warsaw — before continuing south once again, this time to Agadir.

It will be our first journey to Morocco, and both Mum and I are genuinely excited. Although we will spend a week by the ocean, the plan is far from staying still. We want to explore Agadir itself, travel to Marrakesh, and venture into the southern landscapes — perhaps along the Atlantic coast, into small fishing villages, desert-edge scenery, and the mountains that shape that part of the country. A different continent, different colours, different rhythms.

After Morocco, we return once more to Poland. I will spend some time in Nowy Sącz, working a little, slowing down, and simply enjoying being home. Then, in mid-June, I will travel to Brussels for meetings and preparatory training that will allow a smoother transition into my future responsibilities in Addis Ababa.

From Brussels, I will return again to Venezuela for several final weeks — preparing both myself and the office for the transition ahead. Somewhere in mid-July I will travel back to Poland to take my obligatory respite leave before the next chapter begins.

And then, almost suddenly, it will be time to move to Ethiopia, with arrival planned for 1 August.

It all feels exciting. Full of movement and anticipation.

And yet, beneath that excitement sits another feeling too: time seems to be running incredibly fast. The calendar advances with a certainty that emotions rarely match. I realise more and more that I am not entirely ready to say goodbye to Venezuela. This country, and Caracas in particular, have become deeply meaningful chapters of my life — professionally demanding, personally rich, and filled with friendships that will remain long after departure.

So for now, I choose to stay present in what remains.

There are still months here. Still conversations to have, places to revisit, work to complete, journeys inside Venezuela yet to happen. And hopefully, along the way, opportunities to see many of you — somewhere between Caracas, Poland, Canada, Morocco, Brussels, or beyond.

The road ahead is already visible.

But this chapter is not finished yet.