Summer In Chacraseca

This summer, I spent a month in Nicaragua working with FNE International. I stayed a few days in León, but most of my time was in a home-stay in a rural village about 15 minutes outside of León called Chacraseca. During my time in Chacraseca, I taught middle-school aged kids English in an afterschool program (Tengo Un Sueño), worked on a farm, helped build a house, supported children with complex medical conditions, explored the area, made friends, and slowly learned the ways of life of a place that was, in many ways, unlike anywhere I had lived before.

When you first arrive in a new country, in any new place, it’s easy to notice the big differences, the things that immediately stand out. For me, this meant dirt roads instead of paved ones, times without running water or electricity, houses that aren’t fully built, shower water that only comes in one temperature, and so much more. There were fewer cars, way more motorcycles, and daily life in Nicaragua is a lot more unpredictable and unplanned than I am used to. In my first few days, I couldn’t help but notice how different life in Nicaragua is from my life in Berkeley.

But the longer I stayed, the more I realized that these “big differences” weren’t the whole story. If I kept my focus on them, they could feel like walls. If I looked, instead, for the smaller, shared parts of life, those walls seemed to shrink. The big differences were still there, but they no longer posed a barrier between me and the community of Chacraseca.

Food was one similarity that helped bridge that space. Food doesn’t need translation. It can be an act of care, of creativity, of togetherness, no matter where you are. Learning and tasting traditional Nicaraguan dishes was exciting, but it became something more when I began cooking alongside the mom in my host family. Joining her in the kitchen, I learned to cook plantains in more ways than I knew possible and how to make bolsitas (a frozen milk-in-a-bag treat), as we shared stories from our lives. The kitchen became more than a place to prepare meals; it became a place of cultural exchange. She taught me recipes that I can take back to Berkeley, and in return, I shared stories from my own life and learned how much joy can come from creating something together. Those nights stay with me because they remind me that cooking is not just a preparation of food - it is a place where I can build community.

Music was another unexpected bridge. My host family included a 15-year-old boy, the same age as I am. At first, our interactions were shy and minimal. After all, it was probably a bit awkward for him to have a girl his age suddenly start living in his home. Then one evening, as I was talking to his mom about how I played piano, she remembered that they had a small, two-octave keyboard. She went into his room and pulled it out, smiling. Later that night, reading in my room, I heard him trying to play “Happy Birthday” in the kitchen. I stepped out, silently showed him how to play it, and within minutes he had it down. The next night, he found a piano tutorial on TikTok and brought it to me. We sat next to each other, working through the notes. This became our quiet routine for several nights - barely speaking, but playing the same piano, sharing the same love for music. We didn’t need words to communicate and learn, music was the language.

Sports brought me into yet another circle of connection. I’ve never been much of a sports person, but I had played volleyball throughout middle school. In Chacraseca, baseball was the sport everyone played, and I didn’t expect to find a place in it. One day, though, after working on the farm with Francisco (who ran the farm) and his nephews, one of the nephews pulled a volleyball out of the truck and we set up a net and began to play. The game was loud, dirty, and full of laughter. It was hilarious when one of the guys dove for the ball, completely missed, and we all doubled over laughing. Or when we would all get into heated arguments over who won the point. That first game turned into many more, and with each one, the energy and laughter made me feel more and more like I belonged.

It was through these moments - cooking, playing music, enjoying a game - that I began to feel the shift. I no longer felt like an outsider looking in; I felt like I had been welcomed into something. My host family and the people at the school and farm seemed more comfortable around me, too. We talked more. We laughed more.

Before I went to Nicaragua, I expected the differences to define my experience. And in the first few days, they did. But while I was there, I learned that connection is not built by focusing on what separates us. It’s built in the stories shared while cooking, the wordless language of music, the adrenaline in a game.

Those moments don’t completely erase the differences. They don’t make the challenges disappear. But they do something important: they make the space between us feel smaller.

I came home with recipes I can cook for my own family, a few new songs I can play on the piano, and memories of volleyball games at the hot farm. But more than that, I came home with a deeper understanding of how people connect with each other. You don’t need the same language, the same lifestyle, or the same background to feel close to someone. You just need to find some things you share, and the bigger differences will start to feel smaller.