For about 10 semipanicked seconds, I wondered how my Spanish had suddenly become so poor. Gathered in a circle with a group of residents and elders from the pueblitos, I found that I couldn’t understand a thing that the speaker was saying.

Then I realized that he was speaking in Purhepecha.

I had just arrived to visit the village of Charabuen for the first time, to see the pueblitos where I soon would be teaching and living. It was the monthly meeting of outlying communities; as we drove up the steep, rocky dirt road toward Charabuen’s center, we could see that many of the leaders of the other communities already had arrived. Before the meeting began, though, we had a brief ceremony. Much of this ceremony was conducted not in Spanish, but in the native language of Purhepecha.

Everyone present – more than 100 people – gathered in a large circle and held hands. Not understanding the words, I simply followed the motions of the people next to me. We raised our hands up toward the sun, palms out; then we repeated this motion in all directions, facing north, east, south and west.

Finally, the four oldest women in the village were called upon. A brief discussion ensued in both Spanish and Purhepecha regarding who indeed was the oldest. When they stepped forward at last, I would not have been surprised if each of them was over 100 years old. Together, they formed a circle within our circle, reciting a prayer. Then each, with the help of a grandchild or great-grandchild, made her way around the entire circle, shaking the hand of every person present. “To your health,” they said with each handshake. “To your health.”

Once finished with this ceremony, we were ready to begin the meeting – in Spanish. Everyone settled onto the grass sloping before the community’s central building. A few benches and chairs were brought out, while young people stood or sat on rock walls. Many took out knitting and needlepoint, their sharp eyes following both their small stitches and every detail of the proceedings.

Speakers climbed, one at a time, onto the deck of the community center, speaking to the gathered crowd. The first order of business for the day was the doctor.

The doctor was the well-dressed woman who had driven me to Charabuen today. She spoke loudly and clearly to the crowd, offering her services to them one day a week.

“I will come to this town, to this building, every Wednesday. We are still looking for a permanent doctor for you. But if anyone in these villages needs a doctor, I will be here every Wednesday, early, and all day.”

Under the happy applause of the crowd I leaned over and asked Diana, an Ayuda Mutua worker and the doctor’s daughter, “What did they do for medical help before this?”

She shrugged. “Tried to get as far as Morelia. Or had temporary doctors passing through.” When the doctor finished speaking, a chair and a glass of water were immediately brought out for her.

To my surprise, I was the second order of business. Anna climbed up onto the deck to announce me. “Margherita is here from the United States,” she said. Since arriving in Mexico, I had been rechristened Margherita, the Mexican version of my formal name, Margaret, as few could pronounce the awkward single vowel of “Meg.” Anna continued: “She is here to give classes on English, on literacy and human rights. Who here would want this in their village?”

There was a brief pause in which my nerves swelled, and then nearly all raised their hands. “Great,” Anna said. Her next question filled me with even more apprehension: “Now. Who would take her in?”

To my immense relief and gratitude several families stepped forward. It was decided that I would eat my meals with Karina, the health representative of Charabuen.

The meeting continued for about three hours. All decisions were conducted by vote, with various people stepping forward to discuss local issues. Everything from sacred Purhepecha spaces to the rising price of gasoline was touched upon.

Finally, the meeting was done. All of us who had traveled far gathered in the house of the elderly Paula, where we ate a large meal of soup, rice, tortillas, and tamalelike corn patties called corundas. Karina’s son carried around a 3-week-old puppy like a favorite stuffed animal, setting it in my lap before getting a bowl for his own lunch.

I am looking forward to spending time in this warm community that is so different from other places I have known.

Meg Adams, who grew up in Holden and graduated from John Bapst Memorial High School in Bangor, shares her experiences with readers each Friday. For more about her adventures and to e-mail questions to her, go to the BDN Web site, bangordailynews.com.