They were a group of mothers who spent their time trying to track down their disappeared children, so I knew I had to meet them as part of our investigation into the thousands of Honduran women who go missing every year.
The photographer had said simply: 'These women are amazing - you're going to fall in love with them. They were hard to miss in their brightly coloured best. They stood clutching photos of their lost children, talking and laughing with anyone who cared to listen. Some had even hung placards around their necks. As soon as they saw me, they embraced me and gathered around to talk about their children.
Many had travelled for hours to get here to tell me what had happened. As each recounted the last time they had seen their child, they broke down crying, even though for some of them it was over 20 years ago. Time never heals a mother's pain, they told me. And when one cried, the others were there to hold her hands, to reassure her, to cry with her and to give her strength.
But what was so remarkable about the Mothers wasn't their warmth and compassion, it was their sheer determination to find their children - to unpick the mystery of what has happened to every single one of them. And this is despite the fact that many of the Mothers are now in their 70s, and most of them struggle to pay the bus fares to get to their meetings. On an ancient, virus-riddled computer someone had donated to the group, they write letters to the authorities, lobby to raise funds to investigate the cases of their missing children and save money to make the telephone calls that may give them leads.
Even when the Mothers realized that most of the leads they were getting ended in Mexico, several hundred miles away, they were undeterred. Instead they lobbied harder, until they had enough money to travel to Mexico. The clear picture that emerges of the missing girls is one of desperation and poverty.
