As we step off the plane in Puerto Escondido, the air slaps us in the face like a hot flannel.
It’s hot and humid in Oaxaca (pronounced ‘Wahaca’), near the bottom of Mexico close to Guatemala. It has been a long journey to get here: two aeroplanes and 12 hours’ flying time.
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Our three children, Dash, 11, Edith, eight, and Artemis, two, immediately shed their clothes. I look at my husband in dismay. Have we made a mistake?
