It's important to remember, here, surrounded by--

Well, let's be real, calling it drab and uninspiring is giving drab and uninspiring far too much credit. It's like someone sat down and said, "what's the single most soul-crushingly ugly thing we can build I the name of functionality? Great, do that a dozen times."

Does it even count as something being functional? Like, in a situation where there just aren't resources to go around, she could maybe understand making something to do just the job it needs to be, but that's--

Honestly, even in the survival stories, you don't think about things just [i]being[/i] ugly. Like, for no reason! The landscape is beautiful all on its own, everywhere you go. Everywhere but here, where even the things the Portuguese have deliberately [i]made[/i] are--

They're people. She has to keep repeating it to herself, keep telling herself that, because no matter what they've produced (ugh) or how they've built (yuck) or how they're dressed (why even bother), they're still, you know, [i]people.[/i] 

Delicate people. People who she doesn't want to hug because, you know, what if they squish under her? People with eyes that--

Honestly, she wants to scoop them up even more when she looks at the eyes. It's like they're all waiting to die. Like they've given up on improving their situation, like hope is just another thing that hurts, and so they've resolved to work every day for the rest of their lives until they blessedly keel over dead from old age.

Still a weird thought, that.
She wishes they didn't look at her like that. Like she's a god, or a curse, or a reincarnation, or worst, hope. Not when she knows they've gotta get out of here as quickly as possible, not when she can't meaningfully help.

Still, she flags one down, and asks, quite gently, if she could be shown to--what was that, a factory? Yes a factory would be delightful, off you pop.