Bianca
I wasn’t prepared for what I saw.
As we crossed the valley in Benjamin’s old pickup truck, the poverty became increasingly apparent. I’d never visited my mother’s pack, but I’d always pictured something… different. Certainly not buildings with peeling paint, roads with potholes large enough to swallow a tire, and makeshift structures that had clearly been repaired multiple times over the years.
But despite the economic hardship, the people we passed at least seemed content. They smiled and waved at Benjamin’s truck as we drove by. Their gardens seemed to be flourishing, and I saw more than one farm with cows, chickens, sheep, and even some pigs.
“It’s not what you expected,” Benjamin said, gripping the steering wheel as we bounced over another pothole.
I shook my
