The bus drops me off on a plane of earth reminiscent of pictures of Mars. There’re no plants, no hills, not anything but rocky dirt for as far as the eye can see. The only thing that mars the plane is the beginning of what will be a city made of white corrugated metal boxes all neatly laid out in a simple grid pattern. In Geneva, I learned that UNHCR has planned this camp differently than the existing Zaatari camp, which has maxed out at 100,000 refugees.

This camp is being designed using a village concept. Each shelter will house six people, groups of six shelters will have their own communal toilet and water spigot. Several thousand shelters will be grouped together by the refugee’s area of origin. Each group will have its own school, playground, youth center, and medical facility. Eventually, everything will be staffed by Syrians. The first phase of the camp will be built to house 25,000 people, with a design that can expand to 130,000 if necessary.

As I stand bewildered with my wheelie suitcase and my bag of bedding in hand, I watch Jordanian workers fitting a roof made of corrugated steel on one of the shelters. Nearby are a few more metal frames which have been set up directly on the dirt.

Suddenly I feel stranded as I watch the bus drive off. Panic takes over. It takes me a minute or two before I have the presence of mind to realize that there are no bellboys to take my luggage and no greeting parties, this is not like starting college. I’m now on my own, I need to figure out what’s next. Situating my bedding bag on my luggage I attempt to wheel it over the broken earth to one of the few large buildings. The closest one looks occupied. I peer in through the doorway; it’s a makeshift canteen with facilities for cooking, a couple tables with some basics laid out, and tables with chairs. A few men are sitting around one of the tables talking.

It doesn’t look like they’re my welcome party; I better make the first move. I pull my things away from the door and leave them. Taking a deep breath to center myself, in my most self-confident bearing, I walk up to the table. The men are speaking French. I secretly pat myself on my back for taking that class.

A scruffy man in his forties dressed like Indiana Jones, looks my way.

“May I help you?” he asks in Arabic.

With my newly purchased local clothes, hair tied back in a scarf, and dark coloring, I look like a local, which makes me secretly pat myself on my back again.

“Yes, I’m Olivia,” I answer in French. “I just arrived from UNHCR in Geneva. I’m assigned to work here.”

 “Olivia from UNHCR headquarters, did anyone at UNHCR tell you what you’ll be doing?”

“Yes, initially coordinating activities between NGO’s.”

“Another rookie,” he murmurs under his breath. “What are they doing to us?”

The two other men at the table watch me without saying anything; I decide to take charge, smiling at the man closest to me, another scruffy looking guy who appears to be around thirty.

I extend my hand. “Olivia, and you are?”

“Adam, I’m with Mercy Corp,” he answers with a French Canadian school boy accent.

“Nice to meet you, Adam, I guess you’ll be one of the people I will be coordinating with,” I reply in English.

He looks a little surprised. “American?”

“Yes, I’m from New York.”

“Why are they sending American school girls to us,” The remaining guy says in Arabic to the first guy,

“Since I graduated,” I respond in Arabic. “I guess I’m no longer a school girl, and I assume because I speak Arabic with a Syrian accent, they figure I can help out.”

“Olivia from New York, I’m Marcus from Xylem. Welcome to Azraq refugee camp.”

“I take it you are discussing water issues. Is your company digging the well and plumbing the camp for water and sewer?”

“Looks like they got something in headquarters right,” Guy number one, who has yet to give me his name, comments under his breadth.

“Well gentleman, it’s been a pleasure meeting you. I can only assume I will be seeing you often. Before I leave, can someone point me to where I can get assigned my room and meet up with my boss?”

Adam stands up, “Give me a moment,” he tells the men. He walks me to the door. “You can leave your things here, we’ll be talking for a while.” He opens the door and points to another large building that looks like it might be a warehouse. “There should be UNHRC folks in there. Ask for Bernadette, she runs this place.”

“Thank you,” I flirt. I figure it’s never too soon to start cultivating a new entourage.