Over the next hour I’m moved from person-to-person until eventually someone figures out where I belong and introduces me to my boss, Laura. She looks to be about forty. She’s dressed in hiking clothes; has sun-hardened skin, blond hair, and a Dutch accent. Laura’s responsible for coordinating all the different organizations and vendors who are implementing the infrastructure at the camp. I’m her associate, which I’m assuming is a polite term for gofer.

“Get yourself situated today. We’ll meet back here tomorrow at 8:30,” she instructs in a friendly no-nonsense way.

She hands me off to another aid worker named Lars. He’s a Scandinavian guy in his late twenties. First, he takes me to the warehouse where he gets a wheelbarrow and helps me load it up with a mattress, blanket, solar lantern with a mobile phone charger built into it, plastic sheet, kitchen set , gas stove and gas cylinder, a bucket with lid, two collapsible 10-litre cans that look like gas containers, and a hygiene kit.

“This is what we give to each family. Now I can take you to your room.”

We head to the small metal structures I watched being assembled when I entered. “This is the camp for NGO workers. We’re protected by barbed wire since there have been problems in the past. You’ll need to show your ID to get in and out.”

I follow him through the gate. We each flash the guard our ID, which everyone wears on a lanyard strapped around their neck. Lars stops at one of the twelve by twenty-foot structures. He points to the lavatory at the end of the row.

“This row is for single women. I think Yvonne is your roommate. We’re lucky; currently, we only have two workers per structure.”

“Shit,” he exclaims when he gets to the door. “Of course, Yvonne has a lock on the door. We’ll need to find her.”

We leave my newly acquired things along with my suitcase and bedding bag by the door. We then spend the next hour searching for my roommate, Yvonne.

Yvonne is German; she appears to be in her late twenties and has the officious manner of someone who gets things done. She quickly looks me up and down.

“Lars, I’ve got it from here.”

She marches me back to our room and opens the door. The building doesn’t look much different from the inside than from the outside. Although I know from class that there’s a layer of insulation between the external and internal corrugated metal, I can see the layer of insulation along the roof.

“Are you Arabic?” she asks in her brisk, no-nonsense manner.

“American, but ethnically Middle Eastern.”

“Do you speak Arabic?”

“Yes, with a Damascus accent.”

“No smoking, no men in here, no food either. The mice, scorpions, and snakes are annoying enough, we don’t need to attract more.

I gasp, mice, scorpions, snakes, WTF!

Taking a deep breath to settle my nerves, I look around. Yvonne’s mattress is made up and located on one side of the room, she has a small table with two chairs in the center, and a small set of drawers that I assume houses her clothes. The top is cluttered with personal effects and a mirror.

“The combination to the lock is 33, 10, 23. Don’t give it out to anyone. I don’t like anyone touching my things …ever.”

I’m now left alone in the small metal box. The dirt floor has been covered with a sheet of plastic, on top of that are a couple of simple woven rugs. With no one around to smile for, I feel my heart seize up in dread.

“We’re sure not in Kansas anymore,” I whisper to myself.

There’s not much to unpack as I make up my mattress and mentally make a list of what I still need. I can feel my stomach roll from hunger as I head back to the canteen.

My internal clock must be right, since I can smell the food cooking and a number of people casually milling around. When the kitchen opens, I’m relieved to see that tonight’s dish is Mansaf, a Jordanian specialty, it’s lamb cooked in a sauce of fermented dried yogurt and served with rice, there’s also hummus, falafel, a minced salad, pickles, and pita. Growing up in a Middle Eastern house, the food smells comforting. I grab a tray and fill up my plate. I don’t know anyone and don’t see the few people I’ve met. I take a deep breath and place a friendly smile on my face, as I march up to the nearest table.

“May I join you?” I ask as I sit down. I make a point of introducing myself, and then I intently listen to their conversation.

After dinner as I head back to my small metal box, the enormity of what is ahead of me hits me again. I grab my flashlight and head to the wash facilities where I realize the bathroom consists of a simple bio-toilet and a spigot, no warm water. The shower is a three-sided enclosure with a door on the fourth side and a spigot on top that runs cold water for about twenty seconds.

As I stare at the limited facilities in dismay and not a small bit of horror, a woman with a French accent introduces herself to me as Emma.

“You pop in and get wet, soap up, then pop in quickly to rinse off,” she explains. “I bring my pail to catch the water. You see, pre-rinse your hair then rinse it again. Our water is part of the gray water system they’re putting in here. Water is very precious. They’re going to dig a well, but currently our water is all trucked in.” She points to a large blue container that must be what holds the water.

I go back to my metal box, gather my soap, washcloth, and toothbrush. To my list of what I still need I add a plastic pail to carry my toiletries and some water shoes. Then I give myself a camping style wash up. I get back to my white box and change into sleeping clothes. As I’m about ready to get into bed, Yvonne’s warning about mice, scorpions and snakes overtakes my mind. Carefully, I pull back my bedding making sure there are no critters in my bed. I feel exhausted from my day, barely hearing Yvonne come in a while later.

In the morning, I’m happy to see that they have white bread, pita bread, and a number of spreads including hummus, feta cheese, jams, olives along with Nutella, coffee, and tea. Sitting down with a new group of people, I introduce myself in an attempt to start meeting everyone.

At some point Laura comes over. “I take it you were able to get yourself all kitted out,” she states in her chipper can-do manner. “Come on Olivia, we have a lot of work to do.”

I follow her to a room where they have maps and plans. She hands me an iPad that’s in a black leather case with its own keyboard.

“You’ll be my assistant. We have a lot to coordinate.”

My hands nearly shake as I caress the smooth glass screen. I miss my technology more than I miss my favorite blend of coffee. When I turn it on I almost sigh, I’m thrilled that Skype is already installed.

Laura looks over my shoulder. “Be careful what you use that for,” she confides. “That’s owned by the UN. Anyway, our connection is a satellite phone. You’re not going to be doing much surfing or watching movies.”

Okay, so it might not be any better than the phone I have hidden in my mattress.

“Come, we need to visit the other agencies to see what they're up to. Don’t worry, I know what needs to be done, I’ll be throwing you tasks. I hear you’re bright; you’ll pick it up fast. Today you follow me around, tomorrow you get your own list to work on.”

Laura knows everyone and spends her day perpetually in motion as she makes a point of talking to them all. Any down time is spent on the phone or sending texts. “Write this down, you get to do it tomorrow,” she periodically instructs me. By the time we break for dinner my brain is as exhausted as my feet.

On the third morning, I walk into the canteen and look at the coffee maker with some generic form of caffeine and my stomach seizes up. Can I really do this for a year, drink this coffee, live in this desolate wasteland, and continue this routine? I feel panic start rolling over my body.

I’m about ready to bolt when Adam, the Canadian I met the first day comes up to me.

“Olivia, right?” I give him a shaky smile. “Come on, let’s get breakfast.”

I shake myself out of my negative thoughts and place a big fake smile on my face. My mom always says, when you get into difficult situations, if you fake it long enough you find out you’re no longer faking it. Please mom, let that be true.

After breakfast, Adam and I head over to Laura’s project review meeting together. Hopefully, he’ll turn into my Azraq version of Max. I could use a friend. Since Adam’s organization is commissioning the well being drilled, I figure we will be seeing a lot of each other.