It's Sunday, which marks the end of my first week in eastern Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC). It's been a long one, and, as usually happens when I’m in a new environment, I find myself looking back and marveling to myself that, this time last week, I had never before seen this place.

Actually, at this very moment last week, I was landing in Kigali, Rwanda, the third of four legs of my voyage to my post with the International Rescue Committee (IRC) in Bukavu, DRC. It was a long trip which began with tearful goodbyes to my parents and Chad in the Philly airport; from Philly I flew to London, had a five hour layover in Heathrow (during which time I somehow managed to misplace my prized new headlamp. Go figure), then boarded another flight to Nairobi, Kenya, where I was ostensibly to spend the night. However, after nearly three hours waiting in line for my transit visa, I got to the hotel after midnight only to leave again at 4am to catch my 8am flight out of Nairobi to Kigali. The biggest excitement here was that I flew business class on my Kenya Airways leg, which, admittedly, is not the same as business class on many other major airlines, but is enough to impress me.

Upon my arrival in Kigali, I was met by an IRC car for the five hour drive west through Rwanda to the border with the DRC. I struggled to stay awake for the winding route, as it was the first time I had seen the light of day in 36 hours or so. The drive was absolutely beautiful, and reminded me of some parts of West Africa in the baseline poverty that seemed to characterize at least the small part of the country I was able to see.

What struck me immediately, however, were the roads. Never before have I gone five hours in an African country on such wonderful roads. All paved, all in good condition. It was amazing. Of course, that all changed as we neared the border, and once we crossed into DRC we were back to bumpy dirt paths. I arrived at the IRC compound sometime after 5pm and was met by a few of the co-workers with whom I'll be living.

The compound is large – it comprises three houses of varying sizes and has lovely flowers and patches of green everywhere. When it's clear you can see Lake Kivu from the front yard. It's amazing, though, how people can disappear into what seems like a relatively confined space.

Last Sunday, after I arrived and was shown to my room, the place seemed to fall vacant. Even today it feels empty, and I'm still not sure if people are sleeping in or out and about. I think this will be a really good thing the longer I'm here; living in a house with eight other expats will no doubt get old at some point and I'll want to escape into the recesses of the house. But last week it was a bit strange.

I had to admit to myself that I was expecting a bit more fanfare, as ridiculous as that sounds. After making a huge life change and traveling two solid days to get here, I kind of thought there would be a welcoming committee. Maybe a celebratory beer. But a friend of mine from home pointed out that, unlike Peace Corps or even grad school, this is not a situation in which we're all starting out together. Most of these people have been in the field [in various conflict-ridden countries] for years, and to them I'm just a new face in an ever-changing landscape of rotating staff. It seems, for whatever reason, people don't stay long in the DRC, and it makes sense that such a transient existence would make people unlikely to run out and clasp my hand or give me big bear hugs.

Last Sunday, of course, none of this occurred to me and all I knew was that I was unpacking, alone, in the falling light, thinking, "Well, I guess this is the big leagues."

I was also half expecting someone to say I should take it easy and recover from jet lag on my first full day here, but when no such indication was given, I got up at 6:30 the next morning and was at work at 8am. The next few days saw me at the office for twelve hours at a time, scrambling to negotiate the maze that is IRC policy and figure out exactly what I'm supposed to be doing here. More than a little disconcerting is the fact that no one here seems to be able to reconcile the fact that I've been hired as a Grants Manager with no grants experience. Or IRC experience, for that matter. I'm hoping I'll quickly be able to wrap my head around both the organization and my job and impress everyone enough to overcome my current new kid on the block status.

The week eased up a bit by Thursday, when I was spending only ten hours in the office. In truth, it's probably a blessing that I was so busy and quickly inundated. The shock therapy has definitely put the fear of God in me and the constant activity has made it impossible to spend much time missing home or friends. The real wake-up call will come, I'm sure, once my boss, Ginny, returns to the capital, Kinshasa, on Tuesday. Then I'll be the senior Grants person in the bureau and I'm sure more than a few disasters will ensue. My hope is that I'll learn by doing, and not lose millions of dollars in USAID money in the process.

In other news…Bukavu is gorgeous. But the beauty here is incongruous – juxtaposed with the terrible history of conflict that has shaped its existence, and that of the people living here, for decades. It was nearly impossible to reconcile the lovely tropical trees and temperate weather with the information given me in my security briefing on my first day at work. And later in the week, as I relaxed with an enormous Tembo beer overlooking Lake Kivu (purportedly Africa's deepest lake), it was even more difficult to imagine what has happened here. And, realistically, what could happen again. For as we are only too painfully aware, the vast majority of countries emerging from conflict find themselves embroiled again ten years on due to unsatisfactory peace accords, a lack of sustainable solutions…the list goes on.