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about seven meters away from the wall, not moving a muscle. Besides the span of
uncertain terrain that lay before me, I suddenly realized the final leg of my escape
required I scale a three meter tall barrier obviously designed to keep people in. Various
scenarios flashed in my mind. I knew there was no barbed wire on this section of the
wall and, after quickly dismissing several options, decided that a simple running leap
would at least give me a handhold on the structure’s top edge. I convinced myself to
sprint the remaining distance, quietly, and when I was a few strides from the wall, I
jumped. My body hit the cement blocks harder than I expected, but I scrambled up fairly
easily. Looking back, the compound seemed to have descended into chaos. Men stood
around large piles of burning garbage set in the main street that divides the site, groups of
younger men scuffled with each other randomly, and women could be heard yelling here
and there indoors. I let myself down from the wall into the parking lot and made my way
to its gate, looking as little as possible at the security cameras and floodlights that
surrounded me. I ducked under the swing-arm blocking the entrance and walked casually
up the sidewalk, relief washing over me.
Within ten minutes I had hailed a cab and was on my way home when my mobile
phone vibrated in my pocket: it was Vasilo checking to see if I was alright. I assured her
that everything was fine with me, but I was worried about her. Laughing, she explained
that this was the usual late night ruckus that occurs at the compound, albeit perhaps a bit
closer to her house than usual. She continued to tell me this is why young children (and,
evidently, anthropologists) are not permitted to roam the compound after dark. Christos
was still there, but planned to leave with his friends in a few hours; Vasilo suggested I
call him the next day. Although I managed to get Christos on the phone several times