USHUAIA, ARGENTINA: The prison tour was self guided with information panels and kiosks. The prison itself was a high, stone walled, spider-like structure with a central commons area. Five, two story cell blocks radiated out in all directions. Four of those cell blocks were closed to the public but you could still see down those corridors through heavy, steel barred doors. The open cell block was well lit, painted and bore slim resemblance to the dark, dreary tunnels that were probably more authentic.
The first prisoners arrived in the 1850’s with their guards and an architect. What had been an Anglican mission morphed into a construction site. Tools and materials arrived from the north and they had one short summer to build a suitable, secure shelter for the long, cold winter. It took years to complete the prison and in that time, citizens started moving south to Terra Del Fuego in support of the prison and its needs. Sheep herders, small farms and small businesses set up shop in support a growing community. The few scattered missions with a thin, single tie to England were displaced by an Argentine community in regular contact to the homeland. Once the prison was finished the captive work force turned to public works and farming. The prison turned as much to community service as it was for punishment.
Each cell block had a wood or coal burning stove at the far end of the passage, several stoves at the control point in the center. Mannequins manning the cells, maybe to help us imagine flesh and blood people confined to such a dank little room. A few grades up from Medieval dungeons but then I don’t think the inmates considered how lucky they were. The prison closed in the 1950’s and was converted to a museum.
Traveling alone in Patagonia by bus and on foot, staying in hostels I met new people every day but not many old dudes like myself. Jos was a psychologist. What he did exactly, I never found out but there he was, traveling alone in Patagonia. We met on a tour, had lunch the next day and agreed to meet again. He was my age maybe, he spoke of his home near Rotterdam, that he needed some get-away time. His son, in his 30’s wanted him to retire and spend more time with his grandchildren. His girl friend, in her late 20’s, wanted him to keep on keeping on, to start a new family. So Jos did the noble thing, he ran off to Patagonia. My feelings about him and his dilemma swung like a pendulum between awe and pity, ultimately I sensed it was mostly pity. He never asked my advice and I never offered. We enjoyed our conversations, both of us surprised we shared interest in history and geology. He mentioned skiing. There was a single lift slope immediately above the city where locals went; not enough snow to start grooming the hill but there would be soon. Thirty miles back the way we came was a ski resort where people came from all over the world. Like everything else, El Fin De Mundo. It gave me something else to research.
Down hill from Los Cormoranes I noticed a store front with a sign in the window; FIRELAND INSTITUTE. With a big awning, it was shelter from the weather and easy to see inside. The main room inside the door was an audio lab with listening stations, ear phones hanging from the ceiling, a language lab. It was early afternoon, no classes at the time. They taught English to kids whose parents could afford the investment and to adults whose career paths required it. I found Zoe in her office. Mid 20’s, she was the Argentine stereotype, dark hair and eyes and of course, all mid 20’s women are beautiful. We talked for a while; she was from Buenos Aires, came all the way to Ushuaia for the job at Fireland. Like other schools, most teachers worked part time. Zoe was the only full time employee other than Madeleine who owned the school. I shared my story, substitute teaching at The English Institute in Santiago, Spanish at La Montana in Bariloche and I inquired about telling my stories for their students. Madeleine wasn’t there and she would have to run it by the boss. She suggested I come back that evening when classes were in session.
After supper, two classes were meeting. Another young woman was running the audio lab for a dozen adults while Zoe was rotating 1-1 with several kids. Madeleine was mid 40’s, all business. Her English wasn’t as good as the girls she hired but she was clear. Why would I want to work for no pay? Nobody wants to work for no pay; but she didn’t tell me no. Zoe dropped in and the conversation lightened up. I shared my experience with gypsies in Chile, the credit card crisis in Bariloche and let her know I’d be in town for a week or maybe longer. She told me to come back the next day.
The best hotel in town was on San Martin Ave. with a man at the door and bell hops to ease your load. The lounge/restaurant had live music and was open to the public but you had to order something. A one man band was playing and singing. When he made light humor between songs he might as well have been alone in a cave, nobody was listening, nobody looked up. But the evening was entertaining. I had traded my jacket and hat at the door for a claim check; I was the only one there in shirt sleeves but nobody paid any more attention to me than to the guy on stage. I nursed a tall glass of cranberry juice and pretzel sticks for as long as I could and left.
I was used to the cool-to-cold, blustery weather but when the sun goes down your hands go in pockets and zipper up all the way. Back at Los Cormoranes the place was a-buzz with new people. I had forgotten about late dinner. A crowd had assembled at the long table for spaghetti dinner. It seemed so “pale-white”, pasta with bread, butter and Alfredo sauce. The two girls (sisters) who worked the front desk were there and several couples. They offered me a plate but I thanked them and passed, too late for me to eat pasta. I had two new room mates who commented on the good meal and warm floor. I concurred. I was the old, go to guy with answers. I’d been there going on 3 days.
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