Ushuaia's "Prison without Walls:" A Book Review

Over more than four decades, I’ve visited the city of Ushuaia at least a dozen times—first, in 1979, when Argentina had nearly provoked a potentially ruinous war with Chile over three small islands in the Beagle Channel. At the tip of the South American continent, Tierra del Fuego had long had a reputation as the “uttermost part of the Earth” but, with only about 11,000 people, Ushuaia then was nothing like the Antarctic cruise ship capital it is today.

At that time, about to enter grad school at Berkeley, I had only a general understanding of the area’s lengthy penal history and, given Argentina’s brutal military dictatorship, poking around places like the former Presidio Nacional (National Prison)—then under naval control—was inadvisable. It’s this history, and related developments, that Ryan C. Edwards explores in A Carceral Ecology: Ushuaia and the History of Landscape and Punishment in Argentina, recently published by the University of California Press.

Ushuaia has always enjoyed an imposing setting, but it was once a  rugged frontier outpost.

In 1884 Argentina initially established a lighthouse and military prison at Isla de los Estados (Staten Island), a rugged offshore island at the eastern tip of Tierra del Fuego, but the extreme climate—incessant winds, rain, and snow—dictated its abandonment for a site on the big island’s southern shore in 1902. What is now the city of Ushuaia had been a rather less rugged encampment of British missionaries and Argentine gold-seekers for decades before that.

There's now a national park footpath to the Chilean border (though it's formally illegal to cross).

By some accounts, Ushuaia was nevertheless a “natural prison” from which escape was nearly impossible. The Isla Grande de Tierra was then a roadless wilderness—even though the Chilean border was technically within walking distance—surrounded by violent seas (Anarchist Simón Radowitzky, who assassinated Buenos Aires police chief Ramón Falcón 1909, did make a valiant escape attempt). Still, the Argentine government built a solid prison to confine its convicts—or did it?

Cellblocks of the former prison (now the Museo Marítimo)

The prison, which closed in 1947 but reopened as a museum 50 years later, took its architectural inspiration from Philadelphia's Eastern State Penitentiary. Of an initial plan of eight radial cellblocks, only five were completed and it was, in fact, a “prison without walls,” many of whose inmates worked in and for the community. There were violent criminals, such as the serial killer Cayetano Santos Godino, who were confined to small cells, but many others worked on outside projects—some of them dangerous, such as logging in the forests that would eventually become Parque Nacional Tierra del Fuego. Others were confinados (political prisoners), such as journalist Ricardo Rojas, who enjoyed “off-campus” housing and could meet with his colleagues away from penal supervision, could purchase better rations, and could even publish accounts of their internal exile in the “Siberia of Argentina.”

Inside the cellblocks

Originally built for timber extraction, the restored railway is now a tourist attraction at the national park.

The prison closed when a consensus developed that Ushuaia’s extreme environment, in a thinly populated area, was not conducive to reintegrating prisoners into society. That said, it was the prisoners whose labor, including building a short-line railway for timber extraction, laid the foundation for what is now the national park in a city that has also become the gateway to Antarctica for a growing fleet of international cruise ships.

The port of Ushuaia is now the gateway to Antarctica for cruise ships.

The prison facilities themselves became a naval base but, as a museum, they’re a visible part of what’s become known internationally as “dark tourism” that also includes similar sights/sites as California’s Alcatraz Island and South Africa’s Robben Island. Again, when I first visited in 1979, this was still to come. The story of how it came to be is engrossing.

This mural of prisoners in Ushuaia is a reality check on what it was like in penal days.

If I have one quibble about this book it’s that, despite the fact that the author was an undergraduate in the Department of Geography at Berkeley, he seems unaware that the author of this review (a Berkeley PhD) had written about Ushuaia in a multitude of guidebooks for various publishers over the last four decades. While I wouldn’t suggest that I have greater insights on the city and its history than his exhaustive research in both primary and secondary sources, an analysis of guidebooks (not just mine) might have added something to the topic of tourism.

After the Jabs? Post-Pandemic Patagonia's Not Quite There

Proof of life?

On February 24th, I received my second dose of Moderna’s COVID-19 vaccine and, two weeks later, I undertook a full-scale grocery mission to Berkeley Bowl West for the first time in a year (my wife—also fully vaccinated now—was doing the shopping in that time, while I had only made occasional brief sorties to a neighborhood grocery). It felt like a milestone, one of the first, perhaps, in my quest to return to southernmost South America (even if, for now, I may have to settle for the pears on display here).

The aisles at Berkeley Bowl, on my first visit in a year

A nice pair?

I have yet to renew my passport—having waited purposefully until a new and competent administration took over the reins of government in Washington—but, in any event, I won’t be heading south until November at the earliest. That said, I couldn’t help but notice that LATAM Airlines was offering flights from Los Angeles to Santiago for as little as US$500 r/t. For some time after I returned from Chile to LAX last March 27th, the pandemic had closed the border to all but Chilean citizens and permanent residents but now, it appears, times may be changing.

 

Is Chile Winning the Arms Race?

Part of the reason, surely, is Chile’s success in vaccinating its population. According to Latin America Reports, five million Chileans may have already received their inoculations, and the government has agreements with China (Sinovac), Pfizer, Johnson & Johnson, and AstraZeneca to acquire 36 million doses (the country’s population is roughly 19 million). While President Sebastián Piñera’s second term has been shaky, there’s no doubt that his administration has been proactive in protecting the population (though there’ve been conflicting data on the Chinese vaccine’s effectiveness). Quarantines, curfews, and other sanitary measures also remain in force.

What does this mean for intending for potential foreign visitors (like myself and my readers)? Because of the previous US administration’s malfeasance and negligence, it’s been worrisome that US passports may have lost the cachet they once had but, as LATAM’s promotional fare would suggest, that’s not an issue at present. That said, any trip to Chile will run into various restrictions: there are several COVID requirements, including a negative PCR test, a sworn pre-boarding statement, a health insurance policy, an electronic tracking form on arrival, and an obligatory ten-day quarantine. Santiago’s Aeropuerto Internacional Arturo Merino Benítez is the only authorized entry point, and there are additional requirements for traveling beyond Santiago, especially to Patagonia, which may entail additional PCR tests.

 

How Hard is the Border?

These are Argentina's open border crossings - but with restrictions

In my case, the need to cross the Argentine border complicates matters even further, but I’m probably better placed than most. At present, the only non-Argentines permitted to enter must be relatives of Argentines and, being married to one for nearly 40 years, I technically qualify—but only if there’s a family-related issue at stake. There are just a handful of open crossings, the most convenient of which is Aeropuerto Internacional Ministro Pistarini, commonly known as “Ezeiza,” in suburban Buenos Aires. The only option in Patagonia is Paso San Sebastián, shared by Argentina and Chile, in Tierra del Fuego, but if I somehow managed to enter Argentina, a patchwork of local and provincial travel restrictions could make any such achievement a pyrrhic victory. Instead, I’ll wait.

Lands of Fire and Ice

In California, this summer’s been a hot one and, perhaps, the worst wildfire season in our history. Here in Oakland, our worst was the 1991 firestorm—which came close enough to our Rockridge residence that my wife and daughter stayed with friends—but this year’s events have occurred mostly in rural wildlands and we’ve only seen occasional ashfall from them.

Until last Friday, I'd never seen Argentine plates in California.

Coincidentally, though, I received a reminder of another “land of fire” when, walking the dog last Friday, I turned the corner to see a Citroën Xsara Picasso with Argentine plates—the first such plates I’ve ever seen in California—that was decorated with a map of the Americas and the legend “Todo por América, Ushuaia – Alaska.” When I stopped to speak with them, the owners were a bit surprised to hear someone speaking (more or less) Argentine Spanish, but I invited Eduardo Ybarra and Emilia Florencio (and their Australian shepherd Ona) around the corner to meet my (Argentine) wife.

Emilia sips yerba mate, with Eduardo in the driver's seat and Ona in the back.

Eduardo and Emilia, though, had car problems—the starter had given out on their 2012 vehicle and the Citroën itself is almost unknown in this country except, perhaps, for a few collectors. Parking outside, they had to leave the car running (and locked) because they could only start it on an incline. After a brief visit and a thermos of mate, drunk while Ona cavorted with my daughter’s boxer mix in the garden (my elderly and arthritic malamute could only observe), I accompanied them to our local mechanic, who told us they couldn’t work on the exotic French vehicle (Citroën have not been sold in the US since 1974).

In 1991-2, our Peugeot 404 was a frequent guest of Patagonian mechanics.

Fortunately, using the mobile app iOverlander, they located a Guatemalan mechanic who managed to repair the starter, but their situation suggests a greater problem worth the attention of anyone who takes a Pan-American road trip. I myself have driven extensively in southernmost South America, first with a rattletrap Peugeot 404 that belonged to my late father-in-law and somehow survived the ruggedest stretches of Patagonia’s legendary Ruta 40—with help from talented street mechanics—in the days before that highway was even partly paved. In some cases, the surface was not gravel, but rather stones the size of my first.

I have even shipped cars from California—in one case an aging Datsun pickup and, in another, a more versatile Toyota Xtra Cab. In Chile, I now own an SUV, a 2007 Suzuki Grand Nomade with relatively low mileage, and I’ve occasionally encountered other gringos who’ve traveled the length of the Americas, though not necessarily from Alaska.

The type of vehicle makes a difference precisely because of parts availability and mechanical assistance. If, for example, you drive a Prius to South America, finding replacement parts would be nearly impossible, as these hybrid vehicles are only now starting to appear in Argentina and Chile. In my opinion, our new Argentine friends were fortunate to find a capable mechanic willing to tackle their problem—I expect he had to improvise—but if something gives out on the remote Alaska Highway, will they be so fortunate again?

If you're northbound from California, keep an eye out for Eduardo and Emilia.

I’ve never driven to or even visited Alaska, though I suspect that anybody along the route will lend the help they can in case of breakdown, but I still feel the Citroën is something of a ticking time bomb. Alaska also has a short summer, and I would hope they get started soon, as a long drive remains. You can follow their progress at Todo por América.

(Semi)-Holiday in Patagonia

The harbor of Ushuaia, on the north side of the Beagle Channel

Argentina’s a small country, after all. In Ushuaia after a late arrival from Buenos Aires, my wife María Laura and I took a short walk from our cozy hillside B&B down to Kalma, a sophisticated restaurant whose talented young chef Jorge Monópoli turned out to be her brother’s former physical education student in the northern Patagonian town of Villa Regina. Recently relocated to stylish contemporary quarters, Kalma rewarded us, at day’s end, with creative versions of king crab appetizers, Patagonian toothfish (often called, inaccurately, Chilean sea bass) and Patagonian beef.

Merluza negra (Patagonian toothfish) and vegetables, Kalma, Ushuaia

When I first saw Ushuaia in 1979, as a budget backpacker in the aftermath of the near-war with Chile over the Beagle Channel, it still felt like “the uttermost part of the earth” that the  Fuegian pioneer Lucas Bridges described in his memoir. In the interim, I’ve revisited at least a dozen times but my wife—from Olavarría—hadn’t had the experience of seeing a town grow into a city that’s become a major international destination and the gateway to Antarctica.

Ushuaia's international airport has helped make it the gateway to Antarctica.

In fact, I’ve seen far more of Argentina than she probably ever will. California has been our home for more than three decades, but I’ve made a career out of traveling in the Southern Cone countries and writing about them for several different publishers. I’ve driven hundreds of thousands of kilometers through every Argentine province, but only rarely have we traveled together. In December, though, I had the opportunity to show her some of the places I’ve visited repeatedly while she, with a fixed job, could mostly only dream about.

The hilltop Hotel Arakur, above the city of Ushuaia

The Arakur has its own forest reserve, with hiking trails, on Cerro Alarkén.

That said, I hadn’t seen everything in and around Ushuaia. Two years earlier, a summer snowstorm whiteout had kept me from visiting the hilltop Arakur Ushuaia Resort, but this time we were able to hike through its Cerro Alarkén forest reserve and lunch with views of the Channel. I’d always wanted to hike the steep trail up Cerro Guanaco, in Parque Nacional Tierra del Fuego, but my work obligations and the weather had never cooperated until our second full day. Then, we rented a car and drove to the trailhead where a bilingual signpost warned us that “If you are not wearing walking shoes and clothes…” you should not continue.

(Exaggerated) warning sign at the Cerro Guanaco trailhead

A view of the freshwater feature formerly known as Lago Roca

In fact, as we climbed the switchbacks, a chicly kitted porteño couple critiqued my footwear. We received condescending encouragement from younger hikers even though we had reached an overlook, where we could see down the slopes to Lago Acigami (ex-Lago Roca) and across the Channel to Chile’s Isla Navarino, ahead of them. The day’s only regret was that a late start kept us from visiting Harberton, the Bridges family’s historic farm.

Views from the Cerro Guanaco overlook include Chile's Isla Navarino, across the Beagle Channel.

View of the Spegazzini Glacier, on Lago Argentino

From Ushuaia, we flew on to El Calafate, where María Laura’s cousin resides but was leading a foreign tour group elsewhere. We’d both been there before and, because the local tour operator’s rigid guidelines deemed me too aged for a hike on the ice—which I’ve done elsewhere—we declined to visit the Moreno Glacier once again. Instead, we chose a leisurely catamaran day trip on Lago Argentino where, unfortunately, the company’s photographers badgered everyone to order cabin snapshots and park regulations kept our vessel from approaching the Upsala Glacier (though we saw the Spegazzini at audible range). We more enjoyed our stay at the Hotel Kosten Aike, for its quiet comfort, first-rate service and walkability to restaurants like the hybrid wine bar La Zaina, with its rustic décor, and pleasantly surprising pub grub at the Mako Premium Bar.

Hostel Kosten Aike is easy walking distance from nearly of El Calafate's restaurants and other services.

La Zaina is one of El Calafate's best dining (and wining) options.

La Leona is a popular stop along the highway from El Calafate to El Chaltén.

The interior of La Leona includes a snack bar and souvenir shop.

Since we’re avid hikers, my wife had long wanted to visit El Chaltén, so we hired a car to reach Argentina’s “trekking capital.” En route, we stopped for snacks at the photogenic Parador La Leona, a rejuvenated roadhouse that’s retained a certain rusticism even as it’s become a stop for tourist buses en route to Chaltén and points much farther north along Ruta 40. Its current owners, the Kargauer family, have cinema connections and Francis Ford Coppola even paid a visit here.

When Francis Ford Coppola visited La Leona

María Laura on the trail to Cerro Torre (center right in background)

The Hotel Don Los Cerros sits atop a promontory in the middle of El Chaltén.

Even with a late arrival, the long December day permitted her an afternoon hike toward the iconic Cerro Torre—which I’d done several times—as I caught up with some writing at the Don Los Cerros Hotel, a luxury lodge atop a promontory that offers panoramic views of the town and its surroundings. When she returned, we walked down the hill to La Vinería, Chaltén’s only dedicated wine bar, for some empanadas and a glass of Malbec. Even for a village that lives off tourism, the quality of services—both accommodations and food—is remarkable here. My personal favorite is Estepa, where a succulent lamb with a calafate sauce is the specialty.

For fine days, La Vinería has sidewalk seating.

On the road from Lago del Desierto back to El Chaltén

We’re both also avid cyclists and, the next morning, we arranged an excursion with the Travellers’ Hostel Patagonia, which hauls riders and bicycles to Lago del Desierto—an area where Argentine and Chilean forces staged a 1965 firefight over the precise location of the border. Now, a truly adventurous route leads by boat across the lake and then overland into Chile, where another vessel carries cyclists and hikers to the Carretera Austral, Chile’s dazzling Patagonian road.

At what is now Plaza Soberanía, Chilean Carabineros and Argentine gendarmes had a 1965 firefight over the location of the border.

We had neither time nor resources to do that, but we unloaded the bicycles to pedal the 37 kilometers back to Chaltén with the wind at our backs—viento a favor. My friend Javier Vásquez, who organizes the excursion, gave us the option of phoning for a pickup if we tired or the weather worsened, but we were fine until about four kilometers short of town—when María Laura’s bike suffered a flat. As we pushed our bikes back to town, that didn’t flatten our spirits even as the wind worsened and, with rain the next morning, we decided to depart early for El Calafate.

The Olivia Coffee Shop has a fine selection of pastries.

Back in Calafate for a night, we moved uphill to the Hotel La Cantera, which gave us a view of the town and, after dinner at the now classic Casimiro Biguá—where our bill included a 39-peso “covert charge”—a more strenuous climb to burn off the calories. At mid-morning the next day, we met María Laura’s newly returned cousin for brunch at the new Olivia Coffee Shop, where the Scandinavian in me found a delectable cinnamon roll.

I’ve often heard the comment that, doing what I do, “You’re getting paid to be on vacation,” but visiting these places has always been a job—a pleasurable job, but a job nonetheless. That afternoon, though, as we boarded our flight back to Buenos Aires, I felt the satisfaction of having been on a vacation of sorts, or at least having accompanied a loved one on vacation.