Back in November, we had been graciously given a generously
long break before mid-term exams in order to study and prepare. What do Erasmus
student typically do with such a void in the study schedule? – Plan a trip to
Tallinn and Helsinki of course! Amongst the usual shenanigans one might expect
from a trip to a country with ridiculously low alcohol prices, Estonia and
Tallinn bestowed upon us a cultural experience like no other!
 |
| Taylor and I high above the old town |
After awaking late on a Saturday morning, blurry eyed,
groggy and certainly feeling the weight of the night before, Taylor and I
discussed over breakfast what we should do with our day. We felt that the
activity had to be enriching, non-touristic, a “true” taste of Tallinn and
something that you could go home and happily tell your Grandma about. Unsure
where, who or how we had heard this, we were both aware of an old abandoned
Soviet prison towards the outskirts of the city that was supposedly open to
visitors. (Thinking now – the knowledge was probably remnants of a drunken
conversation from the night before. A reliable source by any means.)
 |
| The tram system of Tallinn is as old as God's dog |
We walked for 30 minutes or so (closely following the path
plotted for us by Google), the further from the city we walked, the further
backwards in time we seemed to plunge. Countless abandoned homes and
warehouses, cars from the 60’s and 70’s that had probably not moved in decades,
stray cats and dogs commonplace. Though dispersed throughout this time-warp
were luxury homes and apartments, newly built and fronted by shiny new cars. It
was bizarre and there was an ambient uneasiness to the neighbourhood.
Once “Arriving at our destination” we looked around intently and then back at each other with the same confused face. We were surrounded by abandoned warehouses on dirt roads and the only signs of life were two shifty looking fella’s down a funnelled driveway that only screamed “steer clear”. No warming welcome sign. No friendly attraction workers. No gift shop. We scoured the immediate area for any one of these symbols of tourism but after finding none, decided our only option was to ask the dubious loiterers.
As we approached, I promptly realised the purpose of the
funnelled driveway. Guard towers topping high concrete walls, barred windows of
the buildings behind and the large open Iron doorway ahead signified we had
found the prison. More worryingly, I was intrigued as to what the two men were
actually doing here. Their actions looked like they were practising drawing a
revolver from a holster, like you do when you’re 5 years old and have just
discovered western movies, before finally accepting that that was exactly what
they were doing.
I have been around firearms numerous times before. My
experiences with air cadets and having a best friend who competitively shot for
a club team left me no stranger to weapons and would go so far as to say I am
comfortable around them. However, in this moment, I realised that every
experience I had had before was in a controlled environment – a shooting range
with strict rules and regulations and never “out and about” in society,
especially not being wielded by the most communist looking men I had ever seen.
Their “private security” uniforms offered no comfort and I tentatively
whispered to Taylor “They have guns” – “I know” was his hushed response.
We stopped about 10 meters away and looked for eye contact
in an attempt to initiate conversation. The two men were enthralled in their
weapons and continued swiftly drawing their pistols from various angles and
positions before pretending to gun down their imaginary foe. After the longest
awkward minute of our lives, standing there like two touristic lemons, the more
senior of the two acknowledged us, handed his pistol to his friend and they
both turned and faced us. I opened with “do you speak English?”
Whilst chatting to the chap, I was acutely aware that the
friend behind had his pistol held loosely in his hand, not at all with anger or
intent, yet directed directly towards poor Taylor. The man explained to us how
he worked there as “security” and that the Prison was in fact closed for the
winter. Apparently it was open for a couple of months in the summer if you had
an arranged tour guide to chaperone you. At this point I was almost relieved as
it gave us an excuse to get the heck out of there – but a look of
disappointment must have drifted across our faces as the silence was broken by
the guard insisting that “I could let you in… for 10 euros each…”
When a man has a gun pointed at you, in front of
a large abandoned communist prison (that was apparently closed for the winter
and was impossible to enter) and you are being proposed with a legally
questionable opportunity for a more than reasonable price – many things run
through your mind. Hesitantly, but not wanting to extend the awkward silences any
longer than necessary, I agreed to the offer and produced a 20 euro note from
my pocket. The guard hastily snatched it away before bombarding us with a
flurry of directions and hand signals, left, right, up the stairs, in this
door, through there… Before being all but jostled through the large iron door –
the excitement and confusion halted only by the ominous boom of metal on metal.
The large iron door was now shut.
