The Old Quarantine Station

 Ending a house sit creates a day or two of tedious work: cleaning, packing, returning everything to how it was when we arrived, raking endless leaves that winter splatters over the lawn...

"Hey look at this," said Roger, leaning on his rake. "We can go on a tour of the old Quarantine Station on Torrens Island and then use the same ticket for the Maritime Museum."  

All of which happened to be on the day when we should be cleaning, packing, returning etc... but who cared?  Not us!

I'll start raking any time now...

 

The old Quarantine Station sat on the far end of Torrens Island at the mouth of the Port River, suitably close to the port but easy to isolate internees (quarantinees?) as long as they didn't try to escape back to the mainland via the parts of the river which, at low tide, allowed one to (almost) walk across the mud flats to the river bank.   In 1962 a bridge was built to the island, not for the convenience of the quarantine station but to allow access to the brand new power plant built for the Electricity Trust of South Australia. 

The power station was not OK with random people wandering through their facility on their way to visit defunct quarantine stations, so we received instructions to wait at the bridge and be escorted through the power station in convoy. The convoy would leave on time and laggards would be left behind, no waiting, no refunds, no second chances. Ten cars turned up early, all of us terrified of missing out, and dutifully followed an escort car through the power station. I did not take photos due to fear of being accused of power station related espionage and ejected from the tour.

I won't admit how excessively early we arrived, but it was early enough to pop down to the Dolphin Sanctuary where, in the absence of dolphins, we watched trainee kayakers paddling around the latest addition to the area's wreck collection.  This yacht has been mouldering here for several years, collecting rust and guano in equal measures.

Power lines, as expected near a power station.

 

Once allowed out of our cars, our guide escorted us at a cracking pace, talking nineteen to the dozen and accompanied by a silent sidekick carrying a portable defibrillator in case any of us got so excited as to have fibrillations.

 

The Quarantine Station was self-sufficient, having its own power station, water and sewage works, hospital (not surprising), mortuary, and cemetery.  It was unclear if the self-sufficiency extended to having its own farm and food supply.

 

Back in the 1850s plague ships arrived flying a yellow flag and typhoid, cholera and smallpox were the primary fears. Internees (quarantinees?) arrived from their boat, the sick banished to the dirty side of the station and the well-but-risky close contacts confined to the clean side.  Should the clean be well after two weeks they were sent on their way, the sick being liberated only after they were declared no longer infectious, or dead, whichever came first. Given the nature of the beast, the numbers of dead were small: a mere 10 burials between 1887 and 1932.

Morgue, with a dummy corpse inside demonstrating an unidentified volunteer's macabre sense of drama.  No, I didn't photograph the dummy or the small boy who was insistent on poking it.

Torrens island was cold in winter: we shivered in our 21st century puffer jackets and beanies.  In summer it was, and continues to be, plagued by mosquitoes and snakes. The Quarantine Station did not provide such luxuries as heating and cooling, instead robustly encouraging detainees to spend their time outdoors partaking of fresh air, sunshine, and mosquitoes/snakes,etc.

Outside probably seemed like a good idea most of the time. 

 

On arrival everyone was separated by disease status, sex, and class, and packed off for a bracing shower of carbolic while their luggage passed through an industrial autoclave. Squeaky clean and bereft of germs, they were then free to enjoy the pleasures of Torrens Island as long as they turned up for meals in the communal dining hall when required and didn't attempt sneaky escapes to the mainland.

Loaded on trolleys, everyone's luggage traveled through a giant steam autoclave for sterilising before being returned to its owners.

Hold on tight to your number.  You can't claim your luggage back without it.

The upper classes took their carbolic in the form of luxurious baths in claw-foot tubs.  The lower classes took showers instead, which was considered rather a lesser form of ablutions in those days.

 

Staff were accommodated on the island for prolonged stays to prevent the carrying of infection back and forth, and were encouraged to bring their families for domestic bliss and stability amidst the threat of deadly disease. In the hierarchy of quarantines the resident doctor took top spot, and was given a grand house with the drawback of living above his clinic and therefore never escaping from work. When human quarantine ended the resident vet got to move in instead.

Doctor's house upstairs, clinic and pharmacy downstairs.

 

These slowly crumbling staff quarters were a no-go zone due to liberal amounts of asbestos.

The doctor had a fine view over the wash-house of carbolic bath/shower notoriety.

 

The Quarantine Station closed in the 1970s when the eradication of smallpox, improvements in the general health and sanitation of sea voyages, and the advent of passenger travel by jet plane rendered it no longer necessary. Along the way it was briefly used as a camp for Germans interned during WWII. That didn't last long because South Australia's Germans were quite unhappy at being interred, especially as they were accommodated in tents which probably accentuated the hot/cold/mosquitoes/snakes issues. Being influential and educated persons, they mobilised all their influential friends and petitioned successfully for release back into the community. 

Details.

 The Quarantine Station, built to house over 200 persons, had an average occupancy of 40 throughout its operating years. This was probably a good thing, indicating as it did a comfortable absence of plagues at entry to South Australia. Only a third of the buildings remain, the dining hall and hospital are both long gone, and a small band of volunteers works tirelessly to restore and maintain the site. They are busy writing grants for restoration of the jetty which would enable tours to come to the station by historic boat and avoid the messy problem of needing escorts through the power station. Not that we needed an escort on the way out anyway. "You know the way!" Our guide flapped her hand in the general direction of the Power Station. "Wave to the guard on your way out. I'll take up the rear so they know everyone's gone."

It all seemed a bit lax to me. I hope the guard paid attention to make sure no one stowed away on the power station on his watch.

Exit views.