Inside one of Australia's oldest working prisons

Come behind the barbed wire at Cooma Correctional Centre to meet those who are forced to be there and those who choose to be.

By Alkira Reinfrank  - ABC News  -  Updated 3 Feb 2017, 12:20pm

A guard stands in front of a razor wire fence behind which inmates can be seen talking and exercising.

The dull thud of boots vibrates around the granite alcove.

Stale whitewashed walls are shaded from the harsh sun that warms the concrete courtyard.

The sound is broken only by the wail of metal scraping upon metal.

I follow a man in his 50s as he steps through the bars.

When John O'Shea left school he became a qualified chef, but he never expected he would end up in prison.

However, he's not the one behind bars.

He's the one on guard.

Governor John O'Shea talks on a walkie talkie in front of a heavy, metal fence.

Life on the inside

For the last six months Mr O'Shea has been governor of Cooma jail.

Recently he invited me to go behind the barbed wire of the minimum to medium security jail, to get a taste of prison life.

Built in the 1870s, Cooma jail is one of the oldest working prisons in Australia.

Governor John O'Shea stands outside the tall granite walls of Cooma jail.

Located a few hundred metres from Cooma's main street and down the road from a supermarket, you would be forgiven for thinking it's a historical museum instead of a functioning penitentiary.

But within the towering granite walls live 200 inmates — serving time for a range of convictions from murder to assault.

"It's every offence. You may have done 20 years in a maximum security section and worked your way through the system and arrived in Cooma for eight years and below to go," Mr O'Shea says.

The inmates spend 18 hours a day in their cells.

The cells are locked at 3:45pm each day and don't open until the morning.

Through the door of a jail cell, a double bunk and a table and shelves, and a loaf of white bread can be seen.

Inmates walk around and talk at a table inside the prison.

An inmate sits on a chair talking on a landline telephone.

Stepping back in time

I've visited prisons before, but never one that seemed so frozen in time.

The buildings reflect the era it was built, with heavy metal doors under iron lock and keys.

The last time a building here underwent major renovations was close to 60 years ago.

A small ABC crew and I were there to film the prisoners, but I couldn't help but feel like we were the ones being watched.

Around every corner, looking down through metal walkways above, and hovering outside their cell doors, the men in green monitored us.

We seemed to be a welcome distraction from prison life.

Inmates lean over a rail and look down from the top level of the prison.

Reporter Jesse Dorsett smiles as prison inmates talk to him from above through metal mesh.

While television reporter Jesse Dorsett rattled off his lines to camera, an audience gathered on two separate levels, jovially directing his performance.

"Take one," one inmate laughed.

"Take two," yelled another from above.

Separating the white supremacists

Five men with big muscles use gym equipment in the courtyard of the jail.

In the courtyard, bulky men spent the passing hours putting their bodies to the test in the open-air gym.

Their ink, clearly visible, included a number of swastikas — giving some clue as to possible political allegiances or even crimes committed.

"The staff have to be aware of their background, their associations with outlaw motorcycle gangs. The staff have to be always on their toes," Assistant Superintendent Geoff King says as we stand in the courtyard.

"They have to be sure they don't put a white supremacist in with an Indigenous person or Muslim."

Looking down through metal mesh, inmates stand talking in the prison courtyard.

About 70 staff are employed in the prison to keep the men in line.

Mr O'Shea says he's been blessed in his 26-year career but things do get hairy at times.

"It's sometimes tough but so is any job. It's a great job, a great career and we've got some fantastic staff here," he says.

The corrections officers have to be constantly on the look-out for contraband and homemade weapons.

Tobacco and mobile phones are at a premium behind the walls.

Rehabilitation is key

But perhaps the most important job of the prison is rehabilitation.

Inmates can spend up to six hours a day working or taking part in educational programs.

In the textiles wing, prisoners make underwear, prison greens and other garments.

It's big business for the prison, but the inmates also make between $40 and $70 a week for their work.

And it's cost effective — two-thirds cheaper than outside producers.

More than 3,500 garments are made each week.

"For the most part, inmates are going to be released into our community, so we want to make sure we give them every opportunity to make the changes that they need," programs officer Kate Mills says.

A guard watches on as the inmates make garments in the textile section.

An inmate sewing.

No matter where we went in the facility there seemed to be a level of comradery between the staff and prisoners.

As Mr O'Shea took his turn in front of the camera, one inmate remarked: "Mr O'Shea, you're going to be a movie star."

A roar of laughter ensued, even from Mr O'Shea himself.

And with the comradery came an obvious amount of respect for the men and women in blue.