Within this captive gerontocracy, the prison teemed with the colour, noise and industry of undiluted womankind.

Along with nuns and children, visiting hours also brought the menfolk. That murderers, bank robbers and drug traffickers have insalubrious other halves is no great surprise, but most of these visitors gave convincing impressions of being the power brokers in the criminal relationship. A common refrain was that the women – willing or not – had taken the fall. In the men’s prison, I sensed disappointment in the faces of the visiting wives and girlfriends; here many of the spouses turned up with guilt writ large upon their foreheads.

Compared with the surfeit of caged testosterone, I was welcomed into the myriad bosoms of the opposite sex. Brooding dystopian menace gave way to the chaos of a raucous colourful slum. The lines between the gangs, divided by crime, nationality or cellblock were more blurred, the noise far greater – increased and infantilised by excitable children crashing about this giant concrete playground.

Capitalism existed in both prisons, but took different forms. The men mimicked the external world where the rich and powerful are largely protected and a class structure keeps the masses in place. A more socialist equality exists in the women’s. The blank grey walls of the men’s jail may have been festooned with flowers in the rich quarters, but were also complemented with a ghastly garland of testicles – the rotting symbol of a revenge hit. Here tapestries of laundry sprouted and cascaded over the railings of the upper corridors spilling without repercussion into undefined territories.