Credit for the photos goes entirely to my DH, who snapped hundreds of pictures during our two days in Basel. I took photos too, but they don't hold a candle to his!
Thousands of Basel residents belong to “cliques”: the first time I’ve ever heard this word used
in a non-derogatory sense. Some cliques
have been established for centuries, others began recently. They spend the year prior to each festival
planning and making their costumes, and thinking about the topic on which they
will all comment with long, wry poems in their local Germanic dialect, with
their costumes, with their “float”, and their “laterne”. This last is a lantern: each clique has one
large artist-painted lantern reflecting this year’s subject topic, and a lot of
similar smaller lanterns which fit onto the tops of their oversized masks with
attached wigs and hats. The cliques also
spend time together regularly during the year practicing the music they’ll
perform during their marches. The more
traditional groups have a piccolo section and a drum section which play mostly
traditional, melancholy tunes and rhythms.
Others are marching brass bands who played many tunes familiar to high
school bands the world over: “Spanish
Eyes”, “Happy Days are Here Again”!
The costumes are outlandish, funny, and/or scary, simultaneously. Many are variations on clown suits, and
there’s a lot of cross-dressing for extra hilarity. The masks are huge and grotesque, with big
noses and wigs. Some aimed at scariness
with skeletal death’s heads, and others at light-hearted fun with beany babies
and flowers on their hats and garments. Costumes
festooned with trash or fashioned from recyclables offered social commentary. The
costumes, the floats, and the gifts of candy and flowers to onlookers were all
we saw in common with the Catholic Church centered Faschings parades in
Karlsruhe and Stuttgart. This was an
occasion to share with their fellow citizens the hard work done all year and to
celebrate together the wonderful things we can create when we follow tradition
and work hard together.
Shortly after we arrived on Sunday afternoon, we took
another train ride (just 15 minutes) to Liestal, which while close to Basel is
the governmental center of another state.
By the time we arrived around 5 pm, the town had already withstood a
long, loud and messy parade, leaving the cobbled winding medieval streets an
inch deep in confetti, candy wrappers and plastic cups. Fire fighters from many nearby towns wearing
full gear were busy setting up hose connections and establishing firewatch
points on roofs high and low. We settled
ourselves to wait for darkness to fall to view the “Chienbase” or “Fire Parade”
starting just after 7. We were
determined to be in the front row, and we succeeded. However, we were not unscathed by this
proximity to the parade.
First came the bands with their lanterns lit, piping and
drumming eerily. As the darkness
intensified, the first of the fire troops arrived: first, a dozen or so marchers hoisting very
heavy “brooms” of two or three dozen sticks of firewood wired to a small tree,
and blazing, preceded a wagon, packed fully and carefully with firewood, and
blazing high. The aim was to process
through the ancient town gate, threatening the town with a real danger of
destruction, but to maintain order while playing this game of elemental
chicken. As each group of broom bearers
came along, their blazing wagons were burning with increasing ferocity, and the
heat in the front row became nearly unbearable.
I had to turn my back when the marchers had to pause in front of me, and
my DH wrapped me in his raincoat to shelter me.
After I’d done this a couple of times I looked down, and some children
who’d stood near me had joined me under the coat! The wagons often had to pause for several
minutes near us until the firefighters at the town gate were ready for them,
and as the blazes intensified and roared, I had to force my way several people
deep into the crowd. My DH stayed in the
front, fascinated as ever by flames, and other small people near him took
shelter under his raincoat. One woman
looked up at him and said, “You’re a hero!”
His new raincoat bears some burn holes in testimony of his courage.
When the fire parade finally ended, the street party began
and we refueled with grilled sausages and cold beer. We were pretty tired out, and jumped on a
train back to Basel, having spent about five hours witnessing the elemental
power of fire, celebrated, and contained.
We were too exhausted by the nighttime fire parade in
Liestal to get up in time for the 4 am commencement of festivities in Basel
with the “Morgestraich” (stroke of morning) parade of lanterns and bands. It’s supposed to be an unforgettable sight,
when all the lights in the city are shut off simultaneously, but we just didn’t
have it in us to miss sleep just to see it, when we knew the parades and
performances would continue for the duration of our stay in Basel.
We explored Basel’s medieval inner city and even climbed the
tower of the Cathedral on the Rhine (like I needed something else to scare me
to death). The streets were narrow and
windy, some so steeply hilly that they turned into staircases. The old town is beautifully preserved and
maintained. We positioned ourselves on
the oldest bridge over the Rhine to watch the afternoon parade, which featured
probably thousands of marchers, lasted for almost two hours, and went both ways
along the street. Candy, flowers and
fruits were tossed or handed carefully to onlookers, and we were showered with
confetti more times than we could count.
My DH was often used as a target, being taller than others, and had
confetti shot into his nose and ears!
Once the official parade (which may have involved judging)
ended, the groups took breaks, and then put their masks back on and processed,
piping and drumming, as they wished until they needed another break. We finally gave up for the day at 10 pm, and
bands were still roving and playing all over town. We saw some extremely tired child members of
cliques, just barely clinging to wakefulness on their way home.
Tuesday proved to be Children’s Day. Bands of pipers and drummers, in different
costumes than on Monday, roamed at will, and groups of children in wagons,
costumed to match one another as clowns, animals, and fairy tale characters,
traveled through the streets thoughtfully or fiendishly distributing candy and
confetti. We took a break for a couple
of hours to visit the beautifully designed historical museum which illuminated
for us the Celtic, Roman and Germanic origins of Basel, its medieval affluence,
and the changes in governance from church to state. Then we followed bands up
and down hills, winding along the narrow old streets, for some hours before we
had to start making our way to the train station.
This was no Mardi Gras; no binge drinking or lewd
eroticism. This was a community, family
affair like nothing I’ve seen before.
The cliques had members of all ages, teens and retirees piping and
drumming together, discussing and composing their gently humorous takes on
local and national issues, sharing their labors with fellow citizens, and
celebrating their ability to express themselves and not self-destruct. With this tradition, Baselers teach their
children how to be an individual within a group, to build a community, and to
ensure the survival of their culture for the next generation. My one-dimensional preconception of the Swiss
as hard-working, good-looking, fit and trim athletic watchmakers has undergone
a transformation and a deepening.
Oh, and I ate some really great sausages and quiches there
too! Sometime I’ll share about Flour
Soup (really, it’s brown gravy sprinkled with grated Emmental cheese), a
traditional food for Fasnacht in Basel.
The lessons of cuisine here were completely overtaken by the
thought-provoking lessons of culture.
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