From the slick concrete train platform in Elzach, a sleepy village in Germany, the buildings teetered away in sort of a grey line: on my left, a closed pharmacy leaning against a bar; to the right, a row of disproportionate houses with identical small messy front yards, toys sprouting up along the fences.
My eyes followed the road as it stretched and then stopped, where the curb gave way to a skinny moat of brown wet grass. On the other side, a regiment of trees retreated up the muddy slope into the Black Forest.
It was early spring.
Thunder whomped somewhere. We walked, not sure where to go. I ordered a beer from the bar. Asked how much, the bartender snorted. Outside, the air was stale and warm like the beer. Eager faces lined either side of the crooked drag. The storm was advancing. Heads and shoulders popped out of cuckoo clock windows above us. The thunder was deafening now, and we were baffled.
In a red flash, a sea of bodies broke around the corner, whap-ing their balloon-ish weapons into the cobblestones, or slapping them into the faces of onlookers who were brave (or foolish) enough to be within arm’s reach.
If you’re familiar with Mardi Gras, you know that it’s a version of Carnival — a spring-time celebration with pagan and liturgical roots. Rio de Janeiro and Venice also host extravagant Carnival parties. Typical celebrations include colorful parades, elaborate costumes, and veritable marathons of drinking.
Although Germany doesn’t have much of a reputation for partying (outside of Oktoberfest, that is), Carnival is when they really let their hair down. The most famous “Karneval” is in Cologne, where partygoers dress up in crazy colors and drink beer for about four days straight. Another famous Karneval takes place in Mainz, whose politically-themed parade of satires attracts a (slightly) more “highbrow” crowd.
These northern German parties are reminiscent of other Carnival celebrations around the world: colorful costumes, fancy parades, and endless alcohol. The Black Forest, tucked into the nation’s southwest corner, is a different story.
Most tourists don’t go to Germany in February. (Tourist season lasts from summer through Oktoberfest.) Of those who do attend Karneval, the majority gravitate towards the party-hard atmosphere of the Northern Rhineland, leaving the ancient “Fasnet” rituals of the Black Forest relatively untouched.
Yes, the Schwarzwald. Shrouded in legend, the Black Forest (so-called for its dense pines that effectively shut out the light) is the creepy setting favored by the Brothers Grimm. The darkness and general feeling of isolation inspired “Hansel and Gretel,” Rapunzel (not the Disney version), and other gloomy children’s stories. Even today, that sort of twisted, mystical imagination is alive and well in the woods… particularly during “Fasnet” season.
Whereas Cologne’s Karneval is about beer, the Black Forest’s Fasnet is about tradition. It’s the incomparable marriage of fun and fright that makes these rituals so chillingly unforgettable.
Perhaps the most chilling of all Fasnets occurs in the small village of Elzach. 364 days out of the year, Elzach is just a sleepy manufacturing town. But, once a year (in 2020 it’ll be February 23), at noon sharp, the “fools” go free. Every male resident of the town — about two thousand — dresses up in a colorful red uniform and dons a hand-carved wooden mask. For the rest of the day, he loses his voice and, by dint of anonymity, his identity. Only able to communicate through harsh grunts and gestures, the man is utterly gone. Someone — or something — else takes over.
Most costumes represent “Schuttig,” a made up demon with unknown origins. Other masks portray forest animals in wild, distorted expressions. Each striking mask costs about a thousand dollars to produce. Most are family heirlooms dating back over two hundred years.
There are parades scheduled throughout the day and night, including a torch-lit procession. But, even outside of the parades, no rules apply to the fools. They wander the streets with abandon, menacingly wielding what look like balloons on sticks, but are actually dried pig’s bladders that they use to frighten passersby. Whether they slam it on the ground in front of you, or womp you over the head with great force, they’ll keep you on your toes.
In general, the fools mean absolutely no harm. It’s a very safe, family-friendly event meant to honor age-old traditions (the dried pig’s bladders symbolize the end of months living off of cured pork). Plus, the fools only scare people they think will be game, like me, the twenty-something guy with a goofy smile on his face.
At one point, a fully grown Schuttig approached me and I instinctively flinched. But, he didn’t try to scare me. Instead, he pointed at his feet and grunted softly. Glancing down, I saw that his left shoe was untied. I looked up again, and noticed that he was wearing gloves. Slowly, cautiously, I knelt and tied the laces, as if for a young child who didn’t know how. As I stood up, Schuttig hugged me for a second, and then in a flash he was gone and I lost him among the sea of red. It was a touching moment of understanding.
Perhaps the scariest moment of the day, for contrast, was when a small Schuttig — clearly a kid, about 8 or 9 years old — cornered me during a parade and just wailed on me, three or four times in a row. When it was over, all I could think was, What was that? In a way, though, it made sense.
You see, to families living in the Black Forest, reaching the end of winter means surviving the toughest months in isolation. It’s the time to lure their demons out into the light, confront them, and then purge them all at once, driving them back into the darkness of the woods… or, at least try to. In the end, Fasnet is a big party. But, the scary part is that everyone has those demons and, no matter how much they try, they keep coming back at Fasnet. Year after year. Decade after decade. Century after century.
Free is the fool.
