It’s 3 a.m. of the Monday after Ash Wednesday, and by decree, Basel, Switzerland is as dark as if an air raid siren had sounded. I step off a tram that turns back on a detour, following the tracks toward the city center. All about me are outlines of people bundled up for the chill, tumbling like snow melt in the Alps, trickles gradually forming torrents that raise the Rhine, the voices of small children in stunned disbelief complaining that their parents were hauling them out of their dreams, adults laughing, lubricated by wine or schnapps. Reaching the center, Marktplatz, I make my way up a building of a corporation tolerant to party crashers from the press, and out onto a balcony. I sip restorative infusions of wine and of Mehlsuppe, a flour soup, and munch on Zwiebelwahe and Kasewahe − onion and cheese tarts. The cuisine both warms me and fills me with skepticism about my gamble to experience Fasnacht − carnival − in this buttoned-down Swiss town that edges both France and Germany. Hell, I could be dancing the samba in a warmer clime.

Tromboning Roosters

Ah, me of little faith. At 4 a.m., I hear pipers in the distance, heralding the procession known as Morgestraich. Eight or nine thousand strong, playing fifes, cousins to the piccolo, an instrument so scarce in the US that parents wanting college assistance for their kids might urge them to indulge that oral habit. And drummers, thousands more. The tune becomes recognizable as one from the American Revolution, or at least musicals about it. I’m reminded of Plato’s warning that the flute is a revolutionary instrument that threatens the power of rulers. A long line of fire comes into view, eventually recognizable as huge lanterns, of varied size and shape, floating and bobbing into the square, snaking through it to reveal hundreds of thousands who have braved the hour, the wolf, to inspect and cheer the gas-lit projections of colorful images.

After making a couple rounds through the huge square, the pipers and drummers start to break off, scattering in small groups through the narrow, winding cobblestone streets that tilt in like the cabinet of Dr. Caligari. I follow, get lost, then linger in one spot, the darkened streets bathed in the warm light of a small bakery, a plump, grinning woman loading Fasnachtsküchli, sugar rice thin round cakes, and Fastenwähe, caraway seed pretzels, in the display window beneath an amiable but grotesque mask.

Draconian drum major

I listen to what threatens a cacophony of battling troupes of flutists turning into each other from a three-way corner. One group is a half dozen masked women, the masks carefully cut so as not to impede, in harlequin patterned uniforms with Napoleon hats. Another is comprised of a dozen masked "nudists" in flesh colored foam padding exaggerating sexuality. The third is a band of masked freelance flutists in grab bag fare from carnivals past, like a clown convention. When they meet there is no rumble, but, like flicking a stereo switch, they instantly adopt one harmonious tune, staying with it until they go their different paths. The subtle hint of dawn only accents the sleep-deprived but giddy feeling from these surreal moments, popping up and disappearing like the final dreams of night.

Since assigning myself the onerous task of exploring carnival across different cultures, in loose pursuit of an eventual book, I always wonder on arrival if I’ve made a good bet, if the carnival horse race will hand me a winner. Basel, Europe’s pharmaceutical capital, a mishmash of Swiss, French and German influences, in the dead of winter, seemed a long shot. But carnival’s beginning came across the finish line beautifully, winning with the cultural uniqueness and eye candy one hopes for. The carnival presents not as something cobbled together to gather and please tourists, but as a town ruffling its soul to reawaken its identity, unconcerned with outside onlookers.

Carnival actually warmed up the night before as carts piled with straw were drawn through the streets and set afire, and various bands of flutists marched about, many looking like Swiss bankers and other conventional folk, giving no hint to the transformation about to befall them. While this carnival retains themes of renewal, with traditions going back at least to the Middle Ages and certainly threads to pagan times, it differs from most other Lent-based festivals. One likely cause is the region’s protestant reformation roots, which broke out on Mardi Gras, in 1529. Instead of ending with Ash Wednesday, Basel’s carnival begins after it, giving travelers the chance to catch an extra carnival. It goes around the clock for three days. Between the spikes of activity are calmer moments that allow revelers to break for a few hours sleep or, just as likely, to cellars where carnival cliques gather for food and drink. Some retreats also welcome the public.

The afternoons see energetic parades including floats, and the evenings of the first and third nights have groups gathering to drink, eat and recite Schnitzelbängg, satirical verses in the local dialect, a bit of a mongrel, aimed mostly at local politicians. Some performers are kind enough to hand out translations.

Brainiac Brass Band

But the big guns come out the second evening, for the Guggemusige concert competitions. The Gugge bands are wonderfully costumed big brass bands, often with dented instruments. The musicians practice all year playing off key, but the music has such fervent energy that it is a pleasure to hear. After they play in competition concerts, they march through the streets, periodically invading and taking over restaurants and pubs, squeezing tubas and trombones into nooks and crannies, and playing a set to patrons’ delight or consternation, depending on mood and proximity to a trombone. After a few encounters with these battling bands, it suddenly seems to fit that this is the city of Dr. Albert Hofmann, who accidentally discovered LSD, adding some fizz to the local pharmaceutical industry.

Each band leader sports the grandest costume, usually quite huge, and the bands are costumed to various themes, from jungle animals to Uncle Sams to Terminators who caricature the Governor of California. Some of the bands are all-girl, not always readily spotted due to the costumes, though they strut with a little more grace.

What this well-mannered, family friendly carnival lacks in the well-packed thongs of carnivals in the deeper south, at least those worn in public, it makes up for in the cerebral. Basel’s carnival is underpinned by unsparing political and social satire. The satire sometimes shows through in the masks, but particularly centers on the painted lanterns. Targets come not just from Basel, but from Switzerland at large, from neighboring countries and from the larger international stage.

You know what that means. Two carnivals ago, according to accounts and photos, the most coveted foreign target was President Bush, who figured prominently not just with masks but on the lanterns. Last year, according to the buzz on the street, the Swiss were exhausted with W, and many did not want to repeat themselves. Still, though he’d dropped in prominence, W made his mark, he merely had to share the top honors with Silvio Berlusconi, the media mogul who is Italy’s Prime Minister. The Swiss delighted in portraying the prime minister as a cross between the Godfather and Mussolini. Among the lantern images was a take on a scene from the film classic, "La Dulce Vita," changed to "Il Duce Mediala," with Silvio riding the back of a woman representing not Anita Ekberg but justice. Great company.

Nth degree street art

For the upcoming 2005 carnival, I lay odds, with a bit of trepidation, on the unchallenged return of President Bush to the carnival stage, not just in Basel, but in Cologne, Nice and other European carnival cities. The Swiss will not be able to resist the images conjured up by recent chapters in U.S. history. I doubt most Swiss have lost their overall fondness for American visitors. But American culture itself, which was satirized last year for its commercialism and fast food lifestyle, will likely rise as a satirical target because this time the U.S. elected President Bush, stunning most Europeans. Tony Blair will earn some knocks, as he did last year, guilt by association. And I’ll buy someone a beer if there isn’t at least one mischievous image mixing the ingredients of Abu Ghraib, handcuffs, a whip, leather, and W.

The satire of Basel carnival is a bellwether of foreign opinion. Some of the images conjure common ground, with portrayals of global warming, tensions over retirement pensions, church sexual scandals, Middle East fiascos and even preoccupation with cosmetic surgery. But they also underscore how closely the world watches the U.S. with great concern, how much people believe what America does will affect their lives, how important American ideals have become as standards, and how threatened people feel by perceived hypocrisies.

Red-nosed revelers

After taking an afternoon break at a terrific museum of contemporary art run by Foundation Beyeler, I returned to carnival at night. Among my encounters was a troupe in comedic masks with cartoonish features including giant red noses, and huge teeth, between which eyes peered out. When they heard I was from the U.S., they started chanting "JFK, JFK," enthusiastic over Kerry’s prospects. Several kept my attention pouring me wine, then posing for a photo. Unknown to me, one of their confederates filled my large coat hood with an amazing amount of confetti that later spilled past my ears into my clothes and my coat’s many pockets. A year later when I pull something from a pocket, it still offers up confetti − the gift that keeps on giving. Some day I'll have to replenish this poor man’s cornucopia.