Now let's go on a ride into the Great German Decay. And have a look inside the building...
Today, the Basso in Bad Schmiedeberg is a picturesque ruin and a pilgrimage site for amateur photographers seeking the morbid charm of decay. The large hall, where in the early 90s children romped and adults relaxed on water loungers with whirlpool functions, now stands as a testament to a history without ornamentation or protected status.
After the grand opening, attended by the Minister of Economic Affairs who came to welcome the 2.5 millionth visitor, it took less than a hundred days before it was all over. On the second day of Christmas in 2003, the brief history of the first water park in the new federal states came to an end.
The “Basso” in Bad Schmiedeberg - a bathing temple with a giant slide, a round play pool, lounging areas with palm trees, and a snack bar—closed its doors. That was it: finished, done, over. Eighteen million euros were sunk into the sands of the Dübener Heide - not counting the high operating costs that the Basso, built by the city with subsidies and great hopes, devoured over a decade.
Fourteen employees lost their jobs. Afterward, operations continued sporadically, with new managers and new debts. But the first water park on the territory of the former socialist GDR suffered greatly from its pioneering role. After opening, the main round hall was full, especially with parents and young children enjoying the slide, outdoor pool, water loungers, and whirlpool.
The success set a precedent: not only Saxony-Anhalt quickly sponsored a dozen more water and adventure parks, but also Saxony, which is just a stone’s throw from Bad Schmiedeberg. Twenty-two of these new water temples were built there. Most were larger, more centrally located, with wave pools, waterfalls, current channels, and river landscapes.
At the Basso, which is not only quite far from the nearest larger towns of Wittenberg, Gräfenhainichen, Torgau, and Annaburg in the Dübener Heide, but also on the very edge of Schmiedeberg, visitor numbers dwindled. Those who came no longer had to wait at the ticket counter or the slide. Fewer visitors also meant less revenue - and in turn, a greater need for subsidies. Those who come too early are punished by life - with a ruin.
Twelve years after its final closure, the Basso in Bad Schmiedeberg stands as a unique kind of monument to the “blooming landscapes” that then-Chancellor Helmut Kohl promised to the new citizens of East Germany. Nothing blooms here anymore. Birches now grow out of the walls, some as thick as a thigh.
The honeycomb-shaped skylight roof still stretches impressively into the sky, covered with thin foil, but surprisingly still largely intact. Next to it, the 90-meter slide spirals upward in a faded, pale green. The outdoor area is overgrown with shrubs - a Sleeping Beauty’s castle of modernity, reminiscent of a spaceship crash-landed in no-man’s-land between a former children’s holiday camp and a field.
Through the trampled fence, curious visitors repeatedly venture into the enchanted forest of slowly sinking 1990s water park architecture. “Anyone got water? There’s a palm tree burning inside,” ask a few young people with large cameras, drawn here by an internet meeting point for fans of so-called “Lost Places.” Inside, the remains of a palm tree are indeed smoldering—likely the result of one of the youth parties that take place here.
But above all, in the “Urban Explorer” scene - those who explore modern ruin architecture - the Basso is considered a magical photo spot, especially during the pandemic. Here, the splendor of the former bathing paradise, the traces of advanced decay, and the sprawling marks of not-so-talented graffiti artists combine into a total work of art that leaves no ruin hunter unimpressed.
At times, unknown individuals even offered guided tours online -for a fee, but illegally. Currently, the “Basso” has no owner; it has been seized due to the last owner’s debts and can therefore continue to decay in peace.
