Spreepark syndrome
For me, the Spreepark is a microcosm of a certain Berlin syndrome.
Photos of its weird, overgrown structures nestled in a riverside wood routinely graced my social media in the late naughties. At the time, moving to Berlin seemed the ultimate hipster wish fulfilment. This abandoned theme park was catnip for my corner of the internet’s fascination with urban exploration and the aesthetics of decay.
And so the first time I visited the city alone in 2014, and therefore unencumbered with the interests of others, I intended to seek the Spreepark out. But, by then, it was already old hat. Discerning tourists didn’t Spreepark. People talked of newly stationed guard dogs, and lamented the days of yore when you could pop through a hole in the fence and nip off with a whacky souvenir. “It’s not the same, you should have seen it before.” I felt an entire city roll its eyes at this tourist.
As with the Spreepark, so too with Berlin. “It’s not the same, you should have seen it before.” By then, Tacheles had been shut down, Teufelsberg had an entrance fee, and rents were rising fast. Welcome to the Berlin curse of imagined loss. You weren’t there, you never experienced it, but you mourn hard nonetheless.
To mention the Spreepark now, in 2022, feels painfully passé. An outdated ‘touristic’ (sic.) notion. That Berlin doesn’t exist anymore, dude.
And yet, when I spotted adverts for tours as part of the site’s regeneration, I needed that itch scratched. My friends demurred, invoking that mantra of ‘it’s not the same anymore’. But I went. So put me on the mailing list for kids who still think it exists.
And so on one rainy, hungover Sunday, I found my expectations pleasantly exceeded. I don’t know if it’s just the decline of British municipalism or that the graphic design all felt a bit Urban Splash, but I’d just assumed private finance was cannibalising the site. I’d figured the tours as just a sop to the city’s guilty conscience.
But no — it’s the state of Berlin itself investing in the Spreepark. And dare I say it, but what they’re doing appears to be, well, kinda good.
The old rocker, local historian who acted as a tour guide stressed how much is being preserved. The huge, beatle-like ‘Kino 2000’ will serve as the main entrance. The tea cup ride will become a bandstand for live music, the cups themselves dotted around as seating. The Ferris Wheel — once Europe’s largest — is being renovated.
And what of the ultimate money shot of those derelict chic blogs I remember: the rails of a rollercoaster being vomited out of the mouth of a screaming wild cat? That will remain too, although now as the obligatory post-High Line elevated walkway.
“Can you guess its new name?”, our tour guide asks expectedly. Someone dryly remarks ‘The Cat Walk’ Ding, ding, ding, ding. The guide quips, “It must have been late on a Friday when they had that meeting.”
Not everything survives, naturally. A blank patch of dirt paths and weeds is all that’s left of the Wild West town, where actors robbed the bank four times a day. Meanwhile, the ‘Englisches Dorf’ is only still standing because it’s home to a family of Racoons — protected animals that can’t be forced out. Once they move on, the condemned structures will go.
And another pin-up for wannabee psychographers, the dinosaur statues, fell victim to vandalism long ago. “I’m sure their heads look pretty decorating Kreuzberg balconies” comes the barbed comment from our guide.
But then, as with many of the things that Berliners lament losing in their city, these things aren’t that old anyway, hailing from the 90s.
It’s true that the DDR opened the original theme park here, called ‘Kulturpark’, in 1969 to celebrate its 20th anniversary. Before cheap airplanes and with holidays limited to the Eastern bloc, it became hugely popular. Perhaps it didn’t hurt that the apex of the Ferris wheel provided a rare peek into West Berlin.
After reunification, the park survived transfer to the private sector. But its new owners, the Witte family, invested millions refurbishing it, with many of the rides coming from a bankrupted French theme park. It’s mainly the ruins of these we admire today. Even the Ferris Wheel which actually is from the original Kulturpark, is relatively new: it replaced the 60s one for the DDR’s anniversary in 1989.
The Spreepark closed in 2001, amongst financial troubles and administrative disagreements with the city. Today, there is much to admire in the city’s plans. As well as the inventive preservation of what remains, there’s a genuine interest in sustainability. For example, car parking is intentionally limited. Instead, a new regular boat route will link the entrance to the nearby S-bahn stop of Treptower Park.
But if I have one gripe, it’s that the park will remain fenced off. Our guide dismisses this. “The entry price will be so low”, he protests, “just 2€.”
“And”, he continues, brandishing artists’ impressions, “the new fence is so much more gentle in design”. Okay, but a fence is a fence is a fence.
Many of the attractions sound pleasant enough. If I happened upon these playful features on a walk in Treptower Park I imagine I’d enjoy them. But would I purposefully navigate to a main entrance and pay? I’m not so sure.
So the approach to the Spreepark hasn’t resulted in something quite as enlightened as with the disused airport at Tempelhofer Feld — a free space that’s residents can occupy more or less as they please.
But I suppose all this has gotta be paid for somehow. And could I really imagine London putting public money into a non-profit amenity like this, and then charging so little?
And there’s the crux. I opened with the idea that the Spreepark sums up a Berliners syndrome. It’s something special, that we’re in such a rush to say is ‘over’ we don’t always notice what we have. Sounds familiar.
More info:
- After the Spreepark closed, the Wittes emigrated to Peru and tried again, shipping entire rides with them. Their luck fared no better in the southern hemisphere though, and this endeavour ended in bankruptcy. In fact, in 2004 father Norbert and son Marcel Witte were jailed for smuggling 167 kilos of cocaine inside a carousel ride. Luckily for Norbert, he was in Germany at the time, and served just six months in Plötzensee prison. Upon release, he actually lived in a caravan on the abandoned site. His son, however, got 20 years in Peru. After much legal wrangling, he was transferred to Berlin’s Moabit prison only in 2016.
- Few of the rides in either the Kulturpark or the Spreepark were actually made in Germany. As already mentioned, the Wittes bought many from France. But the DDR imported them from all over Europe, changing the names to de-Westernise them. Thus, ‘Thunderbird’ became ‘Cosmos Gondola’, ‘Bayernkurve’ the ‘Bobsleigh’, and the Carrerra-track the Berliner-track. A background mural depicting the space race had to be altered as it (accurately) showed the US Apollo rocket beating the Soviet’s.
- The Spreepark for a time sat at the centre of a minor political scandal. I In 2001, an anonymous letter arrived at the offices of several Berlin politicians, charging the CDU and the owners with corruption. As it turned out, Spreepark GmBh had indeed been a major donor to the party while it controlled Berlin in the 1990s, but no pro quo was ever proven for that apparent quid. From whom the letters came no one knows.
- The park was never quite as abandoned as we sometimes like to think. Pia Witte resumed ownership between 2008–14, and leased it out for music videos, concerts and even historical battle reenactments.
