Küssnacht's Klausjagen

Whips, bells, horns, mitres, and St Nikolaus - Küssnacht's cacophonous Klausjagen has to be seen (and heard) to be believed. Usually held on St Nik's day, 5th December, this year the famous Klausjagen was brought forward to Friday the 4th. The reason for this, we're told, is in order that the celebration can go on all night, including a full replay at 6 a.m., and disturbing the Sunday peace is not an option.

Preparations for the event begin well in advance, but the most visible (and audible) to the innocent bystander, is the whip practising, which is permitted for a month prior to Klausjagen. This means that at any time of day or night, traffic can be stopped while youths take over the middle of the road to throw enormous bull whips into the air, where, if done correctly (and of course this requires a lot of traffic-stopping practice) they produce a resounding crack. Then, about a week prior to Klausjagen, teams of young boys begin to wander the streets, again at all times of day or night, practising their bell-swinging. And these are not small bells...

The big day is heralded with a cannon shot from the hills at 6 a.m. And then another at 7, followed by a 5 minute chorus of church bells. The first parade is a children's version of the Klausjagen in the afternoon. The children, mostly boys, though some girls are allowed in this event, parade in a miniature version of the evening's adult event. Dressed in their white hooded shirts, they crack whips, swing bells, and dance with mini mitres on their heads, all in pursuit of Sami Klaus. The tiny boys in their oversize white shirts and bells are seriously cute, some chewing sticks in imitation of their dads' crooked cigarettes.

The real thing begins at 8.15, with the dimming of the village lights and yet another cannon shot. The fierce whips come first, their lashes missing spectators by millimetres. Next, in an eery silence, come about 200 men in white robes bearing their candlelit "Iffele" or mitres, some higher than two metres, and all beautifully crafted, resembling church windows. The men dance in circles, their mitres dipping and spinning, and as the last of them silently passes, the trumpets arrive, playing the repetitive Klaus melody and leading St Nikolaus and his black companions, who hand out goodies to the crowd. And then the sound of 900 cowbells begins to clutch at the diaphragm. These men walk four abreast, swinging their giant bells from right leg to left, their white hooded shirts briefly gleaming in the light of the myriad camera flashes. They're clearly mesmerised by the rhythmic and deafening sound, and soon we, the spectators, are too. And as they pass, another 200 men arrive with cow horns, blowing short monotonous blasts.

The official parade continues in this fashion, with a pause for refreshments, until close to midnight. But it's not over yet. The hardy ones continue all night, ringing their bells and cracking their whips, and next morning at 6 those still standing come together again for the final parade. And behind them, naturally, the street cleaners, so that soon the only reminders of the previous day's huge party are the occasional white-coated, exhausted, and slightly inebriated stragglers returning home.