My first glimpse came through the fogged window of a taxi descending a narrow mountain road. It was the sound that alerted me, a ponderous, metallic clatter somewhere out in the dark. Our headlights caught something like a lumbering forest animal, or a pack of animals blocking the road. Through the flickering snowfall, I saw only pieces: moving hillocks of fur and bobbing horns, chains, and broom-like protuberances—bundled switches wagging in the creatures’ fists. As the driver eased his car by, I glimpsed the belts hung on the back with those clattering bunches of bells, each nearly the size of a cannon ball. The beasts shambled off. One turned toward us, his mask displaying an insane lantern-jawed grimace and maw crammed with impossible teeth.
More monsters passed as we neared Bad Gastein’s bustling town square where the driver deposited me. I paid and shouted a “danke schön” over a storm of clanking bells. Immediately I found myself jostled forward. Snow and mulled wine wafted through the air, and there were shouts and laughter as a herd of Krampus pushed into the square. They progressed with a sort of dancelike hopping motion, a choreographed tantrum that sent their bells bouncing in cascading rhythms. Spectators scrambled as more devils tumbled forward. Someone spilled wine, and I was spun into a mound of snow-damp sheepskin that smelled of wet livestock. I looked up into the monster’s face. Breath steamed through his painted teeth as he growled, and I thought I caught a whiff of brandy. He rattled a chain and slashed the air with switches. I lurched back, slipping in snow, and felt the blow land on my back. I’d made contact!
Moa Pass from Bad Gastein, Austria. Photo ©Gasteinertal.com.
On a roughly made stage strung with lights, a microphone clunked. A young woman costumed as an angel passed the mike to a St. Nicholas in ecclesiastic garb. The saint handed off his crozier to a basket-carrying companion sporting a curious beard of dried moss. Nicholas began some rhymed verses. At his first syllable, all bells went dead. Like trained dogs, each Krampus had dropped to his knees, bowing his mask almost into the snow. The heavily accented Pongau dialect was hard to match to the citified German I’d learned from time in far-off Berlin, but I picked out phrases about the saint appearing but once a year, good deeds, rewards, bad deeds, and in more solemn tone: the consequence. At this, the devils exploded—roaring and jangling and whipping the crowd again into a stumbling whirlpool. A fat man was dumped into the snow. A young girl’s cap was snatched away, and I found myself pushed alarmingly close to a grill with roasting chestnuts. Encircled by stomping, clattering devils, I couldn’t stop laughing.
The rumpus rolled on in waves, one troupe leaving, another entering. Each brought its angels, mossy basket-carrier, and a different St. Nicholas, each mounting the stage and gravely reciting verse, devils bowing, devils leaping. As the routine grew familiar, I shuffled through the crowd and down hillside steps leading from the square.
Krampus mask carved by Miguel Walch, Tarrenz, Austria. Photo ©Miquel Walch Holzmasken.
The town below was a different chaos. On roads snaking in from the mountains, cars stood jammed at odd angles where devils played or blocked intersections with their migrations. Drivers honked. Tides of bells reverberated through alleys and echoed distantly from hills. Beasts galumphing through swirling snow caught in headlights threw long shadows, howled and yowled and glowed red in brake-lights or phosphor-green or blue in the neon of shop windows. Stalled cars tried to reverse out of the bedlam, skidded, and toppled neatly ploughed snowbanks. Shaggy beasts piled around vehicles, pawing and peering in windows. Young passengers shrieked as the devils seized hold of cars and rocked them.
Krampus had broken the city, but this was not enough. Down the street, some new fury erupted. I rushed toward a fresh clamor of bells, clacking horns, and thudding bodies. Two monsters came crashing into one another, shoving and twisting like yaks vying for a mate. They circled, swayed apart, and flung themselves together again, steaming, and staggering in the whirling snow. I kept my distance, not entirely sure if this was just a game.
Rempler (“battle”) between Scheibling Pass and Kühkar Pass, Gastein Valley, Austria. Photo ©Gasteinertal.com.
“It’s called a Rempler,” Matthäus Rest clarifies. “Or Rempeln,” he says, explaining it’s a colloquial word for “shove.”
It’s two years later and I am sitting in my Los Angeles home across from Rest, a social anthropology postgrad at UCLA. He also happens to be a native of Dorfgastein, Austria, located only a few miles from Bad Gastein where I met my first Krampus. Along with Gertraud Seiser, he is co-editing an analysis of field investigations on the Krampus, Wild und Schön: Krampuslaufen im Salzburger Land. Not only has he grown up with these events but his grandfather was involved in early efforts spurring the contemporary renaissance of the tradition.
The Rempler, Rest assures me, is indeed only a sort of game or ritualized turf war that occurs between two Krampuses from different troupes. An old protocol dictates how these battles unfold, and it begins with the costumed St. Nicholas heading each group. “They can only start once the Nicholases cross their staffs and make a little sort of speech.” The noncombatants withdraw to the side, he says, to “chat and maybe exchange a little schnapps,” but the Nicholases must remain watchful as it’s up to them when to terminate the fight. “They have to know their Krampuses and know how much they can take. It shouldn’t be too short, but it also can’t be too long.”
The Krampuses begin their duel with a bow then charge each other. While horns may accidentally bump, risk of injury or damage to masks usually excludes intentional head-butting or locking of horns. The Rempler is more about body slams and shoving. The battle continues until it seems the combatants have had enough, and a Nicholas gives the word or blows a whistle carried for the occasion. The Krampuses then bow, remove their masks and shake hands, wishing each other “A guat’s Weitergeh’n!” (“good luck and go forward”) or declare, “Treu dem guten alten Brauch” (“true to the good old ways”). This parting formality is regarded as vital in damping any hostilities stirred up in the process.
Do the Rempler ever get out of control?
“Yes, they sure do,” says Rest. “Sometimes they do turn into something violent. Sometimes, week before these confrontations, participants will threaten each other. You know—‘if we meet, there’ll be blood!’ But 95% of these encounters are very professional, in a way, really just about putting on show for those watching. If you go at it out for blood, it can always backfire, and you could be the one with the broken bones or broken mask.”
As to the history of this practice, Rest says there are no written records documenting when it began. “My grandfather said the first time he encountered it was 1949. He had never experienced this in his town because there was no other Krampus group, and they had no one to oppose. He didn’t know what was happening, just that he saw this other guy coming toward him wanting to attack. So he threw him straight to the ground, which made the other group extremely annoyed. It seemed impolite, you know.”
I had not known what I would find when I ran toward the sound of my first Rempler, or indeed exactly what I was seeing, but research previous to my trip had already pointed me toward Gastein as a place where the Krampus is particularly untamed. “This Rempeln is an interesting thing,” Rest says, “because people always refer to it as unique to Gastein. This is the last place where we still do this. In fact, there really is no real source material suggesting it was ever done anywhere else,” he says.
There are many things unique or strange about the Gastein Valley. Bad (“Bath,” i.e., “Spa town”) Gastein is, for instance, one of the few towns in the world with a street named after an alchemist—Paracelsus, who visited around 1523 to study the town’s ostensibly miraculous thermal springs. It’s also one of the few places on earth offering naturally radioactive water as a curative, and here the opportunities are not limited to bathing and drinking. Spa visitors can also inhale radioactive steam as they crouch in “healing caves” deep below the mountains. It’s hard not to view this dubious underground wonder as an extension of Gastein’s rich mythology of subterranean magic, of dwarves, cursed gold, and divination local legend associated with the area’s once-booming gold and silver mines. From deep within its tortured geology, Gastein seems somehow to radiate an atmosphere of the unreal. It flares out from the peaks of the Tauern mountains in electrostatic luminescence we call St. Elmo’s Fire but Gasteiners refer to as Perchtenfeuer, “fire of the Perchten,” a type of Alpine demon related to the Krampus.
Krampus from Feuerwehrpass, Dorfgastein, Austria. Photo ©Gasteinertal.com.
There is a unique connection between the Krampus and the Gastein Valley. The isolating effect of Alpine geography has already been mentioned as a factor in preserving the Krampus tradition from modern influence, and while the mountains and tradition extend through Bavaria and the Austrian states of Styria, Carinthia, and Tyrol, it is the Austrian states of Tyrol, and (many would say, primarily) Salzburg that are most strongly associated with the creature. Within Salzburg, the regions of Pinzgau and Pongau are sometimes singled out, and within Pongau lies the Gastein Valley. While all these regions are important, it is more than hometown pride answering when I ask Rest where one finds the exemplary Krampus.
“Oh, Gastein, of course,” he says without skipping a beat. He also mentions Krampus runs in St. Johann im Pongau (said to be attended by over a thousand devils) and the annual event in Schladming (in Styria) with numbers of participants close to that.
In preparing for this book, I of course corresponded with several dozen Krampus participants for more perspective on the matter. One of the questions I asked was in what city one might find the best Krampuslauf. Several respondents seemed put off by the idea of naming cities. It was in the country, or in small towns and villages, they insisted, where the best runs happen. Stubbornly, I nonetheless scanned Austrian newspapers for what might be named as the biggest events but found myself lost in a sea of vague superlatives, and a sense of touristic rivalry and hype.
Graz is known for a large parade. In the city of Salzburg, there are long-established, well-attended runs in the Gnigl and Maxglan neighborhoods. Not far across the Austrian/German border Munich is also noteworthy for drawing international tourists and costumed groups from across the Krampus homelands. It takes place at the hugely popular Christkindlmarkt (Christmas market) on Munich’s central Marienplatz.
“There is an extreme boom in … how do you say,” Rest hesitates, “Adventtourismus?”
“Advent (from the ecclesiastic term for the four Sundays before Christmas) and “tourism” may be words that don’t really go together in English, but in Germany and Austria the major Christmas markets held during that season are a huge tourist draw. There visitors enjoy a centuries-old tradition involving shopping, nibbling, and drinking one’s way through dozens, sometimes hundreds, of little stalls selling trinkets, foods, and mulled wine. Rest associates the growth of this industry with growing interest in the Krampus over the recent decades.
“When I was last in Salzburg, especially in early December, there were four different Krampus events every day. Each and every one of these Christmas Markets is not complete without at least one Krampus event each day of the weekend.” But he’s quick to characterize this as a less traditional, commercially driven development.
Thus far Gastein’s celebrations have remained mostly untouched by such commercial or touristic forces. During “the season,” Rest says, Gastein’s festivities mostly attract only visitors from nearby towns or natives returning for the holiday from the bigger cities. This could change with growing interest in the phenomenon, he says, but “I don’t know if it’s really sexy enough to compete with the big parades.” As the tradition currently diffuses and diversifies, however, Gastein provides not only an excellent window to the past, but a stable reference point from which the remainder of this chapter will proceed.
The Run versus the House Visit
Unlike other regions where the Krampus appears as an adjunct to weeks-long Christmas markets, in Gastein, the devils only appear on December 5 and 6, the eve of and traditional day dedicated to St. Nicholas. Activity on the 5th in Bad Gastein revolves around the town center, and on the 6th involves the Krampus visiting outlying farmsteads. Around 3:30pm, groups assemble to begin runs that can last as late as 11pm. As many as 100 troupes (all of them local to the valley) take part, though it should be noted that troupes in Gastein may be smaller (usually under a dozen members) than in other towns, particularly smaller than those in Haiming and Matrei in Tyrol, which only have one large citywide troupe.
The connection to St. Nicholas is much more than a formality of date. Unlike less traditional cities, where Krampus packs may roam the streets unattended by any saint, in Gastein each troupe has a costumed Nicholas as leader. And unlike other cities with large runs, where the Krampus may merely strut his stuff, brandishing switches and perhaps swatting a few adults along the way, in Gastein, the carrot-and-stick role of Nicholas and his punishing assistant is taken seriously. Children and families are actually visited in their homes where the saint assays behavior and delivers small gifts, while the Krampus puts on frightening displays.
The Hausbesuch (“house visit”) is a hallmark of activity in Gastein. Elsewhere it exists, but is largely being supplanted by performances in public spaces or runs. In Gastein, the “run” merely consists of troupes moving from house to house, following their own individualized routes. While it’s no organized parade, there is some effort by groups to at least pass through a central area, “somewhere in the center,” Rest says, “maybe a square, but not always in the same place year to year. It gives the troupes a little structure,” he says, “while still keeping it open. They can show up or not show up. And for the spectators, it gives them a place where they might be, for instance, more likely to see a Rempler.”
Krampus, Alt Gnigler Pass, Salzburg. Photo ©Martin Zehentner.
Oberpfälzer Schlossteufeln, Regensburg, Germany. Photo ©Wunschtraum Fotografie.
Outside traditionalist regions, and certainly in more urban areas where families don’t live within walking distances, the Hausbesuch is not incorporated into the general house-to-house Krampuslauf but is a specially arranged event, sometimes attended by a smaller portion of the entire troupe. Visits may be offered via a group’s website, social media pages, or newspaper listings, and must be booked well in advance. Sometimes a church-affiliated organization will work with a Krampus group to ensure that a costumed St. Nicholas appears in homes within their parish or diocese.
For these specially ordered visits, instructions are often provided for the family. The “Himmlische Höllenteufel” (“Heavenly Hell-devils”) of the greater Innsbruck area, for instance, suggest parents fill out an online spreadsheet listing various good and bad deeds as a sort of crib sheet the all-knowing Nicholas can tuck into his “golden book” when reviewing children’s deeds. While officially discouraging the appearance of Krampus alongside the saint (along with threats and lists of bad behaviors), the Archdiocese of Salzburg nonetheless provides guidelines for a somewhat idealized Hausbesuch, featuring hymns, advent wreaths with candles, and edifying talks with children encouraging them to be “little Nicholases.” More practically, they remind families to turn off radios and TVs, and silence cellphones. A final caveat from the diocese: “Please do not offer St. Nicholas alcohol.” The Himmlische Höllenteufel, perhaps recalling some unpleasantness between a Krampus and frightened house-pet, request that animals be locked away. They also nix the diocese’ suggestion of burning advent candles, no doubt thanks to those luxuriantly furred and flammable costumes.
In Gastein, visits are more impromptu. If at all possible, Rest says, everyone gets visited. “It seems to be very important to many of the Krampuses to put this at the center of the whole thing.” This doesn’t just pertain to children with families, but to any house that’s passed. Some groups, he says, make it a point of honor to include those who might otherwise be missed. Much of the value and vitality of this tradition, Rest believes, lies in the intimacy and sense of community this citywide open house fosters. As illustration, he relates a story about an old woman who had been gravely ill.
“She had been bedridden for years, and when she heard the Krampuses were coming, she asked to see the St. Nicholas and for him to give her the last sacrament. I’m not sure to what extent she was all there at the time. Of course the guy playing Nicholas didn’t have the oil and all that stuff, and as a practicing Catholic, he knew he had to be a priest to carry out her wish, but he played along and went up right up there, to do so. As I recall, the old woman died pretty quickly after that.”
Traditional Figures of the Krampus Troupe
In most traditional regions, the Krampus troupe is called a “Krampuspass” or, more often, just “Pass.” The Pass consists mostly of men in their late teens to early 40s. Each Pass usually takes the name of a neighborhood, farmstead or family name, geographic feature (e.g., mountain, gorge, or boulder), a community landmark (inn or brewery) or professional association or other club (volunteer firefighting associations seem common here). Elsewhere more modern troupes, like our “Heavenly Hell-devils” above, may ignore such conventions in favor of theatricality.