Race Day in Paradise

Fashions Arriving at Vila Race Day 2000

Melbourne has its Melbourne Cup.  Auckland has its Auckland Cup.  Louisville has its Kentucky Derby and not to be out done, Port Vila has its Kiwanis Fosters Cup.  Once a year for the past 13 years, a paddock surrounded by road, sea and jungle becomes the centre of Vanuatu’s racing scene.  Never mind that Vanuatu’s “racing scene” is a one-day wonder, thousands, including several international horsy people, turnout in force to watch the horses race and the people parade.  This year we were lucky enough to even have a full-blooded thoroughbred running in the race.

This event is the talk of the town for months before and after the race.  And, the week leading up to the race is full of events, including a swanky Race Ball and a Calcutta Night.  All proceeds from all events go to support various community projects. 

It was the morning after and Rob and I and some friends were sitting around a table in the fabulous Tamanu Beach Club dining pavilion.  We watched as one deep blue wave after another rose up out of the sea then flashed into a bright aqua blue just before erupting into white as it hit the dark table reef.  As the resulting foamy white and black mass of water surged over the reef toward the sandy white beach in front of us we reminisced about the event of the day before.

We had arrived at Tamanu half an hour earlier and had stumbled into the after race day barbecue that the event organisers were holding at Tamanu after cleaning up the race grounds that morning.  Since we were locals, we were invited to take part.

After a couple glasses of Taittinger, though, we soon realised that the organisers were reminiscing about the drinking the day before and that the food was a ways off.  Having not had breakfast and noticing that the sun was reaching its zenith, we made our way to a table in the outdoor restaurant. 

Champagne at Vila Race Day Corporate Box

As one of our number ordered a bottle of Taittinger, we got down to some light-hearted discussion.  This was the second Race Day Rob and I had attended in Vanuatu and I was pleased to say I could contribute to the conversation this time.  Had the conversation been about last year’s race, I would have been in trouble.  You see, as race day neophytes last year, we were unaware of its traditions and the pace.  I had been totally led a stray by the intoxicating nature of the events – led mainly by the Moet, the Laurent Perrier, the Taittinger and the Lindauer. 

We all agreed that none of us had been all that lucky with the horses this year.  Of course, this was not surprising for Rob and I since we didn’t place many bets.  I made only one bet, on a horse named Prado.   I had tried to get near the bamboo rails to get a look at my race, but I couldn’t get closer than 4 or 5 people back.  I had briefly wondered why I wasn’t in the grandstand.  However, that thought quickly left my head when I remembered the only thing resembling a grandstand was the two horse transport trucks near the entrance.  Several dozen people had climbed on top of them to get a better look at the races and the crowd.  The climb and the smell would not have been me.

'Race' Horses in their Stables

Anyway, as the horses and jockeys passed me, I missed which horse was where in the field because I was fiddling with my camera.  Then the roar of the crowd drowned the voice of the caller out as the horses finished.  I never did find out where Prado finished or even if it finished.  I saw at least one horse go past without its rider and the saddle hanging around the horse’s stomach.  Was that Prado? 

Who cares?  Racing was not my focus anyway.  I only saw two races that day - Prado's and the one we saw from the car on the way in.  Truth be told, I came for the people watching.

Susie, an owner of Tamanu and chief organiser of Race Day, arrived at our table and asked how we were getting on.  Our colleague who had ordered the bottle suggested a hurry-up on the Taittinger would be helpful.  Susie told him he’d be lucky to get any since most had been consumed at the Tamanu Beach Resort corporate box at the race.  What was left was fast disappearing at the day-after barbecue down at the beach a few metres away.

Soon a bottle of Laurent Perrier arrived and our meal orders were taken.  Susie warned us that the waiter had hit the alcohol a bit too hard the day before so if we didn’t get what we ordered we should complain “loudly”.  Then she was off.

Fashion in the Field in Port Vila

We were on to the much more interesting conversation of fashion in the field.  People in Vila tend to go all out and for those of us who are not really horsy people, it is the fashion – some might not call it that – which makes the day special.

There was quite an elaborate array of colourful fashion, costumes and hats.  My favourite was the Caterpillar hat created by three British VSO volunteers.  I was later told it was actually a silkworm to fit the day’s Silk Theme, but a caterpillar is a caterpillar.  These young volunteers had cleverly made three segments of the creature into hats.  And, as they walked through the crowd side by side carrying champagne glasses and stopping at each stand for a re-fill, the caterpillar also made its way through the crowd. 

Theirs was the first “hat” I had seen on arrival and they made a big point of showing me their matching shoes – flip-flops with yellow bows tied on them.  These were somehow every significant to them, but I haven’t the foggiest why.  On my first encounter with the giant caterpillar that morning, its six human legs were pretty steady and the Caterpillar lined up nicely.   As the day wore on though, the poor thing began to look more and more like a magician had botched the saw-the-caterpillar-in-a-box trick.

The first course of our lunch arrived or should I say the first plate arrived.  The waiter with the hangover brought out a very nice looking fish salad, which no one really remembered ordering.  No one yelled though, despite Susie’s suggestion. 

One of our group accepted it, looking a bit confused, but I told him that since the fish was white and it was lying on a bed of lettuce, it didn’t look much like smoked salmon crepes to me.  I remembered I had ordered the same as he.  The manager had seen the confusion growing at our table and came to remove the misplaced plate.  The other plates arrived and another bottle of champagne was ordered.

Rob related the story about how he had heard through the grapevine that the Caterpillar legs were out to get him.  He had been drawn into judging the hat competition and had chosen the wearers of some very classy riding gear as the winners.  The three winners were wearing black silk top hats, white riding trousers and black jackets with gold horseshoes sewn on.  As Rob is a bit of a horsy person himself, I could see why he chose them.  Unfortunately, one of the women in black was our hairdresser, Sharee, who happens to win the competition every year.  The caterpillar legs thought this unfair, but what can you do? 

As I cut into my crepes, I was finding this whole conversation enlightening, but for a very different reason. You see, the day before, Rob had admonished me for being a party to tricking him into entering the Best Dressed Man category.  A friend and I had wandered down to the fashions in the field corral to have a gander.  We had skilfully ignored the enticing invitations from various stands to stop and have a drink, as I remembered it, it had been this walk to fashions on the field that did me in the year before.

We ran into our friends Valerie and Leslie in the corral.  They were entered in the Best Dressed Couple category.  I was admiring Valerie’s slinky red number and black feathered hat when one of the judges came over frantically asking for Rob.  “Where is he?  He has to be here in 60 seconds.”  I had recalled something about his judging something and thought this was what she was on about, so off I ran leaving Valerie and Leslie standing there feeling a bit abandoned.  Fashion queens can be quite sensitive sometimes.

I pushed through the crowd again refusing numerous very tempting invitations to have a glass at boxes along the way.  I found Rob at the ANZ tent.  His state of mind was to let it pass, but I said they needed a judge.  So, off he went and unfortunately for me, when he got there found he had been entered into the competition.  According to him, he was cornered and dragged on to the field kicking and screaming.  When I got there, though, he looked quite pleased with himself standing in the middle of the fashion parade in his white sailor pants, white T-shirt and bright orange tropical print shirt.  He certainly stood out in the crowd. 

He didn’t win though and I felt a bit guilty about my unwitting part in the plot to drag him onto the field.  When I tried to calm the situation on the day by telling him I thought that they were calling him to judge not be judged, he had neglected to mention that he had actually judged the Best Hat category.  Now, over our day-after lunch, I had just heard him admit that he had indeed been a judge and not just an embarrassed pawn in the humiliation plot.  But, before I could explore this revelation, he was saved by the bottle.

Our next bottle of champagne arrived at the table just in time to change the subject.  I noticed the label and saw that Taittinger had somehow found its way back to the ice bucket.  Susie was back and we thanked her for her ability to conjure up bottles of champagne.  Someone also commented on how cheap champagne is here in Vanuatu.  You can buy a good bottle for 30 or 40 Australian dollars.  Susie said it has always been that way and no one knows why.  When she arrived in Vanuatu, good French champagne was $7 a bottle.  One member of our little group who had known Susie long enough to get away with it asked what house prices were way back then.

Vila Race Day 2000 Corporate Box Construction

Whatever the cost, the champagne had certainly flowed the day before. Several of the corporate boxes reported going through sixty or more bottles to quench the thirst of their invited guests and some not so invited guests. There had been ten or so corporate boxes.  The “boxes” were tents or bamboo and palm frond huts set up in a line three metres back from the race track fence.  Behind them, also facing the track, were numerous food stands.  People spent the day walking around and stopping in for a chat, a drink and something to eat.

While the purpose of Race Day is fundraising, the reality is that the main activity is boozing and socialising as far as the expats are concerned at least.  Neither Rob nor I contributed to the spectacle of expats falling out of their chairs, but fortunately for our enjoyment, others did.  I can’t name names here -  it just wouldn’t be fair - but we enjoyed talking about who fell where over lunch.

Our mains arrived and all were in order this time.  The restaurant had really filled up by this time.  I think a lot of people had decided to take advantage of the fine weather and sun after a very overcast and dreary Race Day.  That is overcast and dreary weather wise.  It was perfect for the horses and the crowd.  We said the obligatory, “Bon Appetite”, had another sip of Taittinger and dug into our meals.

I got to thinking about what a great day we had at the races and how it would be difficult to top it for a race day anywhere.  I mean where else could you get such a fine selection of horses, once-a-year jockeys and people to watch.  People who are into horses, might not think it was all that great, but where else could they see an official horse race with only one thoroughbred.  I should say that that thoroughbred was quite a horse too.  It won the Fosters Cup race by 40 lengths. 

One of the best times of the day was once the races had finished and people were packing up.  The sun was setting into the sea behind the dunes at the back of the food stalls.  The work of bringing down the tents, dismantling the corporate boxes and of packing up the glasses, chairs, signs and napkins was well underway. 

Rob had taken some of our guests back to town and I stayed to round up our things and see what help I could be.  You could hear the sound of the surf on the beach again.  It had been there in the morning during set up, but was later buried by the sounds of the day.

I went over with our last bottle of Lindauer to chat to a couple of Australian friends who were leaning on the track fence.  Its chicken wire that had been in pristine condition that morning now had gaping holes or was gone all together from people trying to get a closer look.  Both Aussies had their glasses in hand so I filled them up and we talked about the day, the fashion, the races and events in Fiji.

It was dusk turning to night when Rob got back.  We loaded up the truck and drove out past the food stalls and the horse stalls and headed for home.  In less than a week the scene of this festive occasion would revert to paddock.  The road travelled over on the way out was grass in the morning and now was grass pressed into muddy ruts, but in no time it would be reclaimed.  The cattle grazing behind the fence would soon have their grazing land back.

When we finished our meals at Tamanu.  We said our goodbyes and headed out to a friend’s beachside “ranch house” for an afternoon at the beach. 

It’s weekends like this that make Vanuatu such a marvellous place.