The Pudding Race

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Even after participating, I can hardly find words to describe this gala. I never caught sight of pudding, or racing of any kind come to think of it, so I can only conclude that the name was created to honour the spirit of absurdity that prevailed over the event.

The most articulate explanation, although far from succinct, came from a chap named Murray:

Well you see, we're actually all split personalities here in Oamaru...
Sometimes we compose a regiment of Alf's Imperial Army. The whole idea is that if you can have belligerent pacifists, well then you can have a pacifist army. I've been promoted to lance corporal. I do what the captain (nods in the direction of the local book binder) orders... when I feel like it that is. Some of the privates are hopeless. There's this wee Scottish bloke called Jock. Smart as a whip, but he always does the opposite of what the captain commands, and he's trouble once he gets going on the whiskey... Got to keep 'im round though. He's the only one in the regiment who can play the bagpipes...

The story continues to unravel, slowly bringing me round to digest the spectacle that is splayed around me. Men in kilts and feathered caps are deep in discourse over wooden bowls of porridge. The "friendship cup" of whiskey is passed round to the bloke stoking the fire as a token of thanks for bringing the billy to a boil. Women are parading about in pristine dresses constructed of hoops, bussels, and fantasy fabrics. Small boys in knee-length britches and suspenders dart through legs in the crowd to the tune of a strumming banjo. I soak up the sounds of the feisty fiddler, and laughingly observe the meeting of two worlds.

Everything diminutive in New Zealand is fondly referred to as "wee." Two wee gals meet over an inflated balloon. One is incandescent in her fluorescent pink shaggy jacket of modernity; the other is ragged in her tiny white frock and apron, her hair flying wildly in the absence of her unretrieved bonnet. Both are about yea high (hand just above the knee).

In close proximity is a traditional scottish abode known as a "black house" in the highlands. A small, mud thatched hut intended for peasant folk in the 1800s, its purpose in rural New Zealand today remains undisclosed; I deduce, however, that the celebration is to commemorate its construction.

Whatever the motive, I am exhilarated to find myself amid the mayhem. Despite being in a farmroad paddock over 30 kilometres from any township, I feel as though I am in a bustling epicentre of humanity. Liveliness is bursting at the seams of our cattle-fenced enclosure.

And me? I have happily succumbed to being clad in orange tartan, and dressed as a Scottish peasant. Strapped into my pleats wearing nothing more than a long cotton shirt, I scuttle about in my bare feet and blow on the coals to breathe life into the flames and warm my toes. A few chaps who have adorned their caps with two feathers to distinguish themselves as chieftans are greatly amused by my capricious capers. One buoyantly barks,

well done Bellows!

and the rest guffaw with glee.

As Mister Murray summed it up,

this is an occassion to revel in absurdity and the imagination.

As he leaves me with these thoughts, the billowing frock and aprons of a teenage girl catch the corner of my eye. A cardboard box previously used as the archery target is upside down over her head, bobbing jocularly as she prances across the grass. Her dad is warming up to throw his axes, and everyone is roaring with laughter.

Dress trad.
Act mad.
Frolic and flaunt as you fancy.

It's a glorious day at The Pudding Races

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Photos

Split Seas
A seaside landscape that captures Oamaru's split personality

Scottish Peasant
Yes, that's me!

Howling Good Time
Hoorah for Pudding Races!
Axeman captured bottom left

Meeting of Two Worlds
Intriguing modern amusements

Wee Lass Running Amuck
Bonnet lost in modernity

Huddle Up
Chatting in front of the blackhouse

Scat Man Commands
At the Pudding Races, Alf's Imperial Army need not be heeded...everyone is free to act on a whim!

Comments

[green worm]

goodness me
what fun you are having. i am going to have to invent something fun to do today to honor your fun-ness.

[iona]

why pudding race?
the poem.. Ode to a haggis Robert Burns Ode to a haggis by Robert Burns. Fair faw yir honest, sonsy face, Great chieftain o' the puddin-race! Aboon them a' yet tak yir place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o'aw grace As lang's my airm. The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin was help to mend a mill In time o'need, While thro' your pores the dews distil Like amber bead. His knife see rustic Labour dight, An' cut you up w'ready sleight, Trenching your gushing entrails bright, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a glorious sight, Warm. reekin', rich! Then, horn for horn, they stretch an' strive: Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive, Till a' their weel-swalled kytes belyve Are bent like drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, Be thankit! hums. Is there that owre his French ragout Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad make her spew W'perfect scunner, Looks down w'sneering, scornfu' view On sic a dinner? Poor devil! see him owre his trash, As feckles as wither'd rash, His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash; His nieve a nit; Thro blody flood or field to dash, O how unfit! But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed, The trembling earth resounds his tread. Clap in his walie nieve a blade, He'll mak it whissle; An' legs an' arms, an' hands will snedd. Like taps o trissle. Ye Powrs, wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o' fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu prayer Ghee her a haggis!