Mexico, Central & South America > Argentina > Argentine Lakes > Cholila > Articles > A Two-Horse Race

Years ago I had friend who put himself through university, or at least through the drinking that went with university, by regular wins at the racetrack. He had family contacts in the industry, got good tips and he knew a bit about horses and a lot about racing. Most importantly, he had the dedication needed to skip lectures and head off to distant race courses on a regular basis. He was one of the few people I’ve know who actually made money at the sharp end of racing

I, on the other hand, am somebody who wanders along to the odd point-to-point or race meeting and places random, ill-considered bets. As a punter I’m one of that small-change, odd-flutter betters who pay for the diesel pumped into the bookies' Mercs. I’m the idiot who, indirectly, puts money into the pockets of more clued-up gamblers like my friend. The only way I could ever make more than a few quid on a race course was if I took up selling chips from a minivan.

Basically, modern racing is far too complicated for me to follow intelligently. Which is why I like, and understand, Argentine gaucho racing. Because it's very, very simple. There's a quarter-mile dirt track with two - just two, so that’s easy - horses running head to head. You back a horse based on an allegiance to its owner, or through knowing the jockey, or because the animal's colour reminds you of a nag you once had that could crack on a bit. There are no bookies so you bet cash, secured on a handshake, with other people on the rail.

All of which gives you pretty much a fifty-fifty chance of winning just enough pesos to buy your mates - oh, and the guy you won from - a drink. Brilliant. And better still, a local Argentine race meeting will also have a barbecue, and live bands playing rancheros, and a bar selling whole bottles of good wine for less than we pay for a cup of tea Europe. And often you'll get bull riding and bronco busting competitions as well, just to liven things up.

It was the annual rodeo that gave me an excuse to return to the small Argentine town of Cholila last March. But I got a day's racing as a bonus. And, on reflection, the racing might have been the better half of the weekend.

Cholila is in a fairly remote corner of South America, a cowboy town set amidst a land of snow-capped mountains, ice-blue lakes and wide grasslands. It's where Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid ended up when America got too hot for them at the start of the 19th century. The two outlaws took their money south and bought good horses and cattle in Argentina. That was Cassidy's thing; good horses. Relays of fast nags had been the key to his gang's successful getaways after pulling bank and train robberies in the States. Once settled in Cholila the two yanquis spent eight years as peaceful ranchers on a thousand hectares set a few miles outside the town.

So, odds on, Cassidy and the Kid would have stood where I was standing, a century later, and watched pretty much the same style of rodeoing and racing that I’d rolled along to see. They had in all probability run their own horses down Cholila's race track. And I doubted that the atmosphere had changed much in the intervening hundred years.

The rodeo was on Saturday and organised by the local community. The six races on Sunday's card were sponsored by the local police and various businesses. Which showed that, like most places, racing was seen as just a bit more classy than a bunch of people being thrown into the dirt from bulls and horses.

Argentine sport rodeo riding - doma - is rough. Especially on the riders. The horses are strong Criollos trained to buck. They'll get off the ground as many times in a ten seconds 'ride' as a good show jumper will in the ninety seconds of a hard fought jump-off. And deal out a bundle more surprises to the rider whilst they're up in the air, as well.

So I watched with some interest as the first buck horse was brought up from the corral and its rawhide head-collar tied tight to a heavy wooden pole planted in a flattish patch of grassland. Gently the basto - a leather pad hung with two heavy discs of leather with small crescents cut from their centre to act as stirrups - was cinched onto the horse. A gaucho was eased up onto the animal's back and just the tips of his bootless toes jammed into the small holes in the stirrups. The horse was set loose and the ride began.

That first gaucho lasted a few energetic twisting leaps from the horse but came off when the animal pitch-poled forward, performing what would have been a handstand if it had been a human. The horseman took a crashing swallow-dive into the ground, lay there for a few seconds and then slowly climbed back onto his feet. The horse high-tailed for the horizon, a couple of horsemen in pursuit.

Some riders didn't stick even the first leap forward, just tumbling straight out the back from the sheer violence of the horse's acceleration. Others stayed on for a few bucks and jumps before being thrown off. But the best riders, legs thrust forward, balanced on their toes, rode the horses as smoothly as dancing tango, until after a dozen seconds a massive hand bell was rung to give them time. The balance and ease needed to ride a bucking horse were skills that would prove useful in the next day's races. Because gaucho racing is run bareback.

After a Saturday night of singing to guitars and accordions I headed with my Patagonian friends, Rene and Cacho, to a nearby estancia for breakfast. We were dropping in to see one of the runners - the local favourite - being readied for the competition, on our way to the race track. Owned by Sonia, the daughter of the house, the horse was good looking youngster with a bit of Criollo and a fair bit more of Thoroughbred blood in its make-up. I chatted with Sonia as she groomed the well-muscled colt.

"Gaspar, you should put your money on him," she told me, brushing around the animal's muzzle "he's running against another good caballo but, believe me, he will win, seguro." It seemed I was getting a tip from very close to the horse's mouth.

Down at the racecourse there was a line of horses - fifty or more - tied up along the fence. They'd been ridden in by cowboys working on the outlying estancias. Town folk had walked out. There were old gauchos with bow-legs, spurs and Sunday hats. Kids climbing around and onto the horses and hooning around. Women laying out picnics in the trays of beaten-up jeeps and trucks that formed a straggling 'grandstand' along the rail of the dirt track. Big landowners and cowboys mingling at the bar tent.

The first two runners were led into the ring. Spectators pressed close to get a look at them. Rather than the heavy working saddles of the region, the horses had no more than thin cloths held on with elasticised surcingles. Without stirrups, of course. The jockeys - dressed in loose bombacha riding trousers and unhelmeted - were legged-up. There was no weigh-in and no weights given. The races' were down to the jockeys' skill and the speed of the horse.

The two riders paraded the horses from the ring and up and down the length of the race track. The horses trotted loosely, throwing in the odd snorty buck, the jockeys sitting them out easily. There was time for a few more bets to be shaken on as the runners made their way down to the starting gates. There was a palaver getting the horses into the stalls. Then a distant 'clang' and the two horses shot out, neck and neck. People had spilt out onto the track to get a better view, ducking back under the rails as the horses, kicking up fountains of dirt, thundered past them.

Waiting on the finishing line I watched the runners heading straight at me as the crowd parted in front of them. The riders' legs hung down, almost loosely, as the animals pulsed and surged under them, but their arms worked the horses hard, and there was the sound of their hard little hisses, even above the roaring of the spectators. They galloped across the line, one a head in front. A spray of sand hit my face as they careered past. There were cheers and hollers. A tangle of people ran up to surround the winning horse.

The next four races ran through the afternoon, with plenty of pauses for the spectators to talk, drink and knife through slabs of steak. But all the anticipation was for the last race when Sonia's horse would run against a brought-in challenger. Both animals had arrived at the racecourse on the hoof, led from a saddle horse. They got an extended time in the ring, to build the suspense and give more time to agree bets. Then Sonia's quietly confident brother was boosted onto the back of her horse. The challenger was mounted by a braggardly, thin-faced gaucho who looked like he knew what he was doing. The two made their way to the start.

They came out of the gates together. The rider's ankles touching as their mounts accelerated down the track, and the horses’ eight legs seeming to run as is belonging to one animal. The crowd screamed encouragement as the horses sped past. Rene and Cacho and Sonia stood silently, faces screwed up in concentration. At the three-quarter mark the horses were still shoulder to shoulder. Then Sonia's horse effortlessly sped up its pace and pulled away from the other animal, sweeping across the line full lengths ahead of the challenger. A clear winner. Sonia led her steed in through a whooping mob of now slightly richer friends.

Of course, I’d wanted to get some money on Sonia's horse, too, but nobody had been keen to take my bets. For once I’d had an insider, straight from-the-yard, tip. But so, it seemed, had everybody else. And that, I realised, was the trouble with betting; nobody's ever going to just give money away.

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