Christchurch to Gore – a Southern gay odyssey

First published in express newspaper, 14 Feb 2007.

(Beware of drunk cyclists!)

My friend flew in to Christchurch late, so we met directly at Two Fat Indians, a late-opening restaurant (112 Manchester St), where they practice “the art of pint and curry” – well, a Stoneleigh Rapaura sav blanc, a sweet and sour prawn pathia, done in tamarind and jaggery (traditional unrefined sugar), and a tangy fish molee cooked in coconut milk and vinegar. It was essential our Great Southern Road Tour should start on a full stomach!

A quick, after-dinner drink at Cruz (90 Lichfield St), where the first-floor balcony lets you look down on street action, rewarded me with my first, glimpses of that elusive fauna: the rugged, Speights-swilling, great southern male. This staunch, testosterone-rich, Mainland denizen was what I and my friend were hoping to encounter, though we had been forewarned not to admit to any JAFA heritage.

“We’ll say we’re from Gore. That’s where my friend’s got his lavender farm.”

Next morning, early, after breakfast in a café rightly famed to be NZ’s best coffee spot, C1 (152 High St), we set out. We hired a slightly-dented, economical jalopy and we were off on SW73, destination Gore, heading for the West Coast!

It doesn’t take long to lose the urbs down south. It’s a slow, beautiful haul up to Arthur’s Pass. The scenery gets progressively more spectacular with every kilometre. You drive alongside alluvial flood plains, where wide vistas of pale river boulders reflect the broad, bright sweep of an ice-blue sky.

We stayed in a pub a few miles outside Arthur’s Pass, hiring the last in a row of isolated cabins right on the edge of the riverbed. Nobody even twitched an eyebrow that two men wanted a room with a double bed. Very Brokeback Mountain. For the final few hours of sunshine, we trekked right out into the middle of that broad horizon, waded the icy river, stripped off and soaked up a few of those cancer-forming UVAs and UVBs. Intense sun and snow-chilled water – the perfect summer combination! The food that evening was just how my old Ma used to cook it – barely edible: stodgy potatoes, mushy peas and waterlogged broccoli are the real reason I left home all those years ago. Luckily that huge, juicy steak, which they served up bleu, saved the day. My friend, a vege-plus-fish-arian, went to bed rather bad-tempered.

The next morning we were up with the wekas and heading downhill towards Greymouth, or Māwhera – the original Māori name that comes from the colour of the river’s limestone-rich water. We spent a leisurely morning ambling along a west coast beach, searching for pounamu among the pebbles and driftwood strewn above the high tide. The surf was wild, flashing in the sun that bounced off the bright peaks of the Alps, our continual companions.

By lunchtime we were in Hokitika, ravenous for a whitebait (īnanga) fritter, since this is the part of the world where it’s a speciality, if you can sample them fresh. White-baiting season on the West Coast runs from 1 September to 14 November. The perfect beer for it is a Monteith’s, their brewery just up the road in Greymouth (although DB, the owners, have now moved some production to Auckland).

That night took us to Franz Joseph, eager to walk on a glacier. We stayed the night in a real live, self-contained tree-house enwrapped by native bush. The Rainforest Retreat (Cron Street, Franz Josef, West Coast, +64 3 752 0220) is the perfect place for a few romantic nights well away from it all. The glacier is within walking distance up the road (check out the quaint old Our Lady of the Alps church on the way).

The thing to remember when you’re walking on a glacier though, is dress the part. Some of those rugged, backpack-toting trampers looked slightly quizzical. Don’t all great southern males wear black stovepipe pants, a crimson-and-black striped crepe shirt (from Marvel on Ponsonby Rd) and a broad-rimmed, black velvet hat to go tramping? I looked at my friend:

“I don’t think they think you’re from Gore.”

Traveller’s tip: when walking on a glacier, don’t wear new D&G boots; great southern men wear Gore-Tex.

Time pressing, we had to skip Milford Sound and some of the most fabulous scenery in the country. Queenstown was gorgeous – a bit like Ponsonby Rd, but with a better backdrop.

Which brought us on to Gore, capital of... oatmeal, home of Thistle Creamoata. In fact, we found two cafes which served cappuccinos – maybe not comparable with C1’s coffee, but definitely made on an espresso machine. Gore’s other claim to fame is the Eastern Southland Gallery (14 Hokonui Drive), containing a large body of Australasian, African and American works, including Rita Angus and Theo Schoon (NZ), Lowell Nesbitt (USA) and West African carvings, as well as one of the largest Ralph Hotere collections in the country.

Thistle Creamoata

Gore was also home to my friend’s friend: sexy, blond, muscled – with just a hint of lavender. Our quest was over. We had met our Great Southern Man!