Blackball Lives
by Victoria Dew
“It just needs a fresh
coat of paint!” I offered optimistically.
“It just needs a bulldozer,” my boyfriend, Duncan, countered.
It was our first glimpse of The Miner’s Cottage, part of the
intriguingly named hotel, “Formerly the Blackball Hilton”. And
like the town of Blackball itself, The Miner’s Cottage had clearly
seen better days.
Duncan had reserved the Miner’s Cottage, about 500 yards down the
road from the hotel itself, because he thought it sounded more
romantic. But when arrived at the cottage, we noticed that it
seemed to be distinctly sinking into the ground on one side. In
fact, it looked very much like Dorothy’s house once it finally
landed in Munchkinland. Inside, even the décor seemed--to me at
least--the New Zealand equivalent of Kansas chic.
The best and the worst thing about Blackball is that it’s pretty
much in the middle of nowhere. The nearest real cities are
Christchurch (155 miles/3.5 hours away) and Nelson (180 miles/4
hours away).
However, my
native guide, Duncan, had been eager to show me “The Real New
Zealand;” the rugged, mining country of the South Island’s West
coast. And what could be more Kiwi than Blackball (located 17
miles northeast of the ”bustling metropolis” of Greymouth,) a
working class village and early hotbed of socialism.
In 1908, the Blackball Miners’ “Crib Time” Strike sought to extend
their lunch break (or “Crib”) from fifteen to thirty minutes. The
community famously rallied together to defeat the mine owners. The
Miner’s Federation was formed and the New Zealand Communist
Headquarters was founded in, of all places, Blackball.
 The
Miners’ 1931 strike lasted fifteen weeks--the longest in the
country’s history--and lead to the birth of what would become New
Zealand’s modern day Labor Party.
With the last mine closure in 1964, Blackball, like so many other
towns just like it, should have been become a ghost town. It has
instead evolved into a strange blend of hardened, old school
“Coasters,” as West coast natives call themselves, urban refugees
in search of a little peace and quiet, and adventurous travelers
who venture off the beaten track.
The obstinate, rough-and-tumble spirit of the old mining town
remains alive and well in these parts, as evidenced by the quirky
renaming of the Hilton Blackball after a trademark scuffle with
the international hotel chain of the same name.
Walking into Formerly the Blackball Hilton is like walking into a
novel; a dark, quirky, slightly surreal novel. The building itself
is weatherworn but inviting. On the afternoon Duncan and I
arrived, the front patio was populated by men drinking pints and
rolling cigarettes while teaching their scruffy-looking sons how
to fling pebbles at passing dogs with a rubber band.
At first glance, we might have been put off, but inside the pub we
found red and white-checkered dining room tables littered with
welcoming little place cards, one of them with our names neatly
printed on it. Innkeeper, Jane Wells, goes out of her way to
create a family-style, come-as-you-are ambience.
The sitting room walls are covered with framed newspaper clippings
commemorating the strike era. The rooms upstairs are smallish and
decorated with flea market finds. All guest rooms have shared
baths. The whole place has the feel of a hostel for the over-40,
underemployed set.
Formerly the Blackball Hilton is, after all, great value: a room
with breakfast is US$35, per person, and with breakfast and
dinner, US$55, per person. The Miner’s Cottage was US$45, per
person, with breakfast and dinner. The half-dozen wacky stories
you’ll tell when you get home are complimentary.
 Back
at the Miner’s Cottage, Duncan and I did have our own bathroom,
but I had a bit of trouble locating the actual toilet. At first I
thought that perhaps I was blinded by the orange 1970’s floral
wallpaper, but after running back to the hotel to query Jane, I
discovered that the loo was safely under lock and key in a shack
at the back of the cottage.
Jane had told us that dinner would be served at 7:30p.m, so Duncan
and I arrived at 7:15 to enjoy a cocktail beforehand. We needn’t
have worried about being late; there were no signs of dinner until
over and hour later, which gave us ample time to sit outside and
chat (somewhat nervously, at first) with the locals.
I learned that several of the gentlemen worked at the salami
factory up the street or at a nearby slaughterhouse. Beyond that,
I had to rely on Duncan for translation; Kiwi-English is nearly
incomprehensible in these parts, so much so that even my native
guide looked a bit bewildered at times.
It so happens that the unassuming-looking Blackball Salami Company
is actually a famous, award-winning national treasure. The owner,
Pat Kennedy, supplies many of the finest restaurants in New
Zealand and is best known for his signature low-fat venison
salami.
Paradoxically, as rough-hewn as locals appeared, the hotel guests
were surprisingly well heeled. We met folks from England and
Australia who had heard about the legendary Formerly the Blackball
Hilton, and had made special and considerable efforts to get
there. Visitors flock to the hotel not only for its quaint and
quirky style, but also for the nearly limitless adventures that
lie in close proximity.
Deceptively sleepy at first, Blackball is actually a
holidaymaker’s dream base camp. The region is home to incredibly
diverse natural landscapes and within 30 minutes of the town are
literally dozens of unique activities for every kind of traveler.
Blackball itself offers abandoned mines to explore. Tours of the
ventilation chimneys of the coalmines give visitors a good idea
why the miners demanded those extra fifteen minutes for lunch.
Some gold mines will even let you pan for your own gold.
Heli-biking companies transport outdoorsy types to the top of a
mountain by helicopter so they can then bike down alpine trails at
breakneck speeds.
Jane Wells herself leads historic walking tours of the town that
even include the underground tunnels. “You’ll need a torch and
gummies,” (flashlight and heavy rubber boots) she warns ominously.
Further south, in Charleston, Underworld Rafting offers tours of
underground rivers. Also known as black water rafting, it is
literally caving in a boat.
If that isn’t enough, there is also trout and salmon fishing,
horseback riding, tramping (hiking,) dolphin watching, ‘possum
hunting, and swimming to pass the time.
Lower adrenalin activities are also plentiful: touring nearby
Monteith’s Brewery, arts and crafts shopping in Greymouth, the
stunning “pancake rocks” of Punakaiki, and plenty of Golf and
Tennis. Jane and her team are happy to help plan and book all
activities.
When dinner did finally appear that evening, Jane plopped down at
our table and regaled us with stories about the town. As it turns
out, the Miner’s Cottage is a fairly recent acquisition; it had
belonged to an eighty-something year old woman who had lived there
most of her adult life. When she passed away, the hotel purchased
the house. Suddenly, the bizarre little cottage began to make
sense; everything in it was exactly as the old woman had left it.
The wallpaper, the juice glasses, the coverlets – not even the
2001 wall calendar in the kitchen had been replaced.
And then a funny thing happened. After a couple of glasses of
wine, a hearty dinner, and some fascinating, if completely
idiomatic, conversation, I began to settle into the strange spirit
of Blackball. I felt more at home with the rural idiosyncrasies of
Jane, the locals, and the fact that we were staying in a dead
woman’s house. It was all beginning to seem perfectly normal, and
for a moment I felt like I never wanted to leave. I wondered if
Duncan felt the same way, but I got my answer when I found him
outside strumming away on someone’s guitar.
© Victoria Dew,
2004
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