The crowd who attended the Charlton Community Dinner at that town's Trade Training Centre. Credit:Penny Stephens But perhaps the hardest part was the isolation. In the absence of a local gender clinic in Wodonga, Riley and his mum had to drive three-and-a-half hours to the Royal Children's Hospital for regular treatment in Melbourne, sacrificing his school, his sport, his time with friends. "I'd gone into depression and anxiety, and eventually there was a suicide attempt," says Briese, now 20. "I got through it, and I'm fine now, but I just don't want to see that happening to other kids." It's the kind of story that the LGBTI community knows only too well. After all, research shows that young people who are lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender or intersex are five times more likely to attempt suicide and have double the chance of self-harm as their heterosexual counterparts. They face up to twice as much abuse or violence. And in some country towns – steeped in tradition, lacking in services, or simply unaware there are gays in the village – the challenges can be far more acute. The question is, how do we address this?

The film The Adventures of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert was an ironic reference for the equality tour of the regions. Shortly after being appointed by the Andrews government as Victoria's first commissioner for gender and sexuality, Rowena Allen had a novel idea. What if she gathered a small team of LGBTI activists, borrowed an unmarked police bus from fellow commissioner Graham Ashton, and embarked on an "equality roadshow" across country Victoria? Think Priscilla Queen of the Desert – without the flamboyance. The aim would be to raise awareness about what it's like to be lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender or intersex in rural and regional areas. To hold workshops that challenge homophobia and train community leaders to call it out. And to spark tangible change – a new health clinic here, a Pride football match there – by inviting locals to sit down over a meal and make those connections. By hearing and sharing stories just like Riley's, could it make a difference? Alyssa and Amelia in years 9 and 8 at Wycheproof P-12 College attended a workshop and as a result will be fundraising for LGBTI services at their next casual clothes day. Credit:Penny Stephens Twenty-three Victorians towns later, Allen is in no doubt. Over seven weeks, the equality bus has weaved its way across the state, from Wycheproof to Wangaratta, from Benalla to Bairnsdale and beyond, marking milestones along the way.

It stopped in Violet Town, where the local police station recently became the first in Victoria to permanently fly the gay rainbow flag. Partners Justin Di Caprio and Jayden McNamara have opened the Watchem Community Hub in the old bowling club in Watchem (a town of 73 people between Birchip and Donald). Credit:Penny Stephens It zigzagged through Horsham, where a young woman who reached out to the commissioner ended up becoming the area's first LGBTI outreach worker for Headspace. It popped into Warrnambool, where only this month the local council unanimously voted in favour of a motion supporting marriage equality. The Charlton community dinner at the Charlton Trade Training Centre. Credit:Penny Stephens

Allen admits there have been plenty of challenging conversations on the journey – the Christian fundamentalist who came to a community event and wanted to discuss chapters of the Bible; the heartbroken parents who lost their gay son and "and were seeking absolution" that she couldn't give them. But the challenging conversations are part of the process, she says. "Yes, it's about getting outcomes but it's also much more than that: it's about going out to really isolated LGBTI people and saying, 'We care about you and we're here to listen.' It's not all about the city – and that means something to them." Equality under a big sky: Jayden McNamara and Justin Dicaprio. Credit:Penny Stephens On the one hand, the concept of an equality roadshow is hardly surprising in the context of Premier Daniel Andrews' progressive agenda. In the two-and-a-half years since Labor came to office, significant steps have been made to remove discrimination: legalising same-sex adoption, fully funding Safe Schools, and a state apology for people previously convicted of homosexuality. But on the other hand, not everyone embraces the idea of a taxpayer-funded road trip (the price tag, estimated to be "hundreds of thousands", includes the salary of two contracted staff, accommodation in every town, and the cost of catering for the dinners, breakfasts and inclusion workshops that locals are invited to attend). Some claim it's pushing Labor's "left wing" agenda – for instance, advice on Safe Schools is readily offered to anyone who asks – while others question if the initiative is necessary at all.

Take Mildura mayor Glenn Milne, who came under fire last year over a Facebook post describing Safe Schools as a program "championed by those promoting paedophilia". When the roadshow toured Swan Hill, Shepparton and Mildura for its maiden voyage in November, Allen invited the outspoken councillor to have a coffee – much to the chagrin of some in the LGBTI community. "I got hammered for meeting him, but that's my job," the commissioner says. "I can't just go to places and meet everyone who thinks like I think. That's money for jam. Besides, there's no point fighting hate with hate, it's better to have a conversation." Both sides agree that the meeting went well, but when asked last week if he saw any value in the roadshow, Milne didn't seem entirely convinced. "I'll probably get caned if I say no," he says. "I mean, how do you say things without being misrepresented, or viewed as a redneck? But put it this way: people aren't getting beaten on the streets or driven out of town. The community up here manages itself. I eat at restaurants where the people running it are gay; it's no big deal. My view is that everyone needs to treat each other with respect – it doesn't matter who you are." It's shortly after 10am in Wycheproof, the 22nd town on the tour, and a small group of locals are getting a crash course in how to unscramble the LGBTI alphabet.

They're sitting in a quiet room at the back of the town hall as Allen take them through each letter – "L" for lesbian, "G" for gay, "B" for bisexual – and why it's important to know the difference. Ultimately, though, this is a five-hour workshop on inclusion, crafted by roadshow facilitator Daniel Witthaus, who once embarked on a 38-week journey of his own – to challenge homophobia across outback Australia. What he learnt on that trip makes up part of today's lesson, only this time he has a captive audience, including two local police officers, three Buloke Shire councillors, a couple of health workers, three students and their school principal. Witthaus' message applies to all of them. If LGBTI people are over-represented when it comes to poor health and wellbeing, he explains, the chances are they're not seeking the help they need or they don't trust their service providers enough to be open about who they are. As a result, those service providers can't do their job and LGBTI people don't get the support they need – which doesn't bode well for their mental health. From the corner of the table, Wycheproof P-12 College principal Christine McKersie nods in agreement. "I think we as a school need to ramp up our use of inclusive language, and make it OK so if anyone does want to identify early [as LGBTI], they feel supported," she says.

Justin Di Caprio, who is sitting on the other side of the room, holds a similar view: inclusion is vital. He should know – after coming out as bisexual, Di Caprio spent five years with a woman before breaking off an engagement because "I knew I couldn't go through with it". About ten years ago, under the neon lights of a Bendigo nightclub, he met his partner Jayden McNamara, "and that was it". The pair now run the Watchem Community Hub, a drop-in centre in the middle of a tiny town with a population of 114 people. Yet the hub gets up to 30 visitors a day – many from neighbouring areas such as Birchip, Donald or Charlton – who view the centre as a "safe space" because it's run by an openly gay couple. "We get everything from young kids to straight married men who are secretly sleeping with other men," says Di Caprio. "They come in for a coffee, or a chat, or some counselling. I'm not actually a qualified counsellor, but I'm happy to help because there's clearly a need." These are the kind of gaps the roadshow hopes to fill, says Allen. Sometimes it's a slow burn, like Riley Briese's experience as a trans teen growing up at a time when the nearest gender clinic was three-and-a-half hours away. But with a bit of effort, change happens. Earlier this year, Wodonga officially opened its own gender service – on the same day a proud gay bus rolled into the neighbourhood. "The roadshow is the first big thing that's come from outside our town that's kind of stood up and said: 'Hello, we're here – now pay attention'," says Riley. "For the LGBTI community, that's amazing."