Memories of the Christchurch Earthquake

Auckland Museum writer Kirsten MacFarlane spent four weeks with her family in her home town of Christchurch following the 6.3 earthquake on 22^nd February 2011. In the days after the quake, the family were cocooned in the badly-damaged seaside suburb of Redcliffs, with no power and water and few clues about events unfolding in the central city. Here is an excerpt from her Quake Diary…

Excerpt from my Quake Diary – February 2011

A week on from the earthquake that has devastated Christchurch, we are still camping in tents on the back lawn of my sister’s badly-damaged home, now partly wrapped in red tape. We’re still on tank water and there’s no power. It’s been a week of sifting through scattered possessions, sweeping up piles of broken crockery, and lugging containers of water drawn from the nearby tank. The neighbourhood reverberates with the sound of broken glass sliding into skips, army trucks thundering down the hill and helicopters hovering above. Most of the neighbours have abandoned their red-stickered houses. As elderly Gerald down the street says: “It’s a comfort to know you are still here.”

At first we were ‘happy campers’ making do. The sun is shining, making our pioneering existence more bearable; we even managed to construct an outdoor loo with a designer Philippe Stark toilet seat. We’ve emptied the freezer of its goodies; the whitebait intended for a special celebration, was breakfast on day two. We’ve made our way through the gourmet meat cuts and special cheeses. Now it’s a diet of sausages and bread. Friends have dropped by with supplies –taupulins, food, and fresh water. A neighbour arrives with fresh vegetables from his garden, now withering with lack of water.

On Sunday, I join the other residents for a gathering at St Andrews Anglican Church. Bible in hand, Vicar Paul Heard tells the dazed worshippers not to worry about tomorrow. Not to worry about those “trifling luxuries or the clothes you wear”. There’s no need to change out of my pink pyjama top. There is so much grief in this room.

Walking back home pass the makeshift information centre, Nigel is doing his best to keep us in touch with the outside world. Officials are dispensing fresh baking and other goodies sent by kind folk from around the country. There are jars of honey produced by local Labour MP Ruth Dyson and her husband Martin – the same bees that swarmed my sister’s house shortly after the quake. On the noticeboard is an offer from a ‘Big strong man ready to do anything (almost)’. Another note comes from two people willing to shovel silt and deliver groceries.

I’m inside when another large aftershock on Monday shakes the house. The feeling is sickening, so violent. Our home-made seismograph is a miniature toy dog with a tail that wags, and a head that nods side to side. With every aftershock, its tail wags frantically. The noise outside is deafening as more rocks rain down on the local primary school and the dust momentarily obliterates the buildings. My hometown is falling down.