On the edge...

Continuing the earthquake theme...


In the weekend Claire and I met at Scarborough to go for a walk up Whitewash Head. This used to be a favourite walk with its magnificent views - the Peninsula, the Kaikouras, Pegasus Bay, Sumner, the estuary, Christchurch city backed by the plains and Alps. The views are still there but we knew that an unbelievable 30 metres had been shaved off the cliff face in the June 2011 aftershock. 


As expected, all the access points to the cliff edge were cordoned off. Finally we found a spot where we could (just) squeeze through the joining point in a high fence. There was the old track and beyond it - nothing. At that moment I spotted this...

'This' was the ground under our feet. Claire was already making her way further up the hill with Stormy in tow.

Meanwhile I stood there and experienced something straight out of childhood, when I used to climb up on my Nana's garage roof. My feet tingled. My whole body, feet upwards, said this is a bad place to be.  I don't think of myself as an easily frightened person, but I was plain scared. I was also worried that Stormy might easily pull Claire off balance.


It was only when I got home and googled Whitewash Head that I realised exactly why I felt so bad up there...

We were close to the point where the track disappears completely. And the apparently 'solid' ground is bisected by chasms (you can just see the diagonal lines in the photo). In another significant quake, or even after heavy winter rain, more of this cliff will go, for sure.


The houses are abandoned, it is eerily quiet up there. The thousands of birds that used to roost on the cliffs are - where?


I learnt something up there that I already knew, theoretically; that the Council doesn't cordon off areas like this just for fun. That we were foolish to venture where we did, knowing the danger. Most of all I discovered again just how powerful the instinctive warning system is. My body knew what my head was conveniently ignoring. Two silly women!

A post-apocalyptic Macbeth at The Loons...

Venues for live theatre in Christchurch have been decimated following the earthquakes.  The Court Theatre,  Theatre Royal,  James Hay, Ngaio Marsh, Repertory Theatre... all are out of action, with fates already or yet to be determined. The Loons Circus Theatre Company in Lyttelton soldiered on until the last 6.3 dictated serious strengthening work.

A production of Macbeth, 'brutally slashed' by Joe Bennett and directed by Mike Friend, was scheduled. What to do? In keeping with the times the company decided to make use of the vacant space until recently occupied by the Volcano Cafe and Lava Bar. The audience would be sheltered under a heavy tarpaulin flanked by the ubiquitous containers - though still 'outdoors' as such - while the actors would be fully exposed to the elements.

Anna and I went last Thursday night. We picked up our tickets in the container on the right of the photo above and negotiated our way, none too certainly in the dark, across the planking and up into the seats. Facing us was a raked 'set', backed by high walls, the ground a mixture of large gravel, concrete block foundation and muddy ponds. Several braziers scattered around the set provided additional illumination, some warmth for the actors and plenty of atmosphere.


This version of Macbeth was physical, brutal, barbaric, elemental, tribal... The language took a back seat to the action, the sound effects and the set. A disappointment perhaps for Shakespearian devotees but this production was so right for its time. It took the earthquake devastation by the scruff of the neck and shook it all about. It was brave, fearless and a triumph (I thought).

I don't apologise for continuing reference to the earthquakes because this is the Christchurch reality. Living in the aftermath dominates every day, every conversation. Each week, as more central city buildings come down, there are also small triumphs and celebrations. Macbeth was a massive triumph and a celebration of creativity and endurance. Bravo!

Six days later...

This is the strangest time. The aftershocks are now infrequent and for hours on end the world feels 'normal'. Then there is another sharp jolt and we are re-reminded of our vulnerability. The scariest part is hearing the pre-jolt rumble and bracing for whatever is to come.

There are layers of unreality. An interesting one is to do with the media coverage which would suggest that Christchurch has been flattened. Not so. There is the very obvious 'devastation' in certain (particularly the eastern) suburbs and of some heritage buildings in the central city. But superficially at least, much of the city appears untouched. It can be difficult to reconcile the hyped up reportage with the apparent 'reality'. I think of Haiti, where the term 'devastation' might truly apply, and feel ashamed that we can be so indulgent and self-absorbed. Yet there is a perverse pleasure in devouring the media coverage of our plight, in seeing ourselves spotlighted in the national and international news. There is a certain pride in attracting apocalyptic labels.

Having said that, I have learnt that the nature of quake damage can be deceptive. There is the very obvious and dramatic - and then there are the creeping fissures, the hidden cracks and gaps whose impact may not be felt for some time to come. I have a snaking, post-quake crack in the bank above my house which, given rain and time, may threaten my safety. And I'm reminded of the Leonard Cohen line: 

"There is a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in".

Beckenham shops

Beckenham shops

The earth moved...

In the silence of the night you can hear the aftershocks coming - a distant rumble, followed by a sharp jolt/rattle. I am beginning to feel movement all the time and I don't know whether it is just me or whether there is constant subterranean movement, barely perceptible.


In the dark following the big quake, my overwhelming thought was that, when daylight comes, the world will look different. The mountainous harbour skyline will have changed irrevocably. And come the sunny morning, everything looked the same, familiar - and yet unfamiliar in light of what had happened. I continue to struggle with this disjunct. How can such force leave the Lyttelton Harbour profile apparently untouched?


But it is only apparent. One thing I am learning is that the ravages of such an upheaval are not necessarily immediately apparent. There is the obvious damage, so sadly apparent in many central Christchurch buildings, and then there are the less visible cracks and fissures threading their way across buildings, snaking through the landscape.


The fissures extend to we humans. We are on edge, sleep-deprived, apprehensive, out of control, frightened. In the hours after the big quake I cleaned up the shattered glass, the emptied bookcases, the pictures and ornaments that littered the floor - and then found it so difficult to settle to anything. I have spent a lot of time wandering and standing, looking outside at that 'unchanged' world... The cats are terrified. They head out of the house at each shock. Following the main quake the chooks staged a mass breakout, forcing their collective way through a weak place in the netting enclosure. Normally stoic Rosie goat is up for all the cuddles and comfort she can get.


With no phone/internet contact I was so grateful  for the local neighbours and friends who called in at various times - Steve, Nigel, Denis, Claire, Elaine and Mike... we supported one another and we talked, the talking a way of re-viewing the experience from a safer place, of sharing the fear and the strength. On Saturday afternoon I walked around the foreshore track. Everyone I passed stopped to talk, acknowledging the exceptional experience, sharing information, putting a human face on an inhuman event. On Sunday, still without phone contact and with no idea of how friends and whanau over the hill had fared, I was finally able to get my car out of the garage and do a sweep of the southern city, calling in on Elaine in Cashmere, Claire and Genevieve in Opawa, Anna in Heathcote, Simi, Chris, Jai and Priya in Redcliffs. Just touching base. A surreal weekend ended sitting in the sun on the deck of Denis's Charteris Bay home with coffee and chocolate cake!


The big local sadnesses are the damage to tiny, historic St Cuthberts Church and to Miles Warren's Ohinetahi, both Bay landmarks. Further around the harbour, Godley House is reportedly in a bad way. Many of the historic Lyttelton buildings, including the Harbourlight Theatre and the Mitre Hotel, are under threat. 


As I write this in the middle of the night, the aftershocks are coming thick and fast. I find them more disturbing than the big shake itself because now we know just how bad it can be - and could be again. Yet in the midst of the thousands of sad dramas playing out all over the city and rural areas, is it also possible to suggest that perhaps it is good to be reminded of our comparative insignificance and powerlessness? To be reminded that try as we might, we cannot yet control all the forces of nature. To be put firmly in our place.

Included in this mix, a precious Royal Doulton jar that belonged to my Nana and a lot of gooey, freshly made marmalade

Dining room...

...and again

On the foreshore track

Flag at half-mast on the off-limits Governors Bay Hotel

St Cuthberts Church