I was having lunch at Canterbury University when it struck. The high-rise buildings wobbling as the ground ripped them back and forth was a scary but impressive sight.
And the noise. I don't think people realise how loud an earthquake is. All the infrastructure that is jolted lets off a hell of a racket. Without exaggeration I would say it sounds exactly like waiting at a train crossing in your car.
On the walk home I passed a 24 hour medical centre only just down the road from my flat. There were rows of stretchers with blankets placed over them littering the carpark, among a few standing with bloodied bandages around their heads. Is that what I think it is?
No water. No power. No cellphone coverage. Is my family OK? A bike ride across town to navigate the gridlocked traffic later confirmed this.
In the days immediately following there were army road blocks, emergency water tankers and portaloos placed on streets, and evenings were spent by candlelight and battery powered radio.
We didn't have water or power for three days. So for three days, what the rest of the country saw on TV, we didn't. We had no idea, at least visually. The daily routine was simple: Put the pot of beans on the BBQ, get a newspaper, and listen to the climbing death toll on the radio.
The people I'll be thinking of today are those on the stretchers, those who were bandaged, and the residents out east that have had this saga drag on for a whole year. If they chose to leave, it would be understandable.
I have organised time off to return home in April. To outsiders, Christchurch may seem like just a bunch of ruins - and perhaps it is. One or two I've met have even been so rude to question "why anybody would want" to continue living there. But personally, my definition of home doesn't just mean a physical dwelling. It is a sense of place, memories and familiarity.
I'm counting down the days until I return.
