Claire Trevett: Humour takes the edge off nightmare

Keeping his sense of humour, Avonside resident Paul Stokes, with his mate, tries a spot of fishing outside his home. Photo / Brett Phibbs

On a pile of sludge in the middle of Christchurch's Keller St an improvised fisherman, made from waders topped with a hat, sits on a chair under an umbrella.

A Speights is to his left and a fishing rod in front with its cork float bobbing on the vast pool of water that covers the street.

It is the creation of local resident Paul Stokes who put the fisherman there on Sunday after a few beers "because Sunday's fishing day".

No one else got to go fishing.

This is Avonside a week after the earthquake. Wheelbarrows, spades and gumboots are the accessories du jour. There is still no water or power, the portable toilets haven't found the suburb yet. Residents point almost with pride at "their" piles of sludge. The piles are huge, but the sludge still covers their lawn, 50cm thick. Humour is a thin veneer. Ask how he's going and Mr Stokes says "barely coping, to be honest".

"You say 'yeah, I'm all right' but you're telling lies. It's just getting too much. We've been through it six months ago, shovelled all this out and now to go through it again, this time worse."

Across the road Charlotte Bishop-Baker says the roses, at least, appear to flourish on the sludge. She and Tim got married on September 11 last year - one week after the last quake. They spent the week before the wedding shovelling sludge off their lawn. Now they're back at it, her house is "a bit sinky-dinky" and helpers are welcomed.

"We were proud last time and said we'd do it ourselves. We aren't doing pride this time. It's out the door."

Many are staying in their houses because the burglars are doing the rounds.

She too knew one of the "lost": Christian Carazo-Chandler.

"I grew up with him. It pays not to think about it too hard. But you hear of more and more people that are lost and that's quite hard."

She says the "hole-canoes" - the mounds that spout out of the sludge as liquefaction does its work - are "quite spectacular".

"How's that for looking for the positive?"

Last time portable toilets came on the same day as the quake. This time, still no sign after a week.

In the Roulston household, Helen, Adam and their two young children use buckets then put the waste in plastic bags for the rubbish. The "dig a hole" orders from authorities don't work when the hole immediately fills up with water and sand again. They know that the focus has been on the central city, on hopes people would be found.

"We're campers and trampers, but Port-a-loos would be awesome. Power and water would be nice at some point too, but we know that might not be possible."

The smell of the sludge - a mix of sand, earth and sewerage - permeates everything. Helen Roulston says there's little to be done.

"When it's wet it's not so great, but when it's dry it's not so great. There's nothing we can do about it, so it's fine. You get used to it."

Anger is yet to arrive to this suburb. People smile and wave at passersby. The help crews - yesterday territorial soldiers from Auckland and Northland, a small group of teachers from the unaffected parts of the city - are a cheering sight. But the stiff upper lips on proud display after the last earthquake are now under threat.

Down the road, ex-army man Tony Cole is wheelbarrowing sludge from the lake in his yard and putting it on to the lake on the road. A friend drives past, in the suburb to help out, and hollers at him to clean up the place.

"The way I look at it, property prices will rocket," Mr Cole answers. "Look! Waterfront."

He describes his life as "luxury camping".

"I was 21 years in the army. Here I've got a cushioned bed, there's a gas cooker."

Across from Mr Cole, Don Mathias has his tractor out and is trying to scrape silt up from under the lake in front of his house.

He is good-natured but anger simmers now. He is one of the few for whom the long slog that waits ahead has started to sink in.

His business in town is ruined, he's angry about EQC's slowness to pay out some people after the last quake and about his insurance company telling him this quake was not considered to be a new event.

He's angry some of his friends were killed in the earthquake, from the CTV building and Pyne Gould.

Back on Keller St, Mr Stokes plonks himself beside his fisherman for a photo. He casts the line and reels it back in, laughing "I've got one! I've got one!" as onlookers laugh.

As the Herald leaves, we tell him to look after himself.

"Yeah. Just try and stay sane," he says and trudges back to his backyard to add more silt to the fisherman's island.