Strangers brought together by quake stories

Photo / Sarah Ivey

Zara Potts tells of her return home to the city she fled last week.

In the days following the earthquake, no birds are flying over the city. They've taken wing and flown from the devastation.

The only noise on the cracked streets is the deep hum of generators, the throb of helicopters and the crashing thud of machinery working through the night trying with all its mechanical might to put the city back together.

Gritty dust either hangs heavy in the air or blows through in sheets. It fills my lungs and tears up my eyes. Everywhere I look bare-chested men are shovelling the now black-crusted scabs into trucks.

It has been seven days since the earthquake. It feels like a lifetime.

As the unforgiving norwester blows, the smell of human waste permeates the air. There is no escaping it - the beaches are thick with raw sewage, manicured lawns have been dug up as temporary toilets.

Strangers now speak to each other freely about their bowel habits and there are nightly torchlight parades to the nearest portable toilet where you block your nose to keep out the stench and pray that no aftershock comes as you begin to unzip your jeans.

The smallest things have become insurmountable. The endless retrieval of water supplies, the boiling of it on barbecues or gas cookers, the craving for fresh fruit and vegetables, the scrupulous scrubbing of plates and cups to stave off disease.

Everywhere, though, is talk. The conversations repeat and rewind. People listen to each other over and over as they recall the stories of escape, of bravery, of fear.

The kindergarten teacher who had to lie down on the floor so that every child in her care could hold on to some part of her body as they shook with fear following the quake.

The group of schoolchildren on an outing to the long pier at the beach who saw the earthquake rolling up the concrete towards them like a wave.

The parents out of town who watched in horror as the television news showed the city falling while they tried frantically to get back to find their children.

Someone has rigged up a generator and is running a washing machine for anyone to use. Trucks drive through the street with people handing out bags of free groceries. I never thought I would be someone who had to ask for food.

At night, we sit around by candlelight and drink instant coffee boiled on a gas ring and talk about things that a week ago would have been unimaginable.

People from around our small country have begun arriving to take charge. They cook for us, tell us where to get help, offer money and food and do our dishes. There are not enough words to thank them for their kindness.

In my gentle streets that once were so fiercely proud of their heritage, soldiers from countries other than ours are patrolling.

It is tiring to be so on edge.

As I drive into the little seaside town where I grew up, it feels deserted. I notice, with envious eyes, that there are plenty of portaloos here.

It seems like every corner has a toilet. Someone has hung a picture of Marilyn Monroe on one of the doors. I feel my anger grow as I think of my own streets, in the poorer area of Christchurch, where toilets are sorely needed.

When we reach our friend, she tells us her story. How she searched frantically for cover as the shaking began, how the road slumped from under her.

We sit in her backyard and remember those shared 20 seconds of terror in silence.

And then we hear a tiny flutter of wings. We look up to see a group of sparrows perching on the outdoor shed. The birds have returned.

We allow ourselves a smile.