| Feb. 27th, 2011 @ 08:37 pm Christchurch 22-02-11 |
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How I'm Feeling:  morose
It had started as any other day. It was my first day back from a few days off, and as is typical my mind was not on work, but sinisterly plotting my next lot of leave. I had one goal for the day: survive the monotony. I've always seen work as a necessary evil, something I had to do to enjoy my geeky lifestyle outside of office ours. I spent my time answering calls, browsing emails and chatting with my colleagues. Nothing was remarkable, nothing was worth noting. It was just another day on the seventh floor.
The my world began to shake.
It is hard to put this into words. I felt like I was in the middle of a Rubik's Cube as someone rabidly tried to solve it, or being in a bouncy castle made of concrete and gib board. The floor managers cried out and we all scrambled under our desks as computers, folders and roof tiles flew around about us. People cried, people screamed, people huddled. And then it ended.
We tentatively crawled out from our cover. Managers checked to make sure everyone was okay, while everyone tried to make contact with loved ones over a congested mobile network. There were more tears, people shaking. One arsehole made a joke of having felt that one.
Actually, that was me.
I needed to provide a false bravado, to pretend that I was calm and fine after one of the scariest experiences of my life. I needed to seem cocky and unaffected, to show that I was not particularly fazed, because otherwise I would have fallen apart. I could not do that. Mental breakdowns needed to wait for now.
Our managers let us know that we could not evacuate immediately. While the building seemed to have survived relatively well, the building around us had not. Facades had collapsed and mortar and glass covered the sidewalks. One of the other workers on the floor had watched the Canterbury Cathedral spire topple to the square below.
This was not our first major earthquake. We had had one in September, which had been devastating, but it had happened in the early hours and most people had been asleep. We had been lucky, with only a few people being hurt. This one had happened at lunch time. The city had been packed. Our luck had run out.
The call was made, and we evacuated. Walking down the seven flights of stairs, we joked about the danger of aftershocks, or how we had hoped the aftershocks from the September quake were finally over. We wondered if God was jealous of Roland Emmerich, and if there were less dramatic ways to get a day off work. We talked about stupid things because to talk about the reality would be too much to take. At least we had survived, and exited the building onto the street.
Around us was the damage. Walls and roofs had collapsed, windows had shattered, the road had huge cracks in road. We walked down the middle of the road as police and firemen did their best to usher people to safety. It was surreal, nightmarish.
And then the first aftershock hit.
I have never felt so scared as I was then. Bricks and glass rained down either side of the road, people screamed. The police ordered us to run, and so we did. We gathered at the edge of the Avon River, congregating in a sea of humanity as we looked on at the damage around us. We talked in hushed tones as we watched the wounded being tended to by emergency staff. I could barely breathe.
The word came from the police: Go home. Check on properties and family, and get the hell out of the city centre. We were to not plan our routes here, but to do it as we walked. The roads were clogged with cars trying to escape, but they were not moving any faster than a snails pace.
I walked home, staying away from tall buildings as best as I could. There was rubble, mud and water everywhere, liquefaction taking place all around me. I did not stop to gawk at the damage, did not pause to take photos or take in the significance of the devastation. I just keep walking, knowing that I could not stop if I wanted to. I was on autopilot, my adrenaline wearing off and numbness setting in.
I got home and checked in with my neighbours, who were thankfully okay. The chimney of my flat had toppled, and my driveway was covered in mud and large cracks in the concrete had water bubbling from it. Within, my place was trashed. Bookshelves had fallen, DVDs scattered. My computer had attempted to achieve unaided flight from the desk and was sitting on my bed (how it survived I'll never know.) But all in all, I only had a mess to deal with. Others had lost their homes.
I spent the rest of the day outside, chatting with my neighbours in an attempt to keep ourselves occupied. Aftershocks hit with scary frequency, but we dealt with it because we were together. I managed to get hold of my family, who confirmed they were okay, and soon friends were checking in to make sure I was alive and safe. I was certainly alive. I haven't felt safe since that first aftershock.
But I put on a brave face and push forward. I tidied up as best I could. I ate a banana. I even tried to sleep, with mixed success. Like Christchurch, I was still shaking. That was five days ago.
I'm still shaking now. |
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codym's journal
surprised
giddy
tired
nerdy
exhausted