[svxcess]

I received an email from a dear friend in Christchurch, which is long and gives a vivid description of what life is currently like there. It is quite lengthy but well-written and is posted in its entirety below.





Wonderful news. Miriam and I had just returned from a sortie out on the bikes to get wine from a liquor store operating out of a darkened doorway, where the owner was using a wheelie bin for a counter and doing strictly cash transactions.

The landlord greeted me with the fantastic news that “Vesuvius” had turned up. What? I asked, realising a split-second later that he meant Benecio, my feline, who hadn't been seen since the quake. He was skinny, frightened and limping badly, conveying that his injury might be spinal. It goes without saying that you can't get a vet for love or money in this town, and time is the only healer available. What can you do?

Benecio couldn't jump up on the bed, so we slept on the floor next to each other and I swear he kept a purr up for two hours non-stop.The aftershocks through the night had a mean kick to them, and dawn couldn't arrive fast enough to start getting on with this new life we have all found ourselves in.

I saddled up and biked to the corner of Park Ave and Bealey Ave, where the army boys were dishing out free bottles of water, and stocked up for the house. When I got back, Mark, who's got God in a big way, was the only one up and we set to stringing up a tarpaulin in an angle with pots at the end to collect rainwater.

He informed me that God was apparently bringing rain on Friday and, because of this divine deliverance, could he ask that I and the others refrain from using His name in vain.

“I suppose Satan was responsible for Tuesday's twitch,” I was on the brink of saying, but bit my lip, knowing we could be spending serious time together. However, the presumption that somebody else's god is the sole arbiter of our fate is an arrogance to those of us who believe the human spirit will get us through.

Tolerance, tolerance, I thought, as Mark and I set about using the bricks that fell from the chimneys to build an old-style barbecue and stashed whatever wood we could find in the back of the garage. Move over, Survivor, you've got nothing on us.

Out in the not so big wide world getting in and out of the cordon is proving more and more difficult - my flat is inside the cordon surrounding the CBD. Army personnel wave you down and ask for ID, which seems completely nonsensical. Ask them questions about supermarkets or eftpos machines nearby that might be open and they look blankly at you and say, “don't ask me, love, I just got here two hours ago from Nelson, from Dunedin . . . wherever”.

Christchurch has turned into an army town teeming with men in uniform blocking off streets, and two firemen turned up at the hacienda yesterday to see if we had a pulse, nodding approvingly at our set-up.

On EVERY street you see sad bunches of people carrying sleeping bags, pillows, whatever they can, as they trudge towards the nearest shelter. Talk to them and they tell the same story. Tired and beaten from long nights of aftershocks, the fear has set in, and they need the comfort of the herd.

Yesterday, a dodgy-looking guy waved me down and asked me if I knew where an operating toilet was, to which I replied, “haven't you dug a hole in the backyard?” “Not yet, he said, asking if he could use ours, and I know this sounds mean- spirited, but I said no. I didn't want him casing our joint, and he was a great big lug who would fill our earth toilet with his enormous deposit. This is how you think.

Three doors down from us dwells a house of complete hard cases. There is a puce-faced old guy with a gut on him like a Taranaki bull, a woman nursing cracked ribs from the quake and a younger dude with all the front teeth missing - not from the quake. They always crack a good chat, and at nine in the morning were chugging back tinnies and asked if I wanted one. A wee bit early for me, I said, adding that if you weren't an alcoholic after September 4 you were one now.

We were running low on gas cylinders and I asked them if they had found a shop open in their travels that might sell such a thing. Next thing, a cupboard was unlocked, and they were pressing gas cylinders into my arms, saying pay us back later. Turned out their barbecue gas bottle was out and I had a spare one with no barbie, so we did a contra deal, which was great because everyone is running low on cash.

Never thought I'd find myself pining for an eftpos machine, but you know what I miss most? Washing. I'd kill for a hot shower or a cleansing dip in the sea. Electricity isn't coming for weeks to the central city, rumour has it, and cordons keep us from the ocean.

The land-line is up and you find yourself doing mini press conferences to friends and relatives who want to Stevie Wonder you (I just called to say how much I care) and seeking an update. It is maddening for those living here being told by outsiders how our city looks in the television footage. It is particularly frustrating for a TV reviewer with a non-performing television.

I suppose there is a lesson in all this. I don't know what, but perhaps it is the opposite of the lesson learned by the three little pigs - i.e., don't build your house out of bricks.

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