On Thursday morning I was woken up by an earthquake that measured 4.3 on the Richter scale. That’s not huge, not by New Zealand standards, but it was enough to make the earth rumble, the house shake, and to wake me from my sleep. I sat bolt upright, bleary-eyed and confused, and said to no one, What was that?? A few moments later, Mr Choc stuck his head around the door, cool as a cucumber. Was that your first earthquake?
I later found out that the epicentre was 10km south west of Christchurch and just 5km below the earth’s surface. I also found out that when Christchurchians feel an earthquake like that, they sit for a moment waiting for the next one. Hoping it won’t come. It’s when the rumbles reach a magnitude of 5.0 that they take cover under tables and in door frames. Apparently, these moderate earthquakes are not a bad thing. They’re gradual and periodical adjustments of the Indo-Australian and Pacific tectonic plates and, for obvious reasons, are preferable to one large shift.
The effects, both physical and emotional, of a seemingly relentless series of earthquakes that began on the 4th September 2010 and continued until December 2011, are still very much apparent here. It’s 10 years since, but those earthquakes are still a part of the conversation. Perhaps even more so now we’re in a state of emergency. Sometimes they’re spoken about simply as a matter of fact, naturally woven into the fabric of every day conversation. But I’ve also learned about the pain that they caused and it is so very clear that this is a city still in recovery. And it’s hardly surprising. I can’t think of anything that is quite as unsettling as feeling the earth move beneath you. No brave face here. I didn’t like it one bit.
So, what with earthquakes and the rest, and as I approach the end of my sixth week in New Zealand which will be marked tomorrow, on Easter Sunday, I’m learning more and more of what it is to be a Kiwi. And I’m also happy to report that I no longer have those uncomfortable feelings of otherness I had when I first arrived. In fact, there’s been a complete turn around in that regard and I’ve surprised myself by using the ‘we’ word on more than one occasion. I’m not sure exactly when it started happening, or quite why, but I keep noticing myself saying it. It seems I’ve adopted this place as mine. At least, temporarily.
Whatever the reasons, I definitely feel like more than just a visitor now. I’ve even started telling the kids off when they leave a mess in the kitchen. And I’ve found myself feeling proud of the way that we, New Zealand, are managing this crisis. I read the papers yesterday and watched the news and it’s being reported, both here and abroad, that New Zealand is smashing this thing. We whooped at the TV. I worry so much about what is happening in the UK and when I watched footage of people up and down the country banging pots and pans and applauding NHS staff, I also felt proud. But I had that far away feeling too. I know that will be a story for the future that I won’t have been a part of. I’m part of this story now and that, I suppose, is the ‘we’ thing.
Today is Snoop’s 16th birthday. He’s the oldest of the Choc children and his sister, Sausage, has baked him a huge three-tiered, multi-flavoured cake. We’ve had an enormous breakfast in a kitchen decorated with balloons and banners. And Snoop has opened supermarket presents that included whitening toothpaste, chocolate, coca-cola and hand-sanitiser. He was delighted. The neighbours have chalk-decorated the driveway and before our afternoon movie we’re all going out for a walk in the sunshine.
Happy Birthday, Snoop.
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