Cry the Beloved City

I am engaged in an official lunch in Parliament when the news comes in. I move to the side of the room for cell-phone privacy. I cannot get through to my wife. I get my sister-in-law; she is seriously distressed. I contact Grace, my colleague in the Green office in the CBD. She is fleeing the city in her car. She does not frighten easily but her voice is quavering. I do not worry easily but I fear for my wife. Then she phones – calm and in control. I begin to breathe again, to think more clearly.


I fly south the day after the earthquake-to-end-all-earthquakes. In the House, I had said on the day, “Whatever lies ahead, we shall not be daunted”. The words race through my head, echo across the city, as I travel down Memorial Drive. May I meet my own standards. As we approach the inner city my gaze becomes fearful. The first shock is Knox Presbyterian Church on Bealey Ave. You can see through it – what is left of it.

At home, we have water but no power. Marilyn has sat through the first night on her own, playing cards by candlelight. Every aftershock, she blows out the candle, then re-lights it when it is safe. A wind-up radio gives her comfort and keeps her informed. She is a survivor in so many ways.

The second night, a neighbour runs a cable from their garage into ours, then into our kitchen. We had bought ice but we can now re-start the fridge, and we have one light. The standard of living has just gone up, even though we bury our waste in the garden – no port-a-loo in the street yet. But Marilyn and I share the second night together, and we sleep deeply.

Today I attend the MPs briefing at Civil Defence in the glorious Art Gallery, sublimating the sense of déjà vu. I am let through the cordon and walk past the Arts Centre down Worcester St., looking towards the Cathedral. The Centre has taken a hit, losing turrets and displaying a crack down the front wall. Its future will be in doubt. The Cathedral is already a corpse.

Inside the Art Gallery it is all efficiency and bustle – they have been here before and know what they are doing. The briefing is useful and well-intentioned, but there are several nuances for each statement. Everyone is doing what they can.

The worst is afterwards. I walk with Dora up Durham St. to check on my office. As I round the corner, and look up Durham, there is no soul in sight for half a kilometre. The cold wind whips the police tape with a crack, and I give an involuntary shudder. Liquefaction lines our gutter, fills our office car-park. I walk unwillingly over it. Our office building remains standing. I peer through the window into my office. It is intact but its occupant has deserted and it looks forlornly back.

I turn around and confront the Provincial Chambers. It is a pile of stones and twisted scaffolding – a grotesque relic from the September rebuild. A colleague who advises me on forestry had his office there. If he were inside I hold little hope. We had shared coffee, Monday morning.

Two doors from my office was the Methodist Mission Church. Now there is just air. Nothing else, just space.

One day I shall weep. But not now. I shall not be daunted. I have set my standards.