Below is the now-redundant piece I had written for Canta before the recents earthquake, about last year's earthquake. I realise the text, and the photoshop are now in terrible taste, but it is a good reminder that jokes don't chage - only their context does. The reason I still want this piece to see the light of day is because it goes along with my mantra that over time, a bad experience becomes a good story. We may as well get started on this process now because I'm sure that all of us involved will have stories we can, and should, never forget.

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The Silent Victims

I was safely on the other side of the world when the earthquake hit Christchurch. It was the first time in the five years since I left that Christchurch was on the world news. “Yeah, I went to university there,” I’d say, almost boastful. However, I couldn’t help shake the feeling that I had missed out on a great event. A part of me wanted to be in Christchurch then. I too wanted to play the aftershock drinking game.

I arrived back in Christchurch in January this year and Cantabrians were still talking about it at any opportunity. I was getting my hair cut and the lady barber was talking to me like she was a professional seismologist when I realised they love that the earthquake happened. Having a few cracks in their house is a small price to pay for a good story and civil camaraderie. Sure, I experienced some aftershocks, but that’s like becoming a Beatles fan in 1969.

I needed some way to infiltrate this clique, and then while I was furnishing my new flat it suddenly hit me. I wasn’t a victim, but maybe I could be the next-best thing: an accidental villain. Almost exactly six years ago I had moved into a completely unfurnished flat. Being in the days before Trademe, I went through the telephone book and mapped out every 2^nd hand furniture store, and after four days of sleeping on a beanbag, I found a cheap bed frame and a huge stand-alone dresser. It was made from solid wood, with cupboards, drawers, mirrors and a glass display. I had it delivered the next day.

I still remember what the delivery guys said when I asked if they could bring it up to my room on the 2^nd floor: “You’ve got to be joking”. They left me feeling stupid, and the dresser in the middle of the living room.

It took several more days of planning and nagging from my new flatmates to finally move it. The top half could theoretically be unscrewed from the bottom. When the head of the screws broke, I bought a series of hacksaw blades which, as it turns out, snap easily. Once both halves were hauled up to my room, I never fastened the top half back onto the bottom, let alone mount it with wall brackets. There was no need – Christchurch is known for three things: being flat, racist, and earthquake-free.

After graduation, I simply left the furniture there. Knowing most student places, it was possible that it was still there last year during the earthquake and if so, it would certainly have fallen and caused plenty of damage. I planned to go by and ask about it. I sincerely hoped that I had caused some serious carnage. I imagined meeting the tenant, offering my hand and then noticing they have just a stump.

Unfortunately, when I dropped by, the new tenants were not hideously deformed. They had received the flat completely unfurnished, meaning that my only shot at having my own earthquake tale was ruined. I didn’t have a guilty conscience, but I also didn’t have a good story. I hid my disappointment and left, thinking maybe I was a victim after all: the silent victim.

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Be safe and remember, when it feels like you are taking one step forwards and two steps back, just turn around and walk backwards.

-- The UNInformant