Joanne McNeill: Ruaumoko still stirring in Christchurch

Joanne McNeill.

Nearly five years after leafy Christchurch was shattered by quakes, the unquiet earth seemed to be calming down.

People had begun to trust creeping semblances of normality - the city art collection blinking in the light at last in the re-opened art gallery (a triumph of twisted glass), rare stretches of flat road, and new houses for some - so the recent Valentine's Day shake was a cruel, unromantic shock.

Clearly the turbulence is not over, and the city still looks like a war zone except for incongruous pockets of defiant gentility.

While visiting there last week, two minor shakes destroyed sleep the first night with a roaring sound like the end of the world (or a train behind the mountain in certain winds) after which everything shook like jelly.

The next day, out to dinner, seismic roaring upstaged valiant piano player and convivial hubbub alike before a much bigger wobble reduced a brick courtyard to another temporary jelly. Momentarily, we all freeze-framed, open mouthed, although it seemed less frightening than the bedtime shakes, probably because a few cold ones lent alcohol-fuelled cavalier nonchalance to proceedings. Hey ho ...

In the sober light of the next day, though the feeling was by then firmly entrenched that a major catastrophe could happen at any moment; which of course is true anywhere since certainty does not exist, but when it's a long time between alarms, people tend to embrace the illusion everything is fine and relaxed.

In precarious Christchurch though, a latent undercurrent of anxious internal alertness is always lurking. It's no way to live.

I thought maybe a quiet word with the earthquake gods might help (such hubris). So at the beach where I imagine they live just offshore, I tried a calming incantation.

I should have done more homework. Is there more than one earthquake god? What is his/her/its name? I had no idea, so I had a polite chat with Tangaroa instead, with whom I am at least acquainted.

Clearly it was a mistake. Ruaumoko, whom I discovered later is the god of earthquakes and volcanoes (hindsight is a fine thing), was so miffed he delivered a much scarier shake. Preceded by no warning roar, it came as a rude jolt from behind, as much as to say - up yours too buddy!

Ruaumoko is the youngest son of Ranginui (sky) and Papatuanuku (earth). After they were separated by their many sons who, like all children, craved space and light, Papa was turned face down so the heartbroken parents would not grieve eternally at the sight of each other, but Ruaumoko (then either at the breast or in the womb depending on the version) ended up underground where he was given fire to keep warm (volcanoes) and continues to kick (earthquakes) to this day.

Just as well to know these things, and to realise how lucky we are in Northland to live far from the fault-line where squashed Ruaumoko squirms.

While cyclones are always possible here, at least the soft sinuous belly of the earth stays still and thankfully Tawhirimatea (the wind god bro who sided with his sky-father) is not so constrained he feels obliged to strut his frightening powers daily.