I first met Rachel Conley in March of 2010. We met at a hostel within the first month of arriving in Wellington, both being travelers from different parts of the United States. She was a 27-year-old musical theatre major from Ohio, and I was a 24-year-old graphic designer from Virginia — both of us leaving our jobs, homes, families and friends to explore new and exciting things on the other side of the globe. Rachel quickly became my best friend. Though we had only just met, we fit together brilliantly. We somehow squeezed a lifetime worth of friendship into that single year we spent together in New Zealand. It was an intense relationship — one filled with constant adventure and unparalleled companionship. We were inseparable.
We both soon found jobs in Wellington and began to make that city our new home. She worked as a receptionist for a drama and dance school, and I was a nanny for a lovely family of five. After a year, however, our working holiday visas came to an end, and we had no choice but to leave our beloved new home. We were both so gutted, but the tantalizing excitement of traveling the South Island kept our spirits afloat. We left Wellington on the 14th of February with intentions of spending a meager 9 days on the South Island before traveling the next 4 weeks in Australia and Thailand, with the States being our final destination. People thought we were insane for only spending 9 days touring the world-famous South Island. However, we managed to see the most stunning things we’d seen in our lifetimes — enormous glaciers, heaven-scraping mountains, peaceful lakes, rushing rivers and powerful waterfalls. We also managed to experience incredible and sometimes absurd events such as: touring Milford Sound in a 3 story boat, sleeping in our car outside a circus, skinny dipping in a waist-deep stream by a highway, jumping on a trampoline at 3:00 in the morning, drinking wine on a hillside with goats and sheep, doing backflips off a floating dock in Queenstown and spending our morning on a pier in sleeping bags.
Like our friendship, our travels were equally as intense and eventful. By the 7th day, we were exhausted. My boss from Wellington offered her mum’s empty house in Christchurch to us for the last few days of our New Zealand travels, giving us a chance to relax and prepare ourselves for the next 4 weeks of backpacking. We went out for dinner and drinks the night we arrived in Christchurch but decided to save the actual city touring for the next day, the 22nd of February. That was to be our last day in our beloved New Zealand, and we decided to make the most of it. We woke up to an overcast sky, chucked on some comfortable clothes and hopped in our hired car to explore the city of Christchurch. Wellington, known for its amazing coffee, had fueled our caffeine addiction enough over the last year that our undisputed first stop of the day was a café — The Coffee Smiths on Durham Street. After a much needed cappa, we meandered through the city with the ultimate goal of finding a tattoo shop. We both had planned to get one more tattoo while traveling — I decided to get mine on our last day in New Zealand, but she had decided to wait until we arrived in Thailand. After walking around for a bit, we came across Southern Ink, a clean and inviting little tattoo shop on the corner of Colombo Street and Saint Asaph. After going in and discussing my tattoo with the receptionist, I set up an appointment for 3:30 that afternoon, said a quick hello to the tattoo artist and headed out through the heavy sliding door. Rachel went out first and ambled down the footpath while I stayed back and made sure to close the door carefully, without noisily slamming it shut. We were to walk back to the hired car, return it to the airport and hop a bus back into town for the appointment at 3:30. It was now 12:51.
Within seconds of shutting the door and following Rachel’s short lead down the footpath, I felt a sudden, violent shaking sensation — one that I had never felt before. It took no time at all for me to realise what it was, and my survival instinct kicked in immediately. I ran for the street. The noise is probably the sense that I remember most, though I also remember that seeing straight and walking forward were tasks I felt were more than impossible at the time. There was a deafening roar, one that overpowered all my other senses, and a shaking sensation that seemed to rattle me internally. After taking several unstable steps toward the street, I turned around to grab Rachel’s hand and help her run with me, thinking she had followed my lead and was right behind me. She wasn’t there. To my complete horror, she was frozen. She hadn’t moved since the quake started, only seconds before. As I turned, hand outstretched to grab hers, I saw the concrete overhang and a cascade of brick, rebar and concrete pour down on her from the 2 story building above. It was fast — too fast — but I knew immediately that she was gone. With the quake still in full force causing my ears to ring and footsteps to falter, I quickly turned back around and grabbed on to the first solid thing I could find — a large, seemingly unmanned vehicle stopped in the middle of the road. I thrust my head into the open window and desperately clung to the frame of the vehicle. I braced myself for impact, thinking the building would surely topple my way and crush me like it had just done to my friend. That moment, though I thought it was my last, was far from scary. I felt a sense of peace, quiet, clarity, and wing-like warmth surround me. I don’t remember feeling any fear or any pain, though later I realised that a forceful blast of debris and dust had exploded out from the fallen structure and flattened me against the vehicle. I do remember, however, having extreme difficulty breathing and seeing due to the dust and small debris floating through the air. And I was covered in the dusty film, head to toe, with a bleeding foot and polluted lungs. Those, of course, were the least of my concerns.
Once I could see and breathe enough to move, I immediately ran towards the heap of brick and concrete where my friend had once stood. Knowing full well that she was not alive, I still desperately called out her name. Though I’m sure many noises were exploding at that moment, all I could hear was my heart pounding and my voice chokingly scream her name. Within 5 or so desperate shouts, a group of random men — young and old — responded to my cries. A loud voice asked me where she was, and — after I speechlessly pointed to the particular mound of rubble — several men began violently chucking bricks and concrete left and right in attempt to dig her out. I paced back and forth in the street, wanting to help yet feeling too stunned to act accordingly. Eventually their calls for her grew more intense and optimistic, and I realised they had found her under the rubble. My heart leapt out of my chest then immediately sank back again for the understanding that she’d be barely alive, if at all, when they pulled her out. I saw one of the men desperately reach into the pile, grab her hand, feel for her pulse and then gently lay it back down again — leaving her delicate hand exposed, resting above the rubble. All the men quietly bowed their heads, dropped the bricks they still had in their hands and slowly walked away. About that time, a brilliant young man called Mike emerged from the shop across the street and gently embraced me, sitting me down on the curb and confirming to me that she was dead and that there was nothing that I could’ve done to save her. Through sobs and curses, I managed to disagree, thinking somehow I could’ve done something to change what had just happened. But his words were kind and true and his embrace was warm and comforting. He stayed with me for a few minutes until one of the men who had helped dig Rachel out from the rubble came over to check on me. His name was Mat, a resident of Christchurch. He had been walking Colombo Street with his brother, Sean, when the quake had hit. After helping victims from the crushed buses a mere block away, he must’ve heard my cries and joined in the effort to uncover Rach. He came over to me, gave me a big hug, and expressed his sorrow for my loss. Voicing his need to check on his friends across the street, Mike entrusted me to the care of Mat and Sean, gave me one last hug, and left.
Mat, Sean, and I sat on the curb for a few minutes, mostly in sob-engulfed silence. He wrapped his arms around me and said very little. Neither one of us knew what to say or what do. I could tell he felt awkward and unsure. And me, being the ever-conscious observer of people's reactions to me, wanted to make him feel at ease. But I couldn't. My thoughts were occupied with thousands of thoughts, mostly that my body screamed out for some sort of release. I seriously considered sprinting down the street, just to feel like I was being pro-active. Just to get some of the built-up energy in my soul out of me and into a tangible form. My shock-filled body strongly disagreed to that idea.
Some other men who had witnessed all this came over and told me how sorry they were for what had happened. I was so touched by their kindness to a complete stranger, though it was their city that had just been destroyed. When I was able to stand and attempt to walk on my own, Mat and Sean walked with me to Hagley Park, the safest spot at the time according to a nearby police officer. Within that first half hour, I saw several first aid stations set up and many organised forces directing traffic and helping confused pedestrians. I was so impressed with the speed and efficiency with which the city had organised such vital assistance. Once we arrived at the park, we didn’t stay very long knowing full well that there was nothing productive to be done there. I mentioned the hired car that Rachel and I had driven into town that day, though I had absolutely no idea where we had parked it. We walked around the city for at least 30 minutes, trying to retrace my steps and find the car. This being my first day in the city, I was very lost, disoriented and alone. I knew no one on that entire island, a thought which must have crossed Mat’s mind. Like anyone in his place, I’m not sure he knew exactly how to handle the situation he had unknowingly put himself into. He was now the appointed guardian of a grieving stranger who was in massive shock. But, he and his brother stuck with me until we stumbled on the car mere blocks away from Hagley Park.
Mat drove Sean and I to his flat on the outskirts of town, a drive that would normally have taken only 15 minutes. An hour or so later, after driving through liquefaction, floods, and destroyed streets, we arrived at his flat and sat in his drive way, listening to the radio and cuddling up to duvets and blankets. I phoned my parents, Wellington friends and work mates, informing them of the news and assuring them that I was safe and in good hands. Mat and Sean were attentive and encouraging, making sure that I felt safe and dry despite the falling rain and constant unnerving aftershocks. They were even able to lift my spirits with lukewarm beer and the occasional absurd Kiwi joke. My Wellington friends desperately tried to find someway to get me out of the city and back to some place safe and familiar. Because of the extensive road damage, crowded traffic conditions and practical advice to keep off the roads, we all soon realised that I was stuck there for the night. Mat and Sean had their own issues of house damage, missing belongings and shaken emotions, yet they somehow juggled all their issues as well as the personal issues of me, a grieving foreigner.
By 8:00 that night, Mat had formed a plan. We packed up a few of his belongings, hopped into the car and braved the rugged back roads to get to the safety of his pastor’s house in the Parklands area. Stopping along the way several times to help stranded motorists, we finally arrived at the house.
The pastor’s wife and son were awake and waiting for us when we arrived. They welcomed me into their home and were somehow able to show concern for me despite their home’s fragile condition and their nervous emotional state. Their house felt safe and stable, despite the cracks in the ceiling and in the concrete floors. I remember the wife saying, "Our house is the newest in the neighbourhood. If it hasn't fallen yet, it won't." What a lady. We shared our stories from the day and thanked God we were safe. We laid all the heavy, tall furniture flat on the floor so that there was no risk of them falling on us during an aftershock. We pulled all the mattresses in the house into one room and all slept there together so that no one would have to be alone that first night. I didn’t sleep at all, but being together with such strong, giving people made it bearable. The next day we drove to their relative’s house who was fortunate enough to have power and water. After a nice meal and a much-needed cup of tea, we drove to the house where Rachel and I had been staying. The guys volunteered to pack up Rachel’s belongings for me, knowing that I would have a hard time dealing with it so soon after the quake. The house was a wreck. The ceiling was leaking, the brick courtyard was uneven and scattered, and heaps of glass and broken housewares which had fallen from all the open cupboards lay smashed on the floor. The backyard was filled with sewage overflow, which made it difficult for us to retrieve our clothes that we had hung up on the washline just before we left the morning before. It was hard to say goodbye to that house, where just the morning before we had sung "Let it Be" on the piano and enjoyed a cup of tea and a cheeky Anzac together.
After we returned my new guardians' house with my luggage, the pastor drove me to the police station to fill out official paperwork. I was fully prepared to view her body but was surprised that she wasn't there. Many people were still trapped alive in buildings, they said, so the priority was to get the living out before the dead. They were working hard at removing every body they could — dead and alive — but it would take time to get everything sorted out. This was much bigger than anyone had originally thought.
That moment made me so thankful Rachel wasn't trapped in a building somewhere, waiting for me. I saw it happen. There was no doubt in my mind. At least it was final. However, Rachel was declared a “missing person,” a logistical label that unfortunately gave her family and friends false hope until they officially identified her body 2 weeks later. After we had gotten all the necessary busy work accomplished, a friend phoned and informed me that she had gotten me a flight out to Wellington that night. As thankful as I was to be getting away from the chaos, my heart broke for those I was leaving behind to recover in a devastated city. I said my heartfelt goodbyes and thank-you’s as they dropped me off at the airport for my night flight out. Incidentally, mine was the last flight out to Wellington for the next few days.
While I was in Wellington, I encountered similar hospitality, generosity and sympathy from the New Zealand locals. People baked me biscuits, brought me flowers, gave me a bed to sleep in and provided 24-hour emotional support. It was exactly where I needed to be to wrap my head around what had happened. Because Rachel was the only American killed, I was constantly in contact with the police force, detectives, U.S. ambassadors and immigration officers, making sure everything was done correctly and officially. These officials were the most giving and selfless of people, especially my personal police liaison, Gavin. Many people overlook these men and women, but they worked around the clock to make sure everyone was provided for and looked after. They handled such an unexpected amount of responsibility with such professionalism and genuine concern. I am so grateful to have worked with such a brave and unified group of people.
I was asked to return to Christchurch 10 days later to help the government officials collect Rachel’s DNA and fingerprint samples. I phoned the only Christchurch contacts I had — those same people I had met that first day after the earthquake. These new friends offered me the same kindness and love that had been expressed before. Perhaps this is what any person would have done in these circumstances, but I often think how things would have been so different without them. Had they not extended their help to me that first day, I would have spent the night alone on the street or in a field, dealing with the loss of my best friend and processing the trauma of a devastating disaster. I had no spare clothes. No food or water. No friends. No shelter. And they had no obligation to help out a complete stranger, but they saw a person in need and selflessly obliged. Their city had just been destroyed, their lives changed and their country put in emotional upheaval, yet they considered my comfort and sanity just as important as their own personal problems.
I am back home in the States, now, though my heart is still broken for the loss of my friend and the absence of those friendly faces of New Zealand. Though loud noises, phantom vibrations and certain memories still haunt me, I am so thankful to be alive. Knowing how close — literally feet away — I was from dying, I have chosen to not waste the second chance on life that I have been given. Rachel will always be in my heart, as will the memory of those lovely New Zealand people who stood by me in such an unbelievable time of crisis. She loved everything about New Zealand, especially the people, and she would be so pleased to know how well I was treated and loved after her death. I know your hearts are still hurting for the devastation of your great city, but please know that I hurt with you. All the experiences I had in my short time there will forever remind me that New Zealand is a place of great strength, beauty and heart. This is the true spirit of New Zealand.
