China earthquake: Expat's experience

Brian Thomson, an expat who lives in Chengdu, tells how events unfolded.

By Brian Thomson

 

I am on the third floor of a building near Chengdu's Shangliu Airport. I am there to meet their finance director regarding a possible story on his low-cost airline.

I am speaking to the interpreter when she looks at the ceiling, and says: "Something is wrong?" I feel the room sway, and experience a slight nausea, as though I'm on a ship. I say to her: "I think we should get out of here, fast."

Together with another hundred or so employees we go quickly down the stairs. Nobody attempts to use the lifts. There is no panic. As I enter the foyer I can see the light fitting swaying though an arc of four or five inches.

We gather in the gardens at the rear. I meet the director, and postpone the interview. I want to get back to the city. Everyone keeps looking at the buildings around us, some 11 stories high.

I head for the bus stop; everyone else seems to have the same idea - get home. I get off near the Shamrock Bar, an expat hangout, intending to find a taxi, but the area is gridlocked.

In the Shamrock are a dozen or so Americans, Brits and Aussies. They all tell me mobile phones are out and land lines are erratic. The bar has no electricity but they are handing out snacks from the kitchen. It begins to rain. I call my flat but the number is constantly engaged.

I find a bus which takes me close to home, passing a school playground where hundreds of people are huddled under umbrellas, ready to spend the night.

My wife is relieved to see me, as I her. We decide to spend the night in our fifth-floor flat rather than camp out. The lift is out, but power comes back late that night.

I receive email from the embassy. (I am warden for the Chengdu and Sichuan Province, but duties are not very onerous - help any Brit who may be in trouble). I email back that I am OK and available at the flat.

TUESDAY: China Television is on 24/7 giving the full reports on mounting death figures. My wife comes back from shopping, saying there are now limits on how much you can buy. People are queuing to get cash from ATMs, and at the petrol stations; purchases are restricted to 10 litres. A mobile blood centre has been set up; crowds of donors are waiting. I am impressed by their quick, stoical reaction.

WEDNESDAY: Still no local phones, but strangely I can receive calls from the UK. I tell my relations we are OK. Shops are now operating normally and restaurants are open. But the airport is closed to commercial traffic.

THURSDAY: I meet the newly-arrived British Embassy team. A communications office with six staff has been set up, working round the clock.

On my way back to the flat, the bus is halted by a convoy of ambulances heading to a hospital. At the main doors dozens of nurses converge around the stretchers. A military hospital has set up tents in the gardens.

People are returning to their flats. The makeshift shelters are empty, leaving behind three days of litter.

FRIDAY: Schools are still closed. People are not going into work. Yet essential services are working well. Another aftershock; it must be the tenth since Monday.

I meet senior consulate personnel at the Bookworm restaurant/bar. They tell me a team of 11 British aid and disaster relief experts will arrive over the weekend.

SATURDAY: Government communiqués state that they want people back at work (and school) on Monday. Collecting points have been set up where people can donate clothing, cash?.?.?. anything that may be useful.

I am sent a list of five Britons who may be missing in Sichuan. I email it to all my friends and acquaintances and ask the Shamrock and Bookworm to put it up behind the bar. I receive a call ten minutes later; one of the names is believed to have left China six months ago.

SUNDAY: The city seems back to normal. My wife - a former army nurse - has gone to the wrecked city of Duijangyen with twenty other volunteers. They don't quite know their duties yet, but any spare hands will be welcomed.