In the past, my hearing of natural disasters was generally composed of article threads, tweets by the "breaking news" accounts of international news outlets, and mass media on the whole. Reports were heavily numbered - category or scale of the storm/hurricane/earthquake, height of the tsunami waves, number of casualties and people missing, homes lost, anticipated financial damage, distance covered or area effected, time of impact and duration, etc. It didn't occur to me until late in the evening that today, as I watched clips of street scenes from Chennai join others on the breaking news reports, I lacked that "hard data" that usually flooded my various newsfeeds.
While daily power cuts from 2-4pm at my office in Royapettah, Chennai, now have me headed home early in the afternoon, today I returned to a similar blackout in the nearby area of Nungambakkam, where electricity had been cut for a monthly 9-5pm period. Supply and demand, you know. After leaping off my usual bus to the hostel, I swiftly dropped into my own little world of reading and packing for tomorrow's trip to Mumbai - a world interrupted only when a local friend texted with "Hey! are u ok?" Sure thing, why wouldn't I be? Before she had time to respond, my trembling bed and shaking water bottle fittingly explained her concern. I'd somehow missed the first tremor, but the second was unquestionable (and the splashing water bottle assured me that I hadn't gone mad). Still without current until 5pm, I was left with my phone as my only source of news. 8.6 earthquake in Indonesia, tremors in Chennai, buildings evacuated, tsunami alert, streets even crazier than usual, and the traffic was flat-out impassible.
Texts and calls were made to various friends in Chennai to assure each other that all were fine (and all had been evacuated from offices), calls to and from friends and family outside of Chennai who had heard the news, and, once 5pm rolled around, TVs turned on in search of the latest on a tsunami alert. While the public had, naturally, been advised to stay away from the coast (about 4.5km from my hostel), Marina Beach had indeed been flooded - by crowds of curious onlookers. Not the most intelligent move, but interest subsided as the ocean failed to respond fittingly and, gradually, panic and street insanity subsided as well. Enough, in fact, that a few friends and I grabbed an auto (-rickshaw) and continued with our original evening plans, necessarily skipping the mall (closed, along with much of the city) and moving on to a kebab stand and chai at a favorite bookstore.
It was upon returning to the hostel that I noticed the difference - hours had passed, and I'd still heard no word of those numbers I'd come to expect. After greeting my roommate, I awkwardly asked a question I never imagined myself posing. "So... no tsunami?" Next question: what's the damage? How's it look in Indonesia? And for that one, she had no answer. No numbers. Living in the midst of it, and I felt shockingly out of the loop. Why was that? Did the time difference not have me hearing about Asian disasters until further afterthefact in the US, allowing for that data-gathering period? That technicality, though, simply wasn't enough to explain it. Dare I begin to surmise, then, that it was a matter of distance - not just geographic, but personal?
Earthquakes are not uncommon creatures, no, but I'd venture to guess they're unsettling every time nonetheless, particularly for those who recall - or, worse, lived through - the likes of the 2004 tsunami. That's probably why hearing of people crowding Marina Beach evoked a rather verbal reaction from me; how could it not, given past stories. Waters receded, crowds approached the beach in curiosity, and the ocean struck in a ravaging return. It's not the numbers our minds remember most distinctly, it's the images and the stories, memories, and emotions that accompany them. Even now, with little to no "hard data," it seems as though I've gained some greater understanding (I'm searching for a better word here...) of the earthquake and the tsunami that never was.
Here's hoping that, when those numbers inevitably roll in, they're kept at a minimum. Thoughts are with those effected.
While daily power cuts from 2-4pm at my office in Royapettah, Chennai, now have me headed home early in the afternoon, today I returned to a similar blackout in the nearby area of Nungambakkam, where electricity had been cut for a monthly 9-5pm period. Supply and demand, you know. After leaping off my usual bus to the hostel, I swiftly dropped into my own little world of reading and packing for tomorrow's trip to Mumbai - a world interrupted only when a local friend texted with "Hey! are u ok?" Sure thing, why wouldn't I be? Before she had time to respond, my trembling bed and shaking water bottle fittingly explained her concern. I'd somehow missed the first tremor, but the second was unquestionable (and the splashing water bottle assured me that I hadn't gone mad). Still without current until 5pm, I was left with my phone as my only source of news. 8.6 earthquake in Indonesia, tremors in Chennai, buildings evacuated, tsunami alert, streets even crazier than usual, and the traffic was flat-out impassible.
Texts and calls were made to various friends in Chennai to assure each other that all were fine (and all had been evacuated from offices), calls to and from friends and family outside of Chennai who had heard the news, and, once 5pm rolled around, TVs turned on in search of the latest on a tsunami alert. While the public had, naturally, been advised to stay away from the coast (about 4.5km from my hostel), Marina Beach had indeed been flooded - by crowds of curious onlookers. Not the most intelligent move, but interest subsided as the ocean failed to respond fittingly and, gradually, panic and street insanity subsided as well. Enough, in fact, that a few friends and I grabbed an auto (-rickshaw) and continued with our original evening plans, necessarily skipping the mall (closed, along with much of the city) and moving on to a kebab stand and chai at a favorite bookstore.
It was upon returning to the hostel that I noticed the difference - hours had passed, and I'd still heard no word of those numbers I'd come to expect. After greeting my roommate, I awkwardly asked a question I never imagined myself posing. "So... no tsunami?" Next question: what's the damage? How's it look in Indonesia? And for that one, she had no answer. No numbers. Living in the midst of it, and I felt shockingly out of the loop. Why was that? Did the time difference not have me hearing about Asian disasters until further afterthefact in the US, allowing for that data-gathering period? That technicality, though, simply wasn't enough to explain it. Dare I begin to surmise, then, that it was a matter of distance - not just geographic, but personal?
Earthquakes are not uncommon creatures, no, but I'd venture to guess they're unsettling every time nonetheless, particularly for those who recall - or, worse, lived through - the likes of the 2004 tsunami. That's probably why hearing of people crowding Marina Beach evoked a rather verbal reaction from me; how could it not, given past stories. Waters receded, crowds approached the beach in curiosity, and the ocean struck in a ravaging return. It's not the numbers our minds remember most distinctly, it's the images and the stories, memories, and emotions that accompany them. Even now, with little to no "hard data," it seems as though I've gained some greater understanding (I'm searching for a better word here...) of the earthquake and the tsunami that never was.
Here's hoping that, when those numbers inevitably roll in, they're kept at a minimum. Thoughts are with those effected.
No comments:
Post a Comment