Cyclone Gabrielle: How do you get back up when you've lost everything?

Friday, 3 March 2023

As the TV cameras leave and the country moves on, those whose lives and livelihoods have been destroyed by Cyclone Gabrielle are left wondering what now? Nikki Macdonald visits Hawke’s Bay flood refugees to find out how you come back from losing everything.

“I might as well be a baby again,” says Ross Cocking​, casting a fatigue-glazed eye over the ruins of his life. “Born with nothing and start again”.

His place is on the flats after the Ngaruroro River bridge on Pakowhai Rd, parallel to the highway from Hastings to Napier. It’s one of a handful of pockets of destruction wrought by Cyclone Gabrielle, which dumped more than 500mm of rain on parts of Hawke’s Bay.

Across Pakowhai Rd is Cocking’s panel beating workshop. It’s Monday – almost two weeks on from the Valentine's Day flash floods – and the mud is still barring entry. Somewhere inside are about 10 client cars. The Mitsubishi SUV next to his house was also awaiting work. Now it’s decked in apples floated down from one of many flooded orchards.

**READ MORE:

* Cyclone Gabrielle: Can we build our way to flood resilience?

* Cyclone-hit Hawke's Bay, Gisborne and Coromandel face another deluge of heavy rain

* Cyclone Gabrielle: In Hawke's Bay, a week of devastation that time forgot

**

And still it rains. The damp sags spirits and turns the toxic dust back to gumboot-sucking sludge.

Yes, Cocking has a miracle tale of survival and rescue – he stayed to save his three cats, climbed up to the shed mezzanine then swam out when he realised it wasn’t high enough. He was washed into the trees, tugging at branches to get to the house roof, from where he was plucked by a helicopter that “parked” on top of the house.

But as the shock subsides, a different survival struggle is emerging.

Like many along this road, and in the munted mudscape of Esk Valley, Cocking has lost both his home and his livelihood.

At 61, his finances are stripped as bare as his house. None of this was insured. He got insurance to buy the place some 15 years ago, but it lapsed.

He’s been here since 7am shovelling, cleaning, stripping with a couple of mates.

“It doesn't matter how long you spend out here, there's still another 400 years to go.”

Cocking slides his hand into the wall cavity and scoops out a fistful of mud. He’s supposed to wear gloves to protect the finger that’s infected and swollen from the contaminated sludge. He’ll wash it at the end of the day, he promises.

That will be 7pm. This is his life now – 7am to 7pm, trying to salvage a property that may yet be condemned. Best case scenario it might be liveable in 18 months to 2 years. He doesn’t want to live here again, but maybe he could sell it to pay off the $200,000 he still owes the bank. Would anyone buy it? “Probably not”.

He puts on a brave face. When a neighbour yelled out that he wanted his shooting table back (it’s sitting on Cocking’s roof) Cocking said he’d charge for storage.

“You've got to laugh, otherwise you'd go crazy.”

But reality looks grim. He’s been his own boss for 50 years and would struggle to work for someone else.

He’s lost his $50,000 chassis machine, $10,000-20,000 worth of paint mixing stuff and probably $50,000 worth of hand tools. Then there’s the vintage KT100 go-kart and the 32 Ford hot rod he’s been building for 25 years.

“Essentially my life's gone into this place, buying it and then everything that I've worked for. It's all gone out the door, in one second.”

The one bright spot is he has somewhere warm and dry to go – his partner has a place in Napier’s Westshore.

Is he OK?

“I don't know. I keep thinking I should be feeling worse than I am. I'm probably just numb.”

Destruction and debt

The scale of the devastation is hard to take in. Broken bridges; drowned houses; debris-flattened grape vines and apple trees; fertile valleys turned into grey deserts.

But because the damage is localised, it can also be easy to miss.

While flood-smashed streets are edged with dumped whiteware, in Napier recycling bins are lined up all in a row. Here, life looks normal.

But for those trying to save their livelihoods it’s anything but.

In this land of plenty, the scale of damage to fruit growers is still not clear. Some orchards are fine, some might be salvageable, some have disappeared altogether.

As of Thursday, MPI had received 2194 applications for emergency help for farmers and growers. It’s already approved 1114 grants worth $13.25 million.

Among those who’ve applied are plum orchardists Ian and Nicky Dockary, in the silt-swallowed Esk Valley north of Napier.

From their house to the bridge used to stretch ‘fortune orchard’, so named because it was their best cropper.

Now there’s not a living tree to be seen. There are plenty of dead ones though – mountains of pine logs. They busted through the bridge approach, and the Dockarys’ house and trees were first in the firing line.

One log even pierced the roofspace where the couple spent the night listening to the log jam, hoping for rescue, hoping the foundations would hold.

In front of the house were the new plantings – the lower maintenance black doris trees that were their retirement plan. Also gone.

“What you see here is fucked,” says Ian bluntly. “Our livelihood is fucked.'

The house, cars and contents were insured, but not the trees. No-one expects their entire orchard to be uprooted, says Nicky, 55. The loss is in the hundreds of thousands. Plus the lost income.

At least they’d just picked, so there’s some money until next season.

They've moved from an Airbnb to their son’s house in Napier and have come to retrieve miracle survivor Louie the ginger cat.

Now their days are spent phoning insurance companies; trying to get passports, so they can get a new driver’s licence; trying to fathom the future.

They wanted the grower’s grant to hire diggers and mulchers, but they’ve heard nothing back. The quarter-orchard left will soon be unsalvageable, if it’s not already.

Nicky grew up here and the couple have been here 30 years. But they’re not sure if they want to return to live. Every time it rained they’d wonder if it would happen again.

What they do want is to know whether the place will be red-zoned as uninhabitable.

“It's just not knowing, is the worst thing,” Nicky says. “Through the whole flood we had a plan – when the level hits this, we’ll do this. But now we've got no plans.”

If they couldn’t rebuild their house, they could turn the land back to asparagus and lucerne for hay. But a buyout would be better.

If it comes to it, 59-year-old Ian can go back to driving trucks. But not while he’s still trying to process the loss: “My brain can’t compute.”

Searching for shelter

The Dockarys and Cocking at least have a warm, dry haven to go to.

“Desperately seeking a house in Hastings,” reads one Facebook plea from a family of six who lost their home at Waiohiki.

Another wants a powered caravan site for two adults, a teen and two cats. While people kindly offer properties as far afield as New Plymouth, there aren’t enough to go around.

In the Hastings district, 79 homes have been written off as red-stickered and another 669 are yellow-stickered as temporarily unliveable. In Napier, another 4 have been written off and 113 yellow-stickered.

Across Hawke’s Bay, 128 households have registered for the government’s temporary accommodation service. And by the end of February, 28,878 people in the region had been paid out $17.4m in Civil Defence grants designed to help flood refugees with food, bedding, clothing, temporary accommodation or loss of income.

Kotiro​ Hawaikirangi​ feels like one of the lucky ones. As lucky as you can be when you’ve lost everything.

She, partner Bern Pitman and their kids Reretau, 4, Tamia, 6 and Tahuwera, 10 are bunking down in a borrowed campervan at Waiohiki Marae.

About 50 of the community’s 80 flood-displaced whānau are still staying at nearby Waipatu Marae, awaiting something more permanent.

Hawaikirangi (Ngāti Kahungunu), 40, grew up here at her granddad’s home, where her mum now lives, just along from the bridge. The bridge that was split and shunted awry by the weight slamming against it.

The debris and trees acted like a cork, giving the river nowhere to go but across the plains housing Hawaikirangi and her whānau.

Their driveway was a meeting of currents. Barefoot to differentiate between safe tarseal and drowning drainage ditch, she followed the fenceline to higher ground, clutching Reretau and Tahuwera. Pitman had Tamia and the two dogs. The kunekunes and chickens didn’t make it.

Their car and camper are in the urucar, Hawaikirangi laughs. That’s the urupa (graveyard) for cars.

“I've got nowhere to go, so we've just come back to the marae to help out. We've got somewhere to sleep. We've got lots of work here.”

The height chart at Hawaikirangi’s place tracks the three years she’s lived there. The house was a relocation – a gift to the marae that was offered to her to rent because she was homeless then. Now she’s homeless again. As are her mum and brother.

“It's worse this time, because you've got nothing,” Hawaikirangi says, breaking down. “It's hard. All our forever homes are gone.”

The older kids have gone back to school in Hastings, though they have to borrow a car to drive them there as the bus no longer comes through here. Reretau’s kohanga reo was also damaged.

The couple got a storage container for what little they have left.

“At least get all of your nothing together in one place.”

They haven’t got as far as looking for a rental.

“We're just taking it one step at a time. For the first week, every time it rained, I'd get anxiety, the kids would get anxiety. All we would want to do was come back here [to the marae]. Because it was the only place we were safe when it rained.”

To stay or go?

Less than three weeks on, Waiohiki Marae has already drawn up a recovery plan.

“Our goal is to have everyone back in their warm, safe houses in as short a time as possible,” says recovery project lead Jonathan Dick.

First up is working out where all its 80 displaced households have ended up, and what help they need.

Overnight, Waiohiki went from a vibrant community and housing leader, with new papakāinga developments, to a collection of empty, yellow-stickered homes.

While they've had hundreds of volunteers helping with the cleanup, they've yet to see any official help, Dick says.

He’s petitioning the government to short-circuit the EQC claims process, so they can get a dedicated digger and truck crew to clear the silt.

They hope to have the 10-household papakāinga behind the marae, which is higher and less affected, back up and running within three months.

But Dick is also worried about climate change resilience, with insurance payouts unlikely to fund relocation.

“Insurance companies are only going to restore people's houses based on what was there…So there is a level of fear now, around, what next. When is the next 1 in 100 year event?”

In Eskdale, another family faces a difficult choice.

In the desert of mud, their historic homestead is a red-roofed oasis of normality.

While their neighbours climbed onto roofs to escape the deluge, Chris Baty and Ann Prichard​ slept through it.

They've been here 30 years and love this community. But if the valley is red-zoned, Baty doubts they’ll be paid out for their undamaged house. And he’s not sure they’d want to go.

With the area largely emptied of residents, they’re already isolated. They have a generator and Starlink so can still run their deerskin export business. They have a woodburner for hot water. Other than the trauma of seeing friends suffer, they're fine.

'We'll just put everything back together the way it was,” Baty says. “I've said to the family, we've enjoyed living here for 30 years, and I would not swap our current circumstances. It's been worth it. And we expect it to be worth it again.'

Wild Bill’s philosophy

Just up the road from Cocking's Pakowhai house is Bill Eshleman's rental. They were 'bunk buddies' at the evacuation centre.

He and wife Robyn are cleaning, drying and packing the china they salvaged from the stinking mud bath that used to be their home.

Robyn packs her heart-shaped cake tins. 'Well we won't forget Valentines any time soon,' she jokes.

They walked away with just three shopping bags – mostly Robyn's beloved jewellery from when they lived in the Middle East, where Bill flew helicopters.

They're staying at a motel in Taradale, until they find another rental. They come here every day to dig for treasure. Robyn scrapes at a mud-caked photo frame with the peak of a cap. Underneath is Bill's Distinguished Flying Cross certificate.

In 200-300 grow bags in the yard, and across the driveway in a slumped snake of a greenhouse, are the sad remains of the chilli plants that fuel the family business – Wild Bill’s barbecue sauce. His smoker was thrown 30m.

Bill is philosophical about their loss. At 73, this is the 'enforced geardown' they probably needed.

'We don't need to replace it, just enough to get by on.'

While the chillies are beyond hope, at least they don't take forever to grow. And they use a commercial kitchen, which wasn't damaged, so he reckons he can get back up and running by next year.

And they're soon to be first-time grandparents.

'Don't let us have any more excitement,' Robyn says.

Back to school

It’s 8.15 on Wednesday morning and the first gumboots trot in. From Red Bands to sparkly unicorns they share one thing in common – they belong to Eskdale School kids reconnecting for the first time.

The school at the entrance to the valley largely escaped the floodwaters, but its playing field and septic systems are damaged. So principal Tristan Cheer, who still has no power on at home, has been wrangling an alternative site.

Of his roll of about 300, 94 have been significantly affected by flooding. Some have already moved away. Others are still cut off by busted roads.

But Cheer didn’t want to go back to online learning.

“All the experts tell us that the sooner they reconnect with their friends, reconnect with their teachers, with what they know, the better in terms of their recovery. What we don't want at a time like this is for people to be isolated.”

So here they are at Napier’s Petane domain, spread between the rugby, soccer, tennis and bowls clubrooms. The older kids will be bussed to classrooms at nearby Westshore School.

It looks like any other school playground buzz – running, piggybacks, chatter. But with hugs. Lots of hugs.

“I’m just going to hold this a bit longer,” says teacher Jess Rodda, embracing a pupil.

When some girls give her a gift – wine and chocolates, moisturiser, body wash for her fiancé and toys and drawing pads for her daughter, she starts to cry.

The 28-year-old lost her Waiohiki home to the floods. The water was so high she had to put her 2-year-old daughter on the roof. They were rescued by a local in an earthmover and stayed on camp stretchers in a shed before moving in with her sister.

“It’s a bit of a shit one – home and school,” she says. “My fiancé has been doing the work at the house and the strip-out. I've been doing the packing and the insurance… and the crying.”

But despite everything that needs doing, she’s happy to be here.

“Oh my god, it's the best thing ever. I had a bit of a meltdown on Monday, when I was like, I don't have my classroom to go to. But then, seeing the kids, is just the best thing.”

Assembly is held in the big clubrooms, under the gaze of a framed photo of the Eskview Football Club junior champions 1933. Two counsellors and a posse of police provide reassurance.

“We know there's been some challenges,” Cheer tells the kids. “Some of you may even be worried about coming back…But we are really pleased you are here. It’s important that we stick together. It’s important that we help each other. And that starts today.”

Green shoots

Back at Eskdale, the sun has come out and diggers are piling the endless silt.

Across the road from the Dockarys’ is the Harris place.

“So this is home,” says Katrina Harris. “I can't offer you a coffee. Don't take your shoes off at the door.”

Unlike the Dockarys’, you can at least open the front door. And it comes with free ventilation from the corner that popped out in the force of the flood. For 12 hours, the family watched the water rise and fall. Their teenaged son listened as Katrina screamed to the 111 operator “It’s up to my neck, we’re going to die”.

Beside the house, Katrina, 50 and John, 59 ran a doggy farmstay and daycare business.

They saved their three dogs and the three boarding canines – a german shepherd on one kitchen cabinet, a rottweiler and a chihuahua on another.

But there’s nothing left of the kennels. And the $30,000 doggy daycare shed is a flatpack of mud and iron.

Some of that was insured, but nowhere near enough to cover the $400,000 it would cost to build back.

“We spent so much work and a lot of energy,” Katrina says. “We've only been operating for just over 3 years. It's pretty gut-wrenching.”

They moved in 2018, after Katrina’s dad died in a car crash.

Covid wiped out the boarding kennel business, so they set up the daycare. And then the borders opened and bookings were rolling in.

“It was going to be a great year,” says John.

Katrina’s 78-year-old mum Maureen, 16-year-old son Max, 12-year-old twins Riley and Lachlan all lived on this 5-acre block. Her sister lived behind, in a housebus. All now displaced.

“Reality has set in,” John says. “We've got to start again.”

At least the house, contents and vehicles were all insured, and they even had business interruption insurance, which will help with an income.

And a semblance of normality is returning. A kind Airbnb owner has cleared their bookings till November, so the family can stay in Napier. Lachlan and Riley were among the Eskdale School kids back in class on Wednesday.

Like the Dockarys, John and Katrina are struggling with the uncertainty. Not knowing if they’re allowed to build back. Not knowing if they want to.

But Napier trucking company Mark Pittar Transport has offered half its yard for a new doggy daycare.

And in the grey mud in front of their Eskdale house, grassy shoots have begun to push through.