Work, work . . . no insurance, bro’
would remain.
Jessica Morgan, 30, and her 5-year-old daughter Penelope were cleaning up on Friday afternoon.
In the house where Morgan operated her soap and candle making operation, the signs of the flood are etched into the walls.
A film of scum is now an unpleasant reminder of the height of the water which submerged much of North Wairoa.
Morgan managed to ‘‘grab her [Penelope], the laptop and my phone’’ as the water overspilled from the Wairoa River and started to make its way down Carroll St.
After a brief stint on the southern side of Wairoa, where the town’s suite of shops and amenities is located, Morgan returned on foot to collect ‘‘a PlayStation 5, two of my grandad’s jerseys and two of my cats . . . Tabitha and Oak.’’
Morgan is without home, contents or business insurance. The only policy she has is on her car.
In the small courtyard to the rear of Morgan’s business, buckets of muddied water sit full of her daughter’s toys.
When asked what she will do without the financial support of insurance, Morgan says there is only one option.
‘‘I can’t afford to get back into my soapmaking, so I have to come up with something new.’’
Morgan says only a few on Carroll St have insurance.
‘‘I know Gerald has no insurance. I know the fish and chip shop doesn’t have it, and she had her house affected as well.’’
Everywhere one turns, one is confronted by the self-effacing sense among locals that someone somewhere else is doing it tougher.
Morgan says her floors are concrete, they can be water-blasted.
John Morrell has lived in Wairoa since at least Cyclone Bola, he says. These events are difficult to forget, and soon they become moments in time from which all else is measured.
Morrell has spent the last nine days clearing silt from his property. First came the bulldozers and diggers, then the spades and wheelbarrows, and now it was down to himself and his son Kehu and a set of well-used mops to see to the balance.
For Morrell, who also lacks insurance, the job of restoring the house that his father had bought for the family after Bola, would rest with him – irrespective of any hypothetical payout he might have received.
To free up more of his time, his mother travelled from Palmerston North via a 12-hour detour to pick up his 3-month-old moko and take her to relative safety.
‘‘The old lady made the 12-hour trip from Palmy right the way up to pick her up. So I can get into work, eh? Work, work, work. Because no insurance bro, I’ve just got to stay and do it myself.’’
Many on his street are in a similar position. They didn’t think it was going to happen. But even so, the feeling here is less a lament and more one of pride.
‘‘This is all work from just the community. All our big diggers and workers are out of town on the roads. This is all community work.’’
The cost of an insurance policy was also a factor, he explains.
‘‘It’s hard enough to live without paying for something else.’’
Morrell says that perhaps his father’s prescience of another storm to come helped him pick a home with good bones.
He explains that the floorboards of the house will never buckle, they’re rimu, they’re ‘‘straight and true’’.
‘‘I’m quite glad the house is solid. They’re old-school, like rimu ones. They don’t warp, eh? Straight and true. The hardboard that’s been put on the walls over the years, that’s where it’s [the water] bubbled up.’’
On the other side of Te Rato Rd is Justin Naaka (Nga¯ti Rakaipaaka), who lives on the land his family has owned for 97 years. He whakapapas to the area; this is home.
Tending to his Nissan ute, he has a good tip for getting water out of a diesel engine.
‘‘Take the glow plugs out, keep them in the right order, turn the ignition, it’ll start pumping out the water, then wait for the mist, and that’s diesel.’’
Naaka is one of the people Morrell referred to. In lieu of a policy, he had to quickly decide what to save, and in what order.
‘‘Everything really important I put in the roof. Like my computer, TV and cables. Other things that were good to save I put on the tables and bench. Then anything else I didn’t give a shit about, I left on the floor.’’
In a theme slowly emerging across parts of the town, price – and the thought that something on this scale wouldn’t happen – are the reasons insurance was seldom sought. After all, they survived Bola, what could be worse?
Having been left with defrosting freezers and a sodden pantry, Naaka says the local marae has been exemplary in providing food parcels and manaaki (support) to those who need it.
‘‘That’s good, because I can spend some grocery money on patching the place up a bit.’’