Parker grad offers firsthand account of earthquake
Print
"Every time the Earth shook, the crowd let out screams and moans. Mothers held their children … Ravens flew above, crowing loudly. Helicopters flew over, always heading the same direction ...
“'Stay here. We are safe here,' a man kept saying."
—Jesse Anderson
JANESVILLE—Jesse Anderson, a 2001 Parker graduate, construction worker, writer and photographer, was in Kathmandu when last Saturday's earthquake hit.
Anderson emailed The Gazette on Tuesday with his firsthand account of the earthquake. He was visiting Kathmandu as part of his latest trip. Before arriving in Nepal about a month ago, he spent six weeks in Istanbul and three months in India, he wrote in an email.
Like other people, he had trouble letting his family and friends know he was OK. Eventually, he got enough of a phone signal to post something on Facebook.
And fortunately, he had booked a flight out of the country about six weeks ago, and it left the country Tuesday.
His mother, Penny Anderson of Sacramento, California, confirmed that he had reached Turkey by late Tuesday afternoon.
Here is an abbreviated version of Anderson's account of the day. Find the full version below.
—A few days before Saturday's earthquake, Anderson was in Kathmandu watching a movie on his hotel bed when the bed began to shake, just a little.
“There was an ever-so-slight rumbling sound, and it was over … It was the first time I felt an earthquake, and it seemed like a novelty.”
It was different Saturday.
“I was researching a trip to Turkey on that same hotel bed when it started shaking again. I knew right away what it was. This wasn't novelty. I felt no curiosity, no intrigue. This time the Earth shook violently.
“I jumped off the bed instinctively, as if it was the only thing shaking. But the floor was shaking even more. … From the window came the sound of a rumbling—and crumbling—Kathmandu.”
—Anderson thought the building would collapse. He ran to the door frame and stood there, half in and half out of the room, while his mind tried to process the choices.
“I was on the third floor of the hotel. Ten meters to my right was the stairwell. Stairwells are strong and sometimes stand when buildings fall. They can also lead out of buildings before they fall. To my left was a mattress to hide under. Moving was nearly impossible because the shaking was so strong.”
—When the rumbling stopped. Anderson put on his flip-flops and ran down to the lobby, where guests and staff were gathered.
"I asked whether it was safer inside or outside, assuming the Nepalese staff were used to this kind of thing. 'Inside,' replied one man. But I wasn't sure …
“I ran back upstairs and grabbed my camera and went out into the narrow street. But the narrow streets and old brick buildings don't bode well for people during—or after—an earthquake.”
—As Anderson made his way through the streets, an aftershock hit. He joined a group of people gathered in a parking lot, a safe distance away from buildings.
“In a strange coincidence, there sat a Korean man and woman I'd met in the Mt. Everest region about 10 days prior. …They had been in the street when it happened. 'Bricks were falling down from the building. We ran ...'
“Every time the Earth shook, the crowd let out screams and moans. Mothers held their children. The Korean couple held each other. Ravens flew above, crowing loudly. Helicopters flew over, always heading the same direction … 'Stay here. We are safe here,' a man kept saying.”
—Anderson explored the city, trying to see what had happened between the district he was in and Durbar Square, a district containing several UNESCO World Heritage Sites.
“Once I made my way from the narrow streets to the main road, I realized the scale of the situation. Thousands of people were in a major street that's usually a mess of traffic. As far as I could see were people standing, sitting and walking. Piles of rubble and bricks that were once walls had cascaded into the road, exposing living rooms and bedrooms. One room was painted sky blue with an image of the Hindu god Krishna hanging from the wall.
“I found myself in a narrow, bottlenecked walkway where three streets converged near Durbar Square. A police officer was hitting people in the face with sticks at the densely packed intersection, trying to control them like a herd of cattle. At just the wrong moment, an aftershock sent people into a panic. Again, I felt the fear. I thought we would all fall, and I'd suffocate under a pile of terrified people.”
—Anderson found his way back to his hotel.
“Getting to sleep that night was not easy. 'Should we be outside in the parking lot?' I wondered. But it was cold, and the city was dark. There was a chance of rain. Was that better than hearing the creaking noise above my bed and wondering if it was the ceiling about to collapse on me?
"When the generator went out, the safety lights went out, and the room was pitch dark. There was pure silence, except for the creaking above me.”
IN HIS OWN WORDS
Here is Anderson's full story in his own words:
I was Kathmandu on a hotel bed watching a movie when the bed began to shake—just a little—for about 10 seconds. There was an ever-so-slight rumbling sound, and it was over. A sense of curiosity, excitement and intrigue came over me. It was the first time I felt an earthquake, and it seemed like a novelty.
A few days later on April 25, a 7.8-magnitude earthquake emanated outward from 7 miles below the surface between Pokhara and Kathmandu. It was almost noon. I was researching a trip to Turkey on that same hotel bed when it started shaking again. I knew right away what it was, but this was different. This wasn't novelty. I felt no curiosity, no intrigue. This time the Earth shook violently. For the first time in a long time, I felt fear.
Adrenaline exploded into my bloodstream. I jumped off the bed instinctively, as if it was the only thing shaking. But the floor was shaking even more. It grew stronger. From the window came the sound of a rumbling—and crumbling—Kathmandu.
I thought the building would collapse. I didn't know what to do, but the adrenaline was helping my instinct.
I stood under the doorframe, halfway in and halfway out of the room. The facts ran through my mind in a millisecond: I was on the third floor of the hotel. Ten meters to my right was the stairwell. Stairwells are strong and sometimes stand when buildings fall. They can also lead out of buildings before they fall. To my left was a mattress to hide under. Moving was nearly impossible because the shaking was so strong.
“Just observe and wait for the moment” seemed to be what my subconscious mind told my conscious mind.
Plants bounced across the floor. Paintings of beautiful Nepal landscapes swung on the walls. Water bottles and camera accessories fell from the desk. The deep rumbling sound went on in destructive harmony with the feeling the Earth sent through everything on it, including my fragile human body.
Finally after about a minute it stopped. I let go of the door frame, put on my flip-flops and ran down the stairs. In the lobby was a huddle of guests and staff.
The woman from the front desk asked, “Did you see it?”
“I didn't see it; I felt it!” I exclaimed.
I asked whether it was safer inside or outside, assuming the Nepalese staff were used to this kind of thing. “Inside,” replied one man. But I wasn't sure. I looked over at the wall I used to eat breakfast near, and it was on the ground.
Still in the fight-flight-or-hide mode, I ran back upstairs and grabbed my camera and went out into the narrow street. But the narrow streets and old brick buildings don't bode well with people during—or after—an earthquake. I made it 20 meters to the end of the alley. To the left was a fallen brick wall; to the right was an empty road. I took the left.
I made it 50 meters, walking on the rubble and brick. An aftershock hit. Just to the right was what resembled a parking lot with a group of people gathered in the middle, a safe distance from any building. I ducked in with them.
In a strange coincidence, there sat a Korean man and woman I'd met in the Mt. Everest region about 10 days prior. I joined them, and we exchanged accounts of the event. They had been in the street when it happened. “Bricks were falling down from the building. We ran.”
We were all still a bit scared. To lighten the mood, we told each other about the remainder of our treks in the Himalayas. But that couldn't overcome the aftershocks and ever-changing situation with the people and information coming into the lot.
A Nepalese woman came in quite distressed, so I put my hand on her shoulder and asked if she was OK. She pointed toward my hotel.
“My house is over there. The wall cracked. I was so scared,” she said.
Every time the Earth shook, the crowd let out screams and moans. Mothers held their children. The Korean couple held each other. Ravens flew above, crowing loudly. Helicopters flew over, always heading the same direction, and I could only imagine what was going on elsewhere.
“Stay here. We are safe here,” a man kept saying.
An hour had passed when a small Nepalese man ran into the lot with a Chinese woman. “Does anyone speak Chinese? We need someone that speaks Chinese and English!”
Everyone gathered around to hear what was going on. Three Chinese people came to assess the situation. I couldn't understand, but it was clear something bad had happened to the woman. She was crying, her lungs grasping for the air to explain why. Blood stained her dress; she limped to a table to sit.
After piecing together a few conversations, it seemed that her brother had been injured badly, and she couldn't find her sister. The man who had brought her pulled me to the side and told me that he saw her brother with a severely broken leg, his body bruised and covered in blood. He said he checked to see if he was alive, but he was not. So he took the girl away and told her he would be taken to the hospital.
I asked him more questions about what he saw out there.
“Durbar Square is gone. The temples fall. Our heritage is gone,” he told me.
The dead brother, the image of historic temples reduced to piles of bricks, the screams and looks on people's faces, it all made life—and death— seem so real.
Within a half-hour, the news had made its way around the world. Though telecom services were largely down, a Chinese man in the lot had gotten word from his wife that the earthquake registered 7.7 on the Richter scale. Another Chinese woman was walking around with “7.7” on her phone calculator screen, showing people who didn't understand any of the spoken languages.
I decided to go get my shoes on and see what happened in the 2 kilometers between Thamel, the district we were in, and Durbar Square.
Once I made my way from the narrow streets to the main road, I realized the scale of the situation. Thousands of people were in a major street that's usually a mess of traffic. As far as I could see were people standing, sitting and walking. Piles of rubble and bricks that were once walls had cascaded into the road, exposing living rooms and bedrooms. One room was painted sky blue with an image of the Hindu god Krishna hanging from the wall.
The farther I went, the more devastation I saw. One intersection opened into a large park that looked like a refugee camp. Helicopters were landing and taking off from there. On one corner was a building that had come down on top of a row of shoe shops. A line of men passed bricks by hand to uncover any victims. On the other corner were the victims they'd found. Four bodies covered in carpets and plastic.
For a moment I watched in awe, then I moved on.
Police, medical and military vehicles raced down the street, swerving with abandon to get where they were needed. The crowd in the street would part to let the speeding vehicles through. Outside one hospital was a makeshift trauma center. Lying in the street were countless victims covered in blood, IV drips running to their arms. I'd never seen anything so solemn.
I found myself in a narrow, bottlenecked walkway where three streets converged near Durbar Square. A police officer was hitting people in the face with sticks at the densely packed intersection, trying to control them like a herd of cattle. At just the wromg moment, an aftershock sent people into a panic. Again, I felt the fear. I thought we would all fall, and I'd suffocate under a pile of terrified people.
There was no way to get to Durbar Square. Police were only letting people leave the area, which was causing the bottleneck. So I decided to make my way back toward Thamel, back through the chaos I'd come through.
Four hours had passed since the quake, and I was physically and psychologically exhausted. There had been no cellular signal supporting data up until then, so I wasn't able to let people know I was safe.
As soon as my phone had an Edge signal, it started vibrating and didn't stop for a minute. Dozens of messages had poured in concerned about my condition. When I tried to make a post, the signal faded. I had the idea to make some offline posts in hopes that they would go through if and when the signal came back, even if only briefly. And it worked. One Facebook post and a couple What'sApp messages went through.
After getting to my hotel and dropping my gear, I was hungry. I hadn't eaten all day. The streets of Thamel, usually packed with tourists moseying in and out of shops, café's and trekking companies, were dead. No food. Each street was now just a line of closed and padlocked overhead doors.
That night, after bringing some travel friends to my hotel, we sat and talked. We'd all been scared. We all saw the devastation. We'd all remember it in the same way we remember major events such as 9/11 or the Kennedy assassination.
At 9:39 p.m., Facebook sent a notification: “Are you OK? It looks like you're in the area affected by Nepal earthquake. Let friends know you are safe.” I had done that five hours earlier, but I thought I should again through this apparently new disaster safety notification system. It wasn't working smoothly, but eventually it sent my “I'm OK” message. After that the electricity and phone signal cut out.
Getting to sleep that night was not easy. “Should we be outside in the parking lot?” I wondered. But it was cold, and the city was dark. There was a chance of rain. Was that better than hearing the creaking noise above my bed and wondering if it was the ceiling about to collapse on me?
When the generator went out, the safety lights went out, and the room was pitch dark. There was pure silence, except for the creaking above me.
Every time there was an aftershock, the screams of people followed, echoing through the streets into my window. All I could do was be thankful I was safe so far and wonder if I would continue to be.
Day 2:
At 5 a.m. I woke to an aftershock.