A Gisborne resident, whose house was flooded by Cyclone Gabrielle in February, says she’s rebuilding, despite having no guarantee from the local Council that she and her family will be able to return to the property.
Lizzy Burns, whose friends call her “Lizzy from Gizzy”, lives on Fergusson Drive.
Or she did live on Fergusson Drive, until Cyclone Gabrielle flooded the river that runs along the back of their property, and forced many people on the street to evacuate.
Since then, a row of homes have sat empty and yellow stickered.
Yellow means “moderate” damage. But it can also mean uncertainty about what happens next.
Lizzy Burns and her husband, Russell, have decided not to wait for a formal resolution. They’ve removed their waterlogged furniture, cleared out the flood damage and now they’re painting and decorating with a view to moving back in.
“I love it here”, Lizzy tells me, as sunshine quietly asks the morning clouds for permission to break through.
Fergusson Drive is one of those streets, a bit like the bar in the TV series, Cheers, where everybody knows your name.
When the flooding came, so too did the kindness.
The local Muslim community arrived with delicious, hot meals. Working bees were organised, after the floodwaters were gone, to return the street to its state of gentle pride.
Everyone wanted to come home.
But yellow stickers make that complex. The issue is – will the Taruheru River flood again?
Lizzy from Gizzy, who’s also known as “the Mayor of Fergusson Drive”, says their street won’t flood again if the slash that dams up a major bridge between them and the sea is removed more quickly.
It’s not, she thinks, an issue with the river itself, or even with the staggering volume of water Cyclone Gabrielle dumped on Gisborne, but rather with the way river blockages meant water in the Taruheru couldn’t move quickly enough to the sea. Rivers that can’t flow, spread and widen. Fergusson Drive found itself being swallowed.
The whole of Fergusson Drive is now zoned 2A, which isn’t anywhere near the most serious classification, but essentially consigns exhausted residents to the purgatory of further assessment.
The water is gone now. The empty homes look almost picture-postcard pretty. A vision of post mid-century urban planning, in which every (slightly Californian influenced) bungalow has a driveway and a front lawn and a sense of easy permanence.
Lizzy and Russell, and their four children, are living in a friend’s basement.
They’re desperate to return to their beloved street.
“February ‘til June and you still don’t know what’s happening?”, I ask Lizzy. “No”, she answers. “We’re in the process of rebuilding. We’re not waiting. Um, but we don’t know from a Council point of view.”
“So, you’re in the process of rebuilding”, I ask her, “but there is a possibility that somebody may say to you, that you can’t stay?”
“Yeah”, Lizzy replies, “There is.”
In the Sunday story we filmed in Gisborne over the past week, the region’s Mayor, Rehette Stoltz, told us people have been emptied by the continued effort of appearing resilient. “People are over it”, she said.
I ask Lizzy Burns how she’s feeling, she says: “Um, good. Hopeful.”
“Where does the hope come from Lizzy from Gizzy? At a time like this? Because I’d be exhausted, I think.”
Lizzy answers: “Well, I feel if I’m not hopeful for my kids. You’ve just got to put on a brave face and keep going.”
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