A stomach or a heart, perhaps, slowly succumbing to disease.īefore the earthquakes, it was called Goodman Street. It’s taken the better part of a decade to answer one simple question: What should be done with this land? In the search for an answer, the red zone has found its own path, in what has been an unusual experiment in how life moves on after humans have left. Roads don't go into the red zone anymore, so you have to seek it out on foot or by bicycle, or catch a glimpse of it from above as you fly in or out of the city, a sprawling green bruise, shocking in its scale. An area that large, so full of emotional and physical weight, should be unavoidable and confronting, but it's easy to forget it's there. The red zone is nearly twice the size of Manhattan’s Central Park, and four times larger than Hagley Park, which used to be Christchurch's largest public space. It has left a profound emptiness within the country's second largest city. ![]() All that remains are the criss-crossing roads, now overgrown and cracked, and the rickety powerline poles starting to sag with the land underneath. ![]() ![]() ![]() It is merging with parts of the former suburb directly adjacent.Įvery house has been torn down, every driveway grassed over, every swimming pool filled.
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