Christchurch, the ‘Shaky City’, is a giant building site. Almost six years on from the earthquake, the city is slowly rebuilding and adapting to its new life. Pavements are closed, streets are lined with orange traffic cones, and where buildings once stood there now sit car parks or open squares of rubble. I knew there had been a big earthquake, but I hadn’t really realised how much of an impact it had had – the city has almost disappeared. It’s a powerful reminder that cities aren’t as eternal and stable as they might seem.

There are hints of what it once looked like: the River Avon winds along between Oxford and Cambridge Terrace, with punts being driven by men in straw boaters and striped blazers. Between the willow trees and ducks stand small palm trees. A few neo-gothic buildings remain, and one street of old French-style shop fronts survives.

But otherwise the city has gone. At the centre stands the cathedral, the spire completely collapsed, leaving a gaping open front. The scaffolding which was put up to support the tower (but which only caused it to collapse completely) now stands redundant, barely touching the ruins. A congregation of pigeons lives among the wisps of plastic and broken wooden beams. Just outside the barrier is a small chapel-shaped viewing platform made of plants and flowers, with an orange traffic cone for a spire. While legal battles force this old cathedral to stand frozen in its collapse, a new one has been built out of cardboard and shipping containers.

It was shipping containers that came to the rescue in 2011. Shops, banks, service centres were temporarily housed in them. And they still are. The central mall is a maze of shipping containers – most buildings are yet to be rebuilt. And people have really taken to them. Amongst the gardens and murals that have sprung up in the countless parking lots are shipping container cafes. Everything can be moved around as pleases. It all gives the city a kind of colourful, jigsaw feeling – of making do, and in great style.

Life goes on. The international busking festival was taking place so the streets were full of fire eaters and unicycle riders and hand standers, and always with massive crowds. I found a lovely farmers market on the bank of the river, where at lunchtime the construction workers (there are a LOT of them) sat among the ducks. And shipping containers are perfect for street food, so there’s heaps of lovely food.

I decided to incarcerate myself in jail – a historic one though (nothing to do with the sniffer dog at the airport that wouldn’t stop clawing my leg). It only stopped being a prison in 1999, and one cell still has drawings on the wall from one of the last inmates. They’re slightly sinister but drawn like sad graffitti, messages to future strangers. ‘ONLY GOD CAN JUDGE ME’ and ‘NOVEMBER 99 – THE LAST DAYS OF AN ERA’. The small cells and large open central space actually work really well as a hostel. It also seemed to give everyone an aversion to locking doors – ironically (or deliberately?) it felt one of the least secure hostels I’ve stayed in!

P.S. Sorry there aren’t more photos. I’m trying to do this while camping and it’s hard to find computers!