An earthquake from the 39th floor

Strict building codes and superior design are the last things on your mind when you’re staring into the abyss

BANGKOK—As if an ongoing civil war, a crippled economy, and a brutal and permanent military dictatorship weren’t traumatic enough for the Burmese people, the 7.7 magnitude earthquake that rocked Myanmar on March 28 seems an unbelievably cruel and devastating blow to a nation already enduring so much suffering. This was especially the case in Mandalay, the epicentre of the country’s largest quake in more than a century. More than 1,700 people were dead as of this writing, but the US Geological Survey says the toll could top 10,000, making it the worst natural disaster there since Cyclone Nargis in 2008. There are fears that the distribution of aid will be just as challenging as for that disaster, thanks to the heavy hand of the junta.

Although nowhere near as destructive as in Myanmar, the quake in Thailand’s largest city caused at least one major building project to collapse with dozens of workers inside. (Construction of the thirty-storey government building, the State Audit Office, was done by a Chinese company and is now under investigation for possible code violations.) Throughout Bangkok there was utter chaos as buildings were evacuated, rapid transit service halted, traffic paralyzed in gridlock, and emergency services pushed to the limit.

My husband and I, three days from returning home to Canada, got caught up in the event as well. The ordeal we suffered was minor, our experience typical of what most urban residents go through during an earthquake. But it was terrifying all the same, and we felt tremendous relief when we emerged from it unscathed. Here’s our story…

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For sixty terrifying seconds, we sat on the couch and held onto each other for dear life as our tall, skinny residential tower swayed back and forth, teetering unpredictably from the left to the right. Our flat was on the thirty-ninth floor of a fifty-story building, a narrower section above the swimming pool floor, so most of the structure was beneath us. With no sign of when or how this unnerving movement would end (or if it would be followed by another quake or aftershocks), we both felt a growing sense of panic as we considered the unthinkable. If the building swayed just a bit too much to our left, where the only functioning swimming pool seven floors below us carried more weight to that side with its water, while the infinity pool on the opposite side was empty while under repair—then the building’s structural integrity might fail, the floors collapse, and the long and horrible drop to our violent deaths begin.

Going from zero to ultimate paranoia took only a few seconds. At about 1:20 that afternoon, I was the first to notice the swivel and sway of the building while sitting at my work table. Turning to my husband, I said, “Oh no, it’s an earthquake!” Instantly petrified, he beckoned me to his side, urging me to join him on the couch a few feet away, which I did. Within moments it was clear that he was afraid these might be our last moments together, for he began saying things I imagined couples say to each other when the plane they’re in has just begun a death spiral toward the ocean. I was disturbed by this behaviour. My hubby is not someone who ever panics about anything; this is a person who years ago fled Burma to Thailand on a route littered with landmines. So his reaction hit me hard.

To calm each other down, we started demanding the swaying to stop, as if invoking some sort of mantra. As we waited, there wasn’t a sound but the flapping of closet doors banging open and shut, along with a haunting creaking noise coming from somewhere inside the building. The moment the swaying finally stopped, we both stood up and gave ourselves just enough time to grab our passports, wallets, and my Canadian phone, before throwing on flip-flops and leaving the apartment. Stupidly, I called the elevator before realizing it would have been compromised by the quake and no longer operational. Later we learned that someone else had taken that same lift during the quake and was stuck inside it for several hours before being rescued. I had been three minutes away from going downstairs to get us some lunch when the quake hit. Had I been ready to go just a bit earlier, it would have been me stuck in that lift.

As we were discussing how to get down, we were suddenly interrupted by a loud and repetitive alarm, followed by a louder announcement urging everyone to leave the building immediately. At this point we thought we had only experienced the first tremor, and that a second possibly worse quake or aftershocks were on their way. So we turned to the fire exit and began bounding down the thirty-nine flights of stairs. My hubby, eleven years younger and more swift-footed, ran ahead of me while continually hollering, “Honey, quick!” If you are north of sixty and have never tried running down that many stairs wearing flip-flops while trying to avoid debris and slippery surfaces, I don’t recommend it.

Later I would be reminded that experts regard swaying during an earthquake as a good sign of a building’s structural integrity: the movement helps it absorb energy so it won’t collapse. That’s probably true, but such information would not have reassured us as we passed multiple shards of concrete on the stairs and tried not to slip on water from burst pipes, all while noticing several large cracks in the wall—especially in the lower floors. As we continued our race to the ground, we still feared another impending quake. It took us nearly fifteen minutes to get to the bottom because some sections of the staircase ended in darkness, forcing us to change direction and take different fire exits. But we did get outside safely, joining throngs of other folks from several neighbouring buildings who had no idea what to do.

For the next six hours, we wandered around the neighbourhood, briefly taking refuge in a cemetery when it was still believed that another quake was coming. We were accompanied by a British woman I’d met who was waiting for her husband to return by car from a visa run to Cambodia; thanks to the traffic gridlock, he had to cross half the city on a motorbike to reach us. The next concern was finding out if the building was safe to re-enter. By seven-thirty or so, we were given access to a service elevator which got us as far as the thirty-second floor. We had to walk the final seven flights to enter our apartment and gather a few essentials for a hotel stay around the corner. On Saturday, we made the same trip to gather the rest of our belongings, our thighs and calf muscles flaring as we hauled our filled suitcases down those same seven flights of stairs. On Sunday, we turned in the keys. On Monday, we’d be on our way home.

One aspect of this experience that struck my hubby and I—and our British friends—was how calm the Thais were about everything. Within an hour of the quake, anyone who didn’t have quake-related issues to attend to simply got back to the business of daily living. My favourite image, as we sat in an alley waiting for an update on our building, was of a motorbike-riding pizza delivery worker who rolled up to park his bike and then pulled out a cigarette to enjoy a short break before his next delivery. There were also some great stories about people soldiering on through the quake itself. In one case celebrated on Thai TV news, hospital surgeons forced to pause an operation during the quake simply rolled their unconscious patient’s stretcher outside so they could continue their sensitive procedure from the safety of the sidewalk.

It’s stories like this that remind me why I keep coming back to this country. But it’s safe to say that we’ve been cured of our fixation with skyscraper living.