Bishkek
13 October, 2007
By Dan Murdoch
“Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.”
Dr Seuss
MEGAN is no longer with us. I know I may have confused a few people by including a picture of her in my last blog, but I have checked and she has definitely left.
She announced she would be departing some time ago, so it was no surprise, just a disappointment.
We are horribly into the red, and she didn’t even have the original budget, so we always knew she wasn’t going to make it to Cambodia. She had hoped to leave from China, then Mongolia, then maybe Russia or Kazakhstan. But, as our delays increased, her point of departure shifted gradually further West until it settled gently, but uncomfortably, like an unwanted aunt on a sitting room sofa.
Once she had booked her flight the date slowly drifted upon us in the malaise of Bishkek. She flew out early on the morning of October 9th, exactly three months after I first met her.
Carlos, Zsofi and I stayed up late to show her to a taxi. It was a sad farewell, deep into a cold Bishkek night, with a few damp eyes. We tried to film the occasion, but the tape ran out at the point of departure. We waved goodbye to the cab, Zsofi continuing a forlorn flapping until the car was well out of view.
The three of us walked back arm in arm, and I felt a keen sense of loss. We hadn’t really spoken much about her going, so despite the forewarning, it still seemed a shock to see her empty bed.
She had been with me since my first day of Trabant Trek, July 9th, when she and Carlos greeted me at Budapest airport. I don’t know what I had expected, but she wasn’t it. Maybe I had imagined more of a straight-laced, all-American do-gooder, which she certainly isn’t (I mean that in a good way).
Opinionated, forthright, hands on, emotional, tough. No shrinking violet, she could throw a tantrum at a border guard in the blink of an eye, and return to normal in a few breaths.
We spent much of the Trek sharing Fez, particularly since Marlena left six weeks ago. Trapped in a five-foot by six-foot plastic lunch box for three months you get to know someone. Not that I could tell you too much about her history, her family, her past- her parents are teachers with the military, she has lived on military bases in Turkey, Korea and Europe. She has a brother and a sister, both older. She was freeloading at her sister’s and did a mundane office job before hitting the Trek.
But once you’re Trekking these details seem pretty irrelevant. More importantly, I could tell you that she was always keen to fix a flat, get dirty filling up the car and insisted on carrying her own stuff. She hides food in restaurants to take out to stray dogs. The sight of a camel, yak or bison makes her laugh out loud. She sings to animals. She doesn’t like sleeping in tents, can drive long into the night, rises before most and lets you know if you need to wash. She isn’t squeamish and knows how to dress a wound. She is confrontational.
She has a song and dance for every occasion and annotates her stories with strange acts of physical theatre.
While driving Fez on some endless, sandy, road I remember hearing her cackle and looking up to see she had taken a picture of my reflection in the rear view mirror. The photograph showed me sitting in the back, topless, in just my pants, wearing sand-smudged glasses and a hat, unconsciously pulling a face as I poured over the words on my laptop.
She said it was her abiding image of me because she had seen it so often.
I hope she still has it.
My image of her isn’t a still one, and couldn’t be captured by a camera.
She is moving, dancing; performing a jig to conclude a short story or illustrate an episode. Thrusting her hips to a rhythm only she hears, pulling a pout and shifting her head to an imagined beat. Her feet twist, crabbing her sideways, knees bouncing off each other comically before she finishes with a flourish, hand on hip, arms and legs cocked, pulling a ridiculous mockery of a model’s stare.
It makes me laugh every time.
Megan Calvert dances her own dance, and made my Trek all the brighter while she did.
Miss you Megs.
Ends
Mrdanmurdoch@gmail.com
For more of Dan’s blogs visit: danmurdoch.blogspot.com or www.trabanttrek.org
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