“Uzbekistan? But that’s not very close, is it?”
I hear myself asking the question, while I try to pinpoint the country on the world map that I envision in my head. So there is Armenia, then we have the Caspian Sea followed by Kazakhstan with a bunch of countries to the south and east. I think it’s one of those countries south of Kazachstan, but I’m not completely sure.
The Slovakian driver of the tow-truck, that just picked up my car, chuckles: “It’s a nice drive. With a couple of ferries.” His tone of voice makes me reconsider the location I guessed. I redraw the map in my head, while the driver navigates us down the small mountain road taking my car to a place where they can fix my tire.
He asks what my planning looks like. It’s 18:45 and everything is closed. “Where do you need to be?”
Our destination is a hotel in Ostrava, in Czech Republic. I had planned to be there before 22:00, but said goodbye to that schedule the moment I ran a flat tire.
“Ostrava? Oh that’s 45 minutes. An hour max. 22:00 is not a problem. I might not have a new tire for you, but something second hand will get you to Ostrava tonight.”
That surprises me. And I don’t believe it, to be honest.
I mean, some ten years ago I ran a flat tire in a big city in Germany and it took that original Volvo-dealer a full day to find a new tire. This time I have a flat in a rural area in Slovakia, with just a few tiny villages around us. No way that he can fix my tire tonight. But I don’t say it, I just smile, and ask my daughter in the back to look for a place to stay.
“Uzbekistan is not even 6000 kms and the people are very nice. We really like it. Takes a few days to get there though.” His smile acknowledges that It indeed is not exactly around the corner.
I put my phone away. That distance brings it south of Kazachstan. “How do you get there by car? Through Ukraine?”
“Yeah, Ukraine is an option. Belarus is probably better. But I prefer Turkey and Iran. Better roads, less mountains.”
As if I immediately think of “mountains” when someone mentions driving through Ukraine or Iran.
We stop at an industrial yard next to the road. As I get out of the truck I’m greeted by an old German shepherd. The place is huge. I count at least 6 emergency vehicles, including two for trucks. There’s also a small workshop. And there are stacks of old tires everywhere.
Within 10 minutes there is a decent replacement tire next to my car. It’s second hand, but will do. When he changes the tire he notices some small damage to the inside of the rim. He asks for my phone and looks up a specialist in Ostrava: “Go here tomorrow-morning and ask them to fix this. Don’t drive over 100Km/h before the rim is fixed. Got it?”
I smile as I know that I won’t even make the 80Km/h on the narrow and bendy mountain road I have to take. And he knows it too.
It’s 20:20 as I drive off.