In a remote mountain village, people still live the hard life of shepherds according to centuries old local tradition. I stumbled on Lukomir while researching a trip to Bosnia. Seeing pictures of stone homes, outhouses and wizened people in regional costume, I just had to go.
Tourism is underdeveloped in Bosnia-Herzegovina, so my only option at the time was a private guide. We spent three days tooling around the mountains, ending in Lukomir. Seemingly hours from anywhere, and surrounded by canyons, 'isolated' seemed an understatement.
Several women greeted us, dressed in thick sweaters, coarsely woven pants tucked into decorative wool socks, and scarves carefully concealing their hair. Our guide arranged for lunch, started by Turkish coffee, a Bosnian classic, which we enjoyed outside seated on wooden stumps. Meanwhile our host rolled himself a cigarette, his own outfit complete with a black beret and tattered blazer.
Ushered into their home for lunch, we were served bread, potatoes roasted in a thin vegetable ghee, and a homemade Bosnian yogurt drink—tart, chunky and thick with fat. Their living room had the feel of a museum diorama: hanging fur pelts, butter churner in the corner, wood ladder leading to a loft filled with supplies. While we ate the hostess told us how many of them now head down the mountain over winter. Few are willing to tough it out anymore.
On our way out I paused, weighed down by my thoughts (and the greasy yogurt drink). Growing up in Nebraska I couldn’t wait to escape. And when I did I traveled the globe, stopping at many remote villages along the way.
It finally dawned on me why I am drawn to these places. As someone compelled to abandon tradition in search of a better life, I like to see global remnants of a time gone by.
Life on the outside can be exhilarating, but also isolating. Somehow it’s comforting to see a bit of what I left behind, with the knowledge that someday we all must give up one life in exchange for another.
