Kupres // Let’s Search the Sky for a While
A gorgeous morning sky in Kupres © John Bills
The bus from Zadar to Kupres took a certain number of hours, most of which were passed in conversation with a stranger, a conversation that jumped from my travels in Bosnia and Herzegovina to the future of the country to the possibility of a job in Vienna for an imaginary wife. The stranger was enthusiastic and engaging, although I would be lying if I said I remembered anything beyond the words we exchanged and the section of the bus in which we were sitting. I mean no disrespect. I am merely getting old. The journey happened, with my portion coming to an end when the bus sidled into the car park of a supermarket. The driver shouted “Kupres,” I got off, and it was time to explore the highest town in Bosnia and Herzegovina.
That’s quite the claim, right? Everyone needs to be the best at something. Everyone needs a thing. For Kupres, being the highest town in Bosnia and Herzegovina is just that. It sits around 1,200 metres above sea level, just shy of 4,000 feet for the imperial readers. It isn’t the highest settlement; that honour goes to Lukomir, the postcard-pretty village located some 1,495 metres high on Bjelašnica, so high that folks tend to leave in the winter. Does that undermine the crown shining bright on the head of Kupres? You can make your own mind up on that.
I was too ill to care. The temperature was sitting in the late 30s by Anders Celsius measurements, and I don’t care how high your damn town is, the late 30s are the late 30s. At some point on the journey, I had picked up a bug, and the bug was having a gay old time. Kupres is high enough to be a big deal, but it isn’t high enough to escape summer, and I was sneezing and sniffling my way through it. A traveller carries their own weather, and sometimes it is heavy enough to render first impressions pointless. I was in a high town, I was feeling low. It was hot. What more do you want from me? You expect “the highest town in the country” to be a little chilly, but it feels like the lofty position of Kupres just meant it was closer to the sun.
Highest town in BiH sign in Kupres © John Bills
But then there has always been something weird about geographical superlatives, at least when they are held up as something to be proud of. They are achievements that nobody wins. It wasn’t as if the people of Kupres made a concerted decision to try and become the highest town in Bosnia and Herzegovina. You can’t practice yourself into altitude. Kupres, a certified G, a bona fide stud, and you can’t teach that. He’s 4,000 feet tall, and you can't teach that. Ba da boom, realest guys in the room, how you doin’?
If nothing else, this will be the only article in the history of the world that will reference Enzo Amore and Big Cass when talking about Kupres. Put that in your “traditional yet modern” pipe and smoke it.
Despite my runny nose and stilted energy, I was willing to give Kupres the benefit of the doubt. I didn’t expect that the altitude was going to shine a different light on the place, but I hadn’t lost sight of the fact that there was a town underneath it all, and if there’s something I love, it’s small towns in Bosnia and Herzegovina. I made my way to the creatively-named Hotel Kupres, checked in, left the Horse, and ventured out into the wilds of the town.
I don’t remember if Horse was a part of the team at this point, but I can’t imagine travelling without the thing now. Horse was there in spirit, let’s just say that.
Kupres was busy on that sweltering day in the middle of July, an air of expectation filling the already thick air. The streets were busy, far busier than one might expect from a small town in the Bosnian hills, but I’m not about to make assumptions about such things. I can only tell you what I saw, and that was people filling the streets of Kupres, a constant rumble of conversation punctuated only by excited children and enthusiastic laughter. The reason? Hogs. Sweet, sweet hogs.
Bikes at the Bosnian Rally in Kupres © John Bills
The Bosnia Rally isn’t your bog standard motorcycle event, although I’m not about to claim any understanding as to what a standard motorcycle event might be. The rally is a roadbook navigation and off-road training event, whatever that is, one built around finding your way through Bosnia’s mountains. There is no timing, no classification, nothing. It starts in Kupres, ends in Kupres, covers five stages and around 1,400 km between the flags. Around 300 riders took part, folks and blokes from around the world. The mass of bodies on the streets of Kupres suggested it was a big deal. A very big deal, indeed.
And while I apologise for lurching into predictability, I wasn’t really in the mood. My head felt like a cabbage, presuming cabbages don’t feel all that chipper. I had given up on the hope of my sinuses clearing and doing a fine impression of the clear sky, but the reality was a fuzzy brain, a snotty nose, and a mass of motorbikes making their way through the highest town in Bosnia and Herzegovina. I walked around in a daze, one accentuated by sweat and snot. A traveller carries their own weather around with them.
The church in Kupres © John Bills
A man must make an effort, so I started doing laps of Kupres, as much in hope of finding space from motorbikes as anything else. I was sitting in Trg Hrvatskih Vitezova, the Square of Croatian Knights, which should answer any questions you have about the modern history of Kupres on the recent war front. The square was more a civic heart than a piazza, a public space for commemorations and gatherings, a logical centre for the town. A short walk from the square was the Church of the Holy Family, a name I couldn’t place as convivial or crass. It was far too big for a town of this size, but I had long stopped being fascinated by excessively large religious buildings in the hills of Bosnia and Herzegovina. The history follows the same streets as ever, built in the 20th century, destroyed in the most recent war, rebuilt in the years since. A wooden crucifix stood in front of the church, a stricken Jesus nailed to it, while sprinklers whistled away in the background. Have we normalised martyrdom to the point where the most famous and influential crucifixion in human history is played out on a sunny day with sprinklers in the background?
Well, yes. No need to dramatise that. That’s where we are. I walked to the Ahmed Fadil Pasha Mosque, a curious structure with a modernist design that shimmered in bone white, but my heart wasn’t in it. The concept of the highest town in Bosnia and Herzegovina should have given me plenty of ammo for a solid 1,500 words here, but my inability to power through when even the slightest odds were working against me. The heat was relentless, and I am not. Being interesting is exhausting. Being yourself is also exhausting. It is all exhausting.
Defeated, I went back to the hotel. I couldn’t sleep, but that’s nothing new. Where was I going with this one? It doesn’t matter. The best laid plans rarely come to fruition. The hot summer days when my mind wandered to Glavatičevo, Donji Vakuf, and Bradina might as well be from a different lifetime.
