Lukavac // Wild Ham

© John Bills

It is amazing what can spark interest. I was sat on the bus from Tuzla headed to Gračanica, as the tired wagon sidled into a town called Lukavac. Was I aware of Lukavac’s existence? Of course, don’t doubt me. By population, Lukavac is the 22nd biggest town in Bosnia and Herzegovina. I knew of it, but I had never really considered stopping to check it out, which should tell you plenty about the reputation of the place.

But all that changed with wandering eyes and hastily scribbled graffiti. The bus passed a faceless row of apartment buildings, each daubed with the usual scrawlings, but one jumped out to my eagle eyes. It said ‘Wild Ham’.

Wild Ham.

If wild ham wasn’t going to pique my interest, nothing was.

A day later, I returned to Lukavac in search of this wild ham, eager to explore a town of which I knew very little. That isn’t entirely my fault, although it is always dangerous to try and absolve oneself of blame completely. I could go the extra mile, of course. But the research world isn’t blessed with much in the way of comprehensive Lukavac information. It is a town in the valley of the Spreča river, where people have lived since forever ago. Things have been built. People have been born, people have died. The post-World War II period saw industry grow, with cement factories, chemical plants and the rest. As far as concrete information goes, that was about it.

I was here for the ham. The wild ham.

© John Bills

You can’t spaff everything up the wall immediately (premature for who?), so I gave myself some time to wander aimlessly around Lukavac. What did I find? Fog, although it was the morning and this is an industrial town, so that could have been that blinding mix of smoke and sun. It made for quite the image, although I was wary of dipping all of my toes into the dystopian aesthetic cliches. Dystopian literature is dead, and the use of the term in modern parlance has rendered it meaningless. Yes, like Kafkaesque. I’m not going to do the work for you.

What was I talking about? Wild ham? The fuck does that have to do with anything? Are you really trying to drag out that utterly banal phrase across an entire article? Is that what this series has been reduced to?

I could make this about graffiti, but I have no desire to. Instead, I did laps of Lukavac. Do you know what I found in Lukavac? Cafes, that’s what. This industrial town had plenty of cafes and all of them were open, busy and bustling. I bided my time and went to the last one on the street, drank an espresso, checked my email, and feigned shock that everything hadn’t reverted to being beautiful. That mint tea won’t reverse years of neglect.

It will take a lifetime of sustainable policies to reverse the environmental degradation in Lukavac, and even then, it won’t be enough. The air was thick, not with anticipation, but with smog. Sometimes, everything can’t be alright.

© John Bills

I walked back towards the station, although in my defence, I walked on the other side of the road. I’m an intrepid explorer, you know. Another cafe, another espresso. Lukavac simmered outside. What was I doing? Reader, you don’t need to answer that somewhat rhetorical question, as it is clearly designated at the top of this piece. I was in Lukavac to take a picture of a piece of graffiti that said ‘Wild Ham’.

With that clear goal in mind, I sauntered back to the bus station and purchased a ticket to Tuzla. That was a bizarrely complicated process, hindered by my inability to give a shit about what bus company I used. Still, a ticket was purchased, and I moved in the direction of the graffiti. A pigeon lay in the centre of the road, although don’t mistake this for sleep. If you don’t like the sight of splattered pigeons, don’t come to Bosnia and Herzegovina.

‘Wild Firm’. The fucking graffiti didn’t say ‘Wild Ham’. It said ‘Wild Firm’.

Wild Firm.

Wild fucking Firm.

© John Bills

There is a lesson here, and yes, I will try to explain it. Don’t visit a town based on seeing graffiti from a bus, for a start. Life is disappointing. Don’t mistake that for pessimism, life is beautiful, inspiring, stunning, but it is also disappointing. Adam Hiles once gave me a wonderful piece of advice, advice that I have never forgotten. I won’t reprint the entire thing here, but the general gist was ‘the grass is always greener but told through the medium of a packed lunch’. Expectations are magnificent but can only lead to disappointment. Love is the most beautiful thing in the world until your emotions become uncontrollable. The excitement at photographing a piece of graffiti in Lukavac that says Wild Ham will only ever lead to photographing a piece of graffiti in Lukavac that says Wild fucking Firm.

I laughed. Not at the graffiti, ‘Wild Firm’ is nowhere near as funny as ‘Wild Ham’, but I laughed nonetheless. What else could I do? I had wasted my morning, drank three espressos in a short amount of time, and had learnt nothing about Lukavac outside of ‘it is industrial’ and ‘it has cafes’. It isn’t funny, haha, but it is funny. I still think that love might be enough. If we give up on that pursuit, we might as well give up.

The bus to Tuzla sidled into the station, but not before crushing the pigeon/cadaver a little more. I could make some sort of snide comment about the pigeon being a sort of metaphor for me, but that would be dramatic, insensitive and incorrect. A bit too Dystopian, if you ask me. Kafkaesque.

Wild fucking Firm.