I went to North Macedonia - what did I take with me, what did I get up to

Packing for two weeks

For longer journeys by air, there are two options. A small backpack – which is hand luggage that fits under the seat – and a larger one, which is cabin luggage. If you’re going away for a short time and have a rough idea of what you’ll be photographing, your basic kit and a pair of socks are likely to fit into a smaller bag. If you’re going away for longer, you’ll need to take more things with you. If you’re not sure what you’ll come across, you’ll need to take more things with you. But of course you don’t want to exceed the cabin baggage dimensions – not because of the usually higher charge for checked-in luggage, but simply because you don’t want your lenses and kit to be tossed about on the tarmac like a sack of potatoes. What’s more, certain items, such as batteries, simply cannot be packed in your checked-in luggage. So, if you travel even just from time to time, you’re sure to have your go-to backpacks for both occasions. In my case, these are the compact Vanguard VEO Select 43RB and the larger Vanguard VEO Active 49, which combines a rucksack design with a dedicated camera insert. I won’t go into detail about their durability and build quality here, but the larger one is certainly better made and more robust; the most important thing is that they meet the required dimensions. Importantly, the actual dimensions of the Model 49 – when not over-stuffed – do not exceed the permitted dimensions of most low-cost airlines. Furthermore, the hip belt is detachable, so you can temporarily make the whole set slimmer. I have never encountered any complaints or problems from any airline. So, I’m going for two weeks; I’ll be taking both photos and videos, so I’ll need a bigger one. This brings us to step two – what I might actually need and what to pack. As I mentioned in a previous article, my bag contained a pocket-sized PEN with two lenses (plus a spare battery and charger). My main camera was the Lumix S5D. It was time to choose my lenses. I was focusing mainly on city scenes rather than landscapes, so I left the 16-millimetre Viltrox at home. I packed two Lumix prime lenses – the 85mm f/1.8 and the 50mm f/1.8. Then there’s the manual Brightin Star 9/5.6. Ultra-wide angles can be useful for bringing out a surreal feel in scenes. And I suppose you’ve probably realised by now that I love Brightin Star lenses for a number of reasons. And then there was the problem of the gap between the 9mm and 50mm lenses, as the Sirui 35mm had been sent in for repair or exchange under warranty. So, I ended up putting the 18-40mm f/4.5-6.3 kit zoom lens in my bag. I don’t like kit lenses, I don’t like zoom lenses, and I don’t like lenses with slow apertures. But it came in handy anyway. Beggars can’t be choosers… I also brought two more lenses: a TTartisan 100mm f/2.8 “bubble bokeh” and an old Soviet Helios 58mm f/2. Both have screw mounts, so I had to bring an adapter as well. I actually only took the first one out once, and not for the Boheh Light, but simply because it was the longest focal length I had available. I used the second one a few times to shoot video and capture footage of flares dancing against the light. Could I have done without them? Probably yes.

Carrying less on long days

On top of that, there’s a whole host of bits and bobs. Batteries, filters, a blower bulb and brushes for cleaning the sensors, a microphone, a follow focus, a cage on the camera itself, handles… One filter was an absolute must-have: a VND + CPL. In my case, a Kase 1.5–8-stop. Sometimes I’d also add a 1/4 Black Mist filter to it. There was plenty to carry. That’s why I didn’t always head into town with a backpack weighing around 10kg. Sometimes I’d just take my pocket-sized PEN with me when popping to the bakery for some pastries, or I’d keep my Lumix in a SmallRig cage whilst carrying a second lens in a case attached to my trouser belt.

During that period in North Macedonia, temperatures were consistently above 30 degrees Celsius, and I was walking an average of 20 km a day. Sometimes it’s better not to go overboard with the amount of kit you carry.

Photography as conversation

On several occasions in North Macedonia, someone would wave at me, call me over, and finally ask me to take their picture; after that, we would sometimes talk about various topics. In Balkan cultures, a photo is often a gesture of friendship, a memento of the encounter, and an excuse to strike up a conversation. On the streets and in small towns, people often approach tourists, joke around, want to chat about where you’re from, and ask about your impressions of the country. This isn’t pushy - it’s just a way of communicating.

Below is a man from the town of Prilep. I was asked to take this photo, and we then spent a dozen or so minutes talking about the world and what’s happening in it.

The photo below shows Skopje. A man spotted me, stopped his car – blocking traffic during rush hour on one of the main roads – and waved at me, gesturing for me to take his photo. Once I’d taken the photo, the traffic started moving again.

Here’s another example, also from Skopje. The central area by the Vardar River, a very touristy part of the city. Once again, I was asked to take a photo. This time, there was no conversation, just a smile.

I usually held the Lumix in the cage by the handle secured with a clamp on the NATO rail on the left-hand side. The camera strap mounted to the quick connectors was detached, and I held the whole unit by the handle. For me, it felt perfectly balanced, with a secure grip and the ability to raise it to my eye instantly. A side effect was that it looked serious. Me too, looked like a serious photographer running after who knows what. And the number of people with cameras that looked more professional than smartphones whom I spotted during my entire stay there was minimal. Perhaps a few people. That made me look all the more serious. In some places, that sort of appearance arouses suspicion or even hostility. In Macedonia, I didn’t notice anything of the sort at all. Quite the opposite, in fact. The interest shown was rather friendly.

Four cities through the lens

Time for a few photos. A round-up of the four towns I visited: Skopje, Ohrid, Bitola and Prilep.

Skopje

Skopje is the greatest mix of everything. The town was almost completely levelled by the earthquake on 26 July 1963 at 5.17 am. Following the earthquake, Skopje became one of the most important urban planning laboratories of the 20th century - a city of modernism, planning from scratch, brutalism and international cooperation. The Skopje 2014 project was a later attempt at an ideological reconstruction of identity, which stands in sharp contrast to post-war modernism. The aqueduct and other older layers of the city now serve as a counterpoint to these two narratives. North Macedonia has a population of around 1.8 million, whilst Skopje has almost 600,000. One-third of the country’s population lives in the capital. It is a unique and fascinating city.

A photograph taken a week after the 35th anniversary of the state’s founding. The origins of modern North Macedonia lie in the referendum of 8 September 1991, when the population voted to leave the structures of the former Yugoslavia and establish an independent state.

The Macedonian Opera and Ballet is a modernist, brutalist building dating from 1979–1981, designed as part of Skopje’s reconstruction following the 1963 earthquake. The building stands out for its expressive, sculptural form in white concrete, which fits into Kenzo Tange’s futuristic vision for the city. It is one of the most important icons of Yugoslav modernism and stands in stark contrast to the later Skopje 2014 project situated in the surrounding area.

The Post Office and Telecommunications Centre in Skopje is one of the most distinctive examples of Yugoslav Brutalism, designed following the 1963 earthquake as part of the city’s modernist reconstruction. The building is distinguished by its dramatic, sculptural form, comprising massive concrete ‘panels’ that create an irregular, almost organic mass resembling a crystal, a shell or a suit of armour. Its architecture was a manifesto of technological modernity — it was intended to symbolise communication, connectivity and Skopje’s future as a regional hub. The interiors were designed to be functional, with a clear division into postal, telecommunications and administrative sections, reflecting Yugoslavia’s infrastructural ambitions at the time. The building stands on the banks of the Vardar, in a key location within the modernist city centre, alongside other post-war icons such as the GTC and the Opera and Ballet Theatre. Today, it is one of the most important symbols of Skopje’s post-war architectural identity and one of the most recognisable examples of Brutalism in the Balkans. I’d walked past this building several times, and each time it caught my eye and fascinated me. Each time, the reflections in the glass, the shadows and the colours cast by the light created new, magical patterns.

The GTC in Skopje is another of the key modernist buildings in the city’s reconstruction, designed in the 1970s as an open, semi-outdoor shopping centre with a strongly humanistic character. Its architecture is based on concrete vertical panels and a modular structure of passageways, creating a space that resembles an urban street more than a traditional shopping centre. The building was conceived as a ‘city within a city’, with numerous passageways, courtyards and open pedestrian routes designed to encourage social interaction and the daily lives of its residents. The distinctive tower with its blue stripes and the austere, brutalist façade became one of the most recognisable symbols of Skopje in the 1970s. The GTC is one of the few modernist buildings to have retained its original appearance despite pressure from subsequent redevelopment projects.

A monument to Paweł Szatiew, a Macedonian revolutionary, member of the ‘Gemidžii’ group and one of the Thessaloniki bombers. The building visible directly behind the monument is the former headquarters of Macedonian Telecommunications. Its distinctive, austere facade, with exposed concrete elements and a dense grid of windows, is a reflection of the turbulent history of this place. The building was constructed in the spirit of Yugoslav modernism as part of the city’s major reconstruction following the tragic earthquake. As part of the ‘Skopje 2014’ project, a complete overhaul of its appearance was planned. The building was to be clad with a new, imposing façade in the Baroque and Classical styles, so that it would complement the nearby triumphal arch. Following the change of government in North Macedonia and the halting of the controversial, extremely costly project, work on the redevelopment of this and several other buildings has been suspended. As a result, the building in the background has been in a state of partial dismantling and unfinished reconstruction for years, serving, in the eyes of many residents, as a monument to the architectural chaos of that era. The revolution consumed its own momentum.

The lower part of the “Warrior on a Horse” fountain, a monumental statue of Alexander the Great in Macedonia Square. The total cost of constructing the monumental fountain, including the “Warrior on Horseback” statue, ranged from 7.5 to nearly 10 million euros (depending on the source, estimates most often hover around 9.4 million euros). The monument was erected in 2011, when Macedonia was grappling with serious economic problems, high unemployment, and poverty. According to data from the Macedonian Statistical Office, the average monthly salary in 2011–2012 ranged from 20,800 to 20,900 denars net. This amounted to an average of only about 339 euros take-home pay.

The ‘Musicians’ sculpture group – the singer. A group of four bronze folk musicians standing opposite the entrance to the Marriott Hotel in central Skopje. The ensemble — a drummer, a singer, a trumpeter and a bagpiper — celebrates the lively spirit of traditional Macedonian music.

The corner of Dimitrie Cupovski Street and Dame Gruev Street. The building shown in the photograph is the well-known Paloma Bianca retail and office complex. The building was designed and constructed at the turn of the 1980s and 1990s. Unlike many of the monumental buildings surrounding it in Skopje, Paloma Bianca is not part of the controversial ‘Skopje 2014’ urban regeneration project, but is an authentic testament to an earlier, late-modernist era of the city’s development.

Following the devastating earthquake of 1963, the United Nations launched a competition to rebuild the city, 80 per cent of which had been destroyed. The competition was won by the legendary Japanese architect Kenzo Tange. Tange conceived the idea of surrounding the very centre of Skopje with a compact, semi-circular ring of high-rise residential blocks and skyscrapers, which were intended to symbolically reflect the former defensive walls of the ancient fortress. The buildings along Dimitrie Čupovski Street were erected in the late 1960s and early 1970s. The red bus visible in the frame is a Yutong City Master. The design of Skopje’s city buses, modelled on the iconic British ‘double-deckers’, is a direct reference to the city’s history. When an earthquake destroyed the entire infrastructure in 1963, the British government donated several dozen second-hand double-decker buses from London to Skopje, which for years became a symbol of the city’s public transport system.

Ohrid

Ohrid is a town where the lakeside promenade meets a bustling street lined with shops leading down to the water – both shaped by the post-Yugoslav transformation. The promenade has its roots in Yugoslav urban planning of the 1970s and 1980s, whilst the shopping street is the result of privatisation and commercialisation after 1991. Together, they form the modern heart of the city, blending the bustle of tourism with its historic UNESCO heritage.

The buildings along Partizanska Street in Ohrid are a classic example of Yugoslav tourist modernism from the 1960s to the 1980s, which shaped the town’s ‘new’ waterfront. The Palace Hotel was the flagship establishment here, and smaller hotels and apartment blocks sprang up around it, featuring repetitive balconies, austere concrete façades and a purely functional aesthetic. These buildings provided the infrastructure for mass Yugoslav tourism, standing in stark contrast to the historic old town.

The lakeside promenade in Ohrid pulsates with the rhythm of everyday, everyday scenes. It is a space where the tourist promenade meets local life: plastic chairs, the shade of the trees, little shops and café signs create a relaxed, holiday atmosphere. Modernist hotels and apartment blocks stand right next to it, providing a stark backdrop, but it is the people, with their laid-back attitude and spontaneity, who fill the promenade with real energy.

The street lined with little shops leading towards the lake buzzes with evening life: the lights in the shop windows, the hubbub of passers-by, children and tourists, and the scent of a summer town all create its light, holiday-like rhythm. This is the face of Ohrid — bright, open and bustling. A few steps further on, however, a completely different world begins: a narrow, half-hidden alleyway with a shop tucked away at the back, where light falls only from the occasional shop sign, and the atmosphere is more intimate and local. Together, they create the dual pulse of the lakeside part of the town — the bustling thoroughfare leading to the water and the quieter backstreets, which breathe to their own, more tranquil rhythm.

As we walk towards the old town, we enter a more intimate part of Ohrid, where narrow, cobbled streets echo with stories of everyday life. A rusty car parked against a wall looks like a fragment of a bygone era that refuses to fade away, whilst the crooked walls lead us ever higher, towards a quieter part of the town. A moment later, a door adorned with a white bow comes into view — a quiet sign of a family celebration, a small festival hidden amongst the stones. It is a space where the hustle and bustle of tourism is left behind, and a world of domestic rituals, traditions and everyday gestures opens up before us. The Old Town begins here not with monumental landmarks, but with such small, beautiful signs of life.

This is where the real Ohrid begins — the one you don’t see on postcards. Old, time-worn houses line the winding streets, with peeling plaster and windows that have seen several generations come and go. Beside them, motorbikes whizz past, children are on their way home, and neighbours chat over the fence; life here flows unhurriedly, to the rhythm of everyday affairs. This is Ohrid at its unpretentious, unassuming yet authentic best — a place where stone, rust and greenery weave their own quiet tale. It is in corners like these that the city reveals its most intimate side, the one that exists quite apart from the tourist bustle by the lake.

Bitola

Bitola is a city with a distinct urban layout, centred on the Širok Sokak thoroughfare and characterised by dense development dating from the Ottoman and Austro-Hungarian periods. Another important element of its contemporary identity is the former presence of a large Yugoslav army base. Following the break-up of Yugoslavia, the area gradually lost its military function and is now undergoing extensive redevelopment: new housing estates, service facilities and infrastructure are being built, integrating these areas into the city.

The aeroplanes at Tumbe Kafe stand there like remnants of a bygone chapter in Bitola’s history: abandoned fighter planes which, after being withdrawn from Yugoslav service, were simply left on the hill. Over time, they ceased to be military equipment and became part of the landscape — first a curiosity, then a silent witness to change, and finally a colourful, weathered memento of an era that has passed.

Širok Sokak is the elegant, historic backbone of Bitola — a pedestrianised street lined with cafés, shops and classic façades, which sets the pace of the city. It is the city’s most prestigious street, where everyday life blends with tradition, and the flow of city life moves peacefully amongst the old townhouses.

The Walk of Fame in Bitola appears on the pedestrianised street somewhat unexpectedly — like a subtle, golden touch in the city’s daily rhythm. It is not a grand stage for international celebrities, but a peaceful place where the names of people who are important above all to Bitola are inscribed into the pavement: local artists, sportspeople and activists, whose stories are known mainly to the city’s residents. Walking past it, one gets the impression that it is more a tribute than a tourist attraction — a modest, urban tale illustrating that every city has its own heroes, even if their fame does not extend far beyond the region.

The southern part of Širok Sokak begins to take on a distinctly different character: the elegant pedestrianised street, with its flags and historic façades, gives way here to a more everyday, urban setting. Alongside the stately buildings stands a socialist-style sports hall, with a dog sleeping outside the entrance as if it were a natural part of the local rhythm. A balcony covered in graffiti and stickers reveals the street’s other side — less orderly, more vibrant. It is here that Širok Sokak begins to merge seamlessly into the City Promenade: a place where formality blends with everyday life, and grand features meet the ordinary rhythms of city life.

Along the promenade to the south of the sports hall, the monuments appear one after the other, like quiet stops on a stroll through the city’s memory. Each bust stands amongst the trees, slightly off the beaten track, as if inviting conversation rather than formal admiration. Walking along there, one gets the impression that this is not a monumental avenue of heroes, but a quiet row of people who have, in various ways, left their mark on the history of Bitola — also ordinary, local figures to whom the city has decided to give a permanent place in its landscape.

Stara Čaršija is Bitola’s oldest commercial district — dense, somewhat chaotic, full of small shops, shop signs, workshops and the everyday bustle that has flowed through here for decades. Walking along its western end, the street opens up to a view of the Isak Čelebi Mosque, which rises above the surrounding buildings like a tranquil landmark. This is characteristic of Bitola: the mosque’s monumental Ottoman architecture blends seamlessly into the ordinary cityscape, right next to blocks of flats, air-conditioners and balconies — without any sense of distance or separation, as if it were a natural part of the everyday landscape.

This spot marks the western edge of Stara Čaršija, where the shopping streets gently open out onto a more contemporary, artistic part of the city — as if Bitola were taking a moment to breathe and allowing the mural to become its colourful whisper.

This building on Pece Matičevski Street stands like a weary sentinel at the southern entrance to Goce Delčev Square — greyed and cracked, with a tangle of cables and faded signs clinging to the façade like the last remnants of bygone years. In this part of Bitola, the elegance of the city centre begins to fade, and the city reveals its more austere, everyday face: steeped in history, neglect and local memories etched onto the walls.

As you pass the ancient town of Heraclea to the south of Bitola, and the path begins to wind its way through nothing but greenery, the town gradually loses its urban outline and gives way to the gentle, dreamlike tranquillity of the foothills. It is there, by the road leading to a small waterfall, that an abandoned minibus, overgrown with plants, comes into view — as if nature had decided to keep it for itself and weave it into its own story. The city gives way to nature, and time flows quite differently now.

Prilep

Prilep is an austere city, full of concrete, monuments and monumental features that create an intense, almost surreal urban landscape. There is something genuine and unvarnished about its everyday life - photography finds its subject matter here at every turn, from the tower blocks to the remains of the Markovi Kuli fortress towering over the city.

The opening sentence of the story about Prilep — an old telephone by the wall, like a relic that stubbornly endures even though the world has long since moved on. There is something in its worn casing that captures the mood of the town you are entering: austerity, sincerity and a slightly melancholic everyday life that foreshadows a more intense story to come.

The block rises vertically, without hesitation, and the flag in front of it stands as the sole splash of colour in this concrete everyday life.

From this north-eastern vantage point, 9 September Quay has something of the city’s quiet, everyday ritual about it — the lampposts draped with obituaries stand like sentinels of remembrance, whilst the street stretches on towards the church tower, which marks the rhythm of the day. This is where Prilep reveals its melancholic side: ordinary life flows alongside stories recorded on paper, and time seems to slow for a moment, as if the city were taking a deep breath between the past and the present.

The game on September 12, 2026, in Prilep felt like an afternoon ritual in a space that was far too large—two teams, white versus red, played in a stadium that might once have been filled with crowds but on that day had only a handful of spectators. A man stood by the fence, leaning on the railing, as if he preferred to watch the game from a spot he’d known for years, even though the gate was open and anyone could walk in without being asked.

The road to Markovi Kuli always begins innocently—a few houses, crooked power poles, cars that remember a time when the city was noisier and younger. Between them, tobacco dries, strung up like golden strands of everyday life—the same tobacco that hangs in dozens of places in Prilep and creates the scent of late summer. And further on, on the horizon, the Cross rises next to the ruins of the fortress—serene, motionless, as if to signal that all this ordinariness leads toward something older, more enduring, carved into the rock and etched into memory.

Markovi Kuli are the rock towers above Prilep with the remains of a castle—a place the locals regard as their own horizon—a fixed point to which their gaze and thoughts always return. In legend, this is the domain of Marek Krale, a legendary hero from the Middle Ages—half historical figure, half myth—a knight of superhuman strength who, according to folklore, roamed the Balkans and left behind a legacy larger than life. In history, a fortress guarding the city. Today, a place for walks, sunsets, and moments when one feels closer to the sky than to the streets. For the people of Prilep, it is not just a historic site, but a symbol: a sign of their city—its resilience, its memory, its pride—visible from every corner as a quiet reminder of where they come from.

The Na Nepobedenite Park in Prilep is a memorial dedicated to the victims of the Second World War and the local partisans who died fighting for the city’s liberation. The semi-circular marble plaques form something resembling an open book — a record of the names of those who did not return, arranged so that every passer-by can pause for a moment. The monumental, spiral ‘cups’ stand alongside them like sentinels of this history. They are not literal — they do not depict weapons or battles — but rather symbolise strength, endurance and memory, like vessels that hold what matters most.

Prilep, with memories of Yugoslavia and its promises, having weathered the difficult years of transition, is still trying to move forward — just like those passers-by, calmly, without haste, but with hope. And beneath this everyday life lies something more: a long history that the locals have never treated as a museum exhibit. Macedonians are proud of their roots — from the legends of Marko Krale, through the partisan struggle for freedom, right up to the years when Yugoslavia provided a sense of community and direction. Against the backdrop of this pride, there are also echoes of older tales — those dating back to the time of Alexander — which, whilst not a daily topic of conversation, form a broad horizon of identity. Not as a political declaration, but as an awareness that the history of this region is deep, multi-layered and spans more than a single generation. That is why a simple shot of a pavement, with its light and shadow, and two figures walking ahead, becomes more than just a street scene. It is a metaphor for a city that carries its past as both a burden and a treasure, and which is still able to look ahead — calmly, with remembrance, and with hope.

Final thoughts

Choosing a focal length is like setting the tone of a story - a wide-angle shot breathes with space and tranquillity, whilst a narrow focal length intensifies the emotions and guides the viewer’s gaze exactly where you want them to resonate most strongly. And when ultra-wide angles come into play – focal lengths of around 9 mm – something else emerges: a subtle sense of surrealism, a slight unease, the feeling that the world has suddenly bent at a different angle to usual.
It is at that very moment that photography ceases merely to tell a story — it begins to change the way you look at reality. I hadn’t planned a specific story; I wanted to let myself be surprised. I steered clear of the glitz and glamour of modernity, but I didn’t dwell on the decay and the sombre echoes of the past. Macedonia is nostalgic, but it is also vibrant and brimming with emotion.

Pack efficiently and have a safe journey!