Life in the New: Goran Vuksanović

Paintings, drawings, photos, and keepsakes adorn the yellowed wallpaper of Bistro Nana. A Pioneer’s Titovka hat and an accompanying red scarf. A private collection of old smoking pipes. A homemade calendar, where a man is Photoshopped next to Tito’s wife, Jovanka Broz. Multiple witch figures hang inside the room, 49 to be exact. They are all given to the bar owner by his ex-girlfriends once they’ve broken up, a tradition he incepted.

“This dog hasn’t washed in years.” 

Goran Vuksanović picks up his dog from the scruff of its neck and places it in his lap. 

“… and neither have I. “

Goran is the owner and barkeep of Nana, a traditional kafana. According to pundits, it is the most authentic one remaining in the entire Novi Beograd.

The concept of the kafana has its roots in the Ottoman Empire. The first one popped up in Belgrade some 500 years ago. In today’s modern sense, it refers to a tavern-like institution that serves alcohol, coffee, and snacks, regularly featuring live music. In short, the local watering hole.

Bistro Nana was established in the late 1970s and is claimed to be the oldest one still operating in the entire area by its owner. Goran himself hasn’t always been the proprietor. He was still a child when Nana was established, but for the last seven years, he has been at its helm.

“I took it out of spite,” he says between sips of rakia. “I couldn’t allow anybody to open a pharmacy, a bakery, a boutique. And I wanted to keep the beer prices at a normal level.”

Some of the largest residential buildings in Novi Beograd are visible from Nana’s windows, including two identical concrete colossi that stretch almost 300 meters on either side of Blok 23. Circling the building once equals 1.5 rounds on a regular running track, except your feet will tire quicker, and you’ll be rewarded with rakia and beer instead of hamstring stretches and water. The surrounding area is home to thousands of people, yet it hasn’t always been that way.

“When the government distributed apartments in this area to tenants, it was seen as a punishment to be placed here. People had to walk around in rubber boots”, Goran says, as a reminder that when the buildings were raised in the 1970s, there were still swamps and wetlands not yet reclaimed.

“After some time, Novi Beograd eventually became something that made people envious, simply because residents like us live in this place.”

Goran is from Zabljak, a small town in northern Montenegro. Novi Beograd has been his home since childhood. “Here, I went to kindergarten, primary school, high school. Here, I have lived. Here, I had the first fight, the first girlfriend, the first quarrel – here, I had everything. This area gave me all the ‘firsts.’”

He speaks with a low voice, yet it’s filled with enthusiasm. He walks to the bar, makes a coffee, and pours a rakia. The coffee is for a customer. The rakia is for him.

What you’ll see in the crowd is, for the most part, men. Usually, middle- and older-aged guys chase their sips of rakia and a side of Turkish coffee with Jelen, Zaječarsko, Birra Moretti – any light lager will do. Some watch football on the television in the corner. Some converse with long-time friends or newfound drinking buddies. Some find enough entertainment in themselves.

A distinct smell of freshly-lit cigarettes fills the air at five-minute intervals. Stay a while as a non-smoker; you will either grow accustomed to the scent or leave with stinging eyes. But that is precisely the atmosphere that makes Bistro Nana stand out in a time when shopping centers are a popular meeting point for many Novobeograđanin.

“People are getting their intimacy weakened. Such cafés as the one I run are dying out, and that separates people. There is no room for that distance in here. No one sits with no one, and everyone sits with everyone.”

Bistro Nana once had a cult standing, which has been eroded by years of neglect from previous owners. The cult status might have taken an upward curve due to Goran’s work in transforming the kafana and bringing more life to the establishment through live music and poetry events. He is working to avoid separation between people.

“I would like it to remain a kafana like it is – forever,” he says.

“Here, people confess to doing wrong. They confess when they feel sorry, when something bad occurs in their life, or when a child or grandchild is born. Most confessions come when they get drunk, and you hear them calling in for another round when they don’t have money to pay, asking može – could we? to have another two or three drinks.”

Neither of his children is interested in running a kafana, meaning the institution will only stay in the family if they change their minds.

“I don’t want to go.” He accentuates each word. “Truthfully, emotionally, I feel a great attachment to it, but due to my life, it might be wiser to go somewhere up the hill close to a stream.” 

“It is a fact that sitting here kills me.”

In memory of Goran Vuksanović, 1950-2022

Prints from Life in the New

See the price list for prints from my Life in the New book project here.