It’s a small dark shop, the type of retailer which stays open from early morning to late at night, every day of the week. A plump man in his fifties is sitting behind the counter, reading the paper and I disturb him to ask him for some sticky tape. Spag has his eye on the paper, the last page covered in football pictures, and the long haired lanky Norman asks the man about the beautiful game. The shopkeeper is clearly keener about football than about selling pens and tape. He tells us about the massive game coming up : Real Potosi versus Bolivar, one of Bolivia’s most prestigious club, from the capital city, La Paz. The present number one club in Bolivia’s top division hosts the second, and it’s happening just down the hill later on this afternoon.
We’re jumping on a micro bus, jamming ourselves in the little seats. Everything seems to be made for small people here, and I realize that although I’ve never been tall for an Englishman, I’m certainly not short around here. We’re rolling down the hill with the door open, leaving people to jump on an off wherever they feel like it. We get off at a market place, following mamas with empty carrier bags and blankets wrapped around their backs waiting to be filled with pounds of rice, potatoes and flour for the week ahead. We dodge a few cars in the middle of the street and make our way to the ticket office, a small whole dug out of the stadium wall, with a man standing behind it, giving out tickets for 70p each. We make sure we get tickets for the Curva Norte where the home fans stand and where the atmosphere is supposed to be the best. The match isn’t until 4pm, so we have plenty of time to wander about the market, start filming the event and feed ourselves to some chuleta, rice, carrots, and cakes.
The area is busy with people bent double carrying massive sacks on their backs, spilling out of the market, faces shaded by large hats or baseball caps for the cool looking youth. Cars are pulling in and out of buses which are starting and stopping every 50 yards or so, spitting clouds of black smoke as they charge up the steep hill towards Potosi’s town center. Fans are making their way towards the ground, and ladies have set up their stalls selling posters, hats and football shirts. We meet a few Bolivar fans walking on enemy territory, colours on display, drumming away happily. It doesn’t look like any set of fans are very aggressive and maybe it isn’t a question of enemies here. We get into the ground early and walk through the gates without having our bags checked. Real Potosi and Bolivar’s under-18s are playing, entertaining the early fans waiting for the big game, Bolivia’s clash. The ground looks slightly old fashioned but apart from the athletics track keeping us away from the pitch, it doesn’t look too bad. It’s circular, half-covered and only has about 100 seats, counting the teams’ benches. The stadium is one of the highest in the world, build at an altitude just under 4000 meters above sea level. Behind the Curva Sud, the mountain tops are lit by a yellowy afternoon sun. Fans are flooding into the four stands and dozens of wide-hipped ladies are making the most of the crowd, selling hamburgers, chopping up meat with massive carving knives, shouting “soda soda soda” to get people to treat themselves to bright green drinks which look like bottled fairy liquid. I decline and go to the toilets before the game starts, not wanting to miss a goal because of a full bladder which wouldn’t wait. I close the closet door behind me but it swings back open. It doesn’t matter; I do my business in public, and gather the lock isn’t the only thing missing, there is no flush either. I walk out and see men filling buckets of brown water from a barrel in the corner, before going back to the toilets and chucking it down. I do the same, and walk back to the stand looking around for some clean water to wash my hands with. I don’t find anything but nothing matters now, it’s match day!
The players come out and the crowd roars, the Imperio Realista, a lively supporter’s group standing behind the goals, are letting off purple smoke bombs. The atmosphere isn’t as loud as in Paraguay, but I’m not surprised, Bolivians appear to be more contained, sometimes even shy. Over in the Curva Sud, a bunch of Bolivar fans dressed in light blue are still making sure they catch our attention, waving their arms, throwing a few chants. The game gets going, and the level of play is excellent, especially considering there is very little oxygen up here. An accurate pass goes straight to a blue striker who lets one fly. Potosi’s goalkeeper saves, diving to his left before punching the air, and yelling at his defenders. They’re going to have to concentrate a little harder if they don’t want to let Bolivar take the lead.
It all happens in the second half, when the locals open the score sheet with an easy right footed effort. But Bolivar is stronger on the long run, and get 3 past a very angry Potosi keeper. The crowd starts chucking bottles of empty fairy liquid before squeezing their way outside the narrow gates, faces low, ashamed after the dramatic ending.
Partenaires / Facebook / latresgrandeboucle.comÂ
