The South American Diaries on Film: Part 1 Chile. A Football Romance

All words and text by Jönas Zoller

Over the coming weeks, photographer Jonas Zöller will be travelling across South America to capture the heartbeat of the continent — its football and its culture, all on film. From terraces to town squares, he’ll be documenting the everyday moments that make the game inseparable from life here. His journey begins in Chile for the World Cup qualifier between Chile and Uruguay at the Estadio Nacional Julio Martínez Prádanos, where the backdrop of the Andes frames stories of passion, community, and identity played out on and off the pitch.

Santiago. It is just after nine in the morning when my flight touches down in Chile. By the time I get into a taxi outside the airport, the city is still wrapped in mist. The air is cool, maybe ten degrees, and I cannot tell if I am shivering from the temperature or from fifteen hours in the air.

And yet something warmer is stirring inside me when I think of the two months ahead. South America: Chile and its Andes, Argentina and its glaciers, Brazil and its beaches. And through it all, the one constant I came for: football.

The truth is, I am not prepared. I do not know if I will be able to get tickets, how groundhoppers are seen here, or how the police deal with tourists at matches. All I really know are the endless reels of South American terraces that have filled my feed ever since I booked the flight. For now, that feels like enough.

My first stadium is waiting just two days after my arrival. Even before I boarded the plane, I had managed to buy a ticket for the World Cup qualifier between Chile and Uruguay at the Estadio Nacional Julio Martínez Prádanos. I do not know what to expect, so I leave far too early.

The first rush of goosebumps comes as the road bends and the floodlight towers rise above the skyline. Even from a distance, the stadium feels monumental. The whole complex is fenced off, but you can already tell it has nothing in common with the prefabricated arenas of Europe. What really makes my heart race, though, are the Andes standing behind it all.

The closer I get, the more the view fades into what is happening on the ground: armoured trucks, water cannons, mounted police units — all “securing” the area. At the gates, the confusion continues. I do not even need to show my ticket, but I have to hand over my passport twice. Two bag checks, a metal detector, and at last I am on the forecourt, minus my lighter — the only thing I had to give up. Inside, rows of officers in black masks and riot gear stand as if they are about to be sent on a manhunt.

It clashes with the aura of the place. Sponsors run raffles, a brewery hands out samples of alcohol-free beer, and a DJ plays to a square that is barely half full. I shrug — international football — and make my way to my seat.

The moment I step inside, all of it is forgotten: the uneven outline of the terraces, the mismatched stands, and behind it all, the sun catching the snow on the Andes. It feels like a football romance.

The ground is nowhere near sold out, probably because Chile, at the bottom of the table, already had no chance of qualifying for the bloated World Cup in the United States, Mexico, and Canada. Still, the short end behind the goal where I sit fills just before kick-off. At first, the mood is sour. People grumble, shake their heads, and scold every mistake. But ten minutes in, the scene transforms. The terrace moves to the rhythm of drums and trumpets, cigarettes and joints are lit, and I seem to be the only one without a lighter in the whole stadium.

Every through ball stirs a murmur; every whistle against Chile draws outrage. For the first time, I feel a glimpse of South American football culture. Yet beyond the backdrop and the old concrete, it is still only a qualifier that meant nothing on the pitch — a warm-up for everything still to come.