The South American Diaries: Part 12. Inside the Heart of Bahian Football

All words and images by Jonas Zöller

“This whole scene, I feel, is somehow symbolic of the culture of football here. Football is family, and family is everything.“

North to Salvador

After our stop in Rio de Janeiro, we head north. Salvador de Bahia once served as a central hub for the Portuguese colonial slave trade, and its marks are still visible today. Salvador feels different from everywhere I’ve been so far. It feels like a different Brazil.

Into the Heat

When we make our way toward Arena Fonte Nova, the heat is blistering. I’ve been travelling across South America for more than two months now, and yet my skin is still so pale that I seem to get sunburned after ten minutes.

The stadium of Esporte Clube Bahia sits beside a lake, and the entire area transforms into the biggest prévia I’ve seen so far. Hundreds of stands sell fake shirts, food, and beer. We arrive early, but already thousands of people in blue and red shirts fill the area. We drift through the crowd, dive into the noise, and try whatever is offered. There’s just one problem: finding a vegetarian option is absolutely impossible. When my girlfriend asks an older woman at one of the stalls for something without meat, she gets only confused laughter from the vendor and everyone around.

The Camera Problem

As we leave the forecourt and head toward the entrance, the steward sees my camera and shakes his head. It takes me a few seconds to process what he means. Not once on this trip has anyone stopped me from taking my camera inside. I try explaining, but I don’t speak Portuguese, and too many people are pushing through the turnstiles for me to use my translator. My attempt to sneakily hand the camera to my girlfriend fails miserably.

Panic rises. After the disappointment in São Paulo, is Salvador slipping away, too? Do I part ways with the camera that has accompanied me through so many stadiums?

I step aside, trying to think clearly. A woman from security stands nearby. She must see the desperation on my face, because she asks what’s wrong and offers to keep the camera until shortly before the end of the match. I hesitate. I’m sceptical. But something in me trusts her.

We exchange numbers, and I hand her the camera. And still I’m not feeling good. So many memories are part of this camera, so many moments have been captured by it.

Inside the Arena

When we step into the stadium, my worry disappears for a few minutes. The stands are unbelievably steep and packed tight. The arena is open to one side, offering a breathtaking view of the city skyline. The entire place seems to boil and sway, led by the Torcida Bamor. Even more than in Argentina, the torcida seems to dance to its own rhythms. The setting sun is making its way through the stadium’s open side, and for a moment, I feel like I’m part of the crowd.

A Moment of Faith

As halftime approaches, I write to the security woman again. I take a few minutes to explain how important the camera is to me. It was passed down from my grandfather. The signal is terrible, and I’m already preparing myself for the worst, trying to press this feeling down my throat.

The disappointment builds in my chest when someone suddenly taps my shoulder. I turn around and freeze. It’s her. For a moment, I can only stare. When she meets my eyes, she tells me—visibly moved—what family means to her. When she hands me my camera, relief floods through me all at once. After a tight hug, she disappears as quickly as she arrived.

This whole scene, I feel, is somehow symbolic of the culture of football here. Football is family, and family is everything.

The Explosive Finale

When the second half kicks off, I can hardly believe my luck—and it seems to rub off on the team too. Bahia equalise midway through the half, and when the winner comes in the 90th minute, the stadium explodes. People tumble over each other on the steep terraces, and the final seconds blur into euphoria. It’s not the shallow dancing to the rhythm now—it’s the pure, brutal noise that seems to soak into everyone in the arena for a moment.

A Different Kind of Connection

Later, as we wait for our Uber, adrenaline drains into gratitude. The stadium, the late winner, the camera I thought I’d lost. Maybe the thing that feels the most meaningful in this moment, though, is that I feel somehow more connected to Brazilian football now.