Bolivia, and especially La Paz, is home to a unique and vibrant setup of footballing leagues. Neither entirely professional nor fully amateur, these informal but well-organised competitions have given rise to Los Siete Ligas. In this article, Leo Nelson-Jones explores the unique nature of the phenomena of these players and looks into the reasons why so much young footballing talent has been attracted to this life over the years.

The name Siete Ligas, contrary to what I and presumably many others may have thought, does not actually refer to there being seven amateur leagues (there are many more), but instead to those who play in these informal leagues. These players are paid by their clubs but, crucially, are not on a contract, meaning one can’t exactly describe them as professionals. The name—the ‘seven leagues’ in English—stems from the idea that one player could theoretically take to the pitch in seven different leagues through the week (for seven different teams) if he so desired. The reasons why this is not an uncommon thing for a player to do lie in the nature of the leagues in which they play, and the state of Bolivian football in general.

Siete Ligas take part in a unique system of football, comprising many different leagues, existing in a space somewhere between the amateur and the professional. Each league has its own slight variations in rules that govern how many contracted professional players a team may employ. Normally, it’s three, as in the case of perhaps the most famous and impressive league operating in La Paz: El Tejar.

Nowadays, these contracted players come from smaller second-division professional clubs and play in one of these informal leagues as a way to earn extra money. In the past, players from some of the biggest clubs in Bolivia would turn out. However, over the last 30 years, established clubs have become more protective of their players and are no longer willing to let them risk injury by letting them play on these teams. It’s not just these contracted players who are able to make money in these leagues, though.

The fundamental reason behind the existence of los Siete Ligas is the fact that players get paid. Unlike the contracted pros, a Siete Ligas is able to turn out for as many teams as will have him and, typically, he will get paid for this service. This payment will vary from player to player and team to team. More often than not, it will be a straightforward case of the dirigente paying a Siete Ligas player perhaps 200 bolivianos for a match. Sometimes, however, this payment can take a more indirect form. Players may be treated to nice dinners at fine restaurants with their families and be provided free high-quality transport to and from matches. This is, admittedly, more frequent in the higher-profile leagues such as El Tejar, where, according to Mario Murillo, a sociology lecturer at UMSA (Bolivia’s largest state univeristy), and an expert in los Siete Ligas, dirigentes can spend up to 5,000 bolivianos per match. In smaller leagues, the teams are more often made up of genuine amateurs. These may be friends or family members of some of the Siete Ligas players, or simply just members of the community that they’re representing.

In a league like El Tejar, the quality is often of professional standard. In fact, players can often make a better living as Siete Ligas than if they went fully pro (apart from the big-name clubs such as Bolívar or The Strongest, professional football in Bolivia does not pay well). A Siete Ligas can earn up to 1,500 bolivianos (a little more than $200 US) a week, whereas a small professional club would often pay significantly less. Accordingly, players in leagues such as El Tejar are very often just as talented as many professional players. In many cases, they may actually have played professionally for a period. Additionally, some of the older Siete Ligas players are ex-professionals who formally retired in their early 30s but still earn money on the pitch. In this way, these informal leagues provide a similar quality of football and standard of living as the professional leagues, but in a less formal setting. 

The very existence and nature of los Siete Ligas suggest another reason why many young players join the system. Although the established football leagues present themselves as professional and serious, there is a sense that this isn’t quite true. Mario Murillo expressed this sentiment by saying, ‘Everything is make-believe. If you see a football match in Bolivia, everyone is just standing around or rolling around on the floor. It pretends to be real but it isn’t’. Also, the Bolivian football infrastructure and institutions are almost non-existent compared with other countries, especially when it comes to discovering and cultivating new talent. Football scouts are virtually unheard of, and football schools are scarce. As a result, young talent routinely goes unnoticed. In contrast, other South American nations such as Argentina actively scouts its youth, who are often from very poor backgrounds (Carlos Tevez, for example). One can’t say that there’s any shortage of talent or passion for the game in Bolivia; it’s just never introduced into a formal football setting. People grow up playing on the street or in parks like everywhere else, but, whereas in other countries they’re placed into football schools and programmes that can lead to professional careers, in Bolivia they end up becoming Siete Ligas.

But being a Siete Ligas can also confer a certain amount of status upon a player. These leagues provide players with the opportunity to achieve a level of fame and respect that would otherwise be unattainable for them, while also allowing them a more relaxed lifestyle than they would have playing professionally. Players can become famous within the circles that follow the leagues and in their respective communities. There are seldom cash prizes awarded for winning the leagues (though heads of cattle are known to be offered as trophies), which means that the dirigentes both run and invest their time and money into these clubs solely for pride and the love of the game. This passion is echoed by the players and spectators, a fact which is evident in the energy on the pitch and the cheers from the crowds, which can number up to a thousand in some of the more popular leagues.

These leagues have found a special place in the landscape of Bolivian football. The quality that they exhibit and the passion which is displayed for them, both on and off the pitch, have lead to them becoming a well respected institution in themselves and they now attract some of the brightest talent that Bolivia has to offer. In a way, though, they are also a reminder of what is wrong with Bolivian football. The lack of a widespread infrastructure has fostered the development of informal leagues but it has certainly held Bolivia back. The talent that can be found in leagues such as El Tejar, had they received some proper footballing schooling, could have grown into top quality professional footballers and to an outsider, this seems like a bit of a waste. However, there is a sense that many Bolivians don’t seem to mind this. Mario Murillo concluded our conversation and summed up this attitude by saying this: ‘Things aren’t really changing in Bolivian football because we don’t necessarily want them to’. It seems that even though informal leagues draw talent away from the professional game and thus from the national side, people have forged out a special place for them and now couldn’t imagine Bolivian football without them.

Bolivia is known for not qualifying for the FIFA World Cup since 1994, when it was eliminated in the group stage. The country is far better known in the world of futsal, or indoor football, coming third in the 2003 AMF Futsal World Cup. In fact, in La Paz, the sport is more popular than conventional football. Part of this lies in the geographical layout of the city, which has left La Paz with few open or flat green spaces. Indoor futsal arenas can fit neatly into this city’s unique urban sprawl. With a cheap entry fee and vibrant women’s league, it makes for a dynamic complement to Bolivian football.

However, unlike Bolivia’s Siete Ligas, Futsal is not a standalone sport with its own culture and professionals. Most players aspire to play in the upper echelons of conventional football. For example, Marcelo, a 16-year-old who plays for the AGF team, says, ‘I play futsal to improve my skills and control of the ball for when I play on the 11-a-side pitches, because on a five-a-side pitch there’s no room to run around, and you develop skills.’ It’s certainly true that like all five-a-side football, strength and speed count for little and it’s the tricksters that are king. Though you’d be mistaken in thinking this is conventional five-a-side. Most of the rules observed in the UK are thrown out of the window: players can enter the goal circle, goalies can exit it—indeed, the goalkeeper from the Illimani team often ventures out with the intention of scoring—and the goalie isn’t allowed to take the ball from the net with his feet.

But more than the rules, the real point of departure is the money involved. In the UK, teenage football, Sunday league football or five-a-side leagues normally consist of groups of friends. Bolivian futsal, on the other hand, has an entry fee for spectators (most of whom aren’t related to the players), the league is sponsored by international brands like Coca-Cola and Powerade, and there are digital scoreboards—a relative rarity in Bolivia. 

The fan demographic is a point of interest too. Jaime, a regular at futsal matches, says that ‘it starts at six, so many come after work to wind down before going home’. He goes on to describe the working-class character of futsal: ‘The entrance fee is cheap and it fits in with work hours, unlike conventional football, which is much more expensive.’ Indeed, in the stands was a group of six taxi drivers in their uniform and, across from them, were two construction workers in overalls. Furthermore, the futsal arena of La Paz is situated near Plaza San Pedro and directly opposite the queue for the buses going to Ciudad Satélite (a district of El Alto), which by night stretches across two blocks and can take over an hour to negotiate. Jaime explained that many alteños pop in to watch a few matches after work until the queue dies down.

It’s an enjoyable evening, watching teenagers playing fast-paced five-a-side while their younger siblings play their own matches in the stands—and run onto the pitch at halftime to live the futsal dream for five minutes before the players come back. It certainly felt like community sports at its best, with local kids playing and spectators from all walks of life turning out to cheer them on.

Sitting in the living room of the Bolivian Express house, I am surrounded by Bolivaristas. Worried that this issue will be disproportionately contaminated by white and light blue, I feel a certain responsibility to somehow bring to life the name, the colours and the feelings that have been with me for as long as I can remember. So now that the magazine is only one day away from going to print, in the dying moments of extra time, it is left to me to defend my Tigre as we Stronguistas do best: with courage, with emotion, with passion.

To be a Tigre isn’t easy: it’s not for everyone. It is a privilege reserved for the most dogged, most valiant, for those who aren’t guided by reason but by sentiment: in a word, it is a privilege for the strongest. I, my friends, feel lucky to be striped: my blood is not blue, but yellow and black.

Thank you, daddy, for passing on the stripes to me. Thank you, Chupa Riveros, for that great warcry that still makes my hair stand on end. Thank you, Tri-Campeón, for being the only, the first. Thank you, yellow and black, for being the colours that brighten my view and warm my heart. Thank you, Curva Sur, for your unyielding support. Thank you, Pájaro Escóbar for being the most die-hard Paraguayan Stronguista ever to live. Thank you, Chumita for your loyalty and persistence. Thank you to football for your mere existence.

However, above all, I would like to say thank you to all the other Stronguistas for sharing so many victories, and more so for sharing the defeats, because it is here that we differentiate ourselves from others: when the heart refuses to go cold or stop beating, when we unite and feel more than the opponent because we cheer the best of warriors — warriors who know what it is to play with courage and die on the battlefield having given everything.

Past the midnight hour I can go to sleep happy after reliving –like a victorious final– the feelings and pride that define a Stronguista. I go to bed with a clear conscience and a happy heart in the knowledge that in this issue, BX’s 40th, I will be able to see my colours, my shirt, my team represented. With a smile and a lump in my throat, I join my team with that immortal warcry that moves mountains:

Huarikasaya Kalatakaya… Hurra Hurra!