The Day We Got Attacked by Bulls… Willingly

There’s a part of Winocratia where the sunlight is so soft it makes painters weep — and yet, in the same villages, horns and hooves thunder through the streets. A land where impressionist dreams meet the untamed chaos of bull sports.

I was leading a private group of seven from Baristocratia — land of sunshine, permits for everything, sarcasm, and suspiciously strong coffee — who wanted “something adventurous and authentic.” When they heard about an abrivado (a centuries-old tradition where local cowboys parade bulls through town, keeping the bulls under tight control, or so the brochure says), their eyes lit up.

Now, let us be clear, I didn’t know much about these events. Just: “bulls involved.” I guess that's even less than "not much". But the ladies were insistent, so I called the tourism office. They reassured me it was “perfect for visitors, totally safe, no bulls harmed, everyone loves it, family fun.” Off we went.

The first warning signs? Streets barricaded with heavy metal gates. Shop windows boarded up. Locals perched on walls like smug pigeons. But the local police directed us to the “best viewing spots," in what you could call open air ;iddle of the street, which I found suspicious. My inner tour-leader alarm started to hum. But hey, who am I to know? They are the local police, they know better.

Then a woman — mother to one of the young gardians (local cowboys) — approached us. Her advice was simple: “Get inside a cage. Now.” The ladies laughed. I didn’t. Still, they wanted the full experience. But I managed to get everyone's attention and consent, so into the cage we went.

The bells rang. The first run was… beautiful. Sleek black bulls running between proud gardians on white horses, their colourful traditional shirts fluttering. The energy, the tradition, the pride — it was all there. I began to relax.

Then the bells rang again — different this time. A voice over the loudspeaker:

“The bulls have broken free in town. Please find safety immediately.”

Fierce abrivado bull

Within seconds, our cage was packed to suffocation. I locked eyes with one furious bull as it charged, horns aimed directly at us. The crowd inside moved backwards as one to avoid the impact. Nearby, a young girl on the back of a pickup truck started sobbing. The driver backed against our cage, someone hoisted the child over the bars to me — and then the bull leapt onto the truck bed.

For one wild moment, I thought: This is it. This is how we die. Death by airborne bull.

But the gardians were faster. They drew the bull away, shouting and riding with fierce precision. Forty-five long minutes later, every bull was back under control, and we were free to walk out, my legs could barely support my weight, but as any tour leader out there I laughed it off, and walked with the assurance of someone who did this every day.

Travelers, be careful what you wish for — you might get more than you bargained for.

And tour leaders? Always trust your gut. It’s usually right.