To Catch a Bull

Pega de Boi no Mato, a Ritual of the Brazilian Sertão

Mornings in the countryside are the most pleasant part of the day—at least for me. Everyone’s waking up. You hear roosters. The air is still cool, and the temperature is bearable even after the first rays of sun hit.
It wasn’t a golden light kind of morning—but it was pleasant nonetheless.

The air carried a quiet tension. The event would begin soon.

The man who owned the fazenda—father to the seven brothers and their sister I’d met the day before—was generous and kind. He let us stay near his house, use his electricity, brought us corn and water. His wife kept offering more food, which we had to politely decline—we’d eaten well at lunch and were still full.

As we went to check out the bulls, he handed me a coffee. When we got back to the house, I made a portrait of him, lit by the doorway light that fell across his face just right.

The cowboys started to appear.

It was frustrating. The light was flat. The sky, overcast. These were men worth photographing, expressive faces, quiet pride in their posture—but the magic wasn’t there yet.

Later, the sun came out. But the moment had passed. That golden hour never returned.

Trucks arrived carrying the horses the cowboys would ride to catch the bulls. Entire families had come from across the region. Some of the boys looked too young to be doing something so dangerous. But they were calm, sure of themselves, completely at ease in the saddle.

I photographed one young cowboy pulling on his boots—the traditional kind worn by vaqueiros here, made of leather and string.

There was a quiet pride in how he carried himself. No bravado. Just a calm readiness.

The kind of maturity and ease you only find in those raised close to the land—where life is hard, and necessity teaches you to make do, to endure, to grow up before your time.

One of the defining traits of Pega de Boi no Mato is the gibão—the heavy leather vest worn for protection, usually paired with the leather helmet you’ve seen in many of these photos.

In the 35°C-plus heat, no one wants to wear the gibão a second longer than necessary. So the cowboys take them off between runs, draping them wherever they can.

In this case, across the hood of a beat-up old truck. The worn leather, the rusted metal, the group of young cowboys perched up top—it all came together into one of those quiet, layered visuals.

The excitement was building. Then—finally—the first chase.

The bull was released and the cowboys took off—but the animal darted into the bush.
The event—Pega de Boi no Mato—literally means “catching the bull in the bush.” Once a bull disappears into the thicket, it’s unlikely to be caught.

The first few cowboys couldn’t reach it in time.
Then, suddenly, a bull came charging in my direction.

A cowboy leapt from his horse, grabbed the animal—wrestled it to the ground, tore off the tag, and handed it to his partner on horseback. He galloped towards the judges without a word.

Now I understood the process.

Each chase was exhilarating—but incredibly difficult to photograph. I’d stay in one spot for a few runs, then wander off to see what was happening away from the action. I looked for the quieter moments. Then I returned for more.

The same two videographers I’d met the day before were there again. They explained how things worked, where to stand, how not to get trampled.
I mimicked them—took cover behind a thin tree like one of the guys had done earlier.
But a bull ran right past me. Then horses thundered by on either side.

It was one of those moments when time slows down. No panic—there was nowhere to run. I saw everything clearly. And then it was over, before the adrenaline had even caught up.

Only later did I realize it hadn’t been the smartest place to be. I should’ve picked a bigger tree. If one of the animals had hit this one—as they did later—I could’ve been badly hurt.

I climbed on top of the enclosure and shot from different angles. Even sent up the drone.

The action was incredible—but what fascinated me most were the characters: the cowboys, their faces and expressions, those leather helmet hats, the traditional jackets.
They were wild men, in a way. Some might even say the whole thing was savage. But the atmosphere was raw. Real.

A few had scratches on their faces, blood running down their necks.

I asked one young guy about his wounds—he laughed them off.
“It’s nothing,” he said.

Later, I told this to the woman who owned the fazenda, the one organizing the event. She smiled.

“They don’t mind. In fact, they like it. If they don’t catch a bull, at least they get a scar—a story to tell. Their battle scars.”

I stuck around all day, only taking a short break during the hottest hours.
Wandering around, I noticed a few activities for children—a surreal contrast. Swings, climbing structures. A family atmosphere, set against something that, in much of the Western world, would be frowned upon.

And yet, these were genuine, welcoming people—people with a deeper understanding of these animals than most of us will ever have.
It was brutal. Savage, even—for the Western mind. But strangely poetic.
Just the way I like it.

I could relate to the idea—ancient as time itself—of men proving their courage through seemingly reckless, extreme acts.

Young women had dressed their best. You could see new couples meeting for the first time—maybe the start of something lasting.

For those willing to look past the surface, the event revealed something deeper.
Something enduring.
A ritual, ingrained in the culture for as long as anyone can remember.

The energy was amazing.

As the sun began to set, I hoped for a final chance to capture the action in golden light. I focused, waited—and got it. One cowboy caught a bull just as the light turned perfect. I got the moment.

There were 260 bulls that day. I don’t know how many cowboys—but some entered two or three times. The winning time was just under 11 seconds.

One man came close. He had the catch. But his horse bolted—took him on a wild ride around the park instead of heading toward the judges. He whipped the horse in frustration. It cost him the prize.

But that’s part of it: you have to stay calm, be in sync with your horse. Everything depends on it.

The final bull catch of the day was impressive—but not fast enough to win.

When it ended, people packed up. Some headed back to their farms. Others stayed for the party starting next to the bull park.

They were handing out prizes, but I was spent. I’d started before sunrise, run around all day. The music was deafening, the space dark and crowded.

I wanted to stay for the final shots—the winners with their awards—to round out the story.
But I knew it wouldn’t offer much, visually.

So I saved my energy. And called it a night.