I was 21 and found myself pressed against the rough timber rails of a makeshift arena in Guápiles, the Caribbean heat clinging to everything. It was August 1981, and I’d wandered into a Tico-style bullfight with no real understanding of what I was about to see—only that the crowd was electric, loud, and unmistakably local.

This wasn’t the Spanish corrida I’d imagined from books. No matador, no ritualised death. Instead, young men—farm boys, labourers, thrill-seekers—stepped into the ring with towels and bravado, testing themselves against a nervous, powerful animal. The bull charged, stopped, charged again. Dust rose. People laughed, shouted, scattered. Courage here felt improvised rather than choreographed.

What struck me most was the intimacy. The crowd leaned in close, perched on rails and planks, jeans and boots dusted red. This was theatre without distance, danger shared collectively. The bull was not a symbol so much as a presence—muscle, breath, uncertainty.

I watched, camera in hand, unsure whether I was documenting spectacle or trespassing on something deeply rooted. Looking back now, I see those moments less as action and more as atmosphere: a young outsider witnessing how culture, risk, and community briefly collided in a clearing at the edge of town.

[Photos: Olympus OM-2 with Kodachrome]