Around midnight, he pushed off from the beach, packing his camera, a coconut, and a can of Diet Coke. Mykhailo Polyakov—then 24 and from Scottsdale, Arizona—steered his inflatable dinghy toward open water, keeping the speed low to avoid being spotted.
After hours crossing the Bay of Bengal, his target appeared: a low island that barely separated the sea from the sky. With the sun now high overhead, Polyakov cut the engine and started recording on his GoPro. “So, the goal,” he said, squinting at the blinding-white beach, “is to introduce this Stone Age tribe to modern life… Let’s land on this beach.”
Polyakov was approaching North Sentinel Island, part of India’s Andaman archipelago. Coming within 5 kilometers (3 miles) is strictly banned, let alone stepping ashore, and authorities regularly patrol the waters nearby. But Polyakov saw it as a mission: to see—and more importantly, film—the Indigenous people living there.
The Sentinelese are likely the most isolated people on Earth. They live as hunter-gatherers, with an estimated population of around 100. Beyond that, little is known about them, not even their language. And that’s how they want it. The tribe chooses to stay cut off from the outside world and has fiercely resisted any attempts at contact. In 2018, an American missionary was killed by arrows on his third try to land on the beach. Earlier, in 2006, two Indian fishermen died after their boat drifted ashore by accident.
Polyakov, who turns 26 this year and studied finance, believed the risks were exaggerated—or at least less important than his drive to capture the first clear 4K footage. “I wouldn’t encourage illegal activity, but for me, the pull to go there was very strong,” he says, a year after his unauthorized trip. “You see videos of the Sentinelese, and it’s all blurry footage from the 90s… That really pushed me to get them on camera.”
He brought a mirror and a whistle “to draw them out,” plus some goodwill gifts in case he made contact: the Diet Coke as a “symbol of modern life” and a coconut “because we know they like coconuts.” It wasn’t just for clicks, Polyakov adds with a smirk: “It would be rude not to bring gifts when visiting people.”
Survival International, a human rights group, estimates that 196 Indigenous communities live like the Sentinelese, in voluntary isolation. Most are in South America, in the Amazon rainforest and the Gran Chaco region spanning Paraguay and Bolivia, with a few more in Indonesia, West Papua, and elsewhere in India’s Andaman and Nicobar Islands. Though very different from one another, these groups have all chosen to reject outsiders and the industrialized world, living self-sufficiently. Policymakers and advocates call them “uncontacted peoples.”
But more and more, outsiders are trying to reach them—and profit from them. Survival and other groups working to protect isolated communities report that influencers are increasingly targeting them, hoping to capture exclusive footage of “first contact” and gain internet fame. For now, the numbers seem small, with Polyakov as a rare confirmed case, but advocates say the threat is real, growing, and needs action. Influencers were discussed at an international summit in Jakarta in January and again at a UN meeting in Brazil in June.
GTI PIACI, a coalition of 21 groups protecting uncontacted Indigenous peoples in the Amazon and Gran Chaco, has spread the word across its network, says secretary Daniel Aristizábal from Bogotá, Colombia. “It’s becoming a trend, and we have to adapt. These people have money.”
“It’s all so unnecessary. It’s very ‘look at me, I’m so tough.’”Sophie Grig, from the human rights group Survival, keeps an eye on social media for influencers who try to make contact. Photograph: Patrick Dowse/The Guardian
The UK-based group Survival goes even further by monitoring social media for influencers who might be tempted to reach out. “It’s all so unnecessary,” says Sophie Grig, head of advocacy and research, speaking over Zoom from her home in Cambridge. She has worked with Survival for 30 years, focusing until recently on the Asia-Pacific region, and is frustrated by this “emerging threat” from influencers. The charity tracks about a dozen accounts on YouTube, TikTok, and Instagram that post about uncontacted peoples. Many of the people behind these accounts – mostly white men – are based in South America or Asia, creating content about Indigenous communities that have already been contacted. Their posts often feature weapons, snakes, and “plant medicine” like ayahuasca. “It’s very ‘look at me, I’m so macho’,” Grig says with disdain.
Although the chances of these influencers actually reaching uncontacted peoples are slim, the potential danger is huge: isolated populations have historically been wiped out by diseases like measles, to which they have no immunity. “Contact with these peoples can lead to their extinction in days,” says Beto Marubo, an Indigenous leader from the Javari valley in the Brazilian Amazon.
In 1987, Brazil’s government stopped its policy of “forced contact missions” with uncontacted Amazonian tribes because of the devastating epidemics that continued despite safety measures. For an influencer to downplay the risk and speak for uncontacted peoples is “an irresponsible, even criminal attitude,” Marubo says.
Grig notes that Western “adventurer types” have long been attracted to places like the Amazon, but influencers add an extra risk because of their global reach: those on Survival’s watchlist have a combined following of over 40 million. Even if they aren’t actively searching for uncontacted peoples, by posting about them, Grig says they often reinforce harmful stereotypes, spread dangerous misinformation, and could inspire others to try the same.
In interviews, Polyakov has dismissed Survival’s criticism that he endangered the Sentinelese, arguing that he was vaccinated and the risk of transmission was low. He also claims that trespassers there are more common than reported and has even questioned whether truly “uncontacted” people exist. Grig calls this self-serving semantics: while “voluntary isolation” might better describe their situation, there’s no doubt they want to be left alone. Often, this stems from past violence or trauma. “If you are uncontacted in 2026, that’s because you have made an active decision,” Grig says. “People like the Sentinelese have made it clear: we do not want people in our territory.”
To respect their autonomy, Survival, GTI PIACI, and other advocates keep track of uncontacted groups from a careful distance, often through former members who have left the jungle or neighboring Indigenous communities. Some uncontacted people may occasionally interact with outsiders, Grig says, usually when forced by hard times – but, crucially, it’s on their terms. “They’re not reaching out, and we must respect that.”
International human rights law supports Indigenous people’s right to choose self-isolation and requires “free, prior and informed consent” for any activity on their land, but national protections don’t always meet that standard, and enforcement is often inconsistent. In Peru, for example, unauthorized entry can lead to six-figure fines, but with little government presence on the ground, the chance of getting caught is low.
“It’s not like I’ve accelerated globalisation by going there. If it wasn’t me, it would be someone else.”
View image in fullscreenFullscreen view of images posted by Mykhailo Polyakov after landing on North Sentinel Island. Photos: YouTube
Content creators, pushed by platforms that reward exciting and exclusive footage, may decide the risks are worth it. “It feels like this is part of a long history of colonialism,” Grig says, sounding frustrated. “People have gone after land, gold, rubber, timber, souls – and now it’s clicks.”
On YouTube, where Polyakov mainly posts, he goes by @Neo-Orientalist – “because I’m bringing it back” – and uses a Tintin-style avatar. But he rejects being called a content creator, dismissing social media as just a tool to reach a goal. By aiming for the Sentinelese, he wanted to push forward his mission of making “game-changing” documentaries. “I wanted to do something no one’s ever done before,” he says over a video call, his face filling the phone’s camera. Behind him, a brightly painted concrete wall and harsh lighting suggest a youth hostel. When we spoke in May, Polyakov said he was somewhere in Southeast Asia, working on projects. He avoids giving more details, worried about fueling his online “haters”: “If you want to know where I’m going, you should subscribe.”
Polyakov claims his main goal was to film the Sentinelese, not to interact with them, which he says lowered the risks for both sides. “You can always film them from outside arrow range,” he says with a shrug. But when he finally reached North Sentinel on his third try, in March 2025, “in the end, I couldn’t get anyone to come out,” he admits. After pulling his dinghy onto the beach, he walked around for five to ten minutes, blowing his whistle with no visible response. Then he pushed back out to sea and filmed himself tossing the Coke can toward the shore. “It was anticlimactic … I was a bit let down.”
He says he was more worried about running into authorities than the Sentinelese. But in the footage he later posted on YouTube, Polyakov looks scared, then a little defensive. “Look, I can’t force the natives to come out,” he tells his audience once he’s safely back on the water. He made it back to his hotel without being caught, but was arrested later. Authorities had spotted a dinghy in open water, and Polyakov had forgotten to take out his camera’s memory card. “They had me saying, ‘What’s up, guys? I’m at North Sentinel,'” he says regretfully. “From there, it gets tough.”
Polyakov was charged under two laws, but says he felt sure that, as a foreigner, “I wouldn’t be stuck in India for years.” He pleaded guilty and got 25 days in prison plus a fine of about £120.
His first “dispatch” from North Sentinel was posted on YouTube this April. The comments have been mostly negative, as Polyakov admits. (One top comment reads, “Bro’s got main character syndrome.”) He blames the “biased” reporting and takes every chance to talk to the media, partly for publicity, but also to defend himself against criticism from groups like Survival, which called him “idiotic and reckless.”
In response, Polyakov calls Survival an activist group pushing a “misguided” agenda “to keep certain groups stuck in the past,” and says he’s acting in the public interest by “bringing information into the world.” He denies endangering the Sentinelese, pointing to plastic trash he found washed up on their beach. “They’re very aware of the outside world … It’s not like I’ve sped up globalization by going there. If it wasn’t me, it would be someone else.”
In deliberately targeting the world’s most isolated people, breaking several laws, and getting caught, Polyakov is a clear-cut case. More often, content creators posting about uncontacted peoples are harder to pin down, especially becauseThere can be a big gap between what influencers say online and what they might actually be doing. One person monitored by Survival (who asked not to be named, as they believe he poses a serious risk) shared detailed plans online to visit North Sentinel Island with his large following of over 600,000 people. But there’s no evidence he seriously tried to go there in the past two years. Other influencers boast about traveling through “uncontacted territory,” when they’re actually on well-known routes or even taking part in tourist-style tribal experiences. Survival fears some might be doing the opposite—pretending to be legitimate while quietly trying to find and film uncontacted people. Since the geographical, legal, and ethical boundaries are unclear, content creators often operate in a gray area.
Nathan Seastrand, a 30-year-old who goes by @yankiguayo on Instagram, has 276,000 followers. He describes himself as a filmmaker who makes documentaries about Paraguay’s Gran Chaco region and its Indigenous Ayoréo people. Originally from Utah, he has lived in Paraguay since 2016. In public, he presents himself as a supporter of the Chaco and its people, telling local media he’s driven by “curiosity and wonder.” But recently, this reputation has been challenged publicly, with Seastrand accused of exploitation—a claim he denies.
In early August, an influencer who asked not to be named posted a YouTube video about working with Seastrand on a documentary last year. He said Seastrand seemed “obsessed” with finding and filming uncontacted Ayoréo people. According to him, Seastrand made multiple trips to their territory, set up trail cameras, and tried to get a thermal-imaging drone to search from the air.
It’s estimated that around 150 uncontacted Ayoréo people exist, living in small nomadic groups in the shrinking parts of the Chaco that haven’t been cleared by deforestation. Local advocates track them through signs like footprints from their tapir-leather sandals, but they haven’t been photographed in decades. In 2018, the Paraguayan government signed a protocol requiring it to prevent unwanted contact, but it doesn’t specifically ban it. Access to Indigenous lands is granted at the discretion of individual community leaders.
The influencer, who accompanied Seastrand on two trips into the Chaco, said he became increasingly worried about Seastrand’s “morally questionable” methods. He claimed Seastrand gave money and alcohol to Ayoréo leaders to get access to their reserve and permission to film, which later caused conflict with neighbors who wanted a share of the deal. The influencer said he ended his relationship with Seastrand shortly after, accusing him of “exploiting the poorest and most marginalized segment of Paraguayan society in order to become rich and famous.”
“We are not in the business of publicity… The world needs to understand what is at stake.”
In an email to the Guardian, Seastrand rejected the influencer’s account, saying all his activities on Ayoréo land were legal and approved by community leaders. He called the claim that he gained access with alcohol “absurd,” explaining that he built friendships over several visits. “They were not tricked or coerced… It is normal to invite your friends to a cold pack of beer.”
Seastrand confirmed he paid money, which he says is standard for filmmaking, but dismissed the conflict described by the influencer as “no more than a jealous neighboring tribe.”
As for the camera traps, Seastrand said they were placed in a developed area and his goal was to film jaguars. “The likelihood of an isolated tribe living in this zone is extremely small and… there is no hard evidence of their existence. I would have better luck trying to get footage of the Loch Ness monster or Bigfoot.” He said his on-camera mentions of “wild Ayoréo territory” were just an attempt to engage viewers. “There is no such thing… No one really knows where they are.”
Others have also spoken out against Seastrand’s activities in the Chaco. An Ayoréo lawyer accused him of sharing a photographHe posted a photo of his late grandfather without permission and refused to take it down when asked. (Seastrand claims he had the grandfather’s consent and has since removed the photo.) Paraguayan media also report that Seastrand has been accused of offering money to people to locate uncontacted Ayoréo communities. In mid-August, after Paraguay’s National Indigenous Institute (INDI) stepped in, a court ordered emergency measures against him, including the removal of his camera traps. Seastrand continues to deny any wrongdoing and is still posting from the Chaco on Instagram.
Before becoming, in his own words, “one of the most-known influencers in Paraguay,” Seastrand had a different mission: he was a Mormon missionary. According to a 2023 New York Times profile, he baptized more than 30 people before leaving the church to focus on content creation.
This shift isn’t as strange as it might appear, says Aristizábal of GTI PIACI. Both influencers and missionaries target Indigenous people themselves, rather than their land or resources. John Allen Chau, the 26-year-old Christian missionary killed by the Sentinelese in 2018, documented his travels on Instagram and even had brand deals, including one with a jerky company. When news of his likely death reached Survival, Grig says, “Our first assumption was that he was an influencer.”
Chau was reportedly driven to reach the Sentinelese because their extreme isolation made them more valuable souls to save. Now, missionary influencers are blurring the lines by openly documenting their attempts to contact Indigenous people in the Amazon and elsewhere.
Earlier this year, footage of uncontacted Mashco Piro (or Nomole) people on riverbanks in the Peruvian Amazon went viral, drawing coverage from outlets like the New York Post, the Sun, and social-first platforms such as LADbible and Worldstar Hip Hop. The video was shared by Paul Rosolie, the American founder of Junglekeepers, a nonprofit working in the Peruvian Amazon.
Rosolie isn’t simply a content creator, but he’s not a typical conservationist either. He calls himself an “explorer,” has 2 million Instagram followers, and shares stories about his encounters with uncontacted tribes on high-profile platforms that aren’t always known for sensitivity, like The Joe Rogan Experience. His footage of the Mashco Piro was shared exclusively with podcaster Lex Fridman, promoted as a “world first” and released just days before his new book came out—even though the footage was over a year old.
Rosolie declined an interview, but a Junglekeepers representative said in an emailed statement that the encounter was supervised by a Peruvian government official and followed no-contact protocols. The spokesperson said Rosolie released the film to draw attention to Junglekeepers’ efforts to protect Mashco Piro land from illegal logging. “We are not in the business of publicity… The world needs to understand what is at stake.”
With his Indiana Jones style and flair for showmanship, Rosolie’s daring stories capture people’s imaginations—and their wallets: Junglekeepers raised $3.3 million in 2024, allowing it to buy and protect over 135,000 acres of forest. But Survival and other groups working to protect uncontacted peoples say he perpetuates outdated and harmful stereotypes. On Steven Bartlett’s Diary of a CEO podcast in February, Rosolie described his encounter with the Mashco Piro: “It’s like a time capsule, a thousand years between us… this aperture into the history of what humankind used to look like.” His stories emphasized the danger from naked “warriors” with “seven foot-long” arrows and spears, and the simplicity of their lives, “so deep in the jungle that they’ve never heard of a spoon or the wheel.”Later, Rosolie presented Bartlett with a selection of snakes to handle.
His other interviews followed a similar pattern. Grig points out that Rosolie first gained attention with a controversial Discovery Channel stunt, where he attempted to be “eaten alive” by a 20-foot anaconda. She says, “If he’s not an influencer, he has massive influencer tendencies.” She also criticizes his description of the Mashco Piro as “not even stone age,” arguing, “They’re living in the 21st century, just as much as we are.” Grig believes that using such “sensationalist, derogatory, dehumanising language” endangers uncontacted peoples, as it reinforces arguments that have long been used to justify taking their lands, removing them from their communities, and imposing so-called “development.”
Rosolie has accused Survival of running a smear campaign by linking him with people like Polyakov. There is no evidence that he has ever broken the law, and he discourages attempts to contact these groups. A Junglekeepers representative said they view the trend of influencer stunts “with serious concern,” and that Rosolie’s own position “has always been one of respect.” His comments about the Nomole were “never meant as any sort of judgment,” but rather to highlight their real and “practical distance … [from] modern global civilization.” The footage was shared as “a reminder of how close the outside world already is, and why protection from it matters.”
Junglekeepers’ strategy—protecting rainforest by buying it up—differs from that of Survival and other organizations that fight for Indigenous control of their land, reflecting different worldviews. The representative said their work is Indigenous-led, and Rosolie is only “the main communicator.”
In interviews, he has expressed mixed feelings about the future of uncontacted peoples, suggesting they might benefit from “basic life hacks” and “a future … where their kids don’t have to worry about eating monkeys,” and could work as park rangers instead. To Grig, that misses the point. “We’re not saying this is an idyllic life. We’re saying this is the life they have chosen.”
Many advocates for uncontacted peoples feel they walk a fine line between raising awareness of their struggles and turning them into a spectacle. For contacted tribal Indigenous communities, online visibility can attract valuable tourism, which is increasingly important for their survival—but it comes with costs.
As Fearless & Far, Mike Corey sells online courses and leads retreats that claim to help men conquer their fears and awaken their inner warrior—all marketed with videos of his own “tribal adventures” with contacted groups. On YouTube, where he has 3.1 million subscribers, he showcases his “wild moments with lost tribes,” such as the “SNAKE TRIBE of Tanzania” and the “DEATH TRIBE of Indonesia.” Many of his videos reach 10 million views.
Canadian-born Corey has visited about 40 tribes worldwide, spending up to three days living with them and filming for social media. He says he pioneered that “immersive” format five years ago with the Hadza hunter-gatherers of Tanzania, who now regularly receive tourists and content creators—attention that has been a “double-edged sword,” according to Corey. “When I met them, they would never even touch Coca-Cola … They’re slowly becoming less hunter-gatherer.” At the same time, he argues, tribal tourism supports their survival by reviving young Hadza people’s interest in their ancient culture and customs, and providing an economic framework to preserve them.
View image in fullscreen: As Fearless & Far, Mike Corey posts about his ‘tribal adventures’ with contacted groups, including the snake tribe of Tanzania …
View image in fullscreen: … and the Hadza hunter-gatherers. Photographs: YouTube
Though there was “very little” tribal content when he started out, Corey doesHe doesn’t believe his videos helped it grow. “It would have happened anyway – but I wish people were more respectful and did it for the same reasons we do.” Corey says “new-gen YouTubers” can be especially unethical, scripting encounters for entertainment. Some even pay or pressure Indigenous people to dress up or act aggressively. “That’s where I get upset. You’re not helping anything; you’re creating a fake reality that gets clicks, like ‘I got captured by cannibals.'”
Corey says he’s driven by curiosity and a wish to “meet people in all these four corners and find a human connection.” A former TV presenter, he follows a similar approach to making content. Stays are set up ahead of time by a local fixer, and hosts are well paid, with supplies if not money (in communities where alcohol is used, it can be a “big problem”). He says he always asks permission to film, both beforehand and on site, and has only been turned down once. More often, tribes want him to stay longer or come back, he says, crediting his “documentarian” mindset and sense of duty. “We’re trying to tell a story about people who will be gone in 10 years.” But it’s still packaged for platforms that often don’t handle nuance well, and some question whether these are his stories to tell.
In April, Corey posted an Instagram video about his stay with the Himba people in northwestern Namibia, known for their practice of Okujepisa, or “wife-lending” to guests. This traditional sign of hospitality has become increasingly controversial in Namibia and is often misrepresented, sometimes gleefully, by outsiders on social media. Corey’s video highlights his discomfort with the Himba women’s “too friendly” approach, but ends by asking viewers to comment “MAP” to get their location – a common digital marketing trick to boost engagement. About half of the 100 commenters criticized the video as exploitative or sleazy; the other half commented “MAP.”
“I was the one who felt uncomfortable,” Corey says, adding that his conscience is clear. “I know we’re doing good work.”
‘We don’t want contact because you are bad’: loggers close in on uncontacted people in Peruvian Amazon
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Content creators argue they aim to spread awareness, build connections, or preserve culture, but it’s hard to separate their message from the medium. Some have argued that social media, mostly US-owned yet shaping global culture, inevitably imposes a white, Western viewpoint and reinforces colonial power structures – what’s called “platform imperialism.” Seen this way, even the most thoughtful content creators’ encounters with tribal people fall apart once posted online.
Whenever such videos show up in María José Andrade Cerda’s social feeds, she blocks and reports them. “I don’t want to see those kinds of videos,” she says from Tena, Ecuador. Cerda, 31, is herself Indigenous, from the Kichwa community of Serena. She’s also part of Yuturi Warmi, an Indigenous all-female patrol of the Ecuadorian Amazon, and has spoken to world leaders at COP. But Cerda denies being an activist: “For us, it’s about surviving.”
Cerda has been trying to use social media to help her community and push for Indigenous rights. Last year, she hosted MrBeast collaborator Nolan Hansen in Ecuador for a video partnership with the charity WaterAid. Cerda appears briefly, talking about a local water filtration project; the video now has 127 million views.
Cerda says even well-meaning content creators tend to lump together distinct communities and cultures, spreading oversimplified stories: “I feel they’re not treating the issues as they should be, with respect and the full context.” Yet when an international platform would be useful, “when it’s about our rights, they don’t care.”She compares the widespread silence from influencers on Indigenous-led protests against the Ecuadorian government’s proposed oil expansion in the Amazon with the flood of content about Indigenous culture, traditions, and women—at least those who fit Western beauty standards, she adds. “They only want the Pocahontas.”
With the recent boom in the creator economy, it’s hard to imagine how influencers could be controlled. Cerda wonders if they could be questioned about their plans at airport customs, or if platforms might require them to show proof of the “free, prior and informed consent” of the Indigenous people they film. But even if such measures were practical, she adds, they wouldn’t tackle the deep, underlying inequality. “Influencers have double lives: they can spend a month in the jungle with these tribes, then return to the US, where they live in big houses and drink clean water.” Sometimes, Cerda says, communities accept gifts from content creators, only to later realize “they were being used: ‘He’s making money from that video. What about us?'”
Others, unable to beat the creator economy, have joined it, setting up social media accounts to appeal directly to tourists. Members of Ecuador’s Waorani tribe have even made deals with content creators, offering cheaper stays in exchange for coverage. The Waorani Experience markets itself on Instagram as offering “100% Authentic Tours … As seen on YouTube.” Operator Boya Tegairis, himself Waorani, says over WhatsApp that he was motivated by the memory of his grandfather, who “defended this jungle.” “With the tourist income, we can buy medicines for our families … and take care of the jungle for future generations.”
The price, however, is bringing influencers deeper in. On the long journey to the Waorani compound, boats pass briefly through the territory of uncontacted Waorani, known to respond violently to outsiders—including their contacted relatives. Guests are accompanied by their hosts, briefed, and required to sign a waiver; the boats don’t stop. Content creators hosted by Tegairis emphasize the danger regardless.
For all the lengths Polyakov went to in securing his footage from North Sentinel, at the time of writing he has still only just passed 10,000 subscribers on YouTube; news of his arrest traveled far further than his videos. But he isn’t discouraged, with an upcoming series filmed in Haiti and a trip to the Middle East. He blames the muted response on his refusal to play to YouTube’s algorithm with a sensationalized or falsified account. “I could’ve gone to some other tribal group and said ‘This is North Sentinel,’ but I didn’t. I went for the real thing, despite the risks,” he says heatedly. “Maybe in 10 years I’ll sell out—but I actually care about being accurate.”
Frequently Asked Questions
Here is a list of FAQs based on the article topic ranging from basic definitions to deeper ethical and practical questions
General Definition Questions
1 What does colonialism for clicks actually mean in this context
It means that influencers and content creators are treating indigenous uncontacted tribes as props or content to grow their own social media followings Instead of respecting the tribes right to be left alone they invade their space for personal gain which is a modern version of the old colonial attitude of taking what you want from native people without consent
2 Who are the uncontacted or isolated tribes
These are groups of people who have little to no peaceful contact with the outside world They choose to remain isolated to protect themselves from diseases and violence Most live in dense rainforests like the Amazon or the Andaman Islands They are not lost they know exactly where they are and want to stay away from us
3 Why are influencers trying to find them
Its a mix of extreme thrillseeking a desire for exclusive content that no one else has and the massive financial payoff A video showing a rare encounter with a tribe can generate millions of views leading to brand deals ad revenue and massive fame
Safety Ethical Questions
4 Why is it dangerous to approach these tribes
Its deadly for both sides The tribes have no immunity to common diseases like the flu or COVID19 A simple cold from an influencer could wipe out 50 of the tribe Conversely the tribe may attack intruders with arrows or spears to defend their territory which can get the influencer killed
5 Is it actually illegal to film or contact them
Yes in most countries Brazil Peru and India have strict laws protecting isolated tribes Entering their protected reserves without government permission is a federal crime punishable by heavy fines and even prison time The influencers are often trespassing on protected land
6 Arent these influencers just raising awareness about the tribes
That is their excuse but experts say its false Real awareness is done by anthropologists and indigenous rights groups who publish reports and lobby governments Filming a tribe for a YouTube video doesnt help them it puts a
