The Last Survivors

There was virtually nothing but rainforest for miles, and then the government agents spotted it: a makeshift shelter, the fire still smoldering.

There were two sets of footprints, two machetes, and two spots for hammocks.

“He was just here,” said one of the agents, Jair Candor, crouching beneath the shelter in June as his partner snapped photographs. Candor had spent 35 years searching for a man who did not want to be found—and this time, he just missed him.

There was virtually nothing but rainforest for miles, and then the government agents spotted it. It was a makeshift shelter, and the fire was still smoldering.

There were two sets of footprints, two machetes, and two spots for hammocks.

“He was just here,” said one of the agents, Jair Candor, crouching beneath the shelter in June as his partner snapped photographs. Candor had spent 35 years searching for a man who did not want to be found. This time, he just missed him.

That man, Tamandua Piripkura, has lived his life on the run. Not from authorities or enemies—though plenty of people in Brazil would like to see him dead—but from modernity.

Tamandua is one of the last three known survivors of the Piripkura people, an offshoot of a larger Indigenous group that once spread across a large swath of the forest. He has lived isolated, deep in the Amazon rainforest, his entire life, believed to be about 50 years.

His partner in isolation had long been his uncle, Pakyi. Until recently, the two trekked through the forest, nude and barefoot, with little more than machetes and a torch. A third survivor, a woman named Rita, left the land around 1985 and married into another tribe.

That man, Tamandua Piripkura, has lived his life on the run. Not from authorities or enemies, though plenty of people in Brazil would like to see him dead. But he is running from modernity.

Tamandua is one of the last three known survivors of the Piripkura people, an offshoot of a larger Indigenous group that once spread across a large swath of the forest. He has lived isolated, deep in the Amazon rainforest, his entire life, believed to be about 50 years.

His partner in isolation had long been his uncle, Pakyi. Until recently, the two trekked through the forest, nude and barefoot. They have little more than machetes and a torch. A third survivor, a woman named Rita, left the land around 1985. She married into another tribe.

When Candor first found Pakyi and Tamandua in 1989—in a tree, foraging for honey— Brazil effectively sided with the loggers. For the next two decades, the government did nothing, and the forest was carved up by sawmills.

Then, in 2007, Candor found the two men again. The government, under a leftist administration and influenced by shifting attitudes about preserving the Amazon, reversed its stance. Brazil protected nearly 1,000 square miles of forest, an area twice the size of Los Angeles, just for Pakyi and Tamandua.

But the protections infuriated the people who owned that land. Decades earlier, the government had sold most of the territory to settlers for almost nothing, part of an effort to encourage Brazilians to exploit the forest and expand the economy.

The people who inherited or bought those land titles are now challenging the protections to get back to razing the land and putting cattle on it. That fight is led by the Penços, a family that runs the state’s largest limestone mines and owns nearly half the Piripkura protected area. They argue that Pakyi and Tamandua do not need so much land, and the government is violating their rights in a veiled effort to stop logging.

Francisco Penço, the spokesperson for his family, says the men are “being used as a means to further an environmentalist agenda.”

But to Candor, the Piripkura have a stronger claim to the land than the Penços.

“If they have the right to all this,” he says of the Penços, “why don’t the guys who were born here, grew up here, lived here, and saw their relatives die here?”

Candor first found Pakyi and Tamandua in 1989, foraging for honey in a tree. Brazil effectively sided with the loggers. For the next two decades, the government did nothing, and the forest was carved up by sawmills.

Then, in 2007, Candor found the two men again. The government, under a leftist administration and influenced by shifting attitudes about preserving the Amazon, reversed its stance. Brazil protected nearly 1,000 square miles of forest just for Pakyi and Tamandua. This area is twice the size of Los Angeles.

But the protections infuriated the people who owned that land. Decades earlier, the government had sold most of the territory to settlers for almost nothing. This was part of an effort to encourage Brazilians to exploit the forest and expand the economy.

The people who inherited or bought those land titles are now challenging the protections to get back to razing the land and putting cattle on it. That fight is led by the Penços, a family that runs the state’s largest limestone mines. They own nearly half the Piripkura protected area. They argue that Pakyi and Tamandua do not need so much land, and the government is violating their rights in a veiled effort to stop logging.

Francisco Penço, the spokesperson for his family, says the men are “being used as a means to further an environmentalist agenda.”

But to Candor, the Piripkura have a stronger claim to the land than the Penços.

“If they have the right to all this,” he says of the Penços, “why don’t the guys who were born here, grew up here, lived here, and saw their relatives die here?”

For centuries, Indigenous people were seen as obstacles to progress and were slaughtered across the world. But with mounting pressure in recent decades, many governments today protect Indigenous lands (see “Indigenous Land Rights,” below).

In Brazil, such reserves have become a pillar of efforts to conserve the Amazon rainforest. Fourteen percent of the nation—roughly the size of France and Spain combined—is now Indigenous territory.

Yet those territories have remained under constant threat from invaders, and since 2019, almost 800 Indigenous people have been killed. After years of genocide and deforestation, many tribes have just a few dozen members left.

But no known tribe in Brazil is smaller than the Piripkura, according to experts, and now their protections are at risk. After 15 years of delays, the government aims to complete a study early this year on whether the Piripkura deserve a permanent reserve—or any protections at all.

The Penços and other opponents argue that the protected area should shrink significantly or be eliminated altogether, in part because Pakyi now lives near the government base.

That has made proving Tamandua is alive critical to the safeguards.

For centuries, Indigenous people were seen as obstacles to progress and were slaughtered across the world. But with mounting pressure in recent decades, many governments today protect Indigenous lands (see “Indigenous Land Rights,” below).

In Brazil, such reserves have become a pillar of efforts to conserve the Amazon rainforest. Fourteen percent of the nation is now Indigenous territory. This area is roughly the size of France and Spain combined.

Yet those territories have remained under constant threat from invaders. Since 2019, almost 800 Indigenous people have been killed. After years of genocide and deforestation, many tribes have just a few dozen members left.

But no known tribe in Brazil is smaller than the Piripkura, according to experts. Now their protections are at risk. After 15 years of delays, the government aims to complete a study early this year on whether the Piripkura deserve a permanent reserve. Or if they need any protections at all.

The Penços and other opponents argue that the protected area should shrink significantly or be eliminated altogether, in part because Pakyi now lives near the government base.

That has made proving Tamandua is alive critical to the safeguards.

Last June, Candor, 63, drove his government truck five hours into the rainforest on a dirt road the Penços built to extract wood. He was heading to the government base to search for Tamandua, whom he had not seen in roughly two years.

Soon after he arrived, a figure appeared at the base’s screen door: a 4-foot-3 Indigenous man covered in red dye from an Amazonian fruit. It was Pakyi.

Pakyi entered cautiously at first, eyeing the newcomers: government agents and New York Times journalists. But he warmed up quickly, smiling wide, grabbing hands and tugging on beards. He had begun wearing clothes, seeing that others did too. His stained shirt was on backward, displaying its text on his chest: “None of us is better than all of us together.”

Last June, Candor, 63, drove his government truck five hours into the rainforest on a dirt road the Penços built to extract wood. He was heading to the government base to search for Tamandua. He had not seen him in roughly two years.

Soon after he arrived, a figure appeared at the base’s screen door. It was a 4-foot-3 Indigenous man covered in red dye from an Amazonian fruit.

It was Pakyi.

Pakyi entered cautiously at first, eyeing the newcomers: government agents and New York Times journalists. But he warmed up quickly, smiling wide, grabbing hands and tugging on beards. He had begun wearing clothes, seeing that others did too. His stained shirt was on backward. It displayed its text on his chest saying “None of us is better than all of us together.”

While eager to re-enact past hunts, he initially ignored or refused to answer questions about his family and nephew. But a day later, he sat down on a log and began talking. Tamandua is in the forest, he said through a translator, and did not want to be found.

Less than a century ago, the Piripkura lived in a village of more than 100 people, anthropologists believe, with similar technology as their neighbors: fire, weapons, pottery, crops.

How the Piripkura went from a village to three people is unclear. Anthropologists have pieced together history largely based on stories from the third survivor, Rita, believed to be Pakyi’s sister. She said her family told her things changed when White people arrived.

Many settlers slaughtered Indigenous people. The Brazilian government has acknowledged that during the country’s military dictatorship from 1964 to 1985, at least 8,300 Indigenous people were killed.

While eager to re-enact past hunts, he initially ignored or refused to answer questions about his family and nephew. But a day later, he sat down on a log and began talking. Tamandua is in the forest, he said through a translator. He did not want to be found.

Less than a century ago, the Piripkura lived in a village of more than 100 people. Anthropologists believe they had similar technology as their neighbors including fire, weapons, pottery, and crops.

How the Piripkura went from a village to three people is unclear. Anthropologists have pieced together history largely based on stories from the third survivor, Rita. She is believed to be Pakyi’s sister. She said her family told her things changed when White people arrived.

Many settlers slaughtered Indigenous people. The Brazilian government has acknowledged that during the country’s military dictatorship from 1964 to 1985, at least 8,300 Indigenous people were killed.

While the creation of a Piripkura Indigenous reserve could save this part of the forest, it may not save the Piripkura. Several years ago, Candor brought Pakyi and Tamandua to the village of another Indigenous group that spoke a similar language, hoping to inspire them to find a partner.

Anthropologists would consider any offspring from the two men another Piripkura generation. Candor does not think Pakyi, with his age and temperament, will procreate. But he believes Tamandua can.

The creation of a Piripkura Indigenous reserve could save this part of the forest. But it may not save the Piripkura. Several years ago, Candor brought Pakyi and Tamandua to the village of another Indigenous group that spoke a similar language, hoping to inspire them to find a partner.

Anthropologists would consider any offspring from the two men another Piripkura generation. Candor does not think Pakyi, with his age and temperament, will procreate. But he believes Tamandua can.

“If there was a spark between him and one of the girls there, for sure,” Candor says. But in the village, the women were more interested in their smartphones. “Wrapped up in technology,” he adds, “they’re not going to want to come to this life here, roaming the forest.”

As for Rita, who is in her 60s, much of the rainforest where her family once lived has been razed. So has the sacred area where her people, including Rita years ago, gave birth.

If there is going to be another Piripkura birth, she says, it is up to one person: Tamandua.

“We have to find him,” she says.

“If there was a spark between him and one of the girls there, for sure,” Candor says. But in the village, the women were more interested in their smartphones. “Wrapped up in technology,” he adds, “they’re not going to want to come to this life here, roaming the forest.”

As for Rita, who is in her 60s, much of the rainforest where her family once lived has been razed. So has the sacred area where her people, including Rita years ago, gave birth.

If there is going to be another Piripkura birth, she says, it is up to one person: Tamandua.

“We have to find him,” she says.

Jack Nicas is the Brazil bureau chief for The Times. Manuela Adreoni writes for the Climate Forward newsletter and is a native of Brazil.

Jack Nicas is the Brazil bureau chief for The Times. Manuela Adreoni writes for the Climate Forward newsletter and is a native of Brazil.