Reply #5: The more things change, the more they remain the same

[Leopolds Ghost]

"Still, you have to remember how primitive and lightly populated these
tribes are," a friend of mine said, as if to explain that they were on
the way out anyhow, despite our best efforts to preserve the rainforest.

Primitive? I'll say. Killing every man woman and child of the enemy,
like the white nations do? Drop the bomb... Exterminate all the brutes!

I posted extra excerpts because the article seems to be available
only to people who are registered at washpost. However, the video
is available to all, I do believe.

Remember, this guy does not speak any language known to anyone but his deceased relatives...

And the only white people he had ever seen before were deadly enemies who probably massacred his entire tribe.

Of course, the forest preserve that is set up to protect his and the other survivors' land will almost assuredly expire on the death of the last surviving tribal member, as it does here in the US. "Facts on the ground," as they say. Then, back to logging and ranching.

Interestingly, this was not the way of invading Bantu and European tribesmen, who regarded the Pygmy and Neolithic forbears with supernatural reverence, even when they were pushing back the boundaries of the forest. To this day, the Pygmy are considered the "natural owners of the land" farmed by the feudal societies of Rwanda and Uganda...

Here is how the article ends:

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On Marcelo's recommendation, and after reviewing all of the evidence the team had collected over a decade, the Brazilian government early last year announced that, to protect the Indian, it was declaring an area of more than 20,000 acres in southern Rondonia off-limits to any development. In a base station at the zone's perimeter, a small camp has been built for Funai members who regularly visit to make sure no one is violating the order. Team members have a similar camp between the tiny Kanoe and Akuntsu villages.

At night in the Funai camps, the moon struggles to cast the foliage in a weak silver glow, and the leaves shine as if they are stamped in a thin foil. If the moon is full, sickle-winged nightjars sing a call-and-answer in the trees, without regard for the luckless creatures who don't share their nocturnal tendencies.

During the rainy season, when the clouds blot out the moon, the darkness can seem suffocating in the huts where the explorers sleep. The nightjars are silent. Moisture penetrates even the most expertly woven palm thatch. Droplets form among the spiderwebs that line the undersides of the weave, gathering weight. Time is measured in irregular drips. Within a darkness so complete, it is easy to imagine oneself as perfectly isolated, to forget another team member is sleeping in another hammock just a few feet away.

Somewhere in the nearby woods, the team members believe, a man is sleeping under circumstances that are similar to theirs -- but entirely different, too. There is no one at his side.

His protected zone is an island of green in the middle of an ocean of red dirt fields and ranches. About the size of the island of Hong Kong, it has a population of one.