He set out from the beach around midnight, packing his camera, a coconut and a can of Diet Coke. Mykhailo Polyakov – then 24 and a native of Scottsdale, Arizona – pointed his inflatable dinghy out towards the open water, keeping his speed slow in the hope of avoiding detection.
After hours of motoring across the Bay of Bengal, his destination came into view: a low-lying island, narrowly separating sea and sky. With the sun now high above him, Polyakov cut the engine and set his GoPro to record. “So, the goal,” he said, squinting towards the blinding-white beach. “Introduce this Palaeolithic tribe to modernity … Let’s land on this bitch.”
Polyakov was nearing North Sentinel Island, part of the Andaman archipelago governed by India. Venturing within 5km (3 miles) is strictly prohibited, let alone setting foot on shore, and authorities routinely patrol the surrounding waters. But Polyakov saw himself as on a mission: to see – and, more importantly, film – the Indigenous people who live there.
The Sentinelese are perhaps the most isolated people in the world. They are hunter-gatherers, and believed to number about 100. Beyond that, little is known about them, not even what language they speak. That is how they want it. The tribe opt to live in isolation from the outside world and have fiercely resisted attempts at contact. In 2018, an American missionary was fatally struck by arrows on his third attempt to land on the beach. Earlier, in 2006, two Indian fishers were killed after their boat accidentally washed up on shore.
Polyakov, who turns 26 this year and studied finance, believed the risks to be overstated – or at least secondary to his desire to take the first shots in crystalline 4K resolution. “I wouldn’t condone illegal activities but, in my case, the draw to go there was very powerful,” he says, a year after his illicit trip. “You see videos of the Sentinelese and it’s all grainy footage from the 90s … It was a big drive for me to get them on camera.”
He took a mirror and a whistle, “to coax them out”, and some goodwill tokens, in the event that he succeeded: the Diet Coke as a “symbol of modernity” and a coconut “because we know they like coconuts”. It wasn’t just clickbait, Polyakov adds, smirking: “It would be bad form not to bring gifts to people you’re visiting.”
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The human rights organisation Survival International estimates there are 196 Indigenous communities living like the Sentinelese, in voluntary isolation. Most are in South America, in the Amazon rainforest and the Gran Chaco region of Paraguay and Bolivia, with a few more across Indonesia, West Papua and elsewhere in India’s Andaman and Nicobar Islands. Though fundamentally diverse, these communities have all chosen to reject outsiders and the industrialised world, and live self-sufficiently. They are known to policymakers and advocates as “uncontacted peoples”.
Increasingly, however, outsiders are trying to contact them – and make content from them. Survival and other organisations working to protect isolated peoples report they are increasingly being targeted by influencers chasing exclusive footage of “first contact” – and with it internet fame. For now, their numbers are believed to be few, with Polyakov a rare confirmed case, but advocates believe the threat to be real, growing and warranting action. Influencers were discussed at an international summit held in Jakarta in January, and again at a United Nations meeting in Brazil in June.
GTI PIACI, an alliance of 21 organisations working to protect uncontacted Indigenous peoples in the Amazon and Gran Chaco, has put the word out across their network, says secretary Daniel Aristizábal from Bogotá, Colombia. “It’s becoming a trend, and we have to adapt. These people have money.”
The UK-based Survival goes further, monitoring social media for influencers who might be motivated to make contact. “It’s all so unnecessary,” says Sophie Grig, head of advocacy and research, over Zoom from her home in Cambridge. She has been with Survival for 30 years, until recently focused on the Asia-Pacific, and is impatient with this “emerging threat” of influencers. The charity tracks a dozen or so accounts across YouTube, TikTok and Instagram with posts about uncontacted peoples. Many of those behind these accounts – overwhelmingly white men – are in the vicinity in South America or Asia and making content about “contacted” Indigenous communities. Their posts may also showcase weapons, snakes and “plant medicine” such as ayahuasca. “It’s very ‘look at me, I’m so macho’,” Grig says with disdain.
Though the likelihood of them ever reaching uncontacted peoples may be slim, the potential danger is great: isolated populations have historically been decimated by the introduction of unfamiliar diseases such as measles, to which they have not developed 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 ended its policy of “forced contact missions” to uncontacted Amazonian tribes due to the devastating epidemics that persisted despite safeguards. For an influencer to argue against the risk and speak on behalf of uncontacted peoples is “an irresponsible, even criminal attitude”, Marubo says.
Such western “adventurer types” have long been drawn to places like the Amazon, Grig says, but influencers pose an additional risk with their global reach: those on Survival’s watchlist have a combined audience of more than 40 million followers. Even if they are not actively trying to find uncontacted peoples, by posting about them, Grig says they often affirm damaging stereotypes, spread dangerous misinformation and potentially influence others to try.
In interviews, Polyakov has dismissed Survival’s criticism that he endangered the Sentinelese, arguing that he was vaccinated and the risk of transmission low. He also claims trespassers there are more common than reported, and has even questioned whether any truly “uncontacted” people exist. This, Grig says, is self-serving semantics: while “voluntary isolation” may better reflect their position, there is no question they want to be left alone. Often, this is in response to past violence or traumatic experiences. “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 up with uncontacted groups at a careful remove, often via former members who have left the jungle or neighbouring Indigenous communities. Some uncontacted people may intermittently interact with outsiders, Grig says, often when forced to 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 activity on their land, but national protections do not consistently meet that standard and enforcement is often haphazard. In Peru, for example, unauthorised entry can incur six-figure fines, but with little government presence on the ground, the chance of being caught is low.
Content creators, spurred on by platforms’ incentives for exciting and exclusive footage, may deem the risks worth it. “It feels like this is in a long line of colonialism,” Grig says exasperatedly. “People have been after land, gold, rubber, timber, souls – and now it’s clicks.”
On YouTube, Polyakov’s primary platform, he goes by @Neo-Orientalist – “because I’m bringing it back” – and a Tintin-style avatar. But he rejects being labelled a content creator, disdaining social media as a means to an end. In setting his sights on the Sentinelese, he sought to progress his goal of making “gamechanging” documentaries. “I wanted to do something that no one’s ever done before,” he says over video call, his face looming large in his phone’s camera. Behind him, the brightly painted concrete wall and harsh light suggest a youth hostel. When we speak in May, Polyakov says he is somewhere in south-east Asia, working on projects. He demurs from giving more detail, lest he embolden his online “haters”: “If you want to know where I’m going, you should subscribe.”
Polyakov claims his primary objective was to capture footage of the Sentinelese, not to interact with them, thereby reducing the risks to both sides. “You can always film them from outside of arrow range,” he shrugs. But when he finally made it to North Sentinel, on his third attempt, in March 2025, “ultimately I failed to coax anyone out”, he says. After beaching his dinghy, he walked around for five to 10 minutes, blowing his whistle to no apparent response. He then pushed back out to sea and filmed himself tossing the Coke can towards the shore. “It was anticlimactic … I was a little let down.”
He says he was more worried about encountering authorities than the Sentinelese. But in the footage he eventually posted on YouTube, Polyakov seems scared, then a little defensive. “Look, I can’t force the natives to come out,” he tells his audience, once safely back on the water. He made it back to his hotel without being caught, but was later arrested. Authorities had been alerted to a dinghy in the open water, and Polaykov had forgotten to remove his camera’s memory card. “They had me saying, ‘What’s up, guys? I’m at North Sentinel,’” he says ruefully. “From there it’s kind of tough.”
Polyakov was charged under two laws, but says he felt confident that, as a foreigner, “I wouldn’t be stuck in India for years.” He pleaded guilty and was sentenced to 25 days’ imprisonment and a fine of about £120.
His first “dispatch” from North Sentinel was posted on YouTube this April. The commentary has been mostly negative, as Polyakov concedes. (“Bro’s got main character syndrome,” reads a top-ranked comment.) He blames the “slanted” reporting, and takes every opportunity to speak to the media, partly for publicity, but also to defend himself against criticism from groups such as Survival, who called him “idiotic and reckless”.
Polyakov in turn calls Survival an activist organisation pursuing a “misguided” agenda “to keep certain groups stuck in the past”, and says he is acting in the public interest, “bringing information into the world”. He denies he was endangering the Sentinelese, pointing to the plastic refuse he found washed up on their beach. “They are very much aware of the outside world … It’s not like I’ve accelerated globalisation by going there. If it wasn’t me, it would be someone else.”
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In explicitly targeting the world’s most isolated people, breaking multiple laws and getting caught, Polyakov is a clearcut case. More typically, content creators posting about uncontacted peoples are harder to pin down, not least because of the potential gulf between what they say online and what they may actually be doing. One individual monitored by Survival (who they requested not be named, believing him to be a serious risk) publicised detailed plans to visit North Sentinel to his six-figure following, but no evidence of an earnest attempt in the two years since. Other influencers boast of travelling through “uncontacted territory”, when they are in fact on widely used routes or even touristic tribal experiences. Some, Survival fear, might be doing the opposite, posing as legitimate while making covert efforts to find and film uncontacted people. With the geographical, legal and ethical lines ill-defined, content creators often operate in a grey area.
To his 276,000 followers on Instagram, where he goes by @yankiguayo, 30-year-old Nathan Seastrand bills himself as a film-maker, producing documentaries about Paraguay’s Gran Chaco region and its Indigenous Ayoréo people. From Utah, but based in Paraguay since 2016, Seastrand publicly presents as a champion of the Chaco and its people, telling local media he is motivated by “curiosity and wonder”. But this reputation has recently been publicly challenged, with Seastrand accused of exploitation, a claim he denies.
In early August, an influencer who has asked not to be named posted on YouTube about his experiences collaborating with Seastrand on a documentary last year. He said Seastrand seemed “obsessed” with finding and filming uncontacted Ayoréo, making multiple visits to their territory, setting trail cameras and trying to acquire a thermal-imaging drone to search from the air.
There are estimated to be 150 uncontacted Ayoréo, living in small nomadic groups in the dwindling areas of the Chaco not yet cleared by deforestation. Local advocates monitor them through traces such as the prints from their tapir-leather sandals, but they have not been photographed in decades. The Paraguayan government signed a protocol in 2018, requiring it to prevent unwanted contact, but it does not specifically outlaw it, while access to Indigenous lands is granted at the discretion of individual community leaders.
Having accompanied Seastrand on two journeys into the Chaco, the influencer said he grew increasingly concerned by his “morally questionable” approach. He claimed Seastrand gave money and alcohol to Ayoréo leaders to secure access to their reserve and permission to film, later leading to conflict with neighbours who wanted in on the deal. The influencer said he cut ties with Seastrand not long after, accusing him of “exploiting the poorest and most marginalised segment of Paraguayan society in order to become rich and famous”.
In an email to the Guardian, Seastrand rejects the influencer’s account, saying all his activities on Ayoréo land were legal and authorised by community leaders. He calls the claim he had gained access with alcohol “absurd”, saying that he developed friendships over multiple visits. “They were not tricked or coerced … It is normal to invite your friends to a cold pack of beer.”
Seastrand confirms he paid money, not unusual for film-making, but dismisses the conflict described by the influencer as “no more than a jealous neighbouring tribe”.
As for the camera traps, Seastrand says they were set 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 says his on-camera references to “wild Ayoréo territory” were an effort to engage viewers. “There is no such thing … No one really knows where they are.”
Others have spoken out against Seastrand’s activities in the Chaco. An Ayoréo lawyer accused him of sharing a photograph of his late grandfather without consent, and refusing to remove it when asked (Seastrand says he had consent from the grandfather and has since taken the photo down). According to Paraguayan media, Seastrand has also been accused of offering to pay people to find uncontacted Ayoréo. In mid-August, following the intervention of the Paraguyan National Indigenous Institute (INDI), a court granted emergency measures be taken against Seastrand, including removal of his camera traps. Seastrand continues to deny wrongdoing, and is still posting from the Chaco on Instagram.
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Before he became “one of the most-known influencers in Paraguay”, as he puts it, Seastrand had a different motive: he was a Mormon missionary. According to a 2023 New York Times profile, Seastrand baptised more than 30 people before leaving the church and pursuing content creation.
The pathway is less incongruous than it might seem, GTI PIACI’s Aristizábal points out: both influencers and missionaries pursue Indigenous people, rather than their lands or resources. John Allen Chau, the 26-year-old Christian missionary killed by the Sentinelese in 2018, chronicled his travels on Instagram and even had endorsement deals – one with a jerky brand. When word of his presumed death reached Survival, Grig says, “Our first assumption was that he was an influencer.”
Chau was allegedly motivated to reach the Sentinelese because their extreme isolation made them more highly prized souls to save. Now, missionary influencers blur roles by openly documenting their efforts to reach Indigenous people in the Amazon and beyond.
Earlier this year, footage of uncontacted Mashco Piro (or Nomole) people on riverbanks in the Peruvian Amazon created a sensation online, drawing headlines everywhere from the New York Post and the Sun to social-first outlets such as LADbible and Worldstar Hip Hop. It had been shared by Paul Rosolie, the American founder of Junglekeepers, a nonprofit working in the Peruvian Amazon.
Not straightforwardly a content creator, Rosolie isn’t 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 not necessarily concerned with sensitivity, such as The Joe Rogan Experience. His footage of the Mashco Piro was shared exclusively with the podcaster Lex Fridman, trailed as a “world first” and timed days before publication of Rosolie’s new book. The footage had been taken more than a year earlier.
Rosolie declined an interview, but a representative of Junglekeepers says in an emailed statement that the encounter was overseen by a Peruvian government official and met no-contact protocols. The spokesperson says Rosolie released the film to call attention to Junglekeepers’ work to save Mashco Piro territory 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 showmanship, Rosolie’s intrepid tales capture imaginations, and open wallets: Junglekeepers raised $3.3m in 2024, enabling it to buy and protect more than 135,000 acres of forest. But Survival and other groups working to protect uncontacted peoples say he perpetuates dated and damaging tropes. 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 emphasised the danger from naked “warriors” with “seven foot-long” arrows and spears, and the simplicity of their existence, “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 hit the same beats. Grig points out Rosolie first came to prominence with a controversial Discovery Channel stunt in which he set out to be “eaten alive” by a 20ft-long anaconda: “If he’s not an influencer, he has massive influencer tendencies.” She is critical of his characterisation of the Mashco Piro as “not even stone age”: “They’re living in the 21st century, just as much as we are.” Using such “sensationalist, derogatory, dehumanising language” poses a threat to uncontacted peoples, Grig says, amplifying arguments long used to justify stealing their lands, removing them from their communities and imposing so-called “development”.
Rosolie has accused Survival of running a smear campaign by grouping him with the likes of Polyakov; there is no evidence of him ever breaking the law, and he discourages attempted contact. A Junglekeepers representative said they view the trend of influencer stunts “with serious concern” and Rosolie’s own position “has always been one of respect”. His comments about the Nomole were “never meant as any sort of judgment”, but 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 organisations fighting for Indigenous control of their land, highlighting the different worldviews. The representative said its work was Indigenous-led, and Rosolie was only “the main communicator”.
In interviews he has expressed ambivalence 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 can work as park rangers instead. To Grig, that is irrelevant. “We’re not saying this is an idyllic life. We’re saying this is the life they have chosen.”
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Many advocates for uncontacted peoples feel they walk a fine line in calling attention to their struggles without turning them into a spectacle. For contacted tribal Indigenous communities, online visibility can drive valuable tourism, increasingly important to their survival – but it’s not without costs.
As Fearless & Far, Mike Corey sells online courses and leads retreats claiming to help men conquer their fears and wake the warrior within – all marketed with videos of his own “tribal adventures” with contacted groups. On YouTube, where he has 3.1 million subscribers, he highlights his “wild moments with lost tribes”, such as the “SNAKE TRIBE of Tanzania” and the “DEATH TRIBE of Indonesia”. Many videos hit 10m views.
Canadian-born Corey has visited about 40 tribes globally, spending up to three days living with them and filming for social media. He claims to have pioneered that “immersive” format five years ago with the Hadza hunter-gatherers of Tanzania, who now routinely receive tourists and content creators – attention that has been a “double-edged sword”, Corey says. “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 is supporting their survival, reviving young Hadza people’s interest in their ancient culture and customs, and providing an economic framework through which to preserve them.
Though there was “very little” tribal content when he started out, Corey does not believe his videos contributed to its growth. “It would have happened regardless – but I wish people were more respectful, and doing it for the same reasons we are.” “New-gen YouTubers” can be especially unscrupulous, Corey says, scripting encounters for entertainment. Some even pay or coerce Indigenous people to dress up or perform aggression. “That’s where I get butthurt. You are not helping anything, you’re creating a false reality that’s very clickable: ‘I got captured by cannibals.’”
Corey says he is motivated by curiosity and a desire to “meet people in all these four corners, and find a human connection”. A former television presenter, he follows a similar process for content production. Stays are arranged in advance by a local fixer, while hosts are well compensated, with supplies if not money (in the communities that use it, alcohol can be a “big problem”). He says he always asks permission to film, in advance and on location, and has only been refused once. More often, tribes want him to stay longer or return, he says, crediting his “documentarian” mindset and sense of responsibility. “We’re trying to tell a story about people that are going to be gone in 10 years.” But it is still packaged up for platforms often resistant to nuance, and some question whether they are his stories to tell.
In April, Corey posted a video to Instagram about his stay with the Himba people of north-western Namibia, known for their practice of Okujepisa, or “wife-lending” with guests. A traditional display of hospitality, it has been increasingly controversial within Namibia and misrepresented, sometimes gleefully, by outsiders on social media. Corey’s video emphasises his awkwardness with the Himba women’s “too friendly” approach, but concludes by calling for viewers to comment “MAP” to receive their location: a common digital marketing ploy for engagement. Roughly half the 100 commenters condemned the video as exploitative or sleazy; the other half commented “MAP”.
“I was the one uncomfortable,” Corey says, adding his conscience is clear. “I know we’re doing good work.”
Content creators argue they seek to spread awareness, build connections or preserve culture, but it is difficult to separate their message from the medium. Some have argued that social media, primarily US-owned, yet shaping global culture, necessarily imposes a white, western gaze and affirms colonial power structures – termed “platform imperialism”. Viewed this way, even the most conscientious content creators’ encounters with tribal people are undone once posted online.
Whenever such videos pop up on 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, belonging to the Kichwa community of Serena. She is also a member of Yuturi Warmi, an Indigenous all-female patrol of the Ecuadorian Amazon, and has addressed world leaders at Cop. But Cerda denies that she’s an activist: “For us, it’s about surviving.”
Cerda has been trying to use social media to benefit her community and advance Indigenous rights. Last year she hosted MrBeast collaborator Nolan Hansen in Ecuador for a video partnership with the charity WaterAid. Cerda briefly features, discussing a local water filtration project; the video now has 127m views.
Cerda says even well-intentioned content creators tend to conflate distinct communities and cultures, and spread simplistic narratives: “I feel they are not treating the issues how they should be, with respect and the full context.” Yet at times when an international platform would be welcome, “when it’s about our rights, they don’t care”. Cerda compares the widespread silence from influencers on Indigenous-led protests against the Ecuadorian government’s proposed expansion of oil exploration in the Amazon, with the wealth of content on Indigenous culture, traditions and women – at least those deemed to meet western beauty standards, she adds. “They only want the Pocahontas.”
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With the recent explosion in the creator economy, it is difficult to imagine how influencers might be reined in. Cerda wonders whether they could be interrogated about their plans at airport customs, or if platforms could require them to provide proof of the “free, prior and informed consent” of the Indigenous people they filmed. But even if such measures were practicable, she adds, they would not address the gaping, fundamental inequality. “Influencers have double lives: they can be in the jungle for one month with these tribes, then go back to the US, where they live in big houses and drink potable water.” Sometimes, Cerda says, communities will accept gifts from content creators, then later realise “they were being used: ‘He is making money because of that video. What about us?’”
Others, unable to beat the creator economy, have joined it, starting social media accounts to appeal to tourists directly. Members of Ecuador’s Waorani tribe have even struck 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, Waorani himself, 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 with violence to outsiders – including their contacted relatives. Guests are accompanied by their hosts, briefed and required to sign a waiver; the boats do not stop. Content creators hosted by Tegairis emphasise the danger regardless.
For all the lengths Polyakov went to in securing his footage from North Sentinel, at time of writing he has still only just cracked 10k subscribers on YouTube; news of his arrest travelled far further than his videos. But he is not dissuaded, with a forthcoming 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 sensationalised 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 hotly. “Maybe in 10 years I’ll sell out – but I actually care about being accurate.”
