My Year with the Tribe (2018): Season 1, Episode 3 - Episode #1.3 - full transcript

In the rainforest of West Papua...

...there lives a tribe that is one of the
most ancient and isolated cultures on Earth.

The Korowai were not visited by
outsiders until around 40 years ago,

when anthropologists and
missionaries

returned with stories of
cannibalism,

Stone Age tools

and extraordinary
houses built in the trees.

Over the years, other documentaries
have been made about them,

but most film crews visit only once.

And everything will have been set up
for them in advance

by a producer or local fixer.



In this series, I'm trying
something different.

In order to get closer to the heart
of Korowai culture,

I'm going back to the same place
four times

over the course of the year.

And this time, nothing has been
prepared for me.

THEY GREET EACH OTHER

When I first got here
eight months ago,

I found a family living in a remote
tumbledown tree house.

Quite possibly the last of their
generation

still living in the
traditional way.

THEY GREET EACH OTHER

On my next trip, however, it became
apparent that their adopted son,

August, no longer lived in the
forest,

and had moved his family to the new
village of Muara,



four hours' walk away.

It's becoming clear that I've landed in
the middle of a culture in transition.

This is absolutely incredible.

This is beyond my wildest dreams.

And now I'm on my third trip,

navigating a path between the
ancient and the modern,

it's turning out to be much more
complicated than I ever imagined.

THEY SHOUT

My name is Will Millard.

I'm a writer
and expedition leader.

I've spent much of the last decade
travelling across West Papua.

For the last eight months, I've been
coming to visit the Korowai,

to try to better understand the
challenges they face

as they collide with
the modern world.

What I have seen is a tribe of
people who have all but given up

living in the forest.

But I've also met two old men,
Haup and Halap,

still living the traditional way.

Yes! Gotcha!

They are my last chance to
understand an ancient,

hunter-gatherer way of life.

A lifestyle which was shared by all
our ancestors,

but has now almost completely
disappeared.

THEY LAUGH

To get the complete picture of
Korowai life,

I'm also going to spend time with
their adopted son, August, who,

like most people around here,

now lives in a Government-built
village.

But when I arrived at his house a
couple of days ago,

I found that everyone had gone to a
festival,

a day's walk into the forest.

THEY CHANT

A group from another village just
arrived,

and everyone just picks up their
bows and arrows.

And this has started.

There are roughly 4,000 Korowai, and
I'm told that as many as 10%

of the entire population are going
to descend on this place

in the next few hours,

to dance and feast on a local
delicacy, sago grubs.

Amazing!

Birds of paradise on heads,
cassowary feathers, football tops,

the works, it's amazing!

THEY CHANT

I speak Indonesian, but not
Korowai,

so I'm relying on my interpreter,
Perez,

to help make sense of it.

Ow.

No problems, you've got to forget,
lupa masala! Yeah.

Apparently grub festivals began as a
way of maintaining peace amongst

their neighbouring clans.

By coming together and sharing food,

the villagers were able to settle
disputes.

Today, there is not much tribal
warfare left,

but the Korowai still perform
war dances

as they enter the feast.

Absolutely extraordinary.
I can't believe it.

But I am crying
because of the smoke!

THEY CHANT

On these trips, I've been made to
consider where the line between

the authentic and performance lies.

But here is an undeniably ancient
tradition,

being kept alive and adapted by the
modern Korowai,

and it is all the more
meaningful for that.

THEY CHANT AND BLOW WHISTLES

This is Muara and Baygon combined.

Two of the villages with the worst
reputation

in the whole of the Korowai region.

I'm here to try and find August and
his wife, Amel,

who I first met eight months ago,

and who I've been filming with on
and off ever since.

When I first met Amel, she was
seven months pregnant,

and when I came back on
my second trip,

I was there the night her child was
born.

HE CHUCKLES

Ahh!

THEY GREET

August!

August is here!

Cigarettes!

August, I've literally just
arrived, mate.

Ohhh!

Hey, Dodi! Is this for me?

HE CONVERSES IN KOROWAI

Look at that. Amazing.

That's fantastic.

Oh, the family are all here.

Oh, goodness me.

Aww, no!

And the first one is going to be a
beetle!

Which is my least favourite.

HE LAUGHS

Sharing round the sago grubs,
I can't believe it!

I can't... Oh, look at that one.

Oh!

Dodi!

HE LAUGHS

That was the best one yet!

Ah, it's good to see you.

August's child has a name, Sophie.

HE LAUGHS

It's just a carpet

of sago with sago grubs.

The feast culminates with the
sharing out

of the giant sago grub pizzas.

Really hot, that is.

Yeah. Filled with grubs, amazing!

But that here means more than just
handshakes, smiles...

A thousand welcomes!

That means you matter.

And thank you so much for coming.

Yeah. Mm-hmm.

THEY CHANT AND WHISTLE

It's dawn. They have not stopped all
night.

That's it.

It's finished.

That was the last act, that was the
last dance.

Everyone's going home.

Who knows when or where it will ever
happen again.

SHE SINGS

I want to try and understand what
life is like for today's Korowai,

who have left the jungle behind and
moved into villages.

And so, August has agreed to take
me back to his home

in the village of Muara,
a day's walk away.

Muara was established less than
three years ago by the Government,

and has a reputation for being
lawless and volatile.

There is no police post, no school,
no shops,

just a small collection of wooden
huts.

Going round to August's house,

which is over here.

It's where he lives, but as I
understand, he doesn't own it.

I think it's owned by his uncle.

Hey, Mama.

August only moved into the
village a year ago,

and there is almost no way to earn
money here.

He relies on his garden and hunting
to support his family.

But his experiences with the world
outside means he has developed

tastes well beyond the forest.

And he's always asking me for
noodles.

Three bags of noodles, I think, has
gone into that, and it's fed

over ten people, definitely,

and August hasn't even had any
himself, yet.

Despite the obvious poverty,

the Government claim that
establishing villages like this

helps them look
after the Korowai better.

But critics say they're only trying
to clear the forests

of tribal people, so they can sell
off the mining and logging rights.

♪ Hallelujah

♪ Hallelujah
Hallelujah... ♪

One thing is certain, though -

in order to persuade them to stay,

they must also sell them the idea of
modernity,

and for this, they rely on the
church to help spread the word.

A MAN SPEAKS INSIDE

On all my trips to Papua,

I've been paying porters from the
village around £10 a day each,

and a couple of cooks
another £40 a day.

On top of that, I've been paying
August and his family for helping us

to make the film, and letting us
stay with them.

But it's always difficult to know
how much to give.

Too much leads to jealousies,

and too little feels exploitative.

Oh!

Here we go.

Cool.

Oh, August!

Oh, yeah.

Ahh!

Yeah?

That's really cool! Look at that.

Look how that's been adapted.

That's brilliant.

Look at this, this is so clever.

Ah, I see.

But it works! It works.

There is something akin to a gold
rush in that village, right now.

There is a fever, and it revolves
around getting stuff,

getting stuff from the modern world.

And the reason is, is because the
Korowai, for as long as they knew,

they thought they were centre of the
universe.

But now, they've realised that they
are not the centre of the universe.

In fact, they are on the absolute
edge of the universe,

and they are far, far behind
everybody else.

They want things from the modern
world, and they wanted it yesterday.

That is how they are going to get
their subscription back,

is by getting everything they
possibly can,

as quickly as possible.

And that means everything.
Everything from pots and pans,

to Supermi noodles,

to mobile phones where they can't
even call people.

The problem they've got, though,

is getting access to money to
buy those things.

And right now, the only way of
getting money is through me.

August doesn't have anything,
really, to show for the amount of

money that I've given him.
I've given him quite a lot,

and when I look through the things
that he has in his house,

I can see that they are nowhere near
equivalent to the amount of cash

that I've given him.
They're just not.

And what I've realised in recent
times is that, actually,

what's been happening is,

people in this village have been
asking him for things,

and he hasn't been able to say no,
but also,

that he's owed Amel's brothers
and uncles quite a lot of money

in compensation for her hand in
marriage,

and he's given money to them, too.

The difficulty is,

is that as far as August is
concerned,

that means he's never been
paid by me,

but because he's given that money
away,

it means that he hasn't got anything
for himself.

And I'm beginning to get the
impression

that he feels that he almost needs

a backdated payment of everything
that he's done.

Whereas, obviously, in my culture,
and from my perspective,

that's not how it works.

You're free to do what ever you
will with your money,

but your problems are your problems.

I wish he wouldn't give it away,

but I can't exactly start paying him
again

for everything that's gone in
days past.

A boat and an engine would cost
around £600.

About the same as three months'
wages for a local policeman.

I've been coming to West Papua
for long enough to know that in

the context of the village,
that's an absolute fortune.

And I worry that if I pay him so
much,

I'd be dangerously distorting
the entire local economy.

Of all the places I've ever stayed
in the world, I've never been

to a place where there's so much
pressure placed on me to

provide things, to give money,

to buy stuff.

To provide an opportunity for
escape.

And it's quite hard,
in many respects,

and, obviously, I want to give
everything I can,

and everything we can afford,

but also I know there is a line
that,

you know, once you get to,
you can't push any further,

and I'd like to think I've given
everything I possibly can.

But I also have to keep one eye on
the fact that I know that...

...I can't set unrealistic
expectations

and just say yes to everything
all of the time.

To give us both some time to think
about it,

I decide to go back into the forest
with my cameraman and interpreter,

Perez, to see Haup and Halap.

It's just a four-hour walk from
Muara,

but in all the time I've been here,

I've never heard of anyone else,
other than these two old men,

who are still living full-time
in the forest.

Theirs is quite possibly the last
permanently inhabited tree house

in the entire Korowai territory.

Is anyone in? I can see movement.

Hey, hey!

HE LAUGHS

HE COUGHS

Aww, still...

As their tree house began to
collapse,

Haup and Halap abandoned it

and moved into the huts which were
made for me

and my film crew, eight months ago.

HE SPLUTTERS

Where we in the modern world measure
time in months and years,

the Korowai measure time in tree
houses they have lived in.

But Haup is suffering from arthritis

from a fall he had many years ago,

and as his heart begins to fail,

his legs are becoming increasingly
swollen.

Without the strength to build a
new tree house,

this will be Haup and Halap's last.

It's hard to conceive that this
broken tree house is all that is

left of the greatest expression
of Korowai culture.

That, for centuries, offered
protection from tribal warfare,

the animals of the jungle and attack
by black magic.

For I've read that the Korowai
believe that evil spirits,

known as hahua, roam the forest
floor and steal people's souls.

It's all too easy to sit at home,
miles and miles away from

a hostile forest, and kind of laugh
at stuff like this.

But when you're here in the middle
of it...

...hours and hours from a village
with people,

it does feel very real, and it's
very real to Haup and Halap,

the things that they're talking
about, this isn't a game or a laugh,

these things exist.

The gradual collapse of Haup and
Halap's tree house is the beginning

of the end of the Korowai's
tree house-dwelling culture.

But it is also much more than that.

For the last 10,000 years,

hunter-gatherers have survived
by harnessing fire

and using stone, wood,
bone and antlers for their tools.

But the next generation of
Korowai have already rejected

this way of life,

replacing it with cigarette
lighters, batteries

and processed food.

Once the experience of living the
old way goes, it is lost forever.

I've come back to the village of
Muara.

It's time for me to return
to my home in Wales.

My plan is to make one final trip to
Korowai territory

in a couple of months' time.

But before I leave, I want to settle
things with August.

I'm really worried that if I give in
to August's demand for a boat,

I'll be opening myself up to even
more excessive demands

next time I come.

And that August, too,

will come under yet more pressure
to give out money

to the wider community.

So far, with the help of my local
producer, Shinta,

we've tried to pay everyone

a fair amount for the work
they've done.

HE SPEAKS KOROWAI

Uh...

So...

HE SCOFFS

Right.

OK, well, I'm going to have to go.

Come on, Perez, let's go, mate.

Perez, come on, mate.

The demands are escalating quickly.

20 million rupiah is twice as much

as August was asking for

just a few days ago.

Come on, Perez.

Come on.

Really? Yeah.

Great.

Everybody's running now to get
stuff ahead of me.

I don't know what's going to happen.

Doesn't look great, to be honest.

That went down badly.

He asked for 20 million rupiah.
He asked 20 million?

And he said he's not going to do
anything,

anything else with us now, because I
don't give him 20 million rupiah

this morning, so.

Oh. That's it, then.

There's nothing you can do.
We need to get going.

Yeah.

I think we might need to get gone.

This is the price we're all paying
for trying to do things differently.

On other trips, producers like
Shinta would take care of all

of these sorts of negotiations off
camera,

and the audience would be
none the wiser.

But, this time, I wanted to film
everything that happens openly

and honestly, but because things are
going wrong,

the result is very uncomfortable
for us all.

Of course I'm disappointed.

I really didn't think it would end
that way,

but I thought we would at least be
able

to find some common ground,

but, actually, in reality, it's
worse than I thought.

He's asked for even more money than
I thought, overnight,

and his reaction

was one of anger and annoyance.

He obviously thinks that what I've
done's really wrong,

and I don't agree with him,

so there we go.
It's a real, real sad end.

I've been thinking long and hard

whether to come back to Muara
at all.

But I feel uneasy about leaving
things

in such a bad place with August.

I've also promised that I'd bring
Haup and Halap some medicines,

which my medic prescribed for them.

So, two months later,

I'm back at the gateway to Korowai
territory, in Mabel,

a six-hour boat journey from the
village of Muara, where August lives.

This is the fourth and final trip.

It feels quite weird, really.
I thought I'd

feel quite exhilarated, in a way,
actually, when it got to this stage

that, um...

...you know, it was coming
to an end, but,

actually, in reality, I feel quite
tense. I feel nervous.

Things weren't good with me and
August at the end of the last trip,

to say the least, and you never know
what's going to happen

when you turn up in Muara.

I'd really like to be able to
resolve things with August

before heading back into the forest
to see Haup and Halap one last time.

It's quiet.

But it is raining.

Yo, all right, mate?

HE GREETS HIM IN KOROWAI

All right, Sun?

August is back from the forest,
or wherever he's been.

But there's a bit of a meeting of
minds, to be honest,

over at Barnabas' place.

A lot of the youth that weren't here
the last time I was here have come

back into town, and they're all sat
together at the end of the hut,

so I don't know what's being said.

August?

SPEAKS KOROWAI

Oh, I'm going to go over.
This is ridiculous.

All right, mate?

August, August.

Good.

Perez tells me that August is
refusing to talk to me

unless I meet his demand
for a boat.

We're in a stalemate.

So to try and clear things up, I go
to August's house to look for him.

Hello?

No, he's not here, mate.

But he's nowhere to be found.

Until I'm awoken by shouting
the next morning.

HE SHOUTS IN KOROWAI

Come on, mate.

August...

THEY CONVERSE IN KOROWAI

Come on.

Oi, come on.

FROM BEHIND CAMERA: This has got
to stop now, Will.

We have to physically restrain
this guy. No, we don't.

Calm your fucking self, all right?
He's got a bow and arrow. All right?

We don't physically restrain him.

Come on. August.

August, come on.

Come on, man, come on. August.

August! August. Come on, man.

Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, hey,
hey!

What's that? He doesn't get
anything.

Oh, come on.

Oh, come on, man.

Where were you all?
Where was everybody?

What?

The whole village has now turned
against us.

Without boatmen and porters to help,
there is no way to leave.

The threat feels very real and the
nearest police post is six hours away.

No, he's gone.
He's gone off again.

We can't go. CANNOT go?

Cannot go.

I'd hoped that by returning to the
same place four times over the course

of a year, I'd form closer relationships
with people and get a deeper

understanding of Korowai life.

But it appears
I've made enemies instead.

OK. All right, we'll go away,

we'll all have a chat together and then
we'll try and figure out where we're at.

But that's already come down a lot

from the 50 million that we originally
had to pay, you know, so... OK.

OK.

So, the thought is that

we go back to them with 25 million,

but there's a massive part of me
that would still really like to say

goodbye to Haup and Halap.

My feeling is that we get
the circus out of town,

everybody leaves, and then they'll
know that the money's gone as well,

and I just go in tonight,

say my goodbyes, and then I leave
alone first thing tomorrow morning

with Perez. I think we can assist
you if something happens.

At least we'll be here
and we have a base here.

All our stuff is here. Mmm.

Um, yeah, I think everyone
is safer together.

Vanya, you look absolutely
terrified!

No, no, no!

Really, Will, why you look at me
like that? I'm OK.

How do you feel? I'm still OK.

We must finish here.

Must. We are a team,
so we must stick together.

Absolutely.

Muara epitomises the difficulties

that tribal cultures in
transition face.

Only a few years ago, when the
Korowai were living in the forest,

we loved to film them in their tree
houses.

We wanted what they had.

Now most of them have left the forest
behind and entered the cash economy,

THEY want what WE have.

The rules have changed and neither of us
knows the right way to behave any more.

THEY CONVERSE IN KOROWAI

OK, so...

OK. There we go.

OK.

All right.

Will you get that handshake now?
I don't know.

I don't really want to shake his
hand, to be honest, Gav.

I mean, it's robbery, right?

OK, cool. All right?

I'm sorry.

Sometimes it doesn't work out,
does it?

Good luck. God bless you.

Tomorrow. Now I've paid,

I'm free to go back into the forest
to see Haup and Halap...

All the best, guys. Stay safe, yeah?

...albeit without the film crew.

Instead, I'm taking Perez to
translate, and his friend Daniel

to help carry our things.

It's about an hour before sunset and

I can see the smoke of a fire coming
up in the clearing ahead.

Yo!

In one of our old huts,

I can see Haup and some women and
children from the village

who are passing through.

Aw!

I'm so, so happy that I've managed
to see Haup today.

With any luck, Halap might come
along tomorrow.

That would just be awesome,

but if he doesn't, at least I
managed to come back.

And I'll take small mercies like
that on a day like today.

HE SPEAKS KOROWAI

HE SIGHS

Here he comes.

HE LAUGHS

So, Halap is insisting that we don't
leave until we've eaten some of his fish,

providing for us until the last.

There it is. OK, boys.

These guys - they actually have a
place to live, ironically,

out of all of these crew's huts
that we have here.

Maybe it's not going to be good
enough for their futures.

Who knows what their futures hold?

But the traditional Korowai way is to live
in the moment and that's what they're doing.

Halap!

THEY SPEAK KOROWAI

He's got his stuff.

Cool, Halap.

Haup.

WILL LAUGHS

OK, cool.

And there we go.

They drift back off into the
forest...

...and I drift out of the forest.

HE SIGHS

I'm SO glad that I got to say
goodbye to Haup and Halap.

But I am also aware that I've had an
impact on the lives

of everyone I met - some good,
some bad,

and that the process of making these
films has often changed the very

thing I wanted to document
in the first place.

I've got much closer to
understanding the truth

of how the Korowai live today

but in the process, I've also been
pushed further away from them.

OK.

Here we go.

There's the guys.

How's things, guys?
Good, good. Want some water?

I'd love some water, thank you.

COCKEREL CROWS

THEY SPEAK INDONESIAN

Cool.

You know, this is what a tribal
society in transition looks like.

It's deeply complicated,

and it's that difficulty that you
rarely see in television or even

experience with your own two eyes.

It's something utterly, utterly
unique, and for that reason,

I don't regret coming here,

despite the fact that
it's been difficult,

because I know I've experienced
something

that I'll probably never experience
again.

Haup and Halap represent the last
gasp of a hunter-gatherer culture

which for tens of thousands of years
defined us all and has shaped our

bodies and minds today.

They have a rich and deep
understanding of a world

which I don't share
and can never attain.

Six months after leaving the
Korowai, I'm now left wondering -

are they still out there?

Does their way of life even exist
any more,

or did I just witness its
disappearance - forever?