Indigenous people and the experiential values of wilderness
Along with I suspect many other people, I was recently sent a 50-page E-book on refining the definition of wilderness. Written by three wilderness enthusiasts living in Tasmania, they wanted some feedback on their approach of placing experiential values of wilderness, that is, values associated with the human experience of wilderness, on a par with ecological values, such as a high degree of biophysical naturalness (1). How they achieved this was that their definition of wilderness specified remoteness as one of the defining characteristics of wilderness. They argued that remoteness was essential for the wilderness experience, because remote settings isolated the visitor from the influences of modernity and confronted them with the vastness of the natural world. They also argued that a remoteness-based approach was the most practical way to design wilderness reserves to protect the full range of values that were associated with wilderness. Thus their definition of remoteness had these facets: linear remoteness from infrastructure and landscape disturbances; and time-remoteness from points of mechanised access, as well as having minimal evidence of modern technological society. In short, for them, wilderness was land that is natural, remote and primitive.
When I first read this, it reminded me of the walk in from the trail head on the Kancamagus Scenic Highway to the wilderness boundary when we entered Sandwich Range Wilderness in the White Mountain National Forest, our first ever National Forest wilderness in America (2).The hike in of around a mile or so was an adventure as we passed Sabbaday Falls, a picturesque series of cascades that dropped 35 feet in a narrow flume, and then had to ford a swollen and icy cold Sabbaday Brook three times before the trail reached the boundary of the wilderness. Stepping past the sign for the Sandwich Range Wilderness, you would be hard-pressed to notice any difference between the woodland either side of the (fenceless) boundary, a spruce-fir forest at upper elevations, with northern hardwoods (maple, beech, yellow birch) on the lower slopes and valley bottoms. Later, turning a slight bend, we disturbed a female Eastern wild turkey on the trail.
All of the 15 National Forest Wilderness Areas in America that that we have walked have had this buffer between trailhead and the boundary of the wilderness, but I don’t remember there being a variable walk-in distance depending on how far that trailhead or boundary was from permanent infrastructure. At the very least, this spatial approach of a separation achieved by a walk in to wilderness areas has a lot to offer in ensuring the experiential values of wilderness once you get there. However, the definition of wilderness and its remoteness that these authors had come up with was far more rigorous. First, they recommended that a wilderness area must fall into a category of 9 or 10 on a naturalness scale. This scale was devised by biologist Antonio Machado as a qualitative index for expressing naturalness of a given system (3). The index ranks from a maximum of  a natural system where there are only natural elements and processes, and only a possible presence of negligible or hardly noticeable human elements, or totally insignificant physical-chemical pollution coming from exterior human sources; through  where the natural system may have a presence of few exotic biological elements that have no qualitative effects, that has minimal artificial infrastructure and which is temporary or removable, and physical-chemical pollution absent or of no significance; and on to a minimum of  that corresponds to artificial systems.
Their formula to assure remoteness was based on both distance and time (1). To achieve this, the wilderness boundary would have a minimum linear distance of 5km from specified infrastructure and landscape disturbances (e.g. roads, dams and reservoirs) and that it be half a day walk in from the nearest point of access by mechanised transport. Thus the wilderness would be surrounded by an area of land, inland water bodies or sea that they call a “remoting buffer”. In practical terms, wilderness regions by their recommended definition would be at least 7,800ha, as that is the area of a circle of 5km radius, it being compact (spherical) with a low boundary-to-area ratio. The implications of this are not lost on the authors as they do show a hypothetical situation where an area of wilderness at the centre of a wilderness region covers only 186 hectares, but the wilderness together with its associated 5-km remoting buffer covers more than 11,000 hectares. They seem comfortable with this because of the overall size of the remoting buffer, so that they see no compelling reason to require a wilderness area itself to have a minimum size. Presumably this is because of the stipulation by definition that the remoting buffer has no roads or infrastructure – but it doesn’t say anything about other non-conforming activities in that area that may impinge on such a small wilderness area.
The distance or linear remoteness element of this definition is a standard approach for identifying remoteness that was used in Australia’s National Wilderness Inventory (4) as it was also used in a Health Remoteness Classification that identified the ease or difficulty people faced in accessing health services in non–metropolitan Australia (5). The authors allow that the time element, or what they term as Access-Time Remoteness, depends partly on physical distance, but also on factors such as steepness and ruggedness of terrain, and density of vegetation; the presence of rivers or lakes that maybe barriers to progress; and the presence, orientation and condition of walking tracks, all of which affect walking speeds. This is the typical implication of Naismith’s Rule devised in 1892 by the Victorian mountaineer William Naismith who adjusted his walking time up a hill by adding extra time for the steepness of the ascent (6). The relevance of this parameter becomes clear when the authors declare that the intention behind it is that a visit to wilderness requires at least one overnight stay in a remote location. They say that this makes a substantially greater demand on visitors’ self-reliance than day trips, but that it will increase visitors’ sense of exposure to and immersion in the natural environment. I wouldn’t disagree with that sentiment. However, it is left to guesswork as to which of the two parameters of remoteness is given precedence, or whether both thresholds have to be reached. Their ideal of a walking speed of 10km per day conveniently matches the 5km of a half-day and thus the thresholds for both linear remoteness and access time. I wonder also whether it sets a somewhat high bar always expecting a remoteness that requires an overnight stay that may exclude some people.
Defining the impact of indigenous people
Since I knew that others would respond to the authors on the spatial aspects of this refining of the wilderness definition, my concern was focussed on the repeated reference to indigenous people (1). I noted that they allowed that the activities of indigenous people were compatible with their wilderness definition, although they qualified their acceptance of the presence of indigenous people on the basis that they were hunter gatherers. I also noted though that they wrote in terms of group, population, society and community, but without some indication of numbers. I suggested that they needed a more rounded story in their defining of wilderness and the presence of indigenous people. I explained that I and others faced the rights of indigenous people, the Sámi people, when compiling a register of wilderness for Europe. We judged that the Sámi, through their use of weapons, snowmobiles, off-road vehicles, motorbikes and helicopters used in herding domestic reindeer, were incompatible with wilderness (7). An argument had been made to us that the impact of the Sámi was not widespread in the protected areas so that there would still be substantial areas that would have a wilderness character. However, none of the Scandinavian countries were able to delineate those parts of their protected areas where there was the most and least impact from the Sámi, and so we could not be certain that the criteria we set for wilderness were fully met. Instead, we had to incorporate a third, intermediate category for wilderness areas to accommodate protected areas in Scandinavian countries in the register because of the rights of use of the Sámi people.
I also told them about a long correspondence I had with Ian where the issue we kept coming back to was when were humans in the past a species of wild animal, and are there any contemporary people who have a semblance of that? Ian had picked up on an excerpt from a book by Rodolfo Tello about the hunting practices of the Wachiperi that he thought may be interesting in relation to Amazonian tribes and their impact on the ecology (8). The part of the Wachiperi book that interested Ian was the investigation of what happened in their history of contact with Europeans - how this affected their culture and the way they behaved on the land. It was that kind of context that he found lacking in discussions of modern indigenous people and their environmentally dubious practices. Passages in the book said that the community of Wachiperi in Queros had taken on management of a Conservation Concession of 6,973ha of tropical rain forest on state-owned land located next to their community territory, and which was variously said in the book to be positioned in the Amazonian multiple-use zone of Manú National Park, the buffer zone of Manú National Park, or in the transition zone of Manú Biosphere Reserve (9). This got me side tracked into looking at Manú National Park, finding that the Haramba Queros Wachiperi Conservation Concession is not associated with the Park, but is located in the buffer zone (zona de amortiguamiento) of the Reserva Communal Amarakaeri that is to the SE of Manú National Park (see these two maps (11,12)). The much larger Conservation Concessions of other native communities are also shown arranged around the perimeter of the Reserva Communal Amarakaeri as part also of this buffer area (13,14).
The Queros Wachiperi are definitely not a species of wild animal as they have trade networks with the external economy (14). While a Conservation Concession is based on providing an opportunity for ecosystem and biodiversity conservation of large state-owned lands that would otherwise be unmanaged, and improving sustainable practices in the use of natural resources (15) the Queros Wachiperi see conservation as a way to generate income (14). The Inter-American Development Bank has a project to help them realize this idea, teaching them how to manage their projects, so they know how to make them profitable.
A rarely compatible combination
There are known native peoples living in Manú National Park, but they are they are limited to two communities (16). The Park is zoned according to national legislation into areas that have different restrictions on activity (see Article 23 in (17)). Thus the two communities are found in the special use zone (2.3% of total Park area) that straddles branches of Rio Fierro and Rio Solileja, and then down Rio Manú (see zone mapping in Anexo 3, pg. 95 in (16)). This special use zone is where there were pre-existing human settlements prior to the establishment of the Park, or where there were some types of agricultural, livestock, agrosilvopastoral or other activities that involved the transformation of the original ecosystem– these activities continue but are alleged to be at a subsistence level. The special use zone is surrounded by a wild area zone (10%) that has suffered little or no human intervention so that the wild character predominates, and it is where the native peoples have rights for subsistence hunting.
A report from 2011 stated that there were 2,203 indigenous people living within the Park, compared to 1,645 in 2003, thus with a growth rate of 4.7% over that 7 years (18). These did not include the smaller number living in voluntary isolation – I was not aware of the situation of indigenous people living in isolation in Peru’s Amazon, and which shun all contact with outsiders (19). It was noted that the two communities in the special use zone were gradually adopting small-scale farming lifestyles and clearing forests in order to do so in areas traditionally used in semi-nomadic fashion – “The sedentary indigenous communities within the property are growing and there seems to be no clear policy in place for managing this growth. New settlements are forming and groups in initial contact in the headwaters of three smaller rivers are reported to become sedentary... Provided that they maintain a lifestyle compatible with conservation objectives, their presence is not believed to negatively affect the conservation values of Manú National Park”. There is an action in the current Park management plan that recognises a need to enhance the environmental education carried out in the park, promoting the development of local populations and promoting projects for the sustainable use of natural resources for the best conservation of the park (16). It’s going to use the conceptual framework of environmental services, thus tying it to human needs.
The largest zone of the park is the strict protection zone (85%) where there is freedom from the influence of factors other than natural processes (16). There are an undetermined number of indigenous people in voluntary isolation in this interior zone of the Park, the management plan for the park being explicit in protecting the Mashco Piro from outside contact. Thus identified threats to the Park include attempts to contact Indigenous peoples in a situation of isolation; infringement of the health of native populations; and violation of the Parks strict protection zone. It is almost as if the Park treats isolated indigenous people as a protected species, as it does with its wild species. These indigenous people living in voluntary isolation may thus be the nearest to a contemporary people who have a semblance of being a wild animal, a hunter gatherer. They do, however, presumably have language, and simple technological skills as seen from the air in fly overs, such as constructing shelters in very small forest clearings, and canoes (and see photos in (20-22). I suppose their way of life could be guessed at from extrapolating back from current, connected native peoples traditional action, because there is no way that you could observe those people living in voluntary isolation without disrupting this way of life to its detriment.
I observed that the authors of the refining wilderness report saw that in some places, the preservation of wilderness may be the only option for saving the last isolated indigenous peoples from unwanted contact, but then they recommend in their report that as indigenous people they should be involved in governance. It seemed to me that the Manú National Park management plan through its zonation approach met the needs of the three indigenous populations based on their differential dependency on outside exchange: those in the strict zone, wild area and special use zones, and the buffer zone. It would then be the case that the importance - and restrictions - of those zones would have to be drilled into any visitors to the park. After a quick chat with my companion on wilderness walks, we agreed that we would not feel comfortable about coming across indigenous people living in isolation. We decided that if we had known they were there, it would have been a disincentive to walking in that zone. I suppose it says something about humans as a wild species that we would rather be among wolves, coyotes, grizzlies, black bear and bobcat. The experiential values of wilderness will be diminished for us by the presence of a place-located people, in the same way that there is a hesitation in walking any Bureau of Land Management wilderness in America for fear of coming across livestock grazing, or coming across large parties of walkers or horse riders in any wilderness. Thus there has to be some certainty before entering remote wilderness that there is a trailhead description or, better still, that it is gazetted on the basis of what I would personally regard as non-conforming activities that detract from the experiential value – you should know what you are walking in to. My presumption would be that areas where there were people living in voluntary isolation would be zoned for no access.
A history of hostile attitude towards strangers
It is the case that the management guidelines for IUCN Category Ib Protected Areas – commonly called Wilderness areas – takes great pains to be inclusive of a presence of indigenous people (23). The guidelines walk a tightrope between the ideal of wilderness areas being undisturbed by significant human activity based on a non-degradation concept that ensures the biophysical characteristics of wilderness areas, and the allowance of the presence of indigenous people and their observance wherever appropriate of their sacred and traditional practices. In reply to me Martin Hawes, one of the authors, remarked that the wording of the IUCN definition had no doubt been influenced by the desire to respect the traditions and rights of Indigenous people. Nevertheless he agreed with me that activities such as the use of machinery and guns were not compatible with wilderness (and see case study 23 in (23)). He thought that it was inevitable that there were grey areas, allowing that even in non-Indigenous areas there may be occasional use of helicopters or snowmobiles for emergency rescues. Hawes saw it as a need to set thresholds for all such uses, or in the absence of firm data, through the of use separate designations, as was illustrated by the example of Manú National Park. He accepted that there was an element of arbitrariness to most thresholds, not least the discrimination between natural and unnatural human activity. He thought it reasonable to identify the adoption of agriculture as the point at which human ingenuity and technology began transforming what was hitherto wilderness into a more fundamentally anthropocentric landscape (but see later).
Hawes went on to say that the example that I had mentioned of the Queros Wachiperi in Peru raised the question of whether their activities should disqualify an area as wilderness if the people responsible, notwithstanding their traditional connection to the land, were not primarily hunter-gatherers. While it was a tricky question, he was inclined to say yes. He found that the situation that I had described in the special use zone that suggested that the increasing population was accompanied by increasing use of agriculture was incompatible with wilderness, but then that zone is not explicitly recognised as wilderness. Hawes explained that their statement that Indigenous people should generally be involved in governance related primarily to those who have cultural and other ties to the area, but who were not living as hunter-gatherers. He agreed that such involvement would be impractical in the case of those that chose voluntary isolation. He had not considered that the presence of indigenous people reduced the experiential value for visitors. In such circumstances he thought it would perhaps be reasonable to argue that the wilderness experience of the local inhabitants should take precedence over that of the tourists, and that no-access zoning was likely to be appropriate in such circumstances.
Whilst I started writing this, news broke of the death of an American who had been killed by an isolated, island community of bow-and-arrow wielding hunter-gatherers that live on North Sentinel Island, one of the Andaman and Nicobar Islands that are scattered across the juncture of the Bay of Bengal and Andaman Sea (24,25). The island has restricted access enforced by the Indian Government, and so the fishermen who ferried him there, and saw an arrow hit him, have been arrested on suspicion of helping him illegally reach the island. The Sentinelese have a history of hostile attitude towards strangers. Believed to number about 100, they have resisted attempts by authorities and anthropologists to study their culture and integrate them into the modern world. They are known to target outsiders with bows and arrows when they wander on to their island. Thus when the boat of two Indian fishermen broke loose while they were sleeping and landed there in January 2006, they were relentlessly murdered and tossed into shallow beach graves (26). When an Indian coastguard helicopter attempted to recover the fishermen’s bodies, it was greeted by a volley of arrows from the tribesmen that prevented the helicopter from landing. The Sentinel canoes are constructed to fish in only shallow water, indicating their lack of ambition to distribute from the island seeking contact, but a measure of their deadliness is that they use metal-tipped arrows, the metal salvaged from the hulls of wrecked ships. Indian authorities have identified the burial site, and are now trying to recover the remains (27). However, police have said that they have to consult with experts to learn “the nuances of the group’s conduct and behaviour, particularly in this kind of violent behaviour”.
I have since found that the Mashco Piro also show a propensity for violence. In 2010, the Mashco Piro were accused of wounding a teenager with a spear (28) and the following year they killed a local man and then wounded a park ranger who was patrolling the Park, both with arrows (29,30). In 2015, the Mashco Piro made five raiding trips to Shipetiari, a native community formed by some 30 families of the Machiguenga indigenous people, adjacent to the Manú National Park (31,32). In all these raids they stole tools and farm products, but on their third raid, in May 2015, they must have felt threatened by being in contact with several of the local community on one of the roads, and so a 22 year old was hit in the chest with a sharpened bamboo-tip arrow that killed him (30-32).
This evidence of the hostility to outsiders certainly puts into perspective our hesitation at the potential of coming across indigenous people living in isolation – it could end in more than just a loss of experiential value, and it certainly does argue that the areas where they are known to exist should be closed to outsiders. In the case of the Mashco Piro, while they don’t appear to be seeking an integrative contact with the outside world, they are increasingly breaking out of the bounds of isolation (32). Whether that is a slippery slope in undoing their isolated life depends on how dependent they become on resources outside their protected territory, and whether the societal norms of the modern world demands legal if not natural justice for the assault, stealing and murder. Why are the Mashco Piro forsaking their isolation? Presumably, through their ready hostility, they feel in control when they venture out, but is it the instinct of indomitability that gives them confidence in their forcible acquisitions, or is this the instinct of all mammalian consumers of enlarging their reach when resources to begin to wane? There is no easy way to assess the impact and consequences for wild nature of people living in isolation, to gauge whether they do, by their activities, come up against shortages. It seems so unlikely, given that whatever the population of Mashco Piro is, they have 14,580 square kilometres of rain forest in the Strict Protection Zone of Manú National Park to exploit, as well as 25,106ha of the Strict Protected Zone of Alto Purús National Park that abuts the northern border of Manú National Park (33). There is, however, some interesting research on what some of the effects can be of indigenous people in territories like the Manú National Park.
Tropical forests emptied of their large vertebrates by hunting
I know the work of John Terborgh from his association with the Wildlands Project in America, and his articles in Wild Earth and elsewhere on the role that top carnivores play in regulating terrestrial ecosystems (i.e (34)). From 1973, he ran Cocha Cashu Biological Station, a field station for research on tropical ecology that is located on the Manú River in the wild area zone of the Manú National Park, just to the south east of the boundary of the special use zone (35). The site of this field station has remained free of systematic hunting since 1970, when researchers began to occupy the area and use it as a reference site (36). Terborgh and his associates wanted to assess how the emptying of tropical forests of its large vertebrates by hunting affected the enlistment of new trees and perpetuation of tree diversity (37). Using Cocha Cashu as the reference site, they compared it with a similar forest in the Rio Manu floodplain that is near the village of Boca Manu, just outside the edge of Manú National Park in its buffer zone. Intensive hunting in the forest at Boca Manu, began in 1972–1973 when a petroleum exploration camp was established nearby. The large worker population generated a market for bushmeat that spurred members of the indigenous community to become commercial hunters.
Intensive hunting continued until 1976 when the exploration camp finished its operation and withdrew. Less intensive commercial hunting continued to supply the town of Boca Manu and nearby indigenous communities. The result of that hunting had been a severe depletion of populations of many large birds and mammals dwindling within a several kilometre radius. Terborgh’s study in mid-2000s demonstrated the marked difference between the sites in the dispersers of tree seeds, such as amongst the primates, spider and howler monkeys, and capuchin; White-lipped peccary (a pig-like animal); and large birds in the guans and trumpeter. As might be expected, there was little difference in populations of small primates like tamarins, and the smaller mammals like squirrels, nor was there in nocturnal animals like night monkey, as the hunters would be more interested in the larger animals and did not hunt at night. The losses of the larger species led to reduced densities of saplings, a higher proportion of stems dispersed by physical rather than biological means; reduced recruitment of large seeded tree species; and evidence of ongoing shifts in species composition. Their conclusion was that the massive directional change in tree composition that appeared to be underway in the forest at Boca Manu was likely to result in biodiversity loss and negative feedbacks on both the animal and plant communities. They argued that their results brought into question the “sustainable use” of game resources in tropical forests, and suggested that the best, and perhaps only, way to prevent compositional change and probable loss of diversity in tropical tree communities was to prohibit hunting.
A review in 2011 on the impact of defaunation of tropical nature reserves through hunting painted a gloomy picture, that in most parts of the tropics, poachers enter and leave reserves with impunity (38). On the basis of reports from the literature, it seemed likely to this author that a majority of tropical nature reserves around the world may already be considered empty forest. Thus all bird and mammal species larger than approximately two kilograms, but barring a few hunting-tolerant species, had either been extirpated or existed at densities well below natural levels of abundance –“The disruption of ecological functions caused by the loss of symbionts further compromises the capacity of these reserves to conserve biodiversity over the long term. A substantial shift toward improving the management and enforcement of tropical protected-area networks is required”
I have never been convinced of the oft repeated claim that indigenous people are better guardians of the biodiversity of their lands (23) an argument that is always used against a people-less wilderness, because there is never a judgement made on how much pressure from their outside contact with contemporary trading and economy is transmitted through them and on into their activities. This is the point that Ian makes about what effect contact with Europeans has on their culture and the way they behave on the land, and which he finds lacking in discussions of modern indigenous people and their environmental practices (see above). In this exploration of how zonation of protected areas can satisfy wild nature, but also those people who choose to have a life isolated from the outside world, the assumption will be that the latter have little impact, but which it seems that we as outsiders are unlikely ever to get a chance to assess. We can observe the pressures building up against wild nature in the special protection area of the Manú National Park as the indigenous communities increasingly adopt a sedentary way of life, and there is no pretence that can be made about the impact that the commercially motivated activities of the indigenous people living in the multiple-use buffer zone. Given that estimates of the population of Mashco Piro could be as low as 200 to 800 (39,40) then their population density would be 49 square kilometres per person or 0.02 people per square kilometre if they lived in the combined total of 39,686 square kilometres of the strictly protected zones of Manú and Alto Purús National Parks. At that density, it works out at 0.4 people in the minimum specified area of 20.8 square kilometres for a designated wilderness in America (5,000 acres – see (41)) a level at which their impact would appear insignificant - you could probably walk for ages and not see anyone. It would in effect be just like a people-less wilderness, but where you won’t be killed by a bow and arrow.
Mark Fisher 25 November 2018
(1) Hawes, M, Dixon, G & Bell, C 2018, Refining the definition of Wilderness: Safeguarding the experiential and ecological values of remote natural land, Bob Brown Foundation Inc., Hobart, Australia
(2) White Mountain National Forest - lessons in landscape, Self-willed land October 2005
(3) Machado, A. (2004). An index of naturalness. Journal for Nature Conservation, 12(2), 95-110
(4) Distance-based Indicators, Creating The Wilderness Database, National Wilderness Inventory, Australian Heritage Commission, 2003
(5) Accessibility Remoteness Index of Australia (ARIA) Remoteness Area (RA), The Department of Health, Australian Government
(6) How To Calculate Route Times Using Naismith's Rule, Dan Bailey, UKHillwalking 24th September, 2015
(7) When nature dies - the impact of the human species, Self-willed land July 2015
(8) Hunting Practices of the Wachiperi: Demystifying Indigenous Environmental Behavior, Rodolfo Tello 26 December 2014
(9) Tello, R. (2016). Hunting Practices of the Wachiperi: Demystifying Indigenous Environmental Behavior. Amakella Publishing.
(10) Reserva Comunal Amarakaeri y ZA, ÁMBITOS, Desarrollo Rural Sustentable
(11) Parque Nacional del Manú y ZA, ÁMBITOS, Desarrollo Rural Sustentable
(12) Amarakaeri Communal Reserve, Peru, Parks Watch
(13) Management of the Amarakaeri Communal Reserve (RCA) is renewed and strengthen, Servindi: Comunicación intercultural paro un mundo más humano y diverso
(14) Reserva Haramba Queros Wachiperi, Conservamos por Naturaleza
(15) Concesiones Para Conservación - Una Mirada a la Conservación de la Vida Desde el Bosque, Ministro de Agricultura y Riego 2013
(16) Plan Maestro 2013-2018 - Parque Nacional del Manú, Servicio Nacional de Áreas Naturales Protegidas por el Estado 2014
(17) Ley de Áreas Naturales Protegidas (Ley Nº 26834) 04 de julio de 1997
(18) Outstanding Universal Value, Manú National Park, World Heritage Sites, UNESCO
(19) State of Conservation, Manú National Park (Peru), World Heritage Sites, UNESCO 2011
(20) Sighting of Amazon group bolsters environmentalist case, Rory Carroll, Guardian 3 October 2007
(21) Little-known Indian tribe spotted in Peru's Amazon, Terry Wade & Marco Aquino, Reuters September 28, 2007
(22) Peru moves to create huge new indigenous reserves in Amazon, David Hill, Guardian 28 February 2018
(23) Casson, SA, Martin, VG, Watson, A, Stringer, A, Kormos, CF, Lock, H, Ghosh, S, Carver, S, McDonald, T, Sloan, SS, et al. (2016) Wilderness Protected Areas: Management Guidelines for IUCN Category Ib Protected Areas, IUCN, Gland, Switzerland
(24) American 'adventure tourist' killed by remote tribe after visiting protected Indian island, Adam Withnall, Independent 21/11/2018
(25) American killed by isolated tribe on island in Andamans, Michael Safi, Guardian 21 November 2018
(26) The Sentinelese People, North Sentinel island – Home of the Sentinelelse
(27) Police stake out area where American killed by Andaman tribespeople, Associated Press, Guardian 25 November 2018
(28) Peru’s Mashco-Piru tribe are one of the last isolated peoples on Earth, Agence France-Presse, news.com.au March 18, 2015
(29) Unos indígenas en aislamiento voluntario se asoman en la selva peruana, Ramiro Escobar, El País 19 October 2011
(30) First pictures of last-uncontacted Amazon tribe, Reuters, Daily Telegarph 23 July 2015
(31) Sobre lo delicado que es hablar por otros, Luis Felipe Torres, La mula 2015-07-22
(32) Why has this Amazonian tribe suddenly started to make contact with outsiders? Dan Collyns, Guardian 24 November 2015
(33) Parque Nacional Alto Purús Plan Maestro 2012-2017, SERNANP 2012
(34) Terborgh J, Estes JA, Paquet P, Ralls K, Boyd-Heigher D, Miller BJ, Noss RF (1999) The Role of Top Carnivores in Regulating Terrestrial Ecosystems. Wild Earth 9(2)(Summer 1999) 42-56
(35) The Founding of Cocha Cashu, Cocha Cashu Biological Station
(36) Introducing Cocha Cashu, Cocha Cashu Biological Station
(37) Terborgh, J., Nuñez-Iturri, G., Pitman, N.C., Valverde, F.H.C., Alvarez, P., Swamy, V., Pringle, E.G. and Paine, C.T., 2008. Tree recruitment in an empty forest. Ecology, 89(6), pp.1757-1768.
(38) Harrison, R. D. (2011). Emptying the forest: hunting and the extirpation of wildlife from tropical nature reserves. BioScience, 61(11), 919-924.
(39) Alto Purús, Sacred Land Film Project
(40) Cujareno, Mashco Piro in Peru, Joshua Project
(41) Wilderness Act - Public Law 88-577 (16 U.S.C. 1131-1136) 88th Congress, Second Session September 3, 1964 https://www.wilderness.net/NWPS/legisact