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The Tribe That Time Forgot (Nova Special)
(1994)
Dir: John Miles
There is some pretty sweet shit to be had in the civilized portions of the globe: great snacks, the world wide web, bicycles, brassieres and movies all jump to mind. But something paramount is missing: humanity. In the consumer culture, even nice people are basically pricks. Nobody shares. Corruption seeded in the early ad campaigns of the fifties that suggested that people should buy stuff because they’d earned the right to, compounded by Reganomics in the eighties and solidified by the shard of commercial hip-hop that brazenly touts the banal conquest of “getting yours,” people build their very lives around buying and storing shit. What are we going to do with all of this garbage when we die? And how is any of it making our lives better? Most of it has zero inherent value. Need proof? Take a drive.
Immerse yourself in a sea of greedy automobiles and see what it’s all worth. Cars, although ballyhooed as a conduit to personal freedom and _expression, really bring out the worst in people. Those clever Volkswagen commercials are pure shit. Courtesy is out the power-window. A person who would normally hold an elevator door for you will cut you off with out batting a weary eye. Behind the wheel, patience the virtue quickly morphs into patience the weakness, as commuters snip each others Achilles in a vain attempt to get somewhere three minutes faster. Plus, people get themselves into deep financial quagmires buying automobiles without really considering that when the oil really dries up (and it‘s going to be soon), the cost of operating a car is going to become so astronomical that only the richest four percent of our population will be able to continue driving. Considering that this miniscule upper crust has zero compunction when it comes to fucking the rest of us raw and ragged, don’t think that we serfs are going to get any sort of reimbursement for fighting and dying so the wealthy can squander the last few drops of precious the crude for themselves. Bummer, I know. Eyeing a rumbling stream of dirty traffic, it’s hard to fathom that there are peoples in the world whose minds and social systems haven’t been totally strangulated by all of this modern sludge.
For the past 400 years, the Arara tribe of Brazil, known as the Jaguar People, have lived throughout the Amazon Basin. These indigenous folks have defended their livelihood, culture, and beliefs against the Portuguese, Brazilians, and, most recently, North Americans. They have avoided contact with asshole civilization, and have cosseted themselves from extinction by constantly moving throughout the rain forest. Their culture fucking rules. They share everything, even sexual partners. This may seem slutty, but because none of the tribesmen know for sure which children are theirs, everyone shares the responsibility of raising the young. The Arara also pride themselves on living in harmony with their surroundings. Their religion is far more intriguing that a dude on a cross, too. Their people are named after the giant parrot that the gods sent to retrieve all of the souls of the stars that were scattered when the universe tore open following a squabble between gods. They are named after this parrot because he didn’t see them and they were left behind on planet earth. They must live their lives in harmony with each other and their environment to serve as an example to the universe that sharing is key. When they die, they become jaguars for the rest of eternity.
How lame does heaven sound now?
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