Support Joachim https://paypal.me/vernondeck?locale.x... The Family that Dared is the story of the Campe Family who sold everything they owned, built a boat and set off on an adventure none of them would forget. This might sound all too common but the family did it in 1977! This is the 12th of 12 episodes that Joachim Campe filmed. They were all shot on 16mm film and have not ben seen since airing on German TV in 1984. Joachim, now 83 is very close to finishing another Circumnavigation aboard St Michel, the very same boat that the family sailed on four decades ago. His health has let him down and he is currently recuperating in Lombok, Indonesia and could use your support to get him sailing again. Enjoi! #Brazil #Learningbydoing #sailing If you enjoy my videos and appreciate the effort that goes into making them then perhaps you would be interested in supporting their production. A little goes a long way https://www.patreon.com/vernondeck https://paypal.me/vernondeck?locale.x... A link to a recent podcasts I've done: http://www.visualrevolutionary.com/podcast http://wearelookingsideways.com/podcasts/073-vernon-deck https://www.oceansailingpodcast.com/p... NEW!!! Get your Learning By Doing merch here!!! https://teespring.com/stores/learningbydoing SUBTECH https://www.subtechsports.com Promo code: teamsubtechvernon Discount: 20% off (Free Shipping World wide) Indiana Paddlesurf: https://shop.indiana-sup.ch VERNON10X (10% discount code) Please visit: http://www.vernondeck.com INSTAGRAM: https://instagram.com/Vernondeck/ FACEBOOK: https://goo.gl/WNrSV5

Closed Captions (CC):
After crossing the South Atlantic from Cape Town to Rio de Janeiro in 31 days,

we have been sailing off the coast of Brazil for one summer, all the way to the Amazon. The mouth of

the Amazon looks like an unmistakable wasteland. Brown river water struggles with the blue

arc of the Atlantic. At first we couldn't see any shore, for hours we didn't know

where we were in the Amazon estuary. High tide currents and a strong south

wind drove us far too quickly past reefs and sandbanks into the unknown. Often the

depth gauge only showed a foot or two of water under the keel. Then we see the first jungle

turn, we find our position and the danger is over. The wind gently pushes us

against the river current 1000 kilometers into the country. We want to

experience the jungle world on the edge of this river, but above all we want to meet Indians. Even before we

sailed into the Amazon, we knew that on this river, once the center of Indian

life, there was no longer any Indian to be found. You have to drive far into the tributaries of the Amazon

to the reservation areas, only there you can meet Indians, we were told.

On the upper reaches of the Rio Paru, on the border with Suriname is the reserve area of

the Apalai Indians, which is where we want to go. As the draft of our boat is

far too big for the Rio Paru, we anchor in front of the city of Santa Helen and then charter a plane.

We land in the reservation area of ​​the Apalai Indians. It is administered by the Funai of the National Foundation of Indian Affairs.

.We flew over the treetops of the jungle for three and a half hours without

seeing the slightest sign of human influence on nature.

Celio, a German-born Brazilian welcomes us. He works for the Funai. The city founded

this organization to protect the Indians. The Funai administers the reservation areas and

sees itself as intermediate between the Indians and the Brazilian industrial society.

We are introduced to Jacke, the chief of the village.

Barbed wire and plank houses disappoint me,

but the joy of being here outweighs it. For months I fought with the Funai

authorities to get permission to visit the Apalai.

We have the choice to live either in the wooden houses of the Funai or in the Indian village,

much to the astonishment of Celio we prefer the Indian village and tie our hammocks

to the posts of the central house. During the six months that we sailed up the coast of Brazil

in the Amazonas we only saw a few sad Indian faces in the slums of the big cities.

When we asked the Brazilians about the Indians, we felt that

they knew that the Indians in this country were wronged and that it wasn't working,

and yet the Indians are generally despised by the Brazilian population.

They hinder progress, "Ordnen and Progresso", order and progress, is the country's motto, embroidered

on every flag. For the citizen, the Indian in the slum, demolished and drunk, diminishes

the country and that is bad. It does not arouse compassion or understanding.

Since the airstrip was built, three white men have been living in the Funai station. Celio, the head of

the station, a nurse who administers the medication and a construction worker. Somewhat away from the

Indian village, a missionary couple from the USA has settled. We are the first white

family with children the Indians meet on their reservation. From the first moment

we are welcomed in the village as we are, dressed and speaking German among each other.

Vague memories of Indian stories from childhood emerge,

The thought of being with the last living people of this race frightens me again and again.

With the indians, men and women are work partners and depend on each other.

The man is a passionate hunter, we often listen to the hunting stories around the campfire,

without understanding we can make out gestures and follow the melodic pitch of the voice.

The woman does all heavy physical labor. She carries the burden, works on the plantings,

chops the wood, but also takes care of the house and children, cooks, weaves and does pottery. An Indian likes to look for

a second and a third woman so that they can share the work.

The first mostly older woman retains her dominant position regardless. In all the wives of the

same man we observe loving tenderness among one another and a lot of laughter.

The Rio Paru has its source in Suriname, in the northern neighboring city of Brazil.

Some Vajana Indians still live in Surinam. Apalai and Vajana visit each other by canoe and stay for weeks.

Three days travel down the river lies a second Apalai village.

Asokopano, 25 to 30 indians live there without Funai and without missionaries.

We are on the way to Asokopano. Jacke appointed us Sepici and Tutuku

as boat guides. Both take their wives and dogs with them, hunting equipment, hammocks, pots,

our rucksacks and some beige bread for food are stowed in the canoes.

Once on the river it becomes clear to me how far we have distanced ourselves from our society.

No contact with the outside world is possible. The plane will return in six weeks

and pick us up, until then we are entirely dependent on the friendship of the Indians.

Indians have lived here for many centuries and yet we have the impression of

gliding through untouched nature. The life of the Indians leaves no traces.

There used to be plenty of fish on the Rio Paru, now the big Arubi fish is a rarity and even

the Piranhas are rare. Basilians stretch nets across the river at the mouth of the Rio Paru

and catch the fish that want to swim up the river to spawn.

The gold digger camps in front of the reserve area also put a lot of pressure on the fish population. I suddenly realize that

we won't have anything in our pots either if Sepici and Tutuku are unsuccessful in the hunt.

Playing the flute seems like a dialogue with the mysterious, hiding everything but

leaves from the liana walls of the jungle. Even at night in the hammock, the river

and the jungle have a constant effect on us. We have heard a lot about the threats of the jungle,

but ourselves only feel harmony and peace. Under the guidance of the Indians with us,

we feel that we are part of the nature around us. Indians do not want to

rule nature , they live in harmony with it, they are careful and cautious with it.

Asokopano appears before us. Shortly before dusk we reach our destination,

the tropical night falls very quickly.

The whole night we heard conversations from the huts. The fire was made and they

cooked. Barking dogs were called out to and every now and then there was a laugh. In

the morning, boss Azucker asks me whether I want to stay for six months or a year.

We are bound by our six-week deadline.

Communication is difficult, we speak a few bits of Portuguese, Azucker also, otherwise Apalai is spoken.

Our mosquito nets are too small and of poor quality.

In the morning countless blood-filled mosquitoes hang inside the nets. Not only the

mosquitoes torment us, they also worry us because we saw three malaria-sick Indians in the first village.

Fly jump from the floor in our hammocks. we are completely covered in stings.

A total of about 80 Abalai settle along the Rio Paru, they are the last of their tribe.

I cannot find out exactly how many Apalai there were in previous centuries,

certainly a few thousand. Apalai speak their own language, have their own counsel

and also have a specific look. The provincial capital Belin has over a million inhabitants,

Santorini three and a half hours away by plane has 300,000 inhabitants. The relationship

with the Indians is frightening. 140 reserve areas have been created in Brazil in order to stop the

complete annihilation of the indians by the non-indigenous population.

No white person has the right to enter a reservation area.

Funai decides on exceptions. The air space is easy to control but

the paths of the 5000 square kilometer jungle area seem uncontrollable to me .

According to Brazilian law, an Indian is not of age as long as he has not adapted to industrial society,

that is, as he traditionally lives here in the jungle. he needs a

mentor who represents this role in society, which Funai has ascribed to itself.

Azucker the head of the village sits down with us.

Our presence at work does not affect the daily routine of the Indians.

The basic food of the Indian, the beige bread, is made from the cassava root.

Beige bread is eaten with every meal, be it with monkey meat, fish or with ants.

The bread is baked every two or three days.

The manioc flour, heated on a plate, combines to form a long-lasting, yet fluffy baked product.

The jungle has been cleared around the village and the manioc plantations are located there.

Manioc flour is made from the tuber at the root of the plant. For each uprooted

shrub, Tanga plants a trimmed manioc branch in a slightly inclined position.

The branch takes root in the fertile soil and the perennial population remains the same.

In the past, the Apalai moved to a second and a third village within a year and

then returned to the first village. In this way, the surroundings of these villages were able to

recover from the human influence for around eight months each year. The hunting was then easier because the

animals had come closer to the area again and the fruit had grown back.

The Funai would like to convince all Indians that it is best for them to settle together in the villages on the

airstrip. Medical care and a small mission school are important arguments.

To show their will to progress and to offer something tempting,

the Funai installed a generator that illuminates the village square with electric lamps every evening.

But if the large jungle area is no longer used due to the scattered settlement of Indians,

it makes sense to release the reserve land for other purposes.

Azucker only founded his village a few years ago, he moved away from the village at the airstrip

with some families , hunting and fishing had become too difficult

and he didn't want to work for the Funai or the missionaries for money.

The manioc root as it comes from the earth is very poisonous for humans.

The root is rubbed open and the pulp is squeezed out in a long, braided, flexible tube.

the contents of the tube, dried and sifted, make the cassava flour.

The poisonous liquid is collected and boiled, the poison loses its effectiveness and the

cassava juice is seasoned with hot peppers and used to dunk the beige bread.

Two elderly women live half a day's journey downstream. We visit them with Marie and Azucker to get

lemons. The women live alone, their husbands have died. Apparently they insist

on living here for themselves to the end.When we arrived the women paid us no notice.

Azucker sat down on a stool and said nothing. Only after a few minutes does a woman come and bring him

a welcome drink. Then she sits down and is also silent. Suddenly they both start talking.

Her long chant sounds softly across the river. It is polite to be silent first and to

adapt and to show no sign of surprise or joy. Apalai are very considerate of each other.

The deep pools in front of the old women’s living space are considered rich in fish,

but nobody from Azuckerpano fishes there. They don't want to make life difficult for the old women.

Since our arrival in Azuckerpano there has been talk of an upcoming

festival , the Tukandero. We hope to still be able to experience this, our plane

sets us a fixed time frame. Today Jamori and his brother Amarpo go to

the jungle to get the fruits of the qubo tree. A tattoo ink is made

from the juice of the fruit . The color applied to the skin darkens after a few days

and cannot be washed off for about two weeks then the color fades.

Suddenly I am overcome by the idea of ​​how hopeless the situation of the Indians is.

The many hundreds of thousands of non-Indians who directly or indirectly

surround the reserve are ultimately guided by a desire, they want the valuable land of the Indians.

the wood stocks, the mineral resources, especially the gold of the river. According to the law, a

reservation does not mean indigenous land.

The officials can intervene in the event of unrest

and change the status of the reserve if the country has overriding interests.

The grubs are an indigenous delicacy that we cannot get used to.

We too are painted for the festival of the Tucanderers.

The people of Brazil want the land of the Indians, the missionaries want the soul of the Indians.

The missionaries have flown in a small sawmill. The boards are used to build

ugly closed houses with window holes and doors. They are completely unsuitable

for the climate and the way of life of the indians, but in the open

traditional houses, according to the missionaries, there is superstition and it should die.

The Indians arrange their houses in a ring around a central building, which is in keeping with cultic tradition.

The new houses of the missions are deliberately placed in rows.

The mission encourages the Indians to produce clay pots and wicker baskets in series and for money,

which the Indians can use to buy clothes, watches, transistor radios, batteries and so on.

All past examples show that Indians who give up their traditional culture and

way of life lose their identity. then their lives end in apathy and sadness.

In spite of a lot of strangeness, we also encounter familiar things.

Tenderness among each other, love for the children who are never scolded and laugh a lot.

A larger monkey is seldom shot as it is today. The crack of the shot drives the animals further and further

away from the village. The silent poisoned arrow does not have the range of a

rifle but allows frequent hunting in the same area. The arrow and the poison

can be replaced by nature, the desire for powder and bullets creates dependency.

The rainy season has started, worms come with the muddy ground that drill into

soles of our feet and lay eggs there. Along with mosquitoes and flea's, a nasty nuisance.

We brought some supplies like rice noodles, oatmeal, dry milk and coffee

but shared with the whole village these supplies were quickly used up.

In the evenings around the campfire we often stay hungry. The Indians share what they have with us, but that's not much.

Hearing the Tucander flute for the first time, the kurekure katapu.

The first families come to the Tukandera.

The Indian travels with all his things and the pets, so he is always at home where his canoe is docked.

The white man goes everywhere under the pretext of pacifying or improving.

He will also destroy this world in order to realize the ideas he brought with him.

The Indian here does not leave behind any permanent cultural monuments, his world will perish without a trace.

In the village, kashiri, a fermented drink made from cassava, is prepared in large quantities.

The Indiana drink it until they vomit. Vomiting is not a miserable process here,

the stomach contents are released in stone streams and with good humour.

More and more families come to Tukandera.

The dressing for the festival begins. The Indians love Misunga, the small pearls that are

strung into an endless chain or belts or weighed into necklaces, we also brought

such pearls as gifts, but didn't know that the Apalai only appreciate

the very small pearls and only the colors red and blue. All our mistakes are laughed at indulgently,

the next time you come, bring the right misunga with you, we're told.

In the middle of the dance is the red symbolic feather figure of Apalai, the Takema.

The boss Azucker calmly tells me "when this Tukanderer is over you can take the

feather headdress and the Takema figure with you, our tribe won't celebrate any more Tukanderer.

The plane has fetched us. We are back on our

boat St Michel and on our way to the Amazon estuary .

We will sail to the Caribbean and from there via the Bahamas to

the east coast of the USA. There in Chesapeake Bay we will finish our circumnavigation.

Seven years we lived in the narrow space of this boat, now we

will part. Sylvestre is going to college, high school for the other children

and Marie and I will look for a challenge.