When satellite images of the Piripkura Indigenous Territory showed just 106 hectares of tree cover lost in 2025—down from 1,769 hectares in 2021—it was a quiet victory for Brazil’s embattled Amazon. Nestled in Mato Grosso state, this 242,405-hectare forest is the last refuge of Tamandua and Pakyî, two of the last known members of the isolated Piripkura people, whose lives were brought to global attention in the 2017 documentary Piripkura. After years of rampant deforestation driven by illegal ranching, coordinated operations by IBAMA and the National Force have dramatically reduced forest loss—by 94% since the 2021 peak. Yet, despite the invaders’ retreat, a stubborn remnant remains: roughly 1,000 cattle still roam the territory, left behind by land-grabbers but never removed.
These animals are more than just livestock—they’re a foothold. According to an IBAMA agent who has led multiple enforcement actions in the region, the presence of cattle gives ranchers a pretext to re-enter the land, claiming they must tend to their herds. Even with a Funai Ethno-environmental Protection Base now operating permanently in the area, authorities have been stalled by bureaucracy in Brasília, unable to secure federal authorization to seize the animals. “In the previous government, we were unable to make progress, and now we are at the end of [President] Lula’s government and we still haven’t managed to make progress in seizing the animals,” the agent said, speaking anonymously due to security concerns.
The situation is further complicated by a recent court decision that provisionally allows some ranchers to remain until the formal demarcation of the territory is complete—a process delayed by political resistance. Meanwhile, the land faces another threat: a proposed mining operation by Brazilian company Oxycer, which could move forward if Congress fails to renew a protective ordinance. For now, the forest is healing. Regrowth is visible in once-cleared areas, and deforestation rates have stayed low through 2024 and 2025. But the lingering cattle represent a fragile peace—one that could unravel without decisive action.
Still, the turnaround in Piripkura offers a rare blueprint for protecting isolated peoples and their ecosystems. With sustained monitoring and political will, the territory could become a model of restitution. As the world watches Brazil’s next steps, the quiet resilience of Tamandua and Pakyî—and the forest they call home—reminds us that even the most fragile victories are worth defending.