TikTok Star Sparks Outrage with 'Cannibal Tribe' Stunt in West Papua

Max Sterling, 8/29/2025In a cringe-worthy display of cultural tone-deafness, TikToker Dara Tah turns indigenous West Papuan communities into unwitting props for his manufactured drama. Like watching a train wreck in slow motion, his 17.7M-view video perfectly encapsulates everything wrong with influencer culture's race to the ethical bottom.

In a video that's racked up a staggering 17.7 million views (and counting), Tah ventures into West Papua, staging what can only be described as a cheap thriller featuring local indigenous communities. The footage shows him approaching riverside inhabitants while muttering predictably dramatic phrases about "terrifying" encounters and "huge bows." Really?

Let's call this what it is: cultural tourism wrapped in clickbait.

The setup feels painfully familiar to anyone who's spent more than five minutes on social media. There's our intrepid westerner, conveniently equipped with a local guide named Demi, venturing into what he dramatically dubs "dangerous territory." The resulting footage — showing indigenous people simply going about their day at the waterfront — would be almost laughable if it weren't so deeply problematic.

"Did you just intrude their land for content and call them scary?" one commenter nailed it, cutting through Tah's performative dramatics.

But here's the thing — this isn't just another cringeworthy influencer moment. It's part of an unsettling pattern where social media personalities treat remote communities like props in their content creation circus. Remember Callan Bole? The TikToker who got himself stranded for 18 days in the Amazon after illegally entering protected indigenous territory? Apparently, some folks didn't get the memo.

What's particularly grating about Tah's stunt is his casual throwing around of the term "cannibal tribe" — a loaded phrase that belongs in the dustbin of colonial history. West Papua is home to roughly 300 distinct tribes, and while some historically practiced ritual cannibalism, anthropologists confirm this largely vanished by the mid-20th century. But hey, why let pesky facts interfere with those sweet, sweet views?

"They are not cannibals, they are just people living a peaceful life," wrote one viewer, expressing what shouldn't need saying in 2025.

Tah's got form for this sort of thing. Take his dramatized visit to Scotland's Gruinard Island, where he donned a hazmat suit to explore what he dubbed "the world's deadliest island" — nevermind that it was officially decontaminated back in 1990. The pattern? Manufacturing danger where none exists.

The implications stretch far beyond one influencer's questionable choices. In our current attention economy, where authenticity supposedly reigns supreme, we're watching indigenous cultures being reduced to 60-second entertainment snippets for mindless scrolling. It's colonialism repackaged for the digital age — less obvious, perhaps, but no less damaging.

Perhaps most telling was Tah's response to clearly being unwelcome: a promise to "try again tomorrow." It perfectly encapsulates the entitled persistence that's become influencer culture's calling card. Since when did resistance become just another content opportunity?

This isn't merely about one creator's misguided grab for fame — it speaks to a platform economy that consistently rewards sensationalism over sensitivity. As social media continues reshaping global consciousness, maybe it's time to ask ourselves: when do the costs of content creation outweigh the benefits? And more importantly, who's really paying the price?

The latest TikTok controversy has left many wondering just how far social media influencers will go for views. This time, it's Irish content creator Dara Tah who's crossed the line — and not for the first time.In a video that's racked up a staggering 17.7 million views (and counting), Tah ventures into West Papua, staging what can only be described as a cheap thriller featuring local indigenous communities. The footage shows him approaching riverside inhabitants while muttering predictably dramatic phrases about "terrifying" encounters and "huge bows." Really?Let's call this what it is: cultural tourism wrapped in clickbait.The setup feels painfully familiar to anyone who's spent more than five minutes on social media. There's our intrepid westerner, conveniently equipped with a local guide named Demi, venturing into what he dramatically dubs "dangerous territory." The resulting footage — showing indigenous people simply going about their day at the waterfront — would be almost laughable if it weren't so deeply problematic."Did you just intrude their land for content and call them scary?" one commenter nailed it, cutting through Tah's performative dramatics.But here's the thing — this isn't just another cringeworthy influencer moment. It's part of an unsettling pattern where social media personalities treat remote communities like props in their content creation circus. Remember Callan Bole? The TikToker who got himself stranded for 18 days in the Amazon after illegally entering protected indigenous territory? Apparently, some folks didn't get the memo.What's particularly grating about Tah's stunt is his casual throwing around of the term "cannibal tribe" — a loaded phrase that belongs in the dustbin of colonial history. West Papua is home to roughly 300 distinct tribes, and while some historically practiced ritual cannibalism, anthropologists confirm this largely vanished by the mid-20th century. But hey, why let pesky facts interfere with those sweet, sweet views?"They are not cannibals, they are just people living a peaceful life," wrote one viewer, expressing what shouldn't need saying in 2025.Tah's got form for this sort of thing. Take his dramatized visit to Scotland's Gruinard Island, where he donned a hazmat suit to explore what he dubbed "the world's deadliest island" — nevermind that it was officially decontaminated back in 1990. The pattern? Manufacturing danger where none exists.The implications stretch far beyond one influencer's questionable choices. In our current attention economy, where authenticity supposedly reigns supreme, we're watching indigenous cultures being reduced to 60-second entertainment snippets for mindless scrolling. It's colonialism repackaged for the digital age — less obvious, perhaps, but no less damaging.Perhaps most telling was Tah's response to clearly being unwelcome: a promise to "try again tomorrow." It perfectly encapsulates the entitled persistence that's become influencer culture's calling card. Since when did resistance become just another content opportunity?This isn't merely about one creator's misguided grab for fame — it speaks to a platform economy that consistently rewards sensationalism over sensitivity. As social media continues reshaping global consciousness, maybe it's time to ask ourselves: when do the costs of content creation outweigh the benefits? And more importantly, who's really paying the price?