Murujuga: Rock Art, Heritage, and Landscape Iconoclasm 9780812296983

Citation preview

Murujuga

Murujuga Rock Art, Heritage, and Landscape Iconoclasm José Antonio González Zarandona

University of Pennsylvania Press Philadelphia

Copyright © 2020 University of Pennsylvania Press All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations used for purposes of review or scholarly citation, none of this book may be reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher. Published by University of Pennsylvania Press Philadelphia, Pennsylvania 19104-4112 www.upenn.edu/pennpress Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: González Zarandona, José Antonio, author. Title: Murujuga : rock art, heritage, and landscape iconoclasm / José Antonio González Zarandona. Description: 1st edition. | Philadelphia : University of Pennsylvania Press, [2020] | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019031272 | ISBN 9780812251562 (hardcover) Subjects: LCSH: Petroglyphs—Australia—Burrup Peninsula (W.A.) | Art, Aboriginal Australian—Australia—Burrup Peninsula (W.A.) | Aboriginal Australians—Australia—Burrup Peninsula (W.A.)—Antiquities. | Iconoclasm. | Art—Mutilation, defacement, etc.—Australia—Burrup Peninsula (W.A.) | Landscape archaeology—Australia—Burrup Peninsula (W.A.) | Cultural property—Australia—Burrup Peninsula (W.A.) | Burrup Peninsula (W.A.)— Antiquities. | Burrup Peninsula (W.A.)—History. Classification: LCC DU124.P47 G66 2020 | DDC 994.1/3—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019031272

Contents

Foreword by Michel Lorblanchet List of Abbreviations Introduction

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xiii

1

Part I Murujuga Chapter 1

Situating Murujuga

Chapter 2

Murujuga and Its Meanings

11 41

Part II From the Colonial Gaze to the Academic Appreciation of Rock Art Chapter 3 The Colonial Gaze Chapter 4

Rude Aesthetics

79 85

Chapter 5 The Colonization of the Landscape 123 Part III Landscape and Heritage Chapter 6 The Destruction of Landscape in Murujuga Chapter 7 The Making of Heritage

186

Part IV A Theory of Landscape Iconoclasm Chapter 8 Conclusion

Landscape Iconoclasm 218

209

143

vi

Contents

Notes

221

Bibliography

259

Index 285 Acknowledgments 295

Foreword Michel Lorblanchet

I

n 1975–76 I was sent to Dampier (Western Australia) for several months by the Canberra-based Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies (now the Australian Institute for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders Studies, AIATSIS), where I worked as a research consultant. As a French researcher, I was ceded by the French National Centre of Scientific Research (CNRS) to Australia for three years. AIATSIS then gave me the tasks of producing a report on the scientific significance of the Dampier site and of making proposals regarding its archaeological study. At that time, the scientific study of Dampier (Murujuga) was in its infancy, and an engineer with the Dampier Salt company—Enzo Virili— had asked AIATSIS for an archaeologist to provide an estimate of the importance of the site. In 1984, 1988, and 1992, I returned to Murujuga on some missions (funded by the CNRS and AIATSIS) to continue the study I had started in the mid-1970s. My discovery of Murujuga’s engravings was the most significant shock of my life! In front of this mineral landscape, with its long brown hills, and the gigantic chaos of dark, intrusive rocks, standing out against the blue of the ocean, were engravings, some so old that they were hardly visible. I was amazed! I was invaded by a feeling both of extraordinary beauty and of archaeological impotence in the face of the site’s vastness, which plunged me into the immensity of time. Hitherto I had devoted my life to the study of the European decorated caves, but they each contain only a few hundred works—in exceptional cases, one could find a few thousand works—and they are hidden in the depths of the earth, whereas in Murujuga the engravings are openly visible, under the huge blue sky, and take possession of the landscape. I had never seen anything comparable; now, at the end of a lifetime of research in Europe, India, and trips around the world, I still do not know a site vii

viii

Foreword

similar to Murujuga. Our most extensive European sites of outdoor rock engravings, the Vallée des Merveilles and Valcamonica in the Alps, only have, respectively, 40,000 and 140,000 figures, dating back only 4,000–5,000 years, while Murujuga has hundreds of thousands of figures whose chronology extends over tens of thousands of years. These are not dead images, vestiges of an irredeemably long-gone time, as in Europe and the rest of the world, but living images that still speak to present-day human communities. What dramatic differences! Murujuga is unique in the world! In spite of my first feeling of helplessness, I managed to develop a method of study that could quickly obtain an idea of the main problems involved in the archaeological survey of Murujuga’s engravings. Faced with the impossibility of immediately recording and studying the hundreds of thousands of engravings, I established—by means of a technique similar to that of making test-pits in an excavation—a series of sectors, each measuring 100 square meters. Within each of these sample areas, I carried out an exhaustive study. This involved recording all the engravings and making a complete survey of all the remains associated with the figures—sometimes seashells or bones but especially stone tools that were scattered on the ground surface. I also excavated the prehistoric deposits that I discovered among the engraved boulders. I thus established seven “control zones” that could provide some preliminary objective knowledge of the region’s archaeology. I placed my control zones in two valleys of the Murujuga Peninsula: Skew Valley (SKV), 500 meters long, and Gum Tree Valley (GTV), which extends for 1.5 kilometers. In SKV I centered my first study area on a shell midden surrounded by engravings, which I excavated. In GTV I placed six other control zones, some at the valley’s entrance, near shell middens, two others on the plateau dominating the valley, and the last one at the top of the valley, with a final small set of engravings and habitations on the plateau overlooking the top of the valley. The variety of geographical locations in these control zones—sometimes close to the coast, sometimes distant, sometimes in the valley bottom around water points, sometimes on the plateaus overlooking the valleys—enabled me to understand how the inhabitants of this site had used the environment’s diversity over millennia. Likewise, the fourteen radiocarbon dates obtained during my work, including the dating of the engraved slabs that I discovered buried under the shells during my excavation of the shell heap at SKV, as well as the

Foreword

exhaustive study of all remains inside each control area, made possible a thorough comparison of all the data. Ultimately, I obtained a full panorama of the evolution of the settlement of Murujuga, from the Pleistocene to the colonization period, over more than twenty-two millennia. At the beginning of my research, I was living with my family in Karratha. I was helped by several people, including Virili, who was a tremendous help with many technical operations, especially when mapping the engraved rocks with a theodolite. During my fieldwork, I was visited by some Indigenous people from Roebourne, friends and colleagues such as Peter Randolph (from the Western Australian Museum), the ethnographer Kingsley Palmer, AIATSIS linguist Franck Wordick, and rock art experts Bruce Wright and Patricia Vinnicombe. I set up a photographic field laboratory in my mobile home and practiced my favorite activity: the patient decipherment of etched surfaces and their graphic recording. I remember the long moments we spent in silence, in the heart of GTV, sitting on the big shell mound at the edge of the temporary stream. It was as if we were at the center of a theater, surrounded by engravings. We had in front of us the great eagle with its ceremonial headdress, which for millennia carried a stick at the end of its wing and danced the corroboree, as explained to me by an old Indigenous elder of the region, who had visited me during my work. We witnessed with reverence the almost cinematographic presentation of the engravings that the sun gave us on its daily journey! Each engraved surface was touched momentarily and successively by a ray of sunshine, which appeared and disappeared depending on the orientation of the rock surface. At 11 o’clock the eagle rose in its splendor, and then disappeared around 12:30 when the human figures on the nearby rock lit up. On the same panel, two figures were visible for half an hour while a third, more blurred figure was then visible only for a few minutes. I scrupulously noted these data and attributed to each panel an “index of visibility”: I noticed that some motifs were easily visible and for a long time. They were on open view, while others seemed to hide and be reserved for those who took care to get very close to them. Toward the top of GTV, I discovered expanses of large engraved slabs, deeply patinated. In the middle of the day, only about fifty figures were visible in the blazing, particularly blinding sunshine. I also made tracings at sunset and even at nightfall, which enabled me, for example, to find 470 figures here—10

ix

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Foreword

times more than those that can be seen during a quick visit! Thus, for the oldest figures, which are the most faded and the most difficult to decipher, the lighting conditions are decisive, and the regular use of artificial lighting is necessary. I also discovered places where the engravings were accompanied by multiple standing stones rather like little menhirs (I learned later from Kingsley Palmer that the Indigenous people called them “thalu”). In another area I recorded an artificial mound topped by a stela bearing the engraved effigy of a person, accompanied by a great rock whose surface was entirely hammered. I noted all the traces of human intervention on the ground and the rocks: my thorough deciphering of the engraved figures revealed to me that almost all of them had been regularly reworked over the millennia. Their contours had been reworked, and indeed the pecked lines had been refreshed so often that they had frequently ended up becoming real grooves —rubbing with a stone was enough to make a line reappear again when erosion tended to erase them. Some motifs—I remember stingrays from GTV, for example—had been partially renovated very recently: only their eyes had been retouched, which gave them a strange presence and an apparently renewed life! I also found beautiful patinated tools belonging to the oldest Australian stone industry (Australian Old Tools Tradition) on the ground at the foot of the engraved rocks. I photographed and drew each piece, and then redeposited it immediately in the exact place. Among these very old tools, at the foot of those engravings that I considered the oldest by their style and their patina, I discovered the fragments of a huge shell, a Syrinx aruanus, which had doubtless served as a container for transporting water. The radiocarbon dating of these fragments soon showed that they were more than 22,000 years old, that is to say, from the Pleistocene, when the coastline was located some 200 kilometers west of the present seashore. Hence my observations revealed the constant human presence on Murujuga over many millennia: the permanent maintenance of the engravings, the countless ritual traces, the remains of meals, or even a simple stone protecting a hole filled with rainwater—all of this indicated attention, precautions, the imminence of a return. Once I had deposited the results of my Australian research in the AIATSIS archives, I concentrated on the study of the Paleolithic decorated caves of my home country. In 1996 I was appointed a member of the International Scientific Commission for the Côa engravings (Portugal). This commission helped protect an important site of Paleolithic rock engravings that were threatened with inun-

Foreword

dation (by the construction of a dam). The controversy aroused by the Côa engravings constitutes a case study that the Australian authorities might do well to revisit in order to find a solution to the protection of heritage while dealing with industry. In December 2018 we celebrated the twentieth anniversary of the Côa’s United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) World Heritage listing. With the editorial assistance of my colleagues Graeme K. Ward and Ken Mulvaney, I was able recently (2018) to publish online my book Archaeology and Petroglyphs of Dampier (Western Australia)—An Archaeological Investigation of Skew Valley and Gum Tree Valley. I hope that it may also appear in France one day. When Dr. José Antonio González Zarandona invited me to write the foreword for this book, I had the strange feeling that I had been waiting for this message and this book for a long time! This courageous work appears at the right moment when struggles between heritage and industry are crystallizing and coming together. This book traces the history of the discovery and colonization of Murujuga by Europeans. It also details the history of the political and legal claims of the various local Indigenous groups and their complicated relations with the regional and national authorities. It explains the mythological significance, the sacred nature of the Murujuga site for the Aborigines. It also expresses, in ethnological, cultural, and human terms, what I felt and what I discovered as an archaeologist during my study of the Murujuga engravings. I find in this book the precise description of the threats that today face the immense heritage of Murujuga, as a result of the growing industrialization of the region and the first destructions of which it has already been the victim. It tells the story of the permanent, unshakeable attachment of the Indigenous people to the country of their Dreamtime ancestors, of which the archaeologists, through their excavations and studies, find traces and wanderings in the landscape. My work, my book, and this book are complementary! I too, in my own way, modestly showed the attachment of the Indigenous populations to their site by revealing, through my tracings, all the forms of this attachment: • the durability of the occupation of the region since the very origins of settlement; • the renovation of engravings throughout the millennia; putting rock images back into service—spiritual images constantly boosted by beliefs;

xi

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Foreword

• the diversity of human uses of the region, and the permanent adaptation to changes in the natural environment, showing, in particular, how the “Art of the Kangaroo Hunters” was replaced by a “Marine Art” linked to the exploitation of coastal resources: that is, how these populations dealt with the arrival of the ocean on the lands of their ancestors at the end of the Pleistocene My study was certainly extremely partial! José Antonio points out that, even today, only a small part of Murujuga and the Dampier Archipelago has been studied, but my work—like this book—shows what it would still be possible to investigate, and opens the way to new research. Both the archipelago and Murujuga could now be developed both culturally and touristically, as was done in the Côa, but here—as José Antonio suggests—it would be carried out with the highest respect for the Indigenous people and with their close collaboration. Of course, Murujuga is, at the same time, an Indigenous, Australian, and World Heritage site: it is up to the men of power and the whole of humanity to recognize and respect it. Will our culture now be capable of protecting this precious heritage? I am today an old Indigenous man of Quercy, in southwest France. I too fight to safeguard my natural and traditional local heritage against the development of the increasing industrialization of polluting agriculture that affects our air, water, landscapes, and human health. European civilizations have lost their spirituality and their connection to the environment. In contrast, the Indigenous people of Australia and other parts of the world remind us that we are part of what surrounds us. They invite us to return to a respectful relationship with nature, to the landscapes and history of our cultures: the very destiny of our humanity is at stake.

Abbreviations

ACMC

Aboriginal Cultural Materials Committee

AHA

Aboriginal Heritage Act (Western Australia)

AHC

Australian Heritage Council

AIATSIS

Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies

BMIEA

Burrup and Maitland Industrial Estates Agreement

CALM

Department of Conservation and Land Management

DAA

Department of Aboriginal Affairs

DAS

Department of Aboriginal Studies

DEC

Department of Environment and Conservation

DRD

Department of Resources Development

EPA

Environmental Protection Authority

ICOMOS

International Council of Monuments and Sites

IFRAO

International Federation of Rock Art Organisations

LNG

liquefied natural gas

MAC

Murujuga Aboriginal Corporation

MNP

Murujuga National Park

NAC

Ngarluma Aboriginal Corporation

NHL

National Heritage List

NHV

national heritage values

UNESCO

United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization

WAM

Western Australian Museum

xiii

Introduction

K

nown as “Murujuga” in local Ngayarda languages, the Burrup Peninsula is part of the Dampier Archipelago in the coastal Pilbara region of Western Australia. Murujuga is said to host the world’s largest concentration of petroglyphs—rock art motifs produced by a reductive process, such as pecking or abrading1—with the number of motifs estimated to be around one million.2 Partly due to the size of the area, in the 1960s it was chosen as the location for major industrial development, which has since desecrated this cultural landscape. Researchers estimate that 5–25 percent of rock art on Murujuga has been removed or destroyed as a result of industrial development and poor archaeological advice.3 Up to 2004, less than 14 percent of land on Murujuga had been impacted by industry.4 Rock art researcher Patricia Vinnicombe noted in 2002 that, despite the limitless research, education, and cultural tourism potential, no organization was responsible for managing and studying Murujuga’s remarkable cultural heritage. She regretted that the petroglyphs would be seen in a completely different landscape as a result of the destruction caused by the industrialization of the area. The future of Murujuga, she stated, was determined by the lack of responsibility in the present.5 Although the Pilbara region was known to explorers by the seventeenth century6 and has been investigated by ethnographers, anthropologists, and linguists since the turn of the twentieth century,7 the rock art of Murujuga was not studied in any great detail until the 1960s and 1970s, when its outstanding values were finally recognized. In the late 1970s, this recognition was underlined by rock art expert Michel Lorblanchet,8 who declared that the Dampier Archipelago contained one of “the most impressive clusters of [rock art] sites” he had ever seen.9 Academic recognition for the area was achieved in the 1970s and

1

2

Introduction

1980s when research theses were written by scholars and when reports were created by the now-abolished Department of Aboriginal Sites (DAS).10 Due to the establishment of the Aboriginal Heritage Act (AHA) of 1972, archaeological surveys were undertaken from the late 1970s, commissioned by companies responsible for development in the area. These surveys increased knowledge about the rock art, but they were limited to those areas devoted to hosting future facilities. To date, no survey has covered the entire area and recorded every rock art motif, primarily because such a task would carry a very high cost and take a considerable amount of time to complete, estimated to be on the order of AUD$20 million over some ten years.11 Further surveys were carried out between the 1990s and 2010s, and the bibliography on Murujuga rock art likewise expanded considerably.12 Western Australian newspapers reported widely on the situation that Murujuga faces, and the active Dampier Campaign, initiated by rock art researcher Robert Bednarik, attracted yet more attention. Bednarik’s campaign was further publicized in 2006 when an episode of 60 Minutes, drawing attention to the destruction of petroglyphs at a national level, was broadcast across Australia. Assessments have been made in order to nominate the site for the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO) World Heritage List, but to no avail.13 At a national level, the Australian Heritage Council (AHC) has considered Murujuga and the Dampier Archipelago to be National Heritage sites since 2007. In 2013, 49 square kilometers of Murujuga became Western Australia’s hundredth national park. In 2016, Murujuga was mentioned by the Australian prime minister, Malcolm Turnbull, in his Closing the Gap statement,14 demonstrating that an awareness of the destruction of rock art in Murujuga had moved beyond the academic arena, where destructions of art are mainly considered iconoclasm, and entered the realm of public opinion, where these destructions are usually referred to as vandalism. How is it possible that the largest rock art site in the world is subject to such destruction and neglect? To begin with, few of the remaining descendants of the original inhabitants of the area have “much traditional geographic or cultural knowledge of the landscape. . . . No one claimed to have been born there or had died there. No one claimed direct mythological or totemic links with Murujuga or any economic dependence on either the land or the sea.”15 Lack of any recognizable ownership in the traditional sense changes Westerners’ perspectives on the land because proving ownership of a piece of land through texts

Introduction

has been recognized as a fundamentally Western, logo-centric concept that overrides Indigenous authority.16 The heart of the issue is the clash of cultures in Western Australia. Native Title, based on a Western concept of ownership, is the only legal means by which Indigenous people can attempt to “prove” that their land is theirs. Sometimes this legal tool takes the form of “heritage legislation”—hence I critique the concept of “heritage” in this book. In the early 2000s, five Indigenous groups (Wong-Goo-Tt-Oo, Ngarluma,Yindjibarndi, Yaburarra, and Mardudhunera) claimed to have direct links with the land and applied for Native Title rights. Only the Ngarluma/Yindjibarndi secured rights after the Australian Federal Court granted them in 2005. Although the Ngarluma/Yindjibarndi are the proven rightful owners of an area where Murujuga lies, in reality, according to the Burrup and Maitland Industrial Estates Agreement (BMIEA), the Native Title agreement for Murujuga is extinguished. When the BMIEA was signed in 2003, “there was no native title determination by the Federal Court in relation to any of the three native title claims before it. However, the benefits contained in the BMIEA were intended to endure regardless of whether or not any of the native title parties were determined by the Federal Court to hold native title over the areas in question. In July 2003 . . . the Federal Court found that non-exclusive native title rights still existed over parts of the land the subject of the native title claims but that native title no longer existed over Murujuga.”17 As part of the BMIEA, freehold title was handed over to an Approved Body Corporate composed of the registered Indigenous claimant groups. This enabled the state government to compulsorily acquire Native Title rights to allow industrial development to expand across southern parts of Murujuga. Support was also provided to develop a conservation estate to ensure protection of Indigenous cultural heritage. The agreement also envisioned a series of economic and community benefits for the Indigenous groups, including education and training and a stake in future land developments. In return, 42 percent of Murujuga (the nonindustrial gazetted land) was leased back to the state of Western Australia to be jointly handled as a conservation reserve by the Approved Body Corporate and the Department of Conservation and Land Management (CALM). Within the wider context of the state of Western Australia, however, the site is principally recognized for its industry associated with the processing and export of gas and iron ore, and not for its cultural values. The area is also important to non-Indigenous employees working in the industries established there,

3

4

Introduction

because it is the place where they work, live, and have built significant social relationships over many years. Non-Indigenous stories and connections attached to the site have already emerged—the most famous being the story of “Red Dog.”18 The site is multivalent and defined on several levels: international, national, state, local, and Indigenous. This book investigates Murujuga’s rock art because it is both an outstanding example of world heritage and also in a unique situation: as a site, Murujuga is recognized for its heritage values, but it is being devastatingly impacted by industry. The site is a case of destruction of cultural heritage as a consequence of colonialism and postcolonialism. Therefore, this book proposes a new way to think about heritage destruction by analyzing the historical trajectory of Murujuga through different key historical periods as well as its status as an Indigenous heritage site. It is a historical study of visual content that explains why the petroglyphs in Murujuga were (and are) destroyed. Theories that analyze the process in which objects change might be helpful here because they can explain the extent to which heritage objects are valued and devalued throughout their life.19 However, my intention in this book is to frame the destruction of images and landscape within cultural discourses (heritage and iconoclasm) that also consider systems of evaluation. It is also an investigation “aimed at understanding qualities of heritage and how these affect its roles”20 in contemporary Australia, by providing a close contextual analysis of particular cultural processes and by being a model for others who wish to comprehend heritage as a contemporary phenomenon.

Iconoclasm

All objects are vulnerable and subject to being attacked and destroyed. Objects possess a power—they can refer to, symbolize, or embody an individual or group’s identity. By attacking or destroying the object, one can hurt the individual or the group by proxy. This applies to all objects, regardless of whether they are considered idols, art, or propaganda. However, the motivations behind the act of destruction vary from case to case and should be analyzed based on each individual context. Objects can be destroyed due to religious or political moti-

Introduction

vations, or because they might be offensive and transgressive to some individuals or to the law. In any case, the destruction always sends a message. From the Greek εἰκονοκλάστης (image breaking), the term “iconoclasm” was originally linked to the destruction of religious images, but it was later appropriated to define the destruction of all images, including artistic ones. The definition changes according to the context. For example, “iconoclasm” was used in Byzantium in the eighth and ninth centuries and during the Reformation in the sixteenth century to refer to the destruction of religious images, while “vandalism” was coined during the French Revolution to refer to the destruction of architectural heritage, art, and images associated with the ancien régime.21 Different disciplines define the term accordingly. For example, an archaeologist understands iconoclasm as a “practical action which had a direct and transforming impact on material culture.”22 In contrast, a historian claims that it is “the act of destroying religious works of art . . . two and three dimensional artifacts . . . buildings, and . . . cities.”23 For his part, a religious studies scholar claims that iconoclasm “was already a well-known phenomenon in antiquity, though often it took the form of destruction of symbols of privilege and established order, with the religious overtones muted. . . . [P]erhaps even more pertinent is the destruction of images of reigning or defunct emperors in the Roman period, as symbolic acts of political rebellion or of a posthumous damnatio memoriae.”24 Generally speaking, iconoclasm takes on two different senses. On the one hand, there is its literal sense of destruction and opposition to images (including religious imagery) and material objects (crucifixes, sculptures). On the other hand, in its abstract and symbolic sense, iconoclasm is a transgression of imperative rules and customs. Iconoclasm might be the result of an emotional and violent response of an individual toward an object, or it can be a strategic and planned response carried out by a group of people or institutions.25 In line with the latter characterization, recent work theorizes iconoclasm as a process—formed by a series of violent acts—that culminates in destruction, rather than a single moment of violence.26 That is, iconoclasm destroys the targeted object through a transformative process that takes time to be effective—what Ian Lilley refers to as “everyday” heritage destruction, effected “through large-scale projects” or “the cumulative impact of industrial expansion and smaller-scale projects.”27

5

6

Introduction

Therefore, the rules that apply to the destruction of objects can also be applied to the destruction of a landscape when the latter is associated with a particular cultural group. In the case of Murujuga, iconoclasm is a process of transformation that reflects “themes of control, power, domination, and social organization.”28 As this book will demonstrate, landscape iconoclasm is “a lengthy, difficult, organized procedure”29 that impacts not only the landscape but also the cultural group associated with it. Images are important to people as signs of identity and of belonging to a specific place. Thus the reason that iconoclasm, enacted toward ancient rock art, also affects the local Indigenous community is because iconoclasm is closely associated with “extermination or annihilation, as a form of ethnic cleansing, and . . . as a way of controlling a place and conquering a territory.”30 What follows is a full ethnographic account of a modern case of iconoclasm and the introduction of a new concept—landscape iconoclasm—to satisfactorily describe the destruction of a unique landscape. The premise of this book is that we cannot understand the destruction in Murujuga without unraveling archaeology’s deep entanglement with both the history of Western colonial and postcolonial interventions in Australia and the politics of Western Australian heritage that in several ways, including the use and abuse of archaeology, reproduced the colonial legacy. Landscape iconoclasm—a process of destruction—occurs, on the one hand, as a result of the deliberate destruction of heritage and poor archaeological advice, and, on the other, as a result of industrial development and bureaucratic deeds, perpetrated by people who simply followed orders without thinking about the consequences of their actions. Hannah Arendt’s concept of the “banality of evil” is pertinent when you look at the destruction of heritage in Murujuga, as there exists a highly mechanized and organized bureaucratic organization that is slowly altering the landscape.31 I start by introducing the site, outlining its geographical location and providing an overview of the damage that has taken place there. I further explore matters concerning the ethnohistory of the area. In Chapter 2, I show how multivalent the site is by providing an overview of the many meanings attached to it by the Indigenous groups who populated the area before European colonization, as well as the meanings that the site elicits for Indigenous and non-Indigenous local communities today. In Chapters 3 and 4, I outline the disastrous consequences of colonialism, detailing the disinterest in and neglect of the rock art since the

Introduction

seventeenth century by the settlers and explorers who arrived in Australia and the Dampier Archipelago. I further show that these attitudes were not exclusive to Western Australia but were also common in Europe. The fifth chapter reviews the misinterpretation of the Australian landscape by European colonizers and how this influenced the first academic work on the area, summarizing the legacy of those who recorded rock art in Australia and Murujuga. In Chapter 6, I discuss how the establishment of industry influenced the mismanagement of the area’s Indigenous heritage by analyzing the lack of social value that standard heritage legislation demands. Next, I critique the concept of heritage by concluding that its implementation on Murujuga is merely a modern response to tame the foreign object—in this case, the rock art. Finally, a theory of landscape iconoclasm is offered, where I will further contextualize the concept of iconoclasm to overcome the argument that the motivation to destroy the landscape is purely economic.

7

Chapter 1 Situating Murujuga

Murujuga and the Dampier Archipelago

T

he Dampier Archipelago is located 1,650 kilometers north of Perth, along the northwest coastline of the Pilbara region in Western Australia (Figure 1). The archipelago consists of those landmasses not inundated by the sea during the last sea-level rise between ca. 7000 and 10,000 BP (before present)—islandization was achieved ca. 8000 BP.1 Accordingly, the oldest rock art in the archipelago (large ornamented anthropomorphs, earthly animals, archaic faces, intaglio, and abstract images) was produced when the sea level was much lower (130 meters lower during the Last Glacial Maximum, 22,000 to 18,000 BP). The majority of the art is thought to date from this time.2 The closest towns to the archipelago are Dampier and Karratha, built in the 1960s and 1970s. The archipelago consists of forty-two islands and islets, Murujuga being the largest (Figure 2). Murujuga is 27 kilometers long and 5 kilometers wide; the total surface is 118 square kilometers, and the archipelago amounts to approximately 330 square kilometers of land. Industrial development has impacted 16.4 square kilometers of the landmass.3 In the 1960s the island was connected to the mainland by an artificial causeway (Figures 3 and 4), transforming it into a peninsula. Later on, Comalco (a subsidiary of Rio Tinto, one of the largest companies established in the archipelago) turned the tidal mudflats that were separating the island from the mainland into solar salt fields, driven by the increasing demand for salt by the Japanese chemical industry.4

11

Figure 1. The state of Western Australia.

116´30´E

116´40´E

116´50´E

117´00´E

20´20´S

Leg

en

Keast Island

dre

Cohen Island

Isla

nd

Elphic Knob Kendrew Island Roly Rock

Gidley Island

Dolphin Island

Rosemary Island Malus Islands

Goodwyn Island

Mermaid Sound

N

Angel Island

W

Conzine Bay

Enderby Island

rru Bu

West Lewis Island

East Lewis Island

Mermaid Strait

20´40´S

Intercourse Island

Watering Cove Cowrie Cove

King Bay

North West Reefs

E

Kilometres 0 1 2 3 4 5

pP en ins

Bare Rock

Courtenay Shoal

Hauy Island

ula

20´30´S

Nelson Rocks

Fly ing Foa m

Lady Nora Island

Pas sa

ge

Collier Rocks

Nickol Bay

Dampier

Eaglehawk Island West Intercourse Island

Figure 2. The Dampier Archipelago, Western Australia. After Hutchins, Whisson and Salotti 2000.

10

Figure 3. The causeway linking the island to the mainland, seen from north to south. The solar salt fields can be seen on the right. Photograph by the author.

Figure 4. Satellite image showing the artificial causeway that divides Murujuga from the mainland. The solar salt fields are visible to the left and right off the causeway. Prepared by the author.

14

Chapter 1

With the introduction and expansion of gas, iron ore, and salt industries since the 1960s,5 the landscape of the archipelago has been transformed. No permission was sought from the relevant local Indigenous people, and this lack of consultation with Indigenous communities is now causing havoc among stakeholders who are claiming the area as their own. In the local Ngayarda languages, Murujuga means “hip bone sticking out,”6 which is thought to refer to the piles of blocks that loom in the landscape (see Figure 5).7 Bruce Wright first recorded the name when he discussed the development of Woodside with Indigenous people in 1980; he spelled it “Murujugga.”8 An earlier reference is “Moolajacka” (“big horseshoe reef in head of Nicol [sic] Bay”).9 Recent evidence suggests that these names are not known among contemporary Indigenous people. For example, one Indigenous woman emphasized that her father talked about “/bijurru/,” the island located beyond the town of Karratha.10 Tom Gara, an ethnographer who worked in the area, confirmed this information. The local Indigenous community in fact divided the peninsula in two, with the south known as Pijurru, and the north as Murujuga. Indeed, before industry came to the area, the mudflats behind King Bay were completely flooded when the spring tidal waves were at their highest, even reaching Hearson Cove.11 When the minister for lands renamed the landmass in 1979 as Burrup Peninsula, this referred to only the northern part of Murujuga.12 Local Indigenous people have provided many other names that refer to prominent geographical features in the area. “Kirrijirrie” is a hill on the eastern side of the peninsula; “Piragura,” “Biragura,” or “Piragudda” is King Bay; “Ngarrari” is the southern edge of Yaburarra territory (see Figure 7); “Yoorintha” is Hearson Cove; “Walyingoo” is Delambre Island; and “Kumuru” is Eaglehawk Island.13 The English name for the archipelago derives from the seaman William Dampier, considered the first European to have seen and explored the region. In August 1885, government surveyor F. S. Brockman gave the name Burrup to the highest point of the island (Mount Burrup), after Henry Thomas Wood Burrup, a bank clerk at the Union Bank in Roebourne (see Figure 6). Allegedly, many Indigenous people nowadays prefer the Ngarluma name “Puratha” (“the sad place”), in reference to the Flying Foam Massacre that took place in 1868 (see below).14 The fact that the area has received many names and is most well known by its western one (Burrup) is a reflection of its long history of oppression. Little by little, the name “Murujuga” has gained more presence and is now more widely used and known.

Figure 5. View of Murujuga from the southern end. The salt fields and the causeway are visible on the right. Photograph by the author.

Figure 6. Gravestone of Henry Thomas Wood Burrup. It reads that Burrup “was brutally murdered on the Union Bank Premises at Roebourne W.A. on the 13th January 1885.” Photograph used by permission of Shire of Roebourne Local History Office 2005.974.

Chapter 1

Ethnohistory

The first Australians arrived on the mainland before 60,000 BP,15 while Indigenous groups colonized the Pilbara around 47,000 BP.16 Three Indigenous language groups are of particular relevance to Murujuga; the Yaburarra apparently occupied Murujuga and some islands of the archipelago, while the Ngarluma and the Martuthunira inhabited the land to the east and west, respectively17 (see Figure 7). There are a limited number of Ngarluma or Martuthunira speakers today, and no Yaburarra language is known. Phillip Parker King, Francis Gregory, Pemberton Walcott, Jeffrey Stow, and possibly A. K. Richardson were the only documented Europeans who had actual contact with the Yaburarra on their traditional lands. By the late nineteenth cen-

INDIAN OCEAN

LEGENDRE Is.

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ROSEMARY Is.

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Fo am

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Fly i

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Withnell Bay

EAST LEWIS Is.

King Bay

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WEST INTERCOURSE Is.

YAPURARRA Karratha

l Nicko

River

MOUNT REGAL

Yanyare

16

NGARLUMA

MARTUTHUNIRA MOUNT LEOPOLD

Figure 7. “Yapurarra tribal boundaries, according to local Indigenous people in the 1990s.” After Veth et al. 1993, following p. 29.

Situating Murujuga

tury the habits and customs of the remaining local Indigenous people were changing, influenced by the restriction that European settlement brought. There were only a few Yaburarra remaining when Harold Hall, who lived most of his life in the area, collected his vocabulary of the Ngarluma in the early twentieth century.18 By the early decades of the last century, the last few full-blood Yaburarra had died.19 Gara claims that the only researchers who collected any information on the Yaburarra were Hall, Norman Tindale, and Carl Georg von Brandenstein.20 Brandenstein, a German linguist, is credited with not only being the first researcher to put the name “Jaburrara” in print, but also associating the Indigenous people of the Dampier Archipelago with a particular Indigenous language group.21 As a result, an immense gap stands between our understanding of Murujuga rock art and the Yaburarra, the Indigenous group who are thought to have created it.22 What little is documented does provide some understanding of the people and their culture. Walter Padbury, for example, observed that the Yaburarra people were “very much scarified about the body” and, compared to them, the colonizers were “complete pigmies.” They were also noted as being very friendly, apparently because they did not carry any weapons.23 Francis Thomas Gregory described them as fine men and tall (“one measuring six feet four inches and [another] five feet eight inches”). They were noted as featuring straight black hair, regular teeth, meager bodies, and no clothes.24 The Yaburarra were also observed to be accomplished swimmers and divers (skills later exploited by the settlers in the pearling industry). For example, the inhabitants of Skew Valley (the southwest end of Murujuga) were noted as belonging above all to the shore (hommes de rivage)—gatherers and fishermen who consumed the products collected in the sandbanks, reefs, mangroves, and shallow waters.25 Phillip Parker King, who explored the archipelago in 1818, depicted how the locals would travel between the islands on rafts made from mangrove trees (see Figure 8). The Yaburarra were a relatively small tribe of no more than 120 people who lived on Murujuga, the islands, and part of the adjoining mainland. Closely related to their tribal neighbors (the Ngarluma and Marthutunira), they shared linguistic, kinship, and mythological links, especially with the Ngarluma, with whom they met during ceremonies. About four local groups formed the whole of the Yaburarra, each group occupying specific territories. For these groups, standing stones and petroglyphs were a very important element of the region’s mythological significance, and each local group was seen as the lawful custodian of its respective rock art sites.26

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Chapter 1

Figure 8. “Native of Dampier’s Archipelago on his Log.” Engraving by King from sketches made near Lewis Island, February 1818. Illustration in King 1827, frontispiece.

According to Tindale, the Yaburarra language was a dialect of Ngarluma. He translated the name “Yaburarra” as “northerners.”27 In contrast, Brandenstein claimed that Yaburarra meant “sea-side” or “down-stream” people.28 He based his findings on the circumstance that the rivers and creeks in the area run northward to the sea. As a result, he considered the Yaburarra as culturally and linguistically part of the Ngarluma group.29 For Brandenstein, the Yaburarra were none other than the “Northern-Ngarluma.”30 Because the prefix “Yabu” in the Pilbara means “north,” Brandenstein was perhaps not far from the truth. He divided the Ngarluma language into three dialects: northern or seaside (spoken by the Yaburarra), western or coastal, and eastern or inland.31 Relevant to this are the three Ngarluma words that Hall recorded in 1910: “Yaboo-rannee” designates the north tip of the peninsula, while “Yaboorr-gee” means “northerly wind,” and “Yabbaroo” is “[n]orth, seaward, down river.”32 In the conversations Gara held with Ngarluma and Martuthunira Indigenous elders, they defined the Yaburarra as those people (not a distinct tribe) inhabiting Murujuga and the islands. For the Yindjibarndi and other Indigenous groups of the interior, Yaburarra usually meant all the “seaside” Ngarluma.33 To identify the existing sources of Yaburarra language, Marmion contacted the people who were identified as being Yaburarra and also other people who might have knowledge of Yaburarra elders or the language. He concluded that the influence of Ngarluma in the Yaburarra language cannot be discarded, as

Situating Murujuga

they are closely related to those languages. He hypothesized that the most recently surviving Yaburarra descendants were close not only to Martuthunira but also perhaps to Kurrama.34 Analyzing the scant literature available, Marmion affirmed that the word list written by Pemberton Walcott, who was part of the Gregory expedition in 1861 (see Chapter 5), is the most important historical document produced, and he considered it representative of the language of at least some of the region’s Indigenous people.35 Marmion interviewed several relevant descendants, including Janice Brettner, one of the daughters of Nickolas Cosmos—the son of Iniarba, considered the last of the Yaburarra people. She did not acknowledge the name “Murujuga” and attributed its use to Ngarluma and Yindjibarndi people. She also said that she felt that Yaburarra were closer to Martuthunira and Kurrama. Likewise, Dorren Copper had heard of “Murujuga” but also pointed to a recent use of the word. She considered the Yaburarra language closer to Martuthunira, although she felt it was closest to Thalanyji and Nhuwala. Dorrie Wally, a Martuthunira descendant and daughter of Mibbin Lowe, is considered to have substantial information about the Yaburarra. She too did not recognize “Murujuga,” suggesting it was a recent word that was not used by old people. She considered the Yaburarra language to be very close to Martuthunira but closer to Kurrama. She also had heard “Muljaga” regarding Dolphin Island.36 Several other individuals were interviewed and expressed their opinions about the Yaburarra culture and language in similar terms; some individuals even recognized some words. Finally, Wilfred Hicks, an important Indigenous elder, Wong-Goo-Tt-Oo descendant, and claimant to Murujuga, told me that Yaburarra is the people recognized as coming from the east side of the Martuthunira Indigenous group.37

Mapping the Territory

One of the first researchers who tried to delimit the area according to language divisions was the British anthropologist A. R. Radcliffe-Brown, who disregarded Yaburarra territory and included it inside the Ngarluma boundaries (see Figure 9), blurring the distinction between the Yaburarra and other sociolinguistic groups.38

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Chapter 1

In contrast, Tindale produced a map in which he delineated Yaburarra territory within Murujuga and the islands to the north (Legendre, Delambre, and Dolphin), as well as the Nickol Bay coast and a portion of the adjacent mainland (see Figure 10). Brandenstein also produced maps that provided a visual history of the location of Yaburarra territory. The first map (Figure 11a) signals Murujuga as the territory inhabited by the Yaburarra before 1966. In it, the Yaburarra are defined simply as (North) Ngarluma. In contrast, in 1966 (Figure 11b), their existence is not even acknowledged. Today Yaburarra territory is symbolically represented in the Aboriginal language group map produced by the Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies (AIATSIS) (Figure 12). In it, Murujuga delimits Yaburarra territory to the north, Mount Leopold to the south, Yanyare River to the west, and the area from Mount Leopold to Nickol Bay to the east. The boundaries be-

IND IAN OCEAN N I CKO L BAY

K AR I ER A TRI BE

MA RD UD HU NE RA TR IB E INJ IBAND I TRIB E

Figure 9. Map of Ngarluma tribal land according to Radcliffe-Brown. After Radcliffe-Brown 1913: 171.

21

Situating Murujuga

tween the Ngarluma and the Yaburarra are the same as those identified by Tindale in 1974. Precise limits were not necessarily clearly established by Indigenous people, allowing close interaction between groups in the form of interrelated cultural and economic activities such as kinship, intermarriage, trade, and ritual, which likely facilitated the blurring of boundaries and distinctions between neighboring tribes.39 Radcliffe-Brown believed that the boundaries were not clear, while Tindale believed that they were and were “seldom trespassed.”40 The drawing of a broken line to delimit the position that divides the Yaburarra territory to the east suggests that Tindale considered the possible interaction between the Ngarluma and Yaburarra. Conversely, Brandenstein acknowledges the existence of the Yaburarra, but considers them part of the Ngarluma tribe. Indigenous people interviewed in the 1970s claimed that the archipelago was Ngarluma territory, one of them even claiming it was “shared with the Mardudunira.”41

Port H

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PANDJIM

Figure 10. Tindale’s map of “Tribal Boundaries in Indigenous Australia” (detail), showing the extent of Yaburrara territory. After Tindale 1974.

22

Chapter 1

4 DISTRIBUTION LANGUAGE - TRIBE

THE LANGUAGE SITUATION IN THE PILBARA PAST RARA (NO

PLACE NAMES ROADS

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Figure 11a. “The language situation in the Pilbara. Past. [Before 1966]” (detail). After Brandenstein 1967.

7 CONCENTRATION HC W. D.

HALF CASTE WESTERN DESERT GROUP

THE LANGUAGE SITUATION IN THE PILBARA JINDIPARNDI ARLUMA PRESENT PANDÍMA

H.C. N´A UMARDA N´AMAL JINDIPARNDI PORT HEDLAND KARIERA

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WITTENOOM

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Figure 11b. “The language situation in the Pilbara. Present. [1966]” (detail). After Brandenstein 1967.

The main difference between the Yaburarra, Ngarluma, and Martuthunira, apart from speaking a different language (or dialect), is that the Yaburarra are considered to have inhabited the north side of Murujuga and some of the islands. As we have seen, the Indigenous groups in the area divided Murujuga in two when the tidal mudflats and low-lying land between King Bay and Hearson Cove were flooded; this geographic and natural boundary might have prompted the division among languages.42

Situating Murujuga

Da

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ier

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ago

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Martuthunira Barrow I

Ngarla

Ngarluma

Nhuwala

Nyamal

Yindjibarndi Kurrama Palyku

Thalanyji

Pinikura

Banjima

Figure 12. A map of Indigenous Australian languages in the Pilbara, Western Australia. After AIATSIS map of Indigenous Australia (detail).

The Destruction of Indigenous Culture

The Yaburarra and their environment changed dramatically with the arrival and establishment of white settlers in the mid-nineteenth century. By the turn of the twentieth century, several factors had contributed to the demise of the Yaburarra: the introduction of livestock, which decreased access to land and food sources; their indentured labor in the pastoral and pearling industries; the introduction of laws that dispossessed the Indigenous people from their land; and the smallpox epidemics of 1865, 1866, and 1870.43 Not all early encounters between Indigenous people and white settlers were unfriendly. In 1866, the governor resident in the area, Robert John Sholl, wrote, “The natives continue quiet and peacable. In no part of this colony [Roebourne] . . . have the early settlers been so secure from plunder or attack.”44 According to Sholl, the locals were friendly and useful, helping the settlers to find water, acting as guides, herding the flocks, and collecting wood in exchange for basic goods such as flour and tobacco.45 Indigenous people were also sought for their diving skills by pearlers.46 But it is not difficult to see that behind the apparent tranquility evoked by Sholl, Indigenous people were considered slaves as opposed to voluntary workers.47 Women were prostituted, while men were indis-

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Chapter 1

criminately forced to become divers. The men were also held captive on islands such as Lacepedes and Barrow between seasons to prevent them from returning to the mainland. In cases where they did return, they were hunted down again so as not to miss the next season.48 By 1868 the racial tensions between the newcomers and the locals had reached a boiling point. Both the indentured labor in the pastoral and pearling industries in Cossack and Nickol Bay and the smallpox epidemic had taken their toll. During a severe drought between 1864 and 1866, the freshwater sources were taken over by the pearlers. The desecration of sacred sites may also have contributed to worsening relations and caused resentment among Indigenous people, who responded by stealing goods and animals from the herding stations established on the mainland.49 But it was the Flying Foam Massacre of 1868 that had the most profound impact on the lives of the Yaburarra, forcing them to leave their home. The massacre occurred in Nickol Bay, where Constable P. C. W. Griffis and his Indigenous assistant, Peter, were ordered to detain an Indigenous man by the name of Coolyerberri for allegedly stealing some flour. While they were camping at night, Coolyerberri’s friends helped him escape and killed Griffis, Peter, and a pearler called Bream. To pursue the Indigenous people, Sholl organized two hunting parties: one on horseback, and the other on a cutter to search the islands around the Flying Foam Passage. Eventually, after many encounters and vicissitudes, the Indigenous people were found and killed.50 Many details are unclear, and the precise number of victims is unknown. However, it is reasonable to claim that the Indigenous people were unfairly massacred and were mistreated during and after the events described (see Figure 13). The echo of the massacre goes beyond the sole act: it was a demonstration of power by the settlers. Following the massacre, the traditional lifestyle of the remaining Yaburarra began to change profoundly. A report by a pearler suggests that the Yaburarra traditional lifestyle remained unchanged in the archipelago until late 1869, but after 1870 there are no accounts to confirm the situation.51 Indeed, the newcomers, who did not appreciate the traditional lifestyle of Indigenous people, were the only people who had an opportunity to see how the Yaburarra lived.52 John Withnell, a settler, wrote a book as evidence of the customs and traditions of the Indigenous people in the Pilbara before civilization made them obsolete. In it, he mentions the discovery of gold and the consequent increase in

Situating Murujuga

Figure 13. This memorial plaque commemorates the Flying Foam Massacre, and it was erected on Murujuga by Yaburarra and Ngarluma descendants and the DAS. The inscription states that “as many as 60 Yapurarra” were killed. Photograph by the author.

the population of newcomers as the main reasons that caused the local Indigenous people to start changing their traditions. He also describes how young Indigenous men hired by white settlers would dismiss their traditional teachings and start mimicking those of their employers. Withnell’s view of the future of their customs and traditions is prophetic: “it is merely a matter of time when they will become extinct.”53 Two other causes contributed to diminishing the strength of the Yaburarra in the area and of the ties to their land. The first is the incorporation of Indigenous people into the sheep stations established in the area. These stations became their new home, where they developed close links and kinship networks with other Indigenous groups.54 Work on the stations more closely reflected their previous lifestyle; it kept the few Yaburarra survivors connected to their land and country, at least in those cases where they were still living in the same area. It could be argued that they were hired because they knew the country

25

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Chapter 1

intimately and could perform certain tasks well, such as hunting. However, they were also required to learn new skills: shearing, shepherding, building, general housework, and the handling of cattle.55 Some of the stations were located inland, a long distance from Murujuga. For Indigenous groups who used to live on the coast, this would have been a cause of considerable anxiety. Indigenous people were transferred by force from one workplace to another with complete disregard for their cultural background or provenance.56 Nevertheless, there is evidence of their engagement with this new way of life, including the creation of petroglyphs that reflect daily life on the stations.57 In addition to the relocation of Indigenous people to cattle and sheep stations, the reestablishment of an inland Indigenous group, the Yindjibarndi, in the coastal area displaced the Ngarluma in Roebourne.58 Little by little, the Yaburarra lifestyle completely disappeared, and the remaining few Yaburarra survivors adopted new ways of linking themselves to the land. Forced relocation severed their culture and that of other Indigenous communities (especially those from inland). After seeking refuge at Karratha and Mardie Stations inland, the Yaburarra were largely absorbed by the pastoral industry. According to a Ngarluma man, around the 1890s a few Yaburarra survivors found solace at an out-camp of Karratha Station.59 Relocation onto the sheep stations restricted access to Murujuga and the nearby islands for Indigenous people, for their movement became controlled by the government. As a result, traditional knowledge was forgotten and stopped being transmitted from one generation to the next—a traumatic process called the “post-contact breakdown.”60 The immersion into pastoralist life also meant new ways for Indigenous survivors to form social networks with other groups. Under these new circumstances, Ngarluma, Yaburarra, Kariyarra, Yindjibarndi, and Martuthunira people engaged in a cross-cultural experiment devised by the settlers who established the settlements and sheep stations.61 It was on these stations that Yaburarra survivors might have transmitted some of their knowledge. Although there is evidence that some Indigenous people visited Murujuga in the first half of the twentieth century, visitation decreased after the establishment of industry, railways, and ports, and of the towns of Dampier and Karratha in the 1960s.62 This expansion dramatically shaped the area and further contributed to the disappearance of Indigenous language and traditional way of life. Together with these, the meaning of their rock art was also lost.

Situating Murujuga

In 1975 Kingsley Palmer summarized the situation that may still be applicable today in respect to the Yaburarra. Available information on their culture and language is scarce, and much has been lost. The number of Indigenous descendants who are informed is small, and ethnographic research cannot be taken at face value. So instead of relying solely on the oral testimonies of living persons, it is necessary to consider the accounts of explorers and settlers, which may also be of great value.63 In summary, not only have the Yaburarra and their traditional lifestyle disappeared, but little is known today of their language. The few words collected by Walcott seem to be closer to Ngarluma, and Marmion offers evidence that some Indigenous descendants link Yaburarra to Martuthunira.64 A distinction between the results provided by scholarly work and the information provided by the descendants is evident. On the one hand, claims that the Yaburarra language is closer to Ngarluma are strong, while on the other hand there are claims that it is closer to Martuthunira. The Yaburarra language has disappeared, and the descendants of this group are considered semitraditional because they were not raised or initiated traditionally. Although it is possible that the remaining Yaburarra transmitted their knowledge to Ngarluma and Martuthunira people, there is no record of any related information.65 In the field, researchers are likely to witness this situation whenever the local community cannot provide answers to their questions and are instead referred to the knowledge of their ancestors. Particularly in the case of ancient images whose meanings are lost, informants often refer the researcher to immemorial times when their ancestors made the images. In some cases where their origin is not clear, it may be relayed that spirits made them, investing them with a divine or miraculous provenance.66 It is difficult to look for meaning in this way. A relationship between Indigenous people and the researcher needs to be built based on trust and mutual knowledge, which can take several years. For this reason some archaeologists are willing to ignore the social context or value of a rock art site and focus their attention on the tangible elements of the site.67 In this way archaeologists reaffirm their identity as scientists and validate their practice and methodologies by maintaining a superior position with regard to the Indigenous community they study. Smith calls this a “technology of government” in which archaeologists interpret the past and translate Indigenous concerns about those interpretations into data that the government (or the public) can easily understand.68

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Who Owns the Dampier Archipelago?

When European settlers took over the territory that is now Western Australia in the nineteenth century, they passed several acts to lease it to newcomers, expanding their territories and suppressing Indigenous rights.69 These were the first steps toward the destruction of Indigenous heritage and the dispossession of their land. For Indigenous descendants, the concepts of land and heritage are similar; in fact, destruction of heritage and dispossession of land can be used interchangeably. The British colonizers assumed that the land belonged to no one (terra nullius). This idea was based on the perception that Indigenous people lacked a social, economic, and religious structure, and they did not have a system of land property such as that established in Europe.70 Property was envisioned as common, collective, or private—all of which are Western concepts to divide the land. The settlers who appropriated the land of Indigenous people in Australia were mainly influenced by the theories of John Locke, who offered a utilitarian justification for the problem of dispossession. Locke claimed that appropriating land is not wrong if the land is put to work and produces goods. The logic behind the dispossession of Indigenous land was that Indigenous people did not mix their labor with the land to produce goods for the benefit of others through trade and commerce. Thus settlers could take over that land and make it productive.71 Even though the colonial legislation would have been extended to Indigenous people, it paved the way to dispossess them of their land and culture. Acts were passed at a later stage to mitigate the cruelty and abuse toward Indigenous people, but in some cases to no avail.72 For example, in 1829 James Stirling, the governor of Western Australia, proclaimed that if anybody were found mistreating Indigenous people, they would be punished in the same manner as any “Majesty’s Subjects” who committed an offense. However, if the “hostile Native Tribes” represented a danger to the territory, a militia could be formed.73 The situation did not change until 1992 when Indigenous groups found a way to be heard and started to claim back their land/heritage legally. In response to the Australian High Court decision concerning the Mabo case the year before, the Native Title Act was passed in 1993 to recognize Indigenous land claims before Australian courts. This prompted the five Indigenous groups who

Situating Murujuga

claimed rights to the archipelago to lodge their applications for Native Title and negotiate with the Western Australian government. The Ngarluma/Yindjibarndi lodged their application for Native Title on 27 July 1994, while the descendants of the Yaburarra/Mardudhunera and the Wong-Goo-Tt-Oo submitted theirs on 1 August 1996 and 10 July 1998, respectively. Since then, the claimants have separated into numerous independent groups, all asserting Murujuga as their traditional land.74 But Native Title rights are recognized only if Indigenous claimants can prove a continuous link to the land.75 The decision taken by the High Court in July 2003 emphasized the extinction of the original inhabitants. It was subsequently established that there are no exclusive Native Title rights and interests in Murujuga and the Dampier Archipelago. The Ngarluma and Yindjibarndi do hold Native Title rights (excluding Murujuga and the archipelago), whereas, for the Yaburarra and Martuthunira, Native Title rights are extinguished over the Determination Area (the land claimed as part of their Native Title rights). Wong-Goo-Tt-Oo cannot even claim rights unless they claim them as Ngarluma or Yindjibarndi. A paradox is faced here. On the one hand, the decision not to grant Native Title rights could be deemed valid, because the Yaburarra were annihilated and no proof of ownership or continuity to the land could be provided to support their descendants’ claim. On the other hand, the descendants were ignored when the High Court disregarded the fact that they could not provide proof as their ancestors were annihilated and the few remaining survivors relocated. Since no traditional knowledge, totemic or mythological connections, or economic subordination to the area has been proven, Native Title claims over the land can be easily extinguished. This situation left the archipelago as an orphan country (though it has really been one for the last 150 years), leaving the Pilbara open to the control of mining companies.76

Orphan Country

Murujuga is an orphan country because for many years it remained uninhabited.77 The concept of an orphan country is very important because in Indigenous law, land must always have an owner to safeguard and preserve the country

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and its sites.78 The owners and custodians are in charge of taking care of the land, both totemic and geophysical. They are expected to tell and perpetuate the sacred stories surrounding the foundational myths of the group, as well as keeping corresponding rituals alive.79 The link between Indigenous people and their land is based not so much on the physical and material features of the land as on sacred knowledge. Sites can be where stories and songs are contained and ritual enactments take place. In turn, the land owns the people because the latter need to ensure a continuation of the mentioned activities.80 This is the reason why the Ngarluma have repeatedly expressed an interest in looking after Murujuga, even before the High Court decision. Archaeological sites are significant for Indigenous people in Western Australia because they are an intrinsic element of traditional life and connection to the land, used in the past as places of habitation, and contain the locations of historical events.81 Indigenous relationships to land vary according to the area and the interests of the local community. These can be grounded either on spiritual, residential, economic, and historical factors or on more contemporary links such as settlements, pastoral stations, and urban sites. The variety also responds to the circumstances in which the Indigenous communities in Western Australia were affected by European settlement.82 We face another paradox: owning the land in the Western sense would mean owning the rock art. But if the spirits (Margas) that inhabited the land during the Dreamtime made the images (see Chapter 2), then who owns the rock art? What rights to the area and its rock art do Yaburarra descendants have in the Australian legal system if some have stated they have no knowledge of it? What rights have the Ngarluma or Yindjibarndi if no one has claimed direct mythological or totemic links? To answer these questions, we should first accept that although no one has claimed a direct link, evidence for long-term Indigenous occupation of Murujuga cannot be denied. This evidence is provided by the archaeology, including the hundreds of thousands of petroglyphs, not to mention the numerous campsites, shell middens, stone tools, stone quarries, fish traps, and standing stones. Although the meaning of the rock art remains largely unknown, for the local Indigenous community, the caretakers of this orphan country, the most important values are spiritual. As a sacred place, images are bestowed with intangible values, which nevertheless remain of utmost importance. It is here, between tradition and legal responsibility, that the concepts of landownership and heritage

Situating Murujuga

become mingled, because there is no traditional knowledge that the Ngarluma can claim; it is only their heritage that can be recognized.83 In fact, the artificiality of the concept of heritage provides Indigenous communities with the opportunity to claim back what has been dispossessed from them (see Chapter 7). Price has characterized this state of destitution as “orphan heritage.” In the case of Murujuga, the owners of the site (the resource companies) “become actively antagonistic” toward the area, and the heritage of the site is either destroyed or neglected by passive disinterest. This further produces no governance that could provide codes of conduct, strategies of management, or protective legislation.84 Both the Ngarluma and the Yindjibarndi have sufficient cultural background to claim rights over Murujuga, based on several mechanisms that could demonstrate links with the land.85 It is for this reason that Yilbie Warrie, a Yindjibarndi elder who spent time with some of the last Yaburarra on Mardie and Karratha Stations, agreed on the Ngarluma people as the right Indigenous group to look after the contested area, and he proposed David Daniel and Roger Solomon (now both deceased) as the best Indigenous men to lead the initiative.86 Ngarluma, being the closest geographical Indigenous language group to Yaburarra, shared cultural and social links with them. Even if they are aware that the area is not their land, they “do not wish to be seen as taking over that land but rather, as ‘looking after’ it on behalf of its former owners.”87 Their interest can be explained in the following terms: by rescuing the land from being orphaned, Ngarluma descendants would also seek a more active and significant role in regard to contemporary heritage legislation. Having become aware of the destruction of the land’s tangible values, including its rock art, it is only through Western law that they might be able to save their intangible heritage and traditional knowledge. According to Bednarik, in the 1960s the Indigenous people realized that their heritage was being destroyed and would perhaps be lost entirely in a few years if nothing were done to counter destruction.88 It may be the case that it was not until 1967—when Indigenous people were first considered legal citizens in Australia—that Indigenous people felt it was time to start looking after their heritage, particularly if the already scarce traditional knowledge was starting to disappear. But it is important to ask why this was the case. Why were Indigenous people seemingly uninterested fifty years ago, when the companies settled down on Murujuga? It could be argued that the arousal of this sudden interest might seem suspicious, especially after so many years of apparent ne-

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glect, but as white people were not interested in the land, no concerns were raised. It is therefore imperative to analyze the factors that prevented an early interest by Indigenous people in protecting their land/heritage.

Continuity and Discontinuity

Mistreatment, slavery, annihilation, and relocation contributed not only to the suppression of Indigenous rights and possession of the land but also to awareness. The Yaburarra way of raising their children had probably completely disappeared by the 1920s, if not earlier. Withnell, writing at the turn of the twentieth century, does not even acknowledge their existence among the many tribes of the area. By the following decade they had disappeared from the territory and were excluded from maps.89 It can be surmised that the descendants and remaining Indigenous informants who were identified by early researchers spoke about customs and habits they had only heard about and not experienced. There was a sense of familiarity regarding the area and the petroglyphs, but no specific knowledge, such as the meaning of the rock art, was passed on. Familiarity, on which the expression of interest of the Ngarluma people in looking after Murujuga is potentially based, must be considered from a range of perspectives. One of these is the spiritual value that the Indigenous community associates with the place. Another is the geographical, linguistic, and cultural closeness that the Ngarluma shared with the Yaburarra. However, a very important point of view that has not been considered is the gradual (and contradictory) process of becoming aware of the destruction of heritage, while becoming more and more familiar with the object (or site) being destroyed. As the object is destroyed, the values of the object increase, and so too the awareness. Hence traditional Indigenous knowledge and interest, lost for many years, is revived due to the destruction. The situation is contradictory: the condition of being an orphan country contributed highly to the destruction of rock art, but it has also provoked the search for familiarity regarding the endangered object. This was confirmed by the Seaman inquiry in Western Australia: the conflict between industrial developers and the Indigenous community over an area became the focus of all their concerns about the danger that industrialization represents to their culture. The area became significant because it was threatened.90 It is, as

Situating Murujuga

Caygill has demonstrated, the duty of care that reveals the contemporary significance of the area for the community.91 The concept of “cognitive ownership” is also relevant here. According to Boyd, heritage sites become valuable and meaningful to a particular group or many stakeholders through the actions and activities that they performed in situ. By analyzing the behavior of people on site, we extract meanings attached to a site and see how it is cognitively owned by diverse stakeholders. This in turn allows for recognition of the site by a myriad of cultural parameters.92 For the non-Indigenous community, Murujuga is significant because it is the place where they have built significant social values and relationships over recent decades. For the Indigenous community, it is because it is sacred. This is possible, Carman argues, because cognitive ownership (as social value) can take many forms, allowing “each claimant to a resource full access to it without interference from or interfering with access by others.”93 This, of course, influences the owners’ behavior. Also, the full access that Carman discusses is simply impossible in Murujuga due to the strictly limited access that the established companies allow and the BMIEA reinforces (see Chapter 6). In this way the companies acknowledge the sacred status of Murujuga, but the cognitive ownership of the local Indigenous community is symbolic. Furthermore, the relocation of inland Indigenous groups to the coastal territories that initially had a negative impact on the preservation of the Yaburarra, Ngarluma, and Martuthunira languages and traditions played a vital role later on. It is credited with provoking a revival of the culture of the desert people, who are considered more traditional and less affected by European colonization.94 They may not have had the same customs and habits, but they nevertheless reinforced a familiarity regarding their heritage among the Indigenous communities of the Pilbara. The dispossession and posttraumatic psychological state of mind in which the remaining Indigenous people found themselves can answer the vexing question of why previous action had not taken place. This explanation affirms that during the process of industrialization of the area, the Indigenous community could not appreciate the scope and reach of the industry and its impact on their land. Disorganized, politically and culturally overlooked, and underrepresented as they were, they had no power to prevent the destruction.95 Also, few legal tools were available to afford protection to Indigenous heritage. During the Harding River Dam controversy,96 the Western Australia AHA of 1972 was the only available legal tool for the Indigenous community to protect their heritage.

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Not until the 1967 Referendum were Indigenous people granted acknowledgment through citizenship. If they were not even recognized as part of the Australian nation, how could they legally possess their land? What worsened the situation was that the state government was not legally obliged to ask for any permission when it disturbed an Indigenous area for industrial purposes.97 When the AHA proved ineffective (see Chapter 6), it was not until Mabo’s success in 1992 and after years of neglect that awareness among the Indigenous community about their heritage was finally raised. It is thus obvious why so many crisis situations were completely overlooked. Australia legally protects Indigenous heritage sites such as human remains, artifacts, designs, and works of art. This means that to collect evidence or excavate a site, permission is required beforehand. The problem is that the unmodified mythological sites, where intangible stories occurred, are vulnerable; unless they are claimed as heritage, they are particularly difficult to protect. It thus seems understandable that some considered that Indigenous people lied and claimed their sites were sacred when bulldozers threatened the land.98 Pretending sites were sacred would dramatically undermine the already fragile reputation of Indigenous people. The defense of their interests could be misinterpreted as a strategy of some mischievous sort for their benefit only.99 However, by the time the Native Title Act was passed (1993), many of the companies that had chosen Murujuga as their operations center were already located there, and there were no extant legal avenues to have the establishment of industry stopped. Lack of familiarity, legal structure, and acculturation through forced assimilation are the main reasons why Indigenous interest in looking after the land took so long to develop. The Indigenous community may have always felt the same impotence regarding the destruction of their heritage, but it was not until the 1970s that researchers became interested in their culture and knowledge. Elders and other informants started to be engaged with the white community. I suggest that they had always been against the destruction of their heritage, even if they did not know its meanings, though they were never asked. As Turner succinctly puts it, “Apparently no-one ever asked the question of the Aborigines, who now has responsibilities for the Burrup?”100 Some assumed that because Yaburarra descendants could not be located, nobody was interested in taking care of the land. In fact, Indigenous descendants were not opposed to exploration and mineral extraction on the condition that they could regulate the impact

Situating Murujuga

on their lives.101 Rather, the interest in taking care of their land emerged when they recognized the need to prove what they thought was taken for granted: their connection with their land.102 The link had to be visible and tangible. It was not until 1982 that DAS and CALM agreed to consult Ngarluma people in connection with heritage on Murujuga and the islands, making them the semi-official custodians.103 Although this approach was not in any sense a measure to mitigate the damage already done, consulting them was one of the first steps taken to recognize the importance and relevance of Indigenous culture in the area. In the end, the measure may have proved ineffective, because the majority of industrial surveys completely dismissed the opinions and propositions of the Indigenous community. As we shall see, this is not a new situation. From the very first moment that industries were established in the area in the 1960s and 1970s, the Indigenous community was largely ignored and neglected. It is easy to understand that Indigenous people were not consulted during industrial surveys, but it is more radical to suggest that neglect came from other sides too. Inquiries by Seaman revealed feelings of uneasiness within the Roebourne Indigenous community toward personnel from the Western Australian Museum (WAM). Roebourne residents felt that they were largely ignored regarding significant sites when archaeologists conducted research in the area for various purposes in the late 1970s and early 1980s. At the hearings with Indigenous people, Seaman got the impression that some details were kept secret and that they were against the museum’s control of sites. The secrecy extended to not disclosing any traditional information to employees in non-Indigenous organizations.104 This scenario of tension, of withholding information, continuity and discontinuity, appropriation and alienation, ultimately led to the neglect and desecration of Indigenous sites. Thus the postcolonialist attitude of researchers directly caused the apparent disinterest and lack of knowledge among the informants and remaining descendants. They saw Indigenous people as passive rather than as active members of their community with regard to the destruction of their heritage and information about the meaning of the rock art. Transmitting or revealing a meaning in Indigenous culture is not the same as in the Western tradition. In some instances, their heritage is too sacred to be revealed to people outside their culture. For example, in Indigenous mythology, imagery is not separated from the land and country and cannot be taken out of its context. The companies with their different ways of thinking about nature, heri-

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tage, and the landscape, interpreted the silence of Indigenous people as an opportunity to operate freely in the area. In turn, Indigenous people saw Western law (i.e., the AHA) as weak, with no capacity to afford protection to their sites.

Maps and Territories

At first, Bruce Wright believed that the Yaburarra were nonexistent and that the local Indigenous community subsequently had no interest in the area and no knowledge of the meanings of the rock art, which was thus credited to ancestral figures.105 This led to the conclusion that there were no involved Indigenous interests. On one occasion in the late 1970s, Wright took three elders out to Murujuga and reported that they were not particularly opposed to the development of the rock art relocation/salvage project. As a consequence, Indigenous people strongly criticized DAS for their poor techniques in trying to integrate the local population into the project.106 But, according to Wright himself, some Indigenous people expressed their concerns about the “new iron ore railway development” planned for the region as early as 1966, while others remained indifferent. Indigenous people in Roebourne also criticized a West Pilbara Water Supply investigation, in which they were not involved.107 Reports and claims seem contradictory. After I consulted with a Wong-Goo-Tt-Oo elder, Wilfred Hicks, the situation became somewhat clearer. He mentioned that when Tindale surveyed the area, he failed to talk to Hicks’s father, who was regarded as an important member of the local Indigenous community. Hicks told me that Tindale got it all wrong and that his map (Figure 10) is not accurate, whereas Radcliffe-Brown’s (Figure 9) is.108 This example shows that recording intangible values in a disputed area is always a difficult task. It also shows how some Western devices (such as maps) cannot satisfactorily explain or interpret an Indigenous space (the territory), because the map is not the territory.109 There are sites that have no Indigenous significance at all, even if they are valuable historically or archaeologically—for Indigenous people, sites are “only significant in accordance with their customary beliefs.”110 Thus an organization like WAM could not represent the true aspirations of the Indigenous people because it focused primarily on the documentation of history and culture for the general public. It appropriately

Situating Murujuga

employed anthropologists and archaeologists managed by a board of trustees and administered by a minister,111 but the museum’s interests overrode those of the Indigenous people. An alternative scenario would have played out if, by the time the very first industries became established on Murujuga, Indigenous people with close links to the land had expressed their concerns.112 But we will never know. Although Indigenous consultation was part of ethnographic studies conducted in the 1960s, it was not until the early 1990s that the practice became consolidated. Surveyors sometimes consulted the wrong people. For example, in 1981 WAM did not consult the Yindjibarndi on the Harding River Dam site and instead approached a Ngarluma man who knew nothing of the site and could not speak for Yindjibarndi sites. Conversely, personnel conducting archaeological research in the area did not consult the Roebourne community about their traditional interests in Murujuga. Instead, an overconcentration of energy and resources was spent on investigating archaeological data.113 Needless to say, limited consultation produces limited results; neglect was only reversed after more inclusive consultation started to take place. In any case, it is difficult to prove that if the Indigenous people had offered proof that the land was sacred and significant for their community, the companies responsible for industry on Murujuga would have chosen another site. It is no exaggeration then to suggest that the tragedy that began with the survey on Depuch Island in the early 1960s (discussed in Chapter 6) could have been prevented by the mere transmission of information. Wright’s actions reflect the opportunities offered to a rock art enthusiast at the time. He was an amateur, not a qualified professional, operating at a time when Australian archaeology often overlooked Indigenous rock art. So it should not be surprising that his deductions concerning the lack of local Indigenous people troubled about their rock art resulted from the prevailing apathy shown toward their heritage. Wright, like other researchers,114 was in fact responsible for taking some elders back to Murujuga. Interestingly enough, he claims there was a Pilbara Bush Meeting, though he does not say when, where Pilbara Indigenous people expressed their concerns. Wright was strongly opposed to the industrial development because of its destruction of archaeological sites, but at the same time he regarded the Indigenous attitude toward archaeological sites as casual.115 Wright later asserted that the significance of the sites on Murujuga was merely archaeological,116 clearly reflecting Maynard’s thesis (1979) that Indigenous sites have only archaeological

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significance in light of the lack of contemporary Indigenous meanings attached to them. A few decades ago, this was, unfortunately, the main view of archaeological sites that were apparently unoccupied by their traditional inhabitants. It is perhaps only through heritage legislation that the territory can be turned into a map. This indicates that the concept of heritage is a powerful one despite being a symbolic tool, one that comprises several cross-cultural attitudes toward the same object. The status of heritage endows the petroglyphs on Murujuga with value, which gives meaning to the site as a whole. It becomes a place where customs, traditions, and stories form a landscape, a country. As a result, contemporary responses, which have persisted through difficult periods, should be seen as reaffirmations of Indigenous culture today.117 But the situation presented here is particularly problematic because images die (literally and metaphorically) when the ideas and meanings behind them disappear. For a long time, rock art in the Dampier Archipelago was deemed to be nothing more than a collection of meaningless symbols on which no particular importance was placed. It has been the task of scholars since the 1960s to trace the ideas behind them, in some cases with success (see Chapter 2). The dis-attachment of the petroglyphs from their sacred reference means that they can be considered a universal (inclusive) heritage, rather than a regional or national (exclusive) heritage. As an exclusive place where Indigenous people would perform ritual ceremonies, the site is sacred territory, while its international status as a masterpiece of human genius, shared by many crosscultural audiences, can transform it into a site on the map of World Heritage sites. Only then can it be seen as a secular site charged with a religious past.118 This is why I argue that in order to protect the site, in the absence of land rights, heritage legislation is the best option, because heritage is a more inclusive concept compared to “secular art,” “sacred art,” or even simply “art” (see Chapter 7 for further discussion). Sacred images are difficult to interpret and assimilate in a secular environment; if there is no knowledge about the images, it is easier not to assess them in a sacred context. Unlike art historians, in the absence of written sources archaeologists prefer not to integrate narratives with the images unless Indigenous informants do so. Archaeologists with European backgrounds will accept a definitive meaning only if the local community confirms it. If the local community does not provide any meaning to the images, the act of interpretation is considered difficult and futile.119

Situating Murujuga

The Destruction of the Rock Art

The massacre and the mistreatment of Indigenous people in the Pilbara were unpardonable catastrophes and a direct consequence of the clash between two completely different cultural groups. As a result, the ignorance and indifference of the explorers and settlers in the nineteenth century toward rock art affected its public perception in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries, eventually leading to its destruction and removal. By destroying Indigenous culture, they also destroyed its land/heritage and memory.120 Within this context, the destruction of rock art on Murujuga is also part of a process that is eliminating a culture that symbolizes a past and does not represent a future. In the nineteenth century, the antiquity and historical, social, and aesthetic values of the petroglyphs were not recognized. In the twenty-first century, the destruction of heritage is seemingly justified in the name of industrial and economic progress. The lack of social value and mismanagement of heritage have also contributed to the destruction of this unique Indigenous place. More significantly, the direct destructive action of industry expansion, including the relocation and removal of boulders that contain rock art, is destroying the art and its context. Neglect also played a significant role in the 1960s, strengthening the belief that the area was deprived of Indigenous heritage and spiritually insignificant, and that it could, in turn, be used as an immense open field for industrial purposes (see Figures 14 and 15). The Australian archaeological community was in

Figure 14. A liquefied natural gas plant (Woodside). Photograph by the author.

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Figure 15. A tower flare at a liquefied natural gas plant (Woodside). Photograph by the author.

its infancy at that time, and consequently poor archaeological advice was provided concerning key decisions about the establishment of industry. The authors of a report in 1964, for example, considered Murujuga as lacking substantive cultural heritage, and they considered other places richer (see Chapter 5).121 This proves Cooper’s thesis that the mismanagement of heritage is the consequence of a clash among different agendas, all attempting to establish their official and authorized discourse of heritage.122 In the case of Murujuga, many decisions were made without proper knowledge of the magnitude of heritage values in the area, and were driven by the aspirations of industry.123

Chapter 2 Murujuga and Its Meanings Not all engravings are equal. Like Orwell’s pigs, some are more equal than others. —Hallam (2006)

T

he Dampier Archipelago has seen the process of human interaction with the environment many times since the first Australians arrived on the mainland from Asia. The transformation of the landscape with the creation of rock art on the scale seen on Murujuga is not seen elsewhere in the world.1 The rock art demonstrates the high level of technical skill and symbolic understanding that the first Australians possessed and used to shape their environment. This chapter explores the many interpretations of the meanings of the site. They are based on ethnographic information, on the dating of the rock art, and on the social context of the art derived from archaeological evidence. Together these interpretations demonstrate the multivalent nature of Murujuga and the wider archipelago. Obtaining meanings originally ascribed to rock art is difficult. Social relations and the conditions in which information exchange takes place can influence Indigenous informants.2 Rather than ascribing meanings to the images and attempting to fit them into known narratives, it is more efficient to identify motifs and styles, to establish a scientific vocabulary on which to base one’s interpretation.3 Many factors, such as the natural features of the landscape, the position of the petroglyphs in the space, and their association with other images, should be considered when attempting to determine the significance of rock art.4 Archaeological surveys conducted on Murujuga provide a wealth of information about the rock art, allowing us to better understand the site, including its chronology.5 This is primarily because most archaeological studies have focused on the areas potentially affected by industrial expansion—the most detailed archaeological research has been undertaken in those areas prior to industrial developments (32.4 square kilometers), while heritage surveys undertaken 41

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for research purposes account for 10.2 square kilometers.6 The importance of the site lies in other features apart from its rock art, yet it seems we are more impressed by the sheer amount of petroglyphs rather than their aesthetic qualities, their social values for the Indigenous community, and their place in the history of Australian art. Hitherto the sheer number and density of petroglyphs have been seen as what makes Murujuga so unique. That does not account for their immense diversity regarding style, subject matter, and technique. Once they have been created, the petroglyphs remain on the rock, preserved through the millennia. But the meanings intended by their creators cannot be easily extracted, so the social context of their creation must be considered. As will be discussed in this book, destruction of Murujuga rock art has been caused in part by the lack of social value accorded to them in those archaeological assessments undertaken for industrial purposes. It is important to bear in mind that although it is the most common, rock art is only one type of heritage site in the archipelago. Many other types of Indigenous sites have been found, including ceremonial and mythological sites, burials, stone structures, grinding patches, quarries, artifact scatters, middens (Figure 16), rock shelters with evidence of occupation, repositories, fish traps, and culturally modified trees.7 All these sites provide strong support for Indigenous presence and are much easier to date than the petroglyphs. The high frequency of Indigenous sites across the archipelago creates a “continuous archaeological landscape,”8 as well as what is arguably the largest rock art site in the world, comprising between 500,000 and 1 million petroglyphs.9 The claim that the archipelago is the largest rock art site in the world, whether true or not, is one that has sustained the precarious conservation campaign on which several stakeholders have depended for at least the last fifteen years.10 The variability of techniques, motifs, and styles that have been identified in the rock art leads to the conclusion that no single area can represent the archipelago as a whole. The petroglyphs in the archipelago also present an unusual pattern in that they do represent the broader region and the West Pilbara social system.11 They evince a most creative and technical level of rock art production over a long period, possibly ranging from over 30,000 BP to ca. 150 BP.12 Some rock art contains rare motif types, ranging from abstract and geometric designs and patterns, to anthropomorphs, including depictions of everyday activities, such as fishing with nets or spearing macropods, therianthropes (creatures that

Murujuga and Its Meanings

Figure 16. Shell midden adjacent to Deep Gorge. Photograph by the author.

feature both human and animal characteristics), and depictions of extinct fauna such as thylacines.13 Compared to other sites, its place in the history of Australian art should not be disregarded.

Archaeology of Murujuga: Motifs and Styles of the Petroglyphs

The motifs, themes, and figures identified in the rock art of Murujuga reflect the long-term human occupation of the area. As noted, the petroglyphs represent both ordinary and sacred subject matter such as anthropomorphs, sea and land fauna, and geometric designs. Personal utensils and ornaments, such as headdresses, spears, and nets, are also represented. The fauna represented in the petroglyphs depict a variety of animals that mirrors the most important economic sources, such as pelagic fish, dugong, turtle, macropods, lizards, and crustaceans.14 Although the immensity of the site is an obstacle to surveying the

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whole area, the work that has been conducted enables us to discern patterns of recurrence in the imagery. A single unique typology of Murujuga’s rock art motifs has not yet been achieved. Petroglyphs are only meaningful inside the typology by which they are classified. A typology drawn from Indigenous concepts of meaning (metaphysical rather than quantitative) would be a heterotopia (literally, an other space). This means that to catalog Murujuga’s petroglyphs we have to rely on outside typologies that do justice to the petroglyphs in only a textual and Western sense. To better understand rock art, its chronology must be defined. Petroglyphs can be understood only within a chronological framework if there is a classification of form and motif, allowing formal and stylistic analysis. Virili suggests that, due to the harsh climatic conditions, including high temperatures and low rainfall, sites where petroglyphs are found were used on a temporary basis. However, this seems unlikely, as most occur in areas where potable water and other resources were readily available (Figure 17). Middens are often found near petroglyphs, indicating that rock art was made near the places where people consumed food. Virili states that gum trees, which would have provided shade for animals and humans, are present at 75 percent of recorded sites.15

Figure 17. A seasonal Murujuga rock pool or waterhole where Indigenous people most likely gathered and petroglyphs were made. Photograph by the author.

Murujuga and Its Meanings

Lorblanchet established that the majority of petroglyphs in Gum Tree Valley (in the southern part of Murujuga; see Figures 23a and 23b) are associated with occupation sites, with middens associated with the densest groups of petroglyphs. He also established that the closer that petroglyphs are located to a midden, the more elaborate they are in design and the more likely it is that superimposition will occur. Petroglyph placement is not concealed from view from the middens; they are easily visible. Also, stone artifacts are found on the slopes close to the petroglyphs and the middens.16 The results of an investigation carried out in an adjacent valley (Skew Valley; see Figure 24) confirmed that stone tools were produced in proximity to petroglyphs in this location.17 Virili found that 33 percent of petroglyph sites are associated with stone artifacts, 30.5 percent with seed-grinding stones, and 8.3 percent with stone arrangements.18 The majority of rock art sites have been found near middens and major occupation areas,19 where most of the anthropomorphic (humanlike) images occur, not only in Gum Tree Valley but also in Skew Valley (see Figures 18 and 25). In contrast, images located away from the sea and middens, featuring turtles, turtle eggs, and geometric designs, appear in locations that are higher and more difficult to access. These sites were restricted and associated with thalu (ceremo-

Figure 18. Skew Valley (on the southwestern tip of Murujuga), where a great number of boulders have been destroyed and removed for the construction of this road. Photograph by the author.

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nial) sites (see below). Lorblanchet affirms that only men visited these specialized sites and did so sporadically when the wet season would allow storing water. Although restricted or specialized sites might be found in main occupation areas,20 site function has a direct relationship to the type of petroglyphs made. This also appears to change over time. A change in diet from Terebralia (gastropod) to Anadara (bivalve) is associated with a change in the types of figures depicted.21 Lorblanchet claims that a change in the sea level produced two different types of art: the art of the kangaroo hunters and the art of the shell gatherers. According to his chronology (discussed below), the earliest images depict ghostlike anthropomorphs (see Figures 19 and 20), kangaroos (Figure 22), and geometrical designs, while the latest represent humanlike figures of different styles (Figure 25). McDonald and Veth support Lorblanchet’s theory, claiming that Murujuga was an aggregation site. This means that a high variety of styles are present in an otherwise “arid art province,” suggesting that the site was visited by different groups over a long period. In aggregation locales, a complex web of economic

Figure 19. According to Lorblanchet, these ghostlike human figures are among the oldest art found in Gum Tree Valley and may have been restricted, visible only to men. Photograph by the author.

Figure 20. This ghostlike anthropomorph is situated at the top of Gum Tree Valley. According to Layton, it is a gliding possum. The petroglyph infill was produced by the pounding technique, whereas pecking was used to create the outline. Photograph by the author.

Figure 21. Heavily weathered petroglyph of a macropod, with a less patinated ghostlike anthropomorph superimposed. It is located at the top of Gum Tree Valley. Photograph by the author.

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Figure 22. Heavily weathered macropod petroglyph produced by pecking and abrasion. The artist(s) incorporated natural features of the rock to enliven the outline. This petroglyph is located at the top of Gum Tree Valley. Photograph by the author.

and social relations between different groups from dispersed areas flourishes and creates the context to produce different artistic styles. When population increases, so do the artistic production and style variation.22 The archipelago should be thus seen as a special place favored by its inhabitants, something that is reflected in the wealth of archaeology present. This progressive history of art23 is useful to understand certain artistic productions in certain contexts, but in the case of Murujuga it is not yet clear because of the magnitude of the site. The high number of petroglyphs (without considering style and motif ) is a result of artistic activity at different times and undoubtedly they had various motivations. Different groups chose to live in the area over a long period, but their presence is more evident throughout the Holocene.24 This would explain Murujuga’s high number and variety of artistic styles and motifs, and a higher degree of weathering is suggested for the older images, whereas the most recent would be less weathered.25 According to the theories of Lorblanchet and McDonald and Veth, the evidence can be found in the differences that are seen in a single motif type.

Figures 23a and 23b. These photographs are taken from the same location but facing in opposite directions. In (b), note the petroglyphs on the isolated boulder to the left (framed by the tree branches) and the signs of industrialization that have destroyed Indigenous art. In (a) another type of sign vaguely indicates the significance of the site. Photographs by the author.

Figure 24. One of the best-known petroglyphs on Murujuga: a waterbird with a snake, a crab, and two eggs. The author(s) of this petroglyph used the natural features of the granophyre boulder to enliven the figure. The correspondence between the petroglyph and the chosen boulder is complementary. What the rock already expresses is enlivened by the artist. This integration is usual in other rock and cave art sites around the world. Photograph by the author.

Figure 25. Anthropomorphic figures. According to Lorblanchet, they are the most recent petroglyphs in Skew Valley. Photograph by the author.

Murujuga and Its Meanings

Hence it is important to ask just how varied artistic style is in Murujuga. The diversity of motifs within a category of motifs can be subdivided, producing an enormous amount of information. For example, for the anthropomorphic figures, McDonald and Veth’s analysis produced 529 motif types, and these results are only derived from selected locations. McDonald and Veth started with 45 general types of petroglyphs and then divided the anthropomorphic figures into the following categories: stick figures; solid figures; outline figures; profile figures; complex figures; anthropomorphs with material objects; lizard men; groups of anthropomorphs; therianthropes; and decorative infill.26 They further subdivided the figures into many more specific categories. They argue that these anthropomorphic figures are essential to the Dampier Archipelago Style. Likewise, they found no fewer than 68 different styles of turtle motif, according to the infill of the shell (see Figure 26), and Gunn and Mulvaney found that from 175 analyzed turtle motifs, a further 23 subclasses could be cataloged ac-

Figure 26. Two different types of turtle motifs made with different techniques. The image on the left might represent a turtle with a patterned shell or with eggs inside it. It could also depict a ladybug. The depiction on the right is less ambiguous. Photographs by the author.

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Figure 27. According to Donaldson, this petroglyph in Watering Cove depicts a thylacine. According to Mulvaney, it lacks stripes, the most important indicator of a thylacine, and is therefore considered an “anatomical” thylacine. Mulvaney’s insights, however subjective, are innovative as he developed new forms to identify fauna in the petroglyphs of Murujuga. Photograph by the author.

cording to the pattern of the carapace.27 In regard to the macropod motif, the variability of style was found to be influenced by technique, form, size, the direction in which the animal is facing, bulge, the number of arms and legs, body and appendage shape, and other factors. These variables are also applied to other motif types28 (see Figure 27). Lorblanchet and McDonald and Veth identified 47 and 45 general types of petroglyph motifs, respectively. Each list differs considerably, reflecting the locations where researchers worked, the types of motifs they examined, and how they grouped them. Different researchers classify the same motifs in varying ways. In summary, geometric designs and tracks outnumber figural motifs. Within the latter, anthropomorphic motifs are only slightly more frequent than zoomorphic motifs.29 Within zoomorphic motifs, marine animals are more frequent than terrestrial animals, with the former mostly occurring close to the coast and the latter occurring mostly inland. Turtles are the most frequently depicted marine animals. Variability of styles, techniques, and motifs emphasizes the point that no single area can be considered representative of the entire

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corpus of art. Even regional samples would not be representative, due to the lack of a complete survey of the entire motif repertoire. Nevertheless, it is important to note that the variability of styles and motifs is most evident in anthropomorphic figures, followed by the turtles and macropods. Bednarik claims that the identification of petroglyphs and their meanings is often impossible because the motifs do not convey what might seem obvious to us. If this were the case, we would be repeating the same attitudes that the colonial explorers had toward Indigenous art when they encountered it for the first time (see Chapter 3). Influenced by our culture and perceptions, our interpretations will be inadequate if they do not consider ethnographic input from Indigenous Elders, Traditional Owners, and archaeological data drawn from excavation and survey. Without this input, any interpretation is the “autogenous, etic constructs of untutored observers.”30

Mythology

Ethnographic fieldwork has provided some information about the myths and meanings associated with the rock art, and these can be considered part of the social values relating to the site’s heritage, which are attributed to it by the local community. In the past, these values were rarely considered when an archaeological assessment was undertaken. Fieldwork in the 1960s and 1970s started to address them, but they were rarely valued as social. It was not until Veth and colleagues (1993) undertook the first nonindustrial-based professional survey of Murujuga that the social values were addressed as such.31 According to recorded ethnographies, Murujuga’s petroglyphs were not made by the Indigenous people, but by the Marga beings32—mythic figures who configured the social order during the Dreamtime. The Marga (or Margas) provided food and created the guidelines (the Law) that the people should follow. According to Indigenous people, the Law was as strong as the boulders that now bear the rock art and the teachings. The petroglyphs are symbols of the deeper meaning and reality of the myths surrounding the area, and representations of the myth and ritual ornamentation used to express the corpus of traditional belief.33 According to Ngarluma tradition, Ngarga is the being who created the world, and through his son created religion and social order.34 According to

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Ngarda~ngali, the Indigenous descendants of the Margas, Mingkala, the sky God, created the world by naming and shaping the land and the animals. Ngarda~ngali (or Ngarda-ngarli) do not refer to this creation period as the Dreaming or Dreamtime, but as Ngurranujunggamu, “when the world was soft.”35 Two characteristics of the myth that can be seen in some of the petroglyphs are head decorations and elongated penises (see Figures 28a–b). The head decorations are believed to represent ornaments used in ritual dance ceremonies.36 The elongated penises belong to the Margas who, according to the myth, used them to rape women who were sitting on the ground, first by penetrating the earth. This would not stop until a man threatened to cut their penises with a stone knife, or tjimari.37 Margas are depicted in the rock art as abstract humans and are tall with thin and spindly legs. Margas were able to put one leg up on their shoulders and move on the other. Their women were beautiful and had long hair. The Margas populated the land when it was soft and came out of their underground caverns at night. Some petroglyphs are thought to be the auto-portraits that Margas left behind when they went back into the earth. Some believe they are dead, but some believe they went into hiding underground, “perhaps when the white people came,” and only venture out when it is dark.38 Some petroglyphs describe the exploits of the Marga, for example, when they determined the Law. The petroglyphs also consecrate the spirit of the animals represented, as well as the creative essence inferred from the model of traditional Indigenous lifestyle, and thus rites of passage were enacted in front of them to instruct the uninitiated.39 The Indigenous elder Wilfred Hicks told me that this didactic role of the petroglyphs as graphic teachings of spiritual power is important and is still relevant for contemporary Indigenous people.40 These teachings and patterns are embodied in the Law that transmits the obligation to look after the special sites from generation to generation. According to these obligations, if they are not followed and the petroglyphs are damaged or disrespected, spiritual powers could be unleashed that would have a harmful effect on individuals and on the land itself.41 Myths play an important part in the creation of social value for a particular group. Once it is embedded in the group, a myth voices the intangible values, ideas, and conceptions of the group regarding their worldview and their place on earth. In sum, the myth expresses what is permitted and what is not.42

Figure 28a. Figure, thought to be a Marga, with elongated penis. Photograph by the author. Figure 28b. This image represents three humans with head decorations. Alternatively, it might depict three turtles, their eggs, and the trails left in the sand as they return to the sea. Photograph by the author.

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Another recognized value attached to the rock art relates to the mythological tracks (also recognized in many other parts of Australia) that were left by the ancestral figures or cult heroes from the Ngurranujunggamu when they traveled great distances.43 A recurrent myth relating to Murujuga involves the flying fox (Waramurrungka). During the Ngurranujunggamu, several flying foxes emerged from the sea and headed south along Murujuga. Accordingly, the place where the flying foxes flew is marked as a line of dark rocks on the hills near Mount Leopold.44 An Indigenous descendant, Jill Churnside, argued, in her affidavit to support the Ngarluma/Yindjibarndi Native Title claim in 1997, that the mythological tracks and the petroglyphs are invested with religious and spiritual significance for her people, and they were made by the creative beings during the time when the earth was soft. She also reaffirmed the didactic role the petroglyphs play by standing as an unchanging visual record “of how the Law should be followed.”45 The notion that the petroglyphs were made by ancestral figures might suggest that they were made long before they became part of local mythology. It may be recalled that when the meaning and the practice of making rock art are lost, authorship is often delegated to ancestral beings46—this explanation should be understood within the context of Indigenous ontology, where humans are the incarnation of ancestral beings or can be transformed into them. Even if petroglyphs still bear significance for contemporary Indigenous people, we cannot know the intentions of their authors, because the connection with them has been lost. For this reason, Maynard claims rock art has unique value as a form of archaeological evidence. However, the meaning that the petroglyphs had for their original makers is only one of the many that they possess.47 The meaning of rock art is therefore uncertain, which in turn has influenced the neglect and disinterest among the non-Indigenous people who contributed to the establishment of industry on Murujuga in the 1960s. As previously discussed, the transmission of knowledge could have been compromised as a result of the impact of colonialism in the Pilbara, but it could also have been influenced by the apparent disinterest that Indigenous people had concerning their heritage. Researchers also played an important role by framing rock art according to their biased Western views on art, contributing to the neglect and destruction of rock art in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. The scarcity of knowledge regarding the meaning of petroglyphs—a direct result of the atrocities that happened during the colonial period—should be

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cautiously approached. It is not only important but also morally necessary to accept that the validity of these meanings in contemporary Australia might be biased if the impact of colonialism is not properly acknowledged. For example, the decision of the High Court about Native Title rights over Murujuga emphasized the annihilation of the local Indigenous people, but it did not compensate them for their loss. Without considering this, in contemporary Australia, Indigenous rock art is also cultural heritage (another modern construct—see Chapter 7), and so most meanings extrapolated from it derive from the social sciences and art history.

The Role of Acheiropoieta in Murujuga Rock Art

Acheiropoieta are artifacts or objects made not by human hands, but by the hands of God. Examples are stones that fall from the sky and are kept as amulets, which are later worshipped as idols because of their supernatural origin.48 Although more common in the Christian and Egyptian religions, they also appear in Indigenous culture, as many petroglyphs are claimed to be the work of ancestral beings or cult heroes. Rather than merely aesthetic in origin, the fact that contemporary Indigenous people insist on the supernatural origin of some of their images is symptomatic of the human response to the power of images. Acheiropoieta are principally associated with religion, and their power should not be underestimated; examples include the Shroud of Turin and the Veronica, images allegedly depicting Jesus Christ, which helped to establish the legitimacy of images inside the Christian church.49 Likewise, the importance of the role of acheiropoieta in Indigenous mythology should not be overlooked. The concept opens the debate about what images are considered art, because, where one image may be considered art for one group, for another it may be more than simply an image—it may be a talisman, an avatar, or a sacred object. Many people, for example, consider the flag of the United States of America sacred, whereas Jasper Johns’s Flag (1954–55) is housed in the Museum of Modern Art in New York. In many traditions, acheiropoieta justify the cult or worship of images (and sometimes stones), because they are wanted and understood by ordinary people outside the realm of theory, whereas theologians and intellectuals, on the other

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hand, do not accept their power. Nevertheless, the worship, reverence, and cult of sacred images, stones, objects, and even art are a constant throughout many cultures around the world.50 For example, the fragments of the Black Stone, located in the eastern corner of the Kaaba in Mecca, are revered in Islamic tradition. Ancient objects or images whose origin is unknown (like some acheiropoieta) consolidate traditions that go back in time. For example, the conservation of a special site may be due to its sacredness or importance for a specific group (see Figure 29). Thus Indigenous responses toward their images as acheiropoieta are no more unnatural than those of other cultures and traditions, where they perform several tasks.51 I am not attempting to draw a parallel between Indigenous sacred images and Christian religious images, but the similarity of attitudes about the origin of certain images is noteworthy. Because scientists are influenced by a Western rationale that dictates that images, Indigenous or not, cannot be made by spirits, but by humans, they cannot accept that some Indigenous images may be acheiropoieta. To deny this will deny a contemporary and natural response toward ancient petroglyphs, and Indigenous images also might consequently be regarded as inferior and primitive, as products of a superstitious culture. The rock art of Murujuga reflects not only the culture that made them but also the importance of the surrounding landscape that instills the essence of the ancestral figures of the Ngurranujunggamu. In this context, petroglyphs have been compared to the pages of a book—a type of Indigenous Bible—that contain rules and guidelines for the people.52 Although religious concepts differ greatly from culture to culture, it is conceivable that the function and purpose of some of the rock art on Murujuga might be similar to the use of images in a cathedral. The teachings that should be followed are made into an image or a pictorial language. However, the comparison between Indigenous images and the Bible might not be sustainable because one is an image and the other is a linear text. It is further problematic as one tradition is much older than the other. The idea might also reflect the influence of Christian missionaries within the Indigenous communities after the neglect of Indigenous heritage was realized. Although the comparison has its flaws, it is effective when it appeals to public opinion. The Bible is still a sacred object, and religious and nonreligious people alike regard its “power” as strong. Instead of explaining the importance of the rock art based on a concept such as Ngurranujunggamu, which is complex and largely unknown among nonIndigenous people (see below), comparing the destruction of Indigenous images

Murujuga and Its Meanings

Figure 29. The Stone of the Unction or Anointment located in the Holy Sepulcher, Jerusalem. The stone is where the body of Jesus Christ is believed to have been laid down after he was taken off the cross. Every day the stone is touched, rubbed, and anointed by people who believe in the power of the rock. It is one of the most sacred objects of the Christian tradition. This stone is not an acheiropoieton, but its power as a sacred object is important for understanding how an object becomes sacred and thus conserved. Photograph by the author.

to the destruction of the Bible might be a better strategy for effectively influencing public opinion. For many people, the value of the Bible, even if they have not read it, is higher than any other text, object, or monument in the Western world, its importance being widely spread by Western culture through the arts and popular culture. Comparing the destruction of Murujuga’s petroglyphs to the destruction of the Bible allows those with Western values to better understand the importance of the rock art to Indigenous people.53 Moreover, the division between sacred and secular images in Indigenous rock art is not so easily evident. Some images are tools to teach about the Law, the origin of a group, their territory, and their totemic associations—the sacred traditions of many Indigenous cultures. This means that the same images can depict both sacred and profane subjects. For example, Layton shows that the following design has different meanings, such as a seated person viewed from

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above in central Australia, a stingray liver in Port Hedland, or the Rainbow Serpent in the eastern Kimberley:

The multivalence of the image is achieved by the simplicity of the design.54 The division of sacred and secular images is also derived from a modern construct. This reflects the influence of Western discourse (in this case, cultural anthropology) in non-Western traditions. In the case that an animal is considered both secular (e.g., as food) and sacred (e.g., as totem), the multivalence is even greater. Given the vast diversity and array of animal figures depicted in the rock art of Murujuga, it is difficult to believe that only sacred themes are represented. Unfortunately, there are not many explanations offered for animal depictions. Palmer suggests that animals are represented by songs, which were not to be sung if women were present, a condition that is also attributed to some images. Even when songs were connected to petroglyphs, the connection lies in what the petroglyph depicts rather than in the petroglyph itself.55 In Indigenous mythology, men are often portrayed as animals, and vice versa, a concept that might also be associated with animal depictions.56

The Ontology of Indigenous Images

The mythological references discussed above are not unique to Murujuga but have also been collected from Indigenous people across other parts of Australia. To what extent can we talk about the didactic role that images play and their nature as acheiropoieta in a cross-cultural Indigenous Australia? Mythology strengthens the ontology of petroglyphs because it explains their origin satisfactorily. But it also undermines their validity to some extent because it is unlikely most Indigenous images function in the same manner, as is the case for images in other contexts. In semiotic terms, Indigenous images such as rock art can be explained as the signifier in regards to the motif, and perhaps even the subject depicted. But as the signified, rock art on Murujuga can be explained regarding the many roles that the petroglyphs play: as a mark or sign of the teachings left

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by the ancestral figures; as a continuation of the guidelines left by the ancestral figures; and as marks where initiation rites and increase rituals are performed. One ontology—a theory of being—of Indigenous images is that rock art communicates something, and the meanings are extracted through formal and informed methodologies.57 To explain the ontology of Indigenous images in Australia, archaeologists and anthropologists resort to the uniting principle of the Dreaming, or Dreamtime.58 The Dreaming is an Indigenous concept that converges on the relationship that Indigenous people have with the land and nature. In general terms, the Dreaming is a past era where the world was transformed by mythical beings (ancestral and heroic figures) who crossed the land, achieving heroic exploits and leaving their presence in the form of tracks and features on the landscape. In crossing the land, the ancestral figures created flora and fauna as well as the rules or guidelines (the Law) that are followed by Indigenous people. Hence the importance that Indigenous people give to their land is in part because it bears the marks of their ancestral creators, which is also reflected in rock art. Sites where the ancestral beings have left their mark or are associated with their travels are considered sacred sites. These can include waterholes, caves, rocks, or standing stones.59 In fact, some rock art images represent Dreamtime figures, thus providing these particular images with an ontological significance beyond aesthetic value, because they reflect Indigenous worldviews of how the world is arranged. Taçon claims that the Dreaming is a joint principle of force and power; the Dreaming continues to resonate in the future, as every act of creation demands a new change of course. As Taçon asserts, the rhythm of the Dreaming strikes another beat. Thus, to be synchronized with the Dreaming, one must adjust one’s hearing to the new beat so “one can get in touch with the Dreaming, oneself, and the greater universe at large.”60 Although common elements are shared by many Indigenous groups, it is misleading to believe that all cultures shared a single Dreaming, as there are different Indigenous languages and cultures across Australia. As all humans realize heroic deeds in their dreams, so Indigenous people realize heroic exploits and, through images, music, and rituals, come in contact with the power of the Dreamtime, gradually acquiring social power and status. Referring to the Dreaming to explain rock art is a valid method to make sense of it. However, given the history of oppression and violence that the culture that produced these images experienced, the rediscovery of the meanings of these ancient images is also a political statement. In other words, asserting the

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ontology of these images in the world is a political act.61 There is no better space to test this claim than in the realm of Indigenous art, where political correctness prevents the non-Indigenous critic (i.e., anthropologist or archaeologist) from speaking freely about Indigenous art (including rock art). If a critic claims that the rock art is bad, ugly, or even “primitive,” it is probable they will be accused of racism. This is why some archaeologists will not entertain the possibility of attaching interpretations to Indigenous images but consider them important from an archaeological (scientific) standpoint. Indigenous art is therefore framed by an anthropological point of view: who made the image and where does it come from? To what Indigenous language group does the artist belong? What does the image mean to the artist and how should it be read? For Ryan, an art historian, the most important action to take before assessing Indigenous art is that of considering the otherness and not its affinities with Western art.62 In this context, the concept of the Dreaming is not the best tool to close the gap between the otherness and affinities between Indigenous art and Western art,63 because for “outsiders” the term is not understood. Instead, the term is used in a vague and improper way as a general concept by non-Indigenous people to name a variety of things that stem from Indigenous metaphysics, such as the creation period, totems, ancestral beings, and the supernatural.64 Indigenous art is not just derived from metaphysical connotations, as Taçon has shown, with examples of more casual subject matter that can be seen in rock art.65 In the case of rock art, explanations for the images come mainly from anthropological and archaeological frameworks and discourse.66 They ask the same questions that Ryan claims the non-Indigenous critic asks about Indigenous art: who made the image and where does it come from? To what Indigenous language group does the artist belong? What does the image mean to the artist and how should it be read?67 Following Ryan’s proposal to ask the right questions (Is it good? Is it bad?), we should be aware of the mythological references that ethnographies provide. Rock art, like any other visual communication, can be assessed from other perspectives, such as aesthetics and heritage, to name just two. Perhaps Maynard is right when she says that looking for a meaning that is not archaeological in rock art is a futile action. Unfortunately, privileging a meaning over other important meanings was undertaken in the first archaeological assessments of Murujuga that took place in the 1970s (see Chapter 6).68 But this does not mean that we cannot produce different evaluations by using different frameworks. The evaluation that needs to be avoided at all costs

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is the etic construct: when the art critic/historian subordinates the function of rock art in a specific place to the rock art of all Australia. The circumstance that some petroglyphs on Murujuga indicate special places where initiation ceremonies took place does not mean that the same ceremonies took place in other special places in Australia.

Thalu Sites

Thalu sites are places where ritual and totemic ceremonies took place. Through these ceremonies, the continuation of the correct social order was ensured. Thalu sites appear in many parts of Australia. They are “the strong places of the Earth. They are sacred places filled with energy or djang,”69 made by ancestral figures or heroic beings during the Dreamtime. Accordingly, the creative force of these beings is instilled in these sites. Thalu sites are also known as increase sites, where the power of an ancestral figure is disseminated to increase the number of natural species associated with that being.70 This is a reason why the Dreaming is also acknowledged in the present—the essence of the creators is still present in certain places and objects, including thalu sites and rock art. By using myths, rituals, songs, dances, words, and signs, Indigenous people can mirror the Dreaming, fashion their current landscape, and reinforce the beliefs and guidelines left by the ancestral creators.71 To release the spiritual essence, increase an animal species, and ensure the balance of the natural order associated with the thalu site, a petroglyph might be “retouched,” completely or partially, or the design repeated.72 Petroglyphs or rocks might also have been hit with vegetation, rocks, or liquid.73 The increase of animal and plant species or natural phenomena by performing certain ceremonies at thalu sites is central to the development of life and land. The quantity and quality of the animal or plant species and the places where they propagate are influenced by the use of the sites. On Murujuga, standing stones, arrangements of stones, or stones with extraordinary features were used as increase sites that produced certain natural phenomena.74 Increasing the number of key animals was considered essential for the subsistence of a tribe. David Daniel, a Ngarluma man and longtime rock art defender and advocate for the protection of Indigenous sites in the area, wrote a book in which he

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explains the meanings and functions of thalu sites in the West Pilbara. He asked several elders ( James Solomon, Friday Smith, Gordon Lockyer, Bill True, and Yilbie Warrie) to share their knowledge. They recognized the thalu sites by their particular features, remembered their location, or had heard about them through their ancestors. Daniel recorded fifteen thalu sites,75 some in the Dampier Archipelago. Some are found where petroglyphs occur, but this does not mean that every petroglyph site acted as a thalu site, because not every thalu site bears petroglyphs. Through the ceremonies, spiritual forces are enhanced when the animal or plant is presumed to be procreating. The ceremonies conducted at the sites attempt to tame and direct the spiritual forces that inhabit the land, to produce certain effects. One thalu site that bears a petroglyph is the Marngula (baby) site. The petroglyph depicts a woman in labor, and on the other side of the rock a petroglyph depicts a man who represents the husband. The stones at the foot of the rock are the babies. The site is used to increase births among the Ngarluma, but it is not known how.76 Thalu sites can also be used as weapons against enemies by propagating disease.77 A settler named John Withnell described how a ceremony at a thalu site was conducted at the end of the nineteenth century in the Pilbara, to increase certain organisms such as children, birds, animals, insects, frogs, reptiles, fish, and grass seeds. Each of these organisms has a corresponding tarlow (Withnell’s spelling) that belongs to the head of each family, who is considered “master of the craft.” To perform the rituals one must travel to the sacred site, as it cannot be done somewhere else. Each family requires a different ceremony. They hammer the rock with other rounded rocks and carry with them the weapons used to hunt that species. If they want to increase grass seed, they carry wooden scoops. If they seek kangaroos, spears; for turkey, they carry nests. For the ceremony, they are all dressed in feathers, charcoal, and white and red clays. The women can also take part and inherit the tarlows.78 According to Radcliffe-Brown, these ceremonies are totemic and the thalu site is the corresponding site for the totemic ceremonies to take place. Only the members of the designated thalu site can perform the corresponding ceremonies at the site. The people who performed were decorated, and songs sung, although sometimes the head of the clan who led the ceremony would call out the names of different parts of the clan’s country.79 Thalu sites are located within a clan’s country where the species is “naturally” abundant.80

Murujuga and Its Meanings

One particular thalu site located on Murujuga in Patterson Valley depicts what seems to be a thylacine (Tasmanian tiger), a species thought to have disappeared in Western Australia three thousand years ago. The petroglyph is located on a large boulder, open to view. The petroglyph was created by abrading and pulverizing the rock to form the body of the animal. Pecked and scored lines crossing the boulder form an array of lines that seem to spill all over the boulder, even continuing their trajectory to adjacent boulders. It is truly a wonderful example of Indigenous rock art (see Figures 30a–c). In contrast to other reFigure 30a. A thylacine depiction, interpreted as a thalu site, surrounded by fat-tailed macropods. According to Mulvaney, in the 200-square-kilometer surrounding area, there is a total of twenty-three macropods. Photograph by the author.

Figures 30b and 30c. Note how the lines continue on adjacent boulders as if the rock cannot contain the radiated power. Photographs by the author.

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searchers, Mulvaney sees significant meanings in the rock art, which communicate mythological narratives and behavioral features.81 In this case, he sees the depicted thylacine as reflecting its antiquity and its function, as well as an index of environmental change. The way in which it is depicted sets it apart from other petroglyphs in the area and even Murujuga. Supported by what is known about thalu sites, Mulvaney argues that the repeated pounding and the lines are nothing other than an attempt to ensure the existence of the thylacine when the people realized it was becoming scarce. Mulvaney conceives the lines as a metaphysical connection between the thylacine and surrounding prey, specifically the fat-tailed macropod. For him, this not only is a desperate attempt, triggered by anxiety to ensure a key species, but also represents the documentation of an extinction event.82 This interpretation is one of the few attempts to find meaning within the rock art of Murujuga by applying Indigenous mythology analogically. The meaning derived from this analogy may not be accurate or exact, and we will never know the meaning intended by its creators, but it is an honest and creative intellectual exercise.

Restrictions Associated with the Images

The panel of the “climbing men” (see Figure 49) is perhaps the most well-known motif from Murujuga. The motif is considered by some elders from Roebourne to be restricted imagery.83 Some petroglyphs depict events and objects used in ceremonies and rituals that are restricted to the uninitiated.84 For example, Robert Boona, son of Alf Boona and Mibbin Lowe’s nephew, recalls that when he was a kid, he was not allowed to look at Murujuga because the tradition stated that “everything that keeps us alive comes from there.” Looking at it would amount to a generational breach because only the elders were allowed to go there.85 For this reason, concerns have been raised by some elders regarding visiting specific boulders and the taking of photographs—something I encountered during my first visit to Murujuga. In some cases, only men could view the images; women were not allowed, especially Indigenous women because they might get sick or have an accident.86 Some Indigenous men allowed women to see the images, provided they did not know the meaning.87 One Indigenous man conceded that images of animals could be seen by women, but that women should not view

Murujuga and Its Meanings

human figures, especially if they are bush bibles: “elongated or elliptical [human] figures with infilled dots or other designs.”88 Likewise, elders from Roebourne expressed their concern regarding images of figures with lines radiating from the head, which could be seen only by initiated males. Limited access is also attributed to images containing oval designs, which represented sacred objects.89 The open display of genitalia and sexual aspects in the anthropomorphic figures could also have influenced the restrictions on some of the images, especially for the uninitiated. Some might simply reflect the physical features of the Margas and popular characters of the mythology surrounding the area.90 The high density of petroglyphs is evidence that Murujuga was an aggregation site where different styles and meanings were produced over a long period. The restriction on certain petroglyphs may have either continued or been overridden by newer groups. Establishing a relationship between aggregation and increase sites could be useful in order to further analyze the distribution of thalu sites. The location of some images might also be harder to reach for certain people.91 In one instance, Gunn and Mulvaney analyzed the actual inclination of the slab (or panel), if it is vertical (≥45°) or horizontal (