The Incredible Human Journey (21 page)

Getting from Sundaland to Sahul would have required between eight and seventeen sea crossings, and at least one trip of more than 70km.
⁶
Two routes have been proposed for the colonisation of Sahul: a northern route through Sulawesi and a southern route along the Nusa Tenggara islands. The northern route holds advantages (though of course the colonisers were not equipped with this sort of foresight): each island is visible from the next, all the way to New Guinea, the islands are well watered by the monsoons, and the prevailing winds blow in a helpful, easterly direction.
¹⁰
The southern route is more parsimonious, in that it requires the least number of sea crossings. But even considering the ‘best route’ with the benefit of hindsight like this creates a bizarre impression of those hunter-gatherers sitting on a palm-fringed Indonesian beach and planning their migration to the south. Perhaps it’s even too simplistic to think of the early colonisation of Sahul as a single event, via a single route. There were a scattering of Wallacean islands close to Sahul, and colonisation would probably have happened in a much more haphazard way, with multiple arrivals from the nearest islands.

Routes from Sunda to Sahul

So what about archaeological evidence for early colonisers of the Sunda Shelf and Sahul? Finding sites that might be close to the proposed front of colonisation has proven difficult: there are quite a few Palaeolithic sites on islands close to Australia, but most are dated to less than 30,000 years old,
⁶
when what we’re really looking for – based on the genetics – is something between 60,000 and 75,000 years ago.
³
As in India, rising sea levels means that many sites that were right on the coast back then may now lie up to 130m beneath the waves, and kilometres out to sea. In fact, there is not a single archaeological site that shows occupation of the northern rim of the Indian Ocean or the Wallacean islands between 75,000 and 60,000 years ago. The oldest evidence of modern humans in South-East Asia comes from Niah Cave, around 42,000 years ago. But while this site may give us fascinating glimpses into the lives of the early hunter-gatherers in Sundaland, it is far too recent to represent the forefront of the wave of colonisation. Sue O’Connor argues that the rockshelter site of Jerimalai on East Timor is strong evidence for a southern route of colonisation of Sahul, but it also dates to about 42,000 years old, at least 10,000 years after the first evidence of humans in Australia. Jerimalai is still important, though: at the moment it is the earliest evidence for modern humans out on the Wallacean islands. Although there are no human skeletal remains, and the stone tools from the site are quite basic, shell beads and fish hooks, fish and turtle bones and marine shells are tell-tale signs of modern humans. Bones from large pelagic species like tuna suggest that those early Timorese may have even been using boats for fishing.
⁷
Flores is a bit problematic, though; it has been extensively investigated, but there’s no evidence of modern humans there until 10,000 years ago, and it seems like a necessary stepping stone on that southern route.

We can only guess what the vessels that carried the first Australians might have been like. It’s entirely conjectural, as there is no actual archaeological evidence of watercraft from this long ago – anywhere in the world. Even at Jerimalai, the use of boats is only inferred from the big fish on the menu at the rockshelter.

In the absence of direct archaeological evidence, I settled for an experiment. Robert Bednarik is an experimental archaeologist who enjoys the challenge of putting conjecture to the test. He has built a series of rafts, using only materials and techniques that would have been available to Palaeolithic raft-builders. It seemed reasonable to assume that these early watercraft would have been rafts, the simplest possible solution to carrying people on water. In terms of materials, Robert has used something that would have been abundant in Palaeolithic South-East Asia, just as it is today: bamboo. And in the last decade he had carried out a series of experimental sea crossings between the islands of Wallacea, culminating in a successful thirteen-day raft voyage from Timor to Melville Island, near Darwin.
^11
,
12

I met Robert on a beach on the east coast of Lombok. He had drafted a small army of local fishermen to build a bamboo raft to his specifications, and it had taken them three days to complete. It was an impressive-looking creation: two layers of thick bamboo trunks running the length of the raft, braced with cross-pieces, all lashed together with rattan. On the sides, double lengths of bamboo formed raised seats for paddlers. It looked pretty seaworthy, but I knew that Robert had also had a few unsuccesful attempts at sea crossings.

‘So far we have built seven rafts, had five actual attempts at crossings, and three were successful,’ Robert told me.

‘But that’s quite a few failures, too,’ I noted.

‘Well,’ Robert laughed, ‘we shouldn’t be talking about the failures but the first one was a total failure, a catastrophic failure – because we had no idea about the design that was required. At the time there was no scientific knowledge whatsoever about the design of seagoing rafts.’

‘So how about this one? Might it sink?’

‘No, a raft is unsinkable – that’s one of the great things about rafts. Boats can sink, rafts cannot.’

But this raft was a bit different from the ones Robert had built before. ‘This is the first time that green bamboo has ever been used in one of these experiments. On all previous occasions the bamboo was fully dried, for about six months,’ explained Robert. There was one other new variable in the experiment. ‘All previous attempts have been made with men only, and this is the first time that a woman will be on board – so that’s something new as well,’ Robert joked.

The experimental green bamboo raft, with me aboard, was ready to be launched – but not before it, and all the raft-builders and paddlers (including me) had been blessed by the local mystic, or
dukan
. First, she made coloured patterns, using seeds and what looked like ground coconut, on a miniature raft, and balanced a small stone egg in the centre. Then she took the raft down to the water’s edge and pushed it into the breakers. Coming back to the full-size raft, she prepared a yellow paste and then anointed each of us in turn: on the forehead, cheeks and top of the breastbone. She walked around the raft, anointing it as well. Then she twisted together several lengths of yellow cotton to make a long string, which she cut into shorter pieces with a knife, and tied a length around each person’s left wrist. Everyone was quiet and respectful during this ceremony, which lasted over an hour. It was fascinating to see what looked like an ancient animistic cult still going strong on what was, officially, a Muslim island.

With the blessing over, we prepared to launch the raft. First, the awning that had covered the construction site, high up on the beach, was cut down to avoid the back of the raft hitting it as we pushed it down the steep slope to the sea. Thick lengths of bamboo were brought and placed in front of the raft to act as rollers, and we started heaving the thing down the beach. There were about thirty men, and me, pulling the raft. We would drag it a few feet then pause, rearrange the rollers and have another go. Eventually, we were in the breakers, but the raft was still firmly on the beach, with the waves washing through it. It was incredibly heavy. We pushed it further and further, and finally, like the moment a plane heaves itself off the runway and into the air, the raft let go of the beach and was afloat. About fourteen of us jumped on and started paddling furiously, still in the breaking waves, to get it out and safely beyond white water.

Quite soon, the manic activity of the launch was over: we were out, on calm sea. It had been a successful launch, and the raft, to my relief, had not begun to fall apart. Robert was disgusted by the very suggestion that his raft might falter at this first hurdle. He had designed the raft for eight people, so we were reduced down to a lean, mean team. There were five Indonesian fishermen: Muhammed (‘M’) Suud, Idrus, Malaburhana, Narno and Ama Ros, and an Indonesian translator, Muliano Susanto (‘Tokyo’); Robert (as captain) and I completed the crew. We settled down to paddle over to Sumbawa – which looked as if it was hundreds of miles away, all misty on the horizon.

‘The weather conditions seem to be quite ideal,’ Robert reassured me. ‘There’s barely a breeze, and the sea is very flat, as you can see. Our main obstacles are really the currents. The currents in any sea strait anywhere in the world are unpredictable. If we go too far south we are going to be in trouble.’

We had cast off at 7.25 a.m. ‘How long is it likely to take?’ I asked, even though we were only ten minutes into the journey. ‘That’s a good question,’ said Robert. ‘We’d all like to know that! If you want an estimate – with these conditions … it should take between six and nine hours.’

Every half hour or so, a pair of paddlers would swap sides. This was a hot tip from Robert, having made a few raft voyages in his time, and having learnt that always paddling on one side was tiring. The raised seats were essential: I was sitting in an upright position with my legs out on the ‘deck’ of the raft, with the waves gently lapping over the sides and cooling my feet. The deck was covered in woven palm mats, and we stashed our supplies, including medical kit and life jackets, near the middle of the raft, where they would get least wet. I was pleased to find the wooden paddle very ergonomic: with one hand grasping the handle at the top, and the other low down near the blade, I could really drive the paddle through the water. It was satisfying and even more so when Robert consulted his GPS and told us we were doing a good three knots – however, in the next breath, he pointed out that this was probably mostly due to the current.

After a few changes of position, I found myself sitting directly in front of Robert; I had a brief rest from paddling and swivelled round to ask him about archaeology, raft-building and human origins. Quite quickly, it became clear that Robert didn’t think that it was just modern humans who had the wherewithal to build ocean-going craft. He thought that seafaring may have begun more than a million years ago – with
Homo erectus
.
^11
,
12
This is an extraordinary claim. Going to sea is generally seen as something that is part of modern human behaviour – although, of course, the Hobbit on the island of Flores challenges this preconception.

But although other species of human may have reached some of the Wallacean islands, getting all the way to Sahul would have required sea crossings of a different magnitude. Along the proposed southern route, each island would have been visible along the chain until the last crossing, and although migrating birds and smoke from bushfires may have provided a suggestion of the land that lay ahead, Sahul itself would not have been visible from Timor. While I felt that the sea crossings implied by the presence of earlier humans on Flores could have been accidental, perhaps on natural mangrove rafts ripped from the mainland in storms, the colonisation of Sahul seemed to indicate that something a bit more sophisticated was going on. In fact, some archaeologists have even said that Flores is the exception that proves the rule: it must have been a fluke, otherwise
Homo erectus
and
Homo floresiensis
would have quickly colonised the Wallacean archipelago, and Sahul.
¹³

As I questioned Robert further, it emerged that he had a deeper philosophical reason for believing that
Homo erectus
had modern capabilities. He believed that
Homo erectus
in Asia had evolved into
Homo
sapiens
locally.

‘By about half a million years ago you have one species grading into a different species,’ said Robert.

‘So you’re saying that
Homo erectus
got out from Africa, spread throughout Asia, then, independently, in lots of different places, just turned into what we now recognise as modern humans?’ I queried. ‘And don’t the fossils
and
the genetics tell us that there’s a family tree – rooted in Africa some time between 100,000 and 200,000 years ago?’

‘Ah – the god of genetics,’ replied Robert. ‘I don’t believe it. The root of the tree is two million years ago.’

This is the multiregionalist view: that modern humans evolved, right across Africa, Europe and Asia, from earlier human populations already living in these places. In order to accommodate the unity of the human species today, the multiregionalist argument invokes gene flow between evolving populations, keeping the whole thing together. This is a strange idea for many reasons, not least because this concept of an almost global species changing so much and keeping together as a species is
weird
. Speciation usually happens in a small population, reduced from a larger population by catastrophe, or perhaps separated from it geographically. Or speciation can occur on the very edges of a large population. But the idea that a widespread population could, as one, change in a unified direction, seems highly improbable. A biologically more likely scenario – and indeed, one that fits the evidence – is a single origin followed by a dispersal of the species.