Land and Language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country 2015038058, 2015042503, 9789027244543, 9789027267603

1,655 216 9MB

English Pages [504] Year 2016

Report DMCA / Copyright

DOWNLOAD FILE

Polecaj historie

Land and Language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country
 2015038058, 2015042503, 9789027244543, 9789027267603

Table of contents :
Land and Language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country
Editorial page
Title page
LCC data
Table of contents
Preface and acknowledgements
General maps
Land and language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country
1. Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country
1.1 The anthropological sciences
1.2 Contact history and indigenous policy
2. Bruce Rigsby
3. This volume
3.1 Reconstructions
3.2 World views
3.3 Contacts and contrasts
3.4. Transformations
3.5 Repatrations
4. Conclusion
References
Appendix: Bibliography of Bruce Rigsby
1. Books and volumes
2. Articles and chapters
3. Book Reviews
4. Consultant’s reports, affidavits etc (complete up to 2009)
Connecting Thaypanic
1. Introduction
2. Membership and external context of this family
2.1 Languages
2.2 Alaya-Athima and its neighbours
3. Borrowing and genetic subgrouping
4. Sounds and transcription
5. Lexical evidence
6. Grammatical evidence
6.1 Imperative *-ng
6.2 Instrumental-Locative *-bV
6.3 Pronouns
7. The relationship of Kuku-Yalandji to these languages
8. Possible inclusion of other East Coast languages with the preceding
9. Remarks and Conclusions
References
Regions without borders
1. Introduction
2. General features of rock art distribution
3. Princess Charlotte Bay
4. Normanby and upper Endeavour Rivers
5. The Laura/Quinkan area
5.1 Localities
5.2 Overview
6. The western margins: Kennedy and Hann Rivers and the Koolburra Plateau
6.1 Localities
6.2 Overview
7. Rock art and its relationships
7. 1 Continuity
7.2 Zones of rock art
7.3 Boundaries and transitions
8. Conclusions: Regions without borders
References
The Flinders Islands and Cape Melville people in history
1. Introduction
2. History
2.1 Archaeology
2.2 Explorers’ accounts
2.3 Anthropologists’ accounts
3. The people
4. Traditional affiliations
4.1 Languages and wider categories
4.2 Clans and traditional land ownership
4.3 Traditional relationships between groups
References
Fission, fusion and syncretism
1. Introduction
2. Background
2.1 Environmental Background
2.2 Overview of current Wellesley Region archaeological evidence
3. A revised hypothesis of Tangkic linguistic history
4. Fission and territorialization
4.1 The role of Allen Island as a staging point for migration to Bentinck Island
4.2 Relevant findings on fission from the Western Desert
4.3 Comparison with post-contact fissions and successions following local depopulations
5. Fusion of new groups following initial fission event
6. Understanding territorial and demographic vulnerability from extreme flood events and the need for flood refuge – more recent ethnographic evidence
7. Conclusion
Acknowledgements
References
Groups, country and personhood on the upper Wenlock River, Cape York Peninsula
1. Introduction
2. Kaanju people on the upper Wenlock River
3. Thomson’s Kaanju genealogies
4. ‘Classical’ social organization and personhood on the upper Wenlock River
5. ‘Post-classical’ trajectories: Continuity and change
References
Hyponymy and the structure of Kuuk Thaayorre kinship
1. Introduction
1.1 Kuuk Thaayorre
1.2 Previous studies
2. Linguistic subsystems and covert categories
3. Hyponymic relationships between subsystems
3.1 Hand signs and the bereavement lexicon
3.2 Bereavement and vocative terms
3.3 Vocative and referential terms
3.4 Summary: Sense relations between kinship subsystems
4. Kuuk Thaayorre kinship in typological perspective
5. Conclusion
References
Possession in Kuku-Thaypan through a comparative lens
1. Introduction
2. Warlpiri ‘kin possession’ expressions
2.1 Kin possession
2.2 Alienable possession
2.3 Propositus suffixes: Anaphor versus pronoun
3. Waanyi kin relation expressions
4. Concluding observations
References
Correlation of textual and spatial reference
1. Introduction
2. Jawoyn: The language and its demonstrative system
2.1 Forms and meanings of demonstratives
2.2 The semantics of Identifiable forms
2.3 Identifiable and Immediate forms in narrative
2.3.1 Identifiable forms
2.3.2 Immediate and Distal forms
2.4 Conclusion
3. Dalabon and Bininj Gun-Wok: Comparisons
4. Conclusions
References
Botanists, Aborigines and native plants on the Queensland frontier
1. Introduction
2. The institutionalisation of botanical studies
3. Starvation
4. The Protectors and the botanists
4.1 Archibald Meston
4.2 Walter Edmund Roth
5. The end of the frontier and the rise of settler economic success
6. Conclusion
References
‘There is no truth whatever as regards any Aboriginal being flogged by the Police’
1. Introduction
2. The Northern Frontier
3. Removal Orders
3.1 Removals in Queensland
3.2 Removals from Coen and the Batavia goldfield
3.3 Negative publicity
4. The fire at the Police Camp
5. The aftermath of the fire
6. Conclusion
References
Archival records
Newspapers
Multiple views of paradise
1. Introduction: The Queensland School
2. Nature as scary and in need of domination
3. The conservationist view
4. Eco-tourism
5. Humans in the ‘wilderness’
6. The Indigenous view
6.1 Text
6.2 Commentary
7. Ways of seeing nature
8. Why the exclusion?
References
Shared country, different stories
1. Introduction
2. A post-settler vignette
2.1 Two local Whitefellas
2.2 Ganggalida people – ‘traditional owners’
2.3 The anthropologist
2.4 Blurred boundaries
2.5 Fictional representations
2.6 The regional Aboriginal leader
3. Discussion: Shared country, different stories
Acknowledgements
References
Born, signed and named
1. Introduction
2. Historical background
2.1 Classical situation
2.2 Contact
3. System of land/sea tenure
3.1 The language of ownership
3.2 Principles of tenure over country
3.2.1 Tindale and an alternative model
3.2.2 Principles of affiliation
4. Naming, country and affiliation
4.1 Names in the traditional setting
4.2 Names in the contemporary setting
5. Conclusion: social change, naming change, and the maintenance of links to country
References
Going forward holding back
1. Introduction
2. Engaging with cultural change
2.1 Pre-Mission period
2.2 The Second Period: The Mission establishment
2.3 “Government” time
2.4 Changes in the later government period
3. Remote living choices
3.1 A mobile lifestyle
3.2 Remote town and outstation living
3.3 Sharing
3.4 Language and kin solidarities
3.5 Alcohol management
4. Life in the city
4.1 Art enterprise
4.2 Battling on in the city
4.3 Itinerants
4.4 Discussion
5. Living in two cultural worlds
6. Conclusion
References
Same but different
1. Introduction
2. Shared histories under The Act
3. Yarrabah
3.1 Who came together at Yarrabah Mission and why
3.2 How did people live?
3.3 Languages spoken on the Mission
3.4 Other factors influencing language contact outcomes
4. Barambah/Cherbourg
4.1 How people lived
4.2 The languages of Cherbourg
4.3 Exposure to English
5. Taroom/Woorabinda
5.1 How did people live?
5.2 Languages spoken at Taroom/Woorabinda
5.3 Other factors in language contact outcomes
6. Summary and Conclusions
References
The story of Old Man Frank
1. Introduction
2. Cultural and linguistic changes in northern Cape York Peninsula
3. Settlement
4. Narratives of language shift: Coercion and agency
5. The story of Old Man Frank
References
Making gambarr
1. “Repatriation”: A fieldtrip in 2009
2. Gambarr: “ancient” technologies and social life at HV in the late 1970s
3. Changing demographies and the coming of “land rights” in the 1980s
4. Photography, narrative, and interaction
5. The 2009 visit to Hopevale
References
Index of places
Index of languages, language families and groups
General index

Citation preview

Land and Language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country

Culture and Language Use

18

edited by Jean-Christophe Verstraete Diane Hafner

John Benjamins Publishing Company

Land and Language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country

Culture and Language Use (clu) Studies in Anthropological Linguistics issn 1879-5838

CLU-SAL publishes monographs and edited collections, culturally oriented grammars and dictionaries in the cross- and interdisciplinary domain of anthropological linguistics or linguistic anthropology. The series offers a forum for anthropological research based on knowledge of the native languages of the people being studied and that linguistic research and grammatical studies must be based on a deep understanding of the function of speech forms in the speech community under study. For an overview of all books published in this series, please see http://benjamins.com/catalog/clu

Editor Gunter Senft

Max Planck Institute for Psycholinguistics, Nijmegen

Volume 18 Land and Language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country Edited by Jean-Christophe Verstraete and Diane Hafner

Land and Language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country subtitle

Edited by

Jean-Christophe Verstraete University of Leuven

Diane Hafner University of Queensland

John Benjamins Publishing Company Amsterdam / Philadelphia

8

TM

The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard for Information Sciences – Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials, ansi z39.48-1984.

doi 10.1075/clu.18 Cataloging-in-Publication Data available from Library of Congress: lccn 2015038058 (print) / 2015042503 (e-book) isbn 978 90 272 4454 3 (Hb) isbn 978 90 272 6760 3 (e-book)

© 2016 – John Benjamins B.V. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by print, photoprint, microfilm, or any other means, without written permission from the publisher. John Benjamins Publishing Company · https://benjamins.com

Table of contents Preface and acknowledgements General maps Land and language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country Jean-Christophe Verstraete & Diane Hafner Appendix: Bibliography of Bruce Rigsby

vii ix 1 27

section 1.  Reconstructions Connecting Thaypanic Barry Alpher Regions without borders: Related rock art landscapes of the Laura Basin, Cape York Peninsula Noelene Cole The Flinders Islands and Cape Melville people in history Peter Sutton Fission, fusion and syncretism: Linguistic and environmental ­changes amongst the Tangkic people of the southern Gulf of Carpentaria, ­Northern ­Australia Paul Memmott, Erich Round, Daniel Rosendahl & Sean Ulm

39

61 85

105

section ii.  World views Groups, country and personhood on the upper Wenlock River, Cape York ­Peninsula: Donald Thomson’s Kaanju genealogies Benjamin R. Smith

139

Hyponymy and the structure of Kuuk Thaayorre kinship Alice Gaby

159

Possession in Kuku-Thaypan through a comparative lens Mary Laughren

179

Correlation of textual and spatial reference: This and that Francesca Merlan

199

 Land and Language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country

section iii.  Contacts and contrasts Botanists, Aborigines and native plants on the Queensland frontier Marcia Langton ‘There is no truth whatever as regards any Aboriginal being flogged by the Police’: Coen Police Camp, 1933, Cape York Peninsula Jonathan Richards

221

241

Multiple views of paradise: Perspectives on the Daintree rainforest Chris Anderson

263

Shared country, different stories: A post-settler vignette David Trigger

285

section iv.  Transformations Born, signed and named: Naming, country and social change among the Bentinck Islanders Nicholas Evans

305

The problem of ‘tribal names’ in eastern Australia: The Kuku Yalanji example 337 Ray Wood Going forward holding back: Modern bicultural living David Thompson

361

Same but different: Understanding language contact in Queensland Indigenous settlements Ilana Mushin, Denise Angelo & Jennifer M. Munro

383

The story of Old Man Frank: A narrative response to questions about language shift in northern Cape York Peninsula Helen Harper

409

section v.  Repatriations On the edges of their memories: Reassembling the Lamalama cultural record from museum collections 435 Lindy Allen Making gambarr: It belongs to me, I belong to it John B. Haviland

455

Index of places

481

Index of languages, language families and groups

483

General index

487

Preface and acknowledgements Plans for this volume go back to 2005, when Ben Smith and Jean-Christophe Verstraete met in Canberra to discuss a volume focused on Cape York Peninsula in honour of Bruce Rigsby (Bruce had mentored both of their work in Cape York Peninsula, in anthropology and linguistics, respectively). They drew up a list of potential contributors and contacted some, but then other duties prevented them from going ahead with the project, and it was shelved for a number of years. In 2013 in Brisbane, Di Hafner (a long-time collaborator and former PhD student of Bruce) mentioned to Jean-Christophe that it was a great pity the volume never eventuated, and asked if she could help to revive the project. At that time, Ben was not available to co-edit the volume, but he graciously allowed Di to step in and continue the project together with Jean-Christophe. Now that the volume is finished, there are many people we want to thank for their help. First, of course, there is Ben Smith, who helped to conceive the idea for the volume, and continued to support us while we were editing it. Second, there is Bruce Rigsby’s wife Barbara, who strongly supported us in this endeavour, and who was always available to discuss questions. Third, we also thank all contributors to the volume, for their patience in the case of those who were first contacted in 2005, for their trust when a new call came in 2013, and for their quick response at the various stages of review. We particularly thank Marcia Langton for her assistance in bringing the project to completion. Some of the people we contacted were not able to contribute, for a variety of reasons, but we thank them for the enthousiastic support they showed for the project. We would like to single out Bruce and Barbara’s good friend and colleague Nancy Williams, who kept reminding us how important it was to get this done, and who cheered us to the finishing line. Finally, we would like to thank Gunter Senft, the series editor of Culture and Language Use – Studies in Anthropological Linguistics, for the quick and efficient way in which he guided us through the publication process. We are grateful for his encouragement following our initial query, his editorial guidance as we were working on the volume, his efficient review of and comments on the volume, and his patience at the final hurdles to publication. Jean-Christophe Verstraete acknowledges the financial support of grant GOA/12/007, which helped to pay for some of the maps in the volume. Leuven & Brisbane 6 July 2015

General maps Australian National University CartoGIS CAP -a_KP Cape York NORTHERN TERRITORY QUEENSLAND

Torres Strait State boundary

GRE



BRISBANE SOUTH AUSTRALIA NEW SOUTH WALES ACT

AT

kilometres

GRE



WESTERN AUSTRALIA

VICTORIA

AT

Gulf of Carpentaria

TASMANIA

S

Coral Sea

BA RR IER

Cairns Yarrabah

DIV

Palm Island

IDI

Townsville

NG

Cloncurry

Mount Isa

Mackay

QUEENSLAND

RE

EF

Boulia Rockhampton Woorabinda Baralaba

NG

Springsure

RA

Alpha

E

S

Taroom Charleville

SOUTH AUSTRALIA E

Map 1.  Queensland (locations mentioned in the text)

Cherbourg (Barambah)

Roma

BRISBANE St George

E

Fraser Island



Land and Language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country

Map 2.  Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country (locations mentioned in the text)

Land and language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country Jean-Christophe Verstraete & Diane Hafner University of Leuven / University of Queensland

This volume has a dual purpose. Firstly, it offers a state-of-the-art survey of linguistic, anthropological, archaeological and historical work in Cape York Peninsula, situated in the northeast of Australia, and the adjacent region of the Gulf Country, in and around the Gulf of Carpentaria. At the same time, the volume honours Bruce Rigsby, emeritus professor of anthropology at the University of Queensland, whose pioneering work in this region inspired all of the contributors to the volume. By way of introduction, we provide a brief overview of the region and its history, as well as the main lines of research in the disciplines included here (Section 1), and the role Bruce Rigsby’s work played in them (Section 2). The following sections then outline the major themes of the volume, situating the contributions in the broader context of work on Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country, as well as Aboriginal Australia more generally.

1.  Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country1 Cape York Peninsula (henceforth CYP), the focus of the bulk of the papers in this volume, is a peninsula in the northeast of Australia, located between the Coral Sea (with the Great Barrier Reef) and the Gulf of Carpentaria. To its north, it is linked to New Guinea by the islands of the Torres Strait (see Harper and Thompson, this volume). At its southeastern end, it passes into the rainforest region of the wet tropics (see Anderson and Wood, this volume). At its southwestern end, it links up with the Gulf Country (henceforth the GC), the mainland to the south and west of the Gulf of Carpentaria (see Trigger and Laughren, this volume), as well as the islands in the Gulf (see Evans and Memmott et al., this volume). In the broader Australian context, this region has been quite prominent in the development of archaeological, linguistic and anthropological research, as well as in the history of contact between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people and in past and

. 

For locations mentioned in the text, see the two general maps at the front of the volume.

doi 10.1075/clu.18.01ver © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company



Jean-Christophe Verstraete & Diane Hafner

current discussions about Indigenous policy. We first turn to the region’s role in the anthropological sciences, and next discuss its position in history and debates about Indigenous policy.

1.1  The anthropological sciences Human occupation in this region dates back to about 40.000 years BP (Ngarrabulgan in southeastern CYP, David 2002, David et al. 2007; compare also 34,000 BP for Sandy Creek near Laura, Morwood 2002, Morwood et al. 1995). These are some of the earlier dates in Australia, with several further locations showing initial occupation before 10.000 years BP (David & Lourandos 1999, Cole, this volume). All of these early locations are in the inland region of CYP; the GC is much more poorly sampled, except for the Wellesley Islands (see Memmott et al., this volume, and Williams et al. 2014 for the broader Australian context). The formation of the Peninsula and the islands are relatively recent events; sea levels were lower during the last ice age, which means that the exposed landmass was much larger (see Lambeck & Chappell 2001), and CYP and the GC were linked to New Guinea by a land bridge. Sea levels rose towards the end of the ice age, and flooded what is now the Gulf of Carpentaria and the Torres Strait, creating the islands of the Torres Strait from about 8.000 years BP (McNiven 2011), and the Wellesley Islands in the southern Gulf between 6.000 and 5.000 years BP (see ­Memmott et al., this volume). Perhaps the best-known archaeological feature of this region is the spectacular rock art of southeastern Cape York Peninsula, first brought to public attention by Percy Trezise (see, for instance, Trezise 1969) and the impetus for much further archaeological research into chronology, stylistic distribution (see Cole, this volume, for a survey and further references), and socio-cultural interpretation (Cole, this volume; David & Lourandos 1999). Other prominent issues that have occupied archaeologists in this region include questions of subsistence (especially the presence of horticulture in the Torres Strait islands just north of a continent of hunter-gatherers; see Carter 2006 for an overview of research), and island colonization after the rising of sea levels, both for the Torres Strait and the Wellesley Islands (see McNiven 2011, Memmott et al., this volume). Perhaps most closely linked to archaeological concerns is the linguistic question of genetic classification, i.e. which languages belong together because they descend from a common proto-language. Again, CYP and the GC figure prominently in the general Australian picture (see Koch 2014 for an overview). Australia has one large family of languages that covered almost 90 % of the continent at the time of first ­European contact, Pama-Nyungan (see Alpher 2004, Bowern & Atkinson 2012), as well as several distinct, smaller families of languages, jointly known as non-PamaNyungan, covering parts of the Top End of the Northern Territory and the Kimberley region (see Evans 2003). Both CYP and the GC played an important role in working



Land and language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country

out this overall picture. For CYP, we now know that all languages are Pama-Nyungan (including the Western Torres Strait language, see Alpher et al. 2008), but some languages of the northern and southeastern parts of CYP look so different from PamaNyungan languages beyond CYP that early observers doubted their relatedness (see Dixon 1980:  195–197). It took the seminal work of Ken Hale (e.g. 1964, 1976a) to show that they are related to more typical Pama-Nyungan languages through some remarkable processes of sound change such as the dropping of initial consonants, the development of fricatives and voicing contrasts, and the expansion of vowel inventories. Incidentally, it was precisely this suite of sound changes in some of the languages of eastern and southeastern CYP that attracted Bruce Rigsby to work there (see further below). For the GC, things have gone in the opposite direction, with some languages that were thought to have typical Pama-Nyungan features now re-analysed as non-Pama-Nyungan. The Tangkic languages of the Wellesley Islands and the adjacent mainland (see Evans, this volume; Memmott et al., this volume) were long thought to be Pama-Nyungan, until Blake (1988) and Evans (1995) showed that they form a separate non-Pama-Nyungan family. The status of the Garrwan languages Garrwa (see Mushin 2012) and Waanyi (see Laughren, this volume) in the southern GC remains unclear, with arguments both for non-Pama-Nyungan (Blake 1990, Evans 2005) and Pama-Nyungan status (Harvey 2009). More generally, it is unclear if the different nonPama-Nyungan families are related to Pama-Nyungan in a higher-level family, but in models that assume such relatedness, the GC figures prominently (Evans 2003, 2005): it is home to the Garrwan and Tangkic families assumed to be Pama-Nyungan’s closest relatives, and therefore also close to the putative homeland of proto-Pama-Nyungan south of the Gulf (Evans & Jones 1997). Interlocking with the distribution of languages over country is the question of social organization, i.e. the nature of social units and their relation to language and country. The development of our understanding of social organization in Aboriginal Australia, with its discussions over the nature of ‘tribes’, ‘hordes’, ‘clans’ and the like, is a classic chapter in the history of anthropology, based on detailed comparative analysis of data from many regions in Australia (see Hiatt 1996, Sutton 2003 for good overviews). Still, the region studied here did add a number of important points to our current understanding, specifically with regard to the position of language in the different social units, and the role of individual agency in the appropriation and transfer of property rights. The classic model of social organization for much of CYP (and other parts of Australia) is one that distinguishes between patrilineal clans as the basic landowning units, recruited via serial patrifiliation, and local groups as the basic landusing units, defined by exogamous marriage rules (see Rigsby & Chase 1998, Rigsby 1999). Thus, clans are largely virtual social units, defining rights in country, religious rights and marriage boundaries, while the marriage rule of clan exogamy implies that actual local groups of people who live together consist of members of different clans.





Jean-Christophe Verstraete & Diane Hafner

One thing that anthropological work in CYP added to this picture is a more sophisticated understanding of the role of language (see Sutton 1978, Sutton & Rigsby 1978). From an etic perspective, the basic principle is straightforward: clans own country, country is associated with a specific language, and therefore clans also own a specific language. But a different ‘language’ associated with a clan does not necessarily map onto a different ‘language’ as understood by linguists, which makes for some interesting sociolinguistic complications. One is that local linguistic ideology tends towards an over-differentiation of varieties from a linguistic perspective, distinguishing between languages on the basis of clan association even in cases where linguists would see just dialects of a single language (the phenomenon of ‘patrilects’, see ­Sutton 2003: 78–79). Another implication is that local groups are typically multilingual (because of clan exogamy), and that patterns of multilingualism differ on an individual basis rather than a group basis (different individuals, even from the same clan, will typically have different combinations of father’s language, mother’s language, father’s mother’s language and mother’s mothers language etc). A final implication is a strict distinction between language ownership (the language of one’s father’s clan) and language use (other languages one knows or uses), which comes to the surface whenever people have to come forward publicly as speakers of a particular language. Apart from the role of language, a second factor that work in CYP and the GC added to the classic anthropological picture of social organization concerns the role of individuals and groups in determining the transfer of property rights. In the classic model, ownership of country is associated with clan membership, which in turn is defined by serial patrifiliation. In theory, this seems like a fairly mechanistic process, largely determined by birth and therefore with little room for individual control. For CYP, however, Sutton & Rigsby (1982) have identified a number of political processes, driven by individuals or groups, that can lead to changes in property rights, including fission of groups and use of land as ‘currency’ in resolving political conflicts. Similarly, Evans (this volume) shows for Bentinck Island in the GC that clan membership is not the only principle determining ownership of country, and that bequests by senior individuals also play a substantial role. All of this has led to a more sophisticated understanding of social organization in CYP and the GC, and how it interacts with land tenure and language.

1.2  Contact history and indigenous policy The region studied in this volume has also been central in the history of contact between Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal people, as well as in past and current debates about Indigenous policy in Australia. In addition, the region has been of enduring interest for the anthropological sciences, where recent discussion has focused on notions of ‘nativeness’ (see also Trigger, this volume) and the intercultural.



Land and language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country

In the early 17th century, the west coast of CYP was the location of the first recorded contact between Aboriginal people and Europeans in Australia, when in 1606 ­Willem Janszoon’s ship the Duyfken landed near present-day Weipa in ­northwestern CYP (see Karntin & Sutton 1986, Sutton 2008a). From at least the 17th century (see Taçon et al. 2010 for evidence about dating), the northern Australian coasts were also visited by so-called ‘Macassan’ fishermen sailing from Makassar in present-day Sulawesi to collect and process bêche-de-mer and trade it on to the Asian markets. The Coburg Peninsula and north-east Arnhem Land are the best-known locations of Macassan visits (see Macknight 1976, 2011), but they have also been recorded in the Gulf of Carpentaria, at Groote Eylandt at its northern end, and most recently also as far south as the Wellesley Islands (Oertle et al. 2014). In the 18th century, CYP was the location of James Cook’s first lengthy stay on the east coast of Australia, when he landed in 1770 at the Endeavour River near present-day Cooktown to repair ship damage caused by the Great Barrier Reef, and interacted with Guugu Yimidhirr people (see Haviland 1974). The 19th century saw continued coastal intrusions from bêche-de-mer traders and pearl-shellers now based in the Torres Strait (see Ganter 1994), as well as exploring expeditions over land by Burke and Wills, Leichhardt, Kennedy and the Jardine brothers (see Logan Jack 1921). But the defining moment for inland intrusions was the discovery of gold on the Palmer River in southern central CYP (see Bolton 1963). This led to an influx of thousands of gold diggers, of European and Chinese descent, with the cattle industry following to provide meat, and associated service providers in and around the boom towns that sprang up in the region. This period saw great violence on the frontier (see Cole 2004, Kirkman 1978, Loos 1982), not just by gold diggers and settlers, but also by the native police, a semi-military force of native troopers and European officers (see Richards 2008; this volume). The sad outcome of this level of violence is reflected in the sparse records for Aboriginal people in the districts with mining activity, such as the southern and central inland regions of CYP (see Alpher, this volume, and Verstraete & Rigsby 2015). From the late 19th century, scientists also started taking an interest in this region. The best-known early examples of ethnographic and linguistic work are the ­Cambridge expedition to the Torres Strait in 1898 (see Herle & Rouse 1998), and the publications of W.E. Roth (see McDougall & Davidson 2008; also Langton and Wood, this volume), who worked as a medical doctor in north-west Queensland, and later as the first N ­ orthern Protector of Aborigines based in Cooktown, CYP (see Roth 1984 ­[1897–1910]). In 1927, the South Australian Museum funded an expedition by ­Herbert Hale and Norman Tindale to the east coast of CYP (Hale & Tindale 1933; see also Allen & Rigsby 2008; Allen, this volume), which may have been chosen for its special biogeographic status, with fauna and flora shared with New Guinea. This period also saw the professionalization of anthropology as a discipline in Australia, with the appointment of A.R. Radcliffe-Brown to the first chair of anthropology





Jean-Christophe Verstraete & Diane Hafner

at the ­University of Sydney in 1925 (see Gray 2007). Several people associated with this department did fieldwork in Cape York Peninsula. From 1928, Donald ­Thomson, who had taken Radcliffe-Brown’s diploma course in Sydney, worked in the Princess ­Charlotte Bay region on the east coast, at the old Lockhart River Mission further north, and around present-day Pormpuraaw and Aurukun on the west coast (see Rigsby & Peterson 2005, Verstraete & Rigsby 2015, Allen, this volume). Ursula M ­ cConnel, who had studied at University College London and would later study with Sapir at Yale, worked mainly in the inland region and on the west coast, where she focused on the Wik peoples (see O’Gorman 1993, Sutton 2010), while Lauriston Sharp did fieldwork further south among the Yir Yoront (see Gray 2007). Because of the early anthropological work in this region, we now have very good early records for parts of CYP and the GC. The collections resulting from this early work are invaluable for the descendants of the Aboriginal informants, for reasons ranging from personal interest through to necessary evidence in the forensic domain of land claims, as well as for the current generation of anthropologists (see Allen, Smith and Wood, this volume, for examples of such work). Some of these collections have always been preserved in museums or universities (see Allen 2008, this volume, on the Thomson collection and Khan ­1993–2004 on the Roth collection), but others survived only by sheer luck (see Sutton 2010 on the re-discovery of ­McConnel’s materials). After a few decades with little active fieldwork in our region of interest, the 1960s and 1970s saw a renewed interest in the anthropology of the region, as well as the first professional work in linguistics and Aboriginal history. Anthropological and linguistic work was mainly associated with the ‘Queensland School’ at the University of Queensland (see Sutton 2008b for a personal account, as well as Anderson and Allen, this volume), in which Bruce Rigsby played a crucial role (see Section 2). Research in Aboriginal history was mainly associated with (what is now) James Cook ­University in ­Townsville, seen in the work of Henry Reynolds and Noel Loos (e.g. Reynolds 1978, 1981, Loos 1982) and their later students. At both institutions, academic work went hand in hand with activism, especially around land rights. Members of the Queensland school worked with Aboriginal friends in CYP and the GC to establish outstations and to map and document their traditional countries, they spoke out in the media about land rights, they were involved in the founding of land councils and took part in negotiations about land rights legislation (see again Sutton 2008b and this volume). In Townsville, Reynolds and Loos worked with Torres Strait Islander Eddie Mabo to set up the land rights case that would lead to the famous Mabo ruling in 1992 (see Loos & Mabo 1996), rejecting the doctrine that Australia had been terra nullius at the time of ­European settlement, and opening the way for recognition of native title. Since that ruling, many of the researchers trained in the 1970s have contributed to native title claims and land transfers and the return of much land in CYP and the GC to ­Aboriginal control (see Sutton 2003).



Land and language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country

Since the early 2000s, CYP and the GC have also been the focus of a number of national debates about Aboriginal development. A central figure here is Noel Pearson, a Guugu Yimidhirr lawyer, activist and public intellectual, as well as a long-­standing friend of Bruce Rigsby, who was involved in the founding of the Cape York Land Council in 1990, land rights negotiations in Queensland, and negotiations for the Native Title Act following the Mabo ruling (see Pearson 2009). Since the late 1990s, Pearson has identified what he calls passive welfare as the core of Indigenous policy since the 1970s, and as the mechanism behind many of the problems faced by Indigenous communities since that time (Pearson 2009). Similar analyses have been developed by members of the Queensland school, including Peter Sutton (e.g. ­Sutton 2001, 2009), and academics and public intellectuals like Marcia Langton, both contributors to this volume. While ideas about passive welfare have long remained taboo, they are now central in the national debate about Indigenous policy, which was further fuelled by the Northern Territory Emergency Response (aka the “NT Intervention”) in 2­ 007–2008 (see Langton 2008, Altman and Hinkson 2007). A second policy debate where CYP and the GC rose to national prominence relates to environmental protection. In 2005, the Queensland government introduced legislation to protect several river systems it designated as ‘wild rivers’ (i.e. rivers whose natural flow has not been changed by human development), leading to the protection of thirteen rivers, mainly in CYP and the GC. This led to serious protest from some Indigenous activists, including Noel Pearson, who argued that the act blocked development on Indigenous land, putting Green interests ahead of Aboriginal development (see also Pearson 2014). Other Aboriginal leaders supported the act, including Murrandoo Yanner from the GC. Meanwhile the conservative government in Queensland overturned the Wild R ­ ivers Act in 2014, but what this debate shows is that Aboriginal interests do not always align with Green interests, as some romantic views would have it (see also Anderson, this volume).

2.  Bruce Rigsby2 This volume is dedicated to Bruce Rigsby, emeritus professor of anthropology at the University of Queensland, and friend, colleague, mentor or supervisor of all of the contributors to this volume. Bruce played a central role in the Queensland School’s work in CYP and the GC, with fundamental contributions in anthropology and

.  Part of the information in this section comes from a series of interviews conducted with Bruce Rigsby by Jean-Christophe Verstraete, in Leuven (Belgium) in 2011 and in Graceville (Queensland) in 2013.





Jean-Christophe Verstraete & Diane Hafner

l­inguistics, with applied work supporting the return of country to Aboriginal ownership, and through supervision and mentoring of younger linguists, anthropologists, archaeologists and historians, many of whom are represented in this volume. When Bruce first came to CYP in 1972, he came as an established scholar of North American Indian languages, having worked on Sahaptian languages of the Plateau (e.g. Rigsby & Silverstein 1969) and Tsimshianic languages of the Northwest Pacific coast (e.g. Rigsby 1975). Bruce had obtained his Ph.D. on Plateau languages at the ­University of Oregon, and subsequently took up positions in the departments of anthropology at the University of Toronto (1964–1966) and the University of New Mexico ­(1967–1975), where his research and teaching focused on the linguistics of native North American languages. He first learned about the linguistic interest of Australian languages from Ken Hale and Geoff O’Grady, two American Australianists, at a meeting of the ­American Anthropological Association in San Francisco in 1963. In 1969, when Bruce was a visiting lecturer at Harvard University, he heard much more about Australian languages from Bob Dixon, also a visiting lecturer at Harvard, and again from Ken Hale, who was at MIT. After Bob Dixon moved to the Australian National University (ANU) in Canberra, he invited Bruce to come to Australia for fieldwork, and suggested focusing on the phonetically more complex languages of Cape York Peninsula, taking into account Bruce’s background on phonetically difficult languages of the Pacific Northwest. This suggestion was put into sharper focus by Barry Alpher, another American Australianist who had fieldwork experience on the west coast of CYP, who suggested working on a language of the Princess Charlotte Bay region of CYP known as Lamalama. In 1972 Bruce, his wife Barbara, and their two children went to Australia on a Fulbright Senior Fellowship. After some teaching at ANU and a short initial fieldtrip to CYP, partly together with John Haviland (see Haviland, this volume), Bruce obtained funding from the Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies (AIAS, later AIATSIS) for a longer fieldtrip, from August to November 1972. He and his family were living in Bamaga at the northern end of CYP, close to where many Lamalama people were living in exile, away from their country in Princess Charlotte Bay on the east coast (see Rigsby & Williams 1991). Bruce worked with Lamalama people near Bamaga, but he also worked with Lamalama, Kuku Thaypan and other people in Coen and Lockhart River, closer to Princess Charlotte Bay. In 1974, Bruce returned to Australia for the seminal AIAS conference convened by Peter Ucko, which had a session devoted to languages of CYP (see Sutton 1976). In 1975 he and his family moved permanently to Australia, when he took up the new chair of anthropology at the University of Queensland. From that time onwards, Bruce’s work focused on Australia, with regular fieldwork in CYP and adjacent regions. He nonetheless always combined this with an ongoing commitment to the North American work he had started, both in linguistics (for instance a sabbatical spent working on a grammar of Gitksan, and various literacy workshops; see also publications continuing to the present day) and in



Land and language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country

anthropology (for instance advice about the Kennewick remains; see also Trigger, this volume, and Rigsby 2008). It is difficult to do justice to even the Australian part of Bruce’s work, because he has worked on such a wide range of topics and across the boundaries of disciplines, in fundamental and in applied work. The list of Bruce’s publications in the appendix to this chapter gives some idea of the breadth and depth of his work, but in this section we try to give at least a general idea of the most important themes. Geographically, Bruce’s work in Australia is focused on the Princess Charlotte Bay region on the east coast (mainly associated with the Lamalama people), as well as south central CYP (mainly associated with Kuku Thaypan people). In addition, it includes broader survey work and native title work in the whole of CYP and parts of the GC. In terms of the disciplines involved, Bruce brought the best of the American four-field tradition of anthropology to Australia, combining linguistics and social anthropology in a way that was crucial to forming the distinctive ‘Queensland School’ of anthropology at UQ. As chair, Bruce had a firm commitment to the four fields of anthropology as taught in the department: sociocultural anthropology, archaeology, linguistic anthropology, and material culture studies. His North American work was mainly linguistic, as was his early Australian work, but from the late 1970s both his fieldwork and his publications moved towards social anthropology and its interface with linguistics. The impetus here was fieldwork on the mapping of traditional country, carried out together with UQ students and colleagues like Athol Chase, Peter Sutton and John von Sturmer (see Sutton, this volume), often at the request of Aboriginal friends and financed by grants from AIAS. This is the work that led to the development of the model of social and linguistic organization described in the previous section. But it also paved the way for much applied work in the later land rights era, where mapping, ethnographic and historical work served as evidence for Aboriginal people’s claims to their traditional country (see Sutton 2008b). Bruce did a huge amount of applied work in this domain, most prominently together with co-author Diane Hafner and Cape York Land Council’s then anthropologist, Marcia Langton, in the Cliff Islands and Lakefield National Park claims for the Lamalama, Kuku Thaypan, and other peoples (see Rigsby & Hafner 1994a, 1994b), but also as a consultant in many other land rights cases in CYP, as well as the GC and the Cairns region. This is reflected in the large number of consultant’s reports he authored or co-authored since the late 1980s (see publication list in appendix). The significance of this applied work was such that the Lamalama people, for instance, have now regained possession of almost all of their traditional country. Perhaps controversially, Bruce also acted as an anthropological consultant to the Crown in the Wellesley Sea Claim (see Evans, this volume; Memmott et al., this volume), the case that established rights over sea country for the first time. However, as noted by Evans (this volume), the decision to do this was based on Bruce's firm belief that anthropology is a science, that “properly-grounded accounts should have nothing to



 Jean-Christophe Verstraete & Diane Hafner

fear in a court of law” and that “as a professional anthropologist he should do his bit to add objectivity to the court’s consideration of the case presented” (Evans, this volume). Directly related to Bruce’s work in native title and other land rights cases is an interest in history, both the history of his own disciplines of anthropology and linguistics, and the early contact history of his region of interest. Bruce has always had a great respect for the work of his predecessors, using their data and analyses constructively rather than dismissing them as flawed or unusable. Accordingly, his familiarity with early ethnographic work in CYP has led to in-depth studies of Donald Thomson’s work in particular (e.g. Rigsby & Peterson 2005, Verstraete & Rigsby 2015), as well as Norman Tindale’s work in CYP (e.g. Allen & Rigsby 2008). Most recently, Bruce has also done much archive-based historical work to reconstruct the early history of exploration and the contact history of Princess Charlotte Bay. To round off, it may be appropriate to reflect on what is perhaps the most distinctive characteristic of Bruce’s scholarship, and that is the way he relates to students, colleagues and the communities of people he has worked with. His attitude to students and colleagues is one of extreme generosity, freely sharing data, ideas and references, and always taking the time to discuss problems and questions. All of the contributors to this volume have benefited from this generosity, often while staying at Bruce and Barbara’s home in Graceville near Brisbane. The same applies to Bruce’s relationship to his informants, which he has consistently understood as reciprocal and continuing. Reciprocal, because he has always made a point to return data and publications to the people he worked with, discuss analyses with them, and work together to make the best use of these data and analyses for their own aims and objectives. Continuing, because he has always kept up with his informants, both personally, with frequent letters, e-mails, telephone calls and reciprocal visits (see also Trigger, this volume), and professionally, never afraid to challenge his own earlier analyses when people offer new information or an alternative perspective on things. We hope that the survey of work in CYP and the GC embodied in this volume can serve as a tribute both to the breadth and depth of Bruce’s own scholarship in this region, and to his generosity towards friends, colleagues and informants. Finally, we note that in his roles as teacher, researcher and disciplinary chair, Bruce has long been known for his commitment to scholarly rigor, grounded in fieldwork and a methodological thoroughness that has drawn on all the disciplines represented in this volume. The contributions to this volume demonstrate the enduring relevance of such an approach; as mentioned, it has had significant impact on native title work, and it continues to inspire a new generation of scholars who seek, among other things, to study the aftermath of such processes. Additionally, recent anthropological concerns in Australia with nativeness and the intercultural, for example, depend on understandings developed out of earlier work on Aboriginal social formations (too easily dismissed as an entrenched focus on the ‘classical’ concerns of anthropology at



Land and language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country

the expense of a critical engagement with contemporary conditions), while also delineating the fuller contexts of such complex realities. Such flows in and across cultural boundaries are not new, as Mintz (1998) once pointed out, but over time, how we understand them may differ. As the studies here demonstrate, work grounded in the time-honoured method of fieldwork that Bruce espoused requires engagement with Aboriginal people and the record of their experience at a most fundamental level, that is also surely political (see, for instance, Haviland, Allen, Mushin et al., this volume). As they further demonstrate, this includes analysis of Aboriginal engagement with wider economies – of politics, knowledge, resources – in which, undeniably, evidence from the past, and in past studies, contributes to Indigenous agendas as well as to the greater acuity of interpretation and analysis.

3.  This volume The papers in this volume survey linguistic, anthropological, archaeological and historical work in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf of Carpentaria. They are organized in terms of five themes: (i) reconstructions, with papers using historical and archaeological methods to reconstruct aspects of language and social organization, (ii) world views, with papers that use linguistic and anthropological methods to uncover aspects of semantic structure and world view embedded in languages and ethnographic data sets, (iii) contacts and contrasts, with papers that investigate contact history, and contrasts and commonalities between Aboriginal and settler perspectives, (iv) transformations, with papers that study post-contact transformations in language and society, and finally, (v) repatriations, with papers that deal with the return of archival data to communities, and the complexities of their interpretation and reception.

3.1  Reconstructions The four papers in this section use historical, historical-comparative and archaeological methods to reconstruct aspects of language and social organization in CYP and the GC. Barry Alpher’s paper ‘Connecting Thaypanic’ takes as its starting point a question about the genetic status of Kuku Thaypan (Awu Alaya) – a language from southeastern CYP that Bruce Rigsby studied intensively (e.g. Rigsby 1976a, 1976b; see also Laughren, this volume). In answering this question, he fills an important gap in our knowledge of genetic relations among languages in CYP. As already mentioned, Hale (1964, 1976a) had shown that the phonetically aberrant languages of northern CYP were not genetically separate from Pama-Nyungan, but formed a Northern Paman subgroup of what he called the Paman group of languages. Alpher (1972) added a Southwest Paman subgroup to this picture, which includes Kuuk Thaayorre (see Gaby,



 Jean-Christophe Verstraete & Diane Hafner

this volume), and Hale (1976b) added a Middle Paman group (see also Verstraete & Rigsby 2015: 192–194). What remained unclear, however, was the status of a whole swathe of languages in south central CYP, to the south and west of Kuku Thaypan. Perhaps not coincidentally, this is also the region where the Palmer River gold rush led to great violence and depopulation, and hence also relatively poor records of the languages spoken there. Alpher’s paper manages to bring order to this area by providing lexical and grammatical evidence for a new genetic unit in CYP called Alaya-Athima, named for its northeastern and southwestern extremities, and speculating about its possible relations to Kuku Yalanji and other southeast coastal languages. Focusing on partly the same region as Alpher, Noelene Cole’s paper ‘Regions without borders: Related rock art landscapes of the Laura Basin, Cape York Peninsula’ takes an archaeological perspective on the rock art for which this region is so famous. Her paper surveys several decades of research into the rock art of the Laura Basin, by herself and others, to uncover regional patterns of variation in the styles used, as well as underlying commonalities. These patterns of variation can be linked in part to distinct cultural identities and social dynamics (see also Sutton, this volume, on cultural blocs in the region), although other factors may also be involved. In addition, Cole points to broader regional trends that indicate regular interaction and sharing between groups in the wider Laura Basin. In this sense, Cole’s paper demonstates how rock art research offers hard evidence that can be correlated with historical-comparative work in linguistics and ethnographic description in anthropology to develop better hypotheses about the region’s prehistory. Again partly overlapping with the region studied in Cole’s paper, Peter Sutton’s contribution ‘The Flinders Islands and Cape Melville people in history’ takes a historical and ethnographic perspective on the people of Flinders Islands and Cape M ­ elville, at the southeastern edge of Princess Charlotte Bay. In this paper, which derives from work for the Flinders Islands and Cape Melville land claim in 1993, Sutton uses evidence from archaeology (specifically rock art research – this is the northeastern end of the region discussed by Cole), early explorer’s accounts, earlier anthropologist’s accounts, and his own intensive fieldwork, to reconstruct the ‘classical’ linguistic situation and social organization, as well as the changes brought about by frontier violence. Sutton’s work shows how none of these sources by themselves can offer a complete reconstruction, which can only be obtained by interdisciplinary work that collates and compares all types of evidence. In the broader context of CYP, Sutton also provides evidence for the existence of (often unnamed) larger social units consisting of people who frequently interact with each other, know each other’s languages, can travel through each other’s country and so on. The existence of such larger units has long been assumed informally, but needs further study in other parts of CYP and the GC, especially because they can help to generate new types of hypotheses for linguistic and archaeological work.



Land and language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country 

This section ends with a paper by Paul Memmott, Erich Round, Daniel ­Rosendahl and Sean Ulm, ‘Fission, fusion and syncretism: Linguistic and environmental changes amongst the Tangkic people of the southern Gulf of Carpentaria, Northern Australia’, which brings together all of the disciplines used in this section to develop a speculative model of prehistoric processes involving the Tangkic languages and people in the southern GC. The core of the paper presents a hypothesis about Tangkic l­inguistic history, which involves not just successive fissioning of languages correlated with successive colonization of different parts of the Wellesley Islands, but also stages of fusion and syncretism associated with temporary refuge to the mainland caused by a climatic event. This hypothesis is based, amongst other things, on archaeological models for fission, and evidence for contact-induced change in Kayardild (as opposed to ­Ganggalida). The authors present supporting evidence from ethnographic parallels with Tindale’s research on fission and fusion processes in the desert, local ethnographic indications for fission and fusion events, as well as climate history and oral history accounts of flooding.

3.2  World views The four papers in this section use linguistic and anthropological methods to uncover aspects of meaning or world view as they are embedded in language systems or ethnographic data sets. Ben Smith’s paper ‘Groups, country and personhood on the upper Wenlock River, Cape York Peninsula: Donald Thomson’s Kaanju genealogies’ uses data from Donald Thomson’s 1932 fieldwork on the Batavia river (currently known as the Wenlock River) in central CYP, as well as his own fieldwork, to examine aspects of ‘classical’ group and personal identity among the Kaanju people. Specifically, Smith uses evidence from Thomson’s genealogies to dissect the concept of personhood in this region into three distinct components. One is the classic component of group identity, based on the link between a clan and its country (see Section 1.1 above), with clan membership providing this aspect of identity to every individual in the group. The second component is individuated rather than group-based, and mediated by what Smith calls ‘partible’ aspects of the person: this aspect of personhood involves links to particular places, specifically the location of a person’s afterbirth, and the location of the tooth severed in the tooth avulsion ritual around puberty. The third component is again individuated and mediated by ‘partible’ aspects of the person, but it involves a link between an individual and particular kin, for instance in the exchange of the navel cord for a personal name after birth. Importantly, Smith also shows how this dissection of personhood can contribute to a better analysis of other aspects of organization, like the classic question of totemism. Thus, he demonstrates that there is a structural difference between a person’s patriclan totems, linked to his or her group identity, and the matrilateral totem that is discerned during tooth avulsion: the former does not have

 Jean-Christophe Verstraete & Diane Hafner

any substantial link to the person while the latter does, as reflected in a range of taboos on using, naming or eating the totem. In this sense, Smith’s paper demonstrates how the rich data gathered by the early anthropologists in the region (see Section 1.1 above) can be combined with present-day fieldwork data to discover very detailed aspects of people’s world views. Alice Gaby’s paper ‘Hyponymy and the structure of Kuuk Thaayorre kinship’ tackles another classic anthropological topic, but uses linguistic rather than ethnographic methods to uncover covert structures in the system of kinterms in Kuuk Thaayorre, spoken on the southwest coast of CYP. Gaby’s starting point is the existence of four different sets of kinterms in Kuuk Thaayorre, viz. referential terms, used to refer to a person of a particular kin category, vocative terms, used to address a person of a specific category, bereavement terms, used to refer to a person who has lost a specific category of kin, and handsigns, from a specific manual register to refer to kin categories. What is interesting about these four sets is their hyponymic relation to one another: the denotation of several terms at the most specific level (referential kinterms, with 34 distinct terms in total) is subsumed by one single term at the next most specific level (vocative kinterms, with 22 distinct terms in total), and so on, with the handsign register the least specific one, with only 7 terms. Gaby shows that studying these hyponymic relations can bring to the surface covert aspects of structure in the kin system, much as in the classic componential analyses found in anthropological linguistic work, but here constrained by the systematic relations between levels. Relevant features uncovered in Gaby’s analysis include matriline, patriline and generational distance as distinctive features at the highest level (handsigns), and sex, generation (ascending or descending) and relative age as features that distinguish more specific terms at lower levels. More generally, Gaby’s paper also demonstrates the importance of documenting seemingly peripheral registers where this is still possible (Kuuk Thaayorre is one of the few languages in CYP still being learned by children) – not just for the sake of documenting them, but because of what they can contribute to the analysis and understanding of the system as a whole. The other two papers in this section are more strictly linguistic, dealing with the semantic domains of kin possession and space, respectively. Mary Laughren’s paper ‘Possession in Kuku-Thaypan through a comparative lens’ starts out from a set of possessive constructions in Kuku Thaypan as described in Rigsby (1976b) to develop a comparative analysis of possessive constructions in Kuku Thaypan, Warlpiri, and Waanyi, a language from the southern GC (see also Trigger, this volume). She focuses in particular on a category of possessive constructions that is specialized in expressing kin relations, with a specific suffix for marking the propositus of the kin relation. Using data from Waanyi and Warlpiri, she uncovers what looks like a person split in these propositus suffixes, with 1st and 2nd person suffixes showing characteristics of genuine pronouns, while the apparent 3rd person version is really an anaphor rather



Land and language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country 

than a pronoun. She then uses this split to speculate on the presence of a similar split in Rigsby’s Kuku Thaypan data. Francesca Merlan’s paper ‘Correlation of textual and spatial reference: This and that’ challenges the common assumption that the meaning of demonstrative terms (like ‘this’ and ‘that’ in English) is primarily spatial, marking relative distance to speaker and/or addressee, and that textual uses are derived from such primary meanings. She uses data from Jawoyn, a Gunwinyguan language just outside our region of interest (but from a family of languages well-represented in the western and northwestern Gulf of Carpentaria), to show that the so-called ‘that’ demonstrative actually has a more schematic meaning of ‘identifiability’, which can play out contextually both as spatial reference or as textual reference, neither of which should be regarded as primary.

3.3  Contacts and contrasts The four papers in this section explore the processes of early contact between ­Aboriginal people and settlers, as well as the contrasts and tensions in the post-settler societies of CYP and the GC, especially regarding people’s views on identity and the country they share. Marcia Langton’s paper ‘Botanists, Aborigines and native plants on the Queensland frontier’ examines the role of scientists on the North Queensland frontier, especially botanists. She uses the work of 19th-century government botanists like Fred Turner and F.M. Baily, otherwise little-studied in anthropology, as a window on the fate of Aboriginal economies on the northern frontier. Langton shows how their botanical work documented aspects of traditional Aboriginal livelihoods, but also supported the expansion of the cattle industry that came to compete for the traditional resources of land, water and plants. She further examines how early botanists collaborated with Protectors of Aborigines like Archibald Meston and W.E. Roth, who themselves documented conditions of starvation for Aborigines due to competition for resources, and were instrumental in setting up what Langton calls the managed food consumption system of rations to replace traditional economies. While Langton’s paper analyses economic forces on the early North Queensland frontier, Jonathan Richards’ paper ‘Coen Police Camp, 1933, Cape York Peninsula’ deals with state institutions on the later northern frontier. Specifically, Richards uses archival material about policing in the town of Coen, in central CYP, to examine the role of police in managing the lives of Aboriginal people in this region. Police officers, who often also functioned as local Protectors of Aborigines, played an important part in the removal of thousands of Aboriginal people from their own country to missions, reserves and places of punishment (see also Mushin et al., this volume) for which Queensland is so notorious. While the policy of enforced removals in Queensland is well-known and well-studied (e.g. Kidd 1997, Copland 2005), Richards’ detailed analysis of one removal episode on the Batavia goldfield in the Coen district (see also Smith,

 Jean-Christophe Verstraete & Diane Hafner

this volume) reveals the complexities of such events. During the removal of Aboriginal women from the Batavia diggings in 1932, on accusations of “immoral association” with the miners, Coen Police officers mistreated their Aboriginal men, destroyed their camp, and tortured the captives (including a pregnant women) on their forced march to Laura, from where they would be taken to Cooktown and eventually Palm Island. When the Batavia miners complained about the removals, the matter was examined both by the Chief Protector of Aborigines, who asked for an inquiry, and by the Commissioner of Police, who dismissed the complaints. Somehow the reports about cruel treatment – earlier also noted by the anthropologists Ursula McConnel and Donald Thomson – reached the press, both locally and in Great Britain, and the negative publicity eventually led to the removal of the police officers from Coen, ostensibly relating to a fire at the Coen police station. This episode shows that, even as the policy of removals went unquestioned, reports of cruelty were noted within the Aboriginal affairs administration, but not acted on unless they led to sufficient negative publicity to become damaging. Moving the focus to today’s post-settler societies of CYP and the GC, Chris ­Anderson’s and David Trigger’s contributions both examine contrasts and tensions, as well as commonalities, between Aboriginal and other perspectives on land and identity. Chris Anderson’s paper ‘Multiple views of paradise: Perspectives on the Daintree rainforest’ uses the Daintree rainforest region, at the southeastern end of CYP (also discussed in Wood, this volume), as the starting point to examine how the different groups of people who inhabit or use this region look at the rainforest. Anderson identifies three dominant perspectives: the pioneer view, shared between early explorers and present-day developers, which sees the rainforest as a wilderness that is to be conquered, dominated and transformed; the conservationist view, shared between scientists and green activists, which sees the rainforest as an “intellectual” commodity that is out there, fundamentally a-human and not to be touched by human activity; and finally the view of the Kuku-Yalanji people of southeastern CYP, to whom the rainforest is home, a concrete aspect of their society rather than an abstract source of fear, awe, beauty or spirituality. In his analysis, Anderson brings out a number of remarkable contrasts and commonalities between these views. He shows, for instance, how the pioneer and the conservationist views have more in common with each other than with the Kuku Yalanji view, in that both fundamentally separate humans from nature, as conquerors and developers, or as distant observers. He also demonstrates how the Kuku Yalanji people’s approach to their rainforest home is often very utilitarian, devoid of the abstract spirituality attributed to it in conservationist clichés about Aboriginality. In this sense, Anderson argues, the conservationist view can be as inimical to Kuku Yalanji people as the pioneer view, since its exclusion of humans from nature denies their humanized and often very practical relation to the landscape. In recent policy debates, the same tension has come to the surface in the discussions over



Land and language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country 

Wild Rivers in CYP and the GC, with Aboriginal and Green perspectives often clashing violently (see Section 1.2 above). David Trigger’s paper ‘Shared country, different stories: A post-settler vignette’ continues along similar lines, by analysing different perspectives on country and identity in the GC. Specifically, Trigger examines the question of indigeneity – what it means to be ‘native’ to a place or region – through stories recounted in a workshop about being ‘at home’ in the GC, held in Burketown in 2013. Trigger’s analysis shows that neither identities nor relations to country are fixed or predetermined, but fluid and to some degree subject to an individual’s choices. People without Indigenous ancestry can have a strong sense of nativeness, through long-term residence and embeddedness in a community, or they can develop strong personal and emotional bonds with ‘indigenous’ people and their country, even if this does not translate into the same kinds of rights to country. People with Indigenous ancestry, by contrast, can choose to emphasize or ignore this, they can highlight other connections such as Asian ancestry, or they can identify with other ‘indigenous’ groups beyond their own ancestry. Over and above all this, Trigger shows how the speakers at the workshop emphasize the importance of stories – fictional and factual – in elucidating such identities, and asking questions about their history and future in a shared country.

3.4.  Transformations David Trigger’s emphasis on the fluid boundaries between ‘indigenous’ and other identities in the post-settler GC paves the way for the papers in this section, all of which examine the transformations in Aboriginal lifeways and languages that occurred after the arrival of the settlers. Nick Evans’ paper ‘Born, signed and named: Naming, country and social change among the Bentick Islanders’ uses long-term ethnographic and linguistic data to analyse changes in the system of personal naming among the Kayardild people of the South Wellesley Islands in the GC, as they reflect changes in their relation to country: from an independent life on Bentinck Island up to the 1940s, to exile on Mornington Island between the 1940s and the late 1980s, and re-established connections with Bentinck Island from the late 1980s. In a detailed analysis of the traditional naming system, Evans shows how this system is intimately related to the system of land tenure, with three levels of names that reflect an individual’s birthplace, events associated with their conception, and descent groups. All of these factors play a role in the traditional system of land tenure. Based on his own ethnographic and linguistic work, Evans presents a model of tenure that is significantly more complex than the classic model of patrilineal descent (put ­forward in Tindale’s earlier work on Bentinck Island), with birthplace and conception events playing an important role in assigning ownership rights, as do bequests by senior individuals. Given the close link between land tenure and personal names, the naming system is strongly affected

 Jean-Christophe Verstraete & Diane Hafner

by the Kayardild people’s exile to Mornington Island, and the subsequent re-establishment of connections with Bentinck Island. Evans shows how in exile, birthplace names cease to be used, and conception names come to mark secondary rights to places in their country of exile. The renewed connections with Bentinck Island, by contrast, lead to a renewal of conception names reflecting spiritual conception on Bentinck Island, and a new system of naming children directly after places on the island, without use of the specific birthplace suffix. Thus, Evans’ analysis provides us not just with one of the first long-term studies of naming principles in Aboriginal Australia, but also a fine-grained analysis of the underlying land tenure system that is more complex than has been assumed, and how all this changes in response to outside impacts. Ray Wood’s paper ‘The problem of ‘tribal names’ in eastern Australia: The Kuku Yalanji example’ provides a detailed analysis of the classical system of social nomenclature in the Yalanji region in southeastern CYP (the same region as discussed in Anderson, this volume), and uses this analysis to explain both how specific names have been (mis)interpreted by early observers, and how the system has evolved since contact. Specifically, Wood focuses on a large set of names with the term kuku ‘speech’, quite a few of which have been interpreted by early (and later) observers as group names associated with a specific location (i.e. so-called ‘tribal’ names). His analysis reveals that these names constitute a system that has very few items directly identifying groups with country, but mainly includes names referring to Yalanji dialects associated with drainage divisions, as well as names that are shifters, i.e. whose reference changes depending on who uses the term. He shows how this system has evolved since contact, with demographic pressure leading to the predominance of kuku names at the expense of location-based names using the suffix -warra ‘belonging to’. Wood demonstrates how his analysis can be used to explain how and why earlier observers interpreted many of these names as simple ethnonyms associating a group of people with a specific location. Given that the interpretation of such names is often a contentious issue in land claim cases, this paper is significant not just as a detailed analysis of social nomenclature, but also for what it can contribute to the interpretation of older sources in the land rights context. David Thompson’s paper ‘Going forward holding back’ examines the way increased mobility has transformed the lives of people associated with the town of Lockhart River on the east coast of CYP (a former mission where Thompson himself served as a chaplain after it was handed over to the control of the government; see Thompson 2013). Specifically, Thompson focuses on the range of lifestyles that have emerged not just in the town itself, but also on outstations in the region, and in the city of Cairns just south of CYP, all of which have become more easily accessible with the use of 4WD vehicles and other means of transport. Thompson’s analysis shows how Lockhart people form a large ‘diasporic’ community across these d ­ ifferent ­locations, bound by a



Land and language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country 

core of kinship ties and obligations, as well as the use of a common language, Lockhart River Creole. These core principles can be enhanced by mobility and modern technology, as in the case of outstations which become more easily accessible or distant kin who can be contacted more easily, but there are also counteracting forces, specifically in the city where economic and social constraints make it difficult to respond to kin obligations in the expected way. Thompson shows how a variety of bicultural lifestyles emerges from the different experiences in this diasporic community. The last two papers in this section deal with linguistic transformations, specifically the English-based contact languages that emerged in this region. Ilana Mushin, Denise Angelo and Jennifer Munro’s paper ‘Same but different: Understanding language contact in Queensland Indigenous settlements’ examines English-based varieties commonly known as ‘Aboriginal English’ in three communities in Queensland, viz. Yarrabah near Cairns, just south of CYP, Woorabinda in Central Queensland, and Cherbourg in Southern Queensland. The authors show that in spite of the general label ‘Aboriginal English’, the varieties of English spoken in these communities differ significantly amongst each other, especially in terms of the retention of pidgin/ creole features, which is stronger in Yarrabah than in the other two communities. The analysis in the paper aims to explain these differences in terms of the differing socio-historical circumstances in each community. All three settlements received large numbers of Aboriginal people who were forcibly removed from their home countries, under the policy of enforced removals also discussed in Richards (this volume); this included a significant number of people from our region of interest, such that at least Yarrabah and Cherbourg now have a significant proportion of CYP ‘diaspora’ people (as Rigsby 1995 has called them). While all three settlements share a history of removals, the authors point to a number of features that could explain the larger proportion of pidgin/creole features in Yarrabah. This includes the presence of a larger proportion of speakers of traditional languages, which may have favoured the transfer of substrate features, more opportunities for contact with northern creoles like Torres Strait Creole, more recent contact with the superstrate English, and a later age for the removal of children to dormitories. As pointed out by the authors, the structural differences explored in the paper really only scratch the surface of what there is to find, as these varieties of English have been somewhat neglected in linguistic work, which has tended to focus either on the traditional languages, or on fully-fledged creoles. The creole spoken at Injinoo, at the northern end of CYP, is the subject of Helen Harper’s paper ‘The story of Old Man Frank: A narrative response to questions about language shift in northern Cape York Peninsula’. Incidentally, this is the same community where Bruce Rigsby did his first lengthy fieldwork in CYP (see Section 2 above), which also resulted in a sketch of Cape York Creole co-authored with Terry Crowley (Crowley & Rigsby 1979). Harper uses a narrative about the

 Jean-Christophe Verstraete & Diane Hafner

early years of settlement at Injinoo to examine local understandings of language shift from the traditional languages of the region to Torres Strait Creole. She challenges ‘obvious’ views of ­language shift that focus on institutional coercion (for instance by schools), and identifies Aboriginal people’s agency in the process of shifting from the old languages to the new, for instance the children’s agency in using Creole amongst each other, and the adults’ agency in associating children with the new generation and not transferring the traditional languages to them. The narrative Harper examines in her paper uses traditional languages, Creole and English in such a way as to portray its Aboriginal protagonist as a person in control of not one but a repertoire of identities that is associated with the different languages discussed.

3.5  Repatriations The papers in this section explore the processes involved in the return of archival materials to the communities where they originated, and the complexities of their reception and interpretation. Lindy Allen’s paper ‘On the edges of their memories: Reassembling the Lamalama cultural record from museum collections’ examines how the Lamalama people of eastern CYP (with whom Bruce Rigsby has worked most closely) relate to the material that was collected with their ancestors and is currently held in museums and archives. More particularly, Allen focuses on the Donald Th ­ omson collection at Museum Victoria, of which she is the curator, and to a lesser extent on the materials collected by Herbert Hale and Norman Tindale, held at the South ­Australian Museum (see Section  1.2 above for more context). On the curatorial side, Allen shows how cultural brokerage by anthropologists is crucial to establish good relations between museums and ‘source communities’ (Peers and Brown 2003), and how these relations are kept alive through the continuing involvement of curators. In this process, the community contributes to documentation of the collection, but the collection also informs new initiatives in the community. On the side of the community, Allen details how involvement with museum collections has not just had important material outcomes, like using evidence from the collections to establish land rights, but has also played an important role in consolidating a Lamalama identity for both younger and older people, with objects and photographs adding materiality to the stories told by the older people. John Haviland’s paper ‘Making gambarr: It belongs to me, I belong to it’ discusses the return of more recent Guugu Yimidhirr materials to the community of Hopevale in southeastern CYP, and the questions of ownership and identity they generate within the community. Using the example of a short photo-film about the preparation of gambarr, a traditional material for making spears and woomeras, Haviland shows how the various stages in the production of the film and its eventual



Land and language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country 

return to the community engender different interpretations of purpose and ownership. The s­ tarting point of the film, a set of photos of two men preparing gambarr in order to deal with the many requests they receive to make spears, undergoes a first transformation when the author returns a few years later and asks two relatives of the men to compose a text to accompany the photos and perhaps make a booklet for use in the community. Together with this text, the series of photos becomes a document of the old ways that the old men want to impart to the younger generations. However, when Haviland returned the photo-film to the community almost two decades later, with the intention to make it available to the local cultural resource centre, the descendants of the old men decided against this. Haviland shows that this decision can be understood in the light of long-running tensions between a number of groups in the community, which led the descendants to re-interpret ownership of the film, as well as the identity of its makers, in terms of the direct descendants of the makers rather than any broader community-based ownership and identity.

4.  Conclusion To conclude, the papers contained in this volume provide an update on research themes in our region of interest, acknowledging that scholarship continues to engage with interpretations of linguistic, historical and ethnographic situations, sometimes based on a re-examination of existing data, or as a result of continuing work in contemporary social and political contexts. As already mentioned, the ‘Queensland School’ in which Bruce Rigsby played such a central role was characterized by a firm commitment to the ‘four fields’, as well as the practice of engaged, field-based research. The papers in this volume demonstrate the legacy of this approach as one of continued relevance to Australianist studies, in the context of the changed social and political landscape that many of these papers consider.

References Allen, Lindy. 2008. Tons and tons of valuable material: the Donald Thomson collection. In ­Nicolas Peterson, Lindy Allen & Louise Hamby, eds. The Makers and Making of Indigenous Australian Museum Collections. Melbourne: Melbourne University Publishing. 387–418. Allen, Lindy & Bruce Rigsby. 2008. Reimagining museum collections: Hale and Tindale at ­Princess Charlotte Bay in 1927. The Anthropological Society of South Australia’s 2008 ­Norman B. Tindale Lecture. Alpher, Barry. 1972. On the genetic subgrouping of the languages of southwestern Cape York Peninsula, Australia. Oceanic Linguistics 11: 67–87.  doi: 10.2307/3622803

 Jean-Christophe Verstraete & Diane Hafner Alpher, Barry. 2004. Pama-Nyungan: Phonological reconstruction and status as a phylogenetic group. In Claire Bowern & Harold Koch, eds. Australian Languages: Classification and the Comparative Method. Amsterdam: Benjamins. 93–126.  doi: 10.1075/cilt.249.09alp Alpher, Barry, Geoffrey O’Grady & Claire Bowern. 2008. Western Torres Strait language classification and development. In Claire Bowern, Bethwyn Evans & Luisa Miceli, eds. Morphology and Language History: In Honour of Harold Koch. Amsterdam: Benjamins. 15–30. doi: 10.1075/cilt.298.04alp Altman, Jon & Melinda Hinkson, eds. 2007. Coercive Reconciliation: Stabilise, Normalise, Exit Aboriginal Australia. North Carlton: Arena Publications. Blake, Barry. 1988. Redefining Pama-Nyungan: Towards the prehistory of Australian languages. Aboriginal Linguistics 1: 1–90. Blake, Barry. 1990. Languages of the Queensland/Northern Territory border: updating the classification. In Peter Austin, R.M.W. Dixon, Tom Dutton & Isobel White, eds. Language and History: Essays in Honour of Luise A. Hercus. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. 49–66. Bolton, Geoffrey. 1963. A Thousand Miles Away. A History of North Queensland to 1920. ­Canberra: The Jacaranda Press in Association with the Australian National University. Bowern, Claire & Quentin Atkinson. 2012. Computational phylogenetics and the internal structure of Pama-Nyungan. Language 88: 817–845.  doi: 10.1353/lan.2012.0081 Carter, Melissa. 2006. North of the Cape and south of the Fly: Discovering the archaeology of social complexity in Torres Strait. In Bruno David, Bryce Barker & Ian McNiven, eds. The Social Archaeology of Australian Indigenous Societies. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. 287–303. Cole, Noelene. 2004. Battle camp to Boralga: A local study of colonial war on Cape York Peninsula 1873–1894. Aboriginal History 28: 156–189. Copland, Mark. 2005. Counting Lives. The Numbers and Narratives of Forced Removals in Queensland 1859 – 1972. Ph.D. Dissertation, Griffith University. Crowley, Terry & Bruce Rigsby. 1987. Cape York Creole. In Tim Shopen, ed. Languages and their Status. Cambridge, Mass: Winthrop. 153–207. David, Bruno. 2002. Landscapes, Rock-Art and the Dreaming: An Archaeology of Preunderstanding. London: Leicester University Press. David, Bruno & Harry Lourandos. 1999. Landscape as mind: Land use, cultural space and change in North Queensland prehistory. Quaternary International 59: 107–123. doi: 10.1016/S1040-6182(98)00074-3 David, Bruno, Richard Roberts, John Magee, Jerome Mialanes, Chris Turney, Michael Bird, Chris White, Keith Fifield & John Tibby. 2007. Sediment mixing at Nonda Rock: Investigations of stratigraphic integrity at an early archaeological site in northern Australia and implications for the human colonisation of the continent. Journal of Quaternary Science 22: 449–479.  doi: 10.1002/jqs.1136 Dixon, R.M.W. 1980. The Languages of Australia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Evans, Nicholas. 1995. A Grammar of Kayardild. With Historical-Comparative Notes on Tangkic. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter.  doi: 10.1515/9783110873733 Evans, Nicholas. 2003. Introduction: Comparative non-Pama-Nyungan and Australian historical linguistics. In Nicholas Evans, ed. The Non-Pama-Nyungan Languages of Northern Australia: Comparative Studies of the Continent’s most Linguistically Complex Region. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. 3–25. Evans, Nicholas. 2005. Australian languages reconsidered: a review of Dixon (2002). Oceanic Linguistics 44: 242–286.  doi: 10.1353/ol.2005.0020



Land and language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country 

Evans Nicholas & Rhys Jones. 1997. The cradle of the Pama–Nyungans: Archaeological and ­linguistic speculations. In Patrick McConvell & Nick Evans, eds. Archaeology and Linguistics. Aboriginal Australia in Global Perspective. Melbourne: Oxford University Press. 385–417. Ganter, Regina. 1994. The Pearl-Shellers of Torres Strait. Resource Use, Development and Decline, 1860s-1960s. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press. Gray, Geoffrey. 2007. A Cautious Silence. The Politics of Australian Anthropology. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Hale, Ken. 1964. Classification of Northern Paman languages, Cape York Peninsula, Australia: A research report. Oceanic Linguistics 3: 248–264.  doi: 10.2307/3622881 Hale, Ken. 1976a. Phonological developments in particular Northern Paman languages. In Peter Sutton, ed. Languages of Cape York. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 7–40. Hale, Ken. 1976b. Wik reflections of Middle Paman phonology. In Peter Sutton, ed. Languages of Cape York. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 50–60. Hale, Herbert & Norman Tindale 1933. Aborigines of Princess Charlotte Bay, north Queensland. Records of the South Australian Museum 5: 63–172. Harvey, Mark. 2009. The genetic status of Garrwan. Australian Journal of Linguistics 29: 195–244. doi: 10.1080/07268600902823102 Haviland, John. 1974. A last look at Cook’s Guugu Yimidhirr word list. Oceania 44: 216–232. doi: 10.1002/j.1834-4461.1974.tb01803.x Herle, Anita & Sandra Rouse, eds. 1998. Cambridge and the Torres Strait. Centenary Essays on the 1898 Anthropological Expedition. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Hiatt, Les. 1996. Arguments about Aborigines: Australia and the Evolution of Social Anthropology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Karntin, Jack & Peter Sutton. 1986. Dutchmen at Cape Keerweer: Wik-Ngatharra story. In Luise Hercus & Peter Sutton, eds. This is what Happened: Historical Narratives by Aborigines. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 82–107. Kidd, Ros. 1997. The Way we Civilize. Aboriginal Affairs – The Untold Story. St Lucia: University of Queensland Press. Kirkman, Noreen. 1978. ‘A snider is a splendid civilizer’: European attitudes to aborigines on the Palmer. In Henry Reynolds, ed. Race Relations in North Queensland. Townsville: James Cook University. 119–143. Khan, Kate. 1993–2004. Catalogue of the Roth collection of Aboriginal Artefacts from North Queensland. Sydney: Australian Museum. Koch, Harold. 2014. Historical relations among the Australian languages: genetic classification and contact-based diffusion. In Harold Koch & Rachel Nordlinger, eds. The Languages and Linguistics of Australia. Berlin: de Gruyter Mouton. 23–89. Lambeck, Kurt & John Chappell. 2001. Sea level change through the last glacial cycle. Science 292: 679–686. (See also Sahultime, an online visualization tool: http://sahultime.monash. edu.au.  doi: 10.1126/science.1059549 Langton, Marcia. 2008. Trapped in the Aboriginal reality show. Griffith Review 19: 143–162. Logan Jack, Robert. 1921. Northmost Australia. Three Centuries of Exploration, Discovery and Adventure in and around the Cape York Peninsula, Queensland. London: Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co., Ltd. Loos, Noel. 1982. Invasion and Resistance: Aboriginal-European Relations on the North Queensland Frontier, 1861–1897. Canberra: Australian National University Press.

 Jean-Christophe Verstraete & Diane Hafner Loos, Noel & Eddie Mabo. 1996. Edward Koiki Mabo: His Life and Struggle for Land Rights. St Lucia: University of Queensland Press. McDougall, Russell & Iain Davidson. 2008. The Roth Family, Anthropology, and Colonial Administration. Walnut Creek: Left Coast Press. Macknight, Campbell. 1976. The Voyage to Marege: Macassan Trepangers in Northern Australia. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press. Macknight, Campbell. 2011. The view from Marege’: Australian knowledge of Makassar and the impact of the trepang industry across two centuries. Aboriginal History 35: 121–143. McNiven, Ian. 2011. Torres Strait Islanders: The 9000-year history of a maritime people. In The Torres Strait Islands. Brisbane: Queensland Art Gallery/Gallery of Modern Art. 210–219. Mintz, Sidney. 1998. The localization of anthropological practice: From area studies to transnationalism. Critique of Anthropology 18: 117–133.  doi: 10.1177/0308275X9801800201 Morwood, Mike. 2002. Visions from the Past: The Archaeology of Australian Aboriginal Art. Crows Nest: Allen and Unwin. Morwood, Mike, Douglas Hobbs & David Price. 1995. Excavations at Sandy Creek 1 and 2. In Mike Morwood & Douglas Hobbs, eds. Quinkan Prehistory: The Archaeology of Aboriginal Art in S.E. Cape York Peninsula. St Lucia: University of Queensland. 71–91. Mushin, Ilana. 2012. A Grammar of (Western) Garrwa. Berlin: de Gruyter Mouton. doi: 10.1515/9781614512417 Oertle, Annette, Matthew Leavesley, Sean Ulm, Geraldine Mate & Daniel Rosendahl. 2014. At the margins: Archaeological evidence for Macassan activities in the South Wellesley Islands, Gulf of Carpentaria. Australasian Historical Archaeology 32: 64–71. O’Gorman, Anne. 1993. The snake, the serpent and the rainbow. Ursula McConnel and Aboriginal Australians. In Julie Marcus, ed. First in Their Field: Women and Australian Anthropology. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press. 84–109. Pearson, Noel. 2009. Up from the Mission. Selected Writings. Melbourne: Black Inc. Pearson, Noel. 2014. ‘Let them eat feral cat’: The threat to Aboriginal land rights in Australia from the new green terra nullius. The 2014 Berndt Foundation Lecture. Peers, Laura & Alison Brown, eds. 2003. Museums and Source Communities. London: Routledge. Reynolds, Henry, ed. 1978. Race Relations in North Queensland. Townsville: James Cook University. Reynolds, Henry. 1981. The Other Side of the Frontier. Townsville: James Cook University. Richards, Jonathan. 2008. The Secret War. A True History of the Queensland Native Police. St Lucia: University of Queensland Press. Rigsby, Bruce. 1975. Nass-Gitksan: An analytic ergative syntax. International Journal of American Linguistics 41: 346–354.  doi: 10.1086/465375 Rigsby, Bruce. 1976a. Kuku-Thaypan descriptive and historical phonology. In Peter Sutton, ed. Languages of Cape York. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 68–77. Rigsby, Bruce. 1976b. Possession in Kuku-Thaypan. In Peter Sutton, ed. Languages of Cape York. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 260–268. Rigsby, Bruce. 1995. Tribes, diaspora people and the vitality of law and custom: Some comments. In Jim Fingleton & Julie Finlayson, eds. Anthropology in the Native Title Era. ­Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies. 25–27. Rigsby, Bruce. 1999. Genealogies, kinship and local group composition: Old Yintjingga (Port Stewart) in the late 1920s. In Julie Finlayson, Bruce Rigsby & Hilary Bek, eds. Connections in Native Title: Genealogies, Kinship and Groups. Canberra: Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research, Australian National University. 107–123.



Land and language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country 

Rigsby, Bruce. 2008. The Stevens Treaties, Indian Claims Commission Docket No. 247, and the ancient one known as Kennewick Man. In Alexandra Harmon & John Borrows, eds. The Power of Promises. Rethinking Indian Treaties in the Pacific Northwest. Seattle: University of Washington Press. 244–275. Rigsby, Bruce & Athol Chase. 1998. The sandbeach people and dugong hunters of eastern Cape York Peninsula: Property in land and sea country. In Nicolas Peterson & Bruce Rigsby, eds. Customary Marine Tenure in Australia. Sydney: University of Sydney. 192–218. Rigsby, Bruce & Diane Hafner. 1994a. Lakefield National Park Land Claim. Claim Book. Cairns: Cape York Land Council on behalf of the claimants. Rigsby, Bruce & Diane Hafner. 1994b. Cliff Islands National Park Land Claim. Claim Book. Cairns: Cape York Land Council on behalf of the claimants. Rigsby, Bruce & Nicolas Peterson, eds. 2005. Donald Thomson. The Man and Scholar. Canberra: Academy of Social Sciences. Rigsby, Bruce & Michael Silverstein. 1969. Nez Perce vowels and Proto-Sahaptian vowel harmony. Language 45: 45–59.  doi: 10.2307/411752 Rigsby, Bruce & Nancy Williams. 1991. Reestablishing a home on Eastern Cape York Peninsula. Cultural Survival Quarterly 14: 11–15. Roth, Walter Edmund. 1984 [1897–1910]. The Queensland Aborigines. Perth: Hesperian Press. Roth, Walter Edmund, 1910. North Queensland Ethnography: Bulletin. Brisbane: Government Printer. Sutton, Peter, ed. 1976. Languages of Cape York. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. Sutton, Peter. 1978. Wik. Aboriginal Society, Territory and Language at Cape Keerweer, Cape York Peninsula, Australia. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Queensland. Sutton, Peter 2001. The politics of suffering: Indigenous policy in Australia since the 1970s. Anthropological Forum 11: 125–173.  doi: 10.1080/00664670125674 Sutton, Peter. 2003. Native Title in Australia. An Ethnographic Perspective. Cambridge: ­Cambridge University Press.  doi: 10.1017/CBO9780511481635 Sutton, Peter 2008a. Stories about feeling: Dutch-Australian contact in Cape York Peninsula, 1606–1756. In Peter Veth, Peter Sutton & Margo Neale, eds. Strangers on the Shore: Early Coastal Contacts in Australia. Canberra: National Museum of Australia.35–59. Sutton, Peter. 2008b. After consensus. Griffith Review 21: 199–216. Sutton, Peter. 2009. The Politics of Suffering. Indigenous Australia and the End of the Liberal Consensus. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press. Sutton, Peter. 2010. Ursula McConnel’s tin trunk: A remarkable recovery. Transactions of the Royal Society of South Australia 134: 101–114. Sutton, Peter & Bruce Rigsby. 1978. Linguistic communities and social networks on Cape York Peninsula. In Stephen Wurm, ed. Australian Linguistic Studies. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. 713–732. Sutton, Peter & Bruce Rigsby. 1982. People with ‘politicks’. Management of land and personnel on Australia’s Cape York Peninsula. In Nancy Williams & Eugene Hunn, eds. Resource Managers: North American and Australian Hunter-Gatherers. Boulder, Colorado: Westview Press. 155–171. Taçon, Paul, Sally May, Stewart Fallon, Meg Travers, Daryl Wesley & Ronald Lamilami. 2010. A minimum age for early depictions of Southeast Asian praus. Australian Archaeology 71: 1–10. Thompson, David. 2013. Freedom to Choose. Responding to Change in a Mobile Environment among Aboriginal People of Lockhart River, Cape York Peninsula, Australia. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Queensland.

 Jean-Christophe Verstraete & Diane Hafner Trezise, Percy. 1969. Quinkan Country. Sydney: Reed. Verstraete, Jean-Christophe & Bruce Rigsby. 2015. A Grammar and Lexicon of Yintyingka. ­Berlin: de Gruyter Mouton.  doi: 10.1515/9781614519003 Williams, Alan, Sean Ulm, Mike Smith & Jill Reid. 2014. AustArch: A database of 14C and non‑14C ages from archaeological sites in Australia – composition, compilation and review (Data Paper). Internet Archaeology 36.  doi: 10.11141/ia.36.6

Appendix: Bibliography of Bruce Rigsby 1.  Books and volumes Rigsby, Bruce. 1965. Linguistic Relations in the Southern Plateau. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Oregon. Rigsby, Bruce, ed. 1975. Festschrift for Stanley S. Newman. International Journal of American Linguistics 41(4). Beavert, Virginia & Bruce Rigsby, eds. 1975. Yakima Language Practical Dictionary. Toppenish, Washington: Consortium of Johnson-O’Malley Committees, Region IV. Rigsby, Bruce & Peter Sutton, eds. 1980. Papers in Australian Linguistics No. 13: Contributions to Australian Linguistics. (Pacific Linguistics A 59) Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. Rigsby, Bruce. 1986. Gitksan Grammar. Victoria, British Columbia: British Columbia Provincial Museum. 442pp. Available online at http://www.uafanlc.arsc.edu/data/Online/ TS966R1983/TS966R1983.pdf Smith, Harlan (Ed. by Brian Crompton, Bruce Rigsby & Marie-Lucie Tarpent). 1997. Ethnobotany of the Gitksan Indians of British Columbia. (Mercury Series, Canadian Ethnology Service. Paper 132) Hull, Quebec: Canadian Museum of Civilization. Peterson, Nicolas & Bruce Rigsby, eds. 1998. Customary Marine Tenure in Australia. (Oceania Monograph 48) Sydney: University of Sydney. Finlayson, Julie, Bruce Rigsby & Hilary Bek, eds. 1999. Connections in Native Title: Genealogies, Kinship and Groups. (CAEPR Research Monograph 13) Canberra: Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research, Australian National University. Rigsby, Bruce & Nicolas Peterson, eds. 2005. Donald Thomson, the Man and Scholar. ­Canberra: The Academy of the Social Sciences in Australia & Museum Victoria. Bassani, Paddy & Albert Lakefield, with Tom Popp (Ed. by Bruce Rigsby & Noelene Cole). 2006. Lamalama Country. Our Country. Our Culture-Way. Brisbane: Akito Pty Ltd with Arts Queensland. Verstraete, Jean-Christophe & Bruce Rigsby. 2015. A Grammar and Lexicon of Yintyingka. (Pacific Linguistics 648) Berlin: de Gruyter Mouton.

2.  Articles and chapters Rigsby, Bruce. 1965. Continuity and change in Sahaptian vowel systems. International Journal of American Linguistics 31: 306–311. Rigsby, Bruce. 1966. On Cayuse-Molala relatability. International Journal of American Linguistics 32: 369–78. Rigsby, Bruce. 1967. Tsimshian comparative vocabularies with notes on Nass-Gitksan systematic phonology. Proceedings of the International Conference on Salish and Neighboring Languages 2: 1–41.

doi 10.1075/clu.18.02bib © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

 Land and Language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country Rigsby, Bruce. 1969. The Waiilatpuan problem: More on Cayuse-Molala relatability. Northwest Anthropological Research Notes 3: 68–146. Rigsby, Bruce & Michael Silverstein. 1969. Nez Perce vowels and Proto-Sahaptian vowel harmony. Language 45: 45–59. Rigsby, Bruce. 1970. A note on Gitksan speech-play. International Journal of American Linguistics 36: 212–215. Rigsby, Bruce. 1971. Some Pacific Northwest native language names for the Sasquatch phenomenon. Northwest Anthropological Research Notes 5:153–156. [Reprinted in Roderick Sprague and Grover S. Krantz, eds. 1977. The Scientist Looks at the Sasquatch. Moscow: University Press of Idaho. (2nd edition 1979)] Sprague, Roderick, with linguistic notes by Haruo Aoki & Bruce Rigsby. 1971. Field notes and correspondence of the 1901 Field Columbian Museum Expedition by Merton L. Miller to the Columbia Plateau. Northwest Anthropological Research Notes 5: 201–232. Hindle, Lonnie & Bruce Rigsby. 1973. A short practical dictionary of the Gitksan language. Northwest Anthropological Research Notes 7: 1–60. Rigsby, Bruce. 1975. Nass-Gitksan: An analytic ergative syntax. International Journal of American Linguistics 41: 346–354. Rigsby, Barbara & Bruce Rigsby. 1975. Bibliography of Stanley S. Newman, 1926–1975. International Journal of American Linguistics 41: 399–405. Rigsby, Bruce. 1976. Kuku-Thaypan descriptive and historical phonology. In Peter Sutton, ed. Languages of Cape York. 68–77. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. Rigsby, Bruce. 1976. Possession in Kuku-Thaypan. In Peter Sutton, ed. Languages of Cape York. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 260–268. Rigsby, Bruce. 1976. The Americanist tradition: Discussion. In Wallace Chafe, ed. American Indian Languages and American Linguistics. Lisse: Peter de Ridder Press. 29–33. Rigsby, Bruce. 1978. Coyote and the dogs (Sahaptin). In William Bright, ed. Coyote Stories. (International Journal of American Linguistics – Native American Text Series Monograph No. 1) Ann Arbor: University Microfilms. 21–25. Sutton, Peter & Bruce Rigsby. 1979. Speech communities and social networks on Cape York Peninsula. In Stephen Wurm, ed. Australian Linguistic Studies. (Pacific Linguistics C 54) Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. 713–732. Crowley, Terry & Bruce Rigsby. 1979. Cape York Creole. In Timothy Shopen, ed. Languages and Their Status. Cambridge, Mass: Winthrop. 152–207. Brady, Don, Christopher Anderson & Bruce Rigsby. 1980. ‘Some of us are still alive’. The Palmer River revisited. Newsletter of the Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies 13: 30–36. Rigsby, Bruce. 1980. Land, language and people in the Princess Charlotte Bay area. In Neville Stevens & Alan Bailey, eds. Contemporary Cape York Peninsula. Brisbane: Royal Society of Queensland. 89–94. Rigsby, Bruce. 1980. The language situation on Cape York Peninsula: Past, present, future. In Judith Wright, Napier Mitchell & Pamela Watling, eds. Reef Rainforest Mangroves Man. Cairns: Wildlife Preservation Society. 5–7. Rigsby, Bruce. 1980. Aboriginal land rights: A sorry history. Semper 4: 15–16. Rigsby, Bruce. 1981. Aboriginal culture. The Lutheran. March 30, 1981. p. 21. Rigsby, Bruce. 1981. Aboriginal people, land rights and wilderness on Cape York Peninsula. Presidential address. Proceedings of the Royal Society of Queensland 92: 1–10. Rigsby, Bruce. 1981. Land rights in Queensland. Social Alternatives 2: 52–55. [Reprinted 1984 in Helmut Loiskandl, ed. Australia and Her Neighbours. Ethnic Relations and the Nation State.



Appendix: Bibliography of Bruce Rigsby 

(Occasional Papers in Anthropology 11) St Lucia: Anthropology Museum, University of Queensland. 47–51.] Rigsby, Bruce. 1981. Land rights in Queensland for Aboriginal and Torres Strait Island people. 51st Conference of the Australian and New Zealand Association for the Advancement of Science. Paper 726/​29: 1–10. Chase, Athol, Christopher Anderson, David Trigger & Bruce Rigsby. 1981. Position paper on Aboriginal and Islander land rights in Queensland. Australian Anthropological Society Newsletter 12: 23–26. Sutton, Peter & Bruce Rigsby. 1982. People with ‘politicks’: Management of land and personnel on Australia’s Cape York Peninsula. In Nancy Williams & Eugene Hunn, eds. Resource Managers: North American and Australian Hunter-Gatherers. Washington, DC: American Association for the Advancement of Science. 155–171. Rigsby, Bruce & Peter Sutton. 1980–1982. Speech communities in Aboriginal Australia. Anthropological Forum 5: 8–23. Rigsby, Bruce. 1982. Cape York Peninsula as a humanized landscape. In Conservation and Development: Australia in the Eighties. Seminar Papers. St Lucia: Australian Studies Centre, University of Queensland. 49–54. Rigsby, Bruce. 1987. Indigenous language shift and maintenance in fourth world settings. Multilingua 6: 359–378. Ingram, John & Bruce Rigsby. 1987. Glottalic stops in Gitksan: An acoustic analysis. Proceedings of the Eleventh International Congress of Phonetic Sciences, August, 1987. Talinn, Estonia. 134–137. Rigsby, Bruce. 1989. A later view of Gitksan syntax. In Mary Key & Henry Hoenigswald, eds. General and Amerindian Ethnolinguistics: In Remembrance of Stanley Newman. Berlin & New York: Mouton de Gruyter. 245–259. Rigsby, Bruce & John Ingram. 1990. Obstruent voicing and glottalic obstruents in Gitksan. International Journal of American Linguistics 56: 251–263. Inglis, Gordon, Douglas Hudson, Barbara Rigsby & Bruce Rigsby. 1990. Tsimshian of British Columbia since 1900. In Wayne Suttles, ed. Northwest Coast. (Handbook of North American Indians. Volume 7) Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution. 285–293 (specifically 290–293). Rigsby, Bruce & Nancy Williams. 1991. Reestablishing a home on Eastern Cape York Peninsula. Cultural Survival Quarterly 14: 11–15. Rigsby, Bruce. 1991. Brief historical review of Queensland government policy and practice with respect to Aboriginal and Islander People. In Towards Self-Government. A Discussion Paper. Cairns: Legislation Review Committee. 89–90. Rigsby, Bruce. 1992. Sex and gender, biology and culture. In Gillian Lupton, Patricia Short & Rosemary Whip, eds. Society and Gender. An Introduction to Sociology. South Melbourne: Macmillan Education Australia. 26–37. Rigsby, Bruce. 1992. The languages of the Princess Charlotte Bay region. In Tom Dutton, Malcolm Ross & Darrell Tryon, eds. The Language Game: Papers in Memory of Donald C. Laycock. (Pacific Linguistics C 110) Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. 353–360. Dixon, R.M.W., Bruce Rigsby & M. Rowland. 1993. Lifestyles. In David Wadley, ed. Reef, Range and Red Dust. The Adventure Atlas of Queensland. Brisbane: Queensland Government. 4–7. [Dixon and Rigsby wrote the section on Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander languages on pp. 5–6.]

 Land and Language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country Rigsby, Bruce & Lesley Jolly. 1994. Liddy, H. [a biographical sketch of Harry Liddy]. In David Horton, ed. The Encyclopaedia of Aboriginal Australia. Volume 1. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. 618–619. Chase, Athol & Bruce Rigsby. 1994. Tjamintjinyu [a biographical sketch of Tjamintjinyu (Tommy Thompson)]. In David Horton, ed. The Encyclopaedia of Aboriginal Australia. Volume 2. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. 1077–1078. Chase, Athol, David Martin, Bruce Rigsby & Peter Sutton. 1995. The Aboriginal people of Coen and surrounding region. In Culture and Bush Tucker of Coen. Coen: Coen Kindergarten Association Incorporated. 5–7. Bruce Rigsby & Lesley Jolly. 1995. Appendix. Aboriginal names. In Culture and Bush Tucker of Coen. Coen: Coen Kindergarten Association Incorporated. 30–38. [including Bruce Rigsby & Lesley Jolly. Writing Indigenous Australian languages. 33–34; Bruce Rigsby. Some Ayapathu, Kaanju, Olkolo, Uuku Umpithamu and Wik Mungkan words. 35; Bruce Rigsby & Lesley Jolly. Indigenous language words. 36–38.] Rigsby, Bruce. 1995. Tribes, diaspora people and the vitality of law and custom: Some comments. In Jim Fingleton & Julie Finlayson, eds. Anthropology in the Native Title Era. Canberra: Native Title Research Unit, Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies. 25–27. Rigsby, Bruce. 1995. Anthropologists, land claims and objectivity: Some Canadian and Australian cases. In Julie Finlayson & Diane Smith, eds. Native Title: Emerging Issues for Research, Policy and Practice. (CAEPR Research Monograph 10) Canberra: Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research, Australian National University. 23–38. Rigsby, Bruce & Diane Hafner. 1995. Rigsby and Hafner 1994 [comments on Eastern Cape York Peninsula in Appendix 2: Comments on the map by regional specialists]. In Peter Sutton. Country. Aboriginal Boundaries and Land Ownership in Australia. (Aboriginal History Monograph 3) Canberra: Aboriginal History. 137–138. Rigsby, Bruce. 1996. Some aspects of Plateau linguistic prehistory: Sahaptian/Interior Salishan relations. In Don Dumond, ed. Chin Hills to Chiloquin: Papers Honoring the Versatile Career of Theodore Stern. (University of Oregon Anthropological Papers 52) Eugene, Oregon: Department of Anthropology, University of Oregon. 141–146. Rigsby, Bruce. 1996. Law and custom as anthropological and legal terms. In Julie Finlayson & Ann Jackson-Nakano, eds. Heritage and Native Title: Anthropological and Legal Perspectives. Canberra: Native Title Research Unit, Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies. 230–252. Rigsby, Bruce. 1996. A note on first and other spouses. Australian Anthropological Society Newsletter 64: 29–30. Rigsby, Bruce & Noel Rude. 1996. Sketch of Sahaptin, a Sahaptian language. In Ives Goddard, ed. Languages. (Handbook of North American Indians. Volume 17) Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution. 666–692. Rigsby, Bruce. 1996. Aboriginal people, land tenure and national parks. Proceedings of the Royal Society of Queensland 106: 11–15. Rigsby, Bruce. 1997. Anthropologists, Indian title and the Indian Claims Commission: The California and Great Basin cases. In Diane Smith & Julie Finlayson, eds. Fighting Over Country: Anthropological Perspectives. (CAEPR Research Monograph 12) Canberra: Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research, Australian National University. 15–45. Rigsby, Bruce. 1997. Structural parallelism and convergence in the Princess Charlotte Bay languages. In Patrick McConvell & Nicholas Evans, eds. Archaeology and Linguistics. Ancient Australia in Global Perspective. Melbourne: Oxford University Press. 169–178.



Appendix: Bibliography of Bruce Rigsby 

Peterson, Nicolas & Bruce Rigsby. 1998. Introduction. In Nicolas Peterson & Bruce Rigsby, eds. Customary Marine Tenure in Australia. (Oceania Monograph 48) Sydney: University of Sydney. 1–21. Bruce Rigsby. 1998. A survey of property theory and tenure types. In Nicolas Peterson & Bruce Rigsby, eds. Customary Marine Tenure in Australia. (Oceania Monograph 48) Sydney: University of Sydney. 22–46. Rigsby, Bruce & Athol Chase. 1998. The sandbeach people and dugong hunters of Eastern Cape York Peninsula: Property in land and sea country. In Nicolas Peterson & Bruce Rigsby, eds. Customary Marine Tenure in Australia. (Oceania Monograph 48) Sydney: University of Sydney. 192–218. Kinkade, Dale M., William W. Elmendorf, Bruce Rigsby & Haruo Aoki. 1998. Languages. In Deward Walker, Jr., ed. Plateau. (Handbook of North American Indians.Volume 12) Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution. 49–72. Zenk, Henry & Bruce Rigsby. 1998. Molala. In Deward Walker, Jr., ed. Plateau. (Handbook of North American Indians. Volume 12) Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution. 439–445. Bruce, Rigsby. 1998. ‘Race’ in contemporary anthropology. Proceedings of the Royal Society of Queensland 107: 57–61. Julie Finlayson, Bruce Rigsby & Hilary Bek. 1999. Introduction. In Julie Finlayson, Bruce Rigsby & Hilary Bek, eds. Connections in Native Title: Genealogies, Kinship and Groups. (CAEPR Research Monograph 13) Canberra: Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research, Australian National University. 1–13. Rigsby, Bruce. 1999. Genealogies, kinship and local group composition: Old Yintjingga (Port Stewart) in the late 1920s. In Julie Finlayson, Bruce Rigsby & Hilary Bek, eds. Connections in Native Title: Genealogies, Kinship and Groups. (CAEPR Research Monograph 13) Canberra: Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research, Australian National University.107–123. Rigsby, Bruce. 1999. Aboriginal people, spirituality and the traditional ownership of land. International Journal of Social Economics 26: 963–973. Rigsby, Bruce. 2004. Merlan, Francesca. In Vered Amit, ed. Biographical Dictionary of Social and Cultural Anthropology. London & New York: Routledge. 350–351. Rigsby, Bruce. 2004. Sutton, Peter. In Vered Amit, ed. Biographical Dictionary of Social and Cultural Anthropology. London & New York: Routledge. 498–499. Rigsby, Bruce & Nicolas Peterson. 2005. Introduction. In Bruce Rigsby & Nicolas Peterson, eds. Donald Thomson, the Man and Scholar. Canberra: The Academy of the Social Sciences in Australia & Museum Victoria. 1–16. Rigsby, Bruce. 2005. The languages of Eastern Cape York Peninsula and linguistic anthropology. In Bruce Rigsby & Nicolas Peterson, eds. Donald Thomson, the Man and Scholar. Canberra: The Academy of the Social Sciences in Australia & Museum Victoria. 129–142. Alpher, Barry, Bruce Rigsby & Lesley Stirling. 2005. Ephraim Bani 1944–2004. Australian Aboriginal Studies 1: 122–125. Rigsby, Bruce. 2006. Custom and tradition: Innovation and invention. Macquarie Law Journal 6: 113–138. Hafner, Diane, Bruce Rigsby & Lindy Allen. 2007. Museums and memory as agents of social change. The International Journal of the Humanities 5: 87–94. Cole, Noelene, Bruce Rigsby & Victor Steffenson. 2007. Dr George Musgrave, 1920–2007. Australian Aboriginal Studies 1: 170–172. Rigsby, Bruce. 2008. The Stevens Treaties, Indian Claims Commission Docket No. 247, and the Ancient One known as Kennewick Man. In Alexandra Harmon & John Borrows, eds. The

 Land and Language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country Power of Promises. Rethinking Indian Treaties in the Pacific Northwest. Seattle: University of Washington Press. 244–275. Rigsby, Bruce & Michael Finley. 2009. Priest Rapids: Places, people, and names. Journal of Northwest Anthropology 41: 57–86. Rigsby, Bruce. 2010. Social theory, expert evidence and the Yorta Yorta rights appeal decision. In Louis Knafla & Haijo Westra, eds. Aboriginal Title and Indigenous Peoples. Canadia, Australia, and New Zealand. Vancouver: University of British Columbia Press. 53–84. Rigsby, Bruce. 2010. The origin and history of the name ‘Sahaptin’. In Virginia Beavert & Sharon Hargus, eds. Ichishkíin Sínwit: Yakama/Yakima Sahaptin Dictionary. Toppenish, WA: Heritage University & University of Washington Press. xviii–xxi. Rigsby, Bruce. 2010. The origin and history of the name Yakama/Yakima. In Virginia Beavert & Sharon Hargus, eds. Ichishkíin Sínwit: Yakama/Yakima Sahaptin Dictionary. Toppenish, WA: Heritage University & University of Washington Press. xxii–xxxiv. Rigsby, Bruce & Diane Hafner. 2011. Place and property at Yintjingga/Port Stewart under Aboriginal law and Queensland law. In Brett Baker, Ilana Mushin, Mark Harvey & Rod Gardner, eds. Indigenous Language and Social Identity. Papers in Honour of Michael Walsh. (Pacific Linguistics 626) Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. 31–42. ̦ Rigsby, Bruce (Lucá Łamtáx̣). 2015. Iwačanáay. This is how it was. In Eugene Hunn, Thomas Morning Owl, Phillip Cash Cash & Jennifer Karson Engum. Čáw Pawá Láakni. They Are Not Forgotten: Sahaptian Place Names Atlas of the Cayuse, Umatilla, and Walla Walla. Pendleton, Oregon: Tamástslikt Cultural Institute (in association with Ecotrust, Portland, Oregon, and the University of Washington̦ Press, Seattle). xiii. Hunn, Eugene (Wišpúš) & Bruce Rigsby (Lucá Łamtáx̣). 2015. Tiičám ku sɨnwit. Lands and languages. In Eugene Hunn, Thomas Morning Owl, Phillip Cash Cash & Jennifer Karson Engum. Čáw Pawá Láakni. They Are Not Forgotten: Sahaptian Place Names Atlas of the Cayuse, Umatilla, and Walla Walla. Pendleton, Oregon: Tamástslikt Cultural Institute (in association with Ecotrust, Portland, Oregon, and the University of Washington Press, Seattle). 15–17.̦ Rigsby, Bruce (Lucá Łamtáx̣). 2015. Panakpuušayšáykš. Caring for a legacy. In Eugene Hunn, Thomas Morning Owl, Phillip Cash Cash & Jennifer Karson Engum. Čáw Pawá Láakni. They Are Not Forgotten: Sahaptian Place Names Atlas of the Cayuse, Umatilla, and Walla Walla. Pendleton, Oregon: Tamástslikt Cultural Institute (in association with Ecotrust, Portland, Oregon, and the University of Washington Press, Seattle). 53–57. Rigsby, Bruce, Lindy Allen & Diane Hafner. 2015. The legacy of Norman Tindale at Princess Charlotte Bay in 1927: Lamalama engagement with museum collections. Journal of the Anthropological Society of South Australia 39: 1–25.

3.  Book Reviews Rigsby, Bruce. 1965. Review of S. Broadbent, The Southern Sierra Miwok Language. American Anthropologist 67: 1596–97. Rigsby, Bruce. 1968. Review of S.C. Gudschinsky, How to Learn an Unwritten Language and William. J. Samarin, Field Linguistics: Guide to Linguistic Field Work. American Anthropologist 70: 1040–1041. Rigsby, Bruce. 1970. Review of S.K. Šaumjan, Problems of Theoretical Phonology. American Anthropologist 72: 684–685.



Appendix: Bibliography of Bruce Rigsby 

Rigsby, Bruce. 1972. Review of Haruo Aoki, Nez Perce Grammar. Language 48: 737–742. Rigsby, Bruce. 1978. Review of R.M.W. Dixon, The Dyirbal Language of North Queensland. Language 54: 213–218. Rigsby, Bruce. 1981. Review of Crawford Feagin, Variation and Change in Alabama English: A Sociolinguistic Study of the White Community. Australian Journal of Linguistics 1: 122–127. Rigsby, Bruce. 1982. Review of R.M.W. Dixon & Barry J. Blake, eds, Handbook of Australian Languages, I. Language 58: 704–711. Rigsby, Bruce. 1982. Review of Michael Clyne, ed, Australia Talks: Essays on the Sociology of Australian Immigrant and Aboriginal Languages. Language in Society 11: 126–133. Rigsby, Bruce. 1983. Brief notice of Bernard Comrie, Languages of the Soviet Union. Language in Society 12: 136–137. Rigsby, Bruce. 1993. Review of Barry Alpher, Yir-Yoront Lexicon. Sketch and Dictionary of an Australian Language. Canberra Anthropology 16: 146–148. Rigsby, Bruce. 1995. Review of Michael Walsh & Colin Yallop, eds, Language and Culture in Aboriginal Australia. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 1: 204–205. Rigsby, Bruce. 1995. Review of Haruo Aoki, A Dictionary of Nez Perce. American Anthropologist 97: 395–396. Rigsby, Bruce. 1997. Review of L.R. Hiatt, Arguments about Aborigines. Australia and the Evolution of Social Anthropology. Australian Journal of Politics and History 43: 86–87. Rigsby, Bruce. 1997. Review of Arthur J. Ray, I Have Lived Here Since the World Began. An Illustrated History of Canada’s Native People. BC Studies 113: 114–116. Rigsby, Bruce. 1998. Review of J. Arthur, Aboriginal English. A Cultural Study. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 4: 825–826. Rigsby, Bruce. 1998. Review of R.M.W. Dixon, Words of Our Country. Stories, Place Names and Vocabulary in Yidiny, the Aboriginal Language of the Cairns-Yarrabah Region. Aboriginal History 22: 272–274. Rigsby, Bruce. 1998. Review of G.N. O’Grady & D.T. Tryon, eds, Studies in Comparative PamaNyungan. Aboriginal History 22: 291–294. Rigsby, Bruce. 1999. Review of Sam D. Gill, Storytracking. Texts, Stories, & Histories in Central Australia. Journal of Anthropological Research 55: 162–164. Rigsby, Bruce. 1999. Review of C.M. Hann, ed, Property Relations. Renewing the Anthropological Tradition. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 5: 324–325. Rigsby, Bruce. 2000. Review of Christopher Bracken, The Potlatch Papers. A Colonial Case History. Anthropological Forum 10: 110–112. Rigsby, Bruce. 2002. Review of Henry Reynolds, Aboriginal Sovereignty. Reflections on Race, State and Nation. Social Anthropology/Anthropologie Sociale 10: 397–398.

4.  Consultant’s reports, affidavits etc (complete up to 2009) Rigsby, Bruce & James Kari. 1987. Gitksan and Wet’suwet’en Linguistic Relations. An expert opinion report prepared for the Gitksan – Wet’suwet’en Tribal Council. February 1987. 81 pp. text plus 58 pp. appendices. Rigsby, Bruce. 1987. Chapter 5. Social/cultural profile of the community and Appendix 1. History of the Hope Vale Aboriginal community. In Stage I. Community Economic Development Plan for Hope Vale Aboriginal Council. Report prepared by Peat, Marwick, Mitchell Services. May 1987. Pp. 10–16 and 1–14 of Appendix 1.

 Land and Language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country Rigsby, Bruce. 1989. Report on Oral History Opinion Evidence and Testimony. Unpublished consultant’s report prepared for the Gitksan – Wet’suwet’en Tribal Council. November 1989. 12pp. Rigsby, Bruce. 1989. Report on Aboriginal Sites Around Coen, North Queensland. Unpublished consultant’s report prepared for the federal Department of Aboriginal Affairs. May 1989. 7pp. Rigsby, Bruce. 1990. House of Representatives Standing Committee on Aboriginal Affairs Workshop on Infrastructure: The Central Cape York Peninsula Case. Unpublished written presentation. 11–12 January 1990. 4pp. Rigsby, Bruce. 1990. The Port Stewart Lamalama and Their Land: A People and a Cultural Landscape. Unpublished consultant’s report prepared for the Division of Aboriginal and Islander Affairs. September 1990. 21pp. Rigsby, Bruce & Suzette Coates. 1991. “Murri been ‘ere before!”: An Historical and Anthropological Investigation of Factors Affecting the Deaths in Custody of Two Port Stewart Lamalama Men. Unpublished report prepared for the National Aboriginal and Islander Legal Services Secretariat and submitted to the Royal Commission into Aboriginal Deaths in Custody. February 1991. 32pp. Rigsby, Bruce. 1992. Anthropological Report Regarding the Appointment of Trustees for Transferable Lands in the Laura Region. Unpublished consultant’s report prepared for Ang-Gnarra Aboriginal Corporation. April 1992. 4pp. Rigsby, Bruce. 1992. Memorandum on the Current Dispute over the Handback of Lands to the Laura Aboriginal Community/Their Aboriginal Land Trust. Unpublished consultant’s  report prepared for Ang-Gnarra Aboriginal Corporation. July 1992. 6pp. plus map. Rigsby, Bruce & Diane Hafner. 1992. Anthropological Report for Transfer of Public Purposes Reserve (R11) at Port Stewart to the Port Stewart Lamalama People. Unpublished consultants’ report prepared for Moomba Aboriginal Corporation. April 1992. 12pp. Sutton, Peter, Bruce Rigsby & Athol Chase. 1993. Appendix 2: Traditional groups of the Princess Charlotte Bay region. In Flinders Islands & Melville National Parks Land Claim. Appendices. Cairns: Cape York Land Council, 1993. 54pp. Rigsby, Bruce & Diane Hafner. 1994a. Lakefield National Park Land Claim. Claim Book. Parts A–C with appendices (restricted). Cairns: Cape York Land Council on behalf of the claimants, 1994. 153pp, plus 242pp & 13 maps. Rigsby, Bruce & Diane Hafner. 1994b. Cliff Islands National Park Land Claim. Claim Book. Parts A–C with appendices (restricted). Cairns: Cape York Land Council on behalf of the claimants, 1994. 133pp, plus 52pp. Rigsby, Bruce. 1995. Land-Related Research Amongst the Olkolo People of South Central Cape York Peninsula: A Report. Unpublished report prepared for the Cape York Land Council and Edmulpa Aboriginal Corporation. 9pp. Rigsby, Bruce. 1996. Appendix 1. In Port Stewart Lamalama Community Development Plan 1996. Cairns: Yalga-binbi Institute for Community Development Aboriginal & Torres Strait Islander Corporation. 27–40. [Reprinting of an extract from Rigsby & Coates 1991] Smith, Benjamin & Bruce Rigsby. 1997. The Ayapathu People of Cape York Peninsula. Consultants’ report prepared for the Cape York Land Council in connection with Ayapathu native title and other land matters. March 1997. 8pp. Rigsby, Bruce. 1997. Affidavit prepared for the Confederated Tribes of the Umatilla Indian Reservation and submitted to the U.S. Corps of Engineers with reference to the Kennewick Man/Bonnichsen et al. case. October 1997. 4pp. plus attachments.



Appendix: Bibliography of Bruce Rigsby 

Rigsby, Bruce. 1998. Report on Family History and Genealogical Research. Unpublished report prepared for the Cape York Land Council and Balkanu Cape York Development Corporation with reference to the traditional ownership of Normanby Station by the Balnggarrwarra clan and descendant families. January 1998. 14pp. plus appendices. Rigsby, Bruce. 1998. Indigenous Tribal Groups and Languages along the Coen-Chillagoe Leg of the Chevron Gas Pipeline Project. Unpublished report prepared for Balkanu Cape York Development Corporation. March 1998. 11pp. Rigsby, Bruce. 1998. Report on the Kalpowar Native Title Claim. Unpublished report prepared for the Cape York Land Council. May 1998. 6pp. Chase, Athol, Bruce Rigsby, David Martin, Benjamin Smith & Peter Blackwood. 1998. Mungkan, Ayapathu and Kaanju Peoples’ Land Claims to Mungkan Kaanju National Park and Lochinvar USL Claim Book. Claims AB94-003, AB96-007 and AB96-008. Cairns: Cape York Land Council. 117 pp. plus appendices. Rigsby, Bruce. 1999. Registration Form Draft Entries for the Marina Plains Native Title Claim. On behalf of the Lamalama people and the Cape York Land Council. April 1999. 13 pp. Rigsby, Bruce. 1999. Registration Form Draft Entries for the Kalpowar Native Title Claim. On behalf of the claimants and the Cape York Land Council. September 1999. 20 pp. Rigsby, Bruce & Ben Smith, Recent Connection History: The Ayapathu People and Silver Plains Station. Unpublished report prepared for the Cape York Land Council in relation to the Silver Plains transfer. December 1999. 11pp. Rigsby, Bruce. 1999. Recent Connection History: The Lamalama People and Silver Plains Station. Unpublished report prepared for the Cape York Land Council in relation to the Silver Plains transfer. December 1999. 11pp. Rigsby, Bruce. 2000. Report for CYP Pilot Property Planning Project. Unpublished report prepared for Sanbis Pty Ltd in relation to the project. March 2000. 10pp. Rigsby, Bruce. 2000. Olkola Background Document. Unpublished report prepared for Edmulpa Aboriginal Corporation and the Cape York Land Council. June 2000. 21pp. Rigsby, Bruce. 2001. Anthropological Audit Statement for the Western Cape Communities CoExistence Agreement – Implementation Deed. A Report to Comalco, the Cape York Land Council and the State of Queensland. March 2001. 13pp. plus two-page Addendum. Rigsby, Bruce. 2001. Draft Connection Report: The Gungganyji People and the Eastern Portion of the Yarrabah Claim Region. A Report to the North Queensland Land Council. June 2001. 200-plus pp. Rigsby, Bruce. 2001. Draft Connection Report: The Mandingarrbay Yidinyji People and the Western Portion of the Yarrabah Claim Region. A Report to the North Queensland Land Council. June 2001. 200-plus pp. Rigsby, Bruce. 2001. Appendix two: Ayapathu linguistic and sociocultural relationships. In Benjamin Smith. Wik Native Title. Supplementary Anthropological Overview: Pastoral Lease Areas. Unpublished report prepared for the Cape York Land Council. August 2001. 83–115. Rigsby, Bruce. 2001. Review of Anthropological Reports on the Status of the Chong Family (With Particular Reference to the Wakamin People’s Native Title Claim (QG6148/98)). A Report to the North Queensland Land Council. November 2001. 47pp. plus appendices, maps and genealogies. Risby, Bruce. 2002. Registration Form Draft Entries for the Laura Mob/Quinkan Region Native Title Claim. On behalf of the claimants and the Cape York Land Council. February 2002. 25 pp.

 Land and Language in Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country Rigsby, Bruce, Fiona Powell, Lee Sackett, John Taylor & Mike Wood. 2002. Expert Report: Combined Gunggandji and Mandingalbay Yidinji (Q6016/01) Native Title Claim. A Report to the North Queensland Land Council. July 2002. 449 pp. including appendices, maps, genealogies, etc. Rigsby, Bruce. 2003. Anthropological Report on the Larrakia Native Title Application. An expert report prepared for the Northern Land Council. June 2003. 140 pp. Rigsby, Bruce. 2003. Supplementary Anthropological Report on the Larrakia Native Title Application. An expert report prepared for the Northern Land Council. July 2003. 31 pp. Rigsby Bruce. 2003. Registration Form Draft Entries for native title claims. On behalf of the Olkola people and the Cape York Land Council (Fairlight, Strathleven and others). JulyOctober 2003. Rigsby, Bruce. 2003. The Languages of the Quinkan and Neighbouring Region. Unpublished report to the Quinkan and Regional Interpretive Centre, Laura. Rigsby, Bruce. 2004. Registration Form Draft Entries for Native Title Claims. On behalf of the Olkola people and the Cape York Land Council (Olkola #2). December 2004. Rigsby, Bruce & Noelene Cole. 2006. The Kimba Plateau Leg (Morehead River-to-Palmer River) of the Gas Pipeline and the Eastern Margins of The Desert, South-Central Cape York Peninsula: Alternative Routes. Unpublished report prepared for the Cape York Land Council and Balkanu Aboriginal Development Corporation. August 2006. 28 pp. Rigsby, Bruce & Diane Hafner. 2007. Preliminary Report on the Lamalama Section of the Kaanju, Umpila, Lamalama and Ayapathu Native Title Claim. Unpublished report prepared for the Cape York Land Council and Balkanu Aboriginal Development Corporation. April 2007. 20 pp. Rigsby, Bruce & Diane Hafner. 2007. Preliminary Statement on Traditional Owner/Land Relationships in the Lilyvale and Running Creek Claim Areas. Unpublished report prepared for the Cape York Land Council and Balkanu Aboriginal Development Corporation. May 2007. 7 pp. Rigsby, Bruce & Noelene Cole. 2007. Cultural Heritage Survey of Kalinga Station, in Association with Olkola people. Unpublished report prepared for Cape York Land Council. Rigsby, Bruce. 2007. Are There Thaypan Native Title Rights and Interests on the New Lilyvale Aboriginal Freehold Block? Unpublished report prepared for the Cape York Land Council and Balkanu Aboriginal Development Corporation. September 2007. 7 pp.

section 1

Reconstructions

Connecting Thaypanic Barry Alpher

Independent Scholar, Washington, DC, USA Kuku Thaypan (Awu Alaya) is closely related to other languages of its area and in turn appears to belong in a distinct subgroup, Alaya-Athima, with languages of territories stretching down the Mitchell River almost to the Gulf of Carpentaria. All are initial-dropping languages but are not closely related to other initialdropping languages of the area. Between Alaya-Athima  languages and initialdropping languages to their west and north there has been extensive diffusion of vocabulary, raising interesting and difficult problems for historical study. Additionally, on grounds of shared morphology, there appears to be a distant genetic connection of Thaypanic to Kuku Yalanji and other non-initial-dropping languages of the east coast of Cape York Peninsula. The evidence is mostly from noun morphology and is backed by extremely little in the way of lexical sharing.

1.  Introduction With his research on Kuku Thaypan and the other languages of the Princess Charlotte Bay area (for example Rigsby 1976, 2012a; see also Laughren this volume), Bruce Rigsby has led the study of Aboriginal languages of Australia in their social context into a new depth of detail, sophistication, and understanding. Here as elsewhere in Australia, boundaries between languages, some of them only distantly related genetically, have been no barriers at all to intense linguistic diffusion, mediated often through affinal relations. Rigsby has put in decades of hard work at ascertaining the multiple connections in this region where persons are affiliated through their fathers to clan, totem, language, and country (see Rigsby 2005). Here, I examine the phylogenetic relations of Kuku Thaypan, separating common inheritances from loans and areal-typological features.1 I posit a language family, alaya-athima (see Map), named for the languages at its northeastern and southwestern extremes.

.  Some of this work had its beginning in research in support of Bruce’s native title efforts in this region (Rigsby 1998, 2012b). I thank him and also Jean-Christophe Verstraete for their

doi 10.1075/clu.18.03alp © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

 Barry Alpher

2.  Membership and external context of this family 2.1  Languages

d ea eh or M a Al

K. Kaper

Olgol

Alice

itc he ll

K. Dhawa

R iv

ul

Riv er iver er R lm Pa Kuku

er

Dunbar Ogunyjan Kokiny

Staaten River

Aw ar

ra n

er Ross

gg

Mini

k Cree ula gk An

Highbury

dy

Maytown

Ko o

batha go

Coral Sea

c hell

R ive r Ho d

Djabugay

R.

170S Yidiny

R iv er

80

© Australian National University CartoGIS CAP 15-256c_KP

K. Yalanji

n ao ins gk

kilometres

M it

Walsh R ive r ert

Athima 0

La ur a

G. Yimithirr Cooktown

Ikarranggal

Gamboola

Gi lb

Laura

Norman b

er Riv

M

Alu ng

iver yR

kan gan d

150S

Sugarbag Bee

Oy

K. Narr

ya Hann R ive Ri ve Tha r r rrng gala R iv e r

River an

Ke nn e

em

Gulf of Carpentaria

a rd R i v e r

.

Co l

Town, city Homestead

dy R N Kenne

Ed w

Takalak Abingdon Downs

Ly nd R

Mbabaram ive

r

1420E

1450E

Figure 1.  Alaya-Athima languages and their neighbours2

The core language (dialect web) that Bruce Rigsby concentrated on and has designated thaypanic belongs to the northeastern bloc of Alaya-Athima (see the map in ­Figure 1). It includes (Rigsby 2012a):

assistance. To Bruce Sommer special acknowledgements are due for his published and unpublished work (kindly made available through the Fryer Library at the University of Queensland, where he deposited the materials): he did the first comparative work on languages of this family and his observations and insights merit close attention. To Gavan Breen, Peter Sutton, and Jean-Christophe Verstraete, thanks for access to your manuscript notes and very preliminary material. Thanks also to Noelene Cole, David Nash, Claire Bowern, and D. Gary Miller for comments on earlier drafts. .  This map is schematic and intended for general reference purposes only. It is not suitable for use in native title claims or as documentation of customary tenures.



–– –– ––

Connecting Thaypanic 

Awu Alaya (Kuku Thaypan; Saltwater Creek and Morehead River)3 Aghu Tharrnggala (Agu Atharrnggala; Hann River; Jolly 1989) Awu Arangu, Awu Alwang, and Agu Aloja (these three as in Rigsby 2012a); Aloja is the same as Kuku Kalmbarra and (in Kuku Yalanji) Kuku Walarr (Rigsby, p.c. 2012) and Sugarbag Bee (Sommer 1972). It is the language of the Laura area.

The territory of these languages is, roughly speaking, south and west of Princess Charlotte Bay, along the Great Dividing Range and the rivers flowing northwards towards the Bay. Also of the northeastern area of this family: ––

Ogh-Alungul (upper reaches and headwaters of the Morehead and Hann Rivers; West 1965). This was Jack Burton’s mother’s language.

The languages of the southwestern bloc, starting along the Mitchell River below the Palmer junction, include: ––

––

––

––

Ogh-Awarrangg (Kawarrangg, in Olgol Uw-Awarrangk; Palmer-Mitchell junction; Sommer 1976a: 134, Palmer, Roth 1907–10: 95 and 1899 “Kau-waranga”, and Alpher’s fieldnotes from 2000). Ogunyjan (Dunbar Station area; Alpher fieldnotes, recorded from Lucy Tommy at Kowanyama in 1978, Hale fieldnotes (Ogh-Onyjanv, but also “Kuku Mini”: 1960), and Sommer (Ogh Undjan: 1997a)). Kokiny (of the country between Kuk-Narr (lower Staaten River) and “Kunjen” (Ogunyjan, of which it is a sister-dialect); Breen 1972a). Sommer’s (1997a:2) consultant Kathleen Major “had no difficulty in identifying the vast bulk of Mr. [Michael] Richards’ [tape-recorded; Breen 1972a] data as Ogh Undjan.” Athima (of the Gilbert River area, presumably the middle stretches; Laves 1930).

.  Awu Laya forms cited here are transcribed according to the analysis of Rigsby (1976: 69–72), whereby almost all words are consonant-initial, in contrast to his more recent formulation (2012a), in which initial /a/ is postulated everywhere. The historical questions that arise – whether, after consonants following *u in the first syllable were labialised, all *V1 changed to a or instead disappeared outright with [a] reappearing later as a phonetic effect, and whether long *V1 were treated differently – are not material to the arguments pursued below.

 Barry Alpher

Between the northeastern and the southwestern blocs, which are not contiguous, are the languages of the area between the Mitchell and Palmer rivers, the central bloc. They are loosely called Koko-Mini:4 ––

––

––

––

––

Kuku-Minni, along the north bank of Palmer River from Mitchell junction as far as Palmerville and Maytown (Roth 1899a), and Akoonkoon or Koogominny, whose location is also given as along the north side of the Palmer (Palmer 1884 and 1886) are the subject of wordlists translating mutually exclusive sets of English words but are probably the same language. Kuku Mini (Dixon 1968) is also of the Palmer River area; the available transcription is of only part of the recording and presents translations of a list of English words that are largely unmatched in the other Kuku Mini lists. Koogobatha, of the “Gamboola cattle run mostly on the north side of the Mitchell and as far down as the junction of the Lynd River” (Palmer 1884), seems linguistically distinct but has nonetheless been referred to as “Kuku Mini”. Ogh-Angkula (Rosser Creek; West 1965). This was Jack Burton’s language. He is recorded as having called it Kuku Mini on one occasion and Olkola (as a matter of social identification) on another. Ikarranggal (south bank of upper Palmer River, west (downstream of) C ­ annibal and Granite Creeks; Sommer 1999a; see also Sommer 1976a: 133, 1976b: 148–149).

To the south of these: ––

Takalak (Lynd River area to the south of the Mitchell; Sharp 1935 (“Takalak”) and Tindale 1938 (“Tagalag”)).5

The territories of these languages are all inland, and they overlap to a significant degree with the rock art region discussed in Cole’s contribution to this volume. With the exception of Ikarranggal, Takalak, Athima, and Kokiny, language names in this area are constructed as a generic term followed by a specific term. In citations

.  With regard to the term Kuku Mini (‘good language’ in Kuku Yalanji; contrasted with Kuku Warra ‘bad language’) as a proper name for a language, see Rigsby (2005: 138–9 and Note 45; 2012b: 19) and Wood (this volume). Here, the term is used to refer to several dialects of the area south of Alaya. Note that one of the names Hale (1960) recorded for Ogunyjan was “Kuku Mini”. .  Also, per Sharp’s consultants, including Abingdon Downs on the Staaten River, and possibly also Georgetown to the south; known to Mitchell River people in 1935 as Okuntjel. Tindale elicited his list at the Woorabinda settlement, far to the south of the area where the language was spoken.



Connecting Thaypanic 

below, I omit the generic (Aghu, etc., ‘language’) where it has not (as in Ogunyjan) fused with the specific.

2.2  Alaya-Athima and its neighbours I provide evidence here that these languages are related in a genetic clade, AlayaAthima. On a more speculative level, I claim also that Alaya-Athima is related in a clade with Kuku Yalanji (see also Anderson, this volume, and Wood, this volume), a neighbouring but coastal language. Other possibly related languages are discussed briefly in Section 8. All of these are members of the Paman subfamily (Cape York Peninsula, Hale 1976a, 1976b, n.d.) and at a higher level of Pama-Nyungan (Alpher 2004). The main concern of this paper is with properties of Alaya-Athima languages that are not held in common with Paman or Pama-Nyungan languages in general. One of the features common to Alaya-Athima languages is initial-dropping (Alpher 1976; Blevins 2001, 2004), that is, dropping the initial consonant (and in many languages also the first vowel) of all words in a protolanguage (here proto-Paman) in which all words began with a single consonant. Examples: proto-Paman *kalka (‘spear’), Awu Alaya lka, Tharrnggala lka, Koogominny alka, Akoonkoon ulka, Ikarranggal alka, Takalak alka, Ogunyjan alk(ï), Kokiny arlka, but kalka in the conservative language Kuku Yalanji. It is clear, however, that initial dropping postdated the breakup of Alaya-Athima into its constituent languages: in Ogunyjan and Kokiny, but not in other Alaya-Athima languages, *u in the context *C1uC2a, where *C1 is laminal (*c, *ñ, *y), was fronted to i (see Section 4 concerning sounds and transcription). Examples (Ogunyjan; cited reconstructions are proto-Paman): ibm ‘fire’ < *cuma, irr ‘you (Pl Nom)’ < *ñurra, irrnga ‘to rub’ < *yurrnga-. The change did not occur where V2 was other than *a (ek ‘tree’ < *yuku), where C1 was non-laminal (ubmïn ‘thigh’ < *kuman, ukïn ‘grass’ < *pukan, udna- ‘to lie, be lying’ < *wuna-, onhthi- ‘swim, immerse self ’ < *mu:ñci-, etc.), and not in other Alaya-Athima languages: from *pama (‘person, man’) and *cuma (‘fire’), respectively, there are Takalak apma and upma, Sugarbag Bee ame and omo, and Angkula am: and ubmï.6 And the initial-dropping feature is shared with nearby languages that are not at all closely related to Alaya-Athima: Uw-Oykangand, Uw-Olgol, and Uw-Olkola, hereafter UO (Sommer 2006, Hamilton n.d.) to the west and north; Kuku Warra (Sommer 1999b, Rigsby 1972) to the northeast; and Mbabaram (Dixon 1991), Agwamin, Mbara (both Sutton 1976; see below for more details), and Kurtjar (Black & Gilbert 1996) to

.  Possible differences among the Alaya-Athima languages in the effects of long vs. short *V1 on following consonants remain to be worked out.

 Barry Alpher

the southeast, south, and southwest. Initial dropping on different sides of their boundaries is at least in part diffusional (Alpher 1976). Of the non-Alaya-Athima languages of relevance here, the most important in terms of extent of territory and of participation in language-diffusional networks is UO. The connection between Ogunyjan and the UO dialect cluster just across and down the Mitchell River has been intense enough for them to have been viewed technically as dialects of a single language, Kunjen (Sommer 1969),7 and as a single language (in the wide sense) in the indigenous naming system. The name Kunjen (kuñjan), a selfdesignation of these three languages, is derived from the name Ogunyjan (ogo-uñjan, with ogo ‘language’ and uñjan ‘eating’),8 which language however is genetically rather distant from these neighbouring languages.9 A number of inflectional features of both noun and verb attest this. One such trait, briefly stated, is the past tense endings in the L conjugation,10 in which UO has (innovative) -rr and Ogunyjan (conservative) -n, as in ‘climbed’: Oykangand ar.tirr and Ogunyjan arltin. Another is the Imperative endings: Alaya-Athima -ng (innovative) vs. Ogunyjan and Olgol -l (conservative) in the L

.  Sommer (1972: 12) appealed, in part, to lexicostatistics. Alpher and Nash (1999: Table 3 p38) found similarly: in a count in which no attempt was made to exclude possible loanwords, Uw-Oykangand scored significantly more “cognates” with Ogunyjan than with the neighbouring, and more closely related, Kok-Kaper. Here, the findings I report and consider are exclusively non-quantitative. .  The specific term here, uñjan ‘eating’, is a citation of a word in this language that differs saliently from words of the same meaning in neighboring languages. This pattern of language and dialect naming recurs elsewhere in Cape York Peninsula, as in Wik-Mungknh, with wik ‘language’ mungknh ‘eating’. .  The genetic affiliation of UO is not with Alaya-Athima but rather with the Southwest Paman family (Kuuk-Thaayorre, Yir-Yoront and Yirrk-Mel, Kok-Kaper, Koko Dhawa, KuukNarr, and Kurtjar), as argued elsewhere (Alpher 1972, Alpher and Nash 1999). By the same token, notwithstanding Bowern and Atkinson’s (2012 p. 834 and Fig. 7) finding of a close genetic connection between Aghu Tharrnggala (of the Alaya-Athima family) and Kurtjar, there is no such connection. They acknowledge that this finding could be an artefact of the inclusion of only three languages from the (vast) area of southwestern Cape York Peninsula in their sample. .  In Uw Oykangand and Uw Olgol, this is the verb conjugation in which the Imperative ending is -l (conservative), hence Uw-Oykangand ar.til ‘climb, go up, work’ (imp). In Ogunyjan, it is the conjugation in which the nonPast ending is -l (conservative) and the ‘might’ ending is -lg, hence with ‘climb (etc.)’ arltil and arltilg, respectively. In regard to proto-PamaNyungan reconstructed tense-endings, see Alpher (1990 and 2004: fn. 8). What I refer to here as the “L” conjugation is the etymological L conjugation; the designation of its reflex in the synchronic description of one or another daughter language does not necessarily contain “L” (for example, in Hamilton’s [n.d.] entries for UO verbs, it is the “RR” conjugation, after the distinctive past-tense ending).



Connecting Thaypanic 

conjugation. For a sample of the material on which judgements of conservativeness in verb inflection are based, see Table 1. Table 1.  Tense-forms of the L-conjugation verb ‘climb, go up’ continuing pPaman and pPNy *tar.ti in languages of this area and in Central Australia. Innovative forms are boldfaced. Western Desert dialects exhibiting this paradigm include PitjanytjatjarraYankunytjatjarra (Goddard 1987). The cognation of the ­Western Desert root tati- ‘climb, go up’ with the rest is as yet undemonstrated, however. ­Ogunyjan /r.t/ is [rlt ~ lt] Imperative

Past

Nonpast

Future/‘might’

Ogunyjan

ar.ting

ar.tin

ar.til

ar.tilg

Alaya

teng

ten (nonFut)

Uw-Oykangand

ar.til

ar.tirr

ar.tin

Yir-Yoront

lalt

lilt

larll

Western Desert

tatila

tatirnu

pPNy

*tar.tila

*tar.tirn

te(Ø)g ar.tinvg tatilku *tar.til

*tar.tilku

3.  Borrowing and genetic subgrouping Accounting for the non-ancient lexical similarities in this part of Australia presents difficulties because of the large inventory of loanwords. This is true not only for Ogunyjan but also for other Alaya-Athima languages that border the UO group. It would be useful in the disentanglement process to have extensive vocabularies for those Alaya-Athima languages like Takalak, Athima, and Kokiny that do not border on UO; however, the spread of these appears to have been quite recent and the wordlists are short. For an attempt to quantify and account for the amount of borrowing among these languages, see Alpher and Nash (1999). But in addition to lexical borrowing there are at least two instances in these data of inflectional suffixes borrowed into adjacent non-AlayaAthima languages: Imperative -ng (6.1) and Ergative -(a)p (6.2). The logic behind considering these items to be loans is that while both suffixes are near-universal among Alaya-Athima languages, their occurrence outside this family is in both cases limited to dialectal outliers of languages with a history of other suffixes in the same functions in inflectional systems of considerable time-depth.

4.  Sounds and transcription Alaya-Athima consonant inventories generally include two stop manners, tense (voiceless and often long) p, th, t, c, k and voiced (lenis, spirantised in many contexts)

 Barry Alpher

b, dh, d, j, g; nasals m, nh, n, ñ, ng and in some languages contrasting tense (prestopped) nasals bm, dnh, dn, jñ, gng; liquids l, rr; and glides w, r, y. Retroflex apicals, where noted, are represented rt, rd, rn, rl. Vowel inventories are minimally high i, u, mid e, o, and low-central a (patterning however as two, not three, contrastive heights in Ogunyjan); Alaya, Tharrnggala, and Ogunyjan (at least) have a sixth contrasting stressed vowel, mid-to-high central, which I uniformly represent here as ï; I represent schwa (unstressed, where not synchronically traceable to a full vowel) uniformly as v. Languages for which no thorough analysis has been published (Takalak, Athima, Koko-Mini, etc.) are represented as in their sources, except that voiced velar and labial spirants (where notated and contrastive) I uniformly represent orthographically as gh, bh. Sequences (n.g, r.t) are separated with a dot where confusion with digraphs (ng, rt) would otherwise result. Where position of a syllable in a word is relevant, I write V1, V2, V3 as appropriate for the vowels.

5.  Lexical evidence Here is a list of words shared among Alaya-Athima languages that are unattested elsewhere or whose attestations elsewhere can plausibly by counted as loans from an Alaya-Athima language. As an illustration of a set of data that taken together force the exclusion of a word from this list, consider ‘spearthrower’, universal in Alaya-Athima in forms continuing a sequence *(C)umbun. In Umbuygamu (Verstraete 2005) to the north, oban ‘spearthrower’ is possibly a common inheritance, more likely a loan. Gugu Badhun (Sutton 1973), Warrungu (Warrongo; Tsunoda 2011), and the language Curr 114 (Atherton 1886 and Sutton 1973: 16–17), the northernmost members of the Maric phylogenetic group, have, respectively, wumbun, wumbun, and oomboon for ‘spearthrower’. These languages are not initial-dropping, but in Gugu Badhun and Warrungu as in many Maric languages an initial /wu/ sequence can be realised phonetically as [u] (Sutton 1973: 93; Tsunoda 2011: 105–106). Gugu Badhun is noncontiguous with Alaya-Athima; with Warrungu and Curr 114 the degree of geographical proximity is not clear. Because neither common phylogeny nor directionality of borrowing can be ascertained at present, the Alaya-Athama umbun words are excluded from the list below. Note also that the directionality of the diffusion of the implement itself, as well as the words for it, is still a matter of conjecture (Akerman and McConvell, draft, 2013). The shortness of the inventory below is due in part to the scarcity of large-scale lexical lists for these languages and also to the noncongruence of a number of pairs of these lists: one list will give an equivalent for English ‘ear’, say, while a second will give none, and the second list will have an equivalent for English ‘ankle’ while the first has none, and so on. Some pairs of lists translate almost entirely discrete sets of English words.



Connecting Thaypanic 

Preliminary proto-Alaya-Athima (pAA) reconstructions given here have been made against the background of a larger reconstruction effort involving Alaya-Athima forms that have cognates in other Pama-Nyungan languages. The tense/lax stop (p vs. b, etc.) and nasal (bm [bm, m:] vs. m, etc.) contrasts must have existed before initial dropping, since as Rigsby (1976:74–5) showed their formation in Alaya was conditioned in part by the nature of the initial consonant. How they arose in the other Alaya-Athima languages is a matter for future study. Because initial dropping (as in UO, of the first consonant only and not the following vowel) followed the dispersion of the languages in the group (see 2.2 above), an initial consonant of indeterminate nature (*C) is postulated in the reconstructions here. bad Tharrnggala nthi, Koogominny inthe, Akoonkoon inthe, Ogunyjan enhthing, Kokiny indhing; pAA *Cinhthi. belly Alaya rom, Tharrnggala rom ‘stomach’, Takalak vrama, Athima urdum; pAA *Cur:um. chin Alaya pandal, Angkula apïndvl, Athima apandvl; pAA *Capandal. eye Angkula ibmïn, Koogominny emun, Akoonkoon immun, Ogunyjan ibmïn, Kokiny ibman, Athima (i)bman; pAA *Cim:an. head Alungul ampogh, Ikarranggal ombogh, Takalak vmpo:kv, Athima ambuk; pAA *Campuk.11 head Alaya lkul, Tharrnggala lkyur, Ogunyjan olkul; pAA *Cu/ilkul. liver Alaya thu, Tharnggala thu, Ikarranggal otho, Angkula otho, Alungul oth:o, Ogunyjan ethï, Kokiny ethe ~ etha; pAA *CVthu. many Tharrnggala rrwañjv, Athima arrbandjv; pAA *CarrbañcV. mosquito Alungul mbolvm, Angkula ombolvm, Akoonkoon (Curr 111) ombolum, Ogunyjan ombolvm, Kokiny umbalvm; pAA *Combolom. name Alaya ngorr, Tharrnggala ngor, Ogunyjan ingur; pAA *Cingurr.12 nape Alaya rïlnga, Tharnggala rïlng, Alungul orormv, Ogunyjan orolng, Athima irilng; the correspondences here appear irregular. Angkula otil ‘nape’ is likely a loan from Uw-Olkola odel. nose Tharrnggala mu, Angkula obmu, Alungul obmo(gng), Koogominny amoo, Athima ubmu; pAA *Cum:u. Olkola ulbmul ‘nose’ is possibly a loan from one of the eastern Alaya-Athima languages.

.  Kokowara (Roth 1899b) am-boo-tha ‘head’ possibly invalidates this set. .  Kok-Kaper (Koko-Bera) yungárr ‘name’ is clearly cognate in some sense with these forms. In view of the northeast-to-southwest spread of the ngorr (etc.) form in Alaya-Athima languages and the lack of cognates in other languages, it is arguable that Kok-Kaper at some early stage borrowed this word.

 Barry Alpher

see Alaya ta, Tharrnggala ta, Alungul atïl, Ikarranggal ata, Angkula atï, Ogunyjan ata; pAA *Cata.13 shin Tharrnggala madhv, Angkula amadh, Alungul amadhv, Athima amadhv ‘lower leg’; pAA *CamadhV. tooth Alaya nggawl, Angkula angkul, Alungul anggul, Koogominny ungool, Ogunyjan enggul, Athima angkul; pAA *Canggul. Tharrnggala liy is archaic (pPNy *rirra; Kuku-Yalanji dirra) but is clearly a loan from somewhere because it retains its initial consonant.14 two Tharrnggala rrmbiv, Angkula irr-ingpï, Koogominny yirnpa, Ogunyjan irrmpï, Kokiny irrmbá, Athima irrmpa; pAA *Cirrmpa.15 Languages adjoining members of Alaya-Athima include Kuku-Yalanji (­Hershberger and Hershberger 1986); “Curr 114” (Atherton 1886); Agwamin ­(Tindale’s and ­Sutton’s lists, pp. 118–122 in Sutton 1976b); Mbara (Sutton’s and Breen’s lists, pp. 112–115 in Sutton 1976); Ooeelkulla (Bulletta 1897 and 1899; Paul Black [pers. comm.] believes this language to be linguistically the same as or very close to Areba [Ribh]); ­Kuuk-Narr (Breen 1972b and 1976); Koko-Dhawa (Sommer 1997b); ­Uw-Oykangand, Uw-Olgol, and Uw-Olkola (Hamilton n.d.); and the Kuku Warra dialects (Rigsby 1972, Roth 1899b, Sommer 1999b, Sutton 1975a). I have checked the available wordlists from all of these, as well as from the nearby but noncontiguous Umbuygamu (Verstraete 2005), Rimanggudinhma (Godman 1993), Mbabaram (Dixon 1991), Kurtjar (Black & Gilbert 1996), and Kok-Kaper (my own notes, and Edwards & Black 1998) and found no attestation of any word cognate (in the strict sense) with any of those in the above list. Note however that shortness and noncongruence of lists increase the uncertainty of claims of absence of items.

.  The pPNy verb *ña (‘to see’) continues not only as a root ña but also in the ancient derived forms ñaci, ñaka, ñama, and ñawa-, each widely attested. There is also the unique word nhata ‘look for, scan (as an eagle)’ in Adnyamathanha (McEntee and McKenzie 1992), but it is unlikely that something of the form *ñata gave rise to the Alaya-Athima (a)ta ‘to see’ forms, since Ogunyjan **eta-, not ata- as recorded, would be expected. .  Tharrnggala liy ‘tooth’ is evidently cognate with lið ‘tooth’ in Rimanggudinhma, a nonAlaya-Athima language that is also initial-dropping. .  Alungul u:dhirri ‘two’ is possibly a loan from UO (contemporary Olkola ucir, Oykangand ujir ‘two’ < pPaman *ku:ci+, in this region *ku:cirr(a)), where it is conservative. But it is also possible that it continued from pPaman alongside something of the form irrmpa, with the two surviving as a doublet before the latter was lost.



Connecting Thaypanic 

6.  Grammatical evidence A couple of inflectional endings on verbs (6.1) and nouns (6.2), together with developments in the pronoun paradigm (6.3), are characteristic of Alaya-Athima languages and evidence their phylogenetic unity. With regard to the inflectional endings, a phonological change apparently limited to Ogunyjan and its sister-dialect Kokiny enables determination of their original syllabicity status not only in these southwestern languages but also in the other languages of this family which did not undergo this change, which I will call s2. It was the raising of vowels in second syllables of consonant-final disyllables and the lowering of vowels in second syllables of trisyllables; hence angkïr ‘flesh’ (Ogunyjan), ‘skin, calf ’ (Kokiny) < pPaman *pangkarr, contrasting with angkar ‘bluetongue lizard’ (both languages) < *pangkarra). So a disyllabic vowel-final stem with a suffix of the form *CV tolerated only a low vowel in its second syllable, whereas one with a suffix of the form *C tolerated only a high vowel in this position, giving rise to high-low vowel alternations. The pairs of vowels that alternate in this way are e and i, a and ï, and o and u, as shown in Table 2. Table 2.  Examples of low ~ high vowel alternations in Ogunyjan. Past tense-forms ­continue proto-Pama-Nyungan *-n, which was syllable-closing (final), whereas Participial forms likely continue proto–Eastern Pama-Nyungan *-ni, as attested in Yir‑Yoront and Yirrk-Mel Participial and Passive/Reflexive -n, Kok-Kaper Passive/ Reflexive -n, Flinders Island Gerundive -ni and Participial -niya (Sutton 1975b §4.1), and proto-Thura-Yura *-ni deriving verbs from nouns (Simpson and Hercus 2004: 205). I suggest that *-ni ­continued in Alaya as -n, conflated with the Past (nonFuture) ending -n, hence athen ‘bit’ or ‘bite, biting’, as in ‘X saw the dog bite Y’ (Rigsby 2012a, chapter ‘Complements and Clauses’, section ‘Subordinate Clauses’). Alternation class

Gloss

Past

Participle

Protoform of root

e~i

‘throw’

embin

emben

*campi (Paman; Hale)

e~i

‘go’

elin

elen

*kali (Paman, Hale)

e~i

‘swim’

onhthin

onhthen

*mu:ñci (Paman; Hale)

a~ï

‘tie’

athïn

athan

*kaca (Paman; Hale)

a~ï

‘cut’

ekïn

ekan

*yaka (Paman; Hale)

o~u

‘dig’

enhun

enhon

o~u

‘scrape’

epun

epon

Verbs in Alaya-Athima languages are inflected in two or more conjugations (­ Ogunyjan, with an L, an RR, and possibly another conjugation) or a single conjugation (Alaya, Tharrnggala). In neither case do the paradigms continue endings exclusively

 Barry Alpher

from a single pPaman (or pPNy) conjugation. The conservative Paman L-conjugation nonPast, Past, and Imperative endings, respectively *-l, *-n, and *-la, continue intact in Flinders Island ‘to bite’ (< *paca-), with athal, athan, and athala (Sutton 1975). In other languages of the area with etymological L conjugations these endings do not continue intact, as in Guugu Yimithirr gatha- ‘to tie’ (< *kaca-), with np gadhal, p gadhay, and imp gadhala, in which the Past tense-form can be seen to continue an ending, -y, from another paradigm: compare the V conjugation dhada- ‘to go (< *cata-, *cati-), with np dhadaa, p dhaday, and imp dhadii. Alaya-Athima languages continue the old L conjugation with modifications; hence Tharrnggala the- ‘bite, eat, consume’ (< *paca-, L) with nonFuture then, imp theng and ti- ‘to go’ (< *cati-, non-L), with nonf tin, imp ting; Ogunyjan arlti- ‘go up’ (< *tar.ti-, L) with nP arltil, P arltin, imp arlting and eli- ‘to go’ (< *kali-, non-L) with np elil, P elin, imp eling. With regard to the above, see also Table 1. The following is a discussion of the “replacement” Imperative ending -ng.

6.1  Imperative *-ng All verbs in the northeastern and southwestern Alaya-Athima languages for which a specifically Imperative ending is attested (in text or in systematic grammatical elicitation) have -ng: Alaya tang, Tharrnggala tang, Ogunyjan atïng, ‘look’; Kokiny in.gïng ‘sit’; Ogunyjan adn.jïng ‘burn it, cook it’ (root adn.ja-, RR conjugation). That the second syllables of the Ogunyjan and Kokiny forms have high vowels indicates that the original form of this ending was a single consonant. The -ng Imperative is shared with a single non-Alaya-Athima language, the easternmost dialect of Olkola (Hamilton n.d.), in which it is clearly a loan (see Table 1). The languages of the central bloc, however, to judge from scanty attestation in Angkula and Ikarranggal, have an Imperative in -l, to the apparent exclusion of -ng. I suggest that this -l continues the Pama-Nyungan L-conjugation Nonpast ending still attested in languages like Ogunyjan16 and is in its imperative function an innovation (recall that it is the languages of the northeastern and southwestern peripheries, which are noncontiguous, that mark Imperative with -ng).

.  In two hard-to-interpret instances in records of southwestern languages, verbs translated with imperative force carry the nonPast (-l) rather than the expected Imperative (ng) ending. There is atel, glossed ‘see-Imp’, in the Ogunyjan text that Sommer presents (1997a:52; I would expect this nonPast form to be pronounced atïl, or atal in Sommer’s transcription). And in Breen’s Kokiny recording elil ‘go’ occurs (once) glossed as an imperative (normally eling), while imperatives in -ng are exemplified a number of times. It is plausible that a present or immediate-future form can be used as an imperative. If V2 in both these examples is in fact high (conforming with S2), then the claim that the -l Imperative in the central-bloc languages Angkula and Ikarranggal originates with the Paman L-conjugation nonPast *-l (and not the Imperative *-la) is supported.



Connecting Thaypanic 

The ending -ng in Ogunyjan is reliably attested as marking an immediate future as well as an imperative. As an imperative, however, -ng has no history in languages of this part of Australia deeper than Alaya-Athima, in any conjugation, though it is likely that it relates to the Djabugay (Hale 1976c: 237, Patz 1991: 280) Y Conjugation Present and Yidiny (Dixon 1997: 212) N Conjugation Present-Future -ng, as in galing (both languages) ‘goes’. This reconstructs as proto-Djabugay-Yidiny *-ng, with its consonant-only form certain because penultimate lengthening (Dixon 1977: 42), which would have produced CVCV:ngV, did not operate on disyllabic verb stems with this ending. Other forms that are likely related include Mbabaram -ng in the composite Present/Habitual suffixes -nu-ng and -ru-ng, depending on conjugation membership (Dixon 1991: 383), and possibly also the Bidyara Future ending -nga (Breen 1973: 92), the UO Future ending -ngan, and the Yir-Yoront Future/Desiderative ng ~ v.

6.2  Instrumental-Locative *-bV All Alaya-Athima languages attest an Instrumental-Locative ending beginning with a bilabial stop, spirant, or glide. In many but not all of the languages this ending does not mark Ergative case (transitive subject), at least for animate actors, and the separation of Ergative from Instrumental is unusual for Pama-Nyungan languages. Like this ending, and I believe cognate with it, is Kuku-Yalanji -bu, which marks instrument and also transitive subject for inanimate, or non-volitional, agents. These facts have been noted and published before, by Bruce Sommer (1976b: 146, 148; 1976c: 21). While I take them to be evidence for an Alaya-Athima group and its further genetic connection with Kuku-Yalanji (see below), Sommer for his part discounted the Kuku-Yalanji fact and took the rest as evidence for a “Central Paman” group that includes Alaya-Athima and UO.17 Here, I pursue the argument for AlayaAthima only, apart from UO but distantly connected with Kuku-Yalanji.

.  Sommer (1976b:48) relates Alaya-Athima *-bV, as in Ogunyjan ugngab ‘sun+Ergative’, to the *mpu/a (Ergative-Instrumental/Locative) attested in Uw-Oykangand ugngamb and in Kok-Kaper pungémp, both ‘sun+Ergative’; all contain pPaman *punga (‘sun’). However, pPaman *mp survives as mp in Ogunyjan, as in ajamp ‘emu’, from pPaman *acampa (it can be argued that this is a loan from Oykangand ajamb or Olkol acamb in Ogunyjan, in which however a relatively short wordlist contains four other forms in final mp). Furthermore, Sommer (1997:19,25) reports the use in Ogunyjan of Locatives in -mb in upa-mb (‘house’) and olgho-mb (‘antbed’). In view of these facts and of the Kuku-Yalanji case-ending -pu, the common Alaya-Athima ending b does not provide evidence for a clade (“Central Paman”) consisting exclusively of Alaya-Athima and UO. To my knowledge, *-mpV as a case-ending is attested only in UO, Kok-Kaper, Koko Dhawa, and Kuuk-Narr, in erg-instr-loc mpal in Umpithamu (Verstraete pers.comm.), and marginally in Ogunyjan.

 Barry Alpher

Note that postvocalic /b/ in Alaya-Athima languages usually lenites to a spirant, [b]. In Alaya it further lenites to [w] with younger speakers, and in Ikarranggal lenition to [w] is complete and permanent. Attestations below are with reflexes of proto-Pama-Nyungan (pPNy) *mara (‘hand, finger’) and proto-Paman (pPaman) *cuma (‘fire’) and *yuku (‘tree, stick’) Alaya  ba [ba] (older speakers) ~ wa (younger speakers) Locative.18 Examples: re ‘hand, finger’, loc reba ~ rewa (instr/erg rangga); ku ‘tree’, loc kuwa (instr/erg kungga, dat kuga [kuga] ~ [kuwa]). Other endings mark these functions as well: note for example mal ‘foot’, loc malvnda. Tharrnggala bv Locative. Example: ri ‘hand’, loc ribv (erg ringgv). Ikarranggal  w Locative. Example: ara ‘hand’, loc araw (instr arangk, also written arangg). Awarrangk  lb [lb] Locative. Example: ibmï ‘fire’, loc ibmá(l)b (data from Alpher’s 2000 fieldnotes). Kokiny  b [b] Ergative/Instrumental/Locative. Examples: arï ‘hand’, loc arab; iñor ‘dog’, erg iñorvb. Ogunyjan  b [b] Ergative/Instrumental/Locative. Examples: arï ‘hand’, instr/loc arab; ekï ‘tree, stick; tobacco’, instr/loc ekob (dat ekog); ibmï ‘fire, loc ibmab ~ ibmaw.19 In Ogunyjan, -b is reliably attested marking transitive subjects, including animates: iñor ‘dog’, erg iñorvb. That the second vowel of the Ogunyjan forms is low (a, o) indicates, as follows from S2, that these forms originated as trisyllables. If they had been closed disyllables, the corresponding high vowel (here ï or u, as appropriate) would have appeared in the second syllable. In other words, the original form of this ending was *-bV (although in the contemporary language it is clearly applied as -b, or in Sommer’s analysis -abh [vbh], with many nouns). This case-ending is shared with Koko Dhawa (Sommer 1997b), a non-AlayaAthima language that adjoins Ogunyjan to its west but is closely related to KokKaper. The Koko Dhawa form, represented as -ap, marks transitive subject (including animates), instrumental, and locative functions and is quite generally applicable,

.  These data are from Bruce Rigsby (pers. comm. ca. 2010), They are not in the draft grammar (2012a). .  There are other, stem-specific, ways of marking this case: note for example icïn ‘axe’, instr ican. However, b has been generalised, as shown in ambulanvb ‘in/with an ambulance’, attested also as transitive subject, as in ‘the ambulance brought the food [meals on wheels]’.



Connecting Thaypanic 

a­ lternating with more conservative Koko Dhawa suffixes shared with Kok-Kaper. It is in these respects like -b in Ogunyjan and seems clearly to be a loan from that source.20

6.3  Pronouns Full personal pronoun paradigms are recorded for just four of the Alaya-Athima languages: Alaya, Tharrnggala, Ikarranggal, and Ogunyjan. Without exception, these contrast three numbers (singular, dual, and plural) but make no distinctions as to clusivity. All the pronouns in all categories in each of these four systems continue the same well-established Paman protoforms in each category: the forms are cognate across the board. What is of interest here is the lack of clusivity distinctions among first-person nonsingular pronouns (illustrated from Tharrnggala and Ogunyjan, respectively): dual layn and alin(h),21 pPaman *ngali (1st person dual inclusive); and plural ñjan and añjan, pPaman *ngañcan ~ *ngañcin (1st person nonsingular, likely exclusive; largely northeastern).22 Since it seems on the basis of comparative data that the original sense of *ngali was 1st person dual inclusive, and that of *ngañcan was 1st person nonsingular with a dual exclusive sense likely as for Yidiny ngañci (see below), it follows that in Alaya-Athima both forms lost their clusivity properties and *ngañcan narrowed its sense to plural (more than two) alone. Other languages of the area have full-blown inclusive-vs.-exclusive and dual-vs.plural systems (for example, Uw-Oykangand and Kuku-Yalanji), or clusivity contrasts for dual but not plural (Guugu-Yimithirr), or singular-vs.-nonsingular contrasts without clusivity (Djabugay; the Yidiny nonsingular ngañci has a dual exclusive sense when used contrastively with dual inclusive ngali; see Dixon 1977: 168), or systems making precisely the same distinctions as Alaya-Athima but with different material (Warrungu and other Maric languages, with dual ngal but plural ngana, the latter continuing the

.  Note that the same consultants worked with Sommer on both Koko Dhawa and O ­ gunyjan. .  In my work on Ogunyjan with Lucy Tommy I elicited both alin (inclusive and exclusive) and alinh (exclusive only), but I suspect that there was interference from Uw-Oykangand (in which she was fully fluent), with 1st-person duals aliy (incl) and alinh (excl). Sommer, however, working with the same speaker, recorded only alinh (1997: 37). .  The *ngañci variant continues in Alaya-Athima only in Ogunyjan and only in the oblique forms of the 1st-person-plural pronoun: nominative añjan, accusative añjinhongon, genitive añjinhan (Sommer 1997: 37). Elsewhere in Alaya-Athima the paradigm has been levelled to the *ngañca+ form alone: Tharrnggala ñjan, ñjanhvng, ñjanvnh. Some other languages of the region (Kuku Yalanji, Djabugay, and Yidiny) continue only the *ngañci(n) variant in all caseforms.

 Barry Alpher

very widespread pPama-Nyungan *ngana (1st person nonsingular, likely exclusive)).23 None duplicates the Alaya-Athima system in both forms and categories.

7.  The relationship of Kuku-Yalandji to these languages There is virtually no vocabulary item shared between Kuku-Yalanji and Alaya-Athima languages that is not a common Paman or Pama-Nyungan heritage. There is, however, a striking similarity in the noun-inflectional system, the neutral Ergative and Instrumental case-ending -bu. KYalanji  bu Neutral (i.e. non-“Potent”, typically inanimate nouns, including bodyparts) Ergative/Instrumental ending (Patz 2002: 45–6, 123–4); ­Hershberger (1964: 74–5) characterises the -bu Ergative as limited to inanimate nouns. It occurs after a vowel (examples: mara ‘hand’, n instr marabu; juku ‘tree; wood of any size from tree down to splinter’, n erg & instr jukubu; jina ‘foot’, n erg & instr jinabu);  bV Neutral General Locative after a non-glide consonant (ex. ñabil ‘tongue’, ng loc ñabilba). A distinction in form between Ergative and Instrumental (or “neutral ergative”) caseendings is areally limited within Cape York Peninsula. Attesting it are the Alaya-Athima languages, Kuku-Yalanji, Guugu Yimithirr, and Djabugay and Yidiny. In Djabugay and Yidiny it is simply a matter of the Locative, for the most part conservative in form, taking over the instrumental functions from the Ergative, also conservative in form.24 It is only in the Alaya-Athima languages and Kuku-Yalanji that a suffix *-pV, apparently unattested elsewhere (except possibly in Guugu Yimithirr; see Section 8 below), takes over these functions. I consider that to be a strong piece of evidence for a genetic subgroup including Alaya-Athima and Kuku-Yalanji.

.  A third 1st-person-plural etymon, *ngampula, also continues in languages of this area, typically but not always with an inclusive sense. An example is Uw-Oykangand, with exclusive anhdhan and inclusive ambul. For a typological hypothesis as to the evolution of these systems, see Dixon (2002: 285–299). .  Widely attested in Pama-Nyungan languages, and doubtless pPNy in age, are an Ergative case (transitive subject) whose functions include instrumental, in -lu ~ -ngku ~, contrasting with a Locative case in -la ~ -ngka ~ (in languages that have lost final vowels, all three of these functions tend to be conflated). In Djabugay and Yidiny, the instrumental function is transferred to the -la case.



Connecting Thaypanic 

8.  Possible inclusion of other East Coast languages with the preceding Similarities between Alaya-Athima languages and a number of nearby languages to the north and east (including Guugu Yimithirr, Kuku Warra, Umbuygamu, Flinders Island, Djabugay-Yidiny, and Mbabaram among others) call out for intense and detailed study. Since a number of researchers, most recently Bowern and Atkinson (2012: 834, Fig. 7), have posited a close genetic relation between Kuku-Yalanji and its northern neighbour Guugu Yimithirr, it is worth having a brief look the locative-allative function of the Guugu Yimithirr -bi ~ -wi case (Haviland 1979: 51): GYimithirr  bi (after consonants) ~ wi (after vowels) Dative and Locative-Allative (examples: miil ‘eye’, loc miilbi; biiba ‘father’, dat-all biibawi; yugu ~ jugu ‘fire, tree, stick, horn’, loc yuguwi). The -bV case-ending similarity notwithstanding, a comparative account of Kuku Yalanji and Guugu Yimithirr, most of whose similarities appear to be lexical and quite possibly largely diffusional, requires examination in a great deal more depth than I have been able to provide here, as well as examination of other languages including Alaya-Athima, and I do not pursue this line of thought further in this paper.

9.  Remarks and Conclusions The pursuit of language comparison and classification in Australia faces problems of different kinds in different regions. Here in the southern part of Cape York Peninsula language records are typically from the last generation of speakers, some of them in the last third of the 19th century. Palmer’s sketch map (1882) shows far greater numbers and density of named Aboriginal groups than can be attested now. The sophistication of the recorders varies greatly and with it the quality and quantity of the data. For Alaya-Athima languages, there are just three written grammatical statements of any length: Rigsby (2012a) for Awu Alaya, Jolly (1989) for Aghu Tharrnggala, and Sommer (1997) for Ogunyjan. The small size and for many of the languages the noncongruence of the available wordlists across the geographic range of the Alaya-Athima family do not permit extensive lexical comparison. On the other hand, phonological change has been common and conspicuous, putting comparison within and outside the group at an advantage not found in most other parts of Australia. Even in the 19th-century material these changes are often identifiable and useful in comparisons. Putting these things together with the sometimes very sketchy grammatical data available makes possible the fairly robust postulation of the genetic group Alaya-Athima. The further postulation of a genetic group including

 Barry Alpher

these, Kuku-Yalanji, and possibly also Guugu Yimithirr and Djabugay-Yidiny, is much more on the speculative side but is nonetheless worth further study.

References Akerman, Kim & Patrick McConvell. 2013. ‘Wommera’ – The technology and terminology of the multipurpose spearthrower in Australia. Draft, Version 7. Alpher, Barry. 1972. On the genetic subgrouping of the languages of Southwestern Cape York Peninsula, Australia. Oceanic Linguistics 11: 67–87.  doi: 10.2307/3622803 Alpher, Barry. 1976. Some linguistic innovations in Cape York and their sociocultural correlates. In Peter Sutton, ed. Languages of Cape York. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 84–101. Alpher, Barry. 1990. Some ProtoPamaNyungan paradigms: A verb in the hand is worth two in the phylum. In Geoffrey O’Grady & Darrell Tryon, eds. Studies in Comparative PamaNyungan. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. 155–171. Alpher, Barry. 2000. Athima. Commentary and keyed-in wordlist from Gerhardt Laves’ (1930) notes from Jack Munsell. http://www.anu.edu.au/linguistics/nash/aust/laves/Athima.html Alpher, Barry. 2004. Pama-Nyungan: Phonological reconstruction and status as a phylogenetic group. In Claire Bowern & Harold Koch, eds. Australian Languages: Classification and the Comparative Method. 93–126, 387–570, 681–686.  doi: 10.1075/cilt.249.09alp Alpher, Barry & David Nash. 1999. Lexical replacement and cognate equilibrium in Australia. Australian Journal of Linguistics 19: 5–56.  doi: 10.1080/07268609908599573 Atherton, John, 1886. “Near the Head of the Walsh River”. No. 114 in Curr, 410–411. Black, Paul & Rolly Gilbert. 1996 draft. Kurtjar Dictionary. Word file, reproduced at the Faculty of Education, Northen Territory University, Darwin. Blevins, Juliette. 2001. Where have all the onsets gone. In Jane Simpson, David Nash, Mary Laughren, Peter Austin & Barry Alpher, eds. Forty Years On: Ken Hale and Australian Languages. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. 481–492. Blevins, Juliette. 2004. Evolutionary Phonology: The Emergence of Sound Patterns. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.  doi: 10.1017/CBO9780511486357 Bowern, Claire & Quentin Atkinson. 2012. Computational phylogenetics and the internal structure of Pama-Nyungan. Language 88: 817–845.  doi: 10.1353/lan.2012.0081 Breen, Gavan. 1972a. Kokiny field notes and tape. [Material from Michael Richards.] Copy held at AIATSIS library; AIATSIS Archive Tape A2547. Breen, Gavan. 1972b. Gog Nar transcriptions from tapes 228–238. From Mick Richards and Saltwater Jack. AIAS MS 828 and pers. comm. Breen, Gavan. 1973. Bidyara and Gungabula Grammar and Vocabulary (Linguistic Communications 8). Melbourne: Monash University. Breen, Gavan. 1976. An introduction to Gog-Nar. In Peter Sutton, ed. Languages of Cape York. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 243–259. “Bulletta”, 1897 and 1899. “Ooeelkulla”, wordlists in The Queenslander, Vol. 50 p154 (28 January 1899), Vol. 50 p731 (22 April 1899), and Vol. 51 p165 (22 July 1899), with notes in Vol. 46 p183 (23 January 1897). Curr, Edward. 1886. The Australian Race: The Origins, Languages, Customs, Place of Landing in Australia, and the Routes by Which It Spread Itself over That Continent. Melbourne: J. Ferres, Government Printer.



Connecting Thaypanic 

Dixon, R.M.W. 1968. Koko-Mini (Palmer River; language name also given as Ewinderrngunv) recorded at Wrotham Park from Mary Grunydji [Karanji]. Tapes (AIATSIS) Y39-2: 000– 064, Y40-1: 092–290; material cited here is from Dixon’s partial transcription. Dixon, R.M.W. 1977. A Grammar of Yidiny. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. doi: 10.1017/CBO9781139085045 Dixon, R.M.W. 1991. Mbabaram. In R.M.W. Dixon & Barry Blake, eds. Handbook of Australian Languages. Volume 4. Melbourne: Oxford University Press. 348–402. Dixon, R.M.W. 2002. Australian Languages: Their Nature and Development. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.  doi: 10.1017/CBO9780511486869 Edwards, Shaun Kalk & Paul Black. 1998. Kokoberrin Dictionary. Compiled for Kokoberrin Tribal Aboriginal Council. Cairns & Darwin.

Goddard, Cliff. 1987. A Basic Pitjantjatjara/Yankunytjatjara to English Dictionary. Alice Springs: Institute for Aboriginal Development. Godman, Irene. 1993. A Sketch Grammar of Rimanggudinhma: A Language of the Princess Charlotte Bay Region of Cape York Peninsula. BA (Hons) thesis, University of Queensland. Hale, Kenneth. 1960. Ogonydyanv (Mitchell River) field notes and tape, recorded from Rosie Mud of Georgetown. Copy held at AIATSIS library; AIATSIS Archive Tape 4625b. Hale, Kenneth. 1976a. Phonological developments in particular Northern Paman languages. In Peter Sutton, ed. Languages of Cape York. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 7–40. Hale, Kenneth. 1976b. Wik Reflections of Middle Paman Phonology. In Peter Sutton, ed. Languages of Cape York. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 50–60. Hale, Kenneth. 1976c. Tya:pukay (Djaabugay). In Peter Sutton, ed. Languages of Cape York. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 236–242. Hale, Kenneth. n.d. Other Paman Languages. [typescript held in AIATSIS Library]. Hamilton, Philip. n.d. Uw Oykangand and Uw Olkola Wordlist. http://www.geocities.com/Athens/Delphi/2970/olkola.htm Haviland, John. 1979. Guugu Yimidhirr. In R.M.W. Dixon & Barry Blake, eds. Handbook of Australian Languages. Volume 1. Canberra: Australian National University Press. 26–180. Hershberger, Henry. 1964. Case marking affixes in Gugu-Yalanji. In Richard Pittman & Harland Kerr, eds. 1964. Papers on the Languages of the Australian Aborigines Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 73–90. Hershberger, Henry & Ruth Hershberger. 1986. Kuku-Yalanji Dictionary. Darwin: Summer Institute of Linguistics, Australian Aborigines Branch. Jolly, Lesley. 1989. Aghu Tharrnggala: A Language of the Princess Charlotte Bay Area of Cape York Peninsula. BA (Hons) thesis, University of Queensland. Laves, Gerhard. 1930. Athima field notes. Copy held in AIATSIS library. McEntee, John & Pearl McKenzie. 1992. Adnya-math-nha English dictionary. Adelaide: The Authors. Palmer, Edward. 1882. Sketch map showing Aboriginal territories in southern Cape York Peninsula. Palmer, Edward. 1884. Notes on some Australian tribes. Journal of the Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland 13: 276–235.  doi: 10.2307/2841896 Palmer, Edward. 1886. Akoonkoon, Palmer River. In Edward Curr. The Australian Race: The Origins, Languages, Customs, Place of Landing in Australia, and the Routes by Which It Spread Itself over That Continent. Melbourne: J. Ferres, Government Printer. 396–399. Patz, Elizabeth. 1991. Djabugay. In R.M.W. Dixon & Barry Blake, eds. Handbook of Australian Languages. Volume 4. Melbourne: Oxford University Press. 244–347.

 Barry Alpher Patz, Elizabeth. 2002. A Grammar of the Kuku Yalanji Language of North Queensland. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. Rigsby, Bruce. 1972. Gugu Wara. [Notes from speaker Bobby Kenny, 28 July 1972.] Rigsby, Bruce. 1976. Kuku Thaypan descriptive and historical phonology. In Peter Sutton, ed. Languages of Cape York. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 68–77. Rigsby, Bruce. 1998. Indigenous tribal groups and languages along the Coen-Chillagoe leg of the Chevron gas pipeline project. Unpublished MS. Rigsby, Bruce. 2005. The languages of Eastern Cape York Peninsula and linguistic anthropology. In Bruce Rigsby & Nicolas Peterson, eds. Donald Thomson, The Man and Scholar. Canberra: Academy of Social Sciences. 129–142. Rigsby, Bruce. 2012a. Kuku Thaypan/Awu Alaya. Draft of grammar. Rigsby, Bruce. 2012b. Palmer Claim, draft report. Roth, Walter Edmund. 1899a. An account of the Koko-minni Aboriginals occupying the country drained by the (middle) Palmer River (Report to the Commissioner of Police, Queensland). MS. Cooktown, 12 May 1899. Roth, Walter Edmund. 1899b. Kokowara, as spoken on the lower Normanby River (Report to the Commissioner of Police, Queensland). Cooktown. Roth, Walter Edmund. 1907–1910. The Queensland Aborigines, Vol. III (Bulletins 9–18, North Queensland Ethnography, Records of the Australian Museum, Sydney; Aboriginal Studies Series No. 4). Facsimile edition 1984, Carlisle: Hesperian Press. Sharp, Lauriston. 1935. Field notebook (including genealogical) on Takalak. Unpublished. Pages 130–134. Simpson, Jane & Luise Hercus. 2004. Thura-Yura as a subgroup. In Claire Bowern & Harold Koch, eds. Australian Languages. Classification and the Comparative Method. Amsterdam: Benjamins. 179–206.  doi: 10.1075/cilt.249.12sim Sommer, Bruce. 1969. Kunjen Phonology: Synchronic and Diachronic. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. Sommer, Bruce. 1972. Notes on Sugarbag Bee A from Caesar Lee Cheu. Fryer Library, University of Queensland. Sommer, Bruce. 1976a. W.E Roth’s peninsular vocabularies. In Peter Sutton, ed. Languages of Cape York. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 127–136. Sommer, Bruce. 1976b. Agent and instrument in Central Cape York Peninsula. In Peter Sutton, ed. Languages of Cape York. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 144–150. Sommer, Bruce. 1976c. Umbuygamu: The classification of a Cape York Peninsular language. In Jean Kirton et al., eds. Papers in Australian Linguistics No. 10. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. 13–31. Sommer, Bruce. 1997a. Ogh Unyjan. Booklet. [Material from Lucy Tommy, Tommy Little, Doris Lawrence, and Kathleen Major]. Townsville: Ethnografix. Sommer, Bruce. 1997b. Koko Dhawa. Booklet. [Material from Lucy Tommy and Doris Lawrence.] Townsville: Ethnografix. Sommer, Bruce. 1999a. Ikarranggal. Booklet. [Material from Caesar Lee Cheu.] Townsville: Ethnografix. Sommer, Bruce. 1999b. Koko Warra. Booklet. [Material from Frank Salt.] Townsville: Ethnografix. Sommer, Bruce. 2006. Speaking Kunjen: An Ethnography of Oykangand Kinship and Communication. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics.



Connecting Thaypanic 

Sutton, Peter. 1973. Gugu-Badhun and its Neighbours: A Linguistic Salvage Study. MA thesis, Macquarie University. Sutton, Peter. 1975a. Kuku-Wura (or Kuku-Wara; “both forms with glide ‘r’”). [Material from Hector Wallace.] Sutton, Peter. 1975b (1990 typescript). Uuku: The Flinders Island Language. Unpublished. Sutton, Peter. 1976. The diversity of initial dropping languages in southern Cape York. In Peter Sutton, ed. Languages of Cape York. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies.102–125. Tindale, Norman. 1938. Tagalag wordlist (photocopy of manuscript). Tsunoda, Tasaku. 2011. A Grammar of Warrongo. Berlin: de Gruyter Mouton. doi: 10.1515/9783110238778 Verstraete, Jean-Christophe. 2005. Umbuygamu wordlist. Text file, pers. comm. West, La Mont. 1965. Ogh Anggula and Ogh Alungul material recorded from Jack Burton, 9–10 March 1965. AIATSIS tape A 1447. [partial transcription by Barry Alpher, 2012.

Regions without borders Related rock art landscapes of the Laura Basin, Cape York Peninsula Noelene Cole

James Cook University Aboriginal rock art occurs throughout the lands of the Laura Sandstone Basin from Princess Charlotte Bay to the Great Dividing Range, in an ordered continuum of styles. Archaeologists attribute this varied spatial distribution to an Australia-wide trend of cultural differentiation which occurred from mid-to-late Holocene times. Given the links between Aboriginal rock art, cultural identity, land and social systems and the long history and intricate nature of Aboriginalland relationships in Cape York Peninsula, such variability is predictable. However, there are also underlying strands of homogeneity and relatedness. This study identifies, and attempts to account for, some of the discontinuous and continuous spatial trends in Laura Basin rock art in their natural and cultural contexts, in order to shed light on the origins and role of rock art style in south eastern and south central Cape York Peninsula.

1.  Introduction The Laura Basin is a major geological feature of Cape York Peninsula (CYP), a coastal sag basin composed of Middle Jurassic to Early Cretaceous sandstone sediments which extend in an arc from Princess Charlotte Bay to the Great Dividing Range. The offshore component includes the continental islands of Princess Charlotte Bay, created when Holocene sea level rise eventually stabilised and formed CYP c. 6000 years ago (Beaton 1985). Onshore, the Laura Basin comprises 18,000 km2 of sandstone topography dissected by CYP’s largest river system, the Normanby-Laura-Kennedy Rivers. As well as possessing very significant natural values, the Laura Basin contains a vast assemblage of Aboriginal rock art distributed across its various marine, coastal and inland zones.

doi 10.1075/clu.18.04col © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

 Noelene Cole

Clack Island

An

nie

Bathurst Head

Barrow Point

R

R

R ter wa

De

ve lo pm

Normanby R

NG IDI DIV

en tR

oa d

Lau ra

a

Kenned y R

s

ul

Cape Flattery

Han nR

ad

tl e

Lit

rg e

Laura

Mo

E

rt

er R Palm

h

Jowalbinna

Palmerville

No

Deighton R .

Maytown  km

L

Cape Bedford

Hope Vale vour R Endea Annan R

COOKTOWN

. ra R au

e Littl nedy Ken

.G

eo

nR

St

NG RA er R Palm

R

Koolburra

sm a

he

in

M ore

Pe n

T GREA





CYP

Flinders Group Cape Melville

F REE

lt Sa

GR EA T

IER RR BA

Port Stewart Cliff Islands

Lakeland Daintree

Wujal Wujal Laura Basin



Figure 1.  Map of the region and the locations mentioned

Rock art at Clack Island in Princess Charlotte Bay (henceforth PCB) was first reported in 1821 by a member of Captain King’s coastal survey expedition (see King 1827), decades before sustained European settlement came to CYP. A century later Herbert Hale and Norman Tindale (1933–1934) of the South Australian Museum documented rock paintings in the Flinders Group islands and on the mainland at Bathurst Head while on a collecting expedition to PCB (see also Sutton, this volume). Around this time anthropologists Donald Thomson, Ursula McConnel and ­Lauriston Sharp began their fieldwork on Cape York Peninsula (henceforth CYP), Thomson (1933: 454) having noted that it was”[e]thnographically a neglected field”. Thomson’s fieldwork included journeys north of the Kennedy River and west across the ­Peninsula (Dixon and Huxley 1984; see also Smith this volume and Allen this volume); M ­ cConnel and Sharp focused mainly on the Gulf coast, and also travelled further afield in CYP (McConnel 1931, 1933, 1953; Sharp 1939; and see Rigsby 2005).



Regions without borders 

Unfortunately, most of the Laura Basin, including the now internationally known Quinkan area of the southern interior (see below), remained ethnographically avoided. Obviously anthropologists were deterred from heading west of Cooktown by p ­ erceptions that Aboriginal culture had been severely disturbed by the Palmer River goldrushes. However, McConnel’s (1936) remarks: “The eastern ‘civilised’ tableland and the western ‘primitive’ Gulf country are worlds apart” are very misleading, as Aboriginal people continued to live independently in the rugged uplands of the Laura Basin until the 1920s, and many stayed on country as cattle station workers (Cole 2010a; Cole et al. 2002; Trezise 1971). In island and coastal areas, the lugger industry provided Aboriginal people with a similar type of continuity (Chase 1978). Walter Roth’s reports (e.g. 1898, 1899, 1902,1909a, 1909b, 1910), collected when he was based in Cooktown as Northern Protector of Aborigines from 1898–1904, provide the most comprehensive ethnographic data for the Laura Basin (see also Langton, this volume). Percy Trezise’s records (Trezise 1969, 1971, 1993) provide important contextual information on rock art, thanks to the contributions of local Aboriginal men who accompanied him on fieldwork around Laura and Cooktown in the 1960s. Archaeology has driven rock art research in the Laura Basin since the 1960s. While the main focus has been the chronology of Aboriginal occupation (see Table 1 below) and the distribution and antiquity of rock art (e.g. Cole 1995; Cole et al. 1995; Flood and Horsfall 1986; Morwood and Hobbs 1995a, 1995b; Rosenfeld et al. 1981; Trezise 1971; Walsh 1984, 1985), much attention has also been given to stylistic variation. For example Flood (1987) identified differences between the Koolburra Plateau and Laura art bodies, and Walsh (1988:146) described PCB as “a discrete and identifiable art region”. David and Chant (1995) and David and Cole (1993) identified differences between a predominantly figurative mid to late Holocene rock painting tradition north of the Mitchell River (at the base of CYP) and a predominantly non-figurative style to the south. Although Morwood (2002: 275) did not discuss particular discontinuities he attributed a “regionally distinctive Quinkan rock painting tradition” to a trend of increased cultural and territorial differentiation connected to environmental, demographic, technological and social changes from mid-to-late Holocene times (Morwood and Hobbs 1995a, 1995b; and see David and Chant 1995). Notably, throughout the literature, the area and limits of the variously named “Quinkan/Laura/Laura Cooktown region” are vaguely or inconsistently defined (e.g. see Cole and Buhrich 2012; Morwood 1995; Rosenfeld 1981; Trezise 1977; Ucko 1983). As well, comparisons with Laura/Quinkan art (e.g. David and Chant 1995; Flood 1987) were often based on a small sample of data from that area.

 Noelene Cole

Table 1.  Initial Aboriginal occupation of archaeologically excavated sites of the Laura Basin (sources Beaton 1985; Flood and Horsfall 1986; Morwood and Hobbs 1995a, 1995b; Morwood and L ’Oste-Brown 1995; Morwood et al. 1995; Wright 1971) 1 LATE PLEISTOCENE 100 paintings, indicating a rich and concentrated body of rock art. Paintings predominate, stencils are relatively infrequent, and no engravings have been recorded. Local Aboriginal people identified the motjala (moth or butterfly, probably in Flinders Island language; see also Sutton this volume), as well as human figures, fish,

 Noelene Cole

sea cucumbers, jellyfish, cassowary, cassowary track and trepang cutters (boats) (Hale and Tindale 1934). Walsh (1988: 146) named the motjala and an associated “elongated torso zoomorphic figure” as the most dominant motifs in island and mainland sites, and identified white dotted outlines and double barred infill style of boats and other motifs, as typical of the most recent art phase. David (1994) identified a homogeneous body of figurative art with minor spatial variations such as increased focus on marine motifs in the islands. While Table 3 indicates some overlap of painted motif types with other areas of the Laura Basin, those of PCB tend to have distinctive stylistic features such as dotted outlines. A diverse corpus of marine fauna reflects the specialised interests of saltwater people, and moth motifs are unique. The life size and super size figures, ordered arrangements and complex superimpositions of the Laura region are absent, although there are patterned juxtapositions between moth motifs and the zoomorphic figures. Mainland PCB is separated from the south Laura Basin by the Normanby lowlands. To the south-east is a coastal plain interrupted by the granite Melville Range and an outlier of the Deighton Tableland, the Altanmoui Ranges (Commonwealth of Australia 1962). The latter area has not been systematically surveyed for rock art. As noted by David and Chant (1995), stylistic differences at Cape Melville and Howick Island were based on minimal records (three sites and 11 paintings).

4.  Normanby and upper Endeavour Rivers Rock art in the Cooktown hinterland including around the Endeavour River and ­middle Normanby River (E/N in the tables), consists mainly of paintings and ­stencils. However, engravings (mainly pits) have been recorded in several Normanby River rock art sites, and an as yet unrecorded river bed site contains a suite of non-figurative engravings. Recently, a small corpus of rock art (including a cluster of engraved pits) has been reported in two isolated areas of limestone karst east of the Normanby River (Tim Hughes pers. comm). The painting assemblage has the characteristic arrangements, forms and superimpositions of Laura/Quinkan art. Although the range of motifs is lower, it includes Quinkan-like spirit figures (see below in Section 5) and elaborate head-dress figures (e.g. see Trezise 1971 for Bull Creek and Gordon with Bennett n.d. for sites near Hope Vale) as well as coastal subjects such as saltwater turtle, boats and bêche de mer. The area has a corpus of finely painted x-ray style figures, mainly of fish, tortoise and crocodile with internal organs and bones depicted. These appear to be of relatively recent origin, although Trezise (1993) noted other apparently older examples.



Regions without borders 

5.  The Laura/Quinkan area The area centred around the Deighton and Laura River catchments is named for its unique assemblage of “Quinkans” which represent ancestral spirits who live in the sandstone rocks, take many forms and have different names such as Imjim, Timara and Anurra (George et al. 1995). Although the various recorded localities contain distinctive rock art complexes (e.g. see Trezise 1993) the overall trend in rock art style is one of substantial homogeneity (see Tables 3–4).

5.1  Localities Deighton River escarpments (DR in the tables) contain major rock art complexes including Deighton Lady (see Trezise 1993) and the unique Blue Figures, which features use of a rare, natural blue pigment (Cole and Watchman 1993). Deighton River rock art consists mainly of paintings, usually in association with stencils. Motif repertoires follow the adjacent Laura Deighton plateau (see Table 3). The Laura Deighton plateau (LD in the tables) is dissected by various small, ephemeral creeks including Ginger, Dillybag and Stone Axe Creeks (see Rosenfeld et al. 1981). Most of the rock art sites are located on these small watersheds and/or near permanent springs. Major sites such as Dillybag and Early Man shelters each contain several hundred motifs and most of the standard painting repertoire for the Quinkan area. The Laura River (LR in the tables) incises the south Laura Basin to form a wide valley with tall, fringing escarpments. The abundant rockshelters of this rich, riverine environment contain a large and diverse assemblage of rock art (see Tables 2–4). Major site complexes such as Giant Horse and The Quinkans are located on escarpments, others such as Mushroom Rock lie on the sandplain or, like Split Rock, are located within outlying boulders on river terraces. An extensive pavement engraving site on the bed of the Laura River is exposed only in the dry season. The Little Laura and Mosman Rivers (LL/M in the tables) incise the s­ outhwestern plateau, and enter the Laura River from the west. Rock art is prolific around the ­Mosman gorge and around headwater creeks of the Little Laura which are fed by sandstone aquifers. For example some 60 sites were recorded near the confluence of Brady and Shepherd Creeks (Cole 1988). Large site complexes include Magnificent, Giant Wallaroo and Sandy Creek; the Ampitheatre includes an extensive open air assemblage of figurative engravings (see Cole and Trezise 1992). The range of techniques and motifs follows the Laura River and Laura Deighton plateau (see Tables 2–4). These trends appear to extend to the Little Kennedy and St George Rivers (LK/S in the tables; see Tables 2–5), although the range of paintings in the latter area is ­significantly smaller.

 Noelene Cole

5.2  Overview Laura/Quinkan rock art style is defined by the assemblages of the Deighton and Laura catchments. It is characterised by a diverse assemblage of colourful, often life size or “super size” figurative paintings (of anthropomorphs, terrestrial and aquatic animals, plants, tracks and material culture), many different types of stencils (in white, red and yellow) and a large corpus of engravings (pecked, pounded, chiselled, ground or bruised motifs) in figurative and non-figurative style. Ancient, deeply weathered engravings coexist with paintings, an aspect of stylistic heterogeneity which reflects the retention of ancient features (see Cole 2010a). Other key features include formal, hieratic arrangements, repeated juxtapositions and layered superimpositions which convey a sense of order and continuity. The most frequently occurring motifs are anthropomorphs which include Quinkan figures with supernatural features such as distorted bodies, enlarged ears and genitals (see Cole 1992; George et al. 1995). Local concentrations of stencils (small islands of style) are likely to reflect the specialised functions of stencils (Rosenfeld 1997; and see Cole and Watchman 1996).

6.  Th  e western margins: Kennedy and Hann Rivers and the Koolburra Plateau 6.1  Localities The rugged terrain of the Laura River catchments changes to more moderate relief at the western margins of the sandstones where three localities of rock art have been studied by archaeologists. These include a series of sites located along a low escarpment west of the junction of the St George and Kennedy Rivers (see Rosenfeld et al. 1981 who called the sites “St George River shelters”; see also Woolston and Trezise 1969). All of the main rock art techniques are present, but engravings predominate (see Table 2). The diverse engraving assemblage (see Table 4) includes a remarkable composition of c.40 boomerang motifs which cover an area of sloping bedrock. Stencils, usually hands, have a high frequency, and painting is a minority technique. The Desert is a low sandstone plateau between the Laura and Carpentaria Basins, a watershed of the east flowing Hann and Morehead and the west flowing Alice, King and Coleman Rivers. A distinctive corpus of rock art occurs on the edge of The Desert at Jungle Creek, a headwater of the Hann River. It features the frequent use of the combined technique of painted engraving which involves the application of coloured outlines and/or infill to engraved motifs (Cole and Musgrave 2006). The technique is evident in several of the many (c. 60) boomerangs engraved on the sloping ceiling of Hann 1 rockshelter, and in some of the strange male anthropomorphs which occur in



Regions without borders 

Jungle Creek sites, and extend to Paradise Creek, another headwater of the Hann River (see Trezise 1971). Josephine Flood (1987) recorded 163 rock art sites on the Koolburra Plateau (K in the tables), an isolated landform of 452 km located between the Kennedy and Hann Rivers. All of the main techniques occur, with stencils (mainly hands) predominating (see Table 2). The range of pigment art motifs includes a large corpus of part-animal, part-human figures which Flood (1987:120) labelled as therianthropes or “Echidna People”. Trezise (1987) considered these to be not unlike the male anthropomorphs of the upper Hann (see above). Although there is some overlap of engraved motif types in Koolburra, Hann and Kennedy River sites (see Table 4), engraved boomerangs have not been recorded at Koolburra.

6.2  Overview Rock art of the western margins (WM in the tables) is characterised by a low proportion of paintings compared with adjacent localities of the Quinkan area (see Table 2). Although motifs follow the Laura/Quinkan repertoire (see Table 3), the apparent absence of key motifs such as macropod and flying fox is a significant departure. The mix of figurative and non-figurative engravings connects with Quinkan style, but the assemblages of painted engravings and massed boomerangs and the types of figurative engravings (boomerangs, fish, yam and rainbow serpent) are distinctive. Although a small, scattered assemblage of Echidna People occurs in the Laura catchments, these figures and their close relatives appear to be emblematic of the western margins. Apparently they extend also to the King River on the Palmer River catchment (Trezise n.d.).

7.  Rock art and its relationships “In Cape York Peninsula the key idea that binds people, the biota and geography into one is that of ‘Story’. Stories are things that people tell or dance or paint, but they are also dramas in which people themselves belong. A clan’s totems are its stories. Powerful places are Story Places” (Sutton 2011). The Stories are the spirits, the ancestors or the Old People who made and named the landscape and all its features, and placed the clans and their languages on the land (Rigsby 1999). Rock paintings and rock art places are Stories where the Old People still live (G. Musgrave p.c. 2000). These are some of the metaphysical concepts which have shaped the cultural structure of rock art – its location and style. While detailed mapping of style is beyond the scope of this study, the general patterns identified here confirm that Laura Basin rock

 Noelene Cole

art, like totemic systems, functioned as a symbol of cultural identity. For example, the clustering of spirit figures in the landscape (e.g. Quinkans in the Laura/Quinkan area, see George et al. 1995; Echidna People at the western margins and crescent headed figures at PCB) point to important regional and/or local Stories. While some patterns in the distribution of faunal subjects (e.g. marine fauna on the islands) reflect broad-scale environmental interests evident in totemic systems (see McConnel 1936 and Sutton 2011), most patterns such as the limited selection of faunal motifs at the western margins, appear to reflect ideology rather than natural distributions. There is potential to conduct a more fine-grained investigation of spatial relationships of motif categories, for example types of fauna which have ethnographically documented cultural associations (e.g. see George et al. 1995; Roth 1909a; Rigsby 2002; Trezise 1971). However, a complicating factor in unravelling such relationships is the intricate nature of the territorial system which involved complex tiers of primary and secondary land rights and different options of land use (see Sutton and Rigsby 1982; Rigsby 1980a, 1980b).

7. 1  Continuity In this study, synchronic patterns in rock art have been identified by comparing patterns in key diagnostic elements. However in preferencing particular attributes and their differences, more subtle features such as strands of continuity can be overlooked. The selection of colour (usually sourced from local earth pigments) is remarkably consistent (see Table 5), as is the array of form (all areas contain a combination of monochromes and bichromes). All have examples of superimpositioning (overlapping or direct overlaying) of motifs, a practice which is most pronounced in the Quinkan area. As shown in Table 3, figurativeness in the painting technique is pervasive, a feature which extends to north-east Queensland more generally. Realisations of faunal and spirit figures can be local or regional, but the general array is a metaphor for the wider cultural system – many Stories and group identities with an underlying shared ontology. Shared traits in rock art suggest that diversification did not preclude sharing and/ or transmission of ideas, and in many respects the interactions documented for southeast CYP reflect a relatively open social network (see Keen 1997) involving multiple cultural groups and connections (see Alpher this volume, Sutton this volume; Rigsby 2005). Most of the Laura Basin falls within distances of 30 km to 190 km customarily travelled by individuals in “forested, hilly or coastal settings” or within 110 km for ‘intergroup activities” (Mulvaney 1976: 78), and widespread connections through kinship, language, ceremony, trade and exchange, mythology, customary travel and conflict are documented (see Roth 1898, 1909a, 1909b, 1910; see also Anderson and Robins 1988; Chase 1980; Chase and Sutton 1987; David and Cole 1993; Rigsby 1997; Sharp 1939). Alpher (this volume) has identified links between languages located



Regions without borders 

south and west of PCB, and has also flagged possible similarities between these and neighbouring languages including Kuku Yalanji, Guugu Yimithirr, Kuku Warra, Umbuygamu and Flinders Island languages. Should such connections be supported by further study, it may be possible to compare them with patterns of spatial continuity in Laura Basin rock art.  Trezise (1969; and see Cole 2011) indicated that mythical narratives could be shared across the region’s different language groups, although each version contained its own culturally specific details. As in other parts of Australia, the actions and epic journeys of ancestral beings connect people and places within and outside the region. For example in Kuku Yalanji and Kuku Warra stories recorded by Trezise (1969) the rainbow serpent headed north from the Palmer River en route to Barrow Point, creating waterholes and other land features and encountering various groups of ancestral people along the way (Trezise 1969: 66–69). The journey is echoed in a Kuku ­Thaypan story which relates how the rainbow serpent travelled from the south creating large waterholes on the Laura River and further north at Fairview (Tommy George p.c.). McConnel (1933) identified a Kuku Yalanji myth reflecting conflict relationships between neighbouring groups, as in “the old hostility between the Kokowara of the hill country, who periodically raided the Koko-yalaunu and stole their wives” (­McConnel 1933: 108).

7.2  Zones of rock art CYP has a disproportionately long coastline, and its people tended to consider themselves as either sandbeach (saltwater) or inland people (Beaton 1985; Chase 1980; Chase and Sutton 1987; G. Musgrave pers.com.). The dugong and turtle hunters of PCB undertook long sea journeys to the islands and Great Barrier Reef (Rigsby and Chase 1998), and much of their rock art looks out to sea. Sutton and Rigsby (1979:714) noted that linguistic diversity is not always accompanied by cultural diversity, an example being the Princess Charlotte Bay area where people who speak “up to ten languages” saw each other as closely associated, coming together for ceremonial purposes and sharing distinctive cultural traits. Hale and Tindale (1933:67–68) noted that in PCB “Definite boundaries cannot be marked off by means of lines; if the map were coloured it would as a rule be necessary to run the colours unto one another in order to indicate the indefinite divisions between people”. Beaton (1985:3) noted that “Bathurst Head/Flinders Island people felt allied to people living along the coast from Stewart River to the north and to the Starcke River to the south. Associations with even the nearest inland neighbours appear to have been fewer” (see also Chase & Sutton 1981; Sutton this volume). This regional character is reflected in the coherence of PCB rock art, and in differences with rock art to the south and southeast. PCB rock art comprises a specialised system of pigment art practice anchored in the late Holocene.

 Noelene Cole

Coastal Aboriginal people such as the Guugu Yimithirr followed a relatively sedentary lifestyle in a varied set of resource-rich coastal and hinterland ecological zones (Anderson 1984). This is reflected in motifs which variously reference freshwater, terrestrial and occasionally marine habitats. However, these coastal and peri-coastal people maintained regular contact not only with each other, but also with more distant groups (Haviland 1979; McConnel 1933). With initial occupation occurring in the early Holocene and a focus on pigment art, the sharing of style might be explained in simple terms of cultural diffusion – an eastward spread of Laura/Quinkan traits. Although X-ray features are by no means confined to the Normanby River, they appear to be elaborated in that area, suggesting a local, possibly late Holocene development. Post contact motifs also suggest local preference, for example the different styles of the upper Endeavour ‘red horse’ and the ‘giant horse’ of the Laura River. The Laura/Quinkan zone, the largest area of homogenous art, occupies the heart of the sandstone tablelands and the greater part of the south Laura Basin. Its extent reflects the continuity of the landscape, larger territories and wide range of inland populations (Morwood 1995; Thomson 1972), and the social and conceptual links between people who shared similar environments (see Chase and Sutton 1987; Sutton and Rigsby 1979; Roth 1910: 18:3; Thomson 1972; Tindale 1974). The area is bisected by the Laura River, which as a major stream would have been an important travel corridor and place of social interaction (Qld Land Tribunal 1996). This is the only zone with a cultural record spanning the entire cultural sequence from the late Pleistocene, testimony to long entrenched and enduring art practice. It is therefore not surprising that Quinkan art is characterised by dense concentrations of sites and motifs, grand themes and scale and a broad and bold horizon of style. Although some clan territories and language varieties of the region (e.g the Thaypanic language complex and Kuku Warra, see Rigsby 2002, 2003; see also Alpher, this volume and Wood, this volume) are only partially mapped, the unity of Quinkan rock art style testifies to a cohesive, relatively wide-ranging social and territorial network of clans and land using groups with related languages and shared identities. Signs of stylistic change appear at the Little Kennedy and St George Rivers and become more apparent around the Kennedy River and the western margins of the sandstones. The upper reaches of the Hann River lie in a geographic transition zone between the Laura and Carpentaria Basins, a situation which may help explain divergence from Quinkan style (and see Flood 1987 who raises this issue with regard to Koolburra). Certainly, cultural networks in and around The Desert appear to have been fluid and multidirectional, and Roth’s (1899) map shows the widespread travels of various groups including the so-called “Kokomini” who formed a means of communication with the Gulf coast (Roth 1910). Joe Musgrave (Kuku Thaypan) and Willy Long (Olkola) told Trezise (1993:90) that The Desert plateau was “shared by Tomahawk, Possum and Snake language ­people,



Regions without borders 

who lived along various rivers emanating from it”. Willy Long used to visit the area to hunt “with the Tomahawk people, who owned this part of the country” (Roughsey 1977: 158). “Tommyhawk” (Agu Adhaw or Uw Olem) was one of the original Palmer and Mitchell River languages (Rigsby 2003). Kuku-Thaypan speaker George Musgrave (p.c.1994) has described the upper Hann area as “border country” between inland and coastal people. While there are a few strands of continuity with Quinkan art, many attributes of western margins rock art link with areas to the west and southwest. For example the emphasis on stencils and engravings connects with rock art at Agate Creek (Cole 1989), the Gregory Range (Gorecki et al. 1995) and Flinders River (Morwood 1992, 2002). The painted engraving technique has been reported from Lawn Hill and western Queensland across to Dampier (Franklin 1996; Walsh 1988), and the boomerang motif appears to have western connections (Cole 1998). Apart from a lack of emphasis on painting, the antithesis of coastal art style, internal homogeneity is less than in other rock art precincts of the Laura Basin. However, as parts of the area have not been systematically surveyed, further field research is required to clarify the character and relationships of rock art at the western margins.

7.3  Boundaries and transitions According to Roth (1910:18:1): “The limits of the different tracts of country are of course invariably natural: a mountain range, desert, plain, forest, scrub, coastline or river”. However, Sutton (1978, cited by Keen 1997: 270) found that social networks could cut across natural barriers such as rivers and salt plains. The differential distribution of rock art style in the Laura Basin suggests that cultural distinctions follow natural “boundaries” in a selective way. Although the distribution of rock art has clear associations with rivers, its style sometimes transcends river systems and parts of river systems, as at the eastern and western margins of the sandstones. Trezise’s records (1971, 1993) suggest that a similar transitional pattern may occur at the southern limits, around Palmer watersheds. Trends south of PCB have yet to be determined.

8.  Conclusions: Regions without borders General patterns in rock art style which have emerged since the formation of CYP can be correlated with archaeological and cultural models and their natural landscape contexts. The different character of rock art in the PCB, Laura/Quinkan area and marginal precincts of the south Laura Basin appears to reflect the development of distinctive cultural identities within these island, coastal and inland environments. A sign of the unfolding regional scenario is the parallel, not necessarily simultaneous, development

 Noelene Cole

of innovative iconography – unique anthropomorphs and zoomorphs, elaborate x-ray style paintings, figurative engravings, new types of non-figurative engravings – to mark these different precincts and their Stories. The study also suggests that division of this vast cultural landscape into rock art “regions” obscures underlying layers of order and relatedness. Clinal trends in techniques and motifs intensify east and west of the Quinkan area. However the style edges can be diffuse rather than abrupt, involving transitions and interactions rather than closed systems and boundaries. These trends are enmeshed in a multi-layered temporal scenario in which different localities (and sites) were not initially settled in unison. As modelling of Aboriginal cultural organisation in southern CYP indicates a dynamic and interwoven system of territorial and social distinctions, languages, cultural identities and relationships, the recent cultural contexts of rock art are complex. With a range of factors potentially influencing rock art style e.g. temporality, cultural identity and social dynamics, rock type, taphonomy, function and individual choices (see Bahn and Lorblanchet 1993; Bednarik 1994; McDonald and Veth 2012; Officer 1992; Rosenfeld 1997; Tacon 1993), a holistic model for the development of Laura Basin rock art style would take into account the possibility of multiple origins. Further field survey, cultural mapping and synchronic and diachronic research are required to refine our understanding of the complex history and articulation of rock art style in the Laura Basin.

References Anderson, Chris. 1984. The Political and Economic Basis of Kuku-Yalanji Social History. Ph.D. Dissertation. University of Queensland. Anderson, Chris & Richard Robins. 1988. Dismissed due to lack of evidence? Kuku-Yalanji sites and the archaeological record. In Betty Meehan & Rhys Jones, eds. Archaeology with Ethnography: An Australian Perspective. Canberra: Australian National University. 152–205. Bahn, Paul & Michel Lorblanchet. 1993. Introduction. In Paul Bahn & Michel Lorblanchet, eds. Rock Art Studies: The Post-Stylistic Era or Where Do We Go From Here? Oxford: Oxbow. v–viii. Beaton, John. 1985. Evidence for coastal occupation time-lag at Princess Charlotte Bay, Queensland) and implications for coastal colonisation and population growth theories for Aboriginal Australia. Archaeology in Oceania 20: 1–20. doi: 10.1002/j.1834-4453.1985.tb00096.x Bednarik, Robert. 1994. A taphonomy of palaeoart. Antiquity 68: 68–74. Brady, Liam & John Bradley. 2014. Images of relatedness: patterning an cultural contexts in Yanyuwa rock art, Sir Edward Pellew Islands, SW Gulf of Carpentaia, northern Australia. Rock Art Research 31: 157–176. Chase, Athol. 1978. Between land and sea: Aboriginal coastal groups in Cape York Peninsula. In Papers and Proceedings of a Workshop on the Northern Sector of the Great Barrier Reef. Townsville: The Great Barrier Marine Park Authority. 159–178.



Regions without borders 

Chase, Athol. 1980. Cultural continuity: land and resources among east coast Cape York Aborigines. In Neville Stevens & Alan Bailey, eds. Contemporary Cape York Peninsula. Brisbane: Royal Society of Queensland. Chase, Athol & Peter Sutton. 1981. Hunter-gatherers in a rich environment: Aboriginal coastal exploitation in Cape York Peninsula. In Allen Keast, ed. Ecological Biogeography of Australia. The Hague: W. Junk. 1819–1852. Chase, Athol & Peter Sutton. 1987. Australian Aborigines in a rich environment. In William Edwards, ed. Traditional Aboriginal Society. South Melbourne: Macmillan. 68–95. Chase, Athol, Peter Sutton, Michel Lorblanchet & Robert Layton. 1975. Flinders Islands expedition. Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies Newsletter 3: 34–37. Cole, Noelene. 1988. The Rock Art of Jowalbinna. BA (Hons) thesis, James Cook University. Cole, Noelene. 1989. Rock art of Agate Creek. Report to Qld Department of Environment and Heritage. Cole, Noelene. 1992. Human figures in the rock art of Jowalbinna. In Jo McDonald & Ivan Haskovic, eds. State of the Art: Regional Rock Art Studies in Australia and Melanesia. Melbourne: Australian Rock Art Research Association. 164–173. Cole, Noelene. 1995. Rock art in the Laura-Cooktown region, S.E. Cape York Peninsula. In Mike Morwood & Douglas Hobbs, eds. Quinkan Prehistory: The Archaeology of Aboriginal Art in S.E. Cape York Peninsula. St Lucia: University of Queensland. 51–70. Cole, Noelene. 1998. Eel and Boomerang: An Archaeological Study of Stylistic Order and Variation in Aboriginal Rock Art of the Laura Sandstone Basin. Ph.D. Dissertation, James Cook University. Cole, Noelene. 2010a. Ancient art and modern Australians – continuity in the Laura art system, Cape York Peninsula. Proceedings of the Conference of the International Federation of Rock Art Organisations. 1023–1036. Cole, Noelene. 2010b. Painting the police: Aboriginal visual culture and identity in colonial Cape York Peninsula. Australian Archaeology 71: 17–28. Cole, Noelene. 2011. Rock paintings are Stories: rock art and ethnography in the Laura region, Cape York Peninsula. Rock Art Research 28: 107–116. Cole, Noelene & Alice Buhrich. 2012. Endangered rock art: 40 years of management in the Quinkan region, Cape York Peninsula. Australian Archaeology 75: 66–77. Cole. Noelene & Bruno David. 1992. “Curious drawings at Cape York Peninsula”: An account of the rock art of the Cape York Peninsula region of north-eastern Australia and an overview of some regional characteristics. Rock Art Research 9: 3–26. Cole, Noelene & George Musgrave. 2006. Colouring stone: Examining categories in rock art. Rock Art Research 23: 51–58. Cole, Noelene, George Musgrave, Laura George & Danny Banjo. 2002. Community archaeology at Laura. In Sean Ulm, Catherine Westcott, Jill Reid, Anne Ross, Ian Lilley, Jonathan Prangnell & Luke Kirkwood, eds. Barriers, Borders, Boundaries: Proceedings of the 2001 Australian Archaeological Association Annual Conference. St Lucia: University of Queensland. 137–150. Cole, Noelene & Percy Trezise. 1992. Laura engravings: a preliminary report on the Ampitheatre site. In Jo McDonald & Ivan Haskovic, eds. State of the Art: Regional Rock Art Studies in Australia and Melanesia. Melbourne: Australian Rock Art Research Association. 83–88. Cole, Noelene & Alan Watchman. 1993. Blue paints in prehistory. Rock Art Research 10: 59–61. Cole, Noelene & Alan Watchman. 1996. Archaeology of white hand stencils of the Laura region, North Queensland, Australia. Techne: La science au service de l’histoire de l’art et des civilisations. Paris : Laboratoire de Recherche des Musées de France. 82–90.

 Noelene Cole Cole, Noelene & Alan Watchman. 2005. AMS Dating of Aboriginal rock art in the Laura region, Cape York Peninsula: protocols and results of recent research. Antiquity 79: 661–678. Cole, Noelene, Alan Watchman & Mike Morwood. 1995. Chronology of Laura Rock Art. In Mike Morwood & Douglas Hobbs, eds. Quinkan Prehistory: The Archaeology of Aboriginal Art in S.E. Cape York Peninsula. St Lucia: University of Queensland. 147–160. Commonwealth of Australia. 1962. Dept. of National Development. Bureau of Mineral Resources and Geology and Geophysics. Cape Melville 1:250 000 map. Notes. Cook, Ben, Mark Kennard, Doug Ward & Brad Pusey. 2011. The Hydroecological Natural Heritage Story of Cape York Peninsula. An assessment of natural heritage values of waterdependent ecosystems, aquatic biodiversity and hydroecological processes. Retrieved 6 August 2014 from: 〈http://www.ehp.qld.gov.au/cape-york/pdf/cyp-hydroecology.pdf〉. David, Bruno. 1994. A Space Time Odyssey: Rock Art and Regionalisation in North Queensland. PhD Dissertation, University of Queensland. David, Bruno & David Chant. 1995. Rock art and regionalisation in north Queensland prehistory. Memoirs of the Queensland Museum 37: 358–528. David, Bruno & Noelene Cole. 1993. Rock art and inter-regional interaction in Cape York Peninsula. Antiquity 64: 788–806. Dixon, Joan & Linda Huxley. 1985. Donald Thomson’s Mammals and Fishes of Northern Australia. Melbourne: Nelson. Flood, Josephine. 1987. Rock art of the Koolburra Plateau. Rock Art Research 4: 91–126. Flood, Josephine & Nicky Horsfall. 1986. Excavation of Green Ant and Echidna Shelters, Cape York Peninsula. Queensland Archaeological Research 3: 4–61. Franklin, Nathalie. 1996. An analysis of rock engravings in the Mt Isa region, northwest Queensland. In Peter Veth & Peter Hiscock, eds. Archaeology of Northern Australia: Regional Perspectives. St Lucia: University of Queensland. 137–149. George, Tommy, George Musgrave & the Ang-Gnarra Rangers. 1995. Our Country Our Art Our Quinkans. Laura: Ang-Gnarra Aboriginal Corporation. Gordon, Willie with Judy Bennett. n.d. Guurrrbi: My Special Place. Cooktown: Guurrbi Tours. Gorecki, Paul, Miranda Grant & Matthew Salmon. 1995. Rock art from the Gregory Range, Gulf of Carpentaria. In Sean Ulm, Ian Lilley & Anne Ross, eds. Australian Archaeology ‘95. Proceedings of the 1995 Australian Archaeological Association Annual Conference. St Lucia: University of Queensland. 219–225. Gunn, Robert. 2011. Eastern Arrente rock art and land tenure. Rock Art Research 28: 225–239. Hale, Herbert & Norman Tindale. 1933. Aborigines of Princess Charlotte Bay, north Queensland. Records of the South Australian Museum 5: 63–116. Hale, Herbert & Norman Tindale. 1934. Aborigines of Princess Charlotte Bay, north Queensland. Records of the South Australian Museum 5: 117–172. Haviland, John. 1979. Guugu Yimidhirr. In R.M.W. Dixon & Barry Blake, eds. Handbook of Australian Languages. Volume 1. Canberra: Australian National University Press. 27–180. Keen, Ian. 1997. A continent of foragers: Aboriginal Australia as a ‘regional system’. In Patrick McConvell & Nick Evans, eds. Archaeology and Linguistics. Aboriginal Australia in Global Perspective. Melbourne: Oxford University Press. 261–274. King, Philip Parker. 1827. Narrative of a Survey of the Inter-tropical and Western Coasts of Australia Performed between the Years of 1818 and 1822. London: Murray. McConnel, Ursula. 1931. A moon legend from the Bloomfield River, North Queensland. Oceania 2: 9–25.  doi: 10.1002/j.1834-4461.1931.tb00020.x



Regions without borders 

McConnel, Ursula. 1933. The symbol in legend. Psyche 13: 94–137. McConnel, Ursula. 1936. Cape York Peninsula (1) The civilised foreground. Walkabout 2: 17–20. McConnel, Ursula. 1953. Native arts and industries on the Archer, Kendall and Holroyd Rivers, Cape York Peninsula. Records of the South Australian Museum 11: 1–39. McDonald, Jo. 2008. Dreamtime Superhighway: Sydney Basin Rock Art and Prehistoric Information Exchange. Canberra: ANU Press. McDonald, Jo & Peter Veth. 2012. The social dynamics of aggregation and dispersal in the Western Desert. In Jo McDonald & Peter Veth, eds. A Companion to Rock Art. Oxford: Blackwell. 90–102.  doi: 10.1002/9781118253892.ch6 Mathews, Robert Hamilton. 1898. Aboriginal customs in North Queensland. Proceedings of the Royal Society of Queensland 13: 33–37. Morwood, Mike. 1992. Changing art in a changing landscape: a case study from the upper Flinders region of the North Queensland Highlands. In Jo McDonald & Ivan Haskovic, eds. State of the Art: Regional Rock Art Studies in Australia and Melanesia. Melbourne: Australian Rock Art Research Association. Morwood, Mike. 1995. The archaeology of Quinkan rock art. In Mike Morwood & Douglas Hobbs, eds. Quinkan Prehistory: The Archaeology of Aboriginal Art in S.E. Cape York Peninsula. St Lucia: University of Queensland. 1–4. Morwood, Mike, Douglas Hobbs & David Price. 1995. Excavations at Sandy Creek 1 and 2. In Mike Morwood & Douglas Hobbs, eds. Quinkan Prehistory: The Archaeology of Aboriginal Art in S.E. Cape York Peninsula. St Lucia: University of Queensland. 71–91. Morwood, Mike. 2002. Visions of the Past. The Archaeology of Australian Aboriginal Art. Crows Nest: Allen and Unwin. Morwood, Mike & Douglas Hobbs, eds. 1995a. Quinkan Prehistory: The Archaeology of Aboriginal Art in S.E. Cape York Peninsula. St Lucia: University of Queensland. Morwood, Mike & Douglas Hobbs. 1995b. Themes in the prehistory of tropical Australia. Antiquity 69: 747–768. Mulvaney, Derek John. 1976. Chains of connection. In Nicolas Peterson, ed. Tribes and Boundaries in Australia. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 79–94. Officer, K. 1992. The edge of sandstone: style boundaries and islands in south-eastern New South Wales. In Jo McDonald & Ivan Haskovic, eds. State of the Art: Regional Rock Art Studies in Australia and Melanesia. Melbourne: Australian Rock Art Research Association. 6–14. Qld Land Tribunal. 1996. Aboriginal Land Claim to Lakefield National Park. Rigsby, Bruce. 1980a. The language situation on Cape York Peninsula: past, present and future. In Judith Wright, Napier Mitchell & Pamela Watling, eds. Reef Rainforest Mangroves Man. Cairns: Wildlife Preservation Society. 5–7. Rigsby, Bruce. 1980b. Land, language and people in the Princess Charlotte Bay area. In Neville Stevens & Alan Bailey, eds. Contemporary Cape York Peninsula. Brisbane: Royal Society of Queensland. 89–94. Rigsby, Bruce. 1997. Structural parallelism and convergence in the Princess Charlotte Bay languages. In Patrick McConvell & Nicholas Evans, eds. Archaeology and Linguistics. Aboriginal Australia in Global Perspective. Melbourne: Oxford University Press. 169–178. Rigsby, Bruce. 1999. Aboriginal people, spirituality and the traditional ownership of land. International Journal of Social Economics 26: 963–973.  doi: 10.1108/03068299910245741 Rigsby, Bruce. 2002. Kuku Thaypan, Introduction (draft m/s provided to the author).

 Noelene Cole Rigsby, Bruce. 2003. The Languages of the Quinkan and Neighbouring region. Unpublished report to the Quinkan and Regional Interpretive Centre, Laura. Rigsby, Bruce. 2005. The languages of eastern Cape York Peninsula and linguistic anthropology. In Bruce Rigsby & Nicolas Peterson, eds. Donald Thomson: The Man and Scholar. Canberra: Academy of Social Sciences. 129–142. Rigsby, Bruce & Athol Chase. 1998. The sandbeach people and dugong hunters of Eastern Cape York Peninsula: Property in land and sea country. In Nicolas Peterson & Bruce Rigsby, eds. 1998. Customary Marine Tenure in Australia. Sydney: University of Sydney. 192–218. Rosenfeld, Andrée. 1981. Quinkan Country. In David Yencken, ed. The Heritage of Australia: The Illustrated Register of the National Estate. South Melbourne: Macmillan Australia. 87–90. Rosenfeld, Andrée. 1982. Style and meaning in Laura rock art: a case study in the formal analysis of style in prehistoric rock art. Mankind 13: 199–217. Rosenfeld, Andrée. 1997. Archaeological signatures of the social context of rock art production. In Margaret Conkey, Olga Soffer, Deborah Stratmann & Nina Jablonski, eds. Beyond Art: Pleistocene Image and Symbol. Berkeley: University of California Press. 289–300. Rosenfeld, Andrée, David Horton & John Winter 1981. Early Man in North Queensland. Canberra: Australian National University. Roth, Walter Edmund. 1898. On the Aboriginals occupying the ‘Hinterland’ of Princess Charlotte Bay, together with a preface containing suggestions for their better protection and improvement. Report to the Commissioner of Police. Cooktown. Roth, Walter Edmund. 1899. An account of the Koko-Minni Aboriginal occupying the country drained by the (Middle) Palmer River. Report to the Commissioner of Police, May 12, 1899. Roth, Walter Edmund. 1902. Games, sports and amusements. North Queensland Ethnography: Records of the Australian Museum, Sydney. Roth, Walter Edmund. 1909a. Fighting weapons. Bulletin 13. North Queensland Ethnography: Records of the Australian Museum, Sydney. Roth, Walter Edmund. 1909b. Transport and trade. Bulletin 14. North Queensland Ethnography: Records of the Australian Museum, Sydney. Roth, Walter Edmund. 1910. Social and Individual nomenclature. Bulletin 18. North Queensland Ethnography: Records of the Australian Museum, Sydney. Roughsey, Dick. 1977. Moon and Rainbow: The Autobiography of an Aboriginal. Adelaide: Rigby. Sharp, Lauriston. 1939. Tribes and totemism in north-east Australia. Oceania 9: 254–75; 439–61. doi: 10.1002/j.1834-4461.1939.tb00232.x Sutton, Peter. 1978. Wik. Aboriginal Society, Territory and Language at Cape Keerweer, Cape York Peninsula. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Queensland. Sutton, Peter. 2011. Cape York Peninsula Indigenous Cultural Story: preliminary outline. Retrieved 1 September 2014 from: 〈http://www.ehp.qld.gov.au/cape-york/pdf/cyp-indigculture.pdf〉. Peter Sutton & Bruce Rigsby. 1979. Speech communities and social networks on Cape York Peninsula. In Stephen Wurm, ed. Australian Linguistic Studies. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. 713–732. Peter Sutton & Bruce Rigsby. 1982. People with politicks: management of land and personnel on Australia’s Cape York Peninsula. In Nancy Williams & Eugene Hunn, eds. Resource Managers: North American and Australian Hunter-Gatherers. Washington, D.C.: American Association for the Advancement of Science. 155–171.



Regions without borders 

Taçon, Paul. 1993. Regionalism in the recent rock art of western Arnhem Land, Northern ­Territory. Archaeology in Oceania 28: 112–120.  doi: 10.1002/j.1834-4453.1993.tb00302.x Thomson, Donald. 1933. The hero cult, initiation and totemism on Cape York Peninsula. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 63: 453–537. Thomson, Donald. 1972. Kinship and Behaviour in North Queensland. A Preliminary Account of Kinship and Social Organisation on Cape York Peninsula. Ed. By H.W. Scheffler. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. Tindale, Norman. 1974. Aboriginal Tribes of Australia. Canberra: Australian National University Press. Trezise, Percy. 1969. Quinkan Country. Sydney: Reed. Trezise, Percy. 1971. Rock Art of South-East Cape York Peninsula. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. Trezise, Percy. 1977. Representations of crocodiles in Laura art. In Peter Ucko, ed. Form in Indigenous art: Schematisation in the Art of Aboriginal Australia and Prehistoric Europe. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 325–336. Trezise, Percy. 1987. Comment on J. Flood. Rock Art Research 4: 124. Trezise, Percy. 1993. Dream Road: A Journey of Discovery. St Leonards: Allen and Unwin. Trezise, Percy. n. d. Unpublished records (duplicates of scaled field drawings held by the author). Ucko, Peter. 1983. The politics of the Indigenous minority. Journal of Biosocial Science 8: 25–40. doi: 10.1017/S0021932000024871 Walsh, Grahame. 1984. Archaeological significance of Flinders Island/Princess Charlotte Bay. Unpublished report to Qld. NPWS, Brisbane. Walsh, Grahame. 1985. Flinders Island Group Conservation Project. Unpublished report to Qld. NPWS, Brisbane. Walsh. Grahame. 1988. Australia’s Greatest Rock Art. Bathurst: E.J. Brill/Robert Brown Associates. Woolston, Frank & Percy Trezise. 1969. Petroglyphs of Cape York Peninsula. Mankind 7: 120–127. Wright, Richard. 1971. Prehistory in the Cape York Peninsula. In John Mulvaney & Jack Golson, eds. Aboriginal Man and Environment in Australia. Canberra: Australian National University Press. 133–140.

The Flinders Islands and Cape Melville people in history Peter Sutton

South Australian Museum This paper uses evidence from archaeology, early ethnographic reports and primary fieldwork to reconstruct the history and the classical social organization of the Flinders Islands and Cape Melville people, in the south-eastern coastal region of Cape York Peninsula. More generally, the paper also demonstrates the interdisciplinary methods used in ethnographic description, as they are used in various aspects of anthropological work, both fundamental (e.g. in establishing an ethnographic baseline for comparative or theoretical work) and applied (e.g. in native title work or other types of reports). These methods include not just traditional anthropological methods, but also philological, linguistic, historical and archaeological work.

1.  Introduction1 This paper uses evidence from archaeology, early ethnographic reports and primary fieldwork to reconstruct the history and the classical social organization of the

1.  I recall first meeting Bruce in Canberra in the early 1970s. It might have been the 1974 AIATSIS conference where we had a session on languages of Cape York Peninsula, at which various Cape Yorkists got together and presented our work (see Bruce’s and others’ papers in Sutton 1976a). Bruce and Barry Alpher were fooling around after dinner out on the pavement one night, and pulled each others’ little fingers, when Bruce released one of those famous eructations that later led to the Port Stewart people dubbing him Old Backfire. In 1975 I got to know Bruce better during team field work with Athol Chase, John von Sturmer and David Thompson as we mapped local peoples’ sites and countries and dialects and personal memories south from Lockhart to Port Stewart along the Barrier Reef shores of the eastern Cape (Chase 1984). I was there simply as a linguist, but this and previous joint work with anthropologists further south (Athol Chase, Bob Layton) had convinced me that in order to grasp the Aboriginal language world in its richness I needed to expand my knowledge and skills in the social sciences. Bruce was at that time the foremost senior academic in Australia who could offer supervision in anthropological linguistics, and I enrolled as his student in the Ph.D. programme at the University of Queensland 1975–78.

doi 10.1075/clu.18.05sut © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

 Peter Sutton

Flinders Islands and Cape Melville people, in the eastern coastal region of Cape York Peninsula.2 Sections 2 and 3 describe the earliest history of the area, as well as the history of contact with non-Aborigines. There is a long tradition of archaeological work in this region, because of the well-known rock art of the Flinders Island Group, which contributed to the reputation of eastern Cape York Peninsula as a spectacular rock art province (see also Cole, this volume). Due to its position on the coast, this region also experienced early contact with European explorers, starting with Philip Parker King’s visits in 1819, 1820 and 1821. Later contact became violent, mainly in the wake of the gold rushes in adjacent inland regions from 1870. Violence and involvement in marine industries led to depopulation, with the traditional clanship system adjusting by reallocating people to clan countries that were not their father’s (or their mother’s husbands’). Sections 4 and 5 deal with the reconstruction of the social and linguistic structure of the region. There is a long tradition of ethnographic work for this region, going back to Roth’s at the end of the 19th century, as well as a rich body of linguistic material. This body of work allows us to reconstruct not just the clan structure in great detail, with estates, clan names in several languages and clan-language mappings, but also larger regional groupings and their relations with each other. Overall, the paper relates this evidence to specific Flinders and Melville people and families, referring to them individually throughout. It demonstrates the importance of the knowledge and presence of contemporary individuals to the reconstruction of classical Aboriginal societies.

Bruce’s great strength as a supervisor lay in his compendious knowledge of the literature on everything relevant to my task and his freedom and generosity in sharing that knowledge and his field work-based knowledge of Cape York languages and people. Valuably, also, he brought a Boasian tradition rather than a British philological one to his complex perspective on the language-society-culture matrix, and introduced me to the most recent Americanbased work on language in society by people like Dell Hymes and Michael Silverstein. Our supervisor-student relationship developed into a long-term friendship and for many years we had almost daily conversations, principally by email, right up until Bruce’s stroke in 2014. These I now miss greatly. When my wife Annie and I moved to Brisbane for my studies with Bruce in 1975, he and Barbara kindly gave us home and unstinting hospitality for months as we searched for accommodation and settled in Brisbane, eventually finding a cottage a few streets from the Rigsby hacienda. Getting back to see them there from far away in the years since then always recalled the best things of the past of decades ago, as once again conversations have meandered engagingly between the wider scope of life, ideas, ideals, politics, partners, children and grandchildren, dogs and cooking (Barbara), and the freely shared, engrossed pursuit of the fabulous richness of the regional cultures and languages of Cape York Peninsula (Bruce). 2. 

For locations mentioned in the text, see the two general maps at the front of the volume.



The Flinders Islands and Cape Melville people in history 

Apart from reconstructing the historical, social and linguistic structure of a specific group of people, this paper also demonstrates the interdisciplinary methods of ethnographic description, as they are used in various aspects of anthropological work. This includes both fundamental work (e.g. establishing an ethnographic baseline for comparative or theoretical studies) as well as applied work (e.g. in native title work or other types of consultancy reports). As shown by this paper, these methods include not just traditional anthropological methods, but also philological, linguistic, historical and archaeological work.

2.  History 2.1  Archaeology The work of archaeologists and rock art specialists gives us some insight into the earliest evidence for human occupation and continuing traditions of rock art in the region (see also Cole, this volume). In 1979 and 1980, a team of archaeologists led by Dr John Beaton investigated some 200 Aboriginal archaeological sites on the Flinders Island Group and nearby at Bathurst Head (Beaton c.1980, 1985, Negerevich 1979). Carbon dating established that Walayimini (‘Walaeimini’) rock shelter at Bathurst Head was occupied from around 4700 years ago, and Alkaline Hill (between there and Marrett River) from about 3500 years ago. Between these two, the Aboriginal shell deposits at South Mound were dated to between 1700 and 1100 years ago. The Yindayin (‘Endaen’) rock shelter at Stanley Island was occupied from about 2500 years ago. Beaton believed there was a time-lag of some 1300 years between the stabilisation of the coastline at its present limits some 6000 years ago and the Aboriginal occupation of the area at about 4700 years ago, although the evidence for this is a matter of debate. Because of the rise in sea levels around 6000 years ago it is likely that older coastal or island archaeological sites are now destroyed or submerged by seawater. Later work at Mount Mulligan to the south has suggested a date older than 37000 years for Aboriginal occupation of the plateau there (Grainer et al. 1992, David 1998). Other archaeologists (Rosenfeld et al. 1981) have established a minimum date of 13000 years ago for the oldest rock engravings near Laura to the west of the region. It is unlikely that the Cape York Peninsula hinterland would have been occupied in such ancient times without the far richer coastline also being exploited by the earliest inhabitants. The rock art of the Flinders Group, Clack Island and Cape Melville region, and nearby sites such as those on Bathurst Head, has long been recorded and published. King (1827) includes an account of Alan Cunningham’s observations of the paintings at Clack Island in 1821. There were more than a hundred and fifty figures in the galleries Cunningham saw at that time. Coppinger (1883) records that he and

 Peter Sutton

two others sailed to Clack Island during their 1878–1882 voyage, specifically for the purpose of seeing the paintings reported by Cunningham. Roth (1899) visited Clack Island in 1899 and noted that many of the paintings were “still in good preservation, though evidence is not wanting that here and there, they have been ‘touched up’ and renovated by subsequent aboriginal visitors” (1899: 9). He commented on the motifs and media of the works and provided ink and water colour sketches of some of them. More detailed records of the rock art in the area, both at Stanley Island and Bathurst Head, were made by Norman Tindale in 1927 and later published (Hale & Tindale 1933–4). In 1974 Robert Layton and Michel Lorblanchet, rock art specialists from England and France respectively, accompanied Athol Chase and Peter Sutton, and local advisors Johnny and Bob Flinders and Bill McGreen on a mapping trip funded by the Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies (see further below). Layton and Lorblanchet made detailed tracings and photographic records of a large number of paintings at Bathurst Head, the Flinders Group and Cape Melville. Some of this work has been published in Layton (1992). Johnny Flinders had been one of the last Aboriginal people in eastern Australia to have painted on rock in a traditional way, and he was able to add much to what is now known about this spectacular rock art province. Archaeologists John Beaton and Tia Negerevich visited the Flinders Group and Bathurst Head rock art sites as part of their archaeological study of the area in 1979 (see above). Much more detailed research on the rock art was carried out by Grahame Walsh during a series of visits to the region in each of the years 1982–1986. Walsh lodged detailed unpublished government reports (Walsh 1984, 1988a) which contain historical material as well as detailed photographic and drawn records of the art and traditional burials. He also published some material utilising information from Johnny Flinders via Athol Chase (Walsh 1988b). The work of archaeologists Noelene Cole and Bruno David places the region into the context of a wider stylistic survey of the rock art of Cape York Peninsula (Cole & David 1992, Cole 2003). The Princess Charlotte Bay, Flinders Group and Cape Melville area has a distinctive visual tradition (see also Cole, this volume), as expressed in the rock art and also in the painted movable objects taken from the area in the past and now in museums.

2.2  Explorers’ accounts The accounts of early explorers give us an insight into the contact history of the region, which became increasingly violent when gold rushes in nearby inland areas brought large numbers of non-Aborigines into the region (see also Richards, this volume, and Smith, this volume). The first written records of the area come from European explorers visiting the coast by ship. King (1827) was there in 1819, 1820



The Flinders Islands and Cape Melville people in history 

and 1821 and found the wreck of the Frederick which had run aground at Cape Flinders on Stanley Island in 1818. He felt it was improbable that there were any Aboriginal people on Stanley at the time of his visit in 1819 although their fireplaces and canoes were seen, and he described a tree in which they had placed turtle skulls (1827: 231; Hale & Tindale 1933–4 illustrate this practice, still current in 1927, as part of turtle increase rites). This suggests that the island was subject to intermittent rather than constant use. King also refers to Noble Island, Cape Bowen and Barrow Point in his account of the 1819 voyage but does not mention Aboriginal people in that area (1827: 228–9). His return visit to Stanley Island in the following year revealed recent tracks of both people and dogs but again he failed to make contact with the residents. Crew member Cunningham climbed Castles Peak on this visit and reported a large cave containing numerous fireplaces, broken turtle harpoons and other artefacts, concluding that occupation there had been “not very long since” (King 1827: 379). On his third visit King saw people walking on the beach west of Cape Melville and then went to salvage materials from the wreck of the Frederick on Stanley Island. Local people had for some time been making use of the wreck as a source of iron. While the crew members were working at the wreck they were surprised by Aboriginal men throwing spears which landed nearby. This was interpreted by King as “treachery”, but it was King and his crew who were taking resources from Aboriginal land without consultation, and it is possible the spears were meant as a warning (as a near miss so often used to be). The crew members had difficulty firing their guns in return (two missfires out of three) and attempted to retreat with some composure. Outnumbered and outclassed in terms of weapons, the crew members allowed the men to approach and both sides made friendly gestures. A woman was offered to the crew members but they declined. Reinforcements arrived from the two ships and King ordered them to fire only in self-defence, but as soon as he had gone on board for breakfast “several shots were mischievously fired at the natives” by some of the crew. He referred to this as “our broken faith”. One man appeared to have been shot and wounded in the leg (King 1827: 19). Thus began the first recorded contact of people of the Flinders Group with colonial Europeans. The next day King saw a smoke on Flinders Island, and a day later Aboriginal people again appeared close to the ships and were fired upon. During these few days crew member and naturalist Alan Cunningham visited Clack Island and reported in some detail on its extensive galleries of rock art, noting the “recent fire-places” of Aboriginal visitors there (King 1827: 27). From this period onwards, European visits to the area appear to have increased rapidly for a time. The Satellite was grounded at Clack Island in 1822, and Captain M.J. Currie visited the same passage in 1823 (King 1827: 289). Stokes did survey work through the area in 1837, between Howick Island and Princess Charlotte Bay, but does

 Peter Sutton

not appear to have landed anywhere (Stokes 1846). Captain Blackwood took the Fly and the Bramble on further survey work in the area in 1843. On 17 June he landed just south of Cape Melville and contacted a group of six or eight Aboriginal people, laying down his gun at their request. Crew member Jukes offered them the traditional glass bead necklace as a present. The visitors were then generously led to an excellent water supply nearby. As they were departing, he and his men fired their guns along the water while the Cape Melville inhabitants watched. It can be assumed that this was to impress the local people with their weaponry, but it was clearly taken as an aggressive display. A distant and perhaps intentionally ineffectual exchange of gunfire and spear-throwing then followed. Astonishingly, this exchange was again put down to the “treachery” of the local people (Jukes 1847: 101–103). Edmund Kennedy passed through the western part of Princess Charlotte Bay on his exploratory journey north in 1848 (Beale 1970), but too far west to have come into direct contact with people of the region unless they were making distant visits there at the time. The 1870s were particularly violent in the wider region, as the Palmer River goldrush and associated activities brought non-Aborigines into the region in large numbers for the first time. Massacres occurred on both sides at the Normanby River in 1874 (Evans, Saunders & Cronin 1988: 53), and there was a published report of a massacre of twenty-eight Aboriginal males at Cape Bedford in 1879 (Evans, Saunders & Cronin 1988: 63). There are no specific written records of massacres of Aboriginal people in this region. The Alert cruised this coast during its 1878–1882 voyage, and crew member R.W. Coppinger reported in particular on a visit to Clack Island which, he said, showed abundant evidence of being visited by Aboriginal people. He observed, however, that it appeared not to have been visited “for at least half-a-dozen years” prior to his own landing (1883: 191–192). Still, there is good evidence that it continued to be visited at least until the 1920s. Coppinger, in his own words, “without many conscientious scruples as to the sacred rights of ownership”, carried off a number of Aboriginal paintings on planks, shell and turtleshell from Clack Island and seven of these were later deposited in the British Museum in London, where they have been since 1882 (1883: 192, Cranstone 1974). Clack Island is one of the most sacred places in the entire region. The killing by Aborigines of Mary Watson at Lizard Island in 1881 sparked “an enthusiastic punitive expedition [which] dealt with various groups” in the locality (Robertson 1981). News of these events would certainly have reached those at nearby Cape Bowen, Barrow Point and the Flinders Islands. Recruiters for the marine industries are recorded as having frequented Cape Melville as early as the 1880s (Loos 1982: 141,283). In 1889 recruits from the Flinders Group were involved in the ‘Wild Duck massacre’:



The Flinders Islands and Cape Melville people in history 

[A] south Sea Islander and eighteen Aborigines killed four Europeans, using one boat to move to another to attack those on board, sank one boat, robbed the three boats of the fishing station of everything valuable, and then all embarked in the North Star. They disembarked the Flinders Island Aborigines at their home with a share of the spoils … Here was a combination of experienced sailors and recruits to the fisheries, the Flinders Island Aborigines apparently doing most of the killing. (Loos 1982: 157,286)

None of these early contacts resulted in specific identifications of Aboriginal groups or individuals by name. The only useful clue to cultural identity, before anthropologist Roth visited the area in 1898, is provided by Jukes who wrote: “They [the Aborigines encountered at Cape Melville in 1843] often pointed to Captain Blackwood’s dog, and said “angooa”, which I conclude is their name for that animal” (1847: 101). This term resembles no known word for dog in the languages of the region, but it is similar to Barrow Point noun anggwur ‘bark [of dog]’. Assuming Jukes failed to hear initial ng-, as did so many others, his angooa is also similar to the Flinders Island language verb nganggwoyi- ‘to bark’. Without further evidence we cannot be sure which language Jukes was hearing, but the most likely candidate is Barrow Point. The ethnographic evidence from our 1974–5 work, and the records of Tindale, who was present in the area in 1927 (Hale & Tindale 1933–4), make it abundantly clear that affiliates and speakers of both Flinders Island and Barrow Point languages habitually lived together in both areas at various times.

2.3  Anthropologists’ accounts The major written works dealing with the region in this case are by anthropologists and linguists (Roth 1898, 1899, 1909, 1910; Tindale 1926–7; Hale 1926–7; Hale & ­Tindale 1933–4; Chase and Sutton 1981, 1987; Sutton 1975, 1976b, 1979, 1980, 1992, and 2005). W.E. Roth visited the area in 1898, 1899 and 1902. In December 1898 he counted twenty Aboriginal males and ten females in the neighbourhood of Barrow Point, but this was a low number because of “the main mob having left for C. Melville” (1898: 2), and he records only those actually met with on his patrol. Sergeant Whiteford of Musgrave, who took Roth on this journey, considered the number of Aboriginal people in the Princess Charlotte Bay region (Musgrave to Starcke River and Flinders Island) to be “at least 1000, a very low estimate considering the numbers of coastal and island (e.g. Flinders) blacks which are outside the usual line of route” (Roth 1898: 2). In the published versions of this work Roth concentrated on traditional material culture, customs and physical characteristics of the people, rather than on contemporary conditions (see Roth 1906, 1909, 1910). His 1898 report does, however, comment on the problems that aggressive and otherwise undesirable non-Aboriginal men were causing to local people, and he recommended the creation of a reserve for the Princess

 Peter Sutton

Charlotte Bay and Musgrave peoples. He photographed 84 Cape Melville men, women and children (i.e. resident at Cape Melville) in 1899 (1910: plates XXV:2,XXIX:2). All were naked except for some with pubic coverings. There were 51 males and 33 females in his photographs. This picture is in stark contrast with the twenty or so people found still living in the area at the time of Tindale’s visit in 1927, most of them women. Norman Tindale and Herbert Hale, both of the South Australian Museum, carried out research on crustaceans, insects and Aboriginal culture at Flinders Island and adjacent islands and the nearby mainland for three weeks (January 1–22) in 1927, collecting information on genealogies, customs, vocabularies, and also making a collection of several hundred artefacts. (Roth had collected at least one object from the area, a message stick from Bathurst Head, 1906:plate I:5). Hale and Tindale also ‘bought’ the skeleton of a buried man from the man’s son, Jack Monaghan (Enhan). With the exception of Enhan’s father’s remains, which were repatriated about 1992, these collections remain in Adelaide at the South Australian Museum. The individual makers of most of the objects in the Tindale collection are registered. The main ethnographic publication arising from this work was Hale & Tindale (1933), but see also their field journals, Hale (1926–7) and Tindale (1926–7). Much of their work was done with Charlie Monaghan (“a very intelligent aboriginal”, Hale 1926–7: 50), father of the late George Monaghan. Others living at or visiting Flinders Island at that time included several people from the Princess Charlotte Bay area (e.g. John Tarpaulin, Charlie Hungry). No non-Aboriginal people were resident there at the time of Hale and Tindale’s visit (Hale 1926–7: 41). Donald Thomson (see also Allen, this volume, Smith, this volume) worked with Aboriginal people at Port Stewart in 1928, and later at Lockhart River Mission in 1932. His information on the region, however, was collected in a brief stay at Flinders Island in 1935 when he was sailing to Arnhem Land (see further Sutton 2005). He mentions ‘Elsie’ of Bathurst Head, who was probably Helen Rootsey’s mother, ‘Harry King’ (King Harry Cape Melville, father of Johnny Flinders and stepfather of Bob Flinders) and ‘Chinaman [Gilbert]’ and assigns them clan names (Thomson 1935). He probably photographed each of these people but the photographs have not yet been located. While carrying out anthropological and linguistic research at Lockhart River Mission in the period 1963–1967, La Mont West Jr. recorded names and linguistic competences/affiliations for a number of Flinders Island people (see West 1962, 1964, 1965). These included Chinaman Gilbert, the last remaining member of the Flindersspeaking Aba Agathiyi clan. West recorded a tape with Chinaman Gilbert in 1965 in which Gilbert speaks in both Flinders and Barrow Point languages and identifies broadly with both these areas and also the country south as far as McIvor River (“my country”). Chinaman, like other recruits to the lugger trades, worked as far afield as New Guinea, where the bosses were harsher than most. In 1935 Thomson worked on Aba Agathiyi kinship with Chinaman at Flinders Island (Thomson 1935).



The Flinders Islands and Cape Melville people in history 

As a small boy Chinaman had witnessed shootings of his people (“shooti people bla mifalla … small boy … I bin like that”). In Flinders Island language he described  to West on tape how his mother’s father and father’s mother had been shot, while he himself escaped by hiding in a rock shelter. It is hard to know when this occurred but it would have been around the turn of the century. Barney Warner, who looked about 30 in Tindale’s 1927 photographs of him, told Bob Flinders of a police raid in which many of his people were shot at Barrow Point, when Barney was a small boy (Sutton Field Tape 59, 29.10.74). This event would have been between 1900 and 1910. Chinaman Gilbert, as an old man, was known to Athol Chase who has carried out Ph.D. and other research at Lockhart since 1971. In his Ph.D. thesis Chase (1980) describes how a group of Flinders Islands people were taken to Lockhart by the Lockhart mission superintendant H. Rowan in 1934. There they suffered alarming deaths from disease, such as the epidemic of whooping cough that ravaged Lockhart in 1938. In 1942, Lockhart was temporarily disbanded due to fears of an impending Japanese invasion, and the people of the Flinders camp “left for the Princess Charlotte Bay area” (Chase 1980: 114–117). At least some returned to Lockhart, probably in 1944, but they were a small remnant by that time and when Chinaman Gilbert died at Lockhart in the 1970s he was regarded as the last of the Flinders camp there (A. Chase, personal communication). I met Johnny Flinders and Charlie Monaghan at Palm Island in 1970 and worked with them both, along with Mary Ann Mundy of Cooktown, Toby Gordon of Mossman, and Roger Hart of Hopevale, in the period 1973–1978. The greatest part of this work was with Johnny Flinders, over some weeks or months in each of most of those years. I also transcribed all previous tape-recorded work on the language and culture of the Flinders Islands/Barrow Point area, lodged in the archives of the Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies. Brief records of varying quality, and mainly of vocabularies or songs in the Flinders or Barrow Point languages, had been made in the past at Lockhart (Capell 1955, West 1965 [Chinaman Gilbert, Vera West]), Palm Island (Lawrie 1967), Yarrabah (Bertram 1976) and Cooktown (Dixon 1972, Sommer 1972, 1974). In 1974 Athol Chase and I spent some weeks in the area mapping traditional sites and clan estates with Johnny Flinders, Bob Flinders and Bill McGreen, all now deceased. Johnny Flinders knew the area well and was a fluent speaker of the Flinders Island language. Bob Flinders had been removed from the area as a child, spoke the Barrow Point language to a degree (his own being Flinders Island, which he had forgotten), and had not been back to the area for over fifty years. Bill McGreen of the Cape Bowen area had also had only childhood contact with his homeland but knew some of its traditions. As mentioned earlier, Robert Layton and Michel Lorblanchet, rock art scholars, also took part in this trip and recorded many painting sites in the

 Peter Sutton

Flinders Group, Cape Melville and Bathurst Head areas. Layton also recorded some biographical information. Before, during and after this field trip I recorded hundreds of pages of information from older people from the area. Much of this material is linguistic (see Sutton 1975), but it also covers history, biographies, sacred and secular narratives, and genealogical data (see Sutton 1993). Combined with the results of the 1974 trip, and some additional material on the Barrow Point and nearby areas I recorded with Toby Gordon on a sea passage to Lockhart in 1975–6, this work has meant that a systematic account of the area’s land-based traditions as at the period 1900–1940 is possible. Fiona Terwiel-Powell (1975,1989) carried out Ph.D. research in social anthropology at Hope Vale in the late 1960s and early 1970s, concentrating on kinship, marriage patterns, and social and political structure at Hope Vale. Her thesis (1975) includes details of traditional patrilineal land-owning clans and their constitution, covering an area along the coast and nearby hinterland between Cooktown and Barrow Point. John Haviland and Leslie Devereaux are anthropologists who began work at Hope Vale in 1971. Haviland, also a linguist, concentrated on Hope Vale’s Guugu-Yimidhirr language and has published on it and its usage extensively (see also Haviland, this volume), while Devereaux (formerly Haviland) has concentrated more on social history (see references). John Haviland has also made a particular study of the Barrow Point language and the history and traditions of Roger Hart’s family (see Haviland 1991, Haviland with Hart 1998 in relation to Roger Hart’s biography, and Sutton and Haviland 1995 for a grammar of Hart’s language). Haviland and Haviland (1980) published a map of clan estates in the region.

3.  The people As mentioned in Section 2.2, in the early and mid nineteenth century the Aboriginal people of the region had intermittent contact with passing European ships and their crews, and perhaps some overland contact with explorers, but in general their lives remained largely uninterrupted. In the last three decades of the century conflict appears to have increased and killings occurred on both sides. The worst period of conflict appears to have been in the 1870s and 1880s, although major depopulation in the Cape Melville/Flinders Group area clearly occurred between 1900 and 1927. The period from about 1890 to the present can now be studied in greater detail because of the personal records available. The life histories of Johnny Flinders, Mary Anne Mundy, Winnie Massey, Bob Flinders, Toby Gordon and Bill McGreen, who recorded significant amounts of their histories on tape and in the notebooks of anthropologists in the 1970s, have yet to be analysed and fully transcribed, and the existing



The Flinders Islands and Cape Melville people in history 

official records have hardly been tapped. Haviland has made a study of archival sources for the Barrow Point area (Haviland 1991), and has published a book-length study about the area together with Roger Hart (Haviland with Hart 1998). The basic historical trends visible in these records are as follows. After an initial period of violent conflict there appears to have been some accommodation reached by about 1890 or 1895. Certainly it was the case that Johnny Flinders’ mother’s father, Tommy Merrilees, was employed in the lugger trades by about that time, as also was Johnny’s own father, Harry Cape Melville (born about 1875; Johnny was born about 1900). Introduced disease appears to have rapidly depleted the population (Hale & Tindale 1933). From about 1910 increasing numbers of the newborn had white fathers and were taken away by police once they reached about five years of age. A significant number of the area’s clans whose countries were mapped by Sutton and Chase in 1974 were regarded by Johnny Flinders as having no living members at that time. In several cases the younger generations had been reallocated to countries different from those of their fathers (or mothers’ husbands) in order to augment the traditional owner numbers for estates with few or no surviving clan members. The old clanship system had clearly reached a critical point by the 1930s (see also Wood, this volume). The camp observed by Norman Tindale of the South Australian Museum in January 1927 at Flinders Island appears to be a typical result of these processes (Hale & Tindale 1933). Of the twenty-odd people living there in those three weeks, there are some older men, one youngish man, a significant group of women both old and young, and only three children – all black. There are no children of European parentage present – they had all been removed to institutions. And there are no male youths, all of whom appear to have been away working on luggers or cattle stations. Toby Gordon, photographed then by Tindale as a boy of about seven years, was soon to be hired as a worker in the cattle industry in about 1929. Johnny and his brother Diver Flinders were already based at Lockhart Mission to which they had been invited by Mr Rowan a year or so earlier. Johnny was to survive but Diver, like so many others in the oral history of the area, was to die at sea. The shattering cultural effects of the lugger trades and the cattle industry, and of depopulation by disease and abductions, were catastrophic. A small local population hung on, based at Flinders Island, until the 1940s. The late Albert Lakefield remembered living there as a child during World War II. Military installations were put in at Stanley Island during the War, and a Catalina (type of flying boat) base established there. After the War, when the Cape Bedford Mission people were returning from their traumatic exile down south (Haviland 1985, this volume; Flinders 1986; see also Mushin et al., this volume), the ‘old people’ who had been sent to Palm Island also returned to Cooktown or Hopevale but there appears to have been no return to the Bathurst Head-Cape Bowen region. The region remained effectively unpopulated

 Peter Sutton

from the mid 1940s to the early 1980s, when fishing operations in the area, accompanied by tourism, intensified (Walsh 1984, 1988a). By the 1970s only a few elderly people knew the old clanship details, and the country and its many sites and stories, for the area between Bathurst Head and Cape Bowen. Only a handful of people still spoke the languages of the area. Today there are even fewer with this type of knowledge. While younger generations have not lost the knowledge of the basic area of their origins, and continue to identify as ‘Flinders people’, ‘Barrow Point people’ or ‘Cape Bowen people’, only a few can understand even basic expressions in the Flinders Island and Barrow Point languages, and the Red Point language appears to be extinct (Sutton and Rigsby 2001). At the time of writing the last speaker of the Marrett River language, Urratjingu, was Helen Rootsey, a woman in her nineties. It may be stressing the obvious to say that none of this has been the choice of these people or their ancestors.

4.  Traditional affiliations 4.1  Languages and wider categories At the broadest level, people of the region traditionally recognised the general coherence of the Princess Charlotte Bay peoples, the Flinders Islands/Bathurst Bay/­Barrow Point peoples, and the many Guugu-Yimidhirr-speaking people south-east of there, and referred to these three macro-groupings in each case by a specific term. In the Flinders Island language, for example, the people from south of Red Point to Annan River were Aba Irungun and the Princess Charlotte Bay peoples were Aba ­Walmbarriya. In Guugu-Yimidhirr, people from Flinders Islands, Cape Melville, ­Barrow Point Cape Bowen and Red Point are Bama Yiidhuwarra. These terms cover sets of clans traditionally united on a regional, cultural and political basis, but subsets of these large groupings consisted of clans affiliated to different languages. Neither the regional groupings nor the clans or language groups were residential aggregates. They were formal categories based on descent and land ownership, not sets of camps. The languages of the area (listed below) showed a great deal of diversity, not only between themselves but also at a dialectal level within themselves. Language areas are not areas to which the owners of the languages were physically restricted, but represent the collective countries of the clans owning each particular language. Flinders Island language (clans 1–8; see Sutton 1975, 1980) Barrow Point language (clans 9–13; see Haviland 1992, Sutton & Haviland 1995) Red Point language (clans 14–16; see Sutton and Rigsby 2001) Marrett River language (clans 17–19; see Rigsby and Sutton 2001, Sutton 2008)



The Flinders Islands and Cape Melville people in history 

Lama-Lama (more properly a collection of languages, Princess Charlotte Bay; see Rigsby 1992) Guugu-Yimidhirr (see Haviland 1979)

Languages in the area were not traditionally named as such, although they could be referred to, for instance, by their distinctive words for ‘nothing’, or by major placenames (e.g. Wurriima ‘Flinders Island(s)’), or by a specific reference to one of the clans owning the language (e.g. Aba Yalgayi (a Flinders Island language-owning clan), Ama Ambiilmungu (a Barrow Point language-owning clan). These principles explain the variety of ‘tribal’ or language ‘names’ recorded by previous researchers. Those researchers’ terminologies for groups and languages have been analysed and largely explained in an earlier publication (Sutton 1979).

4.2  Clans and traditional land ownership Small estates, which are areas of land consisting of named places and the land or waters between them, were held by members of clans but were not residential areas as such. At least some clan estates consisted of non-contiguous areas (i.e. there was a degree of mosaic patterning at the level of clan estates, and a tendency for islands to be included in mainland estates, mainly from Cape Melville south to Cooktown). Demographic collapse, probably, had led to one clan holding at least two separated estates in at least two cases, at the time of Johnny Flinders’ youth in the early twentieth century. Clans (Flinders Island aba waatharr) were, and in some cases still are, small landholding groups which recruited their members by descent, adoption or incorporation. The presumptive principle of such recruitment was patrifiliation – that is, in most cases under early colonial conditions children took the clan identity and clan country of their father. Aboriginal names of individuals appear to have been drawn from a small stock of distinctive male and female names based on sacred stories and totems. For this reason many people have been recorded as sharing the same names, although the addition of English names now makes it easier to distinguish people in the upper levels of the genealogies. Under the severely altered conditions of the early twentieth century, with major depopulation and infertility depleting or extinguishing a number of clans, and with a number of children being born to European or Japanese fathers, adjustments to this system were probably greater than usual. Under these conditions some people were assigned to the country of their mothers, or their mothers’ husbands, and some attempt was made to redistribute people in order to maintain the clan ownership system across a landscape whose population was suddenly depleted. Clans were associated with one or more totems (Stories in local Aboriginal English). Typically these are specific types of birds, snakes, mammals, plants, the

 Peter Sutton

moon etc., or named culture heroes. The principal totems, taking the Flinders Island ­language-affiliated clans running roughly west to east in terms of estates, were: Itjibiya (hero) (clan 1), Brown Sea Eagle (clan 2), White Sea Eagle (clan 3), Plover (clan 4), Crow (clan 5), Red Kangaroo (clan 6), and Carpet Snake (clan 7). The Barrow Point language clans had the following major totems: Bailer Shell (clan 9), Red Kangaroo (clan 10), Black Snake (clan 11), and Cockatoo (clan 12). The Red Point language clan #15 had Wood Grub. (Information on totems of clans 8 [FLinders Island], 13 ­[Barrow Point], 14 and 16 [Red Point] has not been recorded.) The Marrett River language clans had totems as follows: Ithalngkiyi (Sun story place, clan 17), Itjibiya (hero, clans 18,19). Clans bore names that were widely recognised but each clan’s name could be given in any of half a dozen or more languages of the region. These frequently cognate names for the same clan, as well as place names given in different languages, suggest high continuity in the approximate locations or focal points of the clan estates and their names and major place names over a period of some centuries. Members of clan 1, for example, were known in various languages as: Aba Yalgayi (Flinders Island Language) Ama Yalngaangu (Barrow Point Language) Mba Yelem (Lamalama) Bama Yalngaangu (Guugu-Yimidhirr)

Members of Barrow Point clan 10 were known as: Ama Ambiilmungu (Barrow Point Language) Aba Almpilmiya (Flinders Island Language) Mba Almbilmakaram (Lamalama1) Mba Mbylmu (Lamalama2) Bama Gambiilmugu (Guugu Yimidhirr)

Many of these variant names are clearly descended from a single ancient protoform. Here they are given in the form that translates as ‘person(s) from country X’. As a group, a clan could also be referred to by a form that translates as ‘country X-group’: e.g. one or more members of Yalgawarra (Flinders Island) are Aba Yalgayi (translated into Guugu Yimidhirr: one or more members of Yalngawarra are Bama Yalngaangu). In the early twentieth century the people of the area, reduced in numbers, nevertheless maintained wide-ranging use of the environment and young people acquired a view of past relationships among Aboriginal groups in the wider region that probably reflected something like the practice of the late nineteenth century. Johnny Flinders, Mary Anne Mundy, Charlie Monaghan, Toby Gordon and Daisy Salt were thus able to supply detailed information on places and traditional groups in the region, during



The Flinders Islands and Cape Melville people in history 

their work as anthropological and linguistic advisers for Bruce Rigsby, Athol Chase and me in the 1970s (see Sutton 1993). It is clear from this research that people were not restricted to using their own clan estates under the traditional economy, and that they especially had strong rights of both use and identification in the case of both parents’ countries.

4.3  Traditional relationships between groups Under the views of elders still alive in the 1970s, people from the Bathurst Bay/Flinders Islands area had more or less friendly relationships, regular intervisiting and intermarriage with people as far south-east as Jeannie River/Red Point and Cape Bowen and as far west as Kennedy River. Their best relationships were with people either side of them around the coast, as they were coastal people. Inlanders from Jack River, for example, although not all that far away, were in more tense relationships with the Flinders mob. These patterns are obvious both in the genealogies and also in the personnel encountered by Tindale at Flinders Island and Port Stewart in 1927. Johnny Flinders’s view was that he could travel unannounced anywhere between Ninian Bay on the east and his mother’s country at Marrett River on the west, although on one occasion he said that a message stick would be necessary to facilitate his visiting Barrow Point. Normal seasonal visiting beyond this range, by agreement, would extend to Red Point in the east and North Kennedy River on and near the coast to the west. All the people from within this zone were his aba ngampay (‘countrymen’). Wider than that were people he still called aba ngampay along with those from the ‘inner’ Flinders/Cape Melville zone. These were people from Starcke River in the east across to Port Stewart in the west. Beyond that, groups were known and nameable to varying degrees but a Flinders Island person would not usually have known their languages or have been at ease among them. They were not aba ngampay. The Flinders people could name in detail the clans and principal members of clans quite widely: as far south-east as Cape Bedford and beyond, as far south as Deighton River, as far south-west as the middle Morehead River and as far west as just north of Port Stewart. (In turn, Port Stewart people could do the reverse across to Barrow Point etc.). This region takes in perhaps ten different languages and a host of dialectal ­variations, many of which have been documented at least to some degree. The ­people were all polyglots, as far as can be told now. There simply were not enough clans affiliated to each language to provide anything like a one-language/one-people social and economic universe among those affiliated to a particular language, and language exogamy would have been either common, very common, or extremely common (not a rule, but a practice).

 Peter Sutton

References Beale, Edgar. 1970. Kennedy of Cape York. Adelaide: Rigby. Beaton, John. n.d. [c.1980]. Report on archaeological fieldwork in the Flinders Island – Bathurst Heads – Princess Charlotte Bay area, north Queensland, 1979. Typescript 27pp + 4pp plates. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies Library. Beaton, John. 1985. Evidence for a coastal occupation time-lag at Princess Charlotte Bay (North Queensland) and implications for coastal colonization and population growth theories for Aboriginal Australia. Archaeology in Oceania 20: 1–20. doi: 10.1002/j.1834-4453.1985.tb00096.x Bertram, J. 1976. Interview with Vera Wilson, 16 May 1976, Yarrabah. Tape recording, Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies Library, Canberra. Capell, Arthur. 1955. Unpublished field notes, Cape York Peninsula. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies Library. Chase, Athol. 1980. Which Way Now? Tradition, Continuity and Change in a North Queensland Aboriginal Community. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Queensland. Chase, Athol. 1984. Belonging to country: Territory, identity and environment in Cape York Peninsula, northern Australia. In Les Hiatt, ed. Aboriginal Landowners. Sydney: University of Sydney. 104–128. Chase, Athol & Peter Sutton. 1981. Hunter-gatherers in a rich environment: Aboriginal coastal exploitation in Cape York Peninsula. In Allen Keast, ed. Ecological Biogeography of Australia. The Hague: W. Junk. 1817–1852.  doi: 10.1007/978-94-009-8629-9_65 Chase, Athol & Peter Sutton. 1987. Australian Aborigines in a rich environment. In William Edwards, ed. Traditional Aboriginal Society: A Reader. Melbourne: Macmillan. 68–95. [Edited republication of Chase & Sutton 1981.] Cole, Noelene. 2003. Laura rock art, Cape York Peninsula: A model of regional style. Adoranten 5–22. Cole, Noelene & Bruno David. 1992. ‘Curious drawings’ at Cape York Peninsula. Rock Art Research 9: 3–26. Coppinger, Richard William. 1883. Cruise of the “Alert”. Four Years in Patagonian, Polynesian, and Mascarene Waters (1878–82). London: W. Swan Sonnenschein & Co. Cranstone, Bryan. 1974. Letter dated 26.8.74 from Deputy Keeper, Ethnography Department, British Museum, London, to Peter Ucko, Principal, Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies regarding painted objects from Clack Island. David, Bruno. 1998. More than 37,000 years of Aboriginal occupation. In Ngarrabullgan: Geographical Investigations in Djungan Country, Cape York Peninsula. Clayton: Monash University. 157–178. Dixon, R.M.W. 1972. Bayalgay (Flinders Island). Ms 8pp, 221-item vocabulary recorded at Cooktown Reserve from Mary Ann (sic) Mundy. Evans, Raymond, Kay Saunders & Kathryn Cronin. 1988. Race Relations in Colonial Queensland. A History of Exclusion, Exploitation and Extermination. Brisbane: University of Queensland Press. Flinders, Bob. 1986. [Autobiography]. In Howard Pohlner, Gangurru. Brisbane: Hope Vale Mission Board. 171–172. Grainer, John, Bruno David, Roger Cribb, Bruce White & Hilary Kuhn. 1992. Nurrabullgin – ‘A mountain, once seen, never to be forgotten’. Rock Art Research 9: 74–77.



The Flinders Islands and Cape Melville people in history 

Hale, Herbert. 1926–7. Record of trips 1926–7, running comments only. Diary of Herbert M. Hale, PRG 13 series 3, Mortlock Library, State Library of South Australia. Hale, Herbert & Norman Tindale. 1933–4. Aborigines of Princess Charlotte Bay, north Queensland. Records of the South Australian Museum 5: 63–172. Haviland, John. 1979. Guugu Yimidhirr. In R.M.W. Dixon & Barry Blake, eds. Handbook of Australian Languages. Volume 1. Canberra: Australian National University Press. 26–180. Haviland, John. 1985. The life history of a speech community: Guugu Yimidhirr at Hopevale. Aboriginal History 9: 170–204. Haviland, John. 1991. “That was the last time I seen them, and no more”: Voices through time in Australian Aboriginal biography. American Ethnologist 18: 331–361. doi: 10.1525/ae.1991.18.2.02a00080 Haviland, John. 1992. Barrow Point Language. Computer printout 47 + 36 pp. Haviland, John with Roger Hart. 1998. Old Man Fog and the Last Aborigines of Barrow Point. Washington: Smithsonian Institution Press. Haviland, John & Leslie Haviland 1980. “How much food will there be in heaven?”: Lutherans and Aborigines around Cooktown before 1900. Aboriginal History 4: 119–149. Jukes, Joseph Beete 1847. Narrative of the Surveying Voyage of H.M.S. Fly, Commanded by Captain F.P. Blackwood, R.N. in Torres Strait, New Guinea, and Other Islands of the Eastern Archipelago, during the Years 1842–1846. London: T. & W. Boone. doi: 10.5962/bhl.title.59237 King, Phillip Parker. 1827. Narrative of a Survey of the Intertropical and Western Coasts of Australia Performed between the Years 1818 and 1822. London: John Murray. Lawrie, Margaret. 1967. Songs, languages and stories recorded on Palm Island. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies Library. Layton, Robert. n.d. (1975?). Untitled report on rock art, Flinders Islands/Bathurst Bay area. Typescript 5pp, Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies Library. Layton, Robert. 1992. Australian Rock Art: A New Synthesis. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Loos, Noel. 1982. Invasion and Resistance. Aboriginal-European Relations on the North Queensland Frontier 1861–1897. Canberra: Australian National University Press. Negerevich, Tia. 1979. A report on the Bathurst Bay/Flinders Island Group area. Rigsby, Bruce. 1992. The languages of the Princess Charlotte Bay region. In Tom Dutton, Malcolm Ross & Darrell Tryon, eds. The Language Game: Papers in Memory of Donald C. Laycock. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. 353–360. Rigsby, Bruce & Peter Sutton. 2001. Urratyingu, the Marrett River Language of Eastern Cape York Peninsula. Unpublished ms 7pp. Robertson, Jillian. 1981. Lizard Island: A Reconstruction of the Life of Mrs. Watson. Richmond: Hutchinson. Rosenfeld, Andrée, David Horton & John Winter. 1981. Early Man in North Queensland. ­Canberra: Australian National University. Roth, Walter Edmund. 1898. A report to the Commissioner of Police on the Aboriginals occupying the ‘hinter-land’ of Princess Charlotte Bay together with a preface containing suggestions for their better protection and improvement. Ms Cooktown 30 December 1898. [Edited and abridged version published as Roth 1910.]. Roth, Walter Edmund. 1899. The rock paintings of Clack’s Island. Report to the Commissioner of Police (Queensland), unpublished.

 Peter Sutton Roth, Walter Edmund. 1906. North Queensland Ethnography Bulletin No. 8: Notes on Government, Morals, and Crime. Brisbane: Government Printer. Roth, Walter Edmund. 1909. North Queensland Ethnography Bulletin No. 12: On certain Ceremonies. Brisbane: Government Printer. Roth, Walter Edmund. 1910. North Queensland Ethnography Bulletins 14–18. Records of the Australian Museum 8: 1–106.  doi: 10.3853/j.0067-1975.8.1910.932 Sommer, Bruce. 1972. Flinders Island (Gallagher (sic, i.e. Clack) Island) language. Ms 44pp, vocabulary recorded from Marianne Munday (sic), Cooktown. Field tapes 72:29 and 72:34 contain further untranscribed material. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies. Sommer, Bruce. 1974. Unpublished field report. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies. Stokes, John Lort. 1846. Discoveries in Australia with an Account of the Coasts and Rivers Explored and Surveyed during the Voyage of H.M.S. Beagle in the Years 1837-38-39-40-4142-43. London: T. & W. Boone. Sutton, Peter. 1975. Flinders Island Language, first draft (grammar). Typescript, 80pp. Sutton, Peter, ed. 1976a. Languages of Cape York. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. Sutton, Peter. 1976b. Gugu-Badhun and the Flinders Island language. In R.M.W. Dixon, ed. Grammatical Categories in Australian Languages. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 225–228. Sutton, Peter. 1979. Australian language names. In Stephen Wurm, ed. Australian Linguistic Studies. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. 87–105. Sutton, Peter. 1980. Cause, origin and possession in the Flinders Island language. In Bruce Rigsby & Peter Sutton, eds. Contributions to Australian Linguistics. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. 119–143. Sutton, Peter. 1992. Last chance operations: ‘BIITL’ research in far north Queensland in the 1970s. In Tom Dutton, Malcolm Ross & Darrell Tryon, eds. The Language Game: Papers in Memory of Donald C. Laycock. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. 451–458. Sutton, Peter. 1993. Flinders Islands and Melville National Parks Land Claim. Aldgate, South Australia. Unpublished report 57pp + appendices 162pp. Sutton, Peter. 2005. Science and sensibility on a foul frontier. Flinders Island, 1935. In Bruce Rigsby & Nicolas Peterson, eds. Donald Thomson: The Man and Scholar. Canberra: Academy of Social Sciences. 143–158. Sutton, Peter. 2008. More on Marrett River Language. Unpublished ms 2pp. Sutton, Peter & John Haviland. 1995. Draft sketch grammar: Barrow Point Language. Unpublished ms 27pp. Sutton, Peter, Robert Layton & Athol Chase. 1975. Interim report on Flinders (“Clack”) Islands expedition September – November 1974. Typescript 17pp, Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies Library. Sutton, Peter & Bruce Rigsby. 2001. The Red Point Language of Eastern Cape York Peninsula. Unpublished ms 3pp. Terwiel-Powell, Fiona. 1975. Developments in the Kinship System of the Hope Vale Aborigines. An Analysis of Changes in the Kinship Nomenclature and Social Structure of the KuukuYimityirr Aborigines. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Queensland. Terwiel-Powell, Fiona. 1989. Les rescapes de Hopevale. In Sylvie Girardet, Claire MerleauPonty & Anne Tardy, eds. Australie Noire. Paris: Autrement Revue. 144–154.



The Flinders Islands and Cape Melville people in history 

Thomson, Donald. 1935. Social organisation – kinship and behaviour, Bugarti tribe. Field notes, Flinders Island April 1935. File no. 207, Donald Thomson Collection, Museum of Victoria. Tindale, Norman. 1926–7. Journal of a visit to Cape York Peninsula, North Queensland, ­November 1926–March 1927. Typescript 67+5pp. South Australian Museum Anthropology Archives, Adelaide. Walsh, Grahame. 1984. Archaeological significance of Flinders Island/Princess Charlotte Bay. Report, Queensland National Parks and Wildlife Service. Walsh, Grahama. 1988a. Clack Island report. Report, Queensland National Parks and Wildlife Service. Walsh, Grahame. 1988b. Australia’s Greatest Rock Art. Bathurst: E.J. Brill/Robert Brown & Associates. West, La Mont. 1962. Alphabetical first name finder list for linguistic informants contacted by West in northeastern Australia 1960–62. Unpublished ms. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies Library. West, La Mont. 1964. Alphabetical first name list of Lockhart River Mission residents and kin. Unpublished ms. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies Library. West, La Mont. 1965. Unpublished field tape report sheets. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies Library.

Fission, fusion and syncretism Linguistic and environmental changes amongst the Tangkic people of the southern Gulf of Carpentaria, Northern Australia Paul Memmott1, Erich Round1, Daniel Rosendahl2, & Sean Ulm2 1University

of Queensland / 2James Cook University

A revised model of Tangkic linguistic and cultural history is developed based on a reanalysis of relationships between six Tangkic languages in the southern Gulf of Carpentaria and drawing on recent archaeological and environmental studies. Bayesian phylogenetic analysis of Tangkic basic vocabulary was employed to infer the topology of the Tangkic family tree and define structural branching events. Contrary to previous models suggesting progressive colonisation and fissioning from mainland sources, the data support hypotheses that the modern configuration of Tangkic owes its form to pulses of outward movement from Mornington Island followed by subsequent linguistic divergence in both grammar and lexicon of the varieties. We also speculate that an extreme environmental event (c.800–400 BP) may have flooded low-lying coastal areas resulting in abandonment of some areas, a relatively short co-residence involving cultural and linguistic syncretism between neighbouring groups and then recolonization.

1.  Introduction1 Linguistic research in the southern Gulf of Carpentaria region has focused on the Tangkic family of languages spoken on the Wellesley Islands and adjacent ­mainland .  When Bruce Rigsby arrived as the first Chair in Anthropology at the University of Queensland (UQ) in 1975, he joined Paul Memmott’s Ph.D. supervision team, helping construct a model of changing Lardil properties of place through the contact period. This was to kindle in Memmott a lifelong commitment to cultural change research, which came to one level of resolution much later in Native Title expert witness work, again mentored by Rigsby. Upon completion of his Ph.D., Erich Round took up a lectureship position in linguistics at UQ in 2011 where he also received mentorship from Rigsby, some 35 years after Rigsby had begun to mentor Memmott. Sean Ulm had also been mentored by Bruce Rigsby from the late 1980s, first as an undergraduate and then honours student in Bruce’s department at UQ, with Bruce providing Ulm’s first introduction to anthropology.

doi 10.1075/clu.18.06mem © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

 Paul Memmott, Erich Round, Daniel Rosendahl, & Sean Ulm

(O’Grady et al. 1966; Keen 1983; Hale 1973; Hale et al. 1980; Klokeid 1976; ­McConvell 1981; Blake 1990, 1991; Evans 1985, 1990, 1992, 1995a,b, 2005, this volume; Round 2009, 2010, 2011, 2013, 2014, forthc.). Since Evans (1985), it has been clear that the Tangkic family comprises two main historical branches, represented by Lardil (Northern ­Tangkic), and by Yangkaal, Kayardild, Gangalidda, Nguburindi and Yangarella (Southern Tangkic) (Figure 1). A map of the territories of these and other neighbouring language groups is presented in Figure 2, based on the ethnographic research of the 20th century. Proto-Tangkic Southern Tangkic

Mainland Tangkic

Gangalidda (& Yangarella)

Nguburindi

Northern Tangkic

Eastern Wellesley

Kayardild

Yangkaal

Lardil

Figure 1.  Phylogenetic tree of the Tangkic languages (after Evans 1995a: 12). Note that Evans considered Yangarella to be a dialect of Gangalidda

Initially, linguists had assumed that the history of the Tangkic languages was one of successive fissioning events followed predominantly by independent development of the respective languages (Evans 2005). Such fissioning included the movement of the original Northern Tangkic group to Mornington Island while a Southern ­Tangkic group remained on the mainland; the break-up some time later of the Southern ­Tangkic group; and eventually the fissioning of the Yangkaal-Kayardild language into two distinct geographical dialects, as the Kaiadilt people moved to Bentinck Island. Evans (2005) suggested this happened in the last 1000 years. However, preliminary archaeological results reported by Ulm et al. (2010) suggested that colonisation of Bentinck Island occurred before the last millennium. This original view of fission and insularity has been challenged by recent findings, which have led us to an increasingly sophisticated appreciation of the dynamic nature of the region’s environments and peoples. In this paper we use new linguistic, archaeological and environmental data to outline a hypothetical model of changing linguistic and territorial arrangements across the Wellesley region over the last several thousand years. Rather than the earlier model that involves an initial proto-Tangkic group occupying a local niche and then systematically branching out (fissioning processes) to gradually evolve into five or six



Fission, fusion and syncretism 

language groups occupying separate territories, we propose a more complex process that starts with the proto-Tangkic on Mornington Island and involves a combination of processes of fission, fusion and syncretism of language groups in the context of environmental changes. This hypothesis aims to correlate a Tangkic model of linguistic change and associated cultural change with available archaeological, geomorphological and climate change models.

Figure 2.  Map of language groups in the Wellesley and wider southern Gulf of Carpentaria region as per anthropological research in the late 20th century (Map by Aboriginal Environments Research Centre, University of Queensland). Note that the Yangarella had been dismissed as a long extinct group at this time

 Paul Memmott, Erich Round, Daniel Rosendahl, & Sean Ulm

2.  Background 2.1  Environmental background The 15 islands of the Wellesley Islands are dominated by Mornington Island (c.650 km2) in the north, the largest island in the group (Figure 2). A maximum open water crossing of only 3.5 km is required to reach Mornington from the mainland, with clear intervisibility between the intervening stepping-stone islands. Bentinck Island (c.150 km2) at the southeast of the archipelago requires a longer minimum open water voyage of 10.5 km, with poor intervisibility between Bentinck and the mainland. Oral histories suggest that travel was rare between Bentinck and the mainland, with some people making the return voyage 3–4 times in a lifetime (Evans 2005:14). Indeed, historical accounts of two crossings to Allen Island on the route to the mainland 10.5 km west of Bentinck indicate that this journey could be extremely hazardous, with up to 75% of travellers drowned en route (Tindale 1962a; cf. Memmott 1982). These accounts indicate the limitations in carrying capacity of the watercraft (hibiscus logs lashed with grass string), as in each account the raft was heavily overloaded. However, these voyaging accounts have also been used to argue for the poor seafaring capabilities of historically-recorded watercraft in the Gulf region, mitigating against regular offshore voyaging between distant islands, at least in the recent past, although the loss of boat-building knowledge cannot be ruled out (Fitzpatrick et al. 2007). Direct contact between Mornington and Bentinck, involving a 30km+ open water crossing, was extremely rare, occurring only by accident according to oral accounts (e.g. Roughsey 1971a: 95–96). For much of the late Pleistocene, the present-day Gulf of Carpentaria was part of a broad low-lying savannah corridor linking the continents of Australia and New Guinea. Physiographically, the region was dominated by a large freshwater lake known as Lake Carpentaria fed by rivers from both northern Australia and southern Papua New Guinea. At this time the Wellesley Islands were a series of low hills several hundred kilometres inland on the margin of an expanded Australian arid zone. Around 19,000 years ago, sea-levels began to rise with a rapid period of transgression in the terminal Pleistocene (Hanebuth et al. 2009). The great width and low gradient of the continental shelf in the Gulf of Carpentaria meant that sea-level rise shifted the coastline by more than 1,000km (Sullivan 1996). As Mulvaney and Kamminga (1999:121) note, this would have created an intertidal zone up to several kilometres wide, dramatically impacting on the structure of coastal resources. Between c.40,000 and c.12,200 years ago Lake Carpentaria was fully freshwater, reaching its maximum extent of c.190,000 km2 around 14,000 years ago. The first marine incursion was the breech of the Arafura Sill with sea-level rise at c.12,200 years ago, connecting Lake Carpentaria and the Arafura Sea (Reeves et al. 2007, 2008).



Fission, fusion and syncretism 

Full marine conditions were established by 10,500 years ago, prior to the breeching of ­Torres Strait around 8,000 years ago (Chivas et al. 2001; Reeves et al. 2007, 2008; Torgersen et al. 1983). By the early Holocene the coastline would have been close to its present position around much of the Gulf of Carpentaria. Sea-levels peaked +2.5m above current sea-levels around 6,400 years ago before falling to current levels in the last 2,000 years (Lewis et al. 2013). The Wellesley Islands would have been created between 6,000 and 5,000 years ago with rising sea-levels. At the time of creation, the Wellesley Islands were more isolated from the mainland than today owing to a combination of higher sea-levels and a more distant mainland shoreline as coastal progradation had not yet initiated. The fall in sea-level after 6,400 years ago would have expanded the surface areas of the islands and intertidal zones and reduced the distance between islands and the mainland. Some offshore islands would have been incorporated into the mainland as the coast prograded (Robins et al. 1998:118–119).

2.2  Overview of current Wellesley Region archaeological evidence The Wellesleys comprise numerous large islands capable of sustaining groups of people of various population densities. Furthermore there are abundant reefs, rock platforms and smaller islands that were likely used as temporary specialised hunting camps, while people exploited the reefs, deeper water and sea-grass beds. Only a small area of these islands has so far been archaeologically surveyed and sampled. Bentinck, Sweers, Fowler, Albinia, Douglas and Bessie Islands have been subject to intensive archaeological survey, sampling and dating (Ulm et al. 2010). On Mornington Island, only the Sandalwood River catchment on the central north coast has been subject to systematic study (Rosendahl 2014a, b; Rosendahl et al. 2015). Critically, there are no data available for the islands between Mornington/Bentinck and the adjacent mainland coast. Stone-walled tidal fishtraps are a widespread feature of the archaeological record of the Wellesley Islands, with fishtrap complexes on Bentinck Island occurring on average every 900m along the shoreline (Memmott et al. 2008; Rowland and Ulm 2011), though no chronological information is available for this site type. In an effort to broadly characterise the archaeological record of the study area, summed probability analysis was undertaken of 162 radiocarbon ages available from 123 archaeological sites from the South Wellesley Islands (Bentinck, Sweers, Fowler and Albinia), Mornington Island and the adjacent mainland (Figure 3). The summed probability distribution can be used as a proxy for the probability and amplitude of occupation in a particular period of time (Rick 1987; Ulm and Hall 1996). These results conform with broader northern Australian patterns demonstrating a marked increase in archaeological records over the last 2000 years (Ulm 2011, 2013; Williams et al. 2010). ­Williams et  al. (2015) have associated the latter pattern with climatic

 Paul Memmott, Erich Round, Daniel Rosendahl, & Sean Ulm

a­ melioration caused by pervasive La Niña conditions (higher rainfall), creating the conditions for population expansion and intensified logistical mobility and technological innovation. Around 750 years ago Williams et al. (2015) document a sharp decline in foraging territory coincident with the establishment of modern El Niño Southern Oscillation (ENSO) frequency in Australia. For Mornington Island, although numerous archaeological sites have been documented during site recording exercises (e.g. Robins 1982, 1983), few have more than basic details available and the most intensive studies are limited to a c.27 km2 area centred on the Sandalwood River catchment (Rosendahl et al. 2014a, b; ­Rosendahl et al. 2015). In this area, Memmott et al. (2006:38, 39) reported basal dates of c.5000–5500 BP from Wurdukanhan as “the oldest date yet obtained for any archaeological site on the coast of the southern Gulf of Carpentaria.” These dates were used to argue for “a relatively lengthy occupation since at least the midHolocene”. However, a re-analysis of this material by Rosendahl et al. (2015) demonstrates that these mid-Holocene features are natural rather than anthropogenic in origin. The oldest reliable dated cultural site on Mornington Island is Site 101, a shell scatter dating to 3059 cal BP (Rosendahl 2014a). Some of the earliest dated sites on Mornington Island are shell mounds dating to between c.2000 and 3000 years ago, including the Junction and Gutta-Percha sites (Rosendahl et al. 2014a, 2014b). Construction of shell mounds on the Sandalwood River continues into the recent past. Over half of the Mornington Island dates fall into the last 1000 years. Some 27 radiocarbon dates are available for Mornington Island (Figure 3b), with the summed probability of this small dataset showing occupation by 3500 cal BP, amplified archaeological signals centred on 1600 cal BP and 950 cal BP, before a major increase from 300 years ago. The ongoing work in the South Wellesleys by Ulm et al. (2010) identifies a faint human presence commencing shortly before 3000 BP, with strong evidence for permanent occupation in at least the past millennia (Figure 3c). The earliest hint of occupation on Bentinck Island occurs at 3483 cal BP at Jarrkamindiyarrb on the south-east coast. However, a continuous occupation signal does not commence before c.2000 years ago with a range of sites in use by 1500 years ago across Bentinck and Sweers Islands. Use of the small islands of Fowler and Albinia dates to the last 1000 and 200 years respectively. There is a distinct acceleration in representation of dates from 700 years ago, and especially in the last 300 years. Over half the dates from the South Wellesley Islands have median calibrated ages in the last 300 years. It is difficult to be more precise owing to uncertainty in the marine reservoir correction for the region and variations in the calibration curve for the last 200 years (Ulm et al. in prep.). The dataset is still small (128 radiocarbon dates) and it is unclear as to the nature of the earlier occupation and whether it represents permanent occupation since c.2000 cal BP or if there have been multiple colonisation attempts with an early, low ­intensity



Fission, fusion and syncretism  Southern Gulf n= Probability density

(a) . . 





Probability density

(b)

Probability density



Mornington Island n= . . .  



(c)

  Calendar date (BP)



South Wellesley Islands n= . . . 





(d) Probability density

  Calendar date (BP)

  Calendar date (BP)



Adjacent Mainland n=

.  



  Calendar date (BP)



Figure 3.  Summed probability plot of all calibrated radiocarbon ages (n=162) available. (a) combined southern Gulf (Wellesley Islands and adjacent mainland); (b) Mornington Island; (c) South Wellesley Islands (Bentinck, Sweers, Fowler and Albinia Islands); and (d) adjacent mainland. Note that two aberrant charcoal dates (Wk-23667 and Wk-23668) from Mornington Island are excluded (see Rosendahl 2012). Radiocarbon dates were calibrated into calendar years using OxCal (v.4.2.4) (Bronk Ramsey 2009) and the Marine13 calibration dataset (Reimer et al. 2013) using a local DR of -49±102 (Ulm et al. in prep)

 Paul Memmott, Erich Round, Daniel Rosendahl, & Sean Ulm

visitation (Ulm et al. 2010:43). Regardless, the chronological patterning suggests a gradual increase in use of the Wellesley Islands since c.3000 cal BP, with an increase in use of the smaller islands from c.2000 cal BP and permanent use, likely implying increased fissioning of the Wellesley community, in the past 1000 years. For the mainland coastline adjacent to the Wellesley Islands, only seven dates from three sites are available. The earliest date is 1346 cal BP from Gunamula and the most recent 262 cal BP from the same site (Robins et al. 1998). In fact, there are no other dated mainland sites within 200km of these sites. Since only three sites contribute to the summed probability distribution for the mainland coast, insights are limited (See Figure 3d.) The graphic summary of current archaeological data in Figure 3 clearly implies that the higher elevated island of Mornington was the first to be occupied in the Wellesley archipelago.

3.  A revised hypothesis of Tangkic linguistic history Bayesian phylogenetic analysis of Tangkic basic vocabulary has offered new insights into the structure of the Tangkic family tree, and serendipitous findings in archival recordings and linguistic fieldnotes from the 1960s and 1970s have suggested that the poorly-attested Yangarella language may not have been a dialect of Gangalidda as previously assumed, but more closely related to Nguburindi, Yangkaal and Kayardild. For reasons of space, we limit our discussion here to outlining the hypothesis, and labelling key historical events in this new model, e.g, ‘2nd Fission’, to which we shall refer later in the paper. For additional linguistic evidence see Round (in prep.) and Round and Memmott (2014). Bayesian phylogenetic methods (O’Brien et al. 2013) were used to estimate the topology of the Tangkic linguistic family from basic vocabulary data, and to gain a very broad estimate of the antiquity of branching events in the Tangkic family tree (Round and Memmott 2014). Combining the range of dates suggested by linguistic analysis with the available archaeological evidence, we hypothesise that the first ­Tangkic fission (1st Fission), into the Northern and Southern Tangkic branches was around 2,000 BP. On the balance of evidence, this was likely due to movements not northwards onto Mornington Island (cf. Evans 2005), but southwards out of Mornington and onto the mainland and South Wellesleys coastal zone. This zone had expanded in land area following recent stabilisation of sea-levels and subsequent progradation (Robins et al. 1998) and was receiving increased annual rainfall (Petherick et al. 2013), likely making water available for a lengthening period of the year, and thus was ripe for exploitation by the coastally-focused, raft-faring proto-Tangkic people of Mornington (see Figure 4).



Fission, fusion and syncretism  ~,-,bp Coastal colonisation from Mornington Island - st Fission

proto Tangkic

Mornington Island

NORTH WELLESLEY ISLANDS

Futur e So uth ern

Ta ng kic

Allen Island

Bentinck Island Sweers Island

SOUTH WELLESLEY ISLANDS





km

Coastal flats

Figure 4.  When sea-levels stabilised c.2000 BP, speakers of proto-Tangkic already occupied Mornington Island. Given their coastally-adapted tool-kit lexicon, it is likely they had been there for many centuries or even millennia previously. At c.2000–1500 BP temporary visits to the coastal mainland and South Wellesley Islands intensified, leading to colonisation and then fission into a Northern Tangkic group on Mornington and the Southern Tangkic colonists on the adjacent mainland and intervening islands (1st Fission). (Note: all dates based on linguistic evidence are highly approximate)

Significant levels of subsequent linguistic divergence in both grammar and lexicon of the Mornington versus the mainland varieties of Tangkic indicate that after the initial Tangkic fission changes proceeded largely independently, and we hypothesise that expansion onto the mainland was followed by a period of relative insularity of the two branches (Northern and Southern Tangkic) lasting as much as a thousand years. Later, c.1000 years ago, after the Northern and the Southern varieties of Tangkic had diverged into separate languages, we hypothesize that a second wave of expansion occurred outwards from Mornington (2nd Fission). Genealogically, the language carried southwards by this second expansion would have been a Northern variety, with

 Paul Memmott, Erich Round, Daniel Rosendahl, & Sean Ulm

strong affinities to the ancestor of Lardil. We will refer to this southwards-moving language as the ‘hypothesized Northern Tangkic-offshoot language’, or ‘HOL’. All evidence for HOL is deduced indirectly from its inferred interaction with the other, genealogically Southern, languages of the mainland, which we discuss presently. We hypothesize that speakers of HOL moved onto the mainland coastal areas, spreading from Denham and Forsyth Islands just south of Mornington, probably along the coast to the northwest as far as Yanyuwa country, and to the southeast along the coast and up the Nicholson River, and most likely spreading also to Bentinck Island (see Figure 5). ~, bp Coastal expansion from Mornington - nd Fission

Mornington Island

pre-Lardil ‘HOL’ NORTH WELLESLEY ISLANDS ‘HOL’

SOUTH WELLESLEY ISLANDS

Southern Tangkic ‘HOL’

 ‘HOL’ = hypothesized northern Tangkic offshoot language



km

Coastal flats

Figure 5.  At c.1000 BP a second wave of colonisation from Mornington leads to fission into two northern sister groups: pre-Lardil and a ‘hypothesized Northern Tangkic-offshoot language’ (HOL) (2nd Fission)

Around 800–400 years ago, we speculate that the environmentally vulnerable low-lying territory occupied by the speakers of HOL was impacted by a severe



Fission, fusion and syncretism 

e­ nvironmental event, which caused depopulation and abandonment of country for some time.2 The HOL communities of the far northwest were decimated, and their territory was later acquired by Garrwan speakers who expanded northward from an inland base, and who in folklore remember a lost tribe (the ‘Nyangga’, Furby & Furby 1977) whom they replaced. Further south, we speculate that surviving HOL speakers sought refuge with the mainland Southern Tangkic people, leading to a linguistic-cultural process of syncretism. In linguistic terms, the outcome resembled other, distinctive cases of intense language contact which Ross (1996, 2007) has termed ‘metatypy’, in which one language becomes grammatically, but not lexically, like another. In the Tangkic case, there is phylogenetic evidence that the very substantial grammatical differences between modern Gangalidda and Kayardild, for example, arose between their ancestors during a time interval so short that change as usual is implausible. Moreover, there is good evidence that Kayardild, and likely the modern languages stretching from Denham Island to the Nicholson, had a common ancestor which at some point became markedly more ‘Northern’ in its grammar. Thus, we hypothesize that when the surviving HOL speakers sought refuge with speakers of the Southern Tangkic language, a metatypized variety of Southern Tangkic either arose, or if it existed already, gained rapid uptake, and subsequently was carried back to the HOL territories some time later (see Figure 6); eventually HOL itself was entirely relinquished by its former speakers, and so left no direct, modern descendants. The metatypized Southern language variety, which had thus arisen and diverged markedly in grammar, yet barely at all in vocabulary, from the Southern Tangkic tongue later became Yangkaal-Kayardild and Yangarella-Nguburindi (3rd Fission) – languages which we collectively refer to as Eastern Tangkic. The more purely Southern, unmetatypized mainland language continued on, largely unaffected by this event in a gradual development process, to become Gangalidda. Linguistic research has emphasized an important role for the ‘emblematic’ status of metatypized linguistic codes for their speakers (Ross 2001, 2007). Linguistically for this reason, and anthropologically in light of the ‘middlemen’ role (cf §6) of the modern Yangkaal people who descended from the original Eastern Tangkic group, we hypothesize that this refuge event was a defining moment for the Eastern Tangkic group, a period when a culturally and linguistically Northern-derived group acquired

.  As a topic of future research, we need to search for paleoenvironmental or archaeological evidence for this as well as cultural markers. A conundrum in mounting such an argument is that Bentinck is one of the most low-lying of all areas in the Wellesleys, but is most intensively occupied 800–400 years ago (see Figure 3). A key problem is that archaeological chronologies are not highly resolved to detect and define short-term events A). The only exception to this principle is the shin hand sign, which includes three generations in its extension. The highest split here (at the bereavement level) differentiates according to both generation and age, though each term still includes multiple generations. It is not until the referential level that a ­second iteration of generational differentiation splits the terms into single-generation kin categories. The application of this suite of processes can be schematized as in Table 3. All features are inherited from right-to-left, so that any features listed under the ‘hand sign’ column, for instance, will also apply to all other cells of that row. Table 3 clearly demonstrates the fact that each referential term denotes members of a single generation and a single sex, with these distinguishing features often ‘inherited’ from the corresponding terms of higher subsystems. As demonstrated in §3.1, the semantic relationships that hold between the four subsystems of Kuuk Thaayorre kinship terminology demonstrate hyponymy to be a function of intension rather than extension. Comparing lexical semantics in W ­ arlpiri and its initiation register Tjiliwiri helped illuminate the nature of antonymy (Hale 1971); this chapter gives a hint of the kind of insights into hyponymy one might glean by comparing subsystems within a language.

4.  Kuuk Thaayorre kinship in typological perspective The Kuuk Thaayorre kinship system is typically Australian (and Dravidian) in its application of same-sex sibling and half-sibling merger rules (Scheffler 1978: 101, 115). The rule of same-sex sibling equivalence applies throughout the kinship ­system. Thus a father’s brother (FB) is terminologically equivalent to a father, and a MMZ is terminologically equivalent to a MM. This extends to those related through

 Alice Gaby

same-sex siblings, such that the child of one’s MZ or FB is termed a sibling, and the children of a female ego are described using the same term as those of her sister. Thus the distinction between lineal (ego and direct ancestors or descendants) and collateral kin (ego’s siblings, and siblings of ego’s lineal ancestors, and their descendants) is of little significance. The half-sibling-merger treats the child of one parent as structurally equivalent to a full sibling; one’s FD is addressed as ‘sister’ regardless of whether or not there is a common mother. More specifically, Kuuk Thaayorre kinship fits Radcliffe-Brown’s (1951: 42) definition of the Karadjeri system, in which the differentiation of MMB and FF (while not FMB and MF), leads to the asymmetrical, ‘matrilateral’ ideal marriage of a man to his MBD, and a woman to her FZS. 9 The second-preference marriage unites a man with his MMBDD, and a woman with her FFZSS. Thus the boundary between consanguineal (related by blood) and affinal (related by marriage) kin is porous, though the notion of ‘affinal kin’ remains relevant (Radcliffe-Brown 1930–1931). I have found no evidence of named sociocentric groupings (sections, subsections, moieties, semi-moieties) nor are they mentioned in Taylor (1984). Unnamed sociocentric divisions are implicit in the structure of the kinship system itself, however, as discussed in §3.1. Figure 2 diagrammatizes the system presented in Table 1 above (§2). For the sake of readability, only the vocative terms are included, but it should be noted that its form is entirely compatible with the referential and bereavement terms, which might be alternatively overlaid on the same structure. The distribution of hand signs can be inferred from the shading of nodes (the key to which is provided in Table 1). In this figure, marriage is represented by a ‘=’, while descent is represented by diagonal line from the marriage sign to the bridge linking siblings. Figure 2 highlights matrilineal descent lines, for reasons explored further below. The central column of the diagram represents the speaker/ego’s own matriline, with their brothers and sisters (wanhn ‘B+’, puumn ‘B-’, yapn ‘Z+’ and wiiln ‘Z-’) in the middle of the diagram, their mother and her brother(s) immediately above, and their maternal grandmother and her brother above them. In the row below, thuuwn is used to address ♀S, ♀D, ZS and ZD. ♂S, ♂D, BS and BD – addressed as ngothon – belong to the matriline to ego’s left. This column represents the matriline of the women that the men of ego’s ­matriline

.  MF and FMB are both addressed as ngethin, reflecting the fact that ego’s F marries his MBD (ego’s M, or FMBD). Thus a MF will also be FMB if ego’s parents have married ‘straight’. However, if FF and MMB were terminologically equivalent, if would follow that ego’s F could contract a straight marriage with the daughter of his FZ (ego’s FF being the brother of his/her MM). But this patrilateral cross-cousin is not an eligible match for a Thaayorre man (and the converse matrilateral cross-cousin is an ineligible spouse for a Thaayorre woman).



Hyponymy and the structure of Kuuk Thaayorre kinship 

kaman

thaaman mayath mokor kaaln

kalin

ngethin

nganin

puumn

wiiln

pinharr

EGO kuthn

wanhn

yapn

rorko

wanhn puumn

yapn wiiln

ngothon

thuuwn

ngethe

kemeth

maarn

paangun

Figure 2.  Kuuk Thaayorre kinship diagram. Vertical columns display lines of matrilineal ­descent. Diagonal lines display lines of patrilineal descent. Shading patterns correspond to hand signs as in Table 1

marry. Thus MMB, MB, B, ♀S, ZS, ♀DS, ZDS will all marry women of ngothon’s matriline. Meanwhile, the women of ego’s matriline (i.e. the sisters of the men listed above, in the central column) all marry men from the matriline represented in the column immediately to its right. All the terms of Table 1 fit neatly into these three columns with just two pairs of exceptions. At the bottom left and top right of the diagram, we find the sibling terms from the middle of the diagram repeated again, though this time wanhn ‘B+’ and yapn ‘Z+’ are used to address one’s brother’s (or a male speaker’s own) son’s son or son’s daughter. While at the diagram’s top right, puumn ‘B-’ and wiiln ‘Z-’ are used to address one’s father’s father or father’s sister. Not only are the sibling terms extended to these relations, but the hand sign ‘shin’ also covers all harmonic (G0, G±2) kin in one’s own patriline (i.e. both siblings and agnatic grandparents/grandchildren).10

.  It should be noted that the kinship diagram presented in Figure 2 differs significantly from Taylor’s (1984: 112) diagram. Firstly, Taylor’s diagram is presented from a patrilineal perspective with each of the five columns representing a different agnatic descent line. A more significant variance between Taylor’s diagram and my own, is Taylor’s repetition of terms to fill out the patrilines in the outer columns. Taylor’s deep and abiding knowledge of Thaayorre society and kinship relations is unquestionable, and I do not doubt the solid foundation of the structure he proposes. However, there is no explicit discussion of what his consultants said to inform this structure, nor does he list these various relationship types among the denotations of the relevant terms listed in Table 1 (in his Table 3.2, Taylor 1984: 112). For example, WBW,

 Alice Gaby

5.  Conclusion Australia’s formerly profuse auxiliary registers are vanishing fast. The restricted contexts of use of ceremonial, initiation, secret, taboo, ‘mother-in-law’ and sign languages make them particularly vulnerable to attrition. Yet there is so much to be learned from even patchy records. This study adds to the body of literature evidencing the covert categories that may be revealed by contrasting the semantic range of lexemes from different registers as well as linguistic subsystems that overlap in their extension (see, e.g. Dixon 1971, Hale 1982). It has also attempted to demonstrate the evidentiary value of real-world relationships in understanding, for example, the significance of marriage rules. There remains much to learn about how such an intricate and highly elaborated system fares under the pressures of obsolescence and rapid social change (cf., e.g., Powell 2002 on Guugu Yimidhirr, Dickson 2015 on Marra and Kriol). Do categorical boundaries collapse? Might vocative and referential terms merge? In the long term, kin terms might offer an important area for language revitalization efforts, since the vocative forms, in particular, can be used without any other knowledge of grammar or lexicon, with high frequency and enormous symbolic cultural value. Finally, I hope to have added to the growing evidence that considering language as a multi-stratal, multi-modal system which is in constant dialogue with the lived experience of its speakers can greatly enrich our understanding of semantic structures. And above all, I hope to honour the marvellous work of Bruce Rigsby and the many other anthropologists and linguists who have grappled with kinship in Cape York, while also demonstrating the urgent need for more work to be done by the next generation of researchers.

References Alpher, Barry. 1972. On the genetic subgrouping of the languages of southwestern Cape York Peninsula, Australia. Oceanic Linguistics 11: 67–87.  doi: 10.2307/3622803 Bauer, Anastasia, Elizabeth Marrkilyi Ellis, Alice Gaby & Jennifer Green. Forthcoming. Pointing to the body: kin signs in Australian Indigenous sign languages. Goodenough, Ward. 1965. Yankee kinship terminology: A problem in componential analysis. American Anthropologist 67: 259–287.  doi: 10.1525/aa.1965.67.5.02a00820

MBSW, WBSSW are not proffered as potential denotata of kaman ‘MM, MMB’. Figure 2 is therefore presented here as the best fit with my own data and observations, as well as the list of terms and their denotations given by Taylor (1984).



Hyponymy and the structure of Kuuk Thaayorre kinship 

Blythe, Joe. 2013. Preference organization driving structuration: Evidence from Australian Aboriginal interaction for pragmatically motivated grammaticalization. Language 89: ­883–919.  doi: 10.1353/lan.2013.0057 Dickson, Gregory. 2015. Marra and Kriol: The loss and maintenance of knowledge across a language shift boundary. Ph.D. Dissertation, Australian National University. Dixon, R.M.W. 1971. A method of semantic description. In Danny Steinberg & Leon Jakobovits, eds. Semantics: An Interdisciplinary Reader in Philosophy, Linguistics and Psychology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 436–471. Dixon, R.M.W. 1972. The Dyirbal Language of North Queensland. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.  doi: 10.1017/CBO9781139084987 Evans, Nick. 1992. Multiple semiotic systems, hyperpolysemy, and the reconstruction of semantic change in Australian languages. In Guenter Kellerman & Michael Morrissey, eds. Diachrony within Synchrony. Bern: Peter Lang. 475–508. Gaby, Alice. 2006. A Grammar of Kuuk Thaayorre. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Melbourne. Gaby, Alice. Forthcoming. A Grammar of Kuuk Thaayorre. Garde, Murray. 2002. Social Deixis in Bininj Kun-wok Conversation. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Queensland. Hale, Ken. 1966. Kinship reflections in syntax: Some Australian languages. Word 22: 318–24. doi: 10.1080/00437956.1966.11435458 Hale, Ken. 1971. A note on a Walbiri tradition of antonymy. In Danny Steinberg & Leon  Jakobovits, eds. Semantics: An Interdisciplinary Reader in Philosophy, Linguistics and Psychology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 472–482. Hale, Ken. 1982. The logic of Damin kinship terminology. In Jeffrey Heath, Francesca Merlan & Alan Rumsey, eds. Languages of Kinship in Aboriginal Australia. Sydney: University of Sydney. Heath, Jeffrey. 1982. Introduction. In Jeffrey Heath, Francesca Merlan & Alan Rumsey, eds. Languages of Kinship in Aboriginal Australia. Sydney: University of Sydney. Heath, Jeffrey, Francesca Merlan & Alan Rumsey. 1982. Languages of Kinship in Aboriginal Australia. Sydney: University of Sydney. Kendon, Adam. 1988. Sign languages of Aboriginal Australia: Cultural, Semiotic and Communicative Perspectives. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kroeber, Alfred. 1909. Classificatory systems of relationship. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland 39: 77–84.  doi: 10.2307/2843284 Lévi-Straus, Claude. 1969. The Elementary Structures of Kinship (Translation of the 1967 French second edition ed.). Boston: Beacon Press. McConnel, Ursula. 1940. Social organization of the tribes of Cape York Peninsula, north Queensland: marriage systems – Wikmunkan. Oceania 10: 434–455. doi: 10.1002/j.1834-4461.1940.tb00305.x McConvell, Patrick. 1982. Neutralization and degrees of respect in Gurindji. In Jeffrey Heath, Francesca Merlan & Alan Rumsey, eds. Languages of Kinship in Aboriginal Australia. Sydney: University of Sydney. McConvell, Patrick & Ian Keen. 2011. The transition from Kariera to an asymmetrical system: Cape York Peninsula to North-East Arnhemland. In Doug Jones & Bojka Milicic, eds. Kinship, Language, and Prehistory: Per Hage and the Renaissance in Kinship Studies. Salt Lake City: University of Utah Press. 99–132. Nash, David. 2014. Alternating generations again again: a response to Wierzbicka on generation moieties. Proceedings of the 44th Australian Linguistics Society. Melbourne: University of Melbourne.

 Alice Gaby Powell, Fiona. 2002. Transformations in Guugu Yimithirr kinship terminology. Anthropological Forum 12: 177–192.  doi: 10.1080/006646702320622798 Radcliffe-Brown, Alfred. 1951. Murngin social organization. American Anthropologist 53: 37–55. doi: 10.1525/aa.1951.53.1.02a00050 Scheffler, Harold. 1978. Australian Kin Classification. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. doi: 10.1017/CBO9780511557590 Sharp, Lauriston. 1937. The Social Anthropology of a Totemic System in North Queensland, Australia. Ph.D. Dissertation, Harvard University. Sharp, Lauriston. 1958. People without politics: The Australian Yir Yoront. In Verne Ray, ed. Systems of Political Control and Bureaucracy in Human Societies: Proceedings of the 1958 Annual Spring Meeting of the American Ethnological Society. Seattle: American Ethnological Society. 1–7. Stanner, W. E.H. 1936–1937. Aboriginal modes of address and reference in the North-West of the Northern Territory. Oceania 7: 300–315.  doi: 10.1002/j.1834-4461.1937.tb00385.x Sutton, Peter. 1978. Wik: Aboriginal Society, Territory and Language at Cape Keerweer, Cape York Peninsula, Australia. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Queensland. Sutton, Peter. 1982. Personal power, kin classification and speech etiquette in Aboriginal Australia. In Jeffrey Heath, Francesca Merlan & Alan Rumsey, eds. Languages of Kinship in Aboriginal Australia. Sydney: University of Sydney. Taylor, John. 1984. Of Acts and Axes. Ph.D. Dissertation, James Cook University. Thomson, Donald. 1946. Names and naming in the Wik MoNkan Tribe. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 76: 157–168. Thomson, Donald. 1955. Two devices for the avoidance of first cousin marriage among the Australian Aborigines. Man 55: 39–40.  doi: 10.2307/2795127 Thomson, Donald. 1972. Kinship and Behaviour in North Queensland. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. Wegener, Claudia. 2013. Savosavo kinship terminology: Social context and linguistic features. Oceanic Linguistics 52: 318–40.  doi: 10.1353/ol.2013.0028

Possession in Kuku-Thaypan through a comparative lens* Mary Laughren

University of Queensland This chapter presents a cross-linguistic study of possession constructions, examining data from Kuku Thaypan (Rigsby 1976), Waanyi and Warlpiri. It acknowledges the distinction between alienable and inalienable possession constructions in the three languages, then focusses more particularly on how kin relation expressions relate to alienable possessor-possessed constructions. The double-marking of the possessor by a referential NP and a co-referring genitive pronoun in Kuku Thaypan is compared with the double marking of the propositus in Warlpiri and Waanyi kin-referring expressions. The relative position of the propositus and possessor elements and the patterns of case-marking are investigated to reveal a distinction between anaphoric and pronominal propositus or possessor constituents.

1.  Introduction In his description of how notions of possession are expressed in the Kuku-Thaypan language of Cape York Peninsula, Bruce Rigsby (1976) distinguishes two types of ‘possessive’ constructions: one is used to express alienable possession while the other expresses inalienable possession (see also Alpher, this volume, on the genetic status of this language). The examples in (1) illustrate the expression of alienable p ­ ossession,

*  Bruce Rigsby’s extensive documentation of Cape York languages, including Kuku-Thaypan, constitutes an impressive collection of oral recordings and accompanying field notes which include careful transcriptions and thoughtful, anthropologically and linguistically informed observations. Bruce has deposited this collection in the Fryer Library at the University of Queensland. Few of the languages recorded by Rigsby in the 1970s and 1980s are still spoken. By generously making his field data accessible to other scholars who can continue to draw value from it, and to descendants of the speakers recorded, Rigsby continues to make a significant contribution to our knowledge of Australian languages. As his colleague at the University of Queensland, I am grateful to Bruce and to his wife Barbara for their friendship, encouragement and support.

doi 10.1075/clu.18.09lau © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

 Mary Laughren

while those in (2) illustrate inalienable possession, specifically the relationship between an individual and a part of the body of that individual. In expressing these distinct semantic relationships by means of different syntactic constructions, Kuku-Thaypan exemplifies a very wide-spread Pama-Nyungan pattern.1 (1) a. me to ŋiw(Rigsby 1976: 262) man dog his ‘The man’s dog’ b. to ŋiw dog his ‘His dog’

(Rigsby 1976: 263)

c. lpu-lkal to ŋiw-andha the-n nay. old.man dog his-erg bite-nonfut me ‘The old man’s dog bit me.’

(Rigsby 1976: 262)

(2) a. re-ŋga mbi-n li hand-erg throw-nonfut he ‘He threw (it) with (his) hand.’

(Rigsby 1976: 261)

b. ŋɨl mal ṱe-n nay li mosquito foot bite-nonfut me he ‘A mosquito bit me (on) the foot.’

(Rigsby 1976: 261)

In (1) the relationship between some entity (e.g., ‘a dog’) and the independent ‘possessor’ of that entity is expressed within a single constituent which refers to the ­‘possessed’ entity. This constituent is made up of a noun denoting the category of the possessed referent, like to ‘dog’, and of a genitive pronoun referring to the possessor, like ŋiw ‘his’, which is postposed to the possessed noun. Where the category of the possessor is also expressed by a noun, as in (1a) and (1c), this noun – me ‘man’ in (1a), lpu-lkal ‘old man’ in (1c) – is preposed to the noun denoting the possessed entity and bears no case marking to signal its possessor function. Thus, while the possessor noun precedes the possessed noun, the coreferring possessor pronoun follows the possessed noun. Evidence for the incorporation of the possessor and possessed constituents into a single nominal phrase is provided by (1c), in which the final member of the phrase, the genitive pronoun ŋiw ‘his’, hosts the ergative suffix -andha thus marking the entire phrase’s function as the transitive subject. However, it does not provide clear evidence for the internal structure of the phrase.

.  The following abbreviations are used in glossing examples: 1 = first person, 2 = second person, 3 = third person, acc = accusative case, anaph = anaphor, dat = dative case, erg = ergative case, fut = future, gen = genitive case, nom = nominative case, nonfut = non-future, pl= plural number, possess = possessor, prop = propositus, s = subject, sg = singular number.



Possession in Kuku-Thaypan through a comparative lens 

This contrasts with the inalienable part-whole examples in (2) in which the phrase expressing the ‘whole’ is always external to the phrase expressing the ‘part’.2 In (2a) the relevant part of the ‘thrower’, expressed by the third person singular nominative pronoun li ‘he’, is re ‘hand’ which hosts the ergative suffix -ŋga since it is the relevant part of the referent of a transitive subject. The nominal ‘part’ (re-ŋga) and pronominal ‘whole’ (li) constituents are separated by the verb. Similarly in (2b), the affected part mal ‘foot’ is separated by the verb from the affected whole expressed by the first person singular accusative pronoun nay ‘me’.3 While (1) and (2) appear to represent the basic distinction between alienable and inalienable possession constructions, Rigsby also gives an example of an alternative construction for alienable possession in Kuku-Thaypan, with distinct and discontinuous possessor and possessed phrases. This is shown in (3b), which contrasts with the structure in (1c).4 (3) a. to thaw dog my ‘My dog’

(Rigsby 1976: 263)

b. to-ŋga pigipigi may-n thaw dog-erg pig find-nonfut my ‘My dog found a pig.’

(Rigsby 1976: 263)

In (3a) the possessed constituent to ‘dog’ is immediately followed by the possessor constituent thaw ‘my’, seemingly the same pattern as in (1b). By analogy with the structure in (1c), we might reasonably hypothesize that ‘My dog found a pig’ would be expressed as in the unattested (4) (marked as such by the initial ‘?’) in which both the possessor and possessed expressions form a single constituent with the ergative case marking hosted by the final constituent, i.e., the first person genitive pronoun thaw ‘my’. (4) ?to thaw-andha pigipigi may-n dog my-erg pig find-nonfut ?‘My dog found a pig.’

.  Rigsby (1976: 265) also recorded the expression of part-whole relations in the alienable possession pattern of (1). .  Hale (1981) provides a detailed analysis of this ‘part-whole’ construction in another Pama-Nyungan language, Warlpiri. .  Additional differences are shown by (2b) and (3b): in (2b) the transitive subject noun ŋɨl ‘mosquito’ refers to the same entity as the nominative pronoun li ‘he’, and does not host an ergative case-marker; in (3b) the transitive subject noun to ‘dog’, hosts the ergative case-marker -ŋga, and is not construed with a pronominal subject. These differences will not be explored herein.

 Mary Laughren

In (3b), however, the genitive pronoun thaw ‘my’ is external to the possessed phrase and does not host the ergative suffix. The data in Rigsby (1976) does not enable us to know whether (3b) could be expressed in the manner of (1c) (as shown in (4)) or whether (1c) could be expressed using the construction in (3b). The complex transitive subject nominal phrase in (1c) shows coreference between the initial noun lpu-lkal ‘old man’ and the genitive pronoun ŋiw ‘his’. This suggests one of two analyses: (i) the third person pronoun is behaving like an anaphor rather than a pronoun, assuming that the entire phrase is its binding domain; or (ii) the possessor noun lpu-lkal ‘old man’ is outside the binding domain containing the genitive pronoun ŋiw ‘his’, (cf. English As for the old man, his dog bit me).5 The proposed alternative structures for this phrase and the coreference relations are shown in (5). (5) (i) [[lpu-lkali [toj ŋiwi/*k]] -andha]j old man dog his -erg (ii) [lpu-lkali] [[toj ŋiwi/k] -andha]]j old man dog his -erg In (5i), the referent of ŋiwi is bound to that of lpu-lkal and both are internal to the phrase over which ergative case has scope. Assuming that the possessor NP lpu-lkal ‘old man’ is inside the binding domain containing the genitive pronoun ŋiw, then this pronoun must function as an anaphor which must be obligatorily bound referentially to its NP antecedent. In (5ii), on the other hand, lpu-lkal has the status of a topic, external to the case-marked phrase containing pronominal ŋiw. This pronoun is free to have the same referent as lpu-lkal or not, although pragmatically the coreferential reading is the default. The possessor nominal is externally adjoined to the possessive phrase to ŋiw-andha ‘his dog’. As we have no evidence that an interpretation of (ii) in which lpu-lkal and ŋiw are not coreferent is – or is not – grammatical, these competing analyses are difficult to evaluate. Taking off from the contrast observed in Kuku Thaypan between the expression of alienable possession with a third person possessive pronoun coreferent with a nominal phrase as in (1c) and one with a first person possessive pronoun (3b), the remainder of this paper will focus on the distinction between third and non-third person ‘propositus’ suffixes used in the expression of kin relationships in two Australian languages: the central Australian language Warlpiri, recognized as Pama-Nyungan, and a language traditionally spoken in the southern Gulf of Carpentaria region, Waanyi (see also ­Trigger, this volume, and Memmott et al., this volume), whose genetic status is

.  Coreference between an antecedent category and a pronoun as opposed to an anaphor has been shown to be subject to syntactic constraints (Chomsky 1981, Lasnik 1976, Reinhart 1983 inter alia).



Possession in Kuku-Thaypan through a comparative lens 

disputed.6 I will argue that the so-called third person propositus suffixes function as anaphors and not pronouns, unlike the non-third person propositus suffixes which are clearly pronominal. This distinction accounts for their rather different distributions. Finally I raise the possibility that the contrasting syntactic expressions of alienable possession in the Kuku-Thaypan sentences in (1c) and (3b) may reflect the same categorial distinction, although the paucity of published data on Kuku-Thaypan does not allow for any robust testing of this hypothesis.7 The structure of the remainder of this chapter is as follows: §2 discusses relevant morpho-syntactic features of Warlpiri referring expressions made up of a phrase denoting a kin relationship between the referent of that phrase and another person (the ‘propositus’) who is referred to by a constituent contained within the larger phrase; §3 discusses parallel phenomena in Waanyi; §4 takes another look at the contrasting Kuku-Thaypan structures shown in (1c) and (3b) in the light of the Warlpiri and Waanyi possession structures analysed in §2 and §3, and presents some concluding remarks.

2.  Warlpiri ‘kin possession’ expressions This section examines the distinction between constructions of kin possession (§ 2.1) and alienable possession (§ 2.2) in Warlpiri, and uses the distinct properties of these two types as evidence to distinguish between anaphor and pronoun uses in a set of suffixes that are specialized in marking the propositus in a kin relation (§ 2.3).

2.1  Kin possession Kin relation terms are typically two-place predicates expressing a kin relationship between some individual (or set of individuals) X and some other individual (or set of individuals) Y. A phrasal constituent referring to X may be formed by incorporating an expression referring to the propositus Y into a phrase containing the kin relation

.  On the basis of the pronominal forms in Waanyi and the closely related Garrwa language, Blake (1990) classifies both languages as non-Pama-Nyungan, whereas Harvey (2009) concludes they are Pama-Nyungan. Evans (2003: 10) adopts a third path in which Garrwan attaches to a node immediately dominating the proto Pama-Nyungan node. This approach is aligned with the distinction between nuclear Pama-Nyungan which excludes Garrwan and a wider Pama-Nyungan family which includes it, made by O’Grady (1979). .  Rigsby (1976) does not include expressions of kin relations, but in the closely related Aghu Tharrnggala, Jolly (1989: 100) cites identical looking alienable and kin possessor constructions: lka thaw ‘my spear’ (#182) and nde thaw ‘my son’ (#184).

 Mary Laughren

term. For instance, ‘your mother’ consists of the possessive pronoun ‘your’ referring to the addressee (as propositus) and the kin relation term ‘mother’, the whole phrase referring to some person who is in the ‘mother’ relationship to the addressee. Clearly kin terms differ from nouns like ‘dog’ or ‘house’ derived from one-place predicates. Where a second ‘possessor’ argument is associated with such a noun to restrict its referential range as in ‘your house’, the possessive pronoun does not evaluate an intrinsic argument of the noun ‘house’, but rather is an argument of the introduced possessive ‘ownership’ relation: X possesses Y, where X = ‘your’ and Y = ‘house’. In Warlpiri, kin possession and alienable possession are expressed in syntactically distinct constructions associated with distinct morphological properties. As shown in (6), there are a number of ways of expressing a kin relationship, all of which contrast with the expressions of alienable possession (to be discussed in §2.2). (6) a. Nyuntu-ku ngati 2sg-dat mother b. Nyuntu-ku ngati-nyanu 2sg-dat mother-anaph.prop c. Ngati-puraji mother-2sg.prop d. Ngati=ngki mother=2sg.dat ‘Your mother’ In (6a&b) the propositus is expressed by a free form pronoun in dative case nyuntuku preposed to the kin nominal ngati ‘mother (of)’. If the expressions in (6a&b) are not case-marked, the propositus term may also be postposed to the kin nominal, e.g., ngati(-nyanu) nyuntu-ku. Irrespective of the word order, these two words cannot be separated by other phrases. When case-marked within a larger constituent, only the kin term may host the case suffix, with the dative-marked propositus term immediately preposed to it. In (6b) the kin term hosts a propositus suffix -nyanu whose reference is bound to that of the dative-marked propositus term nyuntu-ku ‘your’. In (6c) the propositus is only expressed by the second person (or ‘addressee’) suffix -puraji, hosted by the kin nominal ngati. Warlpiri has a very limited set of propositus suffixes: first person singular pronominal -na has limited productivity, second person singular -puraji used in (6c) is totally productive, as is the suffix -nyanu used in (6b), which I will show to be an anaphor.8 The relationship between the dative-marked propositus

.  The propositus anaphor -nyanu has the same form as the anaphoric non-subject enclitic used in reflexive and reciprocal constructions, e.g. Wati-ngki=nyanu pajurnu ‘The man cut himself ’.



Possession in Kuku-Thaypan through a comparative lens 

phrase and the propositus suffix will be further explored below.9 Yet another way of referring to the propositus is shown in (6d), where it is expressed as an enclitic pronoun affixed to the kin noun; (6d) does not constitute a phrase which can be further case-marked. In fact the dative clitic -ngku is syntactically external to the kin expression, in the same way that the first person genitive pronoun thaw in the Kuku-Thaypan sentence (3b) is external to the possessor noun phrase (as discussed in §1).

2.2  Alienable possession Examples of alienable possession are shown in (7). (7) a. Nyuntu-nyangu maliki. 2sg-possess dog ‘Your dog’ b. Karnta-kurlangu maliki woman-possess dog ‘(A/the) woman’s dog’ In (7a) the possessive suffix -nyangu, restricted to pronouns, is hosted by the possessor pronoun nyuntu, while in (7b) the possessive suffix -kurlangu, used for nouns and other nominal words, is hosted by the possessor noun karnta ‘woman’. The possessor expression thus formed is preposed to the possessed term maliki in (7a&b). However, these words may be in either order, and may be separated by additional constituents. Both may be case-marked as a function of their syntactic relationship within a larger constituent; both must be case-marked if discontinuous. If continuous, then only the final element must be case-marked, although the non-final element may also be case-marked. Thus the relationship between the dative propositus and the kin term in (6a&b) is tighter, or more restricted, than between the alienable possessor and the possessed expressions in (7). The alienable possession construction in (7) can be extended to express kin relationships as shown in (8a&b). However, while a possessive-marked propositus phrase may coexist with a pronominal propositus suffix as in (8b), the dative propositus phrase may only coexist with the anaphoric propositus suffix -nyanu as in (8c) (compare (6b)); it may not be used with the pronominal propositus suffix -puraji as in the unacceptable (8d) (marked by the asterisk (*)). (8) a. Nyuntu-nyangu ngati. 2sg-possess mother

.  There are additional kin suffixes which will not be discussed in this article, including the dyadic -rlangu, and its avoidance form -wurduwurdu.

 Mary Laughren

b. Nyuntu-nyangu ngati-puraji. 2sg-possess mother-2prop c. Nyuntu-ku ngati-nyanu. 2sg-dat mother-anaph.prop ‘Your mother’ d. *Nyuntu-ku ngati-puraji.  2sg-dat mother-2prop Conversely, alienable possession may also be expressed by means of a dative-marked possessor, although this is relatively rare. Like the dative-marked propositus in kin referring expressions, it is more closely bound to the possessed expression than is the possessive marked possessor. A comparison of the syntactic behaviour of examples with a possessive ‘possessor’ in (9) with the dative possessor examples in (10) reveals additional contrasting properties of these distinct ‘possessor’ constructions. (9) a. Nyuntu-nyangu maliki. = (7a) a’. Maliki nyuntu-nyangu 2sg-possess dog dog 2sg-possess ‘Your dog’ ‘Your dog’ b. Nyuntu-nyangu-ku maliki-ki b’. Maliki-ki nyuntu-nyangu-ku 2sg-possess-dat dog-dat dog-dat 2sg-possess-dat ‘For/to your dog’ ‘For/to your dog’ c. Nyuntu-nyangu maliki-ki ‘For/to your dog’

c’. *Maliki-ki nyuntu-nyangu

The possessor and possessed expressions may appear in either order irrespective of whether the possessive-marked (9a&a’) or dative-marked (10a&a’) construction is used. The comparison between (9b&b’) shows that both constituents in the possessive-marked construction may be case-marked (e.g., by dative case) and that these case-marked expressions may be in either order. A dative-marked possessor, on the other hand, must precede the dative-marked possessed phrase as in (10b), hence (10b’) is ungrammatical on the given reading. The contrast between (9c&c’) for possessivemarked constructions shows that while the case-marking may be absent from the initial element, it must be present on the final element. Since the dative-marked possessor cannot be further case-marked, both (10c) and (10c’) are ungrammatical.10 (10) a. Nyuntu-ku maliki a’. Maliki nyuntu-ku 2sg-dat dog dog 2sg-dat ‘Your dog’ ‘Your dog’

.  The sequence of case-marked expressions Nyuntu-ku maliki-ki/maliki-ki nyuntu-ku can be alternatively parsed as consisting of two distinct expressions in apposition meaning ‘for/to you dog’ which is not the relevant interpretation under discussion.



Possession in Kuku-Thaypan through a comparative lens 

b. Nyuntu-ku maliki-ki. b’. *Maliki-ki. nyuntu-ku 2sg-dat dog-dat  dog-dat 2sg-dat ‘For/to your dog’ ‘For/to your dog’ c. *Nyuntu-ku-ku maliki-ki  2sg-dat-dat dog-dat

c’. *Maliki(-ki) nyuntu-ku-ku.

The comparison between (11a&b) shows that in the case of possessive marking, possessor and possessed expressions may be discontinuous, and in either order. Furthermore, the presence of just one constituent before the auxiliary complex (=rna=rla) demonstrates the phrasal status of each expression. (11) a. Nyuntu-nyangu-ku=rna=rla yungu maliki-ki 2sg-possess-dat=1sg.s=3sg.dat gave dog-dat b. Maliki-ki=rna-rla yungu nyuntu-nyangu-ku dog-dat=1sg.s=3sg.dat gave 2sg-possess-dat ‘I gave (it) to your dog.’ By contrast, (12a&b) show that the dative-marked possessor, which cannot be further case-marked, cannot be discontinuous with the possessed expression maliki. The dative case marked on the possessed constituent maliki-ki ‘dog-dat’ obligatorily scopes over the entire phrase which includes the dative-marked possessor ( [[nyuntuku maliki] ki]) as in (10b). (12) a. *Nyuntu-ku(-ku)=rna=rla yungu maliki-ki.  2sg-dat(-dat)=1sg.s=3dat gave dog-dat b. *Maliki-ki=rna=rla yungu nyuntu-ku(-ku).  dog-dat=1sg.s=3dat gave 2sg-dat(-dat) ≠ ‘I gave it to your dog.’

2.3  Propositus suffixes: Anaphor versus pronoun As seen in (8b), the pronominal addressee propositus suffix -puraji can be used with a possessive-marked possessor, whereas, as shown by the ungrammatical status of (8c), it cannot combine with a dative-marked possessor. The pronominal propositus suffix can, however, be used as the sole expression of the propositus as in (6c), repeated below as (13a). This expression can be case-marked, as a function of its role in a larger phrase or sentence, as in (13b) in which it hosts the dative case marker -ki. (13) a. ngati-puraji mother-2prop ‘Your mother’ b. ngati-puraji-ki mother-2prop-dat ‘For/to your mother’

 Mary Laughren

c. Nyuntu-nyangu ngati-puraji. 2sg-anaph.prop mother-2prop ‘Your mother’ d. *Nyuntu-ku ngati-puraji. As observed in (8b) (repeated as (13c)), pronominal -puraji can be coreferent with a possessive-marked possessor expression, since the latter is external to the expression containing -puraji in the relevant way, whereas, as shown in (8d) (repeated as (13d)), -puraji cannot be bound by a dative-marked possessor, which, as we have seen, is contained within the same phrase as the possessed expression; thus the dative possessor can only bind the reference of an anaphor such as the propositus suffix nyanu. Like -puraji, however, the anaphor -nyanu may also be the sole overt expression of the propositus, as in (14), thus displaying pronoun-like behaviour, as reflected in the English translation in (14i) which refers to a specific third person propositus, the referent identifiable from either the intrinsic textual context or from the extrinsic discourse context. Alternatively, it may display anaphoric behaviour in being bound by an unexpressed arbitrary (arb) propositus specifier, as indicated in the (14ii) translation.11 (14) ngati-nyanu mother-anaph.prop i. ‘His/her/their mother’ ii. ‘A/the/one’s mother’ Notice also that (14) (with the 14i reading) can be expanded to include a dativemarked possessor propositus expression, whether pronominal or nominal, as shown in (15a-c). (15) a. nyanungu-ku ngati-nyanu 3-dat mother-anaph.prop ‘His/her mother’ b. nyanungu-rra-ku ngati-nyanu 3-pl-dat mother-anaph.prop ‘Their mother’ c. kurdu-ku ngati-nyanu child-dat mother-anaph.prop ‘(The/a) child’s mother’ The dative-marked propositus pronoun in (15a&b) and noun kurdu ‘child’ in (15c) is assigned a referential index which obligatorily binds the reference of -nyanu. Rather

.  The specific versus arbitrary interpretation of (14) can also be represented as a contrast between existential and universal binding of the propositus.



Possession in Kuku-Thaypan through a comparative lens 

than analyse -nyanu in (14) and (15) as having either pronominal or anaphoric properties depending on its interpretation, I propose that -nyanu is always anaphoric, and may be overtly or covertly bound. In the latter case, its antecedent may be assigned specific (represented by the referential index ‘i’), or arbitrary reference (represented as ‘arb’: [arb/i [KIN-nyanuARB/i]]). We have already seen that the person value of nyanu is not limited to third person, but may inherit the person (and number) features of its antecedent, such as second person singular (‘addressee’) in (8c). In the absence of an overt propositus phrase, the person feature defaults to third. To summarize, the second person propositus suffix -puraji is pronominal and cannot be bound by an overt pronominal dative-marked propositus phrase acting as a specifier within the phrase containing the kin term and its pronominal suffix. However, -puraji can be bound by a possessive-marked pronominal propositus expression which is external to the immediate phrase containing the kin term (represented as KIN) and this suffix. While the dative possessor phrase is assigned a single index, i.e. that of the propositus in a kin relation expression, or of the possessor in an alienable possession construction, the possessive-marked possessor phrase is assigned both the index of the propositus (or possessor) (internally to the core noun or pronoun indicated as an NP in (16)), and the index of the possessed. The contrasting structures are shown in (16a&b). (16) Structure Example a. *[NPi-dat [KIN-purajii]j] *Nyuntu-ku ngati-puraji =(8d) b. [NPi-poss]j [KIN-purajii]j Nyuntu-nyangu ngati-puraji =(13c) c. [KIN-purajii]j Ngati-puraji =(13a) While the coreferring phrases in (16b) may be united to form a larger phrase in the scope of a single case, marked only on the final constituent, they may also constitute distinct phrases, independently case-marked and potentially discontinuous. The grammaticality of (16c) provides further evidence that the propositus argument of the kin relation is expressed by the propositus suffix, encoding its own intrinsic person and number features. Note that the possessive-marked propositus following the pattern in (16b) must have the same person and number features as the pronominal propositus suffix. On the other hand, the anaphor -nyanu must be bound within its restricted binding domain, marked by the outer parentheses in (17a). The antecedent specifier may be overt or covert. The overt specifier is marked by dative case (NPi-dat) as in the schema shown in (17a). If covert, the specifier may be associated with a referential index or it may be assigned an arbitrary index as shown in (17b) in which the empty specifier category is represented by ‘e’. Where the propositus is expressed by a ­possessive-marked possessor phrase, the structure is as shown in (17c), where the empty category is coreferent with the external antecedent NP in the ­possessive‑marked

 Mary Laughren

­ ossessor phrase. The referential index associated with ‘e’ binds the anaphoric prop positus suffix -nyanu. (17) Structure Example a. [NPi-dat [KIN-nyanui]j] Nyanungu-ku ngati-nyanu =(15a) b. [ei/ARB [KIN-nyanui/ARB]]j Ngati-nyanu =(14) c. [NPi-poss]j [ei [KIN-nyanui]]j Nyanungu-nyangu ngati-nyanu cf. (13c)

3.  Waanyi kin relation expressions Like both Kuku-Thaypan and Warlpiri, Waanyi expresses part-whole relations in a way that is distinct from the other types of ‘possession’.12 Both the alienated possessor and the propositus in a kin relation are expressed by dative-marked phrases, typically preposed to the possessed or kin noun, although they may also be postposed as in (18d). Examples of each possession type are given in (18a-d). (18) a. Kuyi nyulu daba ngaan. head 3sg.nom hit 1sg.acc ‘He hit me (on) the head.’

ML_RS2003-03

b. Ja=ninji jirringkijbi ngaki yanyi. fut=2sg.nom learn 1sg.dat language ‘You will learn my language.’

ML_RS2003-04

c. Durrajba nyulu ngaki ngada-nganja. fear 3sg.s 1sg.dat mother-anaph.prop ‘My mother was frightened.’

ML_RS2005-01

.  The Waanyi data cited are from two sources: (i) language recorded by Mary Laughren (ML) from Mr Roy Seccin Kamarrangi (RS) between 2000 and 2005, from Mr Eric King Balyarrinyi (EK) and from Mrs Mary Lorraine (MLo) between 2007 and 2012; (ii) language recorded by Gavan Breen (GB) from an older generation of speakers. Breen’s principal Waanyi consultant was Mrs Ivy George (Stinken) (IG) whom he recorded at Riversleigh Station in 1977 & 1978. He had also recorded Mrs Polly George (PG) at Camooweal in 1967, Mrs Maggie Friday (MF) and Mr Cubby Pedro (CP) at Doomadgee in 1976. Examples taken from Breen’s transcriptions of taped elicitation sessions are noted in this format (GB_Tape526side 2-MF) where GB = Gavan Breen, followed by the tape number and side assigned by Breen, to which the initials of the relevant speaker are attached. I am grateful to Gavan Breen for sharing his transcriptions and other Waanyi materials with me. Examples taken from Laughren’s recordings are indicated in this format (ML_RS2002-14): ML as recorder, RS as Waanyi speaker, the year when the recording was made, and in some cases the month as more than one fieldtrip occurred in some years, e.g., 2004–04 = recording made in April 2004. The final figure is the tape number for the specified fieldtrip.



Possession in Kuku-Thaypan through a comparative lens 

d. Ngada-nganja nangangi nana GB_Tape526side 2-MF mother-anaph.prop 3sg.dat that ‘That’s his mother.’ or ‘That’s the mother to him.’ e. Wanyi-n-kanyi ninji daba nan what-N-dat 2sg.nom hit this

ML_RS2003-01

maju-nganja-anyi? sister-anaph.prop

‘Why did you hit this one belonging to (your) big sister?’

As shown in (18a), Waanyi part-whole syntax patterns like that of Kuku-Thaypan and Warlpiri in that the whole and relevant part are expressed by distinct nominal phrases which may be discontinuous. In (18a) the whole is expressed by the accusative pronoun ngaan ‘me’ while the affected part is expressed by kuyi ‘head’, matching the Kuku-Thaypan construction in (2b). On the other hand, the expression of alienable possession in (18b) ngaki yanyi ‘my language’ and of kin possession in (18c) ngaki ngada-nganja ‘my mother’ forms a single constituent which cannot be discontinuous. The entire possessive phrase may occupy different positions within the sentence, depending on discourse factors. As we saw for Warlpiri, the order of dative-marked propositus and kin phrase, when not case-marked may be reversed, as in (18d) in which the dative-marked propositus pronoun nangingi is postposed to the kin expression ngada-nganja. As discussed in §2, Warlpiri has both dative and possessive-marked possessor constructions which correlate strongly with the semantic contrast between kin possession and alienable possession. Waanyi, on the other hand, typically expresses either the alienable possessor or kin propositus possessor by a dative-marked noun or pronoun. Like Warlpiri, Waanyi has a limited set of propositus suffixes which are hosted by the kin noun. The suffix -nganja, functionally equivalent to Warlpiri -nyanu, features in (18c&d) where its referential value is bound to that of the accompanying dative propositus pronoun: ngaki ‘my’ in (18c) and nangangi ‘his’ in (18d). Like Warlpiri -nyanu, Waanyi -nganja has no intrinsic person or number features, hence it is compatible with all dative-marked propositus expressions. Waanyi also resembles Warlpiri in that, in the absence of a dative-marked propositus phrase, a kin term to which -nganja is suffixed may have both specific (‘his/her/their KIN’) or non-specific (‘a/the/one’s KIN’) propositus interpretations. Thus propositus features are associated with the specifier (dative-marked propositus) position, irrespective of whether it is expressed by an overt dative phrase or not. In Waanyi, unlike ­Warlpiri, where the specifier is covert, first or second person pronominal features can be associated with the propositus, as shown by (18e) in which the second person (‘your sister’) interpretation derives from the context, and not from an overt dative-marked propositus phrase.

 Mary Laughren

Recall that a Warlpiri complex referential expression made up of more than one coreferring phrase in an uninterrupted sequence may be case-marked on each constituent phrase, but that it must be case-marked on the final phrase (see relevant Warlpiri examples in (9) in §2). In Waanyi, on the other hand, all coreferring phrases in such complex constituents must be case-marked. This difference between Warlpiri and Waanyi is exemplified in (19) and (20), where case-marking is illustrated by use of the ergative case-marker. (19) Warlpiri a. Wati-ngki kuluparnta-rlu man-erg aggressive-erg b. Wati kuluparnta-rlu man aggressive-erg ‘An/the aggressive man’ c. *Wati-ngki kuluparnta ≠ ‘An/the aggressive man’ (20) Waanyi a. Burrurri-i kijibaji-i man-erg aggressive-erg ‘An/the aggressive man’ b. *Burrurri kijibaji-i c. *Burrurri-i kijibaji ≠ ‘An/the aggressive man’ However, in neither Warlpiri nor Waanyi is it possible to case-mark a dative possessor. In Warlpiri, as discussed in §2, the dative-marked possessor or propositus cannot host additional case suffixes. Where the alternative possessive possessor construction is used, thus creating a referential phrase coreferent with the possessed or kin phrase, the possessive-marked possessor phrase may be case-marked. In Waanyi, however, the case concord requirement forces the choice of a construction akin to the Warlpiri possessive-marked possessor. In (21b&d) the dative pronoun ngaki ‘my’ hosts the suffix -n to form the nominal stem ngaki-n- ‘mine’. This suffix converts a dative possessor or propositus into a nominal phrase which ‘discharges’ both arguments of the possessive or kin relation: possessor/propositus and possessed. It forms the base for further suffixation by nominal cases including the dative in (21b) and the ergative in (21d).13

.  In other contexts the same form (pronoun-dat-n-) acts as an oblique stem which hosts a range of spatial postpositions.



Possession in Kuku-Thaypan through a comparative lens 

(21) Waanyi a. Ngaki bawa-nganja my elder:brother-anaph.prop ‘My elder brother’

ML_RS2002-14

b. [[Ngaki-n]-kanyi] [[bawa-nganja]-anyi]ML_RS2002-14 [my-n]-dat [elder:brother-anaph.prop]-dat ‘It belongs to my elder brother.’ c. *ngaki bawa-nganja-anyi ≠ ‘for/belonging to my brother’ d. [Ngaki-n]-i rami-i, ngawu najba [my-n]-erg eye-erg I see ‘With my (own) eyes I saw (it).’

ML_RS2000-11

e. *Ngaki rami-i, ngawu najba  my eye-erg I see The presence of the propositus suffix -nganja is not obligatory in sentences like (21a&b), as shown by (22) in which the kin term kabubu ‘uncle’ directly hosts the dative suffix. (22) Nganyi-n-kanyi kabubu-anyi GB_Tape570, side 2-IG 2sg.dat-n-dat uncle-dat ‘For your uncle (MB)’ In the speech of Mr Roy Seccin, recorded by the author between 2000 and 2005, only two productive propositus suffixes were recorded, anaphoric -nganja and dyadic -kula. Breen’s fieldnotes record two other kin term suffixes, -nyi and -ngaku which Breen (2010) tentatively analyses as speaker versus addressee propositus suffixes.14 While his corpus only has two occurrences of -ngaku, -nyi is well attested. However the latter does not have the same syntactic properties as -nganja in that the kin term to which it is suffixed cannot be case-marked. In this respect -nyi seems to act like a citation form marker, rather than a pronominal propositus suffix.15 This study is restricted to the anaphoric propositus suffix -nganja which is frequently attested in Breen’s fieldnotes as well as in the Seccin corpus.

.  The suffix -nyi also occurs on kin terms in Roy Seccin’s speech, but it is not used productively. There is no instance of -ngaku in the Seccin corpus. .  Examples in Breen’s corpus (GB_Tape526, side 2_MF) such as bawa-nyi ngaki-n Ngumarri-ni jungku (elder.brother-nyi 1sg.dat-n Lawn_Hill-loc sit) ‘My elder brother is at Lawn Hill’ in which the dative propositus possessor phrase ngaki would be coreferent with a first person suffix -nyi provides some evidence that this ending is not pronominal, assuming that the Waanyi dative possessor constructions have the same properties as the Warlpiri ones.

 Mary Laughren

The relationship between the Waanyi dative-marked (alienable or kin) possessor phrase and the possessed phrase has properties already observed in the Warlpiri data discussed in §2, e.g. the inability of a dative possessor phrase to host additional casemarking, or to be discontinuous with the possessor phrase. On the other hand, the possessive-marked possessor phrase, built on the dative-marked form by means of the addition of a suffix -n- which must be further case-marked, shares properties with the Warlpiri possessive-marked possessor: (i) the possessive-marked possessor phrase can be marked by the same case as the possessed phrase; (ii) it can stand alone as a phrase which refers to the possessed, like English phrases with ‘one’, e.g. nganyi-n- ‘your one’, nganyi-n-kanyi ‘belonging to your one’. Each of these properties is illustrated by an example in (23).16 (23) a. Windijbi ninya, ngaki-n-kanyi Give 2sg.acc 1sg.dat-n-dat

ML-RS200204-06

jawaji-nganja-anyi, nganyi-n-i, child-anaph.prop-dat 2sg.dat-n-erg nganyi-n-i ngunyarri-nganja-a 2sg.dat-n-erg mother-in-law-anaph.prop-erg ‘(She) gave you my daughter (in marriage), yours (did), your ­mother‑in-law (did).’17 b. Jilaba ninji na-ngkurru ngaki-n-kurru. go 2sg.nom here-allat 1sg.dat-n-allat ‘You came here to my one (i.e., place).’

ML_RS200204-06

In (23a) both the propositus phrase ngakinkanyi ‘of mine’ and the kin phrase jawajinganja-anyi ‘of one’s child’ are marked by dative case, while the Subject is expressed by

.  There is a small number of examples in both the Breen and Laughren corpora where the propositus dative possessor is not case-marked. In each example the possessor phrase ends in -n. It is not possible to discern whether this is the nominalising suffix -n discussed in this section or whether it is the marker -n which is commonly added to words but whose distribution pattern and function remains somewhat mysterious. There is insufficient data to allow a meaningful analysis of these structures, exemplifed in (i). (i) ngada-n ngaki-n-kanyi murriba. (GB_Tape526, side 2_MF) mother-N my-N-dat father ‘My mother’s father’ .  Waanyi windijbi ‘give’ requires the ‘given’ argument to be expressed by either a dativemarked phrase, as in (23a), or an ergative marked phrase. The recipient is the direct object expressed by an accusative pronoun form or an unmarked non-pronominal NP. The ‘giver’ is expressed by a nominative subject pronoun (not present in (23a)) and/or ergative marked non-pronominal phrases as in (23a).



Possession in Kuku-Thaypan through a comparative lens 

both the propositus phrase nganyini and the kin phrase ngunyarri-nganjaa marked by ergative case. In (23b) the phrase ngakinkurru ‘to mine’ refers to an implied possessed entity. Similarly in (23a) the first occurrence of the ergative-marked propositus phrase nganyini ‘yours’ implies an unspecified ‘possessed’ kin relation, since this form consisting of the dative pronoun and the suffix -n satisfies both arguments of the implied kin relation, just as the analogous ngaki-n- ‘mine’ in (23b) satisfied both arguments of the alienable possessive relation introduced by the dative pronoun.

4.  Concluding observations The departure point for the analysis of Warlpiri and Waanyi propositus suffixes on kin terms in §2 and §3, was the contrast in the position of the Kuku Thaypan third person genitive pronoun ŋiw in (1c) as opposed to the first person genitive pronoun thaw in (3b) in alienable possession constructions. For convenience these examples are repeated as (24a) and (24b) respectively. (24) a. lpu-lkal to ŋiw-andha the-n nay. old.man dog his-erg bite-nonfut me ‘The old man’s dog bit me.’

(Rigsby 1976: 262)

b. to-ŋga pigipigi may-n thaw dog-erg pig find-nonfut my ‘My dog found a pig.’

(Rigsby 1976: 263)

The alienable possession phrase in (24a) shares properties with both the Warlpiri and Waanyi kin possession phrases in (25): the specifier nominal expression lpu-lkal ‘old man’ is preposed to the possessed ‘head’ nominal expression to ‘dog’, which is in turn followed by the genitive pronoun ŋiw ‘his’ coreferent with the specifier (lpu-lkal ‘old man’). These elements form a single referential expression with ergative case marking on the final element of the phrase. The same order of elements is also found in the Warlpiri sentence in (25a) and the Waanyi expression in (25b). (25) a. Warlpiri [Purlkai-ku ngati-nyanui]j=rlu maliki nyangu. old.man-dat mother-anaph.prop=erg dog saw ‘The old man’s mother saw the dog.’ b. Waanyi [Ngilai-anyi ngada-nganjai]j girl-dat mother-anaph.prop ‘The girl’s mother’ What distinguishes the Kuku Thaypan alienable possession phrases from both the Warlpiri and Waanyi kin possessor phrases is the lack of case-marking on the

 Mary Laughren

Kuku‑Thaypan possessor NP lpu-lkal ‘old man’ in (24a) as opposed to the dative case-marking of the propositus/possessor in the other languages. In the Kuku-­ Thaypan sentence in (24b), the possessor is only expressed by the genitive pronoun thaw which is external to the ergative case-marked possessed phrase to-ŋga ‘dogerg’. The other difference lies in the morpho-syntactic status of the co-referring possessor/propositus anaphor/pronoun: in Kuku Thaypan it appears to constitute an independent phrase, while in Warlpiri and Waanyi it is expressed by a suffix hosted by the kin term. One possibility raised by the contrast between the expression of alienable possession in (24a) as opposed to (24b) is that the seemingly identical Kuku-Thaypan constructions in (26) are not in fact as alike as they seem at first glance. While the reference of ŋiw in (26a) may be bound to that of a nominal expression pre-posed to the possessed expression, as in (1a) (=(26a)), and (1c) (=(24a)), the possessive pronoun thaw cannot be thus bound, hence its expression external to the ergative-marked possessed phrase in (24b). (26) a. to ŋiw = (1a) dog his ‘His dog’

(Rigsby 1976: 263)

b. to thaw = (3a) dog my ‘My dog’

(Rigsby 1976: 263)

The Warlpiri expressions consisting of a kin term and a propositus suffix such as those in (27) also appear to be structurally identical, until their behaviour is explored in more syntactically complex contexts, as demonstrated in §2. (27) a. Ngati-nyanu. mother-anaph.prop i. ‘His/her/their mother’ ii. ‘A/the/one’s mother’ b. Ngati-puraji. mother-2sg.prop ‘Your mother’ The anaphoric propositus suffix -nyanu in (27a) could be taken to be a third person pronominal suffix, belonging to the same pronominal category as -puraji in (27b). However, as we discovered, -nyanu has quite distinct properties from its pronominal counterpart with respect to the type of specifier that can bind its reference and the syntactic relations between them. Like Warlpiri -nyanu, the Waanyi propositus suffix -nganja is also shown to be anaphoric rather than pronominal, since it may be coreferent with dative-marked



Possession in Kuku-Thaypan through a comparative lens 

propositus phrases irrespective of their person or number features. The notion that propositus suffixes such as Warlpiri -nyanu and Waanyi -nganja are third person suffixes arises from a superficial analysis of examples such as (27a&b). I have argued that the third person reading of (27a) arises from the binding of the anaphoric suffix by a phonologically null specifier (which can be analysed as either specific or arbitrary). While Warlpiri -nyanu typically defaults to a third person reading when the propositus is covert, Waanyi -nganja may have a non-third person value, determined by context. As noted in §1, Rigsby’s (1976) article on possession in Kuku-Thaypan does not provide enough data for us to know whether (24a) and (24b) simply represent alternative possessive structures, or whether the difference in the nature of the genitive pronoun, e.g. anaphor ŋiw versus pronoun thaw, determines the type of construction to be used. What I have tried to show here is that by taking a wider comparative approach to data in a single language, one is able to probe more deeply into a language than might otherwise be the case. I have also attempted to demonstrate that a syntactic analysis of possessive nominal phrases based on ‘simple’ examples, such as those in (25) or (26), needs to be further tested in more complex structures. This study has posed questions about Kuku-Thaypan possessive structures that cannot be answered here. For linguists researching Cape York languages such as KukuThaypan with access to Rigsby’s extensive corpus of fieldnotes, transcriptions and recordings, the search for answers to these questions will hopefully provide a fruitful path to explore.

References Blake, Barry. 1990. Languages of the Queensland/Northern Territory border: Updating the classification. In Peter Austin, R.M.W. Dixon, Tom Dutton & Isobel White, eds. Language and History: Essays in Honour of Luise A. Hercus. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. 49–66. Breen, Gavan. 2010. Phonology and grammar of Wanyi as spoken by Ivy George. Unpublished ms. Chomsky, Noam. 1981. Lectures on Government and Binding. Dordrecht: Foris. Evans, Nicholas. 2003. Introduction: comparative non-Pama-Nyungan and Australian historical linguistics. In Nicholas Evans, ed. The Non-Pama-Nyungan Languages of Northern Australia: Comparative Studies of the Continent’s most Linguistically Complex Region. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. 3–25. Hale, Ken. 1981. Preliminary remarks on the grammar of part-whole relations in Warlpiri. In Jim Hollyman & Andrew Pawley, eds. Studies in Pacific Languages & Cultures in Honour of Bruce Biggs. Auckland: Linguistic Society of New Zealand. 333–344. Harvey, Mark. 2009. The genetic status of Garrwan. Australian Journal of Linguistics 29: 195–244. doi: 10.1080/07268600902823102 Jolly, Lesley. 1989. Aghu Tharrnggala: A Language of the Princess Charlotte Bay Region of Cape York Peninsula. BA (Hons) thesis, University of Queensland.

 Mary Laughren Lasnik, Howard. 1976. Remarks on coreference. Linguistic Analysis 2: 1–22. O’Grady, Geoffrey. 1979. Preliminaries to a Proto Nuclear Pama-Nyungan stem list. In Stephen Wurm, ed. Australian Linguistic Studies. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. 107–139. Reinhart, Tanya. 1983. Anaphora and semantic interpretation. London: Croom Helm. Rigsby, Bruce. 1976. Possession in Kuku Thaypan. In Peter Sutton, ed. Languages of Cape York. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 260–268.

Correlation of textual and spatial reference This and that Francesca Merlan

Australian National University This paper considers spatial/textual overlaps in the system of the three basic demonstrative categories, roughly translatable as ‘this’, ‘that’ and ‘yonder’ in Jawoyn, a Gunwinyguan language of the upper Northern Territory. The paper especially focuses on the proximal (‘this’) demonstrative in relation to the ‘that’ demonstrative, and argues that the former should be understood as a psycho-social category that implies ‘perceptual newness’, a concentration of focus, and unrecoverability from either prior discourse or assumable identifiability. The paper thus does not treat this ‘proximal’ demonstrative category a priori as grounded in some fixed spatial-locational sense, but as including semantic dimensions that enable its functioning as an index blending and expressing spatial differentiation in relation to other aspects of information, content and identifiability, including non-deictic socio-cultural ones. As always in demonstrative systems, its contrast with other demonstrative categories also conditions its indexical potential.

1.  Introduction Demonstratives typically form a fairly bounded class of deictic referring expressions deployed to focus attention on specific referents or locations in the surrounding ­situation, and/or in discourse. Dimensions of speech which centre in and around the speech situation include interactional roles of speaker, hearer and others, time, distance among speech-act participants and things present in the interactional context as well as elsewhere in relation to it. On the other hand, there are those dimensions which are conventionally analysed as centred more explicitly in the ‘text’ or the linguistic forms that have been and continue to be produced and are taken up in the on-going speech event. Demonstratives, which serve in both functions, are inherently “context-bound” (Enfield 2003: 83), their meanings depending “strictly on the occasions of their use” (Hanks 2005: 191). What is the relation between these two functions, and what may the form/function overlap reveal about the priority often assigned to spatial reference?

doi 10.1075/clu.18.10mer © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

 Francesca Merlan

Traditional views of demonstratives would have it that they primarily make exophoric reference to the world, and secondarily refer in other ways, including endophorically (to language), but such views have undergone considerable revision recently (Himmelmann 1996, Enfield 2003, Hanks 2005, Cutfield 2011). In keeping with this revisionist trend, this paper offers a revised conceptualization of relevant notions of spatiality encoded by Jawoyn demonstratives as a partial picture of the dynamic constitution of space, and not simply a mapping onto physical space. Such a conceptualization opens the way to a question adumbrated above: whether and how dimensions of meaning are shared systematically across what may be distinguished analytically as exophoric and endophoric functions as coded in forms in particular languages. What are some of the concepts behind such a shift in perspective? Many discussions of deixis had taken as given the notion of language being used to identify and refer to objects in a world, its organization assumed to be prior and firmly in place before any act of referring. Within such systems, it was assumed, demonstrative categories could be seen as primarily encoding particular spatial domains, typically with respect to the speech situation (Himmelmann 1996: 205). The position assumes Speaker, Addressee and Object to be co-present in a single sphere of mutual monitoring possibilities. This initial conception is consistent with the idea that the ground of deixis is the gesticulating body and, argues Hanks (2005), fits with a ­common-sense idea of individuals in a material world who use language to express private experience and thoughts. Hanks is critical of this as starting point, however, referring to this set of background assumptions as ‘spatialist’. Compatible with this is a view that the primary questions about deixis are ones of relative proximity with reference to the situation of utterance, and that non-spatial aspects of deictic usage are secondary or derivative. Such views seem to have often resulted in characterizations of deictics as having semantically quite specific spatial meanings. In contrast, some of the recent work has convincingly suggested, first, that demonstratives do not necessarily encode spatial meanings (Enfield 2003: 86), and second, within demonstrative systems, there may be considerable difference, or imbalance, in the degree of semantic specificity of one member of a paradigmatic set of terms, with respect to spatial reference. For Lao, for instance, Enfield (2003: 91) argues that of a simple two-term demonstrative set nan and nii, the former is semantically more specific, encoding not only a dimension of identifiability (‘the one that is mutually salient enough in this context for you to know which one I mean’), but also the meaning ‘not here’. He finds nii ‘here’ to be semantically much more general, encoding nothing more than basic identifiability. The impetus to take a different view from that which assumes the primary spatial reference of demonstratives, and their secondary extension to other kinds of meaning, arises from the following realizations.



Correlation of textual and spatial reference 

Though pointing spatially and textually can be conceptually distinguished, these deictic acts are not realized by entirely distinct language systems, but are generally realized by structural linguistic resources that overlap significantly. The simplest or arguably most economical view is that these systems are not to be seen as ‘primarily’ grounded in portions or divisions in space, but rather tend to be used regularly to index certain portions of space rather than others as an entailment of the broader way they function as part of language systems that regularly encode the intersections of extra-linguistic context and on-going speech. One general question that this enables concerns the overlaps of forms in the ways they are used to express exo- and endophoric reference: Are there regularities in the ways that such overlaps work, and in the functions that particular deictic categories have spatially-and-textually, without necessary presumption of the primacy of one or the other? What follows is a limited exploration of this question based on narrative material from Jawoyn, a northern Australian language, and some following comparative comments, mainly from neighbouring, related, languages.

2.  Jawoyn: The language and its demonstrative system Jawoyn is a Gunwinygguan language (O’Grady, Voegelin and Voegelin 1966; see also Evans 2003a), originally spoken in several dialects along the Katherine River system, and as far east (at least) as the Mainoru River, in the mid-Northern Territory. The Gunwinyguan family is one of the larger ‘non-Pama-Nyungan’ families, which reaches as far as the Gulf of Carpentaria, with Nunggubuyu on the west coast and Enindhilyakwa (recently added to Gunwinyguan by van Egmond 2012) on Groote Eylandt in the Gulf. Within the Jawoyn language, there were dialect differences across the region. Post-World War II the majority of Jawoyn speakers were resettled on communities to the east of Katherine, around the towns of Katherine and Pine Creek, and a few other centres within the (current) area of Kakadu National Park.As a result, regionally distinctive varieties of Jawoyn tended towards a standard. In the last several decades speakership has shrunk to vanishing point in all parts of the area. Gunwinygguan languages are typologically similar in many basic respects: all are fairly polysynthetic; verbs have numerous prefix slots showing subject and object pronominal information, types of adverbial information, applicatives or argumentchanging prefixes, certain kinds of incorporated nominals, adverbial and spatial prefixes. The verb stems themselves are also largely compound, though a small number are simple. Following the stem is information concerning reflexive/reciprocal status of the construction, and tense-aspect-mood inflection. The verbal affix positions are the only places where arguments are obligatorily represented; external nominals are not obligatory and often tend to occur, where specified, in expressions set off prosodically

 Francesca Merlan

from the body of the verbal utterance. Nominal morphology is limited. There are four noun classes, or rather three distinctively-marked classes (masculine, feminine and neuter) and a zero-prefixed class (semantically not very neatly delimitable). Gender agreement occurs on adjectives but also tends towards some simplification and merging of categories compared with the prefixal nominal four- (or three-) class system. Case-marking is moderately complex in Jawoyn, with several overtly marked (mainly local, and genitive/dative) case suffixes which interact with selection of nominal prefixes. There is considerable lexical and morpho-syntactic commonality among Gunwinygguan languages, and probably most significantly, there was a very high level of multilingualism among speakers of these languages up until the recent past. All Jawoyn speakers I have ever known have been bilingual in at least two Arnhem languages (usually related, and overlappingly spoken, by particular speakers and within communities). There is evidence of both some aspects of commonality, and of difference, in demonstrative use between and among these languages, e.g. between Jawoyn and Dalabon as documented in Cutfield (2011) (see further below). There is also some broad commonality between Jawoyn and Bininj Gun-Wok (Evans 2003b), rendered less obvious by certain complexities and dialect variants in those lects. Let us consider the relation between spatial and discourse reference in Jawoyn, in terms of the overlap of forms and functions.The following sections set out demonstrative categories, show the preponderance of the category termed Identifiable (glossed ‘that’) in recorded material, and contrast the meanings and uses of Immediate (‘this’) relative to it. The analysis shows how spatial and textual uses relate to each other, on the hypothesis that neither need be taken as primary, but that they are correlative.

2.1  Forms and meanings of demonstratives In Jawoyn, there are three demonstrative categories, here called Immediate, Identifiable, and Distal, as set out in Table 1. Table 1.  Demonstrative forms in Jawoyn (* = no relationship to other dem forms) Immediate

Identifiable

Distal

dem

(na)wula

nabay

nanumbuyn ‘yonder’ nanumbula ‘from yonder towards here’

Locational

niwula

nibay

ninumbuyn ninumbula

loc -warn form

niyarngula

niyarnbay

dem (adposition)

na(wa)rngula

narnbay, nawarnbay

Adverbial ‘then, at that time’

[gurnjin ‘now, today’]*

warn-bayen

Gestural ‘this way, that way’

gula

[gun]*



Correlation of textual and spatial reference 

The Immediate category is based on the demonstrative stem -wula/-gula, and best translated as ‘this’. There are not only nominal forms (like nawula ‘this one’), but also adverbial forms like niwula and niyarngula, both glossable as ‘here’, and morphologically related spatio-temporal adverbials built on the stem (like gula ‘this way’, usually accompanied by gesture showing direction from the speech location towards another location). The Immediate category is, as the name suggests, typically used ostensively with reference to things immediately within the range of speaker/hearer (as in ‘this one is mine’); but such an object could also be designated by the more general ‘Identifiable’ category, which carries more the implication of mutual identifiability of the object (‘that [which we see, recognize] is mine’) rather than its spatial proximity. Thus, even with respect to spatially immediate objects the use of either category is possible, with differing implications (in the same way that ‘this is mine’, ‘that is mine’ are both intelligible in English in what could be seen as a similar local situation). The Identifiable category is based on the stem -bay and may be approximately translated ‘that’. While there is a morphologically related temporal adverbial (warnbayen ‘then’, see further concerning warn-), the semantically parallel spatial adverbial to gula appears to be gun ‘that way’ (found in other forms as well, e.g. nawun ‘that way, there’), formally unrelated to -bay. Perhaps the strongest semantic dimension of -bay is identifiability: it often signals that the referent is known or identifiably established at mention, and thus has something of the quality of the English article ‘the’ rather than an explicitly spatial semantics. It certainly cannot be associated with a specific distance relative to the speech situation. The Distal category may be translated ‘yonder’. Members of this category have a clear spatial meaning, distant (with visibility possible but not explicit). It is subdivided into two formal and semantic sub-categories: -numbula which expresses ‘yonder coming this way’ (towards speaker and addressee), and -numbuyn which signals simply ‘yonder’. Any of the demonstrative categories may be prefixed with a noun class marker to designate something represented as of that class, e.g. ngal-wula ‘this one’ (F), ngal-bay ‘that one’ (F), ngal-numbuyn ‘that one’ (yonder, F). Immediate and Identifiable categories occur in what may be called ‘plain’ forms (e.g., nawula, nabay), and also forms that incorporate the adverbial element -warnwhich expresses a semantic of  ‘sameness’ (same as another referent, previously referred to or otherwise established) and/or temporal continuity (‘still’), or repetition.

2.2  The semantics of Identifiable forms Of these three sets, we find that -bay, here called Identifiable after what seems to be its most central meaning, is by far the most common in text material; wula/-gula, Immediate, the next; and Distal nanumbuyn/nanumbula the least common. As mentioned

 Francesca Merlan

earlier, -bay is subdivided into those instances that are plain -bay versus those that are -warnbay, and the same for -gula/-wula (where instances with -warn- are far fewer, for reasons to be discussed). Distal demonstratives do not occur with -warn-, for reasons that will also be made clear. The high frequency of the -bay forms (both with and without -warn-) is consistent with the fact that this category has the widest range of functions, and is also the least specifically indicative of spatial location with respect to the speech event. If in explicit spatial contrast with the Immediate categories, any -bay form can be taken to mean ‘not here’ and ‘not yonder’, but within the broad range of the spatially non-specific, its occurrence generally expresses identifiability (and thus, as above, it can be used with reference to objects within close proximity of both speaker and hearer). This may arise either from the fact that the referent, or much more broadly, a discursive theme involving one or more on-going referents, has already been mentioned or otherwise established in discourse (thus as noted covering some of the ground of a definite article). But here we find that there is generally a difference to be discerned in the ways that -bay and -warnbay function. A first use of -bay can be called constructional, in predications of identity, where it is typically the plain nabay form (without noun class differentiation) that stands between or mediates the identification of one thing with another. An instance is in (1), from a text in which the speaker is making clear the identity of a creator or mythic figure, ngal-worreworre: that they are young girls. (1) ngal-worre-worre nabay ngal-marriyn marriyn (WL-016) f-young.girl-young.girl that f-girl girl1  ‘Worreworre is marriynmarriyn.’ [more freely: ‘Worreworre are young girls.’]2 A second function of nabay is cohesive or anaphoric. When nabay occurs between two constructions or utterances, it gives rise to an inference of linkage (at the very least) to something previous, and sometimes more strongly, of general ideational continuity with what went before. This also underlies its frequency in utterance-initial position (though any such utterance of course can also be considered in terms of its position within a larger textual structure). Similarly, it often occurs intonation-group finally, consistent with its general meaning ‘that aforementioned’ (where that may be a specific

.  The following abbreviations are used in the glosses: abl ablative, an animate, ap applicative, com comitative, dat dative, dem demonstrative, en epenthetic, f feminine noun class, imp imperative, inan inanimate, loc locative, na na noun class, ng ngan noun class, nsg nonsingular, p past, pr present, purp purposive, rdp reduplication, rr reflexive-reciprocal. .  This phrase can also be understood to be meta-linguistic: ‘(The word) worreworre (means) ‘young girls’. There would be no difference between a predication of identity and one of meta-linguistic equivalence.



Correlation of textual and spatial reference 

reference, or a stretch of speech). In these functions, -bay is understood in general relation to what went before, and may often be translated by a range of conjunctive or other similar expressions in Standard English, like ‘and so’, ‘following on (from that)’, including the referent-specific meaning ‘that aforementioned’. This kind of cohesive meaning is also typically rendered in Kriol by such expressions as jatun (‘that one’): Jatun, im nogutwan (‘That’s no good’), where the reference may be to an entire idea or theme, rather than to a singular referent. Halliday and Hasan (1976:67) note that “It is not always easy to say whether the referent of a demonstrative in a given instance is a particular nominal item in the text or should be taken to include something more”, and also that sometimes a demonstrative can be supposed to refer to the whole of the preceding sentence. In Jawoyn, however, the distinction between reference to a particular nominal item or to a stretch of speech is partly associated with the difference between narnbay and nabay, respectively, in that the former is frequently adnominal. Formally, narnbay (phonetically reduced form of nawarnbay), includes the morpheme -warn, which expresses sameness (and/or the related notion of continuity, a kind of sameness). It is therefore typical that what may be identified as equative predications do not involve -warn-, but only the -bay demonstrative (e.g. nabay ngakkurlung ‘that is mine’; see also (1) above). A very common use of narnbay is adnominal, supplying a meaning of identifiability or well-established ‘known-ness’ equivalent to ‘sameness’, ‘previously mentioned’ concerning the nominal. Such a use is even found at the very beginning of narratives, as in (2), the opening of a story about worreworre, the two lines set off by pause: (2) narnbay ngal-worre-worreworre (WL-001) that f-young.girl-young.girl ‘That worreworre (young girls)’ niyarnbay bolk-mak-woy (WL-002) there place-make-wo.p1 ‘made the place there.’ The start of this narrative conveys a perspective of mutual identifiability, ‘that worreworre’ (which is somehow known or familiar to both speaker and hearer, as demarcated by narnbay).

2.3  Identifiable and Immediate forms in narrative In order to gain comparative perspective on the uses of nabay and nawarnbay, and of the -bay category as a whole compared with the -wula/gula category, we now consider all instances in a Jawoyn narrative (Mam, ‘Devil’) told by Peter Jatbula. The story is of two men travelling together. They come across a devil, who entices them to come close, fights with them, takes from them the things which they

 Francesca Merlan

had with them, but – as they later find – unexpectedly leaves some food and weapons for them in return. The story exemplifies a genre which Peter favoured, having to do with encounter between people and devils or other uncanny figures. Its narrative structure -which comes to feature the distinction between men and devil, together with the need to clarify the change from one kind of actor to the other – makes the story apposite to illustrate ways in which ‘this’ and ‘that’ forms contrast. These contrasts, integral to establishing, maintaining and shifting reference within the story, shed light on how these categories also contrast with each other in their capacity to signal spatial contrasts, and how spatial and textual reference are correlative in the uses of these demonstratives.

2.3.1  Identifiable forms Overall, the text has 10 instances of nabay, 7 of narnbay, 5 of nawula.3 Of the 10 instances of nabay, most must be understood as anaphoric, generally to some preceding stretch of speech or the general content of some preceding stretch, rather than to a specific referent. Some, however, must be understood as anaphors to some very proximate stretch, a preceding phrase within the same intonation unit. Instances of nabay will be examined first, followed by narnbay. However, in some instances where they occur in close proximity to each other, some elements of contrast between them are considered along the way. (3) nabay na-yenang nyin-wirt-mar (MM-019) that na-what 3/1/2-whistle-ma.pr ‘What’s that whistling at you and me?’ The structure in (3) follows wirt ‘whistle’ (sound of whistling, a single onomatopoetic form). In (3), nabay is anaphoric, pointing back to what had preceded and establishing a cohesive link with it. It is not that some particular actor or referent has been established who is whistling: i.e., the sense is not specifically, ‘Who is that [identified] whistling at us?’ but ‘What’s/who’s that whistling?’, with the fact of a whistle having occurred established in the previous intonation unit. In (4), a whistle has been heard again by the two main characters, and one says, (4) wakay nabay ngeya wang (MM-20) nothing that whannim game.animal ‘No, nothing that’s what’s it, an animal.’ .  A comparison with a text approximately twice the length (109 lines as defined by a variety of criteria including pause and intonational phenomena) shows 14 instances of nabay, 17 of narnbay, 7 of all -wula/-gula forms without and with -warn, and no Distals. The overall predominance of -bay forms, ratio of -bay to -wula/-gula, and rarity of Distals is consistent over a large set of narratives (approximately 50).



Correlation of textual and spatial reference 

Here nabay refers again to the fact of the whistle having occurred, not to any specific actor or referent established to have whistled. It is also equational, identifying ‘that [foregoing]’ as an animal. In (5), a similar effort at identification occurs after the two male protagonists have been whistled at again: (5) wakay nabay mungguy (MM-023) none that man ‘Nothing, that’s a man.’ This is again anaphoric to previous establishing whistlings and attempts to identify the source, in an identificational construction: ‘It’s a man’. Later there is a stretch in which one of the men is depicted as being grabbed by a ‘devil’ (the source of the whistle), then shouting, struggling, attempting to establish what is happening to him, as well as trying to fend it off. (6a) ya yakkay mam nyin-bun nawula dorlmurr nyin-bum (MM-034) ok ow devil 3/1/2-hit.pr this strike 3/1/2-hit.p1 ‘Hey, ow! that devil’s hitting us, he’s hit us.’ (6b) bu-m-bunay-yi darra mam 3nsg-en-hit.p2-rr too devil ‘They were fighting, the devil too,’ (6c) yuk-wala'-woyiyn darra dorlmurr bum an-turn.around-wo.p1 too strike hit.p1 ‘it (the devil) turned around and hit’ (6d) ngan-guway darra ngayu-marden wakkay darra mam nawula ng-different.time too 3-as.for none too devil this ‘again he hit them, a different (place) again, as for him, this one.’ (6e) lukuyn-yurryurr-mayn darra dorlmurr bum yakkay ngan-bum nearly-pass-ma.p1 too strike hit.p1 ow 3/1-hit.p1 ‘Once more he nearly slipped past, and he hit again ow! he’s hit me’ (6f) ngan-wayirr-bum darra juy wakay ngan-bun nabay wrong.person-hit.p1 too say.p1 none 3/1-hit.pr that ‘he’s hit me, the wrong person, he said again, no he’s hitting me.’ (6g) mam nga-bun-gu darra yuk-wala'-woyi devil 1-hit.pr-purp too an-turn.around-woyi.imp ‘I want to hit that devil and again he turned around and’ (6h) dorlmurr darra bum yakay warda gan-gotj-badjing juy strike too hit.p1 ow hey! 3/1-head-hit do.p1 ‘Hit again, ouch! hey!, he’s hit me on the head (Mayali), he said.’ Following the grabbing of the men, (6) is a long, rapid and animated stretch which occurs as a unit (based on voice quality, accelerated speed of speech, lack of pause). There are some important uses of nawula ‘this’ in this stretch, to be discussed below,

 Francesca Merlan

which function to indicate a change in which character is in focus as the men struggle with the devil. The Identifiable category nabay occurs in (6f) in which it links back to the preceding animated rendering of struggle (‘he’s hitting me, jatun’) followed by ‘I want to hit the devil’. In (7), as events have gone on and the two men have been stripped of their belongings by the devil, they return to camp: (7a) jorrkun narnbay winja lay-waywo bon-lerr-bit-bum (MM-037) cockrag that spear game-and.all 3/3nsg-camp-take-bu.p1 ‘He (devil) took their cockrags and spears and meat from them.’ (7b) gun na-muya'-muya bu-ng-goyiyn bu-ng-goyinay there na-rdp-sick 3nsg-en-go.back.p1 3nsg-en-go.back.p2 ‘They went back sick.’ (‘crippled up’, Kriol) (7c) lerr-luk nakit-pela bu-m-burroy nakit-pela camp-loc naked-fella 3nsg-en-sleep.p2 naked-fella ‘They camped naked.’ (7d) bu-ng-goyiyn nabay winja bon-lerr-mi whole lot 3nsg- en- go.back.p1 that spear 3/3nsg-camp-get.p1 whole lot ‘They went back, he’d taken all their spears from them.’ (7) is uttered as a single pause- and intonation-defined unit. In (7d) nabay seems to have its typical cohesive function signalling the relevance of the preceding stretch of speech to the following one: ‘they went back and he’d taken all of their spears’. In the following lines we learn that the devil had left some meat for the two men; in the structure in (8) it is made clear that the devil had left this from his own supply: (8) ngayurlun -ba narnbay mam (MM-044) 3-abl that devil ‘from his things, that devil’ The devil is marked here as highly expectable and identifiable by the phrase: narnbay mam ‘that devil’. The structure in (9) has two instances of nabay: (9) nabay burranggurlung nabay wukangay (MM-045) that 3nsg that bring.p2 ‘and he’d taken theirs’ Both cases seem to be interpretable as instances of internal identification: ‘that theirs’ (i.e., that [which was] theirs), ‘that he took’ (that [is what] he took). The structure in (10) exhibits a contrast between what is being marked as mutually identifiable (by narnbay), and that which is being marked out as not necessarily identifiable, but identified at this point:



Correlation of textual and spatial reference 

(10) narnbay bu-rn-derrp-derrp-mayn mam-gun nabay (MM-048) that 3nsg-en-roast-roast-ma.p1 devil-dat that ‘They roasted what was from the devil.’ ngayurlung burranggurlung lay nabay wukangay 3 3nsg game that bring.p2 ‘His, he’d taken theirs.’ In (10), narnbay is understood in relation to a referent established in the preceding unit, a wallaby that the devil is understood to have left for the two men in place of their own food. The stretch can only be understood that way: that they roasted a specific meat belonging to the devil, here expressed as a genitive phrase, mam-gun ‘the devil’s’. This is followed by nabay burranggurlung nabay wukkangay, two equational phrases ‘that [which was] theirs, that [is what] he took’, the two phrases together constituting a larger-scale identification: that theirs, that he took. That is, a contrast is being established between what was his (the devil’s), which they roasted; and their own, which the devil had taken. The mainly anaphoric, identificational and linkage-establishing uses of nabay contrast with uses of narnbay. Even if a nominal may not be actually identical with any preceding one, the group nawarnbay + nominal serves to establish sameness and continuity of reference. This is related to the fact that, although nawarnbay may occur utterance-initially (as well as elsewhere), the adverbial element -warn- signals (or creates) continuity in relation to a preceding, assumed referent. Interestingly, some lexical evocation of the assumed referent frequently is manifested by the cooccurrence of a nominal in phrasal construction with nawarnbay. It is also noticeable that nawarnbay (like nabay) occurs freely in other-than-utterance-initial position, but when it does, it tends to be used adnominally in a collocation with a noun expressing that which is the ‘same’. We can examine the 7 instances in MAM. (11) wakay nurrang bu-m-boru juy narnbay mam (MM-030) none 2nsg 3nsg-en-cross say.p1 that devil ‘No, you cross over, the devil said.’ The two men have told the devil to cross over to them, but in (11) he says: ‘No, YOU cross over, said that (narnbay=known, same) devil’. Here narnbay is understood in adposition to mam, and while it suggests by its form that the devil is a well-established referent, it co-occurs with it, as is typical. (12) yemboyi darra mam yamayn narnbay mungguy supposedly too devil spear.p1 that man yamayn yakay (MM-036) spear.p1 ow ‘So the devil speared him, that (narnbay) man, he speared him, owww!’

 Francesca Merlan

In (12), the form again signals both the identifiable, ‘same’ referent, co-occurring with a lexical mention of it. Similar is the passage in (7a) where we find an instance of N+DEM, in the order jorrkkon narnbay winja lay-waywo bonlerrbitbum ‘the cockrag, spears, meat and all, he’d taken from them’. Though there has been no specific mention of cockrag or the things taken, narnbay treats it as well established, but it is also specifically mentioned at this point. In (8) above there occurs the phrase narnbay mam ‘that devil’, referred to above: by now a well-established figure, the devil is specifically represented by a noun in collocation with narnbay. (13a) narnbay jorrkon bon-bi-wongayn winja jarn.gil (MM-046) that cockrag 3/3nsg-ap-leave.p1 spear turtle ‘Those things he left for them cockrags, spears, turtles’ (13b) bon-bi-guk-got-may 3/3nsg-ap-inan-put-ma.p2 ‘He put meat for them’ (13c) na-worlk-leku-worlk-leku godiyn-muyuk na-fat-good-fat-good black.wallaroo-com ‘Nice fat ones, along with a wallaby.’ Contrasting with the devil’s taking away that which was theirs, in (13) he is shown effecting a kind of quixotic and unexpected swap, but the things that he leaves are treated as identifiable, modified and introduced by narnbay: narnbay jorrkkon bonbiwongayn, wongayn winjaaa ‘he left cockrags for them, he left spears’. The story-line has made it clear that the devil was leaving things for the men he had relieved of their own things, that is, he had made a kind of bizarre swap. Thus narnbay jorrkkon ‘that cockrag’ treats the items as if already established (among the things swapped); but so far, it is really only clear that he had taken theirs. In (13) we again find a collocation: jarn.gil bonbigukgotmay narnbay naworlkle’worlklek ‘he had left the turtle for them, a/the really fat one’. Here narnbay must be understood to establish a reference to the preceding jarn.gil ‘turtle’, but also in construction with naworlkle'worlklek ‘fat one’. Finally, in (10) above there is an initial instance of narnbay: narnbay burnderrpma'derrpmayn ‘they roasted that’. Just before a bayirr ‘female wallaby’ had been mentioned that the devil leaves for them. Thus, in (10), narnbay presupposes and helps affirm and stabilize the reference to a particular entity, rather than simply the preceding stretch of speech as a whole. (While bayirr is normatively feminine gender, there is considerable use of generalized, non-specific forms for both feminine and neuter nouns in ordinary fluent speech, though nouns of these categories are respectively marked in citation forms by prefixes ngal- and ngan-).



Correlation of textual and spatial reference 

Thus, all of these instances of narnbay are understood to continue or confirm reference to particular entities as identifiable, rather than to stretches of (usually preceding) speech, as nabay does in a more general way. Seemingly this function and meaning are to be linked formally to the presence of -warn- and its semantic of sameness. Thus nawarnbay tends to differ from nabay in the following way: while nawarnbay tends to be used to continue reference (as if) to an already established entity (‘the same one’), nabay may refer to an established entity, but also has a wider range of pointing functions, especially that of linking to a previous stretch of speech, and thus serving as a connector or conjunction, as well as in specific constructions of identity. It is characteristic that nawarnbay, taken to refer to an established entity (which may or may not be represented in speech by a particular nominal or collection of nominals), frequently occurs adnominally in a phrase with a nominal designating the entity. In contrast nabay, because of its more general linking function, may occur by itself or in a structure where it is not understood as in clear construction with a nominal. The fact that nabay often occurs utterance- (or prosodic-line) initially (and to a somewhat lesser extent, finally) is inherently related to its connective function.

2.3.2  Immediate and Distal forms Nawula tends to occur much less frequently than either nabay or nawarnbay over all texts. In this narrative there are 5 occurrences, three of them in close proximity, within the same long intonation unit, and all serving much the same function. Early in the text it is established that the two men see a kangaroo. One says to the other in (14): (14) yo niyarnbay yama nawula jolam-gawak juy (MM-003) yes there spear.imp this hide-far do.p1 ‘Yes, spear there, this one a long way behind a tree.’ In this structure, nawula refers to one of the men, bringing him into ‘high focus’ by referring to him as ‘this one’ who was behind a tree. Here jolam appears to be a ‘stripped’ preverb (jolam'-ma- ‘to hide behind a tree’), and thus may be in construction with juy as its auxiliary (as is usual in such ‘stripped’ constructions; see Merlan 1989). Thus, here, nawula serves a sort of switch-subject or contrastive function, heightening the focus upon the second actor so that he is understood to be other than the man giving the order to spear. This appears compatible with many instances of nawula, which often serves this kind of switching function. In keeping with the fact that nawula ‘this’ serves as presentative, or as relator to the immediate speech situation, it is able to serve the function of heightening focus upon a referent, thus distinguishing a ‘new’ actor from another one already established. The above is followed by a further identification of the ‘new’ subject immediately following as nawula na-dingarrij ‘this ngarrij (skin, subsection)’. Here the

 Francesca Merlan

speaker makes clear the skin identity of the actor, again specifying him as newly introduced. Finally, in the long emotive stretch in (6) above are three instances of nawula. All of them serve the function of heightening focus upon the action and its main actor, the devil, thus bringing him into a narrative foreground. Relevant sections of the sequence, all spoken very rapidly and with heightened intensity and tone, are (6a) yakkay mam nawula nyinbun nawula dolmurr nyinbum ‘Ow, this devil is hitting us, he’s bashed us’, (6d) wakkay darra mam nawula lukkuyn yurryurrmayn ‘no, this devil nearly scurried away’ (and then bashed us again). In general, as noted, nawula signals high focus, immediacy, and also, in relation to these, frequently signals a change of actor, from another established one which thereby becomes backgrounded when nawula establishes a change and the entry of a new actor in focus. Recognition of the possibility of a shift between the frame of present narration and the frame of the narrated event is a further element necessary in order to clarify some of the uses of ‘this’ forms, including some which occur in this text. In his Functional Grammar of Nunggubuyu, Heath (1984:328) uses the notion of ‘perspective shift’ to refer to “a full, or more often partial, breakdown of the division between the perspective of the speaker and that of some participant in a narrated situation.” Heath views this as a spectrum from ‘full’ perspective shift, involving “adopting both the tense and demonstrative categories appropriate to the narrated actor in the narrated situation, as in direct quotations” (ibid), and “‘partial’ shift in which ‘demonstrative categories are shifted to conform to the viewpoint of the narrative actor while the remainder of the formal structure (including tense marking) is from the speaker’s viewpoint” (329). In particular, he notes that proximate and immediate categories can be used in such instances to index locations around the narrative actor, permitting maximal usage of the demonstrative categories. In fact, in Nunggubuyu the category termed Imm(ediate) is preferred (rather than Prox(imal), which is the category used for spatial reference to something close to speaker ostensively, p. 269). This is the sort of phenomenon we can observe in Jawoyn texts. Its implementation varies with the details of personal narrative style, and Peter Jatbula is probably the narrator I have found to most vividly instantiate a boundary between the immediate narrative event and the narrated event, partly by means of perspective shift. There are no instances of the Distal category in the narrative studied here. There is a sprinkling of both Distal categories throughout the texts, but no high concentration anywhere. An example of usage is the following: Nipper Brown tells of a time he ran away from a remote station where he was working in the bush, because the boss had neither money nor tobacco left. He walked a long way through the bush in the direction of a gold battery on the Edith River where both Jawoyn and Mayali people were living. He describes others in the mining camp as noting his emergence from the bush.



Correlation of textual and spatial reference 

He reports them to have said: ‘he’s come out nanumbula-wa' (from yonder coming this way), where the listener can infer that the men talking are seeing him arrive from a great distance. Similarly, numbuyn expresses a stationary ‘yonder’, at a great distance, which may either be visible or out of the visual field. Distal forms, as earlier noted, have a distinctly spatial semantic. As also noted above, neither Distal form was ever found to occur with -warn-. This suggests that there is an inverse relationship between proximity (in relation to the speech event, both discursive and spatial) and sameness. Something that has been brought into the discourse is highly identifiable and can be signalled as ‘same’ as something else foregoing. Something that is ‘yonder’ is by the same token something that is not established, and not continuous or same with some established referent or stretch of text; hence not marked by -warn-.

2.4  Conclusion We have seen that nawula signals spatial proximity in relation to the speech situation (nawula layn ‘this tree’), contrasting with nabay which can refer to something more distant (nabay layn ‘that tree’). But nabay can also be used to refer to something proximate, seemingly contrasting with nawula in indicating a greater mutuality of identifiability between speaker and hearer rather than distance per se. Nawula is, in contrast, not used to refer spatially to something distant from the speech situation. But besides being used in contrast to nabay to refer proximately, nawula also expresses heightened or extraordinary focus on a nominal referent. In this sense, it may be used to instantiate a new topic (usually agent of action) as compared to some established one, or to instantiate ‘perspectival shifts’, to index a character in a narrative from the perspective of the narrated event rather than simply from the perspective of the speech event. Nabay signals that something is identifiable relative to the speech situation or at greater distance. In keeping with this, it may be used ostensively to index something that is within the immediate context of the speech situation but somewhat removed (spatially) from speaker and perhaps also addressee. This capacity to signal greater spatial remove, as also indicated above, is its spatially distinctive quality when contrasted with nawula. It also typically signals a known or established quality, having something of the identifiability of the English definite article. In keeping with its spatial non-specificity but capacity to index, nabay is frequently positioned in utterance or phrase-initial as well as utterance-final positions, where it serves as anaphor, to point back to a previous stretch of speech, or the content of that speech, giving rise to a cohesive implicature. Uses of nawula and nabay forms establish the ‘ground’ of the local (Himmelmann 1996: 223), and belie earlier neat distinctions between ‘exophoric’ uses of demonstratives as if to a fixed constant notion of locality, and endophoric or language-internal reference.

 Francesca Merlan

Numbuyn and numbula signal that something is spatially distant relative to the speech situation in which the on-going communicative ground is established. Both forms are only able to be used to signal a spatial meaning, and are not used to encode reference to language or speaker-hearer state of mind.

3.  Dalabon and Bininj Gun-Wok: Comparisons To broaden the picture, we round off by comparing the categories in Dalabon with demonstrative categories in two other Gunwinyguan languages, Dalabon and Bininj Gun-Wok. Cutfield’s (2011) analysis of Dalabon divides demonstratives into those which are ‘spatial’ and ‘non-spatial’. The most common demonstrative kanh/kanunh she glosses approximately as ‘that’, and sees its main contribution to meaning as signalling identifiability, rather than location or distance. It seems comparable to Jawoyn nabay. In Cutfield’s analysis, the only two demonstratives considered spatial are djakih and nunda. Djakih ‘that, there’ is of much lesser frequency than simply ‘­identifiable’ kanh. Nunda (approximately ‘this, here’) seems partly comparable to Jawoyn gula/-wula in its greater specificity compared to the category which signals identifiability (-bay in Jawoyn, kanh in Dalabon), but unlike Jawoyn gula/-wula is not used to introduce new referents into narrative, nor to encode the near-perspective of a character within narrative. Rather, there is a fairly rare, non-spatial form nunh which signals a new, unexpected or contrastive referent (glossed ‘that, unfamiliar’). Thus Jawoyn -bay and Dalabon kanh seem comparable in being of high frequency, and signalling identifiability rather than specifically distance, and being used in equational, identificational and other constructions; Jawoyn gula/-wula and Dalabon nunda partly comparable in their greater ‘near’-semantic specificity, but different in that ‘this-ness’ in Dalabon does not coincide with contrastive or unexpected reference, expressed in Dalabon by an (at least synchronically) distinct form nunh. Jawoyn’s Distal categories (nanumbuyn, nanumbula) are not paralleled in Dalabon. The situation in congener dialects/languages Bininj Gun-Wok is more complex than in Jawoyn (Evans 2003: 390–416), on two main grounds: first, there are more categories but some of them are apparently no longer in wide use, or their uses not well understood; second, there are differences in demonstratives across dialects, the distributions not fully documented. Nevertheless, in broad terms the following comparisons and contrasts can be made. There is a most widely used ‘that, aforementioned’ category built on a stem -mege which roughly parallels Jawoyn -bay in that its anaphoric uses are the most widely distributed across dialects, and its spatial use is secondary in all dialects, and not found in some (Evans 2003: 294).



Correlation of textual and spatial reference 

In Bininj Gun-Wok there is a nabe set which is at least partly comparable to Jawoyn Distal, glossed as ‘yon, beyond, outside’; but there are specialized forms apparently built on this stem which encode assumptions concerning speaker attunement: e.g., ‘the yonder one which you want to know about’, ‘the one here that you wanted to know about’, in a way that Distals in Jawoyn do not. There is a -ni/-hni set used to refer to entities near speaker and hearer being brought to hearer’s attention, which covers some of the referential space of Jawoyn nawula but seems functionally more specialized in its ostensive modality (Evans 2003: 306). Finally, there is a relative pronominal form nawu ( Pole Cat), standard name substitutions (two Benjamins – Benjamin Gabori and Benjamin Rainbow – both become Bayou), adaptation of the names of cartoon characters (Roger > Roger Ramjet > Ramjet), or reconstitution of the names of such characters from a person’s initials (Darwin Moodoonuthi > D.M. > Danger Mouse). The third and fourth modifications are more subtle, but are directly relevant to questions of how people affiliate to country. The -ngathi birth-place system lost its distinctive value once children were no longer being born on Bentinck Island, so that the generation born from the 50s to the 80s lack place-affiliating names. From the mid 1980s, however, when the first moves back to Bentinck occurred two new methods of giving people country-based names began to be introduced: directly naming people after countries, and giving them -ngathi names after the countries in which they were spiritually conceived. It seems that the use of -ngathi names for conception countries is more recent; this is presumably because it could only be used once fathers were again regularly hunting and fishing in the South Wellesleys. Starting with children born in the 1960s, many younger Kaiadilt have been given names of places on Bentinck Island with which they have a special relationship, typically of ownership. Examples are Clarence Paul (Nalkardarrawuru), b. 1961, †Netty Paul (Balarruru). b. 1968, Sandra Paul (Bayanab), b. 1970, all named after sites in their father’s country, Jay Clayton Paul (Nyinyaaki), b. 1972, named after a site in his grandfather’s country, and Tiana Loogatha (Dangka-kurrijarri), b. 1994, named after a site belonging to her father Christopher (b. 1969); the site was bestowed to Christopher by Maurice Loogatha, to whom Christopher’s mother Dolly had been promised. Neil Loogatha was given the name Barnbarnd by Pat Gabori, commemorating his kangku (father’s father), a man of the same name, who built the fishtrap at Nyinyilki, deemed to be Neil Loogatha’s country on Bentinck Island. The impact of spiritual conception sites on naming has likewise followed the recent return to the South Wellesleys, though the impact of this on the naming system seems to have come later than the use of bestowed site names. During the 1950s and 1960s, when the Kaiadilt were living on Mornington with little possibility of getting across to Bentinck, conception names were given on the basis of events occurring on Mornington Island or the mainland. For example the conception of Pat Gabori’s son Wilfred was presaged at Murndanyarri on Mornington Island when he speared a mullet (duburrk); this fact is acknowledged by the relevant Lardil people (as confirmed by

 Nicholas Evans

Andrew Marmies and Kenneth Jacobs on 22/6/98) who state that it gives him camping and visiting rights there but does not make him a dulmada (the Lardil term for a landowner by patrilineal inheritance). PG: Wilfred, alright, duburrk, kurdurrkurdurr, kiyarrngka nid. Duburrka yakuriy, ngada raaj, kunawunay, bardakayiwath. NE: bana jinaa niwanda dulk, Wilfred? PG: dathina dulk, NE: bana bardiwardi marrija kangki? PG: Yeah, bardiwardi dangkaa mungurru Mornington, diyaja bild, ngijlayiinngarrbayi, mungurru bardiwardi, niwanda countryman, bilwanda countryman. [PG 7/7/97] [PG: Wilfred, alright, he’s got two names, mullet and kurdurrkurdurr (another type of fish). The mullet is a fish, that I speared, (carrying) the child, and it went into (the mother’s) stomach. NE: And where’s his country, Wilfred’s? PG: That place (where I’d speared the mullet). NE: And do the Lardil people know about that? PG: Yeah, the Mornington people know, they ate what I had speared, the Lardil know, (they’re) his countryman, (he’s) their countryman. ]

Since the establishment of the outstation on Bentinck Island, however, children have been getting -ngathi names again, but now based on conception rather than birth place. Thus Christopher Loogatha’s young son Traefon is Kurumbalingathi, based on a sign (the appearance of a red dog) that occurred while Christopher was hunting at Kurumbali; the child is said to have a ‘blood spot’ on his body as a sign of this conception: NL: That little kid there la Christopher, he belong sign for dog, red dog down there, he claimin this area, Christopher’s baby, because he’s sign for there.. NE: Which baby’s that one eh? NL: Kurmbalingathi, niya kunyaa kurmbalingathi [Kurmbalingathi, he’s a little Kurmbalingathi] [June 1997]

A final modification of tradition results from the increasing intermarriage between Kaiadilt and other Aboriginal groups, which has brought further Aboriginal naming systems into play. In the cases of marriages to outsiders, the practice is to name ­children according to the Kaiadilt system, except in the case of non-Kaiadilt fathers who are (a) married to Kaiadilt mothers under European law (i.e. a church wedding), and (b) are traditionally-oriented Aboriginal men from the region who would be expected to give names according to their own customs. One example of this involves Alma Moon, the daughter of Molly Rainbow to an Aurukun man, Robert Kongnampa. Alma married Cyril Moon, a senior Lardil man, and their four children all received Lardil names:



Born, signed and named 

Birnkurn (Beatrice), Lebudmul (Guy), Jeridngarnaja (Brendan) and Kethuku (Mario). Lineage names, in the contemporary setting, can be passed on from a number of individuals; it is not clear how far this is merely a continuation of earlier practice, and how far it represents an adaptation to modern conditions where fatherless households are a commoner phenomenon. According to Melville Escott, names mostly follow the father’s line, but through the mother if she not married; if she not married he can go through the mother, like through from grandfather side, but if he married, he can go from the father, from his father right down, grandfather right down. [July 1997]

The changes and continuities in the naming system are indicative of the degree to which Kaiadilt tradition has been maintained, with modification, as their life situation has changed. Entirely new elements have been brought in, from three areas: ‘official’ European practice (Christian names plus surnames), European vernacular culture (nicknames), and the practice of other Aboriginal groups (as with Cyril Moon), as well as Aboriginal refashionings of Lardil naming traditions (e.g. nicknames based on physical features). At the same time the main principles of the Kaiadilt system have been continued, but with some modifications necessitated by changed circumstances: affiliation to the natural world has continued through the use of conception and lineage names, while affiliation to country has been continued in a somewhat different form, replacing birth-based -ngathi names with bestowed country names and with conception-based -ngathi names.

5.  C  onclusion: social change, naming change, and the maintenance of links to country As summarised in §2, in the space of a lifetime (74 years at the time of writing) the Kaiadilt have undergone dramatic changes in their world and how this shapes their relationship to land. In 1940 they were still living in the South Wellesley Islands in a way that gave them full control over their traditional territory, and maintaining their traditional system of tenure. The traditional naming system was central to recording and transmitting the information needed to keep track of people’s links to country and one another, across the generations. -ngathi names tracked people’s birthplaces, which entailed primary rights to country, and were also the most important way of identifying individuals in genealogical discussions. Conception names recorded events surrounding a child’s spiritual conception, establishing a double connection with both the creature or other event bearing its spirit, and the place where the event occurred. Lineage names did not link directly to country, but helped keep track of descent lines, though this system was not especially accurate since not all lineage members received

 Nicholas Evans

the same names, and the same word could be found on one individual as a lineage name and on another as a conception name. During the exile years, from the 1940s up until the late 1980s and early 1990s, Kaiadilt people had little opportunity to maintain experiential links with their ­country, though incessant reminiscing by older generations kept knowledge of it alive in detail. During this period, as part of coming to terms with their status as immigrants on Lardil country, conception names took on special importance as a legitimate way of signalling secondary rights on Mornington, Denham and Forsyth Islands. At the same time, -ngathi names ceased to be distinctive, since in effect all children were being born in the Mornington Mission hospital, so they largely stopped being used. Lineage names, which were not place-dependent, continued to be transmitted in the traditional way. The move to Mornington also saw the introduction of a second system of naming, impinging from the European and post-contact Indigenous worlds. First, individuals received single names, more or less from English or anglicised, then a rather unsystematic process gradually introduced surnames. The majority of Kaiadilt surnames come from the Kayardild language, either directly (through anglicisation of Kayardild words, e.g. Gabori) or indirectly (through translation, e.g. Rainbow) – the few exceptions involve the conversion of what were original sole Christian names (Paul, Kelly) into surnames.19 Nicknames, almost entirely in some form of English, also appear to have entered the Kaiadilt system during this period – I have not recorded a single Kayardild nickname that goes back beyond the contact period, nor do the comprehensive lists in Tindale contain any. A third phase in the use of Kayardild names began to emerge as access to motorboats to travel across to Bentinck, and partial resettlement there through the outstation movement, allowed a reconnection with country. Transmission of lineage names continued as before. Some conception names began again to be based on spiritual conception events occurring on Bentinck Island, and the word ngalkand underwent a shift from ‘place where one was born’ to ‘place where one’s spiritual conception occurred’.20 And since children were still not being born there, the system of -ngathi names was not reintroduced. However, a new method of using Kayardild names to link to country began to be employed: children were named directly after a place (e.g. Balarruru, rather than Balarrurungathi), a naming .  Perhaps reflecting the lack of contact with the pastoral industry, there were to my knowledge no cases of names taken from European families with which the relevant indigenous people had an association of employment, residence or intimate relationship. .  It is also possible that this semantic shift occurred during the prior, ‘exile’ phase – we don’t have early enough recordings to decide between these two chronologies.



Born, signed and named 

technique that employs Kayardild words in an innovative way. These names were bestowed by elders, to children who on grounds of their descent would be expected to take up rights to the country designated by their name. In other words, this naming practice picks up on one traditional but less ­common method of transmitting rights to country – bequest – and formalises it by giving the child the name of the bestowed site. A key word in Kayardild is the verb yulkaaja – ‘to go straight through without stopping, follow an unerring path; always do, do without fail, do with lasting effect’  – and its even more commonly-used nominal derivative yulkaand ‘eternal, permanent, perfect, properly observed (law)’. Like all indigenous groups faced with the challenge of maintaining the essential core of their culture against the incurson of European laws and customs, Kaiadilt people have had to adapt many parts of their traditions in order that the most central ones be yulkaand. The changes in naming systems outlined in this paper should make it clear that at every phase the Kayardild element of the personal naming system intimately and centrally connects both name-bearers and name-givers to country, but also that changes that have occurred within it have served to maintain the core of these connections in the face of changing circumstances.

References Akinnaso, F. Niyi. 1980. The sociolinguistic basis of Yoruba personal names. Anthropological Linguistics 32: 275–304. Behrendt, Jason. n.d. The Wellesley Sea Claim: An overview. Ms downloadable from http:// www.aiatsis.gov.au/ntru/nativetitleconference/conf2004/papers/pdfs/JasonBehrendt.pdf Belcher, Douglas. n.d. Windward Leeward. Unpublished Ms. Dousset, Laurent. 1997. Naming and personal names of Ngaatjatjarra-speaking people, Western Desert: Some questions related to research. Australian Aboriginal Studies 2: 50–54. Evans, Nicholas. 1985. Kayardild: The language of the Bentinck Islanders of North West Queensland. Ph.D. Dissertation, Australian National University. Evans, Nicholas. 1992. Kayardild Dictionary and Thesaurus. University of Melbourne: Department of Linguistics and Language Studies. Evans, Nicholas. 1993. Rarumbanjina dulkina birrjilk. Recommendations regarding the Kaiadilt Land Transfer: a Report to the Queensland Minister for Aboriginal and Islander Affairs regarding the appointment of trustees for the transferable reserve land known as the South Wellesley Islands. Evans, Nicholas. 1995. A Grammar of Kayardild: With Historical-comparative Notes on Tangkic. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter.  doi: 10.1515/9783110873733 Evans, Nicholas. 1998. The Kaiadilt people. Report prepared on behalf of the Carpentaria Land Council, for the Australian Federal Court. (Lardil, Kaiadilt, Yangkaal and Gangalidda peoples vs State of Queensland & Ors).

 Nicholas Evans Evans, Nicholas, ed. 2003. The Non-Pama-Nyungan Languages of Northern Australia: Comparative Studies of the Continent’s most Linguistically Complex Region. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. Evans, Nicholas & Penelope Johnson. 1998. Kaiadilt Genealogies, prepared for the Carpentaria Land Council. Evans, Nicholas & Roma Kelly. 1985. The McKenzie Massacre on Bentinck Island. Aboriginal History 9: 44–52. Garde, Murray. 2013. Culture, Interaction and Person Reference in an Australian Language. Amsterdam: John Benjamins.  doi: 10.1075/clu.11 Harrison, Simon. 1990. Stealing People’s Names: History and Politics in a Sepik River Cosmology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.  doi: 10.1017/CBO9780511521096 Hart, Charles. 1930. Personal names among the Tiwi. Oceania 1: 280–290. doi: 10.1002/j.1834-4461.1930.tb01650.x Hiatt, Les. 1995. Arguments about Aborigines. Australia and the Evolution of Social Anthropology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Kripke, Saul. 1980. Naming and Necessity. Cambridge: Harvard University Press. McConvell, Patrick. 1985. The origin of subsections in Northern Australia. Oceania 56: 1–33. McKnight, David. 1999. People, Countries and the Rainbow Serpent. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Memmott, Paul. 1998. Expert witness report on the Lardil and Yangkaal Sea Claim n the Wellesley Islands. [Prepared for Andrew Chalk, Solicitor on behalf of the Carpentaria Land Council and the Claimants]. St Lucia, 18/11/98. Memmott, Paul. 2010. Material Culture of the North Wellesley Islands. University of Queensland: Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islanders Unit. Nash, David & Jane Simpson. 1981. “No-name” in Central Australia. Chicago Linguistic Society 1: 165–77. Round, Erich. 2013. Kayardild Morphology and Syntax. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Roughsey, Dick. 1971. Moon and Rainbow: The Autobiography of an Aboriginal. Sydney: Reed. Rumsey, Alan. 2013. Anthropology, linguistics, and the vicissitudes of interdisciplinary collaboration. Collaborative Anthropologies 6: 268–289.  doi: 10.1353/cla.2013.0000 Simpson, Jane. 1998. Personal names. In Jane Simpson & Luise Hercus, eds. History in Portraits: Biographies of Nineteenth Century South Australian Aboriginal People. Canberra: Aboriginal History. 221–229. Stanner, W.E.H. 1937. Aboriginal modes of address and reference in the Northwest of the Northern Territory. Oceania 7: 300–315.  doi: 10.1002/j.1834-4461.1937.tb00385.x Stasch, Rupert. 2002. Joking avoidance: A Korowai pragmatics of being two. American Ethnologist 29: 335–365.  doi: 10.1525/ae.2002.29.2.335 Sutton, Peter. 1998. Native Title and the Descent of Rights. Perth: National Native Title Tribunal. Thomson, Donald. 1946. Names and naming in the Wik Monkan Tribe. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland 76: 157–67.  doi: 10.2307/2844514 Tindale, Norman. 1962a. Geographical knowledge of the Kaiadilt people of Bentinck Island. Records of the South Australian Museum 14: 252–296. Tindale, Norman. 1962b. Some population changes among the Kaiadilt people of Bentinck Island. Records of the South Australian Museum 14: 297–336. Tindale, Norman. 1963. Journal of Visit to the Gulf of Carpentaria, Vol. III. Unpublished Ms.



Born, signed and named 

Tindale, Norman. 1977. Further report on the Kaiadilt people of Bentinck Island, Gulf of Carpentaria, Queensland. In Jim Allen, Jack Golson & Rhys Jones, eds. Sunda and Sahul. London: Academic Press. 247–273. Trigger, David. 1998. Report concerning Ganggalida people. Report prepared on behalf of the Carpentaria Land Council, for the Australian Federal Court. (Lardil, Kaiadilt, Yangkaal and Gangalidda peoples vs State of Queensland & Ors.) Ulm, Sean, Nicholas Evans, Daniel Rosendahl, Paul Memmott & Fiona Petchey. 2010. First radiocarbon dates for occupation of the South Wellesley Islands, Gulf of Carpentaria, northern Australia. Archaeology in Oceania 45: 39–43. doi: 10.1002/j.1834-4453.2010.tb00076.x

The problem of ‘tribal names’ in eastern Australia The Kuku Yalanji example Ray Wood

Independent scholar, Katoomba, NSW Deciphering the often conflicting accounts of group names in early records is problematic in land claims in eastern Australia south of Cairns. State parties see it as critical to establishing ‘the right people’ for each claim area, while also the records are often subject to divergent readings and dispute among claimants themselves. An example is the Kuku Yalanji region, with over sixty group names on record, of which eighteen alone are based on kuku ‘language, speech’ and for which highly contradictory locations are recorded: for instance in the south of the region one map has ‘Kuku Kulunggur’ where others have ‘Kuku Nyungkul(u)’ or ‘Kuku Buyunji’, whereas others have the latter two in the north or west where yet others have ‘Kuku Yalanji’. Although ‘Kuku Yalanji’ has developed into the umbrella ethnonym, enough oral information on the wider stock of kuku names remains extant to show how the diverse emic paradigms underlying them gave rise to such confusing records. The case is instructive for wider eastern Australia, where breaking the code of group naming practices and considering their history in processual rather than static terms is critical. The least likely reason that the names claimants now identify with do not match those of early records is that the 1788 ‘original tribe’ has since been displaced by another. What we should expect instead is a history more like that of the Yalanji case, with multiple and overlapping naming paradigms, names that are subject to slippage between levels of local organization and others to deictic referent-shifting, and some that do not denote a specific ‘tribe’ or even a dialect variant but simply reflect inter-group relations at the time they were recorded.

doi 10.1075/clu.18.16woo © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

 Ray Wood

1.  Introduction1 1.1  The Kuku Yalanji region of northeast Queensland Speakers of Kuku Yalanji and dialects that go by other names but belong to the same, relatively homogenous, language occupy the southeast corner of Cape York Peninsula. The Eastern Yalanji country is the mostly rainforest-covered Coral Sea drainage, including the Daintree, Mossman, Bloomfield and Upper Annan River basins (see also Anderson, this volume). The Western Yalanji are west of the Dividing Range on the grassy plateau of the upper Palmer and Mitchell Rivers (see also Cole, this volume), with close dialects Kuku Muluriji and Kuku Jangkun in the very upper Mitchell and Hodgkinson Rivers. Contact with European and Asian settlers began in the 1870s, initiated in the Western area by a gold rush and frontier war of great ferocity that led the depleted Western Yalanji to settle on cattle stations, from where they were later removed by the state to Monamona and Hopevale missions. On the Eastern side, where a Yalanji population of 2,000 still resides, initial contact was with small-scale loggers, pearlers, cattlemen, and miners and was much less turbulent. Although missions were established in the major Eastern Yalanji coastal valleys from the 1890s, it was not until the 1960s-70s that the whole population was confined to them. Land claims since the 1990s are restoring some Yalanji property rights and leading to more diffused residence. The advent of television in the 1980s led to rapid language shift to English among children (Hank Hershberger 1984 p.c.), with the result that today it is mainly people over the age of 40 that retain fluency in the language.2

1.2  A  layered naming system: -warra names, kuku names, and generic terms Most of the Kuku Yalanji group names that colonial writers referred to as those of a ‘tribe’ were in fact those of small patriclans, or of camps and riverine clan clusters rather than of a larger ethnos. The greater number of names consists of a toponym plus the associative suffix -warra ‘of, from, belonging to’ – around twenty five for Eastern Kuku Yalanji alone in the writings of Hodgkinson (1886), Parry-Okeden (1898), Roth (1910), Meston (1896) and others. All these -warra names plus others were reproduced in the 1970s to 1990s research of Hershberger & Hershberger (1986), Anderson

.  For locations mentioned in the text, see the two general maps at the front of the volume. .  Brady, Anderson and Rigsby (1980), Anderson (this volume), and the linguists Patz (1982), Hershberger & Hershberger (1986), and Oates (1993) can be referred to for more detail on the language, its geography, and the history of the speakers.



The problem of ‘tribal names’ in eastern Australia 

(1984), and Wood (1996). They are patriclan proper names, but were often extended as loose, ready references to main beach and river camps sited on the estate of the clan whose headman was dominant in the camp (see Anderson 1983). These camps were already seasonally semi-sedentary in the pre-contact era and became much more so after. Due to the toponymic core of -warra names, their locations in early accounts are generally consistent. In the 20th century this potential for clan names to serve as rough residence group names led to a few of them growing into labels for post-contact fringe camps or mission communities, after the clan estate on which the mission was sited, and thus also for the surrounding drainage cluster from which the community’s membership was drawn. For instance Julaywarra, a Daintree River clan name, has long been used to reference the former Daintree mission community and the drainage cluster formerly co-resident there. By contrast, kuku ‘speech’ names are never clan names, nor are they based on toponyms. ‘Kuku Yalanji’ and several others first appear in late 19th century sources side-by-side with -warra names, and increase in 20th century sources of which Roth (1910), McConnel (1931, 1939), Sharp (1939), Tindale (1974), and Davis (1993) each present differing selections and locations. Reflecting the layered local organization, kuku names overlaid and bracketed a collection of toponymic -warra names of up to ten patriclans occupying a segment of river drainage. The component kuku reflects the fact that it was these drainages that were the loci of dialect divergence, not the clan estates. Many have probably begun as ephemeral descriptive labels, with some sticking to become proper names, and ‘Kuku Yalanji’ extending over the 20th century into an umbrella ethnonym in both the Eastern and Western Yalanji regions. The expandability of both kuku and -warra names is reflected in Yalanji generic terms for ‘group’. As in most Australian languages, Kuku Yalanji lacks generics that mean only ‘patriclan’ or that distinguish the clan estate level from a drainage cluster of estates. Context determines this, including usage of the English-derived generics ‘mob’, ‘side’, ‘tribe’, and ‘owners’. This is exemplified in a Yalanji generic, bubuwarra (bubu ‘ground’), which is often used to denote patriclan estate owners, but not invariably, for bubu denotes land at any scale, whether a clan estate, a drainage cluster of estates, or the entire pan-Yalanji country. It applies to a handful of soil, so that bubuwarra are, as in an older English expression, ‘the owners of the soil’. A single conversation can move from discussing a group at one level to a larger one at a higher level – from clan to camp to drainage level – using the same generic term for group in each case. Aboriginal English mob and side are used interchangeably with -warra or kuku, as seen in the equivalent terms ‘Kunawarra’ and ‘Shipton Flat mob’ that have the following context-dependent referents: a. The patriclan owners of the site Kuna and its pendant clan estate at Shipton’s Flat, in the upper Annan River drainage;

 Ray Wood

b. A post-contact, multi-clan fringe camp that was located in the vicinity of the Kuna site during the late 19th and early 20th century tin-mining era; and c. A label for the whole upper Annan drainage grouping cluster of about 10 clan estates each with its own toponymic -warra name, but which were co-resident around Shipton’s Flat in that era, and which are also collectively referred to as ‘Kuku Nyungkul’, ‘Nyungkulwarra’, ‘Nyungkul mob’, or ‘Nyungkul side’. Possession of a name being sufficient for Europeans to label any scale of group as a ‘tribe’, Yalanji first encountered this term with a built-in lack of level specificity, and so today use it to denote the pan-Yalanji grouping – that is, all Yalanji bama (Yalanji people) – but also individual drainage clusters, not uncommonly in the one utterance. The rest of this paper is focused on kuku names and how the underlying group nomenclature system has given rise to varying interpretations by European observers and some native speakers who grew up on missions. In Section 2, I describe five sets of kuku names: one set that are socio-centric shibboleths (2.1), and others that are typifiers of speech styles and other group traits (2.2), language-level names (2.3), topographical and directional typifiers (2.4), and shifters (2.5). In Section 3 some issues in using early sources are touched on, and in Section 4 some systemic post-contact transformations are outlined.

2.  Kuku names Kuku names are formulaic phrases headed by kuku plus a specific referent. This set structure leads Rigsby (2003 p.c.) to consider that they are best distinguished from both compound words and ordinary phrases by the term ‘compound phrase’. Kuku itself denotes speech, or any part, incident, or kind of speech, or a group external to one’s own, including: 1. 2. 3. 4. 5. 6.

‘Word’, a generic for any particular word or words in any language; A talk or speech given by someone; News, as in the sense of ‘the talk is …’; Speech style, including manner such as ‘nice’, ‘rough’ (rude), or pompous; A language or dialect variant of a language; and A group in the sense of ethnos, one of whose distinguishing features is presumptively a distinguishing language, dialect or even physical traits.

Older Yalanji often gloss kuku by Aboriginal English ‘talk’, reflecting the fact that kuku does not necessarily denote a language and is made specific only by context and/or the



The problem of ‘tribal names’ in eastern Australia 

conjoined word. Those kuku constructions that now function as ethnonyms denote both a group and that group’s language or dialect, as with ‘Russian’ or ‘Chinese’ in English usage, so that the referent of kuku in such names is as much ‘ethnos’ or just ‘group’ as ‘language’. This does not mean that once a kuku construction is found a ‘tribe’ is found, for not all kuku terms refer to groups, and when they do the degree of speech distinction, the scale of the group, and degree of its closure are all variable. As is widespread in Australia, two minor variants of Kuku Yalanji, like the upper Annan River Kuku Nyungkul and coastal Kuku Jalunji dialects, are referred to as different kuku no less than mutually unintelligible languages like the neighboring Guugu Yimidhirr. Personal styles and idiosyncrasies of speech are labeled by kuku constructions, as in kuku kulngkul ‘deep voice’ (kulngkul ‘heavy’), kuku baka ‘chatterbox’, and kuku jida ‘a child just beginning to talk’, and some were used as personal nicknames (see Oates 1993: 77; Hershberger & Hershberger 1986: 90). Few kuku names identify groups by their country, and in every case these are drainage-level clan clusters identified by ecological or directional typifiers. Kuku Jalunji and Kuku Nyungkul are the main examples, and are also the only names that can appear in both -warra and kuku forms, which fluctuate freely even in the one conversation: –– ––

Kuku Nyungkul (‘over the range people’) alternates with Nyungkulwarra in reference to the upper Annan River group of clans; and Kuku Jalunji (‘Sea People’) alternates with Jalunwarra in reference to the coastal catchment string of clans from Cedar Bay to Mossman.

A few kuku names like Kuku Yalanji and Kuku Jalunji include the comitative suffix -ji/-nji ‘having’, in this context not unlike the suffix -y in English noisy.3

2.1  The indigenous dialectology One set of kuku constructions are socio-centric shibboleths that typified Eastern Yalanji drainage dialects by their form of various demonstratives to form a proper name. McConnel (1939–40: 68-9) recorded three names from the set, and Sharp (1939:257) recorded two of the same names plus one other – a total of four. In the 1990s I re-recorded these four plus three others, making a total of seven in the set: Kuku Yalunyu (McConnel 1939 ‘Koko-Yalunyu’; Sharp 1939 ‘Koko Ialuniu’; Wood 1990s)

.  See Oates (1993:12) for other examples.

 Ray Wood

Kuku Yaluny (Wood 1990s; probably the same as McConnel’s 1939 ‘KokoYalung’ and Sharp’s 1939 ‘Koko Ialung’)4 Kuku Yanyu  (McConnel ‘Koko-Yanyu’; Hershberger & Hershberger 1986: 157, 159; Wood 1990s) Kuku Yalyu (Sharp 1939 ‘Koko Ialiu’, presumably the same as the ‘Koko Yalyun’ in his 1935 fieldnotes; Wood 1990s) Kuku Yaluy (Wood 1990s; Hershberger & Hershberger 1986: 157) Kuku Yalanya (Wood 1990s) Kuku Wanju (Wood 1990s)

The first six cases are formerly drainage-localized, locative forms of ‘this, here’ that Hershberger & Hershberger (1986:157, 159) gloss as ‘it’s here!’ McConnel’s (1939– 40:68-9) map roughly correlates each of her three forms with a river, but there is now no concurrence among Yalanji as to which river each of the first six names belonged to, and purist arguments can be heard about this. The last name, Kuku Wanju, given to me in 1999 by Ruby Friday, is an old label for the upper Annan drainage dialect more commonly known as Kuku Nyungkul. It is based on the Annan interrogative demonstrative wanju ‘who’, which distinguishes it from the wanya of other Yalanji dialects. All these names have now fallen into disuse as the distinctions they labeled faded with the speakers’ confinement to missions. Roth (1910:82–3) theorized that all demonstrative-based names meant to ‘talk in this way’, as he took the component yala in ‘Kuku Yalanji’ to be the homonym ‘like this, similar to’.5 Donald Thomson, working further north, followed Roth, suggesting that the language names Guugu Yimidhirr and Koko Ya’u based on yimi and ya’u ‘this, here’ in the respective languages mean to ‘talk so, like this, this way’.6 This paradigm would work with the seven Kuku Yalanji demonstrative-based names above, but obviously not with Kuku Wanju, based not on ‘this’ but on ‘who’. This inclines me to the view that the names meant ‘language which uses the form X’ rather than ‘like this’.

2.2  Language-level names Another three names that remain very much in use appear at first to belong to the same paradigm, but are externally directed to distinguish Yalanji from the two ­neighbouring

.  I found no-one who knew of a form yalung as written by both McConnel and Sharp, but one person offered me the form yaluny, which it seems probable is their yalung. .  See the Hershbergers (1986:156) for the homonyms yala ‘like’ and yala ‘this, here’. .  Thomson field notes, Box 13, Folder 5, cited in Rigsby (2005:137).



The problem of ‘tribal names’ in eastern Australia 

language groups. However, at least two are transliterations, which include the comitative suffix -ji, and are more problematic as to their meaning: Kuku Jabu, aka Kuku Jabukanji Kuku Yimiji Kuku Yalanji

The first of the three is a Yalanji transliteration of ‘Djabugay’, the name of the adjacent language to the south where gay denotes ‘speech, language’. The root jabu is not a demonstrative in Djabugay, nor analyzable, and Yalanji speakers have simply assimilated it to their own kuku names. The second denotes the neighbouring language name Guugu Yimidhirr (see Haviland, this volume), but although based on yimi, the demonstrative equivalent to yala in that language, it is more likely also a transliteration rather than a form typifier. The third is based on the simple near demonstrative yala ‘this, here’, common to all Yalanji dialects, but for reasons gone into below is probably also not a form typifier.7 Although these names are readily analyzable inasmuch as the components are clear enough, the meanings to be attributed to them are an issue. As mentioned, Roth (1910:82–3) took ‘Kuku Yalanji’ and ‘Guugu Yimidhirr’ as linguistic typifiers, and initially so did I. However, it conflicts with native speaker accounts of the name ‘Kuku Yalanji’ itself, despite its incorporation of the demonstrative yala. A Western Yalanji man told me – un-elicited – that the name means ‘the language spoken here, yala, at this place’. Still wedded to the typifier model, this seemed unlikely to me, but without mentioning it I asked speakers at Wujalwujal to define the meaning of the name. All of them – the authoritative Eileen Walker, Dolly Yerie, and Harry Shipton, each of whom spoke only Kuku Yalanji in their youth – independently told me the same: Kuku Yalanji means “[the] talk here, talk for [belonging to] this place, our talk here” (their emphasis), and that the name was originally a parochial reference to the familiar dialect and speech style of ‘our home area’, ‘our people’, ‘our camp’. That is, the name appears to pattern more like a directional typifier than form typifier. In contrast to the classes discussed in the next three subsections, the ­demonstrative-based class of kuku names and these three language names/ethnonyms are the only ones with an emic linguistic intent, and of them ‘Kuku Yalanji’ also functions as a shifter in other contexts discussed in 2.5 below.

.  McConnel’s (1939–40:69) ‘Koko-Walandja’ is not a wala form of yala, but a production of ‘Kuku Yalanji’ I have also heard, in which the /ɟ/ of Yalanji is suppressed, the /i/ is partly centralized, and the whole production is rather quick and slurred.

 Ray Wood

2.3  Typifiers of speech style or other traits of a group There are two terms in this set, which subjectively characterize the speech style or voice quality of a person or group, or even their physical appearance, rather than dialect distinctions: ––

––

Kuku Kaykay – ‘little people’, from kaykay ‘little things’, such as children, finches, confetti, or twigs. McConnel (1939–40:66, 69) recorded this as ‘Koko-Kai-Kai’, and was told, as I also was, that it was a term coined for the people of the 1930s-50s Yalanji camps around the Bailey’s Creek area on the southern Tribulation coast. All those I spoke with chuckled in recognition and told me that this is because they were small people. The late Charlie Denman for example said “they was little”, adding that they had “small, squeaky voices”. While this suggests a typifier of voice quality, the spontaneous emphasis of Yalanji informants fell on stature. That is, kuku here means a group that is distinctive, less in an ethno-linguistic sense but as likened to a flock of finches. Kuku Kulngkul ‘deep voice or style’, from kulngkul ‘heavy’. Tindale (1974, 1938a: sheet 66) recorded this as ‘Kokokulunggur’ at Yarrabah from a member of the Walker descent group of Daintree in reference to people of Mossman and ­Daintree. Elderly Mossman people told me that around Mossman in the 1930s to 1950s it was applied to those with deep voices or given to formal speech and ‘deep’ grammatical constructions (see further below), and was also a personal nickname for two elderly Yalanji men at Mossman with these traits. It was also applied to both to the Yalanji village at Cooya Beach and the Djabugay village at Port Douglas.

The ‘Kokokulunggur’ vocabulary Tindale (1938–1963) collected is merely typical Eastern Yalanji. It is instructive that the Djabugay village at Port Douglas – a place recognized by Yalanji as Djabugay country – was also spoken of as Kuku Kulungkul. Charlie Denman said that even European officials speaking in bureaucratic ­English were described as kuku kulngkul, thus underscoring the descriptive character of the term and its origins as ‘heavy’ speech in any language. As such of course, a specific Yalanji dialect could have been among its applications, but from contemporary accounts it does not seem so. It certainly means that Kuku Kulungkul was not a separate ‘tribe’ from Kuku Yalanji. Tindale’s brief field note offers no between-the-lines clue to his informant’s intent, but Tindale read it in terms of his tribe paradigm.8

.  Tindale’s note is as follows: “According to Leslie [Walker] …The people who belong to the coast altogether at Mossman are called Koko Kulunggur”. Correlating with this, at the time the Mossman Jalunji (‘sea people’) had a camp at Cooya Beach, one of those I was told was Kuku Kulngkul. Perhaps there was a version of the word with a final /r/ instead of /l/, but



The problem of ‘tribal names’ in eastern Australia 

An ethnonym with the same meaning of ‘heavy speech’ occurs in the Tully area far to the south, Kulngay, a reflex of kulngkul plus gay ‘language, talk’ (Tindale 1938a: 435; Dixon 1976: 212). At Port Stewart far to the north, languages that are considered ‘deep’ are referred to in Umpila by another reflex, kulu, but here this denotes languages the informant finds difficult to ‘hear’ – that is, that are too different and/or geographically distant from his own that he lacks even passive knowledge of them (Thomson cited in Rigsby 2005: 139). Hence Kuku Kulngkul springs from a paradigm widely distributed in northeast Queensland of ‘heavy’ or ‘deep’ speech (and, further afield in Australia, in opposition to ‘light’ speech), but case-specific usage has evolved ranging from a quite different language to merely a speech style of persons or subgroups of the informant’s own language.

2.4  Topographical and directional typifiers Kuku Jalun or Kuku Jalunji and variant Jalunwarra, based on jalun ‘sea’, have several applications. The most exclusive usage is as a proper name for the coastal string of clans whose estates are the beaches and adjacent seawater and reefs from Cedar Bay south to Mossman. But it has also been used in the past as one of a more or less oppositional set that categorizes people by a relative coastal versus non-coastal location: –– ––

Kuku Jalun extended to mean ‘seaward side of the coast range’; and Kuku Nyungkul(u), from nyungkul(u) ‘over the range’, i.e. a mountain range.

Characteristic of the sliding scale of group labels, I have also heard ‘Jalunji’ used more loosely in retrospective accounts of the 1950s to bracket the combined lowland population of the Bloomfield and adjacent coast to distinguish it from the upland Annan basin Kuku-Nyungkul. Hence Hershberger & Hershberger (1986) glossed Kuku Jalunji as the ‘Bloomfield dialect’ (1982) or ‘including the Bloomfield area’, but Patz (1982:7) heard it only in reference to the maritime cluster. I have heard both usages and, on a yet larger canvas, heard it used to distinguish the entire Eastern Yalanji bloc from the Western Yalanji. Thus Jalunji is a relative category prone to slippage between variablescale, context-dependent referents ranging from its main application as a proper name for the maritime clan cluster to more generic ‘coastward people’.9 it is likely to be a mishearing by Tindale who, despite a generally good ear for language and a background in American English and Japanese, had difficulty with Aboriginal rhotics and laterals. Final /l/ following /u/ is rather backed, often with a little friction, so it can be hard to distinguish from /r/ or /ɹ/. This is also seen in Tindale’s field notes of the related name Kulngay south of Cairns, where he has both ‘Kulngai’ and ‘Kurngai’ renditions. .  A parallel case in languages south of Cairns is the name Malanbarra, which Meston (1904) recorded in the Goldsborough Valley where is used metaphorically to distinguish the

 Ray Wood

Similar names with coastal referents of variable scale in early accounts occur along Australia’s eastern seaboard, where we should neither dismiss the records as so confused as to be useless, nor leap to the conclusion that a ‘succession’ explanation is required for the larger scale in records or in current claimant usage. Turning to Kuku Nyungkul, some senior people gave me glosses of nyungkul that include ‘away from the sea’ and ‘long way from the sea’, but the late George Kulka Snr, an exceptional source person on terminology and cultural history, told me that it means ‘other side of the range’. This helps account for why the upper Annan drainage, only a few kilometres from the sea in parts but on the lee side of the coast range is all classed as Kuku Nyungkul.10 The term has long been used at Bloomfield as a label for the upper Annan drainage cluster and their dialect, and McConnel (1939–40:68-9) recorded it there with this application in the 1930s. However, she, Sharp (1935), and Tindale (1938a: sheets 66, 63) also each recorded it in use at Mossman in the same period.11 McConnel ­(1939–40) took it for the name of an extinct Mossman group for reasons that are unclear. However, as I have shown elsewhere (Wood 2002: 38–40), examination of Tindale’s and Sharp’s field notes suggests that at Mossman it in fact labeled upland visitors and immigrants coming into Mossman from the south over the Rex Range, and also, I have been told, from the west over the high Main Coast Range. These mountaineers were a mix of Djabugay, Kuku Muluruji, Western Yalanji, and some Mossman Yalanji who had earlier retreated to the mountains from hostilities with settlers and the Native Police. For example, Tindale (1938a: sheet 66) understood from Leslie Walker that: …Koko Njunkulu is a term for Tja:pukai who go to the sea at Mossman.

Meston (1896:14, his ‘Coco nhumkil’) too recorded Kuku Nyungkul, in this case at ­Bailey’s Creek in a context of visitation between this coastal area and the upper ­Daintree via a track over the towering Alexandra Range.

parts of a river with a level bed to those with rapids and boulders on the mountainside. Roth (e.g. 1910:100, 106) also makes numerous references to its use among Jirrbal/Mamuy people in the Tully-Mission Beach area to denote coastal people as opposed to Tablelanders. Malan means ‘flat rock’, but with barra attached forms broad terrain and directional typifications of lowlanders versus uplanders. Like ‘Jalunji’, the scale of this opposition varies greatly between the narrow usage that has evolved in the Goldsborough Valley and the broader application in the Tully area. Similar variations of scale can be seen in such names as Batjala in southeast Queensland, confined in some accounts to parts of Fraser Island, while others attribute it to the whole of the island, and yet others include variable swaths of the adjacent mainland. .  ‘Inland’ is not a good gloss since nyungkul denotes areas only a few hours’ walk from the sea, and never areas well inland such as the Western Yalanji country. .  See McConnel’s (1939–40) ‘Koko-Nyungalo’, Tindale’s (1938a; sheets 66 and 63) ‘Koko Njunkulu, Koko Njunkul’, and Sharp’s (1935) ‘Nyung’kulu’.



The problem of ‘tribal names’ in eastern Australia 

Thus, comparison of the records of ‘Kuku Nyungkul’ at Bailey’s Creek in the 1890s, Mossman in the 1930s, and Bloomfield from the 1930s shows that it was originally a generic applied by those on the seaward side of a coast range to groups from the upland side. It was not the unique name of a specific dialect but referenced groups who represented several Yalanji dialects. Sometime after the late 1930s the name fell into disuse in the Mossman Valley as movement from upland areas petered out with the Djabugay and Muluriji removal to Monamona mission. It persisted in the Bloomfield Valley to the present because movement of upper Annan people into Bloomfield did not diminish but increased in the 1950s, as a large group of Annan refugees from fringe camps in Cooktown decamped to Ayton on the narrow Bloomfield coastal plain. Also, unlike the Djabugay trickle into Mossman in the 1920s-30s, social assimilation of Annan people at Bloomfield is incomplete and they have retained their strong identification with and ties to the upper Annan basin, with the result that, instead of disappearing, Kuku Nyungkul has hardened into a proper name for them. Two additional topographical/directional typifiers are: –– ––

Kuku Jangkun/Kuku Jangka, from jangka/jangku ‘stone’; and Ngalkalji, from ngalkal ‘outside’, as in ‘outside the house’, ‘outside the scrub [rainforest]’, or ‘beyond the watershed’.

The first of these is the name of the Mt Mulligan group whose dialect is a minor variant of Kuku Yalanji. Norman Mitchell told me it meant ‘stone country mob’, a reference to the Mt Mulligan massif at the heart of the group’s country. Ngalkalji means ‘outside people, faraway but known people’. It is one of the few names I have never heard in a kuku construction (although as a parallel Kuku Jalunji is often abbreviated to simply Jalunji). Richards (1926) recorded Ngalkalji at Mt Mulligan for the Mossman people, unaware that Mossman and Bloomfield people used it reciprocally (and still do) of the Mt Mulligan people and all those west of the Dividing Range. This raises another issue of importance in Yalanji and wider Aboriginal naming systems: Ngalkalji is a classic ‘shifter’ as turned to next.

2.5  Shifters and the ‘Kuku Buyunji’ enigma Shifter is a term originally coined by the linguist Jakobson (1957) to describe a word or name whose referent shifts depending on the social, linguistic, or directional subjectivity of the speaker, like the deictic pronouns ‘I’ and ‘you’, ‘us’ and ‘them’.12 Shifter names can thus denote many groups determined by the perspective of the informant.

.  ‘Shifter’ was first used in Australian anthropology by Rigsby in native title reports in the late 1990s, when he introduced it to me. A published example is in Rigsby (2005).

 Ray Wood

‘Kuku Yalanji’ itself is a shifter vis-à-vis Kuku Buyunji, the most classic case, and one of four names that typified groups mainly by reference to inter-group relations rather than language features: ––

––

––

––

Kuku Buyunji or Kuku Buyun, from the Kuku Yalanji word buyun ‘bad, no good’, ‘wrong’ or ‘strange’ as in bad conduct but also bad situations, as when a patient’s condition is ‘bad’; Kuku Warra, from warra ‘bad’ in the Guugu Yimidhirr language from which it seems a borrowed usage in Kuku Yalanji, but which also uses warra with reference to spirits and the dead, of which one aspect is that they are ‘bad’ in the sense of potent or dangerous. The noun is not to be confused with the suffix -warra, yet is also not unconnected with it;13 Kuku Mini, from Kuku Yalanji mini, locally glossed as ‘good, nice, true, proper’. Mini describes straight, right, good conduct, to behave correctly or nicely in a sense opposite to treachery or to wrong or ‘cheeky’ conduct, or talking rudely (see Hershberger & Hershberger (1986) ‘correct’); and Kuku Junkay, from junkay ‘correct, straight, right conduct’. The relation of junkay to conduct rather than dialect can be seen in Hershberger (1986) & Hershberger’s example: ‘… going straight/he is going right, honestly, not sinning.’

Also shedding light on these four typifiers is a term that I have not heard used as a group label, but the meaning of which is related to ‘Kuku-Mini’, viz. ––

kuku yaral, a term glossed by Oates (1993: 77) as ‘straight or true talk’, and by Hershberger & Hershberger (1986: 159) as to ‘talk the right way’, ‘as you should in a court case – not angry or cheeky’.

Also belonging in this set is the now obsolete name Kuku Balja which Roth (e.g.1910:83) heard applied to some camps, one of them the Jalunji camp at Banabila near the Bloomfield mouth, an outsider group at Bloomfield in his day, and another the Wujal mission camp. Since he also repeatedly has Kuku Yalanji for both, I take this as evidence that Kuku Balja was a label the two camps applied to each other, not a self-identification.

.  There seems to be an etymological link between warra ‘bad’ and the suffix -warra, related to spirit and ancestral source. A Kunawarra clansman, for example, is considered consubstantial with the site Kuna, and more so the ‘Old People’, the ancestral dead of the estate and of the clan. Rigsby (2003 p.c.) suspects that the warra of Kuku Warra is not solely a borrowing from Guugu Yimidhirr but may have an older presence in both languages related to another meaning of warra as ‘Old People’. Warra does appear in Yalanji compound words alluding to the ancestral dead and spirits, both ‘bad’ as in ‘terrible’, e.g. warra-wayjul, the smoking of the deceased’s possessions to exorcise their adhering spirit matter.



The problem of ‘tribal names’ in eastern Australia 

His gloss ‘speech-abrupt’ suggests a meaning related to that of Kuku Buyunji set out below. So too do comments the late Johnny Walker made to Anderson (1997 p.c. to Wood), namely that Kuku Balja was ‘rubbish talk’, and the gist of my conversation with Eileen Walker at Bloomfield who told me that balja was used by her seniors to refer to talk and people that should be ‘ignored’.14 Researchers have tended to take Kuku Buyunji as a speech typifier reflecting a biased view of other groups’ dialects as ‘incorrect’ or at least bad in the sense of foreign and hard to understand (e.g. Oates 1993: 77, ‘wrong-speech people’, and ‘a dialect other than [one’s] own’). Some factors could in isolation appear to support this. First, Kuku Buyun(ji) was marginally assimilated as a dialect name. For example, Tina Chong of Mareeba, who has incorporated her organization under the name Kuku Buyunji, tells me that her mother used it to refer to her own Windsor Tableland dialect. Sutton (2000 p.c.) met an elderly Yalanji woman in Townsville who told him her language was Kuku Buyunji. Nellie Woibo of Hopevale told me in 1995 that whereas the Annan River Kuku Nyungkul dialect sounds “sweet”, the speech of the China Camp group of her mother that she held to be Kuku Buyunji had a “slide along tone”. A congeries of meanings lies behind this: her ‘sweet’ is evocative of Charlie Denman’s account of kuku yaral as a ‘soft’ or ‘sweet voice’, although he paired this oppositionally not against Kuku Buyunji but against kuku kulngkul ‘deep voice’ already discussed. The noun yaral also means ‘freshwater’, as opposed to saltwater, and in Aboriginal English freshwater is often termed ‘sweet water’. Further north in Cape York Peninsula terms meaning ‘talk-bad’ refer to a language hard to understand, and so have a meaning close to ‘foreign language/foreign people’ (Thomson, cited in Rigsby 2005: 139). However, Kuku Buyunji was mostly applied by Yalanji to other groups of Yalanji they very well understood, and other facts argue compellingly against a linguistic reading of the term. First, in the 1990s I found senior Yalanji dismissed such a reading as a post-settlement rationalization by those too far removed from experience of earlier productive usage. They insisted that Kuku Buyunji were groups outside one’s own jawunykarra (‘countrymen, friends’) network, and who

.  Balja also appears in Hershberger & Hershberger’s (1986) dictionary as the name of a food plant, but from my conversation with Eileen Walker it appeared that this is a homonym unconnected to Kuku Balja. Kuku Walja, which McConnel (1939–40:69) recorded for the Windsor Tableland, may be a lenited form of Kuku Balja or a mishearing of ‘Kuku ‘alanja’, a form of Kuku Yalanji (see Footnote 6). Balja is one of only two earlier recorded terms that have passed so far out of use and recollection that the meaning cannot be re-established. The other is ‘Kuku-Jiling’, recorded by McConnel (1939–40) for the upper Normanby River. Sutton (1970: 11) was given this as Kuku-Jilin in Townsville in 1970 by the aged Dolly Walker, along with linguistic data he found to be a Yalanji dialect. I was unable to reproduce this term in the 1990s or find anyone who could identify a referent or recognize the stem jiling/jilin (jiliny?).

 Ray Wood

could not be trusted and were confronting, belligerent, or raided their own group. In a meeting at Bloomfield the late Bob Yerrie, then head of the Wujalwujal estate on which the settlement is sited, scoffed at the suggestion that Kuku Buyunji denoted a dialect or had linguistic reference, and was emphatic that it referred to ‘enemies’, ‘bad’ people, who were ‘against us’ and who talked ‘cheeky’. Other senior people like the late Eileen Walker and Harry Shipton later privately confirmed to me that this was the real meaning of the term. This testimony bears comparison with kuku yaral, which, like Kuku Mini, is associated with ‘straight, true, correct’ talk, ‘not cheeky’ (Hershberger & ­Hershberger 1986; Oates 1993). Of course, in Aboriginal English, cheeky means ‘hostile, dangerous, treacherous’. Venomous snakes and crocodiles attempting to stalk people are ‘cheeky’. Supporting evidence comes from day-to-day usage of kuku buyun(ji). It is not, for instance, a rarity to see a child on the streets of Mossman throw himself on the ground in a tantrum and his irritated parent tell him to ‘get up, you little kuku buyunji!’ This is also said of anyone speaking in a manner judged bold or aggressive, in which ­Europeans often unintentionally offend by being too forward for Yalanji sensibilities, especially if younger than or a stranger to the Yalanji they speak to. A Yalanji audience took offense even to an Aboriginal government employee whose comportment in a meeting was normal for her bureaucratic role and in no way offensive to European eyes, yet in the coffee break the Yalanji complained about her in such words as nyulu bama kuku buyun, talk like a waybal: ‘That person is kuku buyun, talking like a European!’ Of course here the offense was partly because she appeared to adopt the manner and presumption of power of white officials rather than the deferential manner they expect of a stranger. It is normal for government officials to jump to their feet in a meeting with people they have never met before, face them and in a loud voice – intended only to ensure those at the back can hear – state their name and official role and then deliver authoritative policy positions on behalf of their department. Yet Yalanji often describe this as kuku buyun(ji), as confronting and prideful by their own and wider Cape York standards, where you should wait to be introduced then speak modestly, stand a little to the side rather than look the audience too much in the eye, and issue disclaimers of personal authority like ‘I don’t know myself, it’s just what I heard’.15 Yalanji individuals I know of who assimilated the Kuku Buyunji label as a dialect name for their own group were all either women married into and resident with various Yalanji or Guugu Yimidhirr groups that labeled the woman’s group Kuku Buyunji,

.  Europeans who learn how to moderate their comportment can eventually come to be seen as less kuku buyunji and instead as jawuny ‘friends’. There are occasions on which to speak more ‘strong’, e.g. if someone else has already done so to you, when you should stand your ground.



The problem of ‘tribal names’ in eastern Australia 

or younger individuals who derive their views from what such, now deceased, women told them. In this connection also Earl (1899a, 1899b) mentions two ‘Kuku Buyunji’ women married to a Butcher’s Hill ‘Kuku Yalanji’ man. In such situations the need for domestic accommodation could be expected to sponsor a more benign interpretation of Kuku Buyunji to refocus on the diction or lexicon of the woman’s dialect, rather than on a remembrance of bad blood, people being very sensitive to any ‘division’ within a residence group. There are no records of whole camps self-identifying as Kuku Buyunji, and while young male affines might have borne with it I have never once heard a senior man do so.16 Further indications that ‘good’ and ‘bad’ in kuku constructions were often associated more with inter-group relations than dialect biases are implicit in the Western Yalanji use of Kuku Mini, Kuku Warra, and Kuku Buyunji (see also Alpher, this volume). On the one hand Roth (1898) at one point characterizes Guugu Yimidhirr and Kuku Yalanji use of the term Kuku Warra as ‘speech-foreign’ and ‘foreigners’, based on his 1898 experience in the Princes Bay hinterland: … we have on the continent of Europe … France, where the French tongue is spoken, this being the term collectively applied to the different dialects, Breton, Norman, Parisian, Provencal etc all more or less mutually intelligible, spoken by people living under the same constitution, customs, and laws. We English people call these French people foreign speakers or foreigners. Now exactly the same thing has taken place out in these districts under consideration. The foreignspeakers or Koko-wara (= lit. ‘speech-foreign’ or ‘-strange’) comprise numerous mobs of blacks occupying … [Princess Charlotte Bay], living under what may be called the same constitution, practicing similar habits and customs, and speaking, within certain limitations, the same language.17

However, on the other hand he noted that the Butcher’s Hill Yalanji drainage cluster was on good terms with the Maytown Yalanji to their west, visited them often, and called them Kuku Mini ‘group-good’ or ‘nation-good’ (Roth 1898:3). Conversely, Roth says, these Maytown people were ‘always …at enmity’ with the people of the Deighton River to their northwest, and accordingly called them Kuku Warra, ‘nation-bad’.

.  Nellie Woibo told me that the long deceased Norman Baird, who was among Oates’ (1993) informants, lent some measure of support to the notion that China Camp Kuku Buyunji had a dialect. However, this really only speaks to the fact that the referents of the name were always catchment groups, who as such had their own dialect, not to the root meaning of the term. .  Roth says same language ‘advisedly’, for the Princess Charlotte Bay languages are diverse, but all of a certain stock vis-à-vis Guugu Yimidhirr and Kuku Yalanji.

 Ray Wood

We might imagine this ‘foreign’ ascription to be based on the very different, ­initial-dropping Deighton language, were it not for a contradictory fact: the Maytown Yalanji themselves also used the opposite term Kuku Mini for people downstream, yet the latter, like those they called Kuku Warra ‘nation-bad’ to their north, also spoke initial-dropping languages just as genetically distant from Kuku Yalanji, but with whom they were closely allied and intermarried (Roth 1898:3, 1899:1–2; Meston 1896). Secretive mixed camps of Yalanji and initial-dropping speakers in the Hell’s Gate area in the 1880s to 1910 period, including Kuku Thaypan and Olkula from north and west, were collectively referred to as Kuku Mini (Meston 1896; Roth 1898; Earl 1899b; Trezise 1993).18 A China Camp informant gave Hale (ca. 1960) Kuku Junkay ‘talk good/group good’ for his own group in the same period that, according to Nellie Woibo (p.c. 1998), Hopevale people called these same China Camp people Kuku Buyunji. At Mossman and China Camp McConnel (1931:18, 1939–40) heard Eastern Yalanji refer to upper Palmer River Yalanji as Kuku Mini, yet at other times Eastern Yalanji referred to them as Kuku Buyunji and vice versa. Much depended on the state of relations at the time. Although Roth eventually came to associate the Kuku Mini label with the ­initial-dropping groups west of Palmerville, his records overall show that this was the ­Maytown-centered perspective, while in the Butcher’s Hill perspective Kuku Mini were the Maytown Yalanji themselves. This is preserved in the oral history of Western Yalanji living today at Hopevale, who assert that Kuku Mini was merely an alternative name for Maytown Yalanji. Although ‘Kuku Buyunji’ is oppositional to Kuku Mini, it is also oppositional to ‘Kuku Yalanji’, the people of ‘here’ (yala), whereas Kuku Buyunji are never the people of here but always of somewhere else. Further examples of this external, reciprocal projection of Kuku Buyunji include: ––

Roth heard ‘Kokoboin-ji’ (1898:2) applied to people in the head of the West Normanby drainage by Butcher’s Hill people, who Earl (1899a, 1899b) heard style themselves as Kuku Yalanji (his ‘Ko ko-Alangee’) and call others coming in from both east and west of the station, including Hell’s Gate, ‘Kuku Buyunji’ (his ‘Ko. ko.boyangee’);19

.  E.g. compare the references to Kuku Mini and Kuku Yalanji in Trezise (1993:41, 97–8, 107). This is also the opinion formed by Rigsby (2002 p.c.) on the basis of his Laura research, which produced indications that estates of Yalanji speakers and initial-dropping speakers adjoined each other along the Laura-Palmer divide north of Palmerville (see also Alpher, this volume, on initial-dropping languages to the west). .  Earl’s (1899a and 1899b) information is in two letters to R.H. Mathews, who had asked him for section information. Earl did know what sections were, but finding the names Kuku



––

––

The problem of ‘tribal names’ in eastern Australia 

Tindale (1974) locates Koko Buyunji in the upper Annan basin, predictably so given that his informant was not from there but from Daintree well to the south (Tindale 1938a: genealogy 66). His genealogies show that no greater number of individuals from the upper Annan (e.g. Annie Yeatman of Rossville) were identified to him as Kuku Buyunji than persons from Bloomfield, Butcher’s Hill, Mt Windsor, and Mossman; and Western Yalanji informants of Anderson’s (Brady et al. 1980) viewed the southern two thirds of the entire Eastern Yalanji country as Kuku Buyunji including Daintree and Mossman, and one of them, Norman Mitchell, told me the same. Davis (1993) also recorded Kuku Buyunji – apparently from Western Yalanji informants – in application to the Mossman Valley.

The paradigmatic use of ‘good’ and ‘bad’ in contexts like this is not unusual in Aboriginal Australia. It appears at the foundations of the Australian ethnographic record, when Governor Philip (in Hunter 1968: 341) led a 1791 expedition over the watershed between the Port Jackson and Hawksbury River drainages. Here, the two Sydney Aboriginal men accompanying the party pronounced the people of the Hawksbury catchment to be ‘bad men and their enemies’, and pointed to the very soil under their feet as wiri ‘bad’, and the country back towards Port Jackson as budyiri ‘good’ (Philip, idem). Collins (1975:455), another British officer at Port Jackson, independently noticed that the Sydney people simply referred to ‘their enemies’ as ‘bad’ (wiri) and ‘their friends’ as ‘good’ (budyiri).20 The Kurnai of Gippsland called their neighbours Brajerak from bra ‘man’, plus jerak ‘rage’ or ‘anger’, known as ‘cheeky’ in present day north Australian Aboriginal English and is one of the uses as noted of ‘Kuku Buyunji’ (Howitt 1904: 41). In 1848 at Cape York, Brierly (in Moore 1979: 120) compiled a list of groups and the direction of their country from Gudang people, and noticed that: After the name of each tribe, they added wati – bad, or kopi [good].

Kuku constructions were able to serve as rough ethnonyms because all external catchments had at least some dialect peculiarities compared with one’s own. However, Kuku Buyunji and Kuku Warra only pattern as ethnonyms in, at best, a labile and shifting fashion, and only in the direction from whence was some history of enmity. Moreover, the historical development of these two terms differed: the Yalanji and Kuku Buyunji pervasive and cases of mixed marriage of the two, he thought they might be the section names Mathews was seeking. .  Wiri and budyiri of course belong to the Sydney language. Tindale (1974:122) notes a related use of ‘good’ in a Western Australian context to distinguish those with the same initiation rite as opposed to those practicing a foreign one deemed ‘bad’.

 Ray Wood

records have Kuku Buyunji scattered over the Yalanji landscape like blown sand, shifting to all and any points of the compass well into the 20th century, whereas Kuku Warra came to be projected specifically northwestwards into a bloc label for much of the Princess Charlotte Bay population. It is still used like that, whereas those who still speak of Kuku Buyunji all have a different idea of which group and country it refers to. The term Kuku Mini also came to be projected in a single direction, largely westwards down the Palmer River, but even more than Kuku Buyunji it has fallen into disuse. In conclusion, shifters especially expressed a distinction between ‘us here’ and others, with the latter dividing into groups who were friends and thus Kuku Mini, and those who were ‘bad’ and thus Kuku Buyunji or Kuku Warra. Not necessarily dependent on how genetically close or distant their language, the speech of aggressors sounded ‘discordant’ (buyun) and that of friends sounded ‘nice’ (mini).

2.6  The lexical evidence in kuku names Once the logic of a group nomenclature system is understood in eastern Australia, its lexical content also needs to be considered for what it can say to the historicity of occupation. For example, areas where the kuku names discussed here were recorded have to have been Yalanji-speaking upon contact because they can only be produced by this language. For example: ––

–– ––

The presence of the component kuku distinguishes these names from those of the peoples from Port Douglas southwards which instead use gay for ‘language, speech’ in such southern names as Djabugay, Yirrgay, Buluway, and Gunggay; The comitative form -ji/-nji separates Yalanji from Guugu Yimidhirr names to their north where the equivalent form is -dhirr; and The same applies to the lexical items which follow kuku. These include the yala of Yalanji itself and the yimi of Yimidhirr, while the Djabugay form for ‘this’ is gulu. Similarly, the demonstratives of names like Kuku Yanyu, Kuku Yalunyu etc. are forms restricted to Kuku Yalanji dialects, as also are mini, buyun, and almost all other components.

3.  Sifting the early ethnography Although the early ethnographic resource for the Yalanji area is relatively rich, none is of the quality of modern Aboriginal land studies in which the distribution of interest is identified through in situ site mapping. Roth, McConnel, and Sharp account for the bulk of the 1890s-1930s data and by far the best quality in it.



The problem of ‘tribal names’ in eastern Australia 

Many of the localizations for group names were based on ‘remote mapping’, and Tindale (1974) in particular never visited any Yalanji area but based his account on elicitation from exiles at Palm Island and Yarrabah using maps.21 His (1974) location of ‘Kokokulunggur’ at least records a 1930s Mossman usage, but the same cannot be said for his presumption to re-locate the name ‘Jungkurara’ (Yungkurrwarra) to the coast over Roth’s (1898, 1910:93) in situ documentation of it in the upper Laura and Normanby rivers, and ignoring of Roth’s numerous ‘Kuku Yalanji’ records for the Bloomfield River.22 This tendency to dismiss the better work of earlier researchers puts his (1974) conclusions among the least reliable for the region. His most useful data are in his Harvard Expedition Journal, wordlists, and small notes on his genealogies (Tindale 1938a, 1938b, 1938–1963), although examination of them often reveals contradictions with his published group locations. In contrast, McConnel’s (1939–40) Eastern Yalanji data on kuku names was gained by fieldwork on horseback (Sutton ca. 2000 p.c.), although not so her account of the Western Yalanji area, which is based only on remote mapping. Early ethnographers also relied in part on settler information rather than direct observation of Aboriginal usage. For example, Roth (1901–10) includes innumerable credits to Hislop, the son of a selector near Bloomfield whose information was of mixed value, although on the whole he was a good observer able to offer Roth rich detail, was married to a Yalanji woman, and spoke the language. But it means that much of Roth’s Bloomfield information is secondary, not primary. There was an almost universal lack of enquiry into social nomenclature as systems. The striking exception is Roth, although directed to extracting generalizations applicable to the whole of Queensland. While this state-wide modeling is part of its value, nonetheless the possibility that a name or a generic term might be applied at several levels of local organization or was a complete shifter is nowhere understood in the 1890s to 1930s ethnography.

4.  Some post-contact transformations A society’s idiom is informative of its social experience. Where group nomenclature exhibits so much sliding polysemy and abundance of shifters, and no generic terms

.  These were maps of poorer quality than we have today, and even in the 1990s no senior Yalanji people could read scale on topographical sheets. .  Roth visited the area and ascertained the Yungkurr stem of the name to be an estate near Butcher’s Hill. McConnel (1939–40), who rode up to the nearby Roaring Meg Falls, locates what appears as a contracted version of this name (‘Yungara’) in the upper Normanby.

 Ray Wood

with a fixed meaning of ‘clan’ or ‘drainage cluster’, this should alert us to something prone to shifts of scale in social consciousness. That, I suggest, is discursive practice allowing mobility up and down a continuum between relatively inclusive groupings at the top (pan-Yalanji ethno-linguistic commonality) and the more exclusive patriclan estate level at the bottom, with the drainage cluster and intermarriage alliances between neighbors lying in between. Sutton (2003: Chapters 4 and 5) has shown that many degrees of exclusivity and inclusivity feature in even the remotest Aboriginal communities still oriented to classical social organization. Although Eastern Yalanji local organization remains significantly oriented to classical forms, greater inclusivity has developed at the bottom, away from patriclan emphasis in favor of drainage cluster solidarity. This was sponsored by demographic decline after 1880, shrinking clan populations and, reflecting this, kuku names rose in prominence over -warra names. Anderson (1994:12), noting the increasing appearance of larger groupings with kuku labels in the ethnographic records as the 20th century progressed, suggests that this reflects clan ‘amalgamation’. Certainly something like this between clans of the same patrimoiety, and also between southern and northern clans of the maritime cluster Kuku Jalunji, is implicated in older people’s recollections of the 1930s. Some clans of the same patrimoiety formed a pair in a linkage that allowed them greater access to the resources and totemic sites of one another’s estates.23 This encouraged the popular ascription of ‘brothers’ to some now deceased Jalunji majamaja (politically eminent men) who were unlikely to have been brothers in fact. It also provides a basis under demographic pressures for what looks like conjoint succession by two clans to a neighbouring deceased estate in two cases I know of. Finally also, the slow structural change of patriclans into cognatic descent groups further sponsors emphasis on the long intra-married drainage cluster. Thus today these clusters appear as ‘super estates’, with the component clanscum-cognatic descent groups emphasizing their solidarity, that they are ‘all together’, share ‘one bubu’, ‘one bana’, and ‘one story’ (‘one country’, ‘one water/drainage’, and ‘one mythology/site complex’ respectively). This is less a case of amalgamation than one in which sudden demographic weakness made the drainage level a more viable carrier of land interest than clans, and clan estates a less necessary unit.24 But as pointed out

.  See Chase & Sutton (1981:1830) on the Sandbeach region of Cape York where “the complete coastal strip…consists of alternating moiety areas”, and there is moiety mateship between clans, i.e. between clans headed by ‘brothers’ – Sutton (1993:30). The same appears to have been the case in the Yalanji area in both riverine and coastal estate chains. .  For a comparable Cape York case see that of the Yiidhuwarra in Sutton (1993, this volume).



The problem of ‘tribal names’ in eastern Australia 

by Anderson (1994), a major source of the drainage cluster’s affiliation to its collective country is the members’ individual historic clan membership. Over the same period in the Eastern Yalanji case closure increased at the top – at the pan-Eastern Yalanji level – due to diminished interaction during the 20th century with neighboring language groups as the latter moved or were moved away from the edges of the Yalanji area to Hopevale, Mareeba, and Monamona. This left the Eastern Yalanji rather isolated in their valleys and on the rain-drenched Tribulation coast. There is evidence that they were relatively insular, sedentary, and parochial people even in pre-colonial times, related to the ruggedness, dense vegetation, high rainfall, and high resource densities of their country. But by the 1930s isolation made of them a relatively more closed pool of cultural reproduction than any eastern Australian population could ever have been in pre-contact times. As a result, pan-Yalanji consolidation and self-consciousness were heightened. Meston’s (1896:9) information that inter-group solidarity between Yalanji sub-groups formerly belligerent to one another was well developed even by the turn of the century informs us of how early this began. East of the Dividing Range, the ‘Kuku Yalanji’ name gradually became more inclusive, initially for the drainage groups of the upper Bloomfield and upper Daintree in contrast to the Kuku Jalunji of the coast and the Kuku-Nyungkul of the upper Annan (cf. Hershberger & Hershberger 1986: 90). Evidence of some aging of the name as an autonym west of the Dividing Range is the shift of stress from the syllable ya- of ‘Yalanji’, as still present in Eastern production, to the following syllable -lan-. Its acceptability is related to its homely meaning as ‘the language of here, of this place’, and the universality of the near demonstrative yala in all Yalanji dialects. The subjective referent-shifting of other kuku names is part of why most of them gradually fell out of use, especially as co-existence of different catchment communities on missions provided a motive for looking the other way from their differences. Evidence for this is found in the fact that, although the drainage clusters still underlay much of the internal life of these communities and reciprocal recognition of them is essential to land use decisions that will stick, raising them in the wrong public context can be felt as causing ‘division’, something community feelers are sensitive to. Sutton (1998) has characterized the emergence of unified macro-language groups like the Kuku Yalanji as a transformation into a ‘new tribe’, certainly correctly so in my view. However, it can also be seen from the above data that it had a fetal presence in the pre-contact culture in the identification of drainage polities and their dialects by incipient kuku ethnonyms, and the expandable horizons of these ethnonyms that hardened in the 20th century. Strengthening of pan-Eastern Yalanji identity is also reflected in shifts in the use of the term bama ngarrbal ‘strangers, outsiders’, which also implies ‘trespassers’ in certain contexts. Elderly people tell me that other Yalanji who were merely outside one’s

 Ray Wood

own drainage cluster were once referred to as ngarrbal, but to use it that way today is offensive and volatile. It now sets off Yalanji bama from geographically or socially distant others, from non-Yalanji, and even then many Guugu Yimidhirr and some Djabugay individuals are not classed as ngarrbal on the actual occasion of interacting with them, for ngarrbal is an open-ended term too. Part of this potentiality for shift of scale, however, is that things are also capable of slipping the other way: the clan estate emphasis is now re-emergent in the new outstation communities because the sociopolitical imperatives for them – demographic recovery and the need to accommodate the autonomy of the individual – have reemerged. Such regroupings are possible because the template for the estate system continues in the wide persistence of site information about former estates, details of the estate origins of each descent group, many of the clan names, and the expandable and contractible character of group formation. Ethnic names come, go, expand, and contract as elsewhere in the world, especially in times of flux and re-consolidation. Regardless of how boldly a map has, for example, Kuku Buyunji printed across the upper Annan River basin (Tindale 1974) or the Mossman Valley (Davis 1993), divergence between them and contemporary Aboriginal accounts does not indicate that the ‘right tribe’ for the area has ‘died out’ or been displaced. Group names can yield information, but expectations that those of anywhere in eastern Australia can be taken at face value or made to speak in a direct and simple way to the determination of native title-holders are not well-founded.

References Anderson, Chris. 1983. Aborigines and tin mining in North Queensland. Mankind 13: 473–498. Anderson, Chris. 1984. The Political and Economic Basis of Kuku-Yalanji Social History. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Queensland. Anderson, Chris. 1994. Wunbuwarra – Banana Creek Land Claim. Adelaide: Christopher Anderson & the Kuku-Nyungkul Group, South Australian Museum. Brady, Don, Chris Anderson & Bruce Rigsby. 1980. ‘Some of us are still alive’: The Palmer River revisited. Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies Newsletter. New Series 13: 30–5. Chase, Athol & Peter Sutton. 1981. Hunter-gatherers in a rich environment: Aboriginal coastal exploitation in Cape York Peninsula. In Allen Keast, ed. Ecological Biogeography of Australia. The Hague: W. Junk. 1819–1852. Collins, David. 1975 (1798). An Account of the English Colony of New South Wales. Sydney: AW & AH Reed. Davis, Stephen. 1993. Australia’s Extant and Imputed Traditional Aboriginal Territories. Published by Stephen L Davis, Resource Managers Pty Ltd and the Australian Mining Industry Council.



The problem of ‘tribal names’ in eastern Australia 

Dixon, R.M.W. 1976. Tribes, languages and other boundaries in northeast Queensland. In Nicolas Peterson, ed. Tribes and Boundaries in Australia. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 207–238. Earl James. 1899a. Letter written at Butchers Hill station to R H Mathews at Parramatta, Aug 14, 1899. National Library: R. H. Mathews Collection. Earl James. 1899b. Letter written at Butchers Hill station to R H Mathews at Parramatta, Nov 10, 1899. National Library: R. H. Mathews Collection. Hale, Ken. c.1960. Other Paman languages. AIATSIS: PMS 741. Hershberger, Henry & Ruth Hershberger. 1986. Kuku-Yalanji Dictionary. Darwin: Summer Institute of Linguistics. Hodgkinson, W.O. 1886. Report re visit of inspection to Bloomfield River Mission Station, also re habits of the Aborigines. Report to Under Colonial Secretary Brisbane 25/10/1886, No 858 Col/A 481 Queensland State Archives. Howitt, Alfred. 2001 [1904]. The Native Tribes of South-East Australia. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Hunter, John. 1968 [1793]. An Historical Journal of Events at Sydney and at Sea 1787–1792,with Further Acoounts by Governor Authur Philip, Leutenant P G. King, and Leutenant H L Ball. Sydney: Angus and Robertson. Jakobson, Roman. 1957. Shifters, Verbal Categories and the Russian Verb. Cambridge, Mass: Russian Language Project, Harvard University. McConnel, Ursula. 1931. A Moon Legend from the Bloomfield River. Oceania 2: 9–25. McConnel, Ursula. 1939–40. Social organization of tribes of Cape York Peninsula. Oceania 10: 54–72, 434–455. Meston, Archibald. 1896. Report on the Aboriginals of Queensland. Report to the Hon. Horace Tozer, Home Secretary. Brisbane: Government Printer. Meston, Archibald.1904. Report on the Expedition to the Bellenden Ker Range. Qld Votes and Proceedings. Oates, Lynette. 1993. Kuku-Yalanji Dictionary. Albury: Graeme van Brummelen. Parry-Okeden, William. 1898. Report on the North Queensland Aborigines and the Native Police. Votes & Proceedings 2: 23–42. Patz, Elizabeth. 1982. A Grammar of the Kuku-Yalanji Language of North Queensland. Ph.D. Dissertation, Australian National University. Richards, Francis. 1926. Customs and language of the Western Hodgkinson Aboriginals. Memoirs of the Queensland Museum 8: 249–265. Rigsby, Bruce. 2005. Donald Thomson, the languages of Eastern Cape York Peninsula and linguistic anthropology. In Bruce Rigsby & Nicolas Peterson, eds. Donald Thomson. The Man and Scholar. Canberra: Academy of Social Sciences. 129–142. Roth, Walter Edmund. 1901–10. North Queensland Ethnography, Bulletins 1–18. Brisbane: The Home Secretary’s Department. Roth, Walter Edmund. 1898. Report to Commissioner of Police, Brisbane, on visit to Butchers Hill and Boggy Creek Reserve, June 6, 1898. QSA Col/142. Roth, Walter Edmund. 1899. An Account of the Koko-Minni Aboriginals occupying the country drained by the (middle) Palmer River. Report to Commissioner of Police. Roth, Walter Edmund. 1910. Social and individual nomenclature. Bulletin No. 18 in North Queensland Aborigines. Sharp, Lauriston. 1935. Field notes in the possession of Professor Bruce Rigsby, Brisbane.

 Ray Wood Sharp, Lauriston. 1939. Tribes and totemism in north-east Australia. Oceania 9: 254–75, 439–61. Sutton, Peter. 1970. Language notes. Sutton, Peter. 1993. The Flinders Islands and Melville National Park Land Claim. Cairns: Cape York Land Council. Sutton, Peter. 1998. Native Title and the Descent of Rights. Perth: National Native Title Tribunal. Sutton, Peter. 2003. Native Title in Australia: An Ethnographic Perspective. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Tindale, Norman. 1938a. Journal of the Harvard-Adelaide University Expedition. Adelaide: South Australian Museum. Tindale, Norman. 1938b. Genealogical sheets compiled at Palm Island, Woorabinda and Cherbourg. Adelaide: South Australian Museum. Tindale, Norman. 1938–1963. Australian Vocabularies. Adelaide: South Australian Museum. Tindale, Norman. 1974. Aboriginal Tribes of Australia. Canberra: Australian University Press. Trezise, Percy. 1993. Dream Road: A Journey of Discovery. St Leonards: Allen & Unwin. Wood, Ray. 1996. The Contemporary Land Holding System of the Eastern Kuku Yalanji. Cairns: Cape York Land Council. Wood, Ray. 2002. Aboriginal Customary Tenure History of the Yule Point-Port Douglas Area. Cairns: Report to Cape York land Council.

Going forward holding back Modern bicultural living David Thompson

University of Queensland There is a certain tension in Aboriginal affairs in northern Australia, as Aboriginal people are attracted to the material aspects of modernisation while at the same time resisting deeper levels of social and cultural transformation. People of remote Aboriginal towns today are far more mobile than were their grandparents’ generation, acquiring four wheel drive vehicles or using other means of transport to greatly extend their range of travel into remote homelands and into regional cities. This mobility, together with the impact of modernisation through government policy and wider social interactions, has led to a varied range of potential and actual life styles, from attempts to live on the land in remote homeland locations, to mixed sedentary/hunter-gatherer living in remote Aboriginal towns, to migration to life in the city. From an analysis of these three settings based on the Aboriginal town of Lockhart River, Cape York Peninsula, it is evident firstly that modern technologies are appreciated for their utility in ‘making life easy’ and interesting. It is also evident, however, that the compelling solidarities of kin ties and obligations bind people in a diasporic community that has priority over the compelling forces of cultural change through Western systems of governance, commercialism, individuality and competition. A variety of emerging bicultural lifestyles is evident.

1.  Introduction1 A regrettable perspective that comes from my 45 years of involvement with Cape York Peninsula Aboriginal people is that repeated efforts by governments to solve quickly the apparent disadvantage and poor living conditions of Aboriginal people do not have the desired effects. Pouring money into the worthy objectives of better governance, .  For locations mentioned in the text, see the two general maps at the front of the volume.

doi 10.1075/clu.18.17tho © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

 David Thompson

housing, education, employment and health services is a good thing to do. However, if the outcomes are not the often hoped-for goals of a happy and united community, upwardly mobile through higher education and personal savings to improved living and health standards, then there must be some hidden issues that need addressing. In my view, the basic issue revolves around the contrary cultural expectations of policymakers and the Aboriginal people involved. A difficulty facing minority peoples in a Western country is that the majority population, through little or no exposure to them on a personal level, automatically view them through the lens of their own cultural values and expectations. This in turn influences government policies and actions in the same predictable ways. This was most glaringly seen in the assimilationist policies of earlier periods in Australia, by which it was conceived that Indigenous peoples could simply switch from their particular way of living to the supposedly superior mainstream way presented to them (McGregor 2011). In the 1970s, I saw successive managers at the remote township of Lockhart River, on the east coast of Cape York Peninsula (see map in Figure 1 below), apply business management or authoritarian-style community development approaches to the transformation of the Aboriginal people, but then get quickly frustrated by an apparent Aboriginal intransigence. Despite the extensive anthropological literature available, the secular ‘rational’ approach of administrators ignored the social, cultural and spiritual values that underlie Aboriginal life and are not amenable to rapid social change on these matters. In practice, the Queensland State Department of Aboriginal and Islander Affairs was hostile to anthropological research in the 1970s (Sutton 2008). In the earlier period of the Lockhart River Mission (1924–1967), missionaries attempted cultural transformation through a replacement method of switching from the old to the new in the areas of both social and religious values and practices. Due to the very lean funding from both church and government limiting change, the Mission impact was softened to the Aboriginal preferred way of selectively adding new ways to old ways in a syncretic or synergistic way (see Sections 2.2–2.3 below). This latter pattern of change has persisted as governments shifted their approach from assimilation to policies of integration, self-management, self-determination and partnership. Through my research with the Aboriginal people of Lockhart River, I have found a typical pattern of adjustment to be the ready adoption of modern conveniences along with a persistence of underlying cultural values and habits, even when individuals and families migrate to city living. There is a greater sense of freedom among these people in choosing a lifestyle today, particularly through their greater mobility, but the persistence of underlying cultural practices helps to produce varying lifestyles that are distinctively Aboriginal ways of being modern.



Going forward holding back 

Pascoe River

Portland Roads

Torres Strait

LLOYD BAY

Bamaga

Lockhart River (New Site)

Airport

Orchid Point Cape Direction

0

Piper Is Weipa Napranum

10

Lockhart River

Lockhart River (Old Mission Site)

LOCKHART RIVER Old Mission Site Night Island

Archer River Roadhouse

Gulf of Carpentaria

Coen

Port Stewart

Coral Sea

Princess Charlotte Bay

Musgrave

Pormpuraaw Kowanyama

Hope Vale Cooktown

Laura Lakeland

Cape York Peninsula

Wujalwujal

Darwin

CAIRNS AUSTRALIA Brisbane

Perth Sydney Canberra

Adelaide

0 kilometres

100

Melbourne

0

100

200

300

kilometres

Hobart

Figure 1.  Map of Cape York Peninsula

In Section 2 below, I provide an overview of the significant periods of cultural change experienced by the Aboriginal people of the Lockhart River region of the east coast of Cape York Peninsula. This includes outside contact in the pre-Mission period, the Mission period (1924–1967) and the subsequent periods of state and local government administration. I then present an ethnographic profile of contemporary change, using case studies to illustrate a variety of lifestyle choices based at the remote town of Lockhart River (Section 3) and the experience of those who migrate to life in the

 David Thompson

regional city of Cairns (Section 4). Section 5 illustrates the development of bicultural skills that occurs through the experience of mainstream education and living of two younger men. Their reflections reveal that the emerging modern Aboriginal way of life does not embody the assimilationist or integrationist ideals of mainstream expectations but instead a bicultural way of life that exists with the tensions between two worlds. This perspective has significant implications for policy makers.

2.  Engaging with cultural change 2.1  Pre-Mission period Aboriginal experiences of alien intrusions have a long history in the Lockhart River region and can be divided into distinct historical periods, going back to the lugger days of marine exploitation by Malay and Asian peoples and also to European intrusions by land and sea. These experiences brought a variety of cultural influences, notably communication via a contact language that eventually developed into a distinctive, viable creole language that is the first language of the Lockhart River people today – Lockhart River Creole (see also Crowley & Rigsby 1979, as well as the papers by Harper and Mushin et al. in this volume). Among those who exploited their labour and their women, the Japanese lugger captains in the 1890s left a favourable memory with the old men of the 1970s who had worked with them and also remembered their names (Chase 1981: 11). The pre-Mission experience of Europeans culminated in the informal camp developed near the present Lockhart River township by a sandalwood gatherer, Hugh Giblett, known as the ‘Sandalwood King’. He protected local Aboriginal people as a ‘boss’ (see Anderson 1984: 3) from abuses, trusted them with control of his vessels and supplied them generously with food, clothing and liquor (Idriess 1959: 27–29; Chase 1980: 108–112; Howard 1911: 5–6).

2.2  The Second Period: The Mission establishment The Anglican Church Mission commenced in 1924 (Done 1987: 63–74) as a new protective ‘boss’ following the death of Giblett, although the first superintendent, Harry Rowan, took a harsh approach to his role. As already noted, the Mission aimed to replace social and cultural values and practices with Western ones, but was hindered by the limited funds and resources provided by both church and government. Melanesian cultural influences from the north from previous times were renewed by the employment of Torres Strait Islanders in the Mission and the popularity of their style of song and dance (thaypu) during the Mission period (Bleakley 1922; ABM 1924; Bayton 1965: 154–55). These song and dance forms were accompanied by native drums, which had long been common to Aboriginal people of the Lockhart River region and Torres



Going forward holding back 

Strait Islanders. The Mission experience included partial dependence on hunting and gathering blended with dependence on store foods, Mission routines and disciplines, along with customary family interdependences and obligations.

2.3  “Government” time A third period of cultural change began with the handover of the Mission to the control of the Queensland Government in 1967. The government first implemented a planned move of the people to a more accessible site 80km to the north close to the wartime built Iron Range airstrip (see the map in Figure 1 above; Killoran 1967; ABM 1967; Bjelke-Petersen 1967). This took place in 1968–9 while new Government staff and builders were establishing the settlement. I arrived there early in 1969 and stayed for eight years as Chaplain. The rapid social change and accompanying assimilation pressures were an unsettling time for the Aboriginal people. One man said, ‘Church is not boss any more’, conveying a sense of a different authority and freedoms in the new context, but at the same time, the Aboriginal people resisted assimilation pressures on social life. They were particularly unhappy with the discriminatory ban on alcohol in the township for them, while European staff and builders were free to consume it. These tensions led to a renewal of initiation ceremonies (after work hours) on the one hand, but also the importing of alcohol by sea and air on the other hand, until a beer canteen was set up with restrictive conditions in 1973 and operated by the local Council (Thompson 2013: 37–38). This resulted in several decades of excessive consumption, health and social deterioration, and early deaths, particularly of male leaders. The Queensland Government introduced a non-discriminatory Alcohol Management Plan to the town in 20032 to prevent anyone bringing in or brewing alcohol in the town region.

2.4  Changes in the later government period Initiation ceremonies were held in 1971–2, 1981 and 1997, and this resurgence of traditional activities together with the land rights era from 1995 onward, strengthened the underlying customary relationships and obligations that survived despite the new pressures, including active attempts by public servants to discourage the ceremonies from taking place. Subsequent government policy changes moved local governance from subservience to white managers in the 1970s, to advisors to an elected Aboriginal Council in the 1980s, and to an elected Mayor and Shire Council

.  http://www.communities.qld.gov.au/resources/atsis/government/programs-initiatives/ partnerships/quarterly-reports/jul-sep-2010/lockhart-river-quarterly-report-jul-sep-20100. pdf

 David Thompson

with support CEO and staff in the 2000s. The advent of welfare pension benefits, parenting benefit and baby bonus for young mothers meant greater dependence on welfare, a greater independence for young women and an increased involvement of women in leadership roles. Material conditions also improved during these decades, with gradual acquisition of home appliances, dinghies, outboard motors and 4WD vehicles, radio, video, television and later mobile phones and tablets. Road conditions and air services have improved in Cape York Peninsula, allowing an increased mobility by Aboriginal people, including a significant movement of people to and from the small regional city of Cairns (population approx. 160,000). Today over 100 Lockhart River adults plus their children live in Cairns. They often host visits of family members from Lockhart River, while 700 people continue to live at the remote township.3 In my research of cultural change and forms of modern Aboriginal living that occur across the network of Aboriginal families from bush to city, I considered the following issues: –– –– ––

––

The loss, generalising or renewal of cultural traditions The maintenance or weakening of home-based kinship ties The place of modern technologies such as vehicles and mobile phones in promoting modernisation and/or supporting cultural ties and knowledge over a greater distance The characteristics of modern Aboriginal life.

The remainder of this paper analyses these issues in a number of different contexts, specifically examples of living based at Lockhart River, with some individuals attempting to establish a remote outstation and others ranging out from the town periodically but returning home (Section 3), and examples of individuals who have migrated to Cairns, the pressures they face and a variety of typical outcomes (Section 4).

3.  Remote living choices 3.1  A mobile lifestyle A widow in her 60s has a son living in Cairns, two daughters at another Cape York Aboriginal town and a granddaughter undertaking university study. She lives at ­Lockhart River along with another daughter, son and various grandchildren. She says:

.  http://www.lockhart.qld.gov.au/history



Going forward holding back 

“You got a lot of choices now.”4 The mother and a daughter on the west coast both acknowledge the convenience of the mobile phone to bridge the distance with frequent communication between them. Oh, Mum usually rings me once or twice a week. Like, to get to find out if Nana and everybody else is OK. Yeah so Mum – Sometimes sister ring me, [ – ]. Good for yarn. Sometimes when I get the chance too on weekends, dry time, dry weather, it’s cruise, go home for weekend. But it’s so short. That’s why this Christmas I try go for more than a week or more than just a weekend.5

Her mother, the widow, relates that there are more jobs in the community, most people have vehicles, and this mobility gives them the freedom to go out on traditional land camping and fishing but also to go out further afield to experience life in other towns and the city of Cairns. Some in fact migrate to Cairns and do not want to go back to Lockhart River, whether to have greater access to alcohol or to experience the perceived freedom of life in the city. The larger number of Lockhart people remain based at the remote town but periodically commute to visit family elsewhere, or go to the city for medical attention, meetings, shopping or a holiday.

3.2  Remote town and outstation living A few people have attempted to establish local versions of outstations in the Lockhart region (see Smith 2004 for a detailed view of outstations in central Cape York Peninsula). These are essentially weekend family camps within reasonable access from the town community, a compromise to accommodate regular employment and schooling in the town. Only one man and his uncle have the commitment to establish a more permanent outstation camp about 100km south of the town through rugged terrain. Even so, this is not simply a retreat to the old way of life but to a modern form grounded in a homeland and utilising modern technologies. The young man’s vision is to establish a permanent homeland outstation and to develop employment in land and sea management and tourism. The camp consists of a basic shed near the beach and includes a generator, freezer, shower, septic toilet and DVD player. A grader has to clear the road for access in the dry season each year. The young man sees the education of his children to be essential for their future. This currently has the effect of confining travel there to weekends and holidays. They’re the future so they got to have a good grasp of what’s going on and what’s expected to go on. If you can bring up the both side, keep the culture strong as well as educate the modern technology, that’s good.

.  Interview 21 July 2009. Interviewees are left anonymous in this paper. .  Interview 21 December 2010.

 David Thompson

He sees three elements necessary to the future of the Lockhart River community: improving the facilities and conditions of life in the town, renewing traditional country and traditions, and education in Western knowledge. So balancing all them three and making the most of it, yeah, is the way I suppose to go in the future.6

A middle-age woman expressed the common sentiment of many who live at Lockhart River.7 I’ve been travel for like studies and things but no, I’ll never leave Lockhart River. It will always be my home. And if I do go away, maybe only for a short time, maybe just holiday and thing, but I always come back to Lockhart.8

A young mother goes to Cairns periodically for shopping and to visit family, but feels that there is more scope to do things back at home. You can go everywhere Lockhart, camping, get bush food, eh. Go round here fishing and that. Kids go camping all the time. … We can always go out take them kid for camping. He got all fruit there too, all wongai [type of bush fruit] ripe too. … We got some last week. Kids … all walk in the bush for bush tucker. Like ilnti [type of bush fruit] grow, them thing growing in the bush there.9

Such comments point to a common theme – home is not just about a household building, it is about Lockhart River the Place that represents belonging to an extended family, land and language identity, the environment and its resources as well as the wider local community. There are also finer levels of identity related to homelands and traditional languages that operate at Lockhart River the Place. While these elements of identity endure in the city or diaspora, the general Lockhart River identity referent becomes more prominent. Mobility is not incongruous with home but part of it. For other work on Australian Aboriginal mobility see, for instance, Peterson (2004), Young and Doohan (1989), Taylor and Bell (2004), Memmott, Long and Thomson (2006) and Prout 2008.

.  Interview 11 August 2010. .  An orthography for Lockhart River Creole and related forms of Aboriginal English has not yet been established. Quotations in this paper use a modified English spelling for easy recognition. .  Interview 11 August 2010. .  Interview 10 August 2010.



Going forward holding back 

3.3  Sharing Customary or demand sharing practices (Peterson 1993, 2005; Altman 2011) still occur among Lockhart River people, but a narrowing of the range of people supported on a day-to-day basis is evident. Communal feasting is organised for special occasions. A middle-age woman states: Them people close families they, yeah, sharing in what anything, everything. Yeah. Sharing from close family or next door neighbour. Like, they always talk about Old [Mission] Site when – when they get dugong and turtle like that. Everybody have a share of, you know, good sharing thing. Them old people always talk about. But there’s – come down a bit. It’s only certain family now. Not like the whole community. Only that when it comes to feasting day, like St James Day [local holiday] or NAIDOC [NAIDOC week celebrations, to celebrate Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people]. Everybody get together.10

Another woman attributes this trend to the acquisition of motor vehicles that allow smaller family groups to be more mobile and independent in hunting and gathering.11 I have observed, among younger adults especially, the pattern of resisting demands from more distant kin but being involved in constant sharing with closer family members. This pattern occurs both at Lockhart River and among the diaspora in the city of Cairns but it creates a significant tension point in the city for those aspiring to greater independence, as I will relate in case studies in Section 4 below.

3.4  Language and kin solidarities An enigma of language use at Lockhart River is that the strong home use of Lockhart River Creole is often hidden to outside view (for instance, it is not officially recognised at the local primary school that the children learn Standard English as a second language) or not regarded as a ‘proper’ language. Creole speakers will usually automatically switch to a lighter Creole or a form of Aboriginal English in the presence of Euro-Australians. It takes a closer relationship for them to gain insight into the place of the local form of Creole as the Aboriginal people’s first language. This situation flows through the wider diaspora as well. In Cairns, I hear Lockhart River Creole as the normal language used in their homes and among their countrymen. This language is intimately embedded with their identity as Lockhart River people through the close kin solidarities that are illustrated in the case studies.

.  Interview 11 August 2010. .  Interview 21 December 2010.

 David Thompson

3.5  Alcohol management The Queensland Government introduced a significant cultural change with the implementation of the Alcohol Management (AMP) Plan on 3 October 2003. The Plan prevents the local Shire Council from operating a beer canteen, bans individuals from bringing in or brewing alcohol in the town and applies to all residents and visitors, white and black. In earlier years police were active in enforcing it through road blocks and plane luggage searches. Aboriginal responses have been fourfold. There has been an exodus of committed drinkers to life in Cairns, whether on the fringes or in public housing. Others take the opportunity, when the road is open, to drive out two hours to the Archer River Roadhouse to purchase alcohol, especially on weekends. A couple of deaths have occurred along the road in recent years. People attempting to bring alcohol back to Lockhart River are sometimes caught by police if they have not successfully hidden their cargo along the way. A decline in police resources, however, and a more tolerant attitude, mean that more alcohol gets into the community to be drunk quietly or with occasional disturbance. A third response has been a significant increase in the smoking of marijuana at Lockhart River. The fourth response by many families, particularly by women, is relief that there are fewer disturbances and that families are able to do things together again. Several young men told me in 2010 that the AMP was unjust and that the better way is through education and tighter controls, but in 2012–3 they indicated that it should continue due to the more stable community life and the outlets that exist to balance some access to alcohol. One leader now regards the AMP as a ‘sleeping dog that is best left to lie’.12 But some tensions still remain as a younger woman relates. Yeah, it’s better without the canteen because all the parents get involved now like with community events and stuff. Before they used to be like down there [at the canteen]. Now parents seems to come along to any stuff [events] because they used to be down there. So it’s good. … Yeah, better family life, yeah. True. No arguments, no fighting. But so and so go to Archer [River Roadhouse]. They got big fight. Family, one mob fighting. When they come back here, settle down like nothing bin happen. True, one day Archer. Oh, when that grog get to them, they different person now. Yeah. They show really bad side of them. When you know they are really good person but soon as grog gets to them, they different person. And it hurts family too, eh, to see them like this, you know, acting silly, stuff like that.13

.  Personal conversation, 26 May 2012. .  Interview 10 August 2010.



Going forward holding back 

4.  Life in the city Lockhart people have various motives to migrate to the city of Cairns. These include expectations of greater personal freedom, a distancing from the pressures of demand sharing, health requirements, the attractions of the commercial world, and employment and business opportunities. However, they soon find that city life is not so easy. Rental accommodation is expensive and hard to access without good references. Firsttime renters are at a particular disadvantage. One young couple I assisted eventually had to return to Lockhart River after repeated rejections of their applications to rent a unit. There is a long waiting list for the more affordable public housing. Food is cheaper, but it is more expensive to get around without transport. These tighter circumstances impel the forces of demand sharing at the same time as they are being resisted to gain greater independence. Some balance in sharing occurs among people in similar circumstances such as those in public housing enclaves and on welfare benefits. Pressure to take in and accommodate visitors, however, is ongoing and in some cases leads to the householder being evicted and unable to obtain other rental accommodation. They then impose on others, join the fringe dwellers, depend on a Night Shelter or expensive emergency accommodation, or return home to Lockhart River. If they wait around long enough, they may gain public housing. One young man I visited was camping out with the fringe dwellers in the hope of getting a higher preference on the waiting list.

4.1  Art enterprise The Lockhart River ‘Art Gang’ (Butler 2007) emerged out of some school activities to become a group of emerging artists working out of a flourishing Art Centre in 1997. Several young female artists who did exceptionally well migrated to Cairns to set up their own businesses with local mentors. Their experience in the city had multiple difficulties. There were the practical difficulties of finding and keeping suitable accommodation and studio facilities. Then there were their personal difficulties in managing work and child raising, the temptations of easy access to alcohol, handling money and coping with family visitors and demand sharing. One young woman artist with three children had the benefit of the support of former Art Centre Managers. They helped her get established in a rented house with a garage for a studio, distant from the city centre. In regard to handling money, she was happy for her mentors to set up a trust account for her income and give her a regular allowance from it. Well if the money be come straight for me, I no good too with money. People around me ask. So I speak for him, ‘You keepi them money’. When them painting

 David Thompson

I sellim, he go for him. Im got a special account there, puttim inside for me. And he just, every week, pay my rent and money for me.14

Major pressures that she faced came from Lockhart people asking for money – ‘Hey, you rich woman!’ – and from peers to consume alcohol at social events and parties. This led to a crisis in 2007, when she came before the court on two drink-driving charges. A suspension from driving for two years and the support of an addiction agency led her to better focus on her family and art business and to say ‘No’ to sharing demands and to abstain from alcohol herself. When I’m down here I’m trying to keep out of trouble. I try not to hang with them gang too much. And like I gave up a bit of drinking. Not like before, I used to drink like every couple of days. But now I hardly drink, probably once in a blue moon now. … Yeah, trying to keep out of trouble with the police. … Get my life back on track.15

She learnt that she had to be firm with drifters in town and a drunken visitor to her house for fear of eviction. In other words, she faced a dual discipline: selfdiscipline in personal behaviour and discipline of others who would exploit her greater affluence and home. Sadly, these disciplines became hard to maintain in later years and relapses led to loss of the house and two children who returned to the care of relatives at Lockhart River. She now continues painting in association with a fellow artist. This fellow artist had the good fortune to be able to purchase a house for her family and she uses the double garage for a studio. She and her partner faced the same pressures of easy alcohol access and family members who came to stay with them, even though they were in a distant suburb. Her partner became frustrated with her softness in not being able to refuse them and finally he separated from her. She has since learnt to adopt the dual disciplines that her fellow artist faced and she continues her art business with the help of a manager. That first time we be come, we bin no savvy he have-i all this one where all Cairns – bottle shop. Everyday he open, every night. When we first come we bin straightaway go hard [drink heavily]. But now we realise, no we got to stop here all our lives so we got to take it steady. I never bin drink for a while now, after that split up early in the year. I slow down a little bit now. I look after them kids and sendim all to school. But when all family come, that’s the part where we gotta tell them, ‘Drink enough, save something for next day. You don’t have to drink every one, one hit.’ Everyone only drink one day. Getim morning time. I tellim,

.  Interview 24 July 2009. .  Interview 24 July 2009.



Going forward holding back 

‘Got all neighbours next door too. Yupla got to stop here for only short while. You gotta go back, I gotta stop here down and you go makeim bad for me for them neighbours.’ ….16

Her partner with greater intercultural capacity reflected on their experience. The lifestyle between Lockhart and Cairns is totally different, you know. While back in Lockhart it’s more relaxed type lifestyle, lot of family around and lot of, I guess, sharing culture-wise, food and vehicle and all that, assets. Coming to Cairns is sort of like a man on your own type of thing, you know. I think that’s where people finding very difficult trying to relocate to Cairns whether now in short period of time being in Cairns, whether it is job-related or whether for health-related or so on. I think that trying to adapt to the change and demand – you really need money to survive in this world compared to back at Lockhart where it’s more of a comfort zone. …. What I find working with Lockhart that sharing culture, I guess, is still very strong. Whether it’s even the shared assets like your boats, cars and that. It’s always there, that family mentality of that family-orientated decision-making … like, it’s very powerful. But if you look at the other, the modern world, the white man world, then what’s yours is yours. It doesn’t belong to anyone else. Whether it’s your brother or sister. And if your aunty – in our culture it’s the opposite, which comes [becomes] a burden sometimes too.17

Homesickness is a factor that such families experience also, and holiday trips back home are opportunities to renew family ties and for children to experience the bush lifestyle. For the artists, home trips enable them to keep in touch with their environment and stories, and to reflect them in their paintings. The city dwellers are also mobile, but in reverse direction to the bush town dwellers.

4.2  Battling on in the city Indigenous housing in Cairns is located to a large extent in Indigenous enclaves but also in public housing scattered through the suburbs. One man, the son of the widow mentioned above, lives with his partner and two young children in the suburb of Earlville. They moved to Cairns partly for his partner’s health condition and also for better educational opportunities for the children. He has had some employment but depends mainly on welfare support. His mother, siblings and other close family members sometimes come for visits but he has had difficulties with those who would exploit his hospitality.

.  Interview 3 August 2010. .  Interview 12 May 2010.

 David Thompson

I got family come visit me, they want to drink here, drink there. Sort of like you got to be careful living in city life – what you do, it’s going to be very hard if you get kicked out in Cairns. I’ll be just like that people down in Chinaman Creek, sleeping under the stars. That’s the difference, that’s the changes with these people under the stars and me have got the roof. I even got my cousin-brother and my cousin-sister [children of one’s father’s brother or mother’s sister] living in [the] park under the stars. They too afraid to come and ask me. I lend them year before but they keep making too much noise, no respect at all. It come down to families I think, with their cousin-brother and all that. If they respect me I keep them here. If they don’t respect me, they can go where they want to go. I didn’t get the house for the whole family. This the house for me and my family. Me and my missus and two kids. That’s all, that’s the only house I got here for them. I don’t get the house for the whole Lockhart tribe to come down, not even Mum and them, they always come down. My house and – see I only just want to go left alone. … I don’t mind if they [family] stay here for a week or so, then go back. But I had some family here for couple of months. That’s not on. …. Share a lot of privacy in the house, space for me and my family. Just so house belongs to us, we need that space to move around. Need that food to last us. We need that money to last us, take us down to the beach for day. Take us shopping, watch movie. ….18

Despite these sentiments, he has difficulty in refusing requests from those who arrive at his door, but he does expect them to contribute to food costs and he is more welcoming to those who pay when they arrive. He is also ambivalent about life in the city with its bylaws versus the more casual life in the bush town of Lockhart River, and he takes his family back there periodically. I found it interesting that he does not consider economic stratification to be a barrier to continuing to view his countrymen in kin terms. I got a house but low on income. [Cousin-brother] he’s alright there, just running good as gold, but people that drinks too much, people got no house and drinks a lot, living in Chinaman Creek – some of them can last money for three days, some can last money for one day. Difference between them people and mefla [us] you know, is just that they homeless and we not.

Part of the economic stratification lies in the mix of access to and use of funds, and the disciplines and commitments they are prepared to take on, as his next comment about welfare income indicates. I go drink with them mob, they shout a lot of beers. Time for me to have my money day, I wouldn’t have enough to shout three or four down there. I don’t get much because I pay a lot of rent and electricity.19

.  Interview 23 June 2011. .  Interview 23 June 2011.



Going forward holding back 

The cousin-brother and close friend referred to, who has helped him out of some difficult situations, is seen similarly in these kin terms despite his well-paid position. While Lockhart River people have contact with Aboriginal groups from other Cape York towns, a Lockhart network and sense of solidarity persists in the city. This is greatly supported by the constant use of mobile phones, mostly on a prepaid basis. The distinctive Creole language of Lockhart River remains a strong binder in this communication and in their homes. Lockhart people in Cairns also get together for birthday parties and other social events including gambling on cards. Yeah. When we have birthday party, we all come together. Like for instance, brother’s party bin here. We had party for the little girl last night. All them mob from there, that other lot where Mooroobool there, Manunda, they all be come. Them all from White Rock [suburbs of Cairns].20

4.3  Itinerants The Lockhart River people ‘sleeping under the stars’ at Chinaman Creek close to a Diversionary Shelter, and elsewhere, include many alcoholics but also others who have been evicted, who prefer not to stay with family, are on the waiting list for housing, just passing through or are just living in a free zone and comfortable on welfare. Cairns people tend to see them as desperate down and outs, but when I visited their camp I found it to be typical of bush camping with large tarpaulins strung from a fence to trees, and foam mattresses and basic camping equipment stored underneath. Aboriginal people and visitors camp acceptably in much the same way at the Laura Dance Festival (a biennial festival of traditional dance and song, held at Laura in southeastern Cape York Peninsula). Nevertheless, Lockhart people are embarrassed by those who fit the stereotype of hopeless drunks. Everybody all no try drink them proper beer, all drink them nother wanim [what is it?] now …. metho. I look them body blo thempla proper pull down [their bodies have deteriorated]. That’s why I look here where home, he bin proper voice and big. Now he look like walk about like scarecrow. [When I saw him at home (in Lockhart) he had a good voice and was big, and now [in Cairns] he looks like a scarecrow.] No got no end drink. That’s the only thing when I look here down, them family here down. Make me worry, too thin kind like, home there im leaveim behind. Very sad, proper no-good one. I look them gang sit down catchim ‘bout [scratch around] for mayi [food] this kind. ‘We want [food] price, we no be kaikai [eat].’ I proper sorry for them lot too. I speak, ‘You should just go back home, no good hang around here.’ First thing all turn around speak, ‘No,

.  Interview 21 December 2010.

 David Thompson

canteen no more open.’ I speak, ‘No worry about canteen. Them plenty home, you can go fishing, camp there, go out for sandbeach, sit down where beach. No good sit round there drink all bottle metho.’21

4.4  Discussion These case studies illustrate the difficulties and pressures involved in shifting from a communally-oriented way of life to accommodate the individualised expectations of mainstream living. In most cases of those who have settled in Cairns, there has been some kind of crisis in the adjustment process, and there remains a continuing ambivalence and tension in balancing old and new ways in bicultural living. Those who do not succeed in the transition either return home or end up in dysfunctional living. Finding suitable accommodation and employment in the city of Cairns are real difficulties to this transition and lead to the majority of movers depending on welfare support to survive. Many relate to a localised network in which mutual support continues. Those who are more upwardly mobile are forced to distance themselves from cultural expectations to a degree, at least to expect a balanced or immediate reciprocity from family who seek their assistance.

5.  Living in two cultural worlds A couple of young men who have experienced mainstream life through going south for education have returned home with some ability to reflect biculturally on their life today. The wider geographic and cross-cultural experience discussed here reflects on the positive side of mobility and cultural change, as young people are opened up to other life styles and cultural expectations. There is a definite awareness at Lockhart River of the benefits of such exposure: I have observed parents encouraging their boys and girls to go out to boarding school and to persevere by returning to school after holidays back at home. The immersion of the young people outside heightens the core cultural differences, and reawakens their sense of Aboriginal identity within a blended or hybrid modern lifestyle. One man aspires to greater modernisation and a lessening of the influence of the older generation. Because we as young people grew up here mainly [government settlement], them kind. We understand the way of going to the city, seeing it, you know, getting the first hand know how of how things work, but if you go back Old [Mission] Site, and like that Old Site influence he still strong here this kind everywhere, where them elders always say like, ‘You do right thing’ in many areas and that.

.  Interview 3 August 2010.



Going forward holding back 

That’s a big barrier there because we here understand this side of life, them mob understand that side of the life and in between there like, it’s hard to, it’s hard for young people to move on. …

While he accepts that some traditions like initiation should continue, he appreciates the conveniences of modern life. Yeah. Modern way is, how they put it. How to make life easy, where before you paddle for bloody dugong, but today you drive the outboard, a bit more easy to chase it. And that’s the way we see modern way, make things a bit more easy.22

Another young man feels that a greater balance is necessary. Yeah, – you have to learn the mainstream culture in regards to looking after family in the … western way of living. In regard to cultural way of living, it’s pretty much we are a diverse culture. We sort of know each other in regards to extended family in town. So the culture there but you know, understanding the mainstream culture, yeah, pretty much education is the key today in every age and group we live in. … You look at the lifestyle where, OK, para [white person] speak, alright, mainstream say, OK. You got to be there, save up, have a good house, all this other stuff, you know. But they don’t understand. We did that family bond, that family bond. See a classic example was today. Two ringer blokes asked me, you know for respect, ‘What’s muka and what’s kaala’. I said, ‘Muka, that’s big uncle, kaala mean small uncle.’ They don’t have that in mainstream culture. See they’re born, its more of a just my distant cousin and them kind. I don’t know whether there’s respect or not. I don’t think so. When for us, you probably godfather mine, I can’t talk, see because you so-and-so from this line to kaapay, kuyan [moieties] again. So that’s where the link between mainstream and [Aboriginal] cultural way of living with the communities and the city. It’s just that bond, you need that family bond. Cos it’s just like how I grew up. Probably we short for something, then parents will send me for go, ‘Oh look pa’i and puula [paternal grandparents] there. All might got something there.’ All passi something come [They pass something over]. Them kind. But today, mainstream they say, ‘Oh, you got to save up for all that thing’. But at the end of the day, like, the more you save up, the more I see that’s it’s good in a way for individuals but at the same time, it’s greed for me. I’d rather just give away, give away things.23

.  Interview 11 August 2010. .  Interview 10 August 2010.

 David Thompson

This man’s objectification of ‘culture’ and ‘mainstream’ correspond to Gudeman’s (2001) categories of ‘community’ and ‘market’. The people of Lockhart River as a c­ ommunity are embedded in mainstream society’s market economy in respect to state and local government policies and services, employment and welfare. However, the dominance of mainstream controls and lifestyle is tempered and limited by the customary values and practices that are embedded in community life. Principal among these are the kin network and the obligations within extended families, even if located outside the geographic community of Lockhart River. Rather than the mainstream ethic of individual or corporate accumulation, the Aboriginal people of Lockhart River rely more on ‘social banking’ or social capital (Gudeman in Grenfell and James 1998: 220–221). Peterson and Taylor (Peterson 2005: 11–12) call this the ‘Indigenous domestic moral economy’, which focuses on the circulation of goods and services among kin with an ethic of generosity. The land claim processes and hearings from the 1990s have revealed much about the transition of generations from the closer land associations in the past to the more limited connections to country that the younger generations have today. At a Land ­Tribunal Hearing in 1997, the principal witnesses were two elderly men and two elderly women who were all born in the early decades of the Mission. Other evidence came from the anthropologists’ research with the previous ABORIGINAL MODERNITIES TECHNOLOGY: Making life easier (Old and New)

BICULTURAL LIVING: Interact with mainstream

4WD, dinghy, outboard, hooks & lines, spear, harpoon. Houses, appliances, satellite TV, mobile phones, Youtube, guitar, amplifiers Family solidarity Language (Local & Creole) Initiation (periodic) Dance & song forms Modern band style Social banking Child nurture

CULTURE BASE: Kin bonding & sharing

IDENTITY: Continuing custom and tradition

Welfare, employment, banking, store goods, education, health services, sports, city living: enclaves, rent rules, consider neighbours, restrain sharing, fringedwelling/’grass motel’

Land claims, outstations, tourism, weekend camping, fishing, Travel 2 hrs to Roadhouse (alcohol) Coen, Weipa, Cairns – visiting, shopping, city migration LAND & SUBSISTENCE: Hunting, fishing, gathering, camping, travelling

Diversity marked by resistance to increased individualisation Figure 2.  A diagram of Aboriginal modernities



Going forward holding back 

g­ eneration of elders in the 1970s. Chase (1980:359) reported then both a decline in fine knowledge of estates and also a strengthening of wider regional classifications whether a former community camp identity or a language group identity. This shift was evident in the evidence of younger claimants. Nevertheless, the claim meetings and hearings did provide opportunity for the younger ones to absorb knowledge from their elders, to participate in site visits and to gain a stronger sense of Aboriginal cultural identity as a counter to the westernising influences of the mainstream economy and media. The enduring power of family solidarities underlies such blending in the Aboriginal modern lifestyle of today as represented in the diagram in Figure 2.

6.  Conclusion These examples indicate that the Aboriginal people of Lockhart River live with a degree of fragility in their social and cultural life but they also indicate that the undergirding of family bonds and obligations, homeland identities and a contemporary creole language provides a continuing foundation for a variety of blendings or hybrid forms of bicultural living. Kinship ties are very resilient and remain so even when there is a reduced knowledge and practice of traditions, and a loosening of attachments to country. Modern technologies are readily adopted but they are also incorporated to further cultural purposes by enhancing cultural reproduction, mobility and communication. What is the significance of these findings? The resilience of traditional social foundations in cross-cultural contexts suggests that the immersion and education of Aboriginal people in a mainstream Western cultural context does not significantly undermine Aboriginal cultural values and solidarities or assimilate them to mainstream values. A more complex picture emerges in the bicultural nature of Aboriginal modernity, which blends foundational family solidarities and customs with new experiences and practical technologies, while also living with the tensions between mainstream capitalist and individualist ideals, and the family bonds and customary obligations that continue strongly. The example of the Lockhart River Aboriginal people is in many ways representative of other Cape York Peninsula communities and elsewhere. More generally, it suggests that government policies of social and economic development and enterprise are short-sighted if such bicultural factors and aspirations are not taken into account. Policies that are simply economic in intent, and presume a simple transfer or replacement of contradictory values, are destined to repeat past failures or have limited effect. There needs to be a greater focus on adding new economic and social values to the cultural foundations in ways that do not undermine them but promote a productive inclusion in the wider Australian community.

 David Thompson

References and bibliography Altman, Jon. 2011. A genealogy of ‘Demand Sharing’: From pure anthropology to public policy. In Yasmine Musharbash & Marcus Barber, eds. Ethnography & the Production of Anthropological Knowledge, Essays in honour of Nicolas Peterson. Canberra: ANU E Press. 187–199. Australian Board of Missions (ABM). 1924. Reports of Sub-Committee, Missions and Missionaries, 2 April, Sydney. Australian Board of Missions (ABM). 1967. ABM Review, August. Anderson, Chris. 1984. The Political and Economic Basis of Kuku-Yalanji Social History. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Queensland. Bayton, John. 1965. Cross Over Carpentaria. Brisbane: W.R. Smith & Paterson. Bjelke-Petersen, Joh. 1967. Cabinet Document re Relocation of the Lockhart River Community, 13 June, File 19A/47, Dept of Family Services and Aboriginal and Islander Affairs, Brisbane. Bleakley, John. 1922. Letter to the Minister (?) from Office of Chief Protector of Aboriginals, South Brisbane, 21 March, regarding the Anglican Mission proposal for the establishment of a Mission Station at Pascoe River. Butler, Sally. 2007. Our Way. Contemporary Aboriginal Art from Lockhart River. St Lucia: University of Queensland Press. Chase, Athol. 1980. Which Way Now? Tradition, Continuity and Change in a North Queensland Aboriginal Community. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Queensland. Chase, Athol. 1981. ‘All kind of nation’: Aborigines and Asians in Cape York Peninsula. Aboriginal History 5: 7–19. Crowley, Terry & Bruce Rigsby. 1979. Cape York Creole. In Tim Shopen, ed. Languages and their Status. Cambridge, Mass: Winthrop Publishers. 153–207. Done, John. 1987. Wings Across The Sea. Brisbane: Booralong Publications. Compiled by Barbara Stevenson (daughter). Grenfell, Michael & David James with Philip Hodkinson, Diane Reay and Derek Robbins. 1998. Bourdieu and Education. Abingdon: Palmer Press. Gudeman, S. 2001. The Anthropology of Economy: Community, Market and Culture. Oxford: Blackwell. Howard, Richard. 1911. Annual report of the Chief Protector of Aboriginals for 1910, Queensland Parliamentary Papers. Idriess, Ion. 1959. The Tin Scratchers. Sydney: Angus and Robertson. Killoran, Patrick. 1967. Letter to the Director, Dept. of Social Services, 16 May, File 6F/45, Dept of Family Services and Aboriginal and Islander Affairs, Brisbane. McGregor, Russell. 2011. Indifferent Inclusion: Aboriginal People and the Australian Nation. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Memmott, Paul, Stephen Long & Linda Thomson. 2006. Indigenous mobility in rural and remote Australia. Melbourne: Australian Housing and Urban Research Institute. Peterson, Nicolas. 1993. Demand sharing: Reciprocity and the pressure for generosity among foragers. American Anthropologist 95: 860–874.  doi: 10.1525/aa.1993.95.4.02a00050 Peterson, Nicolas. 2004. Myth of the “walkabout”. Movement in the Aboriginal domain. In John Taylor & Martin Bell, eds. Population Mobility and Indigenous Peoples in Australasia and North America. London: Routledge. 223–238.



Going forward holding back 

Peterson, Nicolas. 2005. What can the pre-colonial and frontier economies tell us about engagement with the real economy? Indigenous life projects and the conditions for development. In Diane Austin-Broos & Gaynor Macdonald, eds. Culture, Economy and Governance in Aboriginal Australia. Sydney: Sydney University Press. 7–18. Prout, Sarah. 2008. On the move? Indigenous temporary mobility practices in Australia. CAEPR Working Paper No. 48. Canberra: CAEPR, ANU. Smith, Benjamin. 2004. The social underpinnings of an “outstation movement” in Cape York Peninsula, Australia. In John Taylor & Martin Bell, eds. Population Mobility and Indigenous Peoples in Australasia and North America. London: Routledge. 239–261. Sutton, Peter. 2008. After consensus. Griffith Review 21: 201–206. Taylor, John & Martin Bell. 2004. Continuity and change in Indigenous Australian population mobility. In John Taylor & Martin Bell, eds. Population Mobility and Indigenous Peoples in Australasia and North America. London: Routledge. 13–43. Thompson, David. 1976. A Phonology of Kuuku-Ya’u & Addendum: Distribution of Dialects along the East Coast and Hinterland of the Cape York Peninsula, Queensland. In Peter Sutton, ed. Languages of Cape York. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. 213–235. Thompson, David. 1985. ‘Bora is like Church’. Aboriginal Initiation ceremonies and the Christian Church at Lockhart River, Qld. Sydney: Australian Board of Missions. Thompson, David. 1988. Lockhart River “Sand Beach” Language. An Outline of Kuuku Ya’u and Umpila. Darwin: Summer Institute fo Linguistics. Thompson, David. 1995. ‘Bora Belonga White Man’, Missionaries and Aborigines at Lockhart River Mission. MA Thesis, University of Queensland. Revised edition, July. Thompson, David. 2013. Freedom to Choose: Responding to Change in a Mobile Environment among Aboriginal People of Lockhart River, Cape York Peninsula. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Queensland. Young, Elspeth & Kim Doohan. 1989. Mobility for Survival: A process Analysis of Aboriginal Population Movement in Central Australia. Darwin: North Australia Research Unit.

Same but different Understanding language contact in Queensland Indigenous settlements* Ilana Mushin, Denise Angelo, & Jennifer M. Munro

University of Queensland / Australian National University / Language Perspectives, Indigenous Schooling Support Unit, Education Queensland In this paper we examine the historical and social factors associated with language contact in three Queensland settlements – Yarrabah, Cherbourg and Woorabinda – and discuss the impact these may have had on the emergence of the English-lexified vernacular languages associated with these communities today. Our focus is on the 20th century and how Queensland Government policies of removal towards Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples, including those of the Cape York Peninsula, provided new contexts for sustained language contact in these settlements, not only between traditional languages, but also with pre-existing contact varieties. We show here how each vernacular is different because the sociohistorical circumstances in which they emerged are different. So while the three vernaculars we examine have been labelled as ‘Aboriginal English’, our research demonstrates a much richer picture – one which demands a re-examination of the vernacular of any Aboriginal community today as a product of its own unique history.

1.  Introduction1 Contemporary English-lexified vernacular languages spoken in Indigenous2 communities have received variable attention by linguists. In Queensland the best described

*  The research for this paper was funded in part by ARC LP100200406 and by the Queensland Department of Education, Training and Employment (Indigenous Schooling Support Unit). 1.  For locations mentioned in the text, see the two general maps at the front of the volume. 2.  The term Indigenous is sometimes used in this paper with the intention of respectfully including both Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples and recognising them as First Peoples.

doi 10.1075/clu.18. © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

 Ilana Mushin, Denise Angelo, & Jennifer M. Munro

variety has been the creole language that emerged in the Torres Strait (known as ‘Yumplatok’, ‘Torres Strait Creole’ or ‘Broken’ – e.g. Shnukal (1983, 1988)). Crowley & Rigsby (1979)’s description of Cape York Creole showed the extension of Torres Strait Creole into the mainland at the northern and north-eastern tip of Cape York Peninsula (see Harper, this volume, for an analysis of a narrative in this variety). Most other vernaculars spoken in Queensland communities today have been bundled under the moniker ‘Aboriginal English’ (e.g. Alexander 1965, 1968, Dutton 1965, Readdy 1961, Eades 1983, 1991).3 Regardless of whether they come from communities designated as speaking ‘Cape York Creole’ or ‘Aboriginal English’, Indigenous people themselves recognise the distinctiveness of their own community vernaculars, not only in contrast with the E ­ nglish varieties of mainstream Australia, but also with other Indigenous vernaculars. For example, people in the central Queensland ex-reserve community of Woorabinda, or the far north Queensland ex-mission community of Yarrabah regularly report that their own vernacular is different from what is spoken outside them – that there is a particular ‘Woorabinda’ or ‘Yarrabah’ way of speaking. In Southern Queensland, the speech of those from the ex-reserve Cherbourg is frequently described as distinctive. Indigenous residents in Cherbourg, Woorabinda and Yarrabah − along with outsiders familiar with these language varieties − distinguish the varieties from these reserves and missions (henceforth ‘settlements’) from other Indigenous speech varieties in Queensland, including each other. Similarly communities in the northern Cape York area, such as Napranum, Mapoon and Lockhart River, consider their community vernaculars to be different from each other (see also Thompson, this volume, and Harper, this volume on Lockhart River and the northern Cape York area, respectively). This Indigenous awareness of language variation contrasts with the current level of scholarship on the nature of the variation between English-lexified vernaculars and the socio-historical reasons for this variation. Work has been done on the early emergence of a pidgin in the Sydney region and New South Wales (Troy 1990) and the spread of this pidgin northward as settlement spread into what is now Queensland (Dutton 1983) and then on into the Northern Territory in the 19th century (Harris 1986). However, very little has been published on the further development of contact languages on the Queensland mainland during the 20th century and how p ­ atterns

.  Treating all vernaculars as ‘Aboriginal English’ creates issues for Indigenous education, language assessment and demographic data. These have been the subject of much work by the Language Perspectives group of the Indigenous Schooling Support Unit of the Queensland Department of Education, Training and Employment, who argue that this labeling has led to (erroneous) assumptions about similarity and/or mutual comprehensibility with other ­varieties of English (see for instance Angelo 2004, 2006; discussions in McIntosh, O’Hanlon & Angelo, 2012; Angelo, 2013; Angelo & McIntosh in press).



Same but different 

of language contact found in different parts of Queensland may have resulted in the emergence of community-specific or region-specific vernaculars (but see Shnukal 1988 for detailed research for the Torres Strait Islands). In this paper we present the beginnings of such an investigation through a comparison of three present day Aboriginal communities with similar histories as settlements – Yarrabah (far north Qld), Barambah/Cherbourg (southeast Qld) and Taroom/ Woorabinda (central Qld). Yarrabah was founded as an Anglican mission in 1892, while Barambah (founded in 1901 and renamed Cherbourg in 1932) was established as a Government-run reserve. Similarly Taroom (founded in 1911 and relocated to Woorabinda in 1927) was also set up as a Government-run reserve.4 The locations of these settlements can be found in the general map of Queensland included in this volume. People in each of these three communities today recognise a variety of language that is widely spoken and acquired by children as an L1 associated particularly with that community: ‘Yarrie Lingo’ (YL) in Yarrabah; ‘Cherbourg Talk’ (CT) in Cherbourg; and ‘Woorie Talk’ (WT) in Woorabinda.5 Descriptive work on these varieties is ongoing, and a detailed account of their grammars is beyond the scope of this chapter. All three were the subject of minor theses in the 1960s, where they were all labelled ‘Aboriginal English’ (Alexander 1965 for Yarrabah, Readdy 1961 for Cherbourg and Alexander 1968 for Woorabinda). Allridge (1984) showed how these varieties displayed features of other Australian contact languages, a theme articulated in recent published and unpublished work by the three authors of this chapter (Angelo (2004, 2006, 2013) and Sellwood and Angelo (2013) for Yarrie Lingo, Munro & Mushin (2016) for Woorie Talk and Munro (2012) for Cherbourg Talk). Recently each of these communities has undertaken a ‘language awareness project’ in the form of a Vernacular Language Poster, in collaboration with the Language Perspectives arm of the Indigenous Schooling Support Unit of the Queensland Department of Education.

.  A fourth settlement, Palm Island (founded as a Reserve in 1916 near Townsville), would also ideally be included in a study such as this, as it shares a number of historical features with these other three and there were significant movements between all four of these settlements during the 20th century, but we have restricted this discussion to the communities in which we have conducted primary research ourselves. .  These names have been coined in consultation with community members for the purposes of the poster project described in the next paragraph, and do not necessarily reflect their widespread use as language names in the respective communities (Angelo & McIntosh in press). Indeed, in all three cases the vernacular language can suffer from stigma by Indigenous and non-Indigenous people alike as a ‘broken’ or ‘rubbish’ type of English, or as the ‘elephant in the room’, virtually a linguistic non-entity, being neither of the prestige kinds of language: ‘proper English’ or traditional Aboriginal languages (Sellwood & Angelo 2013).

 Ilana Mushin, Denise Angelo, & Jennifer M. Munro

Among other things, each poster project gave community members an opportunity to reflect on their own vernaculars and to choose examples that for them best characterised the way(s) people talk locally. The poster projects have provided us with the contemporary samples of each vernacular cited in this paper (Language Perspectives, 2009, 2013, 2015). These community-based projects reveal that each vernacular retains features that were documented by Dutton (1983) for the varieties of NSW Pidgin that spread into Queensland, but not necessarily the same features in the same ways. For example, all three use a -fla/-fulla suffix (youfulla (YL)/youfla (WT)/yu fulla (CT)) for a 2nd person plural pronominal, although the CT form perhaps operates more like a vocative noun group (e.g. ‘you fellas’).6 Generally, CT makes little or no use of this suffix in other plural pronouns, whereas YL and WT do, but for different forms, as in moofulla (YL)/ ufla (WT) for a 1st person plural. Yarrie Lingo forms past tense with the invariant marker bin, which is attested in both NSW Pidgin and Melanesian Pidgin descendants such as Kriol (Schultze-Berndt et al. 2013) and Torres Strait Creole (Shnukal 1988) (e.g. YL Oo bin gidda turdle? ‘Who got a turtle?’). In a local development, bin is often cliticised to -m following pronouns (e.g. [..] wim go roun where Nana […] ‘we went round to Nana’s place’.). Woorie Talk forms past tense with an invariant was auxiliary for stative predicates while an -ed suffix is frequently found in non-stative contexts (e.g. We was up da hill ‘We were up the hill’; Oo killed dat bird ‘Who killed the bird’). Like Woorie Talk, Cherbourg Talk also uses linguistic resources which are, on the surface, reminiscent of English for marking past tense forms (e.g. I beated yu to school ‘I beat you to school’). All three varieties use some words from NSW Aboriginal languages that were introduced via the spread of NSW Pidgin (e.g. bogi ‘swim, wash’; goona ‘faeces’). Each vernacular also utilises different sets of high frequency words that come from traditional substrate languages, including fauna, e.g. YL joonggi ‘crustacean species’; relations e.g. WT bulloo ‘granddad’, goondoonoos ‘children’; or everyday items e.g. CT. moonyoo and yoondra ‘money’. An intersubjective discourse particle la is found in all three vernaculars, but is unattested in NSW/QLD pidgin, Torres Strait Creole and Kriol. Gourlay & Mushin (2015) recently analysed this particle as signalling that the speaker is inviting the addressee to jointly attend to a specific object in the here and now of a situation (e.g. one dere la (YL), look ere la (WT), ay, look ere la (CT)). There are a number of possible substrate origins of la, including the traditional languages of the initial Yarrabah population, Gungganydji and related dialects (Dixon 1977), and the south west languages Margany and Gunya (Breen 1981) in relation to Woorabinda. This particle is

.  We retain the original orthographies developed for each poster.



Same but different 

thus a likely candidate for a form that exclusively emerged at one of these settlements, which spread with the movement of residents between settlements throughout the 20th century, with possible reinforcement from similar forms or practices in ‘recipient’ settlements. The sample of language features above illustrates clear inputs from 19th century English-lexified contact varieties (e.g. NSW Pidgin) and other possible sources like Melanesian Pidgin; local developments (e.g. past -m clitic); more localised substrate influences from traditional languages; and spreads or reinforcements of some substrate inputs into other settlements during the 20th century. From this a picture begins to emerge of these varieties as kinds of contact languages. All three illustrate input from NSW Pidgin, but with slightly different present-day outcomes. All show influence of other traditional substrate languages, but not the same ones. All demonstrate a shared innovation, the particle la, not attested in other Australian creoles. However, even the brief list of language features we provide above shows that YL, CT and WT are not the same variety, and that CT and WT have more linguistically in common with each other than with YL. Community members recognise this: for example, Woorabinda residents regularly report that their way of speaking is very close to what was spoken at Cherbourg but that people in Yarrabah speak quite differently. One of the key aims of this chapter is to examine reasons why the vernacular that emerged in Yarrabah should be different from those that emerged in Cherbourg and Woorabinda, and to account for why Cherbourg and Woorabinda vernaculars have so much in common. In particular we need to account for why YL appears to share so many features commonly associated with creole languages more generally (See Angelo 2004 and Sellwood & Angelo 2013 for a list of these features) and why CT and WT by comparison appear to have more influence from the lexifier, English. We can see this in the differences in past tense marking: YL uses bin, which is associated with many other creole varieties, while CT and WT form past tense in ways that appear, at least on the surface, to be closer to English forms.7 We call this paper a ‘beginning’ as our research is ongoing and points to a far richer picture than we are able to present in a single chapter. Our focus here is on identifying historical and social factors that are shared by the three settlements and those that diverge, and examining how these may have been consequential for the development of what are identified by community members themselves as distinctive varieties. Studies such as these are aimed at helping us understand contemporary

.  We have used the difference in past tense as an illustration of the more creole-like features of YL. There are many others, as documented in Angelo (2004).

 Ilana Mushin, Denise Angelo, & Jennifer M. Munro

Indigenous language varieties as tied to the particular historical contexts from which they emerge, thus enriching the study of these contact language varieties. In the next section we outline some of the general aspects of Queensland’s history that appear to be shared across the three settlements. We then turn our attention to a more detailed summary of historical and social factors that impacted on patterns of language contact in each case: Yarrabah (§3), Barambah/Cherbourg (§4) and Taroom/Woorabinda (§5). In §6 we summarise the ways in which these three communities diverge and how this may have impacted on the linguistic properties of the language varieties spoken there today, and we consider directions for further research.

2.  Shared histories under The Act All three settlements shared the ignominy of being significant sites for the placement of Indigenous people removed under the Queensland Government 1897 Aborigines Protection and Restriction of the Sale of Opium Act (henceforth ‘The Act’) (e.g. Kidd 1997). The Act, which lasted with some modifications until 1971, was implemented ostensibly to protect Indigenous people from corruption associated with contact with non-Indigenous people and, arguably, particularly Chinese and their reputed dealings with opium. In reality, The Act served to control every aspect of life of Queensland’s Indigenous people, including where they could live and work, where their children would reside, who they worked for and for how long, and who they could marry. Under The Act, Indigenous people who were not legally employed, including those of mixed descent, could be removed to a settlement. Thousands of people who had survived the violent frontier period of initial colonisation were forcibly removed over a number of decades of the 20th century, from all over Queensland (including Cape York and the Gulf regions – see Richards this volume for an example) to designated settlements, some of which already existed as missions (e.g. Yarrabah), and some which were set up expressly to be sites of removal (e.g. Barambah and Taroom). Throughout The Act, Indigenous residents in a settlement were forcibly restricted from any freedom of movement, and the punishments for disobeying such government controls were harsh, including imprisonment or relocation to another settlement. Copland (2005:100) reported that of 12,576 documented ‘removals’ between 1859 and 1972, 21% were to Barambah/Cherbourg, 15% to Taroom/Woorabinda and 8% to Yarrabah. Additionally 33% were removed to Palm Island off the coast from ­Townsville. There were many removals between the settlements throughout this period – Cherbourg to Woorabinda and Palm Island, Yarrabah to Cherbourg, Palm Island to Woorabinda, and so forth.



Same but different 

By the end of the 1930s, each of the three settlements that are our focus housed people from at least 40 different traditional language groups, some from regions far from the settlement location. Many of these groups would have had little or no contact with each other prior to these removals. Some people would have been L1 speakers of their traditional languages, with others having varying degrees of proficiency. At this point in Queensland’s history, most Indigenous peoples would have had some experience of a contact language, ranging from L1 speakers of a creole, through to L2 speakers of a pidgin. In terms of the nature of these pidgins and creoles, Dutton (1983) proposes two prongs of contact language spread from the south. One was an Inland Pidgin based on NSW Pidgin that spread with the pastoral industry’s expansion into Queensland from the 1840s (further progress via the Gulf Track and into the Northern Territory in the 1870s is documented in Harris 1986, Munro 2000, 2004). The other, which Dutton terms ‘Coastal Pidgin’, also arrived from NSW, but earlier, to the fledgling Brisbane colony (circa 1823) via the sea route.8 Other documented contact varieties in Queensland were introduced from the north through maritime industries and plantation labour (e.g. Dutton 1980, Shnukal 1988, Crowley & Rigsby 1979, Tryon & Charpentier 2004), through other local sources of language contact, such as mixed agriculture in coastal areas (Schmidt 1985) or gold rushes (including Chinese-Aboriginal language contact) (Anderson & Mitchell 1981). Furthermore, as these settlements continued to be sites of removals throughout the 20th century there were constant changes in the demographic profile of language groups as people were removed out and in. The degree of diversity of language groups appears equivalent, a judgement based in part on Norman Tindale’s 1938 survey of these settlements. However, the inventory of languages, the proportions of speakers from each, plus their levels of proficiency varied, and thus so did the relative inputs of languages within the settlements. In the next three sections we outline some of the more specific factors that contributed to language contact in each of the three settlements, focusing on the diverse linguistic backgrounds of the peoples in each place, the ways Indigenous people from differing traditional and contact language backgrounds interacted within the settlements, and the kinds of contact residents had with English or other non-Indigenous languages. Factors we discuss include: living arrangments within the settlements, including policies of segregation in dormitories; exposure, or lack of exposure, to mainstream Australia, including education; and labour arrangements.

.  Dutton’s terms ‘Inland’ and ‘Coastal’ refer primarily to the path of their spread, as at least by the later phase local linguistic differences exhibited in the earlier Coastal variety had mostly been leveled out.

 Ilana Mushin, Denise Angelo, & Jennifer M. Munro

3.  Yarrabah The Yarrabah Mission was established in 1892 on Gungganydji lands on the far side of the promontory across the inlet from Cairns. Despite its relative proximity to Cairns (12 km in a direct line), the settlement remained very isolated as all transport in and out of Yarrabah was by sea until 1972, when a road was pushed through rugged rainforested mountain ranges. The present-day community of Yarrabah is accessible from Cairns by 50kms of road. Yarrie Lingo, an English-lexified contact language, is the vernacular spoken by the community here.

3.1  Who came together at Yarrabah Mission and why Yarrabah Mission was initially set up through a partnership between the A ­ ustralian Board of Missions, the Diocese of North Queensland and the Government of Queensland (Hume 1991: 5) during a phase of mission establishments in the far north (Thompson 1995: 80). Although the Gungganydji’s land tenure and lifestyle remained virtually unviolated at the time of the foundation of Yarrabah Mission, its rationale was to minister to the physical and spiritual needs of local Aboriginal peoples being displaced by the new township of Cairns (Richards 2010), which had been founded in 1876 as a supply port for the new goldfields in the hinterlands. Initially, as in the other settlements, Yarrabah residents hailed exclusively from the local areas. At the close of its first decade, however, the Yarrabah population totalled 317, including recent arrivals from two mission closures: Bloomfield River in the north, in 1901, and Bogimbah Mission on Fraser Island in the southeast in 1904 (Hume 1991: 8). Yarrabah Mission officially operated in concert with The Act, with a Superintendent present from 1899 (Loos 2007: 62). Of the 968 documented removals to Yarrabah up until 1972, by far the greatest proportion of people hailed from the far north, including Cape York Peninsula (around 65%), followed by the north including the Gulf (around 30%), with others’ homelands ranging from the Torres Strait to south-east Queensland. No removals from the southwest were relocated to Yarrabah ­(Denigan 2008: 10). From 1900, Yarrabah also began housing children from far afield when it was granted Industrial School status (Denigan, 2008:4). Subsequently, 25% of all Queensland’s child removals were sent here (Copland 2005: 152). In the 1970s it was estimated that approximately one third of Yarrabah residents identified as Gungganydji, another third as Yidinydji, the neighbouring dialect group, while the remaining third represented a variety of affiliations (Dixon, 1977).

3.2  How did people live? The Yarrabah Mission rigidly controlled the lives of residents, making work and religious activities the main focus. Yarrabah had a main village where the school,



Same but different 

­ ormitories, hospital and missionary residence were located (Denigan 2008). The Misd sion sanctioned residents’ marriages, and couples mostly resided in the main village in individual houses (Loos 2007: 59–61). However, many traditionally-oriented Gungganydji continued to live in a beach fringe camp for some decades. Another feature of Yarrabah life was between 10–17 outstations, operating from the earliest years up until the 1960s when they were disbanded due to a government policy of centralised housing. The outstations’ purpose was to settle and cultivate more land, give some independence to adults and allay tensions in the socio-culturally complex mission setting. Additionally, there is some evidence that adults from the same region and/or cultural groupings congregated if they had the opportunity (Hume 1989, 1991). A system of segregated dormitories for boys and girls operated at Yarrabah until 1942, when parents successfully persuaded the North Queensland bishop to allow their children to live with them (Thomson 1989: 46). Child removals arriving in Yarrabah were placed directly into dormitories, but children whose mothers lived at Yarrabah remained with them till they were 11- 12 years old before being placed in a dormitory. Girls remained in the dormitory until they were married unless working off-site, while boys left their dormitory at around 16 to work (Hume 1989: 94). A sense of ‘Yarrabah identity’ existed by the 1980s (Hume 1989: 47). Perhaps this was already on the rise during World War II, when general labour shortages meant that Yarrabah labourers brought in the region’s harvests and earned award wages (Hume 1989: 110–112). Concerted actions by Yarrabah residents, such as the 1942 petition against dormitories or the 1958 strike (Hume 1989: 128–9) are likely indications of a sense of community.9

3.3  Languages spoken on the Mission The majority of the earliest residents of Yarrabah were L1 speakers of languages belonging to the Cairns (and hinterland) region, predominately the language group comprised of the Gunggay/Yidiny/Marday/Wanyurr dialects, but some from the language group just over the inlet and to the north, the Nyagali/Djabugay/Guluy/Bulway/­ Yirrgay dialects (Dixon 1977). By far the largest numbers of new arrivals overall were from the far north, followed by people from the Gulf country to the west, although some came from further south (e.g. Fraser Island in the south-east). For many decades, new arrivals in Yarrabah were therefore likely L1 or proficient speakers of their traditional

.  Note, however, that Craig who was undertaking fieldwork in the 1970s found ‘no overriding culture or set of values integrating Yarrabah’s Aborigines into a single unit’ (quoted in Hunter et al, 2001:48). The amalgamation of housing into one area at Yarrabah took place in the 1960s and was highly disruptive, so the after-effects might have been the source for Craig’s observation.

 Ilana Mushin, Denise Angelo, & Jennifer M. Munro

language(s), as the progress of language shift was less advanced in the far north than central and southern Queensland (Schmidt 1990). However, many elderly residents in the 1980s reported having acquired only a receptive understanding of their language (e.g. Smith, cited in Hume 1991: 10). So although there were speakers of a number of traditional languages in Yarrabah into the 1940s and beyond, their languages were not passed on fully to subsequent generations. Right from the start, most Indigenous peoples entering Yarrabah Mission also brought with them prior experiences of English-lexified jargons, pidgins and creoles (Angelo 2013). The Gungganydji had had some contact with bêche-de-mer luggers since the 1840s, and camps were established offshore from the 1870s (Bottoms 1993, 2002). Yarrabah residents hailing from much of the northern coastline had had connections with maritime jargons/pidgins through associations with sandalwood camps and lugger crews often consisting of Aboriginals, Torres Strait Islanders and Pacific Islanders (see also Harper, this volume, and Thompson, this volume). Residents with origins in the inland were likely to have experienced the pastoral industry and its associated pidgin which had been spreading northwards through Queensland since the 1840s, reaching the Gulf by the 1870s and Cape York Peninsula a decade later. Many early Yarrabah residents, including children of mixed descent, came from the Palmer River gold rush area (1870-80s); the gold rush brought Indigenous peoples together with a massive influx of Chinese and European miners, disrupting traditional speech communities and fostering new language contact contexts with non-Indigenous people. Residents who had come from areas with tropical plantations may have had experiences of the speech used amongst multilingual workforces, including by South Sea Islander labourers. As a result of such prior learning, a ‘Pidgin English’ was being used for interactions between mission staff of English speaking backgrounds, the South Sea Islander missionary and the local Aboriginal peoples already within the first two decades of Yarrabah’s operation (as reported by Gribble 1930).10

3.4  Other factors influencing language contact outcomes There was not much exposure to Standard Australian English for Indigenous residents of Yarrabah. Although most mission staff were English speakers, they formed a tiny

.  The Gribble family of missionaries also played a part in the development of the contact language in Yarrabah, perhaps even as vectors. For instance, prior to Yarrabah they were themselves, with Gribble junior, present at Warrangesda on the Murrumbidgee (1880), Gascoyne River in Western Australia (1885) and then Brewarrina on the Darling River. During his time at Yarrabah (1892–1910), Gribble junior also assisted at Mitchell River on Western Cape York. After this he went to Forrest River in the northern Kimberleys (1914–28) and Palm Island (1930–57) in northern Queensland (Dixon 1977: 22; Halse 1996: 219).



Same but different 

proportion of the population. In 1904, for instance, there were three L1 English speaking staff to 317 residents. Interactions between them and Yarrabah residents would have been far outweighed by interactions amongst community members themselves in their vernacular(s). Significantly, even the English-speaking mission staff were noted to adjust their English for Aboriginal interlocutors (Gribble 1930: 99). Some education was provided for Yarrabah school children, although Roth, Protector of Aborigines, acknowledged ‘the standard of education attempted is purposely not a high one, more value being set on the entailed habits of discipline, obedience and routine’ (Roth 1903: 18). Until the late 1950s, classroom learning was generally only to a grade 3 level (typically what is expected of 8–9 year old children) which would not require high levels of attainment in English. After this time, Yarrabah students were achieving grade 5 and 6 standards (around what is expected of 10–11 year old children), and some students experienced school outside Yarrabah (Hume 1991: 20). Work situations outside of Yarrabah were generally very hierarchical and usually exhibited social segregation along racial lines (Richards 2010: 247), so immersion in English also did not necessarily occur, if indeed ‘English’ was what was used in these linguistically complex contexts. At the start of the 1900s, Aboriginal girls from Yarrabah were in demand as domestic servants, while males were recruited for labour on fishing boats and sugarcane and banana plantations (Hume 1989: 104) and this pattern appears to have been maintained in subsequent years (e.g. Thomson 1989). The maritime and agricultural settings certainly involved interactions with a polyglot workforce. Yarrabah resident May Smith, also recalled that Yarrabah residents were for a time trained by Torres Strait Islanders who lived across the inlet in Malay Town (a shanty town for non-European and non-Chinese in Cairns): Yarrabah women were taught mat weaving and boys were instructed in diving for bêche-de-mer (Thomson 1989: 37).

4.  Barambah/Cherbourg Cherbourg was the first Government Reserve established in Queensland under The Act and as such, ‘became critical to the direction of Queensland’s Aboriginal policy … [and] a crucial test of the government’s administrative abilities’ (Blake 2001: 18). Mission Talk, or Cherbourg Talk, an English-lexifier contact language, is the everyday vernacular of Cherbourg today. The immediate area surrounding the Cherbourg site was originally comprised of small holdings. It appears that the historical pattern of violence and dispossession associated with the spread of colonisation, following surveys and exploration, occurred here also (e.g. Blake 2001). Since 1843, southeast Queensland experienced an expansion with free selection, settlement and increased immigration into the area where

 Ilana Mushin, Denise Angelo, & Jennifer M. Munro

Cherbourg would eventually be located. Cherbourg’s close proximity to Brisbane, the state capital, and what is now known as the Sunshine Coast (previously ‘North Coast’) hinterland saw it surrounded by colonial populations. Cherbourg’s geographic location placed it in close proximity to considerable numbers of English speaking settlers. Cherbourg’s social history, however, shows that its residents were not free to mix with the settler population, which hampered their ability to learn English fluently. The contact language that developed in Cherbourg came out of the tension that existed between a segregated Indigenous population amidst a rapidly expanding settler population around it.

4.1  How people lived Blake (2001: 202) provides maps of Barambah settlement, which show that Indigenous residents were separated from non-Indigenous officials and the official buildings of Cherbourg. In the 1910s Indigenous residents also had separate camps for ‘Sundowner’s Tribe’ (SW Qld), ‘Kulilli Tribe’ (SW Qld), ‘Cooktown Tribe’ (N Qld) and ‘Wakka Wakka Tribe’ (local), and similar divisions continued through the 1920s. From this information we know large numbers of people (and their languages) came from north Queensland (including the east coast of Cape York Peninsula) and southwest Queensland and joined existing camps based loosely around regional, cultural and familial ties. The existence of such camps indicates that the traditional cultural sense of identity linked to language and country remained strong in the first two decades of the 1900s. Blake (2001: 211–212), however, goes on to show that this all changed by the late 1930s when the ‘regional’ camps were abandoned by at least a quarter of the population in favour of living in houses in the main ‘village’. At the same time the dormitories were expanded to accommodate another quarter of the population. The scale of removals meant there were ever more language groups entering the settlement; and, by the late 1930s, residents ‘through their shared experiences on the settlement … developed a sense of togetherness and began to identify also as “one big mob”’ (Blake 2001: 212).

4.2  The languages of Cherbourg The traditional language of the country that includes Cherbourg and immediate surrounds is Wakka Wakka. In the early years of establishment most residents, being local to the area, would have had some proficiency in this language. Between 1905 and 1972, there were influxes of Indigenous people possessing different traditional languages and contact languages. For example, during a particularly severe drought in 1900, over 70 Aboriginal people from southwest Queensland were removed to Durundur and thence in 1905 to Barambah (Blake 2001: 35), bringing with them an influx of people possibly speaking an Inland Queensland Pidgin along with traditional languages of



Same but different 

that region. In 1916 over 100 Aboriginal people were forcibly moved to Cherbourg from the Rockhampton area, again due to drought (Blake 2001: 35). They would have brought with them another contact language variety that had been developing in that region, as well as knowledge of traditional languages of that region. Currently, there is evidence of 49 traditional languages being removed to Cherbourg. There is evidence also that at least some of these traditional languages were still spoken in Cherbourg as L1s into the 1960s, as a number of Aboriginal languages were recorded by the Queensland Speech Survey at Cherbourg. Tennant Kelly (1935) also discusses the amount of cultural knowledge that Aboriginal people managed to retain in the settlement until the mid-1930s. However, Tennant Kelly also describes how aspects of cultural knowledge were being lost – an indicator that traditional languages were not being passed on to the young generations. One of the reasons for this is that Aboriginal people were ‘chary of openly discussing these [cultural] matters’ (Tennant Kelly 1935: 471) as they felt the threat of punishment for simply speaking their own languages (e.g. Hegerty 1999). There are no fluent speakers of traditional languages in Cherbourg today. The other languages in use in Cherbourg were the contact languages that Indigenous people brought with them, which they may have spoken either as an L1 or L2. The early pidgin development around Cherbourg would have involved a later form of the Coastal Pidgin identified in Dutton (1983) that would have been in use in this south eastern region prior to the establishment of Cherbourg. However, the significant numbers of removals from the southwest of Queensland would have spoken the Inland Queensland Pidgin (Dutton 1983). Inland and Coastal pidgins may have merged in Cherbourg. With large numbers of people arriving from all over the state, any number of other contact language varieties would also have been in use in the Reserve. For example, a small percentage of people originated from the Torres Strait Islands, so we would expect the presence of a few Torres Strait Creole speakers, although with insufficient numbers for it to be an influential language.

4.3  Exposure to English The other language in use in Cherbourg was English, predominantly by the non-­ Indigenous staff. From the very outset of its establishment, Cherbourg acted as a labour depot to organise and distribute cheap Indigenous labour on fixed term contracts. Blake (2001:120) describes how residents were sent away to work as far afield as ­Charleville and Roma in southwest Queensland and Alpha in central Queensland, although the vast majority were within a 100 kilometre radius of Cherbourg. The number of ‘engagements’ peaked in 1926 when 1369 placements for labour were made and again, as in Yarrabah, in the 1940s due to labour shortages caused by WWII (Blake 2001: 124–5). Adult men and women, as well as children, were sent out to work. C ­ herbourg also

 Ilana Mushin, Denise Angelo, & Jennifer M. Munro

­ rovided workshop training for Indigenous people, who were sent from other Reserves p to receive instruction and work placements. Men were mostly sent to work in the pastoral or agricultural industries, while women were sent to work in the domestic arena. The ramifications of this work practice on language contact were twofold. The developing contact language in Cherbourg was spread considerably outside the settlement, and at the same time Aboriginal workers were brought into contact with other varieties of English outside the Reserve, along with Indigenous speakers of other contact varieties. As work permits only lasted 12 months at maximum, people did not necessarily remain in permanent employment, instead moving in and out of the settlement. This would have hampered people learning English fluently, but no doubt provided environments where features could be transferred from varieties of English or indeed other contact languages. Another factor constraining exposure to English at Cherbourg was its dormitory system. A key feature of the removals policy up until the late 1930s was a preoccupation with the removals of children and adults of mixed decent. Infrastructure had to be built to accommodate them, so that by 1910 there were two dormitories, one each for boys and girls. By 1928, three new dormitories were built, one each for boys and girls and another for mothers with babies (Blake 2001). As Blake (2001:73) notes, while only 3% of the population lived in dormitories in 1910, by 1933 over 22% were dormitory residents. Not only were mixed-descent women and children removed to Cherbourg under The Act, but children from within Cherbourg were also removed from their families and placed in the dormitory, sometimes acting as child-minding centres while their parents were sent out to work. Life inside the dormitory did not allow any exposure to traditional Aboriginal languages, but some exposure to English. Copland (2005:135) notes that the aim of dormitories from the official point of view was ‘complete segregation’, both from the rest of the settlement and wider community. Children inside the dormitory did receive some schooling in English, although it was ad-hoc at best and carried out by untrained teachers. It was not until 1962 that the Department of Education took over responsibility for Indigenous education, which then provided trained teachers and an expectation that children also attend high school, until the age of 16 (about year 10 or 11). There is no doubt that the dormitory system and the rudimentary schooling received there would have affected the everyday speech varieties that were developing, but it is difficult to pinpoint the exact levels of exposure of English.

5.  Taroom/Woorabinda The contemporary community of Woorabinda was established in 1927, when the entire population of the Taroom Reserve was relocated to make way for the ­Dawson



Same but different 

Irrigation Scheme (never completed). Apart from the 18 month period of relocation, the social and living conditions on Taroom and Woorabinda Reserves shows remarkable continuity. We therefore consider the history of Woorabinda to begin with the establishment of the Taroom Reserve in 1911. Our summary here draws from a more detailed account of the emergence of Woorie Talk, the vernacular of Woorabinda (Munro & Mushin 2016). As noted in L’Oste-Brown et al. (1995), there are very few historical records of the Taroom Reserve, so it is unclear what motivated the establishment of a Reserve in the Dawson River region. Certainly by 1911 the Pastoral industry had been well established in that region and the local Yiman tribes decimated (Forde 1990: 12). The first inhabitants were those living in camps around the town of Taroom and surrounding cattle stations, but people were also removed from camps further afield from places such as St George and Roma (southwest from Taroom), and the Burnett region (east of Taroom) (L’Oste-Brown et al. 1995:8). There was also a clear presence from early on of people from much further north, whose cultural practices were seen as particularly distinctive. So there is evidence that within the first ten years of the settlement the population was already culturally and linguistically diverse, including some from language groups with no prior history of contact. The diversity of population continued after the move to Woorabinda. Initially most removals came from the surrounding areas, especially Springsure, Baralaba and Rockhampton. In 1942 more than 200 residents from the (German) Lutheran Cape Bedford mission (now Hopevale) were removed to Woorabinda. The move resulted in a terrible death toll, and most of these Guugu Yimidhirr speakers returned to Cape Bedford following the war years (see also Haviland, this volume). However some did remain, reinforcing the presence of ‘northern’ Indigenous people at Woorabinda. After World War Two, removals became more widespread with additions of people from the Gulf region (e.g. Burketown, Doomadgee, Mornington Island) for the first time, and more from North Coast urban centres, Cairns and Townsville. The 1950s also saw a dramatic increase in the number of removals from Cherbourg to Woorabinda, followed by a significant overall decrease in the 1960s.

5.1  How did people live? People initially lived in distinct camps at Taroom, as they did in Cherbourg, ­organised around five regions: ‘Cooktown’ (far north Qld), ‘Gulalee’ (southwest Qld), mixed, ‘Burnett’ and ‘Western Queensland’ (L’Oste-Brown et al. 1995). This division into camps was maintained and expanded at Woorabinda (Kolijn-Vink 1986: 59). Like Cherbourg, the few non-Indigenous staff and their families lived in areas strictly removed from the Indigenous residential areas. As removals continued through the 20th century, people were often able to join others from similar linguistic and cultural backgrounds. For

 Ilana Mushin, Denise Angelo, & Jennifer M. Munro

example, when 37 people were removed to Woorabinda from Noccundra in the far Southwest in 1952, they were joining an already well-established ‘Kulili/Gulalee’ group that had maintained an identity as people from the southwest since Taroom days. As reported in Munro & Mushin (2016), the separation of people into distinct camps was maintained until some time in the late 1950s, when there was still a distinction made between ‘North’ and ‘South’ people. Up until this time, it appears that people still identified themselves by their places/language groups of origin rather than as people of Woorabinda.11 By the early 1960s, housing had become more integrated, and changes to The Act meant that people were able to move more freely in and out of the settlement. It is around this time that it appears that people began to self-identity as members of a Woorabinda community. This is much later than either Yarrabah or Cherbourg, where there is evidence of integration as a community by the 1930s. There was a dormitory system at Taroom and Woorabinda, but it was less isolating than Cherbourg, as children were able to visit their families on weekends. There was a dormitory for girls in Taroom, while boys remained in the camps. In Woorabinda there were dormitories for both boys and girls. Children who were raised in the dormitories lived there until they were of working age (fourteen) under the supervision of a non-Indigenous staffer.

5.2  Languages spoken at Taroom/Woorabinda No inventory of language groups was compiled during the Taroom Reserve period. Norman Tindale visited Woorabinda in 1937, and identified 47 different language groups. People in Woorabinda today claim 52 language groups are in the community. There is evidence, however, that at least some of the groups were no longer actively passing their languages on to their children as a first language as early as the Taroom foundational period. We know from Gavan Breen’s linguistic salvage work (Breen 1990) that the last speakers of many languages of the southwest (i.e. languages associated with the ‘Gulalee’ group) were already reduced to a handful of old speakers by the 1960s, suggesting that these languages had ceased to be used inter-generationally by the dawn of the 20th century.12

.  The people who came directly from Taroom, however, appear to have a particular status in the community as ‘founder’ families, but these themselves came from multiple backgrounds. .  There is evidence, however, that at least some languages were maintained at Taroom and Woorabinda. By 1965, when Elwyn Flint visited Woorabinda as part of the Queensland Speech Survey, there were speakers of at least Wakka Wakka, Gunggari, Bidjara, Gangulu, and possibly Wadjigu still resident, but these languages do not appear to be in active use then. There is also evidence that Guugu Yimidhirr and Kuku Yalanji were maintained in some families, as supported by the recollections of Elders we interviewed in 2012.



Same but different 

L’Oste-Brown et al. (1995:9) note that many of the original residents of Taroom had already been working in the pastoral industry as drovers, station hands and domestics. This means that many, if not most, of the earliest residents of Taroom were already speakers of Inland Queensland Pidgin, at least as a language of contact between Indigenous and non-Indigenous pastoral workers.13 It is therefore possible that some groups had begun using an expanded version of this pidgin as a language among themselves. The diversity of language backgrounds at Taroom/Woorabinda afforded many contexts for the use of a contact variety as a lingua franca: work assignments within the settlement (people had to work 24 hours a week on the settlement) and children living in dormitories. Although people lived in separate camps in both Taroom and Woorabinda at least until the late 1950s, the divisions appear to be geographic rather than linguistic, so that people from different language backgrounds may have lived in the same camps. This may have provided additional impetus for the development of a lingua franca that became Woorie Talk.

5.3  Other factors in language contact outcomes As for the other settlements, there would have been very little exposure to English in daily life, and Indigenous people were highly segregated from non-Indigenous people. Like Cherbourg and Yarrabah, Woorabinda’s Indigenous residents vastly outnumbered staff at all stages, and as noted above, they resided in separate areas. Until 1962, when the Queensland Department of Education took over responsibility for Indigenous education and children could attend High School, schooling in English was rudimentary and ad hoc. As for Cherbourg and Yarrabah, the principal exposure to English would have come from work assignments outside of Taroom/Woorabinda. As noted above, these were predominantly in the pastoral industry as drovers, stock hands and female domestics, although there are records of Woorabinda people working in industries all over the state (e.g. sugar, corn and railways; see Forde 1990). People generally returned to Woorabinda at the end of each contract, bringing perhaps the influence of the regional and non-standard varieties spoken by pastoralists in this period.14

.  The use of this pidgin would have been reinforced in this period as most Taroom residents sent out to work continued to work in the pastoral industry around Central and Western Queensland. .  Thus, as Munro (2000) noted for the emergence of Kriol in the Roper River region of NT, we must understand more about the English varieties spoken by settlers with whom Indigenous people came into contact in order to properly account for contemporary Indigenous vernaculars. This is the subject of ongoing research.

 Ilana Mushin, Denise Angelo, & Jennifer M. Munro

Therefore, as for Cherbourg, there is very little evidence that Taroom/Woorabinda residents ever had much exposure to mainstream English varieties sufficiently to be the target of language shift. Woorie Talk emerged from existing contact varieties, nonstandard English varieties and traditional languages that were still spoken up until the 1950s. Despite increased exposure since the 1960s to standard varieties of English through mobility, access to education, and mass media, the Woorie Talk recorded as part of the Queensland Speech Survey in the early 1960s bears much resemblance to the contemporary vernacular, and is evidence of its association with an emerging identification of Woorabinda as a community rather than a locus of removal.

6.  Summary and Conclusions On the surface, the story of language contact in each of the settlements shows remarkable consistency. In all three cases groups of people speaking a large range of both traditional and pre-existing contact languages were brought together in the 20th century, often for the first time, to live in a highly controlled environment that was segregated from mainstream Australia. Not only were residents removed into such settlements, but they were also moved between settlements. This practice created opportunities for linguistic conventions to be shared, especially between these significant sites of removal. One consequence of these commonalities is that all three vernaculars share linguistic features. Our summaries of the three settlements of Yarrabah, Cherbourg and Woorabinda, however, also point to some important differences in patterns of language contact that we hypothesize are key underlying reasons for the differences we find between the languages spoken in each settlement. From this we start to be in a position to address the question of why YL appears more distinct from CT and WT, which are linguistically more similar to each other than to YL. As shown earlier, YL exhibits more obvious pidgin/creole-heritage traits in its structure than WT and CT which appear, at least superficially, to share more material with English-like varieties. Thus, English-like features, such as the past tense markers was and -ed have been taken into CT and WT, while the past tense marker of pidgin/ creole-heritage, bin, is not used, and is indeed commonly associated by Cherbourg and Woorabinda community members today with Yarrabah ways of speaking and/ or with Northern Territory Kriol (if occasion has arisen to become familiar with such varieties). Possessive marking provides another example where YL appears to have more pidgin/creole traits in its contemporary use. There are a number of ways of constructing possessives in all three, but only YL utilises the purposive/possessive marker ‘ba’ as in Oo ba dis fishing line? literally ‘who for is this fishing line’. The YL marker ‘ba’



Same but different 

is reminiscent of possessive marking in other Australian creoles, with Kriol variants blanga, bla, ba, blanganda, fo, bo functioning as possessive (also as post-position) (Schutze-Berndt et al. 2013: 245) and blonga, blo or blong, blo in Yumpatok (Shnukal, 1988: 59–60) or Cape York Creole (Crowley & Rigsby: 1979: 181) respectively. Our investigation of the sociohistorical conditions at each of these three settlements provides evidence of factors for conditions that favoured the introduction and/or retention of more pidgin/creole features at Yarrabah than at Cherbourg or Woorabinda: 1. Colonial occupation was less advanced in the far north than in the rest of the state (20 years maximum at the time of Yarrabah’s establishment). For the Gungganydji locals, the mission was the first permanent incursion on their land. In contrast, the lands surrounding Cherbourg, Taroom and then Woorabinda had already seen several decades of colonisation with the decimation and displacement of local groups by the turn of the 20th century. The shift from traditional languages to contact varieties based on earlier English-lexified pidgins as a principal language between Indigenous people themselves was thus already more generationally entrenched in the south and central regions. 2. At Yarrabah, a high proportion of speakers of local and related traditional languages in the early years and throughout its history may well have facilitated a transfer of substrate features into YL and/or reinforced existing substrate compatible features in the early pidgins. In contrast, language shift was already well underway in the south and central regions prior to the establishment of the settlements. As traditional languages further declined and became less viable sources for substrate input, any further language development was more likely to draw from the superstrate, or be driven by internally motivated innovations;15 3. Contact with the superstrate, English, was more recent at Yarrabah in the far north, if it had actually occurred at all, as a separate phenomenon to contact with English-lexified pidgins. The pidgins that had spread primarily via maritime, pastoral, mining, plantation and missionary work into the far north presumably reinforced each other in those aspects they held in common (e.g. past marker bin), apparently outweighing and blocking the transfer of the corresponding English-like features, if these were even available in this linguistic milieu. In contrast, Cherbourg residents may perhaps have had the greatest contact with ­English through the settlement’s role as an industrial training centre. By virtue of its

.  We do see substrate inputs in both CT and WT. More precise research is required to determine the types of substrate inputs we find in all three varieties, along the lines of Munro (2004) for Roper River Kriol.

 Ilana Mushin, Denise Angelo, & Jennifer M. Munro

g­ eographic location, the region around Cherbourg was also populated earlier and more densely by English-speaking settlers. Woorabinda was more geographically remote, and as Munro & Mushin (2016) suggest, most exposure to English would have come through the varieties spoken by pastoral workers. The ways in which pastoral varieties of English may have influenced the development of Woorie Talk is the subject of ongoing research. 4. Only Yarrabah residents had sustained opportunities for contact with Englishlexified varieties that entered from the north (e.g. Melanesian Pidgin, Torres Strait Creole), and they probably had the greatest influence on YL due to this community’s longstanding associations with maritime and plantation industries. Simultaneously, there was less time-depth contact with English to level out nonEnglish features. In contrast, the residents of Taroom, and later of Woorabinda, were mostly from groups impacted directly by the pastoral industry where Inland Queensland Pidgin had become a dominant contact variety. It is likely that this was the most dominant contact variety influence on the development of Woorie Talk, although there was also likely contact with Englishes for several generations longer than in the north. The situation at Cherbourg is complicated by the early bringing together of coastal and inland groups from southern Queensland, and the subsequent rapid and dramatic diversification of the origins of its population which would have used different varieties of contact languages. This diversity may have had the effect of cancelling out some typical pidgin/creole features, as would have the longer and more intensive contact with Englishes outside the settlement. So while all three settlements had important influences from pre-existing contact languages, the relative dominance of these varieties coupled with the influence of Englishes were determined by local demographic and historic factors. 5. The confinement of children in dormitories in all three settlements led to the development of ‘dormitory talk’ speech styles. However, the dormitory system in Yarrabah, as we understand it, would have allowed locally born children 10 years’ living with their families, and thus to become proficient in their local language, before entering the dormitory to efficiently pass this on to the newly removed child arrivals. In contrast, the Cherbourg and Woorabinda dormitories took in younger children (with Cherbourg children by far the most segregated from the rest of the settlement), and children from a mixture of language groups, including those who were already using a contact variety as the principal means of communication.16 Furthermore, Woorabinda children had regular contact with their

.  Munro (2004) noted differences in speech styles in Roper River based on dormitory experiences, and so we expect these to have had an effect on the forms of the contemporary vernaculars, although this would be the subject of future work.



Same but different 

families on weekends that was denied children in Cherbourg dormitories. We therefore expect the dormitory talk that emerged at Cherbourg to be the least influenced by substrate languages and for the variety used in Yarrabah dormitories to be the closest to the varieties spoken by adults outside of the dormitories. In summary, the mechanisms behind the different make-up of YL appear many and complex. The key drivers include the early establishment of a pidgin as a lingua franca in a relatively cohesive community-like context, the ongoing reinforcement of pidgin/creole-heritage features with a corresponding lack of English input from the very outset, the inculcation of new arrivals into the local lingua franca/vernacular through dormitories and on-site work, and a preponderance of related local traditional languages increasing the possibility of substrate influence. In contrast, although Barambah/Cherbourg and Taroom/Woorabinda both started with people drawn from their surrounding regions, often speaking related languages, removals very quickly diversified so that even very early on there is evidence of language groups from the far north (‘Cooktown’) and far southwest (Kullili/ Gulalee and ‘Sundowner’), which are not (closely) related. So while for all three settlements there was an impetus to develop a lingua franca, the residents of Barambah/ Cherbourg or Taroom/Woorabinda would have had fewer shared substrate influences thus drawing more from the superstrate (as suggested in Munro & Mushin (2016) for Woorie Talk). Furthermore, the early camp structure of the Barambah/Cherbourg and Taroom/Woorabinda settlements were probably less conducive to the development of an early community-wide pidgin. Our research so far has identified many social and historical similarities and differences between Yarrabah, Woorabinda and Cherbourg, which with further investigation may point to other factors in the emergence of these contemporary vernaculars. Obviously a more fine-grained understanding of all aspects of each settlement’s demographics, alongside a more detailed picture of colonial activities in areas impinging on them and their (future) residents, will assist with teasing out more accurately their linguistic corollary. Similarly, piecing together the patterns of language contact that were drawn into and spread out of these hubs is vital for understanding the extent to which these influenced each vernacular. Further investigation is required to identify all the operative variables of off-site and on-site labour, dormitory life, schooling and training experiences and community organisation in order to learn how these played out linguistically. There is also the fact that Yarrabah received more child removals than the other settlements, and Yarrabah and Cherbourg received more residents of mixed descent. We are not yet in a position to know how these and other factors may have impacted on the nature of the language varieties we see in these places today. Like most studies of language contact in colonial contexts, our findings are limited by the range of historical and linguistic materials that exist for each settlement.

 Ilana Mushin, Denise Angelo, & Jennifer M. Munro

Even those who kept records of life in the settlements under The Act did not tend to document linguistic behaviours. For example, the Removals records tell us where someone may have been removed from and where they were removed to, but they do not necessarily tell us where they were born and they do not say what language(s) they spoke. There are no recordings of the vernaculars of these settlements prior to the 1960s. Many parts of the story must remain untold, unless other documentary material comes to light. The study of contact varieties in Australia has gained some recent momentum, as seen in recent surveys (e.g. Meakins 2014) and the contributions to the Atlas of Pidgin and Creole Language Structures (e.g. Schultze-Berndt et al. 2013). Emerging from this body of work is a growing recognition that while the contact languages in Australia with the greatest numbers of speakers are those that emerged from colonisation by English speakers, there are great dimensions of variability. This variability is a consequence of the particular historical and social circumstances that Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people have found themselves in many different parts of the continent. Our comparison of only three settlements in Queensland exposes this diversity, showing that the impact of colonisation on the vernaculars of Australia’s First Peoples is not one story. There is surely more to understand about contemporary vernaculars in Queensland by investigating how they have emerged from such historical and social contexts, rather than conceptualising them purely as a generic phenomenon under the label of ‘Aboriginal English’. We expect to find similar kinds of variation – some subtle, some obvious – in other parts of the state, and the individual communities within those regions, that we have not been able to examine here: Cape York Peninsula, the Gulf region, Palm Island, as well as varieties spoken in urban and regional communities. We hope that this brief study opens up new possibilities for further study of Queensland’s Indigenous contact languages.

References Allridge, Claire. 1984. Aboriginal English as a Post-pidgin. BA (Hons) thesis, Australian National University. Alexander, Diane. 1965. Yarrabah Aboriginal English. BA (Hons) thesis, University of Queensland. Alexander, Diane. 1968. Woorabinda Aboriginal Australian English. MA thesis, University of Queensland. Anderson, Chris & Norman Mitchell. 1981. Kubara: A Kuku-Yalanji view of the Chinese in North Queensland. Aboriginal History 5: 21–38. Angelo, Denise. 2004. Getting real about language. Paper presented at the Applied Linguistics Association of Australia (ALAA) Annual conference, Melbourne.



Same but different 

Angelo, Denise. 2006. Shifting landscape of northern Queensland. Paper presented at the Workshop on Australian Aboriginal Languages, University of Sydney. Angelo, Denise. 2013. Identification and assessment contexts of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander learners of Standard Australian English: Challenges for the language testing community. Papers in Language Testing and Assessment 2: 67–102. Angelo, Denise & Sophie McIntosh. 2015. Anomalous data about Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander language ecologies in Queensland. In Elke Stracke, ed. Intersections: Applied Linguistics as a Meeting Place. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. 271–293. Blake, Thom. 2001. A Dumping ground: A History of the Cherbourg Settlement. St Lucia: University of Queensland Press. Bottoms, Tim. 1993. The world of the Bama. Aboriginal-European relations in the Cairns rainforest region to 1876. Royal Historical Society of Queensland 15: 1–14. Bottoms, Tim. 1999. Djabugay Country. An Aboriginal History of Tropical North Queensland. Sydney: Allen & Unwin. Breen, Gavan. 1990. Salvage Studies of Western Queensland Aboriginal Languages. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. Copland, Mark. 2005. Calculating Lives: The Numbers and Narratives of Forced Removals in Queensland 1859–1972. Ph.D. Dissertation, Griffith University. Crowley, Terry & Bruce Rigsby, Bruce. 1979. Cape York Creole. In Tim Shopen, ed. Languages and their Status. Cambridge, Mass: Winthrop Publishers. 153–207. Dixon, R.M.W. 1977. A Grammar of Yidiny. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. doi: 10.1017/CBO9781139085045 Dutton Tom. 1965. The Informal Speech of Palm Island Aboriginal Children. MA thesis, University of Queensland. Dutton, Tom. 1980. Queensland Canefields English of the Late Nineteenth Century. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. Dutton, Tom. 1983. The origin and spread of Aboriginal Pidgin English in Queensland: A preliminary account. Aboriginal History 7: 90–122. Denigan, Kathleen. 2008. Reflections in Yarrabah. Yarrabah: Yarrabah Aboriginal Shire Council. Eades, Diana. 1983. English as an Aboriginal Language in Southeast Queensland. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Queensland. Eades, Diana. 1991. ‘They don’t speak an Aboriginal language, or do they?’ In Ian Keen, ed. Being Black: Aboriginal Cultures in Settled Australia. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. 97–115. Forde, Theresa. 1990. Confinement and Control: A History of Woorabinda Aboriginal Community 1927–1990. BA (Hons) thesis, University of Queensland. Gourlay, Claire & Ilana Mushin. 2015. ‘Up dere la’: Final particle la in a Queensland Aboriginal vernacular. Australian Journal of Linguistics 34: 76–101. doi: 10.1080/07268602.2015.976902 Gribble, Ernest. 1930. Forty Years with the Aborigines. Sydney: Angus and Robertson. Harris, John. 1986. Northern Territory Pidgins and the Origin of Kriol. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. Hegarty, Ruth. 1999. Is that you, Ruthie? St Lucia: University of Queensland Press. Halse, Christine. 1996. The Reverend Ernest Gribble: A successful missionary? In Brian Dalton, ed. Lectures on North Queensland history. No. 5. Townsville: James Cook University. 218–247.

 Ilana Mushin, Denise Angelo, & Jennifer M. Munro Hume, Lynne. 1989. Yarrabah: Christian Phoenix. Christianity and Social Cchange on an Aboriginal Reserve. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Queensland. Hume, Lynne. 1991. Them days: Life on an Aboriginal reserve 1892–1960. Aboriginal History 15: 4–24. Hunter, Ernest, Joseph Reser, Mercy Baird & Paul Reser. 2001. An Analysis of Suicide in Indigenous Communities of North Queensland: The Historical, Cultural and Symbolic Landscape. Canberra: Commonwealth Department of Health and Aged Care. Kidd, Ros. 1997. The Way we Civilise: Aboriginal Affairs, the Untold Story. St Lucia: University of Queensland Press. Kolijn-Vink, Eveline. 1986. Aboriginal Identity and Art as the Material Expression of Identity in Woorabinda; Central Queensland, Australia. MA Thesis, Leiden University. Language Perspectives. 2009. At da Crick [Poster]. Cairns: Indigenous Schooling Support Unit, Education Queensland. Language Perspectives. 2013. Usmob in da mission [Poster]. Cairns: Indigenous Schooling Support Unit, Education Queensland. Language Perspectives. 2015.Youfla whichay? Woorie way [Poster]. Cairns: Indigenous Schooling Support Unit, Education Queensland. L’ Oste-Brown, Scott, Luke Godwin, Gordon Henry, Ted Mitchell, & Vera Tyson. 1995. Living under the Act: Taroom Aboriginal Reserve 1911–1927. Brisbane: Queensland Department of Environment and Heritage. Loos, Noel. 2007. White Christ, Black Cross: The Emergence of a Black Church. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. McIntosh, Sophie, Renae O’Hanlon & Denise Angelo. 2012. The (in)visibility of “language” within Australian educational documentation: Differentiating language from litercy and exploring particular ramifictions for a group of “hidden” ESL/D learners. In Richard Baldauf, ed. Future Directions in Applied Linguistics. St Lucia: University of Queensland Press. 447–468. Munro, Jennifer. 2000. Kriol on the move: A case of language spread and shift in Northern Australia. In Jeff Siegel, ed. Processes of Language Contact: Studies from Australia and the South Pacific. Montreal: Fides. 245–270. Munro, Jennifer. 2004. Substrate Language Influence in Kriol: The Application of Transfer Constraints to Language Contact in Northern Australia. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of New England. Munro, Jennifer. 2012. The Silence is Deafening. Understanding the south/south-west Queensland Aboriginal Language Situation. Cairns: Far North Queensland Indigenous Schooling Support Unit, Department of Education, Training & Employment. Munro, Jennifer & Ilana Mushin. 2016. Rethinking Australian Aboriginal English-based speech varieties: Evidence from Woorabinda. Journal of Pidgin and Creole Languages 31. Queensland Studies Authority (QSA). 2011. Supporting Aboriginal or Torres Strait Islander children who speak languages other than English. Queensland kindergarten learning guideline  – Professional development resources. Retrieved from: http://www.qsa.qld.edu.au/ downloads/early_middle/qklg_pd_atsi_esl.pdf. Readdy, Coral. 1961. South East Queensland Aboriginal English BA (Hons) thesis, University of Queensland. Richards, Matthew. 2010. Race around Cairns: Representations, Perceptions and Realities of Race in the Trinity Bay District 1876–1908. Ph.D. Dissertation, James Cook University.



Same but different 

Roth, Walter Edmund. 1903. Annual report of the Northern Protector of Aboriginals for 1902. Cooktown: Office of the Northern Protector. Schmidt, Annette. 1985. Young people’s Dyirbal: An Example of Language Death from Australia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Schmidt, Annette. 1990. The Loss of Australia’s Aboriginal Language Heritage. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Sellwood, Juanita & Denise Angelo. 2013. Everywhere and nowhere: Invisibility of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander contact languages in education and Indigenous language contexts. Australian Review of Applied Linguistics 36: 250–266. Shnukal, Anna. 1983. Torres Strait Creole: The growth of a new Torres Strait language. Aboriginal History 7: 173–185. Shnukal, Anna. 1988. Broken: An Introduction to the Creole Language of Torres Strait. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. Schultze-Berndt, Eva, Felicity Meakins & Denise Angelo. 2013. Kriol. In Susanne Michaelis, Philip Maurer, Magnus Huber & Martin Haspelmath, eds. The Atlas of Pidgin and Creole Language Structures (APiCS). Oxford: Oxford University Press. Tennant Kelly, Caroline. 1935. Tribes on Cherburg settlement, Queensland. Oceania 5: 461–473. doi: 10.1002/j.1834-4461.1935.tb00165.x Thompson, David. 1995. ‘Bora Belonga White Man’. Missionaries and Aborigines at Lockhart River Mission. MA Thesis, University of Queensland. Thomson, Judy. 1989. Reaching Back: Queensland Aboriginal People Recall Early Days at Yarrabah Mission. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Troy, Jakelin. 1990. Australian Aboriginal Contact with the English Language in New South Wales: 1788–1845. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. Tryon, Darrell & Jean-Michel Charpentier. 2004. Pacific Pidgins and Creoles: Origins, Growth and Development. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter.  doi: 10.1515/9783110899689

The story of Old Man Frank A narrative response to questions about language shift in northern Cape York Peninsula Helen Harper

Menzies School of Health Research In this chapter I present a story that was told to me in the early 1990s by Goodie Massey, an Atambaya man who grew up at Injinoo in northern Cape York Peninsula. The story is set in the early years of the settlement at Injinoo, at a time when children began to adopt the new regional lingua franca, Torres Strait Creole, as their everyday language. As a background to the discussion of this story I explore the historical and linguistic context of the colonial era in northern Cape York Peninsula and posit some explanatory accounts of language shift in Injinoo. I argue that, while language shift can be seen as a function of hegemonic pressures, Goodie Massey’s story offers more nuanced insights into the complex linguistic and social landscape of his childhood.

1.  Introduction1 Goodie Massey was an Atambaya man who grew up in the northernmost region of Cape York Peninsula in the settlement at Injinoo. Goodie was born on his traditional country near the site of the McDonnell Telegraph Station, some 100 kilometres south and inland from the top of the Peninsula. When he was small, around the time when the telegraph station was closed in 1929, the Atambaya people were “brought in” to Injinoo, or Cowal Creek as it was then known, the last group in the region to make the transition to living directly under the supervision of government and church representatives. The lives of Goodie’s parents and older relatives were largely undocumented. It seems that until they were officially moved to Injinoo, Goodie’s small group had managed to maintain connection with their own country and live mostly below the radar of settled society. Even the Queensland Protectors who monitored the Aboriginal

. 

For locations mentioned in the text, see the two general maps at the front of the volume.

doi 10.1075/clu.18.19har © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

 Helen Harper

peoples in the most remote parts of the state had little to say about the “McDonnell” people, other than an occasional cursory reference to them in their annual reports (Queensland 1900; 1902). But despite the thinness of historical documentation from the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, we can assume that Goodie’s people were not immune from the pressures that more immediately and intensely affected their coastal kin as they encountered and were drawn into unequal relationships with European settlers, aggressive fishing interests, and missionary zeal. (See further in Section 2 below, and for more recent linguistic and ethno-historical work in the region see Greer & Fuary 2008, Powell 2014.) I first met Goodie when I went to Injinoo in the early 1990s. My agenda was to write about language shift in Injinoo, that is, how the language situation had changed since European intrusion into the region, and when and why people had begun using Torres Strait Creole, rather than traditional languages, as their everyday language (see, for example, Crowley & Rigsby 1979). I can’t speak for Goodie’s agenda, but he agreed to talk to me about language. So we began our conversations, sporadically over a number of months, and then over a number of return visits on my part. Goodie’s language, Atambaya, is one of a group of dialects traditionally spoken in the northern Cape York Peninsula region, from the tip of the Peninsula, south to Port Musgrave in the west and Cape Grenville in the east. The group of dialects also includes Angkamuthi, Yadhaykenu, Wuthathi, and Gudang. Most likely there was never any name for the dialect group as a whole, although Crowley (1983) referred to the dialects collectively as Uradhi (literally “having urra” as the word for “this”) and more recently people at Injinoo began using the name Injinoo Ikya, meaning “Injinoo Language.” At the time of my visits, older people also used the Creole term Langgus to denote all traditional languages, including the Torres Strait languages (Kala Lagaw Ya and Meriam Mir). It was necessary to attend to context and speaker in order to figure out which particular language they were referring to. To learn about history and language in the region I consulted various kinds of documents and accounts. I unearthed historical accounts, reports, and diaries. I collected people’s memories on tape, compared what people told me with versions written by Europeans, tallied up consistencies and ferreted out misleading claims. I asked people what they knew about language and I tried carefully to observe and note how people spoke. But a large part of how I came to understand the place, the people and their past was through the stories that Goodie told me. My aim in this chapter is to present one of these stories and to explore how it helped me interpret the post-contact linguistic and cultural landscape in northern Cape York Peninsula, particularly in the early days of settlement at Injinoo. I had been asking questions about those early days, and what languages people used to speak when Goodie was younger. I had asked him to tell stories in Langgus, but this kind of “story-in-Langgus-for-the-benefit-of-the-linguist” was not comfortably within Good-



The story of Old Man Frank 

ie’s storytelling repertoire: the few stories he told me in Atambaya were stilted and brief. However, he did think about stories I might be interested in, and he began to tell them to me in Creole. These tellings were quite different: he spoke with dramatic cadence, playfully, and with great performance flair. The story I want to present here (see the appendix to this chapter) is a retelling of a story that Goodie had been told many years before, when he was a child or a young man, by a man he knew as “Old Man Frank”. It is set in the early years of the settlement at Injinoo and is notable for the role given to different languages in representing the voices of Frank’s belongings. It is easy to see the story as a kind of allegoric exploration of language use, and there are doubtless many other possible ways to interpret the story as a whole. But my interest here is in exploring the story as a situated text, within the context of my conversations with Goodie, and as a contrived response to the questions I had been asking about language and history. The significance of Goodie’s narrative, I will argue, went beyond the limits of both the available historical documentation, and the singularity of individual personal memories. Before discussing the story of Old Man Frank, I will describe the historical context of language shift in the region of northern Cape York Peninsula, and outline what I see as some of the tensions and challenges in constructing a coherent account of language shift.

2.  Cultural and linguistic changes in northern Cape York Peninsula People in northern Cape York Peninsula experienced the first major European encroachment into their territory in 1864 when the settlement of Somerset was established. For some decades the flow of commercial shipping through the Torres Strait had been increasing, and, although considerable effort had been made to chart the strait (see, for example, Moore 1979), the waters were still treacherous. The siting of Somerset near the northernmost tip of the Peninsula was motivated by the need for a safe harbor and a supply depot. It was also envisaged as a military post, a centre for the control of native peoples, and a base for expanding colonial interests into the region of New Guinea and the Indonesian archipelago (Mullins 1995: 31). In the event, Somerset was to serve as the colonial administrative centre for the Torres Strait only until 1877, when the government Residency was moved to the more suitable site of Thursday Island. The settlement nonetheless had an irrevocable impact on the Gudang people and neighbouring groups who traditionally visited the area. Their interactions with Europeans were often violent, and from the start people suffered dreadfully from introduced diseases, such as the measles epidemic that swept through their camps near Somerset in 1875 (Mullins 1995: 52).

 Helen Harper

But for the surviving mainland Aboriginal population in the region, arguably the most significant impact on their society came from the discovery of rich sources of bêche-de-mer and pearl shell in the Torres Strait. The first fishing boats arrived in the Torres Strait in the 1860s and the industries quickly flourished. Initially most boats were crewed by Pacific Islanders, but Torres Strait Islanders quickly began to join the fishery (Mullins 1995: 74). The coastal mainland people were also in high demand as a ready and capable source of labour, and by the turn of the century were well used to working on the boats (Queensland 1900: 3). Moreover by this time they had come to rely on the new cash economy, new kinds of tools, and new goods such as alcohol, flour, sugar, tea and tobacco (Parry-Okeden 1897: 7). At the same time, Europeans began to occupy parts of the mainland, and their activities provided different kinds of employment for Aboriginal people. There was a marginal pastoral industry, and some Aboriginal groups came to camp in the vicinity of cattle stations such as Bertiehaugh, a little to the south of the northernmost Peninsula region (Parry-Okeden 1897: 10). Aboriginal people were also employed as linesmen’s assistants on the overland telegraph line through the centre of Cape York Peninsula, built in the 1880s (Sheehy 1987: 28). The telegraph line included the McDonnell Station, where Goodie Massey was born. Both land and sea-based employment allowed Aboriginal people to travel widely within and beyond the boundaries of their traditional country, and from local accounts told to me, people travelled a lot during those years. At the same time, disruption to the traditional social fabric throughout northern Cape York Peninsula was intense. Illnesses such as tuberculosis and sexually transmitted diseases became widespread, and by the turn of the century there was a low birth rate, and the death rate was high (Queensland 1902). As small traditional language groups were fragmented, their languages were no longer passed on. Some dialects may have disappeared without any record ever being made of them. Other than word lists (for example, Moore 1979, Seligmann & Pimm 1907), there is very little documentation of the Gudang and Wuthathi varieties. Meanwhile there was a significant influx of people from around the Pacific. There were those who came to work in the marine industries, and those who were sent by the London Missionary Society to bring Christianity to the Torres Strait. By 1872, by one estimate, there were 500 Pacific Islanders in the Torres Strait compared to an Indigenous population of about 3000 (Mullins 1995: 10, 82). As well as Pacific ­Islanders, boat crews comprised men from diverse cultural backgrounds, including Japanese, Malays, Torres Strait Islanders and Aboriginal people from different regions (Crowley & Rigsby 1979, Mullins 1995: 70). The marine industry soon became the focus of a distinct pan-Torres Strait culture with its own values and language. Asian immigrants introduced new foods: rice and condiments such as soy sauce, ginger and the Malaysian fish paste blachan. People



The story of Old Man Frank 

learned new forms of artistic expression. The Torres Strait people adopted a Pacific “Island Style” of song and dance, which became popular on the mainland too. Young Aboriginal men working on the boats, often for long periods of time, also became part of this culture. It has been suggested (Chase 1981: 13) that the hard life aboard the boats – surviving the dangers of the sea, physical violence and even the threat of sorcery posed by strangers – became a new initiation into manhood, replacing traditional local dependencies on family and ceremony. The marine industry created the conditions for a new lingua franca to emerge throughout the Torres Strait and northern Cape York Peninsula. The Pacific Islanders who came to the Torres Strait brought with them a ready-made contact language. Melanesian Pidgin English, or “Sandalwood English” had developed in the Pacific from the 1840s, later becoming known by different versions of the word “bêche-demer” (Crowley 1991: 28, 30). It was a trade language that was used by the boat masters as well as by missionaries. Since both these groups enjoyed considerable power and prestige (Shnukal 1988), the lingua franca was essential not only as a tool for working in the fishery, but also in helping people strengthen their social networks. In the Torres Strait “bêche-de-mer” served initially as a pidgin, but from the late 1890s, with growing numbers of intermarriages between newcomers and Torres Strait Islanders, children on some islands began learning it as their first language (Shnukal 1988). The new creole became known variously as Pizin, Broken, (and later) Blaikman, Ailan Tok or Yumpla Tok. (See also Dutton 1970, Meakins 2014, Ray 1907.) Prior to the colonial era the regions of the Torres Strait had been linguistically and politically distinct, with Kala Lagaw Ya spoken in the west, and Meriam Mir in the east. In contrast, the new creole language was spoken across the former east-west boundary. Significantly then, the emergent Torres Strait Creole served to reinforce the development of a new regional identity, and undoubtedly helped in the building of new political and family ties (Shnukal 1988). On the mainland the people spoke the new language in a distinctive manner (Crowley & Rigsby 1979), but they were also drawn into extended regional social networks. In 1902, for example, a Solomon Islander, a Loyalty Islander, a Samoan, a Brazilian and a Frenchman were all recorded in the district of Somerset as formalising marriages to Aboriginal women (Queensland 1903: 13).

3.  Settlement Over the years people who remained in the northern Cape York Peninsula region gravitated to a permanent camp that grew into a small village at Injinoo. The process of people coming to stay at Injinoo spanned about 20 years, beginning in the second decade of the 1900s and lasting until the early 1930s. As an Aboriginal

 Helen Harper

settlement, I­ njinoo was remarkable in its origins, as it was established neither by church nor by government agencies (compare the settlements discussed in Mushin et al., this volume). Government officials were aware of the village by 1918, and provided the villagers with a boat to help them take garden produce and oysters to sell on Thursday Island (Queensland Home Secretary’s Department 1919: 10). From the 1920s a representative of the Anglican mission in the Torres Strait visited Injinoo regularly (Done 1987) and in 1923 a school was established by Satraika, “a trained native mission teacher” from Moa Island (Queensland Home Secretary’s Department 1925: 10). The story of the Injinoo’s beginnings has been told as a coming together of formerly disparate but linguistically close peoples, initially from the Angkamuthi (west coast) and the Yadhaykenu (east coast) groups. The scant historical documentation suggests that people came to the settlement of their own free will. The Protector’s Report for the year 1923 noted, for example, that “natives from further south are attracted to this camp” (Queensland Home Secretary’s Department 1924: 7). Local accounts also emphasise the Aboriginal agency of the settlement and that people chose to come together to form a new identity as one group. And, according to most local accounts, when the Atambaya people finally came to Injinoo, it was a Wuthathi man called Alick Whitesand who convinced them to do so (see, for example, Sharp 1992). The move must have been momentous for the Atambaya people, as not only were they moving away from their home country, but it is also likely that traditionally they had mixed very little with coastal people (Roth 1900: 2–3). Indeed, in a version of the Whitesand story told to me by Goodie Massey (Harper 2002), Whitesand took representatives of the police and the church with him when he went to bring the Atambaya people in to the settlement. From Goodie’s version of the story we can infer that the move was probably not entirely voluntary. Neither was the initial journey to Injinoo a final “coming in” to the settlement for the Atambaya: the Protector’s report for 1932 (Queensland Home Secretary’s Department 1933: 11) indicates “a number of the McDonnell tribe leaving the village, to return to their nomadic life in the McDonnell district”. What is certain, however, is that by this point people were finding it increasingly difficult to avoid the mechanisms of control exerted by both the government and the church. The village at Injinoo was ostensibly governed by local “councillors”, following the fashion of the villages in the Torres Strait, which in turn had been heavily influenced by immigrant Pacific Islanders (Shnukal 1988: 5). And from the 1930s the village was largely administered by two Torres Strait Islander men: a teacher, Jomen Tamwoy, and a priest, Francis Bowie. Under their leadership there were strictly enforced rules in the village, including an obligation to attend church, and for children to attend school (Harper 2002). Tamwoy was remembered as a strict agent of law in the village, but also as a strong leader who got people to work together (for example, planting and



The story of Old Man Frank 

tending gardens) and who enforced Christian morals. Bowie was also strict but highly regarded for his powers of “healing and clairvoyance.” He was also “said to be able to ward off sorcery” (Beckett, 1987: 94, 98). The period during the 1930s also seems to have been the time when children adopted a variety of Torres Strait Creole as their everyday language.

4.  Narratives of language shift: Coercion and agency Language shift is often associated with macro-sociological factors such as colonisation, large-scale demographic movements, and policies that impact on language use in schools and other institutions (Rigsby 1987, Robins & Uhlenbeck 1991, Schmidt 1990). In Injinoo, official policy loomed large in people’s accounts of how the community’s linguistic repertoire had changed. When I asked people in Injinoo about the languages they spoke as children, older people (who were children in the 1930s) returned repeatedly to the controlling role of the school. They recalled being beaten at school for speaking their traditional languages. A school inspector figured prominently in their accounts, and people recalled that Jomen Tamwoy was instructed by the inspector to enforce the “no Langgus” rule rigorously. These shared memories form a strong explanatory narrative, consistent with a narrative of intrusion and unremitting, often violent hegemonic control exerted on Aboriginal people from the start of the colonial era. It is a straightforward story, and there is no reason to doubt the remembered events as other than factual. But in its “obvious”, “common sense” nature (Geertz 1983) the story of teacher and institutional coercion works to obscure the complexity of the cultural and linguistic context. It diverges, for example, from other accounts that people told me of times spent with parents hunting and camping during the holiday periods, away from school, and hearing traditional languages. It also diverges from Goodie’s account of the household of single men where he stayed as a child, and where the men spoke only Langgus with each other (Harper 2002, 193): Wen em ol sidaun tagedha ol lisen nau Langgus flai nau. Laik ol yan, wanpela yan pas, yan yan yan yan yan yan yan, this pela pinis nau nather pela karion nau stori, laik that.2 ‘When they all sat down together you could hear the Language flying around. Like, they would all talk – one man would talk first – talk talk talk talk talk talk talk. Then he would finish and another man would carry on with the stories.’

. 

See appendix for notes on the orthography used here.

 Helen Harper

Thus in some ways the school-as-censor story ignores the question of people’s motivations for choosing one language over another outside of school. Rather than being the catalyst for changing language use, the school may have served as narrative proxy for a constellation of circumstances and influences on people’s attitudes to language. These most certainly incorporated educational policies, but they also included demographic changes, the cohabitation of people from previously distinct language groups, and the influence of the church. An important factor to consider is that the traditional languages of the Injinoo people had become very “small” languages in relation to the widespread and now very useful Torres Strait Creole. As McConvell (1991) has noted, bilingualism or multilingualism can remain stable in a community for generations, but where there is this kind of “nesting pattern” of languages and varieties – where smaller groups exist within larger groups – there is likely to be some asymmetry in patterns of language use which will favour the more inclusive languages such as Torres Strait Creole. This imbalance can then be accentuated where there is a further asymmetry of power between the larger cultural groups within the state, and colonised Indigenous peoples (Rigsby 1987: 361). In addition, it has been observed that the languages of low status social groups can come to be associated with low prestige, to the point that parents begin, consciously or unconsciously, not to transmit the language to their children (see, for example, Dorian 1998: 3). We should also consider the role of children themselves in this process. ­McConvell (1991), for example, noted social pressures amongst children at Turkey Creek to use Kriol rather than their traditional language, Kija. More recently, in a study of young children’s language in the multilingual community at Yakanarra in Western Australia, Loakes et al. (2013) found that children spent a large amount of time with one another in the absence of adults and influenced one another in their choice of language. Further, they found that Kriol was the primary language that children heard, even from older people who did not learn Kriol from birth, and suggested that younger people may be successfully socialising the older people also to use Kriol. Similarly, Gafaranga (2010) studied the immigrant Rwandan community in Belgium, where language shift is taking place from KinyarwandaFrench ­bilingualism to French monolingualism. He found (p. 249) that children were actors in the process of language socialization, observing that they indirectly but constantly requested the adults to switch languages, and thus to “talk language shift into being.” Finally, we can posit that, with so many new influences and the breakdown of the old social order, children’s grasp of the complexities of the old languages was weakened. McConvell (1991: 155) reported the recollections of Ron Day, a Mer Islander who was part of the generation who adopted Torres Strait Creole as their own language, and who described feeling rejected by older people because he



The story of Old Man Frank 

spoke neither Meriam Mir nor English “correctly”. McConvell further suggested that, where children are ­constructed or construct themselves as speakers of the new language, it may be that the older generation does not encourage children to use the old language. This situation has also been observed and commented on elsewhere (e.g., Dorian 1981, McGregor 2003). In Injinoo too, it is plausible that children came to feel excluded from interactions in Langgus and as a result, Langgus became largely reserved for adult use while Creole became strongly associated with young people. For all these reasons, it is useful to see language shift as part of a hegemonic cultural movement (House 2002), in which people are drawn to find their place in the new world order. This perspective foregrounds the new roles that people actively sought in the emerging labour-based economy, complying with demands of the government and church authorities and using Creole as an essential tool for operating in their extended social networks. The success of Creole was part of the process of people developing new repertoires, empowering them to take part in the new economic and social reality. Seeing language shift in this way also allows us to consider Aboriginal people’s agency in the process. There were many motivations for Aboriginal people to imitate their colonisers, and strategically to accept some aspects of the hegemony. At the same time people most certainly enacted contradictory processes of resistance and rejection, as when, for example, the Atambaya people moved back to their country soon after they were initially brought to Injinoo. And despite the seeming omnipotence of the colonising cultures, there were ways for people to enact, manipulate, and draw power from dual or even multiple identities.

5.  The story of Old Man Frank This brings us back to what Goodie Massey was able to tell me about language, the agency of Aboriginal people and the value that he attributed to traditional languages in the context of his multilingual repertoire. In telling the story of “Old Man Frank”, Goodie neatly sidestepped the questions of what led people to adopt Creole as their everyday language, or what it meant to be a Creole speaker. “Old Man Frank” is nonetheless a story that is, at least in part, “about” language and the relationship of language to the cultural context of the early days of settlement at Injinoo. The exact time setting of the story is not clear, although Goodie mentioned that the events took place when people were still living in humpies made of messmate bark. Goodie told me that he heard the story as a youth living in a household of men, one of whom was Old Man Frank. So this was Goodie’s version of the story that was first told by Frank. It starts out as an apparent “hunting story”, with Frank setting out one day to look for food, dressed in his trousers and shirt, and carrying his spear

 Helen Harper

and woomera, a gun, and a dilly bag for his cartridges. He failed to find any game, but instead came across a wild “bushman”, or iyanyu, a malevolent Aboriginal man living in the bush. Frank did not know this man, but recognised him as a powerful and dangerous sorcerer. Faced with the iyanyu, Frank did not have the power to hold on to his possessions: they all flew away from him, including his shirt and trousers. Only his gun stayed with him, Frank holding onto it with all his might. The iyanyu tried to kill Frank, but Frank evaded him and managed to fire a shot with his gun. As Frank was running hard back towards his camp, the bush opened up before him, and he was guided by a frill-necked lizard. When he arrived close to his camp he found that his possessions had been following him as he ran and he was able to retrieve them all. After a long illness, during which people treated him with bush medicine, Frank recovered and revisited the site of his confrontation where, finding some human bones, he was able to confirm for himself that he had succeeded in killing the iyanyu. This story is potentially “about” many things. At one level it is about Frank’s ability not only to survive, but even to defeat a malign sorcerer. At a more interpretative level, it could be about how we might construct the notion of power for someone of Frank’s generation and perhaps the random, unforeseeable nature of traditional sorcery as well as the power of bush medicine in combating that sorcery. The story can be seen as a parable of the interaction between the old and new cultures that intermeshed during the first decades of the settlement at Injinoo. The story can also be understood to represent aspects of the conflict between the old and the new cultures, as Frank succeeds in defeating something dangerous from the non-European, non-Christian part of his world. The iyanyu, who wears no clothes, who carries only a spear and does not participate in the life and rules of the settlement at Injinoo, is at least a partial reference to this older world. However, one of the most striking features of the story is that Goodie used distinct linguistic codes, Langgus and English, to mark the provenance of Frank’s possessions, unambiguously attributing each possession with one or the other languages. As the possessions returned to Frank, following him through the bush, they called out to their “master”, the spear, woomera and dilly bag calling out in Langgus and the shirt, trousers and gun calling out in English (see lines 158–193 in the appendix). It would be easy to characterise the story as representing a set of dichotomies. There are two contrasting worlds, marked through spatial reference to the settlement and its landmarks, and the world beyond its boundaries. Also contrasted is the new culture of the people who had settled at Injinoo, symbolised here by Frank’s Englishspeaking clothes and gun, and the old culture, symbolised by the Langgus-speaking, iconically traditional spear, woomera, and dilly bag.



The story of Old Man Frank 

In Frank, however, Goodie created something more complex than a straightforward set of dichotomies contrasting the old and the new worlds. Frank as protagonist is not aligned with any one of the particular cultural reference points in the story. Rather, his belongings afford him the possibility to play at some identification with both. The Frank of Goodie’s narrative uses European clothing to embody the civilised settled Aboriginal man (like the Ashéninka of the Gran Pajonal in Peru, as described by Veber 1992), even as he carries his traditional weapons. Indeed, there is some redundancy in Frank’s possessions: he carries both a spear and a gun. He does not, apparently, have the means to counter all of the sorcery of the iyanyu, but he does have the artefacts and technologies of two cultures at his disposal. Language, at least in the context of the story, is fixed to the artefacts of two worlds, but Frank is master of both. And in his possession, his belongings stick together as his followers, even as they give voice to their distinctive origins. Even the carefully marked languages do not symbolise a clear dichotomy. Instead, the nature of the “new” language is polymorphous, featuring Creole (the framing language of Goodie’s narration) and English (clearly marked in the speech of the gun, shirt and trousers with the /s/ in “where’s”, despite Goodie’s own limited English proficiency). There are many possible ways to think in more depth about this story, but I have focused here specifically on its function as a response to my asking Goodie to “tell me about language”. I do not claim special insights into either Goodie’s mind, or any hidden depths of meaning that might underpin the story. But to make sense of this particular telling, I have positioned it in the context of Goodie’s relationship to Frank and to Frank’s world, in which the culturally disparate origins of power could be accessed through both traditional and European authority. Historical evidence suggests that people in the region held dual beliefs in the power of both sorcery and Christianity, and that sorcery was even sanctioned by the church ­(Mullins 1995: 138). Frank’s story incorporates the idea that different sources of power were available to people at this time. In Goodie’s telling, both English and Langgus are associated with power that is enacted through Frank’s ability to use European weaponry and to defend himself against sorcery. Interpreted in this way, the story thus provides a plausible account of the relationship between language, power and identity. Interestingly, the power that is realised in this story is associated not with Creole, but with both Langgus and English. It is a story of an individual who has acquired linguistic repertoire, rather than lost it. As such, the story serves as a counter-narrative to the notion that the ascendancy of Creole and ­English was inevitable. All of this can be situated in our understanding of Goodie the storyteller as a man who distinguished himself from the other children of his generation by virtue of

 Helen Harper

having been born on his country, and who saw himself as the last child to be included amongst traditional language speakers. Goodie indicated to me that it was unusual for someone of his age to have learnt Langgus: all of the other children who spoke ­Langgus were older than he was (Harper 2002: 194): Wen ai bi kam from McDonnell ai bi tok Langgus. Ol dha taim ye. Onli ticha bi spoil dhemfela no tok Langgus. Bat ai bi stil rimemba Langgus. Ye. Ai think onli mi, Kumbai, Robert, Mishinri Patrick dhemwan savi tok Langgus blo wi – a Simon Peter laik mibala. Dhembala olrait, ol litel bit olda, mi litel bit yang fela yet that taim. Bat ai bi stil savi Langgus. Bai Jingo. Ai stil tok Langgus. ‘When I came from McDonnell I spoke Langgus. All the time yeah. It was just that the teacher stopped [the other children] from speaking Langgus. But I still remembered Langgus. Yeah. I think only me, Kumbai, Robert, Patrick [who became a priest] knew our language – and Simon Peter was like us. They were all right because they were a bit older than me; I was only young then. But I still knew Langgus. By Jingo. I still spoke Langgus.’

Goodie contrived his narrative response to my questions about language to offer a more nuanced view of language shift than is afforded by the singular explanatory account in which children were made to speak English at school, and in doing so, lost their traditional languages. In telling the story of Old Man Frank, Goodie was able to sideline the competing ideologies of the narratives that foreground either coercion or Indigenous agency. Rather, through telling this story, he fashioned a set of relationships between language, objects and possible events, the ensemble coming together through the drama of the narrative to construct a dynamic language and social landscape.

References Beckett, Jeremy. 1987. Torres Strait Islanders: Custom and Colonialism. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Chase, Athol. 1981. All kind of nation. Aboriginal History 5: 6–19. Crowley, Terry. 1983. Uradhi. In R.M.W. Dixon & Barry Blake, eds. Handbook of Australian Languages. Volume 3. Canberra: Australian National University Press. 306–428. Crowley, Terry. 1991. Beach-La-Mar to Bislama: The Emergence of a National Language in Vanuatu. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Crowley, Terry & Bruce Rigsby. 1979. Cape York Creole. In Tim Shopen, ed. Languages and Their Status. Cambridge, Mass: Winthrop Publishers. 153–207. Done, John. 1987. Wings Across the Sea. Brisbane: Boolarong Publications. Dorian, Nancy. 1981. Language Death. The Life Cycle of a Scottish Gaelic Dialect. Philadelphica: University of Pennsylvania Press.



The story of Old Man Frank 

Dorian, Nanacy. 1998. Western language ideologies and small-language prospects. In Lenore Grenoble & Lindsay Whaley, eds. Endangered Languages. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 3–21.  doi: 10.1017/CBO9781139166959.002 Dutton, Tom. 1970. Informal English in the Torres Straits. In William Ramson, ed. English Transported. Canberra: Australian National University Press. 137–160. Gafaranga, Joseph. 2010. Medium request: Talking language shift into being. Language in Society 39: 241–270.  doi: 10.1017/S0047404510000047 Geertz, Clifford. 1983. Local Knowledge. New York: Basic Books. Greer, Shelley & Maureen Fuary. 2008. Community consultation and collaborative research in Northern Cape York Peninsula – a retrospective. Archaeological Heritage 1: 5–15. Harper, Helen. 2002. The Gun and the Trousers Spoke English: Language Shift in Northern Cape York Peninsula. Ph.D. Dissertation, University of Queensland. House, Deborah. 2002. Language Shift Among Navajos: Identity Politics and Cultural Continuity. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Loakes, Deborah, Karen Moses, Gillian Wigglesworth, Jane Simpson & Rosey Billington. 2013. Children’s language input: A study of a remote multilingual Indigenous Australian community. Multilingua 32: 683–711.  doi: 10.1515/multi-2013-0032 McConvell, Patrick. 1991. Understanding language shift: A step towards language maintenance. In Susanne Romaine, ed. Language in Australia. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 143–155.  doi: 10.1017/CBO9780511620881.010 McGregor, William. 2003. Language shift among the Nyulnyul of Dampier Land. Acta Linguistica Hafniensia 35: 115–159.  doi: 10.1080/03740463.2003.10416076 Meakins, Felicity. 2014. Language contact varieties. In Harold Koch & Rachel Nordlinger, eds. The Languages and Linguistics of Australia: A Comprehensive Guide. Berlin: Mouton de Gruyter. 365–416. Moore, David. 1979. Islanders and Aborigines at Cape York. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. Mullins, Steve. 1995. Torres Strait: A History of Colonial Occupation and Culture Contact 1864– 1897. Rockhampton: Central Queensland University Press. Parry-Okeden, William. 1897. Report on the North Queensland Aborigines and the Native Police. Brisbane: Queensland Government, votes and proceedings of the Legislative Assembly. Powell, Fiona. 2014. Locating Seven Rivers. In Ian Clarke, Luise Hercus & Laura Kostanski, eds. Indigenous and Minority Placenames: Australian and International Perspectives. Canberra: Australian National University Press. 123–146. Queensland Home Secretary’s Department. 1919. Report Upon the Operations of Certain SubDepartments of the Home Secretary’s Department – Aboriginal Department, Information Contained in Report for the Year Ended 31st December 1918. Brisbane. Queensland Home Secretary’s Department. 1924. Report Upon the Operations of Certain SubDepartments of the Home Secretary’s Department – Aboriginal Department, Information Contained in Report for the Year Ended 31st December 1923. Brisbane. Queensland Home Secretary’s Department. 1925. Report Upon the Operations of Certain SubDepartments of the Home Secretary’s Department – Aboriginal Department, Information Contained in Report for the Year Ended 31st December 1924. Brisbane. Queensland Home Secretary’s Department. 1933. Report Upon the Operations of Certain SubDepartments of the Home Secretary’s Department – Aboriginal Department, Information Contained in Report for the Year Ended 31st December 1932. Brisbane.

 Helen Harper Queensland, Chief Protector of Aboriginals. 1900. Report of the Northern Protector of Aboriginals for 1899. Brisbane. Queensland, Chief Protector of Aboriginals. 1902. Annual Report of the Northern Protector of Aboriginals for 1901. Brisbane. Queensland, Chief Protector of Aboriginals. 1903. Annual Report of the Northern Protector of Aboriginals for 1902. Brisbane. Ray, Sidney. 1907. The jargon English of Torres Straits. In Sidney Ray, ed. The Languages of Torres Straits. Reports of the Cambridge Anthropological Expedition to Torres Straits. Volume 3. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 251–254. Rigsby, Bruce. 1987. Indigenous language shift and maintenance in fourth world settings. Multilingua 6: 359–378.  doi: 10.1515/mult.1987.6.4.359 Robins, Robert & Eugenius Uhlenbeck, eds. 1991. Endangered Languages. Oxford: Berg. Roth, Walter Edmund. 1900. On the Aboriginals of the Pennefather (Coen) River Districts, and other coastal tribes occupying the country between the Batavia and Embley Rivers. A Report to the Under-Secretary, Home Department (Queensland). MS. Held in the Mitchell Library, Sydney. Schmidt, Annette. 1990. The Loss of Australia’s Aboriginal Language Heritage. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Seligmann, Charles & George Pimm. 1907. Vocabulary of the Otati language spoken at Cape Grenville. In Sidney Ray, ed. The Languages of the Torres Strait. Reports of the Cambridge Anthropological Expedition to the Torres Strait. Volume 3. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press. 277–280. Sharp, Nonie. 1992. Footprints Along the Cape York Sandbeaches. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Sheehy, Don. 1987. A Century at the Top: A History of Telecommunications on Cape York Peninsula Far North Queensland 1887–1987. Cairns: Telecom Australia. Shnukal, Anna. 1988. Broken: An Introduction to the Creole Language of the Torres Strait. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. Veber, Hanne. 1992. Why Indians wear clothes. Ethnos 57: 51–60. doi: 10.1080/00141844.1992.9981445

Appendix: Old Man Frank, as told by Goodie Massey to Helen Harper (recorded 5/10/92) Note on transcription In this transcription I use an orthography devised for the variety of Creole spoken by older Aboriginal people in northern Cape York Peninsular. In contrast to other Creole varieties spoken throughout the Torres Strait, the speech of older mainlanders is characterised by a frequent use of fricatives and affricates corresponding largely to their occurrence in English. My transcription is based on the orthography developed by Shnukal (1988) for Torres Strait Creole. However, I have also used the following additional letters and digraphs, mainly derived from English spelling conventions:



The story of Old Man Frank  ‘f ’ to represent [f] ‘v’ to represent [v] ‘th’ to represent [θ] ‘dh’ to represent [δ] ‘sh’ to represent [ʃ] ‘ch’ to represent [tʃ] ‘j’ to represent [dʒ]

For reasons of space, I only provide free translations, and no interlinear glosses.   1. orait dis ol man

All right, there was this old man,

  2. ol man kol Frank

an old man called Frank.

  3. i marit

He was married.

  4. i stap bifosaid McDonnell said

He used to live over where the McDonnell camp was,

 5. mipela

with us,

  6. we i spik mipela

where they spoke our language -

  7. i spik dhem

they spoke -

  8. ol man nau

those old men,

  9. dhem ol man

those old men.

10. wel ol stap wan said

Well they all lived in the same camp.

11. [...] nau 12. wibala kol em

We called them [...].

13. i tel dhembala ai go

He told them all, ‘I’m going.’

14. we yu go

‘Where are you going?’

15. ai go luk raun imyu fo yumi

‘I’m going to hunt an emu for us.’

16. orait dhen em go

All right, so he went.

17. eli morning tu

It was early in the morning.

18. em go

He went,

19. go go go go go

walked and walked

20. wen yu go from dhe from

- when you walk from there -

21. yu savi dha mango tri dhe antap

- you know the mango tree up the hill there,

22. wen yu go dhe kantin

when you go to the canteen

23. yu luk dhem mango dhem

you see those mango trees -

24. dhe rod blo we dhe

that’s where our road was.

25. ol go dhe dhe nau wogabaut

They all used to walk around there.

26. go go go go go

He walked and walked,

27. keji krosing

got to the crossing -

28. ples kol krosing de

there was a place called ‘crossing’ there -

 Helen Harper 29. orait em spik nau

All right, he said to himself,

30. em tink nau

he thought.

31. ai go ya luwit

‘I’ll go this way leeward,1

32. wanem

thingummy,

33. dhis wei

this way.’

34. em de go

He went there,

35. em go dhat said [...]

he went that way.

36. em go

He went,

37. wogabaut wogabaut wogabaut

walking walking walking.

38. em luk ai

He looked - ‘Hey,

39. ol bin iya kaikai ol imyu

someone was here eating emu,

40. kaikai imyu

eating emu!’

41. em gad shotgan blong em

He had his shotgun with him,

42. spiya

his spear,

43. wamera

his woomera,

44. dili bag em kari em gad ol katrej insaid

his dilly bag with his cartridges in it.

45. wogabaut wogabaut a u bi iya bi kaikai imyu

He walked and walked, ‘Ah, who’s been here eating emu?’

46. o wogbaut nau em pala dha trek nau

Oh, he walked again, he followed the track,

47. pala pala pala

follow, follow, follow.

48. ol wogbaut go ya windit

The track went windward.

49. go go go go em go dhe i gad ples dhe ol bi swim ebritaim

He went and went until he came to the place where they all used to swim -

50. dhem imyu

those emus.

51. wen i gad ot san dhen ol bi swim dhe

When it was hot, they all used to swim there.

52. em go luk no i no gad

He went to look, but there weren’t any there.

53. em bi luk no no

He looked, ‘No, no,

54. ol bin iya not long

they were here just before -

55. em meki litel bit deti dhat lagun

they’ve stirred up the water in the lagoon.’

56. em go

He went,

57. go gen go wogabaut wogabaut a

kept going, walking walking.

58. en tink nau ai go beg gen

He thought to himself, ‘I’ll go back again.’

1.  Luwit (‘leeward’) and windit (‘windward’) are Creole terms still commonly used by older Aboriginal people from Injinoo when talking about direction. Generally, luwit means ‘westward’ and windit means ‘eastward’ in accordance with the direction of the dry season winds in Cape York Peninsula and the Torres Strait. The dry season is, of course, the time that many Cape York Peninsula people spent working in the marine industries, speaking and learning Creole.



The story of Old Man Frank 

59. rait em go bek

Right, so he went back,

60. go bek go wogabaut go bek go bek go go go go go

Kept going, walking, going back.

61. kech dhat ples

He got to that place.

62. i se ai go ya windit

He said, ‘I’ll go this way windward.’

63. i gad dhem blek frut

There are those black fruit trees,

64. [...] krik we wi bi luk ya

[at the] creek where were had a look -

65. ai bi sho yufela

I showed you -

66. i gad nau ol gad frut nau

they’re all fruiting now.

67. orait em go dhe o i no gad ya

All right, he went there, ‘There’s nothing here.

68. ol bi kaikai ya not long

Someone was here just before.’

69. a em speik nau ai go ya

He said, ‘I’ll go here,

70. luk nadha krik ya [...]

see another creek [...]

71. em go go go go go go

He went and went,

72. a ol meki deti wata ya

‘Ah, they’ve stirred up the water here.

73. mait ol ya antap swim

Maybe they’re swimming just up here.’

74. orait em go go go go go go go go

All right, he went and went.

75. em luk

He looked,

76. a ol ya deti ya [...]

‘Ah it’s stirred up here [...]

77. not long em lisin tup! tu:! ah! samting

Just then he heard something,

78. em slu bak em luk

He turned around, looked,

79. spiya standap ah!

a spear was sticking up,

80. ei! bushman ei!

a bushman!

81. wel em tok emselp bushman

Well, he said to himself, bushman

82. em puti dhat gan tu sotgan wantaim

He held onto his gun.

83. ebriting flai aut

Everything [else] flew away,

84. spiya gon baig i gon we dha bulit

the spear, the bag with the bullets,

85. trauziz blo em gon shet gon

his trousers and shirt,

86. ye! ebriting [?...]

yeah, everything.

87. [?...] dha barel blo dha gan lo tri

[He steadied] the barrel of the gun against a tree,

88. bifo dhat gan go kam big yu no

before the gun could [get the strength to fly away too]

89. wen yu kan holdim

[and he wouldn’t be able to hold him any more]

90. kachim kachim ril tait

He held on real tight,

91. em weit

He waited,

92. dhat bushman kam nau

the bushman came closer,

 Helen Harper   93. baiti tang blo em kam

biting his tongue,

  94. gad spiya

with his spear,

  95. tok emselp kam ai go kil yu

saying to himself, ‘I’ll kill you,’

  96. em tok we dhat ol man

talking about the old man.

  97. ol man [bi go]   98. standap de biyain wogbout kam biyain [?...] laik dhat [?...] de ya kam pas

[This part is not entirely clear, but it seems that Frank is waiting for the bushman to get close enough so that he (Frank) can shoot him.]

  99. old man no frait em standap

Old Man is not afraid, he just stands there.

100. wogbaut kam kam kam kam kam kam

[The bushman] came closer and closer.

101. from ya [?...] nau

[This is referring to the distance which remained between them?]

102. old man laitimap dhat shot gan tup!

Old Man fires the gun,

103. chakwei dhat shot gan

throw away the gun.

104. em ran ran ran ran

He ran and ran

105. dhem tri go laik dhat 106. ol tri sepret

All the trees separated in front of him

107. meki rod

to make a road.

108. em ran lo klia klia rod

He ran along a clear road.

109. dhat krik blo krosing from ya thru dhat When he came to the creek crossing post dha 110. dhat wind bi liftim from ya

The wind lifted him up

111. jamp nodha said

and he jumped to the other side.

112. ran ran

Run, run,

113. dhat frili lizid dhat big talinga wan

A frilly-necked lizard, the one with the big ears,

114. big lizid

a big lizard,

115. i ran frant lo em

ran in front of him,

116. don lisin fo dhembala em tok

‘Don’t listen to anyone,’ he said,

117. don lisin

‘Don’t listen,

118. lisin fo mi

listen to me,

119. fola mi

follow me.’

120. orait em ran ran ran

All right, he ran, ran.

121. dhem log big big log ai wan

Big, high logs,

122. nating oba

As if there was nothing there,

123. rait on tru

he just kept on going,

124. oba dha log

over the log.

125. go thru dhem krik nau

He went through the creeks,

126. skrab open ol skrab sepret

the scrub opened up,



The story of Old Man Frank 

127. ah.. em go long wei nau ol skrab kam bak gen

After he had gone through the scrub came back together again.

128. ol dhem tri dhem tri ya

The trees,

129. dhis tri ol rut ah!

the roots,

130. dhem lim [?...] dhem lip

the limbs, the leaves,

131. ran ran ran ran

run, run.

132. em lisim ol ya krai dhem

He heard crying

133. yu luk dhem blak anbet iya we [?...] stanap we rod

- you’ve seen all those black ant beds near the road here?-

134. dhem blak anbet

those black ant beds

135. ol krai olsem wuman yu no krai

they were crying like a woman,

136. o mai padha mai ankel mai sonso kole ol kain

Oh! my father, my uncle, my so-and-so, they were calling out all kinds of things.

137. ah! dhis pela singaut dhat lizad i singaut em dhat prili lizad nau

The lizard called out, that lizard,

138. no lisin fo dhembala

‘Don’t listen to them,

139. pola mi pola mi

follow me follow me!’

140. o tupela ran

The two of them ran

141. rod prapa stret em go tru dhem skrab

The road was quite straight through the scrub,

142. skrab open

the scrub opened

143. biyain i kloz

and closed behind them.

144. ran go go go go go go go go

Run, run.

145. no gad sot wind

He wasn’t out of breath,

146. no gad

He wasn’t

147. kos olsem samting liptim ap

because some kind of thing was lifting him up

148. olsem wind

like a wind

149. dhis win i tekim go kwik wan

the wind was taking him quickly.

150. ran ran ran ran ran ran go

Run, run,

151. go daun we kokonat tri nau

He got to the coconut trees,

152. mango

the mango tree,

153. go go go go go

keep going.

154. lizad i tok we em ai lib yu

The lizard said to him, ‘I’ll leave you.’

155. i no gad lizad

The lizard was gone,

156. disapid

disappeared.

157. onli emselp de ran go

He was just running by himself.

158. ran go we em sidaun

He stopped running and sat down.

159. hei lukaut em bi luk o

He looked, oh!

160. mai trauzi ai dono waya

‘I don’t know where my trousers have gone,

 Helen Harper 161. shet

my shirt.’

162. not long em trauzi ya tok

Soon he heard his trousers speaking,

163. trauz an shet kam biyain olsem snek

his trousers and shirt were following him like a snake,

164. where’s my master where’s my master

‘Where’s my master, where’s my master?’

165. olsem waitman tok yu no

talking in English, you know.

166. ol man tekim aut stik tup! hitim

Old Man took a stick and hit them, tup!

167. set kam tup!

the shirt came, tup!

168. ol tok olsem waitman

they were talking English.

169. gan kam

The gun came

170. oh! where’s my boss where’s my boss 171. where’s my master

‘Oh, where’s my boss, where’s my boss, where’s my master?’

172. hm bup! itim

He struck it. Bup!

173. dili bag kam tok langgus nau

The dilly bag came talking traditional Language,

174. athuma maj antungu athuma majang

‘Where’s my master, where’s my master?’

175. a em kam tup! itim

He struck it. Tup!

176. baskit spiya

Basket, spear,

177. athuma maj antungu

‘Where’s my master?’

178. ulubha umpin?

‘Did he kill [him]?’

179. arama

‘No’

180. tup! itim

He struck them. Tup!

181. ol kam olsem snek

They all moved like snakes.

182. wamera tu tok kam

The woomera was talking too,

183. athuma majang athuma majang antungu

‘where’s my master, where’s my master?’

184. old man itim

Old Man struck it.

185. em sidaun nau

He sat down.

186. ting ting ting

He thought,

187. ah! bushman bi ran mi

‘A bushman chased me,

188. ai bi shutim de

I shot him there.’

189. weri trauziz nau

He put his trousers on,

190. weri trauziz shet

his trousers and shirt,

191. tekimaut gan baig

got his gun, his bag,

192. putim lo sholda

put them on his shoulder,

193. wogbaut go go go go go go

walked, walked,

194. kachi aus kamp

got to his house, his camp.

195. wi no gad no prapa aus

We didn’t have proper houses then,



The story of Old Man Frank 

196. wi gadim olsem ampi yet skin titri wanem? mesmet bak

we still had humpies made from – was it tea tree? No, messmate bark.

197. olrait em kachim de nau

All right, he got there,

198. wantaim ol man drop

and the old man fell down,

199. teki fit

took a fit.

200. ol man ol pipel ran was mata wasa mata

Everyone ran out, ‘What’s the matter, what’s the matter?’

201. samting

‘Something’s wrong.’

202. ol ran

They ran out.

203. dem ayon wud ya yu si dem ayon wud ya

Those ironwood trees - you know where those ironwood trees are?

204. ayon bak

Iron bark?

205. dem lip

The leaves.

206. meki bi faya womim nau

They made a fire and warmed the leaves.

207. womim womim womim womim womim womim

They warmed them and warmed them.

208. itim itim itim itim itim itim

They beat him -

209. kach dha talinga

his ears,

210. itim chest

his chest,

211. itim ebriwe

all over.

212. leidaun leidaun

He lay there for a while,

213. i mub

he moved.

214. beni mo gen

They burned more leaves,

215. beni prapa nau ot nau

this time they made it hot.

216. putim ril ot nau lo talinga

They put really hot ones on his ears.

217. go go go go go go

They kept doing it.

218. em tok

Then he spoke.

219. i se ai bi faindi bushman

He said, ‘I found a bushman,’

220. ol kolim iyanyu

- they used to call those men iyanyu -

221. iyanyu

‘iyanyu!’

222. antungu

‘Where?’

223. krosing

‘At the crossing,

224. ayubha anggkin nhipima

I shot [speared] one,

225. nhipima ayubh anggin

I shot [speared] one.’

226. alu

‘There?’

227. ye

‘Yeah!’

228. em sik

He was sick,

229. sik nau

he was sick

 Helen Harper 230. sik sik sik sik sik

very sick,

231. siks fo wan manth

sick for one month.

232. no it

He didn’t eat.

233. ol dhem fes be kam bon an skin

His face turned to bone and skin,

234. ol dhem skal bin kamaut autsaid

his skeleton was showing,

235. kan tok

he couldn’t talk.

236. a ol teki [?...] nau wi go womim gen

The people took the [leaves] to warm them again,

237. ayonwud

the ironwood.

238. beltim beltim beltim beltim

They hit him and hit him.

239. womim womim no beltim ad yu no onli rabim yu no rabim rabim

They warmed the leaves - they didn’t hit him hard, you know, they only rubbed him.

240. dhat ting kam aut nau dhat medisin from dhat pelo

The poison from that fellow came out,

241. kam aut kam aut kam aut

it came out and came out.

242. em tok

He said,

243. ai bi shuti bushman

‘I shot a bushman -

244. iyanyu yupla trai go

iyanyu You try and go,

245. mait yu paini bon de

you might find his bones there.’

246. ol rait ol dhem ol pipel bin go

All right, all the people went,

247. go 248. au wi go trai luk raun

‘How shall we look?’

249. ol bin

They

250. go go go go go go

went and went.

251. em kol dhat ples

They called that place

252. sonso skrab

So-and-so Scrub.

253. orait

All right.

254. go go go i ga wan skrab ya we wanem nau krosing

They went and went. There was some scrub there at that - thingummy - crossing.

255. nadha wan de

Some more there.

256. ol luk dhis krosing ya pas

They looked at this crossing first.

257. dha skrab luk 258. no i no ga ya

‘No, it’s not here.’

259. go go luk wagbaut

They went looking, walking.

260. go go go go go

They went and went,

261. wogabaut insaid skrab nadha wan kriksaid tu

walking in the scrub, along another creek.

262. o bon iya leidaun baut

‘Oh! There’s bones lying around here,



The story of Old Man Frank 

263. skal blong em ya

His skull is here!’

264. orait wat wi go du

‘All right, what are we going to do?’

265. ol bin [?...] dig ap ol

They [?...] dug up some

266. anbid

ant beds,

267. putim insaid de we dha anbid

put it in the ant beds.

268. ai ting sambadi

I think somebody -

269. dhat skal bi gad nau

that skull is still there.

270. sam wan sed de

Some one said so.

271. o mait bi bi rot

Or maybe it rotted,

272. ol dhem waitants bi kaikai

maybe the white ants ate it.

273. mm gud stori dhis wan blo dha ol man ye

Mm, it’s a good story, this old man’s story, yeah.

section v

Repatriations

On the edges of their memories Reassembling the Lamalama cultural record from museum collections* Lindy Allen

Museum Victoria This chapter explores the nature of current research models relating to Indigenous collections held by cultural institutions. I present insights into how two museum collections have been pivotal to the aspirations of Lamalama people – those of Herbert Hale and Norman Tindale (South Australian Museum, Adelaide); and of Donald Thomson, whose field material from Port Stewart in 1928 through to 1932 is on loan to Museum Victoria, Melbourne. In this chapter I reveal the value of applying a cross-cultural and cross-disciplinary research framework that brings together academic, curatorial and Indigenous interests, all of which are connected through the long standing relationships and close friendships between anthropologists and key Lamalama elders, many now passed away.

1.  Introduction1 A significant shift in post-colonial power relations in late 20th century museum practice in Australia has given due recognition to the authority and knowledge of what

*  The chapter draws on research undertaken for the Australian Research Council funded research project (LP0667418) – Oral Tradition, Memory and Social Change: Indigenous Participation in the Curation and Use of Museum Collections (2005–2008), a collaboration of the Lamalama, Museum Victoria, Deakin University and the University of Queensland. It was led by Di Hafner, who also led an earlier pilot project funded by the University of Queensland. The author has undertaken research on the Donald Thomson Collection, Norman Tindale Collection, Herbert Hale’s archive and research on other museum holdings in Australia and overseas. The work here draws on insights gained from Di Hafner and Bruce Rigsby, generously shared over the years, the 2008 Norman B. Tindale Lecture jointly delivered with Rigsby, and the paper presented at the symposium Legacy of Tindale: Photography and the Politics of Anthropology and Native Title held at the State Library of Queensland in Brisbane in ­September 2012. 1.  For locations mentioned in the text, see the two general maps at the front of the volume.

doi 10.1075/clu.18.20all © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

 Lindy Allen

Peers and Brown (2003) term “source communities”, referring to the descendants of those people from whom the heritage materials in museum collections originate. In Australia this position is formalized in policy frameworks and documents, for example Continuous Cultures, Ongoing Responsibilities – Principles and guidelines for Australian museums working with Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander cultural heritage ­(Museums Australia 1993, revised in 2005); it emerged from active lobbying of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people beginning in the 1970s (see Bolton 2003; Edwards and Stewart 1980). For source communities, engagement about their cultural patrimony with museums, libraries and archives here and overseas has been a key strategy in the regeneration and maintenance of knowledge and in strengthening group identity. In this chapter I explore the veracity of Peers and Brown’s “new curatorial praxis” (2003:2), underpinned by the tenet of incorporating the needs and perspectives of the source community and “the sharing of skills, knowledge and power to produce something of value to both parties” (ibid:4). However, this model does not account for the relatively common circumstance of another ‘party’ being involved in this “sharing of skills and knowledge”. Given that it is most unlikely for a relationship to already exist with the museum or museums, the source community can depend on another party with whom they do have a relationship of trust, most often an anthropologist, to act as a cultural broker between the two worlds and navigate the complex path to see their cultural patrimony (see also Haviland, this volume, on the complexities of anthropologists ‘repatriating’ their own earlier materials). The current literature gives little recognition of this (see Chase 1979; Allen and Hamby 2010). While Fienup-Riordin (2005) writes about her involvement and collaboration with Yup’ik elders in engaging with their cultural patrimony in Berlin, her contribution is essentially implied rather than explicit except in a few instances, such as “I first visited the Berlin Ethnologisches Museum in 1994, looking for material for a Yup’ik mask exhibit… [after which] I began planning for that return visit… and our seven-member ‘Yup’ik’ delegation set out from Anchorage on September 5, 1997” (Fienup-Riordin 2005:xii) So while Peers and Brown’s model provides the point of departure for consideration of current curatorial practice, these engagements comprise a matrix of connections and relationships between multiple parties, each of which brings their own agendas, skills and knowledge bases. This chapter explores this idea in the context of the Port Stewart Lamalama (referred to herein as ‘the Lamalama’), a group of pama2 from southeastern Cape York Peninsula, and the engagements with their cultural patrimony in museums. Having worked with the Lamalama since 1972, Bruce Rigsby was a supporter of the Lamalama on their “project to help ‘reassemble’ and rebuild

.  This is the general term the Aboriginal people of Cape York Peninsula use in reference to themselves.



On the edges of their memories 

the record of their cultural heritage” (Rigsby 1989: 2). He explained his motivations as “both personal (trying to help my good friends and ‘relations’ and to facilitate their efforts) and academic (to link up my own data with [anthropologist Donald] Thomson’s in order to gain greater depth and breadth of ethnographic and historical coverage” (ibid:1). The cultural material from Port Stewart is found in the Donald Thomson Collection at Museum Victoria (MV), the Norman Tindale Collection at the South Australian Museum (SAM), and the WE Roth Collection, discussed in passing in this chapter.  Other cultural collections have material from Princess Charlotte Bay more broadly and this includes a collection dispersed across a number of Australian museums which originated with Clement Lindsay Wragge, who was employed as the government meteorologist in north Queensland from 1894 to 1898. Herbert Hale and Norman Tindale conducted an “expedition to Princess Charlotte Bay” in 1926 and 1927 (see Hale and Tindale 1933, 1934) and their archives from this trip are found in the State Library of South Australia and the South Australian Museum Archives, respectively.3 They spent two weeks at Port Stewart in January 1927, but Rigsby’s analysis of their stay established that this involved “no more than two-and-a-half or three days visiting and talking with the Aboriginal people there” (Rigsby 1999: 109). By contrast, Thomson spent six weeks at Port Stewart beginning in May 1928 and returned for shorter periods in 1929 and 1932. When these collections are considered as a whole, they offer a comprehensive social, cultural and historical document relating to the lives of Aboriginal people camped along the banks of the Stewart River in the 1920s and 1930s. This record consists of some 450 or so artefacts, the majority collected by Hale and Tindale, around 700 still images, mostly taken by Thomson, and a small amount of moving image shot by Hale or Tindale respectively. The written record is extensive and includes field notes, diaries and note books (of genealogies) as well as key data written on object and field labels from the three men. Relevant material has been found in other museum collections in Australia and overseas, but only a few objects were obtained directly from Port Stewart people, and the rest are noted as coming from ‘Princess Charlotte Bay’ only. This chapter acknowledges Rigsby’s key role in drawing together disparate and incongruous material from a range of sources, including the heritage collections in museums. Rigsby first contacted the author in 1989 to organise for the Lamalama to

.  The Norman B. Tindale Collection at the SAM includes material collected during the expedition to Princess Charlotte Bay led by Herbert Hale with the assistance of Norman Tindale. Hale’s papers at the State Library of South Australia contain two albums of photographs documenting the expedition, which is a more complete document than the incomplete set of images attributed to Tindale in the SAM Archives. For an overview of this collection see Jones (2008).

 Lindy Allen

visit the Donald Thomson Collection at MV,4 which would prove to have a long-­lasting impact on their understanding of their past and would become a key mechanism for the regeneration and maintenance of knowledge and the strengthening of their identity as a group. Rigsby wrote that the Lamalama’s “interests are in learning more about their cultural and family heritage as Thomson recorded them, and generally they have been glad to learn that there are photos of people now long dead but still remembered with love and affection” (Rigsby, 4 July 1989). He understood that seeing these collections would “refresh their memories” and allow them to “teach the younger people and pass along these technologies and subsistence traditions before they are lost” (Rigsby, 29 January 1990). Rigsby’s own anthropological and historical research, together with his longstanding relationship with the Lamalama, provided the essential foundation for meaningful interpretations to be made regarding the record in museums. In his research, the work of Hale, Tindale and Thomson was especially pertinent in that they actually collected material and took photographs. Unlike Rigsby, most scholars continue to ignore the potential within the vast holdings of Indigenous cultural material in museums. Rather than disregarding them as remnants of the colonial and post-colonial experience, this chapter seeks to demonstrate the value of applying a range of methodologies to the recovery of the Lamalama cultural record within a cross-cultural and cross-disciplinary research framework (see Hafner, Rigsby, Allen 2007; Allen and Hafner 2008; Hafner 2008; Hafner 2010). Initially, the curators at MV and the SAM had no history with the Lamalama or understanding of their connections to the Port Stewart people from whom the collections had been derived. Rigsby’s own relationship with the curators was a significant factor in the negotiations for the Lamalama to visit the museums.5 While Hafner observes that the relationships “between the source community and heritage objects in museums lies beyond either personal connections… or institutional policies” in the materiality of the objects themselves (2010:264), the nature of the relationship will certainly impact on the outcomes and the experience for the source community. In the context of the Lamalama’s experience at MV, a research collaboration emerged around the Donald Thomson collection that involved Rigsby, the author as the c­ ollection ­curator,

.  The Donald Thomson Collection is on loan to MV from the University of Melbourne and the Thomson family; see Allen (2008). .  The author was taught by Rigsby as an undergraduate at the University of Queensland, and then worked for many years in the Anthropology Department at the same university during Rigsby’s time as Department Head. Then from 1989 she has been curator for northern Australian Indigenous collections at Museum Victoria. Rigsby also personally knew Philip Jones, the curator at the SAM, and Peter Sutton, who was also affiliated with the SAM, was known to the Lamalama and present during part of their visit there.



On the edges of their memories 

and the anthropologist Diane Hafner, who has also worked with the ­Lamalama for many years. Hafner notes in this context that while the Donald Thomson Collection “inevitably involves some confrontation with the sometimes painful circumstances of their history” (ibid:265), this is somewhat mitigated by the emergence of “personal relationships with curators and researchers [and it is] in such situations that familiarity and understanding can allow the freedom for these responses to occur” (ibid:265). This chapter draws on the author’s curatorial research on the Port Stewart collections from Thomson, Hale and Tindale and insights gained from the working closely with the Lamalama at the museums and on country. It is also informed by the perspectives and understandings generously shared by Rigsby and Hafner. The connections between the Lamalama people and the Old People camped along the Stewart River in the 1920s are explored here and provide the essential context for discussion of their exploration of the cultural record in the Port Stewart collections.

2.  The Lamalama and the Port Stewart people The Lamalama are the descendants of several clans with mainly coastal country in Princess Charlotte Bay and are named after one of the languages associated with the clans (see Rigsby & Chase 1998; Rigsby 2005). They belong to six core families – the Jealous, Kulla Kulla, Liddy, Peters/Bassani, Salt and Tableland families – and mostly live in and around the township of Coen. In the mid-1980 they reoccupied “their old home country at Port Stewart, spending the dry seasons there in camps along the lower Stewart River” (Rigsby and Cole 2006: 6) where the “Balclutha mob” (Rigsby 1989: 20) from whom they are descended, camped in the 1920s when Hale, Tindale and Thomson did their fieldwork there. This ‘Balclutha mob’ identified themselves to Thomson as “man belong sandbeach” (Thomson 1928a) who described them essentially as “fishermen and dugong hunters… skilled canoe builders and navigators” (Thomson 1933: 457). He immortalized them in his writings as the “Dugong Hunters of Cape York” (see Thomson 1934) but experienced difficulty identifying exactly who they were and instead used their name for the Port Stewart area ‘Yintjingga’ to refer to them. He also noted “there are only a handful of the tribe remaining” (Thomson 1928b). By the turn of the twentieth century, these people, like many other Aboriginal people across Australia, were remnant populations of those displaced from their lands, whose numbers were greatly diminished due to introduced diseases and the so-called ‘dispersals’, a euphemism for the systematic shooting of Aboriginal people on a ruthless and violent colonial frontier in northern Queensland through the second half of the nineteenth century (see Cole 2004; Sutton 2005; Bottoms 2013). In the early decades of the twentieth century they endured the forced removal of children and some adults to Lockhart River, Palm Island and elsewhere (see Richards, this volume,

 Lindy Allen

for an example of such a removal, and Mushin et al., this volume, on the places people were removed to). In 1961 they suffered the final indignity when “the roughly three dozen Lamalama families living in the Yintjingga area were forcibly removed to a mission some hundreds of kilometres north, under the terms of prevailing legislation” (Hafner 2010: 267,268). Rigsby has recorded this episode as a defining moment in their history, and wrote about the experience of Harry Liddy or Noongorrli who with: his two wives and some of their children were among the group moved. He was unhappy at Bamaga, and in 1963 he absconded and tried to walk home to Port Stewart, taking his dugong rope with him. In a letter to a white friend, he lamented that he had been hunted down “like a kangaroo” by dogs and taken back to Bamaga by the police and trackers. He never saw Port Stewart again. (Rigsby 1994: 619)

Thomson compiled genealogies of a number of key identities including ­Noongorrli’s uncle who he identified as ‘Mungi’ or “Monkey Port Stewart… kaala or mother’s younger brother to young Harry [Noongorrli]” (Rigsby, 16 November 1989). The Port Stewart men had no surviving sons so “ownership of their lands passed to their sisters’ sons, and Liddy succeeded his uncle’s position as a main traditional owner” (Rigsby & Jolly 1994: 618,619). Rigsby has been able to reconcile many of Thomson’s identifications and the genealogies compiled by Thomson and Tindale (see also Smith, this volume, on the analysis of another set of genealogies compiled by Thomson). Rigsby said that the Lamalama did not always recognize the names recorded in the genealogies and on the images, noting that “most living people know their old people only by their English names, and if they know Indigenous language names, they only know one” (Rigsby 1999: 113). However, some identities, like Harry Liddy, are legendary figures well embedded in living memory. Harry Liddy’s daughter Florrie Bassani has been closely involved in going to the museums. George Bassani, another man included in the genealogies, is the father of Bobby Stewart, one of the elders who came on the first visit to MV. George Balclutha was Bobby’s paternal grandfather and maternal grandfather for his wife, Daisy Stewart (Rigsby 1989: 20). Bobby and Daisy Stewart have assisted Rigsby enormously in resolving anomalies between various genealogies, and their ability to recall names and faces of individuals was critical to investigation of Thomson’s images. A woman who appears in many images is ‘Nellie’, whose language name was Tapilmuta after the Shovel-Nosed Shark Story Place. She is fondly remembered by and known to many Lamalama people today, and was mostly photographed with her husband ‘Bambi’, known today as ­Pompey King, and young son, Charlie Liddy. It was Tapilmuta who raised Bobby Stewart after his own mother passed away when he was an infant. Similarly Daisy Stewart identified her mother, Maggie Boardman, nursing an infant who is mostly likely Topsy Claremont.



On the edges of their memories 

3.  The Lamalama and the Port Stewart collections The Lamalama’s agenda seeking cultural patrimony in museums coincided with a ‘Lamalama Homeland Movement’ (Bassani 15 January 1990), the ultimate goal of which was to gain “formal title to parcels of their traditional lands as a result of successful engagements with provisions of the state through land claim and native title legislation and other processes” (Hafner 2010: 268). The clear connections between the Lamalama and the Balclutha mob that emerged from the research on the collections proved crucial these land claims, being tendered as evidence or ‘proof ’ considered in the context of oral evidence preserved from the Lamalama elders, which supported their connections to country. Hafner notes that the Lamalama “see it as their responsibility as owners of their country and custodians of traditions to actively pursue this research into the Collection. Indeed, it is as a direct result of their requests that the research proceeds” (ibid:259). It was also anticipated that “exposure to the objects would have a profound effect triggering a renewed sense of identity and pride and bringing about positive social change” (ibid:272). Lamalama elders sought through this to establish a common and accepted understanding of what had been the cultural practices of their forebears, albeit that they were living on what was by then the fringes of a White settlement. However, by continuing practices, including hunting dugong using outrigger canoes, they maintained a unique identity as Sandbeach People. These collections provided the evidence and ‘proof ’ of what is ‘the Lamalama way’, something that Elders sought and impart to younger people to ensure survival of this knowledge into the future. Hafner explains this concept as one based in “an oral culture in which knowledge is passed down between the generations by the telling of stories that recount the exploits of the Story beings and the Old People, providing a moral universe that describes ‘the Lamalama way’” (Hafner 2008: 262). The first glimpse of what this ‘proof ’ might be was when Rigsby took copies of Thomson’s images in which individuals were named up to Coen in November 1989, together with extracts from Thomson’s field notes and the only ‘Yintjingga’ genealogy that had been transcribed in the Donald Thomson Collection. He had made a quick visit to Melbourne in July that year to gain a better understandings of the overall content of Thomson’s Port Stewart material, and to open up a dialogue with the author for the Lamalama to visit the Donald Thomson Collection: Ms Allen sent me twenty clear photocopies of photos that Professor Thomson took in 1928–29 with people’s names on them. I took those up to Port Stewart with me in November, and people were very happy to see their old people in the photos. We were able to record a great deal of family and social history which the photos stimulated people to think about. Most importantly, seeing the photos strengthened the people’s desire to go to Melbourne and see for themselves

 Lindy Allen

the records of their families and history that Professor Thomson collected… It needs to be said that viewing the photos of their old people would help the older people to remember biographical and genealogical details that would otherwise languish on the edges of their memories [emphasis added]. These are important to maintaining a group identity that is firmly anchored in the history and geography of their homelands. And this kind of information – where people were born, who their parents and other relatives were, their Murri names and stories (totems), their clan membership and rights in land, etc.  Rigsby, 29 January 1990)

Sunlight Bassani also explained the importance of the record in the Donald Thomson Collection in correspondence seeking funding support for them to travel to Melbourne. Interestingly, he mentions particular objects that would embody ‘the Lamalama way’. Professor Donald Thomson first visited our old people at Port Stewart in 1928, and his Collection includes many photographs, notes and artefacts, such as spears, fish nets and a Bora mask [emphasis added]. The Lamalama people would like to see these items and learn more about our old people and their history. We believe that this information can help the Lamalama people strengthen their position with respect to gaining some form of secure title to their country around Port Stewart. (Bassani, 15 January 1990)

Sunlight and Florrie Bassani and Bobby and Daisy Stewart were accompanied by Rigsby to Melbourne in February 1990 and spent three days going through 100 or so objects and over 600 extraordinary black and white images taken at Port Stewart. This delegation included a group of younger Lamalama people – Gavin Bassani, Alison Liddy and Brian Liddy. In all, twenty Lamalama people have made seven trips to MV between 1990 and 2007, and Hafner has been involved with those made from 2004 onwards. A small number of Lamalama went to the SAM to see the Norman Tindale Collection and to the Australian Museum in Sydney to see the W.E. Roth Collection (see Kahn 2004). Sunlight Bassani with Rigsby led all delegations to museums, except for one, and in Adelaide collected the skeletal remains of five individuals who were returned home and reburied on country.6 Twenty years after the first of Thomson’s images were taken to Coen, Allen and Hafner took artefacts collected by Thomson up there to enable many more Lamalama people to see, touch and talk about these things (see Hafner 2010). Then in 2010 the author accompanied a group of three Lamalama people, Lindsay Bassani, Helen Peter

.  Sunlight Bassani, Jimmy Peter and Elaine Liddy went to SAM with Rigsby in 1997. Rigsby believes that four sets of remains were obtained from the Kuranda entomologist ‘Mr Dodd’, who collected these at Breakfast Creek about 1914; and the fifth set of remains is of a known individual disinterred by Hale and Tindale. The second visit made to the SAM was after Sunlight’s death and included Lindsay Bassani, Peter Peter and Helen Peter.



On the edges of their memories 

and Peter Peter, to see the Norman Tindale Collection and Hale’s archive. Ultimately, although the Thomson collection contains the smaller number of objects, the Lamalama have established and maintained the strongest affiliation with this collection, mainly through the active involvement of the curators.

4.  The cultural record This section explores the cultural record embedded in these collections dispersed across the various museums and libraries. The intention is not to give an exhaustive description of the cultural record but rather to demonstrate the potential that exists within these collections. Further it shows how a fuller picture emerges in relation to that record when the skills and knowledge of all the parties to the research – the source community, the curator and the anthropologists in this instance – are brought together to produce something of value to all parties. The cultural record emerges from the combination and comparison of documentation from Hale and Tindale with that of Thomson, establishing where they confirm and complement each other (or contradict), while at the same time taking into account the evidence that emerges from the knowledge base of the key Lamalama elders involved who were able to draw on their own lived experience and memories being only one generation removed from the Old Port Stewart People. The cultural record relates to a forty year window on the lives of the Old Port Stewart People beginning in the early 1890s through to the early 1930s. This coincides with the era in which the material culture of Cape York drew the attention of scientists and others (see Allen 2003), intent on exploring the notion of cultural influences from Melanesia, due to the proximity of the Peninsula to the Torres Strait and New Guinea. The outrigger canoe used by the Sandbeach People of the east coast of Cape York Peninsula was thought to be the most obvious example of this. However Hale, Tindale, Thomson and Roth all collected examples of wooden mallets which within Princess Charlotte Bay at least were noted as being used for pounding various foods and for breaking oysters are made of iron-wood and other hard timbers. The Walmbaria, Barunguan and Mutumui tribes commonly use the form… cylindrical in shape, with one end abruptly narrowed to form the handle, and is very similar in form to the gong-beaters of Melanesian peoples. (Hale and Tindale 1934: 132)

Hale and Tindale were particularly interested in identifying the extent of the material culture repertoire of the Princess Charlotte Bay, noting differences and similarities between groups within the Bay; for example, they commented that most adults at Port Stewart had “the nose pierced to accommodate a splinter of bone or a short, slender

 Lindy Allen

piece of bamboo…[and] women wear necklaces made neatly from 30 or 40 small rectangular pieces of pearl shell, fastened with Livistona string” (Hale, 13 May 1927). A localised trade network around the Bay was facilitated by outrigger canoes, and these canoes as well as string bags, red ochre and spears were sought from the Port Stewart and ‘Koko-Lamalama’ people. The Flinders Island natives trade with the mainland, obtained heavy wooden canoes in exchange for stingray barb spears, throwing sticks and woven bags… Natives who were engaging in a trading venture left Flinders Island at daybreak when the sea was calm, secured spears on the mainland by trading from Kokolamalama men, and returned at dusk when the wind dropped. (Hale and Tindale 1934: 122)

Hale and Tindale’s transactions involved payments in tobacco and flour mainly, but also sugar and tea. Only one transaction is recorded as involving a cash payment, which was 2 shillings paid for a grindstone at Port Stewart as “the owner would not part with this stone for tea or tobacco – it was too valued a possession” (Hale Diary, 2 February 1927). Tobacco was a major commodity, with Hale noting that “the natives are, almost without exception, heavy smokers, and trade tobacco formed a desirable basis of exchange” (Hale, 13 May 1927). Daisy Stewart remarked that Aboriginal people stayed at Port Stewart for tobacco, her family preferring to staying out on country and only venturing into the Port to get tobacco.7 Thomson and Hale and Tindale collected pipes for smoking tobacco at Port Stewart. Hale noted that flour was also important and commented that on Flinders Island people were “very short of food [and] willing to sell many valued objects they would not hitherto part with, for a pannikin of flour from Morey’s store” (Hale Diary, 13 January 1927) (see also Sutton, this volume). Spearthrowers were of particular interest, as a unique form is found on Cape York having a ‘shell ornament’ or weight attached at the proximal end. A preliminary comparison between spearthrowers from the east and west coast examples reveals that the former are generally longer and narrower. Hale and Tindale observed that of those within Princess Charlotte Bay itself those “used at Jane Table Hill by the Koko Lamalama are more slender than those of the Walmbaria” (1933:100). They also noted that these spearthrowers were not used with spears for hunting but used in fights to deflect spears; “the bailer shell ornament [is] said to prevent it from slipping out of the hand when thus used” (ibid:100). Charms were recorded as having been placed at times within the resin holding the shell in place, but it is not possible to confirm their presence in any specimens held now in museums.

.  Daisy Stewart, personal communication to the author, November 2009.



On the edges of their memories 

Hale and Tindale also noted “the shell discs detached from the spearthrowers are articles of trade to southern inland peoples. By slow degrees they may pass south-east as far as Cooper Creek in South Australia, where they are highly prized as neck ornaments worn by young male initiates” (ibid:101). At the end of their very first week on Flinders Island they had filmed and photographed John Tarpaulin, a ‘Koko Lamalama’ man, shaping and grinding down the edges of the shell into an elliptical shape in readiness to attach to a spearthrower. They collected one of his spearthrowers on the following day. Port Stewart people were well known specialists in a number of fields, including magic used in dugong hunting and rainmaking. Thomson photographed a rainmaker at Port Stewart and documented elements of this well guarded craft and the specialist skills applied “in the manufacture of spears… discernible amongst the Yinchinga [sic]… Here ‘Old Man George’ was a renowned spearmaker… for the very exquisite spears tipped with a double row of fine flaked quartz (and beer bottle glass)” (Thomson 1929: 31). This is probably George Bassani, and most likely he made the only two extant examples of this spear: one in the Grassi Museum in Leipzig (Germany), collected from Port Stewart in 1904 for the German anatomist Hermann Klaatsch,8 and the other one collected by Donald Thomson. Small sharp stone pieces are set along the entire length on opposite sides of the elongated and elliptical-shaped hardwood spear head. Stone at Port Stewart was noted as being of a poor quality: “the soil being sand and clay; stones are obtained 40 miles inland, and for this reason are exceedingly valued by the coastal natives” (Hale, 13 May 1927). Stone used in these spears came from inland groups around Coen and would have been the source for other stone objects like axe heads, grindstones for preparing ochres, and so on. The spears that Port Stewart men were particularly renowned for were those made with stingray spines embedded in resin: One of those magnificent sting-ray spears carried a head of no less than twentyone spines – a spear which was so highly valued by the owner that he refused to even consider a price for it, and once he learned that I was anxious to secure it, I

.  A set of spears in the Grassi Museum in Leipzig were part of Klaatsch’s collection. Like Roth, Klaatsch never went to Port Stewart, and the spears were collected by a third party and sent on to him. Klaatsch was engaged by the Director of what is now the Rautenstrauch-Joest Museum in Cologne to collect Australian Indigenous material from northern Australia. The entire collection of around 2,000 objects was exhibited in the newly opened museum in 1907, and then subsequently dispersed to other museums in Germany and possibly exchanged after that with museums in other parts of Europe. Any associated or original documentation is largely missing or disassociated, and overall documentation relating to Hermann Klaatsch’s collections is problematic as a consequence of the bombing in WW2 of major German cities that resulted in significant damage and the destruction of museums and the collections (see Erchenbrecht 2010).

 Lindy Allen

never so much as saw it again despite my utmost best efforts! Possession of such a fine implement, with its added aesthetic value, gives the owner considerable grounds for vanity. (Thomson 1929: 31)

Thomson managed to collect only a few examples while Hale noted having secured at least twenty-two of these, two of which were collected at Cape Melville and the remainder from Port Stewart. Bought from the natives various spears from Stanley Island some imported by trade routes via the shores of Pr. Charlotte Bay from the Pt Stewart district (Enchinga) also a wommera [sic] from the same island, some other bags, firesticks and hardwood wooden smoother and a wommera [sic] from Flinders Island and Cape Melville. (Tindale Journal, 7 January 1927)

‘Spear smoothers’ used in applying the heated resin in making spears are also found in the Norman Tindale, Donald Thomson and W.E. Roth Collections. As already mentioned, outrigger canoes were a particular interest, as an example of Melanesian influences on the Peninsula and as iconic symbols of the prowess and prestige associated with dugong hunting. Thomson was interested in establishing the distribution of types of watercraft across Australia, finding the outrigger to be made and used only on the east coast of Cape York (Thomson 1952). He made a further distinction in the distribution of double outriggers versus single outriggers, noting that the demarcation fell in Princess Charlotte Bay. The single outrigger is associated with Port Stewart people and others on the southern side of the Bay, while the double outrigger was used by those to the north. Hale and Tindale wanted to secure an example for the SAM and document it being made. Hale “urged natives on to complete [a] canoe, took photographs of the various canoes… [and] took a short movie of two natives and piccaninies in a native canoe. The old man who intends selling us a canoe is slowly getting it into some sort of repair. He is to get a bag of flour for it” (Hale, 11 May 1927). Hale photographed three single outrigger canoes on the shore at Port Stewart but had already secured one for the SAM Flinders Island (see Hale Diary, 8 January 1927). He noted that these “dugouts” (Hale Diary, 12 January 1927) are made on the mainland and that the payment involved required exchanging “stingray barb spears, throwing sticks and woven bags” (Hale and Tindale 1933: 101), the spears originating from Port Stewart people as discussed already. Thomson photographed Jimmy Kulla Kulla chopping out a log using a large hafted shell adze to make the hull of a canoe, but no mention is made that it was completed. Hale and Tindale recorded that the place on Flinders Island used to launch canoes was a Story Place marked with stones, but no direct association is made between these canoes and the Story Place. While Thomson collected a double outrigger from Umpila people around Lockhart River and photographed Old Alec Naiga poised on the front, ready to launch a harpoon at a dugong, he did not secure a single outrigger



On the edges of their memories 

at Port Stewart. Still the former canoe has always inspired a good deal of pride in the ­Lamalama when visiting MV. The images and the canoe were particularly poignant for Florrie Bassani, evoking memories of her own father’s legendary status as a dugong hunter. Thomson’s images and the objects he collected never failed to inspire the admiration of Sunlight Bassani on every visit he made to see the Collection. A common theme for him was that these Old People made everything they needed, for which he would use the example of the ropes made to be used in catching turtle and dugong. These were secured to the detachable metal or wooden hook attached to very long harpoons, and had to be extremely strong and kept in good order to ensure success in hunting (along with the help of magic mentioned above). On one visit Sunlight lamented that “young people don’t know that we used to make rope. They think that if you want rope you have to pay $100 for it in a shop. People living with the land don’t have to buy anything”.9 The movement of string bags from Port Stewart along the trade network within the Bay has already been touched on. The women were well known for making fine string. The fibre was harvested from the cabbage tree palms (Livistona sp.) growing at a Story Place and involves highly ritualised protocols relating to gender that must be adhered to at this place. This knowledge was the responsibility most recently of Florrie Bassani. As a practitioner of making string and bags herself, Florrie was very circumspect when shown the bags collected by Thomson, perhaps because of the guarded nature of this knowledge. There are significant examples of finely executed string bags made using knotted and knotless stitches in many collections from Princess Charlotte Bay, together with the string aprons also made and worn by women. The largest bag made with the knotted technique was collected from Jimmy Kulla Kulla by Hale and Tindale.10 Similarly, twined baskets made from grass fibres are also well represented in the collections, particularly the Norman Tindale Collection. A practice that has also inspired particular pride and admiration is the communal fishing drives involving large framed nets known as aampa. These ‘fish nets’ and the spears were two of the three objects that Sunlight Bassani anticipated seeing most when he wrote seeking funds to travel to the museums. He was visibly moved and excited when he first saw Thomson’s images of the men in a salt arm of the Stewart River driving the fish into the bend of the river, where they were then scooped up in these nets. Sunlight explained that younger Lamalama people had not believed him

.  Sunlight Bassani, personal communication to author, c.2000. .  A string apron collected in Princess Charlotte Bay is held by the Museum voor ­Volkenkunde in Leiden and was likely part of Klaatsch’s collection. Clement Lindsay Wragge also collected fine examples of string bags.

 Lindy Allen

when he told them about these nets and the way that the Old People used them to catch huge numbers of fish, and in his words here was “the proof ”. Jimmy Peter was similarly overjoyed at seeing these images and the nets when he visited with others in 2007. He recalled as a young man witnessing or participating in one of these drives. He demonstrated how the nets were held to form a scoop in the base, and recognised the place in the images as the bend in the Stewart River where freshwater meets saltwater. Thomson collected two nets, while Hale and Tindale collected five from Port ­Stewart. Another net collected in Princess Charlotte Bay around the turn of the twentieth century is in the W.E. Roth Collection, while yet another is in a museum in ­Germany.11 Like the string bags, these nets are made using knotted or knotless stitches, and a number show repairs. Folded and stitched containers are also well represented in the Norman Tindale Collection. Varying in size and made from a single sheet of bark or a palm leaf, the ends are folded and stitched and handles attached. Thomson photographed Jimmy KullaKulla with ‘Old Charcoal’ preparing bones of a deceased person that had been removed from one of these containers. The Kulla Kulla family were especially keen to have copies of these photographs, expressing genuine surprise and pride regarding the involvement of the father and grandfather in these practices. Thomson made a significant visual document of burial practices underway at Port Stewart, including bark sheets encasing the deceased, secured with string and placed into the fork of a tree. An elder when shown these images remembered having done this himself with his father’s body. He recalled as a young man finding his father’s body “a long way from home”,12 and then carrying him back home before wrapping him in ‘the Lamalama way’ and laying him to rest back on his country. Sunlight Bassani was also impressed when he saw these for the first time himself, saying again that it was “proof ” of what he had told young people. Thomson photographed a remarkable grave covered entirely with dugong bones that reflected the status of the deceased as a dugong hunter; it is believed to be the grave of Harry Liddy’s father, also known as Harry Liddy. Mourning strings known as moola were noted by Hale and Tindale as having been discarded after burials were completed. They collected great numbers of them, made from what looks like string unravelled from old fishing nets. These are reworked into a single almost plaited form that is wound around multiple times to form hanks. Their photographs show these worn by women over their shoulders during mourning.

.  The Rautenstrauch-Joest Museum in Cologne has a framed fishing net most likely collected for Hermann Klaatsch (see Allen and Hafner 2008; Erchenbrecht 2010). .  McGinty Salt, personal communication to author and Rigsby, Cooktown, February 2006.



On the edges of their memories 

Thomson photographed women with fishing nets draped around their shoulders, their hair being cut and their bodies coated with pipe clay as part of funeral preparations. The key activities captured by Thomson’s images that have elicited great interest from the Lamalama are practices embedded in domestic life. This includes the construction of shelters: many images show the simple shelters built in the riverbed during the dry season. One sequence documents different phases in the construction of complex domed structures during the wet season, which provide respite from mosquitos. Thomson documented a similar form in Arnhem Land but it is not known elsewhere in Australia (see Memmott and Fantin 2005). A number of images have triggered memories of historical events rather than just being read as evidence of cultural practices, and seeing these ‘mosquito houses’ provoked an interesting response from Sunlight Bassani, who recounted how the women would hide their children under them to keep them safe from police who came to remove them. Other sequences document collecting bush foods and preparing these for eating, including the mangrove fruit that Thomson recorded as mayi i’irra used for making a porridge that Lamalama women continued to make until recent times. Raw materials and pigments, resins, other tools, firesticks, body ornaments mostly made with shell and string, and so on continue to be of interest to the Lamalama, particularly as part of cultural programs or when they seek to revive the making of forms to assert their ­identity (for instance in preparation for the Laura Dance festival).13 Thomson and Roth documented and collected the remarkable objects associated with bora ceremonies, although a few single examples are likely undocumented in other museum collections. At the request of the senior Lamalama men, these are kept separated from the rest of the collection in the men’s store at MV. Permission can only be given by them for anyone to access these; no other details can be revealed here. Message sticks are often associated with these ceremonies; these are also subject to a level of restriction.

5.  Discussion Since Bruce Rigsby took those first twenty images to Coen in 1989, the Lamalama have become well versed in what is in the museum collections and their importance for the future. Seeking out the Donald Thomson Collection in particular has served as a

.  Recent preparations for the 2015 Laura Dance Festival prompted an inquiry about the Thomson Collection from Alison Liddy about body ornaments and body painting used by women for ceremony. The Collection was a point of reference during the Computer Culture Project in the early 2000s (conducted with Cape York Partnerships), with individuals working on specific cultural projects inquiring about specific objects or cultural practices.

 Lindy Allen

mechanism for bringing families and generations together into a cohesive group with a common purpose – to reassemble the Lamalama’s history and heritage, and to create a shared vision of the past and their identity reinforced by photographs, objects, genealogies and documents in museums. The imperative for the Lamalama was to ensure that elders could tell their story and recall the past while they could still remember many of the Old People at Port Stewart and recount tales of their history and their lives. It is clear, however, that Thomson’s images have commanded a central position in these dialogues and remain central in the present. They have circulated throughout the community since 1990 and have strengthened and corroborated the knowledge of Elders and served to trigger memories that might, as Rigsby noted, otherwise languish on the edges of their memories. While much of the discussion here focuses on the evidence itself, suffice to say that the recovery of this cultural record embedded in the collections has provided the vehicle for Lamalama elders to engage younger people in a dialogue about their heritage and history and ‘the Lamalama way’. While Hafner has noted that the objects have provoked a less ‘lively’ response than Thomson’s images, Lamalama elders certainly have established a strong relationship with this Collection and with MV. The younger generations of Lamalama have continued their links with the Donald Thomson Collection as circumstances require adherence to ‘the Lamalama way’.14 This chapter has demonstrated the value of research on museum collections in collaboration with source communities. It reveals the importance of positioning these collections in a broader context, including related material in other cultural institutions, rather than in isolation. While the Norman Tindale Collection contains the majority of the Port Stewart cultural objects, the Donald Thomson Collection has had the greatest resonance for the Lamalama in the recovery of the cultural record. In addition, the historic images reinforce connections of Lamalama people to country, to the Old People at Port Stewart and to each other. Hafner notes that the relationship of the Lamalama with the Donald Thomson Collection and MV is “perhaps best expressed as constant negotiation, with… staff seeking to explicitly accommodate and respect the wishes of the Lamalama [who] are keen to contribute their knowledge of the materials, practices and events depicted in the images to curators; by doing so, they are honouring their Old People and behaving in the proper way as custodians and descendants.” (Hafner 2010: 277,278) She further points out that “curatorial practice… such as this now requires negotiations that must recognise the social and material complexities of the objects” (ibid:275). The absence of a relationship or opportunity for negotiation with the SAM has resulted in a lack

.  The author also took a small crate of objects to Coen and out on country during fieldwork with Hafner (see Hafner 2012)



On the edges of their memories 

of connection with the Norman Tindale Collection, despite containing three times more objects than those collected by Thomson. This reflects the importance of the relationship to the Lamalama rather than their need to gain a fuller understanding of the cultural heritage record. The collections in the museums gave Sunlight Bassani what he sought in terms of proof of the ‘Lamalama way’, and made a singular contribution to his objective in securing title to country. The objects allowed Sunlight to teach young people about their heritage and their history: he found the spears, the fish nets and the bora material that embodied his vision of what it is to be Lamalama. Hafner observes the same agency in the images noting that “for present generations, Thomson’s images of the Old People embody a ‘Lamalama-ness’… They see and identify their grandparents, aunts, uncles or relatives they recognize by name only. They see and identify their country” (Hafner 2010: 270,271). After many years Sunlight reflected on the first visit to MV, recalling that he had to go and lie down as “my head was spinning, it was all there, the old people told me about how they lived and it was all true”.15 This chapter acknowledges the contribution of Sunlight Bassani and the other Lamalama elders who worked closely with Rigsby as family, friends and colleagues. As most of these elders have now passed away, it is for the younger people who came with them to see the collections to take responsibility for them and for their country, and to ensure that each is managed in ‘the Lamalama way’. In recent years the Lamalama Ranger Program was established, which allows the Lamalama to care for the places and the resources of the land and the sea for future Lamalama people.16 They carry a mental picture of the Old Port Stewart People who cared for these same places on country almost a hundred years ago. Despite the cultural record being incomplete, this has proven to be a vital source for the Lamalama in rebuilding and reassembling their cultural record. Elaine Liddy, who is currently the cultural officer for the Lamalama, travelled to Melbourne a number of times with Sunlight Bassani to see the Donald Th ­ omson ­Collection. She believes the Donald Thomson Collection is the most important resource for the Lamalama people and commented that she “can spend hours in that museum… It is like another special place for my ancestors”.17 Karen Liddy and ­Alison Liddy, who manage the Lamalama Rangers Program, have curated a series of

.  Sunlight Bassani, personal communication to Rosemary Wrench, c.2000. .  The Lamalama Rangers is a program that has been established to create employment and an opportunity for Lamalama people to care for their country. The program is run by those younger people who came to Museum Victoria through the 1990s and 2000s. .  Elaine Liddy, personal communication to author and Hafner, 30 October 2013.

 Lindy Allen

­ omson’s images originally part of the installation A View on History.18 The series of Th 32 images was installed within the Lamalama Ranger precinct at Yintjingga, which will be a focus of the education program that introduces visitors to Lamalama country. This chapter has addressed the way in which a source community has mediated interpretations of the past and the narratives relating to their history. It has also revealed the importance of the cultural record and its capacity to mediate by exerting a relevance in the present and shaping the future, which is evident in the way the material continues to be used by the next generation of leaders. The research environment that emerged as a consequence of the engagement of the Lamalama and their cultural patrimony drew in scholars with whom the Lamalama have their own relationships and trust, Rigsby and Hafner and in time the author.

References Allen, Lindy. 2003. Regular hunting grounds: A history of collecting Indigenous artefacts in North Queensland. In Story Place: Indigenous Art of Cape York and the Rainforest. Brisbane: Queensland Art Gallery. 30–37. Allen, Lindy. 2005. A photographer of brilliance. In Bruce Rigsby & Nicolas Peterson, eds. Donald Thomson: The Man and Scholar. Canberra: Academy of Social Sciences. 45–62. Allen, Lindy. 2008. Tons and tons of valuable material: The Donald Thomson collection. In Nicolas Peterson, Lindy Allen & Louise Hamby, eds. The Makers and Making of Australian Indigenous Collections. Melbourne: Melbourne University Publishing. 387–418. Allen, Lindy & Diane Hafner. 2008. The Lamalama and their heritage material in European museums. Museums Australia Magazine 16: 8–9. Allen, Lindy & Louise Hamby. 2010. Pathways to knowledge: Research, agency and power relations in the context of collaborations between museums and source communities. In Rodney Harrison, Robin Torrence, Sarah Byrne a Annie Clark, eds. Unpacking the Collections: Networks of Material and Social Agency in the Museum. New York: Springer. 209–230. Bassani, Sunlight. 1990. Letter to Ross Rolfe, Director of Aboriginal Affairs, Brisbane. 15 January. Bolton, Lissant. 2003. The object in view: Aborigines, melanesians and museums. In Laura Peers & Alison Brown, eds. Museums and Source Communities. London: Routledge. 42–54. Bottoms, Timothy. 2013. Conspiracy of Silence: Queensland’s Frontier Killing Times. Sydney: Allen and Unwin. Chase, Athol. 1979. Thomson time. Aboriginal History 3: 107–108. Cole, Noelene. 2004. Battle Camp to Boralga. Aboriginal History 28: 156–189. Edwards, Robert & Jenny Stewart, eds. 1980. Preserving Indigenous Cultures: A New Role for Museums. Canberra: Australian Government Publishing Service.

.  This installation was part of the permanent exhibition from 2000 to 2013 in Bunjilaka, the Aboriginal Centre at Melbourne Museum (a campus of Museum Victoria). It was curated by the author in consultation with Lamalama elders. See Allen and Hamby (2010).



On the edges of their memories 

Erckenbrecht, Corinna. 2010. Auf der Suche nach den Ursprüngen – Die Australienreise des Anthropologen und Sammlers Hermann Klaatsch 1904–1907 (The Australian journey (1904 – 1907) of the German Anthropologist and Collector Hermann Klaatsch). Cologne: Wienand-Verlag. Fienup-Riordin, Ann, ed. 2005. Yup’ik Elders at the Ethnologisches Museum Berlin: Fieldwork Turned on Its Head. Seattle: University of Washington Press. Hafner, Diane. 2005. Images of Port Stewart: Possible interpretations. In Bruce Rigsby & Nicolas Peterson, eds. Donald Thomson: The Man and Scholar. Canberra: Academy of Social Sciences. 211–230. Hafner, Diane. 2008. The past, present: Lamalama interactions with memory and technology. In Bianca Pirana & Ivan Varga, eds. The New Boundaries Between Bodies and Technologies. Newcastle: Cambridge Scholars Publishing. 250–267. Hafner, Diane. 2010. Viewing the past through ethnographic collections. Museum History 3: 257–279.  doi: 10.1179/mhj.2010.3.2.257 Hafner, Diane. 2012. Lamalama people and objects: The location and sustainability of indigenous geritage. International Journal of Sustainability and Development 2: 17–28. Hafner, Diane, Bruce Rigsby & Lindy Allen. 2007. Museums and memory as agents of social change. The International Journal of the Humanities 5: 87–94. Hale, Herbert. 1926–1927. Diary (unpublished), Herbert Hale Archive, State Library of South Australia, Adelaide. Hale, Herbert. 1927. A museum quest. Naturalists in tropical Queensland. By Herbert Hale, Zoologist, South Australian Museum. Quotes from copies of newspaper articles (May 11, 12, 13). Album, Herbert Hale Archive, State Library of South Australia. Hale, Herbert & Norman Tindale. 1933. Aborigines of Princess Charlotte Bay, North Queensland. Part 1. Records of the South Australian Museum 5: 64–116. Hale, Herbert & Norman Tindale. 1934. Aborigines of Princess Charlotte Bay, North Queensland. Part 2. Records of the South Australian Museum 5: 117–172. Jones, Philip. 2008. The “idea behind the artefact”: Norman Tindale’s early years as a salvage ethnographer. In Nicolas Peterson, Lindy Allen & Louise Hamby, eds. The Makers and Making of Australian Indigenous Collections. Melbourne: Melbourne University Publishing. 315–354. Khan, Kate. 2004. Catalogue of the Roth Collection of Aboriginal Artefacts from North Queensland, Volumes 1–4. Sydney: Australian Museum. Memmott, Paul & Shaneen Fantin. 2005. The study of indigenous ethno-architecture in Australia. In Bruce Rigsby & Nicolas Peterson, eds. Donald Thomson. The Man and Scholar. Canberra: Academy of Social Sciences. 185–210. Museums Australia. 1993, revised 2005. Continuous Cultures, Ongoing Responsibilities – Principles and guidelines for Australian museums working with Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander cultural heritage. Electronic document, http://www.museumsaustralia.org.au/ dbdoc/ccor_find_feb_05.pdf Rigsby, Bruce & Nicolas Peterson, eds. Donald Thomson: The Man and Scholar. Canberra: Academy of Social Sciences. 185–210. Peers, Laura & Alison Brown, eds. 2003. Museums and Source Communities. London: Routledge. Rigsby, Bruce. 1989. Unpublished manuscript (incomplete). Copy in possession of author (pages 19–22 only). Rigsby, Bruce. 4 July 1989. Letter to Lindy Allen, Museum Victoria, 2 pages. Rigsby, Bruce. 1990. Letter to Ross Rolfe, Department of Aboriginal Affairs, Brisbane, 29 January, 5 pages.

 Lindy Allen Rigsby, Bruce & Lesley Jolly. 1994. Liddy, H. In David Horton, ed. The Encyclopedia of Aboriginal Australia. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. 618–619. Rigsby, Bruce 1999. Genealogies, kinship and local group composition: Old Yintjingga (Port Stewart) in the late 1920s. In Julie Finlayson, Bruce Rigsby & Hilary Bek, eds. Connections in Native Title: Genealogies, Kinship and Groups. Canberra: Centre for Aboriginal Economic Policy Research, Australian National University. 192–218. Rigsby, Bruce. 2005. The languages of Eastern Cape York peninsula and linguistic anthropology. In Bruce Rigsby & Nicolas Peterson, eds. 2005. Donald Thomson: The Man and Scholar. Canberra: Academy of Social Sciences. 129–142. Rigsby, Bruce & Athol Chase. 1998. The sandbeach people and dugong hunters of Eastern Cape York Peninsula: Property in land and sea country. In Nicolas Peterson & Bruce Rigsby, eds. Customary Marine Tenure in Australia. Sydney: University of Sydney. 192–218. Rigsby, Bruce & Noelene Cole, eds. 2006. Lamalama Country. Our Country. Our Culture-Way. Paddy Bassani & Albert Lakefield with Tom Popp. Brisbane: Akito Pty Ltd with Queensland Government. Sutton, Peter. 2005. Science and sensibility on a foul frontier: Flinders Island, 1935. In Bruce Rigsby & Nicolas Peterson, eds. Donald Thomson: The Man and Scholar. Canberra: Academy of Social Sciences. 143–158. Thomson, Donald. 1928a. Journal entry, October 4. Unpublished manuscript, Donald Thomson Collection, Museum Victoria. Thomson, Donald. 1928b. Unpublished field notes, Donald Thomson Collection, Museum Victoria. Thomson, Donald. 1933. The hero cult, initiation and totemism on Cape York. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 63: 453–537. Thomson, Donald. 1934. The dugong hunters of Cape York. Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 64: 237–266. Thomson, Donald. 1952. Notes on some primitive watercraft in Northern Australia: Canoes, swimming logs and floats. Man 54: 117–119.  doi: 10.2307/2795297 Tindale, Norman. 1927. Journal, unpublished. South Australian Museum Archives.

Making gambarr It belongs to me, I belong to it John B. Haviland

University of California at San Diego A few years ago I revisited the Hopevale community in North Queensland with the intention of “repatriating” various sorts of materials – mostly photographs and films – from more than forty years of (discontinuous) research among Guugu Yimithirr-speaking people north of Cooktown. Taking as the central focus a short film about the traditional preparation of gambarr, a tar-like substance manufactured from the roots of the biniirr or ironbark tree and an essential traditional material for making spears and woomeras, I reflect on evolving and contested notions of land, kin, and ownership that surfaced in a disconcerting and unexpected way during that journey. The film is based on a compilation of photographs and audio commentaries from the 1970s and 1980s. Although at first the families of the now-deceased participants enthusiastically endorsed their elders’ desire that the knowledge they were trying to impart about making gambarr be widely shared among younger people, over the course of days of discussion and debate, the families concluded that instead the film ought not to be further disseminated or deposited in a shared community archive of traditional custom and practice. I try to untangle some of the contentious logic of such a decision.

1.  “Repatriation”: A fieldtrip in 20091 In late April, 2009, together with my daughter Maya and her partner Brad, I made a short trip to the Hopevale Aboriginal community, in north Queensland. Friends from the Cape York Land Council had loaned us a four-wheel drive vehicle, which we drove up the coast from Cairns to Cooktown, crossing the Daintree and calling in at Wujal Wujal (Bloomfield) to visit my adoptive sister CJ, who in turn decided to load her dialysis supplies into the car and accompany us to Hopevale to see the rest of the family. A decade earlier I had finished the last major research I had done at Hopevale,

.  For locations mentioned in the text, see the two general maps at the front of the volume.

doi 10.1075/clu.18.21hav © 2016 John Benjamins Publishing Company

 John B. Haviland

c­ ulminating in a book (Haviland 1998) about how my Hopevale cousin RH and I had tried to reconstruct, from his memories and those of his kinsmen, fragments of the history of his people, his country, and his language from around Barrow Point near Princess Charlotte Bay (see also Sutton, this volume). And it had been five years since I had previously visited Hopevale, then with the sad duty of laying that same cousin to his final rest. My daughter Maya, who had spent long periods of her childhood running up and down the back streets of Hopevale and who had since embarked on her own project to connect art, image, and word in other comparable places in Australia, had gone even longer without visiting her adopted uncles and aunties who lived at Juubi, the Guugu Yimithirr clan name for the area including the main village at Hopevale. My work at Hopevale had begun in 1970 when I first went to try to learn about the Guugu Yimithirr language. A couple of years later, I traveled north together with Bruce Rigsby, who had been my teacher at Harvard some years before and who was at that moment a colleague at the ANU, during the heady early years there of intensive study of Australian languages. We visited Mareeba and then Cooktown, on a foray in search of old timers who could get us started on languages from Cooktown to Princess Charlotte Bay and anywhere in between, as Bruce simultaneously regaled me with Sahaptin tongue twisters and folksy Kentucky expressions – “queer as a tree full of fish” was my favorite. That had been the beginning of a decades-long relationship with people who came to be my fictive kinsmen in and around Hopevale, a relationship that has now spanned not only several generations but the many twists and turns of political and social change in this corner of Aboriginal Australia. It was a relationship in which Bruce Rigsby was a constant participant, as teacher, colleague, mentor, adviser, companion, confidante, fictive kinsman, and friend, who – especially since I moved away from Australia in the 1980s – periodically gave me a roof under which to sleep, and assiduously kept me abreast, at a distance, of the progress of our mutual Aboriginal friends and relations’ efforts to reestablish at least some measure of control over their lands, their languages, and their social lives. Amidst the swags and cooking pots loaded into the back of the borrowed truck as we drove north in 2009 was a portable hard disk, brimming with digital versions of photographs, notebooks, audio and video recordings from almost forty years of my visits to Hopevale, all of which had been collected before the advent and without the benefit of the now current ‘informed consent’ required in all IRB (Institutional Review Board, or Ethics Committee) approved research. My idea was to ‘repatriate’ these recently digitized materials, which is to say, in some way to make them available to the community where they originated (see also Allen, this volume, on linking materials held in museums and archives to their ‘source communities’). People at Hopevale had launched sporadic attempts over the decades to organize bilingual education programs both informally and in the local school, and to create a cultural center including

Making gambarr 

a repository of historical and ethnographic resources. I thought my many recordings and photographs could contribute to such efforts. As a chronicler of Guugu Yimithirr language and genealogy I had been repeatedly asked to comment on different aspects of what I knew about people’s kinship over the years, so I also carried with me digital versions of many Hopevale “family trees.” I had learned the importance of keeping kinship relationships straight from my first moments in the community, many years before. On my very first day at Hopevale, for example, several people explicitly suggested that I go to meet old man BJ, the man whom I was taught to call biiba “father” and who ultimately instructed me both in how to talk and how appropriately to interact with others in the village. As they told me, “he not only knows how to speak proper Guugu Yimithirr, but he belongs to that language.” That is, unlike many people in the community, most of whom were native speakers of the language, Guugu Yimithirr was the proper language of BJ’s father and of his father’s father before him (see Rigsby 1992, 2005, on the distinction between language use and language ownership, and Rigsby 1998 on shifting notions of ownership). As I listen again to recordings of the many hours we spent in conversation, I realize that BJ was always intent on making sure I knew about two seemingly distinct but completely interrelated things. First were the complexities of people’s life trajectories – marriages, children, adoptions, and fostering relationships, or movements across the Aboriginal landscape that encompassed places with Guugu Yimithirr names as well as camps, missions, stations, government settlements and reserves, and sometimes distant rural Queensland towns. Only second were the delicacies of Guugu Yimithirr grammar and precise lexical nuances. Words themselves of course belong to people and places, too, separating coastal from inland folks, or directly linking lexical choices to specific locales and clans (see also Wood, this volume, on similar distinctions in a neighbouring language), helping distinguish bubu gudyin ‘friends’ from ngarrbal ‘strangers.’ As BJ continually pointed out, most people at Hopevale had “their own languages” as well, even if they hadn’t learned (or had forgotten) how to speak them. One of BJ’s frequent companions on trips to the bush and in conversation was JM, whose older brother WJ was also my first host at Hopevale, and a person with whose family I continued to live over many years. Indeed, my own “kinship” relationships at Hopevale are complicated by the fact that foster- and step-kin as well as unexpected marriage choices often render it possible, if not necessary, to calculate genealogical relationships in more than one way. (In some cases, usually involving people marrying into the community, or being adopted from the outside, one could simply choose an appropriate relationship term and stick with it. Other cases could be more problematic, as when BJ pointed out a man to me saying, “That fellow walking around there is supposed to be your mugur [classificatory mother’s brother]; but then he turn around and marry your dyin.gurr [classificatory younger sister]; so what are you supposed to call him?” – there was simply no appropriate kinship term for something like that.)

 John B. Haviland

My own case was not so dramatic but resulted instead from the fact that I have had several different ‘father’-like friends and teachers at Hopevale, in different time spans. Most of those people chose to use kin terms with me calculated on the basis of my being like the 3rd (and only surviving) son of BJ. Since BJ was himself the oldest son of an important Guugu Yimithirr man, that left me as an honorary mugay (or oldest uncle on the father’s side) for many people in the community. But for others I am like a ‘brother’ regardless of how they called BJ. This is the case with WJ’s children, some of whom I carried on my back to kindergarten; their children, too, have been taught to call me mugur or ‘mother’s brother.’ From the ways that such kinship is calculated I thus ‘belong’ by courtesy to at least two different, although interrelated, families, and these are the families whose decisions I chronicle here.

2.  Gambarr: ‘Ancient’ technologies and social life at Hopevale in the late 1970s After my first visits to Hopevale I wrote a little Guugu Yimithirr grammatical sketch and compiled a series of wordlists. When my family and I returned to Australia in the latter half of the 1970s, we began in earnest to learn about the complex history of the community, from its origins as a Lutheran mission and refuge for the remnants of the Cooktown tribes at Cape Bedford in the 1880s; through the hard times leading up to and during World War I when resources were scant and many people from sometimes distant parts of Queensland were adopted into the community; to the expansion and consolidation of a largely mission-born community between the wars, the catastrophic closure of the mission during World War II and the removal of the entire Aboriginal population, mostly to Woorabinda far to the south where many people died (see also the chapter in this volume by Mushin et al.); and finally to the reestablishment of the community at its current location inland from Cape Bedford at the modern Hopevale (Haviland & Haviland 1980). Community history, genealogy, and ways of life in the early Cape Bedford mission were the principal topics of my conversations with BJ and others, when my family lived for extended periods at the bottom end of the village, far from the office, school, store, church, and hospital where most outsiders lived. My early field notebooks show that we were initially occupied by questions we had brought with us to Hopevale: the history of the community, and of Guugu Yimithirr people more widely, as represented in people’s personal memories, in counterpoint to Lutheran church or missionary accounts, or to the bureaucratic view afforded by archival documents. These documents traced evolving relationships among the early missionaries, the ‘Protectors’ of Aborigines, the police (both European and ‘Native’) and other arms of the state, local landowners and businesses, boats and luggers and the people who manned them, and bama (Aboriginal people) both on and off the mission, in the slightly more than 100-year history of the community.

Making gambarr 

As an official matter, mission history was much in the air. Preparations were underway for major celebrations of the anniversary of the arrival at Cape Bedford of Muuni, G. H. Schwarz, the Bavarian missionary who devoted virtually his whole life to the original community.2 The elderly men with whom I spent most of my time were involved in expeditions to the old mission station, on the coast, to clean up and post signs on what remained of the original settlement where most of them had grown up and gone to school. There were also unexpected themes in our conversations, sometimes occluded by a hegemonic rhetoric about progress, development, and the mission’s role in preserving the Guugu Yimithirr language and its bama from total extinction.3 Talk about even the most straightforward topics exposed deep ambivalences about the Mission past, although often expressed with reluctance: changes in traditional “law,” the anarchy of growing families, poverty, inequities of power, and the politics of race. In the very first decades of the 20th Century, the early mission had capitulated to official pressures to accept people with mixed Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal ancestry, along with the other “waifs and strays” that the government sent to its care, sometimes from distant parts of Queensland. As a result, family relationships on the mission were extremely complicated. BJ’s discussions with me about the kin terms I should use with others I met on the street inevitably turned into criticisms of “crooked” marriages – those that violated traditional exogamy rules which “old people would have speared them for” – often linked to early mission families who married according to Schwarz’s principles rather than those of bama. Talk about preaching or even translating Lutheran hymns into Guugu Yimithirr for Sunday services led to disgruntled comments about how some people – especially those with lighter skins (barrbarr, as one sometimes puts it in Guugu Yimithirr) – were favored by the missionaries for church responsibilities. Even such topics as people’s traditional clan areas led inexorably to tensions lying barely under the surface of ordinary mission civility. Although this was before serious talk about Aboriginal land rights had even begun, Queensland’s coming Deed-of-grant-intrust or DOGIT legislation (see Section 3 below) and the notion of privatizing mission lands for individual “private enterprise” and farming had spurred early talk about who the “traditional owners” were or might be for parts of mission territory. Even more

.  He had come to North Queensland fresh from seminary at the age of nineteen in 1887, and there he had remained until his death some seventy years later. He had only a single extended absence from the community – his internment as a German alien during World War II – after which he returned to live in Cooktown, although he was no longer superintendent at the inland site of the newly reestablished Hopevale community. .  See Peter Sutton’s (2001, 2009) eloquent reflections about the role of missions in this same period in Queensland Aboriginal life.

 John B. Haviland

vexing was the huge sand mining operation at Cape Flattery – unquestionably part of the traditional clan area of the ancestors of several Hopevale families – which began in 1967 and was purchased by Mitsubishi in 1977.4 A major international corporate operation that, according to its own publicity, produces some 90% of the silica used in flat screen technology worldwide, the company employed only a few people from the community (and exactly who got such jobs was already a contested issue in the late 70s) and paid massive royalties to the Queensland government, only a trickle of which filtered into the community via allocations to the Hopevale Council.5 The resulting inequalities and resentments among Hopevale people added fuel to a kind of racial divide, with origins in the early mission social structure. There were mutual tensions and antipathies between people with mixed ancestry, who occupied many posts of responsibility in the community, and those sometimes self-styled bama buthun.gu ‘real Aborigines’6 who felt themselves to be disadvantaged in their own home. These were topics people avoided in conversation, especially in sociable mission contexts, but which frequently surfaced in private gossip or erupted in quarrels and fights, and which influenced people’s choices in everything from hunting companions, drinking partners, or spouses, to places to camp, where to sit in church, or what language to speak from moment to moment. Nonetheless, most of my work avoided these contentious matters and concentrated on a frankly naïve ‘reconstruction’ of language, kinship, and ‘traditional’ life in the early memories of the oldest people at Hopevale. Because my family and I spent quite a lot of time with BJ and his family hunting and fishing (and probably an equal amount trying to keep his old car and fifth-hand outboard motor running), I soon learned the importance of the black tar-like substance called gambarr that is a crucial adhesive ingredient in the manufacture of milbiir ‘woomeras’ (where it is used both for the handgrip and to secure the hook to the blade) and fishing spears (where it holds the prongs firmly in place, but also allows them to be removed for straightening or sharpening). BJ was particularly sought after as a spear maker, and he and I made many forays into the bush to cut and straighten bamboo or to purloin and sharpen fencing wire for spear points.

.  (http://www.cfsm.com.au/home.htm) .  See O’Faircheallaigh (1996, 2000) on the nature and final outcomes of protracted negotiations over these rights and royalties. The issue was highly contentious – sometimes violent – and it remained unresolved for several decades before a final, uneasy, settlement was reached, involving not only the Hopevale Council, the mine, and the state, but competing Aboriginal families and institutional interests both black and white. .  Who also sometimes called themselves bama muunhi buthun.gu ‘really black Aborigines.’ See Haviland (1997).

Making gambarr 

On October 11, 1977, around mid-morning BJ and JM, together with the latter’s dog, headed out into the bush on the south side of the mission where they thought they would find good quality biniirr (ironbark) trees from whose roots, in this part of Guugu Yimithirr country, gambarr is traditionally made. I was invited to tag along and to bring my camera. The motive was not pedagogical, but practical. The time of year for good coastal fishing was upon us – the season of mullet runs in the estuaries, and the warm, clear springtime weather that precedes December’s monsoon rains. As a result, younger men who didn’t know how to make the traditional and highly effective four-pronged fishing-spear had already begun to descend on old timers like BJ demanding the “loan” of a spear or two. His supply of spears and of gambarr to make more had run out. With the vague idea that I ought to document this ‘traditional technology’ I shot several rolls of black and white film with my old Nikon that day in the bush, then filed the negatives away and promptly forgot about them.

3.  Changing demographies and the coming of ‘land rights’ in the 1980s A few years later Timothy Asch, the late ethnographic filmmaker and at the time a close colleague at ANU, encouraged a number of colleagues to print some of our photographs from the field for display in departmental halls. Poring over my slides and negatives, Tim asked me about the pitch-making sequence. I agreed to try to create a small exhibit based on the photographs and, to that end, I printed them and took them back to Hopevale in the last days of 1981. The circumstances in North Queensland were then somewhat different. Talk of Aboriginal land, ownership, and belonging had become both more prevalent and more contentious, throughout Australia and even in the remote reaches of a politically conservative Queensland. Real possibilities of future access to resources had begun to appear, if only on the horizon.7 In Cape York there were early negotiations for the ‘deed of grant in trust’ (DOGIT)8 arrangements, which would grant limited rights to Aboriginal peoples over land on existing Aboriginal reserves – a political ploy in Queensland to try to head off more meaningful land rights legislation nationwide that would not come for another decade. Though I continued to struggle to learn more Guugu Yimithirr, I had by then started working with yet another teacher from Hopevale, my cousin RH, who believed himself to be the very last speaker of the language of his childhood, from Iibwolin

.  See especially Sutton (2008) for more on this era in Queensland. .  In 1986 Hopevale was the first community to receive land under Queensland’s DOGIT provisions. See Pearson (1989).

 John B. Haviland

around Barrow Point, farther up the coast (Haviland 1998). RH had been removed from his family as a six-year-old child and taken to Cape Bedford sometime before 1920. We joined other people from Hopevale who were making exploratory forays into their own clan territories north of the Cape Bedford mission territory, areas once hosting cattle stations or mines, but abandoned and largely bereft of human settlement for decades. Both of my companions on the gambarr-making trip to the bush that day in 1977 had died a few years before, leaving their brothers, WJ, and JJ as the senior men in their respective families. JJ was my biiba ‘father-uncle’ – BJ’s next younger brother – a generous-hearted, soft-spoken man who had welcomed me into his house, the weekend after BJ died unexpectedly in 1979, so that the two of us could together await the inevitable farewell visit from the deceased man’s spirit. The other pitchmaker, JM, was survived by his older brother WJ, who was in turn my longtime host at Hopevale. WJ’s children were either grown-up or growing, with children of their own, and my family and I now mostly camped with them when we were at Hopevale. When I came back to the community at the end of 1981, we again moved into a tent in WJ’s yard. Uncle JJ was recovering from the effects of a stroke. Newly widowed, he had returned to live at the mission after many years in his own house in Cooktown. In the growing climate of talk about a new corporate structure for Hopevale and, somewhat contradictorily, the chance for individual Hopevale families to work farms and businesses formerly reserved for mission enterprises, my suggestion that we try to convert the pitch-making photographs into a booklet for use in the community met with some enthusiasm from the two surviving brothers. On the other hand, they had not taken part in the gambarr making expedition, and they were understandably conflicted about the tension between an Aboriginal discomfort with images (and the names) of recently deceased relatives, and a firm Lutheran upbringing that ignored such prohibitions. Nonetheless, they were very pleased to see the photographs, and we agreed to sit together over a series of weekend afternoons to look at them carefully and to compose a text to accompany them, whether for a booklet or some other written product. Listening again to the recordings from more than thirty years ago, I am struck by how much questions of ownership and identity were a constant backdrop to our conversations. They surfaced even in our search for a kind of ‘purist’ Guugu Yimithirr, pruned of the English constructions and words that were the common medium of Hopevale talk, even among elderly men like these who had largely learned elegant and now somewhat old-fashioned English as young children at the Cape Bedford school. The brothers alternated between commenting on the scenes in the photographs, asking me what we had been doing at the moment I snapped each picture, and trying to dredge up archaic Guugu Yimithirr expressions when our initial spontaneous attempts to find the right words failed.

Making gambarr 

Here, for example, is an excerpt from our discussion of the first few photographs, which showed BJ and JM setting out from the village, tools in hand. (1) Conversation about the first pictures 1 wj; nhila yii bayan nhangu-umun9 now here house 3sg.gen-abl ‘Now, from out of his house’ 2 warra ngathu brother, old 3sg.gen ‘My old brother’ 3 nhangu-n.ga-mun gadaara. 3sg.gen-cat-abl come.redup ‘(They’re) coming from out of his (house).’ 4 nha-athi, bula now thadaara bula. see-past 2du.nom go.redup 2du.nom ‘See, the two of them are going now.’ 5 bula yii thadaara gambarr baga-nhu balga-nhu. 2du.nom here go.redup pitch dig-purp make-purp ‘Here the two of them are going to dig tar, or make it.’ 6 Balga-nhu or baga-nhu? make-purp dig-purp ‘(Should we say) ‘dig’ or ‘make’?’ 7 jj; baga-nhu. awuun. dig-purp yes ‘‘Dig.’ Right.’ 8 wj; yii babaar maandiindi. and I dunno shovel – guya = here hoe take.redup none ‘Here they’re carrying a hoe, and I dunno about ‘shovel’–’

.  I transcribe talk as it occurred, in a mix of Guugu Yimithirr and English, with glosses in English where required. The Guugu Yimithirr transcription employs a practical orthography in which th and nh are lamino-dental stop and nasal respectively, dy or j and ny are laminopalatal stop and nasal, r is a retroflex rhotic, rr a flap or trill, ng a velar nasal, and n.g an alveolar nasal followed by a velar stop. Abbreviations in morpheme-by-morpheme glosses include: 1=1st person; 2= 2nd person; 3=3rd person; abess(ive); abl(ative); adess(ive); cat(alytic infix); caus(ausative light verb); cl(itic); du(al); emph(atic clitic); erg(ative); for or ‘for the purpose of ’ derivational suffix; gen(itive); imp(erative); loc(ative); neg(ative); nom(inative); none (negative existential); nonp(ast); past (tense); pl(ural number); plu(ral suffix); purp(osive case or verbal inflection); redup(licated verbal stem); ref(lexive); sg(ingular number); sub(ordinating verbal suffix). I use a simplified CA style format in which ‘=’ indicates a ‘latch’ or continuation without a pause, but I have generally not marked overlaps between turns, as not relevant to the current study.

 John B. Haviland

9 =guugu. word ‘For that there’s no word.’ 10 babaar – hoe. hoe ‘‘babaar’ – that’s ‘hoe.’’ 11 jj; warrbi nhayun – nganhthaan warrbi balga-l, axe that 1pl.nom axe make-nonp ‘And that’s an axe; we can write down ‘axe.’’ 12 warrbi and same time babaar. axe hoe ‘An axe and at the same time a hoe.’ 13 shovel guya. nhayun wangaarr-bi shovel. none that whitefella-loc ‘No word for ‘shovel’; shovels belong to white men.’ 14 wj; gurmunh – baayga. thunggala. bag bag billycan ‘(They’ve got) a sack–a ‘bag’, and a billycan.’ 15 jj; baayga nhayun English-bi. bag that -loc ‘‘Bag’ is in English.’ Thinking of gambarr also prompted reflection about different practices in the wider Aboriginal world. The commentators were acutely aware that gambarr made from ironbark roots was very much a local tradition – people north of the Starcke River or south near the Bloomfield River preferred other plants for making pitch – and that despite attempts to find equivalent materials from the repertoire of white man’s technology, nothing worked quite so well as the traditional pitch. (2) Foreign people versus our people 6 nhayun bama ngarrbal. that person stranger ‘Those would be foreign people.’ 7 but around here: biniirr-nganh ironbark-abl ‘But around here (they get tar) from ironbark trees.’ 8 ngali, nyundu, ngayu, 1du.nom 2sg.nom 1sg.nom ‘Like the two of us, you and I.’ 9 walu yii area nhin.ga-l ma. like here sit-nonp cl ‘Like those of us who stay in this area, right?’

Making gambarr 

[…] 12 galbuurr. tar ‘tar.’ 13 galga-angu, spear-purp ‘For spears.’ 14 milbirr-a, and ngaanaa=buthu. woomera-purp whatever ‘And for woomeras, and whatever.’ The contrast between traditional ways of doing things and modern habits led to explicit contrasts between old and young, black and white. Young men, voracious consumers of fishing spears, had no experience in the laborious business of manufacturing the necessary raw materials, and thus they experimented with easier European alternatives: battery casings or epoxy glues. (3) White man tar 16 wj; well gambarr batha-aya bama-al muguul=muguur-nda = pitch finish=refl.nonp person-erg old=redup-erg ‘Well, if the pitch finishes that old folks’ 17 =balga-al-giga, make-nonp-sub ‘make.’ 18 you know. 19 bama young people bama-ngay, person person-plu ‘Aboriginal folks, like young people’ 20 bama yarrga-ngay, bitha-gurr-ngay, person boy-plu small-plu-plu ‘Like boys, and children’ 21 thana tar maana-a and use-em gurra-l galga balga-nhu. 2sg.nom take-nonp do-nonp spear make-purp ‘They take tar and they use it to make spears’ 22 tar – you know, 23 white man tar. 24 tar- wangaarr-bi whitefella-loc ‘Tar from white men.’ 25 jbh; motorcar-malin -for ‘Like the kind you use in cars?’

 John B. Haviland

26 jj; awuun yes ‘Right.’ 27 gaari bitumen, ashfelt, burbuurr-gu. neg asphalt hard-emph ‘Not bitumen, or asphalt – that’s too hard.’ 28 wj; Bloomfield tar, ‘(In) Bloomfield (they use) tar.’ 29 burrburr like gambarr. hard pitch ‘It’s hard like pitch.’ 30 battery-nganh, tar, -abl ‘From battery (casings), tar.’ More directly relevant to my overall argument in this chapter was the ambivalence my interlocutors evinced about the appropriateness of using images of their deceased brothers for any sort of public purpose at all. Photographs of old people, especially from early mission days at Cape Bedford, abound at Hopevale. Nonetheless, showing images or saying the names of deceased relatives was (and remains) a sensitive and delicate matter even in this nominally Lutheran community, just as it is in Aboriginal life more generally. Names both conjure memories of their deceased bearers, and also in a clear sense exclusively belong to the families of those bearers. Thus, WJ and JJ both took for granted that they would not be able to use their deceased brothers’ names. In fact, both invoked a story I had heard many times before, about a man on the mission whose name was ‘Old man bigibigi’ (from English ‘pig’). (4) Old man ‘Pig’ 1 jj; ngali-in gadil yitharr 1du-gen name put=nonp ‘We should put our names down’ 2 wj; well don’t forget, 3 bula yii and you say 3du.nom here ‘These two, and you say’ 4 bula yiimu-un bunhthil dumbi milbi, 3du.nom this-erg empty leave.past story ‘These two left the story ‘widowed’’ 5 nha-mu-ngayng-gu bula yii guthiirra that-cat-abl-cl 3du.nom this two ‘So afterwards these other two’

Making gambarr 

6 bula yii-muun milbi ngaanaarru gurra-y, = 3du.nom this-erg story whatchamacallit say-past ‘These two here did-whatchamacallit’ 7 =bathaay-mani. finish-caus ‘finished (the story).’ […] 11 jj; gaari gadiil-ngu neg name-purp ‘But not with the names.’ 12 wj; put another name.. 13 something like this 14 old time I remember, 15 when bama bigibigi person pig ‘When the man called ‘Pig’’ 16 you remember that one 17 bama bigibigi been biini, gunda-y, person pig die.past kill-past ‘The man called ‘Pig’ died; he was killed.’ 18 yuu nhayun gunda-y yes that kill-past ‘Right, that one was killed’ 19 and then bigibigi they call nanigut, ‘And then they would call wild pigs ‘Nannygoats’’ 20 because they wouldn’t say name ‘nhayun bigibigi… that pig ‘Because they wouldn’t say the name of that old man ‘Pig’’ 21 thuyu, dead ‘(because he was) dead.’ 22 so they put a name nanigud ‘So they used the word ‘Nannygoat’ (instead of ‘pig’).’ The man’s name was tabooed, and for a period of time people had to resort to the inconvenient euphemism ‘Nannygoat’ whenever they wanted to talk not only about the deceased but about wild pigs in general. Not everyone at Hopevale, of course, observes such ‘old ways’ with equal care. Younger people, especially those who have spent long periods outside the mission in school or living in the south, are more casual about such ‘old fashioned’ prohibitions,

 John B. Haviland

and formal practices in the Hopevale Lutheran church are often contradictory about naming the deceased. The two families involved in the pitch-making photos, however, were among the most ‘traditional’ in the community. They could lay direct genealogical claims, both paternal and maternal, not only to the Guugu Yimtihirr language itself but also to clan areas in the ancestral heartland of Guugu Yimithirr country (although outside the territory gazetted to the mission). The two pitch-makers, and also their brothers commenting on the photos, had the unusual distinction of having spent periods away from Cape Bedford ‘in the bush’ or at least of having known and interacted with their genealogical parents, some of whom had lived for a time in the ‘heathen’ camp at Bridge Creek where a few older people were allowed to stay while their children were in the Cape Bedford school. For these two families, then, care with the names of deceased relatives was more than a relic of a pre-mission past, or something they had only heard about but never lived. Thus, as they looked through the photographs, the two interlocutors knew that future generations of Hopevale people would not necessarily recognize the protagonists, but that their identities and their family affiliations would be important to record. They suggested several alternative strategies to avoid using their brothers’ names. One was to let their own identities work as proxies for the names of the original pitch makers. As WJ says (in line 18 of the following fragment), such an expedient would work perfectly well, or “come on right.” (5) Older brother, younger brother 3 wj; bula nhila thuyu, but milbi bulaan wunaa yii bada. 3du.nom now dead story 3du.gen exist here down ‘Those two are now deceased, but their story still exists here.’ 4 milbi bula nhayun story 3du.nom that ‘The story of both of them.’ 5 dubi, milbi bula dubi, leave+past story 3du.nom leave+past ‘They left it, the two of them left their story behind.’ 6 nhila thillin, yaba nhangu-umun milbi miirriili-l. now then older.brother 3sg.gen-erg story tell+redup-nonp ‘Now in turn their older brother is telling the story.’ 7 nhila yabaa milbi miirrii-l, now older.brother.erg story tell-nonp ‘Now the older brother will tell the story.’ 8

bunhthil dubi. empty leave+past ‘That they left ‘widowed.’’ …

Making gambarr 

10

ngayu gaarga-anganh milbi galmba miirriili-l. 1sg.nom younger.brother-abl story also tell.redup-nonp ‘I am also telling the story of my younger brother.’ …

17 wj; they know then who name, see, 18 come on right.

4.  Photography, narrative, and interaction Aside from a brief exhibition of the photographs with a set of English captions at ANU in 1982, the anticipated use of the pitch-making photographs never materialized. When I left Australia a few years later, I relegated the early Hopevale photographs to dusty boxes. Only thirty years later did I return to the photographs as my daughter and I planned the 2009 trip to Hopevale to visit old friends. Digital technology now allowed me easily to carry copies of my early photographs back to the ­community. ­Rediscovering the audio recordings from 1981 in turn inspired me to create a photo‑film with a soundtrack derived from our tape recorded conversations (Haviland 2009). As Arnd Schneider (2014) writes, in his recent essay on the genre of photo-film in anthropology, still photographs have an “intrinsic sequentiality” that results both from their physical collocation with other photographs, and from “their narrative uses when we talk about” (p. 42) them.10 Given typical ways photographs are used – laid out on a table by a family of returned Sicilian immigrants, for example – Schneider suggests that “movement, and not only arrested movement or life, is inherent in photos (in the plural!)” (p. 43). Of course, the very act of taking a still photograph fixes an instant of life (the moment the photograph is composed and the shutter is clicked) which serves as a potentially rich mnemonic of the wider time span of which it is part. While the sequence of photographic negatives provided one possible order for the photo-film, as a student of Guugu Yimithirr talk, I found a different sort of organizing principle in the words of JJ and WJ. Editing the sound was, in fact, the first step in making the film. The themes of our conversations – language, place, ownership,

.  There is, of course, a vast literature on the anthropology of photography (see Collier 1986, Edwards 1992, 1997, Edwards & Hart 2004, MacDougall 2005, etc. etc.) spanning e­ verything from James Agee’s use of Walker Evans’ photographs (Agee & Walker 1960, 2013) to much more recent explorations of photography as expressive resources in community development (M. Haviland 2012). My specific interest here is how still images and spoken commentary combine in at least one genre of photo-film.

 John B. Haviland

f­amily, names, belonging, and passing time – seemed now to inhere in the photographic images themselves as I excerpted the old men’s words about knowledge of the past, technology, ownership, and legacies. As I have mentioned, WJ and JJ themselves had hit upon (or borrowed from well-known and widely distributed oral narrative and discursive techniques) a simple verbal device for breathing interactive life into the still images: invented dialogue. They animated the scenes by putting words into the protagonists’ mouths, even mine. (6) (Re)constructing dialogue 1 wj; well bula musta been yiway ngaanaarru, 3du.nom here whatchamacallit ‘Well, the two of them must have been like,’ 2 walu gadii thawuunh like come.imp friend ‘“Come, friend!”’ 3 ngali thadaa 1du.nom go.nonp ‘“We two are leaving.”’ 4 well bula yi-muunh waada-y 2du.nom here-abl say-past ‘Well, these two said,’ 5 ma gadii nganthaan thadaa well come.imp 1pl.nom go+nonp ‘“Now, come, we’re all going.”’ 6 well bula thadaara now for gambaarr-ngu 2du.nom go.redup.nonp pitch-purp ‘Well, the two of them are setting out now for pitch.’ 7 and. nyundu took snaps 2sg.nom ‘And you took snapshots.’ 8 yubaal thadii, ngayu nguumbaarr maanaa 2du.nom go.imp 1sg.nom picture take.nonp ‘“You go on, I’ll take photographs.”’ 9 see, you say, bula-an.gal 2du-adess ‘See, that’s what you say to the two of them.’ 10 bula walkin’ 2du.nom ‘Those two are walking.’ 11 you takin’ snaps

Making gambarr 

I am no longer certain how the two original protagonists, BJ and JM, addressed one another. In classificatory terms, although BJ was the older man, JM was BJ’s biiba or ‘father/uncle,’ the son of a man BJ considered his gami or ‘father’s father,’ who hailed from a clan area near but not closely related to that of BJ’s father. In the imagined dialogues, the two men are portrayed as addressing each other in the neutral ways reserved for not particularly close kinsmen with no specially marked kin ­relationship– neither potential in-laws who required circumspect interaction, nor, for example, standing in a relationship that licensed ribald mutual joking (see Haviland 1979). In the invented scenes they address each other as thawuunh ‘friend.’ (7) A good root 1 jj; thawuunh thaawi, friend call.past ‘He called out to his friend.’ 2 dyin.gal dabaar waami-iga root good find-sub ‘Because he had found a good root.’ 3 baga-y baga-y yiiii, dig-past dig-past here ‘He dug and dug for a long time…’ 4 waami, find.past ‘And found it’ 5 nyulu thawuunh thaawi, 3sg.nom friend call.past ‘And then he called his friend.’ 6 gadii thawuunh, come.imp friend ‘“Come here, friend!”’ 7 yii nhaawaa dyin.gal here see.imp root “Look here at this root!”’ 8 ganaa dabaar? OK good ‘“It’s a good one, no?”’ 9 nhaathi gurra, see.past then ‘(And his friend) looked at it.’ 10 ah dabaar, bulnga-la, baga-la! good pull-imp dig-imp ‘“Ah, that’s a good one. Pull it out, dig it up!”’

 John B. Haviland

5.  The 2009 visit to Hopevale By the time we reached Hopevale in late April 2009, many things had changed in the community, even since my previous visit five years before. The initial excitement following the Mabo decision of 1992 and the Native Title Act of 1993 had given way, at least at Hopevale, to divisive and sometimes violent confrontations between families with different and sometimes incompatible claims to land and resources suddenly made both available and contestable under Australian law. Virtually all the senior people in families I was close to and who been my teachers had died. These were the “elders” who had schooled me not only in Guugu Yimithirr language and the territorial claims that went with different families (and languages), but also in politeness, proper compartment around one’s kin, and in marriage “law” – all features of Hopevale social life that seemed to be in disarray. One aspect of Hopevale life that had changed little over the decades was the racial divide that left some families relatively disadvantaged compared to others, formerly in mission affairs, and now – even more obviously – in the community life of the town after the Native Title determination of 1997. The end of the story of the gambarrmaking film relates to the resulting long-standing tensions. My idea about ‘repatriating’ photographs and videos to Hopevale stemmed from the innocent notion that what the old men had tried to teach me belonged with their own descendants more than in the digital archives of institutional libraries. The photos represented family mementos, sometimes the only images available of departed relatives. My fieldnotes from decades of research – a mishmash of handwritten annotations in Guugu Yimithirr and English – and the audio recordings that accompanied them had a more problematic status, partly because they were of dubious use to anyone else, and partly because they were peppered with reminiscences, genealogical fragments, and scurrilous tales imparted in unguarded moments by my highly opinionated mentors. In the years preceding our 2009 trip to Hopevale, I had often found myself reluctant to share such gossipy tidbits with Hopevale people who directly asked me for land-related family trees and histories, especially in cases where my original teachers had explicitly framed bits of genealogy as examples of how one ought NOT to marry. Silverstein’s (2006) reflection on Kiksht names elaborates a similar ambivalence about sharing genealogies with young activists from the Warm Springs reservation. How could the ethnographer surrender lists of personal names that had been bestowed, cared for, and sometimes also ruined by their bearers’ actual behavior to young people for whom antique Wasco-Wishram names were just a simple index of ‘tradition’ and lost ‘knowledge’? For Silverstein names were like family ‘heirlooms’ that his teachers had been determined to protect (and sometimes to hide). Reduced to mere linguistic markers for the younger people who wanted copies of his fieldnotes, Chinook names listed on two-generation-old genealogies meant something considerably different to

Making gambarr 

Silverstein’s original consultants (and, thus, to him) than they would to language and culture revitalizers almost half a century later. So, too, the gambarr making film: to whom did it belong and what should be done with it? The gambarr-makers had invited me explicitly to take the photographs, and the brothers had thrown themselves enthusiastically into the subsequent taperecorded conversations. But although I had collected and (re)assembled the material, by any reasonable moral calculus the film also belonged to the gambarr-makers themselves, and thus, by Hopevale standards, to their families. Moreover, the four elderly men who contributed their time, their expertise, their images, and their words to the project had been quite explicit about their intentions. Partly, as we have already seen, they treated the pitch making process as a kind of mnemonic exercise, a way to bring things they themselves knew to active consciousness. This included retrieving words for tools and techniques that had lain long dormant in their memories. (8) The pounding tools 2 jj; yugu nyulu bulnga-l, gunda-l… wood 3sg.nom pull-nonp hit-nonp ‘He’s pulling out a root, and pounding it.’ 3 nambaal-bay gundaarnda-l. stone-loc hit.redup-nonp ‘He’s pounding it on a rock.’ 4 wj; nambal waalaal, nhaathi, rock wide see.past ‘A flat rock, see?’ … 7 jj; dyinydyi? pounding_rock ‘(I think it’s called) ‘jinyji’’ 8 you see that round nambal and that flat… rock ‘You see that round stone, flat one?’ 9 that dyinydyi pounding_rock ‘That’s (what we call) jinyji.’ Scouring their memories for lost words also pushed WJ and JJ into a more general reflection about language and knowledge of language, even invoking the special words of the avoidance register once obligatory in conversation between and man and his wife’s relatives (Haviland 1979). They drew a contrast between “plain” language, and the much “deeper” or “bigger” words that tabooed relatives used with one another – the

 John B. Haviland

respectful “brother-in-law” word wabirr, for example, in place of the everyday word buurraay ‘water.’ (9) ‘Big words’ 10 because ngali yii no more talkin Guugu 1du.nom here language ‘Because you and I aren’t really talking (the Guugu Yimithirr) language’ 11 you know plain language. 12 ngali hard word use-em gurrala-l, 1du.nom caus.redup-nonp ‘We two can use hard words.’ 13 walu German nhaathi German and English, like see+past ‘Like German, see? German versus English.’ 14 walu yarrba. like thus ‘Like that.’ 15 guugu warrga ngali yii ‘wabirr’ buurraay. word big 1du.nom here water water ‘We two can use big words, like ‘wabirr’ to say ‘water.’’ 16 thana bandi-l buurraay, 3pl.nom call-nonp water ‘Others will call it ‘buurraay’ – ‘water.’’ 17 just buurraay, but we nhila-ngunh, water now-erg ‘Just ‘buurraay’, but we can still’ 18 like nowadays, 19 we just talk plain language, 20 buurraay, water ‘‘water’’ 21 gaari ngali wabirr bandi-l. neg 1du.nom water call-nonp ‘But no, we two can call it ‘wabirr’’ JJ linked this lexical contrast with the loss of knowledge in general on the part of “young fellows” – a loss that, as they jokingly conclude, encompasses even genealogical facts once of prime importance to members of the community, but now fading. 22 These young fellows don’t know, 23 only buurraay.. water ‘(they) only (know the word) ‘buurraay’ – ‘water.’’

Making gambarr 

24 guthubay mayba-la, ngayu bambangathi-nhu– food give-imp 1sg.nom eat-purp ‘“Give me food, I want to eat”’ [in the respectful lexicon] 25 yii ngali yirrgaa, here 1du.nom speak+nonp ‘We two can talk this way’ 26 nyulu Baawaayga, 3sg.nom ‘Like he is Baawaayga’ 27 ngayu King Jacko. 1sg.nom ‘And I am King Jacko’ The pitch makers themselves, that is, implicitly located their project in the context of two well-known lineages, those of ‘Baawaayga’ and ‘King Jacko’11 – their respective genitors, who lived parts of their lives off the mission ‘in the bush’. It was exactly the direct descendants of these two men with whom I consulted about the film and other materials on our arrival in Hopevale in 2009. Clustered around a flickering image projected on a stained Hopevale wall, the descendants of the pitch makers – some of whom had never met the film’s protagonists, and who in places struggled to understand their mixture of spoken Guugu Yimithirr and English – watched the gambarr film all together. We then gathered together on several occasions to discuss what might be done with the photo-film. After the first viewings, the families enthusiastically endorsed what seemed to be the explicit message of the narrators: that knowledge of the old ways ought to be imparted to younger generations. They were thus willing to support my proposal that we deposit a copy of the film at the Hopevale cultural resource center. (10) This will die with us 1 jj; and these young fellas-ngun maani -erg take-past ‘And these young fellows took hold’ 2 idea-gu -cl ‘of the very idea’

.  These men would not, of course, have appropriately used ‘brother-in-law’ speech with one another, but the implicit reference here is to the specialized linguistic knowledge people of that generation would have had, by contrast with contemporary young people, completely ignorant of the ‘deeper’ respectful vocabulary.

 John B. Haviland

3 nyulu follow-em gurra:y yi till 3sg.nom make-past here ‘And they followed it’ 4 young generation ‘right to the young generation.’ 5 well ngali batha-aya 1du.nom finish-ref.past ‘Well, if we two finish off ’ 6 ngali biinii 1du.nom die-nonp ‘if we die’ 7 well these 8 young- young 9 comin’ up 10 they don’t know how to do it Over the course of the next weeks, however, as different family members viewed the film several more times, and as my daughter and I began to investigate details of the facilities that might house the visual materials, there was a subtle shift. It is no surprise, in retrospect, that the people in charge in the cultural center were from the same ­powerful Hopevale families who had been prominent in community affairs ever since early missionary times. The pitch-makers’ families were not among them. (Indeed, my full sister JoJ was temporarily employed in the lowly role of a dilly-bag weaver by the community craft center, where members of more powerful families ruled the roost.) Nor were members of my two families among those with Council jobs promoting community development, nor among the teachers in the Hopevale school or its sputtering bilingual programs, nor among the decision makers allocating resources, fighting for royalties from, nor even employed by Mitsubishi. Coming from clan areas outside mission land, they were also largely marginalized from the main groups of claimants to Hopevale territory, now administered under tortuously agreed communal native title. In the very last days of our visit the families concluded that the film should NOT be placed in a Hopevale archive, that it belonged only to “our families” and should not be left in the hands of others in the community, nor, indeed, in the community at all lest it fall into the hands of non-family members. In 1981, as authoritative spokesmen for their families, JJ and WJ had decided in the end to re-tell the pitch-making story, names and all. (8) We can say the names 1 WJ; well ngali, nhayun buunhthiil dubi-iga, 1du.nom that broken leave.past-sub ‘Well, we two, since they left the story ‘widowed.’’

Making gambarr 

2 well ngali now 1du.nom ‘Well, now the two of us’ 3 miirrili-l tell.redup-nonp ‘are telling it’ 4 you know? 5 well ngali now miirriili-l 1du.nom tell.redup-nonp ‘Well, now we two are telling it’ 6 but we can say names 7 because ngali milbi miirriili-l 1du.nom story tell.redup-nonp ‘Because we two are telling the story.’ But by 2009, these names – in both English and Guugu Yimithirr versions – seemed to take on a different resonance. (12) Children to come 1 jj; children to come 2 nhayun milga-an nhamaalma galmba that ear-erg see.redup.nonp also ‘They will also remember’ 3 milga-an nhaamaa ear-erg see.nonp ‘They’ll remember’ 4 aa, gambarr yii balga-y pitch here make-past ‘“Aaa, this is how they made pitch’” 5 bula nhayun 3du.nom that ‘“These two’” 6 JM-ngun bula JM-erg 3du.nom ‘“JM (made it),’” 7 BJ-ngun, and milbi yii bula BJ-erg story this 3du.nom ‘“Along with BJ, and this story’” 8 WJ-ngun bula JJ-ngun balga-y WJ-erg 3du.nom JJ-erg make-past ‘“WJ and JJ made it.”’

 John B. Haviland

The families finally came to interpret the pitch makers’ dedication of their film to “children to come” not as aimed at bama in general, nor even at the children of Hopevale. They asked me to take the photo-film away with me, and to treat it instead as the proprietary legacy of only the direct descendants of the deceased men whose names, in the end, the old men had finally willed themselves to pronounce.

References Agee, James & Walker Evans. 1960. Let us now Praise Famous Men. Boston: Houghton Mifflin. Agee, James & Walker Evans. 2013. Cotton Tenants: Three Families. Brooklyn: Melville House. Collier, John. 1986. Visual Anthropology: Photography as a Research Method. Albuquerque: University of New Mexico Press. Edwards, Elizabeth, ed. 1992. Anthropology and Photography, 1860–1920. New Haven: Yale University Press. Edwards, Elizabeth. 1997. Beyond the boundary: a consideration of the expressive in photography and anthropology. In Marcus Banks & Howard Morphy, eds. Rethinking Visual Anthropology. New Haven: Yale University Press. 1–26. Edwards, Elizabeth & Janice Hart, eds. 2004. Photographs Objects Histories: On the Materiality of Images. London: Routledge. Haviland, John. 1979. Guugu Yimithirr brother-in-law language. Language in Society 8: 365–393. doi: 10.1017/S0047404500007600 Haviland, John. 1997. Owners vs. bubu gujin: Land rights and getting the language right in Guugu Yimithirr country. Journal of Linguistic Anthropology 6: 145–160. doi: 10.1525/jlin.1996.6.2.145 Haviland, John. 1998. Old Man Fog and the Last Aborigines of Barrow Point. With Roger Hart, illustrated by the late Tulo Gordon. Washington, D.C.: Smithsonian Institution Press. Haviland, John. 2009. Making Gambarr. Photofilm, viewable online at http://anthro.ucsd. edu/~jhaviland/Gambarr Haviland, Leslie & John Haviland. 1980. How much food will there be in heaven? Lutherans and Aborigines around Cooktown before 1900. Aboriginal History 4: 118–149. Haviland, Maya. 2012. Side by Side? Practices of Collaborative Ethnography through Creative Arts. Ph.D. Dissertation, Australian National University. MacDougall, David. 2005. The Corporeal Image: Film, Ethnography, and the Senses. Princeton: Princeton University Press. O’Faircheallaigh, Ciaran. 1996. Negotiating with resource companies: Issues and constraints for Aboriginal communities in Australia. In Richie Howitt, John Connell & Philip Hirsch, eds. Resources, Nations and Indigenous Peoples. Melbourne: Oxford University Press. O’Faircheallaigh, Ciaran. 2000. Negotiating major project agreements: The ‘Cape York Model’. AIATSIS Research Discussion Paper No 11, Canberra. Pearson, Noel. 1989. The deed of grant in trust and Hope Vale Aboriginal community, North Queensland. Aboriginal Law Bulletin 2: 12. Rigsby, Bruce. 1992. The languages of the Princess Charlotte Bay region. In Tom Dutton, Malcolm Ross & Darrell Tryon, eds. The Language Game: Papers in Memory of Donald C. Laycock. Canberra: Pacific Linguistics. 353–360.

Making gambarr  Rigsby, Bruce. 1998. A survey of property theory and tenure types. In Nicolas Peterson & Bruce Rigsby, eds. Customary Marine Tenure in Australia. Sydney: Sydney University. 37–78. Rigsby, Bruce. 2005. The languages of Eastern Cape York Peninsula and linguistic anthropology. In Bruce Rigsby & Nicolas Peterson, eds. Donald Thomson. The Man and Scholar. Canberra: Academy of Social Sciences. 129–142. Schneider, Arnd. 2014. Stills that move: Photofilm and anthropology. In Arnd Schneider & Caterina Pasqualino, eds. Experimental Film and Anthropology. London: Bloomsbury Academic. 25–45. Silverstein, Michael. 2006. Ethics and ethnicities: Naming names in the archives of culture. Paper prepared for delivery to the Department of Anthropology, University of CaliforniaSan Diego, 13 February 2006. Sutton, Peter. 2001. The politics of suffering: Indigenous policy in Australia since the 1970s. Anthropological Forum 11: 125–173.  doi: 10.1080/00664670125674 Sutton, Peter. 2008. After consensus. Griffith Review 21: 199–216. Sutton, Peter. 2009. The Politics of Suffering: Indigenous Australia and the End of the Liberal Consensus. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press.

Index of places A Adelaide  92, 307, 435, 442 Albatross Bay  230 Allen Island  108, 121, 124, 309, 312, 319 Alpha  395 Annan River  96, 272, 338–342, 345–347, 349, 357–358 Archer River  141, 149, 152, 234, 370 Arnhem Land  5, 92, 140, 202, 241, 449 Aurukun  6, 246, 248, 311–313, 330 B Bamaga  8, 440 Baralaba  397 Barambah See Cherbourg Barrow Point  75, 85–99, 456, 462 Batavia Downs  140, 155 Batavia River See Wenlock River Bathurst Head  62, 69, 75, 87–88, 92, 94–96, 99, 234 Bellenden-Ker  229–230 Bentinck Island  4, 17–18, 105–131, 305–333 Bertiehaugh  412 Bloomfield (River)  236, 263–282, 337–358, 390, 455, 464, 466 Borroloola  292–293 Boulia  232 Brisbane  10, 86, 224, 234, 236,  243, 249, 251, 252, 256–258, 291–292, 389, 394 Bromley Station  148 Burketown  17, 118, 123, 129–130, 285–300, 397 Butcher’s Hill  351–353, 355

C Cairns  9, 18–19, 227, 242–244, 247, 264, 266, 270–272, 289, 337, 345, 364, 366–376, 390–393, 397, 455 Cape Bedford  90, 95, 99, 228, 234, 397, 458–459, 462, 466, 468 See also Hopevale Cape Bowen  89–90, 93, 95–96, 99 Cape Flattery  460 Cape Keerweer  161 Cape Melville  12, 70, 85–99, 446 Cape Sidmouth  152 Cape Tribulation  266–267, 270–271, 344, 357 Charleville  395 Cherbourg (Barambah)  19, 144, 244–245, 383–404 China Camp  269, 274–276, 279, 349, 351–352 Chuulangun  149, 156 Clack Island  62, 69, 87–90 Cliff Islands  9 Cloncurry  227, 232, 256 Coen  8, 15–16, 141, 144, 155, 241–259, 378, 439, 441–442, 445, 449–450 Cooktown  5, 16, 63, 70, 93–95, 97, 232, 234, 243, 247, 254, 256, 264, 347, 394, 397, 403, 455–456, 458–459, 462 Coral Sea  1, 338 Cowal Creek See Injinoo D Daintree  16, 263–282, 338–339, 344, 346, 353, 357, 455 Daly River  306–307 Deighton River  64, 71–72, 99, 351–352 Denham Island  114–115, 121, 125–127, 325, 332

Dividing Range  41, 61, 267, 338, 347, 357 Doomadgee  190, 223, 290, 295–296, 298, 397 Ducie River  148 Dunbar Station  41 E Ebagoolah  256 Edward River Mission See Pormpuraaw Endeavour River  5, 70 F Flinders Islands  12, 62, 69, 75, 85–99, 444–446 Forsyth Island  114, 121, 125–129, 311, 326, 332 Fraser Island  346, 390, 391 G Gamboola Station  42 Gilbert River  41 Graceville  7, 10 Great Barrier Reef  1, 5, 75, 85, 270–271 Groote Eylandt  5, 201 Gulf Country  1, 285–300, 391 Gulf of Carpentaria  1–2, 5, 13, 15, 39, 105–131, 182, 201, 241, 285–300, 305, 309 H Hann River  41, 64, 66, 72–73, 76–77 Hodgkinson River  338 Hopevale  20, 70, 93–95, 338, 349, 352, 357, 397, 455–478 See also Cape Bedford I Injinoo (Cowal Creek)  19–20, 409–420 Iron Range  154, 365

 Index of places J Jeannie River  99 K Katherine  201 Kennedy River  61–62, 64, 66, 71–73, 76, 99 Kowanyama (Mitchell River Mission)  41–42, 392 Kuranda  442 L Lake Carpentaria  108 Lakefield National Park  9 Laura  2, 16, 41, 87, 242, 247–248, 276, 352, 375, 449 Laura Basin  12, 61–78 Laura River  61, 63, 64, 71–72, 75–76, 355 Lizard Island  90 Lockhart River  6, 8, 18–19, 85, 92–94, 95, 140, 142, 144, 147, 152–155, 238, 241, 244, 361–379, 384, 439, 446 Lynd River  42 M Mackay  230 Mapoon  236, 384 Mareeba  349, 357, 456 Marpa National Park  69 Marrett River  87, 96, 98, 99 Maytown  42, 351–352 McIvor River  92 Melbourne  140, 225, 289, 435, 441–442, 451 Mission Beach  346 Mitchell River  39, 41–42, 44, 63, 77, 230, 234, 338 Mitchell River Mission See Kowanyama Monamona  338, 347, 357 Morehead River  41, 72, 99 Moreton Telegraph Station  141

Mornington Island  17–18, 105–131, 305, 307–308, 310–313, 319, 323, 326, 328–329, 332, 397 Mornington Mission  129, 312, 332 Mossman  93, 264, 338, 341, 344–347, 350, 352–353, 355, 358 Mount Isa  319 Mount Mulligan See Ngarrabulgan Mount Tozer  147 Musgrave  91–92 N Napranum  384 New Guinea  1–2, 5, 92, 108, 272, 411, 443 Ngarrabulgan (Mount Mulligan)  2, 87, 347 Normanby River  61, 64, 70, 76, 90, 349, 352, 355 Normanton  130, 232 P Palm Island  16, 93, 95, 143–144, 154, 156, 241, 244, 246–247, 355, 385, 388, 392, 404, 439 Palmer River  5, 12, 41–42, 63, 73, 75, 77, 90, 226, 238, 352, 354, 392 Palmerville  42, 352 Pascoe River  147, 149, 156 Point Parker  309, 311 Pormpuraaw (Edward River Mission)  6, 159–162 Port Musgrave  410 Port Stewart  85, 92, 99, 140, 156, 238, 345, 435–45 See also Yintyingka Princess Charlotte Bay  6, 8–10, 12, 39, 41, 61–62, 64, 66, 69–70, 75, 88–93, 96–97, 234, 351, 354, 437, 439, 443–444, 446–448, 456

R Red Point  96, 99 Rockhampton  142, 395, 397 Rokeby Station  144 Roma  395, 397 S Somerset  411, 413 Springsure  397 Staaten River  41, 42 Starcke River  75, 91, 99, 464 Sweers Island  109–111, 309, 311–312 Sydney  6, 66, 234, 296, 353, 384, 442 T Taroom  385, 388, 396–403 See also Woorabinda Thursday Island  411, 414 Torres Strait  1–3, 5, 6, 109, 364, 383–385, 390, 392–393, 395, 411–414, 424, 443 Townsville  6, 246–247, 251, 256, 258, 349, 385, 388, 397 Tully  345–346 W Weipa  5 Wellesley Islands  2, 3, 5, 13, 17, 105–131, 305–333 Wenlock River (Batavia River)  13, 15–16, 139–156, 230, 234, 236, 241–259 Woorabinda  19, 42, 383–388, 396–403, 458 See also Taroom Wujal Wujal See Bloomfield River Y Yarrabah  19, 93, 144, 236, 241, 244, 344, 355, 383–388, 390–393, 395, 398–403 Yintyingka  140, 148, 439–440, 452 See also Port Stewart

Index of languages, language families and groups A Aboriginal English  19, 97, 129, 278, 339, 340, 349, 350, 353, 368, 369, 383–404 See also Cherbourg Talk, Woorie Talk, Yarrie Lingo Adnyamathanha  48 Aghu Tharrnggala  41, 43, 44, 46, 47, 48, 49, 50, 52, 53, 55, 183 Agu Adhaw  77 Agu Aloja  41 See also Kuku Walmbarra, Kuku Walarr, Sugarbag Bee Agwamin  43, 48 Alaya See Awu Alaya Alaya-Athima  12, 39–56 Aloja See Agu Aloja Alungul See Ogh Alungul Angkamuthi  410, 414 See also Atambaya, Gudang, Injinoo Ikya, Uradhi, Wuthathi, Yadhaykenu Angkula See Ogh Angkula Areba (Ribh)  48 Atambaya  143, 148, 155, 409–411, 414, 417 See also Angkamuthi, Gudang, Injinoo Ikya, Uradhi, Wuthathi, Yadhaykenu Athima  41–42, 45, 46, 47–48 Awarrangg See Ogh Awarrangg Awu Alaya  11, 39, 41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 46, 47–48, 49–53, 55 See also Kuku Thaypan

Awu Alwang  41 Awu Arangu  41 B Barrow Point language  91, 92, 93, 94, 96–98 Bininj Gun-Wok  162, 202, 214–216, 307, 308 C Cape York Creole  19, 384, 401 See also Torres Strait Creole Central Paman  51 Cherbourg Talk  385–386, 393–396, 400–403 D Dalabon  202, 214–216 Djabugay  51, 53, 54, 55, 56, 343, 344, 346, 347, 354, 358, 391 Dyirbal  346 See also Mamuy E Enindhilyakwa  201 F Flinders Island language  49, 50, 55, 69, 75, 91, 93, 96–98 G Ganggalida (Yukulta)  13, 105–131, 289–291, 294, 298, 306, 309–311, 316, 327 Garrwa  3, 121, 125, 183, 289, 291, 294, 296, 298–299 Garrwan  3, 115–116, 183 Gitksan  8 Gudang  353, 410–412 See also Angkamuthi, Atambaya, Injinoo Ikya, Uradhi, Wuthathi, Yadhaykenu Gugu Badhun  46

Gungganydji  386, 390–392, 401 See also Yidiny Gunwinyguan  15, 199, 201, 214 Gunya  386 Guugu Yimithirr  5, 7, 20, 50, 53, 54–56, 75, 76, 94, 96–98, 176, 233–234, 341, 342, 343, 348, 350, 351, 354, 358, 397–398, 455–478 I Ikarranggal  42, 43, 47–48, 50, 52, 53 Indjilandji  123 Injinoo Ikya  410 See also Angkamuthi, Atambaya, Gudang, Uradhi, Wuthathi, Yadhaykenu J Jawoyn  15, 199–216 K Kaanju  13, 139–156, 306 See also Koko I’o, Kuuku Ya’u, Umpila Kaiadilt  106, 120, 121, 129, 289, 305–333 See also Kayardild Kala Lagaw Ya  410, 413 Kayardild  13, 17–18, 106, 112, 115–119, 121, 124, 129, 131, 305–333 See also Kaiadilt Kija  416 Kok Kaper (Koko Bera)  44, 47, 48, 49, 51, 52–53 Kokiny  41, 42, 43, 45, 47–50, 52 Koko Dhawa  44, 48, 51–53 Koko I’o  141 See also Kaanju, Kuuku Ya’u, Umpila

 Index of languages, language families and groups Koogobatha  42 Kriol  176, 205, 208, 386, 399–401, 416 Kuku Jangkun  338, 347 Kuku Kalmbarra  41 See also Agu Aloja, Kuku Walarr, Sugarbag Bee Kuku Mini  41–42, 46, 76, 348, 350–354 Kuku Muluruji  346 Kuku Thaypan  8–9, 11–12, 14–15, 39, 41, 75, 76, 77, 179–197, 352 See also Awu Alaya Kuku Warra  42, 43, 48, 55, 75, 76, 348, 350–354 Kuku Yalanji  12, 16, 18, 39, 41, 42, 43, 48, 51–56, 75, 263–282, 337–358, 398 Kullili  403 Kunjen  41, 44 See also Ogunyjan, Uw Olkola, Uw Oykangand Kurtjar  43, 44, 48 Kuuk Narr  41, 44, 48, 51 Kuuku Ya’u  141, 142, 143, 145–149, 342 See also Kaanju, Koko I’o, Umpila Kuuk Thaayorre  11, 14, 44, 159–176 L Lamalama  8–9, 20, 98, 155–156, 291, 435–452 Langgus  410, 415, 417–420 Lardil  105–106, 114, 125–128, 306, 307, 310–311, 315–317, 324, 327, 329–332 Lockhart River Creole  19, 364, 368–369 M Mamuy  346 See also Dyirbal Margany  386 Maric  46, 53 Marrett River language  96, 98, 99 Mbabaram  43, 48, 51, 55 Mbara  43, 48 Melanesian Pidgin  386, 387, 402, 413

Meriam Mir  410, 413, 417 Middle Paman  12, 147 Minkin  122, 291 N Ngaatjatjarra  307 Nggerigudi  234 Nguburindi  106, 112, 115–118, 122–123 non-Pama-Nyungan  2–3, 183, 201 Northern Paman  11 NSW Pidgin  386–387, 389 Nunggubuyu  201, 212 O Ogh Alungul  41, 47–48 Ogh Angkula  42, 43, 47–48, 50 Ogh Awarrangg  41, 52 Ogunyjan  41, 42, 43, 44, 45, 47–48, 49–54, 55 See also Kunjen Olkola  42, 43, 47–48, 50, 76, 352 See also Uw Olgol, Uw Oykangand P Pama-Nyungan  2–3, 11, 43–44, 47, 49–52, 54, 180–183 Paman  11, 43, 45, 49–54, 160 Pitjanytjatjarra  45 Pitta Pitta  232 R Red Point language  96, 98, 99 Rimanggudinhma  48 S Sahaptin  8, 286, 456 Southwest Paman  11, 44, 160 Sugarbag Bee  41, 43 See also Agu Aloja, Kuku Walmbarra, Kuku Walarr T Takalak  42, 43, 45, 46, 47 Tangkic  3, 13, 105–131, 306, 311, 316 Thaayorre See Kuuk Thaayorre Tharrnggala See Aghu Tharrnggala

Thaypanic  11, 39–56, 76 Thura-Yura  49 Tiwi  306–307 Torres Strait Creole  19–20, 384, 386, 395, 402, 409–420 See also Cape York Creole Tsimshianic  8 U Umbuygamu  46, 48, 55, 75 Umpila  141, 145–146, 148–149, 345, 446 See also Kaanju, Koko I’o, Kuuku Ya’u Umpithamu  51 Uradhi  148, 410 See also Angkamuthi, Atambaya, Gudang, Injinoo Ikya, Wuthathi, Yadhaykenu Uw Olem See Agu Adhaw Uw Olgol  41, 43, 44, 48 See also Olkola, Uw Oykangand Uw Olkola See Olkola Uw Oykangand  43–45, 48, 51, 53, 55 See also Olkola, Uw Olgol Uyungkuthi  147–148 W Waanyi  3, 14, 121, 123, 179–197, 291, 294 Wakka Wakka  394, 398 Warkabungu  123 Warlpiri  14, 173, 179–197, 307 Warrongo  46, 53 Western Desert  45, 122–124 Western Yalanji  338–339, 343, 345–346, 351–353, 355 Wik  6, 44, 161, 163 Wik Mungkan  161, 306–307 Woorie Talk  385–386, 396–400, 402–403 Wuthathi  143, 148, 410, 412, 414 See also Angkamuthi, Atambaya, Gudang, Injinoo Ikya, Uradhi, Yadhaykenu

Y Yadhaykenu  410, 414 See also Angkamuthi, Atambaya, Gudang, Injinoo Ikya, Uradhi, Wuthathi Yangarella  106–107, 112, 115–116

Index of languages, language families and groups  Yangkaal  106, 112, 115–119, 120–121, 124–131, 306, 309, 311, 313, 316–317 Yankunytjatjarra  45 Yanyuwa  114, 125, 291, 298 Yarrie Lingo  385–386, 390–393 Yidiny  51, 53, 54–56, 390–391 See also Gungganydji

Yiman  397 Yintyingka  140, 148, 441 Yinwum  143, 155 Yirrk Mel  44, 49 Yir Yoront  6, 44, 45, 49, 51, 161 Yukulta See Ganggalida

General index A Aborigines Protection and Restriction of the Sale of Opium Act (1897)  230, 233, 388, 390, 393, 396, 398, 404 affiliation  92, 123, 152 by bequest  321 by birth or conception  319–321 by inheritance  321–322 See also filiation, patrifiliation Afghan  291 See also Asian agency  3, 20, 415–417, 420, 451 agriculture  2, 221–238, 268, 389 See also cattle industry, grazing, hunting and gathering, pastoralism alcohol  233, 365, 367, 370, 371–372, 375, 412 Alcohol Management Plan  365 alienable possession  179–197 See also possessive Alpher, Barry  8, 11–12, 85 anaphora  14, 179–197, 204, 206–207, 209, 213, 214 anthropology  2–4, 5–6, 7–11, 12, 14, 15–16, 20, 85, 91–94, 99, 105, 150, 263–264, 285–287, 291–292, 296, 305–307, 362, 436, 443 archaeology  2, 9, 12–13, 63–64, 87–88, 109–112, 120, 130, 264 archive  10, 15, 20, 156, 241–242, 435–452, 464, 472, 476 artefact  44, 67 Asian  5, 17, 250, 292–295, 298, 338, 364, 412 See also Afghan, Chinese, Japanese, Malay assimilation  263, 298, 362, 364, 365, 362, 365 associative  314, 338

Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies  8–9, 85, 88, 93 Australian Museum  442 Australian National University (ANU)  8, 456, 461, 469 B Bailey, Frederick  223–225, 228, 229, 233, 236 Bancroft, Joseph  225, 237 Bayesian phylogenetic analysis  105, 112 bêche-de-mer  5, 70, 230, 231, 392, 393, 412, 413 See also marine industries bequest  4, 17, 319–323 bereavement  14, 159, 162–166, 166–168, 171–174 bicultural  19, 361, 364, 376, 379 bilingual education  456, 476 See also education, multilingualism binding domain  182, 189 biography  94, 441 birthplace  152, 154, 319–321, 323, 331 birthplace name  17–18, 307–310, 324, 327, 328 body part  54, 162, 170 See also partible aspect of person borrowing  45, 46, 47, 348 botany  15, 221, 223–225, 228, 234–238, 270, 299 C Cambridge Expedition  5 Cape York Land Council  7, 9, 455 cattle industry  5, 15, 63, 95, 144, 155, 156, 221, 225, 226, 234, 237, 241, 289, 299, 338, 397, 412, 463 See also grazing, pastoralism

Chase, Athol  9, 85, 88, 93, 95, 99, 264–265 Chinese  5, 288, 289, 291, 293–295, 298, 388, 389, 392, 393 See also Asian christianity  233, 295, 300, 412, 415, 418, 419 See also mission Christison  226 chronology  2, 63 city  18–19, 290, 361–379 clan  3–4, 13, 39, 64, 73, 76, 86, 94–99, 124, 126–127, 129, 145–156, 166, 278, 306, 310, 316–317, 319, 338–358, 439, 442, 457, 459–460, 462, 468, 471, 476 See also family group, patriclan clan name  86, 92, 339, 358 See also ethnonym clusivity  53–54 collection  6, 20, 92, 139–140, 179, 233, 236, 237, 435–452 colonist  65, 89, 97, 122, 139, 140, 143, 156, 222–238, 241, 263, 286, 288, 291, 294, 300, 338, 388, 393, 394, 401, 403–404, 410, 411, 415, 417, 418, 439 See also settler compound  170, 201, 308, 340, 348 conjugation  44–45, 49–51 conservation  16, 155, 235, 263–282 See also development, environmental protection contact variety  19, 364, 383–404, 413 See also creole, pidgin Cook, James  5 covert (category)  14, 160, 161, 166, 176

 General index creole  19, 364, 375, 384, 387, 389, 392, 400–404, 413 See also contact variety, pidgin cultural bloc  12, 99 See also regional grouping, social network cultural change  15, 17, 63, 105, 107, 130–131, 154–156, 161, 288, 291, 305, 361–379, 411–413 curator  20, 234, 236, 436, 438–439, 443, 450 D deep (speech)  344–345, 349, 473, 475 See also speech style deixis  199–201, 215, 337, 347 demographic decline  118, 122, 123, 356 See also depopulation demonstrative  15, 199–216, 341–342, 343, 354, 357 depopulation  12, 86, 94, 95, 97, 115, 122, 322 See also demographic decline development  7, 16, 238, 263–282, 300, 362, 367, 379, 459, 469, 476 See also conservation diachrony  78, 308 dialect  4, 18, 40–43, 44, 45, 96, 99, 106, 112, 148, 201–202, 214, 337–358, 386, 391, 410 diaspora  19, 156, 368–369 diffusion  39, 44, 46, 55, 76, 120 disease  93, 95, 122, 123, 223, 227–228, 232, 237, 247, 258, 411–412, 439 See also health Dixon, Bob  8 DOGIT  313, 459, 461 dormitory  19, 322, 389, 391, 394, 396, 398, 399, 402–403 drainage cluster  18, 339–340, 341, 342, 346, 351–352, 356–358 See also dialect, ethnonym, regional grouping

Dreaming  291 See also Story drought  123–125, 127, 222, 226–228, 235, 276, 313, 394–395 See also environmental change Duyfken  5 E economy  11, 15, 19, 65, 99, 120, 125–127, 221–238, 264, 296, 297, 299, 300, 374, 378–379, 412, 417 eco-tourism  266, 270–271, 273, 279–282 See also tourism education  362, 364, 367–368, 370, 373, 376–379, 384–385, 389, 393, 396, 399–400, 415, 452 See also bilingual education, school elder  99, 162, 245, 298, 327, 333, 376, 379, 398, 435, 441, 443, 450, 451, 455, 476 environmental change  13, 63, 105–131, 234, 299 environmental protection  7, 270, 280, 282, 289, 299 See also conservation estate group  314, 319 See also affiliation ethnonym  18, 337, 339, 341, 343, 345, 353, 357 See also clan name, group name, language name, place name exogamy  3–4, 99, 123, 317, 459 explorer  5, 10, 12, 16, 86, 88, 94, 241, 263, 273, 297, 393 F family group  141, 148, 155–156, 306, 369, 389, 439, 472, 476 See also clan fiction  17, 295–297 fieldwork  6, 8–11, 12, 13, 14, 19, 62–65, 85, 139–140, 142, 150, 156, 225, 233, 236, 265, 288, 308, 317, 355, 391, 439, 450

filiation  150 See also affiliation, matriline, patrifiliation, patriline fishing (commercial)  91, 96, 221, 231, 250, 393, 400, 410, 412 See also marine industries fish trap  109, 120, 121, 127, 329 fission  4, 13, 105–131 Flinders, Matthew  237, 311–312 flood  2, 13, 65, 105, 116, 124, 125–130, 235, 276, See also environmental change focus  199, 208, 211–213 Fomenko, Michael  271–273, 282 fringe camp  142–144, 339–340, 347, 370, 371, 378, 391 frontier  5, 12, 15, 221–238, 242, 244, 338, 388, 439 fusion See fission G genealogy  13, 92, 97, 99, 139–158, 317, 321–322, 326, 328, 353, 355, 437, 440, 442, 450, 457, 458, 468, 472, 474 generic  42–43, 169–170, 338–340, 347, 355 genetic classification  2, 11–12, 39–56, 105–106, 115, 119, 352, 354 gold  5, 12, 15, 63, 86, 88, 90, 142, 144, 149, 155, 156, 212, 226–227, 237, 242, 245, 251–252, 294, 295, 338, 389, 390, 392 See also mining gossip  460, 472 government  7, 15, 18, 143, 155, 223, 224, 226, 228–231, 233, 236, 242, 259, 270, 294, 350, 361–365, 370, 376, 378, 379, 383, 385, 388, 390–391, 393,409, 411, 414, 417, 437,457, 459–460 Grassi Museum  445

grazing  221, 224, 225, 235, 235, 237, 241–242 See also cattle industry, pastoralism Gribble, Ernest  225, 236–237, 392–393 group name  18, 337–340, 354–355, 358 See also clan name, ethnonym, language name, place name H Hale, Ken  3, 8 hand sign  14, 159–176 Harvard University  8 health  223, 227, 230, 232, 362, 365, 371, 373, 378 See also disease heritage  294, 297, 436–438, 450–451 See also World Heritage Hill, Rosemary  268–269, 273 Hill, Walter  224–225, 234, 236 history  1, 3, 4–7, 12, 13, 19, 21, 39, 61, 64, 85–99, 105, 108, 127, 130, 141, 143, 221– 238, 241–259, 265, 279–280, 282, 285, 288, 292–295, 297–300, 306–307, 309– 313, 337, 338, 354, 364–366, 383–404, 409–415, 419, 437, 438–442, 449–452, 456–459 human occupation (antiquity)  2, 63–66, 76, 87, 109–110, 130 hunting and gathering  221, 365, 369, 378 See also agriculture, subsistence hyponymy  14, 159–176 I ice age  2 inalienable possession See alienable possession indexicality  199, 216 indigeneity  17, 286–289, 299–300 inheritance  46, 317, 321–322, 330 See also affiliation

General index  initial-dropping  3, 39, 43–44, 46–48, 352 See also sound change initiation  126, 140, 173, 176, 298, 307, 353, 365, 377, 378, 413 inland (vs sandbeach) people See sandbeach (vs inland) people insularity  106, 113, 118, 123, 357 intensification  120 intermarriage  99, 330, 356, 413 island colonization  2, 13, 105, 131 Islander (Pacific)  91, 392, 412, 413, 414 Islander (Torres Strait)  6, 364–365, 392, 394, 412, 413, 414, 416, J James Cook University  6 Japanese  93, 97, 250, 259, 295, 364, 412 See also Asian K Kennedy, Edmund  5, 90 kin (kinship)  13, 14, 19, 74, 92, 94, 124, 126, 139–140, 145, 146, 149, 152–156, 159–176, 179, 182–186, 189–196, 264, 290–292, 294, 298, 307, 361, 366, 369, 374–375, 378, 379, 455, 457–460, 471, 472 kin possession  14, 183–184, 191, 195 King, Philip Parker  87–89 Klaatsch, Hermann  445, 447, 448 L labour  226, 231, 364, 389, 391, 393, 395, 403, 412, 417 See also cattle industry, marine industries, mining land claim  6, 9, 12, 18, 121, 122–123, 129, 148, 264, 289, 297, 306, 311, 313, 317, 318, 320, 337, 338, 346, 378, 441, 472, 476 See also land rights, native title

land tenure  4, 17–18, 74, 96–99, 131, 140, 150, 155, 305, 313–324, 331, 390, 461 See also affiliation land rights  6–7, 9–10, 18, 20, 155, 365, 459, 461 See also land claim, native title language contact  19, 115, 383–404, 413 See also borrowing, contact variety, creole, metatypy, pidgin, substrate language name  42–43, 97, 308, 342–343, 385, 440 See also dialect, ethnonym, group name, place name language shift  19–20, 338, 392, 400, 401, 409–420 lineage name  305, 326–328, 331–332 linguistics  1, 2, 4, 5, 6, 8–10, 11–14, 17, 19, 39–56, 64, 75, 85–87, 92, 94, 96–97, 99, 105–107, 112–113, 115–116, 119–121, 125, 130–131, 159, 176, 179–179, 199–216, 299, 305–308, 316, 326, 343–344, 347, 349–350, 356, 383–404, 409–411, 415, 418–419, 472, 475 local group  3–4, 140 logging  338, 364, 392 M Mabo  6–7, 472 Macassan  5, 118, 126 See also Asian Malay  364, 393, 412 See also Asian marine industries  86, 90, 412, 413, 424 See also bêche-de-mer, fishing, pearlshell massacre  90, 118, 123, 322 material culture  9, 72, 91, 238, 443 matriline  14, 160, 166–167, 171, 174–175, 307, 321 See also filiation, patrifiliation, patriline McConnel, Ursula  6, 16, 245, 264, 354

 General index Melanesian  125–126, 364, 443, 446 memory  64, 279, 308, 364, 411, 415, 435–452 Meston, Archibald  15, 227–232, 236, 238 metatypy  115 middlemen  115, 125–126 mining  5, 142, 147, 241, 242, 244, 246, 253, 254, 256, 294, 296, 297, 340, 401, 460 See also gold mission (missionary)  15, 18, 92–93, 95, 125, 127–129, 142, 144, 159, 162, 221, 222, 223, 225, 228, 230–231, 233, 237–238, 241, 244, 246, 248, 264, 275, 290, 294–296, 305, 308, 311–313, 322, 328, 332, 338, 339, 341, 342, 347, 348, 357, 362–365, 378, 384–385, 388, 390–393, 397, 401, 410, 412–414, 440, 458–462, 466–468, 472, 475–476 See also christianity MIT  8 mobility  18–19, 65, 110, 361–362, 366–368, 376, 379, 400 moiety  145–149, 151–152, 153, 156, 166, 174, 278, 310, 356, 377 motifs  65–74, 76–78, 88 multingualism  4, 202, 392, 416–417 See also bilingual education museum  6, 20, 88, 90, 435–452, 456 See also Australian Museum, Museum Victoria, South Australian Museum Museum Victoria  20, 139–140, 145, 246, 435–452 N narrative  19–20, 75, 94, 141, 156, 201, 205–206, 211–214, 289, 384, 409–420, 452, 469–471 nativeness  4, 10, 17, 285, 288

Native Police  5, 122, 231–232, 242–243, 258, 346 See also police native title  6–7, 9–10, 39–40, 85, 87, 105, 121–122, 129, 148, 155, 289, 291, 296–298, 306, 347, 358, 435, 441, 472, 476 See also land claim, land rights navel cord  13, 154 network See social network noncongruence  46, 48, 55 O O’Grady, Geoff  8 outstation  6, 18–19, 156, 305, 308, 313, 330, 332, 358, 366–367, 378 P Pacific Islander See Islander (Pacific) Parry-Okeden, William  232 partible aspect of person  13, 154, 156 See also body part, navel cord, tooth avulsion pastoralism  122, 129, 140, 148, 155, 222, 224, 234–235, 238, 299, 332, 389, 392, 396, 397, 399, 401, 402, 412, See also cattle industry, grazing patriclan  13, 128, 145–151, 154–155, 338–339, 356 See also clan, filiation, patrifiliation, patriline patricouple  316 patrifiliation  3–4, 97, 150, 316 See also filiation, matriline, patriclan, patriline patriline  3, 14, 17, 94, 150, 160, 166–167, 169, 171, 175, 315, 316–317, 321–322, 330 See also filiation, matriline, patriclan, patrifiliation pearlshell  5, 230–231, 250, 295, 338, 412, 444 See also marine industries Pearson, Noel  7, 461

personal name  13, 17–18, 91–92, 140, 145–149, 152–154, 161–162, 293, 305–333, 364, 440–442, 462, 466–469, 472–473, 476–477 personhood  13, 139–156 pidgin  19, 384, 389, 392, 395, 399–403, 413 See also contact variety, creole pioneer  16, 245, 268, 279, 281 place name  73, 97, 121, 131, 140, 141, 150, 156, 229, 265, 294, 297, 307, 311, 318–319, 324, 329, 332, 338–340, 439, 457 See also ethnonym, group name, language name police  5, 15–16, 65, 93, 95, 122, 142–144, 226, 228, 230–232, 238, 241–259, 293, 346, 370, 372, 414, 440, 449, 458 See also Native Police, protector polysemy  355 population density  222, 311 possessive  14, 179–197, 400–4 See also (in)alienable possession post-contact  11, 122, 309, 332, 339–340, 355, 410 pronoun  15, 49, 53, 179–197, 201, 215, 386 propositus  14, 179–180, 182–197 proprietive  314 protector  5, 15–16, 63, 144, 222, 223, 225, 227–233, 245–247, 249, 257, 294, 393, 409, 414, 458 Q Queensland School  6, 7, 9, 21, 263–264 Quinkan  63, 68, 70–74, 76–78 R race  230–231, 259, 397, 359, 393, 460, 472 Radcliffe-Brown, A.R.  5–6 rainforest  1, 16, 263–282, 338, 347

rangers  289–290, 451–452 rations  15, 130, 221–222, 228 Rautenstrauch-Joest Museum  445, 448 reciprocity  10, 126, 167, 173, 291, 376 reconstruction  10, 11–12, 43, 44, 47, 51, 85–87, 456, 460 regional grouping  86, 96 See also cultural bloc, drainage cluster, social network regionalisation  64, 120 register  14, 159–176, 473 See also speech style removal  15–16, 19, 143–144, 154, 241, 242, 244–249, 251,x259, 308, 312–313, 320, 347, 383, 403, 439–440, 458 repatriation  11, 20, 92, 287, 436, 455–456, 472 reserve  15, 91–92, 222, 227–228, 229–231, 236–238, 241, 384–385, 393, 395–398, 457, 461 Rigsby, Bruce  vii, 1, 3, 6–11, 15, 19, 20, 21, 27–36, 39–40, 64, 85–86, 105, 139–140, 156, 159, 176, 179, 197, 264–265, 282, 285–288, 291, 299–300, 305–306, 338, 347, 435–442, 448–452, 456 rock art  2, 12, 42, 61–78, 86–89, 93, 120 Roth, Walter Edmund  5–6, 15, 88, 91–92, 227–229, 232– 234, 236–238, 294, 342, 351, 354–355, 393, 437, 442–443, 445–446, 448–449 S sandbeach (vs inland) people  74, 76–77, 99, 144, 152, 278, 345–347 439, 445, 457 school  20, 237, 367, 369, 371–372, 376, 390, 393, 396, 399, 403, 414–416, 420, 456, 458,459, 462, 467–468, 476 See also bilingual education, education

General index  sea level  2, 61, 87, 108–109, 112, 113, 125, 129, section  126, 166, 174, 352–353 See also subsection settler  5, 11, 15–17, 222, 224, 225, 227, 230, 231, 233, 234, 236, 285–300, 338, 346, 355, 394, 399, 401, 410 See also colonist sexual relation  144, 250, 292, 296, 412 sharing  369, 371–373, 378 Sharp, Lauriston  6, 62, 342, 346, 354 shifter  18, 340, 343, 347–348, 354, 355 social network  64, 74, 76, 77, 292, 349–350, 366, 375, 376, 378, 413, 417, 444, 447 See also cultural bloc, regional grouping sound change  3, 41, 43, 49, 55 See also initial-dropping source community  20, 436, 438, 443, 450, 452, 456 South Australian Museum  5, 20, 62, 92, 95, 435, 437 speech style  340, 343–345, 402 See also deep (speech), register spiritual  16, 18, 147, 265, 277, 280–282, 290, 291, 294, 295, 307, 315, 323, 325, 328, 329, 331–332, 362, 390 Story  73, 74, 78, 98, 128, 129, 146–149, 151, 154, 156, 275, 277, 323, 356, 440, 441, 442, 446, 447 See also Dreaming subsection  126, 211, 290, 307, 310, 316 See also section subsistence  2, 120, 125–126, 264, 311, 438 See also agriculture, hunting and gathering substrate  19, 386–387, 401, 403 succession  86, 95, 118, 120, 122, 346, 356

Sutton, Peter  7, 9, 88, 237, 264, 265, 438 syncretism  13, 105, 107, 115–116, 119–120, 125, 362 T taboo  7, 14, 151–152, 176, 307, 467, 473 Taylor, John  159, 161, 175, 264, 265 technique  65–67, 71–73, 77–78, 473 technology  19, 63, 110, 120, 224, 361, 366, 367, 378, 379, 419, 438, 458, 460, 461, 464, 469–470 territorialisation  119, 125 textual  15, 188, 199–216, 470 Thompson, David  18, 85, 148 Thomson, Donald  6, 10, 13, 16, 20, 62, 92, 139–156, 245–246, 342, 435–452 Tindale, Norman  5, 10, 13, 17, 20, 62, 88, 91–93, 99, 121–125, 127–130, 308–313, 316–319, 321–324, 332, 344–346, 389, 398, 435, 437–440, 442–448, 450–451 tooth avulsion  13, 146, 149, 151, 153 topic  182, 213 totem  13–14, 39, 72, 74, 97–98, 126, 141, 145–149, 150–154, 166, 308–309, 312, 315, 326, 327, 328, 356, 442 tourism  96, 242, 289, 367, 378 See also eco-tourism trade  5, 74, 125–127, 294, 413, 444–447 Trezise, Percy  2, 63, 65 tribe  3, 18, 97, 115, 122, 126, 128, 143, 156, 226–227, 230–231, 287, 289, 291, 306, 337–358, 374, 394, 397, 414, 439, 443 Turner, Fred  15, 225, 234–236 typology  39, 54, 160, 161, 173, 201 U University of New Mexico  8 University of Oregon  8

 General index University of Queensland  1, 6–8, 40, 85, 105, 179, 263, 285, 288, 438 University of Sydney  6 University of Toronto  8 utilitive  315 V violence  5, 12, 86, 88, 90, 95, 144, 223, 226, 237, 250, 292, 388, 393, 411, 413, 415, 439, 460, 472 vocative  14, 159–176, 386 von Mueller, Ferdinand  225, 235

von Sturmer, John  9, 85, 264, 265 W welfare  7, 366, 371, 373–376, 378 Wellesley Sea Claim  9, 306–307 West, La Mont  92–93 Wet Tropics Management Authority  270, 281 whitefella  288–300 wilderness  16, 265, 269–271, 280–281

wild rivers  7, 17, 282 World Heritage  270–271, 273, 282 X x-ray (figure)  70, 76, 78 Y Yanner, Murrandoo  7, 297–298 Z zoology  270, 299

This volume offers a state-of-the-art survey of linguistic, anthropological, archaeological and historical work focused on Cape York Peninsula and the Gulf Country, in Australia’s northeast. The volume also honours Bruce Rigsby, emeritus professor of anthropology at the University of Queensland, whose work has inspired all of the contributors. The papers in the volume are organized in terms of five key themes, including the use of historical and archaeological methods to reconstruct aspects of language and social organization, anthropological and linguistic work uncovering aspects of world view embedded in languages and ethnographic data sets, the study of post-contact transformations in language and society, and the return of archival data to communities. Its thematic intersections draw together the varied disciplinary threads in an overview of the cultures and languages of the region, and will appeal to all those interested in Australian Aboriginal studies, linguistics, anthropology and associated disciplines.

     

John Benjamins Publishing Company