anthropology-from-the-shed

Snake bird: Mysterious Waugal sightings near deep dark water

Tue, 17 Mar 2026 10:29:34 GMT

Snakebird and Mysterious Waugal Sightings 2022

By Ken Macintyre & Dr Barb Dobson (research anthropologists) and Iva Hayward-Jackson, (Nyungah Land & Culture Protector and researcher). Paper published in 2022.

"You know the old people didn't like to talk about things that they had no control over." (Hayward-Jackson 2021).

‘I can remember my childhood feelings of being cautious and even afraid around deep rocky outcrops along the lower Swan River and the vegetated banks with fallen logs near deep pools in the Upper Swan. My Teachers/Elders have all helped me to understand how Nyungar culture had its own built-in systems of protection.' (Hayward-Jackson 2021)

The "snakebird" or karbanga inhabits fresh and brackish water environments. Sketch by Ken Macintyre 2021.

The Waugal is a mythological being in Nyungar culture that has Creative and Destructive supernatural powers attributed to it. It is represented in the form of a large carpet snake and nowadays often referred to as the Rainbow Serpent. It is culturally perceived as the Creator and Guardian of Fresh Water sources and is also seen as responsible for creating topographic features of the land, such as hills, valleys and rocky cliffs and outcrops. Its preferred habitat or ‘camp’ is in deep dark freshwater or brackish pools, swamps, lakes and permanent springs fringed by rushes and deepwater sources along rivers flanked by eroded limestone outcrops, cliffs and caves.

Winnaitch (or wannitch, wonnitch) means spiritually dangerous or forbidden. Waugal winnaitch areas were considered dangerous. If customary Laws were breached or protocols not followed, there was always the risk that the Waugal would get angry and unleash its anger, either on an individual (disease, sickness) or community (floods) as the Waugal is also associated with rain. Many deep dark freshwater or brackish water places, even to this day, are regarded with great caution and rituals are sometimes performed by the Elders to announce their presence so as not to upset or disturb the spirit of the Waugal.

Aboriginal accounts of Waugal sightings in deep dark waters

Mysterious and unexplained Waugal sightings by Nyungar people, as recounted to us over the years, have mostly occurred in or near deep, dark, silent river pools around dusk or twilight (nallaburrang) when everything becomes shadowy and ill-defined. It is in this watery environment that the Waugal's head was reported to have appeared, as if from nowhere, and to stare fixedly at its victim, as if about to attack.

These anecdotal accounts of Waugal sightings typically involved adolescent boys and girls who were walking alone (or in a small group) late afternoon or at dusk in the vicinity of a deep dark river or swamp fringed with rushes and paperbark trees. These sightings (usually second or third hand) either occurred in dark cloudy weather or towards twilight when visibility was poor. None of the informants that we spoke to could provide us with a description of what the Waugal looked like, because as the story goes, as soon as it appeared, the onlookers would panic and run for their lives. When they got home and told their parents or grandparents about their frightful experience, they were admonished for being in a winnaitch place yet their stories seemed to verify a tradition of past encounters with the dreaded Waugal.

When these anecdotal accounts are analysed from a scientific and psychological perspective, it is more than probable that these young people did see a snake-like head emerging from the depths of the dark still water - this being the serpent-like head and neck of the elusive darter (Anhinga novaehollandiae) or snakebird.

We are not proposing in any way that the Waugal is a snakebird. What we are suggesting is that Waugal sightings that are set around deep river pools and swamps may be logically and scientifically explained. They typically take place near dark water bodies, usually late afternoon or early dusk when darkness is descending and it is difficult for the brain to recognise things clearly. In such a setting of poor visibility and the anticipation of danger, the brain struggles to make sense of hazy, incomplete images and strives to formulate a recognisable picture shaped by the cautionary narratives passed down by elderly relatives. The individual's own imagination fills in the rest. It is easy to understand how the brain assembles the close encounter with the dreaded Waugal in retrospect.

George Fletcher Moore (1842), early colonial settler, Advocate General and diarist, describes how the "Waugal' (also spelt Wagyl, Wagyle, Wakkal, Woggal, Wackul) was viewed by his Nyungar informants as 'a huge winged serpent':

‘An imaginary aquatic monster residing in deep dark waters and endowed with supernatural powers which enable it to overpower and consume the natives... Its supposed shape is that of a huge winged serpent. It may be the lingering remnant of the tradition of the old Serpent or evil Spirit.’ (Moore 1842: 75).

Was Moore's informant describing to him the snake-like head, long slender neck and bedraggled body of a darter suddenly emerging from the deep dark silent water, as if out of nowhere?

According to ornithological observations the highly aquatic darter or "snakebird" has the uncanny ability to appear suddenly and then vanish without a trace:

'The bird possesses the ability to submerge without diving and when in the water may be seen to sink slowly like a submarine, with, perhaps, only the head remaining above the surface (C.F.H. Jenkins)." (Serventy and Whittell 1976: 118)

‘... glides silently through the water then it disappears without leaving a ripple.’ (Fleay 1937)

Is it possible that the snakebird, suddenly emerging from deep dark water, was one of the physical manifestations of the culturally perceived and much-feared Waugal? Daisy Bates’ informant (in Bates 1992:16) provides a description of the Waugal as having ‘long hair on its neck, and wing-like flaps along its side.’ Could this fit the image of a bedraggled darter?

The darter with wings outstretched, preening itself while waiting for its water-soaked feathers to dry out before it can take flight. South Perth Foreshore. Photo by Barb Dobson, Dec 2021.

A pair of darters. South Perth Foreshore. Photo by Barb Dobson 2021

The "karbanga" warming up in the sun while drying its feathers. South Perth Foreshore. Photo by Barb Dobson 2021.

Ornithological observations of the Darter

The name 'darter' alludes to the bird's swift, almost lightning underwater movements that are facilitated by its long, slender, twisting snake-like neck. Being a solitary fisher in calm water, it pursues its prey by stealth and, using an accelerated leg-propelled darting movement, and straightening its long neck, it suddenly strikes and impales its victims.

‘The Darter appears to be a more expert fisher than the cormorants, being able to capture fish not ordinarily taken by the latter. The Darter catches its prey by first spearing it with its pointed beak, afterwards shaking it off and then swallowing it. Fish remains examined in stomach contents usually show these puncture marks.’ (Serventy and Whittell 1962: 114)

McGill (1945: 223) describes with reference to Eastern Australia the illusory reptilian appearance of the darter:

‘Often when really alarmed this bird will submerge the whole of its body, except the long snaky neck, and will swim rapidly like that, giving one the impression of a black snake crossing the water. It swims so low in the water that its small head and long slender neck give it a definite reptilian appearance; even its call note, a rather sinister ‘hiss’ adds to the general impression.’ (McGill 1945:233).

McGill (1945) personally observed its snake-like appearance and behaviour:

'...I was watching a Dusky Moorhen (Gallinula tenebrosa), which was quietly resting on the fallen branch of a tree that extended approximately a foot above the thick growth of water-lilies covering a large portion of the swamp. It was only a few yards from where I was standing on the bank, and I momentarily wondered as to the cause of its call of alarm and its hurried departure, but, soon observed beneath the branch a long, slender swaying object, that to all appearances could only be associated with some species of water-frequenting snake. However, it very soon struggled free of the thick growth to occupy the perch vacated by the Moorhen, thereby revealing itself as a very wet and dishevelled female Darter. In the manner characteristic of cormorants it immediately spread its wings to dry, but soon became restless, evidently because of my presence nearby. Only a few minutes elapsed before it fluttered off, struggled with difficulty over a few yards of the swampy growth, then quickly submerged below the vegetation and was lost to view.' (McGill 1945:234).

The image of the Australian darter taking the guise of a hissing serpent-like creature is also acknowledged in newspaper accounts of the time.

Over the years when we have interviewed Nyungar Elders about reported Waugal sightings, they have generally expressed the view that sightings were on cloudy days or late afternoon or at dusk when clear imaging was difficult. When they were young they were told stories about avoiding winnaitch (or wannitch) meaning “spiritually dangerous” or forbidden areas. They said when passing through deep dark parts of rivers and lakes the Waugal was on their minds. It was almost as if they were half-expecting the Waugal to appear before them because they were always anxious going places that maybe they shouldn't have been.

The Australasian Darter (Anhinga novaehollandiae) showing its flexible, serpentine-like neck and long, spear pointed bill. Photo by Georgina Steytler. Copyright image.

Karbanga - spear shag ("needle beak shag")

The bird's Nyungar name karbanga calls to attention its long-pointed beak used for spearfishing.1 Local ornithologists Serventy and Whittell (1976: 118) call it the 'needle beak shag' because of its straight, stiletto-like bill. This feature distinguishes it from its close relative the cormorant which has a recurved hook at the tip of its bill.

George Fletcher Moore (1842:39) records garbanga (1842:39) as 'large black cormorant' but this is more likely a descriptor describing the pointed bill used by the darter for skewering its prey. The male darter is also large and black (in fact larger than the Great Cormorant Phalacrocorax carbo) and shares many cormorant-like features and behaviours.

Nyungar people did not follow the Western-derived Linnaean system of bird species classification but evolved over many thousands of years their own culturally appropriate, logical and functional ornitho-classificatory system. They used descriptors to describe unusual or distinguishing aspects of a bird or animal's physical features, character, behaviour, food preferences, calling sounds, typical habitat or aspects of their spiritual or totemic significance that enabled them to be identified. The Nyungar name karbanga is one such example, denoting the bird's distinctive sharp pointed spearfishing bill.

Acknowledgements

This paper is based on ethnohistorical and anthropological research, together with field interviews with Nyungar Elders and spokespersons from the Perth, Pinjarra, Busselton and Moora areas over the last three decades. We would like to thank all Nyungar people who have shared their cultural narratives and knowledge with us over the years.

Endnotes

1 Garbang = “spear, to point or scrape” (Bindon and Chadwick 1992: 55). Moore (1842:39) lists Garbang, verb as “To scrape a spear; to point by scraping.”

2 Serventy and Whittell (1976: 118) have attributed the Nyungar name “mimmal” to the Australian darter of southwestern Australia based on G.F. Moore’s (1842) somewhat vague listing of “mimmal” as ‘a species of shag or diver.’ In Nyungar nomenclature a bird may have more than one descriptor name.

Bibliography

Bates, D. 1992 Aboriginal Perth: Bibbulmun Biographies and Legends. Peter J. Bridge (ed.) Carlisle, Perth: Hesperian Press.

Bindon, P. and Chadwick, R. (eds.) 1992 A Nyoongar Wordlist from the South-West of Western Australia. WA Museum, Anthropology Department.

Bridge, P. ed. 1992. Aboriginal Perth: Bibbulmun Biographies and Legends by Daisy Bates. Victoria Park, WA: Hesperian Press.

Fleay, D. 1937 Emu - Austral Ornithology, Vol 36.

Hayward-Jackson, I. 2021 Personal Communication

McGill, A.R. 1945 ‘Stray Feathers.’ Emu Vol XLIV January pp. 233-234.

Moore, G.F. 1842 A Descriptive Vocabulary of the Language in Common Use Amongst the Aborigines of Western Australia. London: Orr.

Serventy, D.L. and Whittell, H.M. 1962 Birds of Western Australia. 3rd edition. Perth: Paterson Brokensha Pty Ltd.

Serventy, D.L. and Whittell, H.M. 1976 Birds of Western Australia. 5th edition. Perth: University of Western Australia press.

Yam Lands: the Mystery of a Holey Landscape

Thu, 31 Aug 2023 12:11:03 GMT

Yam Lands: the Mystery of a Holey Landscape

By Ken Macintyre and Dr Barb Dobson, Research anthropologists and Iva Hayward-Jackson, Nyungah Land and Culture Protector, Heritage consultant and Researcher.

Dioscorea hastifolia, the native yam, was once an important cultivated food staple of the Aboriginal people of northern southwest Australia. In this paper we attempt to show how European colonial settlement and agriculture consciously destroyed this once dependable indigenous horticultural resource. As we point out throughout our research it was not a secret to the early European explorers and settlers that Aboriginal people had been – and still were – actively performing horticultural activities up until the time that their land was expropriated by the colonial government. Aboriginal people in northern southwest Australia had evolved over many thousands of years their own method of pit horticulture to cultivate yams. It is highly probable that the D. hastifolia yam known as warrain or warrein was transplanted at some point in prehistory from its natural upland rocky habitat to the more accessible, fertile, alluvial lowland slopes and river terraces. This, together with a water-conserving pit method of dry land horticulture, would have been a more economically productive system with an improved predictability of this valued food resource. Similar types of pit horticulture are found in other cultures with semi-arid climatic conditions, such as in northwest Africa where it is known as “zai” or “tassa.” It is a proven means of harvesting unreliable rainfall, improving soil structure, preventing erosion, increasing crop productivity and mitigating against an increasingly drying climate.

Part 1: The Nyungar yam-flood origin narrative

‘Some of the Mountain Natives give a curious tradition of their first knowledge of the native Yam….. They say, the Earth was at one time covered with water, when one black man and woman found themselves on a rock on the top of a very high Mountain. They were reduced to the extremity of hunger, but the water retiring, left the roots of the Wyrang exposed. They had nothing to do, but gather them and eat. In process of time it spread over the Country and got deeply embedded in the Earth, and now they require much labour to dig them. Such is an ancient tradition, handed down from generation to generation. The man and woman were the parents of all the tribes in the interior of this extensive Island, and their descendants consider themselves the oldest inhabitants of the country.” (Drummond 1837 Swan River Guardian).

This is the earliest documented narrative of the Dioscorea hastifolia yam explaining its origin and significance in Nyungar culture from the time of the Ancestral Dreaming. Like other origin myths, it represents only a fragment of a larger cultural narrative that once would have encoded, possibly in song and ceremonial performance, instructional knowledge of the yam’s cultivation, propagation, preparation and associated rituals. Indigenous scientific and cultural information was passed down orally over many thousands of years. James Drummond, the colonial botanist, collected the above narrative from the “mountain people” of the York area (probably Ballardong informants). His account was originally published in the Swan River Guardian in 1837 and later re-published by William Nairn Clark in the Inquirer in 1842. The story expresses the origin and importance of the yam as a foundational food source given to the Nyungar people by their ancestors.

Clark (1842) and Backhouse (1843) further emphasise the yam’s deep connection to water as revealed by the flood narrative. Backhouse, who was invited to George Fletcher Moore’s property at MIllendon (in the Upper Swan area), writes:

‘We examined some holes, where the Natives had been digging for roots of a Dioscorea, or Yam, for food. This plant climbs among bushes, in a strongish soil, and the Natives have a tradition, respecting its roots having been conferred upon them, in which there are traces of the deluge.’ (Backhouse 1843: 540).

‘Those [Aborigines] of the Swan River are thought to have traces of a tradition respecting the Flood, in connexion with the possession of a Yam, having an esculent root, as noticed at page 540.’ (Backhouse 1843: 557).

We can only imagine that this fragment of the Nyungar Yam-flood origin narrative would have been a topic of interest to the predominantly Christian elites of the new colony who were continually looking for Biblical parallels in Aboriginal beliefs.

Dioscorea hastifolia is endemic to Western Australia (Atchison 2000):

‘D. hastifolia and D. transversa are considered to be the only endemic yam species in Australia probably introduced from the D. alata group across the Torres Strait from New Guinea. ‘ (Atchison 2000 citing Yen 1995).

D. transversa (the long yam, parsnip yam, pencil yam) and D. alata (the water yam, purple yam) are both tropical yams unlike D. hastifolia. According to historian Rupert Gerritsen (2014) D. hastifolia was a tropical yam cultivar introduced from Southeast Asia to the Nhanda Aboriginal people of the Murchison, Western Australia by two Dutch mutineers from the ship-wrecked Batavia who after the insurgency in 1629 were purposely marooned on the mainland by Captain Pelsaert for the sole purpose of interacting with the indigenous inhabitants. Gerritsen argues that these two participants (a soldier and a cabin boy) introduced the yam and knowledge of its cultivation to the Nhanda men together with a host of other innovative ideas such as how to construct deep wells and clay-daubed houses for permanent living. We find Gerritsen’s idea of native yam cultivation as a European innovation highly fanciful. It exemplifies colonialist thinking and classic archetypal diffusionist theory that deprives Aboriginal people of the ingenuity and ability to adapt and innovate their own home-grown food staple.

Dioscorea hastifolia yam

The term “yam” is confusing as it often applies to more than one type of root vegetable consumed by the traditional inhabitants of southwestern Australia. (The term “yam” originates from a West African language where nyami or yam means “to eat”). The focus of this paper is the botanical yam Dioscorea hastifolia known by Nyungar people as warrain (e.g. Bimbar in Hope 1916; Bates in Bridge 1992), warrein (Jubaitch in Bates n.d.; Preiss 1839 in Lehmann and Preiss 1844-1848), woyay (Moore 1835), warran (Grey 1840), warran (Moore 1842), wyrang (Drummond 1842), warran (A.C.Gregory, F.T. Gregory and H.C. Gregory 1846) wirang (A.C. Gregory 1887), werrang (Stokes 1846), warran, warren (Roe 1847), warrang (Wollaston 1848, Foley 1851), warang (Burges 1851), uaragn (Salvado 1851 in Stormon 1977), worrain (Roth 1902), warryn (Hammond 1933:28), woorine (Robin Roe in Hallam 1975: 13-14), warrine (Chauncy 1848; Florabase WA 1994; Hansen and Horsfall 2019: 360), wuagarn (Von Brandenstein 1988:131) and warrany (Wheatbelt NRM 2009).1

In the Murchison region this same Dioscorea species of yam is known in the Yamatji language as aj-juco or ad-ju-co (Oldfield 2005:70, 74), also adjuka (Roe 1847 in Hercock 2014:392), a-jack-o (Burges 1851), ajuca (Gregory 1887) or adtjikoh (Hammond 1933:28).

D. hastifolia is a herbaceous perennial with vertical paired “stem tubers” (see Plates 2-4). Local botanists Pate and Dixon (1982: 18) describe these long white roots as follows:

‘stalked and penetrate downwards for up to half a metre before enlarging into a relatively thick, cylindrical structure.’

‘In a typical growing season, a plant comprises a pair of stem tubers. One is a parent tuber, formed from the previous season’s growth, and the other, a replacement tuber, forming and filling with new storage material. The pair occur vertically, often side by side, and originate from modified leaf axils. They emerge from opposite sides of a node located on the lowermost part of the stem’ (Pate and Dixon 1982).

Dioscorea hasitfolia is dioecious, meaning that it has separate male and female flowering plants. The bright yellow flowers of the male plant are conspicuous from May to July. Drummond describes the flower as follows: ‘…the male is a yellow, sweet scented creeper, the female inconspicuous at this season’ (Drummond 4th May 1842, Letter No. 2 to the Inquirer). In its natural environment the plant reproduces from wind-carried winged seeds. This yam can also reproduce vegetatively under cultivation, as demonstrated by the traditional Nyungar cultivators of this plant. See Part 4 of this paper “Indigenous Science and Yam Stick Horticulture,”

The geography of the warrain yam

Yams of the Dioscorea genus are most often found in tropical regions, such as in Northern Australia, Asia, Africa and South America. However, Dioscorea hastifolia, the subject of this paper, grows in semi-arid and Mediterranean type climates, from Shark Bay in the north of Western Australia to the Murray River, south of Perth (see Figure 1). The 19th century botanist Baron von Mueller states that this species is ‘Extra-tropic Western Australia, at least as far south as thirty-two degrees.’ It was once commonly found in the rich loamy soils of upland areas and the river valleys of the Darling escarpment and eastwards to York. This species grows in a wide variety of soils ‘Grey sand, granitic & basaltic soils, laterite’ (Florabase WA 1994). Bates (in White 1985:261) describes its southern geographic limit as follows:

‘It does not appear to go south of the Murray River, because, according to the natives, the Ancestors made that river its southern coastal boundary. It is however found inland amongst the hills of the Darling Range, upon the lower slopes of which it grows plentifully.’

From our observations of the yam (D. hastifolia) growing in its natural upland, stony, loamy soil environment, such as on our property at Toodyay, the plant grows in depressions and crevices between rocks as it searches out moist niches in the environment. It is often found at the base of granite outcrops and rocky hollows where subsurface water collects. This yam grows in well-drained soils and the surface or subsurface rocks often provide a stony mulch that traps moisture and provides a favourable environment for yam growth. In its wild habitat Dioscorea is often associated with a shrubby understory (living or dead) that affords a natural trellis for the climbing vines. Over time and in the absence of anthropogenic firing or bushfires the vines become heavily matted and form a dense cover providing a moist and shaded micro-environment, reducing moisture loss. The new vine growth on the upper surface of this vegetative mass enables maximal exposure to sunlight. The narrow spear-shaped leaves of the mature Dioscorea plant are possibly a further adaptation to preventing moisture loss.

Part 2: Early explorers’ accounts of warrain yam cultivation in Western Australia

Stirling’s botanist, Charles Fraser, in 1827 had observed the river bank hereabouts ‘perforated by immense numbers of deep pits’…. Lieutenant Breton fell shoulder deep into one of a group of holes which he took to be pit-traps in riding up the Canning in 1829, and Fraser in 1827 probably mistook warran holes for pit-traps.’ (Hallam 1991: 49)

We shall never know whether the deep pits observed along the Swan and Canning Rivers were native yam pits. It is interesting to note that the provenance of the type specimen of Dioscorea hastifolia collected by the German-born British botanist Ludwig Preiss in 1839 and recorded by him as warrein came from the Canning River area. This specimen was sent to Europe for identification and in 1846 was classified by S.L. Endlicher in Vienna as Dioscorea hastifolia. Its Latin species name hastifolia derives from hasta, meaning spear + folium, leaf, referring to its “spear-shaped leaves” (see Plates 1, 5 & 6).

In 1827 Fraser (in Shoobert 2005: 52-53) also observed “immense numbers of deep pits” on the ridges on the banks of the Upper Swan. He states that they were “made by the natives for the purpose of catching land tortoises, with which those ridges abound.’ The source of this explanation is unclear but it is more likely that these deep pits may have been evidence of yam diggings. He further describes the river flats as extending ‘to the base of the mountains, interspersed with stripes of good forest land’ … with the soil at the base of the Darling Range consisting of ‘a red sandy loam.’ This was the type of land favoured for yam cultivation.

Many of the observations and reports by the early European explorers, surveyors and botanists, such as James Drummond (1837, 1840, 1842), George Grey (1839), George Fletcher Moore (1842), Marshall Waller Clifton (1841, 1852), Dr Foley (1851), John Septimus Roe (1847), Phillip Chauncy (1878), Augustus Charles Gregory (1887) refer to the evidence of yam cultivation in alluvial river soils. Gregory, with reference to the northern region describes ‘the soil a red loam, producing some grass and abundance of the everlasting flowers and “Warran” or native yam.’ Drummond (1837) refers to ‘the deep holes so common and troublesome to travellers [which] are made by the Natives in digging for the Wyrang [Dioscorea].” Grey (1840: 124) likens warran to a sweet potato:

warran – a species of Dioscorea, a sort of yam like the sweet potatoe [sic.] It extends in the south-west part of the continent from a short distance south of the Murray to nearly as far as Gantheaume Bay [mouth of the Murchison River] to the northward, growing in a light rich soil in the low lands, also sometimes in the crevices of basaltic rocks amongst the hills. The digging of these roots is always a most laborious operation, and in the dry season becomes almost impractical, from the hardness of the ground…’

Moore (1842: 75) amends his original spelling woyay (1835) to warran (in accordance with Grey’s rendering of the term (1840,1841) and describes the yam as follows:

‘warran – One of the Dioscorea. A species of yam, the root of which grows generally to about the thickness of a man’s thumb; and to the depth of sometimes of four to six feet in loamy soils. It is sought chiefly at the commencement of the rains, when it is ripe and when the earth is most easily dug; and it forms the principal article of food for the natives at that season. It grows on the light rich soils on the lowlands, and also among the fragment of basaltic and granitic rocks in the hills. The country on which it abounds is very difficult to pass over on horseback, on account of the frequency and depth of the holes. ’

Drummond (1840, 1842) describes ‘the native Yam’ as

‘the principal vegetable food of the natives..’ (Hooker, WJ. Journal Bot 2:355 1840 and Hedrick 1919 who cites Drummond)

‘The native Yam, called wyrang by the natives, the finest esculent vegetable the colony naturally produces is now beginning to flower. It belongs to the class Dioeceoe of Linnoeus [sic] (Drummond 4th May 1842, Letter No. 2 to the Inquirer).

There are many references in 19th century explorers’ accounts to expansive areas of Nyungar and Yamatji country where the landscape had been modified over time by resourceful methods of indigenous yam cultivation. In the Murchison region yam lands were associated with well-organised and constructed village-like settlements consisting of solid huts rendered on the outside with clay and infrastructure such as deep wells and well worn pathways leading to the yam fields. Grey’s observations encapsulate a cultivated landscape:

‘We now crossed the dry bed of a stream, and from that emerged upon a tract of light fertile soil, quite overrun with warran plants, the root of which is a favourite article of food with the natives. This was the first time we had yet seen this plant on our journey, and now for three and a half consecutive miles we traversed a fertile piece of land, literally perforated with the holes the natives had made to dig this root; indeed we could with difficulty walk across it on that account, whilst this tract extended east and west as far as we could see.’ (Grey 1841, Vol 2:12).

Grey’s (1841) description leaves little doubt in the reader’s mind that he was observing an indigenous horticultural landscape. When he travelled through the area in 1839 he observed ‘frequent wells, some of which were ten and twelve feet deep, and were altogether executed in a superior manner.’ (Grey 1841, Vol 2:12). He estimated that the area must have supported a relatively dense population. These observations were subsequently confirmed by explorers, surveyors and pioneer settlers including Mr W.M. Clifton, Dr R. Foley, Mrs E. Brown and Mr A.C.Gregory. Lieutenant J. L. Stokes, commander of the Beagle chartered and mapped the hinterland of Port Grey/Champion Bay in 1841. His map below identifies extensive ‘native warran grounds’ located between Mt Fairfax and Wizard Peak in the Murchison.

In 1841 M. W. Clifton observed numerous “warrang grounds” inland from Champion Bay/ Geraldton when assessing the area for its potential as an agricultural settlement. He comments favourably on the warrang root as a potential food crop for the new colony:

‘Being desirous of ascertaining the growth of the warrang root, which we observed in every variety of soil in this district, and must, from the number of holes from which it has been dug in all directions in the country, constitute the chief food of the inland tribes, I induced this man to take me to the fire where a party of the same natives were assembled, in order that some of them might go with me to a warrang ground and dig up from the very bottom in my presence a number of roots. Mr Burges advised me to take a double barrelled gun with me, which I unwillingly did; on reaching the fire I found several men and women, the former all of large muscular proportions, and the women stout and more strongly formed than those of the southern districts; they all went with me and dug up a quantity of warrang, which appears to me to be a most valuable root and well deserving garden cultivation, which I intend to attempt.’ (Perth Gazette and Independent Journal of Politics and News, 27th February 1852).

Dr Robert Foley, the first resident surgeon at Champion Bay, is quoted in the Perth Gazette, in a letter to Mr E. Parker, referring to the fertile nature of the Aboriginal yam grounds in the Geraldton hinterland:

‘Writing to me in February last, the doctor [Foley] says, “Last Sunday, myself, Charles Gregory, and the two Beachams went to Mount Fairfax, about six miles from hence, and though the land was once stated to be bad, the B’s [Beachams] said that four or five good farms might be made in that short distance. You can see for miles, and it being dug for warrang, or agace, as they call it here, you can see the nature of the soil everywhere – the good goes three or four feet deep. The flats are covered with kangaroo grass and spears, the old grass not being so dried up as at York’ (Extract from Dr Foley’s letter 1851 published in the Perth Gazette).

Dr Foley is enthusiastic about the expansive, well-dug, deep fertile soils in this region that had been used by the indigenous inhabitants to cultivate one of their staple foods – the Dioscorea yam. Foley recognised the economic potential of these productive yam lands for European agriculture. In 1847 John Septimus Roe during his expedition to Champion Bay and the Hutt River refers to Aboriginal people in the Murchison region “cropping” the roots of the warren. He writes the

‘abundance of the warran plant so highly prized as a food by the natives….’ (Roe 1847 in Hercock 2014: 361)

‘…the numerous holes dug all over this part of the country by the natives, in search of their favourite warran root, which abounds all over this district, but especially near the rivers & stream beds.’ (Roe 1847 in Hercock 2014: 372).

‘….one of the horses fell with his load into one of the very numerous holes dug by the natives in the ground in cropping their warren roots.’ (Roe 1847 in Hercock 2014: 394)

Further south in the vicinity of Gingin and Lennard’s Brook, George Fletcher Moore observed extensive yam grounds when exploring the area in 1835 He describes:

good loamy ground, bearing the “Woyay,” a native yam in abundance.’ (Moore 14th April, 1835 in Schoobert 2005: 425)

Landscapes that were perforated by yam holes were similarly observed in the Chittering/ Bindoon and Toodyay areas. The name Bindoon, according to Glauert (Curator of the WA Museum 1950) means ‘place where the yams grow.’ In 1848 Phillip Chauncy, the Assistant Surveyor, records “warrine” grounds in the Toodyay/ Gidgegannup/Upper Swan area. For example, he records the place name “Warrine-garing” along the banks of Jimperting Brook where:

“The greater part of it is covered with granite rocks – some large and firm & in other places in the form of large to angular loose stones which with the “Warrine” holes made it most difficult to ride over…”(Chauncy field book, 27th October 1848).

Chauncy recorded and mapped “warrine” grounds in the fertile soils of the Upper Swan on the land grants of the European settlers William Shaw, Peter Broun and Lieutenant Irwin. Hallam (1975: 58) includes a copy of Chauncy’s 1843 map and she writes:

‘extensive patches of the yam, Dioscorea hastifolia, being so well defined and fixed that they are marked on the earliest European maps of the area.’ (Hallam 1991:49)

‘Phillip Snell Chauncy’s maps of 1843 show ‘warran holes’ (yam-digging pits) in a ‘dogwood thicket’ over two patches of ground along the northern boundary of the east-west strip granted to Moore’s northern neighbour, William Shaw, extending onto the property of Peter Broun immediately south of the Swan (now Bond’s ‘Brigadoon’ property); and another patch west of the river, on Lieutenant Irwin’s property opposite Moore’s. (Hallam 1991: 49).

Over one hundred and thirty years later Mrs Robin Roe of Beermullah (south of Gingin) describes (what she suggests) were the remains of old yam pits consisting of

‘mounds and holes up to five feet across, and said once to have been three or four feet deep …have been ‘left by natives digging yams or Woorine.’ (Hallam 1975: 13)

‘still discernible as areas of holes and humps’ (Hallam 1975: 72)

Part 3: The colonial usurpation of traditional yam lands

‘There was something going on in Australia. The explorers noticed it and some wrote about it but as their primary purpose, and that of their sponsors, was to find land for European farming, many of their observations were allowed to slip from view.’ (Pascoe 2014: 125).

It was no secret to the colonists in the Swan River region that the Dioscorea yam formed a principal staple of the indigenous diet. However, as soon as European settlers discovered that the fertile alluvial yam grounds were the best soils in which to grow their European crops and graze their stock, this caused a clash of economic interests between the original landowners who were prevented from accessing and producing their traditional food staples by their new colonial masters. As early as June 6, 1833 Moore describes an awkward situation in which he, as the new landowner at Millendon in the Upper Swan, attempts to discourage a group of Aborigines from accessing and cultivating their traditional yam lands. In his diary he describes how he

“had the “honour” of a visit from ten natives; among them were two well-looking young women, with children at their backs. These were brought here and introduced by “Beelycomera,” Weeip’s son. On their going in the direction of our sheep, I was alarmed (as the shepherds had come for dinner), and wished them to cross the river; but Beelycoomera took a piece of woyay [yam] root and put it in the ground, and began to dig; then pointed where he wished to go. I told him my sheep were there, and expressed my fears; which he removed by assurances that he would do no harm. They passed on. I put a pair of pistols in my pockets, and walking leisurely after them found them busy digging. (Moore 1884: 198)

When Moore says he had the “honour” of a visit he seems to be expressing his surprise that the Aboriginal delegation who wished to attend to their yam crop had come to his house to seek his permission. It was more common for Aboriginal people at that time (1833) to access their land without seeking approval from the new landowner with often devastating consequences, such as flogging, imprisonment or death for larceny (theft) and trespass, despite the fact that only five years previous to this they were the traditional owners of these lands. Moore begrudgingly allows this group onto the land on condition that they do not disturb his sheep but he alerts his reader that if they are troublesome, he has a pair of pistols in his pocket ready to deal with any offending party.

This was the reality of the colonial frontier where indigenous land had been appropriated in the name of the British crown without treaty or compensation. Soon after European settlement when Nyungar people found themselves locked out of their traditional yam lands and hunting grounds, it is not surprising that they had to resort to raiding European gardens and livestock in an attempt to satisfy their hunger requirements. They did not consider this an offence (trespass) as the land had been passed down to them by their ancestors from the beginning of time. This is illustrated in the following incident cited in Hallam and Tilbrook (1990: 46).

1836 November, COKET [COGAT] and the family of MULLEEWAR (MULLEWAR) cleared William Shaw’s potato and turnip crop at “Belvoir”(Upper Swan) and were feared to be waiting to take melons and grapes when ripe. Shaw requested an interpreter because the brothers COGAT and MULLEWAR did not see this as a punishable offence. Previously COKET had been been severely flogged for stealing, but committed a similar offence again within twelve hours (CSR 49/37). Shaw’s root crops were dug up adjacent to an area of “warran holes” on his northern boundary, where Aborigines habitually harvested yams (Chauncy survey 1843, Swan Folio XIX; Hallam 1975:14, 1986, 122, 125). Such yam grounds imply intensive, laborious, repeated harvesting of a valued plant staple, over which a local Aboriginal group would hold usage rights, and which it would husband from year to year by leaving the shoot and part of the yam tuber in place in the soil (Hallam 1986, 1989). The Aborigines were thus harvesting from grounds in which they held usage rights (Tilbrook 1987, 161, 182). (Hallam and Tilbrook 1990: 46)’

‘Land good for Aborigines was land good for Europeans’ (Hallam 1975:72)

The usurpation of the traditional yam lands by European settlers in the Upper Swan saw the rapid destruction of a principal vegetable crop that had formed a cornerstone of the local Aboriginal economy for possibly many thousands of years. Hallam (1991) acknowledges this devastation when she states:

‘Yams, however, were very important to Aboriginal subsistence and settlement patterns because they occurred in concentrated localised patches, mainly on rich alluvial soils. Indeed the European settlers used them as an indicator of good arable land, with devastating consequences for their Aboriginal owners.’ (Hallam 1991:48).

Yam lands located on the fertile alluvium of the Upper Swan were much sought after and fought over by the early colonial settlers who were competing for premium agricultural soils for their European crops and pastures. George Fletcher Moore describes his own luck in acquiring a portion of alluvial land in the Upper Swan where the best lands had already been allocated by November 1830 to colonial elites and absentee landlords in England. He states:

‘The only land available for present purposes is on and near the banks of the rivers; all this is now allotted on both sides of each river [Canning and Swan], almost to their source; but an offer is frequently made of giving one half to a new settler, on condition of his performing the location duties sufficient to secure the whole. I have an offer of this kind on the banks of the Swan River, and think of accepting it; if I do not, I must explore beyond the mountains….’ (Moore 1884: 23, diary entry 12th November 1830).

Within a few years of colonisation, the colonial squirearchy were enthusing over the economic potential of the fertile soils of the Upper Swan. William Shaw of Belvoir in a letter to the Inquirer in 1842 boasts about the highly productive yields of his grape vines that he was using to make high quality wine. He sings the praises of the colonial botanist James Drummond for his advice on the quality of

‘the native hole-land for the culture of the vine. I am satisfied that this kind of soil may be converted into vineyards at an expense of little more than clearing the land, and will produce a grape and wine equal in quality and quantity to any that can be found in the world….and my attention is now being paid to it. ‘ (Shaw’s letter to the Inquirer, 1st June 1842).

Drummond was fully aware that the alluvial lands that Shaw was using for grape cultivation were the annexed yam lands of the traditional inhabitants. This is demonstrated in his response to Shaw’s letter:

‘The discovery that you have made that the vines thrive in the sort of land which produces the native yam, is one I consider of the greatest importance to the colony, as there are many thousand acres of that sort of land now in an excellent state for planting, from the repeated digging of the roots for ages by the natives.’ (Drummond’s letter to the Inquirer, 1st June 1842).

Drummonds’ (1842) over-riding concern here, like most of his contemporaries, was to progress the development of the new colony at all costs whereas the Reverend Wollaston, showing his Christian compassion, openly laments the destructive consequences to the traditional inhabitants who were dispossessed from their ancestral country and yam lands. Frustrated by his discussions with Drummond regarding the opening up of the fertile lands of the Bindoon/ Victoria Plains region to European settlement and agriculture in the 1840’s, Wollaston describes the “Warrang – a root which forms a staple diet for the natives”:

‘In these parts the “warrang” a kind of yam, greatly abounds and grows to a large size. When roasted it is represented as superior to the potato, sweet, pleasant and nourishing. This root flourishes where the best stock feed is found. Hence the [settlers’] usurpation of the ground and the secret destruction of the aborigines.’ (Wollaston cited in Markey 1976:17 and in Hallam 1975: 72).

Part 4: Indigenous science and Yam stick horticulture

‘The Nyungar people of southwestern Australia, like other Aboriginal groups throughout Australia, accumulated over many thousands of years a vast database of empirically based knowledge derived from direct observation and experience of the world around them. This knowledge was handed down through successive generations by oral narrative and song. It included scientific knowledge (ecology, botany, biology, zoology, climatology, astronomy and phenology etc) understood from an indigenous perspective which was often encoded as metaphor in traditional narratives. Indigenous survival would not have been possible without this practical knowledge.’ (Macintyre and Dobson 2017)

Captain Stokes (1846) recognised the economic and environmental benefits that could have been gained from accessing the valuable knowledge possessed by the traditional inhabitants. He was aware that the colonists, who knew very little about the natural resources and environment of the new country, were not taking advantage of this rich source of Aboriginal cultural and scientific knowledge but were instead trying to superimpose their own familiar food production methods onto what was to them an unpredictable and alien environment. The familiar European potato rapidly supplanted the indigenous cultivated native yam without leaving any archaeological or ethnohistorical trace of how this culturally important traditional root vegetable staple was once produced and managed. Stokes states:

‘…nothing could be more unwise than the hostility shown to the natives by the first settlers, as from them we must always calculate on learning much that is useful and valuable, with regard to the productions of the country; a knowledge which would otherwise consume much time to acquire.’ (Stokes 1846 as quoted by Reynolds 1990: 11).

The procedures involved in cultivating the “esculent” yam (as the colonialists called it) remain enigmatic and speculative. We are not aware of any reconstructive ethno-archaeological or agricultural experiments that have been carried out to explain or even speculate as to how this culturally important carbohydrate staple was once cultivated by Nyungar and Yamatji people. Grey (1841) and others provide only superficial descriptions of expansive yam fields and “yam holes” which they observed extending for many miles in all directions often in association well-worn native paths, deep wells and village-like settlements, especially in the Hutt River/Murchison area where it was assumed that the population was quite dense and the settlements were largely permanent. European accounts tend to emphasise the dangers posed to travellers and horses owing to the often thickly studded yam-holes perforating the landscape. We would argue that these holes were not random, opportunistic yam diggings but a traditional form of dry land yam pit horticulture.

Anthropogenic vegetative propagation

“The natives on the West Coast of Australia are in the habit amongst other things of digging up yams as a portion of their means of subsistence; the yams are called ‘ajuca’ in the north and ‘wirang’ in the south. In digging up these yams they invariably re-insert the head of the yams so as to be sure of a future crop…’ (A.C. Gregory interviewed by H. Ling Roth in 1882, published in 1887: 131).

It is well-documented in the ethnobotanical, ethnohistorical and archaeological literature that Aboriginal people in the northern part of southwestern Australia practiced a form of Dioscorea yam cultivation. The surveyor A.C. Gregory, referring to the Nanda people of the Northampton/ Shark Bay area, goes a step further by inferring that the indigenous cultivation of Dioscorea involved “agricultural science” in the yam’s propagation. He comments:

“Agricultural science seemed to have made some progress, as they never dug a yam without planting the crown in the same hole so that no diminution of food supply should result.” (A.C. Gregory originally published in 1885 cited by Gerritsen n.d: 5).

This horticultural theme is also confirmed by the German-born Australian botanist Baron von Mueller who singled out D. hastifolia as the prime example of an indigenous cultivated food that may have potential as a crop for European farmers. He remarks:

‘Dioscorea hastifolia ‘It is evidently one of the hardiest of the yams, and on that account deserves particularly to be drawn into culture. The tubers are largely consumed by aborigines for food; it is the only plant on which they bestow any kind of cultivation, crude as it is.’ (Baron von Mueller cited in Empire 1872:4).

Maiden, the Government Botanist and Director of the Botanic Gardens in Sydney, in his 1889 publication Useful Native Plants of Australia agrees with Baron von Mueller’s stated view. From these 19th century descriptions of indigenous yam cultivation in southwestern Australia, it would seem that vegetative tuber propagation was accomplished by the traditional harvesters by breaking off or cutting the head (or crown) of the tuber and reinserting it back into the friable, aerated soil of the pit.* Grey (1840) records the Nyungar term neer-ran as meaning ‘to plant, to put in the ground’ or niran ‘to plant, to sow’ (Moore 1842: 84). This process of simultaneously re-planting the head of the yam at the time of harvesting the new season tubers suggest an efficient labour and energy-saving method of sustainable horticulture.

Dioscorea hastifoila is a water hungry perennial that requires moist, rich, loamy, well-drained soil to thrive. Yam grounds were located in semi-arid and Mediterranean climate zones where the rainfall was often variable. The terrain in these regions was often made up of hardened, encrusted, non-porous soils, especially on the lower slopes of hills, where topsoil and surface water were regularly lost through run-off. The construction of pits acted as micro-catchments that enabled water run-off to be directed to the yam root tubers and excess water to infiltrate into the surrounding terrain (see Figure 4).2

From historical accounts yam pit gardens in northern southwestern Australia were generally located on fertile alluvial soils. Pit construction facilitated the capture of water run-off that was sometimes enriched with alluvium and plant debris, providing a natural self-fertilising, self-mulching and watering process for yam growing. Pit horticulture helped to mitigate against soil erosion, especially on sloping landscapes. This may be seen as an innovative and adaptive method of dry land irrigation or more aptly a form of water harvesting utilising micro-catchments in the form of growing pits to capture variable rainfall.

Historical descriptions illustrate different levels of intensification of yam cultivation in the northern and southern regions where the same species of Dioscorea was cultivated. The climatic conditions in the northern region (e.g. the Irwin District) which differed from those in the south may explain variations in the seasonal harvest regime. The extensive yam fields that were observed in the Murchison region would appear to be more characteristic of a semi-arid, dry land horticultural system than those located in the rich alluvial niches of the Upper Swan, Helena and neighbouring rivers to the north, yet both served a similar function. Historical accounts record variations in the size and circumference of yam holes, possibly explained by differences in soil geography, topography and localised customs.

Ground-covering yam vines – a living mulch

Most cultivated yams of the Dioscorea genus are found in warm tropical climates where climbing vines are usually staked or trellised to provide maximum sunlight for plant growth. From colonial observations of warrain (or atjikoh) cultivation, it would seem that artificial staking was not part of the indigenous horticultural process. Based on our own observations of the ground-covering vines of D. hastifolia in its natural upland habitat at Toodyay, the vine leaves provide a carpet of living mulch that we would suggest helps prevent the loss of soil moisture through evaporation and may also assist in regulating or reducing ground temperature, creating a humid micro-climate conducive to yam growth. We would further speculate that in the cultivated setting this living vine mulch would have been a practical and effective means of conserving ground moisture.

Firing as part of yam-stick horticulture

Anthropogenic controlled burning, sometimes called mosaic or patchwork firing or ‘fire-stick farming’ (Rhys-Jones 1969) was an essential tool in Aboriginal food resource and land management (Hallam 1975, Gott 1982), We are puzzled by Hallam’s (1989:143) vague reference to the protection of yam grounds from firing. This may have been the case in tropical rainforest areas, where yam patches were protected from fire as noted by Jones and Meehan (1989) and Atchison (2000), but we find it hard to believe that the deep rooted D. hastifolia, which goes into dormancy in the hot dry summer season when Aboriginal firing takes place, would have been harmed by anthropogenic patch burning. We maintain that firing would have been an important part of yam cultivation on the alluvial river terraces and lower slopes of hills, in the same way that it was used in the cultivation of yanjet (Typha rhizomes) https://www.anthropologyfromtheshed.com/typha-root-an-ancient-nutritious-food-in-noongar-culture and other food plants, such as bhorn (Haemodorum, bloodroots) djiridji (Macrozamia), djubak (orchids) and karno (Platysace), see our paper on edible Nyungar root vegetables https://anthropologyfromtheshed.com/roots-of-contention-noongar-root-foods-and-indigenous-plant-taxonomy .

Firing helped to maintain and improve soil fertility by providing potassium and other essential nutrients that were favourable to yam growth. Anthropogenic burning prior to the first rains would have ensured the yam harvesters a safe and unobstructed access to their yam gardens by removing the entangled, dense and withered vines that carpeted the pits over summer and autumn providing a sheltered habitat for dangerous snakes. A further advantage of burning the yam plots is that the dense vines and native grasses provided herbage and shelter to a range of other reptiles and marsupials which after the firing process became a valued protein source for human consumption.

The seasonal timing of yam harvesting

It would appear from the early ethnohistorical records and Hallam’s (1975, 1989, 1998) archaeological analysis that there were two main yam seasons. These were (i) after the first rains of autumn (Grey 1840, 1841; Moore 1842) and (ii) in late spring/ beginning of summer (Gilbert 1848 in Meagher 1974; Oldfield 1865, 2005 and Hammond 1933) when according to Oldfield, referring to the Murchison region, ‘they are in perfection.’ Hammond (1933) describes “warryn” or “adtjikoh” as being consumed at the same time as the “Joo-buk” (orchid tubers) that were consumed in mid-late spring (October-November). See https://anthropologyfromtheshed.com/roots-of-contention-noongar-root-foods-and-indigenous-plant-taxonomy

Grey (1839, 1840, 1841) and Moore (1833, 1842) point out that warran harvesting took place after the first rains of autumn when the soil was easier to dig:

‘at the commencement of the rains, when it is ripe and when the earth is most easily dug; and it forms the principal article of food for the natives at that season…’ (Moore 1842: 75)

Moore refers to a long white parsnip-like root that was dug up in wet weather near his house in the Upper Swan. We can only assume from his description that it was warran. (Hammond 1933 records warryn as “white root”). Moore’s diary describes his encounter with a group of local Aboriginal people on his property at MIllendon in late autumn:

‘One of them had a number of frogs… nicely packed up in the bark of the tea-tree, and tied with grass; these he signified they roasted for food, with a long white root, growing like a parsnip, which they dig up in wet weather.’ (Moore, 4th May 1833).

We would suggest that warrain was also harvested outside these two main seasons but on a smaller-scale “needs” basis. Yam tubers are perfectly built self-storage organs when left in the ground. Aboriginal women were well-acquainted with the phenological cycles of plants and when they were best eaten. They were aware of the subtle changes in taste and nutritional value of different tubers and bulbs at different seasons of the year. These seasonal variations in carbohydrate and sugar levels are noted in our paper on Typha where we explained that the rhizomes were principally harvested in autumn after the first rains when they were easier to dig and when they contained certain sugars, see https://www.anthropologyfromtheshed.com/typha-root-an-ancient-nutritious-food-in-noongar-culture

Atchison and Head (p. 179) confirm that the starch content of Dioscorea spp. also varies seasonally. They note that the starch is replaced by sugars towards the beginning of the growing season:

‘Yam starches are significantly different from other cereal starches in structure and digestibility. The starch content itself changes throughout the dormancy period declining with extended periods of storage and being replaced by sugars such as glucose as the tuber prepares to resprout again (Hariprakesh and Nambison 1996).’

This process of enzymatic conversion of stored carbohydrate to sugars has also been noted by Gott (1983:11) with reference to the tubers of murnong (Microseris sp.) that were a favourite staple of Aboriginal groups in Victoria and South Australia. She states that when the plant is ‘just breaking dormancy in late autumn …[it] has already converted more than a third of its inulin reserve to the soluble sugars fructose and glucose.’

“It is generally considered the province of women to dig roots”

‘It is generally considered the province of women to dig roots, and for this purpose they carry a long pointed stick [wanna] which is held in the right hand and driven firmly into the ground, where it is shaken so as to loosen the earth, which is scooped up and thrown out with the fingers of the left hand, and in this manner they dig with great rapidity. But the labour in proportion to the amount obtained is great. To get a yam about half an inch in circumference and a foot in length they have to dig a hole above a foot square and two feet in depth; a considerable portion of the time of the women and children is therefore passed in this employment.’ (Grey 1841: 292-293).

The wanna or wooden digging stick (also sometimes called “yam-stick” according to Chauncy in Brough-Smith 1878: 255) was an indispensable digging tool used by Aboriginal women. It was a long hardwood crowbar (with a fire hardened point) rounded on one side and flattened on the other. It was individually manufactured, maintained and carried by its female user.

Oldfield (1865, 2005: 55) provides one of the few detailed accounts of how Dioscorea yam was harvested. Although he is referring to the Watchandie (or Nhanda) of the Murchison/ Champion Bay area where the yam was known as ad-ju-co, his description could well apply to the yam-digging activities of Nyungar women.

‘The roots of this plant are very long, for when the women have dug round them to the full reach of their arms, they always break off the part thus freed, leaving the remainder in the ground, and how much further it extends it is impossible to ascertain. However, the part thus secured is generally about three feet in length, varying from a half to two inches in diameter …. The labour of extracting these roots from the ground must be very severe, for they grow in a hard red soil, in which women have to dig with no better implement than a pointed stick. These holes, which render travelling very dangerous in countries where they abound, are from six to eight inches in diameter at the top, the depth being limited to the extent to which a woman can stretch her arms, so as to be able to remove by her hand the soil loosened by the wip-pa (digging-stick). … They are in perfection during the latter part of spring and the fore part of summer…’ (Oldfield 1865, 2005: 55).

Ethnohistorical sources refer to the cooking of the warrain by ‘roasting or baking on hot embers’ (Oldfield 1865, Chauncy 1878, Roth 1902 and personal communication with Nyungar Elder William Warrell in 2000). Oldfield states:

The method of cooking these yams is the same as practised in preparing every other kind of food, animal or vegetable, for eating, i.e., roasting or baking on hot embers, and when thus cooked they are very mucilaginous, of a sweet flavour, and grateful even to the palate of fastidious Europeans (Oldfield 1865).

Chauncy (in Brough-Smith 1878: 245-6) describes the warran yam as having ‘… a delicate sweetish flavour when roasted in hot ashes, something like that of a chestnut, and is much sought after.’ Daisy Bates (1912) documents “dookurn warrain” as ‘cooking or cooked warrain.’ Similarly, Austin (cited in Roth 1902: 6) refers to:

Many kinds of roots and yams were eaten; among the latter, the wor‑rain, showing thick yellow blossoms, was very common, growing down to a depth of quite 3 feet, and running from the thickness of the finger to that of the wrist. An island (? Leschenhault Island) in Shark’s Bay, used literally to be covered with it. All meats, and the majority of the vegetables, were eaten roasted, some of the latter being prepared with great care, the bulrush roots, in particular, a very nourishing dietary, being most methodically slowly cooked in the ashes. (Austin cited in Roth 1902: 6)

A senior Nyungar Elder from the Moora region, the late William Warrell, said that his grandmother Ollie Warrell had told him that women used to dig up warrain yams immediately after the autumn rains but if they were hungry they could dig them up at other times as well. He stated that:

‘It was carefully prepared by cooking in the ashes until it was soft and sweet.’ (William Warrell personal communication 2000).

When we asked if it was eaten raw, he said ‘No, never.’ When we asked him what it tasted like, he could not recall having eaten it.

There have been no scientific studies ever conducted on the nutritional value of cooked D. hastifolia yam. To our knowledge there has only been one study of the nutritive value of the raw D. hastifolia yam. This was conducted by Pate and Dixon (1982:221, Table 5.11) and it showed that the stem tuber (when tested in late spring before summer dormancy) contained 86.0 % water (in fresh weight), 4.9% protein (in dry matter) and 2.0 (medium content) starch value.

Yam harvesting – gender specific or cooperative labour?

Phillip Chauncy in the early 1840’s in the Upper Swan region observed men and women harvesting yams on occasion. He writes:

‘I have seen both men and women sinking in loose sandy soil for an edible root called warran, one of the dioscoreae, which generally grows about the thickness of a man’s thumb, and to the depth of four to six or eight feet… It is dangerous to travel on horseback through the country where it grows, on account of the frequency and depth of the holes, which are not more than about eighteen or twenty inches in diameter. I have sometimes been made aware of their proximity by seeing small quantities of sand jumping up before me, and, on going to see the cause, have suddenly come on a small hole among the scrub, so small that I could scarcely believe a human being could be at the bottom of it in a stooping position, with the knees on each side of the head. In this position the native dextrously throws the sand by a sudden jerk of the hand backwards, under the arm and up behind the shoulder. The only bald natives I ever saw are the warran diggers, who are said to wear the hair off the head by pressing it so frequently against the sides of these holes. (Chauncy in Brough-Smith 1878: 245-6)

There is a widely accepted view, still held by some, that the male/female division of labour was rigidly-defined in Aboriginal society to the point where women were the exclusive collectors/ harvesters of root foods and men were hunters. However, there were times when these roles overlapped and also when men and women joined forces, such as in the harvesting of yams. Although Hallam (1975) perpetuates the idea of Nyungar yam harvesting as being an exclusively female-occupation, this is not necessarily borne out by historical ethnographic evidence, for example, Chauncy’s observations (above) in the Upper Swan area in the early 1840’s where men and women worked cooperatively in the yam harvest. Also, the naturalist John Gilbert reported that he was unable to arrange any male Aboriginal guides from the vicinity of Drummond’s “Hawthornden” estate in Toodyay to accompany him on a collecting expedition to Wongan Hills in October 1848 because they were busily engaged in yam-digging. He writes: ‘their Season of meeting in great numbers to dig the edible Root called by them Wargae is now in full force…’ (Wagstaffe and Rutherford 1954 in Meagher 1974: 33). Wargae here refers to warrain. This term has different renderings, depending on the recorder, for example, the linguist Von Brandenstein (1988: 131) spells it as “wuagarn.” According to Hallam (1998: 14) ‘When they were abundant in fertile soils, yams could provide the basis for large meetings of people for social and ceremonial occasions.’ The cultivated yam (warrain), would have provided a relatively dependable carbohydrate supply to underwrite these important occasions.

The cultural importance of the warrine yam was sometimes reflected in the names of topographic features, such as the tributaries of rivers and creeks, for example, Wariin Brook (a tributary of the Helena River), Waranine Brook (a tributary of the Dale River) and “Warrine-garing” (along Jimperting Brook, Toodyay). The yam was also totemically represented in the names of selected individuals. Hallam and Tilbrook (1990: 300) provide the names of Nyungar people from the Guildford/Upper Swan and York areas whose names identified them to country where yams were found and possibly reflected their status as the proprietors/ custodians of these lands. Their names were Warryneyung (a female), Worraingwert (a male) and Warrain (a male), all deriving from the term for yam – warryne, worraing or warrain.

Human agency in the promotion of yam tuber growth

The question arises as to whether the yam fields and yam grounds described in the early historical and archaeological sources were located in the plant’s natural habitat or had, at some point in prehistory, been translocated from their original environment to a new habitat. Hallam seems convinced that the latter took place when she states:

‘the alluvial flat environments in which these yams were primarily grown by Aborigines were very different from those of their natural habitat of open woodland with granitic and balsatic soils’ (Hallam 1989 in White 2011:88).

If the geographic distribution of the D. hastifolia yam was extended by human agency outside its original range and cultivated, is this not suggestive of indigenous agriculture?

If translocation did take place, this would have resulted in a number of practical advantages such as making it easier to access the yam plots, reducing travel time from camp, reducing the relative amount of time and energy spent digging out the yams. Harvesting yams in their upland stony habitat where they grew in open woodland or vegetation thickets would have been a more onerous task as it necessarily involved tracing the fragile twining stems of the vine down through a rocky substrate to locate the yam that was often buried over two feet down.

From a practical viewpoint the lower slopes and river terrace environment, such as at the Upper Swan region, would have enabled yam cultivators a greater control over essential water capture and soil conservation, and the cultivated friable soil would have contributed to a higher tuber yield per unit of time than in the stony upland areas. Atchison (2012: 69) with reference to the procurement of Dioscorea yam tubers in northern Australia notes that ‘the rockiness of the substrate’ of the ecological niche can critically affect ‘yield per unit time, and thus the calorific efficiency of yam digging.’ This same principle would have applied to the cultivation of D. hastifolia.

The cultivation of yams on the lower slopes and alluvial terraces would have required considerable time and energy input (as noted by Grey 1841) but it would have been more economically productive and rewarding in the rich lowland alluvial soils where soil and water management using micro-pit catchments would have ensured a greater predictability of the tuber crop. We have no information on whether the same yam plots were accessed every season or on a rotational basis allowing time for the soil to regenerate. We may never know whether D. hastifolia was once a domesticated cultivar resulting from its continuous cultivation by Aboriginal people over thousands of years. One can only speculate that this native yam over time would have evolved a larger tuber, augmented productivity and possibly enhanced nutritional content as a result of continuous cultivation. Gott (1982: 10), referring to southeastern Australia, emphasises that human agency (such as tilling, burning and fertilising the soil) in the cultivation of murnong (yam daisy) and other root vegetables promoted an increase in productivity over time and changes to plant phenotypes (Gott 1983 in White 2011:89).

Denham (2007: 2) who has written extensively on yam cultivation in New Guinea and Australia supports the idea of the beneficial effects resulting from cultivation on the yam phenotype but alerts the reader that these changes are contingent on the continuation of cultivation. As Denham writes:

‘The effects of land management, plant exploitation and resultant distributions on plant phenotype can be assessed for Dioscorea hastifolia (Sylvia Hallam) and murnong (Beth Gott). The tubers of these plants, like many others, exhibit phenotypic responses depending upon the type of soil in which they are growing. Where soils are loose and friable, tubers are larger; whereas tubers are smaller in shallow, stony and compacted soils. For most tuberous plants in Australia, the recurrent digging of tubers from a perennial plant will have loosened the surrounding soil and encouraged greater tuber growth. Phenotypic responses can be anticipated in successive harvests of these perennial tubers, but these have nothing to do with planting, intergenerational selection or domestication. These phenotypic responses are elastic, they require the maintenance of anthropically modified soil environment; once modifications to the soil environment cease, tubers revert to wild type.’ (Denham 2007:2).

If this is the case, then the size, structure and possibly even the taste of the tubers of D. hastifolia that was once cultivated by southwest Aboriginal people in pre- and early colonial times may have been very different to those growing in their wild upland habitat today. If the traditional warrain plots were harvested twice a year, as ethnohistorical and archaeological sources suggest (Grey 1840, Moore 1842, Oldfield 1865, Hammond 1933, Hallam 1989), then the seasonally patterned movements of Aboriginal people within their territorial estates may well have accommodated a semi-sedentary existence or what Hallam refers to as largely sedentary settlements in the fertile riverine areas of the Upper Swan where warran (yam) and yanjet (Typha bulrush rhizomes) abounded together with other food resources. Grey (1841) also describes largely permanent settlements based on a yam economy in the Murchison area.

The agricultural debate about whether Australian Aboriginal people were once “farmers” or “foragers,” “hunter-gatherers” or “agriculturalists” continues in academic institutions to this day. In some contexts they are referred to as ‘complex hunter-gatherers,’ ‘affluent hunter-gatherers’ or ‘mobile foragers.’ Notions of sedentism, surplus, domestication, intensification of production, population density and social and political complexity which are criteria often applied by archaeologists to differentiate Aboriginal hunter-gatherers or foragers from agriculturalists have caused endless arguments in the literature. We do not intend to enter this controversial arena here, except to say that some of the notions used to differentiate “agriculturalists” from “foragers” in the Aboriginal context are highly Western-centric and are founded on evolutionary hierarchical models that tend to exclude groups such as those conventionally labelled as “hunter-gatherers” but who practice, what we consider to be, unfamiliar forms of agriculture.

Yam pit horticulture as practised in Western Australia may have been a relatively low maintenance agricultural activity and depending on region possibly supporting a semi-sedentary – or even a largely sedentary as suggested by Grey (1841) and Hallam (1989)) – existence in areas where yams were cultivated and abundant. With the exception of periodic burning and harvesting and replanting, yam pit horticulture was a self-sustaining system (self mulching, self-fertilising and self-watering using rainwater management) and would not have required constant year round presence or surveillance. This flexibility enabled the proprietors of the yam lands and their families to attend to other food resources located within their estate or home range and to prepare for, or participate in, social and ceremonial activities within or outside their own country. They would have had a highly organised and seasonally regularised schedule of economic, social and ceremonial activities based on animal and plant phenological cycles well-known to them within their localised ecosystems.

Yam pit horticulture which utilised the technology of the fire-hardened digging stick (wanna) and a long-evolved specialised knowledge of anthropogenic fire management enabled the original inhabitants of the land to change, adapt and cultivate fertile niches within their local environment. It would seem that Nyungar and Yamatji people discovered through their own innovations the benefits of a form of sustainable dry land pit horticulture, remarkably similar to the agricultural practice known as “Zai” or “Tassa” used by traditional and modern farming communities in the semi-arid regions of northwest Africa, such as in Mali and Burkina Faso.

Part 5: The traditional North African model of pit agriculture

The traditional “Zai” technique is currently undergoing a revival with great success in dry land crop production in parts of Africa. Vegetable staples, such as sorghum, maize and millet, are to this day being successfully cultivated using this method. The technique involves digging pits, using a steel mattock or hoe, each pit measuring about 20-40 cm in diameter and 10-20cm deep and spaced about 60-80 cm apart (Essama 2005:1). The shape, size and depth of the zai pit varies according to region, soil type, rainfall and local cultural traditions. The pits are prepared prior to the wet growing season and mulch consisting of decayed plant matter and animal manure is added to improve soil fertility and prevent moisture loss. After the first rains when the soil is moist, the organic matter is covered with a thin layer of topsoil and the seeds are inserted into the centre of the pit. The Zai method is a proven and highly sustainable dry land agricultural system with many benefits, some of which have been outlined by Essama (2005) as follows:

‘The advantages of Zaï are that it: (i) captures rain and surface/ run-off water; (ii) protects seeds and organic matter against being washed away; (iii) concentrates nutrient and water availability at the beginning of the rainy season; (iv) increases yields; and (v) reactivates biological activities in the soil and eventually leads to an improvement in soil structure. The application of the Zaï technique can reportedly increase production by about 500% if properly executed.’ (Essama 2005)

It is our view from the ethnohistorical descriptions of D. hastifolia tuber cultivation that there may have been similarities in the methods of water capture, nutrient enrichment and prevention of soil erosion to that of “zai” pit farming that was practised traditionally (and to this day) in parts of arid and semi-arid northwest Africa. Like the African zai” holes in which seeds (such as sorghum) were planted, the warrain holes in which tubers were harvested and the heads replanted, varied in size, depth and spatial patterning, depending on soil quality, elevation, gradient, repeated usage of the same area over time and local customary practices. By trapping and conserving rainwater, the zai and warrain pit systems were taking advantage of intermittent and unpredictable rainfall. The yam pits served as micro-catchments ensuring that the tubers received maximal water and nutrient enriched run-off during the growing season. We can only conjecture that this type of ecologically sutainable, indigenous tuber horticulture of Western Australia that employed scientific and cultural knowledge accumulated over many thousands of years of empirical observations and trial-and-error would have improved the predictability and productivity of this once important food staple of northern southwest Australia.

Conclusion

Yam pit horticulture was an efficient dry land farming technique where scarce and variable water resources were conserved in basin-like depressions in the ground and directed towards the tuber roots. Excess water that was not utilised by the plant would collect in the surrounding ground, and at deeper levels, thereby conserving ground moisture. This water-harvesting technique may have created micro-climates advantageous to tuber growth. Yam holes, especially on gently sloping ground, would have prevented erosion and increased the soil fertility by trapping plant debris and rich topsoil that otherwise would have been lost as run-off after heavy rainfall. These sunken depressions in the landscape must have functioned as a type of irrigation. Yam pit horticulture would have involved a deep and specialised scientific knowledge of the phenological cycles of the D. hastifolia yam plant and its tuber morphology, taste and nutritional value at different times of the year. There is no doubt in our minds its cultivation involved conscious and deliberate strategies to promote tuber growth (size and thickness) and to regularise and increase crop predictability. It was a self-maintaining horticultural system that, apart from the burning and harvesting activities, did not require all year-round human surveillance but left the yam cultivators free to attend to other seasonal plant and animal resources on their estate. These would have provided a wide range of nutrients and possibly a well-balanced diet.

The question that still remains is: If this indigenous-evolved horticultural practice has been so well documented by the early colonial recorders, then why is it that Nyungar (and Yamatji) people have not been acknowledged in the mainstream literature as traditional “hunter-gatherer-horticulturalists?” It is our view that a ‘hunter-gatherer-horticultural’ model would be a more appropriate designation than the widely accepted and promoted ‘hunter-gatherer’ or ‘forager’ label.

In this paper we have suggested that there may be functional similarities between the dry land pit horticultural methods such as the “zai” technique” used by traditional agriculturalists in northwest Africa and the methods once used in northern southwestern Australia. The anthropogenic techniques of pitting the landscape for the purpose of capturing essential water resources and nutrients to ensure plant growth should be investigated and revived as an effective means of conserving water for agriculture in our variable and drying climate.

All plant specimens photographed in this work have been obtained from our property at Toodyay. It should be noted that it is an offence to collect any native plant or plant product from Crown Land without the appropriate license from the Department of Biodiversity and Conservation.

Our manuscript is still a work in process. We are open to comments and would be grateful to any readers who may have additional information that would contribute to an understanding of how indigenous tuber horticulture was practised in those regions where Dioscorea hastifolia was once cultivated by Nyungar and Yamatji people.

This paper is based on research compiled over many years by research anthropologists Ken Macintyre and Dr Barb Dobson. The information derives from archival ethnohistorical sources as well as information sourced from contemporary Nyungar Elders and spokespersons. We would like to thank all Nyungar people (past and present) who over the years have assisted us by providing cultural information without which this paper would not have been possible. In particular we would like to acknowledge the assistance of Mr Iva Hayward-Jackson, Nyungah Land and Culture Protector and heritage consultant and co-author of this paper for his input and feedback on the ideas presented here.

We would like to alert anyone who is intending to consume Nyungar bush tucker that many indigenous foods are toxic or bitter tasting without the proper processing and preparation. See https://anthropologyfromtheshed.com/beware-bush-food-can-be-dangerous/

ANNOTATIONS

1. Joobaitch (or Jubytch) from the Swan-Guildford area of Perth called the native Dioscorea yam warrain or warrein (as recorded by Bates in the early 1900’s). Hope (1916) also records the term used by Nyungar Elder Tommy Bimbar (1916) as warrain. Nyungar words usually have a number of variant spellings owing to it traditionally being an oral, not written language. Even the name of the people of southwestern Australia Nyungar can be spelt variously as Nyoongar, Noongar, Nyungah or Nyungar depending on individual or group preference. When unfamiliar sounds were rendered into the written word by the early colonial recorders, their different renderings reflected dialectical and regional variations in the Nyungar language and/or the recorder’s own cultural linguistic background and orthographic preference.

2. From our personal observations of the yam (D. hastifolia) growing in upland, stony, loamy soil environments, such as on the hill slope on our property at Toodyay, is that the plant searches out a moist niche, often growing in depressions and crevices between and under rocks during its growing season (around May to September). The yam is deeply buried and very difficult to dig, even with a steel crowbar, owing to the rocky granite terrain which provides a perfect mulch together with bark and other vegetative matter. Yam tubers take advantage of subsurface reservoirs of water that collect at the base of granite outcrops and rocky hollows and the surface rock provides a mulch that traps moisture, providing a favourable environment for yam tuber growth. The plant may be found in a semi-shaded location where it is associated with open woodland and shrubs that provide a natural trellis for its climbing vines.

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Roth, W.E. 1902 ‘Notes of savage life in the early days of West Australian settlement.’ In Royal Society of Queensland. Proceedings, vol. 17:45-69. Based on reminiscences collected from F. Robert Austin, Civil Engineer, late Assistant Surveyor, W.A. (1841). Paper read before the Royal Society of Queensland 8th March 1902.

Rowley-Conwy, P. and R. Layton 2011 ‘Foraging and Farming as niche construction: stable and unstable adaptations.’ Phil. Trans. R. Soc. B. 366, 849-862.

Salvado R., 1851 in E.J. Stormon 1977 The Salvado memoirs: Historical memoirs of Australia and particularly of the Benedictine Mission of New Norcia and of the habits and customs of the Australian natives. By Rosendo Salvado, translated and edited by E.J. Stormon. Nedlands: University of Western Australia Press.

Sharr, F.A. 1996 Western Australian plant names and their meanings: a glossary. Nedlands: University of Western Australia Press.

Shaw, W. 1842 ‘Correspondence: Cultivation of the Vine.’ Inquirer, 1st June, page 4

Shoobert (ed.) 2005 Western Australian Exploration 1826-1835, The Letters, Reports & Journals of Exploration and Discovery in Western Australia. Vol 1. Victoria Park: Hesperian Press.

Smyth, R.B. 1878. The Aborigines of Victoria. Melbourne: Victorian Government Printer.

Stokes, J.L. 1841 ‘Visit to the country adjacent to Champion Harbour, reported to be Port Grey, and examination of the coastline to the northward.’ Perth Gazette 25 December, pp.2-3.

Stokes, J.L., 1846. Discoveries in Australia; With an Account of the Coasts and Rivers Explored and Surveyed During the Voyage of the H.M.S. Beagle in the years 1837–43. London: T. and W. Boone.

Stormon E. J. 1977 The Salvado Memoirs. Nedlands: University of Western Australia Press.

Symmons, C. 1841 Grammatical introduction to the study of the Aboriginal language of Western Australia. Perth: Western Australia Almanac.

Thieberger, N. and McGregor,W. Macquarie Aboriginal Words. Macquarie University, New South Wales.

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Von Brandenstein, C. G. 1988 Nyungar Anew. Pacific Linguistics, Series C – No. 99. Department of Linguistics, Research School of Pacific Studies, Australian National University.

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The Science of the Traditional Smoking Ceremony

Sat, 26 Aug 2023 10:14:37 GMT

The ancient practice of Macrozamia pit processing in southwestern Australia

Fri, 25 Aug 2023 00:17:06 GMT

Prepared by Ken Macintyre and Barb Dobson
Research anthropologists

Introduction

Why did Noongar people ferment Macrozamia sarcotesta? Was it to detoxify it?

It is our view that over many thousands of years of trial-and-error and empirical scientific observations that Noongar people developed their own unique and sustainable food processing techniques, in particular the controlled anaerobic fermentation of the fruit (seed covering, outer rind) of Macrozamia to enhance its taste and nutritive value and to make it easier to remove from the seed which was not eaten. We could find no scientific evidence in the archaeological or ethnohistorical literature, apart from the untested assumptions of Grey (1840, 1841) and Moore (1842), that the Noongar people traditionally processed the Macrozamia sarcotesta for the purpose of detoxification. We question this assumption that has been perpetuated in the literature even to this day.1

The Noongar of southwestern Australia are unique in that they were the only Aboriginal group in Australia that consumed the processed red fruit sarcotesta of Macrozamia. Their methods of soaking and/or burying the fruit can, in our opinion, best be described as a process of “fermentation.” By contrast Aboriginal groups living in Eastern Australia consumed only the processed seed (starchy endosperm) and discarded the oil-rich sarcotesta.2 We have always been curious as to why Noongar people traditionally fermented and consumed only the sarcotesta. Was their unique method of anaerobic fermentation an adaptation to the water-scarce environment of southwestern Australia at the time of harvest (late summer/ autumn) or was it their specialised scientific knowledge that fermentation improved the taste and provided a valuable source of high energy fat and nutrition (e.g. vitamin A)?

Certain early African populations of hunter gatherers (such as the San and the Hadza) are starting to be recognised for their unique and highly diverse gut microbiome which has enabled them to consume a wide range of bush foods found only in their localised environments. Similarly, we maintain that Noongar people must have evolved these specialised adaptations in their gut biome that enabled them to digest and store quantities of fats and fat-soluble vitamins (such as Vitamin A and D) which derived from foods rich in beta-carotenes such as the Macrozamia sarcotesta. Their gut microbiome would also have adapted over time to tolerate any bitter-tasting or toxic residues that may have been present in their plant food sources. We do not discount the possibility that if there were any residual traces of glycosoides (such as cycasin or macrozamin) remnant in the sarcotesta after processing (either from residual toxin or oil rancidity) that these would have been tolerated without inducing ill-effects.

Traditionally bayoo was always processed prior to consumption

This highly prized seasonal food source was traditionally known as baio (Moore 1835) or bayoo (Bunbury 1836). It is also variously rendered in the ethnohistorical literature as baayoo, baio, by-yu, boya, boyern, boyah, boy-oo, poio or boy, depending on recorder and geographic region. These variant terms may be interpreted in a number of ways, depending on context. We suggest they may allude to fat, egg or stone.

Ngilgee one of Daisy Bates’ informants from the Vasse area records the name of this food as baian (Abbott 1983: 6). Whitworth (n.d) records the name of the palm as boyern and the linguist Von Brandenstein (1988: 51) renders the ‘Zamia palm nuts or seeds’ as pauyin. We would suggest that these are synonymous terms alluding to the fat-rich flesh or fruit of the Zamia. The term boyan and its variants boin, boyn, boyne or boyn-yer translate as oil, fat or grease and boyu according to Brady (1845: 16) means ‘fat.’

Whitworth (n.d: 15) records the name of the fruit of the Zamia as “boy-ya” and he also lists the term for egg as boy-ya. Ngilgee (n.d: 3) records “buoya” as ‘bird’s egg.’ It is highly probable that the term by-yu (or its variant spellings poio, boy-ya, boyah, by-yoo, by’yoo, boy) alludes to egg (bwye, pooyiore, boy-ya, buoya) that in this context is incubated (underground) to become a rich source of fat. The seeds could be described as ovoid or egg-shaped. The term may even be a biological referent to the propagative ovules or seeds of the Macrozamia which fall to the ground from the female cone when ripe and ready for dispersal.

Were the indigenous informants possibly using a descriptor name by-yu to refer to the fat-rich ovoid egg-like fruit (pooyiore, bwye “egg”) or seed?

Another translation is “stone” for as noted by Bindon and Chadwick (1992: 396) boye, booy, booi, pwoy, poya, pooi, boyee, boya mean ‘stone’ or boyer “little stones” (Bussell n.d.).

Bussell (n.d.) records the Noongar name for the ‘native palm’ (“zamia”) as “biana.” This may be a descriptor explaining how the fruit was buried for Moore (1842:10) translates bian as ‘to dig’ or ‘to bury’ or past tense biana. We think Bussell’s informant was probably explaining how the food was prepared. Descriptors were commonly used to describe how plants were identified, prepared, consumed or otherwise used.

Djiriji – a totemic name for the Macrozamia palm?

A common name for the Macrozamia plant in the Perth and surrounding area is djiriji (Moore 1842: 30), dyergee (Lyon 1833), girijee “(“the Zamia tree,” Grey 1840: 42), dji-ri-ji (Symmons 1841), djir-jy (Stokes 1846) or jeerja (Joobaitch, Daisy Bates’ informant). Possibly this name has mythological significance. It may even be a totemic referent deriving from the association of Macrozamia with a version of the fire-recapture mythological narrative.

In one version of this myth, the hawk, after retrieving the nut containing the fire from the bandicoot, drops it into the zamia plant where it ignites the highly flammable woolly kundyl. According to Noongar spokespersons, when we asked them about this myth, they said that the bright red seeds of the zamia give the illusion of fire. They agreed that djiridji was probably a totemic name that may have been connected to this fire-retrieval story. We think that the term djiriji is probably a linguistic derivative of the term jir-e-git that was recorded by Grey (1840:55) as meaning “sparks” or by Moore (1842: 159) as girijit “sparks of fire” – a metaphorical reference to the resemblance of the red seeds to burning embers.

Macrozamia fruit are known as quinine or quenine in the southern region

In the southern region the Macrozamia fruit was commonly known as quinine or quenine (Barker 1830), also spelt gwineen (Grey 1840: 48), kween-een (Grey 1840:72), kwinin (Moore 1842: 64), quinning or quinelup, (A.Y. Hassell 1894).

Barker, who was recording aspects of Aboriginal culture in the vicinity of King George Sound in 1830, was the first European to record the indigenous name for the fruit of the Zamia. He notes in his diary on January 9th 1830:

January 9 ‘Quinines not yet ripe.’

When exploring north of Cape d’Entrecasteaux and the Nornalup area, he writes:

‘This is the great country for ‘Quinine,’ the fruit of the low fan leaved palm which after gathering they bury in the earth for about a moon when it becomes fine eating. The country here is very populous and the people fat but he [Marignan] and others describe the soil to be poor & sandy.’ (Barker 1830)

Barker (1830-1831) provides the earliest documented reference to the processing, storage and consumption of quinine (Macrozamia fruit) in southwestern Australia. He views these underground repositories of quenine as a form of food provisioning:

‘This is the great country for Quenine, which after gathering, they bury in large store in the ground & in about a moon it becomes fine eating. This is the first instance of any provision of food which I have heard of them.’ (Barker 1830)

Noongar people ate only the processed sarcotesta, not the seed kernel

There is much confusion to this day, especially on the numerous “bush tucker” internet sources, as to which part of the Macrozamia fruit was consumed after processing by Noongar people. The traditional practices used by the Noongar often get confused with the methods used in Eastern Australia where only the starchy seed or endosperm was processed and eaten.2

‘Macrozamia nuts leached and baked, were the carbohydrate staple all down the east coast of Australia’ (Rhys-Jones 1978).

In contrast the Noongar consumed only the processed outer rind or seed covering known as the sarcotesta:

‘Only the fleshy part, which resembled a tomato in colour and taste, was eaten. The nut was not eaten.’ (Hammond 1933:28)

It is unclear from the ethnohistorical records when the Noongar stopped using this processed food source. The last recorded observation that we could find was by Edwards, a veterinary surgeon employed by the W.A. Bureau of Agriculture who in 1894 reported that Noongar people were still processing Macrozamia fruit which they called boyah. He describes how during the fruiting season he observed seeds that were soaked “in shallow brooks” and also sometimes in bags ‘suspended by a string attached to a stake on the sea beach.’

Both Edwards (1894: 233) and Hammond (1933: 28) describe salt water being used in the preparation of boyah or boyoo. This practice is consistent with contemporary anecdotal accounts provided by informants of Macrozamia fruit having been soaked in water in wheat or chaff bags in the late 19th /early 20th century. According to one Noongar spokesman, Mr William Warrell, the “bo-yu” were placed in an old wheat sack with a few heavy rocks to weigh it down and a rope was then tied around the opening to ensure the seeds did not float away. The end of the rope was tied to a tree or stake to secure it. When we asked for how long this was done, he said he had no idea how long the seeds were left to soak, maybe about two weeks, he thought. He remembered being told this information by his grandmother Ollie Warrell who must have observed the activity when growing up.

Traditionally the ripe fruit were collected by Noongar women around March and transported in their goto (kangaroo skin bags) to the nearest processing location. These bases would have depended upon the availability of water which by the end of summer was mostly brackish or saline. Soaking pools were sometimes constructed on the edge of waterways but great care would have been taken not to contaminate the already limited drinkable water supplies. When water was scarce or not available the by-yu were buried for a number of weeks without soaking. These burial pits provided a form of hidden storage.

It was important that we reconstruct the method of how Macrozamia fruit was processed

In 2008 and 2009 we attempted to replicate traditional bayoo processing methods, in accordance with how they have been described in the ethnohistorical literature by Barker (1830), Moore (1835), Bunbury (1836), Drummond (1839), Grey (1840, 1841), Backhouse (1843) and Hammond (1933). The purpose was to gain an insight into how and why the fruit was soaked and/or buried for a certain period by Noongars prior to consumption.

Our archival research, practical experiments and consultations with Noongar Elders over a number of years together suggest that the Macrozamia fruit was processed using ancient indigenous cultural techniques and scientific knowledge to enhance the taste, texture and nutritional value and most importantly to enable the fruit to be easily removed from the seed. An added advantage may have been the ability to store and preserve this highly coveted food for a limited time.

In 2009 the Chem Centre WA carried out an analysis of the sarcotesta samples that we provided to them, prior to and post-processing, and the results of these tests are presented in our separate paper available here .

To this day archaeologists, ecologists, historians and anthropologists maintain that Macrozamia sarcotesta was processed by Noongar people primarily for detoxification purposes. We suggest that this untested assumption derives from the early reports of Europeans who became violently ill from consuming unprocessed (or insufficiently processed) Macrozamia “nuts.” Moore (1835), Drummond (1839) and Grey (1840, 1841) have all referred to the need to detoxify the sarcotesta of the Macrozamia seed prior to consumption to avoid ill-effects. The earliest recorded account of European poisoning from the consumption of Macrozamia ‘nuts’ dates back to Vlamingh’s expedition in the Swan River area in 1697.

Earliest Macrozamia nut poisoning: the Vlamingh Expedition at the Swan River

Prior to European colonisation of southwestern Australia the early Dutch explorers to the Swan River were experiencing first hand the ill-effects of consuming Macrozamia nuts. It is easy to imagine how these Dutch explorers assumed that these large chestnut like “nuts” (see Plate 9) which they found lying around Aboriginal campsites were an edible food source consumed by the local inhabitants. We suspect that the Dutch were eating de-fleshed Zamia seeds left-over from a previous season for they describe them as a yellow-brown colour. It is unlikely that the Dutch ever observed or consumed ripe Macrozamia fruit for at the time of their exploration of the Swan River area in early January 1697, these fruit would have been green, unripe, probably toxic and tightly compacted into the female cone or strobilus (see Plate 10).3

One of the Dutch officers describes in his diary (6th January 1697) how he and five other members of the Vlamingh expedition suffered the dire consequence of eating these fruits:

‘I ate five or six of them, drunk the water from one of the already mentioned pits [this is presumably a reference to a freshwater soak near the river]; but after about three hours I and five others who had eaten of these Fruits, began to vomit so violently that there was hardly any difference between us and death; so it was with the greatest difficulty that I with the Crew reached the shore… “(cited by Robert, 1972: 23)

Hamilton and Bruce (1998: 50) cite Witsen, one of the Vlamingh crew, as describing the fruit (or cone?) of the Zamia [probably Macrozamia fraseri] as closely resembling:

‘…our local scarlet beans, the colour being between yellow and white: these beans contain a nut which is not unlike the chestnut and is not unappetizing, but causes a vertigo in the head which resembles madness, for the mariners who tasted of them crawled on the ground and made senseless gestures, which lasted for two days.’

We can only assume that the fruits consumed by the Dutch were the chestnut-like de-fleshed seeds that may have been previously processed and discarded by the local indigenous inhabitants.5 These seeds would have lost some of their toxicity as a result of anthropogenic fermentation, natural ageing and weathering and these combined processes may have accounted for the survival of the officer who consumed 5-6 nuts. The Dutch describe the roasted Macrozamia nuts ‘as tasting like Dutch broad beans, or, when less ripe [sic.], like hazelnuts’ (Playford 1998: 36) or as Seddon (2005: 67) interprets it ‘when ripe, like hazelnuts.’ Given that the Macrozamia fruiting season is approximately mid-February to mid-April, there would not have been ripe red fruit available at the time of the Dutch exploration of the Swan River region.

The Baudin Expedition – the French Lieutenant Commander Milius at the Swan River

The French Lieutenant Commander Milius whose party explored the shores of the Swan River in June 1801 (as part of the Baudin expedition) also became seriously ill “vomiting blood” after consuming

‘nuts like chestnuts which the naturalist and sailors roasted and ate with relish, commenting that these tasted like European chestnuts’ (Marchant 1998: 169).

These “nuts” would have been de-fleshed Macrozamia seeds similar to those pictured in Plate 9 that had been discarded or left over from an earlier fruiting season.

The Flinders Expedition – Esperance region

On January 10th 1802 the Scottish botanist Robert Brown who accompanied Matthew Flinders aboard the Investigator visiting the south coast of Western Australia, records how he consumed 16 nuts of Zamia without any ill-effects.6 However, he points out that other members of the crew were not so lucky. They suffered the punishing effects of cycad nut poisoning:

“sickness & retching [and] headache. In some the sickness came on [after] about an hour or two. In others it did not intervene for several hours. Mr Bauer felt only a Rise of Curd at his stomach all day but about 10 at night he was attacked with sickness which lasted till 2 in the morning.’ (Short 2002: 15-16)

Is it a coincidence that Brown acknowledges in his diary that he happened to be reading Henry’s Epitome of Chemistry and Cook’s Third Voyage at the same time as he extravagantly boasts of his capacity to ingest numerous cycad nuts without any adverse effect? Being a renown botanist he would have been familiar with the reference to Cook’s crew having suffered severely from cycad poisoning when visiting northeastern Australia in 1770.7

George Grey’s party in the vicinity of the Gairdner Range

What is the probability that almost forty years later the young explorer George Grey (1841:295-6) should also be reading Cook’s Voyage (Vol 2, page 624) and quoting from it around the time when his own men (like those of Cook, Milius and Brown) suffered violent bouts of sickness after consuming a store of Macrozamia nuts which they had found at an Aboriginal camp, somewhere in the vicinity of the Gairdner Range in the Dandaragan region, north of Perth.

‘13th April 1839 – Kaiber here brought in some of the nuts of the Zamia tree; they were dry, and, therefore, in a fit state to eat. I accordingly shared them amongst the party. Several of the men then straggled off to look for more, and were imprudent enough, before I found out what they were doing, to eat several of the nuts which were not sufficiently dried, the consequences of which were, that they were seized with violent fits of vomiting, accompanied by vertigo, and other distressing symptoms; these, however, gradually abated during the night, and in the morning, although rendered more weak than they were before, the poor fellows were still able to resume their march.’ (Grey 1841: 61)

After suffering such traumatic consequences from eating what we suspect were either toxic Macrozamia kernels or rancid sarcotesta or simply over-indulging on this rich oily food, it is scarcely credible that the following day these same hungry and weakened men repeated the experiment of consuming Zamia nuts, this time without any reported ill-effects. Did Grey advise his men only to eat the processed sarcotesta and not the kernel, this second time round? Or was Grey trying to illustrate to his readers how dangerous this exotic food source was to the unsuspecting hungry settler or explorer? One of us wonders if this critical incident actually happened to Grey’s men or was it nothing more than a dramatic device to entertain his readers?

In his journal Grey (1841) quotes from Cook’s Voyage describing the cycad poisoning incident which involved a Cycas species (possibly Cycas media) – the nuts were:

‘…about the size of a large chestnut, but rounder. As the hulls of these were found scattered round the places where the Indians [Aborigines] had made their fires, it was taken for granted that they were fit to eat; however, those who made the experiment paid dear for their knowledge to the contrary, for they operated both as an emetic and cathartic, with great violence…(Grey 1841, Vol 2: 295 quoting from Captain Cook’s first voyage).

It is probable, however, that the poisonous quality of these nuts may lie in the juice, like that of the cassada [cassava] of the West Indies, and that the pulp, when dried, may be not only wholesome but nutritious.’ (Grey 1841, Vol 2: 296 quoting from Captain Cook’s first voyage).

We speculate that the substance of this extract from Captain Cook’s Voyage (originally recorded by Joseph Banks) was to shape Grey’s views on the fundamental reason for the Noongar processing of Macrozamia sarcotesta in southwestern Australia and that soaking and burying the Macrozamia nut was believed to rid the “pulp” of its toxic qualities and that the resulting dryness of the sarcotesta was considered the final hallmark of safety, thereby rendering it “nutritious” and edible.

Grey (1841: 296) categorically states that Macrozamia nuts were buried and

‘in about a fortnight the pulp which encases the nut becomes quite dry, and it is then fit to eat, but if eaten before that it produces the effects already described.’

It is not surprising that Grey adopts the same words “emetic and cathartic” as those used in Captain Cook’s journal to describe the harmful consequences of eating unprocessed pulp. He writes:

‘No article of food used by the natives is more deserving of notice than the by-yu. This name is applied to the pulp of the nut of a species of palm, which, in its natural state, acts as a most violent emetic and cathartic; the natives themselves consider it as a rank poison: they, however, are acquainted with a very artificial method of preparing it, by which it is completely deprived of its noxious qualities, and then becomes an agreeable and nutritious article of food.’

However, Grey (1841: 297) points out that traditional Noongar processing did not diminish the toxins contained in the kernel:

‘The process which these nuts undergo in the hands of the natives has no effect upon the kernel, which still acts both as a strong emetic and cathartic. ’ (Grey 1841: 297)

Noongar names for the Macrozamia kernel

Noongar names recorded by Grey (1840) and Moore (1842) for the Macrozamia kernel include dyundo, wida and gargoin. The etiology of these terms is unclear but we would suggest that d-yundo is a body part metaphor referring to the de-fleshed or “bald” nut (that is, without its edible red covering). Grey (1840: 34) translates dyundo as meaning bald.8

Bussell (n.d.) records buoyer queaja as the name for Zamia nuts. This is possibly another body part metaphor signifying ‘flesh and bone’ (buoyer meaning flesh/fat and queaja/ kweitch, referring to bone). With ageing and weathering the Macrozamia seeds lying around on the white/grey sandy soils of the Swan Coastal plain become bone-coloured as depicted below.

Ethnohistorical descriptions of how and why bayoo fruit was processed

There are numerous accounts of European explorers (e.g. members of Vlamingh’s crew 1697, Lieutenant Commander Milius’s crew 1801 who formed part of the Baudin expedition, Matthew Flinders’ party 1802, Captain Fremantle’s party 1829 and Lieutenant George Grey’s men 1839) all having suffered the ill-effects of cycad nut consumption in southwestern Australia. The accounts are often vague and difficult to interpret, although the nuts were generally found in the vicinity of Aboriginal camp sites, so it was assumed that the local indigenous inhabitants must have eaten them. The chestnut-resembling size and appearance of de-fleshed Macrozamia nuts would have been too great a temptation to the hungry, unsuspecting European explorer. In most cases they were consuming the whole nut (including the kernel) not just the sarcotesta. There was a deeply entrenched colonial belief (promoted by Moore 1835 and Grey 1840, 1841) that the sarcotesta required detoxification through indigenous processing before it was edible. This assumption about ripe Macrozamia sarcotesta being toxic to humans unless having undergone extensive indigenous processing is still held to this day (see Meagher 1974; Smith 1982, 1992, 1999; Bindon 1996:173 and Asmussen 2011, 2012).

In this paper we do not question the toxicity of the de-fleshed Macrozamia seed (or “nut” as it is often called) for this has been scientifically well-established to contain harmful substances in particular cycasin and macrozamin and it is well known that Aboriginal people in Eastern Australia always carefully processed the seeds using methods such as water-leaching, ageing and roasting prior to consuming the starchy kernel or endosperm.

What we question is the view that has been promoted since the early colonial period (e.g. Grey 1840 and Moore 1842) and continues to this day in the archaeological, ethnobotanical and ethnographic literature that Noongar people processed the sarcotesta primarily for detoxification purposes. However, not all the early recorders mention sarcotesta toxicity as the reason for indigenous processing as the following review of the early literature shows.

As early as 1831 George Fletcher Moore writes:

‘The Zamia produces a sort of nut which the natives eat after considerable preparation by steeping in water but without this process it is said to be poisonous….’ (Moore 1831 in Cameron 2006: 14)

A few years later Moore (1835) describes eating some prepared baio after it had been processed:

‘Gigat invited us to eat some “Baio” along with him. The fruit, which is esteemed by them as a great delicacy, is the red skinned nut which is contained in the Fruit cone of the “Zamia.” The fleshy skin, for it scarcely can be called pulp, is the only part which is edible & even this is considered poisonous until it has been steeped so long in water, or buried in the earth, as to arrive at a state approaching decay. The flavor is something like that of medlar, or the taste of old cheese. Some of our party appeared to relish it but afterwards complained of its effects.’ (Moore 14th April 1835 in Schoobert 2005: 424)

We would suggest that Moore’s men were not suffering from cycad seed poisoning but rather their gut microbiome was ill-adapted to digest this rich fatty (and to them) alien food.

Moore’s original spelling of baio (1835) changes to by-yu (1842) in agreement with George Grey’s spelling:

‘by-yu – The fruit of the zamia tree. This in its natural state is poisonous; but the natives, who are very fond of it, deprive it of its injurious qualities by soaking it in water for a few days, and then burying it in sand, where it is left until it is nearly dry, and is then fit to eat. They usually roast it, when it possesses a flavour not unlike a mealy chestnut; it is in full season in the month of May. It is almost the only thing at all approaching to a fruit which the country produces.’ (Moore 1842:24).

Grey (1841) in his description of by-yu emphasises that:

Europeans who are not acquainted with this mode of preparing the nut, the stones of which they find lying about the fireplaces of the natives, are frequently tempted to eat it in its natural state, but they invariably pay a severe penalty for the mistake.’ (Grey 1841: 295)

Salvado (1851 in Stormon 1977: 161) describes the Zamia nut or poio as having “no pulp” and comments:

‘The shell is red, and of fine texture, with no pulp. In order to make them fit for eating, the natives bury the flower [cone] together with the nuts for a certain time a couple of feet deep in the ground. The heat of the earth makes them swell as if to germinate a new plant, and they are then cooked on hot coals to form a substantial food with a pleasant taste.’

Salvado (1851 in Stormon 1977: 213) describes the sarcotesta of Macrozamia fraseri (or what he refers to as Encephalartos spiralis) as becoming “pulpy” after processing:

‘the very thin scarlet shell, which becomes pulpy only when properly treated for eating’ (Salvado 1851 in Stormon 1977: 213).

Our own experiments demonstrated that the sarcotesta increases its pulpiness after processing.

Drummond (1839) refers to the “red-coloured arillus” as a favourite food of the natives.’ He writes:

‘…the fruit of the female palm is like a large pineapple. It contains many nuts about an inch long, covered with a red coloured arillus, which is a favourite food of the natives. To prepare the nuts and arillus for use, they steep them in water or bury them in the earth for some weeks, where they undergo a sort of fermentation and become wholesome food; when eaten without this preparation, they produce violent vomiting and other dangerous symptoms.’ (June 1839, in his Letter to Sir William Jackson Hooker, see p.18)

In 1842 Drummond observed that the large female “Zamia” cones:

‘contain numerous nuts, larger than a chestnut, and when ripe, they are covered with a beautiful red covering generally about two lines thick; this covering is a favourite food of the natives – they call the nuts “boyas.” Before they use the red covering of the nuts as food, they bury them in the ground for several weeks, or steep them in water, which has the same effect in a shorter time; when eaten without that preparation, they cause violent vomiting, and other distressing symptoms. The nuts, when deprived of their red covering, are not used by the natives as food (Drummond 1842 Letter No. 8, 28th September 1842).

Moore (1835), Drummond (1839) and Grey (1841, Vol 2: 296-297) all assume that indigenous processing of the Zamia nut took place to detoxify the pulp:

‘The native women collect the nuts from the palms [Macrozamia] in the month of March, and having placed them in some shallow pool of water, they leave them to soak for several days. When they have ascertained that the by-yu has been immersed in water for a sufficient time, they dig, in a dry sandy place, holes which they call mor-dak; these holes are about the depth that a person’s arms can reach, and one foot in diameter; they line them with rushes, and fill them up with the nuts, over which they sprinkle a little sand, and then cover the holes nicely over with the tops of the grass-tree; in about a fortnight the pulp which encases the nut becomes quite dry, and it is then fit to eat, but if eaten before that it produces the effects already described. The natives eat this pulp both raw [that is, processed but not roasted] and roasted; in the latter state they taste quite as well as a chestnut.’ (Grey 1841, Vol 2: 296)

Moore (1835) refers to the ‘fleshy skin’ as poisonous and Grey (1841: 295) states that the Aborigines themselves considered the pulp of the nut as ‘a rank poison.’ However, when Grey tried to inquire as to their reasons for processing it and the origin of this tradition, he could not get an answer that satisfied him. He states:

‘I have taken some trouble to ascertain if any traditional notion exists amongst the natives, which would in any way account for their having first obtained a knowledge of the means by which they could render the deleterious pulp of the Zamia nut a useful article of food; but in this, as in all other similar instances, they are very unwilling to confess their ignorance of a thing, and rather than do so, will often invent a tradition.’

It would seem that Grey did not understand their cultural explanation for why the by-yu was fermented. We would suspect that their explanation involved mythological metaphor rather than a scientific explanation that Grey was seeking. His view about the pulp being highly toxic and injurious to health may have derived from the experience of his own men and earlier explorer accounts combined with the popular colonial hearsay of the time. Perhaps his indigenous informants were not providing him with the information that he wanted to hear. Could we assume that his informants were providing him with an explanation that did not relate in any way to the extraction of toxins? It would seem that Grey (1841) trivialises what they are telling him, by pointing out to his readers ‘Hence many intelligent persons have raised most absurd theories, and have committed lamentable errors.’ In retrospect does Grey’s comment reflect on his own assumptions? We think that Grey’s informants may have been trying to explain to him that by-yu fermentation improved its taste and food value.

Bunbury (1836) and Backhouse (1843) do not mention toxicity at all in their accounts of bayoo processing

We find it surprising that Bunbury (1836) and Backhouse (1843) who would have been well-acquainted with the colonial comment of the time about the toxicity of this indigenous food without proper processing, do not mention detoxification as a reason for processing the sarcotesta prior to its ingestion.

Bunbury (1836) compares the two methods of indigenous processing and states:

‘The quickest method of ripening the Bayoo nuts is to bury them in a hole of water at the edge of a swamp or river when they become fit to eat in a few days but in this way they acquire a very strong bad smell & unpleasant taste, so I recommend all who are willing to wait a month for such delicacies, to bury them in the dry ground rather than in water.’ (Bunbury 1836 in Cameron and Barnes 2014:136)

Backhouse (1843) does not mention detoxification as a reason for processing Macrozamia sarcotesta but states with reference to the Perth area that:

‘…the Natives bury, or macerate, the nuts, till the rinds become half decomposed, in which state they eat the rind, rejecting the kernel; but in N.S.W., they pound and macerate the kernels, and then roast and eat, the rough paste.’ (1843:542).

Is Macrozamia sarcotesta toxic?

There are contradictions in the literature regarding the question of whether the sarcotesta of Macrozamia is toxic or not.9 Ladd (1993) in a one-off obscure study states that the sarcotesta of Macrozamia riedlei is ten times more toxic than the endosperm – a view that totally contradicts a 1938 study by the WA Government Chemical laboratories which showed the endosperm or kernel of Macrozamia fraseri to be highly toxic but the sarcotesta to be non-toxic.

We have long been confounded by Ladd’s (1993) results which not only contradict the WA Government Chemical laboratory findings but also defy cultural logic. Why would Noongar people eat the sarcotesta if it was so highly toxic and then discard the starchy kernel which according to Ladd’s study is less toxic? Asmussen (2011) seems to have accepted Ladd’s findings without question and formulates her discussion of Noongar processing on this premise. In doing this she further endorses the idea promoted by the early colonial writers, such as Grey (1840) and Moore (1842), that the sarcotesta of Macrozamia was processed by Noongar people for detoxification purposes. Asmussen states with reference to Ladd’s study:

‘Ladd et al.’s (1993: 39) research on the poisonous macrozamin content of a range of cycad species indicates that the Noongar people utilized the most toxic part of M. riedlei seeds, and discarded the least toxic part. The sarcotesta of M. riedlei contains a relatively high amount of macrozamin at 3.88% of fresh weight, comparable to that found in the kernels of M. miquelii and M. moorei (F. Muell)….’ (Asmussen 2011: 153).

Asmussen (2011) asks the same question that we have long puzzled over and asked ourselves, ever since reading Ladd’s study results:’

‘Why detoxify and consume the sarcotesta, which is the most toxic part of the resource?’ (Asmussen 2011:153)

If indeed the sarcotesta of Macrozamia reidlei is ten times more toxic than the endosperm, why has the ChemCentre WA not updated their records?

The ChemCentre was not aware of Macrozamia sarcotesta being toxic when we first asked them about it in 2008. In our own privately funded experiments we fed two white rats a diet of raw Macrozamia sarcotesta mixed with banana over a ten day period. Our results, like those of the Government Chemical Laboratories in 1938 which tested raw sarcotesta on guinea pigs, showed no adverse results. If anything our white rats thrived on this diet and looked very healthy. See our paper detailing the results of tests conducted by the Chem Centre WA on the nutritional value of the sarcotesta before and processing here .

This is the first time that processed Macrozamia sarcotesta has been chemically tested for its food value. Previous testing of Macrozamia sarcotesta that was carried out in 1938 and 1939 by the Chemical Branch of the Mines Department assessed the food value of unprocessed sarcotesta. These tests determined that only the seeds were poisonous.

Cycad seed sarcotesta toxicity has been much debated in the literature.10 A compelling study by Hall and Walter (2014) which chemically tested the sarcotesta of Macrozamia miquelii from Eastern Australia found it to be non-toxic. They found no cycasin present in the “brightly coloured fleshy “fruit” of sarcotesta” and they proposed that the non-toxic Macrozamia sarcotesta was probably an ancient adaptation that served as ‘a reward for cycad seed dispersal fauna’ (2014: 860).

We believe that the bright red sarcotesta of Macrozamia fruit from southwestern Australia when ripe is also non-toxic and similarly functions as a “reward” for bird and animal seed dispersers. Why would a plant poison its own seed dispersal agents on which it relies for survival?

Hall and Walter (2013) write:

Globally, cycads are characterized by large, heavy seeds with an outermost fleshy layer (the sarcotesta) that on ripening develops vibrant colors…. Cycad seeds contain unique toxic compounds such as cycasin and macrozamin … However, the sarcotesta layer appears to be free of these poisonous compounds (Hall, 2011).’ (Walter and Hall 2013: 1127)

Hall and Walter’s (2014) further analysis of the ripe sarcotesta of cycads from Eastern Australia, including Macrozamia miquelii, showed that

“There is Toxic Cycasin in the Seeds of Cycads, but Not Their Sarcotesta “Fruit” ‘(Hall and Walter 2014: 862)

This is consistent with the findings of the Chemical Branch of the Mines Department (1938-1939) which, as already noted above, found that only the seeds of Macrozamia fraseri were poisonous.

Burbidge and Whelan (1982: 66) from animal studies and personal communication with J.R. Cannon support the idea that the sarcotesta of Macrozamia riedlei is non-toxic. They note that:

‘In Macrozamia seeds, the poison is confined to inside the stony layer (J. R. Cannon, pers. comm.)

Ripeness of the bayoo fruit

It is our contention that the sarcotesta of Macrozamia species from southwestern Australian (M. fraseri, M. reidlei and M. dyeri) is non-toxic at the time of full physiological ripeness when the seeds are bright red coloured, dehiscing from the female cone and releasing a distinctive odour. Prior to this stage it is highly possible that the unripe sarcotesta contains toxins as part of the seed’s chemical armoury against herbivore predators, pests and pathogens. When the cone starts to disintegrate and the seeds are exposed to natural elements of the external environment, such as sunlight (and possibly other factors such as moisture and humidity) we maintain that any toxins, if present, are reduced or eliminated. From our own observations sunlight appears to be an essential ingredient in the ripening process.

We cannot emphasise enough the importance of physiological ripeness when it comes to harvesting Noongar plant foods, most especially the bayoo. During the Macrozamia seeding season Noongar people were constantly aware of the different birds and animals that were drawn into the ecological food chain of predation on the ripening fruit. These were viewed as indicators that the fruit was ripe and ready for collecting and processing. The traditional Noongar could easily locate patches of ripening bayoo from a distance by the sight of hovering or circling birds of prey, such as the brown hawk (kargyne) or whistling kite (jandoo). These iconic avian predators were attracted to a rich food chain of smaller birds, reptiles, insects and marsupials that were magnetically attracted to the ripe Macrozamia fruit by its odour and bright red colour. Humans too were part of this complex food chain.

We are writing a paper soon to be uploaded to this website on the use by Noongar people of birds and animals as ecological indicators of Macrozamia fruit ripeness – signifying the readiness of this important seasonal resource for human harvest and processing.

Archaeological Evidence of Macrozamia pits

The earliest archaeological evidence of indigenous Macrozamia seed sarcotesta pit processing in Australia derives from southwestern Australia where Smith (1982) located ancient Macrozamia kernels in association with Xanthorrhoea leaf bases in a shallow 20cm deep pit that she suggests may have been used for water-leaching or fermentation purposes. This ancient evidence of Macrozamia pit processing at Cheetup Rockshelter in the Esperance region which dates back approximately 13,000 years BP during the late Pleistocene (Smith 1982, 1996, 1999) predates by about 9000 years the earliest archaeological records for cycad seed processing in Northern and Eastern Australia.10

Fermentation or leaching of Macrozamia fruit may have occurred within a shallow lined pit; however, based on our own reconstructive processing experiments, we found that shallow pits attracted predation from insects (such as weevils) and domestic rats. We would suggest that the deeper pits – about an “arm’s length” depth as recorded by Grey (1840, 1841) – would have afforded a number of advantages including a constant anaerobic and thermogenic environment for fermentation to occur as well as affording protection against insect and small burrowing-animal predation. We would suggest that when Grey (1840, 1841) records the depth (mordak) as an “arm’s length,” he is referring to a woman’s arm length (possibly about 50-60cm) for women were responsible for digging using their wannas. Depth of pit was important to protect the fermenting fruit from human and non-human predators. The soil digging habits of the kwenda (short nosed bandicoot) – which according to some Elders we consulted is a sarcotesta eater – may explain why fermentation pits were deep – to prevent the valuable stores of fat-rich food from being raided by digging marsupials.

Ownership rights over by-yu fruit

We are told that Grey’s indigenous guide Kaiber discovered four “holes” of stored Zamia nuts known as by-yu and that he came to request ‘permission’ from Grey ‘to steal them’ (1841, Vol 2: 64). Grey translates Kaiber’s comments as follows:

’14th April – If we take all, this people will be angered greatly; they will say, ‘What thief has stolen here: track his footsteps, spear him through the heart; wherefore has he stolen our hidden food?’ But is we take what is buried in one hole, they will say – ‘Hungry people have been here; they were very empty, and now their bellies are full; they may be sorcerers; now they will not eat us as we sleep’ (Grey 1841, Vol 2: 64-65).

‘Good- it is good Kaiber,” I replied; “come with me, and we will rob one hole;” and accordingly we went and took the contents of one, leaving three others undisturbed. I brought back these nuts to the men, and we shared them amongst us.’ (Grey 1841, Vol 2: 65).

Grey (1840: 48), referring to the King George Sound area, records gwin-een as ‘the common stock of food.’

The name quinene or quinine was first recorded for this food in 1830 by Captain Collet Barker who was told by his Aboriginal guide and informant Mokare that:

‘the provision of Quinene is made by everyone, but is often stolen. Generally speaking the owners are not sulky at this, it not being considered so sacred a property as Spears, Kangaroo, Wallabi,etc, or even grass trees, but he recollects hearing of one man speared on account of it.’

Bunbury (1836 in Cameron 2014:136), when exploring the Perth to Pinjarra region, refers to the bayoo:

‘The Zamia plants are considered private property by the natives who do not consider it right to gather Bayoo belonging to others, though they do not scruple to catch and eat any animals, birds or reptiles, they may meet with in their passage through the lands or buggia [i.e. boodjor, land, country] of other tribes. ‘

What Bunbury did not realise when making these statements was that he was demonstrating the difference between certain carefully managed bio-cultural resources (such as the Zamia, grass tree, kangaroo and wallabi) whereas the others were a composite of common property.

The quinine trade

Ethel Hassell, who was recording her observations of Aboriginal culture in the 1880’s at Jerramongup, refers to the trading of processed Macrozamia sarcotesta known as quinine from the coast to inland areas where the Macrozamia did not grow. She gives little detail on the trading relationship that took place, other than a description of how the quinine was prepared. She comments that:

‘For trading, the natives take the stone out, which are never eaten, as they retain the poison, and string the fruit on rushes. They never lose their red colour or shiny look, and keep good for quite a long time (Hassell 1974: 25).

Stringing the fruit on rushes would have facilitated portability, preservation and storage of this much coveted food. With our own reconstructive experiments we found that the processed and preserved sarcotesta fruit retained its colour, odour and most of its food value after being kept for 12 months in a dry, airtight environment (see photo below). Tests conducted by the ChemCentre WA verified its high food value after 12 months. See forthcoming paper soon to be uploaded to this website.

It is a pity that Hassell does not provide any further details on this unique trade and we wonder if it only occurred in the southern region? Also, what did the inland Wheelman people provide in exchange for this relished comestible from the coast? What were the trading relationships between these groups and how was this surplus of Macrozamia sarcotesta obtained? Was there some form of active cultivation taking place? Did this preserved oily fruit have a ritual value?

The taste of processed bayoo

We could find no agreement in the ethnohistorical literature on the taste of the fermented sarcotesta of Macrozamia. Whether this was due to a reluctance to taste it for fear of its toxicity or its unfamiliar and unappetising appeal to the Western palate is unclear. In 1835 Moore describes the flavour as:

‘something like that of medlar, or the taste of old cheese. Some of our party appeared to relish it but afterwards complained of its effects.’ (Moore 1835 in Schoobert 2005: 424)

At a later date Moore (1842: 23-24) describes the taste after being roasted as having ‘a flavour not unlike a mealy chestnut.’ This somewhat mirrors Grey’s description in his exploration journal (1841, Vol.2: 296) a year earlier where he comments that it tastes after roasting ‘quite as well as a chestnut.’ (Grey 1841, Vol 2: 296).

Bunbury (1836: 136) does not comment on taste, except to point out that the underground fermented bayoo have a much better taste than those soaked in water for only ‘a few days’ for the latter ‘acquire a very strong bad smell & unpleasant taste.’

Salvado (1851 in Stormon 1977: 161) describes poio as “pleasant” tasting:

‘…they are then cooked on hot coals to form a substantial food with a pleasant taste.’

Drummond (1862: 28), on the other hand, states:

‘To me it was disgusting, the taste being rancid, and resembling train oil’

Hammond (1933:28) describes boyoo after soaking in salt water as resembling ‘a tomato in colour and taste.’

Hassell (1975: 25) describes the taste and texture of quinine after being buried for a prolonged period as

‘soft and resembles a date but tastes very like an olive.’

Lyon (1833 in Green 1979: 168) describes a tasty treat in the form of a zamia fruit and frog cake. He states:

‘When the men return to the camp at night they are presented each with a cake by the women, apparently made of the fruit of the zamia and the flesh of frogs.‘

We suspect this cake was an oily mixture of the treated fruit of zamia squeezed together using the tips of the fingers with cooked frog meat.

The processed sarcotesta was either eaten raw or roasted. However, based on our own experience one has to be careful when cooking the sarcotesta not to lose the valuable oil. When one of us (Ken Macintyre) tasted processed (but unroasted) sarcotesta, he said:

It was a very rich and oily taste experience. It had the aroma of over-ripe Macrozamia fruit and the oily taste coated my palate after swallowing. It was not unlike my first experience tasting olive oil. To the Western palate Macrozamia sarcotesta would in my opinion be an acquired taste.’ (Ken Macintyre 2011).

Roasted Macrozamia sarcotesta

“Oiliness’ best describes the taste and texture of treated Macrozamia sarcotesta (Macintyre 2011)

In an early experiment in 2008 we prepared the sarcotesta, after it had been soaked and buried, by cutting it into strips and cooking it for about seven minutes on a hot barbecue plate. The sarcotesta sizzled and released a considerable quantity of oil. The taste and texture of cooked sarcotesta was difficult to describe.

It had a mild salty/sweetish taste somewhat resembling rice bran oil. I found it difficult to compare to any other food item that I was familiar with’ (Macintyre 2011).

We imagine that the early recorders may have encountered similar difficulties in describing this unfamiliar taste experience. Culturally novel taste sensations of fat-rich sarcotesta may possibly be explained by a newly discovered taste – a sixth basic taste – known as the “fat taste” or “oleogustus” (Latin, oleo, oily or fatty +gustus, taste). This new taste was recently identified by a team of American scientists in 2015 ‘to refer specifically to the chemistry of taste rather than a textural connotation’ (Running et al 2015: 515). Could “oleogustus” convey the range of gustatory sensations associated with processed Macrozamia sarcotesta?

Foods rich in fat will often absorb pungent esters during the fermentation process which add to their flavour and attractiveness to the human palate, like in the case of a matured stilton cheese. We would suggest that fermented bayoo underwent a similar transformation and that its resultant taste was culturally relished and sought-after as well as being highly nutritious.

Grey (1840:16) refers to April and May as ‘the season for eating by-yu’ or “By-yu ngannoween.” Moore (1842) records the name of the April-May season as geran (nowadays know as “jeran”). This term translates as “fat” (jerang, jerrung, cherung) and corresponds to the time of the year around autumn when it was mandatory for Noongar people to build up their reserves of sub-cutaneous body fat to ensure their survival through the long cold dark wet lean season of makuru (known as mokkar or makur in the Albany region). A wide range of fat-rich foods were consumed at this time including bardi, kuya (frog), yakkan (turtle), kalda (mullet) and salmon.

Summary

It is not uncommon throughout the world for indigenous peoples to process and preserve food in different ways through soaking, salting, drying and fermenting to enhance the taste, texture and nutrient value of the food. Archaeological evidence suggests that the Noongar people of southwestern Australia practised a unique method of pit fermentation that increased the nutrient value of cycad sarcotesta at least 13,000 years ago during the late Pleistocene. This would have to be one of the earliest methods of food fermentation recorded in the world. The Noongar are the only documented group in Australia to have consumed Macrozamia sarcotesta after processing through anaerobic fermentation. In this paper we have questioned the observations and assumptions of Grey (1839), Moore (1842) and Drummond (1842) that the sarcotesta of Macrozamia seed was processed primarily to rid it of its toxic properties.

Grey’s (1842) wordlists and his often-quoted exploration journals profoundly influenced colonial hearsay and even to this day continue to provide a pivotal reference for researchers wishing to gain insights into aspects of traditional Noongar culture. However, we challenge his theory that the by-yu or Macrozamia ‘pulp” (thin fleshy outer layer) was processed by indigenous people primarily for the purpose of detoxification. Instead we argue that the ripe sarcotesta was processed to improve the taste, nutritional content and to facilitate its removal from the seed which was discarded. Soaking and/or anaerobic fermentation may have also played a part in extending the seasonal shelf life of the fruit which in some parts of the country was used as an article of trade.

Throughout this paper we have been frustrated by the lack of scientific analysis and/or updated records at the ChemCentre WA and relevant government departments concerning the question of the toxicity of the sarcotesta of local species of Macrozamia. As far as we are aware there have been no studies conducted since the Government Chemical Laboratory findings in 1938-1939 which determined the sarcotesta of Macrozamia fraseri to be non-toxic. There has only been one little-known study by Ladd et al (1993) which contradicts the earlier findings of the WA Government Chemical Laboratory. Ladd’s paper which highlights the toxicity of Macrozamia sarcotesta was prepared as a conference paper and to our knowledge has not been followed up with any replicative studies or further publications which consolidate his initial findings. We do not understand why such a supposedly dangerous and toxic neuro-chemical such as macrozamin has not been thoroughly studied in the sarcotesta of the commonly occurring fruit/seed of local species of Macrozamia found in our urban parklands and bushlands.

We would strongly recommend that further research and chemical analysis be carried out using ripe sarcotesta of local Macrozamia to establish once and for all whether this red outer layer of the seed when fully ripe is harmful to humans.

We caution readers not to experiment with consuming any part of the Macrozamia seed or sarcotesta for safety purposes. The seed is well known to contain toxins while the toxicity of the sarcotesta when fully ripe is yet to be definitively assessed.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

We would like to acknowledge and thank all the Noongar Elders who have assisted us over the years by providing anecdotal and cultural information on the history, preparation and usage of their traditional foods and medicines.

Our interpretations of the ethnohistorical sources may be inconsistent with the views of some contemporary Noongar people.

ANNOTATIONS

1. We are not questioning here the toxicity of the Macrozamiaseed kernel for this has been well-established in the scientific literature. Noongar people did not eat the kernel even after processing. The kernel is well- known to contain harmful substances, especially macrozamin a toxic glycoside (or MAM glycoside) first isolated from the kernel of Macrozamia spiralis in 1940 and from the kernel of M. riedlei by Lythgoe and Riggs in 1949. It is historically well-established that Macrozamia seeds and leaves contain toxins harmful to cattle and sheep causing “zamia staggers” or “wobbles” (that is, partial paralysis of their hind legs) together with other debilitating symptoms. It is for this reason that Macrozamia plants were extensively “grubbed out” (removed) by pastoralists and farmers to avoid damage to their livestock.

Our question is whether the sarcotesta when fully ripe is toxic or not? If it is chemically analysed and found not to contain toxins, nhen we can conclude that Noongar processing was NOT for detoxification purposes, despite the common view in the literature that it was processed to remove toxins to make it edible. It is our view that the sarcotesta was probably not toxic at the time of indigenous harvest when the seed was fully ripe, when it was emitting a distinctive odour and starting to be dispersed by animal and bird seed vectors. It is our argument in this paper that traditional sarcotesta processing and preparation was to improve its palatability, nutritional value, pulpiness and digestibility as well as providing an effective means of hidden storage and repository of a valued food away from predators.

2. Aboriginal groups in Eastern Australia detoxified the kernel using a variety of means including ageing, water-leaching and roasting but did not use anaerobic pit fermentation.

3. It is probable that unripe Macrozamia sarcotesta may contain toxins as part of the seed’s chemical defence against predators, pests and pathogens.

4. Botanist and naturalist Baron Charles von Huegel first set foot on the sandy soil at the mouth of the Swan River on 27thNovember 1833. He had arrived in the colony aboard the British naval frigate, the Alligator, which was anchored offshore Fremantle 27th Nov until 19th December when it set sail to King George Sound.

5. According to Osborne (2012)

‘Seeds of a local cycad (M. fraseri or M. reidlei) were taken back to Holland and presented to the mayor of Amsterdam, Nicolaas Witsen, but their subsequent fate is unknown (Forster 2004, Osborne 2006).’

6. It is unclear why Brown did not experience any adverse effects from eating such a large number of nuts, supposedly these were aged ones (10-11 months) which had lost much of their toxicity. Could it have been Brown’s daily heavy consumption of alcohol, a pint (568 mls) of port or ‘cherry’ whisky every night that protected him or was he simply exaggerating and boasting the number of nuts that he was able to eat without ill effect, perhaps to impress how strong his constitution was and how weak those of his men who ate fewer nuts than he? Perhaps he didn’t eat as many nuts as he said he did, if he ate any at all.

It is interesting how in these early zamia poisoning accounts the leaders of the expeditions are rarely reported as getting sick (e.g. Vlamingh, Robert Brown and Grey). Accounts of cycad poisoning, including those reported by Vlamingh’s officers (1697), the French Lieutenant Commander Milius’s party at the Swan River in June 1802, and Captain Fremantle at the Swan River in 1829, and Robert Brown 1802 in the Esperance region and Lt. Grey 1839 during an expedition north of Perth involving Macrozamia “nut” consumption generally all portrayed the expedition leaders as being intelligent men who showed a greater awareness and vigilance, and in the case of Brown’s experience a stronger bodily constitution than their weaker underlings who succumbed to often violent and debilitating ill-consequences after consumed the toxic nuts. Robert Brown who accompanied Flinders to the south coast of Western Australia was probably observing M. dyeri (or possibly M. riedlei). He refers to it as Zamia Spiralis based on its resemblance to Zamia spiralis (now called Macrozamia spiralis) found only in Eastern Australia.

According to Charles Moore (1883: 115)

‘In Robert Brown’s Prodromius, one of the first and best works so far as it went on the plants of Australia, only one species is described, and that under the name of Zamia spiralis, giving as habitats for this plant the very distant places of Sydney and King George’s Sound in Western Australia.’

Charles Moore (1883: 115) further points out:

‘It is not at all surprising that these plants found growing so far apart should have been considered to be identical, as both are very similar in every respect, but they are now regarded as perfectly distinct species, the western plant being named Macrozamia Fraseri, Miq., and our eastern or Sydney plant is still called by the original specific designation of spiralis, an absurd specific name it must be confessed now that the remarkably spiral characteristics of other species have become so well known.’

7. It is interesting to note that Robert Brown who had been reading Joseph Banks’ account of Cook’s Voyage and who describes the cycad poisoning of Cook’s men (and hogs) was responsible for naming Cycas media – the very cycad believed to be responsible for poisoning Cook’s hungry men in 1770. Parker (2002: 18-20) states that Cycas media was named by Robert Brown from specimens collected on Calder Island, off Mackay, Queensland.

8. Grey 1840: 34 translates d-yundo as meaning bald, e.g. bald head, dyundo kattige).

9. Spencer (1990: 17) referring to cycads (Cycas) has stated that

‘…the fleshy seed cover is said to lack poisonous properties…’

Others have disputed this view stating that the toxins are most highly concentrated in the outermost layers of the cycad seed.

Some studies of Macrozamia sarcotesta toxicity mention using “fresh” seeds (e.g. Ladd et al 1993). However, whether these seeds were also “fully ripe” and ready for bird and animal dispersal is unclear. Contextual details regarding stage of seed maturity/ripeness, genus or species identification, fire history, geographic locality, soil chemistry or other potentially relevant variables which may help to explain study findings of sarcotesta toxicity – or absence of toxicity – are not always provided.

We would recommend that if future scientific testing of Macrozamia seed sarcotesta takes place to determine conclusively whether it is toxic or not, that these tests take place when the seed is fully ripened – the sarcotesta is bright red, emitting a distinctive odour –when the seeds are dehiscing from the cone ready for bird and animal seed dispersal. If such tests determine the sarcotesta to be toxic, it may then be useful to replicate traditional reconstructive processing to determine whether any residual toxicity remains after processing and it is important that Noongar people be involved.

The Noongar people are the only Aboriginal group in Australia who prepared and consumed processed Macrozamia sarcotesta.

There are documented examples of populations in other parts of the world such as Guam, Mexico, Africa, Madagascar and southern Japan eating the sarcotesta of cycads (e.g. Cycas, Encephalartos and Dioon) but none of these involved anaerobic pit processing which is unique to the traditional Noongar people of southwestern Australia. Harvey (1945: 191) provides the only reference that we could find to an Australian Aboriginal group (the Karawa tribes of the Borroloola district of the Northern Territory) eating the raw husk (sarcotesta) of a cycad nut after drying in the sun. She describes the nut of Cycas media as ’about the size of a quandong, with a husk which is edible raw, and is a good food.’*

And yet this appears to be the same Cycas species that was responsible for the violent sickness which afflicted Captain Cook’s men and killed two of their hogs when the hulls which were found lying around Aboriginal camps in the vicinity of the Endeavour River, north Queensland were consumed. The men had assumed them to be edible but suffered dire consequences. Cycas, however, is a different genus of cycad to Macrozamia.

10. The earliest archaeological records for cycad seed processing in Northern and Eastern Australia date back only to the recent Holocene period, approximately 4,300 years BP (Beaton 1982; Beck 1992).

BIBILOGRAPHY

Abbott, I. 1983 Aboriginal names for plant species in south-western Australia.Forests Department of Western Australia.Technical paper No. 5.

Akbar. E.; Yaakob, Z.;’ Kamarudin, S.K; Ismail, M. and J. Salimon 2009 ‘Characteristic and composition of Jatropha Curas Oil seed from Malaysia and its potential as biodiesel feedstock,’ European Journal of Scientific Research, vol. 29, no. 3, pp. 396-403.

Annual Report of the Chemical Branch, Mines Department, for the year 1938

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The Science of the Dark and Light Seasons in Nyungar Culture

Wed, 23 Aug 2023 12:19:18 GMT

The Science of Dark and Light Seasons in Nyungar Culture

By Ken Macintyre and Barb Dobson, Research anthropologists and Iva Hayward-Jackson, Nyungar heritage consultant and Land & Culture Protector

‘Qua, bir-ok, mag-goro warh-rang.’ ‘Yes, three years (summers and winters).’

(Symmons 1841: xiii)

Charles Symmons (1841) who was the “Protector of Aborigines” and reasonably fluent in the Nyungar language provides the earliest linguistic reference to the annual cycle of Nyungar seasonality. He quotes his Nyungar informant verbatim saying “birok, mag-goro” to represent a year. Literally “qua, bir-ok, mag-goro warh-rang” translates as “yes, summer, winter, three” meaning “three years.”

Captain George Grey (1840:76) in his Vocabulary of the Dialects of South Western Australia records his informant’s verbatim description of “berok” (the summer season) as ‘Ngan-ga-mor-doo-een’ meaning “the sun is powerful” (1840:10) and “maggoro” (winter) as ‘Ngan-ga-nu-map’ meaning ‘the sun is not powerful’ (1840: 76). Literally these idioms which describe nganga, the sun, as mordooeen, “strong” or numap, “little” (diminished) suggest that the Sun’s strength and luminosity (and possibly photoperiod) ultimately structured the Nyungar calendar, dividing it into two overarching seasons of light and darkness, not dissimilar to the natural cycles of day and night but extending over an annual cycle or year.

Throughout the year changing levels of light, heat, humidity and rainfall influenced animal, bird, plant and fish breeding cycles and behaviour which in turn regulated the seasonal availability of foods on which Nyungar people depended for survival. The two primary seasons of berok and maggoro are universally represented in the indigenous calendars of southwestern Australia, including at Perth, Albany and New Norcia/ Victoria Plains. It would seem that sunlight and its intensity also defined the seasons of summer and winter in Aboriginal Victoria and possibly other parts of temperate south-eastern Australia. 1

In southwestern Australia maggoro (also spelt magguru, makuru, macore, mocor, mawkur, mokkar, moker) is the season of rain, low light, cold, short days and long nights (winter) whereas berok (or beruc, birok, birak, pirak, piroc) represents the season of bright light, hot, dry and long days (summer). These seasons are assigned different durations, depending on the European recorder. Grey (1840) records maggoro as June, July and August whereas George Fletcher-Moore (1842) records it as only two months – June and July. Collie (1834) records the season of “mokkar” at Albany as extending from late May to July whereas Barker (1830) records “moker” as late April to August. Each recorder has a different interpretation of seasonal duration. This is not surprising given the complexity of traditional Nyungar seasonal reckoning.

There are many variant spellings of the term maggoro, including makuru or mawkuru in the Perth and Swan Coastal Plains area; or macore, mocor or macora in the Victoria Plains/ New Norcia region (Salvado 1851) and mawkur, mokkar, moker in the Albany region (Barker 1830, Nind 1831 and Collie 1834). The name derives from the Nyungar term moko which Symmonds (1841) translates as meaning “rain” or Lyon (1833) “water.” It refers to the rainy season when there is little or low light.

The Nyungar also traditionally recognised other seasons, sub-seasons and “named periods” of the year. These include meerteluc, pourner, minongal and mondianong as recorded at Albany (Barker 1830, Nind 1831 and Collie 1834) and bourner, geran, wanyarung, dulbar, jilba, manga and kumbarang recorded in the Perth region and other parts of southwestern Australia. Some of these seasons or named periods (depending on how “season” is defined) may indicate localised phenological events such as bird nesting (manga or maungernan),2 frog mating, salmon spawning (meerteluc, Albany), emu nesting (season of mokkar) or instructional descriptors, such as jeran which signified time to put on condition (fat) to ensure survival through the long cold wet season when food resources were less plentiful or less easily accessed due to inclement weather. Annually recurring bird, plant, animal and fish breeding phenological cycles – and their ceremonial renewal and maintenance – largely determined traditional Nyungar seasonal economic, ceremonial, social and cultural activities.

The named period of kumbarang (mid to late spring) probably derives its meaning from kumbar (also spelt gumbar, goombar, cumbar) meaning “big” referring to the big gatherings that were traditionally held at this time of year when large groups of Nyungar people from different districts congregated together for social, ceremonial and cultural purposes.

It is possible that the season of dulbar which Grey (1840:33) records as ‘the season of April and May’ was an instructional descriptor indicating the time to build waterproof huts in readiness for the wet season. Grey (1840) translates his Nyungar informant’s statement Dul-bar mya warrow-een as ‘we make huts in Dulbar.’ He states that dulbar ‘follows the season of Boor-noo-ro, and is followed by that of Mag-go-ro.’ Moore (1842: 24) records dulbar as the “Season of bad or wet weather” and although he notes that it was the time for building huts, he does not attribute a time period to this season, nor does he include it in his six season calendar (Moore 1842: 10). Whether this was an oversight on his part or because he already had two names for this time of year (namely geran and wanyarang) he may not have wished to confuse his readers or himself with having three names for the same season.

The number of seasons in the Nyungar calendar varies according to European recorder. For example, at Albany six seasons are recorded by Nind (1831); five seasons by George Fletcher Moore (1833); four seasons by Collie (1834) and a number of seasons and ‘part’-seasons or ‘little’ seasons and sub-seasonal cycles by Barker (1830) who showed a remarkable interest in trying to understand how Nyungar people themselves demarcated their seasons. His raw and unedited ethnographic materials include verbatim quotes from Mokare all of which highlight the dark and light cycles of moon phases, astronomical formations and natural phenomena in determining seasonality (Barker 1830 in Mulvaney & Green 1992).

Salvado (1851 in Storman 1982: 131) also noted that Nyungar people living in the New Norcia region to the north of Perth used the appearance of prominent stars and constellations as indicating the approach of certain seasons, such as “…when the Pleiades appear on the horizon at the break of dawn, this is a sign that the season they call cielba (‘the grass season’) is drawing near.’ In a cyclical sense cielba or jilba which corresponds to early spring also represents the beginning of the light season (dawn).

Salvado (1851 in Stormon 1976: 131) who was aware of George Fletcher Moore’s (1842) six season interpretation comments further that ‘…some natives divide the year into six different seasons; but many others divide it into four.’ These four seasons are mocor, cielba, piroc, ponar.

The traditional Nyungar calendar may be viewed as solar-lunar in that the sun’s strength and luminosity naturally divides the year into dark and light seasons, and the light and dark lunar phases (e.g. full moon, dark moon) together with the observed appearance and positioning of culturally-recognised dark and light constellations, alone or in combination with other natural indicators, were used to map the beginning, peak and end of certain seasons. The fleeting ethnographic detail collected by Grey (1840) from his Nyungar informants confirms the importance of light and heat or sunlight intensity in reckoning the two main seasons while Barker’s (1830) work recognises the importance of lunar phases and astronomical formations, such as the dark emu, in structuring indigenous seasonality as told to him by Mokare.

The precise timing of the seasons would have varied from region to region depending on climatic and meteorological patterns and events which in turn influenced the local plant, fish, bird and animal breeding cycles and behaviour which in turn ordered human economic, social and ceremonial activities. Throughout southwestern Australia the seasonal calendars were localised, pragmatic, precise and empirically grounded in scientific and cultural information that had been gathered and passed down through the generations over many thousands of years. The accuracy of determining seasonality on a regional basis was vital to the survival of Nyungar people.

Astronomical Indicators

Different astronomical indicators were used to reckon time and seasonality in ancient Nyungar culture. The beginning of the “light” season (around late August/ September) was indicated by the appearance of the Pleaides (Seven Sisters) constellation which, as noted by Salvado (1851 in Stormon 1982: 131) signified to Nyungar people the arrival of cielba. Dark constellations were also recognised. The appearance of the dark emu in the sky symbolised the commencement of the “dark” rainy season of mokkar. The astronomical emu (or ‘emu in the sky’ as it is commonly known) is well recognised by Aboriginal groups throughout Australia, not just the Nyungar. However, the Aboriginal significance of this dark constellation was first recorded among the Nyungar by Barker in 1830 whose work provides the earliest ethnographic reference in Australia to the constellation’s cultural significance in relation to measuring or mapping indigenous seasonality.

On 22 April 1830 Barker was informed by his Aboriginal informant Mokare at Albany that the season of Moker had just begun:

‘[Mokare] Told me this evening that Moker had commenced, which he knew by the situation of the Black Magellanic cloud near the cross (Whitepepoy).* They have some story which I could not clearly make out, of its being an Emu & laying eggs.’

(Barker 1830 in Mulvaney and Green 1992: 284).

It would seem that what Mokare was trying to communicate to Barker was the presence of a dark silhouette in the shape of an emu in the night sky and the story associated with it. However, owing to language and cross-cultural communication difficulties it was difficult for Barker to understand the details and meaning of the story he was being told about “an Emu & laying eggs.”

The dark constellation of the celestial emu is most clearly visible on dark cloudless nights when there is little or no moon. Our historical archival research on lunar phases confirms that on the evening of 22 April 1830 when Mokare pointed out the dark emu constellation to Barker, informing him that it announced the commencement of moker, it was in fact a dark or new moon. On a moonless night the dark emu silhouette would have been easily recognisable, if one knew what one was supposed to be looking at.3

The nesting posture of the sky emu and its seasonal timing uncannily parallels the phenological breeding cycle of this tall, flightless, totemically significant bird on land. The synchronicity that this demonstrates between the earth-world and sky-world is indeed remarkable. The celestial emu or waitch in the sky not only announces the onset of the rainy season in southwestern Australia but also signifies the traditional time for hunting emu when the bird is in peak fat condition and an easy target for the spear as it sits motionless on the nest for a two month period incubating the eggs. Emu eggs were, and still are, a highly favoured nutritional source (one emu egg is said to be equivalent in volume to a dozen or more chicken eggs).

Little (or Partial) Seasons

Another aspect of indigenous seasonality that appears to have confused Barker was the recognition of partial seasons. For example, Mokare told him on the night of April 22nd that: “It is now partly ‘Prughen’ and partly ‘Moker.” Will be completely ‘Moker’ at the full moon.” (Barker in Mulvaney and Green 1992: 284).4

How could Barker have been expected to understand that the Nyungar seasons were overlapping and not sharply mutually exclusive as in the Western model where the four seasons were mathematically defined, clearly divided and mutually exclusive. The Nyungar seasons were intricately attuned to climatic fluctuations and animal, plant and bird reproductive phenological variability and they allowed for the co-existence of two seasons at the same time. For example, on 12th March 1830 “Mokare had said today it was now Pruhner. The Frogs (Cyrye) were heard. It was still however ‘Metelok little.’ (Barker 1830 in Mulvaney and Green 1992: 274)

On 1st August 1830 Barker asked Mokare what season they were in. He replied:

‘Now little Minongol, little Moker. Minongal lasts about 2 1/2 months.’ (Mulvaney and Green 1992: 321).

Barker’s (1830) minongal is the same as Nind’s (1831) meerningal or Collie’s mainungull or Moore’s (1842: 51) menangal which describes the spring season at King George Sound. The recording of “little” or “partial” seasons by Barker (1830) shows the complexity of the indigenous seasonal model which accommodates inter-phase or transitional periods, unlike the Western model where the seasons suddenly change arbitrarily from one to the other without any recognised overlap or transition. These “partial” or “little” seasons that are found at either end of the “full” season encapsulate the cyclic ebb and flow of Nyungar seasonality and can be imagined as a conjoined series of normal curves or a rhythmical wave movement. It was this fluidity of the transmutation of the seasons that Barker found so difficult to comprehend because it was at odds with the rigid, arbitrary and mutually exclusive Western seasonal divisions that he was accustomed to. It is hardly surprising that he, in his frustration and failure to understand Mokare’s explanation of the subtleties of seasonal change, was led to declare that ‘the boundaries of their seasons are not precisely defined’ (in Mulvaney and Green 1992: 284). From a Western cultural perspective, it may seem at first glance as though the Nyungar seasons are “not precisely defined” but in fact, on further analysis, the ethnographic information provided by Mokare would suggest the opposite – that their seasons were more precisely defined because they recognised the subtleties of interphase and transitional seasonality. When Mokare states: “It is now partly ‘Prughen’ and partly ‘Moker” or “Now little Minongol, little Moker,’” these “paired” partial seasons, representing a fusion or amalgam of the tail ends of successive seasonal cycles, provide a flexibility, fluidity and precision that is absent in the Western model.

In conclusion these finely differentiated indigenous-recognised seasonal categories may be seen as providing an essential adaptive mechanism that enabled Nyungar people to accommodate climatic and phenological variability and to organise their hunter-gatherer-cultivator economic, social and ceremonial lives accordingly.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

By Ken Macintyre and Barb Dobson, Research anthropologists and Iva Hayward-Jackson, Nyungar heritage consultant and Land and Culture Protector.

Annotations

The Aboriginal names for summer and winter recorded among Victorian Aboriginal groups during the 19th century similarly suggest the underlying importance of the sun’s intensity (light, heat) is determining seasonality. Thomas and McCrae document the traditional names for summer and winter among the Wurundjeri and Bunurong as follows: winter per-ring-nger-wein, perrin (perein = no more sun) and summer nerrim-ngerwein, (nger-wein = sun) or Bullarto n’yoweenth (plenty sun). (Source: Dr Beth Gott of the School of Biological Sciences, Monash University. “Seasonal Calendars for the Melbourne Area.”

This suggests that the traditional calendars of Aboriginal people of temperate south-eastern Australia also shared these two primary over-arching seasons of darkness and light in addition to other seasons. As in southwestern Australia there would have been regional variations depending on climate, weather, ecology and plant and animal resources and these differences would have been especially noticeable between coastal and inland regions.

Nind (1831:54) records Maungernan as the season between meerningal (early spring) and beruc (summer). He states:

‘At the springtime of the year, they live principally upon the eggs and young of birds, chiefly of the parrot tribe, but also of hawks, ducks, swans, pigeons, etc.’ (Nind 1831 in Green 1979: 29)

‘Man-ga A nest. Robbing birds’ nests is a favourite occupation in the proper season of the year.’ (Moore 1842: 49).

Could Nind’s Maungernan be a seasonal descriptor deriving from “manga” meaning nest, referring to the season of parrot nesting or bird nesting.

3. Is it a coincidence that there is a large dark emu in the southern skies at the same time as when emus are breeding on land? Or is there possibly a scientific explanation for why Nyungar people used this astronomical phenomenon as a determinant of their seasonal calendar? We would suggest that traditional phenological science was involved because Mokare informs Barker that the season of moker consisted of three sub-seasons or sub-cycles. The Nyungar names provided to Barker appear to translate to mating, nesting and hatching of emu chicks.

Uncannily, when the indigenous-recognised dark emu disappears from the winter skies in August (or September) this signifies that the emu’s winter breeding cycle (4-5 months) is over.

4. Barker’s handwriting in his 1830 journal is at times very difficult to decipher, especially his “n’s and “r”‘s that are sometimes indistinguishable. When we examined his handwritten journal on microfilm at the Colonial Records Office at the WA State Library we interpreted the Minang name for the winter season as “moker” – not “moken” as interpreted by Mulvaney and Green. “Moker” is consistent with Nind’s mawkur and Collie’s mokkar. These three recorders obtained much of their ethnographic information from Mokare.

BIBILOGRAPHY

Barker, Collet 1830 Journal. Available on Microfilm at the Battye Library, CSO Records. Perth. Original copy held at the State Library of New South Wales.

Bindon, P. and R. Chadwick (eds.) 1992 A Nyoongar Wordlist from the South-West of Western Australia. WA Museum, Anthropology Department.

Cameron, J. M.R. 2006 The Millendon Memoirs: George Fletcher Moore’s Western Australian Diaries and Letters, 1830-1841. Victoria Park: Hesperian Press.

Gott, B. (n.d.) “Seasonal Calendars for the Melbourne Area.” https://www.herringisland.org/seasons1.htm

Green, N. 1979 Nyungar – The People: Aboriginal customs in the southwest of Australia. Mt Lawley, North Perth: Creative Research Publishers.

Grey, G., 1840 A Vocabulary of the Dialects of South Western Australia. London: T. and W. Boone.

Moore, G.F., 1842 A Descriptive Vocabulary of the Language in Common Use Amongst the Aborigines of Western Australia. London: W.S. Orr and Co. Hard copy.

Mulvaney, J. and N. Green 1992 Commandant of Solitude: The Journals of Captain Collet Barker 1828-1831, Carlton, Victoria: Melbourne University Press.

Stormon E. J. 1977 The Salvado Memoirs. Nedlands: University of Western Australia Press.

Symmons, C. 1841 Grammatical introduction to the study of the Aboriginal language of Western Australia. Perth: Western Australia Almanac. Photocopy from Battye Library, Perth.

Indigenous Science

Wed, 23 Aug 2023 09:26:49 GMT

For over 50,000 years the Noongar people of southwestern Australia possessed a complex scientific understanding of the natural world. They were familiar with the phenological breeding cycles and feeding habits of animals, birds, plants, reptiles and fish on which they depended for food. They were probably the world’s first astronomers in that they relied on the recurring dark and light constellations in the night sky to reckon time and seasonality. The dark constellation known as the “Emu in the sky” was a highly dependable and seasonally accurate astronomical indicator used by the Noongar to signify the commencement of the “dark season” of winter (makuru, maggoro, mokker).

The breeding phenology of the totemic emu accurately defined the mating, egg-laying/incubating and chick hatching season. These cycles were understood by the appearance and position of the ‘dark emu in the sky,’ generally visible from late April through to August/September, which uncannily reflected what was happening on land at the same time.

Indigenous people did not survive in Australia’s harsh environment on the whims of nature but relied on a cumulative body of scientific knowledge passed down from generation to generation over many thousands of years. It was this knowledge that enabled them to manage their animal and plant resources in such a way as to provide a predictable and reliable source of food for their survival.

We have always believed that indigenous science should be part of the primary and secondary school science curriculum. Indigenous science is based on observation, empiricism and practical application and has been tried and tested over thousands of years. Without this scientific knowledge, Aboriginal people could not have survived to be the longest continuous living culture in the world.

We believe that this aspect of indigenous culture should be strongly promoted in schools and that the Western Australian government should contribute funding to this purpose.

Owl voices as Night Spirits

Sun, 20 Aug 2023 12:57:00 GMT

Owl voices as night spirits: an ethno-ornithological approach to the understanding of the significance of night bird calls and social control in traditional Nyungar culture

Ken Macintyre ¹ , Barb Dobson ¹ * and Iva Hayward-Jackson ²

¹ PO Box 359 Cottesloe, Perth, Western Australia 6911. www.anthropologyfromtheshed.com

² Nyungar consultant & Land and Culture Protector, Perth, Western Australia.

*Corresponding author: kmac01@iinet.net.au

Abstract.

In the dark world of night, strange or unsettling noises were not traditionally perceived as sounds of nature but as the unearthly cries or groans of legendary monsters, ancestral spirits, ghostly jannocks, troubled souls or jangas, foreboding spirits or sorcerers disguised as owls exacting revenge on lawbreakers. In Nyungar tradition throughout southwestern Australia there were many frightening tales of nocturnal monsters whose blood-curdling sounds provided the auditory mnemonics that awakened culturally internalized messages of caution and danger. These voices contained in oral narratives and instilled from a young age through storytelling, were once perceived not as night birds but as dangerous spirit beings that assumed the role of nocturnal social control and law enforcement agents. Our research revealed that there is a whole pantheon of night birds that once provided an omnipresent moral and social surveillance system. However, for the purpose of this paper only the variant fragments of one narrative involving the night monster nhewalong (also known by the names nyowalong, nyiwaloong, newulum, nurliem, nyurlam and nyoorlam) is discussed. Our paper relies primarily on ethnohistorical and archival materials and anthropological field consultations with Nyungar Elders and spokespersons over a number of years, especially with regards to their views on the cultural significance of owls and owl-like night birds. Many of the senior consultants interviewed during our research still retained remnant anxieties as a result of the cautionary narratives told to them as children involving dangerous night birds and ghostly spirits.

Keywords: Nyungar, owls, sorcery, social control, southwestern Australia

Introduction

The Nyungar people of southwestern Australia were, and in some cases still are, culturally attuned to a wide variety of bird calls. This is reflected in many of their traditional onomatopoeic bird names or as one Nyungar Elder expressed it: “the bird calls its own name.” This name-calling is a means of identifying and classifying birds throughout Aboriginal Australia and many other cultures of the world, for example, Hull and Fergus (2017: 208) describe a traditional onomatopoeic bird-naming system found among the Ch’orti Mayan of southern Guatemala.

Some nightbirds in Nyungar culture have self-announcing names, such as the Barking owl (Ninox connivens) known as waur (Von Brandenstein 1988:154) or woorup (literally, place of woor) and the Southern Boobook Owl (Ninox novaeseelandiae) known as gogoo (also goor-goor, goor-goor-da, gu-gu-mit, gogoomit). This bird’s onomatopoeic name is similarly rendered in the Martu language of the Pilbara region of Western Australia as goorgoor (Serventy and Whittell 1976: 300) and “koor-koo” by “the Aborigines of South Australia” (Gould 1865: 74). It is recorded as kokok in the Keramin and Yorta Yorta languages of Victoria (Brough Smyth 1878) and kwerrkwerrke “named for its call” in the Eastern Arrernte language of Central Australia (Thieberger and McGregor 1994: 281, 473). The name of the owlet nightjar is recorded for the Perth and southwest area by the naturalist John Gilbert (in Abbott 2009: 258) as jool-jine. This is possibly onomatopoeic deriving from its characteristic jurl-jurl, joor-joor or nju-nju call. The cry of this bird in some parts of Aboriginal Australia, such as among the Warlpari of the Northern Territory, is much dreaded because it is associated with sorcery and the kurdaitcha man (or “maban man”) and is believed to portend a death (Gosford 2009).

In Nyungar culture the name of the nocturnal Bush Stone-curlew (Burhinus grallarius) recorded as wee-lo (Gilbert in Gould 1865), weloo (A.Y. Hassell 1894), wee-loo (Serventy and Whittell 1976:227) or whelow (Hassell in Davidson 1936) derives from its “whee-ieer-loo” call which, according to Elders interviewed by us, signified that a death was imminent. In the Perth area the whistling voice of the white-faced heron (Egretta novaehollandiae) known as wy-an (Gilbert in Gould 1865) was also associated with ominous events. This name or descriptor is synonymous with the term wy-aine which Grey records as meaning “to fear, to be afraid, to dread.” White-faced owls (i.e., Barn Owl Tyto alba and Australian Masked Owl Tyto novaehollandiae), as we will discuss later in this paper, were also much feared birds whose calls and presence were regarded as omens of death. Douglas (1976, 1996) describes them as “devil birds” or “death birds.”

Many birds in Nyungar culture traditionally have more than one name. These may be viewed as descriptors rather than names as they often allude to a bird’s physical appearance, call, behaviour, habitat, economic, cultural or spiritual significance. We have been interested in night-birds, their sounds and significance in Nyungar culture for many years. In 2008 when we recorded the prominent “standing stone” known as the “Ancestral Owl Stone” at Red Hill, northeast of Perth (see Macintyre and Dobson 2009) which to this day continues to be of totemic and cultural significance to Nyungar people, and which at the time of our recording was about to be destroyed by hard-rock quarrying (see Fig. 1), we were suddenly catapulted into a dilemma as to where to find ethnohistorical information on the significance of “owls” and “owl stones” in Nyungar culture, together with contemporary Nyungar Elder knowledge, that would ensure the protection of this site under the current Western Australian Aboriginal Heritage Act 1972.

Archival materials were thoroughly investigated for references to traditional Nyungar owl beliefs and collated together from the early colonial ethnohistorical accounts and word lists of Armstrong (1836), Bunbury (1836 in Bunbury and Morrell 1930), Grey (1840, 1841), Moore (1842) and Bates (in Bridge 1992) together with contemporary linguistic materials provided by Douglas (1976), Von Brandenstein (1988), Whitehurst (1992) and Dench (1994) in their wordlists. The colonial descriptions are often vague, fragmentary and confusing, referring in many cases to undefined “night birds, “nighthawks,” “night cuckoos” and “goatsuckers” - terms which relate to the European context rather than to local genera and species. These colonial and post-colonial descriptions all presuppose the existence of an indigenous Linnaean speciation model that somehow parallels that of Western ornithological science. However, Aboriginal people of southwestern Australia, like their counterparts throughout Australia, had evolved their own unique ornitho-classification system over many thousands of years prior to European colonisation. Their traditional ornitho-taxonomy and nomenclature system was based on criteria that were practical, utilitarian, logical and culturally relevant to a hunter-gatherer-horticultural existence, such as a bird’s distinctive call, prominent coloring, physical characteristic, behaviour, habitat, food preference or totemic, spiritual and cultural significance that enabled its easy identification. Birds featured prominently in traditional oral narratives as they were at the top of the plant and animal totemic hierarchy.

To this day there is some confusion as to how night birds in Nyungar culture were classified other than by their voices, as they were mostly heard but not seen, with the exception of the white barn owls (T. alba and T. novaehollandiae) whose ghostly appearance and screeching night calls were regarded as dreaded omens portending death. It is not hard to imagine that these terrifying night sounds would have been associated in the traditional setting with recognisably different messages or signals of danger embedded in oral narratives. For non-ornithologists, such as ourselves, the individual screams, screeches and shrieks of owls and owl-like night birds are difficult to tell apart because each has a vast repertoire of sounds (alarm cries, distress, feeding, breeding, hunger calls etc.) and often the less commonly heard screams of night birds such as the Barking Owl (Ninox connivens), Tawny Frogmouth (Podargus strigoides) and Southern Boobook Owl (Ninox novaeseelandiae) are not recorded or accessible in audio format.

In this paper we attempt to explain, from an anthropological perspective using the variant cultural narratives of nhewalong/newulum, how nocturnal owl sounds in traditional times became the culturally terrifying voices of socially controlling spirit-beings. In precolonial and early colonial times the darkness of night was perceived as a dangerous time when ghosts, demons, supernatural spirits and troubled souls were ever-present and ready to inflict disease and death on any law breaker, or to punish, harm or abduct children who wandered away from the safety of their campfires at night never to be seen again. The owl or mopoke was perceived as the totemic “winged familiar” or assistant of the “boylya-man” (sorcerer or “clever man,” commonly now referred to as “bulya-man”) and was believed capable of inflicting death and disease. The sorcerer was believed in some cases to transmute into an owl to police and enforce social control. It is for this reason that elderly Nyungar spokespersons whom we interviewed often referred to these owls as “bulya-birds” (sorcerer birds).

In 1836, Frances Fraser Armstrong, the official Native Interpreter made a special reference to the owl as an agent of sickness and fear in Nyungar culture. He wrote:

"The night bird, which the settlers call cuckoo (and the natives “gogoomit” or “woroongul,”) is regarded by the latter as the cause of all boils and eruptions on their bodies, which they believe it to produce by piercing them with its beak, in the night-time, while they are asleep." (F.F. Armstrong quoted in The Perth Gazette and Western Australian Journal 29 ^th October 1836).

What Armstrong (1836) seems to be relating here is part of a narrative involving revenge sorcery where a sorcerer or “bulya-man” in the guise of his owl totem inflicts sickness and infection into the body of its victim. In traditional Aboriginal society disease was believed to be magically or supernaturally induced. It is interesting that Armstrong who was also a keen naturalist and museum collector did not attempt to identify this night bird to a Genus or species. This is surprising as there are only two Genera of owl (Ninox and Tyto) found in southwestern Australia, each consisting of two species: Southern boobook (N. novaeseelandiae), Barking owl (N. connivens), Eastern barn owl (T. alba) and Masked owl (T. novaehollandiae).

Armstrong’s “night cuckoo” gogoomit may be viewed as the same bird as Moore’s gugumit (1842: 30, 33) or little brown owl (N. novaeseelandiae) whose name derives from its utterance gogoo and mit meaning “an agent.” This is believed to be the same bird ancestor as represented by the “Owl Stone” site at Red Hill, north east of Perth (Fig. 1).

This paper could be looked upon as a journey through a veil of camouflage, concealment and night bird ventriloquy together with other physical characteristics and deceptive behaviours that owls have evolved to avoid detection. The term used by ecologists to refer to this complex of adaptations is crypsis. This paper investigates cryptid bird voices that once gave life and meaning to culturally constructed anthropomorphic beings in traditional Nyungar oral narratives, such as nhewalong (also known as nyowalong, nyiwaloong, newulum, nurliem, nyurlam, nyoorlam), whose role was to maintain a supernatural control over human movement and behaviour at night.

Study Area

The term Nyungar denotes Aboriginal people whose language and home country is in the southwest of Western Australia (Fig. 2). The area lies south and west of a line drawn from south of Geraldton to east of Esperance (for detailed map see Tindale 1940: 45). This line once defined the cultural and linguistic boundaries between those who practised circumcision and the Nyungar people who did not.

The Nyungar language is fundamentally similar throughout most of southwestern Australia, as noted by Grey (1840: v), Moore (1842) and Bates (1914:65), with regional and dialectical variations. It is part of and partially defines the family language group known as Pama-Nyungan (Thieberger and McGregor 1994: xii). The term Nyungar can be spelled in a number of ways, including Nyoongar, Nyungar, Nyungah or Noongar, depending on group or individual preference. It originally translates as “man” or nowadays as “people.”

After European colonisation in 1829 Nyungar people became dispossessed from their traditional homelands and as a result of economic and political forces beyond their control, they became an impoverished and subjugated minority population controlled by government departments. Today this is changing with university education and a revival of their language, culture and political activism.

Methods

We have been compiling information on the traditional and contemporary views of Nyungar people on the cultural significance of owls and other night birds over several decades during our anthropological fieldwork throughout parts of southwestern Australia. In 2008 we did extensive research into indigenous beliefs about owls in order to prepare a report to protect the “Owl Stone” site at Red Hill from hard rock quarrying in the Darling Escarpment (Fig. 1). Owing to the dearth of available published information on owl beliefs in traditional Nyungar society, we were forced to rely on fragmentary references contained in the early colonial newspapers (dating back to the 1830’s) and sparse references contained in ethno-historical sources (e.g., early explorers’ diaries, journals, wordlists) and local ethno-ornithological sources (Serventy and Whittell 1948, 1976). The results of our archival research were discussed and analysed with senior Elder (the late) Mr Albert Corunna between 2008 and 2017. The co-author of this report, Nyungar consultant Mr Iva Hayward-Jackson, has kindly shared his personal insights on owls and other night birds confirming their role as social control agents.

Ecological Context of the Night Bird Species

There are eight nocturnal bird species in southwestern Australia that can provide the types of calls described from the study area: Masked Owl (Tyto novaehollandiae); Eastern Barn Owl (Tyto alba); Barking Owl (Ninox connivens); Southern Boobook (Ninox novaeseelandiae); Australian Owlet-nightjar (Aegotheles cristatus); Tawny Frogmouth (Podargus strigoides); Spotted Nightjar (Eurostopodus argus); and Bush Stone-curlew (Burhinus grallarius). Both the Barking Owl and Masked Owl are now very rare in southwestern Australia (see Liddelow et al. 2002). Many of these night birds are very difficult to see, particularly without modern aids, so it is not surprising that species identifications are challenging.

Results

Totemic Ancestral Owls and the Origin of Nyungar Society

Our research over many years has revealed that there are multiple origin narratives in Nyungar culture involving different totemic ancestral birds, such as the wau-oo (mopoke), beenar (white owl), wardong (Australian raven, colloquially known as “crow”), manitch (white cockatoo), wadje (emu), eroto (pink eared duck, also white winged duck), kuljak (black swan) and others. However, a foundation totemic creation belief that was collected by Daisy Bates in 1923 from her senior female Nyungar informant Wilganan stands out in that it describes two night birds, the mopoke (Wau-oo) and the white owl (Beenar), which during the cold, dark, formless period of the Nyitting (Dreaming) were said to have created all the Bibbulmun (Nyungar) people and given them their social structure by dividing them into two moieties manitchmat (lit. manitch, white cockatoo + mat, family, leg, stock) and wordungmat (lit. wordung, crow + mat, family, leg, stock). These two “halves” of Nyungar society were named after birds that symbolized darkness and light. Our archival research combined with the stated views of contemporary Nyungar Elders confirm that predatory night birds, such as the owls, have a powerful ancestral and traditional cultural significance in Nyungar culture. A fragment of the owl creation myth as told to Daisy Bates by Wilganan is as follows:

'Wau-oo, the mopoke, assisted by his relation, Beenar, the white owl, made all the Bibbulmun [Nyungar] and divided them, saying “Manitchmat must marry Wordungmat only' (Bates 1923).

According to this view, two ancestral owls created the two main classes or divisions of Nyungar society: Manitchmat (white cockatoo, the light moiety) and Wordungmat (crow, dark moiety). These binary totemic divisions were further subdivided into animal, bird and plant totems that were also classified as “dark” or “light” depending on their culturally perceived attributes and symbolism (Bates in Bridge 1992). It is unclear to us exactly how these dark-light categories were conceptualized and applied from an indigenous viewpoint as there is little ethno-historical or contemporary information available which today recognizes the importance of this dark-light dichotomy that once permeated all aspects of Nyungar culture.

This dark-light structuring principle once extended to include all life forms as well as natural inanimate and human made objects (Bates in Bridge 1992). The extent of its complexity is impossible to ascertain outside its traditional context, although fragmentary ethno-historical and contemporary information would suggest that the cultural classification of birds, animals and plants into “dark” or “light” totemic categories would have depended on a variety of factors, singly or in combination, such as prominent physical characteristics (e.g., dark or light coloring); nocturnal or diurnal behavior patterns; seasonal phenological breeding cycles or photoperiodism (e.g., response to day length); migratory patterns or their spiritual significance in the cultural creation narratives.

The cultural and ancestral significance of owls and owl-like birds in traditional and contemporary society were described to us by a group of Nyungar Elders during our field investigations of the “Owl stone” megalith at Red Hill in the City of Swan in October 2008. They suggested that the name of this prominent standing stone site Gogomat or “Ancestral Owl” (literally gogo, owl + mat, family, leg, stock, branch, ancestry) was probably an ancestral link to contemporary Nyungar people from the time of the Dreaming. On arrival at the site, they insisted on performing a ritual of respect involving the placement of leaves of the balga or Grass tree (Xanthorrhea preissii) at the base of the standing stone to announce their visit and purpose. They said they did not have any knowledge of the narrative associated with this specific site but were aware of the appropriate rituals that were once performed at another Owl Stone site in the Chittering valley recorded by George Fletcher Moore (1835). They said that they could only speak for the country of their own ancestors, not that of another group. They emphasized that the site of the “Ancestral Owl Stone” at Red Hill had great significance to them and their ancestors but some of them felt anxious in its presence as they had been told stories since childhood of the dangers associated with night birds, most especially owls.

Owls and owl-like night birds were often referred to vaguely and collectively as mopoke (or “mopok”) by our Nyungar informants (Macintyre and Dobson 2017). Since childhood they had been more concerned about the consequences of hearing the owl’s cry than any other considerations such as its Linnaean-defined species which in such a stressful situation had little if any relevance to them. Night birds were mostly unseen and variously referred to as mopok, warra (meaning bad, dangerous), “bulya-bird” (sorcerer-birds) and “winnaitch” meaning death, dangerous or forbidden.

The term winnaitch is also spelled in the literature as youanitch, wannaitch, winnaitch, wanniche or wonitj variously translating as danger, death, evil spirit, forbidden, taboo or ghost, depending on the context. The term has been applied to sacred sites that are considered dangerous or taboo to those who are not initiated or who do not know the appropriate cultural rituals for the place. The term youanitch was recorded by Hassell (1894) as the name of the tawny frogmouth. This is a “winnaitch” or “wannitch” bird, according to contemporary Elders whom we interviewed. Gray (1987 in Bindon and Chadwick 1992: 194) records the term for owl as youaintch and Douglas (1976: 81) refers to yuwindj as “‘devil bird’ (prob. the barn owl). Said to frequent the graveyard at Gnowangerup; its call produces fear of a death.”

It was suggested to us by a senior Nyungar spokesperson that in traditional times all of these warra night birds would have had powerful and dangerous totemic names that could not be used by the uninitiated or those without the proper knowledge for fear of invoking the spirit’s presence. It would have been wannitch to utter the name of such a powerful spirit, especially to a Western recorder, for fear of cultural repercussions.

Some Contemporary Nyungar Views on Night Birds

In conversations with Nyungar consultants about frightening night birds, the term “owl” is often attached to “mopoke-owl” or “frogmouth-owl” with some confusion, especially when one tries to clarify exactly which bird they are talking about. Some of the Elders’ views about owls are recorded verbatim below:

'The one bird that Nyungahs fear is the goombagarri [frogmouth, mopoke]. It’s a warra [bad] bird. When you hear that bird at night, it is an omen. You must find it, kill it and burn it, but it’s hard to find because it is the same color as the bark of the tree. If that bird can sing and get away with it, it’s a death omen, it means someone will die.'

'It was like a spirit in the night and could do bad (warra) things to you.'

'We were always told to watch out and to hide and be still if you ever heard the mopoke cry out, because this was a spirit bird which could see you in the night. Even in the daytime my parents told me never to harm an owl - they were dangerous.'

'I remember an old story that my father told me that boylya men [witchdoctors or sorcerers] would turn into owls at night time and chase after a person they had a grudge for and when they found them they’d put a magic curse on them while they were asleep and they would die the next day.'

'The old people would tell stories that if you did anything wrong at night the owl would see you and would tell a boylya-man who could speak owl language and he would come after you and punish you. You think that people can’t see you in the dark, but the owl people can see you.'

'When we were kids we were so scared at night, we didn’t look around, we just hid under the blanket and didn’t move a muscle.'

One Nyungar Elder recalled his childhood days at a fringe camp in Swanbourne. He reminisced:

'It was so quiet at night in our camp at Swanbourne. If we kids heard any strange sounds we would hide under the blankets for hours because we thought the jingee were coming to get us.'

Further contemporary views are recorded in a separate paper https://www.anthropologyfromtheshed.com/owl-beliefs-in-nyungar-culture

Nhewalong

In the dark world of night, strange or unsettling noises were not perceived by traditional Nyungar people as the sounds of nature but were viewed as the unearthly cries, groans and screams of legendary monsters, foreboding spirits and sorcerers disguised as owls exacting revenge on wrongdoers. These dangerous and dreaded agents of the night served to maintain the moral and social order. One of these ogres of the night was a jannock known as nhewalong. The earliest narrative involving nhewalong was recorded in the 1840’s by the naturalist and Native Interpreter to the Swan River Colony, Francis F. Armstrong, after he had himself heard, while travelling in the bush in the vicinity of Perth, the unsettling, shrill and incongruous cry, like a human in distress, said to be the voice of nhewalong. The Inquirer newspaper (1846) reports his experience as follows:

'Mr. F. Armstrong, the Native Interpreter, has communicated to us the following curious account of a very mysterious sound which has been heard in the bush in several parts of this colony, and concerning which the natives have, as usual, an extraordinary superstition. Mr. Armstrong says that a peculiarly shrill and discordant cry, at times very much like the complaint of a human being in a suffering state, has been heard by several persons and on one occasion by himself. It is heard invariably in the nighttime, and generally in lonely situations. Mr. Armstrong says that on the occasion of his hearing this cry, he could not dispossess himself of the belief that it came from some person who had been lost in the bush, so exactly did it resemble the human voice in distress, and that although he was told by the natives who were with him what it was, or rather what they deemed it to be, he staid [sic.] on the spot until he was certain that there was no person in want of succour. The natives have a superstitious dread of this cry, concerning which they give the following explanation. They state that it proceeds from an enormous monster which prowls in the forests at night, subsisting on the gum of the cabbage tree! [Nuytsia floribunda, Christmas tree] for the convenience of carrying which he is provided with a great number of bags; that he ascends the trees in search of this gum, of which the natives take care to leave the largest and best pieces for his use, lest they should incur his displeasure. The name given by the natives to this curious monster is “Nhewalong,” and he is represented to be so powerful that escape from his grasp is hopeless, while from the number of bags he has about him, it is impossible to spear him, in the words of the natives, “strike where you will, you hit a bag.” It is curious how the notion of such an animal should have suggested itself' (Armstrong 1846).

Even though Armstrong (1846) is perturbed by the mysterious and chilling bird cry, he discounts the native explanation of nhewalong as being a monster protecting his food source, that is, the gum of the “cabbage tree” (the colonial name for Nuytsia floribunda). The Inquirer further states that: 'Mr. Armstrong feels certain that the cry proceeds from some kind of bird; yet he states that he has collected every variety to be found in the neighbourhood of the Swan, Canning, and Murray, without getting it' (Armstrong 1846:3).

Phillip Chauncy, Assistant Surveyor for the Perth region in the 1840’s records a similar narrative involving the mysterious nyowalong but in this version his voice is described as “a short, sharp screech at every step.” He writes:

'The Swan River Aborigines say that an evil being, called Nyowalong, wanders about in the night-time, in the Banksia forests, collecting the gum of the Nuytsia floribunda which he puts into bags hanging all round his body. They assert that he is like an old man walking about in half-sitting attitude, and carrying a wanna, or yam-stick, and that he utters a short, sharp screech at every step. I enquired why they never speared him; but they were indignant at the idea and replied – “One might as well try to spear a grass tree, he is so surrounded with gum bags”. Although they eat the gum which exudes from the acacias, hakeas, and other trees, they never touch the Nuytsia gum; for, were they to do so, they say Nyowalong would certainly do them some secret injury; but the fact is, it is not an edible gum – they make a virtue of necessity' (Chauncy in Brough-Smyth 1878: 267-268).

The bird cries described by Armstrong (1846) and Chauncy (in Brough-Smyth 1878) attributed to nhewalong (or nyowalong) would appear to be very different owl-like sounds. From Armstrong’s (1846) description one could imagine this to be the rarely heard night scream of the Barking Owl (N. connivens) while Chauncy’s description sounds more like the shrieking voice of one of the barn owls (T. alba or T. novaehollandiae). Or could it be the penetrating and repetitive juu-juu sound of the Australian Owlet-nightjar (A. cristatus)? It is virtually impossible to determine night bird sounds from a written description, especially one that was recorded almost 180 years ago.

Chauncy (in Brough-Smyth 1878:267) is emphatic that the gum of N. floribunda is “not an edible gum.” Yet was the inedibility of this gum and its possible toxic consequence to human consumption sufficient reason to provoke the night monster Nyowalong’s deterrent cries? Surely, if the gum was inedible, this would have been well-known in the traditional knowledge system (TKS). So why would they even contemplate eating an inedible substance? When we asked Nyungar Elder (the late) Albert Corunna about this, he was unsure about the toxicity of the gum as he had never eaten it or knew anyone who had but he said that the screaming spirit would have alerted people to keep away from the moojar trees (N. floribunda). He commented “when we were kids, we didn’t go near those trees.” Other Elders endorsed this same view (see Macintyre and Dobson 2019). In the very early part of the twentieth century Joobaitch, who was Daisy Bates’ senior most male informant for the Guildford/Perth area stated:

'When I die I shall go down through the sea to Kurannup, where all my people will be waiting on the shore with meat food, my mother and my woman, my father and my brothers. Before it sets out on its journey my kaanya must be free to rest on the kaanya-tree [Nuytsia floribunda]. Since nyitting (cold) times, all Bibbulmun kaan-ya have rested on this tree on their way to Kurannup, and I have never broken a branch or flower or sat in the shade of the tree, because it is the tree of the dead and winnaitch - sacred' (Bates 1936).

The sacred kaanya tree is commonly known by Nyungar people as moojar or its many variant spellings mooja, moodja, moojarr, moodjar, mudjarr, mutyal, modjar, mutyal, mutdhoor depending on the recorder. The earliest reference to its Nyungar name is by Lyon (1833 in Green 1979: 171) where he records mutdhoor as “Nuytsia, floribunda – the cabbage tree.” The meaning of the term mooja is uncertain but it would seem to suggest “prohibited” or “taboo.” Recently departed souls were traditionally regarded as dangerous to the living and were at all times to be avoided.

In the nineteenth century when Armstrong (1836) and Chauncy (in Brough-Smyth 1878) were recording aspects of Nyungar society it was culturally forbidden to mention the name of a recently deceased person (a practice still observed by Aboriginal people in the Western Desert) for fear of calling up the spirit of the deceased person who may do them some harm. Fear of recently deceased souls (kaanya or gurdumit) caused much anxiety and for this reason they were fully respected and avoided. Campsites were relocated after a death and a separate campfire was often provided at a distance from the camp to give warmth and comfort to the newly deceased soul before it started on its journey to the land of the ancestors.

Gnolum – the Silent jannock

'…a very tall, thin spirit or jannock with a long thin beard. A member of the cubine [mopoke] totem. Wears no clothing except cubine feathers stuck all over the head' (Hassell in Davidson 1935:277). Gnolum was said to have “very big round eyes that can look everywhere” (Hassell 1975: 65) and was reputed to carry a long thin wanna or digging stick about three times his height which he held in front of him and kicked whenever he moved, leaving behind a distinctive trail of his presence in the forest. This is how Hassell (in Davidson 1936) described the nocturnal jannock that frequented isolated forests and woodlands in the Jerramongup and surrounding areas of lower southwestern Australia. Gnolum was a silent night stalker said to entice young boys who wandered away from their campsite, alluring them with sweet-tasting roots mungah or fat-rich bardi (beetle or moth larvae). Hassell (1975: 65) comments that “In the night he cannot be seen except on very bright moonlight nights, then often his eyes can be seen through branches of trees but not his body.”

Ethel Hassell (1975) states that gnolum’s totem or cubine (courbourne) is the mopoke and that he would cover his head with the feathers of this bird as an outward symbol of his totem. We would suggest that his mopoke feather adornment helped to camouflage and empower him with the predatory attributes of his mopoke totem, such as piercing night vision, astute hearing and noiseless flight. From Ethel’s records, A.Y. Hassell (1884) referred to cubine as the mopoke owl (N. novaeseelandiae) or possibly to the Tawny Frogmouth (P. strigoides) because at the time of her recording the frogmouth was often referred to as mopoke. While we were conducting field interviews at the “Owl Stone” site we could find no consensus among Nyungar spokespersons as to which category the “mopok” belonged. Some thought it was the boobook owl while others were convinced it was gambigorn (also rendered as goombagarri or kambigur) or what they called the “the owl with the big mouth.” Even contemporary wordlists compiled by Nyungar linguists and researchers record tawny frogmouth under the category of “owl.” For example, Whitehurst (1992: 43) records kambany as “owl (Tawny Frogmouth)” and Walley et al (2014: 204) record gambigorn as “Owl-Tawny Frogmouth,” also known as djoowi. At the time of our field research we were unaware that the Tawny Frogmouth (kambigorn) was a clever voice mimic and that it sometimes gave a mo-pok call “resembling that of the Boobook Owl” (Serventy and Whittell 1976: 305). Many Australian birds are known to practice voice mimicry (but not owls).

Australian linguists Dixon et al (2006: 81) note that “Another name for the boobook, and for some other nocturnal birds, is mopoke.” This fits with the way some Nyungar people use the term mopoke (“mopok” or “mopoak”) to refer to more than one species of night bird. As we have noted elsewhere: The origin of the term mopoke, and whether it derives from an Aboriginal or non-Aboriginal language, is uncertain. Interestingly, Von Brandenstein (1979: 15), who specializes in the Nyungar language, translates mopoke (or what he records as ‘maup-puaqq’ or mawp, skin + poaak, cloak) as literally “bark-cloak”, “skin-cloak” or “cloak skin”, thus implying a Nyungar origin for the term (mawp-poaak). This might explain from an emic Nyungar perspective as to why the tawny frogmouth (P. strigoides) is sometimes referred to as mopoke (“mopok” or mopoak”).

Ethel Hassell's (1975) depiction of gnolum as a silent night stalker in his “mopoak" feather disguise could be viewed as a stark “stranger-danger” warning to caution boys from wandering away from the security of their group into remote areas and accepting food enticements from strangers. Hassell (1975) emphasises that gnolum had no interest in girls, women or grown men - it was only boys. At the time of her recording in the 1880’s there was still a lingering belief that Aboriginal people who lived in proximity to border areas greatly distrusted outsiders, especially those who practiced circumcision and other associated rituals that were alien and feared by Nyungar people. There was always the constant fear of losing boys to outside groups never to be seen again.

Nyurlam

Douglas (1976: 23) records another version of the gnolum narrative where he describes nyurlam or njulam as a “night hawk,” “female ghost” or “devil woman.” He also introduces the notion of njulam as a “devil bird” (1976: 87) a term with strong Christian overtones. He does not explain what is meant by “devil bird,” other than recording it as a “nighthawk” or “female ghost” called njulam or nyurlam. In a later publication Douglas (1996) records nyoorlam as a “death bird” or “devil bird.” The altered spelling of nyurlam to nyoorlam would appear to derive from Nyungar linguist Rosemary Whitehurst’s (1992: 23) wordlist where she records nyoorlam as nighthawk or devil bird.

Douglas’ nyurlam (or njulam) “is said to flit through the Christmas trees (Nuytsia floribunda) unseen and unheard except for its njuu njuu call” (1976: 67). Her cultural bogeywoman role was to deter youngsters from climbing the brittle branches of the N. floribunda which, according to Douglas’ (1976: 23) informants “is regarded as unsafe for climbing and keeps them from eating the sticky gum found on this parasitic tree.”

It would seem that the nhewalong or nyurlam narratives (with the exception of Hassell’s gnolum) involve a mythological being which cautions people, especially children, against approaching the N. floribunda which was regarded as the kaanya tree or “tree of souls” or “ghost tree” (Bates in Bridge 1992). It is unclear as to whether Hassell’s gnolum with its silent voice and different social function is a local variant of the nyurlam narrative or something different. The gender of this jannock has transformed from male (Armstrong 1846, Chauncy in Brough-Smyth 1878 and Hassell in Davidson 1935) to female (Douglas 1976) or did it ever have a defined gender? Mythological beings in Aboriginal narratives are quite often of indeterminate gender. Working with Aboriginal people throughout Western Australia we have found in our discussions involving the gender specificity of animal and bird totemic beings at times difficult to ascertain owing to the linguistic and cultural nuances that are well-understood by the informant who assumes the recorder has similar insights into the ability of ancestral totemic spirits to shape-shift and gender-shift at will.

The voice of nyurlam is no longer the human-like distress cry described by Armstrong (1846) but a penetrating njuu-njuu sound made as it flits through the Christmas trees (N. floribunda) (Douglas 1976: 67). This would suggest a small bird, although Douglas’ reference to an undefined “night hawk” does not help us to identify this bird. We suspect that he may be referring to the insectivorous Australian Owlet-nightjar (A. cristatus) as this is a small night bird with big owl-like eyes and it makes a njuu-njuu sound. As we have already noted for the Warlpiri of the Central Desert region the juu-juu (or jurl-jurl) cry of this little bird is dreaded because of its association with sorcery and the kurdaitcha man. It is known as “the kurdaitcha bird” (Gosford 2009).

Is it a coincidence that the Nyungar name for the Australian Owlet-nightjar is jool-jine (Gilbert in Abbott 2009), possibly suggesting an onomatopoeic name based on its “jool” sounding utterance? Or is it a more sinister reference to this bird’s mythological reputation, as djul, according to Grey (1840) and Moore (1842), means “bad.” The djul, jul or njul in Douglas’ “njulam” may well signify a bad omen or spirit. Moore (1842: 45) comments on the Australian Owlet-nightjar’s mythological powers stating that this “small black goatsucker” is “supposed to have the power of afflicting human beings with sore eyes.”

When we asked Nyungar Elders about this little owl-like bird, which one of them referred to as the “darrin bird,” he said it was a “warra bird” (warra meaning bad, dangerous) because according to stories he had been told when he was young it was believed that when a person slept, the painless bite from this bird could cause a range of disfiguring skin ailments and night fevers. “It can make you very sick.” He was unsure of its species but commented that it looks “like a small woodartji owl” which lives in tree hollows. Woodartji refers to a small humanoid or spirit being that can be dangerous to those who trespass without permission into forbidden or wannitch places.

There are many references in Nyungar word lists and dictionaries to nyurlam and its variant spellings nyoorlam, nurliem, newulum, nuelum and noorliem. For example, Alfred J. Bussell (n.d) who prior to his death in 1940 compiled a word list of the Dordenup language of the Busselton area together with his niece Dr. Buller-Murphy (n.d.) records the name “nurliem” as meaning “devil.” In their word list they record “nurliem mia” as “cave;” also, nurliem miah as “cave, cliff;” nurliem karla as “devil’s fire” and nurliem karrunger wongie as the “devil’s roar.” These terms possibly derive from fragments of a local narrative relating to a terrifying night spirit/ monster known as nurliem that made its home in caves and hollows in cliffs and when disturbed or angered, it would roar (nurliem karrunger wongie).

Is it only from nurliem’s voice that it can be identified to an owl-like bird or are there other recognisable characteristics of nurliem mentioned in different oral versions of the narrative, such as his home being nurliem miah, in a cave or cliff. It is well known that barn owls (Tyto) inhabit a wide variety of habitats including holes in cliffs and caves, especially the Masked Owl (T. novaehollandiae) which is commonly known as the “Cave Owl” (Serventy and Whittell 1976: 303). According to Morecombe and Stewart (2011), the Barking Owl (N. connivens) also nests in caves and crevices in cliffs when suitable trees are not available.

Nyiwaloong

The linguist Rosemary Whitehurst (1992: 23) records nyoorlam as being a “night hawk” and a “devil bird.” With a different spelling she further records nyiwaloong as an “owl (brown back with white face).” Her brief description suggests that nyiwaloong belongs to the Tyto genus, possibly the Australian Masked Owl (T. novaehollandiae). Walley et al (2014: 120, 204) confirm this species attribution.

Local ornithologists Serventy and Whittell (1948, 1976: 302), who were writing before Douglas (1976) and Whitehurst (1992), assign the loud and frightening cries of the “legendary monster” known as “Nuelum” or “Newulum” by the Aboriginal people of the Gnowangerup area as probably the “blood-curdling shriek” or “screaming woman” call of the Barking Owl (N. connivens). So, where does this leave us? It is all becoming rather surrealistic as we have different owls and owl-like night birds morphing in and out of the same or similar mythological persona. We have Armstrong (1846) describing the shrill and discordant cry of nhewalong as resembling a human in suffering; Chauncy describing nyowalong as uttering a “short, sharp shriek at every step;” Douglas (1976) assigning the cries of nyurlam (or njulam) to an unidentified nighthawk (which we suspect from its indigenous rendered njuu-njuu sound may be the Australian Owlet-nightjar) and Whitehurst (1992) attributing nyiwaloong to the white-faced owl with a brown back. To top it off, Serventy and Whittell (1948, 1976) ascribe newulum’s voice to the infrequently heard shrieking woman call of the Barking Owl (N. connivens). This makes the task of pinpointing the identity of newulum difficult as some recorders describe it as a ghost or monster, others attribute it to the voice of a night bird and others to the name of a night bird.

We seem to have reached an impasse in our hunt for the identity of this nocturnal cryptid. Nhewalong has been attributed to two different groups of owl or owl voices: Tyto and Ninox, these are the only owl genera found in southwestern Australia. Could representatives from these two ancestral owl groupings give voice (or voices) to the mysterious nhewalong? Some years ago when we asked Nyungar Elder (the late) Albert Corunna as to which owl he believed could be the voice of nhewalong (or newulum) he seemed amused by our dilemma and said “To the “old people” it didn’t matter. They were not listening to a bird but the message of the ghost or spirit. That’s what you’ve got to understand.”

Discussion: Spirit Voices of the Night

It is common for indigenous narratives to vary from region to region and intra-regionally as well as to change over time as a result of adaptations to new circumstances and cultural relevance. Different versions of the same story may be told, depending on place, time, context, who is telling the story, audience and for what purpose. One of the problems that besets those with a Western scientific background who are intent on uncovering nocturnal mythological cryptids is trying to pinpoint a historically described sound to a specific night bird. The physical appearance of the bird and its Western scientific classification is of little relevance to a traditional group who regard the mythological character as a dangerous night spirit.

In Hassell’s (1975) narrative gnolum is without a voice. Could this mean that gnolum uses silence and stealth to attract and abduct boys in quiet isolated places? We would imagine that a silent prowler as described in the narrative would be more effective in coaxing boys than a noisy night screamer. Hassell (1975) alludes to gnolum having the attributes and behaviors of his “mopoak” totem (possibly N. novaeseelandia) and using the feathered camouflage and noiseless flight of his cubine (totem) he prowls around and kidnaps his victims. Hassell (1975: 60) states that “The jannocks very rarely made a noise but one can feel when they are about.” She describes a number of different types of jannocks and says that whenever they were heard screaming it signaled that they were fighting and when they were angry, they were very dangerous.

We tried to elucidate from Elders their views on the cries and significance of night birds but despite having strong Christian backgrounds and living like us in a suburban environment, they still admitted to feeling anxious when discussing “warra” (bad, dangerous) birds. When we asked them about the owls, tawny frogmouths, owlet-nightjars and nightjars, most said that they had not heard these sounds (except for the “mopok”) but they could imagine the fear that would have been felt by the “old people” on hearing these random outbursts in the quiet of night. They agreed that such thoughts made them anxious. We could understand their anxiety, as owls and owl-like birds under the cover of darkness are invisible and all that exists of their presence is their voice and any raucous screech or human-like scream in the stillness of night can be very unsettling.

It is easy to imagine in an isolated bush setting how Nyungar people on hearing a sudden high pitched scream or shriek emanating from close-by or afar with the sound magnified or distorted by the echoes of night, would have been filled with apprehension from their internalized knowledge of the culturally foreboding consequences of these night sounds. These auditory mnemonics that were stored in the collective cultural memory forewarned of danger and the need to perform propitiatory rituals or other culturally appropriate actions. Nyungar spokesperson Hayward-Jackson said:

'There are so many sounds in the bush at night, it’s hard to distinguish what’s what. But the “old people” they knew all those sounds and what they meant. They lived with them all the time.'

He said that on occasion when he had camped in the bush he had heard unnerving sounds coming from the darkness which had made him feel nervous. He said he did not know if they were the cries of birds or possums. “They sound alike.” Another Elder pointed out that “even though we don’t know some of the old stories, there’s still something inside us that makes us cold with fear when we hear the sound of an owl.” When we probed deeper into this, we found that the anxiety they were referring to usually stemmed from experiences or stories they had heard as children involving fearful bogeymen, bogeywomen and terrifying owl-like night birds that were believed to be associated with physical harm and death.

As Nyungar language and culture were based on oral tradition, all cultural knowledge had to be committed to memory through a combination of means including song, dance, chanting, storytelling, poetic verse, totemic rituals and narratives. This oral tradition necessitated an economy of words. Cultural constructs, knowledge and meaning were encoded into a system of mnemonics (e.g., key words, phrases, short verse) and auditory and visual cues that assisted in triggering memory processes and mental associations relating to essential knowledge embedded in song lines, totemic mythologies and rituals. All of these mechanisms helped to provide practical instructions on how to survive, economically, socially and culturally as a hunter-gatherer-cultivator people over many thousands of years.

The use of oral narrative as a means of controlling social behaviour is well recognised in anthropology. In this paper we have tried to show how the ventriloquism of unseen night birds once mimicked the terrifying voices of supernatural spirits and jannocks providing a clever and ingenious means of social control at night. This was recognized by (the late) Professor Eric ten Ra, anthropologist and linguist, who commented that:

'The ancestral inventors of Aboriginal mythology were clever in that they used distinctive, rare and frightening noises of night owls in the social construction of mythical beings that became animated and demonized in the cultural memory' (ten Raa 1993, personal communication).

Ten Raa (1993, personal communication) further suggested that these anthropomorphized spirit beings may have had their own culturally recognized repertoire of cries reflecting their different psychological moods and that within certain localities where ancestral or mythical beings were believed to frequent, the local group would have been intimately aware of the messages and consequences of these calls. It makes anthropological sense that the voices of nhewalong (nyiawoolong, newulum, nyurlam, nurliem) may have been represented by more than a single night bird sound, and possibly even a composite of night bird voices, that may have reflected the different psychological moods (angry, hungry, sulky, silent) of this social-controlling agent of the night.

It would seem that in traditional times the voices of owls and their nocturnal colleagues provided a range of auditory mnemonics that once triggered important cultural warnings, internalized from a very young age, that were effective in ensuring moral and social compliance. Some of these stories, even though they have lost their relevance as a social sanctioning device, are still told to this day as part of contemporary Nyungar literature.

Urgent need for Protection of the Sacred Ancestral Owl Stone

The Owl Stone is a unique site of great significance to Nyungar people in southwestern Australia. It is located on the Darling Escarpment in pristine bushland bordering the John Forrest National Park about 25 km northeast of Perth, Western Australia. The land is privately owned by a German cement company whose daily hard rock quarrying operations prohibit Aboriginal people and the public from visiting the site. The Owl Stone is part of a wider site complex that includes traditional campsites, ochre deposits, petroglyphs and associated mythological sites (see https://www.anthropologyfromtheshed.com/aboriginal-sites-are-an-important-part-of-the-heritage-of-the-whole-community .

There are concerns about the long-term stability of this prominent "standing stone" site as it is highly vulnerable to the constant vibrations from rock blasting. It is the view of the Nyungar co-author of this paper and the senior most Elder (the late) Albert Corunna that if this site was opened up to Nyungar people, and to local and international visitors, it would provide a much-needed positive focus for promoting Nyungar culture and showcasing a remarkable example of its pre-colonial culture. It could become 'a place of learning’ where young Nyungar people are trained as environmental managers and site rangers enabling them to protect their sacred sites and to "care for country.”

Acknowledgements

We would like to thank David H. Johnson, Director of the Global Owl Project for inviting us to participate in this project and for his enthusiastic encouragement and advice on our paper. We thank all those Nyungar Elders (past and present) who over the years have assisted us by providing cultural information without which this paper would not have been possible. In particular, we would like to acknowledge the insights provided by Nyungar Elder (the late) Mr. Albert Corunna who up until his recent death had been closely involved in the protection of the totemic Owl Stone site at Red Hill, north east of Perth. We also thank Rodney P. Kavanagh for reviewing this manuscript and for his data and insights about the night birds of southwestern Australia.

This document is in the process of being published in the volume "Owls in Myth and Culture" Johnson, D.H. (ed.) by Johns Hopkins University Press. A final citation will be given here once the volume has been published.

We would also like to thank Emily ten Raa for her painting of the Barking Owl (Ninox connivens), acrylic on jarrah, from her 'Animate Objects' Exhibition in 2016, which features as the cover photo for this article.

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Hassell, E. 1975. My Dusky Friends. C.W. & W.A. Hassell, East Fremantle, Western Australia.

Hull, K. and R. Fergus. 2017. Birds as Seers: An Ethno-Ornithological Approach to Omens and Prognostication among the Ch”orti” Maya of Guatemala. Journal of Ethnobiology 37: 604-620.

Johnson, D.H. (ed.) "Owls in Myth and Culture." This volume is in the process of being published by John Hopkins University Press. A final citation will be given here once the volume has been published.

Liddelow, G.L.; Wheeler, I.B.; Kavanagh, R.P. 2002. Owls in the southwest forests of western Australia. Pp. 233-241 In Newton, I.; Kavanagh, R.; Olsen, J.; Taylor, I. (eds.). Ecology and conservation of owls. CSIRO Publishing, Victoria, Australia. 363 pp.

Lyon, R.M. 1833. A Glance at the Manners, and Language of the Aboriginal Inhabitants of Western Australia; with a short vocabulary, Perth Gazette and Western Australian Journal, 23rd & 30th March.

Macintyre, K. and B. Dobson. 2009. Report on the “Owl Stone” Aboriginal Site at Red Hill, Northeast of Perth, Western Australia. Available at http://anthropologyfromtheshed.com/project/report-owl-stone-aboriginal-site-red-hill-northeast-perth/

Macintyre, K. and B. Dobson. 2017. Owl Beliefs in Nyungar Culture. Available at https://www.anthropologyfromtheshed.com/owl-beliefs-in-nyungar-culture

Macintyre, K. and B. Dobson. 2019. Traditional significance of Nuytsia floribunda (“moojar” or “kaanya” tree). Available at https://www.anthropologyfromtheshed.com/traditional-significance-of-nuytsia-floribunda-moojar-or-kaanya-tree

Moore, G.F. 1835. Excursion to the Northward, from the journal of George Fletcher Moore Esq. Perth Gazette and Western Australian Journal, 26 April and 2 May.

Moore, G.F. 1842. A Descriptive Vocabulary of the Language in Common Use Amongst the Aborigines of Western Australia. William S. Orr, London.

Serventy, D.L. and H.M. Whittell. 1948. Birds of Western Australia. 1 ^st edition, Paterson Brokensha Pty Ltd, Perth.

Serventy, D.L. and H.M. Whittell. 1976. Birds of Western Australia. 5 ^th edition. University of Western Australia Press, Nedlands, Perth. 481 pp.

Thieberger, N. and McGregor, W. eds. 1994. Macquarie Aboriginal Words. Macquarie Library Pty Ltd, Macquarie University, New South Wales.

Tindale, N. 1940. Map Showing the Distribution of the Aboriginal Tribes of Australia. Government Photolithographer, Adelaide. https://nla.gov.au/nla.obj-230054338/view

Von Brandenstein, C.G. 1988. Nyungar Anew. Pacific Linguistics. Series C – No. 99. Department of Linguistics, Research School of Pacific Studies, Australian National University, Canberra.

Walley, T. and M. Klesch. 2014. Djerap: Noongar Birds. Batchelor Institute of Indigenous Tertiary Education, Batchelor Press, Northern Territory.

Whitehurst, R. 1992. Noongar Dictionary: Noongar to English and English to Noongar. 1 ^st edition. Noongar Language and Culture Centre, Bunbury, Western Australia.

New Paragraph

Macrozamia: the fermented oil fruit of southwestern Australia

Sat, 25 Mar 2023 23:42:52 GMT

Prepared by Ken Macintyre and Barb Dobson
Research anthropologists

Since early times humans have experimented in preserving, enhancing and modifying their natural foods through culturally ingenious methods of fermentation, drying, leaching, salting and burial in earth pits, especially when valued seasonal resources were plentiful and highly perishable. In this paper we argue that the Noongar people of southwestern Australia prepared the sarcotesta (the red outer layer of the Macrozamia seed) by soaking and burying to improve its nutritional value, digestibility, texture, taste and to facilitate its easy removal from the seed. We take the view that the anaerobic pit in which it was processed provided an effective means of short term storage, extending the shelf-life and duration of seasonal consumption of this highly valued perishable food.

We have previously questioned in another paper anthropologyfromtheshed.com/project/the-ancient-practice-of-macrozamia-pit-processing-in-southwestern-australia/ why anthropologists and archaeologists continue to promote the idea that Noongar processing of Macrozamia sarcotesta was primarily a detoxification process. Is this presumption a legacy of the early colonial recorders (such as Grey 1840-1841) whose assumptions based on the writings of Captain Cook determined that the outer seed covering (or hull) must necessarily be toxic unless processed in the traditional manner? Even to this day there is confusion and uncertainty as to whether the ripe red sarcotesta of Macrozamia seed is toxic or not because there are conflicting views in the literature (for example, the Chemical Branch of the Mines Department 1938-1939 versus the findings of Ladd et al 1993).

Throughout this paper we explore some of the possible reasons and practical applications of how traditional Macrozamia sarcotesta was processed. Our replicative experiments which were carried out over three fruiting seasons (March 2008, 2009, 2010) demonstrated that the fruit, after processing by soaking and/or burying, became soft, oily, fleshy, nutritious and easy to remove from the seed by hand. Processing improved the nutritional value, especially the lipid levels which increased by 12.5% on a dry basis (see Table 1). The taste of the fruit before and after processing was not fully assessed by us, as at the time of experimentation we were uncertain about its toxicity owing to conflicting views in the scientific literature. We think that the taste of this lipid-rich food was a culturally acquired taste and possibly falls into the new scientifically established taste category known as “oleogustus” (Latin, oleo, oily or fatty +gustus, taste) – a sixth basic taste that was isolated by a group of scientists in 2015 (Running et al 2015: 515).

As anthropologists we wanted to know the nutritional science behind this ancient food processing practice which is potentially one of the oldest in the world. To understand how and why Noongar people traditionally processed Macrozamia sarcotesta, we undertook our own anthropological reconstruction of processing techniques using as our guide a range of documented ethnohistorical descriptions and consultations with Noongar Elders.

Aim: The aim of our reconstructive anthropological experiments was to gain an understanding of why Noongar people, unlike other Aboriginal groups in Australia, processed and consumed only the sarcotesta (outer fleshy layer) of Macrozamia discarding the carbohydrate-rich seed (endosperm). It is our assumption that the sarcotesta was processed for a number of reasons, most importantly to improve its palatability, digestibility, increase its nutritional value and to facilitate its easy removal from the seed. We would also suggest that the anaerobic pit process further provided a form of storage to delay spoilage and to prolong the consumption of this valuable oil-rich seasonal food resource.

In this paper we have tried to reconstruct the traditional methods used to process the outer fruity rind (sarcotesta) of Macrozamia seed. To achieve this we have relied on ethnohistorical accounts, contemporary Noongar views and some anthropological imagination. Never before, to our knowledge, have such experiments been conducted to assess the food value of processed Macrozamia sarcotesta. As research anthropologists it has been a mystery to us as to why the nutritional value and composition of this unique ancient food has never been evaluated by food scientists, anthropologists and archaeologists alike.

It is well established that the kernel (or endosperm) of Macrozamia species found in southwestern Australia is highly toxic and contains harmful glycosides including macrozamin that was first isolated from the kernel of Macrozamia riedlei by Lythgoe and Riggs in 1949 but Noongar people traditionally consumed only the processed fleshy outer layer or sarcotesta. And yet there has been no scientific evidence that conclusively establishes whether this thin fruity fleshy layer is toxic or not. Why such definitive research has not been carried out in the name of public safety by our local universities and government authorities is unfathomable in this day and age, given the presence of these plants in our remnant urban bushland areas and many council landscaped gardens. When we asked veterinary specialists about instances of Macrozamia poisoning in dogs, they said it was a problem but they could not be certain which part of the ingested seed or seed coat was responsible for what is known as cycad toxicosis.

Until it has been scientifically verified that the seed coat is non-toxic, we would caution against anyone consuming Macrozamia sarcotesta – ripe or unripe, processed or unprocessed – for safety reasons.

Methods and Material

Seeds from the large cones of Macrozamia fraseri were used for our experiments. This cycad species, according to Barrett and Tay (2005:28) ‘occurs from Jurien Bay to Mandurah, and is common in the bushlands of Kings Park and Bold Park.’1 Florabase WA describes Macrozamia fraseri as

‘tree or (cycad), trunk variable; dull strongly keeled leaves with narrow to medium leaflets; large, broad cones.’

According to the Cycad pages M. fraseri is distinguished by its ‘robust and often arborescent habit, keeled leaves, densely woolly crowns and large cones.’ Macro derives from macros, Greek, meaning large or long (see Sharr 1996: 159). The seed cones can be large and long, sometimes containing up to 160 seeds, each seed measuring about 3-5 cm long and 2-3 cm wide, often ovoid or egg-shaped. Of the three species of Macrozamia found in southwestern Australia, M. fraseri was the first to be named. It was named in 1842 by the Dutch botanist Miquel to honour Charles Fraser (1788 -1831) the colonial botanist of New South Wales who accompanied Captain James Stirling in his expedition up the Swan River in 1827 to observe the soil, botany and geology for an assessment of the region’s suitability for a colonial settlement. 2

Since colonial times the Macrozamia plant of southwestern Australia has commonly been known as the “zamia palm” – although it is not a true palm but a cycad. Cycads are seed plants (cycad meaning ‘palm like’).3 They develop seed cones (or strobili) not flowers. It is interesting to note that Macrozamia was the first toxic plant to be recorded for Western Australia.

In replicating indigenous Macrozamia sarcotesta processing methods, traditional implements such as the wanna (digging stick) and dtappa (stone knife) were not used. A spade was employed for digging the pits, a pocket knife for separating the firmly adhering sarcotesta from the seed and plastic buckets were used for collecting and soaking the seeds. A sandy patch in our back garden in Perth was the location for our reconstructive processing experiments which were carried out over three successive seasons – March 2008, March 2009 and March 2010. For the “soaking” experiments saline water was sourced from the Avon River in 2008 and from the Swan River in 2009 and 2010 in an attempt to replicate the salty or brackish water traditionally used. At the time of traditional Macrozamia seed processing (late summer/ autumn), fresh water was a scarce resource in southwestern Australia. Most dried-out river pools were brackish or saline, often containing high levels of microorganisms.

In 2008 and 2010 we collected ripe seeds from a private property in Toodyay and in 2009 the seeds for our experiments were sourced from Bold Park bushland by staff from the Botanical Garden Parks Authority (BGPA) in our presence to ensure that only “ripe” fruit with their sarcotesta intact were collected. The results of our 2009 processing experiments were later analysed by the Chem Centre WA.

In all our experiments we collected seeds of Macrozamia fraseri when they were ripe and possessed a strong characteristic odour. The seed had a bright red or orange-red thin fleshy outer covering which enclosed a stony shell (sclerotesta) enveloping the kernel. Throughout this paper we cannot emphasise enough the importance of ripeness in the collection and processing of Macrozamia sarcotesta.

The accuracy of our anthropologically reconstructed experiments relied heavily on 19th century documented accounts. Often these were vague, some possibly deriving from second hand sources (colonial hearsay or newspaper references), although we acknowledge that without these descriptions our investigative research would not have been possible.

Indigenous food processing has a long tradition of trial-and-error and has undergone thousands of years of testing and fine-tuning, adjusting to localised climatic and environmental conditions in southwestern Australia. Noongar women would have been skilled technologists in the processing and preparation of Macrozamia sarcotesta.

Preliminary experimentation carried out in March 2008

A pilot study was carried out in March 2008 during the Macrozamia fruiting season to test the viability of the three historically described methods of processing sarcotesta by the Noongar people of southwestern Australia. These techniques were (i) water-soaking, (ii) burying (iii) soaking and then burying the seeds. Moore (1835 in Schoobert 2005: 424), who provides one of the earliest descriptions of baio processing, describes it as having been ‘steeped so long in water, or buried in the earth, as to arrive at a state approaching decay.’ He describes the flavour of the sarcotesta as ‘something like that of medlar, or the taste of old cheese.’ In a later publication (1842) he describes soaking the nuts for only ‘a few days’ and then burying. This is consistent with Grey’s (1841) description of soaking for “several days” then burying for ‘about a fortnight.’ Drummond’s early work vaguely refers to the “boyas” or Zamia fruit being steeped either in water or buried in the earth ‘for some weeks.’

The fruit of the “Zamia” is variously recorded in the ethnohistorical literature as biyoo (Lyon 1833), baio (Moore 1835), bayoo (Bunbury 1836), by-yu (Grey 1840:22), by-yu (Symmons 1841), boyas (Drummond 1842), boyah (Edwards 1894), bay-i-o (Ward and Fountain 1907: 211) and boyoo (Hammond 1933). In an earlier publication Grey (1840:22) records “by-yu” as ‘the nut of the Zamia tree, when enveloped with pulp’ and in his Exploration Journal he writes:

‘this name is applied to the pulp of the nut of a species of palm.’ (Grey 1841:295)

Moore (1842) in his Descriptive Vocabulary changes his original spelling of baio to conform to Grey’s by-yu.

In the southern region it was commonly known as quenine (also spelt quinine, kwinin, kween-een, gwineen and quinning). Grey (1840: 17,72, 114) records gwineen at King George Sound as ‘the common stock of food.’ He is probably referring to its abundance when in season. Writing much earlier at King George Sound, Captain Barker in 1830 records the name as quinine or quenine and describes it as being buried

‘in the earth for about a moon when it becomes fine eating’ (Barker 1830 in Mulvaney and Green 1992: 302).

Barker derived this information from his indigenous informant Maragnan. Drummond (1862) also refers to burial for a month at King George Sound. Bunbury (1836) referring to the Vasse and Perth areas refers to bayoo (as it was known there) being buried for ‘a month.’

Selection of preparation method and timing would have varied depending on weather factors, availability of water, individual and group food and taste preferences, seasonal crop yield, the availability of other foods, variations in regional practice and other cultural factors not known to modern day researchers.

All three methods that we trialled proved viable and successful in rendering the sarcotesta (outer covering) soft, pliable, oily and easy to remove from the seed. Our preliminary study indicated that anaerobic pit processing may have involved dry fermentation and leaching, and also a means short-term fruit preservation and storage.

Replicative experimentation in March 2009 to assess food value

Macrozamia fraseri seeds collected from Bold Park Bushland

In early March 2009 we conducted further processing experiments, on the basis of the success of the above trials, using 40 Macrozamia fraseri seeds sourced from Bold Park bushland. These were collected by staff from the Botanic Gardens and Parks Authority (BGPA) under our advice and observation to ensure that only ‘physiologically ripe’ seeds were collected. Several days before harvest we had identified a couple of disintegrating female cones to ensure that only “ripe” fruit were targeted for collection. We observed some “fresh” seeds but as these did not appear ripe, that is, they lacked the distinctive all-pervading ripeness odour, we did not collect them. Seeds that were collected displayed a bright red seed coat, possessed an odour and showed no obvious signs of animal predation or decay, although in some cases insect activity, native and non-native, was present (see Plates 7-9).

Variability in Macrozamia Seed Production

Seed and foliage samples were collected by BGPA personnel for two herbarium vouchers to be lodged in the BGPA and the State Herbarium, respectively. These were verified as Macrozamia fraseri (see Appendix). The seeds were collected in Bold Park (Reserve A45409) under conditions relating to our Bold Park Research Permit BPRP 09-002. At the time of collection we noticed (and so did the BGPA seed collectors) that there were many fewer Macrozamia strobili fruiting in the bushland than in the previous season. Whether this was the result of seasonal fluctuations in weather patterns, fire history or the opportunistic and sporadic seasonal variability of Macrozamia seed production is beyond the scope of our expertise to comment.

When we consulted a group of Noongar Elders from the Swan Valley Community they explained that

‘there are good years and bad years… when it’s a good year, the plant uses up all its energy so there are fewer the next. It happens with other bush tucker too.’

The Elders stated that ‘the old people’ knew that burning the country regenerated the plants.4

‘The smoke and ash was like food for the country.’

Indigenous semi-cultivation

‘Firing country’ as a form of land and indigenous resource management is well-recognised in the archaeological literature (e.g. Beaton 1982; Hallam 1975; Smith 1982:117 and Gott 1982). This practice was confirmed by Noongar spokespersons who stressed that anthropogenic firing regimes were once instrumental in the sustained production of Macrozamia fruit as well as other bush tuckers. It is probable that by this means Noongar people were able to regularise or synchronise the cycle of bayoo production, increasing its annual fruitage. We would suggest that this was a form of indigenous semi-cultivation.

Macrozamia fruit production is variable. Only a small subset of female plants usually produce seeds within a localised population during any one season. Ripening phases also vary from plant to plant and within the same plant the cones may exhibit differential maturation and dehiscence rates. Seed production is usually staggered, except in the event of fire-induced masting occurrences. We are unclear about the frequency of traditional anthropogenic firing regimes on plant colonies but the literature suggests that a patchwork or mosaic pattern of ‘fire-stick farming’ was practised (e.g. Rhys-Jones 1978, Hallam 1975 and Gammage 2012) and this would have facilitated the indigenous management of Macrozamia fruit production, ensuring a predictable supply of this crop, subject to rainfall and other seasonal factors being favourable.

The Noongar were pyro-engineers, well acquainted with the effects of smoke, ash and fire on indigenous vegetation and its natural productions.

Seasonal fruit such as Macrozamia sarcotesta deteriorates soon after ripening from oxidative spoilage and predation from birds and animals. For this reason there must have been a sense of urgency to collect this valuable fat-rich food resource before it rotted away or was stripped from the seed by rival nonhuman sarcotesta -raiders. We are convinced that the soaking of seeds in brackish water and pit burying were a practical and energy conserving means of stockpiling ripe fruit and a conscious strategy for extending its seasonal consumption and enhancing its nutritional value.

“Control” sample: ripe “unprocessed” sarcotesta delivered to the Chem Centre WA for analysis

40 seed specimens were transported to our backyard in Perth where processing pits were being prepared. The sarcotesta of 9 ripe seeds was removed from the sclerotesta using a sharp pocket knife as the thin seed cover was firmly attached and extremely difficult to remove from the seed by hand. The pared strips of sarcotesta were placed into a plastic container, chilled overnight and then couriered to the Chem Centre WA the following day for analysis. This untreated sarcotesta was to be used as our “control” sample.

Reconstructive Processing Method 1 – Soaking and burying

Bunbury (1836), Grey (1841), Moore (1842), Drummond (1862) and others refer to the method of soaking and burying the Macrozamia fruit. As noted by Grey (1841, Vol 2: 296):

The native women collect the nuts from the palms [Macrozamia] in the month of March, and having placed them in some shallow pool of water, they leave them to soak for several days. When they have ascertained that the by-yu has been immersed in water for a sufficient time, they dig, in a dry sandy place, holes which they call mor-dak; these holes are about the depth that a person’s arms can reach, and one foot in diameter; they line them with rushes, and fill them up with the nuts, over which they sprinkle a little sand, and then cover the holes nicely over with the tops of the grass-tree…’

Stage 1: Soaking

12 ripe Macrozamia seeds were placed in a plastic bucket and covered by 3 litres of brackish water sourced from the Swan River. The idea was to replicate the brackish water that we assume was used at this time of the year (end of summer/ early autumn) to process the Macrozamia sarcotesta. We left the brackish water to settle for a day, then added the seeds to the water and soaked them for six days. They were observed and monitored regularly to check daily water temperature variations (17-24 degrees C.) and any discernible changes to the sarcotesta. The average daily shade temperature varied from 30-35 degrees C. After three days the water started to become cloudy and the sarcotesta covering the seeds showed signs of swelling.

After six days the water was opaque with an oily slick on the surface and visible evidence of an unidentified mould or fungal growth (see Plate 20). When the seeds were extracted from the water the sarcotesta showed no visible signs of any fungal growth. The outer covering was firm, moist and had a glossy orange-red colour.

Stage 2: Burying – reconstructing Macrozamia sarcotesta earth-processing pits

The 12 seeds were removed from the water medium after 6 days and then buried in a dry sandy anaerobic processing pit approximately 30 cm radius x 50 cm deep for two weeks. This pit was lined with Xanthorrhoea fronds somewhat resembling a bird’s nest (see Plate 26). These fronds would have helped to waterproof the food resource, protect it from sand contamination and create an anaerobic compartment for fermentation. This together with the water repellent sandy soils of the Swan Coastal Plains would have protected the fruit from external moisture and unseasonal rains. We surmise that depth of burial chamber (approximately an arm’s length, according to Grey 1840) was important for a number of reasons, including to create a relatively stable anaerobic environment and to protect against fruit-predation and spoilage by insects and burrowing animals.

Grey (1841: 296) states with respect to soaking “for several days” and burying for two weeks that:

‘in about a fortnight the pulp which encases the nut becomes quite dry, and it is then fit to eat, but if eaten before that it produces the effects already described.’

Grey’s (1841:296) view on the processed sarcotesta pulp having to be ‘quite dry’ in order to be ready for consumption totally contradicts the views of Bunbury and Drummond, and also Moore who writes that the Macrozamia fruit must be

‘steeped so long in water, or buried in the earth, as to arrive at a state approaching decay’ (Moore 14th April 1835 in Schoobert 2005: 424).

We start to wonder what Grey was eating because all of our experiments showed that processed sarcotesta after soaking and/or burying was soft, pliable, pulpy and oily. Even Drummond describes the flavour of processed boya as tasting like ‘train oil.’ Grey’s (1841) theory leaves us with the question of how do you dry an oil seed in an anaerobic pit?

Reconstructive Processing Method 2 – Soaking using saline river or seawater (no burying)

An early reference to the soaking of Macrozamia or “bayoo nuts” is provided by Bunbury (1836) who states:

‘The quickest method of ripening the Bayoo nuts is to bury them in a hole of water at the edge of a swamp or river when they become fit to eat in a few days but in this way they acquire a very strong bad smell & unpleasant taste, so I recommend all who are willing to wait a month for such delicacies, to bury them in the dry ground rather than in water.’ (Bunbury 1836 in Cameron and Barnes 2014:136)

We are unsure whether Bunbury is referring here to human constructed soaking pools on the edge of rivers and swamps which at this time of year were mostly brackish or dried up. The few freshwater sources that remained in permanent pools would have been protected as a valuable resource for human usage rather than risking contamination through soaking toxic Macrozamia nuts. Both Edwards (1894: 233) and Hammond (1933: 28) describe salt water as being used in the preparation of boyah or boyoo. Edwards describes how he observed boyah being soaked “in shallow brooks” and also sometimes in bags ‘suspended by a string attached to a stake on the sea beach.’

Hammond (1933: 28) also notes that

‘When the fruit was ripe it was picked and then submerged in salt water for a couple of weeks, after which it became soft and mealy. Only the fleshy part, which resembled a tomato in colour and taste, was eaten. The nut was not eaten.’

Using these scant descriptions provided by Bunbury (1836), Edwards (1894), Hammond (1933) and information gained from contemporary Noongar consultants, we attempted to replicate the method of Macrozamia sarcotesta processing using saline water. Twelve Macrozamia fraseri seeds were placed in a plastic bucket to which 3 litres of saline water sourced from the Swan River was added. The bucket was placed in a shady position for 14 days to replicate the ‘couple of weeks’ period suggested by Hammond (1933:28). The seeds were observed and monitored regularly to check daily water temperature variations and any discernible changes to the sarcotesta. The average daily shade temperature varied from 30-35 degrees C.

After seven days of soaking the seeds were still a red-orange colour, having lost only a minimal amount of their original colour intensity. The sarcotesta was still intact on all the seeds and showed no visible signs of decay. The salt water solution was cloudy with an oily slick on the surface and emitted a rank smell, possibly the result of micro-organism activity in the water.

After a further seven days of soaking the seeds were again examined. The sarcotestas had swollen while shrinking at the hilum end, exposing the area where the seeds were formerly joined to the cone. We assumed that this shrinking possibly indicated that the flesh was ready for eating. It had an over-powering stench that may have resembled what Bunbury (1836) described as a ‘very strong bad smell.’ This fetid smell was likely a by-product of the stagnant saline water and possibly a ferment of microbial activity. Olfactory as well as gustatory perceptions are always subjective and culturally relative and what one person or group considers malodorous or bad tasting may be a mouth-watering signal to someone from another culture.

Was this ancient technique of soaking Macrozamia seeds in saline water analogous to such fermentation practices as soaking olives in brine?

Reconstructive Processing Method 3 – Burying for a “moon” (no soaking)

Barker (1830) provides the earliest account of Macrozamia sarcotesta processing. Based on information from his indigenous informant Maragnan, Barker describes quinine (or quenine) – as it was called in the southern region – as follows:

‘This is the great country for ‘Quinine’, the fruit of the low fan leaved palm which after gathering they bury in the earth for about a moon when it becomes fine eating.’ (Barker 1830 in Green and Mulvaney 1992:302).

Bunbury (1836 in Cameron and Barnes 2013: 136), referring to the Swan Coastal Plain area, also states that ‘they must be left a month, i.e. from moon to moon.’ Drummond (1842, 1862) too points out that Macrozamia nuts were buried for about ‘a moon’ (approximately 28 days, a lunar cycle). Following these descriptions we buried 12 Macrozamia seeds in a processing pit and left them undisturbed for 28 days. We dug a hole in the same manner as already described for Experiment 002 (Burying before soaking). When the seeds were unearthed after a month, they were bright red in colour and the outer skin which showed signs of shrinkage at the hilum had increased in thickness and become more fleshy or voluminous. The sarcotesta was not dry but soft and oily and on the verge of decomposition. It had a mild Macrozamia odour but not overpowering. The processed fleshy covering was easy to remove by hand without the need for a sharp instrument. It was removed from the seed, frozen and at a later date couriered to the Chem Centre for analysis. Like all other samples, it contained a characteristic bright orange paste, suggestive of a high beta-carotene content

in March 2010 we were curious to test whether extra time within a controlled dry anaerobic environment would affect the condition of the sarcotesta and its storage life. Ripe seeds of Macrozamia fraseri were sourced from a private property in Toodyay and they were buried for a six week period without soaking. This was two weeks longer than the ethnohistorically prescribed “one moon” or four week period by Barker (1830), Bunbury (1836) and Drummond (1862). After six weeks the sarcotesta showed signs of shrivelling and decay (see Plate 34) and at this time we assumed that the consumption of the decaying and somewhat rancid looking sarcotesta may have been deleterious to health. However, a number of recorders including James Backhouse have noted that the Noongar

‘buried or macerated the nut until the rind became half-decomposed in which state they ate the rind rejecting the kernel.’ (Backhouse 1843: 542)

Drummond also emphasises that only the fermented red rind or covering was consumed by the Noongar:

“The nuts, when deprived of their red covering, are not used by the natives as food.” (Drummond May 1842).

Fermented sarcotesta was a seasonally valued fat source possibly consumed at different stages of processing/ fermentation, depending on individual or group taste preference and circumstance. We wonder, could the sarcotesta in this semi-decayed condition have once been a Noongar gourmet delicacy equivalent to our highly esteemed Stilton or even a ripe camembert?

Variability in burying regimes

There is no fixed or agreed upon time for the processing of Macrozamia sarcotesta by means of soaking and/or burying in early ethnohistorical accounts. Grey (1840, 1841) refers to burying the nuts for ‘about a fortnight’ (after soaking) to render the pulp ‘quite dry’ whereas others, such as Barker (1830), Bunbury (1836) and Drummond (1862), refer to burying (without soaking) the nuts for a month or a “moon.” Grey’s two week period possibly takes into consideration that the sarcotesta was already soft and partially water-fermented and had it been left buried in the earth for longer than two weeks, it would have decayed and led to fruit spoilage. If soaking was absent, then a four week period of pit processing may have been optimal, although the precise timing regimes would have varied depending on region, climate, soil type and cultural considerations.

We would suggest that a part of the surplus resource would have been buried successively to accommodate the variable fruit ripening phases from plant to plant and from grove to grove, enabling some processing pits to be ready before others. We do not understand the specifics of these ancient burial regimes. However, we do believe that the variability in production and staggered ripening times may have been advantageous as it would have extended the season of consumption. This may well explain Moore’s (1842: 24) comment that the by-yu ‘is in full season in the month of May.’ He is referring to the indigenous consumption of this highly coveted fat-rich food.

Grey (1840:16) refers to April and May as ‘the season for eating by-yu’ or “By-yu ngannoween.” Moore records the name of the season corresponding to April and May as geran (nowadays called “jeran”). This translates as “fat” (jerang, jerrung, cherung) and corresponds to the time of the year around autumn when it was mandatory for Noongar people to build up their reserves of sub-cutaneous body fat to ensure their survival through the long cold dark wet lean season of makuru (known as mokkar or makur in the Albany region). A wide range of fat-rich foods were consumed at this time including bardi, kuya (frog), yakkan (turtle), kalda (mullet) and salmon ( http://anthropologyfromtheshed.com/project/the-ancient-practice-of-macrozamia-pit-processing-in-southwestern-australia/)

Our replicative experimentation of Macrozamia pit processing and storage would suggest that the duration of the burial method was limited by the onset of heavy autumn rains, although we wonder whether the use of Xanthorrhoea fronds to line and cover the processing chambers may have served as a form of waterproofing thatch to prevent fruit spoilage. Salvado (1851 in Stormon 1977: 161), unlike the other recorders, refers to burying the whole Macrozamia seed cone or what he calls the “flower” in the ground:

‘The shell is red, and of fine texture, with no pulp. In order to make them fit for eating, the natives bury the flower [cone] together with the nuts for a certain time a couple of feet deep in the ground. The heat of the earth makes them swell as if to germinate a new plant, and they are then cooked on hot coals to form a substantial food with a pleasant taste.’

Salvado (1851 in Storman 1977) is the only recorder to describe this method of interring the whole cone in the processing pit. The female cone may contain up to 150 or more large seeds. As we did not try this experiment, we cannot assess the method but we believe it is highly feasible that such a method of burying the whole seed cone may have been used by Noongar people living in the kwongan or sand plain country to the north of Perth, the district to which Salvado was referring. The large pineapple-like cones of the female plant may weigh up to 10 kilos or more. According to the early botanist Von Huegel, who observed “Zamia” fruit at the Swan River area in the early 1830’s, each fruit “spike” is described as weighing up to 18-22 kilograms:

‘I was astounded by the huge fruit of the Zamia. They grow fairly close together here and several had more than one spike of fruit each weighing between 40 and 50 pounds’ (Von Huegel 1833 in Clark 1994: 28)

Some early colonial accounts refer to the dense stands of Macrozamia vegetation that once grew in the Swan River colony, often in clusters or colonies, especially after fire. It is highly probable that traditional indigenous firing regimes contributed to the observed large size and weight of these culturally valued fruit.

Chem Centre sarcotesta analysis results – 1938 & 1939

As early as 1938 when the Chemical Branch of the WA Mines Department tested the seeds and sarcotesta of Macrozamia fraseri to determine their toxicity, they found that only the seeds were toxic.

‘Parts of the fruit of the zamia plant (Macrozamia Fraseri, Miq.), common locally, are poisonous to cattle, producing gastro-intestinal irritation. The fruit consists of a hard seed or nut containing a starchy endosperm surrounded, when ripe and fresh, by a thin fleshy layer of mesocarp with an orange-red epicarp. Only the seeds were found to be poisonous – a toxic principle not precipitated by lead acetate, and not extracted by immiscible solvents, being present. The fruit pulp surrounding the seeds contained 14 per cent of a bright orange-coloured oil, which appears to contain a considerable amount of carotene and closely resembles palm oil in its physical and chemical constants. Further work is in progress.’ (Annual Report of the Chemical Branch, Mines Department, for 1938).

The above noted similarity between the carotene-rich oil of Macrozamia and that of palm oil is interesting. According to Clegg (1973):

“Palm oil is a fruit‐coat fat that is low in sterols and rich in vitamins A and E. Up to 50% of its fatty acids are unsaturated, and linoleic acid constitutes up to 11% of the total acids. Its composition makes it an edible oil of nutritional importance…’

Tests on the nutritional composition of the seed coat of Macrozamia fraseri conducted in 1939 by the Chemical Branch of the Mines Department revealed:

‘The fleshy layer (a) contained: water, 6.5; oil, 28.2; protein, 8.0; fibre, 8.9; ash, 2.6; nitrogen-free extract (by diff.), 45.8 per cent. The orange-red oil extracted with petroleum spirit from the fleshy layer had the following constants: Saponification value, 213.0; acid value, 7-2; iodine value (Wijs), 61.1; n/d/25 1.4630; n/d/40 1.4573; n/d/60 1.4500; it contained a considerable amount of carotene. The 45.8 per cent of nitrogen-free extract consisted of: Starch, 5.08 ; sugars, 3.00; acid (as malic acid), 1.34 ; mucilage, pentosans, hemicellulose, etc. 36.33 per cent.’ (Annual Report of the Chemical Branch, Mines Department, for 1939).

These nutritional analyses reveal high levels of oil or fat (14% and 28.2% respectively) in untreated Macrozamia sarcotesta.

Chem Centre sarcotesta analysis results – (Macintyre & Dobson experiments 2009)

With the exception of our own work in 2009, all chemical analyses of the nutrient content of Macrozamia sarcotesta (e.g. WA Chemical Branch 1938-1939, Thieret 1958 and Ladd et al 1993) have used “untreated” sarcotesta. It was for this reason to gain an understanding of the nutritional composition of “treated” Macrozamia seed coat that we trialled different historically-recorded indigenous processing methods. After each experiment the processed sarcotesta was removed from the hard sclerotesta, placed in a plastic container, frozen and at a later date transported to the ChemCentre WA where a basic analysis was carried out to determine levels of sarcotesta fat (oil), ash, moisture, NDF (non-digestible carbohydrate, fibre), NFE (digestible carbohydrate, free sugars), protein and kilojoule energy content, pre- and post- processing (See Table 1). The untreated sample served as the “control.”

Fat

All three processing techniques increased the oil-rich content of the Macrozamia sarcotesta rendering it equal to an oil seed.5

Lipid levels’ significantly increased by 12.5% on a dry basis (Chem Centre WA 2009).

A bright orange-red oil was extracted from our samples. This was not tested although the deep orange-red colour of the lipid extract suggested a high level of carotene. Similarly, in 1939 the Chemical Branch of the Mines Department had identified the presence of ‘a considerable amount of carotene’ in the outer fleshy layer. Could these lipid-soluble carotenoids have traditionally provided Noongar people with an essential of source of Vitamin A and possibly other vitamins with strong anti-oxidant properties? It is well known that carotene is the precursor of Vitamin A which is required for healthy skin, vision, eye health and immune function.

Could these semi-decayed fruits have once been a Noongar gourmet delicacy equivalent to an expensive Stilton or ripe camembert?

NFE (digestible carbohydrates)

There was a noticeable decrease (%dry basis) in free sugars (NFE) after processing, possibly as a result of fermentation. When we applied a crude iodine test to treated and untreated sarcotesta samples, these both showed the presence of starch (see Plates 37 & 38).

NDF (non-digestible carbohydrates)

There was a slight increase in NDF (nitrogen free extract) as a result of processing, most noticeably in the ‘buried only’ specimens with a slight loss in the ‘soaked only’ specimens.

Moisture

Ken Dods (food scientist, Chem Centre WA, 2010) who facilitated all the chemical analyses of our Macrozamia sarcotesta samples stated that:

‘Moisture levels indicate this is not a drying process. However, increases in ash levels initially after soaking and before burying indicate an uptake of soluble salts which may provide beneficial preservation through anti-microbial activity and lowering of AW – free moisture levels, particularly during the first phases of burial duration. (Chem Centre WA 2010)

There appears to be a leaching process enacted by the burying possibly an interaction between the soil environment and the food. Both available sugars and soluble salts have reduced during the burying process. It is difficult to determine if the loss of available sugars (NFE) is through leaching or a fermentation process.’ (Chem Centre WA 2010)

Protein

There was a slight increase in protein levels as a result of processing, especially after ‘soaking and burying.’

Energy

‘There was not much change in the total energy availability, a slight increase 5% in metabolisable energy for the soaked/ buried sample’ (Chem Centre WA).

The conscious processing of Macrozamia sarcotesta was an important evolutionary development in the nutritional diet of Noongar people in that it significantly increased the calorific value of the food. In hunter-gatherer cultures energy rich foods, especially fats and sugars, were highly valued and much sought after. The cost-benefit of Macrozamia sarcotesta processing involved a low to moderate labour input with a value-added high energy output food product.

Discussion

Our experiments demonstrated that changes to nutrient levels in Macrozamia sarcotesta as a result of processing involved elements of fermentation and leaching, either alone or in combination. Drummond (1839) describes the processing of “boyas” as ‘a sort of fermentation.’

‘Fermentation is one of the oldest forms of food preservation technologies in the world…..The first fermented foods consumed probably were fermented fruits.’ (Battcock and Azam-Ali 1998, FAO).

Fermentation is the “slow decomposition process of organic substances induced by micro-organisms, or by complex nitrogenous substances (enzymes) of plant or animal origin.” (Walker, 1988). It can be described as a biochemical change, which is brought about by the anaerobic or partially anaerobic oxidation of carbohydrates by either micro-organisms or enzymes. (Battcock and Azam-Ali 1998, FAO).

The soaking of seeds in saline water may have had a beneficial effect on preserving the sarcotesta by slowing down microbial activity, especially during the first stage of anaerobic burial. The lowering of free sugars (NFE) as a result of processing may suggest fermentation and the burying in dry sandy soil may have provided a leaching medium causing the NFE and ash (soluble salts) to reduce. It is likely that elements of fermentation and leaching were occurring at different stages of sarcotesta processing.

It was not a drying process

Our results do not support Grey’s (1840, 1841) view that the Macrozamia sarcotesta is ready for eating when it is ‘quite dry.’ Even we were convinced by his assertion when carrying out our first processing experiments and we were surprised to find that the processed sarcotesta was not “dry” but rather soft, pulpy and oily similar to the state of near-decomposition described by Moore (1835), Bunbury (1836) and Drummond (1839, 1862). We then realised how easy it was to be taken in by an explorer’s account without questioning it, and we were left wondering how many other early colonial ethnographic descriptions and assumptions involving Noongar culture, such as food processing and consumption, have never been questioned, tested or debated, With the exception of Ethel Hassell, most 19th century recorders were male and they would not have been privy to Aboriginal women’s domestic economic activities, including the often lengthy processing and preparation of foods such as by-yu (Macrozamia), yanjet (bulrush), twotta (root bark) and warrain (yam). Also problems in cross-cultural communication and the lack of eyewitness accounts often resulted in misunderstandings of the local language and culture. Many of the early descriptions and interpretations of indigenous culture derived from secondary sources, including early explorer’s journals and newspaper accounts, sometimes from the other colonies, intermixed with colonial hearsay.

Preserving and storing sarcotesta fruit

A further experiment was conducted to test the shelf life and storability of processed sarcotesta. After the fruit had been soaked and buried (in the soaking and burying experiment 0002), the sarcotesta was removed from the seed by hand and threaded ‘kebab style’ onto a strand of prepared native flax (Dianella revoluta) in a similar fashion to that described by Ethel Hassell (1975: 24). The specimen was stored in a sealed dry container for 12 months after which time it was delivered to the Chem Centre WA for analysis. It showed no signs of decay or drying.

The chemical analysis of this specimen showed a decrease in free sugars (NFE 14.8 -8.1% ar), possibly suggesting continued fermentation after processing. This may explain the significant increase in protein from 2.5 to 6.5 (% ar).

‘Increase in protein level is significant 15% on a dry basis.’ (Chem Centre WA 2010)

This experiment convinced us that it would have been possible and highly probable that sarcotesta was once stored. For how long, it is impossible to say. The stringing and dry storage of the processed and de-seeded Macrozamia sarcotesta would have been advantageous in transportation and trading of this item. According to the Chem Centre WA analysis, storage for 12 months in such dry conditions did not significantly affect ash, fat or moisture content but significantly increased the protein value of the food.

The question of toxicity of Macrozamia sarcotesta

Throughout our practical experiments we were continually mindful of a feeling of uncertainty surrounding the question of Macrozamia sarcotesta toxicity. We, like everyone else, were taken in by the colonial assumptions of Grey and others that the red fruit coat – the only part eaten – was toxic and that the indigenous rationale behind processing was principally for detoxification. This was further underscored by the results of a one-off study by Ladd et al (1993) which reported, as we have already discussed in a previous work, that the sarcotesta of M. riedlei seed contained ten times more toxin (macrozamin) than the kernel. See http://anthropologyfromtheshed.com/project/the-ancient-practice-of-macrozamia-pit-processing-in-southwestern-australia/ Ladd et al’s (1003) study contradicts the 1938 findings of the Government Chemical laboratory which stated that only the seeds were poisonous:

‘The fruit consists of a hard seed or nut containing a starchy endosperm surrounded, when ripe and fresh, by a thin fleshy layer of mesocarp with an orange-red epicarp. Only the seeds were found to be poisonous…’ (Annual Report of the Chemical Branch of the Mines Department for 1938).

Unsure what to believe, but concerned about Ladd’s (1993) toxic findings, we took extra precautions at all times when handling Macrozamia sarcotesta and also when sampling the final processed products. Although careful, we continually asked ourselves why would the Noongar people consume such a highly toxic substance and then discard the less toxic nutritious starch-rich kernel? Also, why would a plant poison its animal and bird vectors with a toxic sarcotesta at the critical time of ripening and seed dispersal? It didn’t make sense to us and it still doesn’t.

Burbidge and Whelan (1982: 66) from animal studies and personal communication with J.R. Cannon subscribe to the idea that the sarcotesta of Macrozamia riedlei is non-toxic. They note that:

‘In Macrozamia seeds, the poison is confined to inside the stony layer (J. R. Cannon, pers. comm.) and would not affect animals which swallow seeds whole, and fail to break them up in the gut.’

‘The edible outer integument of seeds, combined with the toxic inner integument, attracts the attention only of animals able to strip off the outer layer or ingest the seeds whole.’

A compelling study by Hall and Walter (2014) found that the sarcotesta of Macrozamia miquelii from Eastern Australia was non-toxic.6

“There is Toxic Cycasin in the Seeds of Cycads, but Not Their Sarcotesta “Fruit” ‘(Hall and Walter 2014: 862)

Hall and Walter (2014: 860) propose that Macrozamia sarcotesta was probably an ancient adaptation that served as ‘a reward for cycad seed dispersal fauna.’

Asmussen (2008: 94) cites a number of researchers who refer to Macrozamia sarcotesta as providing a “nutritionally valuable starchy food reward” for seed dispersers. She states:

‘The outer fleshy layer of Macrozamia seeds (the sarcotesta) is brightly coloured and acts as a food attractor, and provides a nutritionally valuable starchy food reward (Jones 1993; Moore 1999; Norstog and Nicholls 1997; Renner 2003).’

We wonder if bird and animal sarcotesta-eaters and seed dispersers were more attracted to the fat-rich nutrients contained in the Macrozamia seed coat?

Raw Sarcotesta of Macrozamia fraseri fed to rats showed no adverse effects

From observations in bushland, as well as in our back yard at the time of our experiments, we have seen evidence of non-native animals (rats or mice) having eaten quantities of ripe Macrozamia sarcotesta seemingly without harmful effects. This prompted us to conduct our own animal experiments in 2011 using two white male rats. Initially we tried feeding them a pure mashed Macrozamia sarcotesta diet (100%). However, they were reluctant to consume this food, so we blended the raw sarcotesta (60%) with mashed banana (40%) and fed them this mixture (Plate 40) twice a day over a 10 day period. They readily accepted this food. We cannot be sure whether their initial reluctance was due to the distinctive smell or taste of the raw sarcotesta or because it was outside the range of their normal diet of fruit, vegetables and rat pellets.

The rats’ health was monitored every day and they showed no obvious adverse effects in faecal matter, fluid consumption or behaviour as a result of ingesting the untreated Macrozamia sarcotesta over a ten day period. If anything, they seemed to thrive on it. However, the results of this simple rat experiment cannot be extrapolated to human ingestion of Macrozamia sarcotesta. Until a definitive scientific analysis is carried out to determine whether fully ripened Macrozamia sarcotesta is toxic or not, we would strongly recommend against human ingestion, especially in its raw state.

Our research suggests that bayoo (by-yu, baio, boyoo, bi-yoo) was an essential pre-winter food that would have added an important high energy source of lipid-rich nutrient to the traditional Noongar diet. In our study we have explored the historically-recorded methods of indigenous processing of Macrozamia sarcotesta which included soaking, burying or soaking and burying. All of these methods appear to have produced a palatable and culturally valued end product which was considered a delicacy, either cooked or raw (after processing).

Sarcotesta processing increases the fat content of bayoo

Much of the current knowledge relating to the processing of this traditional food derives from the observations and assumptions of early colonial recorders, especially the influential accounts of Grey (1840) and Moore (1842) who both posited that Macrozamia sarcotesta processing was carried out for the purpose of detoxification. However, it is our view that the primary function of processing the “fruit” or sarcotesta was to enhance its nutritional content, improve its taste, digestibility and to facilitate its easy removal from the seed by hand. Pit processing also enabled the short term storage of this highly perishable food and prolonged its seasonal consumption.

Until further scientific research is conducted, it is difficult to ascertain the exact chemical processes that were taking place. The soaking of Macrozamia sarcotesta in saline water may have involved elements of leaching, salting and possibly fermentation. Additional earth pit processing of the fruit in a dry anaerobic environment may have involved further elements of fermentation and leaching. Our findings did not support Grey’s (1840, 1841) description of pit processing as a drying treatment. In all our experiments the processed sarcotesta was soft, moist, pliable, oily and almost approaching a state of decay. These results were consistent with Moore’s earlier descriptions and also Bunbury (1836), Backhouse (1843) and Drummond (1862) who describe the end product as being consumed when approaching a state of decomposition. Individual or group taste preference may have determined at which stage of fermentation the food was consumed.

The results of our reconstructive experiments demonstrated that Macrozamia sarcotesta processing significantly increased the lipid (fat) content of this highly valued seasonal food. To our knowledge the Noongar are the only documented group in the world known to have processed cycad sarcotesta using anaerobic earth pits. We have no doubt that their processing of Macrozamia sarcotesta was a conscious strategy to preserve and maximise the fat quality of this traditional delicacy.

We caution readers not to experiment with consuming any part of the Macrozamia seed or sarcotesta for safety purposes. The seed is well known to contain toxins while the toxicity of the sarcotesta when fully ripe is yet to be definitively assessed.

We would like to thank Noongar Elders (past and present) for their advice on the traditional management of country and stories passed down with regards to the processing of Macrozamia as a food source. We would like to thank staff at the Botanic Gardens and Parks Authority, Bold Park and Kings Park, in particular Lesley Hammersley, Director of Horticulture and Conservation, for her enthusiasm and assistance in providing a permit for the collection of seed at Bold Park (Permit BPRP09-002) and for arranging licensed seed collectors to accompany us to supply ripe seeds of Macrozamia fraseri for our sarcotesta processing experiments. Foliage and seed specimens were also lodged with the BGPA and the WA Herbarium for study reference purposes (see Appendix 1).

We would like to thank Ken Dods and David Harris at the Chem Centre WA for carrying out the chemical testing and analysis of our Macrozamia sarcotesta specimens in 2009/2010 and Ken Dods for assisting in the scientific interpretation of these results.

Finally we would like to thank Mark Cornish, science communicator and consultant with Cheminem for his insights and helpful advice on this study.

ANNOTATIONS

1. Barrett and Tay (2016: 32) in their publication Perth Plants: A Field Guide to the Bushland and Coastal Flora of Kings Park and Bold Park confirm that the species known as M. fraseri commonly found in Kings Park and Bold Park was ‘Previously confused with M. riedlei, a common Jarrah forest species which differs in having flat rather than keeled leaflets and smaller cones’ (Barrett and Tay 2016: 32). In an earlier edition of this book which was published in 2005 Barrett and Tay had first amended the record to M. fraseri in Kings Park and Bold Park, not Macrozamia riedlei as recorded by Bennett in 1988.

2. Macrozamia fraseri was named in 1842 by the Dutch botanist Miguel, who had a special interest in cycads, palaeobotany and cycad fossils. Prior to this, early recorders and botanists (e.g. Robert Brown 1802, Stirling 1827, Moore 1842) had referred to our local Macrozamia species of southwestern Australia as “Zamia spiralis” after its close relative in the Eastern states.

As noted in our text, the species name fraseri honours Charles Fraser (1788 -1831) who was the colonial botanist of New South Wales from 1821-1831 and the first superintendent of the Sydney botanical garden. He had accompanied Captain James Stirling in his expedition up the Swan River in 1827 to observe the soil, botany and geology and to assess the region’s suitability for a colonial settlement. Fraser recorded and collected a range of plants including the “Zamia” which he observed in the vicinity of the Swan River ‘to attain the height of thirty feet’ (Fraser 1827 in Shoobert 2005: 51). Another report states ‘a height of twenty feet.’ Even if this is an exaggeration, it shows the robust arborescent habit of this species growing in the Perth area and northwards. Fraser’s report on the Swan River was published in Hooker’s Botanical Miscellany 1 (1830) (as noted by Sharr 1996: 128). Shoobert (2005: 582) points out that Fraser’s report ‘was instrumental in persuading the British Government to allow settlement in Western Australia.’

We encountered difficulty when researching the origin of this particular species’ name because the Cycad Pages website plantnet.rbgsyd.nsw.gov.au/…i-bin/cycadpg and the Botanic Gardens and Parks Authority website bgpa.wa.gov.au/…e-month/2315-january-2017 both state with reference to Macrozamia fraseri that ‘Fraseri honours Charles Fitzgerald Fraser (1883-1951), who was a Western Australian surveyor and pastoralist.’ However, this attribution is incorrect as the species was first named in 1842. We would recommend that BGPA and the Cycad Pages amend their records. The species’ name recognises Charles Fraser, the NSW colonial botanist who accompanied Stirling’s expedition up the Swan River in 1827 not the West Australian surveyor and pastoralist born in 1883.

There are two other species of Macrozamia found in southwestern Australia. One of these M. riedlei grows

‘from Dwellingup to Albany and west to the coast. Widespread and abundant as an understorey plant in jarrah forest… These are smaller plants than the other Western Australian species, with fewer but glossier and flat leaves, and smaller cones. They are also seldom arborescent.’ (Ken Hill 2004)

The third species Macrozamia dyeri is found in the south coastal/ Esperance region.

In the 1950’s Gardner and Bennett extended the singular species’ name “riedlei” to cover all three species of Macrozamia found in southwestern Australia. Gardner recorded the distribution for M. riedlei as extending from the Hutt River to as far as Esperance. It wasn’t until the end of the 20th century that the original species name Macrozamia fraseri was restored by cycad specialist Ken Hill in recognition of its distinctness as a species. Another name for Macrozamia fraseri is Macrozamia ‘Eneabba.’

Changes to botanically accepted names as a result of revisions and reversions to original species names (as happened in the case of M. fraseri over several decades), makes it very confusing for the lay person and it means that many of the references to M. reidlei in works published over four to five decades of the 20th century actually denote M. fraseri. As already noted M. fraseri commonly found in Kings Park/ Bold Park was for many decades referred to as M. reidlei. This re-naming of species would also affect previously lodged scientific vouchered specimens. It should be pointed out that the differentiation between Linnaean-defined plant species has little if any relevance to traditional Noongar taxonomy for this was based on practical and utilitarian criteria, such as the plant or plant products’ (seeds, tubers, rhizomes, bulbs, gum, nectar) edibility, nutritional value, typical habitat (where found), how it is best identified, consumed, harvested, prepared, used as food, medicine, shelter or producing artefacts and its role in plant/ animal/bird interactions and totemic, ritual or mythological significance. Indigenous plant nomenclature was descriptive.

3. Cycad experts Webb and Osborne (1989) note that the term ‘cycad’ originates from the Greek word meaning ‘palm-like.’

4. According to some Noongar spokespersons for the Perth and surrounding area Macrozamia like other bush-tucker plants produce a greater number of cones after an area has been fired. We too have observed the aftermath of fire in the Avon Valley region which has resulted in virtual “colonies” of Macrozamia. They, together with their companion plants the Xanthorrhoea, are the first to sprout green foliage after fire. The Macrozamia in the following year generally produce a bountiful supply of large seed-bearing cones. Even on our own property at Toodyay after the devastating fire of December 29, 2009 the male plant regenerated quickly producing several very healthy cones (see Plate 13).

5. The oil content of processed Macrozamia sarcotesta may be viewed as equivalent to an oilseed. Our test results show that untreated sarcotesta contains almost 37% fat which after processing increases to 42.4% (after soaking and burying). All replicative processing methods resulted in the Macrozamia fruit coat fat levels exceeding 40%. These may be compared to “canola” or ‘oilseed rape’ which according to Raymer (2002: 122-123) commonly contains 40% or more oil or linseed which according to Akbar et al (2009 citing Gunstone 1994) is about 33.33% and palm kernel oil 44.6%.

In 1939 the Chemical Branch of the Mines Department reported that the oil extracted from the fleshy outer layer of Macrozamia fraseri had similar physical and chemical properties to that of palm oil. Palm oil derives from the fruit coat whereas palm kernel oil derives from the kernel.

6. The question of toxicity of cycad sarcotesta has been much debated in the literature. Some researchers suggest that it is toxic while others state that it is not. For example, Russell et al (1990: 17) have stated that cycad seeds and leaves are known to be highly toxic but:

‘The fleshy seed cover is said to lack poisonous properties.’

Some researchers dispute this, suggesting instead that the outermost layer of the cycad seed contains the most concentrated toxins. This view is consistent with the findings of Ladd et al (1993) with respect to Macrozamia riedlei. These conflicting views have made it difficult for us as anthropologists to conclude definitively whether Noongar processing of Macrozamia sarcotesta was for detoxification purposes or not. It would seem that this sarcotesta detoxification theory has never been questioned.

Grey (1841) in his much-publicised and much-read journal refers to the poisoning of Captain Cook’s men as a result of eating unprocessed cycad hulls. He also refers to the indigenous processing of cassava in West Africa for the purpose of removing toxins from the pulp prior to consumption and this view has been extended to explain cycad processing among the Noongar of southwestern Australia.

Many plant foods contains toxins and require processing before consumption. It is well recognised that the starchy endosperm (kernel) of Macrozamia consumed by Aboriginal groups in Eastern Australia required extensive processing prior to consumption to remove toxins.

It is highly possible that Macrozamia sarcotesta toxicity depends on ripeness, for example, whether the seed coat is brightly coloured, emits an odour, is physiologically ripe and the seed cone is disintegrating or alternatively, is unripe. In the latter case the seed coat may well contain toxins as part of its chemical armoury against pathogens, pests and predators, which potentially diminish as the seed matures and dehisces ready for dispersal. Considerations such as habitat, fire history, geographic region, species and soil chemistry may also come into play but this is going well beyond our area of expertise.