Representations from a Phenomenological Counter-Mapping Investigation of Gummingurru, a Jarowair-Wakka Wakka Stone Arrangement Landscape

Maps That Move: Representations from a Phenomenological Counter-Mapping Investigation of Gummingurru, A Jarowair-Wakka Wakka stone arrangement landscape. Emma Jaydeyn Thomas BA Hons

A thesis submitted for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy at The University of Queensland in 2019 School of Social Science Abstract The social complexities of the cultural heritage of places and landscapes are often not well served by the outputs of archaeological representations, particularly maps, as presented in research and heritage reports. Traditional cartographic expressions of places, sites, and landscapes are usually two-dimensional (2D) plots of fixed dot-points (representing sites) and polygons (representing landscapes) that do not show the living, changing, and moving entangled relationships that exist between places, between people and places, and between the tangible and intangible knowledge of places. Archaeologists need to approach Aboriginal landscapes as the holistic entangled complexities that they are, and as such, maps need to be rethought and remade into representations that reflect such complexity, rather than the ‘fixity’ of one version of an interpretation of a moment in time and space. The overt and covert impacts of maps on non-Indigenous public perceptions of Australian Indigenous cultural heritage creates a fixed, static picture of a single culture that stopped at 1788. Living cultural heritage is ignored and devalued due to the lack of understanding that standard forms of mapping representations engender.

In this thesis I provide a hermeneutic case study of phenomenological mapping engagement with one Aboriginal cultural landscape: Gummingurru, a Jarowair-Wakka Wakka stone arrangement site in south east Queensland, Australia. Gummingurru was a secret-sacred male initiation site prior to the 1890s when cultural practices were disrupted by settler colonialism. Partial knowledge of the place was passed down by various means to the current Traditional Custodians. In 2000, the site was handed back to the Traditional Custodians for management and the land was purchased by the Indigenous Land Corporation in 2010. Gummingurru is now a place used for new and resurrected cultural practices as a Reconciliation Place, welcome to all.

The cartographic methods I use to document, map, and represent Gummingurru in its past and present heritage, challenge conventional mapping tropes used in archaeology. The evolution of the phenomenological maps that emerge from the hermeneutical cycle of changing representations of Gummingurru culminates in the exploration of animated 3D outputs, that are themselves phenomenologically entangled representations of the tangible and intangible heritage of the place. Specifically, the representations I explore and create need to recognise that the stones that make up the site are not fixed or static: they move. Movement of the stones occurs as a result of: past and present narratives of the place; management practices conducted on the site; and taphonomic processes. Most importantly, the intangible heritage of the motifs that make up the site involves understanding their

ii constant movement, and their connection to wider journeying landscapes of multiple cultures in northern New South Wales and south east Queensland.

Gummingurru is a place that moves and changes, both as part of its history and in its present and continuing life. How we as archaeologists communicate this to the public is also changing. Computer screens are now reaching ubiquity and offer a moving, flexible, complex method of representation of all types of heritage places and are particularly suited to conveying non-secret Aboriginal cultural knowledge and places.

Please be advised that images of deceased persons are present within this thesis.

iii Declaration by author This thesis is composed of my original work, and contains no material previously published or written by another person except where due reference has been made in the text. I have clearly stated the contribution by others to jointly-authored works that I have included in my thesis.

I have clearly stated the contribution of others to my thesis as a whole, including statistical assistance, survey design, data analysis, significant technical procedures, professional editorial advice, financial support and any other original research work used or reported in my thesis. The content of my thesis is the result of work I have carried out since the commencement of my higher degree by research candidature and does not include a substantial part of work that has been submitted to qualify for the award of any other degree or diploma in any university or other tertiary institution. I have clearly stated which parts of my thesis, if any, have been submitted to qualify for another award.

I acknowledge that an electronic copy of my thesis must be lodged with the University Library and, subject to the policy and procedures of The University of Queensland, the thesis be made available for research and study in accordance with the Copyright Act 1968 unless a period of embargo has been approved by the Dean of the Graduate School.

I acknowledge that copyright of all material contained in my thesis resides with the copyright holder(s) of that material. Where appropriate I have obtained copyright permission from the copyright holder to reproduce material in this thesis and have sought permission from co-authors for any jointly authored works included in the thesis.

iv Publications included in this thesis No publications included.

v Submitted manuscripts included in this thesis No manuscripts submitted for publication.

Other publications during candidature

Thomas, E. J. and A. Ross 2013 Mapping an archaeology of the present: Counter-mapping at the Gummingurru stone arrangement site, southeast Queensland, Australia. Journal of Social Archaeology 13(2):220-241.

Thomas, E. J. and A. Ross 2018 Counter-mapping theory and its application to a constantly changing Aboriginal stone arrangement site. Australian Archaeology 84(1):56-66.

Contributions by others to the thesis No contributions by others.

vi Statement of parts of the thesis submitted to qualify for the award of another degree No works submitted towards another degree have been included in this thesis.

Research Involving Human or Animal Subjects The Gummingurru Mapping Project (AIATSIS Grant Number G07/7246) involved consultation with the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka Traditional Custodians and received ethics approval from the Behavioural and Social Sciences Ethical Review Committee (Project Number 2007001922). Please find the approval letter attached (Appendix D).

vii Acknowledgements This thesis is the culmination of a journey that began in 2009 when I first encountered Gummingurru. I could not have made it to this day without the following people:

My eternal thanks goes to the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka people who have guided me throughout this process and have entrusted me with the honour and responsibility of speaking for Gummingurru. Uncle Brian Tobane welcomed me to this place and supported my ideas and work from the start. His passing has left an incredible legacy at this place. He will always be remembered.

Conrad Bauwens and Shannon Bauwens’ continuous support, belief, and friendship have been instrumental to this journey. I look forward to continuing to be a part of the amazing work that they are doing with Gummingurru and the Gummingurru Aboriginal Corporation and Bunya Peoples Aboriginal Corporation and Rangers. This is a place of connection, education, and the continuation of culture. Thank you to Bunda and Ben Gilbert for their ceaseless efforts in keeping it safe. Long may it continue.

My supervisors Annie Ross, Sean Ulm, and Jonathan Prangnell have gone above and beyond with their guidance and assistance. I could not have asked for a better supervisory team. I am so glad that Sean knew me from my Honours project and suggested I could put together some data for something else he was working on. Thank you, Jon for talking me through historical research — I still have a lot to explore! Annie — words cannot express how grateful I am for your mentorship.

To my fellow Gummingurru investigators — Jane Lavers, Elena Piotto, Kate van Wezel and every amazing undergraduate who immediately understood how important this place is — thank you for your friendship and for being the as passionate as I am about Gummingurru. To my amazing PhD and archaeological cohort — we are doing incredible things and I am so glad we could go on this journey together.

My family — Gareth and Mum; and the Gin Club: Gill, Chris, Julie, Sue, Lorraine and Jennie. Also, to Sarah Mae Beckett, Birgitta Magnusson-Reid, Mark Gradwell, Rosemary Gradwell, Brittany Trubody, Darryl Pleace, Vicki Carman-Brown as well as Devonport City Council, Zonta Devonport, and the Cancer Council of Australia: Thank you for being my village during my cancer diagnosis and treatment during the final stage of this PhD. Without all of you, I could not have achieved this.

viii Financial support This research was supported by a University of Queensland Research Scholarship and funding from the School of Social Sciences. The Gummingurru Mapping Project was funded by AIATSIS Grant Number G07/7246.

Keywords archaeology, landscape archaeology, aboriginal, cultural heritage, stone arrangement, mapping, digital mapping, 3D mapping, animation

ix Australian and New Zealand Standard Research Classifications (ANZSRC) ANZSRC code: 210101 Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Archaeology 100%

Fields of Research (FoR) Classification FoR code: 2101 Archaeology 100%

x Preface Throughout this thesis I use the terms ‘Aboriginal’ and ‘Indigenous’ in specific ways. In Australia, Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander cultures are considered related yet separate entities within Indigenous identity. Indigenous peoples’ experiences of settler colonialism and present political realities are locally specific yet still structurally analogous around the world. I use ‘Indigenous’ to refer to all Australian cultures and world-wide phenomena. If speaking of Indigenous cultures in other parts of the world, I specify Country and tribal/language group names as appropriate. ‘Aboriginal’ on the other hand, refers specifically to mainland (and Tasmanian) Australian cultures. Where possible I use specific language names, such as that of the Jarowair clan of the Wakka Wakka people, whose stone arrangement is the major focal point in the cultural landscape I am discussing. Throughout this thesis I use the term ‘Jarowair-Wakka Wakka’ when discussing affiliation to the site, which is the preferred terminology of the present-day Traditional Custodians. Where I am speaking about Aboriginal cultural landscapes, artefacts, stone arrangements, et al., I use the broader term ‘Aboriginal’.

Per Aboriginal convention, I capitalise ‘Country’ throughout this thesis to mean the all-encompassing entangled continua that is landscape and culture. As this thesis is scrutinising prehistorical and historical journeying connections within this landscape and their representation, there are pictures of deceased persons throughout. Please be advised that these pictures can be seen as part of some of the digital mapping representations I link to and on pages 22, 35, 117, and 167.

xi Table of Contents

Chapter Title Page Number List of Figures xiii List of Tables xviii List of Abbreviations xix

1 Unfixing (or, The Fixity of) Archaeological Interpretation and 1 Representation 2 Gummingurru 21 3 Mapping Heritage Places: Inherent Problems 39 Reflective Pause A 52 4 What are we Mapping? Place, Meaning, Narrative and Phenomenological 64 Connections to Landscape 5 Methods of Investigating Gummingurru and the Local and Wider 85 Landscapes 6 Seeing the Stones: Dots On A Map 111 Reflective Pause B 129 7 What are maps? Representation, Non-representation, and a 138 Phenomenological Counter-Mapping Methodology 8 Making Moving Maps — Landscapes: First Attempts 154 9 Making Moving Maps — Gummingurru: A More Entangled Approach 169 Reflective Pause C 191 10 Discussing Shifting Practice and Undoing Fixity 203

References 224 Appendix A 242 Appendix B 246 Appendix C 257 Appendix D 259

xii List of Figures

Figure Figure Caption Page Number Number 1.1 The cultural catchment of the Bunya Mountains extending from northern 9 New South Wales to south east Queensland, making note of important places in the landscape (Ross 2008:92). 1.2 a) Carpet Snake yuree motif; b) Large Starburst; c) Turtle yuree motif; d) 10 Initiation Ring (Source: Anne Ross). 1.3 The Initiation Ring, unmodified stones recorded in 2008, in green; and 12 modified recorded in 2009, in red. 1.4 Cycle III tanglegram of elements of meaning, tangible objects, and 15 landscape connections at Gummingurru. This tanglegram will gradually be explored in the Reflective Pauses and Chapter 10. 1.5 The hermeneutic process. Each time a cycle of investigation is completed, 16 we return to the place where we were with new information and understanding. Cycle I–III are those undertaken in this thesis and are outlined in a solid line. Cycle IV is a potential new cycle of investigation and representation and is outlined in a dashed line (Source: Author). 1.6 The hermeneutic cycle laid out over the periods of study between 2006– 17 2019. The theoretical and methodological approaches used and expanded on during each Cycle of investigation at this place: investigation, documentation, representation using the one suite of phenomenological counter-mapping theory and methodology but applied in differing ways. Each Cycle (I, II, III, and IV) expanded on previous understandings from the Cycle that came before (Source: Author). 2.1 Jerry ‘Gumminjuddi’ Jerome (Source: National Library of Australia 22 2019). 2.2 Excerpt of 2 mile Darling Downs map (1923) showing Lot 2487, James 27 Benjamin Jinks and family’s first homestead; and Lot 1337, later to be known as Gummingurru, owned by Alfred and Jane Walker, both lots outlined in red (Source: Museum of Lands, Mapping and Survey 2015). 2.3 Proof of fulfilment of conditions — 23rd July 1883. County Aubigney. 80 28 acres. Improvements: House (£110); 25 acres clearance (£70); 65 chains wallaby proof fence (£65). Total £235 worth (Source: Queensland State Archives 2015). 2.4 Shows position of Benjamin Jinks’ family (outlined in red) in relation to 29 other (mostly German) settlers near Gummingurru (after Kanowski 1973 in Beal 1993:121). 2.5 Bartholomai and Breeden’s Map of Gummingurru (1961:Plate VIII) 30 2.6 Early selections and new boundaries. Bright red box shows approximate 32 location of Gummingurru. The blue line is the old railway line, black lines show local creeks. Red, green, and yellow boundaries are the early selections (Source: Queensland State Archives 2015). 2.7 Features in the Local Landscape (including road names). Elevation 516 34 metres (Source: Google Earth 2019). 2.8 Brian Tobane finding the stones to lift to the surface (Source: Annie 35 Ross). xiii A.1 The Hermeneutic Cycle in this thesis. This representation of the cyclic 54 nature of the study focusses on the movement of knowledge throughout and the constantly returning to place and starting point. We return to Gummingurru in each iteration, with greater knowledge of the stones, the story, and the place (Source: Author). A.2 Current Place in the Hermeneutic Cycle (Cycle I: from First Encounters 55 to How to Represent this place) (Source: Author). A.3 Tanglegram at this point. This is the three scales of landscape and the 62 relationships between place, people, and things. Other cultural groups visited Gummingurru to participate in ceremony and negotiation and trade. Ceremony depended on ochre as a component, which was formed by local geological activity. Yurees are about species and habitat knowledge and management (Source: Author). 5.1 Example of Recording Sheet showing variables such as inclusion in 86 known Motif, Background (Y/N/M), Lichen, Dirt, Length (cm), Width (cm), Height (cm), Context (recorded in the EDM# field). 5.2 Example of Photographic Log Sheet showing corresponding 87 photographic numbers and direction. 5.3 Some Visible Motifs: Carpet Snake; Initiation Ring (unmodified); Turtle 89 and Footprints; Waterhole #1 and #2; Topknot Pigeon. (Source and Elevation: Unknown). 5.4 Example of Recording Sheet showing examples of stones recorded 90 despite not meeting criteria of at least one dimension >10cm. 5.5 Flagged Turtle motif (Source: Daniel Rosenthal). 91 5.6 Figure 5.6: Example of Individual Stone (G1000) Photograph (Source: 92 Annie Ross). 5.7 Screenshot of the Mastersheet with fields visible, including Motif, 93 Background (Y/N/M), Lichen, Dirt, Length (cm), Width (cm), Height (cm), Context. 5.8 Dots on the map of Gummingurru. 94 5.9 Conventional Transect Recording Strategy (Banning et al. 2017 CC BY 96 4.0). A maximum interval for each transect is used to ensure search density has some quality assurance for effectiveness and reliability. Each transect is designed to cover and recover ground, while limiting the time needed to survey, to ensure artefacts are detected — these are then flagged for collection in order of discovery. 5.10 Initiation Ring as recorded in 2008. 96 5.11 2008 29 March–1 April Field Season Recording with main motifs 97 labelled. 5.12 2008 13–17 August Field Season Recording with main motifs labelled. 98 5.13 2009 27 September–1 October Field Season Recording with main motifs 100 labelled. 5.14 ‘Modified Initiation Ring’ as recorded in 2009. 101 5.15 2010 13–16 July Field Season Recording with main motifs labelled. 102 5.16 Rough sketch (called a “mud map” in Australia) of the location of the 104 Main Campsite and its associated features (Source: Anne Ross field notes). 5.17 Square Excavation end Photograph (Source: unknown photographer). 105 5.18 Attempted wet sieving by Annie Ross (Source: unknown photographer). 105 xiv 5.19 Carpet Snake Excavation Pit Locations, Head and Belly (Source: Anne 106 Ross field notes). 5.20 Carpet Snake Excavation Pit Location, Spine (Source: Anne Ross field 107 notes). 5.21 Square E with string lines and Spine of Snake at top (Source: unknown 108 photographer). 5.22 Square N, XU 6 (Source: unknown photographer). 108 5.23 Stone G545 in the Head of the Carpet Snake. This is the buried stone 109 which has remained undisturbed throughout all investigations at Gummingurru. This stone and the dirt underneath may be used in the future to date the Carpet Snake motif. (Source: unknown photographer). 6.1 Google Earth-generated aerial view of the Gummingurru local landscape. 113 This representation of a memoryscape was generated as part of the field trip between Dalby and Gummingurru in November 2008; this map being the Local Landscape, closest to Gummingurru. Features B1–B14 are in Appendix A; excerpted in Table 6.1 (Lavers 2010:51). 6.2 Google Earth-generated aerial view of the wider Bunya Mountains 115 Cultural Landscape. This representation of the memoryscape was generated on a field trip between Dalby and Gummingurru and is approximately 70km in distance. Features from C1 to C41 are in Appendix A; excerpted in Table 6.2 (Lavers 2010:51). 6.3 Brian Tobane and Site recorders ‘looking at the stones’ in 2010 (Source: 117 Anne Ross). 6.4 Map of 9368 Recorded Stones. The colours in this figure relate to each of 118 the recording seasons as described in Chapter 5 (Yellow is 2008 29 March–1 April; Blue is 2008 13–17 August; Purple is 2009 27 September–1 October; Pink is 2010 13–16 July). New Starburst is highlighted in box. 6.5 Jarowair-Wakka Wakka identified motifs with labels. 119 6.6 Geometric Shapes. These are scattered across the site making labelling 120 difficult. 6.7 Stones identified as ‘background’ on the site. 121 6.8 a) Turtle; b) Turtle with individual stone labels. 122 6.9 a) Catfish; b) Catfish with individual stone labels. 123 6.10 a) Carpet Snake; b) Carpet Snake with individual stone labels. 124 6.11 New Starburst (highlighted in blue box) in context. 125 6.12 The ‘Complete’ Gummingurru Map. 127 B.1 Current Place in the Hermeneutic Cycle (Cycle II: Phenomenological 130 counter-mapping investigation of place and landscape) (Source: Author). B.2 My brother Gareth Thomas and undergraduate student Harrison Robb — 133 seen here recording stones — both reported disturbed sleep and nightmares while staying at the Custodian’s house on site (Source: Jaydeyn Thomas). B.3 Tanglegram at this point at the end of Cycle II (recording). The 135 understanding of the complexity of relationships, affordances, dependencies, affects on, and agentic actions by, grows with each cycle of study. The landscapes (black) and the (green) things (weather, animals, plants) and (blue) people (Jarowair Wakka Wakka, other cultural groups, and yurees) interact in multiple ways. They move through (black arrows), xv they are (red lines), they create or depend on (blue arrows), and they have agentic affect on (green arrows). 8.1 Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape. This landscape extends across 157 much of southeast Queensland and northern New South Wales. Significant sites in the landscape are highlighted on this map. Elevation 332 metres (Google Earth 2019). 8.2 Google Earth view c. 2012. Overview encompassing the Bunya 158 Mountains Cultural Landscape; the Local Landscape; and Gummingurru. Elevation unknown (Google Earth c. 2012). 8.3 Flyover through the terrain between pinned rest stops. Gummingurru is 160 the yellow pin. This image was captured during the movement between pins — the previous pin is behind the ‘camera’. Elevation 579 metres (Google Earth 2019). 8.4 Prezi overview: front page. 161 8.5 Prezi Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape as a map with integrated 162 information at each wayfinding point. 8.6 Prezi Bunya Mountains integrated information including a video link. 163 8.7 Prezi southeast Queensland (SEQ) showing an excerpt of David Horton’s 163 (1996) map with annotations. 8.8 Prezi Local Landscape showing closely associated sites and resources 164 located with them. 8.9 Prezi detail on the Local Landscape showing the close relationships 165 between the Main Campsite, the Women’s ceremonial Campsite, and nearby cultural resource areas. 8.10 Figure 8.10: Gummingurru in the Prezi. Each of the major yuree motifs 166 are highlighted as well as information about ceremony and scarred trees warning approaching people that this is a sacred space. Each is marked on the ArcGIS map generated from the recording of Gummingurru. 8.11 Initiation Ring context. The image to the left is an ethnographic recording 167 in the 1920s of the scarification used by Wakka Wakka men. 8.12 The Turtle yuree and associated footprints leading from the waterhole. 167 9.1 Example of Sub-features in the Catfish recorded in the Master Recording 170 Sheet under Motif columns. 9.2 a) Catfish Body; b) Catfish Infill and Fins; c) Catfish Whiskers; d) Catfish 171 Nest (Source Thomas and Ross 2018:61). 9.3 a) Old Initiation Ring; b) Modified Initiation Ring. 172 9.4 Turtle Story. Each step (abcd) is outlined with a box (Source: Thomas and 173 Ross 2018:62). 9.5 Examples of movement from Old Initiation Ring placement (green dots), 177 to Modified Initiation Ring (red dots). 9.6 Blender starting screen. 179 9.7 Environment settings with scale in Blender. 180 9.8 Blank cube. 181 9.9 Metric data (highlighted in light green) for G867/R1159 182 9.10 Photograph of G867 (Source: unknown photographer). The photograph 182 of R1159 is currently unvailable. 9.11 Gross contours emerge. 183 9.12 ‘Smoothed’ cube. 183

xvi 9.13 Using Blender to map position: the bright green line (yellow when 184 selected, as it is here) was used to orient position from G538. 9.14 a) Turtle rig; and b) Carpet Snake rigs. 185 9.15 Animation Slider, scale in seconds and green bar denotes where in the 186 sequence you are. 9.16 a) Placement of G842 at 1090 seconds; and b) R1185 at 1131 seconds 186 (yellow highlighted).. 9.17 The cameras (and light sources) in Blender can be programmed on their 187 own viewing pathways. 9.18 Storyboard of Turtle yuree journeying story (yellow arrows indicate 188 movement). 9.19 Stills from the Turtle animation that tell the yuree journeying story as 189 shown in the storyboarding above. C.1 Current Place in the Hermeneutic Cycle (Cycle III: Phenomenological 192 counter-mapping representation of place and landscape) (Source: Author). C.2 Returning to the place where I began with new understandings of 193 Gummingurru (Source: Author). C.3 Yarning Circle constructed at Gummingurru in 2018 (Source: Author). 198 C.4 Next Place in the Hermeneutic Cycle (Cycle IV: New technologies for 199 phenomenological representation) (Source: Author). C.5 Tony Miscamble setting up the Drone to record a photogrammetric map 202 of Gummingurru (Source: Jaydeyn Thomas). 10.1 Tanglegram after Cycle III and recent ceremonial and living heritage 207 management practices. The reintroduction of fire affects the plantlife but not the stones (see below). Cultural groups from outside the Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape are participating in new ceremony (see Reflection Pause C).

xvii List of Tables

Table Table Caption Page Number Number 5.1 Summary of 2006–2010 Field Seasons 88 6.1 Excerpt of memories and stories captured during the memoryscape 114 journey of November 2008 (Lavers 2010:51 and reproduced in Appendix A). 6.2 Results from journeying memoryscape mapping of 2008 November Field 114 Season recording (excerpted from Lavers 2010:51 and reproduced in Appendix A). 6.3 Jarowair-Wakka Wakka identified motifs: names, number of stones in the 119 motif, and identification number ranges. 6.4 Geometric shapes: Names, number of stones, identification number 120 ranges. 9.1 Master Recording Sheet Metric data for G867/R1159. 181

xviii List of Abbreviations ABC = Australian Broadcasting Corporation ACHA = Aboriginal Cultural Heritage Act ANBHF = Australian National Business Hall of Fame TSICHA = Torres Strait Islander Cultural Heritage Act WHC = World Heritage Convention UNESCO = United Nations Educational Scientific Cultural Organization

xix Chapter 1: Unfixing (or, The Fixity of) Archaeological Interpretation and Representation

“Walking across the landscape or excavating a site is not the only legitimate way to create archaeological knowledge. By interacting with digital or non-digital technology and a series of inanimate and animate materials, we create narratives about past lives as well” (Hacigüzeller 2012:258).

Introduction Mapping an archaeological excavation, site, place, or landscape1, is one of the key practices undertaken by archaeologists and cultural heritage managers. Communicating landscapes and the relationships between finds and features and sites and histories is typically accomplished through a detailed birds-eye pattern of dots and/or polygons published on paper to a variety of stakeholder audiences. Two- dimensional (2D) paper maps, printed as portable representations of the landscape for navigation, or in publications as tools to locate and represent place, are bound in time: static and fixed. This ‘fixity’ in cartographic expression has carried into the digital era — an era of flexible outputs to mass audiences as typified by social media and the development of mobile computer application software (or ‘apps’). As more of the general public engage with cultural heritage via these digital interfaces onsite and from afar (De Felice 2014; Eve 2012:591–592; Hacigüzeller 2012:248; Kee et al. 2014; Levy and Dawson 2014; Malinverni et al. 2014), the requirement for maps to contain greater interactive experience capacity is being sought.

Humans experience the living world phenomenologically, through a physically embodied experience in a three-dimensional (3D), temporal (4D), sensory and relational manner, with our interpretation of these inputs contextualised through our sociocultural lenses. As such, the representations that we draw upon to understand new places and concepts need to move away from the fixity of traditional cartography and towards a reflection of our experiences. Our maps themselves need to move. They should now contain sensory (tangible) and cultural (intangible) understandings of the places we wish to represent. If we as archaeologists represent past and present landscapes as fixed, isolated, birds-eye dots, then we are failing at communicating the meaning of archaeological heritage places, which change over time. How can understanding a place, with all its complexities of space, time, connections, tangibles, intangibles, and sensory components be achieved when the communication of that place is through a flat plane of poorly

1 I use ‘site’ throughout this thesis as a focus on the study of Gummingurru by archaeologists and to narrow the focus to the 5 hectares where Gummingurru is situated. I use ‘place’ to refer to all that makes up Gummingurru: the tangible stones and landscape/s and the associated cultural knowledge (intangible). ‘Site’ is archaeological and locational; ‘place’ is heritage as complex locale (see Chapter 4). Landscape is a related series of places and pathways defined by cultural associations. 1 interrelated features drawn at and only representing a single moment in time? It seems obvious that in an age of digital communication, we should be able to produce representational maps that move through both space and time.

Research Questions My project seeks to bring together the concepts of representing physical place and intangible meaning into formal archaeological heritage interpretation and place management, particularly for Indigenous cultural contexts. This representational process investigates elements of time and space and how these conceptual boundaries inform interpretation of landscape and place. My first goal was to investigate and demonstrate the importance of the incorporation of intangible knowledge into heritage documentation. This documentation addresses the interpretation of place in a landscape and cultural context. My second goal was to find ways to represent the present as it relates to the past and vice versa. The increasingly important social significance of present relationships and contextualisations of place need to be addressed within the representations used in cultural heritage management; representations like maps.

Five key questions underpin this analysis: • How do we, as archaeologists, engage with landscapes and construct and manipulate representations of the past in the present within the methodologies of counter-mapping? • How do we document places in such a way that we move beyond fixing a place in a single time and space in the past? • How do we move beyond the representation of place as having one use in the past and recognise that it has had multiple uses and meanings over time? • How do we unfix our representations of archaeological sites, landscapes, and places? • How do fluid, unfixed representations shape our understandings of place?

In short: how do we practise authentic complex representations in the form of a map?

The ‘we’ that I reference in these questions are specifically archaeologists and cultural heritage managers who work on Country with Indigenous peoples. I define ‘we’ in terms of Gummingurru as The University of Queensland (UQ) research team. We interpret and represent data and knowledge gathered in the field. The processes of gathering that information are not solely confined to “walking across the

2 landscape or excavating a site”, as Hacigüzeller (2012:258) comments; interactions with sites are now often mediated via technological innovation.

Digital works are also increasingly important in public education and engagement with archaeological sites and knowledge. Professionals need, therefore, to be more literate in the use of those technologies and the creation of knowledge for the technologies and even in creating the technologies themselves. These technologies are becoming entrenched in narratives crafted for wider audiences; narratives that depend on movement, time, montage, and spatial interconnectedness to represent archaeological interpretations (Caquard and Wright 2009; Hacigüzeller 2012:250–254; Nichols 2011:33–36).

The field of science communication — often termed ‘public archaeology’ in this discipline, but with a multitude of confusing and contradictory definitions and applications (Richardson and Almansa- Sánchez 2015:206) — is entwined in this creation of narratives. Science communication is not just about the so-called ‘hard sciences’ but all disciplines that utilise the scientific method and tools and is becoming a broad field of communications study (Metcalfe 2019:383; Pinto et al. 2013). Archaeology and cultural heritage management are multidisciplinary social sciences and their public image is firmly that of scientific endeavour (Holtorf 2007:150). In this thesis, ‘science communication’ will be the preferred term, especially as it encompasses not just the public aspect of archaeological communication but also the multidisciplinary nature of communication about the past and present. There is a growing sphere of science communication in popular culture and on social media (Holtorf 2007; Huber et al. 2019). This communication recognises the role of experts engaging the general public in understanding and participating in scientific disciplines, processes, results, and interpretations (Metcalfe 2019; Richardson and Almansa-Sánchez 2015:197–199; Chapter 7). The construction of narratives that communicate archaeological interpretations and Indigenous meaning and knowledge is a vital part of ensuring that the influence on public discourse (including political and social realities) is positive and combats negative stereotyping and entrenched falsehoods (Grounds and Ross 2010; O’Rourke 2018). The ways in which archaeologists construct the past have evolved.

Change in field methods used during archaeological and cultural heritage investigations have led to innovations in consulting, investigating, recording, and constructing the past. Traditional archaeological survey and excavation techniques need not be methodologically fixed. Narratives are being embedded in landscape interpretations in real-time accessible cultural heritage apps. There are multiple investigations that are now undertaken using digital interfaces in the field, such as FAIMS and REVEAL 3 at sites like Çatalhöyük, Turkey (Ross, S. et al. 2013; Sanders 2014); direct photogrammetry and laser scanning during fieldwork (Carpiceci and Inglese 2015); and investigation using long-range techniques like LIDAR scanning of sites such as Boyne Valley in Ireland, Oppland County in Norway, Angkor Wat in Cambodia, and the vast landscape complexities of Mayan cities in Guatemala (Chase and Chase 2017; Davis et al. 2010; Evans et al. 2013; Trier and Pilo 2015). These technologies create representations during the recording process that can be iteratively managed.

While Tim Ingold (pers. comm. 2013) may lament that so much of our engagement with archaeology — both as producers of knowledge and as consumers of that knowledge — is now mediated through a screen, there is little controversy in arguing that keeping pace with changing cultural norms is necessary in order to continue our relevance as a profession. After all, who are we doing all this archaeology for?

Cultural Heritage Management and Archaeological Practice A driving force behind this change in methods for cultural heritage managers in particular is the recognition of the urgency in the vocalised and necessarily emphasised goals of the Indigenous peoples whose heritage we are investigating (Allen and Phillips 2010; Nicholas 2010a; Phillips and Ross 2015). The privileging of scientific research on the fixed, tangible components of sites is a fundamental part of cultural heritage management practice and legislation in Australia and elsewhere (Ross 2010). This confers authenticity onto, and provides the basis for assigning significance to and constructing interpretations, and therefore, representations of what are perceived as important places. Over the last 20 years, in collaboration with Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples and their insider contemporary understandings of their own sites and heritage as Traditional Owners/Custodians, there has been a move to integrate the process of investigating both the tangible and the intangible heritage of sites. The ‘intangible’ is defined as being the changing ceremonial, spiritual and narrative meanings and relationships that places hold in the present day, as well as in the past and potentially the future (Andrews and Buggey 2008; Atalay 2008; Barham et al. 2004; Byrne 2003; Byrne and Nugent 2004; Harrison 2011; Ireland 2003; Knapp and Ashmore 1999; Ross 2008, 2010; Sullivan 2008:112–113). It is these entangled and interconnected quantitative and qualitative, tangible and intangible methodological components that are now beginning to underpin the process of investigating the past and constructing representations in both archaeology and the broad field of cultural heritage management (Brown 2015a; Godwin and Weiner 2006; Hodder 2012; Thomas and Ross 2013, 2018).

4 In Australia, archaeological investigations of Indigenous heritage are generally undertaken in three streams: 1) academic research studies, including university and museum studies; 2) development-based studies, including as part of the cultural heritage component of environmental impact statements (EIS); and, 3) as part of legal proceedings for Native Title claims (Allen and Phillips 2010; Godwin 2005; Godwin and Weiner 2006; Ulm et al. 2013; Veth and McDonald 2004). The shift in emphasis from solely tangible documentation of sites and artefacts in everyday practice to the inclusion and integration of intangible heritage, site interrelationships in the landscape, and living heritage components, is well underway in long-term projects in academic research and Native Title studies. However, the often time- constrained investigations in EIS and other development-related contexts simply do not allow for the time needed for trust in personal and professional relationships to build. This can stunt the depth and breadth of knowledge collected and integrated into the reports and representations that follow (Andrew Sneddon pers. comm. 2014; see also Godwin 2005; Sillitoe 2004). These differences in the practice and the practicalities, of heritage management can have long-term effects on public perceptions of heritage places through the incomplete representations they produce (Nichols 2004).

Public perceptions of heritage places may lead to direct physical, intangible, and legislative impacts on those places. When heritage is valued by the public, it is far easier to gain resources for the protection and interpretation of that heritage. As such, “heritage is not just a pretty place; it is a political resource” (Smith 2010:60), and is therefore often contested (King and Nic Eoin 2014; Lydon 2005:111; Vale 2000:67). This contestation of value (often solely expressed in monetary terms, especially in political discourses) threatens the survival of both tangible and intangible components of heritage places, as well as living heritage practices.

Destruction and damage of landscape features to subsequent development is not only a loss in the accessing of resources and of places in a physical sense, but also the senses of place, memory, and safety, all of which can have major impacts on the personal, community, and global scales of well-being (Basso 1996; King and Nic Eoin 2014:4; see also Ander et al. 2013 and Kingsley et al. 2009, 2018 for discussion on the impacts of heritage on health and well-being in the community). As a political resource — and keeping in mind the potential impacts that heritage discovery, investigation, and management can have on Indigenous peoples — the collaborative nature of the investigative process needs to be in practice from the start as an integral component of the investigation. Indigenous peoples must be able to give free prior informed consent, as well as participate in the construction of the investigation (Allen and Phillips 2010; Hales et al. 2013; Nicholas 2010b; Phillips and Ross 2015; Ross et al. 2011). 5 Given that the emphasis of current living Indigenous cultures is a strong presence in archaeology, this living heritage is, and should be, the basis for the practice of archaeology and cultural heritage management in Australia. Historical change since the 1980s in the processes of the discipline means a collaborative stewardship practice between heritage professionals and Indigenous Traditional Owners/Custodians is now becoming, or should already be, the norm (Atalay 2008; Murray 2011; Ross et al. 2011; Wylie 2014a). The integration of Aboriginal or social significance into significance assessments was a milestone in this change as exemplified by its adoption as part of the original Burra Charter (1979), the Australian version of the ICOMOS (International Council On Monuments and Sites) policy for good practice (often termed best practice) in cultural heritage management (Sullivan 2008:108). Subsequent revisions emphasised this component of the Charter and its Guidelines in 1999, 2004, and especially in 2013.

Social significance is not only a present but also a past component of place, alongside the archaeological (or ‘scientific’) significance. It is with oral history and ethnography that social significance is often ascribed to past meanings of, and happenings in, places and their components (Wylie 1982, 2014a, 2014b). It is the role of archaeologists to interpret the meanings of material culture and places from the past to a public audience (Nichols 2004; Tilley 2000). This interpretation is always through a contemporary understanding, mediated by the sociocultural expectations of the archaeologist or cultural heritage manager (Bender 2006). Without Indigenous Knowledge and understandings of place, the only interpretation available will therefore be flawed. The interpretation of the past “is thus always a present- past, and is, by definition, unstable” and constructed (Bender 2006:310–311). This present-past gaze determines decision-making during fieldwork, as well as during the production of representations.

Representations, specifically maps, are the result of archaeological and heritage investigations. They claim to represent sites and places, to convey all the information known (Kwan 2007). Conventional maps rely on recorded tangible data. This is not all that sites and places are, however, so the maps are incomplete. They are framed within the Western scientific present-past gaze and reflect this context. What they do not reflect are Indigenous ways of knowing the world (Brealey 1995; Kitchin et al. 2009; Oliver 2011:67).

Counter-maps are representations created from political need to give under-represented voices a way to challenge dominant positions through the act of mapping (Peluso 1995:386; Harrison 2011:7). It is a methodological strategy that encompasses the need for self-determination and self-interpretation; it 6 retools the map — the representation — of a place to narrate a non-governmental and Western scientific authoritative interpretation and claim to place. Counter-mapping is politically driven in that the maps are used to contest the ownership, uses, and meanings of space as designated from the top down through conventional mapping. The creation of counter-maps is a process that is often specifically inclusive to minority groups and communities whose voices are rarely heard in general map construction and can be used to take back control of place and narrative (Byrne 2008:256–257; Fox 2002:66; Harrison 2011; Peluso 1995).

The multiple voices included in these counter-maps, expand our knowledge in terms of landscape connections, knowledge, and use; they make clear the entanglements between these elements: the recursive relationships between people, objects, places, and narratives (Hodder 2012, 2014). It is this process and the complexity of representation of this entanglement that frames this thesis through the use of counter-mapping methodologies. Counter-mapping is thus three things in one: a political movement; a structural research and recording methodology; and a representational methodology. Each aspect of counter-mapping will be discussed in detail in Chapter 3 (political), Chapter 4 (recording/structural methodology) and Chapter 7 (phenomenological representational methodology).

In short, the rationale for this project is that respect for contemporary meanings and the relationships that people hold with their heritage places in a framework of preservation, continuation, and resurrection of living heritage practices is now the cornerstone of collaborative research practices that are informed and undertaken by and answerable to the people whose heritage is being mapped: Specifically Indigenous peoples in this context (Nicholas 2018). The complexities of cultural intangible landscapes cannot be disentangled from the tangible locales in Indigenous cultures, and representations of these landscapes need to reflect these emic interpretations as much as they reflect the (etic) archaeological evidence. A living Indigenous landscape is “a complex topology of knowledge” and our representations need to reflect this reality (Andrews and Buggey 2008:6).

The collaborative stewardship model as outlined in Ross et al. (2011) as part of the Indigenous archaeologies methodology (Atalay 2008, 2014) has been the mode of cultural heritage practice work in the case of Gummingurru (ɡʌmɪnjuru). All knowledge spoken about in this thesis is specifically allowed to be shared without restrictions on audience — secret-sacred and restricted knowledge is not revealed. This is an important stone arrangement for the Jarowair (dʒærəʊweə) people who are a language subgroup of the Wakka Wakka nation. 7 Gummingurru2 For southeast Queensland and northern New South Wales Aboriginal peoples, the major journeying hub for travelling to the Bunya Mountains for the triennial bunya nut feasts3 is the landscape locally connected to Gummingurru (Figure 1.1). Situated just north of Toowoomba, on the Darling Downs of southeast Queensland between the townships of Meringandan and Highfields, Gummingurru is a stone arrangement consisting of over 10 000 stones. The stones range in size from 3cm to 170cm in length, and 2cm to 125cm in width, and up to 90cm in height. Gummingurru is situated in the Wakka Wakka nation and is closely associated with the Jarowair — a subgroup of this nation. As part of the Native Title aspirations of the Custodians, they have requested that they be collectively referred to as Jarowair- Wakka Wakka peoples.

These stones make up yuree (totemic) and geometric motifs depicting lines, circles and clusters. The yuree motifs depict animals and plants with story connections in the wider landscape (Figure 1.2). Yurees are plant and animal totems given to Jarowair-Wakka Wakka people at different stages of their lives and encompass social relationships, species and habitat management responsibilities, and form a part of identity (Bradley et al. 2006:10; Godwin 2005; see Chapter 2). Once a much larger site with more motifs, the surviving arrangement is now situated on 5 hectares of land owned by the Gummingurru Aboriginal Corporation, nestled within a naturally occurring bowl-shaped depression in the landscape. As part of the tasks associated with the journey of Aboriginal people to the Bunya Mountains, secret sacred male initiations and activities relating to man-making were undertaken at this site until as recently as 1891. Ceremonies were for boys from the Jarowair and other language groups from the Wakka Wakka, Bundjalung, Warra, Giagal, Jagera, and Yugambeh nations, as well as the people of Quandamooka (Moreton Bay) to the east (Jerome 2002; Morwood 1986:91; Petrie 1904; Rowlings-Jensen 2004:27– 31; Sullivan 1977; Thompson 2004; Whincop et al. 2012).

This historical association with the site has been remembered and recorded in a number of ways, including in Jarowair-Wakka Wakka people’s cultural memories, particularly those of John Darlow, known as Bunda who was one of the few Jarowair-Wakka Wakka people to remain on Country during the period of forcible removal by settler colonial governments in the late nineteenth century and which

2 For a short introduction to Gummingurru by Traditional Custodian Shannon Bauwens, please visit www.youtube.com/watch?v=-eRARrOBkWY 3 Every three years, the bunya nut trees have a large crop of nuts. Feasts were scheduled around these times with multiple cultures participating (Ross 2008:92). 8 lasted well into the twentieth century. Other sources include settler colonial oral histories from descendants who still live in the area; and the written memories of Ben Gilbert, of the Jinks-Gilbert family, who resided for decades on the land where Gummingurru is located. These memories have provided the basis for the current interpretation of the place and for the living heritage resurrection of the use of the site. Brian Tobane was the first Traditional Custodian to live on and manage the site since the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka returned to the site in 2000.

Figure 1.1: The cultural catchment of the Bunya Mountains extending from northern New South Wales to south east Queensland, making note of important places in the landscape (Ross 2008:92).

Several Elders, including Tobane, Paddy Jerome, Adrian Beattie, and Tommy Daniels, contributed much knowledge about the place in the Cultural Heritage Management Plan created for Gummingurru in 2004 and during subsequent investigations. Their advocacy led to the land being subsequently purchased by the Indigenous Land Coporation and deeded to the Gummingurru Aboriginal Corporation in 2008.

Figure 1.2: a) Carpet Snake yuree motif; b) Large Starburst; c) Turtle yuree motif; d) Initiation Ring (Source: Annie Ross).

Such memories have been, and continue to be, a driving force in the resurrection of this place into a Reconciliation Site which is a place to return the practice of learning and sharing of culture on Country to a wider, diverse audience that includes non-Indigenous peoples (Jerome 2002). Tobane was also the caretaker of the stones themselves, correcting displacement and resurrecting buried motifs. This living heritage management of, and connection to, this place is a major component of building understandings of the entanglement of people and this locale. This will be discussed further in Chapter 2.

The landscapes associated with Gummingurru comprise three intersecting scales: the intangible and tangible nature of the site itself; the local landscape of campsites, sacred places and resource areas; and the wider landscape that is the cultural catchment of the Bunya Mountains (Lavers 2010:35–50). These three scales are used to define the scales of analysis for this project and will be discussed in the Methods and Results chapters (Chapters 5 and 6). Mapping a representation of this place that incorporates more than just a dots-on-the-map approach representing physical locations of stones and archaeological sites 10 is the goal of this project. How we go about that in terms of process, in the methodology of both the gathering of data and also the interpretation and representation of those data, is the underlying focus of my research questions. As part of an exploration of these representational methodological processes, I am deliberately reflexive about my own journey of investigating Gummingurru and becoming entangled with this place, in order to make clear my situated present-past gaze as a necessary practice of the overarching Indigenous archaeologies methodology, of which my project is a part (per Atalay 2008; see also Trigger et al. 2012).

My counter-mapping study of Gummingurru builds on previous investigations and investigators’ interactions with the site and the collaborative nature of their relationship with the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka Traditional Custodians and, most particularly, with Brian Tobane (who sadly passed away in 2014) and Conrad Bauwens, the current Traditional Custodian on site and the Secretary of the Gummingurru Aboriginal Corporation. Traditional Custodians’ interpretations about meaning and connections form the core of interpretation of the site. I discuss the process and effect of investigating archaeological places like Gummingurru through my present-past gaze (Bender 2002, 2006), which for my work is the time between 2009–2015. All fieldwork in this time and continuing into the present has been completed as part of the Gummingurru Mapping Project undertaken with the support of an AIATSIS grant and ethical clearance.

As part of the process of understanding what constitutes my present-past gaze, then and now, I take a hermeneutic autoethnographic approach to this thesis (Crowther et al. 2017:827; Ellis et al. 2011; Prangnell 2000:33–39). Hermeneutic reflexivity affords me a way to explore how my thinking was constructed and changed throughout the project. It allows me to “dwell within the data, awaiting glimpses” of meaning (Crowther et al. 2017:827). The story of this place is purposefully shared to create a locale for Reconciliation and connection. My own role, assumptions, and what the data have developed in these newly constructed representations, will be examined at regular intervals as Reflective Pauses.

My engagement with this place began in 2009 with my employment by the Gummingurru researchers to enter data, integrating The University of Queensland research team’s previous seasons of fieldwork’s data logs into a coherent database in Microsoft Excel. One major motif of the site is the Initiation Ring: a stone circle with paths leading in and out of the ring. Before I first commenced my connection to Gummingurru, the Initiation Ring was misshapen (as a series of photographs suggest it had been for decades), from various taphonomic processes and recorded as such in 2008. In 2009, the Initiation Ring 11 was ‘resurrected’4 by Tobane and the newly modified Ring was re-mapped soon after this event (Ross et al. 2011; Chapter 2).

It was as a result of my work in correcting mistakes during entry of data into the database, learning the metadata (or context and meaning behind the data categories), and re-examining the photography logs, that I noticed the similarity between certain stones in the unmodified 2008 recording of the Initiation Ring compared to those in the modified 2009 recording of the Initiation Ring. This suggested to me that I could identify and track the movement of the stones moved by Brian Tobane between the two archaeological recordings of the Initiation Ring. This movement was mapped in ArcGIS software as overlapping dots (Figure 1.3), and thus began my journey to investigate how a place like Gummingurru could be mapped without fusing the location and meaning of the rocks in time and space, and how it could be mapped with these meanings intact.

Figure 1.3: The Initiation Ring, unmodified stones recorded in 2008, in green; and modified recorded in 2009, in red.

4 The term ‘Resurrection’ of the Initiation Ring and, more broadly, of the use of the site, was one explicitly used by Paddy Jerome and Brian Tobane. They were both Christian and Jerome linked the removal of people and loss of cultural practice and knowledge and subsequent return to Gummingurru as a form of resurrection (Thompson 2004). The research team have used the term since (Ross 2008:96). 12 However, this did not even begin to tell the story of the living heritage management of the place. One controversial aspect of managing archaeological places in Australia to the general public is the movement, restoration, repainting, reuse, etc. of Aboriginal heritage, which after all, are contemporary, continuing, living heritage actions full of agency (Byrne 1991, 2008:259; Prangnell et al. 2010:142). And it was this act, this entanglement of changes made by Tobane and the agency demonstrated in this practice (see Chapter 2), that was absent from the representations I created from the site data in 2010.

I began discussing my ideas with Associate Professor Annie Ross, who leads the Gummingurru research team from The University of Queensland, and Professor Sean Ulm, now based at James Cook University, who mapped the site using a Geographical Information System (GIS). I was particularly interested in the potential for mapping this site, not only as a living, moving entity in a digital format, but also having the map incorporate the living, moving, intangible heritage that makes up the more complete meaning of this site.

As my engagement with Gummingurru grew over time, I came to understand the place as entangled in multiple, complex ways. The interrelated scales of meaning between the site, the associated local landscape, and the wider cultural landscape are always an emplaced part of the meaning and story of Gummingurru. Cultural landscapes are connected places, pathways, and meanings: people-place-thing relationships written into a larger environment rather than a solitary site. They are living landscapes that are experienced phenomenologically; encompassing the past, present, and future. They change and are inextricably linked to cultural heritage (Bender 2001:76; Brown 2010:77; Tilley 1994). The intangible heritage meanings of the motifs and the personal experiences that people have had with this place are likewise inextricably linked with the meaning and interpretation of the site. To separate these meanings from the stones is to lose sight of what makes this place so important.

The movement of the stones, via human agency or taphonomic processes, is as enmeshed in decision- making and choices based on sociocultural practices as it is in the geography, hydrology, and animal systems present at the site — systems that are also mediated by human intervention during the pre- contact use of the site as well as over the historical colonial period and into the present day. The effect of historical landscape change on our present understandings of that landscape began to emerge and finding this new and unknown field of study to be of vital importance, I asked Associate Professor Jonathan Prangnell from The University of Queensland to be a part of this aspect of the research project.

13 Framework and Structure All of these components of the landscape as it changes, the objects within the landscape, and the inter- and intra-related people’s relationships to both, were obviously deeply complex (Brown 2015a; Ingold 2013a; Hodder 2012). At first, I explored ways of capturing this through practice theory and its bounding of actions and agents within the idea of habitus (Bordieu 2000; Jones 2000; Rouse 2006); but this proved to be limited in exploring the directionality of these connections and effects. While the agents and actions could be explored with Gummingurru, its associated local landscape, and its place in the Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape, there was difficulty in applying this framework to the cultural understood agency of the motifs towards the people. The actions within habitus were one-way. I then turned to entanglement theory.

Entanglement theory as adapted by Hodder (2011, 2012, 2014) to archaeology from Barad’s (2007) exploration in physics, is an examination of the way that ‘things’ —as objects, artefacts, and assemblages— are connected to modes of production, meaning, use, and discard, through people embedded within complex social and economic structures within places and landscapes. Entanglements are heuristic and recursive — they depend on circumstances leading to choices, which then lead to new sets of choices. These choices are dependent on systems already in place, be they natural, social, or cultural. These entanglements are not only applicable to object-people relationships, but to people-place- site-object relationships as well. Thus, our engagement with places, landscapes, and the objects within them is a mixing of elements, always emplaced and “constitutive of social facts” within the materiality of the world (Hodder 2012:34; see Renfrew 2004; Thomas 2001). The affect of objects on people and place (and vice versa), as well as the extension of memory, performance, and attachment to place and all within and connected to it fits understandings of Gummingurru far more comfortably than just a consideration of the site in isolation.

As a result of the complexities of the relationships presented above, the problem of constructing a layout for this thesis was a difficult undertaking as it became apparent throughout the project that the writing of a place narrative for Gummingurru and its investigations is one that is as entangled in deeply complex ways as the site itself (Figure 1.4).

Figure 1.4: Cycle III tanglegram of elements of meaning, tangible objects, and landscape connections at Gummingurru. This tanglegram will gradually be explored in the Reflective Pauses and Chapter 10.

I found that the repetition of themes of representational authenticity, phenomenology, and counter- mapping were difficult to condense into one theoretical and methodological package, particularly as it became apparent that there have been at least two contemporary periods of investigation and knowledge- making at this site: recording (2008–2010) and representation (2010 onwards). These two periods consist of different applications of the themes to studying Gummingurru.

As a consequence, this thesis is divided into three cycles (Figure 1.5), representing the hermenuetic cycles of the research itself where the knowledge from one cycle is reflexively examined and used to drive the next stage of investigation, learning, and evaluating information. Cycle I explores our

15 knowledge of the site and discusses the theoretical context in which mapping Gummingurru existed prior to the recording of the physical stones (2006–2008); Cycle II presents and reviews the stone recording investigations, methodological processes and embodied practices at the site and the representations they produced (2008–2011); Cycle III focuses on my counter-mapping study and the mapping representations and the implications that result from this research (2011–2015). A hypothetical Cycle IV is also proposed in Reflective Pause C as a suggestion for any future research.

As part of the construction of the thesis, it is also necessary to explore my personal journey and how that has informed my interpretations and my reflexive understandings of the processes I was undertaking within the hermenuetic cycle (Prangnell 2000:33–39; Shanks and Tilley 2016) and these understandings are addressed in these Reflective Pause chapters between each Cycle. Chapters 1, 2, and 3 comprise the problem definition, case study, and conventional mapping setting of these issues, and form Cycle I of the thesis. The first Cycle is the foundational understanding of Gummingurru, with each subsequent Cycle building upon the preceding one. The UQ research team return to the same place in the hermeneutic cycle with each investigation and apply the new knowledge to the next stage of the process.

Figure 1.5: The hermeneutic process. Each time a cycle of investigation is completed, we return to the place where we were but with new information and understanding. Cycle I–III are those undertaken in this thesis and are outlined in a solid line. Cycle IV is a potential new cycle of investigation and representation and is outlined in a dashed line (Source: Author).

Figure 1.6: The hermeneutic cycle laid out over the periods of study between 2006–2019. The theoretical and methodological approaches used and expanded on during each Cycle of investigation at this place: investigation, documentation, representation using the one suite of phenomenological counter-mapping theory and methodology but applied in differing ways. Each Cycle (I, II, III, and IV) expanded on previous understandings from the Cycle that came before (Source: Author).

I was inspired to use hand-drawn imagery by Brown’s (2015a) thesis to convey the personal journeys I have gone through. These make the entangled thought processes personal, not authoritative and are a metaphor for thinking that is not proscribed by Western linear thinking (Nabokov 2002).

Chapter Summaries In Chapter 2 I introduce the history and story of the ongoing challenge of preserving the Gummingurru stone arrangement site and explore the consequences of conventional mapping for site management. My data here comprise the history of this place as known by the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka peoples and the settler accounts and historical documentation through the nineteenth century and into the mid-to-late twentieth century. I explore what we can discover about the region’s modified landscape in the historical records. I then discuss the move into modern cultural heritage management and how recent archaeological investigations within an Indigenous archaeologies framework (Atalay 2008) have informed educational materials to meet Gummingurru’s new Reconciliation status.

In Chapter 3 the classic techniques of mapping of heritage places are discussed, with site recording of stone arrangements and landscapes outlined with reference to several brief case studies in order to situate my research within Australia. This is contextualised within an exploration of what heritage places are and the relevant legislation within which they are documented, managed, and therefore represented.

Reflective Pause A is the first pause in which I discuss my perceptions and understandings of these processes and how I came to explore the mapping strategies of cultural heritage places. I look at Cycle I briefly; reflect on my personal experiences; discuss phenomenological engagement; explore the mini- narrative of quotes throughout the Cycle; and think about the entanglements of Gummingurru.

The three chapters that then comprise Cycle II of the theoretical and methodological investigations used to record and initially map Gummingurru are as follows:

Chapter 4 explores the fundamental underpinnings of the representation of archaeological material, specifically relating to the mapping of landscapes. Landscapes are comprised of places with multiple connections and interpretations. The role of the archaeologist in interpreting the past in the present and the mechanisms by which we avoid bias and facilitate the agency of Traditional Custodians and Indigenous peoples in these interpretations is presented and discussed. Narratives in multiple forms are discussed and analysed. Phenomenology is not only an embodied experience of landscape (Basso 1996; Casey 1996:47; Smith 2006) but can be a driving methodology in recording and investigating a landscape (Tilley 1994). How phenomenology has informed the practice of counter-mapping and community involvement in this mapping process is explored, along with the change in our representational approach to the three scales of landscape that intersect at this site. 18 In Chapter 5 I discuss the methods of investigation of Gummingurru in recent years. The focus here is the process of working at Gummingurru with a collaborative phenomenological counter-mapping strategy and the results of this strategy of decision-making onsite. This includes a detailed personal account of my interactions with the site and is included in the thesis in this way to show the layering of my understandings in conjunction with the reported archaeological findings, related to the various scales of landscape, over the course of the investigation. I discuss how the site recording team’s understanding of the multiple interrelated scales of this landscape has informed the context of the representation of Jarowair-Wakka Wakka connections to this Country and beyond.

Chapter 6 presents the results of this work and the use of it in publication and in outreach activities. The results of the recording of Gummingurru have included the integrated dataset and the metadata that contextualises the recorded data, the landscape context as investigated by Lavers (2010), and the ‘dots on the map’ representations produced by ArcGIS outputs. I discuss what happened when the researchers and Traditional Custodians saw the maps onscreen for the first time and what it meant in terms of representing Gummingurru.

Reflective Pause B is the next bridging chapter, bringing together the information of the investigation thus far and critically evaluating the practice of the phenomenological counter-mapping methodology and how successful it has been in capturing what Gummingurru means, while picking up the hermeneutic analysis of my own journey and the entanglements of this place.

Cycle III of the thesis is an exploration of phenomenological counter-mapping as and in representation, and begins with Chapter 7, which presents representing landscape archaeology 5and cultural heritage management that underpins the current ontological and epistemological framework for site management. I question how representation, critiques using the theory of non-representation, and the practices of counter-mapping, culminate in unfixed mapping. Counter-maps and narrative outcomes are the main themes for this chapter. Particularly important here is the role of change in the concept and formation of the ‘authenticity’ of living heritage (Andrews and Buggey 2008). From this discussion I return to the methodological framework of phenomenology, taking it into this new cycle from investigative site recording into the realm of representation and counter-mapping outputs. While the initial investigation

5 While there are multiple meanings of the term ‘landscape archaeology’ and its fields of inquiry, I am focussed mainly on the relational, phenomenological, and social construction of landscapes (see Chapter 4). 19 was conceived in a phenomenological framework, the outputs were not, so it has been my task to use this methodology in the generation of maps.

In Chapter 8, I present the early methods and results of transforming Lavers’ (2010) memoryscape maps into my phenomenological counter-maps of the local and wider landscapes. I demonstrate a failed attempt at using Google Earth (2011–2012 version of the software) and a more successful use of Prezi, a free online presentation software package. Both attempts originally aimed at making moving maps of these landscape scales of understanding, but both had problems; in particular, they omitted vital parts of the interpretation of Gummingurru and its context, particularly the showing of yurees and their journeys.

The results of my counter-mapping representational efforts of the Gummingurru stone arrangement site (place) are then shown in Chapter 9, beginning with my 2D moving maps (animated .gifs). I then discuss the deliberate selection of stones (Piotto 2012; Piotto et al. 2018) and the combination of recorded metric data and visual data (photography) used to reconstruct the individual movements of the Initiation Ring, as a specific example. I then present the 3D to 4D moving maps (animations using the free Blender software package) that encapsulate change through both time and space at this place: representing the meaning of Gummingurru, its motifs, journeys, and living heritage.

Reflective Pause C brings together my conclusions from Cycle III continuing the mini-narrative, phenomenological engagement, and entanglement of place. I also discuss more recent activities at Gummingurru and potential future research directions in a hypothetical Cycle IV.

I discuss the findings of this entire process of investigating Gummingurru and what we have learned from these processes in Chapter 10. In this chapter I also introduce the technique of using augmented reality to translate a moving, 4D map onto a 2D page as could be used in a hypothetical Cycle IV. The implications of this research as it becomes accepted as an established theoretical and methodological approach to collaborative stewardship of Indigenous cultural heritage are then discussed using my research questions as a framework.

I now turn to the first data chapter, introducing the Gummingurru stone arrangement and its associated landscape context — the related knowledge and cultural uses of the landscapes connected to Gummingurru.

20 Chapter 2: Gummingurru

“While I still trust that the government will offer it more protection than its general anonymity presently affords it, I can only hope that when it becomes my turn to discard my old shell the grounds will remain inviolate, and that someone may take on the task of demonstrating to our younger generations what a fine people originally occupied our land” (Gilbert 2006: 82).

Introduction In this chapter, I explore the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka history of the Gummingurru stone arrangement site through reproducing the trail of information from the time of removal of people from the area by settler colonial government policies. This includes interactions between various cultural groups and Bunda’s (Henry ‘John’ Darlow’s) memories. I also discuss what we know through settler accounts about the use of the site in pre-contact times and how this use changed during the colonial era. I review the history and story of the ongoing challenge of preserving this place in historical documentation throughout the mid-to-late twentieth century. Finally, I explore the contemporary move into modern cultural heritage management via the site management plan and how recent archaeological investigations have informed educational materials to meet Gummingurru’s new Reconciliation status.

History As a Site; As a Place The Gummingurru stone arrangement site is part of a complex of entangled ceremonial and journeying landscapes that connect multiple cultures in the region and facilitates the forging of strong social, political, and cultural alliances. The site’s location (Figure 1.1) in the Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape informs its pivotal role in the alliances between the peoples of the areas that comprise this landscape. The importance of Gummingurru to multiple groups in the past, and increasingly in the present, means it will continue as a central locale of learning and exchange. This goal of continuation and survival has always been the focus of the Elders and Custodians associated with this place.

There are two potential sources for the name of Gummingurru, although this place was almost certainly known by other (now forgotten) names in the past. Brian Tobane always contended that the word ‘Gummingurru’ means ‘men of the Condamine’. This is the region associated with the Condamine River on the Darling Downs, southeast Queensland. Since there was overwhelming evidence that this place was one of special importance to men, Brian Tobane contended that this is why it has been named after them (Brian Tobane pers. comm. 2010).

21 The second potential source of the name of Gummingurru is that this place was named after Jarowair Elder Patrick ‘Paddy’ Jerome’s grandfather Jerry ‘Gumminjuddi’ Jerome (1874–1950). Gumminjuddi was a respected Jarowair and Yiman man born in Dalby. He had close connections to the Condamine region (Figure 2.1). He trained horses for the Boer War and was the first Aboriginal middleweight champion boxer, and indeed, the first Aboriginal boxing title-holder in Australia with his first win in 1913. Although he had great success in boxing, the Queensland Native Affairs Department held control of his earnings, as was common at that time. He died in 1950 at Cherbourg, and was inducted into the Australian National Boxing Hall of Fame in 2008 (ANBHF 2013; Australian Stories 2013; Jerome 2002). Paddy Jerome was amongst the group of Traditional Custodians, including Brian Tobane, Adrian Beattie, and Tommy Daniels, who lobbied for the protection of, and access to, the site for Jarowair- Wakka Wakka people. Paddy Jerome recorded the story of Gumminjuddi as inspiration for ‘Gummingurru’ during the initial efforts to acquire the land on which the site is located (Jerome 2002).

Figure 2.1 Jerry ‘Gumminjuddi’ Jerome (Source: National Library of Australia 2019).

Gummingurru is now an important Reconciliation place; it is a place where people of all backgrounds are welcome to visit and learn about Jarowair-Wakka Wakka ways of life and how the stone arrangement site embodies yurees, the language name for totems and their system of obligations (see below).

22 Gummingurru is a known male initiation site where boys were initiated into adulthood, assigned adult yurees, and taught their new responsibilities and relationships. This practice was broken by the concerted efforts of the Australian and Queensland governments to assimilate Aboriginal peoples into the dominant Western cultural tradition through the removal of people from their lands and cultural contexts (Evans 2002; Jerome 2002; Veracini 2010). The property at Lot 2 Old Homebush Road is a freehold property, and thus Native Title is extinguished. The land is now privately owned by the Gummingurru Aboriginal Corporation, having been purchased by the Indigenous Land Corporation (see below).

Cultural and Historical Context: Yurees As part of Jarowair-Wakka Wakka peoples’ lifecycles, as well as those of other groups from southeast and central Queensland, people were given yuree responsibilities at various life stages. In other parts of Australia, these are sometimes called ‘skin names’ or classified as moieties, and the systems of attribution and collection, even use, may differ widely across the continent (Bradley et al. 2006:10; Godwin 2005). For Jarowair-Wakka Wakka peoples, at birth a person is either a brown snake (most often a Carpet Snake [Morelia spilota] or Eastern Brown Snake [Pseudonaja textilis]) or a black snake (most often Red-Bellied Black Snake [Pseudechis porphyriacus]). These are the yurees of the people (Conrad Bauwens pers. comm. 2013). When children were initiated into adulthood, they received additional yurees. As they showed that they were responsible to Elders, they were assigned more yurees along with additional associated responsibilities. These were cumulative, with the number of yurees suggesting Elders’ confidence in a person’s abilities (Brian Tobane pers. comm. 2010).

Different methods of assigning yuree may apply in other Aboriginal nations. For example, for the people of Quandamooka (Moreton Bay and Stradbroke Islands), the assignment of yurees is dependent on Elders’ relationships with the Initiate being assigned to a yuree, as well as the initiates natural aptitude and some degree of interest in the animal or plant, and its habitat that is to become the Initiate’s responsibility (Shane Coghill pers. comm. 2013; Moreton and Ross 2011:61–62). A yuree is not just a randomly assigned classification, like astrological signs (I am a Libran with Virgo rising, for example) that may be thought of as conveying a personality type; it is a set of behaviours and responsibilities regarding kinship and natural resource and habitat management (Gaiarbau in Winterbotham 1959). If you were to receive the yuree of the freshwater turtle species, for example, when being initiated at Gummingurru, then you would become responsible for the use of that turtle as a resource. You would not hunt or consume that turtle species yourself and those who wished to do so would be required to consult you prior to their hunt: if turtle numbers were getting too low to ensure a good ‘crop’ for next 23 season, then you would deny people the right to hunt them. If they were plentiful, then you would regulate how many each person could take. Your knowledge of the turtle’s numbers needed to include habitat information: food sources, habitat range and breeding places, predation by other species, etc. You would ensure the food sources were available (and encourage breeding or planting of those species to ensure they remain plentiful, working in conjunction with the yuree holders of the food species if they are assigned); you would monitor conditions for habitat and breeding places and improve them if necessary; and you would co-ordinate with other yuree holders of predator species, if they were assigned, or manage the predator species yourself if they were not (Brian Tobane pers. comm. 2010). In this way, the yuree system is a complex entangled active natural resource management system that was, and still is, shared throughout the community.

Associated with yurees are ancestral beings who moved through the landscape, shaping it with their wills and actions, remembered through song and story (Bradley 2008; Lavers 2010:44–45). These beings were also memorialised through yuree knowledge. The giving of a yuree means also giving the knowledge associated with the spirit beings they represent.

Thus, yurees are not just the physical examples of specific species (plant or animal) but are also the intangible associations with species (including ancestral beings in species form), symbolic of and intertwined with surrounding habitats, and the kinship relationships between holders of the same yuree, and the relationships yuree holders have with others. All are entangled in the one classification of ‘yuree’. Both Brian Tobane and Conrad Bauwens are Carpet Snake people, and Bunda (the holder of much of the interpretation of the site from when it was an active ceremonial place) was (amongst other yuree assignments) a Willie Wagtail (Rhipidura leucophrys).

From Bunda to Brian Tobane The history of Gummingurru is one of purposefully keeping the memory of this place alive through the passing on of knowledge through Jarowair and Wakka Wakka families who were forcibly removed from their Country during the twentieth century — mostly to the missions on Palm Island and Cherbourg. Some details of the site were also shared through the close relationship between a European man — Ben Gilbert (1921–2009) — and an Aboriginal man ‘Bunda’ (1885–c.1960s), known also as John or Henry Darlow. Bunda was a Jarowair man who was able to stay on Country as he had ongoing employment, while others were removed. This was a condition of non-removal under the Aboriginals Preservation and Protection Act 1939, to which Bunda was subject. 24 Bunda shared knowledge with Ben Gilbert who became Bunda’s classificatory brother (Ross 2008:94). Gilbert kept those memories of Gummingurru’s location, and some of the meanings that would have been otherwise lost, after Bunda’s passing. He then in turn, passed these meanings and memories on to the returning Jarowair-Wakka Wakka peoples, including Bunda’s family descendants like Brian Tobane, and to the archaeologists and cultural heritage managers who have investigated the heritage of Gummingurru over time. Gilbert thus acted as part of the links between past knowledge and present understanding of these stones. Ben Gilbert’s relationship with Bunda reflected his own great grandfather’s relationship with an unnamed Aboriginal man (see below). Ben Gilbert wrote the book ‘Who Bide in Ancient Valleys’, which was first published in 1992 and revised in 2006 with extra material. It detailed Gilbert’s family history; his knowledge about the geology and farming practices of the area; his time as the owner of the land on which Gummingurru sits; and the rediscovery and protection of the stone arrangements through his close relationship with ‘Uncle Bunda’ (Gilbert 2006). This has been a vital resource for research into the history of this site.

Bunda was amongst the last surviving members of the Jarowair who remained on Country during the mid-to-late twentieth century. He remembered, as a young boy, the older boys and men leaving the Main Campsite to visit ‘for weeks’ the site known now as Gummingurru to undertake men’s ceremonial and other associated business. Bunda’s memories of this time came from when he was aged around seven, which was early in the 1890s. He was not permitted to attend the ceremonies as he was not yet old enough for them. While Bunda therefore did not have direct access to the learning that came with yuree assignment on the site, some knowledge and interpretation was given to him over time by the Elders while they were on Country and later when Bunda visited them on Palm Island or Cherbourg (Brian Tobane pers. comm. 2010).

Later in the early-mid 1960s, when it came time for Bunda to ‘discard his mortal shell’, he did so on Country. He was found “at the foot of the [Toowoomba] range” (Gilbert 2006:80), and is now believed to have returned to the Gummingurru site in the form of his yuree: a Willie Wagtail. It is now customary to say speak to Bunda in his Willie Wagtail form, perching on the fence near Gummingurru’s information centre.

According to Thompson (2004), Tommy Daniels (deceased) and Adrian Beattie, both Traditional Custodians, interpret the stone motifs as not only the physical representations of the yurees (see below), but also as mnemonic devices for cultural teachings using songs and stories: “With this interpretation, 25 all of the images at the site are not isolated, but can be read like a book as either one single story or a series of stories” (Thompson 2004:8). As Daniels emphasised, his removal from his people, ancestors, and culture was deeply traumatic and the reconnection that was available at Gummingurru felt “like a kind of ‘re-birth’” (Thompson 2004:11), demonstrating the importance of the ‘resurrection’ of site use and cultural knowledge.

The rebirth experienced by Daniels and the other Traditional Custodians occurred whilst they were lobbying for the control of Gummingurru to return to Jarowair-Wakka Wakka hands. Ben Gilbert had sold the property in 1980 to Dianne Fraser, moving away but never losing his connection with this place. His efforts to preserve and protect the site (detailed below) extended to ensuring that this generation of Elders had all the knowledge he possessed. By 2000, the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka had succeeded in ensuring permanent access as managers of the cultural heritage components of Gummingurru having been invited to do so by the then-owner of the land with whom Ben Gilbert negotiated to secure the settlement. They then began the process of lobbying for the Indigenous Land Corporation to purchase the land. In 2003, the Indigenous Land Corporation approved a grant to buy back the land and the Gummingurru Aboriginal Corporation became informally responsible for the ongoing management and maintenance of the property, as well as the stones themselves (Thompson 2004). This meant the renewal of the practice of ‘cleaning up’ the stones, getting them ready for ceremony, as would occur before the Bunya festival every three years or so, prior to European arrival. This ‘cleaning up’ meant moving the stones back into their correct positioning after taphonomic events like flooding and animal movement that would change their configuration slightly. Bunda told Ben Gilbert, who then told Brian Tobane, that it was the responsibility of the Jarowair to ensure that this place was ready for ceremony in this way (Brian Tobane pers. comm. 2010).

In 2008, the Indigenous Land Corporation formally handed over the land to be owned and managed by the Gummingurru Aboriginal Corporation. Brian Tobane returned to live onsite and the aim of activity on the site changed from conservation and few visitors, to intensifying site use for education as the driver of management. These philosophies around education and Reconciliation have since been the motivation for most activities at Gummingurru, including the creation of educational materials for the website and the recording and subsequent mapping of the arrangements (Ross et al. 2013).

Brian Tobane, the first contemporary Traditional Custodian responsible for the upkeep, management, and resurrection of the Gummingurru stone arrangement and its setting to live onsite, was Bunda’s 26 sister’s grandson and thus had a familial relationship with the person most strongly connected to ceremony at this place in the past. This relationship continues now in the current onsite Traditional Custodian, Conrad Bauwens, who is Brian Tobane’s nephew: his sister’s son.

The Jinks-Gilbert Family James ‘Benjamin’ and Hepzibah Jinks were the first of Ben Gilbert’s ancestors to settle in the Toowoomba region. They were originally a young couple from Birmingham, England, and were thrust into pioneer life upon their arrival in Australia in 1874: learning all the skills needed for self-sufficiency as there were no other options for survival (Gilbert 2006). They were able to select a block of land (Lot 2487, two properties to the west of Gummingurru on Lot 1337) in Meringandan in 1877 (Figure 2.2).

Figure 2.2: Excerpt of 2 mile Darling Downs map (1923) showing Lot 2487, James Benjamin Jinks and family’s first homestead; and Lot 1337, later to be known as Gummingurru, owned by Alfred and Jane Walker, both lots outlined in red (Source: Museum of Lands, Mapping and Survey 2015).

It took another six years of heavy work to clear the dense scrubland from the block, to begin mixed farming (grazing and cultivating) and build the first house on that property (Figure 2.3).

Figure 2.3: Proof of fulfilment of conditions — 23rd July 1883. County Aubigney. 80 acres. Improvements: House (£110); 25 acres clearance (£70); 65 chains wallaby proof fence (£65). Total £235 worth (Source: Queensland State Archives 2015).

Jinks had struck up a friendship with an Aboriginal man (name unknown) when he was a young man, newly settled in the region. This Aboriginal man had been initiated, with cicatrices (scarring) evident on his arms and chest and was roughly the same age as Jinks (around 26 years old in 1878). In the early days of Jinks’ occupation of the land, the Aboriginal man and his friends and relatives would often call in at the farm on their way to the Bunya Nut festival in January. This friendship continued into Gilbert’s early childhood and lasted until Jinks’ death in 1933 when Gilbert was 12. Gilbert was not old enough to be privy to the conversations between the two old men he knew as he grew up, but learned some things about these people from stories told to him by his great grandfather later on (Gilbert 2006).

Gilbert (2006:70) writes that regardless of how modern histories speak of the relationships between European settlers and Aboriginal people across the continent, “in my corner of Australia there was never any talk amongst the old people of conflict or brutality, from either white or Aboriginal”. Nevertheless, while the Jinks-Gilbert family had excellent relationships with the Aboriginal occupants of the land, and did not see otherwise, other families in the region tell a very different story (see below). 28 Dorothy Lowe, Benjamin and Hepzibah Jinks’ granddaughter, married George Gilbert in 1920, living with him in a new wing of the old cottage on her grandparent’s farm. Dorothy Lowe was not at all interested in Benjamin Jinks’ friendship with the Aboriginal man; she forbade his entrance to the house and any talking to the children (including Ben Gilbert, but of course, as a young man, he would ignore this edict as often as possible).

After his service in World War II and marriage to Florence in 1946, Ben Gilbert purchased Lot 1337 from the Walker family. This block was on the ‘old’ farm’s eastern boundary — suggesting that Benjamin Jinks and family bought up 2707, 2192, and/or 1110 sometime between 1884 and 1948 (outlined in red in Figure 2.4). Ben Gilbert loved this land. His writing reflects the daily, lived connection and meaning-making in which he engaged as he cleared, burned, built, and changed the landscape around him. He speaks of feeling an even greater connection with his great grandfather, as he was engaged in the same activities only decades later and a few kilometres to the east (Gilbert 2006:54–55).

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Figure 2.4: Shows position of Benjamin Jinks’ family (outlined in red) in relation to other (mostly German) settlers near Gummingurru (after Kanowski 1973 in Beal 1993:121).

In 1960, concerned about the safety of ‘the Old Bora site’, Gilbert contacted the Museum of Queensland and invited curators to document the site. They did so using an entirely conventional methodology and methods, focussing only on the stones and their placement, with no exploration of oral histories or Indigenous knowledge (Bartholomai and Breeden 1961). These methodologies (Chapter 3) produced an important, yet incomplete mapping representation of this place (Figure 2.5).

Figure 2.5: Bartholomai and Breeden’s Map of Gummingurru (1961:Plate VIII). 30

Toowoomba and Surrounds The history of the immediately adjacent Cawdor and Meringandan areas, and of Toowoomba and the rest of the Darling Downs more generally, has a direct effect on how we form our understandings of Gummingurru. I outline the physical changes to the landscape here and explore their effect on our understandings of this particular site.

Historical landscape change began in the Toowoomba region when Allan Cunningham arrived and gazetted the area in 1827. Queensland had not yet become a state, and so this area was still under the New South Wales colonial government. Cunningham named the region after the Premier of the time, Sir Ralph Darling. The Darling Downs became known for its temperate ‘European’ climate, and this “served to familiarise an alien Australian space as a place which would support European settlement” (Lee 1996:24, original emphasis). The re-presentation of Toowoomba’s landscape as a European ideal strongly supported the colonial settling of the region. The idea was that climate, moral rectitude, and health and well-being were all interlinked with this landscape, featuring mountains and temperate climates and this allowed the area to be seen as superior to difficult sub-tropical regions like Brisbane (Lee 1996; French 2011). Many of these perceptions continue in Toowoomba and across the Darling Downs today.

The healthy image of Toowoomba as a mountainous retreat during the 1800s belied the reality that the city was built on swamplands and was expanding as a result of the rapid pastoral growth that was spurred on legislatively by governments in the newly arisen states of South Australia and Queensland rather than as a spa-like destination (Silcock et al. 2013:322). The era of open sclerophyll forest cover and rich grassy plains from firing the landscape came to an end with this pastoral expansion. Tree coverage was removed and vegetation was substantially changed during this period (Beal 1993). Paddocks with fences and other boundaries began to dominate during the 1840s (Figure 2.6), while paths and roads became inscribed on the physical landscape and the ordering of that landscape began through maps.

Gowrie Junction was established as part of the railway link from Brisbane to the Darling Downs, centred on the railway station of the same name and Gowrie and Goombungee Stations, nearby pastoral properties. Trains passed through from Sydney, Brisbane, and everywhere in between (Gilbert 2006). Movement of farming products and also mining ores drove this expansion, as did the squatter’s purchase rights fight of 1847. Squatters were often middle-class, well-educated, and military ‘second sons’ whose ambition was to become a new Australian landed gentry; building fortunes to take back home. They 31 quasi-legally resided on land on the margins of the pastoral colonies and grazed livestock, hoping to claim that land — which eventuated during the selection of land between 1860–1890 (French 2010:805– 806; 2011).

The squatters were able to ensure that they were the ones to whom the Crown sold the land as freehold — ownership in perpetuity (as I discuss in the legislative context of Indigenous heritage in Chapter 3, freehold extinguishes Native Title rights — though never cultural heritage rights). By 1860, the land where Gummingurru sits was pre-emptively owned by former squatters (Beal 1993).

Figure 2.6: Early selections and new boundaries. Bright red box shows approximate location of Gummingurru. The blue line is the old railway line, black lines show local creeks. Red, green, and yellow boundaries are the early selections (Source: Queensland State Archives 2015).

In the late 1800s, around 56 000 hectares of pastoral land was freeholded and selected by pastoralists for grazing and farming purposes. Many of those who selected property were of German (Figure 2.4), or Scottish descent (Beal 1993; French 2010). The environmental degradation caused by overgrazing, the

32 introduction of exotic species, and the absence of deliberate land management through the use of fire was significant. It was into this context that Benjamin and Hepzibah Jinks first entered this Country, hailing from Birmingham in England (Gilbert 2006). The fulfilment of the conditions of selection was an integral part of the settling of Australia: the colonial enterprise of ‘improving’ the land and thus having natural ownership over it. This colonial enterprise was justified as European notions of what constituted use, and so ownership, of the land were not immediately evident in Aboriginal lifeways (Beal 1993; Perkins 2001).

With the building of new branches of the railway system (Figure 2.6), waterways were severely impacted and tonnes of earth were moved. Embankment building caused water concentration during storms and caused massive erosion across the landscape. This era of rail journeys ended in the 1920s; the population of Gowrie fell, only rising again in the latter half of the twentieth century as the area became focussed on farming revenue (Beal 1993:28, 136).

As the introduction of mechanical processes into farming occurred, especially cultivating paddocks with tractors, the landscape was again widely affected. The tilling of soil in round formations caused gullies to form, channelling water with greater speeds across the land. Paddocks became larger again with the advent of mechanical tilling and thus the impacts spread. Total clearance of trees from paddocks also became the norm in the 1940s, contributing further to erosion. By that time, the division of the landscape by European-descended owners was seen to be complete (Beal 1993).

Settler Family Oral Histories: The Women’s Places The local landscape associated with Gummingurru (Figure 2.7), includes scarred trees that stood around the margins of the site itself; ochre pits with ochre of various colours that were located nearby; resource areas that stretched along creek banks and surrounding areas; the Main Campsite where everyone lived during journeys through this landscape; and the Women’s Site (see Lavers 2010:37–51 for detailed maps and information about these locations sourced from oral histories undertaken by Annie Ross in 2008– 2009).

The road names in Figure 2.7 are of interest here. Steinberg Road, Otto Road, and Franke Road were named after families that settled those areas in the late 1800s (Annie Ross pers. comm. 2010). Descendants of those families held stories from that time as part of family history. Mrs Steinberg recalled that her husband told stories of when he was a lad; settlers would shoot at Aboriginal women who had 33 gone “up there in Otto’s Road” to make them leave the area at the top of the road, where they would congregate to perform ceremony. This area at the top of Otto Road has been located by researchers; it is adjacent to and under a housing development that is now in that area. Mrs Steinberg’s husband told her that the women “would run down Otto’s Road and into the camp amongst the trees at the bottom of the road” (Annie Ross pers. comm. 2010). Otto Road is across from Franke Road. The thread of the narrative resumes here with Miss Marlene Franke who lives in Franke Road, adding that the small waterhole on her land (which was her father’s), which has now been dug out and reinforced as a dam, was once surrounded by trees. It was here, according to Miss Franke’s father, that the Aboriginal women hid when they were being shot at. Once the armed settlers had left, the women would return to the Main Campsite if returning to their ceremonial site was not possible (Annie Ross pers. comm. 2010).

Figure 2.7: Features in the Local Landscape (including road names). Elevation 516 metres (Source: Google Earth 2019).

The Jarowair-Wakka Wakka knowledge associated with the Women’s Site has not yet come to light. Bunda was not privy to this and those who were have not passed on this knowledge. The researching team’s speculation is that much like the activities at Gummingurru, the Women’s Site was one of yuree responsibility and most likely of birthing and related activities (Annie Ross and Sean Ulm pers. comm. 2010). Gaining access to the property to survey for physical evidence has proven difficult.

34 Living Heritage Management Practices Reflecting on the ‘cleaning up’ of the stone arrangement done in immediate preparation for ceremony in the past (see above), I now turn to review the living heritage management that is practised at Gummingurru. Prior to the twentieth century, restoring of the stones into their motifs (designs) and correct positioning would have only been done just before a gathering was due to take place, whether it be a smaller gathering or larger ones in association with Bunya Nut festival activities. Since there are now visitors to the site year-round, ensuring that the stones are correctly placed in their motifs during ‘restoration’ is a regular part of site maintenance (Brian Tobane pers. comm. 2010). Once Tobane returned to Gummingurru in about 2006, he was retired from work and thus able to spend each day on the site keeping the grass low, the motifs visible, and ensuring stone movement was monitored and corrected. “If a blade of grass dared to rear its head, he’d be out there in a flash with a pair of scissors!” (Annie Ross pers. comm. 2013; see Figure 2.8 for how low the grass was kept around the motifs during Tobane’s time as site caretaker). After Tobane’s passing, Conrad Bauwens has continued this practice as part of his duties as onsite Traditional Custodian, although as he works offsite during part of the week, he has not been able to keep individual blades of grass from rearing their heads — particularly after the flooding in 2010–2011 (Conrad Bauwens pers. comm. 2014).

Figure 2.8: Brian Tobane finding the stones to lift to the surface (Source: Annie Ross). 35 In 2011, a major weather event in the Toowoomba region resulted in flash flooding and what has been since dubbed ‘an inland tsunami’ in Toowoomba and down the (mountain) Range. This event washed a large amount of water across the site. While the intensity at Gummingurru was not nearly as high as in Toowoomba and the motifs were not badly affected, weed grass seeds were suddenly deposited across the whole site. These weed species covered the site in grasses that quickly grew to waist-height. They are now being controlled (though not eradicated) with low temperature burning (van Wezel 2014).

Restoration of motifs was one part of the management of Gummingurru: resurrection of motifs was the other. As can be seen in Bartholomai and Breeden’s (1961:Plate VIII) map of Gummingurru (Figure 2.5), only the northwestern side of the site was visible during that documentation period. Flooding events have shifted soil over time and covered much of the southeast corner of the site. Since returning to live onsite in 2006, Brian Tobane had a daily routine of site works that included finding buried stones using a long straight crowbar or a pitchfork, carefully digging around these buried stones, and raising them to the surface. He would lift the stones, taking care to ensure he did not alter their location or orientation. This process has uncovered several lost and unknown motifs (as detailed in Chapter 5).

Resurrection and Education “They keep saying it’s just a pile of rocks… no-one made it, why are you so interested?” (Bryce Barker, passing on Toowoomba residents’ stories of Gummingurru, pers. comm. 2013).

Gummingurru has had local controversy attached to it since at least 2000 when it was handed back for management to a group of Jarowair-Wakka Wakka and other Aboriginal men through the Local Aboriginal Land Council. Several groups of non-Aboriginal people in the Toowoomba community today contest the authenticity of the site as an Aboriginal place, not believing that human agency had anything to do with its creation, or alternatively, that it was Ben Gilbert himself who arranged the stones for his own gain (Bryce Barker pers. comm. 2013; Annie Ross pers. comm. 2013). This disbelief is rooted in the long-standing colonial frameworks that actively view Aboriginal peoples as having no ability to construct complex physical structures. There is also the idea that sites exist only in the past, that no present attachment would be important. This is, of course, demonstrably not true — for Gummingurru as much as any other place in an Aboriginal cultural landscape.

The resurrection of Gummingurru involves not only the stone motifs being moved back to the surface, but also the use of this place for education, particularly of younger generations. The goal of the

36 Traditional Custodians of Gummingurru today is the reuse of this place as an educational tool for members of the public, schools, and Indigenous youth. As such, the contact that most visitors have with the site is through the purpose-built educational facility, first through digital visits through the website6 and working through the activities as set out in the teachers’ kits, linked explicitly to the Australian National Curriculum; and second, with physical visits to the site with a guided tour from the onsite Traditional Custodian, currently Conrad Bauwens.

The resurrection of Gummingurru as a living heritage site that facilitates the coming together of multiple cultures in negotiation and understanding is entirely in keeping with the traditional uses and meaning of this place. That Jarowair-Wakka Wakka culture is practised at this site through restoration and resurrection activities has also been controversial to the wider (white) community. Sullivan (2008) has critiqued the idea of heritage as a ‘dead culture of the past’. There has since been a shift towards a recognition of the living archaeology (and not just living heritage) model that Bowdler (1981), Lilley (2009) Prangnell et al (2010), Phillips and Ross (2015) etc. advocate. But conveying this shift in the understanding of the significance and richness of living cultural heritage to a skeptical public is a challenge.

A major component of my rationale for developing moving maps that integrate intangible and tangible heritage is my desire to apply new methods of transmission of these concepts to visitors to, or observers of, the site. This use of new, interesting, and generationally relevant modes of communication has been highlighted by current and previous Traditional Custodians. The use of technological innovation and adaptation to transmit cultural knowledge to younger generations has been shown to be efficacious in delivering that transmission, despite the trend of people spending less time on Country (Isogai et al. 2013). New technologies — such as screen-based site interactions, augmented and virtual realities, etc. — will be used for open days, tours, environmental groups, school groups, and university groups accessing the site; and most especially, used to communicate the meanings, importance, and authenticity of this place to the general public in meaningful and convincing ways.

6 www.gummingurru.com.au 37 Conclusion Bunda died around 1964, Ben Gilbert died in 2009, and Brian Tobane in 2014. Their legacy of keeping Gummingurru safe and intact, of keeping the knowledge of Gummingurru throughout time and passing it on to younger generations, is continuing as part of the material and intangible fabric of this important place. Indeed, it is the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka peoples themselves who have taken “on the task of demonstrating to our younger generations what a fine people originally occupied our land” (Gilbert 2006:82).

This chapter has detailed the historical record of Gummingurru, including local settler histories, what we know about the site, and Jarowair-Wakka Wakka oral histories in the remaking and resurrection of the site into what it is today — a place of learning and sharing of culture. The recent archaeological investigations changed the initial approach of recording this site from one that emphasised the stones only (Bartholomei and Breeden 1961) — what could be seen and quantitatively noted within a small bounded space, ‘the site’ — into a methodology and theoretical framework of landscape archaeology of all the regional connections as integral parts of the meaning and understanding of this place. These investigations were undertaken within a specific legislative, archaeological, and cultural heritage framework which produced conventional maps. This will be examined in Chapter 3.

38 Chapter 3: Mapping Heritage Places: Inherent Problems

“[C]ultural links to the past exist only in the present … The community holds identity and memory and nurtures them from the past through the present and into the future” (Andrews and Buggey 2008: 66, 69).

“[I]n a very real sense, maps make our world … Their ability to communicate effectively means that maps are widely deployed as devices to present ideas, themes and concepts that are difficult to express verbally and to persuade people to their message” (Dodge, Kitchin and Perkins 2011:xix-xx).

Introduction In this chapter, I discuss the problems with legislative and field designation of heritage places and classic techniques in practices of mapping heritage places. The recording and mapping of heritage places and landscapes are explored including two similar stone arrangements in Australia. I then discuss how conventional and counter-mapping practices narrate meaning for heritage places. These investigative practices and mapping representation shaped early archaeological investigations at Gummingurru.

Cultural heritage places and relevant global legislation All heritage practice, including designation, documentation, and representation, is undertaken within a specific set of legislative policies. Australia is a signatory to the United Nations World Heritage Convention, and is the nation that authored the Burra Charter. There is national heritage legislation in the form of the Environmental Protection and Biodiversity Conservation Act 2009, and Australian Federal Native Title legislation specifies Indigenous places for protection and ownership on the basis of title holding. Additionally, each state in Australia has its own legislation regarding Indigenous and Historical (European) heritage. The legislation defines what is considered to be heritage and while each level may not apply to every heritage place, the concepts and definitions contextualise cultural heritage management and archaeology in Australia.

Heritage places are those locales that are recognised as culturally important in both the past and the present, with meaning transmitted from the past into the present, tied to identity and history, living practice and cultural continuity, resources and knowledge (Sullivan 1993, 2008:109). The Operational Guidelines for the Implementation of the World Heritage Convention, as authored by the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organisation (UNESCO) in 1977 and last reviewed in 2019, adopted specific criteria that designated ‘outstanding universal value’ to places considered to be of world heritage value and that are part of cultural and/or natural landscapes. Outstanding universal value, as described

39 in Article 49 of the Operational Guidelines (2019:20), recognises that an archaeological (and thus cultural in this instance) site or landscape must be of “significance which is so exceptional as to transcend national boundaries and to be of common importance for present and future generations of all humanity”. Significance is the key to heritage protection at every level — whether it be at the outstanding universal level, or a more specific state or local level — it drives designation of what is cultural heritage (Mitchell and Guilfoyle 2020).

Tweed and Sutherland (2007) speak of heritage designation as a top-down defining process using state or local government ‘expertise’ to create the heritage designation for places. Heritage definition that comes from within the community itself, through use of a place, and by common assent, is considered to be “heritage by appropriation” (Tweed and Sutherland 2007:63). Whether a heritage place is recognised by authoritative structures or via common assent, once a heritage place is determined to need particular protections, the present meaning of the place — building on past meanings — then becomes the driving factor in its preservation, use, or re-use.

The World Heritage Convention and the Burra Charter 1979 [2013], provide the basis for good practice cultural heritage guidelines in Australia. The Burra Charter defines the forms that the present significance of archaeological places can take. Article 1.2 (2013:2, original emphasis) states that:

Cultural significance means aesthetic, historic, scientific, social or spiritual value for past, present or future generations.

Cultural significance is embodied in the place itself, its fabric, setting, use, associations, meanings, records, related places and related objects.

Places may have a range of values for different individuals or Groups.

To assign significance and preserve a heritage place under specific legislative provisions it is first necessary to record it. In Australia, heritage legislation still privileges the tangible components of place by making the state — and archaeologists appointed by the state — the authority on defining and assigning significance to heritage (Weisse and Ross 2017:151). A state-based heritage authority in conjunction with “clear Indigenous control structures” as part of that authority, would ensure heritage management is not primarily focussed on the tangible expression of, and values associated with, Indigenous heritage (Rowland et al. 2014:351). It is the fixity and ascribed authenticity inherent in the legislation that governs preservation, use, and adaptive reuse of heritage places.

40 Relevant Federal and State Legislation In Australia, the Native Title Act 1993 [revised in 1998] is relevant to the protection of Indigenous cultural heritage, in that sites, places, and landscapes are intrinsically linked to the cultural heritage of Indigenous peoples. The Native Title Act 1993 [1998] is a federal legislative mechanism by which recognition of the ownership of (leasehold and Crown) land was restored to Indigenous peoples in certain circumstances, countering colonial settler notions of terra nullius7. Native title is considered ‘extinguished’ when it occurs on freehold land, although connections to cultural heritage are never extinguished — the heritage remains, regardless of land tenure. Indigenous Land Councils manage and acquire land through use of this act and the Indigenous Land and Sea Corporation can also assist the purchase of land where native title has been considered extinguished.

In Queensland — where Gummingurru is located — there are two separate sets of state heritage legislation: one applying to built heritage (commonly post-invasion colonial-built heritage); the other to Indigenous heritage (commonly pre-invasion and colonisation heritage). ‘Built heritage’ is defined under the Sustainable Planning Act 1992 and the Queensland Heritage Act 1992 [2017] as built places that are of non-Indigenous heritage, including both terrestrial and underwater archaeological artefacts and places. The acts regulate the establishment of the Queensland Heritage Register, and the registration of built sites and heritage places on the list, as well as any potential impacts, developments, and necessary conservation on the fabric of a place. Registration may be on either the state register or local government registers, providing protections either way.

‘Indigenous heritage’ is protected under the Aboriginal Cultural Heritage Act 2003 (ACHA) and the Torres Strait Islander Cultural Heritage Act 2003 (TSICHA). Both acts define significant cultural heritage, traditions, objects, areas, evidence and areas of occupation, as “being of particular significance to Aboriginal [or Torres Strait Islander] people” through either custom or tradition, and both historically and contemporaneously (ACHA 2003:s8–s13; TSICHA 2003:s8–13). Traditional Custodians and Owners are those who hold knowledge of customs and traditions and assign Indigenous significance to the heritage under examination. This is recognised in Section 12 of the Acts, which were designed to privilege Indigenous voices in the management of their cultural landscapes. This was considered revolutionary in the 1990s, when earlier versions of these acts were being revised and the current acts were being drafted (Buggey 1999:2–3).

7 Terra nullius is the idea that the land settled by the first British colonists was unowned, settlers perceiving that there were no land-owning systems that the British recognised amongst the ‘natives’ they encountered. 41 Under ACHA and TSICHA regulations, ‘experts’ such as archaeologists and historians are given a minor role in terms of development (Part 5), significance assessment (Part 6) and the production of Cultural Heritage Management Plans (CHMPs) (Part 7). Assessment of further archaeological, historical, and other scientific significance is to be undertaken by qualified persons (ACHA 2003:s15 and s68; TSICHA 2003:s14-15 and s68). The practical reality is that those defining and managing heritage are Western- trained archaeologists, typically meaning non-Indigenous people with degrees in practice (Ross 2010:122–123; Rowland et al. 2014). The numbers of Indigenous people becoming archaeologists is increasing around the world, yet it is a slow increase, with few in Australia holding the same level of control and power over heritage as non-Indigenous archaeologists (Ulm et al. 2013:35–36).

Until revisions resulting in the promulgation of the 2003 Queensland Acts, intangible heritage could not be protected by law, and in practice is still not given as much weight as tangible evidence (Ross 2010; Rowland et al. 2014:341). An example of where this has had direct impact relates to Gummingurru’s Women’s Site. There is no physical material evidence for this place, despite oral history for its location and use (see Chapter 2). Although Section 12 of ACHA allows for the protection of places with no physical evidence, the Women’s Site has not been found (or indeed investigated) despite requests from the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka people for an assessment to be undertaken, and thus the place has never been listed or even recognised as existing. The likely location of this site is now (partly) buried under a building estate (as discussed in Chapter 2 and again in Chapter 6). The lack of known physical evidence limits the ability of the state to recognise or protect the site, and thus demonstrates that Indigenous voices are not privileged in practice. Despite the rhetoric that the ACHA privileges Aboriginal knowledge, it is clearly the archaeological material evidence that still garners protection (Ross 2010:107; Nicholas 2017).

Significance as defined within legislation and culturally defined significance (‘by appropriation’) both drives and hinders the basis of multi-vocal approaches to recording the features, meanings, physical fabric, setting, uses, etc., of heritage places. They drive the idea of ensuring that many stakeholders are heard, but also hinder the recognition of the full range of voices by subverting the practical application of multi-vocality, as suggested above. The methodology behind the formal recording of heritage places, then, is of great importance. These recordings should be undertaken in multiple ways and should, necessarily, include a variety of stakeholders from the community (Allen and Phillips 2010; Phillips and Ross 2015). It follows that, with every heritage place, there are multiple interested parties as stakeholders who need to be recognised, along with the many potentially differing or overlapping meanings that all these different stakeholders attach to heritage places (Atalay 2008; Hamilakis 2011:401–402). 42 Stakeholders do not only include the owners and rights-holders of the heritage place; they can include developers and others whose use for the site may include destruction.

In order “to protect the past from the present”, we as archaeologists and cultural heritage managers need to gather and evaluate these meanings while mitigating loss (Sullivan 1993:55). Often in Australia, archaeology is undertaken as part of cultural heritage management, so there can be strong links between the past and the present of cultural places. These links have often been disrupted; although the potential for communities to re-engage with their own heritage is also a feature of these places. As stated above, heritage is created in the past but given meaning in the present. The opportunity to continue living cultural practices and the ability to change and adapt to current circumstances within the community is vital (Andrews and Buggey 2008:66, 69).

The good (or ‘best’) practice approach in cultural heritage management in both world and local heritage contexts, is to ensure that not only isolated sites, but entire landscapes are considered and recorded in detail. Archaeological surveys in Australia have begun to shift from focussing solely on environmental factors and artefacts, spatial, and trade distributions, towards a more social landscapes approach that incorporates the cultural and social associations, meanings, and relationships between places and objects, as well as social and cultural factors in settlement, artefact manufacturing processes and use, while also factoring in present living meaning into surveys (David and Thomas 2008:33-34). Landscape archaeology, as a disciplinary, theoretical, and methodological approach, seeks to reintegrate cultural sites into their places within multiple tangible, intangible, social, and cultural landscape settings and contexts, acting as a holistic analysis of the materiality of things and the social connections and interrelationships that define them and their use (Strang 2008). After all, whether a place is considered to be cultural or natural, it has been “built upon … sectioned off, marked, mapped, and mythologized into networks” of understood space, humanised and personified by cultural processes (Taçon 2010:77; see also Meskell 2012).

Stakeholders and cultural heritage management Arising from ongoing critiques from Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander peoples of the deficiencies in legislation, cultural heritage management, and archaeological practice, there has been a widespread shift in the construction of projects. This ensures that the questions and concerns of Indigenous peoples are increasingly part of the planning of where and how cultural heritage managers and archaeologists undertake their work (David and Thomas 2008; Nicholas and Markey 2015; Ross 2010; Sullivan 1993, 43 2008). Traditional Custodians’ participation is now integral to the process of recording and analysing their own heritage.

As stated above, heritage places may have been created in the past, but they are given meaning in the present (Andrews and Buggey 2008; Bender 2006; Byrne 2005; David et al. 2012:341–342; Russell 2012:402). Heritage meaning is thus constructed in the present, and these meanings also constitute parts of personal and group identity. When there is loss of heritage, via the attrition of knowledge or the destruction of physical sites, there can be a disconnection in identity (Bradley 2008; Hodder 2011; see Thompson 2004 and Chapter 2 for an example of this relating to Gummingurru). The potential for the materiality of heritage places to aid in reconnecting Indigenous people with their heritage — reclaiming knowledge and practices — is recognised in communities and by heritage managers (Bradley and Kearney 2011:26; Harrison 2010, 2011).

The inherently destructive nature of archaeology and the often-isolating effect of recording significant sites separate from their landscapes can be at odds with Aboriginal values, wants, and needs about their living cultural practices (Sullivan 2008). An Aboriginal community’s act of reclamation of place and the heritage attached to it can often be at odds with archaeological conceptions of heritage (Byrne 1991). For example, Bradley (2008) explores this tension when observing the relationship between an informant and a stone tool in situ. The archaeological perception is that the tool encompasses the use, manufacture, sourcing, and trade of the object in the landscape. His informant may not be relating to the tool in such ways however: it is the kinship relationships and the tool as physical embodiment of an ancestral being that matters to his perception and thus heritage value placed on this tool, site, and landscape (Bradley 2008). There has been, and still is, a need by archaeologists and cultural heritage managers to place greater weight on the representation of the meanings and ongoing engagement with places in living cultural landscapes where they are known. Following on from a greater recognised value of Indigenous meaning and interpretation of primary data — no matter the potential for discomfort between these different voices (Nicholas 2005, 2010, 2018).

‘Getting on the map’ is an idea that has gained currency around the world in Aboriginal peoples’ engagement with cultural heritage practice (Byrne 2008; Stone 1998). To ‘authenticate’ a heritage place, it is necessary under legislation to record it (Prangnell et al. 2010:141–143; Ross et al. 2010a). Recording is increasingly being undertaken to make traditionally known space, boundaries, and use, visible and known to authorities, but also to take rightful ownership by Indigenous peoples within “protocols 44 familiar to the state institutions with which indigenous [sic] people are engaging” (Thom 2009:179; see also Peluso 1995). The conferred authenticity that arises, as a consequence, within this system can only be designated as heritage by the state and thus place protection relies on this designation (Tweed and Sutherland 2007).

There is also growing concern among stakeholders over the changing pressures on modern landscape use in regards to the scale of development, including agriculture, mining, and other forms of resource extraction. These concerns tie directly to the challenges of long-term preservation and continuation of cultural heritage explored above (Allen 2010; Andrews and Buggey 2008). Since maps of heritage places are used as devices to convey the interpretation of and context in continuing living cultural heritage practices in Australia, they are central to cultural heritage management practice (Dodge et al. 2011). Their uses in heritage management is ubiquitous, even though, as at Gummingurru, conventional maps often do not actually convey the richer, complex interpretations generated by these collaborative approaches.

The Conventional Mapping Process Around the world, the survey mapping of local heritage places is a continuous project in finding, and then defining, places with ongoing connections to past and living cultures. This process has varied little over the last 100 years. For sites like stone arrangements, the recording of stone placement and geological context as conventional cartographic representations, via total stations, surveying equipment, and some techniques borrowed from fieldwork design in geography, has metamorphosed into the modern use of Geographical Positioning Systems (GPS) for raw or general positioning, and Geographical Information Systems (GIS) for readings of minute accuracy, often to as little as 20mm variance. GIS can collect point data — planar positioning of features in relation to each other — and raster data — matrices of cell or pixel data, including aerial and satellite photography and pictorial representations of data such as soil types, land use, elevation, etc. (Turkington 2010). GIS is also used to analyse the features of sites and landscapes in terms of their interrelationships with and within other features (e.g. quarry sources for stone tools or stone arrangements).

Fieldwork design is an important first step in mapping. Decisions are made continuously on where to start mapping, direction of travel, what to map as each feature is encountered, how these features are or are not interrelated, and how to interpret the inputs, control for independent variables, and check for soundness of inclusion (the strategies that defined the decision-making for this process for Gummingurru 45 are discussed in Chapter 5). Identifying the scale of inquiry is important since under-reporting or over- reporting can influence interpretation, which can be further constrained by the timing available for, and extent of, the fieldwork season (Pearson and Sullivan 1995; Turkington 2010). It is therefore of vital importance that this process of decision-making be made explicit in heritage surveys as it impacts on interpretative outcomes (discussed in Chapters 6 and 9).

The strategy of decision-making in field methods and best practice protocols in mapping requires accuracy in recording. Methodical location of physical features and their relationships in 3D space — sometimes with complex temporal relationships — requires a consistent feature location flagging strategy and interpretation-on-the-go, often building on previous mapping works from sources like governmental agencies and landscape surveyors (Kitchin and Dodge 2007:332). Flagging strategy is the on-the-ground process of iterative decision-making that then guides the building of the databases used for interpretation. This ‘dots-on-the-map’ strategy that builds the basis for the representation of place (discussed in detail in Chapter 5) is only one stage of information gathering and the “initial recognition of a cultural resource” (Pearson and Sullivan 1995:84).

The process of recording site features in an archaeological framework as part of heritage surveys in Environmental Impact Studies, for additions to heritage registers, as part of community-driven projects, and as part of academic research, is a starting point for the understanding and conservation of a site. The physical configuration of the site is given more weight in this process as it forms the basis of continuing but often short-term conservation efforts (Letellier et al. 2007:27). Alternatively, in long-term cultural heritage management projects such as Gummingurru, landscape is captured via multiple vectors such as physical survey, oral and written histories, and archaeological excavation, alongside this mapping strategy and process.

There is an “assumed association of GIS with quantitative analysis and, by extension, science” (Pavlovskaya and St. Martin 2007:590), lending a sense of both authenticity and authority (Andrews and Buggey 2008; Elwood 2006:325–326) to the resulting mapped representation (Kitchin et al. 2009). The epistemology of this form of representation and visualisation is based on revealing a truth “through a scientific approach reliant upon Western ways of seeing and upon technologies of vision; it still depends upon scientific experimentation and a representational view of the world” (Kitchin et al. 2009:8).

46 Cultural heritage mapping and archaeological mapping are best undertaken with an emphasis on both tangible physical heritage and intangible meaning. The process of recording intangible meaning is often done separately from the physical flagging of features and recording of spatial co-ordinates and boundaries and this has led to these aspects of heritage being treated as separate entities (Letellier et al. 2007; Pearson and Sullivan 1995). A site’s relationship with other sites and with other features in the landscape is a necessary component of a heritage survey; expanding the definition and recognition of heritage, combining the multiple vectors of data into “a single picture which is independent of any point of observation” (Ingold 1993:155, original emphasis). This expansion of fieldwork methodology has become increasingly present in the mapping of stone arrangements, but there are few of these studies that produce anything more than a conventional map.

Stone Arrangements In Australia and around the world, stone arrangements are most often related to religious and ceremonial places and landscapes (Ashmore 2008a). There is usually little controversy over whether these features are heritage places (Byrne 1996). Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander stone arrangements are found in every part of Australia and have most often been linked with ceremonial practices and important sacred places in the landscape. They have been interpreted in different ways over time depending on their cultural and physical context and the context of the researchers studying them. Stone arrangements, however, cannot be associated solely with sacredness; there may also be practical associations of stone arrangements with activities like hunting; some are an integrated combination of the two, with their practical uses and their sacredness intertwined. They are found and analysed in a variety of landscape contexts (Hook and Di Lello 2010:286–292). Some are interpreted as touchstones of power related to hunting; others as mundane hunting structures like fish traps; or as horticultural aides; as mnemonic spatial devices (physical maps); as the embodied physical manifestations of spiritual entities and stories; as components of funerary rites in the forms of burial cairns; and some meanings and uses are simply unknown in the ethnographic literature and to the living descendants of their creators (Barham et al. 2004; Bradley and Kearney 2011; David et al. 2004; Law and Slack 2019; Law et al. 2017; McCarthy 1940; McIntyre-Tamwoy and Harrison 2004:31; Rowland and Ulm 2011).

Such complexity and variety of use and practice demonstrates the diversity of Indigenous cultures within Australia, so while there are often similarities in form and function across cultural and landscape contexts, generalisations of the meaning of stone arrangements are cautioned against. Contemporaneous use was recognised as early as 1940 (McCarthy 1940:189). Stone arrangements were recognised in this 47 early literature as being a part of living cultural practices, just as Gummingurru is today, although this early view was eclipsed by prevailing societal attitudes and ideas of Aboriginal peoples and their cultures as belonging to the past (Grounds and Ross 2010; McCarthy 1940:189; Nichols 2004). Dating of the initial construction and past use of stone arrangements has proven difficult.

One exception is situated on Iama (Yam Island), the Argan stone arrangement complex is located on a steep granite ridge-top, with complex lines, circular and semicircular stone formations. The stone arrangements were recorded with the Mura Badulgal Corporation Committee by Neal in 1989, and are known to have been constructed between 600 and 700BP (David et al. 2004). There are many turtle, crocodile, and dugong 3D stone effigies on different islands in the Torres Strait, associated with both population increase involving hunting magic and with more mundane hunting activities (like lookouts and fish traps). O’Connor et al. (2007:20) suggest that there is little functional difference between hunting magic and mundane hunting activities in the social meaning of stone arrangements in this area. They are inextricably intertwined and blur together: entangled intangible meanings with the physical embodiment of the animals that ceremony is meant to increase. Like Gummingurru, these multiple intangible elements create the meaning and context that holds significance.

An example of how multiple cultures interact using stone arrangements as the basis of ceremony, negotiation and trade — just as is the case at Gummingurru — are the Turtle mounds of Evan’s Bay in Cape York. These mounds may also be “associated with turtle increase” ceremonies (Greer 2010:51) and were used for large group ceremonial purposes and as part of hunting ceremonial practices (McIntyre-Tamwoy and Harrison 2004:31). The local landscape of the mounds includes dangerous places that are connected to ancestral spirits and massacre sites (Greer 2009:40). Greer et al. (2011:3–4) suggest that though the mounds found in Cape York have very specific spiritual and ritual meaning, the mounds relate to various peoples in the wider landscape in trade and exchange networks — and there are political considerations alongside cosmological ones. The specific expertise of different groups, including regional specialists holding privileged knowledge, could be called upon to officiate increase ceremonies for other trade groups in the region. The mounds are atypical of Australian stone arrangements as they are highly visible within the landscape and not hidden (Greer et al. 2011:7).

These examples of stone arrangements are never isolated occurrences in particular landscapes but are all journeying components of greater seascapes. They are similar to how Gummingurru holds a vital place in the Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape. 48 The archaeological mapping of these arrangements and sacred places all stress the physical location, orientation, and components of the site. Rarely are the meanings of these places incorporated into either the recording methods and methodology when they are available, or in the representations developed out of those recordings. The mapping of these places is entirely conventional — dot point data on broad geographic regions, published in a fixed medium. The interrelationships are described rather than shown. In order to incorporate changes in meaning and site-people interactions, counter-mapping methodologies in capturing or recording data and then representing these places need to be developed, as I have done for Gummingurru and presented in this thesis.

Counter-mapping heritage places “[Counter-mapping examines] the ideology inherent in maps (or their ‘second text’) and how maps ‘lie’ (or at least provide selective stories) due to the choices and decisions that have to be made during their creation, and through how they are read by users” (Kitchin and Dodge 2007:332).

The counter-mapping political cartographic movement began in the mid-1990s as a direct response to official maps being used by the Indonesian government to misrepresent territory and thereby appropriate and override customary claims for local access to forestry resources in Kalimantan (Peluso 1995). It was in response to these actions that activists amongst the Kalimantan Indigenous peoples re-appropriated the government’s tools of resource acquisition by counter-mapping their own territorial claims and thus legitimising their authenticity and authority in denying access. This codification of land and resource management formalised the traditional ownership arrangements within the same political and legal frameworks used to supersede them, allowing for the contestation of government authority in legal actions (Peluso 1995:386). At its heart, counter-mapping is a political tool, which can be used (amongst other things) to re-appropriate stolen land and upset differentials in power relationships (Brealey 1995; Dalton and Mason-Deese 2012:442).

This process of government appropriation of land has a long history, particularly in colonial nations such as Australia, where Indigenous territories were mapped by colonial powers into colonial territory (Byrne and Nugent 2004). Counter-mapping is a tool that addresses “the increasing need of rural [and Indigenous] communities to make legible and defend their territory” (Roth 2009:207). This process of making territory ‘legible’, of writing it into ‘fact’, is an act of ownership and of reclamation after the erasure of meaning about known places during the act of colonial mapping. The conceptualisation of land (previously abstracted from Indigenous ownership via a ‘preunderstanding’, or a base set of assumptions, most specifically the idea of terra nullius) via maps does not, by itself, change the

49 ownership of that land. It is in the utilisation — the enacting and enforcement of the transmission of ideas of space, place and ownership — that the landscape is reformulated into a colonised space with the map as the tool for the deliberate dispossession of land from the original owners (Brealey 1995:141; David 2002; Winlow 2013:51). The binary construct of nature versus culture also created a conceptualisation of the Australian landscape as ‘wilderness’ and thus ‘empty’. These ideas were deliberately used as a baseline from which the landscape could be “reimagined and shaped by the colonial eye” (Banivanua Mar and Edmonds 2010:5).

The archaeological process of counter-mapping in Australia is inextricably bound up in the strides that have been made in cultural heritage practice to incorporate the concerns of Traditional Custodians on the divide between tangible and intangible heritage, the isolation of sites within complex cultural landscapes, and the harm of the promulgation of the concept of a static culture lost in time (Allen and Phillips 2010; Nichols 2004; Sullivan 2008). ‘Fixing’ the cultural practices of Aboriginal peoples as belonging solely in and to the past via only recording the physical attributes of a site, place, or artefact, denies the continuity, discontinuity and reclamation of knowledge, and the diversity of living traditions of present Aboriginal cultures. The goal of the Gummingurru Mapping Project — and hence my work — is to ensure that these notions are unfixed from the maps that have been produced for the Jarowair- Wakka Wakka custodians.

Continuity and change can be reflected in counter-maps with community collaboration — sometimes, maps of contemporary landscape use can erase past landscape use (O’Rourke 2018) while often past use is valorised over present connections. How research questions and methodology are determined with descendant communities in the process of mapping heritage places brings the human back to the map (Caquard and Wright 2009): there are social dimensions to mapping and the methods used (e.g. GIS) as well as the representations produced (Hacigüzeller 2012; Chapter 7). These dimensions of responsibility and engagement, impact and benefit, and undoing of (colonial) legacies and creation of Atalay’s (2012) ‘braided’ knowledges as an alternative to multi-vocality, are the political and ethical components of archaeology that need to be reflexively engaged with, particularly in the representation of meaning for Indigenous archaeology and cultural landscapes (Atalay 2008, 2014; Nicholas 2010, 2014).

The complexity of these multiple landscapes and stone and ceremonial arrangements becomes clearer as more tangible evidence and intangible meaning comes to light. Assumptions about the interpretation of visual (and other sensory) landscapes are embedded within the sociocultural context of the 50 investigators; the present-past gaze (Bender 2002). It is better to approach the interpretation of landscapes in the present rather than in the past, through the narration of stone arrangements based in present memory and ethnographic investigation, where possible (Andrews and Buggey 2008).

The idea of narrating such entangled places, people, and things (see Chapter 1), the understanding of meaning and the interpretation communicated by that meaning, brings staggering complexity to attempts to represent such places as Stonehenge, the Nazca lines, and of course, Gummingurru. Each aspect of investigated knowledge clarifies how the many meanings and events that have occurred at sites like Stonehenge and each of the other places in the landscape associated with it, create pathways of dependency between them (Hodder 2011, 2012). A set of events creates meanings that, in turn, create new events that would not have occurred without this process of meaning-making. The places in the landscape have meaning that depends on all the other places. The relationships in this landscape and all the tangible and intangible happenings within it become more complex as each is explored and codified. In this way, all these landscapes exist within continua of events, meanings, people, and objects, and their interrelationships, that culminate in multiple associations for multiple peoples at multiple times (Hodder 2011, 2012).

Conclusion Remembering that stone arrangements — and all other places of cultural importance — are not static and fixed in time but are continuously changing works-in-progress where the place and the people “each defines and develops the other” (McNiven et al. 2009:291). Archaeologists and cultural heritage managers need to articulate the development and continuation of these places in a way that communicates changeability and that does not denote permanent fixity. Communicating the meaning of stone arrangements where these meanings are known, is not just a job for oral or written narration, but also for mapping presentations (Dodge et al. 2011). This cultural importance can mutually form identity, and even confer legitimacy and authenticity, and when this process has been interrupted, the resurrection of knowledge and use of a place can be vital to the cultural heritage of a displaced people. Such is the case of Gummingurru.

51 Reflective Pause A

“We wanted to find ways to acknowledge how fugitive, how slippery, our interpretations are; we wanted to focus on process as much as on end result, for it’s the process which allows an insight into the present-ing of the past” (Bender 2006:315, original emphasis).

Here, I pause to reflect on the problem setting and initial encounters with Gummingurru as a site for this project (Cycle I) and look forward to Cycle II where the hermeneutic cycle begins again with the knowledge from Cycle I then used to drive the process of data capturing using phenomenological counter-mapping of Gummingurru as a place. Cycle III then moves into the phenomenological counter- mapping representation of this place. As Bender (2006) states (above), without acknowledging and stating the process that we (the investigative team, and I as a member of that team) undertook to create mapping interpretations of Gummingurru, we cannot know how our present gaze is impacting on our understanding of the past.

Cycle I Overview In Chapter 1, I introduced the problem of fixity in archaeological representations of Indigenous places and landscapes. Part of the archaeologist’s job is to communicate the past to the general public. In connecting with non-specialists in this public arena, archaeologists and cultural heritage managers need to communicate that Indigenous sites and landscapes are places of living, continuing culture by moving beyond snapshot representations of one moment of a place. The consequences of failing to adequately represent change, continuity, and living connections to place includes perpetuating public perceptions of Indigenous peoples as being part of the past, disappearing them from the narrative of the present and future. This placing of Indigenous peoples as belonging only to the past, often informs political debate and policy decision-making (Grounds and Ross 2010). We, as creators of representations of the sites we examine, should be cognisant of what we are bringing to those representations.

In outlining the Gummingurru case study in Chapter 2, I did so in a mostly chronological way. This ordering of a narrative in linear patterns — from pre-contact use, to use during colonisation, and then into the present — with each ‘set’ of actors or agents working in relation to the site, is a very specifically Western scientific method of speaking about the history of a place (Nabokov 2002). How does this fit into Jarowair-Wakka Wakka understandings and connections? And how can we frame and explore these as part of what makes this such an important place in its surrounding landscape? How do we see the past

52 landscape in the present when there have been significant physical changes to the present landscape? The effect of the colonial endeavour on this landscape was discussed here.

When considering how to record archaeological landscapes, thought needs to be given to the frameworks in which we operate both legislative and social. Chapter 3 explored legislation, stakeholders, and the problems in mapping processes. Decision-making in mapping has direct impacts on the representations that are generated as a result and these representations of place and landscape can have direct political and social impacts on the people who created or inherited these places.

Reflection on Cycle I Why use cycles as a construction for an entire thesis? It made sense to use a hermeneutic analysis for writing this thesis, as that is the pattern of investigation at Gummingurru: investigating, learning, evaluating, and reflecting on what was learned is one circle. For Gummingurru though, it was more like a cycle with each investigative circle moving understanding of this place and its representation into a new place. We built on our previous understandings and applied the theoretical and methodological package in a newly expanded way (Figure A.1).

And, like the hermeneutic cycle, phenomenological engagement with landscape, place, and people can be cyclic events: We come to the world — we come into it and keep returning to it — as already placed there. Places are not added to sensations any more than they are imposed on spaces. Both sensations and spaces are themselves emplaced from the very first moment, and at every subsequent moment as well (Casey 1996:18-19).

These intra-related phenomena of embodied and memoried experiences of place, context, people and their entanglements change and grow with each subsequent encounter. I have observed this, not just in myself and my relationship with Gummingurru, but also in many of the other non-Indigenous researchers and participants who encounter the complexity of Gummingurru and its landscapes. I do not presume to speak for the personal relationships that Jarowair-Wakka Wakka peoples form with this place (or that of other Aboriginal and Indigenous peoples).

Figure A.1: The Hermeneutic Cycle in this thesis. This representation of the cyclic nature of the study focusses on the movement of knowledge throughout and the constantly returning to place and starting point. We return to Gummingurru in each iteration, with greater knowledge of the stones, the story, and the place (Source: Author).

54 This first Cycle is the establishment of place: where and what are we examining and what is the context of that examination? It is also the establishment of process: how to undergo recording Gummingurru in a way that not only reflected and reflects solely archaeological, Western scientific modes of recording, but also reflected and reflects Jarowair-Wakka Wakka understanding and interpretation of the motifs and other stones, recognising both their tangible and storying connections to the site as conveyed to the researchers over time (see Prangnell 2000 for a comparison). That this active management had to be captured became evident between field seasons of recording the site (described in Chapter 5).

This process of iterative re-examination of how we are going about interpreting the (present-)past in our representations of Aboriginal cultural landscapes is a necessity if we are to unfix those representations (Chapter 4). Cycle I presents all the knowledge that lead to the start of the recording of Gummingurru as part of the AIATSIS grant-supported Gummingurru Mapping Project (Figure A.2).

Figure A.2: Current Place in the Hermeneutic Cycle (Cycle I: from First Encounters to How to Represent this place) (Source: Author).

What is my perspective? As part of a hermeneutic structure of critical analysis of my own work — the autoethnographic detail — the underlying assumptions that were the starting point of my participation in the recording and research of Gummingurru need to be addressed. My first assumptions before my first fieldwork and encounter with Gummingurru was that this site is a fantastic example of a stone arrangement, and that:

55 • The stones would be the primary interest of this site to the team: their dimensions, placement, orientation, composition; all of these things would be the most important data to collect, collate, and analyse. • What could be produced from these data would accurately reflect what this site is. • Change on the site would and could only be taphonomic in nature. • This was [rather than is] an interesting, isolated site. • Did I even think about living heritage or the historical context? At this point, I had some knowledge of practices like repainting as being authentic reuse of place(e.g. Wandjina Figures [Byrne 1991]).

Despite my comfort in working within a post-processual framework, these assumptions are surprising to look back upon, as they were firmly processual and above all, focussed solely on the tangible. I did not consider the historical and cultural components of this place to be as significant as the physical. This was my preunderstanding: “the subliminal cultural, prejudicial notions that embed our actions and understandings” (David et al. 2012:321), which formed the basis of my present-past gaze (Bender 2002) and that needed interrogation. My personal journeys alongside my academic one informed changes in my understanding of and assumptions about Gummingurru as I spent time on Country and investigating the representation of this place.

How has prior knowledge informed this investigation? The documentary records that were available to me at the beginning of my time on the project and interaction with the site were the ones generated during the fieldwork undertaken by the UQ research team prior to 2010; the GIS co-ordinate output, the field recording log, and the photographic log. I started my interaction with Gummingurru through these documentary records of the site.

My own personal experiences, of my gender (non-binary8), sexuality (asexual9), faith (Wiccan), and disability will be commented on throughout this thesis. I try to make my own worldview clear, how it changed and was affected by Gummingurru, by Brian Tobane, Conrad and Shannon Bauwens, Annette Riley and other Jarowair-Wakka Wakka people. Visiting the site in 2010 was a milestone for me because in 2005 I became disabled with a chronic pain mobility disability. This disability is still not officially

8 Non-binary and genderfluid people are not solely male or female. Some move between genders; some are outside the gender binary entirely. I am genderfluid (often categorised under the umbrella of non-binary) in that I have ‘man days’, ‘woman days’, and ‘no gender’ days. 9 Asexuality is a lack of sexual attraction. I use a split attraction model — no sexual attraction and biromantic attraction. Bi in this sense meaning my own gender and others. Which, of course, is all of them. 56 diagnosed at the time of writing and so I have since learned to ‘live’ with it — happily, my condition has improved dramatically over this time, although it is not what I would call a ‘completed’ experience. I am not yet fully able-bodied. From 2005, my access to the practice of archaeology was thus immediately (and almost, in my mind, violently) curtailed. In fact, I was plunged into a deep depression and anxiety that I could no longer be an archaeologist — fieldwork being such a valorised component of the discipline in Australia. My perception (and that of some others) was that I was now incapable of working in the field. So it was that being invited onto the Gummingurru Mapping Project after completing my lab work honours project quite literally saved my life, creating a pathway out of suicidal ideation around my future.

My Wiccan10 spirituality made it easy for me to accept that stones can be physical embodiments of spiritual beings as this kind of animus is a feature of my faith. That yurees can reside within an arrangement of stone is no stranger than the idea that a temple or a landscape feature — like an outcrop, a river, or a sea — can house a deity. That beings of power were in a place, and continue to be in place, was, for me, a familiar way of seeing the world. Ideas of embodied, active, agentic spiritual beings made complete sense to me as soon as I was introduced to the concept of yurees as they reflect similar concepts of such beings in nature within my practice. Of course, my understanding of their presence and any relationship I could have with them could not be the same as Jarowair-Wakka Wakka understandings of and relationship to these beings.

How the researchers saw this physical landscape was through a present-past gaze; this gaze informed (and continues to inform) each decision of recording and interpretation as it was made. The contour of the site, the contemporary, visible processes affecting change, the features that are present now and in a layout that is arbitrarily considered, these are all aspects of the present-past gaze informing practice. It did not occur to me that the building of roads, the construction of railways (and their decommissioning), and even changes in farming practices, could have radically changed the topography of the landscape at

10 Wicca is a neopagan (modern revival) nature religion with multiple deities, often engaging with multiple pantheons from around the world. There is a recognition and celebration of animus in nature especially through seasonality and harvest, and a focus on balance in actions and being. Many practitioners use witchcraft as ceremony and identify as witches. There are initiatory practices that may be performed by a group or in solitary contemplation. Wiccan practitioners act as their own priests and priestesses. There is an emphasis on a balance of gendered forces within individuals. It began in England in the 1940s and borrowed from the fascination with the occult in the previous century, initially focussing on Celtic spiritual beliefs. Feminism strongly influenced Wicca from the later part of the twentieth century (Ball 2018; Singleton 2019). I practice a solitary eclectic version. I do not belong to a coven or larger group, and my practice honours many gods and spiritual beings. 57 the start of this journey. Therefore, understanding those landscape changes would have an impact on how we construct our maps and what the maps actually show.

The recording and investigation of Gummingurru has ‘a luxury of time’ — 19 years so far — which is not something most cultural heritage projects have. The chance to build relationships and knowledge, to potentially widen the scope of heritage recording into archaeological practice, is not something I dismiss or take lightly. Many other heritage place mappings are limited to brief survey or salvage work that determines the depth of investigation, or the depth of knowledge that Traditional Custodians are willing to share. This means that practise should be thoughtful, precisely calibrated, and planned. Capturing all of these intricacies of a landscape and the places within it is the challenge.

What has been my role? In bringing together each of the different strands of evidence, my role has been both to present and interrogate representations of this place to the general public. I have also been tasked with raising awareness of Gummingurru and assisting in the site’s fulfilling of its new role as a Reconciliation site. I have been asked to speak for Gummingurru to people and have presented at conferences and to interested groups and individuals in order to fulfil this responsibility. To me, this is a great honour and a responsibility I take very seriously. This is the culmination of my almost-decade of work on Gummingurru. When I began this project, my role was as a research assistant — building the digital database of knowledge to that date — then, as a ‘shovelbum’ — simply there as a field worker, surveying and recording the stones and that is where I was until the final stone recording field season (Chapter 5).

Some Thoughts It is far beyond the scope of one thesis to capture every point of complexity relating to Gummingurru’s landscapes and meanings. Coming to the present understanding of this place has already been convoluted. It has taken almost twenty years of investigation to date, building relationships with members of the Gummingurru Aboriginal Corporation as well as securing funding and developing projects to investigate different aspects of this place.

I turn now to a brief point discussion of how the concepts from the quotes presented in this reflection come together to form a narrative of understanding landscape as well as understanding the process of how we can practise authentic complex representation via mapping. How archaeologists approach the

58 creation of archaeological knowledge about the past in the present is not just about survey and being on Country anymore. These are deeply important but are not the only potential components of archaeology: “Walking across the landscape or excavating a site is not the only legitimate way to create archaeological knowledge. By interacting with digital or non-digital technology and a series of inanimate and animate materials, we create narratives about past lives as well” (Hacigüzeller 2012:258).

Creation of narratives is a vital part of that work (the science of communication or ‘scicomm’) in public engagement, which is where the funding comes from and where archaeology can affect change in attitudes and even legislation. The use of digital technologies in that narrative creation is increasing rapidly and is becoming an increasingly utilised means of engagement with archaeological places and landscapes by the public.

Multiple studies now exist on the use of digital mapping techniques such as photogrammetry (Carpiceci and Inglese 2015) and remote sensing (Evans et al. 2013; Law et al. 2017) as investigative techniques that are able to illuminate features of landscapes that may be hidden, like the New Starburst at Gummingurru (see Chapter 6). Archaeological information is not just based on data: it is also the representation of those data to multiple audiences, and the use of those data in a variety of situations to answer a multitude of questions.

The safety of Gummingurru was something that Ben Gilbert was deeply concerned about, particularly in the wake of Dianne Fraser’s suggestion that the stones could simply be removed and taken to the Queensland Museum as artefacts: “While I still trust that the government will offer it more protection than its general anonymity presently affords it, I can only hope that when it becomes my turn to discard my old shell the grounds will remain inviolate, and that someone may take on the task of demonstrating to our younger generations what a fine people originally occupied our land” (Gilbert 2006:82).

The land is now owned by the Gummingurru Aboriginal Corporation and it is the members who have taken back “the task of demonstrating to our younger generations what a fine people originally occupied” and still occupy, this land. Before Ben Gilbert passed away, he saw this return happen and the future of Gummingurru safeguarded.

Gummingurru has meant many things to different people. This place is a sacred place and a contested place in Toowoomba and its surrounds. The contesting of its status as an archaeological site and an Aboriginal sacred place is a part of the erasure of Aboriginal identity in this region: “They keep saying it’s just a pile of rocks… no-one made it, why are you so interested?” (Bryce Barker, passing on Toowoomba residents’ stories of Gummingurru, pers. comm. 2013). 59 It is settler descendants with no direct ties to Jarowair-Wakka Wakka people who suggest that “it’s just a pile of rocks”. The wealth of oral history, academic study, and cultural knowledge about this place as well as Piotto’s (2012; Piotto et al. 2018) study on the statistical probability of randomness and decision- making on the selection of the stones are hard data that these are not just piles of rocks (Chapter 9).

Identity and memory — the present-past, the continuation of culture, the practice of culture into the future — are all integral parts of cultural heritage management, particularly in Australia. Gummingurru very much reflects this in the present. The questioning of the authenticity of this place as a living heritage place, not simply an artefact of a ‘dead’ culture, is tied up in settler communities’ views of Indigenous peoples; views that have been influenced by previous archaeological outputs: “… cultural links to the past exist only in the present … The community holds identity and memory and nurtures them from the past through the present and into the future” (Andrews and Buggey 2008: 66, 69).

The resurrection of living cultural heritage practices like the active management of the site and the contemporary ties within the landscape (Chapter 10 and Reflective Pause C) ensure the continuation of identity and memory into the future.

That maps can create reality has been recognised for some time (Harley 1989). Their impact on understanding of the world and their ‘second texts’ influence identity-making, decision-making, and place-making: “… in a very real sense, maps make our world … Their ability to communicate effectively means that maps are widely deployed as devices to present ideas, themes and concepts that are difficult to express verbally and to persuade people to their message” (Dodge, Kitchin and Perkins 2011:xix-xx).

“[Counter-mapping examines] the ideology inherent in maps (or their ‘second text’) and how maps ‘lie’ (or at least provide selective stories) due to the choices and decisions that have to be made during their creation, and through how they are read by users” (Kitchin and Dodge 2007:332).

I contend that the maps that we, as archaeologists, publish into the world and into communities needs to reflect the complexity and emic understandings of that world. We can use a different multi-vocal and Indigenous-driven understanding to persuade people that living, changing culture is practised in Aboriginal cultural landscapes in Australia and this will continue (and change) in the future.

60 Phenomenology/Entanglement As an important aspect of reflexive practice in this thesis, I examine the methodology, methods, and results of the project design that informed our understanding of Gummingurru at the time of my first interactions and first field seasons visiting this important place. I then examine how the theoretical and methodological frameworks used in that ‘Cycle I’ of investigation, were taken on board, changed, and refined and thereby used to drive the new representations of Gummingurru, representations that are the result of my own work.

In beginning this project, I started with a framework of Practice Theory (habitus) by Bordieu (2000) and others, which allowed me to look at Gummingurru and the role the site plays in the landscape as simply a physical container of events and actions. As Cycle II will show, this was a useful starting point, but in the end it did not cope well with the complexity of this place and its landscape connections. Phenomenological counter-mapping of place is a multi-vocal exercise that attempts to capture this complexity, through both the recording phase (Cycle II) and the representation of results phase (Cycle III). This lead me to Entanglement Theory by Hodder (2011, 2012) and others, which enabled the use of phenomenology and counter-mapping recording and representations in entwined or ‘braided’ (Atalay 2012) ways with Jarowair-Wakka Wakka understandings of the interconnectedness of places within this landscape (Chapter 4) and the spiritual and natural heritage that is inherent in these places (Figure A.3).

The tanglegram demonstrates what we knew about the affordances, dependencies, (Hodder 2012:180- 185) and directions of impact at the end of Cycle I. That is, what we know about these interconnections and the landscape at this point in the hermeneutic cycle.

As part of the hermeneutic cycle and as inspired by Brown’s (2015a) thesis, the figures relating to the hermeneutic cycle (Figures 1.5, 1.6, and A.1) and the tanglegrams (Figures 1.4, A.3, B.3, and 10.1) of this place are hand-drawn. They are done so in order to make clear the personal, reflective nature of these explorations rather than as authoritative ones (Brown 2015a:63). They are a metaphor for my thinking out loud in entangled ways, attempting to work in an interrelated space rather than a linear Western one (Nabokov 2002). This process allows mixed, entangled thoughts to be represented visually, rather than as one concept at a time as when written into a sentence.

Figure A.3: Tanglegram at this point. This is the three scales of landscape and the relationships between place, people, and things. Other cultural groups visited Gummingurru to participate in ceremony and negotiation and trade. Ceremony depended on ochre as a component, which was formed by local geological activity. Yurees are about species and habitat knowledge and management (Source: Author). 62

Introduction to the next Cycle: Cycle II Cycle II is an application of the phenomenological counter-mapping suite of methods applied to the recording of data about cultural landscapes. It specifically focuses on the process of research design for the recording of sites and places.

In mapping and counter-mapping heritage places, we need to pull apart our assumptions of what a place is to avoid overriding past meaning with present interpretations and biases. What, then, are the theoretical constructs of place? How do we go about mapping it? What is it that we are mapping? I address these questions and the theoretical and methodological frameworks of site recording in Chapter 4. I present the methods of the recording of the stone arrangements and motifs at Gummingurru and its associated landscapes in Chapter 5. I then present the results of this recording in Chapter 6 and discuss what the representations made, via the maps thus generated, actually do. (Or, rather, don’t do).

63 Chapter 4: What Are We Mapping? Place, Meaning, Narrative, and Phenomenological Connections to Landscape

“Places not only are; they happen” (Casey 1996:27; original emphasis).

Introduction In this first chapter of Cycle II, I explore conceptual and ideological understandings of what constitutes “place” for the Western scientific gaze — the multiple dimensions of space, time, event, memory, and bodily experience; that is, the phenomenological understanding of place. Such conceptualisations of place inform the quantification of place through ordering, measurement, and thus recording of sites. They also inform the construction of ‘place’ through the forms of mapping narratives. The maps that I produced from the recording of the Gummingurru stone arrangement were framed as part of landscape archaeology, which moves away from bounded perceptions of sites as solitary points in space and seeks to bring the entanglement of all of these components and more into focus and into narratives about place.

What were we mapping? The most obvious answer to this question is that for this project we were mapping Gummingurru —a site, a stone arrangement, a ceremonial place, a part of a wider landscape. When we were mapping Gummingurru’s individual stones in their storying motifs as an archaeological exercise, we were also mapping the journeys that people undertook in the Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape and the storying journeys of the associated ancestral beings embodied on the site and who moved (and continue to move) across these landscapes.

Landscapes are places and sites, interconnected via tangible physical pathways, as well as via intangible, mnemonic (memory) pathways. Without the story and the meaning of the journeys and an understanding of the boundaries and activities situated in places, the meaning of the places in those landscapes cannot be known or represented in an archaeological map. Thus, the archaeology of Gummingurru is, necessarily, an archaeology of the landscape.

Theory: Place, Space, and Time The concept of place is complex. The common idea of a place starts with the physical site: this place is here; within this space is this place. A place, by this definition, is merely a physical locale, with tangible, observable elements. When we discuss archaeological places, however, we do not simply describe a

64 physical entity, a tangible state of being; the discussion becomes contingent on defining a place’s relational spaces and all the interconnecting happenings in that place (Brady et al. 2016; Brady et al. 2020). This concept of place becomes embedded in the dimensions of the past, present, and future, in memories and projections of these times, and relies on the embodied experiences and events, tasks, and journeys that occur in that locality and in relation to that place (Casey 1996:14; see also Smith 2006). These dimensions of space, time, events, memory and bodily experience enmesh within “the common matrix provided by place” (Casey 1996:36, 1997, 2008; see also Brady et al. 2020; Tilley 1994).

‘Space’ itself is a created, constructed concept of a physical locality, often abstracted from relational intangible meaning. This process of abstraction is embedded in the Western scientific gaze underpinned by Christian ideologies, articulated through the Renaissance and Colonial eras right into the Victorian ordering of the world of oppositional perspectives on space, or nature, and humanity, or culture (Casey 1996:47; Ellen 2004:430; Ireland 2003; Ross et al. 2011; Strang 2008; Thomas 1996). This set of ideological lenses through which modern people observe the world is embedded within this habitus of scientific traditions — an abstraction that equals autonomous objectivity, and thus authenticity (Bender 2002; Bordieu 2000; Merlan 2006:97). It is situated in an unconscious or perhaps subconscious process that starts with the conceptualisation of a universally abstract physical locality of space and then fills it with observed characteristics that form first understanding — a preunderstanding — and then constructions of that space as place (David 2002, 2004:68; Tilley 1994; McNiven 2008).

Historical cartographic and archaeological practices reinforced these ideas of space and its materiality as independent of the subjectivity of the observer and the relationships that spaces have with people (Byrne 2008; Lydon 2005; Roth 2009:210; Winlow 2013). When this ‘independent’ abstraction is purposefully undertaken as in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries in Australia, space is emptied of meaning and connections; it is intellectually emptied of people, and it is this emptying that is a pivotal practice within the endeavour of colonisation (Harley 1989:10, 14; McNiven and Russell 2005; Oliver 2011:68). Abstracted, emptied space was virginal — a tabula rasa of possibility, a terra nullius — and could therefore be colonised and filled up as a matter of necessity; a part of the Christian duty of maintaining dominance over nature and all it contained (Banivanua Mar and Edmonds 2010; Brealey 1995; Byrne 2009; Meskell 2012; Roth 2009:208). As discussed in Chapter 3, this played out not only in colonisation, but also in the subsequent legislation surrounding Indigenous lifeways and mapping in heritage management — a literal writing of heritage spaces ‘on the map’ and the prioritisation of the visible, tangible traces that were considered to be of the most importance. 65 Space changes from this purely physical abstracted neutral medium of an empty container into ‘place’. Space is transformed into place by social beings creating conceptual understandings, histories, and narratives, preserving these social elements of place, or alternatively destroying them, and ultimately creating remembered, discovered, constructed, and lived places within a continuum of human experience, interacting in and as part of this physical medium (Casey 1996; Gosden and Head 1994:113; Greenhough 2010; Ingold 1993:152–153). Varieties of place — story places, memorial places, even forgotten places and imagined places (Russell 2012) — are all given meaning at different stages of interaction, in a way that ensures that the events that constitute these places are remembered and continued, forgotten and lost, or even simply, continuously, changed:

Place, site, landscape, no matter which word we use, has no history with a fixed point of origin, with one beginning or end, because it is always subjected to an irrational process of change influenced by the context in which it is situated at a specific moment, always involved in the process of becoming, in a process of re-reading, of re-construction, of re-interpretation and of re-presentation (Campbell and Ulin 2004:92).

Space is thus transformed into place. Place is always becoming, always happening, always experienced.

Time is the other dimension that shapes the meaning and understanding of place (Casey 1996:36). Whether seen through the Western scientific lens of ‘Time’s Arrow’ — the linear forward progression of ever more complex events, and thus a linear past that retrogresses back into simplicity (Perkins 2001:85) — or through a traditional Aboriginal conception of a constantly renewing continuum of past, present, and future that is narrated in the present and in the presence of a place, time is a crucial component of understanding connections to landscape (Cosgrove and Martins 2000:98–99; Kearney and Bradley 2006; Knapp and Ashmore 1999; Lourandos 1997; Nicholas 2005; Rika-Heke 2010). The misunderstanding of these different conceptualisations of the experience of time was used to create a narrative of Indigenous peoples around the world being timeless, incapable of change, and thus doomed to die out (Perkins 2001:101). This was a useful justification of colonialism, particularly in Australia — the ‘doomed race’ suggested an inevitability to this outcome as was seen in newspapers throughout the late-nineteenth to the mid-twentieth centuries on the National Library’s Trove database as discussed in Chapter 2 (e.g. Toowoomba Chronicle 1919; see also Byrne 1996; Jones 1971; Rowse 2014).

The processes of temporal change in the physicality and meaning in human-place interaction — that is, the dwelling of people in place and in their landscapes — are not static, with discrete units moving ever forward, but are entangled continua, continually occurring, renewing, and repeating. The significance of

66 these changes and the intermingling nature of temporal events are often reduced to linear moments in archaeological practice, moving through that Time’s Arrow of a montage of events, divorced from the relational and residual influences of previous events (Aldred 2010; Caquard and Wright 2009). The nature of archaeological investigation becomes ‘over time’ rather than ‘through time’ or ‘in time’, with discrete moments as snapshots of events rather than a process of returning or continuous dwelling, changing meaning and understanding (Godwin and Weiner 2006; Perkins 2001).

Depending on the scope of an investigation, time sometimes is treated as a palimpsest of moments, or as contexts for the physical remains found in excavation units. When taken as a temporal sequence in the context of an excavation, time is still managed as event units, strung together, with transitional periods standing out as markers of change, though often not considered as influencing the next event unit (Aldred 2010; Bailey 2007; Casey 1996). So the temporality of place is often divorced from the spatiality of place in archaeological investigations, seen as part of co-occurring factors performing separately rather than as contingent enmeshing factors affecting all experiences in that place, forming landscape connections (Casey 1996; Rika-Heke 2010). For Gummingurru, time is a cyclic, continuously changing but also repeating thing; it is enmeshed in the living heritage practised in this place as well as seasonal change and risks (e.g. flooding and grass lifecycles). The resurrection of this place (Chapter 2) is contingent on time — connections in the past but also looking to the future.

Sites and landscapes both change over time and exist in different points in time with specific meanings attached to them. Archaeology has tended to represent only one version of occupation — that reified through the tangible evidence of the past, in discrete units of time, thus neglecting new meanings assigned in the present and ignoring the importance of lived attachment and living heritage (Byrne 2003, 2004; Ingold 1993:154; Meskell 2012; Nicholas 2005, 2010a, 2010b; Ross 2020; Strang 2008). Yet in an Indigenous Australian context, this understanding of time as discrete and static in relation to place and as it relates to the materiality of the past, is inherently flawed: “different conceptions of time can be held simultaneously by different individuals or embodied in different practices and beliefs within a given society” (Bailey 2007:202) and the living heritage of Australia’s Indigenous peoples reflects these multiple conceptions of time (French 1989; Lourandos 1997). Thus, time acts similarly to space, transforming site into place: always changing and becoming, always happening, always experienced.

In Australia (and Canada and the United States), the archaeology of landscape has generally shifted from bounded conceptions of place as inherited through the practices of Western scientific enquiry into a 67 present ‘Indigenous archaeologies’ approach to cultural landscapes. This approach is often anthropological, with emphasis on living heritage and ethnographic understanding of the construction of places within landscapes of meaning — landscapes that “embody multiple times as well as multiple places” and through the investigation of materiality of the landscape, landscapes also embody “continuity and sequence” as well as the present-past; they “potentially change and transformation as well” (Knapp and Ashmore 1999:18; see also Bailey 2007; Barrett 1999; Brady and Bradley 2014; Meskell 2009a, 2012; Nicholas 2010a).

Understanding these components of space, time, and their part in the construction of place, is vitally important for an understanding of Gummingurru in all its complexity. As researchers at Gummingurru, we have followed each one of these lines of evidence: the tangible stones and motifs (Chapter 6) and the intangible journeying yurees and knowledge (Chapter 9), as well as the historical pathways that knowledge has brought to the present (Chapter 2): all of these come together in the present and will continue into the future, always emplaced at Gummingurru (Casey 1996:17). The employment of an Indigenous archaeological research methodology has ensured that Jarowair-Wakka Wakka interpretations and understandings of this place were (and are continuing to be) constantly utilised and embedded into the fieldwork methods (Chapter 5). By walking together on the site, during recording, and throughout the (still ongoing) research, the significance of the site and the greater landscape was (and is) captured.

Landscapes: More Than Just Sites “In geography, hodology is the study of paths, in philosophy, the study of interconnected ideas, and in neuroscience, the study of the patterns of connections in the white matter of the brain” (Turnbull 2007:142).

Sites and places are only one small part of landscapes. They are the locales — nodes, perhaps — most recognised as having archaeological significance, yet they are generally considered in isolated contexts (Harrison 2010; Snead and Preucel 1999). The connections between sites and the assorted types of pathways, routes and journeys that make up these connections, constitute the landscape — determining the integrated importance of sites and places and giving meaning to the often intransigent and sometimes seasonal nature of the places where movement ceases (Bender 2001:84; Brown 2015a:216; Byrne and Nugent 2004; Hodder 2011, 2012; Ingold 1993:167; Harrison 2011).

68 When exploring human interrelationships with places and landscapes, journeys undertaken to and from and between specific sites have only recently been recognised as being relevant to archaeological investigation and heritage emphasis; previously they were a footnote of connection to the sites that make up archaeological landscapes (Brown 2015a; Harrison 2010; Turnbull 2007). Pathways are more than just connections, they are places of significance in, and of, themselves. We also dwell in “the interplaces of travel” (Casey 1996:39, original emphasis), linking people and place, meaning and memory, with the past, present and future. Sometimes ceremony and sacredness flow along these pathways, as in the songlines associated with ancestral beings in Australia (Roth 2009:214; Taçon 1999:42). Songlines are the physical mapping onto country of ancestral beings moving throughout landscapes, actioning tasks in specific places, ever renewing, ever present, ever occurring in the landscape (Kearney and Bradley 2009). They not just are, they be.

Bees in Ghungalu and Kangalu Country demonstrate these concepts of being in place and along pathways of travel. Godwin and Weiner (2006) write about a cultural heritage survey that was formulated with the Traditional Custodians of that Country. When Elders accompanied the survey party back to a significant area, the native bees that inhabited this place continuously buzzed around the people moving throughout the landscape. This species of native bee is known to be a significant yuree (spelled yuri in Godwin and Weiner 2006) of the Ghungalu and was making its presence, and that of the ancestor with whom it is associated, known to the descendants of the ancestor. This is similar to the way that the Willy Wagtail is seen at Gummingurru (Chapter 2): at Gummingurru the bird is the embodiment of Bunda’s spirit, returning to oversee proceedings at this significant place.

The act of travelling and journeying between places can have as much significance to those journeying as do the destination places themselves. It is the embodied movement, the passage through and the memory of the interrelated radiating lines that connect and contextualise place and sites that become the landscape upon which people act (Bender 2001; Ingold 1993:167; Thom 2009:198). It is the possible choices in routes and the knowledge remembered and created through new movements that “allows for adaptivity” in the choices and journeying landscapes that people inhabit and create (Turnbull 2007:143; Van Dyke 2008). The acting, inhabiting, and creating of memory are what iteratively build landscapes into inhabited and inscribed larger cultural landscapes (David and Wilson 2002; Godwin and Weiner 2006).

69 “Australians are used to driving vast distances, and travel across the landscape is governed by the rhythm of the car journey, the dictates of petrol, food and drink and the need to stretch one’s legs” (Lydon 2005:109). The process of moving through the landscape, of creating memory and meaning, the “physical acts of remembering and knowing … of inscribing the land” (Lydon 2005:109) coupled with performative acts of narration, of “talking whilst walking, by conversing and traversing pathways” (Anderson 2004:260; Harrison 2010), of entangling understandings of places and journeys (Hodder 2012), both during and after the fact, bring the meaning of the landscape into being (Casey 1996; Turnbull 2007). This is embodied landscape perception.

Places and the interconnections between them are not the only important characteristics of landscapes that are experienced and entangled into these meanings. The presence or absence of boundaries have been considered vital in cartography for understanding those meanings contained in and created by landscapes. Marking known boundaries is one of the main motivations for the practice of mapping in conventional map-making. It is a fundamental part of Western scientific cartography (Brealey 1995; Fox 2002; Kitchin and Dodge 2007; Oliver 2011:77).

Boundaries shown in traditional cartography are fixed and clear, demarcating individual spaces that do not necessarily allow for: shared use (Thom 2009:179) or experience of events and knowledge (Casey 1996:14); or fuzziness, negotiation, and multiple interactions (Peluso 1995). But what happens when boundaries are not clear, not distinct? Mapping them as fixed bounded spaces is a practice that can cause harm (Brealey 1995; Oliver 2011; Roth 2009:208) or inaccuracy; and it is these fuzzy boundaries and their political ramifications and ownership justification that prompted Peluso’s counter-mapping strategy. The process of counter-mapping aims to account for and authenticate — by inscribing them in traditional ways — the fluid boundaries that characterise much of Indigenous space. Where boundaries were marked, as in the use of scarred trees in the landscape around Gummingurru (see Chapter 6), they were often specific locales, rather than demarcations between territory. Ignoring such boundaries can lead to fixity and conflict, contesting the assumed reality of the map. One such example can be seen in the demarcations found in Tindale’s 1974 artificially bounded map of Aboriginal languages and ‘tribes’ in Australia, and later, in Horton’s 1996 language map, where there are distinct and fixed lines between language boundaries — where no such fixed boundaries exist in reality — although in Tindale’s map, there are ‘approximate’ boundaries given: perhaps a concession to not-so-fixed Indigenous borders?

70 Dwelling in the Landscape “To do landscape archaeology is to work in the field, to practice [sic] a particular and distinctive craft in the open air. An outsider at first, the landscape archaeologist has no choice but to become engaged in the landscape, to become an insider as a consequence of acquired knowledge; it is an involvement which may continue over many years” (Fleming 2006:271-272, original emphasis).

Capturing the social relationships between the individuals and groups constructing spaces that can potentially be fluid and fuzzy, that can shift and change, can be a difficult process. It can be done as it was at Gummingurru: by engaging with people, landscape, and events over time and by undertaking a “dwelling in the landscape” approach, alongside the people of the Country.

Places become culturally important through people developing attachments to them (Brown 2004:18- 19, 2015a; Cummings et al. 2002:68; Nicholas 2005) and through creating socially constructed meanings about, and engagements with, places by dwelling in them (Byrne and Nugent 2004:189; Knapp and Ashmore 1999:20-21). The concept of dwelling is an embedded bodily undertaking, a kinaesthetic interpretation of place, held within present experience and narrative memory. When dwelling, a person is in a place, they are being-in-place — a part of the landscape and its constituting elements and associations — rather than acting only as an observer, apart (Casey 1997:232; Ingold 1993:152; Richardson 1999:332; Smith 2006). Dwelling in the landscape, being-in-place and developing attachments to places and landscapes, are intimately linked to the phenomenological experience of place — the living active experiences of personal and community engagement “anchored in bodily physicality” within place (Joyce 2005:140).

Dwelling in the landscape is inextricably linked with phenomenological embodied experience. The movement and actions of those who have lived in the landscape, who are living in the landscape and who are investigating landscapes are all linked. Even “the practice of archaeology is itself a form of dwelling … through participation” (Ingold 1993:152, original emphasis) and the exploration of our own cultural contexts, sensory experiences and methodologies of constructed representations (Hamilton et al. 2006) all form a dwelling perspective of landscape that helps to create archaeological representations of place (Bender 2006; Cosgrove and Martins 2000:107; Casey 1996; Ingold 1993:172). I return to phenomenology later in this chapter to discuss phenomenological methodology and its role in mapping Gummingurru.

71 These experiences of being-in-place actively create place in communities and individuals (Joyce 2005; cf. Casey 1996; Clarke 2011; Lavers 2010; Lourandos 2011; Romano 2008): “The environment manifests itself as landscape only when people create and experience space as a complex of places” (Knapp and Ashmore 1999:20-21). This complexity and entanglement of place-people-events- experiences and archaeological understanding of these relationships only became apparent at Gummingurru through moving through the landscape, both with and without the Traditional Custodians, and recalling memories (Brian Tobane’s own: Chapter 6) or passing on memories (Chapter 2). The places and events (e.g. the possible Women’s Site and the stories of women moving from their ceremonial site to a place of safety after settlers fired weapons at them) became inextricably tied up in our understanding of the landscape as we moved through it and as our relationship with the Jarowair- Wakka Wakka people and Gummingurru deepened. The entanglement created by the connections between these places and these memories of events and our retracing of these steps as we learned of them created, in turn, our engagement with that landscape.

The act of returning to a place, or of performing particular cultural practices or experiences at a place or in a landscape, produces new meanings and attachments in the form of traditions that renew connections to place (Brown 2015a; Taçon 1999:41). These traditions in turn create meaning and understanding of place, even when the participants are not physically present. Russell (2012) recounts participants speaking of the “landscapes of the mind”, where story evoked knowledge of place, “knowing your place” even when those participants had not visited for some time — or indeed chose not to visit what they once knew, as so much had been changed (Russell 2012:402). Yet, place is a memoried set of events (Lavers 2010; Meskell 2012). These events — embedded in place — make up cultural landscapes, the elements of which set the scene for reconstructing past lifeways (Casey 2008). “Just as with music, the forms of the landscape are generated in movement: these forms, however, are congealed in a solid medium” (Ingold 1993:162) particularly within maps. Conventional maps are static and fixed on paper. The mind may generate movement by tracing along pathways and recalling memories of the places shown, but this does not mean the map moves: it is congealed in a moment in time, unchanging. It is physical space and features that are represented in that moment in time. Meaning and change are not present in the map.

However, places change and are entangled within that change in the past, present, and future (Hodder 2011, 2012). People’s relationships to place and objects also change — meanings attached and enacted in the present may bear little resemblance to meanings of and from the past (Byrne 2008; Mitchell and

72 Guilfoyle 2020:130). It is possible for multiple meanings to exist, with some from the past continuing to have contemporary relevance, while some are entirely different from past meanings. Enacting these relationships while dwelling on Country is an ongoing process. This can be seen in people-place-object- animal interactions, physically and spiritually, which are of deep importance in many cultural contexts.

As an example, Mitchell and Guilfoyle (2020:131–134) discuss a situation where surveying both the social and scientific significance of a particular Esperance (Western Australia) Nyungar landscape, where this kind of people-place-object-animal entanglement became ‘unnervingly’ apparent. A long day’s survey undertaken in the presence, and with the guidance, of Esperance Nyungar Elders came to a close without finishing the work. The Elders gave the archaeologists permission to continue — usually the protocol of work would mean work ceases once Elders leave. Almost immediately after the Elders had left to return to Esperance, Tiger Snakes (Notechis scutatus) appeared. These snakes are generally timid and avoid contact with humans, but on this occasion the snakes were not at all timid. The archaeologists decided it was safer to leave and discussed the event the next day with the Elders. The linking of the snakes’ behaviour to the significance of the artefacts under scrutiny at that time and in that place was vital to the Elders — the ‘old people’ were protecting that place, they said (Mitchell and Guilfoyle 2020:132).

Paying attention to the actions and reactions of important yuree species in the landscape and their changing behaviour, like the tiger snakes (Mitchell and Guilfoyle 2020), or native bees (Godwin and Weiner 2006), or willie wagtails at Gummingurru (Chapter 2), is an important part of moving through, dwelling in, and thus recording Aboriginal cultural landscapes. Interestingly, despite the fact that one of the features of Gummingurru is a small water gully named ‘Brown Snake Gully’, there have been scarce sightings of Australia’s most venomous snake during field seasons or during other trips by researchers to Gummingurru. Eastern Brown Snakes (Pseudonaja textilis) have been a feature of this place in the past, as Ben Gilbert could attest (2006:193-196). Yet since I began working there in 2010 and when others began working there in 2000, only a brief sighting of a tail and some shed skins have ever been seen in all those encounters with Gummingurru (Annie Ross pers. comm. 2019). These interactions with the landscape are gateways into a greater emic understanding, and preunderstanding, of the meaning of the entanglement of people-places-objects-animals-meanings across these Aboriginal cultural landscapes (David et al. 2012:72; Hodder 2011, 2012). Too many archaeological mappings of place — despite an increasing uptake of Indigenous archaeologies as a paradigm of research — have not

73 incorporated these meanings, interactions, and understandings of place. I aim to change this approach with my moving maps (Chapters 8 and 9).

In Chapter 2, I outlined some of the physical changes that have occurred since European arrival in the local landscape around Gummingurru, including the physical movement of soil by farmers, erection of fences, and the building of the now-defunct railway through the landscape, just to the east (Figure 2.6). The encroachment of the housing estates around Gummingurru have created more barriers to contemporary visual understanding of past landscapes. How people dwell in and use this landscape is important in understanding its significance and change needs to be understood in order to unpack those changes and reconstruct past landscapes and their use — arguably the major goal of archaeology (Holdaway et al. 2005).

These dimensions of place are the foundations of understandings of events, understandings that come through bodily experience, and memory: “What space is depends on who is experiencing it and how. Spatial experience is not innocent and neutral, but invested with power relating to age, gender, social position and relationships with others” (Tilley 1994:11; see Hodder 2012). The act of embodied experiencing of an event, creates memory. An interpretation of memory and its meaning becomes history, which becomes a narrative of identity in the present (Harrison 2010; Nabokov 2002). Narration of identity (through memory and bodily experience of place) is also a negotiation of identity (Sutton 1988). It is a continuation of cultural connection to place to negotiate meaning-making in the wake of physical and even spiritual events (Harrison 2010; Ingold 2013b:738; Merlan 1998; Sutton 1988).

Contemporary Indigenous Connections to Landscapes and Change Living heritage is the contemporary continuity of culture, informed by the past but not defined by it (Andrews and Buggey 2008:69). Places have current meanings and relationships and connections, often narrated into lives, engaged with by individuals and communities and held to have significance — to have lived meaning (Andrews and Buggey 2008; Byrne 2008; Prangnell et al. 2010:141).

Failure to recognise living heritage means that contemporary practices of people, and the living peoples themselves, are made redundant, even invisible, within the cultural heritage landscape. The dominant approaches to heritage practice in the 1980s and 1990s that have informed current legislation have ensured that Indigenous heritage is widely regarded as fixed in the past, and is conceived as existing solely in pre-colonial times (Byrne 2002, 2003; Byrne and Nugent 2004:5; Martin and Trigger 2015:329; 74 Sullivan 2008). Living, present-day Indigenous approaches to heritage were made invisible by this trope; the sharing of place, practice and landscape in the recent past was generally ignored (Byrne and Nugent 2004; Harrison 2011; Ireland 2003; Ross 2008, 2020; Sullivan 2008).

There are several ways to deny an Indigenous perspective on the past and to ignore present living heritage, including in the process of mapping (Byrne 2008; Fox 2002); accidental and deliberate site destruction (McIntyre-Tamwoy and Harrison 2004:40); arguing about the authenticity of sites (Andrews and Buggey 2008; Russell and McNiven 1998:288–292; Vale 2000:67); the temporal freezing or fixity of conceptions of Indigenous peoples (Aldred 2010; Grounds and Ross 2010); and the lack of recognition of intangible heritage (Byrne and Nugent 2004; see McGhee 2008; Stump 2013 for examples of all these forms of ignorance).

When archaeologists work on Country with Indigenous people, but deny their present perspectives and current cultural transmission, a form of disempowerment, appropriation, and disrespect is generated. When Langford (1983) excoriated archaeological practice in Tasmania, the problem was a lack of understanding of these present connections and practices as well as control of the archaeological record, investigation, and results. Without examining these issues of power and control, the present-past, and interpretation and meaning of place, the construction of archaeological investigations can cause harm (Andrews and Buggey 2008; Bender 2002, 2006; Brady et al. 2016; McNiven 2016:28; Mitchell and Guilfoyle 2020; Nicholas and Markey 2015; Ross 2020).

Indigenous communities are now driving research and to some extent management practices over landscapes, constructing their own identities, knowledge and representations (Brady 2009). “[T]he only true empowerment of the Aboriginal owners of heritage is for the use of heritage to be in accordance with Indigenous ways of knowing as constructed in Australia through Aboriginal law” (Prangnell et al. 2010:143). This has been a goal of the Gummingurru project: the continuation of use, resurrection, and cultural law practised on site and certainty that this will continue into the future. The driving of the research has been built into the project from the start (Chapter 1 and 2), with the mapping of Gummingurru undertaken at the request and guidance of the Traditional Custodians. In enacting movement across the site during mapping, tours, and most recently the reintroduction of ceremony (Reflective Pause C), the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka are re-narrating their connections to landscape.

75 Narrative Connections to Landscape The remembered history of a place and its components, both separate and overlapping, informs the living continuum of connection to place that archaeologists now seek to investigate and represent (Harrison 2010; Kearney and Bradley 2006:184; Knapp and Ashmore 1999:13; Taçon 1999:41). Archaeological places have multiple simultaneously existing temporalities — the past, both deep and recent; the present, liminal and changing; and the future — all filtered through a gaze situated in the present within the specific cultural context of those who are remembering and inscribing memory into that place (Aldred 2010; Bender 2006; Byrne 2003; Knapp and Ashmore 1999; Meskell 2012; Russell 2012).

Place is remembered and not just as the ground and what is or was on it but can involve the sky and the views from a place and to a place (Holdaway et al. 2005:276; Tutchener 2018). It is experienced, not just with a view to the ground — every arc of visibility, of sound, of touch, of all sensory engagement, forms the phenomenological experience of place. Complex intertwining of the phenomenological experiences of, and dwelling in, place have been difficult to capture and codify in mapping representations of place. Landscapes are living places of attachment and significance so when archaeologists are recording, reconstructing, and re-presenting (representing) those landscapes, it is necessary to be mindful that our representations do not leave out those sensory engagements in addition to the ground-views that are typically reified through mapping (Andrews and Buggey 2008; Byrne and Nugent 2004; Campbell and Ulin 2004; Ross and Thomas 2011; Thomas and Ross 2013, 2018; Tutchener 2018).

The ways in which archaeologists approach the construction of an encoded landscape, through methodologies involving mapping (including counter-mapping: see below), narratives or other forms of representation, include the representation of place and landscape (Clarke 2011:11; Nabokov 2002). Such an approach is based on rectifying a history of looking at isolated sites; it emphasises the relationships between the intertwining phenomena emplaced in the landscape and the people who perceive its whole (Casey 1996:33; Solomon and Forbes 2010:223). If Gummingurru were considered to be an isolated site, as I thought of it prior to working there (Reflective Pause A and Chapter 5), then the meaning of this place would likely be confined to the identification of yuree and geometric motifs on the site and would solely be considered as a Jarowair-Wakka Wakka ceremonial locale — the connections of multiple cultures and multiple meanings would have been missed in the interpretation that would have resulted.

76 Meaning and Knowledge Understanding place as a cross-cultural, yet culturally-specific phenomenon is the first step towards multi-vocal interpretations of place. As discussed in Chapter 3, multi-vocality — the inclusion of voices from multiple stakeholders — in the mapping, recording, and representation of place is vital to ensure that the meaning of place and landscape is truly explored. Gathering evidence of past lifeways and events, distributions of discard and creation, brings the relationships between people and place and landscape into understanding (Taçon 2010). Yet without meaning — and specifically Indigenous ways of knowing the landscape as discussed above — how do archaeologists treat the data gathered about place in the archaeological record?

Ross (2020) examines how Western scientific meta-narratives of objectivity and scientific rationality dominate archaeological interpretation of these data despite moves towards Indigenous archaeologies methodologies in the discipline. Resource use and management — a major focus of archaeological inquiry — can be misinterpreted if local Indigenous understandings of those resources and places are not well understood by the archaeologist. Similarly, Porr and Matthews (2016) and Ingold (2013b) suggest that interwoven environmental, religious, and spiritual narratives (see also Bruchac 2020) have the potential to explain sociocultural understandings of place and of events in landscapes in ways that Western science do not capture in their methods of recording.

All of these narratives, meta-narratives, events, meanings, memories, and dwellings in the landscape demonstrate continuously that landscapes are not fixed and that cultural connections to landscapes cannot be frozen in the past, but are constantly negotiated and formed in the present. These ideas of place, site, and landscape and how we interact with them are embedded within the preunderstandings that I discussed above and in Chapter 3 and that need to be understood in investigating Gummingurru. I now briefly discuss this problem of fixity in archaeological understandings and representations of landscapes before examining phenomenological methodologies of addressing this fixity.

Fixity Those who view cultures through a lens of representation as being in the past, subconsciously place the people belonging to those cultures in the past (Sullivan 2008; Watkins 2010:42-53; see also Stump 2013). There is an idea that it is necessity for antiquity to be a feature of cultural practice — a fixity of form and function in the past — to consider it authentic. This standard for people, culture, and place is used to justify the structuring of policy based on those representations (Caquard and Wright 2009:204; 77 Grounds and Ross 2010; Harley 1988; Hiscock 2004; Nichols 2004). The consequences of such standards based on ideological agendas is the imposition of externally created meaning on place, space, and (most importantly) people. The disassociation of Indigenous people from sites, landscapes and places allows for questions of authenticity and rights of ownership to dominate heritage and other discourses (Lydon 2005:121; McIntyre-Tamwoy and Harrison 2004:40; Russell and McNiven 1998).

The fixity of meaning, and of place, creates a sense that ‘places’ only exist in one past moment in time. When sites are fixed in a recording or on a map, they are fossilised and thereby made unchanging. Yet sites, places and landscapes are not fixed, they are forever happening (Casey, 1996:37). Places like Gummingurru are continually being reformed and resurrected, with meanings and relationships that are continually changing. In this sense, sites are living entities.

As I have established in this chapter and in Cycle I, sites and landscapes change over time. They exist in different points over a continuum in time with specific meanings attached to each moment and each tangible expression of place. Yet archaeology tends both to investigate and to represent these continuities as discrete moments, as palimpsests, each taking a separate specific shape in a particular occupation period, and thus representing all meaning for that site in a series of fixed moments — like a series of still photographs (Casey 1996, 1997; see also Bailey 2007). The incorporation of traditional cartographic practices in archaeology and in present-day heritage management contexts, lends itself to this freezing of space and time (Parker 2006:472; Ross and Thomas 2011; Thomas and Ross 2013, 2018), ignoring the importance of lived attachment and placement in the present (Smith 2006:3). Counter-mapping attempts to limit that freezing, that fixity of place, by capturing multiple understandings of place and the lived present practices and attachments to landscapes (Bender 2006; Byrne 2008; Byrne and Nugent 2004; Caquard and Wright 2009; Casey 1996; Godwin and Weiner 2006). After all: “space and time come together in place. Indeed, they arise from the experience of place itself” (Casey 1996:36, original emphasis). So not only are there simultaneously existing spatialities in play, but also simultaneously existing temporalities, all filtered through a present gaze (Bender 2006; Knapp and Ashmore 1999).

Updates to maps do occur periodically to account for changes in social or physical geography — the building of new housing estates or roads being a common reason. Each update is an overlaying of current knowledge on old knowledge. But still, the new maps produced are newly fixed (aggregated) moments in space and time.

78 People’s engagement with places also changes over time, along with emplacement of knowledge and thus significance (Andrews and Buggey 2008; Smith 2006:76–78). Indigenous cultures are on-going, constant, and changing (Merlan 1998; Prangnell et al. 2010; Ross et al. 2010a) and this must be reflected in archaeological representations of that heritage, or else these representations will impose a fixity onto a place and its significance, anchored in a past that does not recognise present values and meanings (Bender 2006; Russell 2012; Smith 2006). Part of this fixity comes from the medium in which maps and archaeological recordings are published and accessed.

But how do we, as archaeologists, then represent such a place, ensuring the rigour required of archaeological site characterisation and yet avoid the ‘fixity’ that comes with conventional archaeological place recording? I now discuss why the research team recorded Gummingurru using phenomenological counter-mapping.

Methodology: Research Strategy in Phenomenological Counter-Mapping Emplaced understanding of the world is phenomenological. The methodology that has underscored the work at Gummingurru from 2000 to the present is a phenomenological methodology in that physical movement on the site — the interconnectedness of features that make up Gummingurru — and between and with other parts of the landscape, informed data capture and thus the results of recording field seasons.

Phenomenological subjective sensory experiences inform all of our understandings of place (Aldred 2010; Brück 1998; Casey 1996:17-19; Cummings et al. 2002:57-58; Ingold 1993:166; Tilley 1994) through the act of dwelling — the practice of experience — as we journey through the landscape and see, smell, hear, taste, and feel with each movement. A sense of place is sensorial: perceived and remembered, not necessarily in concrete, distinct or clear ways but as “fuzzy, metaphorical, emotional and holistic” palimpsests (McCall and Minang 2005:343; see also Basso 1996; Brady 2008).

Phenomenological understanding of place, landscape, and time is contingent on examining that place within the embedded context of always being experienced in a present, by people in their contemporary cultural and social contexts (Barrett and Ko 2009; Brück 1998, 2005:57; Casey 1996:18-19). Additionally, people experiencing place have potentially very different life experiences from each other even while experiencing the same place at the same time. These differences, in terms of age, race, class, gender, physical variability, disability, and interpersonal social power relationships, ensure that

79 representation and interpretation will always be contested. Thus, phenomenological representations necessarily need to be multi-vocal (Brück 1998; Hamilton et al. 2006; Tilley 1994). Multi-vocality in this context is the expansion of source data beyond the scope of tangible archaeological traces in the landscape: the oral histories of the Traditional Custodians and of the descendants of local white settlers; the knowledge held by the Bunya Mountains Rangers and members of other language groups who once came to Gummingurru for ceremony before the triennial Bunya Nut Festival; the written accounts from settler diaries; maps of landscape modifications: all of these elements provide context and story, the intangible heritage of places and pathways in the landscape.

The interpretation of a place, then, is entirely set in a present framework of understanding and of experiencing the world, filtered through the intertwining structures of cultural, disciplinary and personal biases (Bender 2001, 2006; Bender et al. 1997; Thien 2005; Waddington 1998). If interpretation of place is fundamentally contingent on these experiential biases, then the recording and representation of a place must be subject to the same set of temporal and experiential biases. The only way to, if not circumvent, then at least to iteratively eliminate and/or understand these biases, is to undertake the essential practice of embedding “our theoretical presuppositions within our methodological procedures” (Cummings et al. 2002:68) for “some level of representation is required in order for knowledge of landscapes to be reproduced and disseminated” (Cummings et al. 2002:58). There is necessarily an element of hermeneutic analysis embedded in ensuring that the recording and, later, the representation, of a place is phenomenologically realised and that the meaning and interpretation does not only come from the archaeologically visible elements of recording.

As archaeologists at Gummingurru moved across the site and undertook detailed recording of each individual stone, we constantly referred back to the interconnections between motifs and their stories; constantly referred back to Brian Tobane’s knowledge of the intangible heritage of yurees and the surrounding landscape. This ensured that the connections between tangible and intangible heritage as well as the journeying movements they represented were constantly in sight as part of the recording methods.

In general, investigating and understanding landscape through bringing together the multiple changing social, emotional, physical, and journeying elements into multi-vocal narratives and representations ensures that Western interpretations are not privileged over the knowledge of Traditional Custodians. The initial investigation of these elements has often been undertaken through the isolation of discrete 80 components (i.e. sites) in, and dis-embedding them from, their landscape context, sometimes only brought back together in the interpretive phase of archaeological surveys (Snead and Preucel 1999; Tilley 1994). A phenomenological methodology seeks to embed the interconnectedness of these elements into survey and investigation design from the outset, to reflect the experience and meaning of the creators and users of places in landscapes (Cummings et al. 2002; Eve 2012). This is why the flagging strategy used at Gummingurru always privileged Jarowair-Wakka Wakka understandings of Gummingurru — not just the motifs that were in place, but also the fact that resurrected and restored motifs were of equal importance to record (Chapter 2).

Experiences and meanings of places and landscapes are the intangible, emplaced as part of the tangible, remade and changing, as those who are being-in-place dwell in the landscape (Merlan 1998; Romano 2008; Smith 2006). Dwelling is also experienced throughout the process of archaeological investigation (Ingold 1993:152). Disentangling the elements of being-in-place and of the lens of the present-past, while constructing an interpretation of the landscape in the past and into the present, is a necessary methodological component in landscape archaeology, although this process is often dealt with very quickly and superficially in reporting outcomes (Brown 2004; Cummings et al. 2002; Richards 1999; Romano 2008). At Gummingurru, the team questioned assumptions, referred and often deferred to Jarowair-Wakka Wakka understandings, and as part of the end-of-day procedure, discussed what we were thinking about during fieldwork. Whether this process did disentangle present-past understandings with past uses of Gummingurru is something that I discuss towards the end of this thesis.

Using Phenomenological Counter-mapping This complex formation of landscape and the maps that we create of them, then, this recorded memoryscape (Chapter 5), is the basis for understanding the interactions and interrelationships of people and place, across connected space and during the continuum of time (Lavers 2010; see also Andrews and Buggey 2008:66; Brown 2015a). Places happen, landscapes happen, when events happen, are remembered and mapped (Casey 1996:37).

An eventscape (Campbell and Ulin 2004) or a taskscape (Ingold 1993, 2000), occurs through the story- trekking landscape (Harrison 2011) created and inscribed during travel and movement (Turnbull 2007). The memoryscape is the formed knowledge that results from these interactions, from remembered being- in-place (Lavers 2010). It is multi-vocal, multi-temporal and viewed through a present lens (Bender 2006:310–311; Fleming 2006:268; Tilley 2000:425–426). These multiple elements can be more or less

81 easily recorded, but how then do we represent such a landscape? I will return to this in Cycle III of this thesis.

The linking of place to past and present human activity through these taskscapes of movement and journeying are meant to evoke that same sense of movement through space and time using story-telling, imagination, and memory. There is an intersection between history, event, people and landscape — an entanglement and collapse of past, present, and future: “The ‘ways-of-doing’ … form part of the collective experience from which [people] … constitute their collective identity and sense of place” (Harrison 2011:4). Building these ‘-scapes’ into the understanding of phenomenological movement in landscape allows us to see that events and memories are just as critically a part of landscape and place, as are the physical and tangible objects and structures found in a site.

Landscapes are also experienced at different scales, both separately and simultaneously, in meaning and physicality. A site can exist on a local scale of interconnected places and pathways, resources and meanings; it can also exist as part of a wider landscape made up of many such places. Movement of people through the landscapes is not just physical, but is also a movement of meaning, carried along the route (Bender 2001:83–84; Casey 1996; Eve 2012).

Routine movement through landscapes, as well as usage and task completion in places, are just as relevant to understanding the intersection of intangible and tangible moving landscapes. It is not just the ceremonial and sacred, but the whole landscape dwelling experience that has meaning to be investigated and represented (Brück 2005:62). And so we need to be careful in our reflexive practice, ensuring that we recognise that “the act of perception is also an act of interpretation” (Brück 2005:56), that the process of meaning-making can create meaning without basis in authenticity.

The use of multiple sources of information as the basis for interpretation and narrative of archaeology has become more common in heritage practice (De Nardi 2014). De Nardi (2014:11–13) describes a process of community engagement via active recording of attachment to place during fieldwork on the hill of Monte Altare in Italy. Utilising oral histories during a walking-the-landscape exercise, as well as accessing local memories and experiences in an iterative process of discussion and changing the map, allowed De Nardi to produce a physical printed map that incorporated not just a spatial distribution of place(s), but an integrated meaning as understood by the people who interact with the heritage of Monte Altare in the present. This capturing of the present-past understandings of this place in a form that can 82 be interacted with in that place is a strongly phenomenological counter-mapping technique that both unfixes the meaning of the place solely as archaeological and fixed in the past, but also allows scope for on-going change to be captured as the project continues. While this approach is still constrained by the fixity of printed physical maps — that is, the map is fixed as it stands until a new edition can be made — it does allow for flexibility in mode of understanding and in the potential future use of the map in that place as a guide and catalyst for interpretation.

Conclusion In this chapter, I discussed how places happen, as Casey (1996:27) states, through a complex and “relational epistemology — a way of continually coming to know the world” (Thom 2009:197; see also Brady 2008), through the undertaking of tasks, events and physical, emotional and spiritual engagements happening in the entangled present and the past and as movement through places, time and landscapes via pathways and journeys (Bender 2001, 2006; Campbell and Ulin 2004:92; Casey, 1996; Harrison 2011; Hodder 2011, 2012; Lavers 2010; Ross 2008, 2010).

The key to understanding phenomenology as a theoretical paradigm and as a methodology is knowing that it is embodied experience that drives understanding of place (Casey 1996:18–19; Cummings et al. 2002:57–58; Dornan 2004:28; Tilley 1994:34). The sensorial matrix of vision, smell, sound, touch, time and movement are all integral to experiencing landscape (Hamilton et al. 2006:33; Joyce 2005:147– 148).

Most phenomenological studies of place have focussed on what can be seen, the current, contemporary visibility of features. This contemporary visibility is rarely questioned and explored in regards to its applicability to ancient landscapes (Bender 2001:83–84). Though in recent years, there have been a small number of studies that focus more on the range of sounds, smells and paths of movement through landscape and the sense of touch with artefacts and place and how these factors may change experience (Dornan 2004; Hamilton et al. 2006; Joyce 2005; Lopez y Royo 2007).

Landscapes are not only abstract spaces that may be conceptualised, concretised, or fixed into form through observation; they are also emplaced spaces that are “always experienced by people” and “are subjectively experienced” through time (Cummings et al. 2002:57–58), with meanings that are mutable and changeable through each person and group experiencing and dwelling in that place (Bailey 2007; Brown 2004:18; Richards 1999:83; Romano 2008:16).

83 Examining these fundamental assumptions about place and experience and what their effects will be (intended and otherwise) is essential in the process of building a phenomenological methodology and in informing the methods of archaeological surveying and mapping as the outcomes of these methods — the interpretations and representations. They have an effect on other people’s perceptions through a variety of inputs.

But an underlying post-processual, counter-mapping methodology in the collection of those data leads to interpretation and constructed representation based on Indigenous knowledge. Tangible and intangible values and living heritage are all incorporated into that representation. Gummingurru is considered to be a landscape throughout time, where the present and the future are just as important in informing the significance of the site as the past.

By understanding these preconceptions of place as space, time, event, memory, and experience, all of which underpin the meta-narratives and methodologies used by archaeologists to both investigate and represent places to wider audiences, we can begin to unravel both the conceptual basis of definitions of places and also the narratives and meaningful connections that exist between people and place. Without these understandings, these analytical preunderstandings of the definitions of place, we cannot generate accurate and meaningful representations of place.

84 Chapter 5: Methods of Investigating Gummingurru and the Local and Wider Landscapes

“To understand landscapes phenomenologically requires the art of walking in and through them, to touch and be touched by them” (Tilley 2008:272).

Introduction The phenomenological counter-mapping investigation methods of recording Gummingurru during the 2006–2010 survey, recording, and mapping field seasons are outlined in this chapter. I first present the methods employed in the counter-mapping documentation of Gummingurru until completion in 2010. I then present the excavation data from the Carpet Snake and the Main Campsite (an associated site in the local landscape). I then discuss the recording of the Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape in a memoryscape exercise. The initial maps generated during these investigations are presented here.

How did we map Gummingurru? Counter-mapping Processes in Gummingurru’s Mapping Field Seasons The Gummingurru Mapping Project (GMP) was initiated by the Traditional Custodians and was funded by an Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies (AIATSIS) grant. The project involved the detailed recording of 9368 stones, using a Nikon Pulse Laser Station NPL-332 (Ross et al. 2010b), plotted and transferred to ArcGIS software for analysis. A photograph was taken of each stone using Canon EOS 400D cameras. Attributes such as length, width and height and inclusion in Jarowair- Wakka Wakka known motifs were recorded in separate field logs (Figures 5.1 and 5.2). The data from these logs were combined between field seasons (2006–2010) and after the final mapping field season (2010), resulting in a searchable site-wide Excel database and ArcGIS map. The recording of the local and wider cultural landscapes with GPS and oral histories was also undertaken as part of this project.

Figure 5.1: Example of Recording Sheet showing variables such as inclusion in known Motif, Background (Y/N/M), Lichen, Dirt, Length (cm), Width (cm), Height (cm), Context (recorded in the EDM# field). 86

Figure 5.2: Example of Photographic Log Sheet showing corresponding photographic numbers and direction.

87 The 2006–2009 Field Seasons at Gummingurru The first field seasons of recording Gummingurru were held over a three-year period and included multiple forms of recording: aerial photography, gathering oral histories, plotting stone distributions, as well as stone, motif, and landscape photography (Table 5.1). The recording team stayed onsite with Brian Tobane for several field seasons and at a local Scout Camp accommodation for the rest. Tobane guided the entire process and provided much of the location data for features in the landscape.

Table 5.1: Summary of 2006–2010 Field Seasons Date Goals Outcome 2006 Aerial photography 2008 29 March–1 April Recording stones Section of map 2008 13–17 August Recording stones Section of map 2008 25–28 November Landscape recording Understanding landscape elements 2009 27 September–1 October Recording stones Section of map Early 2010 Compiling Recording Data Master Recording Spreadsheet to date 2010 23–25 April Excavations to Find Carpet Snake Continuous Placement Artefacts/Date Stone Arrangement 2010 13–16 July Recording stones Completed Recording Stones

2006 Aerial Photography In 2006, aerial photographs were taken by an unknown person and given to the Gummingurru Aboriginal Corporation. While this was not an archaeological field season per se, the data have been incorporated into site recordings. A friend of a friend (someone the archaeologists do not know) was planning to take photographs over the wider area in their aeroplane. They were asked by the friend to take as many aerial photographs of the site as possible (Figure 5.3). This was not part of any formal study but allowed a bird’s-eye view of the site that showed the then-visible motifs more clearly than ground-based photography. The visibility was still not very high — photographs need to be taken at lower heights for good visibility. High level photography does not document the site well. Brian Tobane was very pleased with the results, however, having wanted something visual to show to visitors — making the motifs on Gummingurru easier to see (Annie Ross pers. comm. 2018). Aerial photography can also allow for teasing out interrelationships between other sites in a landscape (Darvill 2008) and so this set of photographs, passed on to researchers, albeit third hand, began the process of recording those relationships. Understanding the interrelationships of motifs and the entanglement of Gummingurru’s associated places in the landscape was assisted by this photography as well — the first real recording of Gummingurru since Bartholomai and Breeden’s (1961) map.

Figure 5.3: Some Visible Motifs: Carpet Snake; Initiation Ring (unmodified); Turtle and Footprints; Waterhole #1 and #2; Topknot Pigeon. (Source and Elevation: Unknown). 89

2008 29 March–1 April Field Season This field season saw the first use of the Nikon Pulse Laser Station to plot the x, y, and z co-ordinates of each stone. The choice of which rocks to record was determined first by the knowledge of the significance of motifs and of what was deemed ‘background material’ by the Traditional Custodians, especially Brian Tobane (and including Ben Gilbert), and second by size of the stones. Stones not considered to be a part of a motif and that were also less than 10cm in all dimensions were excluded from recording. So, a non-motif stone that measured Length (L): 9.5cm; Width (W): 8cm and Height (H): 4cm would be excluded, but one measuring L: 4.5cm, W: 11cm and H: 5cm would be included in the overall site sample. Despite these criteria, there were a number of stones included in the dataset that are less than 10cm in all dimensions, probably due to recorder error (Figure 5.4).

Figure 5.4: Example of Recording Sheet showing examples of stones recorded despite not meeting criteria of at least one dimension >10cm.

During each field season, the extent of the season’s work was mapped, the next season’s recording would start from that previous end point or line. Before recording, numbered flags (numbers began with ‘G’ to denote Gummingurru) were planted beside each stone (Figure 5.5). When a motif was identified and flagged, it was done so in what appeared to be a logical order according to that particular motif and

90 where it sat in the overall site, with constant referral to Tobane’s knowledge and interpretation. G- numbers followed on from one another in each section of a motif, in a particular direction. For example, when rays or whiskers or lines were encountered in multiples, the strategy was to start flagging at the base of a line, continue to the end and then move to the base of the next line, noting on the recording sheet that the end of a whisker or the start had occurred. In this way, the flagging itself was an internally consistent process that privileged the knowledge of the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka, not just the physical location of stones within transects.

Figure 5.5: Flagged Turtle motif (Source: Daniel Rosenthal).

Behind the flagging team came the recorders. A plan-view photograph was taken of each stone with the G-number and a north arrow visible (Figure 5.6). The attributes of each rock were then recorded: measurements and various attributes, including the motif it was included in, presence of lichen, and whether the stone was resting on bedrock or soil. During and between the field seasons, the terminology and naming conventions of features tended to shift slightly. I later corrected these shifts and changes to ensure a consistent terminology in the digital database that was generated from data forms.

Once this process of pre-processing of the data was complete, the Mastersheet was imported into the ArcGIS program for further analysis (Figure 5.7).

91 With ArcGIS, the research team created maps of the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka-identified individual motifs, the background stones, and identified a previously unknown motif (the ‘New Starburst’).

Figure 5.6: Example of Individual Stone (G1000) Photograph (Source: Annie Ross).

Integrating the Traditional Custodians’ knowledge into the interpretation of the site alongside the results of the mapping analysis and the reflexive hermeneutic analysis of our investigation methodology, as well as examining the position of the site within the wider landscape both in the past and the present, were important aspects of each step of investigation.

Figure 5.7: Screenshot of the Mastersheet with fields visible, including Motif, Background (Y/N/M), Lichen, Dirt, Length (cm), Width (cm), Height (cm), Context.

An ArcGIS map, exported from the program, is simply another ‘dots on the map’ representation (Figure 5.8). Highlighting motifs in different colours and emphasising the differences between background and motifs is a small step towards a more comprehensive representation, but still does not really signify context. Within the ArcGIS software it is a simple matter to move between layers of information, but not of meaning. Despite the counter-mapping methods applied to the process of documenting Gummingurru, the resulting ArcGIS-generated map is not a counter-map. The challenge now is to produce a counter-map representation that incorporates all of the information in a comprehensive and comprehensible manner and that also incorporates multi-vocal meanings.

Figure 5.8: Dots on the map of Gummingurru.

94 The decision-making process in mapping — both the gathering of recording data and the use of dot- point data in producing representations of those data — is the deliberate inclusion and exclusion of features that relate to the focal point of the exercise (Kitchin and Dodge 2007:338). These decision- making points of what to record need as much reflection as what is included in the map.

The process of mapping the Gummingurru site (see Ross et al. 2010b for greater detail; also Ross 2008; Ross and Ulm 2010; Ross et al. 2013) was based on a counter-mapping strategy from the beginning and became more so as time passed. Whereas in standard archaeological mapping, the flagging strategy would be determined by a strictly spatial strategy (e.g., moving across the site in transects or square survey), in counter-mapping the survey strategy needed to reflect the known meanings and heritage values of elements of the site. The intangible story-telling elements, as well as the living heritage management strategies that change and correct motifs (Chapter 2), needed to be known both during and prior to the fieldwork commencing.

The meaning of the motifs was privileged over a purely spatial distribution of the stones across the site. This drove the flagging strategy, following connections and allowing the data to be pre-sorted to reflect interpretation and understanding rather than the more usual transects of survey. The background, or non- motifs, were then considered in terms of geometric shapes. This was done in conjunction with Brian Tobane while onsite and via the discussions and interpretations of the recorders. This embedded the meaning of the site into the recording data but also allowed for later analysis based on newly discovered or emphasised meanings and new questions. This process is a contrast to conventional recording of site and landscape surface features in transects across space (Figure 5.9).

It was during this 2008 field season that the Initiation Ring was first recorded in its misshapen form (Figure 5.10). The living heritage practice undertaken by Brian Tobane later restored its shape to a regular oval (see below).

Figure 5.9: Conventional Transect Recording Strategy (Banning et al. 2017 CC BY 4.0). A maximum interval for each transect is used to ensure search density has some quality assurance for effectiveness and reliability. Each transect is designed to cover and recover ground, while limiting the time needed to survey, to ensure artefacts are detected — these are then flagged for collection in order of discovery.

Figure 5.10: Initiation Ring as recorded in 2008.

96 The Carpet Snake (Morelia spilota), Emu (Dromaius novaehollandiae), Waterhole #4, and the geometric form known as ‘Clusters’ were also recorded in this season (Figure 5.11).

Figure 5.11: 2008 29 March–1 April Field Season Recording with main motifs labelled.

2008 13–17 August Field Season The Toowoomba region is typically icy cold in August and this field season was no different (Annie Ross pers. comm. 2008). Despite the challenging field conditions, just under 2000 ‘points’ were recorded in three days using the same methodology as in the previous season. The datum (a marked cement besser block) shifted slightly between seasons, so control points were recaptured and compared to the previous season (Sean Ulm pers. comm. 2008).

97 Motifs captured during this field season included several geometric Lines and Clusters, the Topknot Pigeon aka Crested Pigeon (Ocyphaps lophotes), Waterhole #1 and #2, the Turtle (unknown species) and its Footprints, and the Bunya Nut (Araucaria bidwillii) (Figure 5.12).

Figure 5.12: 2008 13–17 August Field Season Recording with main motifs labelled.

98 2008 25–28 November Field Season An important day for the Gummingurru project was 27 November 2008. Brian Tobane took the dig crew on a trip to Dalby to visit a friend, Harold Hall. Hall had collected Aboriginal artefacts from the region for many years (later to be donated to the Dalby Pioneer Park Museum). This is a substantial collection, reasonably provenanced, but with little investigation and analysis undertaken to date11.

It was the journey returning from Dalby that is most significant here. As the crew was driving back, Tobane started to speak about places in the landscape, recalling more and more memories as the movement through the landscape triggered them. He recalled more stories as the group travelled and started talking about the connections between significant places (Annie Ross pers. comm. 2008). These memories were recorded by Annie Ross in detail in a field journal and formed the basis of Jane Lavers’ 2010 Honours thesis on the memoryscape of Gummingurru. This memoryscape (discussed later) is what prompted a landscape approach to much of the subsequent recording and interpretation of Gummingurru.

2009 27 September–1 October Field Season Datum issues continued with the removal of the besser block datum. A permanent datum was re- established by concreting a piece of railway track into place on the re-established datum position. This was a productive field season with 4567 stones recorded (Figure 5.13), including the re-recording of the Initiation Ring (Figure 5.14), dubbed ‘Modified Initiation Ring’ (Sean Ulm pers. comm. 2009). Brian Tobane’s modification of the Initiation Ring occurred between this and the previous field seasons, reflecting the practice of ‘tidying-up’ the site before ceremony was to occur in past times. It was after the September 2009 field season that Tobane suffered a major stroke (Annie Ross pers. comm. 2018).

11 This collection would make an excellent Honours study alongside a study of the quarry sources of the stone artefacts found adjacent to and on the surface of the site itself. This could provide some (Western scientific) evidence of the trade networks and cultural connections for the peoples who travelled to Gummingurru prior to moving on to the Bunya Mountains (Law and Slack 2019).

Figure 5.13: 2009 27 September–1 October Field Season Recording with main motifs labelled.

100

Figure 5.14: ‘Modified Initiation Ring’ as recorded in 2009.

2010 13–16 July The April 2010 field season did not record stone placement, but instead involved two excavations (see below). The final stone recording field season was July 2010 with 3168 stones recorded (Figure 5.15). The triumphant moment of recording the last stone (G9368) was deftly undercut by Brian Tobane — as soon as we had finished, he asked how many stones there were (9368) and then said, “I bet you didn’t find those four rocks at the far end that I dug up yesterday, did you?” Tobane’s comment was a reminder that this is a living heritage site and that things change and move continuously in this place: recording is, as a consequence, never ‘finished’ (Ross 2008, 2010; Thomas and Ross 2013).

101

Figure 5.15: 2010 13–16 July Field Season Recording with main motifs labelled.

102 2010 23–25 April Field Season: Excavation Surface survey recording of Gummingurru and its associated landscapes was supplemented with two excavations held in 2010. The first excavation was conducted at the suggested location of the Main Campsite, 1.2km from Gummingurru. This excavation was undertaken on 23 April in order to provide material links to Gummingurru and establish a landscape context. There had been many stone artefacts reported on the site, based on previous visits.

The second excavation was conducted at Gummingurru within the belly area of the Carpet Snake motif. This excavation aimed to provide dateable materials to give an estimated age for Gummingurru. The excavation was undertaken on 24–25 April. The square locations were chosen both to find potentially dateable deposits; and, to investigate stories of the initiation process at this place: where initiates would be ‘eaten’ to ‘die’ to childhood within the belly of the Snake. The rest of the excavation squares were placed on the backbone of the Snake, investigating whether there was continuous placement of stones in the same positioning in the formation of this (and the other?) motifs.

Main Campsite In 2010, Annie Ross and Sean Ulm obtained permission to excavate the suggested location for the Main Campsite associated with Gummingurru. The property the site was located on was a small winery and cattle farm (see B4 on Figure 6.1). The suggestion that this locale may have been the main campsite in the Gummingurru landscape came from two main lines of evidence (Annie Ross pers. comm. 2019):

1. Brian Tobane’s visits with neighbours who believed this place was a significant campsite because of the presence of permanent water, the proximity of plantings of bunya trees, the presence of scarred trees nearby — including a ‘sugar bag’ tree replete with native bees and evidence of axe marks associated with honey extraction — and stone artefacts on the surface, which had been collected in the past by Tobane and the property owner; and 2. The presence of a small number of stone artefacts on the ground surface when the site was briefly visited by students from The University of Queensland during field trips to Gummingurru prior to the 2008 field seasons.

A small waterfall is located partway along Meringandan Creek on the property and rock art has been reported on the wall adjacent to the waterfall. Earlier surveys found evidence of ochre and a possible hand print on the wall, but by the time of the 2010 excavation, the ochre had been washed away in 103 subsequent rain and flooding events. On another property, on the opposite bank of the creek, a grindstone and base had previously been found and there were old plantings of Bunya nut trees — likely traded to the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka from the Bunya Mountains (Brian Tobane pers. comm. April 2010).

A dam was built on the property sometime prior to 2006 (Google Earth 2019) very close to the suggested campsite. It displaced a great deal of earth and disturbed much of the archaeological context for portions of the site. The soil on the site had a high clay component and the usual cycle of waterlogging and drying formed deep cracks in the surface of the site and made it likely that surface artefacts could have been displaced, potentially disrupting the stratigraphic context of the site. The site was surveyed prior to the excavation (Figure 5.16).

Figure 5.16: Rough sketch (called a “mud map” in Australia) of the location of the Main Campsite and its associated features (Source: Annie Ross field notes).

104 The excavation was completed in a single day, on 23 April, and was a 1m x 50cm pit, excavated to a depth of 7cm (Figure 5.17). Sieving was a slightly miserable affair — large globs of heavy, dark brown/black clay (Munsell 7.5YR 2.5/1) needed to be forced through the 6mm sieves but it proved impossible to force through the 3mm sieves.

Figure 5.17: Square Excavation end Photograph (Source: unknown photographer).

Wet-sieving was attempted at the stream as there was no other practical access to running water (Figure 5.18). The stream did not provide enough pressure to wet-sieve well. On previous walks through the site, stone artefacts had been found on the surface but had not been collected. During the excavation, few artefacts were seen on the surface and none was collected from the excavated pit. With only a few seeds found and dense root matting, the pit was abandoned at dusk at 7cm deep with no artefactual material found. Only one stratigraphic unit (SU1) and three excavation units (XUs 1–3) were recorded. To date, the material has not been processed.

Figure 5.18: Attempted wet sieving by Annie Ross (Source: unknown photographer). 105 The Carpet Snake Excavation The excavation of the Head and Belly of the Carpet Snake was based on a very limited knowledge of the ceremony at Gummingurru, which includes one story that initiates were ‘eaten’ by the Carpet Snake towards the commencement of their initiation journey. Initiates would remain in the Belly of the Snake, where the five ‘Children’ stones occur, until their introduction to the Initiation Ring to be ‘reborn’ as Men (Brian Tobane pers. comm. 2006; Chapter 2). Would there be any physical evidence of any activities associated with this knowledge of what may have occurred there?

The excavation was undertaken on 24–25 April. Five excavation squares were chosen with one (B) placed in the head and two (L and N) placed across the Spine of the Snake; two squares (E and G) were placed inside the Belly, near the five ‘Unborn Children’ (Figures 5.19 and 5.20).

Figure 5.19: Carpet Snake Excavation Pit Locations, Head and Belly (Source: Annie Ross field notes).

106

Figure 5.20: Carpet Snake Excavation Pit Location, Spine (Source: Annie Ross field notes).

Square B was in the head of the Carpet Snake and comprised two SUs, 1A and 1B. 1A was characterised by a dark brown soil (7.5YR 3/2). Squares L, E (Figure 5.21), and G did not contain any artefactual material. Square N yielded an unidentified fish scale in XU1. The second XU in Square N revealed another stone underneath the surface stones that make up the Spine of the snake. This buried stone was in the same alignment and suggested that the motif had been in that place for a long time (Figure 5.22).

We excavated each of the squares until we reached the exfoliating angular cracked basalt that formed the surface of the bedrock. Soil samples were collected from each: two from Square B and Square N were sent for testing to Matt Cupper at the University of Melbourne to determine whether the sediments could be suitable for dating the site using thermoluminescence. Cupper determined that the soils were too heavily bioturbated and washed for dating (Matt Cupper pers. comm. 2010). However, one stone in the Head of the Carpet Snake (G545) has never been moved or disturbed (Figure 5.23). It is partially buried and will be left undisturbed in case future dating technologies may be developed.

107

Figure 5.21: Square E with string lines and Spine of Snake at top (Source: unknown photographer).

Figure 5.22: Square N, XU 6 (Source: unknown photographer).

108

Figure 5.23: Stone G545 in the Head of the Carpet Snake. This is the buried stone which has remained undisturbed throughout all investigations at Gummingurru. This stone and the dirt underneath may be used in the future to date the Carpet Snake motif. (Source: unknown photographer).

Conclusion The process of recording the motifs and stones of Gummingurru and the excavation of the Main Campsite and the Carpet Snake showed the complexity of the relationships (stone to stone; site to site), journeying stories (yurees; people), and movements (stones, motifs, yurees, people) associated with the people and stones of Gummingurru. The interrelationships of stone to stone, both horizontally and vertically, have been demonstrated in this chapter. The counter-mapping flagging strategy that privileged Jarowair-Wakka Wakka knowledge and interpretation of the site and its motifs captured these relationships — but does not represent those same relationships fully (Chapter 6).

The journeying stories of the yurees as they move across the site and the landscape, as well as the movements of the people coming to Gummingurru on their way to the Bunya Mountains, is reflected in the oral histories of the local landscape (Chapter 2). And although the Main Campsite excavation did not yield much more information, there are many other sites in the landscape still to be explored.

109 The movement of stones through taphonomic processes of water flowing across the site and animals disturbing placement was rectified when Brian Tobane restored/resurrected motifs (Chapter 2). The continuous placement of stones in these motifs was first established with the excavation of the Carpet Snake. This conclusion is tentative but more recent observations shed an interesting light on this process (Reflective Pause C). The movement of people and yurees through the landscape is discussed next in this chapter.

The data obtained from recording Gummingurru’s motifs and interrelated landscapes are contextually rich and layered: including tangible and intangible moving and journeying elements from multiple sources and investigations. The entanglement of these complex parts became increasingly important to interpreting Gummingurru as each field season progressed. Next, I turn briefly to the local and wider cultural landscapes as recorded in the Gummingurru memoryscape (Lavers 2010). These memoryscapes (multi-vocal, -temporal, -purpose landscapes of interconnected complex spatial and cultural relational locales (Lavers 2010; Thomas 2001) were integral in understanding the meaning of Gummingurru. The following chapter builds on the context presented here to explore the interpretation and representation of Gummingurru.

110 Chapter 6: Seeing the Stones: Dots On A Map

“If these are interpreted as star maps, I’m out of here!” (Jon Prangnell pers. comm. 2011).

Introduction From the stones to the landscape, each iteration of investigation produced more and more contextual and enriched information than the previous iteration (Tilley 2008), with each new context becoming embedded into and creating better interpretations of the site. Just as space, time, events, and sensory embodiment and memory constitute place (Brady et al. 2016; Casey 1996; Perkins 2001; Tilley 1994; see also Chapter 4), so too does intangible and tangible heritage, interconnected places and pathways, memory and events constitute landscape (Brown 2015a; Byrne and Nugent 2004; Ingold 1993:167, 2010; Turnbull 2007). The recording of all these elements produced the following contextual results.

In this chapter, the results of recording Gummingurru and how these outputs relate to understandings of this place are presented. The dataset produced, the landscape context as investigated by Lavers (2010), and the metadata that guided current analyses are discussed first. The results of mapping Gummingurru immediately following the seasons of data collection are then explored, with a focus on the fixity of such representations.

The Local Landscape The representations in this section were generated by Jane Lavers as part of her (2010) Honours study. I reproduce excerpted material here to provide understanding of several important features that will be re-presented in my moving maps work in Cycle III.

During the recording of Tobane’s memories in the November 2008 field season, the connections between sites in the landscape became apparent and their significance in the story of Gummingurru became inextricably intertwined within the interpretation of this place; they also became entangled with researchers’ understandings of the landscape. While our physical movement through the landscape was via car (and therefore at speed), rather than on foot, an embodied understanding of the distance between sites and the journeying paths that connect them, our travels still gave us a sense that Gummingurru is more than simply a site — it is a place within ever-widening and overlapping scales of landscape.

111 The Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape encompasses a large geographic area, incorporating northern New South Wales and southeast Queensland. This includes Gummingurru and its Local Landscape.

The Local Landscape and Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape consist of many elements that have been investigated previously by Morwood (1986); Thompson (2004); Rowlings-Jensen (2004); Ross and Ulm (2009); Ross et al. (2010a); and Lavers (2010). Each iteration of investigation was site focussed until Lavers’ memoryscape mapping drew the landscape scales of investigation together. As previously reported, as part of the November 2008 field season, Brian Tobane spoke about his memories in the landscape between Dalby and Gummingurru. These memories were supplemented by oral histories and written records (see Chapter 2 for the sources of these elements) and archaeological survey (Chapter 5). Not only were many voices included in this interlinked mapping of these landscapes, but also multiple time periods were represented, extending the pre-colonial and historical periods to the present (the living heritage connections from contemporary people and their practices). These data resulted in multiple data points (Table 6.1) relevant to the generation of Gummingurru’s initial maps (see above and Chapter 6), as well as the generation of phenomenological moving maps (see Cycle III). The adjacent and local landscapes to Gummingurru hold memories of the local resources used in the past in direct association with the stone arrangement site, as well as features visible in the present (Figure 6.1).

For example, ochre was collected by Brian Tobane from the ochre pits (Feature B2) located very close to Gummingurru for use in the Information Centre with the permission of the quarry owners. This ochre was an original and integral part of ceremony at the Gummingurru site in pre-colonisation and early colonial times. It is now used in art and in paint-making demonstrations for school visits.

112

Figure 6.1: Google Earth-generated aerial view of the Gummingurru local landscape. This representation of a memoryscape was generated as part of the field trip between Dalby and Gummingurru in November 2008; this map being the Local Landscape, closest to Gummingurru. Features B1–B14 are in Appendix A; excerpted in Table 6.1 (Lavers 2010:51). 113

Table 6.1: Excerpt of memories and stories captured during the memoryscape journey of November 2008 (Lavers 2010:51 and reproduced in Appendix A).

Memory/Story Key to Figure 6.1 Gilbert remembers his grandfather using white lead and linseed oil, along with the red, B2 yellow, and white ochres from the ochre beds, to make paint (Gilbert 2006:17). Bunda remembers camping by a waterhole near a male initiation site c. 1891. B5 Hand stencils around a rock outcrop adjacent to the waterfall, although no longer visible, B6 were sighted within living memory. An Aboriginal women’s ceremonial site is said to have been located within 2 kilometres B8 east of the men’s ceremonial site of Gummingurru. Earnest Franke told his daughter, and Les Steinberg told his wife, that Aboriginal women B9 regularly went to an area at the top of a nearby hill to perform ceremonies. Settlers used to shoot at the women. The women would run down the hill and hide in the trees around the creek, close to a women’s campsite.

The Main Campsite (B5) and the reported rock art (B6), which is now no longer visible, are also in close proximity and have other interrelationships and memories about them embedded in the landscape (Lavers 2010). No survey or excavation of the Women’s Sacred Site (B8) has been completed to date. The site is on private property and researchers have been unable to gain access. It is thought the site has been partially consumed by a housing estate (B9). The viewshed from Gummingurru does not allow for seeing into the Women’s Site and vice versa.

The Wider Landscape of the Bunya Mountains Here, the wider Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape is represented in another memoryscape (Figure 6.2) generated by Lavers (2010:51).

Table 6.2: Results from journeying memoryscape mapping of 2008 November Field Season recording (excerpted from Lavers 2010:51 and reproduced in Appendix A).

Memory/Story Key to Figure 6.2 Gowrie Mountain is a story place of spirit ancestors of the Jarowair people. The C1 landforms of, and around, Gowrie Mountain comprise the torsos and heads of three Dreaming beings who were killed in a fight (see also Gilbert 2006: 73). The road runs alongside an old stock route between Oakey and Dalby which is possibly C10 an old Aboriginal pathway. It runs along the boundaries of Gaiabul and Jarowair Country. A pathway that follows the tops of the ranges is thought to extend from Tweed Heads to Bunya Mountains and may run through Gummingurru. There is a scarred tree at Evensleigh (10km east). C15 Several scarred trees have been sighted by Tobane close to the road between Dalby and C21 Jimbour. There are plenty of soft trees around here that are good for obtaining bark.

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Figure 6.2: Google Earth-generated aerial view of the wider Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape. This representation of the memoryscape was generated on a field trip between Dalby and Gummingurru and is approximately 70km in distance. Features from C1 to C41 are in Appendix A; excerpted in Table 6.2 (Lavers 2010:51). 115

The areas around Highfields (to the east of Gummingurru and across the highway) and Meringandan are characterised by hills and mountains. There are many stories associated with these places (C1). During conflicts past, where warriors from the Dreaming fell, they stayed: they became the hills and mountains. One, now called Gowrie Mountain, is also visible from the Women’s Site and is said to be a beheaded warrior (Gilbert 2006).

One of the many potential pathways that follow the journey from northern New South Wales to the Bunya Mountains (C10) was pointed out to the recording team during one of the 2008 recording seasons. This journeying pathway links multiple language groups to Gummingurru, alongside their yurees (Chapters 2 and 8).

Scarred trees (C15, C21) were located in the wider landscape within which Gummingurru is situated and are interpreted as a warning to travellers that they were entering a sacred space. They were roughly positioned at the cardinal points of entry to the dangerous site (Ross et al. 2010b). Two are still extant nearby to Gummingurru itself but both had been cut down and were left in place with the scarring facing downward. This was a protective measure to ensure the scars would not weather away. One that was originally on the property to the south of the surviving stone arrangements has been placed in front of the Cultural Centre; the second is to the west on the adjacent property owned by Jean Gundry (Ben Gilbert’s daughter). The trees, like those marked on this map of the Gumminguru memoryscape, were both warnings and potential resources.

The elements summarised in Tables 6.1 and 6.2 provide just a few of the examples of landscape features that demonstrate the journeying framework for Gummingurru and that surrounds and are embodied in Gummingurru itself. Journeying and movement are vital to interpretations of this place and must therefore be a part of the representation of this place. The representations arising from the field recordings (Chapter 5) presented here provided the first iteration of interconnections between Gummingurru and its wider landscapes. The richness of meaning associated with these scales of landscape are shown, but these representations did not adequately show the movement and journeying that is of such importance to interpreting Gummingurru (see Cycle III). Not only do these moving landscape elements provide important contextual information for Gummingurru, they also connect with the movement that occurs at Gummingurru itself. The living heritage practices undertaken by the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka Traditional Custodians (Chapter 2) and the resurrection of both the physical

116 stones that make the motifs and the narrative meaning of the motifs provide important context to the interpretations of the stones.

Seeing the Stones The results of the mapping of Gummingurru by The University of Queensland team with the guidance of Brian Tobane (Figure 6.3) are presented here. In this second Cycle of investigation of Gummingurru using phenomenological counter-mapping techniques, the resulting representations of Gummingurru only present the location of the physical stones.

Figure 6.3: Brian Tobane and Site recorders ‘looking at the stones’ in 2010 (Source: Annie Ross).

This dataset (Figure 6.4) is partially reproduced with permission here in order to support the mapping results12.

12 To access the full dataset recorded for Gummingurru, email Conrad Bauwens ([email protected]) for a copy and permissions for use. 117

Figure 6.4: Map of 9368 Recorded Stones. The colours in this figure relate to each of the recording seasons as described in Chapter 5 (Yellow is 2008 29 March–1 April; Blue is 2008 13–17 August; Purple is 2009 27 September–1 October; Pink is 2010 13–16 July). New Starburst is highlighted in box.

Of the 9368 stones recorded as part of the Gummingurru stone arrangement, 2732 are considered to be part of motifs; 3262 are part of geometric symbols such as lines, circles, and clusters; and 3374 are ‘background’ (Table 6.3 and 6.4). That is, the site comprises 29.16% motifs (Figure 6.5), 34.82% geometric symbols (Figure 6.6), and 36.02% background (Figure 6.7). The background stones are those that are not known to belong to a motif and are at least 10cm in one dimension (length, width, or height).

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Figure 6.5: Jarowair-Wakka Wakka identified motifs with labels.

Table 6.3: Jarowair-Wakka Wakka identified motifs: names, number of stones in the motif, and identification number ranges. Motif Number of Identification Numbers Stones in Motif Snake 150 G538–G687 Initiation Ring 173 G701–G762, G764–G874 Waterhole #1 110 G1683–G1792 Turtle Footprints 47 G1806–G1852 (7 clusters) Turtle 34 G1853–G1886 Bunya Nut 69 G2261–G2329 Modified Initiation Ring 275 R1001–R1275 Catfish 169 G7625–G7724, G7728–G7789, G9332–G9338

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Figure 6.6: Geometric Shapes. These are scattered across the site making labelling difficult.

Table 6.4: Geometric shapes: Names, number of stones, identification number ranges. Geometric Shapes Number of Identification Numbers Stones in Motif Linear #1 20 G153–G160, G162–G173 Circular Cluster 5 G206–G210 Circle #1 25 G401–G423, G431–G432 Cluster#1 15 G1326, G1331–G1345 Semi-circle#1 15 G5421–G5435 Geometric Linear 457 G6294–G6351, G6355–G6380, G6393, G6397–G6614, G6631– G6715, G6717–G6718, G7103–G7144, G7564–G7573, G7902– G7905, G7907–G7909, G7911, G9330–G9331, G9339, G9342 Geometric Outer Edge 55 G6716, G6719–G6772, G6773–G7025 Geometric Circular 31 G6381–G6392, G6394–G6396, G6615–G6630 Geometric Concentric 63 G7574–G7600, G8125–G8160 Circles Outer Circle Geometric Central 109 G7913–G8020 Outcrop

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Figure 6.7: Stones identified as ‘background’ on the site.

There are several important motifs that feature in my moving map representations (Cycle III). The ‘dots on a map’ versions of these are presented below, as background to this later discussion. Excerpted in this thesis as Appendix B are the data for the Turtle motif (Appendix B.1; Figure 6.8); the Catfish motif (Appendix B.2; Figure 6.9); and the Carpet Snake motif (Appendix B.3; Figure 6.10).

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Figure 6.8: a) Turtle; b) Turtle with individual stone labels.

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Figure 6.9: a) Catfish; b) Catfish with individual stone labels. 123 Figure 6.10: a) Carpet Snake; b) Carpet Snake with individual stone labels. 124 Seeing the Maps Onscreen The 2010 ArcGIS outputs for the mapping of Gummingurru allowed for spatial and visual analysis, the first of which was the surprise discovery of the New Starburst — a motif resurrected through Brian Tobane’s work that had not been flagged during the mapping fieldwork (Figure 6.11).

Figure 6.11: New Starburst (highlighted in blue box) in context.

125 When researchers Annie Ross, Sean Ulm, and Jaydeyn Thomas sat down to discuss the mapping output, Ross noticed that there seemed to be an extra Starburst, away from the Sun and Moon motifs. The next time we visited Gummingurru, Tobane took the map onto the site and explained that he had not seen the resurrected motif as a discrete object and was glad to have the overview of the site to confirm its shape (Brian Tobane pers. comm. 2010). He then dubbed it the ‘New Starburst’, to distinguish it from the other starburst motifs and to acknowledge its unknown associations. This addition to the knowledge of this place was very much welcomed by the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka: resurrection of the motifs and potential knowledge being one of the goals of both the management of the site and the archaeological investigations invited for the site.

Conclusion Following the end of the 2010 field season, the ‘mapping’ of Gummingurru was considered to be ‘complete’ by the researchers (Figure 6.12). After all, the relationships between the stones were visible on the map. Colour-coding allowed for the motifs to be visible but, still, they were fixed in time and space. This was the case for a paper medium and even onscreen. The dots did not move.

As can be seen, this is a fairly typical site map of a stone arrangement. The geographic distribution of the stones is visible and measurable within the ArcGIS software used for analysis. For publication on reporting this site, this representation would suffice (Ross et al. 2010b). Representing Gummingurru, however, does not begin and end with the geographic distribution of the stones in their motifs. There is so much more to this place.

When I was first introduced to the Gummingurru survey data, I had little idea what it meant in terms of the archaeology and the landscape. It is difficult to conceptualise motifs and meanings from a field season’s worth of metric data and individual stone photography. It was not until my first field season in 2010, when I was introduced to the tangible features and intangible knowledge of the place, as told by Brian Tobane and Annie Ross during physical movement through Country on the first day of the April 2010 dig, that the landscape and its meaning became an intrinsic part of my understanding of Gummingurru. Being-in-place and being on Country changes understanding and preunderstandings of place (Smith 2006:77). Each subsequent field season following the 2008 landscape recording began with Annie Ross driving the new field crew around the important places in the Gummingurru cultural landscape (with permission of the Traditional Custodians). This provided a journeying tour of the interconnected features in the local landscape. This is now the standard procedure since these related 126 locales can be better understood when experienced by visitors. “This women’s place and Gummingurru are connected yet separated by what is visible in the landscape from each of these places” (Annie Ross pers. comm. 2010).

Figure 6.12: The ‘Complete’ Gummingurru Map.

Without reference to the connections between places within the landscape, understanding the meaning of Gummingurru’s motifs and the site itself is almost impossible. For example, the general terrain creates barriers to visibility between interrelated sites in the landscape — Gummingurru is within a naturally occurring amphitheatre and the (as yet unnamed) Women’s Site is near the top of a small hill. They can neither see into the Main Campsite nor each other.

127 With the 2010 excavations and the ‘final’ recording of stones, our understanding of the motifs changed from their only being embodiments of ancestral beings to being both that and the embodiment of the journeying narratives that these ancestral beings undertake. The awareness of Gummingurru’s local landscape and the greater journeying narratives of the wider Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape became entangled in the discussions and interpretations of Gummingurru between researchers and Traditional Custodians. These things became intrinsic to how we as archaeologists speak of this place. But none of this was evident in the visual representations we were constructing as part of the investigation project. We needed maps that show all these things: we needed maps that move.

128 Reflective Pause B

“Hermeneutics is not a circle, it is a cycle, so that archaeologists move cyclically between their data and interpretation and enhance their level of understanding as a result. Knowledge is gained by moving in a cycle built on previous understandings” (Prangnell 2000:367).

In this chapter, I pause again to reflect on Cycle II and on how its outcomes have informed our current understandings of the meanings of Gummingurru. I also review how this has influenced my own investigations into the effect of landscape representation, which I present in Cycle III. In Cycle II, the team of investigators moved through interpreting the data recorded (Chapters 5 and 6), taking the first steps into a new understanding of Gummingurru.

Overview of Cycle II In Chapter 4, I introduced the theoretical framework that underlies the understanding of place, place- making, and landscape. I discussed the phenomenological basis for engaging with and creating landscapes and places, along with the basis of preunderstandings that inform how places are viewed, and thus recorded, and ultimately, represented.

The processes and methods of investigation and recording of Gummingurru from 2006 until 2010 were described in Chapter 5. Why these processes and methods were used, in particular the privileging of Jarowair-Wakka Wakka understandings of the site in an inter-relational phenomenological methodology, were briefly discussed in the context of Chapter 4’s methodology section.

The initial outcomes of the recording of Gummingurru were set out in Chapter 6 as was the process of analysis of the initial data set. The site — the stones and how they were configured — could be ‘seen’ in the ArcGIS outputs and had utility in further archaeological analysis, but these outcomes did not represent the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka meaning of this place. The representations did not do what we, as archaeologists, and the Traditional Custodians, wanted them to do.

Reflection on Cycle II and My Perspective Here I reflect on the changing understandings that I personally underwent during my transition from a person with a role in data management — without having visited the site — to a person with an active involvement in fieldwork and the generation of results (Ross et al. 2010b). This is the second loop in the hermeneutic cycle, building on the theoretical and methodological package that defined the initial

129 phenomenological (interconnections) counter-mapping (Jarowair-Wakka Wakka-led) process (Figure B.1).

Figure B.1: Current Place in the Hermeneutic Cycle (Cycle II: Phenomenological counter-mapping investigation of place and landscape) (Source: Author).

As a reminder, the underlying assumptions, my preunderstandings, of my first engagement with this site were that the tangible components of this specific (isolated) site were of most interest and that change or movement of the stones would be taphonomic in nature. I did not consider the historical cultural context or the living heritage meaning and interaction with the site.

Once I had spent several field seasons at Gummingurru with Brian Tobane and other Traditional Custodians, I came to see that:

130 • Without the storying and interpretation of motifs, patterns that may have been seen in the data outputs would have been purely archaeological constructs, as opposed to reflecting the meaning of this place as a Jarowair-Wakka Wakka sacred place. • No story = no motifs/no Jarowair-Wakka Wakka meaning. The stones are important, but mostly because they are the physical embodiment of spiritual beings (in their motif placements) as well as their having a role in ceremony. The Traditional Custodians consider them to have agency and effect on people. • Living heritage includes custodianship of the place — cleaning it up, for example as seen by Brian Tobane’s resurrection activities. • These activities and storied meanings need to be represented on the maps as, right now, the maps are just dots that do not convey this crucial information.

One of the aspects of this place and people’s entanglements with it that I have not yet spent much time on is the agency of this landscape and of Gummingurru itself. The motifs that are a part of the stone arrangements have impacts on people: through their movements, yuree stories, and the custodianship that is enacted through the living heritage practices:

“Agency is not an intrinsic attribute of the bounded individual but a product of the network of social relationships that constitute the person” (Brück 2005:61).

and “… landscape is considered not just an arena for human action but a recursive entity, and thus an agency, involved in constituting human action mediated through its engagement with the day-to-day behaviour of individuals and groups” (Waddington 1998:19; original emphasis).

The human action that results from the site’s agency and Jarowair-Wakka Wakka understandings of that agency include Brian Tobane’s custodial moving of the stones. Whether the stones are moved by water flowing across the site (I do not know if this action is attributed by the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka to any particular spiritual force), or through physical interaction with animals, or even through sinking into the soil (Reflective Pause C), they have impacted on human actions.

Also, the human actions of the researchers themselves (how we moved and continue to move about the site; never walking in the Initiation Ring; how we tell the story of this place) need to be considered. The emotional landscape that occurs in this kind of fieldwork (Trigger et al. 2012) entangled me with this place. Understanding Indigenous places means acknowledging the agency of place. Even when

131 interrupted, the agency of a place in terms of structuring practice and identity, can be resurrected through investigation and reuse (McNiven et al. 2009).

On each return to Gummingurru, I became (and continue to become) more and more aware of moments of stillness, of quiet watchfulness, that I have come to associate with the site. Knowing that Bunda is still present and that each time a Willie Wagtail swoops up to the fenceline or perches in the small saplings near the Information Centre, we are being watched closely by an ancestral spirit does have a direct effect on my behaviour (Brady et al. 2016; 2020). I usually say hello and relay a few things about what we’re doing that day: it just seems safer, as well as more courteous, to do so (cf. Godwin and Weiner 2006; Mitchell and Guilfoyle 2020).

Returning to the patterns and stories of Gummingurru: the representations of motifs are not accurate without the incorporation of the journeying movements that characterise their intangible being. Our representations failed in making this inextricably entwined meaning clear in the maps that we presented. So, it became my first goal of my PhD work was to ensure the intangible heritage of Gummingurru was embedded into the mapping representations that I produced. The second goal was to somehow capture the movement and change inherent in the living heritage practices undertaken on the site. The third was to ensure that the meaning of Gummingurru in its multiple connected landscapes was captured.

With this complexity of attachment and meaning, not only was the challenge (which is, in fact, ongoing) “how to capture it”; it was also “how do we represent it?” “How do we show and not just tell what this place is?”

Experience For one field season in 2010, the crew stayed in the Traditional Custodian’s house on site. In subsequent field seasons, crews stayed away from site, at a nearby Scout Campsite. The men in the field crew all commented on disturbed sleep and nightmares. This was attributed to their being uninitiated males camping on the initiation site (Figure B.2). Interestingly, the women did not have these issues with being onsite at night. I did not have unduly restless sleep or nightmares, though the feeling of watchfulness, of presence, that I have described was (and is) certainly there during my interactions with the site. This is interesting to reflect back on as since this time I have come to the realisation that not only am I asexual (as I knew then), but I am also non-binary. Some days I am a woman, some days I am a man, but most

132 days I am neither. I do wonder how Jarowair-Wakka Wakka peoples in the past approached non-binary and transgender people when it came to ceremony. Did they have similar experiences in the past?

Figure B.2: My brother Gareth Thomas and undergraduate student Harrison Robb — seen here recording stones — both reported disturbed sleep and nightmares while staying at the Custodian’s house on site (Source: Jaydeyn Thomas).

It was almost five years to the day that I became disabled that I first encountered this site. The fieldwork was physically challenging but became less painful and tiring as time went on. I could walk across this site. This fact and the connections I was rebuilding with fieldwork in archaeology and the team involved, and most importantly, with Brian Tobane and later, after he became ill, Conrad and Shannon Bauwens, gave me hope that I could still be an archaeologist.

What has been my role? “To do landscape archaeology is to work in the field, to practice [sic] a particular and distinctive craft in the open air. An outsider at first, the landscape archaeologist has no choice but to become engaged in the landscape, to become an insider as a consequence of acquired knowledge; it is an involvement which may continue over many years” (Fleming 2006:271-272, original emphasis).

I became much more involved with the interpretation of the place after the first ArcGIS maps of Gummingurru were produced and I began to question how we could go about doing it better. I then began my PhD research and built animated maps (Cycle III): Fleming (2006) was right, doing the work in the field engaged me in the landscape. I do not think I have become an insider — I am not Jarowair-

133 Wakka Wakka. I hoped to incorporate their understanding of this place into our representations to share the knowledge the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka wish to share with the wider community.

I became involved in being a part of educational programming and outreach activities for the site; assisting with delivery of these programs. This unfortunately ended when I moved to Tasmania in mid- 2015 to take up a full-time position as a museum curator.

Phenomenology/Entanglement The formation of cultural heritage and archaeological datasets about landscapes is only the first stage of interpretation and understanding. The representation of those landscapes for specific audiences, such as other archaeologists, Traditional Custodians, and the (potentially least informed) general public, is both an art and a process in the sense of construction and presentation. The different elements of meaning, activity, events, memories, and how we interpret and represent them, have to be understood in an integrated way :

“Whichever way we look at this distribution of spatially distinct activities, we are still likely to be confronted with loss of material or loss of resolution. In other words, we are still dealing with a palimpsest, except that we are dealing with a palimpsest at a larger spatial scale. All that happens when activities become spatially segregated in this way is that they merge into a much larger-scale palimpsest, the sedimentary palimpsest that characterizes the surface of the wider landscape” (Bailey 2007:205).

Such ‘spatial palimpsests’ (Bailey 2007:205) are the basis of the idea that what we know about the varying scales of landscape and our knowledge of Jarowair-Wakka Wakka and other groups’ engagements with those landscapes, has changed over time. What we see now is not what the people of Quandamooka13, for example, saw when they journeyed through southeast Queensland to Gummingurru. The divisions made by settler colonial fences were not there; the soil had not been shifted in large quantities to build roads, railroads and housing estates; the vegetation was both more expansive and of a different variety. All of these changes have affected how we view the landscape as we journey through to Gummingurru via asphalt roads, travelling at 60–100km per hour. The sights, smells, sounds and even speed of motion have changed dramatically over the use of this landscape (Casey 1996; 1997); we are phenomenologically engaging with a present landscape, viewed through present understandings of this entangled landscape (Figure B.3 with key from A.3).

13 One of the other cultural groups associated with Gummingurru. Before the1890s, the people of the Quandamooka (Moreton Bay/Stradbroke Island area) journeyed to Gummingurru to partake in ceremony before the Bunya nut feasts (see Chapter 2). 134

Figure B.3: Tanglegram at this point at the end of Cycle II (recording). The understanding of the complexity of relationships, affordances, dependencies, affects on, and agentic actions by, grows with each cycle of study. The landscapes (black) and the (green) things (weather, animals, plants) and (blue) people (Jarowair Wakka Wakka, other cultural groups, and yurees14) interact in multiple ways. They move through (black arrows), they are (red lines), they create or depend on (blue arrows), and they have agentic affect on (green arrows).

This is why I wanted to look at historical landscape modification because it determines the post- depositional disruption to archaeological sites. For example, the Main Campsite at Highfields Winery has been disrupted by the recent building of a dam and the removal and redeposition of dirt from that

14 I have loosely defined yurees as ‘people’ in this schema. They are considered to be agentic beings which affect landscape, people, and the stones of Gummingurru by Jarowair-Wakka Wakka people. 135 project. A railway line is rumoured to have gone through, or adjacent to, the property (see Figure 2.6). Cattle farming and winery farming have disrupted pathways that connect these areas.

In the aftermath of these disruptions, when recording a site, we are recording in the present, as part of a post-change landscape. We are always recording the present, rather than any point in the past. So this is a limitation when talking about past landscapes and experiences of them as per Bender’s (2006), Tilley’s (1994) etc., take on phenomenological analysis. If we, as archaeologists and cultural heritage managers working on Country, cannot reconstruct a past environment and landscape that reflects how it was prior to these disruptions, then what we represent is just the present. The interconnections between places within a landscape may also contain flawed assumptions when thinking about past use without adjusting for these changes to the landscape.

How do we move beyond the representation of place as having one use in the past and recognise that it has had multiple uses and meanings over time? We cannot simply map a site or landscape and then represent that map as one of Country. Without the emplaced storying connections, the intangible knowledge of place, journeys, ancestral spirits, and resources, the mapping representation is not Country. Living connections are vital to understanding the entanglement of Indigenous peoples to their lands and these are fundamental to forming part of our understandings as well. After all, “Places not only are; they happen” (Casey 1996:27; original emphasis).

They happen in place, and they happen in the interplaces as well: “In geography, hodology is the study of paths, in philosophy, the study of interconnected ideas, and in neuroscience, the study of the patterns of connections in the white matter of the brain” (Turnbull 2007:142).

The pathways that connect locales can be just as relevant to the meaning of those places. It is the connections between the places and journeys in the landscape that make this place. “To understand landscapes phenomenologically requires the art of walking in and through them, to touch and be touched by them” (Tilley 2008:272). The recording of Gummingurru certainly required the “walking in and through”, the engagement that comes with time spent on Country.

136 Introduction to the next Cycle: Cycle III Just as the archaeological materials, ethnohistorical accounts, oral histories, and current and past environmental components make up the physical and intangible aspects of the cultural landscape of the Torres Strait (Chapter 3), so too do the multiple forms of tangible and intangible aspects of southeast Queensland make up the cultural landscape of Gummingurru (Barham et al. 2004:58).

Why move from paper and text, to screens and visual data, for the dissemination of archaeological knowledge generally and the story of Gummingurru particularly? The GPS unit and Google Maps began my thinking on this during the data entry process. The website15 would be the first point of contact with the site for many people (Chapter 6). As the research and process of thinking expanded and continued, one thing became obvious. Computers and mobile phones were transforming into something new: smartphones. (Keogh 2017).

In Cycle III, I start with an exploration of the theoretical and methodological package that was used to generate new phenomenological counter-maps of Gummingurru and its associated landscapes in Chapter 7. I have combined methods and results for the representation of Gummingurru’s associated landscapes in Chapter 8, exploring Google Earth and Prezi as software packages used to make these maps move. The methods and results used in animating Gummingurru in 3D are explored in Chapter 9. Cycle III ends with Reflective Pause C, where I reflect back on where we are now (at the time of writing this thesis in 2019/2020) and where we might go in the future, with a hypothetical Cycle IV. The final chapter — Chapter 10 — of the thesis is a discussion of the potential shift in how archaeological representation can be undertaken.

15 www.gummingurru.com.au 137 Chapter 7: What are Maps? Representation, Non-representation, and a Phenomenological Counter-Mapping Methodology

“Representations beget representations. Once articulated, scholarly representations seem to have a life of their own, and may go on to be reproduced in discursive contexts far beyond their discipline of origin. Those that appeal to the popular imagination can become entrenched in ‘commonsense’ understandings of both the ancient past and contemporary Indigenous identities. Once established in popular discourse, such representations tend to generate considerable intellectual inertia, resisting revision long after they have passed from favour in their original context” (Brian 2006:120).

Introduction Moving into Cycle III, I explore the way that the meaning of Country is enacted through the process of creating representations — based on the theoretical and methodological practices employed during the recording of place — and its dissemination through maps to the participating communities, to fellow researchers, and to the general public. There are questions of how to go about representing the past in the present and communicating intangible aspects of landscape, story, journey, and narrative; all of which constitute understandings of Gummingurru’s multi-scalar landscape (see Cycle II). I also explore the process of representation and the re-presentation of complex landscapes and why it is necessary to do this, especially where multi-vocal landscapes, meanings, and attachments in representations are made visible. Some of this material may seem repetitive as I am using the same theoretical and methodological stance as I have been using throughout the thesis. In Cycle III, these methodological elements are seen through the lens of representation rather than the investigation of landscapes. I summarise repetition as much — yet as briefly — as is practical throughout the chapter.

In the final part of this chapter, I return to phenomenological counter-mapping methodology, moving from its use in recording cultural heritage sites and landscapes, to how it can be utilised in mapping representations of places like Gummingurru. I also discuss the communication of representations of the past in the present, as well as contemporary meanings and interpretations, with respect to the emergent field of science communication.

What were we representing? To represent Gummingurru with the UQ research team’s newfound understandings of this place (Cycle II; Reflective Pause B), I knew that digital mapping of the landscapes associated with Gummingurru and the motifs (and thus, yurees) in the stone arrangements, needed to demonstrate these understandings.

138 The phenomenologically counter-mapped data included both meanings of ‘phenomenology’: the interconnectedness of sites in the landscape and pathways between them as well as the interconnections between the stones, motifs, and yuree journeying stories; but also the embodied experience of the landscape through sensory experiences and most importantly, movement. Gummingurru cannot be represented only by the ‘dots on paper’ approach to mapping as this leaves out what makes this site a place; that is, the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka intangible meanings and the living heritage that is practised in contemporary cultural attachments.

In other words, to represent the Gummingurru stone arrangement was not just to depict stones in arrangement: it was to represent Country. Country is not simply a physical space, it is a complex entanglement of the relationships and connections between people-place-object-tangible-intangible- story-songline-memory-traditional ecological knowledge-habitats-animals-plants, etc. (Bradley 2001, 2008; Bradley and Kearney 2011; David et al. 2012; Langford 1983; Rose 2000). To begin representing Gummingurru then, these aspects of Country need to be incorporated into the mapping. If not, it is the ‘stones in a field’, or ‘dots on a map’ approach that becomes the representation that is then taken as a ‘truth’ (Brian 2006; Kwan 2002) of what this place is (yet places are always becoming, always happening (Casey 1996:138; Chapter 4)). So how do we approach representation to ensure that this does not happen? What is representation?

Theory: Representation and Non-representation through Mapping “What kinds of truth does the representation claim?” (Kwan 2002:276).

At the heart of archaeological research is the desire to find a ‘truth’ about the past (Holdaway et al. 2005:276): to explore, investigate, and forensically analyse objects, ethnographies, and histories in order to understand and articulate what it is that actually happened in a particular place and time (Warf and Sui 2010). The output of archaeological investigation consists of reports, narratives, illustration and maps. They are all constructed according to the conventions of the discipline, as well as the theoretical and methodological frameworks within which the interpretations are situated.

Archaeologists present maps as representations of sites and landscapes — created and co-created — to visualise study areas, sites, and landscapes. Maps impose boundaries and ‘truths’ about place (Fox 2002:67; Kwan 2002; Steinberg 2009). They are the abstract and the real; used in daily life and trusted to be factual (Harley 1989:5; Dodge and Kitchin 2011). Representation is re-presentation: “the art of

139 observing is combined with the art of inventing” (de Certeau 1985:140); it is the making of place (Cosgrove and Martins 2000:108); and the making of identity (Brian 2006) and communicating them to the world. Representation is a method of showing a truth about the past, or places, or cultures. It is an expression of an interpretation of events and actions in a variety of forms that convey these truths accurately (Brown 2015a; Field 2010; Lydon 2019).

As a result, mapping representations in the past have gone unquestioned as being objective ‘truths’. It was not until decolonial, feminist, and phenomenological critiques changed the construction and production of maps that critique and challenge have arisen (Aldred and Lucas 2018; Anderson and Harrison 2010; Del Casino and Hanna 2005; Fleming 2006; Pavlovskaya and Martin 2007:584; Tilley 2010). Post-colonial theory critiques and challenges the idea that there is one truth to be found in maps or that truths can be (and have been) adequately represented when maps are deployed (Shanks 2002; van Dommelen 2011:3). The move towards understanding mapping as a practice (Del Casino and Hanna 2005; King and Nic Eoin 2014:10) and understanding narratives of the past constructed through archaeological practice (Lydon 2019:3; Nabokov 2002) has changed this theoretical landscape of the production of maps from ‘objective’ cartography to multi-vocal representational narratives of place.

A scientific understanding of the metric attributes of a place — although important for archaeological practice and the map’s performance as a map — cannot be a whole truth of what that place is and thus, the representation of it needs to be more; more than one line of evidence, one element of detail, is needed to achieve representation of what occurred in the past and to understand and represent meaning in the present. Maps need to be multi-vocal (Byrne and Nugent 2004; Nabokov 2002; Strang 2008). This includes the intangible elements of landscape: story, song, memory, and movement. These aspects are critical to understanding Gummingurru’s meaning and significance in its multi-scalar landscapes: e.g. the movement of the journeying yurees. Without these intangible aspects, metric maps (see those produced in Cycle II) just does not adequately represent Gummingurru.

Maps are narratives about landscape, used for conveying and making meaning; they can be imposed on Indigenous peoples (Brealey 1995) or co-created with them (Byrne and Nugent 2004; Ellis 1994:8). They are used from a distance or within their represented space. They are potentially as mobile and moving as the place itself — when the form of street maps changed from paper to digital, the use of GPS to build those maps along with the constant bouncing of signal from satellites to reorient and move the

140 map, changed how people interacted with them (Aldred and Lucas 2018). They became relational to place, space, and people moving through the landscape: The map can therefore be considered as a type of embodiment, a means by which an object, cognition and locomotion all come into play at the same time through using and making maps. Thus, they are more than just a representation, but are an active participant in movement (Aldred and Lucas 2018:25).

The dissemination of maps has progressed through paper copies and books of maps, to GPS units in cars and maps on screens in the home, to smartphone applications (apps) that are ubiquitous and add an extra dimension that GPS began: screen mediated being-in-place (Keogh 2017). Digital maps thus became phenomenological by virtue of their medium, use, and context. The interrelationship between user and the physical space in which the map is used, as well as the change in the map itself via physical, embodied movement, are phenomenological. The representation of space and place moves with the user and changes depending on view (‘map’ view and ‘street’ view giving very different experiences of place). So, like place, these maps are continuously becoming (Casey 1996:14; Del Casino and Hanna 2005:36). Digital maps can be constructed and used in real time, in the real place, and they are considered to represent these places accurately: by making things visible.

Maps create new conceptualisations of place each time they are used (Pickles 1995). Regardless of the medium, there is a process of bringing the map into being each time someone interacts with it and the landscape itself. Maps shape “our assumptions about how we can know and measure the world”, creating new boundaries and territories, reaffirming power structures and representing specific ‘realities’ (Kitchin et al. 2009:1; cf. Brealey 1995; Byrne 2008; Fox 2002; Harrison 2011). As discussed in both Cycle I and Cycle II, they are vehicles and systems in which “… ‘facts’ achieve their solidity or certainty” (Cummings et al. 2002:58); they are reproduced, disseminated and didactic in sanctioning politically approved ideologies (Brealey 1995; Brian 2006; Kitchin et al. 2009). Maps are active agents: they can create change, on a personal and societal level (Crampton and Krygier 2005; Fox 2002). Mapping is a practice; maps are constructed and ongoing: … the process of mapping consists of creating, rather than simply revealing, knowledge. In the process of creation many subjective decisions are made about what to include, how the map will look, and what the map is seeking to communicate (Kitchin and Dodge 2007:332).

Not only are maps constructed to represent reality: they also create it (Brealey 1995; Byrne 2008; Fox 2002:73; Harley 1989). The encoding and communication of place in maps creates “inside [and insider] meanings” (Taylor 1988:381) that are decoded using culturally-specific understandings of place (Steinberg 2009). The way in which Gummingurru has been encoded in the maps that I have produced

141 should be recognisable to both Jarowair-Wakka Wakka (emic) understandings and Western (white, etic) understandings of what is seen in the maps. This recognition is important in creating understanding of Jarowair-Wakka Wakka cultural knowledge of place in Western audiences. Whether these digital representations can faithfully reproduce Indigenous knowledge is an important consideration (see Reflective Pause C).

Representational mapping of place and space was considered to be objective, visible, stating a ‘truth’ about the subject of the map. Critiques of these ideas have been on-going for some time, as I have discussed above; non-representational theories and counter-mapping practices have changed what representation now means. I turn to non-representational mapping critiques next and then briefly revisit the theory of phenomenological counter-mapping and what these maps mean.

Non-representation Non-representational theories seek to critique the idea that representations can be solely a mirror to the world, or show the world in fact and substance — as observed by an objective observer (usually perceived to be a Western science-trained white male). Representations are critiqued by this theoretical approach as being presentations of particular pre-existing ideas about the world, with the power to create and enact new presentations “as active interventions in the co-fabrication of worlds” (Anderson and Harrison 2010:14). The phenomenological embodied nature of moving in the world and understanding it, where the world is continuously becoming, was lost in the conventional representational maps conventionally used to ‘capture’ it (Anderson 2004; Bender 2001; Harrison 2010; Kearney and Bradley 2009; Knopp 2007; Nash 2000; Steinberg 2009).

Mapping as a process, in non-representational theory, needs to be cautious in rejecting both or either scientific ‘certainty’ in observation and phenomenological intangible sense of the world (Hacigüzeller 2012; Wylie 2010). There is an “assumed association of GIS [and other cartographic tools] with quantitative analysis and, by extension, science” (Pavlovskaya and St. Martin 2007:590), lending a sense of both authenticity and authority (Steinberg 2009) to the resulting mapped representation (Kitchin et al. 2009). The epistemology of this form of representation and visualisation is predicated on the revealing of truth “through a scientific approach reliant upon Western ways of seeing and upon technologies of vision; it still depends upon scientific experimentation and a representational view of the world” (Kitchin et al. 2009:8).

142 In critical cartography, this power to create and enforce the boundaries and authority inherent in maps and their scientific association, as well as their uses in settler colonial societies, have been examined and have lead to the rise of counter-mapping and practice-based, phenomenological mapping representations (Gillings et al. 2018). The perspective that conventional maps contain (the top-down, ‘birds’-eye’ view seen in the majority of maps), flattens and leaves out the phenomenological data that are part of the human experience of place (Aldred and Lucas 2018; Tilley 1994). The exponents of non-representational theory critique recognised that the experiential movement that people undertake through landscapes needs to be captured.

Thought-in-action, or the ‘event’ and continuum of events as part of change and changing landscapes, is central to non-representational theory. It is the movement of action and the interrelationships of affect of object, place, people and time (Anderson and Harrison 2010). Embodiment and process are key to understanding human-material-place social interactions (Greenhough 2010). Maps themselves can embody movement through either imagination applied to static maps (Aldred and Lucas 2018; Russell 2012), or through literal movement within the maps (see Chapters 8 and 9).

Representations are not the only means of engaging with the world and making sense of it (Kwan 2007:23). Where representational approaches reflected an engagement with the measurable properties of a place, non-representational theory suggests that the practice of embodied engagement with the ongoing processes that form places allows change and continuity to be visible in the map (Anderson and Harrison 2010; Greenhough 2010). Nash (2000) demonstrates the geography of embodiment and the performativity of non-representation through her exploration of meaning in motion through dance and performance (like studies of Tango and Latin American Identity, or Morris Dancing and Englishness) — the recording of which, through video and animation, are nonconventional forms of communication of cultural geography.

The affect of maps — the things they do — and the effect of maps — the change they cause on the world — are both aspects of non-representational theory’s approach to the performative function of maps. In the process of mapping subjective realities, the non-representational approach interrogates the effect of maps on constructing the world and moves the discourse away from what maps represent to what maps do in the world (Kitchin et al. 2011; Wylie 2010).

143 Answer to critiques of representation (non-representational theories) in counter-mapping One problem with non-representational theory is its underlying assumption that the normative practice in the process of representation in landscape archaeology is currently a strict dualism of object and observer; of object and reality. Such Cartesian duality has already been rejected, at least in the field of cultural heritage management (and see below for a discussion of Bradley’s work with Yanyuwa mapping) (Bradley et al. 2011; Faulkhead et al. 2017). The conceptual components of non- representational theory that attempt to counter this dualism, the experiential inter-relational contextual nature of all objects and observers, has already been interrogated and addressed via the cultural heritage practice of counter-mapping. The elements are all there: the multi-vocal, -temporal, -scalar, -relational nature of all things contextualised in a complex documentation of site, place and landscape. Archaeological representation has been slower on the uptake generally than cultural geography in this realm (where these critiques and concepts have been practised for some time). The discipline historically emphasised decontextualised sites rather than place, but there is now movement in catching up — particularly via digital mapping (Beale 2018; Engler et al. 2013; Leavy 2014; Remindino and Campana 2014).

The privileging of “an empirical view of archaeological material culture in our writings and discussions about the past” (Mosley 2010:61) is common practice in much of archaeology and is a determining framework that guides the planning stage of data collection (the defining of initial analytical meta-data), down-playing the “emotion in social life and knowledge production” side of assemblage creation (Kwan 2007:23), reflecting the operating institution (Doyle 2007) and biasing representations before they begin (Lydon 2019). The present lens of archaeological investigators and of Indigenous Custodians of culture is one which must be incorporated into any interpretation of the reconstruction and representation inherent in the map; that is, the living heritage in the present (Bender 2006; McCoy and Ladefoged 2009:265; van Dommelen 2011). Recognition of this view underpins a new iteration of counter-mapping as recording paradigm (Cycle II) to which I now turn.

Counter-mapping Representations I return now to counter-mapping, as a process of representation rather than investigation (see Chapter 4). Counter-mapping is a specifically political act of reclaiming ownership of territory (Fox 2002; Parker 2006; Peluso 1995; Snead and Preucel 1999) and making visible the Indigenous cultural understanding of that territory (Byrne and Nugent 2004; Harrison 2010). Counter-mapping changes the act of map construction by changing the process of map creation, since the counter-map authors are not only the 144 archaeologists, the observers, but also the subjects, the participants. The authors, subjects, objects and readers of counter-maps are active participants in the counter-mapping process (Kwan 2007:26). However, “when outsiders elicit and present indigenous [sic] knowledge in a map, they effectively alter and control it” (McCall and Minang 2005:343; see also Fox 2002; Warf and Sui 2010:198). Taking back control of the mapping process and the representational outputs of that process is seen as an act of activism and reclaiming of community agency and meaning (Dalton and Mason-Deese 2012:147–148; Faulkhead et al. 2017).

Counter-mapping representations thus need to include the present-past in order to include and make explicit Indigenous connections to landscape that may be based in the past, but continue in the present. Change and living heritage are crucial to such connections and are authentic expressions of these connections, just as they are at Gummingurru (Andrews and Buggey 2008; Bender 2006; Thomas and Ross 2013, 2018). Connections to Country and understandings of the performance of relationships between people and place must form part of the representations — the maps — or the counter-mapping process is not realised in its representational output.

The other aspect of counter-mapping that is important to my work is, of course, fixity. The freezing of landscape and culture in time on the map means that there is an implicit preunderstanding that those landscapes and cultures are themselves fixed and static, unchanging and unmoving (Byrne 2003; David 2002; Jain 2007; Knapp and Ashmore 1999; Sullivan 1993:57; Thomas and Ross 2013, 2018). This is where the methodology of phenomenological counter-mapping using digital technologies can counter (- map) these concepts and issues, as I discuss next.

Methodology: Why are we mapping Gummingurru this way? “The invisibility of human presence is also obvious at the representation level. There are no human beings in maps” (Caquard and Wright 2009:204).

Phenomenology is not only a methodology for investigation and recording of place (see Cycle II), but is also for the representation of landscape. As in all things to do with Gummingurru, the multiple ways in which the phenomenology of Gummingurru’s representation will be applied are entangled. The ways in which phenomenology applies to Gummingurru’s recording methodology and methods: embodiment, multi-vocality, interrelationships of place, and journeying connections. And so we can ask: where are the people — as Caquard and Wright (2009) question above — in the maps produced in Cycle II? Those

145 maps in Cycle II are mapping representations of cultural landscapes; but you cannot have a cultural landscape without the people to whom the culture belongs.

As discussed above, the practice of representation of Aboriginal cultural landscapes via maps does not have widespread application in terms of the complex entanglements that constitute these places. The inclusion of intangible heritage, the Indigenous Knowledge of cultural resources, and the interrelationships between locales in the landscape (not captured by a focus on the archaeological sites alone) are difficult to incorporate in one map. My work goes towards an integration of multiple place- meaning elements within a single map through a phenomenological counter-mapping methodology.

Phenomenology in Representation There are three ways in which phenomenology impacts on representation. The first is the embodied understanding of place; the second is the interrelationships of places in the landscape; and the third is the visualisation of the intangible in the landscape.

Embodied understanding is the physical experience of place, through sensorial input and interpretation and, above-all, movement. It is physical movement through a landscape that engenders understanding and creates memory and meaning (Byrne 2008; Byrne and Nugent 2004; Harrison 2010; Joyce 2005). Bringing movement into maps of Gummingurru was one of my goals in using the methods that I discuss in Chapters 8 and 9 (alongside the results of that work).

The movement that is associated with the journeying landscape for this place needed to be brought into the map. This was the first form of phenomenological counter-mapping that I achieved — with mixed success (see Chapter 8). The movement of people across these larger landscapes, meeting at Gummingurru for ceremony and negotiation, and then moving on to the Bunya Nut feasts involved the physical, embodied movement of people across space through cultural pathways (Harrison 2010; Turnbull 2007; Chapter 2). In order to show this on the map, my maps themselves had to move. This is the focus of the maps presented in Chapter 8.

The interrelationships between places in the landscape are as important as the places themselves: the Main Campsite, the Women’s Site, and the cultural resource areas make a richly layered and managed landscape surrounding Gummingurru. The Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape ties an entire region together across modern state boundaries and with multiple cultures interacting with each other. Those 146 interrelationships both generate and inform meaning as well as interpretation (Brück 2005; Edgeworth 2013; Joyce 2005; Tilley 1994). These interrelationships can be seen in the resolution of the landscape scales in the maps in Chapter 8.

The real goal of my mapping project, however, was to ensure that the intangible heritage of the motifs of Gummingurru were an integrated part of maps produced about this place. Thus it was most important that the intangible heritage of the yurees at Gummingurru was included: the motifs are the embodiment of spiritual beings but it is their spiritual, storying movements on the site that needed integration into the representation of this place (Harrison 2011; see Chapter 9). The integration of other forms of intangible heritage necessitated the multi-vocal approach to place mapping. Multi-vocality in this context ensures that the view presented in the representation is not solely that of the researchers (myself and the team that studies Gummingurru). The Gummingurru landscape is multi-storied: Jarowair-Wakka Wakka understandings of the motifs, their stories, and the connections to landscape are complemented by the knowledge Ben Gilbert held and passed on about the stones. Settler narratives of landscape use, and the importance of places in that landscape, assisted in informing understanding of movement across the local landscape (Chapter 2). Some of the other intangible knowledge of places in the landscape was also incorporated into the maps in Chapter 8 and informed the animated maps in Chapter 9.

The phenomenological representation of place in maps can be achieved through counter-mapping. Counter-mapping the phenomenology of a place like Gummingurru means showing those elements of phenomenology that have been discussed thus far on the map: embodiment (the physical movement of the stones through taphonomic and living heritage processes; the sensorial experience of this place through sight — viewing the sky; or sound — perhaps by adding a soundscape of the wind and including Jarowair-Wakka Wakka voices into the map16); interconnectedness (landscape at the site, local, and wider scales; pathways between; and meaning of those places); and memory (cultural practices with resources; memoryscapes including settler memory; taskscapes). These can be achieved digitally (see discussion on Wanunga Awara animations below; also Chapter 9).

Phenomenological Counter-mapping as Representation The act of presenting a narration of the past via mapping is a performative one. It is a set of practices tied not only to the creation of a presentation but also to its transmission. Places are made and remade

16 e.g. www.youtube.com/watch?v=-eRARrOBkWY 147 through the act of mapping (Cosgrove and Martins 2000:97). Written presentations follow a proscribed pattern dependent on the perceived audience, imparting (hopefully) specific meanings and encoded messages, signifying objects and their relationships, producing a constructed end-product version of the past (Campbell and Ulin 2004:76, 92). This mapped version of the past is not devoid of rhetoric, of a biased discourse, or of persuasive communication — as there is no encoding without translation (Moser and Smiles 2005; Thien 2005) and “no description without performance” (Harley 1989:11).

Not only is the archaeological past ‘performed’ through the act of representation in mapping; the identity and social memory of heritage, museum exhibitions, and other interpretations are performed as well (Atalay 2008; Moser 2003). The maps of these places and materials are encoded, descriptive (often prescriptive), performative interpretations of place. Such maps show rather than tell; they are made to be products that are dispersed and used (Campbell and Ulin 2004).

Using counter-maps as narrations of archaeological place means recreating specific interpretations of place. In Cycle II, I discussed how phenomenological counter-mapping could be used to record and interpret Gummingurru. Here in Cycle III, I am using the same methodology, just changing its application into representation: the encoding and performance of maps. The entanglement of the phenomenological elements that constitute place are complex and are difficult to illustrate in both words and visual representations. The journeying elements of Gummingurru particularly, become absent in representations without movement.

This is where counter-mapping goes beyond being a political tool — co-created in order to “make legible”, to write into being Indigenous knowledge and desire for control over their own places (Brealey 1995; Dalton and Mason-Deese 2012; Peluso 1995; Roth 2009) — these maps are also able to run counter to the norm: paper maps do not move. Phenomenological digital counter-maps through animation can.

One of my greatest inspirations for the Gummingurru maps that I have produced (Chapter 9) is the animation of Country and songlines co-created by John Bradley, Yanyuwa Elders, and Melbourne’s Monash University Faculty of Information Technology animators (Faulkhead et al. 2017). That project’s first animations were published in 2011 and 2012, just as I was starting to explore ways of creating

148 digital phenomenological counter-maps17. Bradley’s longstanding work with Yanyuwa Elders on language and connections to Country built the relationships needed to co-create methods of language transmission to younger generations: a major concern for Elders. The greatest challenge was creating modes of transmission for “knowledge and information whose existence was untranslatable into the static form of the written word” (Faulkhead et al. 2017:452). The songline maps that Bradley originally produced (Bradley et al. 2011; Faulkhead et al. 2017) did not move, so Bradley and his co-workers turned to animation as a means for recording and representing the songlines’ Law, in Yanyuwa language. The Elders chose 3D animation as this form of representation was able to recreate Country in ways that made sense to them (Faulkhead et al. 2017).

The animations were co-creative and collaborative. The first animations18 were The Song of the Tiger Shark at Manankurra (Manankurra Kujika) and The Tiger Shark (Ngurdungurdu). The animations move through Country, with the voices of the animated Dreaming beings describing their travel pathways, which are also illustrated in the animated landscapes through which they pass, and telling of Dreaming events. Resources in the landscape and how they came to exist are also described and illustrated. These are maps of Country in a relational sense — if you are aware of one of the places depicted and you know the direction of movement, you can follow the songline, yet the places are not named in English and so are protected.

The animations include humour and important life lessons as in Spirit People (Ngabaya); dance with The Brolga (Kurdarrku); and emotion and pain in Tiger Shark and Dugong Hunters. Some are presented as song, some as storytelling, and some as ‘live action’ like The Sea Turtle and the Osprey (Wundanyuka kulu Jujuju).

As I watched the beautifully created animations, I considered time, expertise, and budget. Was there a way to bring animation like this to the archaeological map? Could this be something easily accessible to archaeologists? Could this be a useful tool for bringing the phenomenological intangible heritage of place into our maps? I started to explore potential methods and outcomes of this kind of integrated map. Bradley’s maps were primarily created and used for the transmission of language and culture, but also

17 Originally dubbed the ‘Monash Country Lines Archive’, it has recently been renamed the ‘Wunungu Awara: Animating Indigenous Knowledges’ project (and website: www.monash.edu/arts/monash-indigenous-studies/wunungu-awara/). 18 see www.monash.edu/arts/monash-indigenous-studies/wunungu-awara/animations 149 as a means of public outreach. My maps are primarily used for outward-facing purposes: that is, science communication.

Science Communication Science communication is the applied field of how specialist knowledge effectively engages with and is transmitted to non-specialist audiences. It is broad in its application: it is the communication of processes, results, and interpretations of essentially any discipline that uses the scientific method as a basis of learning (Metcalfe 2019; Pinto et al. 2013; Richardson and Almansa-Sánchez 2015). The social sciences and humanities including archaeology and cultural heritage or resource management fall under this broad umbrella, particularly in the general public’s consciousness (Holtorf 2016).

While ‘public’ and ‘community’ archaeology are fully fledged practices and disciplines in their own right, the popularisation of a broader landscape of science communication across social media platforms and in popular culture, I think, creates a larger impact on public consciousness. Communicating archaeology and heritage to inspire and educate, influence policy and change, engage the public in participatory citizen science, and convey history and heritage are some of the outcomes of this outreach. General engagement with science through social media platforms has also been shown to generate greater trust in science (Huber et al. 2019:760).

Much of what I am discussing in this section is about the digital and virtual communication of Aboriginal cultural places to those who do not yet understand their complex phenomena. Where the creation of the Wunungu Awara animations was primarily for the transmission of language and cultural Law to the Yanyuwa themselves (inwardly facing), the animations and maps I have produced for the Jarowair- Wakka Wakka are outwardly facing: they are used by them for the communication of Gummingurru to the general public. The hope is that they will be used to change or challenge negative preconceptions and interest neutral members of the public. This is an important aspect of representational creation: what does the representation do when it is disseminated? How do these narratives change and create perceptions of the subject?

The impact of popular uptake of specific representations and narratives by the public can have real consequences for both the discipline and Indigenous and descendant communities and can be difficult to change or challenge (Blanton and Ikizer 2019:171; Grounds and Ross 2010; Muurlink and McAllister 2015; O’Rourke 2018; Richardson and Almansa-Sánchez 2015). The ‘history wars’ in Australia 150 exemplify how the communication of archaeological research to the public works and demonstrates the contestations that can arise when that research is then interpreted and re-represented by social and political parties in order to support and justify the settler colonial invasion and policy relating to Aboriginal people since then (Griffiths and Russell 2018; Grounds and Ross 2010; Lydon 2019; see also the recent debate between Bruce Pascoe’s Dark Emu treatise and the reluctance to accept any ‘advanced’ hunter-gatherer subsistence behaviours by right wing journalists like Andrew Bolt19).

In this way, science communication can create and support new preconceived understandings of Indigenous cultural landscapes and people (David 2002; Moser 2003). The use of digital media to convey phenomenological counter-mapped place understandings has the potential to foster a preunderstanding of Indigenous cultures as adaptable and complex, as opposed to the ideas that they are static and fixed in the past. This is part of the issue of the questioning of authenticity of Indigenous cultures changing and adapting post-colonial settlement of their territories (Andrews and Buggey 2008; Byrne 1991, 2002, 2008; Conklin 1997; Gorring 2011; Lilley 2009:56, 62).

Interpretation and Representation Interpreting archaeological information, and finding meaning in archaeological data, are at the heart of archaeological research. Yet for places like ceremonial sites, archaeologists cannot find meaning in places without incorporating the socially constituted views of Traditional Custodians. This intersection of knowledge, in what Byrne (2005) terms a multi-vocal understanding of the past, has informed the research at Gummingurru. My analysis and re-mapping of the mapping data that I had previously generated continues the living heritage and multi-vocal analyses that have characterised the research at Gummingurru to date, as outlined in Cycles I and II (Ross 2008, 2010, 2020; Ross and Ulm 2009, 2010; Ross et al. 2010a).

Using a hermeneutic (or iterative and reiterative, or constantly re-evaluating) reflexive approach to understanding the landscape within which stone arrangements exist and how we record and interpret them, allows for an integrated multidisciplinary approach to analysis and communication of those understandings. Combining the multiple lines of evidence that is the basis of understanding, such as the archaeological record, modern cultural understandings, oral histories, and ethnographic literature, allows for a multi-vocal narrative to develop. The synthesis of these multiple strands is also iterative in terms

19 e.g. www.thesaturdaypaper.com.au/news/media/2019/11/30/bolt-pascoe-and-the-culture-wars/15750324009163 151 of confirming the validity of sparse evidence (Barham et al. 2004). Australia, like other colonised countries, has contested understandings and ownerships of landscapes. The ability to integrate a ‘scientific’ and quantitative (and thus accepted authoritative) understanding of a site with ethnohistorical accounts from the Indigenous Traditional Custodians and from contemporary settlers as a qualitative understanding of meaning, is a vital tool for attempting to understand the past within modern social and political contexts (Brian 2006).

Using the internet as both a resource for gathering information — generating raster data in the form of satellite imagery and inputting it into GIS software; researching the wider landscape through multiple information sources — and as a tool for the dissemination of information through moving maps — is vitally important as part of this process (Flanagin and Metzger 2008:138). The use of community knowledge as part of collecting archaeological data to generate representations of intangible heritage as an inextricable component of meaning of place has resulted in representations that are considered to be more authentic to the Custodians of Gummingurru (Brian Tobane, Conrad Bauwens, and Shannon Bauwens pers. comm. 2010–2015).

Conclusion The limitations of a ‘dots on a map’ approach to mapping should, by now, be obvious. Dots are isolated and exist without featuring the interrelationships that are formative to the make-up of sites and landscapes. As representative of sites or features of sites, they distort and change the meaning, divorcing the site from its associated features of social knowledge, memory and context (Snead and Preucel 1999:170). The fuzziness of physical and temporal boundaries, pathways and the knowledge associated with and generated by these connections cannot be left off the map or erased from any form of landscape representation, of cultural landscape representation. There is a danger in the effect that representations, bound in traditional cartographic epistemology and ontology, can have: by creating fixity in shape and boundaries and by relying solely on GIS shapes to represent non-universally defined space (Byrne and Nugent 2004; Clarke 2011; Snead and Preucel 1999; Turnbull 2007; Wainwright and Bryan 2009).

Bringing in the qualitative alongside the quantitative nature of ‘dots on a map’ is what counter-mapping does. From the planning stage, qualitative information needs to be driving interpretation (Kitchin and Dodge 2007; Kwan 2002; Warf and Sui 2010). I will show that mapping can be more than just dots fixed on paper medium. It is clear now that while conventional cartography makes Caquard and Wright’s statement that there “are no human beings in maps” (2009:204) true, it is time to put human beings 152 (back) into maps. It is time to represent Country in maps of Aboriginal cultural landscapes by embedding the complex entanglements that constitute these places into our maps. It is also time to demonstrate how cultural heritage and archaeological maps of Country and place can act as participants in the embodied movement and change that exists in these places (Aldred and Lucas 2018).

In this Chapter, I explored how maps are representations (and non-representations) of cultural landscapes. I discussed their affect and effect on understanding landscapes and the political and social consequences of fixity inherent in conventional mapping. I explored phenomenological counter- mapping techniques and sources of inspiration for my work. I now present the methods and results of my counter-mapping of the landscape of Gummingurru (Chapter 8), followed by my animated maps of the Gummingurru stone arrangement (Chapter 9).

153 Chapter 8: Making Moving Maps — Landscapes: First Attempts

“…some level of representation is required in order for knowledge of landscapes to be reproduced and disseminated” (Cummings, Jones and Watson 2002:58).

Introduction In this chapter I present both the methods and results of my attempts at counter-mapping Gummingurru’s associated landscapes: the wider Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape and the Local Landscape. I begin with the initial attempts at capturing the complexity of the interrelationships between sites and the pathways between these landscapes that I undertook in 2011–2012 using Google Earth, which ultimately proved unsuccessful. I then explore my use of the presentation software Prezi, which allowed for greater success in integrating the local landscape into the wider taskscape/journeying landscape that characterises the Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape. I present these results via a journey through each scale of landscape: the wider Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape, the Local Landscape with associated resource areas, and Gummingurru — itself as a journeying landscape.

I demonstrate that the static, fixed maps that are the conventional mode of cartography when portraying and disseminating landscape knowledge are inadequate in conveying the entangled complexity that is Aboriginal cultural landscapes. In this chapter, multi-scalar digital, moving maps are shown to have the capacity to begin facilitating phenomenologically connected and embodied understandings of landscapes and places. However, these counter-maps do not fully demonstrate moving mapping of place in landscape. They are examined here to demonstrate how my ideas for maps that move changed over time and to examine that change with changing technologies. The first iteration of animated maps begin to move, yet they still do not adequately show movement in ways that capture phenomenological understanding of place, as I demonstrate.

Generating Taskscapes and Memoryscapes as Maps As discussed in Chapter 4, the generation and recording of a memoryscape is a similar exercise to Harrison’s (2010) mapping via story-trekking, Ingold’s (1993) taskscapes place-making and Campbell and Ulin’s (2004) eventscapes. This is the mapping of places happening (Casey 1996). At Gummingurru, the multi-vocal nature of the recorded data about the landscape — from Jarowair-Wakka Wakka Elders, from the Gilbert-Jinks family, and from other white settler families (Chapter 2) — are overlapping, complementary stories that build our knowledge of past and present meaning in the landscape. But even

154 when memories conflict (such as knowledge of where the Women’s Sacred Site is located; Chapter 5), representations can show more than one ‘truth’ at a time.

The gathering and recording of memories and sites of events within any scale of landscape begins with an understanding of the embodied movement that generates these situated place memories. It is the travel and journeying, the pauses along pathways, and the events that take place during the movement and the pauses, that create the memoryscape, the taskscape and the eventscape (Turnbull 2007). The memoryscape is the formed knowledge that results from these interactions, from remembered being-in- place. It is multi-vocal, multi-temporal and viewed through a present lens (Bender 2006:310-311; Fleming 2006:268; Tilley 2000:425-426).

Harrison (2010; 2011) recorded multiple interviews on the meaning of places and pathways associated with Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal mustering practices and memories at Kunderang station, NSW. A story-trekking landscape was mapped through oral history recordings that narratively trekked along the pathways and places, creating a map following a sense of dwelling in the landscape. Similarly, the return to a childhood home (now an abandoned house) for the descendants of the Reakes family allowed Brown (2015a:187) to record memories while walking around the site — noting phenomenological experiences and the “affective abilities and material memory” evoked by a wild-flower that now finds pride of place in present-day homes. This connection to place, even during a time of loss (a memorial), afforded a trekking narrative that was recorded and reinforced by the return visit to the home. The narrative here is the map, rather than a representation of the place.

In these two examples, mapping places where events occurred and the relational interconnections along pathways and between these places became an exercise in memory and physical maps were marked as the stories emerged. As Harrison (2011:3) states: “The maps are rich with places which constitute landscapes of dwelling, working, walking and riding”; they are happening, actively engaged with and continually moving (Casey 1996:27). This process is the basis of understanding the interactions and interrelationships of people and place, across connected space and during the continuum of time (Lavers 2010; see also Andrews and Buggey 2008:66; Brown 2015a, 2015b). Places happen, landscapes happen, when events happen (Casey 1996:27).

Events etch place in memory. The physical space, the time the event covers, the materials that interact, as well as the people who generate the event are all entangled within the happening place and the 155 memories that emplacement can evoke. When revisiting the place where a pleasant experience occurred, all the elements that make up that experience-event are revisited too. Sometimes it is the materials that are taken away with the person that evoke the experience-event. For example, when Brown (2015a) returned to the place of an acrobatic performance, it was not simply a visit to the venue that evoked memory of movement and entanglement with other performers; the equipment, the touch and smell of the air in the venue, and the clothing that was worn; yet it is also the clothing itself that evokes the memory, the touch of similar equipment, and the sound of the music. All return the sensation of movement to the mind. It is a phenomenological embodied moving experience: even when sitting still.

In generating the local memoryscape for Gummingurru, Lavers (2010) moved through the landscape with the Traditional Custodians and recorded the journeying pathways and the meanings of, and associations between, places such as particular people’s birth places, known story places, and interrelated resources areas. This embodied capturing of the multiple associations in the landscape was designed as a reflexive approach to being-in-place that continued the ontological and cosmological knowledge systems held by the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka Custodians (Lavers 2010). But her representations of such movements were static, fixed. In using these data to build my moving map, I trialled more than one digital medium, as described below. This took place over 2011–2012 and the limitations in digital platforms of the time dissuaded me from more attempts.

At the Wider Landscape Scale The largest scale of landscape associated with Gummingurru is the Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape (Chapter 2; Lavers 2010). The Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape encompasses most of southeast Queensland, parts of central Queensland, and much of northern New South Wales (Figure 8.1). This landscape is simultaneously a ceremonial memoryscape and a taskscape that links multiple cultures from these regions, culminating in the triennial Bunya Nut Festivals.

Prior to the 1890s, the Bunya Mountains provided the locale for a gathering of multiple groups from southern Queensland and northern New South Wales every three years when the largest crop of Bunya Nuts could be harvested and support very large numbers of people (Chapter 2). This festival was where vital social and political relationships were forged, disputes resolved and feasting was undertaken (Evans 2002; Thompson 2004). The journeys that brought people to the mountains were of great importance and it is these journeys that involve Gummingurru. The site acted as a way-station and meeting point for the men of groups passing through the area; a chance to undertake pre-festival activities — and especially 156 initiation — for groups right across the local region (Whincop et al. 2012). Maidenwell, to the north east of the Bunya Mountains, acted as a similar place for the people of more northerly regions who travelled to the Bunya Nut festivals (Rowlings-Jensen 2004:32–33). On the Sunshine Coast, a newly imagined Bunya Nut festival has been hosted by Kabi Kabi people and has resurrected the memory-making and education aspects of festivals in the past in an embodied and experiential act of Reconciliation (Kinninment 2019). The meanings and enacting of this new journeying landscape have changed somewhat from those in the past: yet, the journeyscape continues.

Figure 8.1: Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape. This landscape extends across much of southeast Queensland and northern New South Wales. Significant sites in the landscape are highlighted on this map. Elevation 332 metres (Google Earth 2019).

Understanding the significance of Gummingurru in the wider cultural landscape generates an understanding of where individual sites, pathways and journeys need to fit into representations of this cultural landscape. These places exemplify the problem with only investigating one site or one path, when without the context of the wider landscape, meanings are truncated (Byrne and Nugent 2004; Campbell and Ulin 2004; Turnbull 2007). By contextualising Gummingurru into the wider Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape, I will show that meaning and significance cannot be obtained without the broader context.

157 Using Google Earth to Create a Moving Landscape Map My first attempt at a digital counter-map of Gummingurru was an annotated journey through southeast Queensland to the Bunya Mountains via Gummingurru using Google Earth. The data used to generate this map came from several sources including Ross et al. (2010b) and Morwood (1986), while the significant places within the landscape were gathered through the study of the Gummingurru memoryscape analysed by Lavers (2010). The user began with a view of Australia and moved in towards the Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape, beginning the journey from a coastal point inland towards Gummingurru. Each time an important place or a memory was encountered on the path followed through the landscape, it was flagged and annotated as a rest stop on the journey (Figure 8.2).

Figure 8.2: Google Earth view c. 2012. Overview encompassing the Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape; the Local Landscape; and Gummingurru. Elevation unknown (Google Earth c. 2012).

158 As can be seen here, the landscape became pixelated (see to the west of Toowoomba in Figure 8.2) and movement and retention of information onscreen became increasingly difficult as more data points were added. The pathways protocol allowed movement between rest stops and was achieved visually with a flyover affect in a camera view. The view shifted and followed terrain until the next stop (Figure 8.3).

This would have been an excellent map of the wider landscape and contextualised journeys associated with Gummingurru but for the fact that the free version of the software at the time (mid-2012) was not adequate in terms of the sheer number of data points, pathways, and information that existed at that time20. Eventually, the amount of data placed on the map overloaded the system. Each time it was exported to a computer (either by hosting onto the Gummingurru website or as a direct download from Google Earth), the program was unable to load every element, continuing to allow the viewer to move along the pathways set within the landscape tour, but now stripped of the contextual information that brought meaning to the movement and places within the landscape. The goal of using the program was to build a phenomenological landscape journey that incorporated both the embodied movement through the landscape (albeit from a bird’s-eye view) and to show the extent and complexity of these multiple scales of landscape. After some frustration with the lack of functioning, the use of Google Earth was abandoned. The current version of the Google Earth program is far more powerful, however, and may well be worth exploring for use in this way in the future. But for the purposes of my thesis, being researched prior to 2019, a different mechanism was needed.

20 for this thesis I have had to recreate this mapping attempt using the 2012 version of the software as the original file was so corrupted, it could not be opened to export images! 159

Figure 8.3: Flyover through the terrain between pinned rest stops. Gummingurru is the yellow pin. This image was captured during the movement between pins — the previous pin is behind the ‘camera’. Elevation 579 metres (Google Earth 2019).

160

Designing the Prezi journey representation Prezi is an online presentation software package often used as an alternative to PowerPoint. The software allows for movement between concepts and ideas hosted on a single page canvas (like a single PowerPoint slide) in either self-determined or pre-determined pathways. The Gummingurru Prezi was designed to simulate the movement afforded by Google Earth, but without the data disappearing (as discussed above). The Prezi map contains images of deceased people in the representation of contextual information in the part that shows Gummingurru21.

The pre-determined pathway on this Prezi map begins at the Bunya Mountains, emphasising the importance of the Bunya Nut festivals for Gummingurru and other places in the landscape. It then begins the same narrative pathway as the Google Earth journey did: starting in the Brisbane coastal region, moving through Chullawong (near the town of Gatton) and continuing up to Gummingurru.

The journeys and pathways in this version of a digital, phenomenological counter-map remain intact with images, text, and the potential to link to YouTube videos acting as the contextual information for the tangible and intangible cultural landscapes associated with Gummingurru (Figure 8.4). This allows for the incorporation of both scientific (Western) knowledge and Indigenous knowledge about place. The Prezi can be updated as new information is known and in collaboration with more than one author, allowing for co-creation and multi-vocality.

Figure 8.4: Prezi overview: front page.

21 To view the Prezi, go to https://prezi.com/kgtbl_zsptvg/gummingurru-in-the-landscape/, and click on either the right arrow button at the bottom of the presentation window to follow the pre-determined pathway, or navigate using your mouse wheel to scroll in and out on various parts of the map to explore its components following your own journeying path. 161 The advantages of this presentation format have been examined elsewhere (Thomas and Ross 2013). While there is flexibility in changing the map elements, there is still an issue of fixity with this form of mapping — it is only visible in its presently viewed form. Like a conventional GPS map, each time the user accesses the Gummingurru Prezi there may be new information and pathways that have not been incorporated into the ‘map’. At the same time, each update erases the old information and there is no way to access that unless various versions are saved on the website (Figures 8.5–8.7). Each update is a fixed point in space and time, or a fixed point in knowledge.

Figure 8.5: Prezi Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape as a map with integrated information at each wayfinding point.

162

Figure 8.6: Prezi Bunya Mountains integrated information including a video link.

Figure 8.7: Prezi southeast Queensland (SEQ) showing an excerpt of David Horton’s (1996) map with annotations.

163 At the Local Landscape Scale The local landscape consists of features identified via an oral history assessment conducted by Jane Lavers as part of the archaeology team’s fieldwork with Brian Tobane in 2010. Lavers and Tobane moved through the landscape, generating a memoryscape as they went to significant places and recalled various experiences (Lavers 2010; Chapter 2).

Understanding the context of Gummingurru via this mapped memoryscape was an essential step to being introduced to the site. Each time volunteers (myself included) came to the stone arrangement site for fieldwork or on a field trip, we were first taken on a journey around the local landscape (see Chapter 6). The sites for the Main Campsite, the Women’s Sacred Place and the Ochre Pits associated with Gummingurru were particularly emphasised and in 2010, I participated in a small-scale excavation at the Main Campsite (see Chapter 5). These activities embody the generation of a memoryscape in bodily movement through the landscape as well as a phenomenological experience of the interconnectedness of all these things-places-people-events in entangled complexity.

My investigation of the local landscape is minimal beyond these activities and the representation of it was generated as part of the Prezi described above using the same oral histories, written colonial records and local history records that informed Lavers’ (2010) investigation of the landscape. In the Prezi journey, there was a section that explored the Gummingurru local landscape and its features (Figure 8.8).

Figure 8.8: Prezi Local Landscape showing closely associated sites and resources located with them.

164 These features are emplaced within the landscapes local and adjacent to the site and their stories are entangled in the site’s meaning. Bunda’s recollections of the men leaving from the Main Campsite for days at a time in the early 1890s (Chapter 2) had an emotional resonance: he was not allowed to accompany them as he was not old enough to be initiated. There is a sense of loss of opportunity in that memory: when we were trying to find the artefacts that had been sighted in recent memory at the place where the Main Campsite is situated, there had been so much disturbance that they could not be relocated. The wearing away of the rock art at the small waterfall adjacent to the campsite similarly evoked a memory of loss (Figure 8.9).

Figure 8.9: Prezi detail on the Local Landscape showing the close relationships between the Main Campsite, the Women’s ceremonial Campsite, and nearby cultural resource areas.

The Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape and Gummingurru’s Local Landscape are integral components of the meaning of Gummingurru. Working on these initial digital counter-maps demonstrated that the integration of intangible and tangible heritage, as well as the embodied and interconnected phenomenological components of place, is a complex process but one that is achievable with a medium that moves. The map that has been generated here is one that has the potential for showing interconnected and entangled components in landscapes beyond the linear ordering of individual locales.

165 Lines, distances, film, pictures, and words may be in a different ordering than that of a conventional map (Kitchin et al. 2009) — but it is still a cartographic representation of place, space, and landscape.

Gummingurru As part of this Prezi, I included contextual information related to the stone arrangements maps generated in 2010. This section connected story, ceremony, and photographs of featured arrangements to bring the viewer to eye level, rather than simply a bird’s-eye view (Figures 8.10–8.12).

Figure 8.10: Gummingurru in the Prezi. Each of the major yuree motifs are highlighted as well as information about ceremony and scarred trees warning approaching people that this is a sacred space. Each is marked on the ArcGIS map generated from the recording of Gummingurru.

166

Figure 8.11: Initiation Ring context. The image to the left is an ethnographic recording in the 1920s of the scarification used by Wakka Wakka men.

Figure 8.12: The Turtle yuree and associated footprints leading from the waterhole.

This is a different point of view of the stone arrangements compared to the one that had been utilised in its representations thus far (see Chapters 5 and 6). This view of the site is very different from what can be seen on the ground, at eye level, “inflecting it with personal movement” from an embodied, experiential perspective (Kwan 2007:26). After all, human engagement with this site is at ground level, with the sky above rather than from the sky looking down.

167 When generating these maps, I was the only ‘user’ to access the software and build the environments, albeit using multiple sources for the data. One of the strengths of computer-based work is that it can be actively collaborative, with multiple people contributing to one representation and there are many internet-based software packages and platforms that are free (or low cost) ways of creating multi-vocal and multi-author maps. The maps presented here are passively multi-vocal in that many voices created and passed on the knowledge and memory that forms these landscapes, but only one author physically created the representations themselves. In future mappings of these journeys and memories — including those newly formed in the present through enacting of Jarowair-Wakka Wakka cultural knowledge onto and into the landscape — I hope for multi-authorial uses of these technologies in order to create truly multi-vocal maps.

One of the aspects of the Prezi I only briefly touched on above is that video can be included into the map itself. In 2019, I was able to obtain a copy of an ABC Landline segment filmed in 2008 featuring Brian Tobane and Ben Gilbert. The video22 interwove the story of Gummingurru with that of a performance piece about this place: ‘Spirits in Bare Feet’. This can be incorporated into the latest version of the Prezi if that is something that is desired by the Traditional Custodians. The future process of change in imagery or content within the map will be through consultation with the Traditional Custodians.

Conclusion Both the attempt at using the 2012 version of Google Maps and the more successful use of Prezi were meant to undo some of the fixity of conventional paper mapping, allowing movement to become a part of the map in its digital form as well as bringing in change through updates of knowledge and data. The map is not fixed in the same way the excerpted images used in this thesis are (for a suggested mechanism to ‘unfix’ the fixity of maps presented on 2D paper, see Chapter 10): the maps can be updated at any time, although in these platforms, changes overwrite (and thereby destroy) the former data, replacing them with the new information, rather than adding and expanding on previous interpretations.

The landscape maps presented here show some of the entangled and moving nature of Aboriginal cultural landscapes but have several flaws, as discussed above. In order to represent Gummingurru in its full complexity, and avoiding fixity in either time or space, a different strategy is needed.

22 For video and transcript: https://www.abc.net.au/landline/keepsake/1351160 168 Chapter 9: Making Moving Maps — Gummingurru: A More Entangled Approach

“… but no account is taken of other aspects that need to be addressed to create a fully phenomenological picture: including the intra- and inter-site social ties, the unknown connections people have with the world surrounding them, or the indeterminate features (Merleau-Ponty 2002) of their world outside simply sensory inputs. We need a way to marry the advantages of computer-based analysis (simulation, prediction, etc.) with embodiment (being able to travel through and experience the landscape from a situated perspective). Emerging technologies using mixed reality can go some way to bridging this divide” (Eve 2012:586).

“This is the site that just keeps on giving” (Elena Piotto pers. comm. 2012).

Introduction In the previous chapter, I presented my initial attempts at making moving maps. In this chapter, I present the methods and results of the development of my phenomenological counter-mapping of Gummingurru in digital two-dimensional (2D), three-dimensional (3D), and arguably, four-dimensional (4D) forms. I present first the earliest iterations of the maps that were 2D animated .gifs created using ArcGIS (dot- point) outputs and Adobe Photoshop. Next, I discuss the analysis of movements of stones and specific motifs through time and across space. These movements are the basis of my 3D animated maps. However, the animation of the entire site of 9368 recorded stones was beyond the scope of this thesis, so the stones that make up the ‘hero’ motifs of the Initiation Ring, the Catfish, the Carpet Snake, the Turtle and its footprints, and the associated Waterhole (Chapter 5) were used as the basis for the various moving maps presented as a first iteration of my “maps that move”. Finally, I present the trials of my 3D and 4D animated maps using an open source animating software package called Blender and demonstrate a way that these animations can be brought back into the 2D paper-publishing world.

Two-dimensional Moving Maps The ArcGIS outputs initially generated from the recorded data of Gummingurru (Chapter 6) — the 9368 stones in their background or motif categories — did not adequately represent the site. The educational resources on the website23 were still being developed as I was beginning to think about this problem of representing all the meaning associated with Gummingurru. As the website was the first point of contact for many people accessing Gummingurru, I decided to try using this digital medium to show, rather than simply tell, the vital aspect of Gummingurru as an ever-changing place — a perspective that is missing from the initial maps presented in Chapters 6 and 8. That is, I included the intangible journeying heritage that frames Gummingurru.

23 www.gummingurru.com.au 169 Animated .gifs Each of the three ‘moving’ motifs I chose for these animations — the Catfish, the Initiation Ring, and the Turtle — had sub-features that were identified in their recording (Figure 9.1). The Catfish comprises a body with infill (spine and ribs), fins, whiskers, and a surrounding nest of two concentric circles. The Initiation Ring comprises the ring and the two pathways that enter or exit that ring. The Turtle is considered to be one motif, but it has seven footprints and a waterhole associated with it. Each of these motifs (and their sub-features) exemplified one of the moving elements of Gummingurru: either the physical stones have moved through restoration activity (Initiation Ring) or resurrection activity (Catfish) as part of living heritage practices on the site; or through the moving, journeying, intangible story that accompanies the yuree that the motif embodies and reifies (Turtle).

Figure 9.1: Example of Sub-features in the Catfish recorded in the Master Recording Sheet under Motif columns.

By importing individual sub-features of the motifs as separate Microsoft Excel tables into ArcMap, I was able to toggle each of these sub-features on or off as I needed, with the resultant maps seemingly moving between one state and the next. In other words, I toggled each sub-feature on and then exported each of those movements as a map, creating a .jpg image of each movement that I was tracking. I then imported them into Adobe Photoshop, where I created a timeline with each movement as a separate layer or frame. I then exported the completed .gif as a file and uploaded each individual .gif to a file hosting website (Photobucket in 2011), which I was then able to use to create an embedded link on the Gummingurru website. This meant the .gif would play in a loop on that page on the website.

170 The first animated .gif that showed movement as a result of human activities on the site, producing change through resurrection activities (Chapter 2) was the Catfish motif24. The resurrection of the Catfish happened in stages: first the body, then the infill and the fins, then the whiskers, and finally concentric circles that show its nest. I have inserted each stage of this progression as Figure 9.2 below, demonstrating the issue of maps in fixed medium: the only way to publish them traditionally, on a 2D page in a thesis (but see Chapter 10) is through a series of images, similar to the storyboarding process used in film-making.

Figure 9.2: a) Catfish Body; b) Catfish Infill and Fins; c) Catfish Whiskers; d) Catfish Nest (Source: Thomas and Ross 2018:61).

The moving story of the Initiation Ring is that of restoration: between the 2008 and 2009 recording field seasons, Brian Tobane ‘tidied up’ the Ring and the Pathways leading into it and out of it, reflecting pre-

24 http://gummingurru.com.au/Site+History 171 colonial practices at Gummingurru prior to the gatherings at the site during the larger triennial journeys to the Bunya Mountains. The .gif I made (Figure 9.3) shows the initial recorded placement of the stones (dubbed ‘Old Initiation Ring’ during the 2009 recording season) and then the change to the restored placement (‘Modified Initiation Ring’).

Figure 9. 3: a) Old Initiation Ring; b) Modified Initiation Ring. 172 The animated .gif on the website25 contains a mistake — the pathway stones that were recorded as part of the Old Initiation Ring (green) remain visible as part of the Modified Initiation Ring (red). It does, however, show the ‘tidied’ nature of the Initiation Ring between field seasons, but unless the visitor to the site already knows this process occurred, then they are unlikely to understand why the Initiation Ring is moving. In future work, I intend to remake the animated .gif to fix this error and add explanatory text.

The third animated .gif is the Turtle yuree story (this can also be accessed on the Maps and Plans page of the Gummingurru website). The Turtle begins its journey across the site, emerging from the main Waterhole on the site (Figure 9.4a). As the Turtle moves across the landscape, footprints are left behind in sequences (Figure 9.4b and 9.4c). The Turtle comes to rest in place at the end of its journey (Figure 9.4d).

Figure 9.4: Turtle Story. Each step (abcd) is outlined with a box (Source: Thomas and Ross 2018:62).

25 www.gummingurru.com.au/Maps+and+Plans 173 Movement One aspect of the journeying stories of Gummingurru yurees is that they are constantly in movement: when the Turtle comes to rest, the journey begins again immediately. There is constant motion across the site for the Turtle, even though the stones themselves do not move. This is reflected in the animated .gif in a way that it cannot be shown in storyboarding (paper) form: on the website the .gif is constantly playing in a loop, reflecting the continuous nature of the journey.

However, this constant loop is also in play with animations I have made of the Catfish and the Initiation Ring; but this does not reflect the moving stories they represent. Much of the context for all of these animations is lost without explanatory text. This text is present on the website with the Catfish animation, but it is not on the same page as the Initiation Ring and Turtle story .gifs.

As a first stage in making moving maps, the .gifs, as well as the earlier Google Earth and Prezi attempts, begin to capture the unfixed nature of Gummingurru. The incorporation of moving stories and moving stones is present in these maps, yet the context of the stories that the moving maps are trying to tell is not yet embedded in them.

There is no visible difference between the stones in the .gifs either. As evident in the following section on the data analysis used as the basis of my 3D and 4D animated maps, the differences and similarities in the stones themselves are important.

Data Analysis of Movements Across Space and Time: Deliberate Selection and Tracking The recording of Gummingurru and the movements of the stones as a result of human action/interference in the site was the first level of data analysis undertaken to understand the choices made in the living heritage practices on site. Whilst mapping each rock was an entirely quantitative exercise, using a GIS point co-ordinate system, the recording of the attributes of each rock was not purely quantitative (Chapter 5). Length, width and height were recorded, as well as the extent of lichen and dirt present and — most importantly — whether the stone belonged in a particular motif or whether it was background. The recording of background and motif attributes, the more intangible of attributes, was entirely informed by qualitative information that came from Brian Tobane’s drawing on traditional knowledge that was passed on to Traditional Custodians by Ben Gilbert (Chapter 2). Analysis of motif attributes helped to determine whether the stones had been deliberately selected to form the motifs on the site (see below).

174 Since the recording of the Initiation Ring captured the living heritage of the site using both quantitative (GIS data) and qualitative (photographic imagery) methods, movements and choices could be tracked.

Deliberate Selection The controversy that exists in the local (non-Indigenous) community regarding the Gummingurru site being an Aboriginal place is directly tied to community perceptions of the authenticity of Aboriginal sites (Andrews and Buggey 2008; Byrne 1991, 1996, 2008; Ross et al. 2013) — particularly relating to the age of the site and the resurrection activities that form part of the living heritage of Gummingurru. Many settlers in the Toowoomba community have questioned whether Gummingurru was ever a human- created initiation site and have suggested that the arrangements could have been naturally occurring (Bryce Barker pers. comm. 2012). In order to answer the question of whether the site was naturally occurring or human-created, Elena Piotto (2012; Piotto et al. 2018) undertook a statistical analysis of the stones used in four of the motifs on the site — both those visible prior to Brian Tobane’s living heritage management and those that had been raised to the surface through his resurrection activities.

Using the SPSS (Statistical Package for the Social Sciences) computer software program to conduct an ANOVA (Analysis of Variance) analysis of four of Gummingurru’s motifs (Carpet Snake, Large Starburst, Catfish, and unmodified Initiation Ring), Piotto (2012; Piotto et al. 2018:30) found a statistically significant amount of choice in the selection of sizes and shapes of stones used in motifs versus the random distribution of sizes and shapes of stones for the whole site. She also analysed these motifs against the recorded stones across the site; omitting all stones with all dimensions smaller than 10cm, leaving 8848 of the 9368 in this data set. She found that there was a significant difference in size and shape of the stones in the Catfish (a resurrected motif, thus considered less authentic by naysayers) and the Initiation Ring (which existed prior to the return of Jarowair-Wakka Wakka people to Gummingurru) versus the other 8848 stones in the whole site data set. The stones in the Large Starburst were significantly different in shape from the rest of the data set; while the Carpet Snake stones were significantly different in size (Piotto 2012; Piotto et al. 2018). As demonstrated by Piotto (2012), the dataset can inform and answer questions about decision-making, especially the deliberate choice of rocks, on the site. This study was given also to the Traditional Custodians for use should such questions arise again. Since 2012, there have been fewer such questions.

175 Tracking the Initiation Ring One of my analyses of the data from the mapping of Gummingurru focussed on the present changes occurring on the site, specifically on the modification of the Initiation Ring between recording field seasons. The ‘before and after’ of the shape and composition of the Initiation Ring was recorded across two mapping seasons and tracking the movement and selection of the rocks via site mapping has allowed an evaluation of what is left archaeologically (the end physical traces of movement) but also recognises and records the reasons for the changes, through oral history research. Through this we can demonstrate the form of living heritage practices of change on the site. This change occurs entirely in the present but may provide some insight into the process of change on the site during previous eras of use. After all, what we see in any archaeological setting is only the end result of human activity — understanding the act(s) of change, formation, and the chaine opertoire may thus be traceable outside of lithic analysis (Bender 2006; Hodder 2011:159; Piotto et al. 2018:36).

Regular taphonomic processes on the site of Gummingurru include bioturbation (soil disturbance and mixing) by insect species and physical movement of stones and displacing of the soil around them by large marsupials such as kangaroos and mammals such as cows. The growth cycles of invasive and native weed and grass species and the contemporary management processes used to control them; and the frequent movement of large volumes of water across the site, especially after heavy rain. The cracking and drying of clay-rich soil during droughts creates fissures which expand once rain falls. Each process creates minor disturbance to the placement of the stones within and around the motifs, but also has a deleterious effect on soil and stratigraphic conditions, by mixing strata including sand particles and washing out micro fragments of charcoal thus making dating the site very difficult (Chapter 5).

With the Initiation Ring, the ‘tidying up’ process that was enacted during pre-colonial use of the site restored the shape of the ring, making it ready for ceremony. Brian Tobane continued this restoration practice in 2009. When examining the photographic imagery for the re-recorded Modified Initiation Ring (R-numbers in the Master Recording Sheet) I noticed individual stones from the first recording of the ring. While checking the photographic logs against numbers in the images, I identified several stones: first from the G-number (Old Initiation Ring) and then from their new R-number photographs. Once I realised that we could identify and recognise the same stones in their old and new positions, I could compare the identified stones in each recording systematically.

176 The identification of the movement of stones in the Initiation Ring was a painstaking task that involved comparing the photographs of 496 stones (both G-numbered and R-numbered), as well as their metric data. Oftentimes, the measurements were slightly different, depending on which surface of the stone was upright and sometimes the angle at which it sat. The process for identifying where each stone had started out and where it had ended up, was a mind-numbing matching of the 2009 field season photograph of each stone in the Modified Initiation Ring to one of 220+ photographs from the Old Initiation Ring and surrounding rocks in the 2008 field season. It was much like playing memory but with hundreds of cards. Positive identification of 181 stones occurred — 65% success rate, while potential identifications (with no possible overlap) occurred 6% of the time; with unknowns occurring at 29%. Once the stones had been identified, I could then track their distance of movement, the orientation of (re)placement and the physical and spatial relationships of the shape of the Initiation Ring. I could then use this movement to re-create the history of movement of each individual stone (Figure 9.5).

Figure 9.5: Examples of movement from Old Initiation Ring placement (green dots), to Modified Initiation Ring (red dots).

177 Appendix B includes excerpts of the Initiation Ring’s metric data of the stones and which G- or R- numbers they correspond with. Unfortunately, at the time of writing, the photographs for the 2009 field season have been mislaid (Sean Ulm pers. comm. 2019) so the visual data are not included here.

The reconstruction of these movements between field seasons became the basis for the Initiation Ring Blender animation. This was the last part of that animated map that I created (see below). The first was the Carpet Snake, then the Turtle Story, and the Catfish.

Three-dimensional Maps of Gummingurru The recording of the motifs and background stones at the Gummingurru stone arrangement ended in the 2010 field season when the 9368th stone was plotted. The movements associated with the motifs were captured using oral history (yuree journeys and meanings; restoration and resurrection activities) and metric and visual data (Initiation Ring). Having realised that I wanted to bring more to the map of Gummingurru than the dots previously constructed, I began to examine how other researchers had illustrated Country — particularly the songline mappings created by Bradley et al.’s work (2011; Faulkhead et al. 2017; Chapter 7).

I thus explored different animation software packages and how easy it would be to access and to use such programs, as a complete novice. I knew that the animated film industry standard was Autodesk Maya 3D software, but this could only be accessed with a subscription. My goal for my work was to use freely available software to make my process easier for archaeologists, heritage managers, students, and Indigenous descendant communities to access. Thus I chose ‘Blender’ (Figure 9.6), a free and open source constructed 3D animation builder (blender.org).

178

Figure 9.6: Blender starting screen.

I began with version 2.62 of the program, which supported 3D animation as a suite. As I was not confident of creating a full ‘gamified’ and thus interactive version of Gummingurru at the time, I did not explore this aspect of the software but stayed in the 3D animation suite in order to construct animations, similar in nature to Bradley et al.’s work (2011; Faulkhead et al. 2017; Chapter 7). By 2015, when I completed work in the software, version 2.72 was available26.

To learn how to use the software, I watched and followed the initial series of instructional video tutorials (Blender Fundamentals), now available as a free YouTube playlist for version 2.81. There were eight videos in that series when I began animating in 2012; there are now 42 introductory videos. As Blender is an open source (community based) software, as new techniques are developed, users upload further tutorials for different techniques. I then searched throughout the community tutorial sections of both the Blender website and YouTube for specific aspects of animation technique as I needed to learn them.

26 There is now version 2.92 of Blender available at the website (blender.org 2021). 179 The Process of Creating Digital Stones and their Positions To address the issue of animations as an archaeological/anthropological map, I needed to ensure that my virtual recreation of Gummingurru was to scale as an environment and that therefore the map that was created would reflect Gummingurru accurately. The environment was set to scale in metres. The stones are scaled in centimetres (Figure 9.7).

Figure 9.7: Environment settings with scale in Blender.

The topography of Gummingurru was too difficult at this stage so I did not use the z-coordinates of the stones recorded during fieldwork. I decided to leave that sort of detail to the next iteration (see Reflective Pause C). I have recorded a video27 to demonstrate the process of creating a digital stone based on as G867 (first field recording designation) and later known as R1159 (second field recording designation). This is one of the matched stones in the Modified Initiation Ring animation.

In order to build each stone to be depicted, I used the following process: Starting with a blank cube (Figure 9.8), I used the metric data in the Master Recording Sheet and the photograph as a visual

27 Please visit www.youtube.com/watch?v=moZErZ0B2iI or the ‘Demonstration of Blender mapping’ video on the Gummingurru YouTube channel 180 reference to digitally model the individual stone (Table 9.1; Figures 9.9 and 9.10). The cube is divided into internal sections and manipulating it allows gross contours to form echoing the shape in the photograph (Figure 9.11).

Figure 9.8: Blank cube.

Table 9.1: Master Recording Sheet Metric data for G867/R115928.

Number Long Lat Photo Date Motif Length Width Height (cm) (cm) (cm) G867 93.695 67.360 5547 31/03/2008 Old Initiation Ring 23 15 11 R1159 92.78 67.307 0312 01/10/2009 Modified Initiation 23 14.5 13.5 Ring

28 The slight differences in the metric data are the result of the slightly different orientations of the stone between field seasons, thus there were different angles of maximum length, width, and height measurements. 181

Figure 9.9: Metric data (highlighted in light green) for G867/R1159.

Figure 9.10: Photograph of G867 (Source: unknown photographer). The photograph of R1159 is unavailable.

182

Figure 9.11: Gross contours emerge.

Finer details then begin to be filled in with further sections and then the non-sharp corners are ‘rounded’ and the object is ‘smoothed’ (Figure 9.12).

Figure 9.12: ‘Smoothed’ cube.

183 In order to place each individual stone that I had thus constructed, I needed to determine the relationships between the stone and the others in the motif. In the Blender environment, I set cardinal directions but could not set a datum to correspond with the one used on the Gummingurru site. This was because the software at the time did not support a defined x, y-coordinate grid that could be matched to that used in ArcGIS and the MGA Zone 56 spatial reference. Instead, I used the nose stone of the Carpet Snake (G538) as a more or less central point on the map and calculated distance and angle of each stone from that point. I used the angle of the slope between G538 and the stone being modelled through an online calculator to give me the angle using the x, y-coordinates of both stones from the Master Recording Sheet.

This allowed the placement of each stone to accurately reflect the relationship recorded on site. In Blender, I created a measuring ‘line’ by using a cube elongated into a thin rectangle. I pinned this object through its centre to G538’s x, y-coordinate position. I measured the distance between G538 and the stone in question and changed the length of my measuring line to reflect this distance interval (I needed to double it in order to spin around the central, pinned axis). I was then able to orient the cube along the slope calculated above, giving me the correct position for the newly modelled stone in the digital world (Figure 9.13).

Figure 9.13: Using Blender to map position: the bright green line (yellow when selected, as it is here) was used to orient position from G538. 184 This process continued whenever I added a new stone to the map. I added enough cubes for the ‘hero’ motifs and placed them in position, shaping their contours to reflect their 3D reality. This process led to a 3D version of the mapping of the stones, but just as the earlier versions (Chapter 6) did not reflect what Gummingurru is, so too would this map fail — unless the intangible heritage elements were integrated.

The Process of Building Intangible Heritage into the Map The yuree journeying stories of the Carpet Snake and the Turtle required the programming of representations of those animals. The physical representations of animated characters are called ‘rigs’ and free versions are available from a number of affiliated sources — I do not have the animating skills required to build a model from scratch, and as I wanted to demonstrate the accessibility of this technique, previously created versions that are usable under Creative Commons licensing was the best way to achieve this. I accessed a rig of a snake from free3d.com (actually a Rattlesnake as Pythons were not available at the time) and a sea turtle (an unknown species — it may be a freshwater or seawater species). As we knew of the connection between Gummingurru and the people of Quandamooka, I used the sea turtle rig to honour that seawater connection. The models that were available at the time did not have skin textures as part of them, so my yurees are blank (Figure 9.14).

Figure 9.14: a) Turtle rig; b) Carpet Snake rig.

The moving stories of the Catfish and the Initiation Ring were relatively easy to program as they were about the stones being moved through recent time as a result of resurrection activity by current Traditional Custodians (the 4D aspect of these maps), rather than about yuree/Dreaming stories themselves. The animation process in Blender was about movement and time: for each of the four elements of the map (each journeying story) I programmed their spatial placement between instances of time on the animation slider (Figure 9.15) and the program moved them when I pressed Play.

185

Figure 9.15: Animation Slider, scale in seconds and green bar denotes position in the sequence.

Figure 9.16: a) Placement of G842 at 1090 seconds; and b) R1185 at 1131 seconds (yellow highlighted). 186 For the Initiation Ring, this meant using the identification and coordinates discovered during the data analysis of the motif, as the basis for the location of the stones in each point of time (Figure 9.16).

In planning how the ‘camera’ in Blender would view the map (Figure 9.17), I used storyboarding to create a site journey that reflected the stories that needed to be told as part of this map (Figure 9.18).

Figure 9.17: The cameras (and light sources) in Blender can be programmed on their own viewing pathways.

Storyboarding is a film-making technique that allows the planning of camera shots and movements to aid in telling the story. The storyboard builds a template for the actual animation ‘track’ that the camera moves along, to create the final product (Figure 9.19).

To view the Turtle story as a discrete animation, go to the Gummingurru YouTube channel for Turtle Story Pass 229. This includes a very early attempt at animating the Waterholes with moving water.

29 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kWqmMbsK_JA 187

Figure 9.18: Storyboard of Turtle yuree journeying story (yellow arrows indicate movement).

188

Figure 9.19: Stills from the Turtle animation that tell the yuree journeying story as shown in the storyboards.

189 Conclusion The animations that I have produced have changed over time; as each technique has become easier to create I have made video ‘passes’ of the Turtle story in particular 30 with other components of the site in the ‘Moving through (or on) the site’ stories. The weakness of the 3D animations that I have produced here is that, like the coloured, still, ArcGIS map outputs and like the animated 2D .gifs maps, they still require additional explanation. What I would love to be able to do is record a voiceover for the animations giving an explanation as part of the map, similar to the way the Wunungu Awara animations have been produced.

The process of doing all this through the investigation and the use of potential platforms — e.g. Google Earth and Prezi (Chapter 8); Adobe Photoshop for animated .gifs; Blender for 3D animations and possible game play — is all about ensuring that the multi-vocal phenomenological counter-map can be delivered through easy-to-replicate processes by archaeologists and cultural heritage managers. My research design reconceptualised what a map is and does through the use of a digital medium, attempting to demonstrate and show our phenomenological understanding of Gummingurru and its landscapes.

30 www.youtube.com/user/Gummingurru 190 Reflective Pause C In this chapter, I take a final chance to reflect on Cycle III and its outcomes. I outline some of the continuing projects and the return of ceremony to Gummingurru. I also look to the future, reflecting on what may happen next with Gummingurru and its representation(s) and present my thoughts in a hypothetical Cycle IV. Hermeneutic knowledge is a cycle that does not cease; it is always moving forward. Following this reflective pause is a discussion on shifting practice as the final chapter of the thesis. Chapter 10 follows as a discussion of the elements that have been explored in this thesis throughout the three cycles of hermeneutic investigation of Gummingurru. I discuss my responses to each of my research questions drawing on the literature and the results of my own and others’ research of this place.

Overview of Cycle III Cycle III was an exploration of how we, as archaeologists and cultural heritage managers, can bring together all of the entangled understandings and elements of Aboriginal cultural landscapes into our maps.

I discussed the same suite of phenomenological counter-mapping theoretical and methodological approaches to the mapping of landscape archaeology as in Cycle I (Chapter 4) but through the new prism of representational (and non-representational) theories in Chapter 7. I also explored the process of creating phenomenological counter-maps for their communication to the general public.

In Chapter 8, I demonstrated the capacity of digital moving maps to represent wider and local landscape scales of understanding of place. I initially used Google Earth to attempt this in 2012 but the software was not viable at that time for the complexity of this landscape. I then moved to Prezi as an alternative and made use of its ‘swooping’ movements to bring a somewhat-phenomenological understanding to the journeys that make up the wider Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape connections to Gummingurru.

In Chapter 9, I stepped through the methods of creating a 3D animated site map of the ‘hero’ motifs of Gummingurru — the Carpet Snake, the Turtle story (and associated Footprints and Waterhole), the Catfish, and the Initiation Ring. I then discussed the animations that I have placed on the Gummingurru website as 3D and 4D maps of Gummingurru, showing the movement and yuree stories inherent in understanding this stone arrangement.

191 Reflection on Cycle III and My Perspective

Figure C.1 Current Place in the Hermeneutic Cycle (Cycle III: Phenomenological counter-mapping representation of place and landscape) (Source: Author).

As a reminder, the underlying assumptions of my first engagement with the site were that the physical placement of the stones would be the most important and representative data to be collected at Gummingurru. Change on the site would be taphonomic in nature rather than potentially culturally driven. My understanding and interest in the site was focussed on the tangible.

Then, when I had spent several field seasons at Gummingurru with the Traditional Custodians, I had come to see that the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka storying interpretation of motifs and their nature as physical embodiments of spiritual beings were vital to understanding this place (a return to place at the end of Cycle III (see Figure C.2). Living heritage practices are as significant as physical attributes and these things need to be a part of the representations generated by archaeologists and cultural heritage managers. The question was how to go about incorporating knowledge—where this knowledge has survived the colonial project—into archaeological data collection and representational methodologies.

192

Figure C.2: Returning to the place where I began with new understandings of Gummingurru (Source: Author).

Now, ten years after beginning this project and spending a great deal of time on mapping and interacting with Gummingurru and Jarowair-Wakka Wakka Custodians, I consider:

• It is deeply important to collect the metric data of places like stone arrangements (not just the stones themselves, but also any boundaries of the site/s). However, metric data are only one part of place. These data can serve as bases for analysis, but they also provide the framework for representational purposes (e.g. the stones in my animated maps are metrically accurate in and between themselves). • Where intangible heritage is known or exists for a place, it needs to be recognised to the point that this knowledge drives the recording of place (not just site) from the start. • There is an iterative process in understanding landscape — a return to place and meaning as new data and ideas are formulated.

193 • Physical and cultural changes within sites can continue into the present and are just as significant and necessary to record as any change that is visible in the archaeological record. • Cultural landscapes and the places within them need to have their interconnections made explicit. In addition, pathways of travel, where known, can be just as important as the sites they connect. • The representation of place that leaves out intangible heritage, change, and movement prevents telling the whole story. • The presentation of Gummingurru to new audiences (as I have been directed to do by the Traditional Custodians as part of my given and designated responsibility to this place) needs to visually incorporate all of the complex living and intangible heritage components that it can. • Living heritage means connection and current use (and adaptive reuse) of cultural sites. Resurrection and ‘remixing’ of Aboriginal cultural activities can bring new significance to archaeologically- investigated places.

I moved to the northwest coast Tasmania in 2015 to take up a position as a museum curator. This necessitated an interruption to my PhD and also put me in the position of having to conceptualise representation of (mainly white) history (and therefore, Aboriginal culture) in a small, close-knit community. The museum world’s use of interpretational techniques, particularly visual storytelling, gave me a stronger grounding in how representations work on the general public out in the ‘real world’. These experiences solidified my position that these sorts of representations can affect the perceptions and preunderstandings of Indigenous people and their cultural landscapes. Moving to Tasmania has meant that I feel disconnected now from Gummingurru and all of the people with whom I am now entangled. This disconnection is, of course, a fraction of what Indigenous peoples must feel when they have been forcibly removed from Country.

The creation of the animated maps of Gummingurru used only one set of data and interpretations, recorded during the field seasons spent plotting the stones with Brian Tobane. Since Conrad Bauwens began interpreting the site for visitors, not only are the motifs, their journeys, and their natural resource management meanings told again, but more Wakka Wakka creation stories have been added utilising the Snake motif (spoken of in this new context as the Rainbow Serpent). The geography of the layout of the motifs (emu to the west, turtle to the east, etc.) is utilised to tell stories of journeys through, and connections across, the landscape. One of the future questions that Conrad Bauwens wants to investigate is whether the shape of the Snake’s spine corresponds to the shape of any mountain ranges or landscape

194 features in the Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape. As Piotto said (pers. comm. 2012): “This is the site that keeps on giving”.

I now briefly look at the quotes used as epigraphs for Cycle III: “Representations beget representations. Once articulated, scholarly representations seem to have a life of their own, and may go on to be reproduced in discursive contexts far beyond their discipline of origin. Those that appeal to the popular imagination can become entrenched in ‘commonsense’ understandings of both the ancient past and contemporary Indigenous identities. Once established in popular discourse, such representations tend to generate considerable intellectual inertia, resisting revision long after they have passed from favour in their original context” (Brian 2006:120).

This is the issue at the heart of science communication and how we represent Indigenous cultural heritage. Changing preunderstandings that have arisen from the “commensense understandings” that Brian speaks of here, can be a difficult task when the understandings are promulgated by social and political commentators as ‘fact’. In order to ensure that we do not contribute to such ideas, we need to ensure our representations have been reflexively examined for such confirmation bias.

“What kinds of truth does the representation claim?” (Kwan 2002:276).

For my maps, the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka understandings (as we knew them then) have been privileged. The claim here is that the intangible and living heritage of this place is of equal significance to the archaeology of the past (even though that can be seen as well with the recording of the stones).

“The invisibility of human presence is also obvious at the representation level. There are no human beings in maps” (Caquard and Wright 2009:204).

The next iteration of my maps will aim to bring people back in (see Cycle IV).

“… some level of representation is required in order for knowledge of landscapes to be reproduced and disseminated” (Cummings, Jones and Watson 2002:58).

Sometimes a failed attempt, like my Google Earth mapping, can inspire looking at a problem another way: the complexity of Gummingurru’s landscapes and cultural connections means that any platform used will need to be able to handle that complexity. Prezi came close and its format moved phenomenologically between points and on the ‘page’ with video, but there is still some way to go on this goal.

195 “… but no account is taken of other aspects that need to be addressed to create a fully phenomenological picture: including the intra- and inter-site social ties, the unknown connections people have with the world surrounding them, or the indeterminate features (Merleau-Ponty 2002) of their world outside simply sensory inputs. We need a way to marry the advantages of computer-based analysis (simulation, prediction, etc.) with embodiment (being able to travel through and experience the landscape from a situated perspective). Emerging technologies using mixed reality can go some way to bridging this divide” (Eve 2012:586).

The use of digital technologies like QR Codes and AR Codes (see Chapter 10) may be a way for cultural heritage managers and archaeologists to embed moving, intangible and living heritages into paper-based maps. The technologies are becoming so ubiquitous now (smartphones and internet access) that screen- mediated interactions with place are relatively easy and accessible to create.

“The enduring challenge, it seems, is how to disseminate knowledge about this continent’s deep history and dispel public misconceptions about ancient Australia” (Griffiths and Russell, 2018:4).

I discuss this in Chapter 10: one of the major science communication issues that archaeology has is to counter the misconceptions that have arisen out of the discipline’s past and settler colonial politics.

Phenomenology/Entanglement The complexity of Gummingurru’s entanglements have only just begun to be explored. The tanglegrams evolved between Cycle I and Cycle II, as I have shown in Figures A.3 and B.3. The main difference was the addition of the newly recognised affordances in the Local Landscape and the addition of humans as active agents affecting the landscape and the motifs. Complexity was further increased by the addition of yuree journeying stories. In Cycle III the mapping representation caught up with the entanglement seen in Figure B.3. There is no new tanglegram at this stage because Cycle III achieves a ‘catching up’ with the entangled complexity of Gummingurru. The entanglements between people-place-landscape will continue to change.

Gummingurru in the Present When I have been onsite, especially on a beautiful day (Figure C.2), the vastness of the bright blue sky and yet the feeling of shelteredness that comes from not being able to visually see the rest of the landscape (see Chapter 2), is comforting in a way.

Since 2013, when the collaboration between Gowrie Station Fire Volunteer Service and the Gummingurru Aboriginal Corporation began in earnest, there have been major shifts in living heritage

196 practice at Gummingurru. Conrad and Shannon Bauwens have built stronger relationships between the Gummingurru Aboriginal Corporation and the Bunya Mountains Rangers program31, which now operates out of the Gummingurru Interpretation Centre. This is a further resurrection of ancient practice, bringing together multiple cultures (through the Bunya Peoples Aboriginal Corporation) together on the site, working in partnership in the landscape.

New fencing and landscaping has occurred, along with continuing grass species management. Tree plantings were sourced from the Second Toowoomba Range Bypass project and planted onsite in preparation for the expansion of a native foods garden near the Interpretation Centre. A significant project saw the construction of a yarning circle that overlooks the Gummingurru site and is between the Interpretation Centre and the stone arrangements themselves (Figure C.3). This yarning circle is facilitating new ceremony and a resurrection of traditional practices on the site, including community building, conflict resolution, and education of Jarowair-Wakka Wakka children in the caring for Country and themselves.

These changes are all Jarowair-Wakka Wakka-led and involve multiple language groups from around southeast Queensland coming together once more at this sacred place. In 2019, I was invited to participate in a Moon Ceremony hosted at Gummingurru and facilitated by First Nations people from Canada. I do not currently have permission to share the particulars of the ceremony. It was a truly moving experience to be a part of the resurrection of spiritual activity at Gummingurru.

31 https://www.facebook.com/bunyarangers4BPAC 197

Figure C.3: Yarning Circle constructed at Gummingurru in 2018 (Source: Author).

198 Future Research; or, Introduction to Cycle IV The hermeneutic cycle begins again now with a new chapter of research and investigation (Figure C.4). New representations will be developed while the ones that I have completed are used — both by the Jarowair-Wakka Wakka in explaining what Gummingurru is and why it is important; as well as by colleagues in Introductory Archaeology subjects. The moving maps that I have made convey at least part of the lesson of Gummingurru: Aboriginal cultural places are complex locales with interconnected landscapes and vitally important living heritage.

Figure C.4 Next Place in the Hermeneutic Cycle (Cycle IV: New technologies for phenomenological representation) (Source: Author). 199 Emplacement of people back into the landscape can be achieved via augmented reality. The Tamworth Public Art Trail is a good example of this. There is a walking track along the Peel River in Tamworth where much of the public art for the town is sited. The Council put in markers along the trail that allow for smartphones to trigger an augmented reality sequence at each art piece. One piece is a mosaic of a songline associated with the river. The augmented reality allows for two views: one is an animation of the mosaic, bringing the story to life; the other is an interview with the artist that places him next to his artwork while he is discussing it.

Blender has the capacity to build ‘gaming’ realities as well as animate landscapes and place. I will explore this potential in gaming to see if interaction with the site and the yurees is possible to show. I would also like to include the metric and photographic data into this new ‘gaming’ map in order to ground it back into the archaeological record.

In 2018, during the joint conference of the Australian Archaeological Association (AAA) and the New Zealand Archaeological Association (NZAA) in Auckland, I presented an overview of the mapping of Gummingurru and the results of the animating process — still rudimentary in terms of being ‘beautiful’ in the way that Bradley’s animations are — yet still able to convey meaning. I was surprised by the feedback from Maori archaeologists and cultural consultants who were a part of the session. They said that this was a strong demonstration of how Australian archaeology is ‘getting it right’ in representing Aboriginal cultural landscapes to new audiences. The feedback suggested that animating maps of place and landscape, with all the meanings, attachments, and agentic affects on people and place is something that is wanted in Indigenous communities beyond Australia, dissolving the binaries between place and people, things and memory, the sacred and spiritual with the practical and mundane within the representations that we make.

At the AAA (2019) Conference on the Gold Coast, Ursula Frederick asked Annie Ross when she presented a paper including counter-mapping at Gummingurru as one of her examples, about embedding augmented reality (AR) codes into paper publications, so that the AR can be activated using a smartphone held over the code (Ursula Frederick pers. comm. to Annie Ross 2019). I had seen something similar at an Australian Museums and Galleries Association (AMaGA) conference using AR codes on flyers for the public art trail briefly discussed above. I have investigated this option and have included QR codes to take the reader to particular websites as well. The future may indeed hold AR capacity at Gummingurru for educational purposes. 200 One of the other future research possibilities I would like to investigate is making this process even more accessible to archaeologists and cultural heritage mangers. I would like to be able to either write or assist in writing a Python script (this is a computer language) that would build a mapped environment of x number of stones (or other features) that could use the basic x, y, and z-coordinates as well as the metric data captured during recording to create and place the cubes on to a ‘matched’ coordinate plane straight into Blender. This begins the map with the archaeological metric recording which can then be modified for shape and colour with the intangible knowledge (in this case, yurees) rigged throughout.

At the time of writing (October 2019), new technologies are being brought to bear on the recording and representation of Gummingurru. A field day was undertaken with Everick Consulting to use a drone to capture photographs at 40 metres and 10 metres above the ground in order to create a photogrammetric map of the site (Figure C.4). As with previous field seasons, the introduction that the researchers received to the motifs was based in meaning and movement (of the motifs themselves in their stories as well as the movement of stones). I await the results from this drone capture to use as the basis of new animations that have a chance of ‘looking pretty’ with minimal animating effort on my part!

One of the more interesting details that came from this day’s work is that there is noticeable vertical movement of the stones on the eastern side of the site where Brian Tobane once resurrected motifs. When we recorded the positioning of the stones in 2010, the stones were sitting on top of the soil. They are now sinking once more with the flow of soil across the site with rains, but also with the softening of the soil in which they sit; low levels of soaking rain make the texture of this soil spongy and opens cracks and fissures that can be quite deep. I plan on returning to the site in the near future in order to do some metric analysis on the rate of sinking since the date of that initial recording almost ten years ago, prior to Conrad Bauwens resuming the resurrection activities that will move the stones once more.

On the western side of the site, the Initiation Ring is once more becoming disjointed and disarrayed. Stones have rolled out of position — though this movement has been minor, it is still noticeable. I hope to replot this movement (given the time scale since Tobane’s ‘tidying up’, this may be a good analogy for ‘tidying up’ pre-1891) and work through Bauwen’s choices and decision-making when he performs the same process.

201

Figure C.5: Tony Miscamble preparing the drone to record a photogrammetric map of Gummingurru (Source: Jaydeyn Thomas).

Even though some of what makes meaning at Gummingurru has been captured in text (multiple publications and theses), as well as the maps and visual stories told in this thesis, this living heritage place has not been truly represented yet. The activities that take place there now and the relationships being reforged between cultural groups within the Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape are moving past meaning into the present and on, into the future. The resurrection of spiritual activity at Gummingurru is in a new form and open to newcomers. This place is a Reconciliation site for education but perhaps more importantly, for the phenomenological engagement in Reconciliation.

202 Chapter 10: Discussing Shifting Practice and Undoing Fixity

“The enduring challenge, it seems, is how to disseminate knowledge about this continent’s deep history and dispel public misconceptions about ancient Australia” (Griffiths and Russell 2018:4).

Introduction In this chapter, I first discuss the changing nature of archaeology and cultural heritage management and how the results of research in these two disciplines are communicated to the public. My research contributes to this changing disciplinary landscape through presenting a model of mapping representations of Gummingurru that can be used to communicate the entangled nature of the intangible, tangible, and temporal components of site, place, and broader cultural landscapes. I then discuss my findings in relation to my research questions as outlined in Chapter 1, exploring the archaeology discipline’s relationship with investigating and representing phenomenological, changing Indigenous cultural landscapes through the practical application of phenomenological field recording techniques and the relationship that archaeologists have to being-in-place while recording the landscape. I conclude that it is necessary for both archaeologists and cultural heritage managers to devote time to building skills in representational techniques for the communication of research results to the general public and that digital technologies are now fully capable of facilitating this communication.

Complexity and Communication This thesis has been an exploration of how complex landscapes can be represented in equally complex ways with available technologies, using moving maps as a basis for approaching this framework. Such maps can communicate the results of archaeological analyses of Indigenous cultural landscapes, ensuring that it is not only the physical and tangible data that are privileged in the analysis but also that intangible cultural knowledge is represented as an explicit, embedded part of those representations. Critiques of archaeological practice by Indigenous peoples often highlight the privileging of Western scientific knowledge production over Indigenous knowledge protocols and principles, and decry past practices by the discipline of ignoring Indigenous knowledge altogether (Nicholas 2018; Nicholas and Markey 2015; Ross 2020; Smith and Wobst 2005). The co-creation of knowledge about the past, as it changed then and continues to change in the present and future, is a necessary shift in archaeological practice that not only addresses these critiques but also increases the depth of knowledge about, and understanding of, Indigenous cultural landscapes.

203 The collaborative nature of work at Gummingurru, and other similar projects that are a part of other cultural heritage management studies, ensures that the resulting maps are multi-vocal and driven by the desires of Traditional Custodians to acquire and share knowledge; alongside the research questions and goals of the archaeologists investigating these places.

This methodology is not only relevant to long-term cultural heritage projects, but to both short-term consulting work and other archaeology projects that do not focus on landscape scales of understanding. Any site has the potential to be investigated and documented using the same techniques the research team and I used. They can be represented in the same ways I have demonstrated for Gummingurru, through mapping with online programs and animations, using augmented and virtual realities, and app- based interpretation. Technological accessibility is expanding with the tools literally at hand – the smartphone now mediates more frequent access and a more expansive interconnection to sites and experiences on the Internet than home computers do (Keogh 2017). These personal devices are able to mediate many things via the screen: maps and movement, information accessibility, and phenomenological being-in-place. According to Deloitte’s Technology, Media and Telecommunications Predictions 2018 report, smartphones will attain 90% market penetration in Australia in the next few years (Pash 2018). The report (Deloitte 2017:3) also predicted that the accessibility, creation, and sharing of augmented reality content would accelerate rapidly in the future as technology has developed to create photorealistic imaging and depth-sensing equipment in developing smartphones. This ubiquity of technology and the increasing use of evolving apps and social media for public interaction with archaeological and Indigenous landscapes and sites, means that communication of place can change significantly and rapidly.

Increasingly, it is important to ensure that the communication of the complexity and continuity of Aboriginal cultural landscapes to the public is undertaken in accessible ways that inform and engage public opinion. The conceptual consequences of historical fixity in archaeological representation have permeated public consciousness: the continuity of the longest continuous living culture on earth has been interpreted as unchanging and static – fixed in the past and only authentic in that past expression (Lydon 2019; Martin and Trigger 2015:324–326; Murray 2016:188–189). The ideas of harmonious living with the land but not as active managers of that landscape (with the sole exception of the use of fire) (Ross et al. 2011; Russell 2001), and the uncritical taking up of a preunderstanding of hunter-gatherer lifeways that does not allow for complexity and responsiveness to contextual change, are all concepts that are alive and well, especially in political representations to the wider public (Griffiths and Russell 2018; 204 Grounds and Ross 2010). This is in large part an issue of the archaeological discipline’s approach to science communication.

Shifting practices in archaeology and cultural heritage management Processual and post-processual archaeology privilege, respectively, physical evidence and situational habitus in research and have acted as opposing theoretical paradigms in the discipline for a long time (Bordieu 2000; Jones 2000; Waterton 2005; Wylie 2002:171). Cultural heritage research has emphasised the centrality of the concept of intangible heritage in archaeological practice. The methodologies used to investigate, record, analyse, and theorise archaeological heritage — and it is heritage, not just archaeological artefacts and sites where they occur — have become progressively collaborative, with Traditional Custodians generating research topics and questions and actively participating in the mitigation of development impacts (Allen and Phillips 2010; Brady 2009; Brady and Bradley 2014; Hales et al. 2013). An anthropological approach to archaeology is a necessity in Australia as has been understood for some time in the discipline (Wylie 2002:242). The material evidence that archaeologists study are from living cultures with complex knowledge and practices that inscribe meaning onto landscape, creating new landscapes in cyclical ways and informed by each new iteration and interaction. Archaeology in Australia and other settler nations is cultural heritage, created in the past but continuing and changing in the present and into the future (Andrews and Buggey 2008; Byrne 2005; Colwell- Chanthaphonh and Ferguson 2004).

As landscape archaeology, as a theoretical framework, broadened in its applications (David and Thomas 2008), the process of investigation of sites within landscapes drew together site and land formation indicators, taphonomic process studies, and increasingly, cultural and sociopolitical processes, in order to generate a holistic landscape view of physical change and use (e.g. Brown 2015a; David and Thomas 2008; Waddington 1998). This was an elaboration from archaeology’s origins, as meaning simply the physical space in which sites were situated and the interrelations of their distribution (Tilley 1994). As the complexities of cultural landscapes became more obvious, as more complex entanglements were defined and articulated, new theoretical and methodological frameworks were applied to additional layers of investigation and understanding. The study of the relationships between humanity and place, the ecology and economy, the geo-, bio-, and social archaeologies of cultural change and distribution, became commonplace. This complexity takes time to capture in the field through archaeological investigations. When working with living cultures, capturing these data can be even more complex.

205 In archaeological investigations, the use of interactive screen-based technologies is increasing in the field, catching up with use in the laboratory. Recording archaeological data in complex databases is occurring right now and has been for some time – FAIMS (Federated Archaeological Information Management System) being one example (Ballsun-Stanton et al. 2018; Ross, S. et al. 2013). This, however, is not necessary for the investigation and representation of place, as the project at Gummingurru has demonstrated. The ability to capture the metric and visual data simultaneously, and to upload them into a relational database could have saved a great deal of time but would not necessarily have produced the same results: it was only through repeated working through the database and the accompanying photographs, for example, that I was able to notice the identifiable similarities between the two iterations of the Initiation Ring (Chapter 9). There are clearly advantages to employing both approaches.

Embedding multiple investigation vectors from data acquisition into practice allowed this more holistic approach through phenomenological engagement with intangible and living cultural practices and the capturing of the physical senses on site, as well as in the methods used to map and counter-map. At Gummingurru, the movement of investigators through the landscape when each was first introduced to this place (Chapter 5), and the continual reiteration of the local landscape’s relationships with the site, became inextricable from the capturing of these data through time. This movement occurred along settler roads (Lydon 2005), yet a better understanding of the local landscape emerged as a result of collaboration with Traditional Custodians over time. Each site was interconnected through journeying and even the distance between each site (Chapter 6), and their entanglements became clearer the more frequently we visited them — but most crucially, by moving between the sites and through the landscape. This process of creating an embodied movement through the landscape for the researchers, being-in-place, embedded and entangled me, as the researcher, as well.

These interactions needed exploration, teasing out connections and influences. To do this, I turned to entanglement theory, a theoretical framework about people–objects–things–place relationships, influences, and effects (Hodder 2011, 2012, 2014). The phenomenological experiences of people– objects–things–place relationships adds another layer of complexity to both theory and methodology. Gummingurru’s entanglements occur across multi-scalar landscapes, cultures, and yurees, and reflect Aboriginal and settler experiences and knowledge (Figure 10.1).

206

Figure 10.1: Tanglegram after Cycle III and recent ceremonial and living heritage management practices. The reintroduction of fire affects the plantlife but not the stones (see below). Cultural groups from outside the Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape are participating in new ceremony (see Reflection Pause C). 207

Stakeholder-led management of cultural heritage sites and landscapes, while not yet prioritised or even well recognised in legislation, is increasingly practised in Australia (Brady 2009:34–35; Brown 2015b; Ross et al. 2013; Smith et al. 2019:559). At one time, the archaeologist or anthropologist was seen as the only authority on the interpretation of heritage places. Multi-vocality has created spaces in which the creators of heritage (and their descendants) are now acknowledged as essential experts in their own heritage, and this is articulated in some modern heritage legislation (e.g. the Queensland ACHA). Archaeological data can still be used to explore understandings and answer questions about the unknown (Smith 2010). The pattern of investigation at Gummingurru is that of walking side-by-side, walking between two paradigms (Doyle 2007; Ross et al. 2010a; see Chapter 5), bringing different kinds of knowledge together into a holistic understanding, interpretation, and representation of this place. Co- investigation means neither Indigenous knowledge nor scientific knowledge is given more weight; each can and does reflect and complement the other.

The depth of understanding of past and present landscapes, as well as the interpretive potential that can be applied to physical evidence, may not always represent full place-meaning on its own; but it can enhance archaeological knowledge. Without Jarowair-Wakka Wakka interpretation of the meaning of the stones and their interconnections within and throughout the Gummingurru landscapes, there would be limited understanding of the significance of this place. It would still be more than simply ‘rocks in a field’, but the knowledge of how many complex interrelationships there are, the journeying stories between cultures, and of the yurees themselves, would not form part of the ceremonial and social fabric of this place without access to Jarowair-Wakka Wakka knowledge. An insight into how people may have interacted with stone arrangements in the past, as well as recently, would have been lost without observation of the decisions that were made during Brian Tobane’s management of the Initiation Ring. The data captured have been used to reconstruct the movements of stones on the site, but they can also be used to demonstrate intentionality (e.g. Piotto 2012; Piotto et al. 2018), and the potential frequency in which stone arrangements were managed and moved: ‘fixed up’ but inherently not fixed.

Living heritage practices are often not well understood by the general public and have thus been considered controversial. There are many people who consider that ‘ancient’ cultures must solely continue to follow ‘traditional’ ways to be considered ‘authentic’ (Andrews and Buggey 2008; Byrne 1991; Grounds and Ross 2010; Ross 2010). Such controversy around the concepts of living heritage exists for Gummingurru as well, with criticism around the continuous management practices of moving stones and resurrecting motifs – ‘altering’ an archaeological site – implemented by the Traditional 208 Custodians of the site (Ross 2010; see Chapter 2). The basis of much of this controversy is the public’s perception of Aboriginal peoples and cultures as being fixed and belonging to the ancient past, unchanging in the present (see Sullivan (2008) for a critique of this view of heritage as only encompassing ‘dead culture’). Such perceptions have been covertly encoded in specific public, political, and even educational, language about Aboriginal cultures as being ‘old’, ‘ancient’, and ‘of the past’: e.g. The Last of His Kind. This thinking stems from nineteenth century conceptions of evolution, both physical and cultural, and has extended well into both the archaeological discipline and into public understandings of Indigenous cultures – and their perceived lack of change (Ellis 1994:3; Gorring 2001, 2011; Griffiths and Russell 2018). The idea that culture is continuing and is authentic in its continuation and in its present, adapted format, is something that has been actively opposed in many political discourses (see for example, the so-called ‘black armband’ ‘history wars’ — Clark 2002; Grounds and Ross 2010; Parkes 2007). Changing these preunderstandings, these mental maps of authenticity, is not only important for future heritage management, but also for the future of Aboriginal cultures and the shared future of Indigenous and non-Indigenous Australians. Cultures have undergone continuous ongoing growth and change in the past, and modern (and future) Aboriginal cultures will continue change; and they need to be recognised as legitimate and authentic in that process and in constructed representations of both the past and the present.

Policy and legislation are often based on the privileging of the ancient past with little or no recognition that culture is continuing and changing (McCormack 2016; Trigger and Dalley 2010). Mapping representations are one aspect of archaeological practice that has the capacity to represent Aboriginal cultural landscapes and ongoing cultural activities to the general public. These representations can challenge preunderstandings – even prejudices – that valorise the fixing of cultural tradition into an ancient construct. The past fixity of archaeological maps has contributed to the concepts of Aboriginal people and culture as static, ancient and unchanging (Grounds and Ross 2010; Meskell 2009b; Thomas and Ross 2013; Waterton 2005). Capturing intangible heritage, and the continually changing cultural practices associated with that heritage, is vital to understanding landscape use in the past and present, as well as the present meaning of socially constituted landscapes.

So how do we, as archaeologists, go about ensuring these entangled intangible and living cultural heritage practices and knowledge are incorporated into the maps we make? I now turn to a discussion around each of my initial research questions - designed to address this overarching issue - and consideration of whether I achieved the goals outlined in each. 209 Research Question 1: How do we, as archaeologists, engage with landscapes and construct and manipulate representations of the past in the present within the methodologies of counter-mapping? This central research question was developed during my involvement in the initial generating of maps of Gummingurru after the 2010 field season. It is fundamentally about the phenomenology of the archaeologist’s being-in-place (Smith 2006) during research investigations, as well as integrating Indigenous Knowledge into research design and counter-mapping strategy. This engagement — integration of Western and Indigenous ways of knowing (Sheehan and Lilley 2008) — also means thinking ahead throughout the mapping process to identify the possibilities of representation of an integrated understanding of cultural landscapes through the maps and counter-maps that we make.

Counter-mapping is both political and phenomenological. Making heritage visible is important for public and political uses, for the protection of place, and for the continuation of living cultural heritage. Counter-mapping makes the invisible, visible and allows often-silenced voices the chance to be heard. Peluso (1995) made clear that Western governments’ views on landscape use and ownership were not the only valid views that can decide ownership, boundaries, and landscape use. Indigenous interpretations of their own places need to be ‘on the map’ as they are the political tool of land ownership (Byrne 2008; Fox 2002:74; Harley 1989:10). Since this acknowledgement of the political nature of maps and map-making in archaeological theory, counter-mapping has also expanded to mean the integration of intangible heritage into the map, as well as showing change and embodied understanding of the landscape: the map as counter to a fixed, static, tangible view of the past (Byrne and Nugent 2004; Harrison 2010). As demonstrated throughout this thesis, Gummingurru is a landscape that is demonstrably none of these things; it is a constantly changing, moving, storied and intangible space as much as it is physical stones in a field. It is an entangled, living place.

So how do we do this counter-mapping engagement? Capturing archaeological mapping data cannot be solely confined to the physical during fieldwork. The transects of survey and site-based investigation need to be rethought from the ground down. Movement in space and understanding of place in landscape needs to be incorporated into data collection and iterated into interpretation as the investigation is underway. At Gummingurru, we did this by constant guidance from and discussion with Brian Tobane throughout the mapping process – walking the site and referring to the interrelationships of the yurees determined the steps in recording. This determined the development of mapping at Gummingurru as an ever-widening hermeneutic cycle (Chapter 5). The intangible heritage of a place is entangled with the

210 physical. Both need to be captured at the same time in order to capture their integrated meaning. They inform each other; they explain and give meaning to each other.

There are relationships between people and objects; between objects and other objects; and between the past and the present (and vice versa), and moving into the future. Understanding and representing all these relationships is complex. Intangible heritage contextualises landscape and place in time, it informs the meaning of place, and is informed in turn by the landscape itself. The social significance of present relationships to place and to the past of a place is important to cultural heritage management. These relationships are also of vital importance to living heritage management. The health and well-being of Traditional Custodians are linked to Country and caring for Country in the present and into the future (Kingsley et al. 2009, 2018).

In archaeological and cultural heritage management investigations, there are sometimes only snippets of different voices available; sometimes the intangible knowledge is not held by Traditional Custodians but in places like settler memory, early anthropological research (see Tindale, etc.), oral histories, and government records. This is very much the case with Gummingurru’s multi-vocality. This means that design of these projects needs to ensure a multi-vocal approach to the heritage of a place. The detective work of archaeology is in putting it all together. I contend that the best way to do this is through careful choice of methods in mapping, counter-mapping, and representing cultural landscapes in all their complexities.

Archaeology engages with people in the past through their present material remains. Knowledge and culture in the distant past may not be accessible via anything but those remains. In the present, the descendants of past peoples, and the peoples with whom they had relationships are accessible and they are continuing to build culture, and they shape and reshape people-object-landscape relationships in the present. Engaging with the archaeological landscape is not simply a guided walk in the Countryside. Building a relationship with the people who are the Traditional Custodians of that Country is building a relationship with Country, landscape, and with meaning. It takes time to do these things.

The archaeological investigation of Gummingurru has been part of a long-term cultural heritage project. Research questions and projects have arisen out of the relationships between the Gummingurru Aboriginal Corporation, the onsite Custodians, the researchers and students from The University of Queensland, and other groups such as the Bunya Peoples Aboriginal Rangers and the Gowrie Volunteer 211 Fire Service. In 2011, a major flood led to rapid growth in weed-species grasses and created an issue with site maintenance (Chapter 2). The Gowrie Volunteer Fire Service were brought in to ‘fire’ the site as a joint training exercise in order to resurrect Aboriginal burning practices on the site. Kate van Wezel (2014), undertook a study to see if this burning of the site would change the composition of introduced versus native vegetation species as well as the regeneration rate of the grass levels. The low, slow burn characteristic of Aboriginal firing of the landscape did not change species composition, but it did substantially slow the growth of the weed species. This firing of the landscape has consequently been used as a site management practice as well as a training exercise for the Fire Service ever since.

Each new question, idea, and cross-disciplinary collaboration arising during research at Gummingurru has increased our understanding of both this place and of how to represent it to others. These representations are not only scientific (tangibly, metrically accurate), they also integrate culture (intangible, storying meaning). They are inextricably entwined with the physical movement on the site, like the resurrection activities at Gummingurru, such as the Catfish emerging from the soil through Tobane’s resurrection practices (Chapter 5) that are ongoing and developing with Conrad and Shannon Bauwens driving new programmes reflecting past uses of this place.

Walking through Country, engaging with heritage places, passing on narratives handed down by ancestors, moving across the land in ways that reflect traditional uses, and following pathways, like in Harrison’s (2010) story-trekking paths and Byrne and Nugent’s (2004) mapping studies, can ‘jog memory’, make entanglements clear, and create understanding for the archaeologist in the sensory experience of the place. That engagement of moving through the local landscape at Meringandan and beyond to the Bunya Mountains and Dalby, seeing how the sites in the local and wider landscapes interact and relate to one another, plants the idea of journeying landscapes (Lavers 2010). Of course, the idea of a constantly moving, living cultural landscape is not unique to Gummingurru (Gorring 2001, 2011), so the methodology of representation of this place will translate to any in Australia, and indeed, around the world.

Gummingurru is protected through ownership by the Gummingurru Aboriginal Corporation but sites in the local and wider social and cultural landscapes have been threatened or heavily impacted by development, such as the Women’s Site and the Main Campsite (Chapters 2 and 6). Could this have been prevented through the investigation and codification of the intangible heritage? The recognition that place-attachment and traditional knowledge are authentic heritage is slowly being incorporated into 212 legislation and practice but is yet to become mainstream in public and political views or to be recognised as needing protection in its own right outside of recent changes to Victoria’s Aboriginal Heritage Act 2016 (Andrews and Buggey 2008; Brown 2015a). Could the preunderstanding that Indigenous cultures are a continually changing and connected phenomenon, that places are more than just what they were in the past, change the way that sites like these are documented and then represented?

Research Question 2: How do we document places in such a way that we move beyond fixing a place in a single time in the past? The process of documentation generates raw data. Conventional mapping can create raw data that ‘fixes’ places in the past. Phenomenological counter-mapping of archaeological and heritage places ensures that there is a way to ‘unfix’ these raw data. The process of documenting the entanglements of place needs to integrate cultural knowledge and intangible heritage into both survey and recording techniques. Indigenous understanding of place entangles all these components. Gummingurru is such a place that entangles intangible and tangible components of place together (Chapters 5 and 9). Archaeologists need to record that entanglement at the time of survey, walking alongside Traditional Custodians during both the development of the process and also the survey and recording itself. This ensures that the site and landscape documentation process does not simply privilege the tangible, physical components of place. To do this, counter-mapping documentation must take place from the start of an investigation of site and landscape.

The counter-mapping of Gummingurru not only embeds different conceptual components into the map, but acknowledges the temporal component of place. Place constitutes space and time (Chapter 4), in a continuum of being and becoming that is never static, never fixed, never a single event or moment (Casey 1996; see also Aldred 2010; Bailey 2007; Caquard and Wright 2009; Perkins 2001). Capturing change and movement over varying resolutions of scale creates a fluid interpretation of place throughout time. Recognising potentially many meanings, and then embedding these meanings into representations that show those temporal entanglements, is important. This information may be captured from the past (through excavation and analysis of artefacts) as is standard archaeological practice but may also be accessed in the present through documenting cultural knowledge held by Indigenous peoples.

During initial invasion and dispossession due to governmental and settler colonial practices many cultural practices and ceremonial changes were forcibly stopped. Yet, even these practices are not necessarily completely lost, much was kept and passed on through other means. Some can be resurrected 213 using archaeological investigative techniques coupled with exploration of traditional knowledge. The restoration of the Initiation Ring at Gummingurru (Chapter 9) and its use in interpretation of past change on the site are examples of this. Tobane’s knowledge that the motifs were restored at Gummingurru when necessary, for use in ceremony and negotiation between different cultures prior to the triennial Bunya Nut Feast gathering ceremonies, allowed both the resurrection of this motif as a living cultural heritage practice in the present and provided potentially deeper understanding that this was (and other stone arrangements could have been) a place where the stones moved and were moved in the past. This recognises that stone arrangements were not simply built and used as is, but were and are changing places that influenced interaction between humans and the stones, as well as humans and intangible landscapes.

It is possible that capturing something like a chaine operatoire of a place or landscape (Hodder 2011:159; Maher 2018) can lead to an unfixed representation. This means investigating the ‘whole life’ of a place and the events that happened there through many moments in time. There are two approaches that could be adopted here. One is building a narrative through specific dated events in the archaeological record; a potential weaving together of the spatial and temporal palimpsests found throughout excavation into a tapestry of meaning (Bailey 2007; Nabokov 2002). This would possibly result in a linear approach to the past (Aldred and Lucas 2018). The other is taking a cyclical approach to the representation of landscape use, understanding that events and time in ceremonial spaces are often cyclical in nature — the same ceremonies and practices undertaken repeatedly through time — as are the relationships of people to place. This is the approach we used at Gummingurru. Documentation was about capturing general practices, like the restoration of motifs for the gatherings at Gummingurru prior to the Bunya Nut Feasts. Documentation on motif meaning, acknowledging it infers that repeated ceremony occurred around the motifs and the embodied nature of the stones and yurees, could then be the basis for representation of this place that does not fix it in one space and time (Ross 2008; Thomas and Ross 2013, 2018).

Thus, there is an understanding of more than temporal movement of objects or cultural practice through archaeological sites. Both physical and storying movement through place (of people or ancestral beings) make up meaning in Aboriginal cultural landscapes. Therefore when structuring a survey of any kind of landscape, one must start with the movements that are known by the Traditional Custodians. Each movement across the landscape, each time it is visited, reveals new information and new perspectives that can be brought to bear on an iterative, hermeneutic cycle. 214 Research Question 3: How do we move beyond the representation of place as having one use in the past and recognise that it has multiple uses and meanings over time? To move beyond single, static representations of place in time requires the layering of information; moving through and between time; moving beyond the single spatial and temporal palimpsest of use that is typically represented in site mapping (Bailey 2007). The layering of meaning through time, and illuminating multiple meanings at the same time, are all relevant to understanding landscape, place, use, and peoples. Without this integration of entanglements, meaning is punctuated, fixed, and broken. With the integration of temporal complexity, these entanglements of place, people, objects, and practices are visible and overt as well as covert — subconscious-building, leading to new preunderstandings (David 2002; Nabokov 2002).

One of the preunderstandings that I am trying to highlight explicitly, as shown in my 2013 mapping of the Initiation Ring and other motifs at Gummingurru (Chapter 9), is that the living heritage practice of moving the stones is both an integral and authentic (Andrews and Buggey 2008; Ross 2010; Ross et al. 2010a) part of the ‘happening’ at this place (Casey 1996); the ‘being-in-place’ (Smith 2006:77) that underpins the phenomenological framework for understanding this place. This movement was a part of the preparations for the gatherings at Gummingurru prior to the Bunya Nut Feast in the Bunya Mountains in the past and continues in the present due to both resurrected cultural practices and taphonomic disturbances (flooding waters and animals). While I was able to track and show the physical movement of a majority of the stones in the Initiation Ring through the recorded visual and GIS data, the representation of that movement is devoid of the human element: Brian Tobane, the active agent, is not overtly present in the map. This was partly a function of my own lack of animation skills at the time and partly because these maps were, and are, archaeological representations — both intangible and tangible heritage is present now, but the living cultural practices are not shown fully.

Representing a person’s or a group’s present and future continuing relationship to place and living cultural heritage, as authentic expressions of that heritage (Andrews and Buggey 2008; Beale 2018; Byrne 1991), is a significant aspect of collaborative heritage management into the future. Atalay’s (2008) study on multi-vocality and collaboration in representations is important here. While Atalay’s study was based in museum practices and exhibition creation, it is about representation of culture and place by blending multiple understandings into those representations. The exhibition Atalay explored was called Diba Jimooyung: Telling Our Story. Curated by members of the Saginaw Chippewa tribe of the Ojibwe people in Canada, and using their cosmology as the basis of its spatial design, the exhibition melded 215 archaeological data and cultural knowledge. These two ways of knowing were often complimentary. The presentation of this information used voice, touch, depiction, and space in a multilingual approach to the story (Atalay 2008:38–42). The centring of multiple ways of knowing that forms a part of Ojibwe cultural life creates an opportunity for education and eliciting an understanding of the Ojibwe experience of the world. This is at the heart of my third research question, which relates directly to questions about the representation of authentic meaning.

Multiple stories can be ‘true’. Multiple-source stories can be used to show fuller, more complex meanings about place and landscape than single-source stories. Multiple stories, set in different times, can highlight both continuity and change and can draw attention to overlapping narrative strands. And multiple stories about a place can be authentic and legitimate (Atalay 2008). In the case of Gummingurru, there have been stories that have been written or spoken by settler families, as well as traditional media interviews, including a Landline (ABC 2009) story that featured Brian Tobane and Ben Gilbert. Some of these stories contradict themselves and each other (with greater weight given by us to stories from the Traditional Custodians), while others are in agreement. But all present views of this place and its wider journeying connections are valid in themselves (Nicholas and Markey 2015). Not only this, but these stories have teased out the seeds of site resurrection (Chapter 9). Stories of community and resilience are shared now on the Bunya People’s Aboriginal Rangers (BPAR) Facebook page with Gummingurru featuring as a central narrative. Gummingurru and its journeying, connected landscapes are continuing to change and grow; it is a living cultural heritage place that is continuing to play an important role in narratives of self and culture.

These multiple contemporary narratives in various digital media are not just social records of the present- day; they may be influencing public preunderstandings of fixity in landscape and culture, and particularly highlighting that places are not only relevant or authentic to culture in a single point of time, i.e. the past (Morgan 2006; Romano 2008). Media like the BPAR Facebook page are controlled by Indigenous people and are devoted to making these concepts of continuing cultural care for Country implicit in casual public engagement with these landscapes. However, in archaeology, how do we recognise and represent that meaning in the past may be totally different from meaning in the present, yet still be authentic? As Bender (2002:S103) states, “landscapes, like time, never stand still”; neither do cultures and their practices and meaning.

216 Gummingurru has not stood still. It is a place that was once a secret-sacred men’s space that was used in the initiation of boys into manhood; that acted as a space for education in yuree responsibilities; that became a space for dialogue and negotiation prior to the Bunya Feasts between multiple cultures. For a time, it was a cattle farm and playground for Gilbert’s daughter, while the knowledge of initiation rituals was hidden ‘underground’ as a response to the aggressive removal of people from Country by culturally destructive government policies. The seeds of knowledge nurtured in places like Palm Island and Cherbourg, as well as in the relationship between Bunda and Ben Gilbert, may not have allowed for the resurrection of specific ceremonies but have allowed for a reuse of this place that is in the spirit of the past (Ross 2008). Now, it is once again a place for education, dialogue, and negotiation of Reconciliation for all. Each of these stories is a part of the fabric of Gummingurru. To move beyond fixing Gummingurru in any one of these narratives, there must be ways to incorporate them all. The Prezi I created gave a wider landscape view than the original fixed archaeological map (Chapter 8), as did the subsequent 3D and 4D animations focus on the motifs and stones and their narratives of movement (Chapter 9). The next step is to use these techniques to add to the stories already told and make space for the new stories to come.

Research Question 4: How do we unfix our representations of archaeological sites, landscapes, and places? As has been demonstrated throughout this thesis, there is a fixity to archaeological representations of sites, landscapes, places, and stories. Static representations are fixed in space and time and do not allow for change or new meaning. The methodologies of investigation and recording of archaeological data need to ensure the capturing of change and movement across landscapes for both tangible and intangible heritage. It is these entangled heritage data that allow for the conceptualisation and communication of change, movement, and meaning. These data are becoming unfixed in space and time.

The integration of spatial and archaeological data into interactive and moving ‘apps’, maps, or other interfaces, can greatly improve the representations of understandings of connections to place. These connections are multiple: memory, practice, phenomenological being-in-place, story, and community. Capturing moments and continua of movement, whether it is physical movement through a landscape or movement across time, can be achieved through prose, through sketch and drawings, and can be achieved through using photography. But these are still, still – they are static and unchanging. They imply stillness through their media (Perkins et al. 2011). The ubiquity of videography and screens for delivery has increased exponentially since the turn of the millennium; there has been an intensification of use and 217 utility of the screens that accompany daily life. This is technology that is harnessable with minimal training and can have a great impact. Movement on a screen implies movement through the medium. This movement can thus be readily achieved — and with very little skill. I always preface my presentations with the statement that I am not a professional animator by any means. I learnt the use of the Blender software to create animations via video tutorials and experimentation (Chapter 9).

Video cameras are standard features in most mobile phones and temporal data can be embedded into ArcGIS and FAIMS etc. through tablet use on site. With very little manipulation, photographs can be turned into videos in the same way as I turned the ArcGIS outputs of the Gummingurru Catfish into an animated .gif using Adobe Photoshop in 2011. Maps can move through guided journeys or through the choices of the viewer on Google Earth for example – now much more able to deal with landscape complexity than when I first attempted this in 2011 (Chapter 8). Many cultural heritage places are first encountered and engaged with online and potentially from far away through websites and social media. (Online can occur at the cultural heritage place as well — see the growing number of augmented reality apps along with site-specific apps). This allows for the screen to mediate understanding – the entangled relationships of a place can be shown prior to visiting or instead of visiting at all (particularly with places where ongoing large-scale human impacts are detrimental, e.g. the Lascaux Cave reproduction for use in tourism, both on screen and in a physical replica).

The construction of such representations by archaeologists has new potential for engagement with stakeholders and the public. They can video Custodians while on Country, geotag (link geographical metadata), and embed those videos in mapping representations, similar to the Prezi I presented in Chapter 8. Of course, this can and is being done by Custodians themselves as part of generating and keeping legacies — see the ‘Welcome to Country’ phone app. Geotagging is the linking of geographical data to visual data, in both metadata and in explicit textual formats. It is a form of mapping in itself and is ubiquitous to social media. The delivery system of many of these potential new moving maps will be either by websites or apps, and particularly by social media platforms.

We need to move away from only mapping places conventionally. These maps have served us well in the past but today we have more and better tools to bring to bear on mapping output. Counter-mapping is a political exercise in demonstrating ownership and ties to Country on the map, as well as a way of ensuring that the social context of the map is visible (Brealey 1995; Fox 2002; Oliver 2011). The moving counter-maps demonstrated in this thesis take phenomenological understandings of the physical 218 landscape, movement through the landscape, and change in the interactions with the landscape, into account as well.

With examples like the Prezi counter-map or the 3D and even 4D animations (Chapter 9), these maps are still two-dimensional in the sense that they are on a flat screen or on paper. They are not three- dimensional in the same way landscapes are and they cannot replicate precisely the same embodied experience of any landscape, yet. There are possibilities for this sort of replication in augmented and virtual reality technologies (Gillings 2005). Once again, this is an issue of delivery of a representational counter-map. Counter-maps hold the social and political context within the process of the mapping and take into account the complexities of people’s interactions with, and relationships to place. While counter-maps are now a well-established alternative to conventional maps, they are, still, maps. They do not need to be something else, but can be multiple things at once.

My animations are counter-maps, but they are not solely maps. They are story and journey as much as they are maps. Animation is a story; can a map be one too? Caquard and Wright (2009:204) argued that, “there are no human beings in maps”; I ask, why not? Why, in our mapping representations, are the people physically left off, when people are the ones bringing meaning into the landscape and therefore the maps? On the Gummingurru website32, Brian Tobane was, with his permission, written into a PowerPoint story ‘Part of Something Bigger’ that is used as a school resource about the interconnectedness of the Bunya Mountains Cultural Landscape and the yuree system33. Future maps of Gummingurru and other cultural landscapes need to have the people returned to the representation — unfixing the place as an archaeological site, but moving it into the future, from a past and present life, into a peopled landscape.

Taking maps off paper and onto the moving screen is a literal unfixing of these things, but it is the temporal, changing component that is of importance here. Living cultures change, from the past into the present and also from the present to the future. They adapt themselves and their environments, they pass on stories and create new ones, and technologies change as well. This is no different for Indigenous communities around the world. They are living, changing, and continuing cultures. Archaeological representations of them need to be living and changing too.

32 www.gummingurru.com.au 33 www.gummingurru.com.au/Part+of+something+bigger 219 One potential method of unfixing paper maps, although still through the prism of the screen or the paper on which it is represented in publication or in a thesis, is to embed smartphone-readable codes onto the map34. QR (Quick Response) Codes and AR (Augmented Reality) Codes can be published onto the paper medium and allow the audience to unfix the map. QR Codes were in use before 2009 but truly became popular when smartphones became ubiquitous (Fino et al. 2013; Solima and Izzo 2018). Static QR Codes are forever linked with a particular web address — if the website address and content change, the QR Code content will also change. Dynamic QR Codes can be reprogrammed to new addresses with new content. QR Codes have been used on paper tourist walking tour maps highlighting heritage buildings (Fino et al. 2013); in museum contexts (Solima and Izzo 2018); and on university orientation tours (Dempsey 2011). QR Codes can be created with any online generator35 as I have to create codes for my various animations and videos (see Appendix C). Download any QR code scanner app (I use QR Droid, for example) and hover the active camera on a smartphone over the code displayed either on screen or paper and it will automatically open the website.

Augmented Reality Codes are similar to QR Codes; they are small symbols placed on a paper surface or on a screen. A specialised AR Code scanner app will read the code and display the augmented reality video or information overlayed on the ‘real world’ as seen through the smartphone’s camera (Kee et al. 2014; Keogh 2017). An AR map was created for and by school children in Brighton and Hove (United Kingdom) to enhance their engagement with the history of their town. The project used Blender as one of the creative tools (Rodriguez Echavarria et al. 2019).

There is value in being able to go directly from the 2D paper publication to a 3D/4D map using these technologies. It is a form of unfixing that could easily (for QR codes) and with some development (for AR codes) be used for the mapping of heritage places and of Aboriginal cultural landscapes where appropriate.

Research Question 5: How do fluid, unfixed representations shape our understandings of place? The creation of an understanding of place as a fluid, changing thing in someone’s mind, is about the creation of new preunderstandings about the landscapes and the people who have created and are created by them (David 2002). It is also about the continual reinforcement of these new preunderstandings: that

34 With thanks to Ursula Frederick and Annie Ross for a discussion on the use of QR Codes at the 2019 Australian Archaeological Association Conference that lead to this discussion in my thesis. 35 www.qr-code-generator.com/ 220 Indigenous cultures are living, changing, and authentic; that the meaning given to heritage places in the present and the living cultural practices that occur there are just as significant as what these places were in the past; and that these places are not simply physical space but comprise so many complex intangible and embodied understandings. These understandings can walk side-by-side with archaeological, scientific investigation and interpretation of place. If we, as archaeologists, can facilitate public preunderstanding of Indigenous landscapes and cultures around the world reflecting Indigenous people’s own understandings, incorporated into archaeological representations, their heritage (both living and in the landscape) may be better protected and supported into the future.

Shaping perceptions of living heritage by using fluid, unfixed representations means changing how the story is told. Humanity holds onto stories, and stories in Western cultures most often have a beginning, a middle, and an end. The ‘happily ever after’, though, is not truly an end — what happens next? Can a potential future exist in a constructed story of the past in the present? Aboriginal stories often do not have these elements as discrete, linear components — they are cyclical, they are continually occurring, not fixed in time, ‘timeless’, yet continuously present (Knudsen 2004). People are storied by the landscape as much as they story the landscape (Lund and Willson 2010). Narratives about Country, songlines and Dreaming and Dreamtime stories have persisted despite settler colonial dispossession efforts (Kearney and Bradley 2009); but the influence of Western forms of narrative means those created in and about the recent past and the present contrast in that they are often told in a linear sense. All of these story forms are authentic narratives about Indigenous identity, place, and culture (Kurtzer 2003).

The use of digital media to disseminate these fluid, unfixed representations allows the media to also be the message. Screens allow for movement. Screen-based representations, though ‘published’, can be easily changed — they are not permanently fixed. The publication can be changed immediately, whereas a printed map often has a long lead time to publication. If there is a need to update the information due to new results or by request or control of Traditional Custodians, it is easy to modify what is present on the screen. I would recommend versioning when it comes to this (keeping previous versions of the same map with each alteration making a new version) – it is all too easy to erase past interpretations in light of new data and to pretend that this was always the interpretation at hand, perversely reinforcing notions of fixity and authenticity. These kinds of digital, modifiable counter-maps made by archaeologists are necessarily a collaborative exercise – documenting Gummingurru was and is an iterative process too. The data have evolved and changed hermeneutically, as new information, interpretations, and narratives have been resurrected or recalled from faded memory. They are co-authored by Traditional Custodians 221 and archaeologists and so ownership is a joint venture. A screen-based representation can also be administered and interpreted by both parties via computers, without having to wait for a new field season to make it happen.

These research questions deal very specifically with how the archaeological and cultural heritage disciplines are documenting and subsequently representing Indigenous cultural landscapes. My final research question is a summation of one overarching question.

How do we practise authentic complex representation in the form of a map? Archaeological mapping representations of the past, the present, and into the future, needs to be based maps that move and integrate intangible, tangible, and temporal components into one map. This can be done by using digital technologies, presenting an authentically Indigenous understanding of their own places alongside archaeological, scientific understandings. The communication of these entwined and entangled complex representations to the public and to specific stakeholders is of concern in the development and undertaking of survey and counter-mapping methodology.

Archaeologists are not just mapping sites or space or physical geography, we are also mapping Country (Byrne 2005:60, 2008; David et al. 2012:320; Gibson 2010). The complexity of mapping Country requires time to undertake with nearly twenty years of collaborative heritage management at Gummingurru; this has built substantial relationships and data. How, then, can this translate into methodology in just one week on Country, the usual timeframe when conducting a heritage consultancy? There are a number of barriers to the methodology used at Gummingurru in short-term consultancy and survey work including time, space, skill, and purpose. In long-term cultural heritage projects, the ‘luxury of time’ allows space for hermeneutic reflection as the project develops. When there is not that time to work in the space of iterative return to meaning and process, how then does the archaeologist build enough of a relationship of trust with Traditional Custodians that can reveal these complexities?

The goals of a consultancy project, including how those goals are formulated, affects the development of process as well as mapping and heritage outcomes, and are often very short-term. Many individuals and agencies do return to the same Country over and over again, building relationships over time and over different projects with people in the community. Have examples of this relationship building demonstrated the utility of an unfixing of temporal change and cyclical intangible heritage in representations? The problem with assessing such an outcome is that many of the results of these projects 222 are in the ‘grey literature’ and not available outside of the client or community’s confidential keeping (Rowland et al. 2014:346).

The effectiveness of these authentic complex representations can only be judged by the Traditional Custodians. Is it authentic? Has it unfixed the fixity of archaeological mapping? Does it represent each whole part of Country, of place? Does it reflect Custodians’ understanding and interpretation of place while demonstrating archaeological rigour? In 2012, I showed my first animated maps to a gathering of Bunya Mountains Rangers and the response was very positive. Brian Tobane was very ill at the time but had always strongly supported new ways of communicating Gummingurru. Conrad and Shannon Bauwens have consistently expressed their happiness at this project and my animated mapping outcomes. In 2018, I attended the joint-conference for the Australian Archaeological Association and the New Zealand Archaeological Association in Auckland with them both and presented a paper on the maps and the process of creating them. The response from Maori and Aboriginal archaeologists and community members in the room was extremely positive.

‘We’ in this final, overarching question are archaeologists and cultural heritage managers working on Country with Indigenous peoples. We need to ensure that the results of survey, mapping, digging etc. are represented authentically — which means we cannot leave out the intangible, social, living heritage of a place and people, and especially, Indigenous present attachment to place. The more time spent on building relationships, understanding intangible components of place (or landscape, or artefact, or feature), and ensuring that the method of recording does not solely privilege Western scientific static epistemology during survey and investigation, the greater the chance there is that we can accurately document, understand, and represent changing and moving Aboriginal cultural landscapes and the people who create them and are created by them through the practice of counter-mapping.

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241 Appendix A Full version of Table 6.1 reproduced from Lavers (2010:42): Local Landscape. Memories and Stories relating to Gummingurru that were recorded during fieldwork in 2008.

Memory/Story Key to Figure 6.1 The name of Meringandan, a nearby town, comes from the Wakka Wakka words ‘Moorin Gandan’ meaning ‘fire clay’. B1 Gilbert remembers his grandfather using white lead and linseed oil, along with the red, yellow, and white ochres from the ochre B2 beds, to make paint (Gilbert 2006:17). Bunya trees may have grown from seeds gathered from the Bunya Mountains. B3 Early residents remember the waterhole and creek as part of a well resourced environment, with faunal resources that included B4 echidnas, koalas, platypus, yabbies, fish and lizards of all sizes. Bunda remembers camping by a waterhole near a male initiation site c. 1891. B5 Hand stencils around a rock outcrop adjacent to the waterfall, although no longer visible, were sighted within living memory. B6 Local residents recall numerous stone axes being found in this area in the past and a large grindstone was recovered some years B7 ago on the western ridge. An Aboriginal women’s ceremonial site is said to have been located within 2 kilometres east of the men’s ceremonial site of B8 Gummingurru. Earnest Franke told his daughter, and Les Steinberg told his wife, that Aboriginal women regularly went to an area at the top of a B9 nearby hill to perform ceremonies. Settlers used to shoot at the women. The women would run down the hill and hide in the trees around the creek, close to a women’s campsite. The creek provided plenty of resources for both Aboriginal people and settlers in the past, and yabbies are still caught there today. B10 Tobane remembers stories about his ancestors camping and hunting around the local area and further afield, through Jarowair B11 country.

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Tobane has been told of many camping sites that have been sighted in the past along the edges of Moola Creek, close to the Bunya B12 Mountains, and many others in the surrounding Jarowair country. Bunda, Tobane’s great uncle, who passed on the knowledge of Gummingurru, was born near where Moola Creek joins Myall B13 Creek. Tobane spoke of the importance of creeks’ physical and spiritual connections from Gummingurru through to the Bunya B14 Mountains.

Full version of Table 6.2 reproduced from Lavers (2010:48–50): Wider Landscape. Memories and stories relating to Gummingurru that were recorded during fieldwork in 2008. Memory/Story Key to Figure 6.2 Gowrie Mountain is a story place of spirit ancestors of the Jarowair people. The landforms of, and around, Gowrie Mountain comprise the C1 torsos and heads of three Dreaming beings who were killed in a fight (see also Gilbert 2006:73). Stand of Bunya trees. Tobane told how the trees probably grew from seeds gathered by Jarowair people at the Bunya Mountains C2 during gatherings and important ceremonies in the past. Women’s bones were excavated rom an archaeological site in Kingsthorpe (Barker pers. comm. 2008). C3 Willie McKenzie was from Jinnaburra, near the Bunya Mountains. He used to travel extensively and many Aboriginal groups C4 know of him. Willie McKenzie said that from Oakey to Highfields in Jarowair Country to the north, and Gaiabul to the south. C5 A stone arrangement in the shape of a snake on the edge of Oakey Creek was recorded by Bartholomai and Breedon (1961). C6 Gowrie Creek joins into the Condamine River. C7 Paddy Perkins (a Gaiabul man from Cecil Plains) married a Jarowair woman from Rosalie Plains. Perkins, whose tribal name C8 was Boondow, is now buried at Irvingdale near Dalby. Two tribal groups, Jarowair and Gaiabul, shared Country in the area from Gowrie Creek to Dalby. C9 The road runs alongside an old stock route between Oakey and Dalby which is possibly an old Aboriginal pathway. It runs along the C10 boundaries of Gaiabul and Jarowair Country. A pathway that follows the tops of the ranges is thought to extend from Tweed Heads to Bunya Mountains and may run through Gummingurru. Ben Gilbert’s grandfather used to go hunting with the Aboriginal men around this area in the 1860s. C11

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At Acland, many stone axes and campsites have been found. Acland is a Jarowair place with plenty of water and a silcrete C12 quarry. It is now the site of a very large coal mine. In 1910 Tobane’s grandmother and other Jarowair people were taken off a property and sent away. She was Bunda’s sister. C13 Bunda is a men’s name that means ‘brown snake’. Bundagin is the women’s name. Darlow (Tobane’s Grandmother’s name) C14 means ‘fire’ in Jarowair language. There is a scarred tree at Evensleigh (10km east). C15 There are many soft trees around Jarowair Country that are good for obtaining bark. C16 Bunda’s parents, John and Bridget Darlow, are both buried at Dalby. C17 Jane Darlow is Tobane’s grandmother. Her husband, Billy Tobane, was a Gunburri man from Mitchell. They were married in C18 1910 in Taroom and had a daughter, Isabel Tobane. The Myall Brickworks is the site of a big Jarowair camp. Campsites have been seen all along Myall Creek, which flows from the C19 Bunya Mountains to the Condamine. Many artefacts were recovered from Moola Creek when sites were bulldozed during development and land clearing. C20 Several scarred trees have been sighted by Tobane close to the road between Dalby and Jimbour. There are plenty of soft trees around here C21 that are good for obtaining bark. There is a large quarry at a place called Blue Hillson the road between Bell and Dalby. Several knapping sites are visible. C22 Silcrete and chert are the most common raw materials. The Bunya Mountains are visible along the road between Dalby and Bell. C23 At Womberrura, close to the Bunya Mountains, there are birthing places and burial caves. C24 Jimbour Station, owned by George Reed, was a very big land holding in the area. Several scarred trees were known at Maida C25 Hill and Bunda worked on the station for some time. This enabled him to stay on Country when others were removed in the early 1900s. Bunda was born in this area where Moola Creek joins Myall Creek. C26 Bunda’s mother worked on Kilumbar (Cumkillenbar) Station. C27 There are many campsites along Moola Creek. C28 Stone axes have often been found around Routleys Road. C29 There is a scarred tree at North Myall Creek. C30 Bunda worked for all the original families in the area. C31 Thunder eggs have been found at Square Top Hill, a nearby landform. C32 Flaked stone artefacts are commonly found in the area close to the Bell-Kaimkillenbun Road. C33 Ironbark trees were used in the past by Jarowair people. The bark would be burnt and used as paint. C34

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Warmga was a major campsite that was used by many people. It is situated on the main pathway to the Bunya Mountains. Ovens C35 have been found on the edge of the creek, which flows from the Bunya Mountains. An emu’s footprint has been seen by Tobane, carved in a rock next to the creek. Jacky’s Waterhole, 5km o the northwest of Warmga, is Tobane’s grandmother’s father’s place. C36 Billy Bowen, a local man, buried his wife in the late 1800s and planted a Bottle Tree over the grave. The tree is still in situ. C37 Bowen was employed to name all the places around the area when the railway was built, including Koondai, Kaimkillenbun, and Warmga. Many creeks around Warmga come from the Bunya Mountains. C38 The sandstone is very yellow on the Bell-Kaimkillenbun Road. C39 Several scarred trees have been seen within a few kilometres of the Bell-Kaimkillenbun Road. C40 Bunda’s mother’s and father’s campsite is at Irvingdale. C41

245

Appendix B

B.1 - Turtle

Length Width Height EDM# Longitude Latitude Photo # Direction Date Moved Motif Motif (cm) (cm) (cm) G1853 -10.74300000 68.43400000 7029 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Head 31 24 20 G1854 -10.94800000 68.29900000 7030 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 32 15 16 G1855 -11.16900000 68.27500000 7031 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 19 17 13 G1856 -11.36900000 68.32900000 7032 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 16 8 12 G1857 -11.36100000 68.57600000 7033 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 15 8 9 G1858 -11.32600000 68.80800000 7034 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 19 18 14 G1859 -11.54600000 68.91000000 7035 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 23 14 16 G1860 -11.50100000 68.58900000 7036 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 28 15 14 G1861 -11.49100000 68.27000000 7037 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 18 13 5 G1862 -11.68600000 68.33800000 7038 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 17 15 12 G1863 -12.10100000 68.10700000 7039 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 43 22 14 G1864 -12.23100000 67.84600000 7040 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 30 19 19 G1865 -11.81400000 67.63100000 7041 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 19 10 12 G1866 -11.54400000 67.67900000 7042 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 13 13 5 G1867 -11.64100000 67.45300000 7043 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 20 6 5 G1868 -11.95500000 67.29000000 7044 N 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 24 15 12 G1869 -11.54600000 67.45600000 7045 N 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 16 13 13 G1870 -11.48000000 67.10700000 7046 N 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 31 28 15 G1871 -11.45800000 66.77100000 7047 N 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 29 20 16 G1872 -11.51100000 66.62100000 7048 N 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 21 19 12 G1873 -11.01100000 67.44500000 7049 N 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 21 17 5 G1874 -10.81500000 67.49500000 7050 N 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 28 25 16 G1875 -10.92300000 67.64600000 7051 N 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 23 6 1 G1876 -10.95700000 67.71400000 7052 N 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 26 21 11 G1877 -10.63700000 67.92200000 7053 N 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 22 13 6 G1878 -10.42400000 67.78600000 7054 N 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 36 16 13 G1879 -10.25200000 67.97900000 7055 N 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 23 16 14 G1880 -10.44900000 67.98000000 7056 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 28 16 17 G1881 -10.64700000 68.14800000 7057 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 18 11 8 G1882 -10.73800000 68.19700000 7058 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 16 7 3 246

G1883 -11.15600000 67.88800000 7059 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 10 8 3 G1884 -11.44700000 67.98800000 7060 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 33 29 7 G1885 -11.74000000 67.99900000 7061 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 23 17 5 G1886 -11.97800000 67.91600000 7062 S 16/08/2008 Turtle Turtle 24 12 3

B.2 - Catfish

Length Width Height EDM# Longitude Latitude Photo # Direction Date Moved Motif Motif (cm) (cm) (cm) G7625 32.88400000 -19.96200000 0653 E 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 1 21.5 9 6 G7626 32.97300000 -20.13300000 0654 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 1 28 7.5 11 G7627 33.04900000 -20.28500000 0655 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 1 15.5 14 5.5 G7628 33.20300000 -20.44600000 0656 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 1 23.5 14 7.5 G7629 33.38400000 -20.71100000 0657 E 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 1 38.5 19 9 G7630 33.56400000 -21.05300000 0658 E 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 1 18 13 5 G7631 33.66600000 -21.40500000 0659 E 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 1 13 11.5 1 G7632 33.71200000 -21.67300000 0660 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 1 18 12 6 G7633 33.81200000 -21.88800000 0661 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 1 32 17 6 G7634 33.49700000 -21.84000000 0662 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Non-specific 11.5 7.5 6 G7635 33.52400000 -21.79400000 0663 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Non-specific 21 11 6 G7636 32.37700000 -20.17600000 0664 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 2 28 6 15 G7637 33.56000000 -21.63500000 0665 S 14/07/2010 Catfish Non-specific 19 16 17 G7638 33.34700000 -21.21200000 0666 S 14/07/2010 Catfish Non-specific 33 23 8 G7639 32.51600000 -20.33000000 0667 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 2 17 10 9.5 G7640 32.54200000 -20.41300000 0668 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 2 13 9.5 13 G7641 32.57900000 -20.57900000 0669 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 2 22 11 10 G7642 32.78800000 -20.70800000 0670 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 2 20 12 6 G7643 32.82500000 -20.88200000 0671 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 2 17 10 4 G7644 32.92500000 -21.04800000 0672 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 2 16 16 7.5 G7645 33.01000000 -21.27800000 0673 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 2 31 16 5 G7646 33.21600000 -21.56200000 0674 E 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 2 39 16 12 G7647 33.36000000 -21.79100000 0675 W 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 2 9 9.5 5 G7648 33.25900000 -21.76700000 0676 SW 14/07/2010 Catfish Non-specific 12 8 9 G7649 31.87100000 -20.46100000 0677 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 3 27 9.5 11 247

G7650 32.01500000 -20.60200000 0678 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 3 15 11 8 G7651 32.21400000 -20.72800000 0679 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 3 36 18 14 G7652 32.48200000 -21.13300000 0680 E 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 3 62.5 25 8 G7653 32.73700000 -21.55000000 0681 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 3 23.5 14.5 7 G7654 33.14000000 -21.92000000 0682 E 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 3 36 31 19 G7655 31.24800000 -21.24500000 0683 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 4 25 6 8 G7656 31.54700000 -21.42600000 0684 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 4 25 12 9 G7657 31.72700000 -21.54500000 0685 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 4 19 4 8.5 G7658 31.86100000 -21.66900000 0686 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 4 18 6.5 3 G7659 32.08200000 -21.80100000 0687 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 4 23 3 13.5 G7660 32.30300000 -22.23700000 0688 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 4 50 19 10 G7661 31.26300000 -22.55800000 0689 SW 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 5 34 12 3 G7662 31.57800000 -22.60700000 0690 S 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 5 30 13 9.5 G7663 31.90200000 -22.76300000 0691 S 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 5 24.5 12.5 6 G7664 32.07500000 -22.83000000 0692 S 14/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 5 14 14 10.5 G7665 32.26900000 -22.93200000 0693 W 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 30 26 16 G7666 32.18200000 -22.73500000 0694 SE 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 16.5 11 6 G7667 32.21500000 -22.66400000 0695 SE 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 10 8 5 G7668 32.29100000 -22.72000000 0696 SE 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 8 7 3 G7669 32.30700000 -22.62100000 0697 SE 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 14 16 15 G7670 32.44400000 -22.69100000 0698 NW 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 17 14.5 8.5 G7671 32.58700000 -22.53000000 0699 W 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 33 31 13 G7672 32.76900000 -22.39900000 0700 SW 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 15 15 8 G7673 33.00300000 -22.37300000 0701 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 42 17 12 G7674 33.16300000 -22.27200000 0703 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 26 23 10 G7675 33.20200000 -22.14400000 0704 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 17 13 8.5 G7676 33.36700000 -21.92700000 0705 S 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 15 14 7 G7677 33.34600000 -22.10300000 0706 W 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 18 19 7 G7678 33.55600000 -22.15800000 0707 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 26 15 9 G7679 33.61700000 -22.05300000 0708 S 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 31 12 18 G7680 33.44000000 -22.48200000 0709 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 40 39 20 G7681 33.90300000 -22.39100000 0710 NW 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 33 26 15 G7682 33.95500000 -22.66900000 0712 SE 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 28 19 5.5 G7683 34.08900000 -22.51000000 0714 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 10 17 8 G7684 34.22400000 -22.75200000 0715 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 13 6 10.5 G7685 34.46800000 -22.62300000 0716 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 53 33 13 248

G7686 34.84800000 -22.41300000 0717 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 34 22 9 G7687 34.48200000 -22.94000000 0718 W 14/07/2010 Catfish Back 14 11 4 G7688 34.34200000 -23.17600000 0719 NW 14/07/2010 Catfish Back 28 19 17 G7689 34.71500000 -23.20300000 0721 W 14/07/2010 Catfish Back 26 13 4 G7690 34.73600000 -23.28600000 0722 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Back 9 7 4 G7691 34.83300000 -23.37100000 0723 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Back 12 8 3 G7692 34.90600000 -23.27600000 0724 E 14/07/2010 Catfish Back 16 11 11 G7693 35.10300000 -23.04700000 0725 S 14/07/2010 Catfish Dorsal Fin 44.5 27 15.5 G7694 35.41800000 -22.60100000 0727 NW 14/07/2010 Catfish Dorsal Fin 55 27 10.5 G7695 35.84200000 -22.26700000 0728 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Dorsal Fin 34.5 25 19.5 G7696 36.40200000 -22.70700000 0729 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Dorsal Fin 29 12 9 G7697 36.02200000 -22.70100000 0731 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Dorsal Fin 49.5 19.5 11.5 G7698 35.54800000 -22.86600000 0732 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Dorsal Fin 44 15 10 G7699 35.15600000 -23.33000000 0733 W 14/07/2010 Catfish Back 28 17.5 6 G7700 35.06200000 -23.37100000 0734 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Back 11 7.5 7 G7701 34.98600000 -23.47300000 0736 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Back 12.5 9.5 3.5 G7702 35.13500000 -23.49100000 0735 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Back 11.5 7.5 5 G7703 35.23300000 -23.64700000 0737 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Back 20 14 6.5 G7704 35.33400000 -23.48400000 0738 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Back 27 21 8 G7705 35.54800000 -23.55700000 0740 NW 14/07/2010 Catfish Rear Dorsal Fin 65 24 15 G7706 35.48100000 -23.27900000 0741 W 14/07/2010 Catfish Rear Dorsal Fin 7 7 1.5 G7707 36.09800000 -23.19200000 0742 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Rear Dorsal Fin 67 26 10 G7708 36.48200000 -23.22100000 0743 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Rear Dorsal Fin 16 18 6.5 G7709 35.79300000 -23.74300000 0744 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Back 24 16 4 G7710 36.01300000 -23.88200000 0745 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Back 21 11 9.5 G7711 36.15500000 -23.95500000 0746 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Back 11 14 6 G7712 36.30600000 -24.01300000 0747 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Back 34 31 14.5 G7713 36.56500000 -24.26700000 0748 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Back 22 15 9 G7714 36.63200000 -24.42000000 0749 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Back 17 16 18.5 G7715 36.80700000 -24.47700000 0752 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Back 12 14 8 G7716 36.93400000 -24.66000000 0753 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Tail 40 35 17 G7717 37.02400000 -24.43100000 0754 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Tail 7 7.5 2 G7718 37.14700000 -24.39700000 0756 NW 14/07/2010 Catfish Tail 16.5 12 4.5 G7719 37.32600000 -24.24800000 0757 NW 14/07/2010 Catfish Tail 22 19 6.5 G7720 37.58800000 -24.01300000 0758 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Tail 45 21 11 G7721 37.87700000 -24.53300000 0759 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Tail 29 11 7 249

G7722 37.45600000 -24.56000000 0761 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Tail 53 21 12 G7723 37.25100000 -24.83000000 0762 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Tail 21.5 16 12 G7724 37.60400000 -25.03500000 0763 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Tail 32 27.5 15 G7728 37.34000000 -25.52000000 0767 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Tail 30 23 13.5 G7729 37.01400000 -25.39900000 0768 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Tail 39 17 20.5 G7730 36.68500000 -25.37400000 0769 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Tail 27 26 13 G7731 36.43800000 -25.17700000 0770 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Tail 19 26 11 G7732 36.15400000 -25.06300000 0771 E 14/07/2010 Catfish Tail 27.5 15 11.5 G7733 35.96000000 -25.01100000 0772 S 14/07/2010 Catfish Ventral Fin 15 10 9 G7734 36.01600000 -25.31700000 0773 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Ventral Fin 26 14 6 G7735 36.11600000 -25.60500000 0774 NW 14/07/2010 Catfish Ventral Fin 20.5 14.5 9 G7736 36.25800000 -26.07300000 0775 E 14/07/2010 Catfish Ventral Fin 30.5 15 12 G7737 35.92200000 -26.03500000 0776 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Ventral Fin 15.5 14 11 G7738 35.62900000 -25.84600000 0777 E 14/07/2010 Catfish Ventral Fin 20 18 7.5 G7739 35.36400000 -25.71100000 0778 E 14/07/2010 Catfish Ventral Fin 13 14 7 G7740 35.30000000 -25.27600000 0779 E 14/07/2010 Catfish Ventral Fin 12.5 12.5 7.5 G7741 35.27800000 -25.06400000 0780 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Ventral Fin 10 9 4.5 G7742 35.58200000 -24.88900000 0781 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Ventral Fin 46 29 10 G7743 35.23000000 -24.83700000 0782 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Belly 24 15 8 G7744 34.99200000 -24.69800000 0783 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Belly 20 19.5 15.5 G7745 34.72900000 -24.62400000 0784 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Belly 14 24 11 G7746 34.46600000 -24.55400000 0785 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Belly 17 21 7 G7747 34.22500000 -24.49100000 0786 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Belly 20.5 22 10 G7748 34.00100000 -24.37600000 0787 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Belly 12 18 7 G7749 33.79900000 -24.23100000 0788 NW 14/07/2010 Catfish Belly 33 29 6 G7750 33.37500000 -24.01300000 0789 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Belly 29 14 11 G7751 33.04500000 -24.50500000 0790 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Frontal Ventral Fin 28.5 7 9.5 G7752 32.59300000 -24.82600000 0791 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Frontal Ventral Fin 34 20 15 G7753 32.39500000 -24.30400000 0792 E 14/07/2010 Catfish Frontal Ventral Fin 20 22.5 10 G7754 32.34500000 -24.12000000 0793 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Frontal Ventral Fin 12 11 5 G7755 32.25000000 -23.78700000 0794 E 14/07/2010 Catfish Frontal Ventral Fin 32 30 9 G7756 32.88000000 -23.73100000 0795 NW 14/07/2010 Catfish Frontal Ventral Fin 32 23 10.5 G7757 32.71500000 -23.50600000 0796 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Frontal Ventral Fin 15 17 8 G7758 32.53100000 -23.35500000 0798 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 18 18 22 G7759 32.36000000 -23.45500000 0799 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 17 11 7 G7760 32.33700000 -23.23000000 0800 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 16 12 9 250

G7761 32.72200000 -23.22200000 0801 S 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 30 17 11 G7762 33.16000000 -22.90300000 0802 S 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 68 38 13.5 G7763 33.65300000 -22.77300000 0803 S 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 16 22 7 G7764 33.65500000 -22.93500000 0804 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Head 10 16 8.5 G7765 33.76600000 -23.08800000 0805 E 14/07/2010 Catfish Front Rib 18 26 8 G7766 33.46800000 -23.20000000 0806 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Front Rib 22 16 10 G7767 33.36000000 -23.35000000 0808 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Front Rib 27 11 7 G7768 33.25300000 -23.41700000 0809 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Front Rib 21 15 14 G7769 33.09800000 -23.51400000 0810 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Front Rib 25 16 13.5 G7770 33.47400000 -23.79300000 0811 E 14/07/2010 Catfish Middle Rib 19 14 8.5 G7771 33.63300000 -23.61700000 0812 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Middle Rib 13 6 5 G7772 33.75400000 -23.45600000 0813 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Middle Rib 13 11 7.5 G7773 33.82800000 -23.27900000 0814 NW 14/07/2010 Catfish Middle Rib 19.5 10.5 9.5 G7774 34.02500000 -23.26200000 0815 W 14/07/2010 Catfish Middle Rib 15.5 8 14.5 G7775 34.10000000 -22.99200000 0816 NW 14/07/2010 Catfish Middle Rib 35 26 8.5 G7776 34.20900000 -23.42900000 0817 NW 14/07/2010 Catfish Back Rib 17 7 7.5 G7777 34.17900000 -23.69500000 0819 SW 14/07/2010 Catfish Back Rib 41 28 15 G7778 33.99300000 -23.95200000 0820 W 14/07/2010 Catfish Back Rib 28 24 9 G7779 34.57900000 -23.90000000 0821 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Spine 9 12 6.5 G7780 34.72000000 -24.00800000 0822 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Spine 9 6.5 2 G7781 35.15500000 -24.26200000 0823 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Spine 53 34 15 G7782 35.77700000 -24.34700000 0824 W 14/07/2010 Catfish Spine 42.5 23 13 G7783 36.10600000 -24.54200000 0825 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Spine 31 28 12 G7784 36.51900000 -24.77500000 0826 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Spine 27 21 10 G7785 36.94200000 -25.03400000 0827 E 14/07/2010 Catfish Spine 17.5 11 2 G7786 37.09600000 -25.08200000 0828 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Spine 13 12 7 G7787 37.31200000 -25.22700000 0829 NE 14/07/2010 Catfish Spine 13 12.5 6 G7788 37.57700000 -25.23900000 0830 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Spine 14 14 9 G7789 37.50700000 -25.37200000 0831 N 14/07/2010 Catfish Spine 19 7 9 G9332 32.88100000 -22.32900000 9126 N 16/07/2010 Catfish Head 13 4.5 0.5 G9333 33.36300000 -21.94200000 9127 N 16/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 2 14.5 13.5 9 G9334 33.88900000 -21.55100000 9128 N 16/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 1 12 7 3 G9335 34.01500000 -22.09700000 9129 N 16/07/2010 Catfish Whiskers 1 12 8.5 3.5 G9336 34.52000000 -23.15100000 9130 N 16/07/2010 Catfish Back 26 12 4 G9337 34.85700000 -23.30100000 9131 N 16/07/2010 Catfish Back 14 7 3 G9338 37.16300000 -25.04900000 9132 N 16/07/2010 Catfish Tail 9 9.5 7 251

B.3 – Carpet Snake Length Width Height EDM# Longitude Latitude Photo # Direction Date Moved Motif Motif (cm) (cm) (cm) G538 -52.18600000 92.08700000 5217 W 31/03/2008 Snake Head 37 27 18 G539 -52.94600000 92.15400000 5218 N 31/03/2008 Snake Head 28 20 23 G540 -53.30000000 92.27000000 5219 N 31/03/2008 Snake Head 30 17 20 G541 -53.80900000 92.49100000 5220 N 31/03/2008 Snake Head 30 24 10 G542 -54.99400000 91.98700000 5221 N 31/03/2008 Snake Head 34 20 21 G543 -54.66900000 91.44500000 5222 E 31/03/2008 Snake Head 30 16 9 G544 -54.41900000 90.93800000 5223 N 31/03/2008 Snake Head 26 18 12 G545 -54.16900000 90.50100000 5224 N 31/03/2008 Snake Head 30 20 0 G546 -53.51800000 90.65300000 5225 N 31/03/2008 Snake Head 25 25 15 G547 -52.93500000 91.03600000 5226 N 31/03/2008 Snake Head 26 20 13 G548 -53.10700000 91.32600000 5227 N 31/03/2008 Snake Eye 24 18 3 G549 -53.30700000 91.71100000 5228 N 31/03/2008 Snake Eye 27 15 10 G550 -54.78900000 90.77000000 5229 N 31/03/2008 Snake Body 30 18 16 G551 -55.26600000 90.42800000 5230 W 31/03/2008 Snake Body 33 29 17 G552 -55.63800000 90.00000000 5231 N 31/03/2008 Snake Body 26 18 20 G553 -55.74400000 90.08500000 5232 W 31/03/2008 Snake Body 18 10 16 G554 -55.82400000 90.16600000 5233 N 31/03/2008 Snake Body 33 17 18 G555 -56.10800000 89.71200000 5234 N 31/03/2008 Snake Body 43 36 29 G556 -56.40700000 89.57900000 5235 N 31/03/2008 Snake Body 17 19 15 G557 -56.48000000 89.37100000 5251 N 31/03/2008 Snake Body 25 19 15 G558 -56.60000000 89.51700000 5236 S 31/03/2008 Snake Body 29 10 16 G559 -56.90600000 88.92000000 5237 S 31/03/2008 Snake Body 36 26 28 G560 -57.39500000 88.72000000 5238 S 31/03/2008 Snake Body 16 10 8 G561 -57.64700000 88.43200000 5239 N 31/03/2008 Snake Body 24 22 20 G562 -58.04000000 88.22800000 5240 S 31/03/2008 Snake Body 30 16 18 G563 -58.13300000 88.05300000 5241 S 31/03/2008 Snake Body 17 10 10 G564 -58.23100000 87.92900000 5242 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 22 17 17 G565 -58.19300000 87.78900000 5243 W 31/03/2008 Snake Body 10 11 8 G566 -58.34900000 87.83700000 5244 W 31/03/2008 Snake Body 21 17 15 G567 -58.36800000 88.00300000 5245 N 31/03/2008 Snake Body 16 13 14 G568 -58.49600000 88.03800000 5246 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 27 14 15 G569 -58.57100000 87.70300000 5247 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 24 16 10 G570 -58.86500000 87.60200000 5248 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 25 17 15 252

G571 -59.10000000 87.27900000 5249 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 42 30 20 G572 -59.28300000 87.09000000 5250 N 31/03/2008 Snake Body 33 26 13 G573 -59.51100000 86.81500000 5252 W 31/03/2008 Snake Body 27 28 13 G574 -59.78000000 86.90700000 5253 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 29 16 18 G575 -60.11900000 86.69100000 5254 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 36 22 19 G576 -60.50700000 86.87900000 5255 N 31/03/2008 Snake Body 40 29 23 G577 -60.57200000 86.53300000 5256 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 28 22 13 G578 -60.98400000 86.60700000 5257 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 27 19 14 G579 -61.00200000 86.18800000 5258 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 37 36 18 G580 -61.30800000 86.01900000 5259 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 29 27 26 G581 -61.63600000 85.90800000 5260 N 31/03/2008 Snake Body 35 24 30 G582 -61.84100000 86.15400000 5261 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 28 20 15 G583 -62.07100000 85.53300000 5262 N 31/03/2008 Snake Body 44 18 18 G584 -62.43500000 85.45400000 5263 W 31/03/2008 Snake Body 27 10 16 G585 -62.47900000 85.39100000 5264 W 31/03/2008 Snake Body 14 10 15 G586 -62.74000000 85.46700000 5265 W 31/03/2008 Snake Body 23 18 11 G587 -62.81400000 85.33100000 5266 W 31/03/2008 Snake Body 22 14 1 G588 -63.03700000 85.42300000 5267 N 31/03/2008 Snake Body 36 14 17 G589 -63.22600000 85.23000000 5268 N 31/03/2008 Snake Body 15 15 10 G590 -63.16600000 85.51000000 5269 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 12 8 9 G591 -63.28300000 85.38200000 5270 W 31/03/2008 Snake Body 22 13 13 G592 -63.39700000 85.26200000 5271 W 31/03/2008 Snake Body 16 8 0 G593 -63.61600000 85.24300000 5272 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 24 17 17 G594 -63.88600000 85.15300000 5273 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 25 19 18 G595 -64.15400000 85.06800000 5274 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 25 17 13 G596 -64.42800000 84.98200000 5275 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 32 23 10 G597 -64.83300000 84.98000000 5276 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 33 18 9 G598 -65.06200000 84.77200000 5277 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 26 14 13 G599 -65.13500000 84.93400000 5278 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 27 15 13 G600 -65.61600000 84.79400000 5279 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 25 22 14 G601 -65.98300000 84.62400000 5280 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 19 14 10 G602 -66.30700000 84.71100000 5281 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 27 19 16 G603 -66.62400000 84.73100000 5282 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 31 19 3 G604 -66.90900000 84.63900000 5283 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 26 18 7 G605 -67.36400000 84.54100000 5284 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 20 12 8 G606 -67.83900000 84.48800000 5285 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 30 23 25 253

G607 -68.73500000 84.16200000 5286 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 26 20 18 G608 -69.35300000 84.03200000 5287 E 31/03/2008 Snake Body 24 17 10 G609 -71.45100000 83.25800000 5288 N 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 34 29 21 G610 -72.50800000 82.54700000 5289 E 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 34 19 23 G611 -74.29000000 80.67400000 5290 N 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 36 31 19 G612 -74.93700000 79.03900000 5291 W 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 18 17 10 G613 -74.35500000 76.97700000 5292 W 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 33 20 23 G614 -73.84500000 77.19700000 5293 W 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 18 19 10 G615 -72.99500000 75.67000000 5294 W 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 25 16 14 G616 -71.91800000 74.66200000 5295 N 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 22 23 14 G617 -70.74800000 73.88400000 5296 W 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 25 19 18 G618 -69.32900000 73.13900000 5297 W 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 21 16 10 G619 -68.68900000 72.72000000 5298 W 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 19 15 8 G620 -68.14700000 72.37600000 5299 W 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 14 13 10 G621 -67.81300000 72.18400000 5300 W 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 19 16 9 G622 -67.05300000 71.98300000 5301 W 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 20 17 13 G623 -66.91700000 72.49300000 5302 W 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 20 13 16 G624 -67.50400000 72.82600000 5303 W 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 21 16 13 G625 -68.19500000 72.93900000 5304 N 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 20 19 12 G626 -65.56400000 70.98200000 5305 W 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 20 14 9 G627 -65.42500000 70.52900000 5306 W 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 16 14 9 G628 -65.25600000 70.11400000 5307 W 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 14 10 8 G629 -65.09200000 69.68300000 5308 W 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 15 13 6 G630 -69.05000000 84.52900000 5309 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 30 29 10 G631 -69.35300000 84.70100000 5310 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 33 27 15 G632 -70.15300000 85.24700000 5311 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 18 18 10 G633 -70.62600000 86.37900000 5312 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 25 17 13 G634 -71.37700000 87.42200000 5313 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 25 23 16 G635 -71.01900000 87.45500000 5314 N 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 24 17 12 G636 -70.39500000 87.51600000 5315 N 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 20 12 17 G637 -70.30600000 87.74900000 5316 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 22 13 9 G638 -69.41400000 87.85900000 5317 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 25 16 7 G639 -68.57500000 88.54400000 5318 E 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 14 12 7 G640 -67.88700000 88.70800000 5319 E 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 11 4 5 G641 -67.28200000 88.89200000 5320 E 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 25 19 14 G642 -66.47800000 88.83100000 5321 E 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 23 19 13 254

G643 -66.01500000 88.95800000 5322 E 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 28 25 20 G644 -65.98100000 89.82600000 5323 E 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 27 16 17 G645 -65.48700000 90.61800000 5324 E 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 31 17 20 G646 -64.95500000 90.90000000 5325 E 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 25 18 18 G647 -64.54400000 91.09100000 5327 E 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 23 20 16 G648 -63.86100000 91.55100000 5328 E 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 32 25 22 G649 -62.85800000 90.88300000 5329 E 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 29 18 21 G650 -62.35100000 90.73600000 5330 E 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 33 15 14 G651 -62.18400000 90.86200000 5331 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 13 11 4 G652 -62.11000000 90.70300000 5332 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 20 19 17 G653 -61.84600000 90.61300000 5333 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 25 17 15 G654 -61.71600000 90.63000000 5334 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 18 13 5 G655 -61.61000000 90.53600000 5335 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 28 13 12 G656 -61.34100000 90.52000000 5336 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 10 7 6 G657 -61.25000000 90.50600000 5337 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 12 10 7 G658 -61.08400000 90.43800000 5338 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 22 16 14 G659 -60.70000000 90.08200000 5339 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 9 7 5 G660 -60.62600000 90.04400000 5340 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 12 10 7 G661 -60.53900000 89.90800000 5341 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 10 10 6 G662 -60.42200000 89.88500000 5342 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 11 7 4 G663 -60.31200000 89.90600000 5343 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 11 8 5 G664 -60.18500000 89.86700000 5344 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 10 9 8 G665 -60.08600000 89.76400000 5345 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 14 13 6 G666 -59.49000000 89.52500000 5346 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 15 11 5 G667 -59.23200000 89.09000000 5347 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 18 17 8 G668 -58.67300000 89.00800000 5348 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 15 12 8 G669 -57.82400000 88.98200000 5349 W 31/03/2008 Snake Belly 19 6 2 G670 -63.05100000 89.73900000 5350 W 31/03/2008 Snake Unborn Children 27 14 13 G671 -63.37500000 89.52800000 5351 W 31/03/2008 Snake Unborn Children 25 16 23 G672 -63.72900000 89.79700000 5352 N 31/03/2008 Snake Unborn Children 26 16 18 G673 -63.50000000 90.14000000 5353 W 31/03/2008 Snake Unborn Children 26 25 20 G674 -63.19100000 90.14800000 5354 W 31/03/2008 Snake Unborn Children 31 18 16 G675 -73.53800000 82.78300000 5355 N 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 11 7 4 G676 -74.18900000 83.80000000 5356 N 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 13 11 9 G677 -74.65700000 83.69300000 5357 N 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 16 13 9 G678 -74.89700000 84.13100000 5358 N 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 17 14 6 255

G679 -75.17900000 84.49100000 5359 N 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 12 7 3 G680 -75.30600000 83.20700000 5360 W 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 27 12 14 G681 -76.38400000 83.56000000 5361 N 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 29 17 14 G682 -77.27600000 83.70800000 5362 N 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 18 14 14 G683 -76.43500000 82.07600000 5363 N 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 14 11 8 G684 -75.67200000 80.97300000 5364 W 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 15 9 7 G685 -77.65300000 80.82200000 5365 N 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 18 13 13 G686 -78.83800000 80.48700000 5366 N 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 26 13 9 G687 -76.94900000 79.61600000 5367 N 31/03/2008 Snake Tail 15 7 6

256

Appendix C

The following QR Codes can be used to go directly to the animations developed during this thesis.

Use a QR Code Scanner on your smartphone to go directly to the Gummingurru Prezi.

Use a QR Code Scanner on your smartphone to go directly to the Gummingurru website Site History page (Catfish 2D animated .gif).

Use a QR Code Scanner on your smartphone to go directly to the Gummingurru website Maps and Plans page (Initiation Ring and Turtle yuree story 2D animated .gifs).

257

Use a QR Code Scanner on your smartphone to go directly to the YouTube video ‘Demonstration of Blender’.

Use a QR Code Scanner on your smartphone to go directly to the YouTube video ‘Turtle Story Pass 2’.

Use a QR Code Scanner on your smartphone to go directly to the YouTube video ‘Moving on the Site’, 3D animated map of the living heritage and yuree stories of Gummingurru.

258

Appendix D

259