Category Archives: Tasmania

Grub for grub

Meeting some Tasmanians

It’s the year 1793, and the place later known as Tasmania. Ten years before the first European settlement to be established. There had been occasional European sightings and visits since 1642, and this was one such, by the French. It was the expedition, under Bruny d’Entrecasteaux, that was looking for the lost explorer La Perouse. They were in Recherche Bay, named after their own ship, on the south-east coast.

Piron 1793 Tasmanians prepare a meal

Fig. 1 Tasmanians in 1793 preparing food, by Piron

This painting by the artist Piron records the second of two encounters with the local people. Two of the French met 42 local inhabitants on the first occasion, and a larger group met 17 or so on the second. As can be seen, the Aboriginals wore no clothes. They led a hunting and gathering life style, which meant that they did not get their food from shops (there were none), or out of tins. And that some of the things that served as food people today might not much like the sound of.

 

Collecting words

The French took the opportunity of these friendly meetings to make lists of words, mostly body parts  and things that could be seen round about. A hundred or so words were collected, and Your Amateur Researcher (YAR) happens to have copies of four of the lists, made by the following crew members:

Willaumez senior, Ensign on the Recherche

Mérite, a volunteer on the Recherche

Riche, naturalist on the Esperance

Piron, artist on the Recherche

This last list was probably Piron’s from the signature, but you can decide:

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Fig. 2 Illegible signature: Piron [?]

He is marked with the red arrow is this beginning of the list of the ship’s company. Two of the other list compilers are indicated with blue arrows

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Fig. 3 On the Recherche: from:

Labillardière, Jacques Julien Houton de. Relation du Voyage à la Recherche de La Pérouse: Fait par Ordre de l’Assemblée Constituante pendant pes Années 1791, 1792 et pendant la 1ère. et la 2de. Année de la République Françoise. Tome Premier [Vol. I]. Paris: Chez H.J. Jansen, Imprimeur-Libraire, 1800.

 

Are the words correct?

When we see a word list compiled by someone on the spot, and when we see such remarks as that they checked for the meaning by asking various questions and repeating each word to make sure it was right, we tend to believe the compilers. And believe them we must, for how are we to know any differently? Except today we have computers and databases.

Here are words that look as though they sound in more or less the same way, taken down in 1793 during these encounters:

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Fig. 4 baruwi: ‘insect’ [Mérite]

 

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Fig. 5 baruwi: ‘caterpillar’ [Riche]

 

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Fig. 6 baruwa: ‘eat’ [Riche]

 

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Fig. 7 baruwa: ‘for me’ [Piron?]

In the last column you can see who collected the word. The first two examples (by Mérite and Riche) pretty well agree: baruwi means a caterpillar, or an insect. We might call it a ‘grub’. The last two (by Riche again and probably Piron) are given quite different meanings. What could account for this?

First baruwi might be different from baruwa. However, the records do not offer much immediate support for either ‘eat’ or the pronoun ‘for me’.  So could there be anything else to explain the meanings given?

 

Tasty morsel

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Fig. 8 Offering a choice grub

Perhaps this: a person offers a tasty grub to another to eat. ‘For me?’, the other enquires.

 

Were ‘eat’ and ‘for me” complete misunderstandings of what was going on? This is admittedly sheer speculation. But how else can the wordlists sometimes be comprehended?

Jeremy Steele

Friday 18 December 2015

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BIG EYE: SUN

It is something of a thrill for Your Amateur Researcher (YAR) when a little bit of the curtain shrouding the mysteries of the Tasmanian vocabularies is pulled aside. Take as an example of this the following records for ‘sun’ collected by French sailors in Recherche Bay on 11 February 1793, and again on a second visit two days later:

Sun wil

Fig. 1 ‘sun’ according to Willaumez senior, Ensign on the Recherche

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Fig. 2 ‘sun’ according to Fier [illegible signature: possibly Piron, draughtsman on the Recherche, or Pierson, astronomer on the Esperance]

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Fig. 3  a second version of ‘sun’ according to Fier [illegible signature: possibly Piron, draughtsman on the Recherche, or Pierson, astronomer on the Esperance]

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Sun Mer

Fig. 4 ‘sun’ according to Mérite, volunteer on the Recherche

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Sun Ric

Fig. 5 ‘sun’ according to Riche, naturalist on the Esperance

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French ships in Tasmania two centuries ago

What were those French ships doing in Van Diemen’s Land in 1793, so soon after the English settlement in Sydney in 1788? It is quite a story, and it is necessary to backtrack a little.

It is worth bearing in mind that during the period covered here, between 1783 and 1793, for a change England and France were not at war — but who on the other side of the world could really know the current political situation at any moment?

Anyway, this particular Tasmanian sideshow began in 1785 when the French explorer La Pérouse (Jean François de Galaup, comte de Lapérouse), under the sponsorship of the French king, Louis XVI, set off on a voyage of scientific discovery of the Pacific in two ships, the Bussoule and the Astrolabe.

The British First Fleet

They weren’t the only adventurers in those days. The British had finally assembled a convoy of 11 ships, containing mostly convicts and stores, for the purpose of setting up a colony on the other side of the world, in Botany Bay, ‘New Holland’—and to stake a claim to it. The fleet left Spithead, Portsmouth, on 13 May 1787, and after an 8-month voyage arrived safely in Botany Bay between 18 and 20 January the following year. The destination of Botany Bay was because of favourable comments made by by the James Cook expedition in the Endeavour 18 years earlier. High hopes of the suitability of this location  for the settlement, however, were to be dashed practically immediately on actual arrival there. This reality induced Governor Arthur Phillip the very next day, on 21 January, to look for somewhere better, setting out very early in a longboat, rowing northwards towards the inlet that Cook had noted and named Port Jackson. Phillip was to discover a stupendously better place, and on his return on 23 January he at once ordered the ships to get ready to transfer there. Guess what happened the very next day.

The French appear

On 24 January, to the ‘infinite surprise of everybody’, two European ships were seen just outside the heads to Botany Bay. This would have been nearly as remarkable as for Neil Armstrong to spot someone else springing about on the moon in July 1969. Well, a bit like that anyway: Phillip did know about the La Perouse expedition, and what was at once guessed in due course turned out to be the the reality and that these were indeed the La Perouse vessels. Were they hostile?

Transfer to Port Jackson

But the removal of the First Fleet northwards had already begun: Governor Phillip left on the Supply, together with four of the ‘transports’ (ships carrying the people), headed for Port Jackson, Phillip getting there the same day, 24 January.

All day on 25 January the French were thwarted by adverse conditions, but on 26 January finally anchored in Botany Bay. John Hunter, captain of the flagship Sirius, sent 2nd Lieutenant William Dawes, who was proficient in the French language, to make contact with the newcomers. For their part, La Perouse and his crews had expected to find the British settlement already well established and had hoped to replenish supplies from it. Instead he was startled to find they had only just arrived, and bizarrely were in the process of leaving again at the very moment of his own arrival. On the return of Dawes, Hunter in the Sirius, along with the remaining transports and storeships, with much difficulty owing to continuing adverse weather conditions, managed to get out of Botany Bay and reach for Port Jackson — leaving the French in the abandoned Botany Bay on their own.

French turmoil

The French were to stay there about six weeks, leaving on 10 March to return home. But alas it was not to be. They were never to be heard from again. This was to cause consternation in France.

There was other reason for consternation in that country too. The French Revolution began in 1789, the Bastille in Paris being ‘stormed’ on 14 July that year, now the national day. But, the missing La Perouse . . . In 1791, such was the anxiety about La Perouse by then, that a search was mounted for him, under Bruny d’Entecasteaux, in two ships, the Recherche and the Esperance.

Back home in France the Revolution well under way. By September 1792 the monarchy had been overthrown and a republic established. They were heady days: in fact the guillotine had been introduced in April that year. And on 21 January 1793, Louis XVI was executed by this means, in what is now the Place de la Concorde. On his way to the scaffold he stoically enquired: ‘A-t-on des nouvelles de monsieur de Lapérouse ?” (Is there any news of La Perouse?’) Famous last words. It was not until 1826 was it to be discovered that disaster had overtaken the the French ships and crew, in the Solomon Islands.

La Perouse search expedition

Meanwhile d’Entecasteaux and his search party were having their own adventures and difficulties in southern oceans. His first visit to Recherche Bay in Tasmania was in May 1791, followed by a second on 22 January 1793. In the interval he had been to New Caledonia, Indonesia and Cape Leeuwin in south-west WA. He had even passed the Solomon Islands, little knowing he was so close to the wrecked La Perouse ships.

It was on this second visit to the bay named after d’Entecasteaux’s own ship Recherche that the above records were taken.

Tasmanian vocabularies

Two of the records are for panubere and two for panumere. While they may seem to be different in reality they are not greatly. The sounds for the letters ‘m’ and ‘b’ are formed in much the same way, with the lips together and a bit of a puff after. They can often be confused as a consequence. In the case of these two words, for the sake of argument, let’s assume the proper version is panubere, respelt as banubiri.

banubiri is something of a long word, and it is reasonable to assume it might actually be two run together. banu biri perhaps? Possibly. There are quite a few biri words, meaning ‘breast’, ‘foot’, ‘nail’ (as in finger / toe-nail), and even ‘presently’, among other meanings. However, it is another word altogether that seems more likely: nubiri, making the division of banubiri: ba nubiri. Two examples of the second part of the word, nubiri, should suffice to give its meaning:

nubiri

Fig. 6 nubiri: ‘eye’

If the sun might reasonably be perceived as an ‘eye’  in the sky, then what might the preceding ba in the combination ba-nubiri represent? A great many words in Tasmanian languages begin with ba, and virtually any might be a candidate for offering a meaning for the sky–eye combination. One of the more promising of these possibilities is bagana: ‘man’. Could it be a man’s eye in the sky? Maybe . . . at least until the database offered a more attractive alternative:

ba big

Fig. 7: ba: ‘big’

In the source column in Fig. 7 above, the small ‘st’ after ‘Plomley’ refers to Charles Sterling. Of this man the document collector, the Rev. T.H. Braim, wrote in about 1832:

“It is now impossible to remedy the loss which has been sustained by Sterling’s death: he was a young man who had made the aboriginal languages his study, and had reduced them to some sort of order.”

From this accolade it might be assumed that Sterling was correct in claiming ba to mean ‘big’.

When that concept is accepted, new ways emerge for regarding some ‘big thing’ ba… words. Consider the following:

baga 6 examples

Fig. 8: ‘big’ things beginning ba…

Of these only the first, ba-gana, is truly satisfying. As gani / gana is a common word for ‘speak’, ba-gana can be literally translated as ‘big speak’, and so equivalent to ‘call’ or ‘shout’.

The examples in Fig. 8 constitute a very select list. There are many other ba… words that have no likely link to the ‘big’ concept. Nevertheless it is indisputable that ‘sea’, ‘porpoise’ and ‘bullcow’ (one of several invented terms in the Bayala databases) are big entities; as is ‘four’ to those who regard numbers greater than two or three as ‘plenty’. And a ‘man’ might well be big, too, from some points of view.

Jeremy Steele

Thursday 17 December 2015

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STARS SHINE

The word marama in the Tasmanian word lists caught the attention again today. The meaning given for it is ‘star’.

DEEP TIME

No-one quite knows when the last person was able to walk from the Australian mainland to Tasmania. Why it was possible at all was because it was the ice age — or more precisely the last ice age. In fact we are still in the remnants of that ice age, because ice is still piled up, sometimes kilometres thick it is said, in Antarctica. If it all melted, they say, sea levels would rise, around 60 metres. Your Amateur Researcher (YAR) really knows nothing of all this, but this much can be reasonably surmised. If many of the land masses on the planet in the last ice age looked like Antarctica today, with ice stacked on them say to a depth of two kilometres, and if the same amount of water existed then as now in one form or another, there would be lots of it on the land, and correspondingly much less in the oceans. Everywhere, not just in the Bass Strait. So often you could get from one place to another without a boat.

But eventually the ice age mostly went away, and water returned to the oceans. The sea levels rose and Tasmania was isolated. Thus the Aboriginals who had lived there for say 40 000 years were separated from the rest — let’s say 10 000 years ago. That’s twice the time from the building of the Pyramids to the present. A huge long time, and all the while with nothing ever written down. Now back to today.

marama

So marama means ‘star’, according to the records:

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Fig. 1 Marama: stars

This appears to be the record that various others have subsequently copied. The author of it was one Jorgen Jorgenson, who produced one of the best lists of Tasmanian words. This actual record is from the papers of T.H. Braim, held by the Mitchell Library (State Library of NSW, reference MLA 614). It is in turn recorded on the Tasmanian Bayala Database as follows:

Screen Shot 2015-12-14 at 2.47.08 PMFig. 2 marama: ‘star’

‘T-W’ (i.e. Tasmania West) in the ‘Source’ column reveals that the word was taken down on the western side of the island.

So what? Well, for those who might wonder whether the Tasmanian languages arose entirely separately from those on the mainland, there is the following evidence, or coincidence, to consider.

SYDNEY

In the Anon notebook, compiled by one or more of the First Fleeters around 1790-91, there is the following entry:

dyara marama guwing

Fig. 3 ‘The sun setting red’

This record also features in the Bayala databases, the one entitled ALLSYD, as follows:

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Fig. 4: dyara marama guwing: red shine sun

The question arises, which actual word means what?

Red

While there are several other records suggesting that dyara means ‘bone’ and ‘distress’, there are also the following where it (or a word like it) indicates ‘redness’:

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Fig. 5: dyara: red

Sun

While YAR could readily provide a comprehensive table to show that guwing means  ‘sun’, the following simplest one will do:

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Fig. 6: guwing: ‘sun’

Shine

So that leaves marama, for which the meaning suggested in the yellow column of (Tasmania) Fig. 2 is ‘star’, and in (Sydney) Fig. 4, ‘shine’. Stars shine, that’s a fact. And it could be just a coincidence that the same word for these ideas is used by different languages far apart in space, and by languages far apart in time (Sydney language: AD 1790; Tasmanian: from pre ice age).

More coincidences

Can it also be a coincidence that the Wiradhuri language [Wira] in central NSW, and Muruwari  [Mrwi] up on the Queensland border, also have words identical or similar to marama for ‘shine’ / ‘star’, as indicated in the table below?

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Fig. 7 Inland examples of ‘shine’, ‘star’

CONCLUSION

While ‘star’ and ‘shine’  are from the point of view of modern speakers of English — and other languages — quite different concepts, Aboriginal people might well have used one word for both ideas. Stars do shine. And when Aboriginal informants were asked what those little lights in the night sky were they might have stated the obvious: ‘Shine’.

Perhaps marama is the only such example of a trace of the mainland in Tasmanian languages. In fact it is not. Other words with mainland links include dark, dive, eat, eye, fear, laugh, path, quick, rise, swim, tongue and others. Some of these might possibly have been recorded from Sydney men who had been involuntary visitors to Van Diemen’s Land in the early days. In some such way, ‘kangaroo’ from far north Queensland was recorded in Recherche Bay in south-east Tasmania in the 1790s. However, it would seem unlikely that all such words can have been imports of this sort, and that some at least must have been residual forms from the ancient Australian language presumed to have been common across much of the land mass in prehistoric times.

Jeremy Steele

Monday 14 December 2015

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TASMANIAN WHITE FEATHER

22 November 2015

The Tasmanian Bayala database keeps throwing up small insights into the Tasmanian languages, and suggests the launching of a goose chase.

Your Amateur Researcher happened to be checking the word ‘munwaddia’, given as meaning ‘feather’.
Fig. 1 ‘Feather’
When this word is analysed into what are assumed to be its component parts, in this case fixing mun- as the stem, the database automatically throws up other words beginning the same way.
Apart from ‘feather’ beginning mun-, there are ‘flour’ and ‘white’ and ‘parrot’, seen in the second column in Fig. 2:
Fig. 2 Other mun… words
What can flour, white and parrot possibly have in common?
White birds and their feathers, and white flour
Fig. 3 Some white things: cockatoo and bag of flour
Nothing, except that some parrots, and their feathers — as well as flour — are white.
With this discovery you are encouraged to look further into the database to see what else might crop up.
So here are two additional entries beginning mun… that might well be linked to the underlying theme of ‘white’: fog and cloud.
Fig. 4 More white things: ‘fog’ and ‘cloud’
Clouds, and fog, are both white at times.
White skulls
Next, ‘skull’ presents itself. Skulls are white, round, bones:
Fig. 5 Another white thing: ‘skull’ is possible ‘white’
What about the suffixes?
By the way, this all makes you wonder about the suffixes on all these mun- words. And of course about the quality of the records.
For example, could -wadya in Fig. 1 mean something specific? Could -dum in Fig. 2 really indicate ‘heavy’? (Probably not.)
Fig. 5 suggests that perhaps the stem is is actually mu- rather than mun…, with suffixes -naand -gina. There are certainly many examples of both -na and -gina suffixes elsewhere in the database. However, what the significance of these two suffixes is has yet to be determined.
What does braga mean?
The last example (in Fig. 5) prompts an inquiry into the first part of the word for ‘skull’:
Fig. 6 Skull
Above are the completed records for ‘skull’
What could braga / briga mean?
Try asking the database:
Fig. 7 Possibly ‘breast’ and other meanings
Could it be that the link between ‘skull’ and ‘breast’ (if ‘breast’ is actually correct) is something ‘round’, which both might be said to be? Unfortunately there is nothing in the database to support this view. Then what could the connection be?
dragaraga and possibly braga: ‘spear’
More speculation required. It is just possible that braga might be ‘spear’. Spears have points, which would fit some examples in Fig. 7, but skulls do not. Some other spear words have a form not unlike bragadraga and raga.
Fig. 8 draga / raga: ‘spear’
Features of Tasmanian languages
One intriguing feature of Tasmanian languages is that consonant clusters are permitted: such as ‘dr-’ in draga. Another is that sometimes words have prefixes: thus raga, and draga with a prefixing d-, are both ‘spear’. Could it conceivably be that braga- in Fig. 7 is also a version of ‘spear‘ — rather than ‘breast’ as suggested above? But this is approaching the far fetched, and the goose chase has at this stage become wild. (Yet another such feature not pursued here is syllables inserted into the stems of words.)
mun…: ‘white’ after all?
Finallly, having run ourselves into the ground, let us return to mun-, meaning ‘white’, where we began. Now what do we make of the following record?
Fig. 9 mun- here meaning ‘black’ rather than white
Conclusion: inconclusive
This short essay has been a glimpse into the tantalising character of the Tasmanian records. When a glimmer of light seems to offer a clue to interpreting them, the picture soon becomes as confused as ever. Can we draw any conclusions from this latest scamper through them? Probably that mun- has something to do with ‘white’.
Jeremy Steele
Sunday 22 November 2015
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mocha early: Salt water in Tasmania

  First visit to SOAS
On Monday 3 April 1995 your Sydney-based amateur researcher into Australian languages called on the  ‘School of African and Oriental Studies [SOAS] in London in a vain quest to look up studies of the Sydney Aboriginal language by First Fleeter William Dawes’. It was known that they held the notebooks compiled by Dawes. A diary entry further records that ‘however, one needed a letter of introduction to gain access, from an authority such as a professor anywhere.  My own business card from the University of Sydney where I was an employee in its administration was not good enough’.
 
Yemmerawannie
Three years later, on another visit to London, another diary entry records a busy day: Monday 5 October 1998: ‘Then to St John the Baptist church, Eltham, to see the register of Yemmerawannie’s burial. This was an old book about 450 x 250 mm, brown leather bound with two large clasps, with entries from the 1600s. Photographed the Yemmerawannie entry.’ Yemmerawannie was one of two Aboriginals taken to London in 1792 by retiring Governor Arthur Phillip. He arrived in 1793, and died there a year later,a ged about 19.
 
Second visit to SOAS
Then that afternoon having caught the train to Charing Cross — the diary continues: ‘Walked to the School of Oriental and African Studies in Bloomsbury, where three years ago had been denied admission. This time, with a letter of introduction obtained from the professor of Classics at Sydney University, got in without trouble [and so to the library and] to the Special Reserve, where after a fright of their not holding the material, they finally found it. The purpose of the journey: to see the word lists of the Sydney Aboriginal language compiled around 1790 by Lt William Dawes, Royal Marine on the First Fleet.
Dawes’s notebooks
The precious packet, a small cardboard envelope-folder containing two pocket notebooks [was produced]. The slightly larger had a coloured cover, affecting waterworn stones. The smaller with a plain cover was a re-binding of two notebooks, one a word list arranged alphabetically, the other a ‘grammar’, all in Dawes’s own elegant handwriting. 
I was not required to handle these with surgical gloves, nor prevented from writing on them. The only security control was signs saying only portable computers and pencils could be used in the room: yet there was no frisking or search for ballpoints or pens. There I was, with Dawes’s actual notebooks, probably the best record anywhere of the Sydney Aboriginal language.
Tasmanian word lists
On beginning to make a few notes, I found in a home-made sleeve in the back of the large notebook some lists on differently sized pieces of paper of words of the Van Dieman’s Land language made by the French in 1792 or 1793. Amazingly, these included in two separate lists the word ‘kanguru’ for ‘kangourou’, (spelt in one case with k and the other with c). This suggested the possibility or probability that the word for ‘kangaroo’, already known not to be from Sydney, is of Tasmanian origin. I had always supposed that it might be from Cooktown, the other place where Cook had had some contact with Aborigines when his ship the Endeavour was repaired there after being damaged on the Great Barrier Reef. When was the word first used by white people? From Cook’s (1770) or Phillip’s (1788) visits?’
Database
A small database was begun of the 200 or so words in the SOAS Tasmanian lists, and that area was allowed to slip from the mind.
Book gift
On your researcher’s completing a master’s research degree on the Sydney language, his Macquarie University supervisor generously made him a present of a book by way of congratulations: a work on Tasmanian languages. That duly was placed on the bookshelves and dismissed from the mind. And so the years passed.
Visiting Tasmania
A tourist visit was made to Tasmania in October 1999, your researcher’s first experience of the island. A briefer visit was made in the present year, 2015, when various modest enquiries were made about languages on visiting various museums. 
Vocabularies
A volunteer in one was kind enough to go home and fetch a book she had on the subject, and on being shown it your researcher thought it looked familiar. On returning home a few days lated he found it was the very work presented to him in 2005-06. This is a collection of all the known 40 or so vocabularies:
Plomley, Norman James Brian. 1976. A word-list of the Tasmanian Aboriginal languages. Launceston: N.J.B. Plomley in association with the Government of Tasmania.
 
This is a work of 478 pages, in which all the records are presented in the manner of a dictionary, English word alphabetically by English word, with all the Tasmanian records listed below for each, with all the diverse spellings of them, together with information of the recorder and informant, and the area (where known in Tasmania) where it was collected.
Noted scholar of Australian languages R.W.W. Dixon wrote in:
Dixon, R.M.W. 1980. The Languages of Australia. Edited by W. S. Allen and et al., Cambridge Language Surveys. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.:
  • “A handful of word lists were taken down by early settlers but these are of extremely poor quality; they were compiled by people who for the most part had little respect for the Tasmanians or their languages, and no clear idea of how to represent the sounds they heard. Within the last few decades a new manuscript vocabulary has come to light, compiled by George Augustus Robinson, a self-styled missionary who rounded up the survivors of Tasmanian tribes between 1829 and 1834 and transported them to offshore islands, effectively there to die off. Robinson took down a considerable quantity of  vocabulary, some of it from parts of the island that had not been represented in previous lists; but the standard of his transcription was even worse than the rest.”

 

Processing the records
Your researcher considered that it was time to look at the Tasmanian language records, especially given that he appeared to have virtually all of them in a book in his own study. By a process of scanning, optical character recognition and other manipulation, he added all the records to his tiny Tasmanian database, thereby enlarging it from 200 records to 10500. But this is just the beginning. The next step is to respell all the records consistently, and to provide consistent translations. These processes will reveal points of interest and enable searches to be made. 

 

Various scholars have already concluded that there were probably several languages on the island, and here is a map by one of them, Claire Bowern, in 2012. She has identified five languages. A sixth area coloured grey on the map was largely uninhabited, and hence had no language recorded for it.
 
First example of what the database can reveal
After the foregoing introduction, a small point is to be made for this blog entry.
There is a record :
mocha early: salt water
It is by:
Braim in History of New South Wales (1846); (bmm) manuscript vocabulary, Braim papers, Mitchell Library.
The database is already able to provide the following analysis.
 
mocha early” is nothing to do with being ‘early’. Rather mocha is a word for ‘water’. 
And “early” is nothing more than a misreading of the original handwriting of “carty”, as porvided in: 
Vocabulary of Jorgen Jorgenson: (jj) words collected by Jorgen
“carty”, respelt as /gadi/ turns out to be a word for ‘bad’.
Consequently “mocha carty” or /mudya gadi/ is ‘water bad’, or ‘bad water’.
‘Bad water’ is one of the ways the Tasmanians spoke of ‘salt water’, or the ‘sea’. It was, after all, not drinkable.
This then shows that the translation of “mocha carty” in the 5th line of the table above contains an error in the translation. It does not mean ‘water bag’ but rather ‘water bad’.
 
This analysis already confirms what Dixon stated: the Tasmanian records are ‘of extremely poor quality’.
 
 

 

JMS Monday 25 May 2015

TASMANIA: Having a look at suffixes

Affixes: prefixes, infixes, suffixes — the lot
Joseph Milligan, who provided more extensive vocabularies than anyone else, famously stated about the Tasmanian languages:
“The affixes, which signify nothing, are la, lah, le, leh, leah, na, ne, nah, ba, be, beah, bo, ma, me, meah, pa, poo, ra, re, ta, te, ak, ek, ik, etc.”
 
He further declared: “The distinctly different pronunciation of a word by the same person on different occasions is very perplexing, until the radical or essential part of the word, apart from prefixes and suffixes, is caught hold of.”
 
Today we can only take his word on the matter of pronunciation. And he is right about there being prefixes and suffixes. But it is a pity that when he had the chance to enquire as to the specific meaning of the suffixes he did not do so, instead dismissing them as meaningless. You might equally say of English that its prepositions are meaningless. In Aboriginal languages, the suffixes are what make them all work.
 
Pronouns and cases
Milligan was not alone in giving no explanation of the suffixes. Hardly any of the multitude of them are identified by any of the recorders. One word often appearing as a suffix, mina: 1sg — ‘I’ and ‘me‘ — is identified; as equally is nina 2sg ‘thou’, ‘thee’ (you). But what about ‘we’, ‘you’ (plural), and ‘they’? And did the pronouns have ‘you-two’ and ‘you-all’ forms in common with other Aboriginal languages? And likewise ‘we-two’ and ‘we-all’ (as well as inclusive and exclusive versions of these), and ‘they-two’ and ‘they-all’? There is virtually no trace of these vital words in any of the lists.
 
Similarly, what about the case endings of nouns? There is no information, or practically none,  about nominative (subject) and accusative (object) functions. Nor about the possessive (of), the dative — whether ‘to’, ‘towards’ or ‘for’ (known as allative and purposive by some specialists), nor the ablative (‘by’: causitive; ‘from’: elative; ‘with’: comitative; and ‘at’, ‘in’, ‘on’: locative). Nor instrumental ‘with’, ‘using’ (as ‘I hit the nail with a hammer’). These are all common in Aboriginal languages, and may well have been present in the list of suffixes ‘signifying nothing’ to Milligan.
 
Tasmanian languages
So it is that your amateur researcher (YAR) is currently investigating the vocabularies of the several languages of Tasmania, in an attempt to establish that Milligan’s list really did mean something after all. The Tasmanian languages are shown in the following illustration: 
 
Map by Claire Bowern
 
in counter-clockwise sequence from where they were first encountered in the south:
South-East
Oyster Bay
North-East
North
West
together with possibly South; and perhaps others.
 
While large numbers of suffixes have been determined from the records, many may not have been accurately fixed. For as Milligan cautioned, it is necessary to catch hold of the STEM of a word, and separate it from any SUFFIX present. But the question remains: where does a particular stem end and a suffix start? Very often it is not easy to tell …
karnamoonalané conversation (a great talking)
mar.pe.gen.ne.mar.tun.ni I think
mur.man.a.wee.bob.ar.ree fighting
Try it yourself.
 
 
Proprietive: ‘having’
The main purpose of the present essay is to propose the identification of one suffix, which might even be a combination of two.
 
Aboriginal languages probably universally have a pair of contrasting suffixes for the concepts ‘having’ and ‘lacking’, sometimes termed proprietive, and abessive or privative, respectively.
 
One particular suffix had been noted in the Tasmanian database, which is combined with a variety of words without any apparent connection with one another. Here it is:
-wadina:
 
 
 
Fig. 1 -wadina records
The suffix concerned: -wadina. The last, purple, column reveals the source of the records, and the language where known. Many records include no such territorial information, but where it occurs in the examples above it is NE in all instances — except one for neighbouring Oyster Bay. This would suggest that the corresponding suffix for other languages might be something different.
 
The proposed meaning for the -wadina suffix is the proprietive ‘having’. The first two examples suggested it might mean ‘red’, as part of the term ‘ochre red’ but on further reflection this explanation seemed unlikely. 
And such is the impoverished quality of the Tasmanian records generally that in almost every case in the table when YAR attempted to establish a precise meaning he was unable to find anything worth reporting to back up the suggestion that the linking concept for -wadina might be ‘having’.
 
Body parts?
It might be briefly noted that some of the entries are for body parts; but as many are not, that does not appear to be a feasible interpretation of -wadina either. 
Note also that ‘spit’ in the centre of the table might actually be a mis-transcription of ‘shut’. 
And the record for ‘child’ might in reality mean ‘woman-having’, this being confirmed in part by Fig. 5 (luwa: ‘woman’) as well as by multitudinous other examples in the database. But ‘woman-having’ would be a more appropriate term for a ‘husband’ (one who has a woman) than for a child — unless ‘child’ were to be viewed as ‘mother-having’. 
 
Many meanings of luwina
A rare record occurs in the database where luwi actually means ‘child’ rather than ‘woman’:
 
Fig. 2 luwi-na: ‘child’
 
Note, however, that the word luwi- (with diverse suffixes) also happens to mean a variety of other things, among which are ‘blue wren’, ‘cold’ (weather), ‘cut’ (wood with axe), ‘gun’, ‘hip bone’, ‘itch’, ‘moon’, ‘navel’, ‘night’, ‘one’, ‘plenty’, ‘rub’, ‘sister’, ‘sky’, ‘snake’, ‘stone’, ‘sun’, ‘three’, tree’ and ‘tuber’. This might seem an oddly diverse collection, but sometimes some possible links can be dimly perceived. Thus the group [cold / night / moon / sun / plenty] might all be to do with looking at the heavens, at night, when it might be cold, and when there are myriads of celestial objects to look at: the European recorder catching the words at the time might well have jumped to incorrect conclusions as to meanings. Even [cut / gun / itch] might conceivably be linked through ‘weapon’, old muskets when discharged with shot perhaps causing ‘itch’ rather than severe wounding. And so on.
 
baga: child
Consider then three other examples:
Fig. 3 Child-having
 
In Fig. 3 it is assumed that baga and biga are different renderings of the same word, ‘child’.
There are many records for ‘testicles’ (apologies here for any indelicacy in mentioning this word and subject) in the Tasmanian Bayala database. Most are similar to the following, which was collected in 1793 by the officers of the French frigates La Recherche and l’Espérance, at Recherche Bay in the south-east of the island.
 
Fig. 4 Ball
 
mada indicates circularity, roundness, or ‘ball’.
 
But two of the examples in Fig. 3 have a different (i.e. non-mada) concept for ‘testicle’. The third example has (at first sight improbably) the identical form to the second, but an entirely different meaning: not ‘testicle’ but ‘mother’.
 
Perhaps from Fig. 3 it might be inferred that the Tasmanians had real understanding of the procreative process, for how else might the different attributed meanings be reconciled?
 
The next table merely provides some common words for ‘child’ and ‘woman’.
 
Fig. 5 ‘child’ and ‘woman’
 
Conclusion
YAR is not particularly happy with the identification of -wadina as meaning ‘having’, but puts it forward in the hope that some reader might be prompted to offer a more plausible interpretation.
 
The intention is to provide, in due course, suggestions as to what other suffixes might mean.
 
 
 
JEREMY STEELE
Tuesday 20 October 2015

 

====================

Tasmanian: rana: ‘bone’

Working on the Tasmanian vocabuaries
Here is a typical fragment of Tasmanian vocabulary:
Fig. 1 Extract from the Joseph Milligan list held by the Mitchell Library <http://www.acmssearch.sl.nsw.gov.au/search/itemDetailPaged.cgi?itemID=430548>
It is by Joseph Milligan, in 1857.
It features long words. Here is part of what Your Amateur Researcher (YAR) has made of this particular fragment:
Fig. 2 Extract from the Tasmanian database, in the Bayala series of Australian language databases developed by YAR
In the above database extract the green numbers on the left are where the words occur in N.J.B. Plomely’s book, by page and line number:
Plomley, Norman James Brian. 1976. A word-list of the Tasmanian Aboriginal languages. Launceston: N.J.B. Plomley in association with the Government of Tasmania.
As reading the above fragment is to too difficult, here is a detail:
Fig. 3 ‘brother/, ‘brow’
And here is another, from near the end of the list:
Fig. 4 ‘chin’, ‘chine’
Just to explain what is going on, the grey columns feature the original records: the Tasmanian words in the bold-type column, and their translations in the other grey column.
The brown columns are respellings in a standard way of the original Tasmanian words.
If a particular word has been analysed into components, the full word is placed in the paler of the two brown columns.
The yellow column is YAR’s own estimation of what any entry actually means.
As for the blue and red middle columns, they are where the analysed sub-components are placed. Such placing is admittedly somewhat arbitrary, although not entirely. It should be added too that the dividing of words into constituent elements owes much to guesswork at this stage. As more knowledge is acquired, the guesswork becomes less wild.
As of the time of writing, this database has over 15000 entries.
A small discovery: rana
What a database does is to enable comparisons to be made among the records. It is the main advantage a present-day researcher has over the original recorders. They had access to the language speakers, but they did not have computers.
What interests YAR in this particular fragment of records is the suffix -rana, in the bright red central column, or as a separate word in the dark brown column. The words ‘brother’, brow’ and ‘chine (backbone) feature rana as a word or suffix, as shown in the two detailed extracts.
As is the case in so many Tasmanian words, something like rana crops up quite often. mina is another instance of a word or part-word with frequent occurrences. It would of course just be too simple to identify what such an item means in one instance, and assume it meant that for all. Too simple indeed. But it does appear that with ‘brow’ and ‘chine’ we have a common meaning: ‘bone’. What the rana in brother (and various other instances) signifies has yet to be determined.
rana: bone suffix
The following table presents evidence of where -rana might indicate ‘bone’. You will notice that the word ‘bone’ actually forms part of the original (grey) translations in some instances while in others it does not. For example, in the first entry, bada is one of the Tasmanian words for ‘head’, giving bada-rana ‘head bone’ rather than ‘skull’:
Fig. 5 Words featuring -rana ‘bone’
Fig. 6 bada: ‘head’
rana as a word
rana does not occur only as a suffix. The following table presents several instances of when rana features as an independent word. The table also offers an insight into the mindset of the original Tasmanians. For rana was not just bone as we know it, but something hard, bone-like. In fact only the first of the examples is specifically for ‘bone’. But a waddy (club), fingernail, and shell are all hard (bone-like) things.
Fig. 7 rana: bone
More than one Tasmanian language: chin
Should you be wondering about  gumi and waba both meaning ‘chin’ in Fig. 4, this is because the words come from difference languages within Tasmania:
WABA: south-east
Fig. 8 South-east: waba chin
GAMU: north-east
Fig. 8 North-east: gumi chin
YAR still has a very long way to go in making sense of the Tasmanian lists.
Jeremy Steele
Sunday 30 August 2015

 

==================

Mistakes in the word lists

Europeans encountered Aboriginal people from before the upheaval that began in 1788. Lists of words were obtained in Botany bay in 1770, and then at Cooktown. The scene below is representative of such occasions.
‘The first settlers discover Buckley’ by Frederick William Woodhouse, 1861 [State Library of Victoria]. This work is out of copyright.
However, in the moment depicted here, it is unlikely that any word lists were made. The occasion was when the escaped convict William Buckley (1780-1857), who had lived for years among Aboriginals at the south-west of Port Phillip Bay in Victoria, arrived at John Batman’s camp in July 1835.
But now and again vocabulary items were sought when Europeans found themselves in company with the original inhabitants. So you can imagine a scene somewhere in Tasmania where a white man (let’s call him Riyana) was with an Aboriginal (say, Balawa). They had no shared language, but Riyana was keen to learn some words, and was taking notes. Time and again in such settings the questions would begin with words for what it is seemingly easiest to ascertain: the names for parts of the body. So Mr Riyana might point to his own hand with an enquiring look, and be given a word for it. He would then write the word down, with ‘hand’ alongside. But any words given at such a moment might in reality include ‘my hand’, ‘that’s my hand’, ‘finger’, palm of the hand’, thumb’, ‘fist’, even ‘forearm’, ‘wrist’ and so on. Mr Riyana cannot recognise these subtleties, and so just writes ‘hand’ for whatever Balawa has told him.
Let us continue the speculation. Just below where they are sitting there is a creek. Now Mr Riyana points towards the creek enquiringly once again. Dutifully he writes down the response, with ‘creek’ beside his entry. Only later — perhaps much later by someone with a database — it is revealed that Balawa’s word was not ‘creek’ but ‘frog’, he having mistaken the croaking going on in the creek for what Riyana was asking about. Next Riyana points to a distant hill and asks its name. Balawa sees the stretched out pointing arm, with Riyana apparently holding out his finger for consideration, having no idea that for the moment they have stopped talking about body parts. Balawa, seeing the white finger displayed, asserts: “That’s your ‘finger’”. Riyana dutifully records the name of the hill as ‘Finger’, which of course it is not.
The opportunities for getting the wrong end of the stick are numerous, and accordingly the stated meanings in word lists should be regarded with caution.
Imagine Riyana now points at Balawa’s nose, his finger close but not actually touching.
In the Tasmanian records are the following, probably from situations much as described:
Fig. 1 The main entries for ‘nose’
In the records there are several similar entries for each row in the table. Those appearing in Fig. 1 are just one from each group.
Below are additional ‘nose’ records but with perhaps only a single instance of each:
Fig. 2: Lesser entries for ‘nose’
Accordingly these might be taken as less certain.
It is, however, the first group, Fig. 1, that is of especial interest, and in particular the last three, nos 6-8, the mina collection.
Personal
Let us digress briefly. Obtaining the names of body parts in this way is a somewhat personal business. The most personal item of all in a language is the first person singular pronoun, ‘I’ (1sgNOM), and ‘me’ (1sgACC). These in some of the Tasmanian languages are both mina. There appears to have been no distinction in the nominative and accusative usages.
Fig. 3 ‘I’, ‘we’: the first person singular nominative and accusative pronoun in some Tasmanian languages
Is is chance alone that has the same word mina occurring in words for ‘nose’, and for ‘I’, and ‘me’? Perhaps not. For when Riyana pointed to Balawa’s nose, Balawa might well have thought Riyana was pointing directly at him, not specifically at his nose, so giving the response ‘me’, and not ‘nose’. [See Fig.1, Row 6]
In the next two rows, Balawa might have replied, ‘my nose’ (mina riwari, or mina wari). Indeed there are traces of the word for ‘nose’ riwari and wari in Rows 1, 4 and 5 (drawaridiya, muniwara, rawariga).
It is tempting to consider the same mistake occurring in words for tongue, in Fig. 4:
Fig. 4 Words for ‘tongue’, the number of records for each being shown in the last column
However, while mina does occur for ‘tongue’, there are only four records for it. There are far more (15) for the nearly similar word mini, and quite a few (7) for a somewhat less similar collection beginning m-m... So ‘nose’ probably really was mini, with mina as a variant, or a mis-recording, of mini. The mini–mina similarity was probably just a coincidence.
Further confusion
Tantalisingly, mina seems to have had a role as a suffix, for both nouns and verbs. Two tables follow, one for each of these parts of speech. Admittedly, in some of the examples mina could be interpreted as the 1sg pronoun, but how are we now to know?
NOUNS
Fig. 5: Nouns suffixed with mina. These can’t all have meant ‘my’, could they?
VERBS
“punna meena”
bana mina =
“burn (hurt by fire)”
smoke xxx :
Plomley mj [A610:177:19] [OyB]
“pẽn’ãghĕrĕrmẽnĕr”
binagara mina =
“vomit”
vomit :
Plomley sn [:387:9] []
“plõogămĩnnĕr”
blugamina =
“whistle”
whistle :
Plomley sn [:467:39] []
“tagarramena”
dagara-mina =
“weep”
cry :
Plomley mj [:194:1] [OyB]
“tyackaree – meena”
diyagari-mina =
“spit”
spit :
Plomley mj [:406:10] [OyB]
“kamena meena”
gami-na-mina =
“spit”
spit :
Plomley mj [:405:37] [T-se]
“leghromena”
ligrumina =
“sweat”
sweat :
Plomley mj [:420:15] [T-se]
“mãrnĕrmĩnnĕr”
mana-mina =
“spit”
spit :
Plomley sn [:405:40] []
“mone.meen.er”
munmina =
“to black with charcoal”
blacken :
Plomley gar [:165:35] [OyB]
“wore.ter.moe.nim.men.ner”
wadamunimina =
“sleep”
sleep :
Plomley gar [:396:4] [T-NE]
Fig. 6 Verbs suffixed with mina. These , too, can’t all have meant ‘my’, could they?
Examples of confusion
The following tables show instances of apparent misunderstanding between the European word collector and his informant. (‘His’? Alas, in Your Amateur Researcher’s records the major collectors were all men, apart from Mary Everitt for Gundungarra.)
Frog and stream
Fig. 7 ‘frog’ and ‘stream’ confusion
Finger
The ‘finger’ story really happened, at least once:
Fig. 8: birili: Sydney language word for ‘finger’
Fig. 9: Map showing Berrilee, 30 or so kilometres from Sydney, off the highway to Newcastle.
Final word
In 1824 the French medical officer and explorer R.P. Lesson had an encounter with the wife of the noted Sydney Aboriginal man Bungaree. Her English name was Gooseberry. Whether she was making fun of the hapless Frenchman we know not, but here are three of his records of interview.
Fig. 10 Records from an interview between R.P. Lesson and Gooseberry, in 1824, somewhere to the northward of Sydney
When Lesson pointed at her eye, Gooseberry said ‘Gooseberry’, that is to say ‘me’. Just as described above for ‘nose’.
When he pointed to her lip, she said ‘kiss’, clearly knowing some English.
And Lesson recorded nandara for ‘teeth’, but what Gooseberry actually said was two words: ‘that tooth’ (that is a tooth).
JEREMY STEELE

 

Wednesday 19 August 2015

Tasmanian HAIR

Hair? In Aboriginal languages there are often different words for it. Hair on the head, beard, and the not politely mentioned pubic hair. And the Tasmanians just the same.
 
A search in the Tasmanian Bayala database brings up 97 responses to ‘hair’, although numerous of them are duplicates either occurring more than once in the Plomley records …
 
Plomley, Norman James Brian. 1976. A word-list of the Tasmanian Aboriginal languages. Launceston: N.J.B. Plomley in association with the Government of Tasmania.
 
… or because the same word was collected more than once, by different recorders.
 
One of the most common of these ‘hair’ words, accounting, in various forms, for almost 20 of the entries is the following:
 
Fig. 1 gidana: ‘hair’ words
 
 
Tasmanian long words
The last in this group appears to be two words. Or was it just another of the notoriously long Tasmanian word such as:
 
Fig. 2 lagumabana: ‘hair‘ — a typically long Tasmanian word
 
In the opinion of Your Amateur Researcher (YAR) there were no more long words in Tasmanian than in Aboriginal languages generally. That is, words were usually of two or perhaps three syllables. Consequently any word that smacked of being a long one was probably two or more words run together, or conceivably a single word with a combination of suffixes appended. Unfortunately the suffixes were never identified in the records. Joseph Milligan, one of the most extensive recorders, dismissed them as follows:
 
The distinctly different pronunciation of a word by the same person on different occasions is very perplexing, until the radical or essential part of the word, apart from prefixes and suffixes, is caught hold of. The affixes, which signify nothing, are la, lah, le, leh, leah, na, ne, nah, ba, be, beah, bo, ma, me, meah, pa, poo, Ta, re, ta, te, ak, ek, ik, etc. [Plomley, p.30]
 
‘Signify nothing’, indeed. The suffixes are, like prepositions in English, the gears that make the whole language machine operate.
 
More ‘hair’ words from different parts of the island
Here are some other groups of records for ‘hair’, with the number of instances given in the final (green) column:
 
Fig. 3 Other groups of words for ‘hair’
 
There are a few more examples still for ‘hair’, not included in the Fig. 3 table.
 
The purple column shows the region, and hence the language, the words come from: West, Oyster Bay (central east), South-East, North-East.
 
As mentioned, sometimes the original records show more than one word, other times a ‘long’ word. A separation of the word into its component parts has been attempted in the brown ‘respelt’ column in Fig. 3, and elsewhere. This is often just a guess.
 
Beard
There is something missing in this analysis so far: ‘beard’. Here are some typical records
 
Fig. 4 ‘Beard’ examples
 
What do the first two examples actually mean? And are the others really ‘beard’ or ‘chin’?
 
Undisclosed words for ‘hair’
The first two examples in Fig. 4 are two-word items. The next four of the examples give a clue as to the meaning of the first word in each: either ‘chin’ or ‘beard’. In the opinion of YAR, the real meaning of this word is ‘chin’. So what about the second word in each of the first two examples?
 
Fig. 5 ‘Hair’
 
Neither wagili nor burina / barana are listed in the ‘hair’ words in the records, but we can deduce from Fig. 5 that they actually mean ‘hair’. In fact anything thin, wavy and growing seems to have been regarded in much the same way:
 
Fig. 5 ‘reed‘ — hair-like
 
Armpit
Having gone this far, we might as well try to crack one more puzzle, ‘armpit’:
 
Fig. 6 ‘armpit’
 
 
The first two examples in Fig. 6 are double barrelled once again. Surely at this stage we safely infer that burina, the second component, means ‘hair’. And the third item in Fig. 6, gada, is revealed as meaning ‘armpit’. So gadi burina would appear to mean not ‘armpit’ but ‘armpit hair’.
 
Final puzzle solved
Likewise the first two items in Fig. 4, reproduced below:
 
Fig. 7 ‘chin hair
 
do not mean ‘beard’ but rather ‘chin hair’.
 
Jeremy Steele
Sunday 9 August 2015

 

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RECLINE OR FIB

For those of us who actually speak English we often fail to see what the difficulties in it are. English seems the simplest of languages: no complicated endings for verbs — as in French and others; no nonsense with genders. Spelling can be a bit tricky, until you get the hang of it.
 
But every now and then a problem comes up, such as with the word ‘lie’ in vocabularies. What problem? Well, does it mean ‘lie down’, or ‘tell a lie’?
 
In the Tasmania vocabularies ‘lie’ crops up quite often. Here is an example:
 
Fig. 1 ‘lies down’ or ‘tell lies’?
 
“in.er.kie.the.came.cow.wer.min.came” is quite a mouthful for the simple word ‘lie’. And yinagiDigamgawaminGam is almost certainly wrong respelling of it. In reality it is probably several words, but how to split them up correctly? —
 
yinagi Digamga waminGam perhaps? 
 
Probably not. And unless you can find meanings for the constituent portions you are just guessing.
 
Let us look at some other examples of ‘lie’, which might give some ideas.
Three tables are presented for the ‘lie’ examples.
 
Lie down
Fig. 2 ‘lie down’: this meaning is made plain by the given translation in the central grey column
 
Tell lies
Fig. 3 ‘tell lies’, or ‘fib’: this meaning is made plain by the given translation
 
Mystery
 
Fig. 4 Meaning of ‘lie’ uncertain.
 
The examples in Fig. 4 reveal Your Amateur Researcher’s initial guess as to the meaning intended. ‘Fib’ in all cases except the first, gadina.
 
Items 2-3: lini group (Fig. 4)
In Fig. 4, item 3 linugi nuwili means ‘xxx bad’. The translation ‘bad’ comes from the ‘bad’ examples below”:
 
Fig. 5 nuwili: ‘bad’
 
What might the first word linugi mean if not ‘fib’?
 

Perhaps lini means ‘shame’? Here are some apposite examples:

 
Fig. 6 lini: ‘shame’
 

From this enquiry, linugi nuwili might actually mean ‘shame bad’, which in turn might reasonably be interpreted as ‘lie’, or ‘fib’.

 
Items 4-6: danga and manin group (Fig. 4)
A search of the database for matches to the words danga and manin produced results that suggested this group of words was to do with ‘lying down’ rather than ‘mendacity’.
 
Fig. 7 danga and manin
 
The first two, danga, meaning ‘fall’ and ‘stupid’ suggest being prostrate more than verbal cleverness. You might end up prostrate if you fell or were stupid.
 
Likewise the next eight items featuring minin or similar are about what might cause someone to be horizontal: death, fighting, injury or sleep.
 
Realise, dear sole reader, that these are not the only examples that could have been selected for these d-nga and m-n-n letter sequences. They are, however, the ones that tilt either in the direction of ‘telling lies’ or ‘lying down’.
 
Items 7-9: The last three mysteries (of  Fig. 4)
Fig. 8 Remaining mysteries
 
Of the last three items, the first is clearly a variant of “towlangany” (Fig. 3, item 3), there stated to mean “tell lies”; while the last remains puzzling after superficial investigation. Only wangini yields new information:
 
Fig. 9 Wangi: Could be either ‘fib’ or ‘prostrate’
 
Unfortunately, this new information is inconclusive. As can be seen from Fig. 9 above, wangi can mean either ‘speak’ (suggesting ‘fib’) or ‘sit’ (lie) — and even ‘kill’, the result of which would be to lie down.
 
gadina :  item 1, Fig. 4
And so to the the final item among the mysteries of Fig. 4 above.
Fig. 10 gadina: ‘to lie’
 

The following examples for gadina from the Bayala Tasmanian database throw light on some possibilities of meaning for this word:

 
Fig. 11 The gadina records
 
 
The purple source column reveals the providers of these records: jj, cr, lh and gar (respectively Jorgen Jorgenson, Charles Robinson, Alexander McGeary [published by John Lhotsky], and George Augustus Robinson, father of Charles Robinson).
 
Only in the case of the last record do we know who the informant was: Pair.he.le.hoin (which might be transcribed Bariliyun). However, there must have been an informant for each of the records, each in turn representing a moment or circumstance when the word was elicited. In our minds we can conjure up scenes of cows, crows and pigs, and sleeping. In looking at this collection of nine records, together with the original one (reproduced in Fig. 10), we might wonder at the range of meanings a single word might have. Yet on further reflection one might also wonder whether all might actually have a common meaning, the one stated in the first (Fig. 10), i.e. ‘lie’. 
 
Cows and pigs are notorious for lying down. When asked about the animal concerned, the informant might have not stated its name as fauna (especially given that neither cows nor pigs were native animals), but responded instead with the word for what it was doing: lying down.
 
In the case of ‘crow’, this could have been either a crow perched (lying?) on a twig; or perhaps a mis-transcription of ‘cow’ as ‘crow’.
 
The final three records are for ‘sleep’. What one does when asleep is ‘lie down’.
Fig. 12 A demonstration of ‘lie’ meaning ‘lie down’
 
In each case, then, the informant might have been referring to the action or state of the protagonist (lying down) rather than what sort of entity the protagonist was (cow, crow?, pig).
 
Conclusion
‘Lie’ can have two quite different meanings. In order to avoid perpetuating such confusion the Bayala databases occasionally coin new words, or define what a word means in the databases. So the following are used, for example:
lie = lie down, sleep, rest
fib = tell untruth, lie
bullcow = singular of ‘cattle’
 
Jeremy Steele

 

Monday 27 July 2015

TEA-LEAVES AT DAWN

Trying to make sense of the Tasmanian language records is difficult, and akin to reading the future from tea-leaf arrangements in a cup. Take this as an example:
war.ka.la we.tin.ne.ger
when the sun rise
The record indicates two words. So perhaps one is ‘sun’ and the other ‘rise’.
 
Fig. 1 wagala widiniga: ‘when the sun rise’
 
You can be sure there are lots of different records for both ‘sun’ and ‘rise’.
 
Here are some:
 
SUN
Fig. 2 Some records for ‘sun’
 
RISE
Fig. 3 Some records for ‘rise’
 
Obvious conclusion
Figs 2 (sun) and 3 (rise) present a broad range of possibilities for both ‘sun’ and ‘rise’.
 
It is tempting to opt for the apparently obvious choices for wagala widiniga, namely:
wa-gi-lina “sun, moon”
widi “get up”
to yield ‘sun rise’.
Even so, it could be prudent to attempt to be more thorough. 
 
Further research
What about considering wagala and widiniga, in their respelt forms?
Given that the original recorders’ classing of vowels was often uncertain, a search is necessary for both w-g-l- and w-d-…… words.
 
wagili etc.
Here are some results for w-g-l-:
 
Fig. 4 Records featuring w-g-l-
 
The least objectionable of this group for resolving our present puzzle is the last: wugali: ‘jump’. To jump is to rise.
 
wadina etc.
“war.ka.la we.tin.ne.ger”
wagala widiniga
when the sun rise
 
For the second word, w-d-n-g-, there was only the one result: the very one we began with, above.
 
Consequently the search was then broadened to …w-d-n-…, that is, for the w-d-n- sequence occurring in the middle or at any part of a word or phrase. This time there were no fewer than 100 results. Too broad to be useful.
 
So a new search was attempted with w-d-n-… exclusively at the beginning of a word. The results dropped to a more manageable 57 (including repetitions where several similar original records appeared).
Some key findings from this reduced group were these:
 

 

Fig. 5 Records featuring w-d-n-…
 
Reduced selection or not, it was a daunting range of possible meanings for w-d-n-… words.
 
Conundrum of the Tasmanian records
In the above list the parentheses — [ — in the grey columns indicate that the wadina etc. word is part of a longer expression. 
Note that the EngJSM translation (yellow column) does not always match the original ‘English’ (grey column) translation. This is because the original translation might relate to a two- or three-word original record. So the yellow translation might be a temporary ‘best guess’ at the significance of the wadina etc. portion.
Where there is no entry in the yellow column, this means that so far it has not been possible to hazard a meaning for either (or any) portion of the original record. To insert a wild (and possibly wrong) guess impairs the functioning of the database. Hence the blanks.
 
The large size of the Fig. 5 table demonstrates the difficulty of making sense of the Tasmanian records. From such an array of potential meanings, fixing on an actual true meaning would seem often little better than guesswork.
 
The purple ‘source’ column in the tables includes the regional language, or area, where known. Thus ‘T-NE’ represents Tasmania: North-East, and OyB indicates Oyster Bay, the five language areas being marked on this map:
 
Fig. 6 Language ares in Tasmania
 
 
What does wagala widiniga really mean?
The challenge in arriving at a meaning for the original record
“war.ka.la we.tin.ne.ger”
wagala widiniga
when the sun rise
 
seems hopeless, given the range of second-word possibilities. 
 
widi… words
When, however, a search was made exclusively for widi words, the following were among those that  resulted:
 
Fig. 7 Records featuring widi…
 
Apart from two items in Fig. 7 (widi), all records were to do with ‘up’ in some form: sky, high, rise, moon, sun — even ‘head’. Perhaps all were right, but for the present exercise we might opt for widi to mean ‘sun’ (or equally ‘moon’).
 
Drawing it together
Back to the beginning then, and 
“war.ka.la we.tin.ne.ger”
wagala widiniga
when the sun rise
 
The object is to consider the results presented in the tables, to determine if there might be any reasonable matches for the ‘when the sun rise’ original translation.
 
In Fig. 4 (wagili etc.), the records meaning ‘hair’ seemed unlikely to have anything to do with ‘sun rise’ and could thus be safely discounted. Likewise, too, the meanings of ‘calf’ and ‘shellfish’ could be dismissed. This left the single most likely  possibility: ‘jump’.
 
In Fig. 5 (wadina etc.), the only records seeming likely candidates were ‘high’ and ‘heaven / sky’, when hyena, black, testicles and all the improbable rest were omitted.
 
Fig. 7 (widi…) seemed promising. widi was featured with extras: either suffixes, or perhaps additional words. Reflecting on this, it seemed profitable to re-examine the original record, widiniga:
 
Fig. 8  widiniga
 
An aside
By the way, the Wiradhuri word for ‘fire’ is wi.
And the Sydney language word for ‘fire’ is gwiyang, which includes the element -wi-.
The sun is a big fire in the sky.
This observation might, of course, be regarded as an entirely irrelevant coincidence — except for the fact that traces of mainland languages keep cropping up in the Tasmanian lists.
 
A final reflection
If widiniga were perchance two words, widi niga, what might niga mean?
 
Time for a final search.
 
Fig. 9 niga
 
There were more results for niga than shown in Fig. 9, but this last table is a reasonable summary nevertheless. 
It seemed safe to discount the first item ‘bird’ as having nothing to do with the sun, or rising.
It seemed equally safe to reject the last item in the table, ‘this’ for the same reason.  There are many records for the demonstrative ‘this’ in the Tasmanian database, mainly as nigu, nigi, niga and nginigu
This left three items in the middle of the table, ‘there’ and ‘hill’. These could be related: a ‘hill’ might be viewed as ‘over there’. 
 
So just for fun it was postulated that in this case niga was indeed ‘hill’. 
 
Tentative conclusion
So how does the original record look now?
“war.ka.la we.tin.ne.ger”
wagala widi niga
when the sun rise
 
wagala: jump
widi: sun
niga: hill
 
This yielded a final (and of course possibly erroneous) translation for:
“war.ka.la we.tin.ne.ger”
wagala widiniga
as ‘jump sun hill’.
 
Fig. 10 wagala widi niga: jump sun hill
 
The sun jumping over the hill conjures up a new, and charming, way of thinking about a sunrise.
 
JEREMY STEELE

 

Sunday 19 July 2015

SHOULDER SHELLFISH BIRD

It is very easy to grab the wrong end of the stick. It is very easy to jump to wrong conclusions. Perhaps that is being done here.
 
In the early Tasmanian records collected by Plomley:
Plomley, Norman James Brian. 1976. A word-list of the Tasmanian Aboriginal languages. Launceston: N.J.B. Plomley in association with the Government of Tasmania.
 
there is a section about the upper arm. It comprises small groups of words in the series:
bara / bari 
baga / bagi
dala / dila / dula
wana
 
dala group
It was the dala / dila / dula group that first caught the attention of Your Amateur Research (YAR).
 
Fig. 1 Shoulder: dala etc.
 
It was then noticed there were some similar words:
Fig. 2 Other body parts near, and somewhat akin to, shoulder
 
Plomley himself states:
“… the Tasmanians appear not to have distinguished the upper arm from the forearm; and there were other differences of conception, from which the conclusion may be drawn that the natives thought of the body in relation to regions rather than to segments.” [p.82]
 

Plomley adds:

“The shoulder is not clearly distinguished from either the arm or the back. Thus, wer.ne.ner (one record by cr [Charles Robinson]) belongs to the wer.ner group (arm): and the to.len.ner group (perhaps also tal.lar.ner) to the tole.len.ner group (back).
 
The parangana – par.ren.ner – puggarenna series makes up the only words which appear to refer exclusively to the shoulder, …” [p.82]
 
The question is: what was in the minds of the Tasmanians in using these words? Apparently not exactly the same viewpoint as the Europeans’.
 
 
Given the fact that for the most part we are dealing with word stems of two or three syllables only, to which many distinguishing suffixes may be aded, there is the possibility for the researcher today to make an incorrect analysis. There are, for example, in the Plomley records about 350 words of the form beginning bVrV, where ‘V’ is any vowel. Three hundred and forty-seven in fact, which is a great many — and great is the possibility for drawing wrong conclusions.
 
In the dala / dila / dula group are to be found the following, among many other words:
 
Fig. 3 Shellfish have ‘arms’, or ‘shoulders’
 
There is also the following:
Fig. 4 A bird has an ‘arm’, or ‘wing’
 
Why pick these out? What connection might they have to some human body parts? Because, perhaps, the Tasmanians were seeing a fauna-object with arms / wings rather than specifically ‘shoulder’ etc. as provided in the given English translation.
 
 
bagi group
The same process can be identified in the baga / bagi group.

Fig. 5 Shoulder bagi etc.

 
Once again, the word is ‘shoulder’, or perhaps ‘arm’.
 
In passing, note that the second record, ‘bagny’, has here been taken to be a mis-transcription of the same original handwriting of ‘baguy’  in the record above — confirmed by ‘bagui’ in the record below it.
And now, a final record to consider:
Fig. 6 Feather bagi etc.
 
In Fig. 6 the record is virtually identical to the final one in Fig. 5, yet now with the meaning ‘feather’. But what if ‘feather’ were itself an incorrect interpretation of what the unknown Oyster Bay  informant were trying to convey: ‘wing’ (i.e. an ‘arm’ of a bird)?
 
Conclusion

 

If this analysis were to be correct, it demonstrates that the records cannot be taken at face value, and that the given translations are a clue to what the Tasmanian word meant, rather than an absolute indicator. Scrutiny of the records can yield insights.
 
Jeremy Steele
Sunday 5 July 2015

PLAYING POSSUM

There is a sequence b–d–n… in the Tasmanian language records. There are many examples of it. 
 
Little
Here are a few such records:
 
 
Fig. 1 ‘little’
 
From these it would seem that badani / budini and the like might signify ‘little’.
 
budinibuwid is ‘little’.
badani is ‘child’, and a child is something little.
bayaDini bunguDini luguDinini appears to be ‘little possum xxx’.
 
And there is confirmation that luguDini in this phrase means ‘possum’:
 
 
Fig. 2 ‘ringtailed possum’
 
From this it would seem that badani, or words of the b–d–n…  sequence, means ‘little.
Even the 5th and last record in Fig. 1 above lends weight to the idea: badinuyiru might mean the little voice of whispering. However, the records did not bear this idea out.
 
Rat kangaroo
The ‘little’ hypothesis would appear to be supported, at first sight’ by ‘rat kangaroo’:
 
 
Fig. 3 ‘rat kangaroo’
 

nanabaDina is, apparently, ‘little rat kangaroo’, suggesting that badina is ‘little’, and thus that nana might be ‘rat kangaroo’.

So in which case, in the top record, what is rubrana? The 4th record in Fig. 3 suggests that rubrana or ribrinana itself means ‘rat kangaroo’. A search for nina or nana yielded nothing to indicate that nana / nina meant ‘rat kangaroo’.
 
Birds
Further b–d–n… records pop up in the ‘Tasmanian’ Bayala database, all to do with birds:
 
 
Fig. 4 ‘birds’
 

The first of this new set of records in Fig. 4 tends to support the ‘little’ theory: badina means ‘egg’, and eggs are little. A swan’s egg, buradina, is morphologically close, and might also be regarded as ‘little’, thus justifying a loose or mis-translation of ‘little’ as ‘egg’.

 
But the ‘little’ hypothesis is virtually exploded anew when it is noticed that most of the other bird records end in the the b–d–n… sequence. They can hardly all mean ‘little’. 
The last, badanawunda, ‘emu’, begins with the b–d–n… sequence.
From this one might reasonably ask: could badana be something to do with fauna?
 
Fauna
Support for the fauna concept is provided by the following group of records:
 
 
Fig. 5’ fauna’
 
Bandicoot, respelt badina or bayaDina, is grouped with ‘kangaroo’ nabiDinina in this new b–d–n… collection. ‘Fauna’ begins to appear a real possibility.
 
A ‘den’ in the 4th record in Fig. 5 is a home for fauna, the details of this particular record being:
 
 
Fig. 6 ‘den’
 
budina in Fig. 6, meaning ‘cave’, is is not strictly fauna, although it is certainly fauna asociated, in the meaning of ‘den’.
 
The last two records of Fig.5 ‘fauna’ are other mammals, ‘whiteman’ and ‘boy’.
 
And after all this we are not able confidently to assert a meaning for the b–d–n… sequence.
One final example lends no further help.
 
Flora
There is only one flora example so far identified in the database:
 
 
Fig. 7 ‘flora’
 
dinbudina, ‘tea-tree’ completes this ultimately inconclusive search for a significance of the b–d–n… sequence.
 
Perhaps a reader of this tentative essay might be able to suggest something enlightening.
 
Jeremy Steele

 

Tuesday 30 June 2015

TASMANIAN HEBREW: ‘shin’

N.J.B. Plomley had provided a 10 000 or so long word list of Tasmanian words in:
 
Plomley, N.J.B. 1976. A word-list of the Tasmanian Aboriginal languages. Launceston: N.J.B. Plomley in association with the Government of Tasmania.
The respelling of the few remaining entries in this list had proceeded slightly since the last blog entry (‘Tasmanian snake pain’) was devised and posted an hour ago. The illustration below shows the addition of four words after bawaya: ‘pain in bowels’ in the top line:
 
The time had arrived to consider the curious entry ‘hebrew’ in the 5th line in the table above. Eventually this was rendered as dibaru. What follows explains why this respelling was chosen.
 
Review
But first, let us backtrack a little. When looking at vocabulary documents from nearly 200 years ago it is tempting to dismiss as fanciful some of the stranger entries, and ‘hebrew’ here seemed a case in point.
 
Nevertheless in the previous post it was ventured that ‘hebrew’ might possibly be a considered attempt at rendering a real Tasmanian word into an understandable English form. That is to say it might have been a genuine respelling rather than an apparent and wholly unexpected reference to Judaic people. Note, too, that it is spelt ‘hebrew’ and not ‘Hebrew’. In the previous blog post yibru had been proposed as a modern respelling for it.
 
Now, in an attempt to give credit to the original recorder, Your Amateur Researcher (YAR) carried out searches in the database for ‘yibru’ or ‘…ibru…’, or just ‘…bru…’. This was reasonable given that some of the recorders had noted that ‘consonant clusters’ were commonly found in Tasmania. These ‘clusters’ refer to consonants put together in a manner very common in English, as is the case in ‘cl’ and ‘st’ in the very word ‘cluster’. Three-letter clusters are also common in English, and the practice is taken still further in the case of, say, strength, or the -ftsb- in ‘Shaftsbury’. 
 
Cluster-pairs do occur in the Sydney language (the subject of the original Bayala database) but mostly only with with -mb- and -nd-, and in a more limited way in the -lg-, -nb- and -nm- and a few other pairings. Much more frequently, indeed almost invariably except as noted, consonants in Australian Indigenous languages are separated by a vowel.
 
While the same might once have been the case with Tasmanian, the recorders appear to have heard cluster-pairs in common use.
 
Hebrew/yibru
But back to the searches for words of the form ‘yibru’. These enquiries came to nought. Nevertheless it was noted that the word rendered as ‘hebrew’ was purported to mean ‘skin’ or ‘shin’.
 
Still with a desire to give the original recorder of ‘hebrew’ the benefit of the doubt, YAR set about improving his still rudimentary Tasmanian database to include a feature found in the others in the Bayala database series: word classification. So he identified and classified all words (about 1400) in the Tasmanian collection that were body parts (as were ‘skin’ and ‘shin’). When this had been completed a new search was carried out for words in the body parts group, but now using the formula:
*ib@r*
 
The non-letter characters in this formula have specific functions in a search:
* [asterisk] = ‘any number of unspecified letters’
@ = ‘any single unspecified letter’
 
This formula meant that words were being looked for:
—beginning with anything,
—followed by ‘ib
—followed then by any vowel (or letter)
—followed by ‘r
—finally followed by anything.
 
 
That is to say, when ‘hebrew / yibru’ was re-tested as yib-ru with a consonant separating the syllables, the following  were the possibilities:
 
Possible search results for the combination -ib-ru
 
Ot these ten possibilities, those that actually yielded results in the search (featuring only the only fixtures were b and r as in -b-r-) are tinted above in blue. 
These featured the initial letters ‘d’, ‘l’ and ‘n’, all of which are somewhat related to ‘h’ by shape. 
Here are the key search results:
 
Body-parts search results for the combination -ib-r-
 
The most promising of these four examples, by translation, are not the ‘l’ words (‘neck’ and ‘thumb’). Instead the ‘leg’ and ‘knee’ words are of the greater interest—not because they began with d- and n- but because they are most closely in meaning to ‘skin/shin’. ‘Skin’, incidentally, can probably now be discounted as a mis-reading of ‘shin’, leaving the principal word under consideration  as ‘shin’. 
 
Precision in terminology
In Indigenous languages more specific words were used for the limbs than in English. Thus where we loosely say ‘arm’, Indigenous people used precise words for either ‘forearm’ or ‘upper arm’. Likewise in the case of ‘leg’ they had separate words for ‘leg below the knee’ and ‘leg above the knee’ (thigh). As the word ‘shin’ has been offered in the example under examination, and based on the word given for ‘leg’: diburig (‘tee.bur.ic’), it is possible that the word given for it, transcribed as ‘hebrew’, might have been dibaru
 
Compare the examples in the table above with the corresponding summary for ‘hebrew’:
 
 
So rather than ‘hebrew’ being an example of 19th century nonsense to be dismissed out of hand, the entry for it might have actually provided more specific information about another entry: the one featuring diburig. For ‘hebrew / dibaru’ appears to reveal that not just approximately ‘leg’ was intended in that instance but specifically ‘leg below the knee’, with the nearest word for this in English being ‘shin’.
 
Jeremy Steele

 

Wednesday 17 June 2015

TASMANIAN SNAKE PAIN

N.J.B. Plomley has provided a splendid resource for information on the languages of Tasmania, and there probably were several,. His book of nearly 500 pages:
Plomley, N.J.B. 1976. A word-list of the Tasmanian Aboriginal languages. Launceston: N.J.B. Plomley in association with the Government of Tasmania.
This lists all the records Plomley uncovered, arranged somewhat  in the manner of a dictionary. For example, starting on page 385 he presents all the words to do with illness, under the headword ‘sick’.
He has given all the ways in which the numerous reorders spelt the indigenous word for the various disorders shown.
A few of the Plomley entries for ‘sick’.
Note especially “har.war.yer” near the top
From this extract it can be seen that the spellings used for the words are often unclear.
In order to make better sense of the words, Your Amateur Researcher has attempted to respell the Tasmanian words in a consistent fashion so as to try to begin to understand a little more of the language(s).
Here is another fragment, illustrating this process:
Respelling in progress in the Bayala Tasmanian database
The green columns indicate the page and line number in Plomley’s work. The grey columns are the entries featuring the Indigenous word as originally spelt by the recorder. together with the English translation. The brown column is an attempt at consistent respelling of each item.
Why this particular, and odd, collection is here is that it includes some of the more challenging items for respelling.
For example, in the first entry, what is one to make of ‘h’ in the middle?
And in the very last line (397:26) the entry includes ‘fire’. Is this the English word fire? The same question applies in the fourth last line (‘here’); and the 7th last (‘hebrew’).
Is ‘fire’ a respelling of an indigenous word, including a non-permitted /f/, to be re-spelt, say, biri when considered letter by letter, or baya when considered for the English sound of fire?
Likewise is ‘here’, an Indigenous word with the non-permitted /h/, supposed to be respelt, say, yiri, or possibly yiya to rhyme with the English sound for here?
And is ‘hebrew’ possibly yibru, when the English sound is held in mind?
The letter /h/ is particularly challenging.
—Given that the spellings in the typeset book are all interpretations of the original handwriting by someone (perhaps Plomley himself, or the typesetter perhaps, or possibly an editor) …
—the /h/ might easily have been a /b/ as these twi letters have much the same shape;
—or if the beginning stroke was a little generous, perhaps it was intended as an /n/.
—And because in the nineteenth century, when most of the recordings were made, the idea of words beginning with ‘ng-’ was unfamiliar, given that the English language does not contain a single such example, a Tasmanian word with an oddly sounding beginning featuring ng- might have been rendered with an ‘h-’ start.
This is just speculation, but one needs to speculate to make sense of some of the entries.
The respelling list above has numerous examples with ‘v’, another non-permitted consonant in most Indigenous languages, as are the others so far mentioned.
—Often a /b/ might be misheard, and rendered as a ‘v’;
—or the original handwriting of ‘w’ might be transcribed as ‘v’;
—or in some common styles of handwriting an ‘r’ might also often resemble a ‘v’.
And what is one to make of the second-last entry, ‘lough.we’? Is this an English-sounding ‘ough’? if so, which ‘-ough’?
Which of the following seven ‘-ough-’ sounds might one select?
The challenge
It is, however, the entry near the middle of the respelling group that is the focus of attention in this brief essay:
385:9 har.war.yer ‘pain in the bowels’
The question is, how to handle the ‘h’? The rest of the word is fairly straightforward:
— a / wa / ya
So a word that ends with the sound ‘-awaya’.
But how might it have begun? What was the initial letter?
A search in the now extensive Bayala Tasmanian database reveals just the one possibility:
bawaya
In the second entry in the coloured table, “pow.wer.yer”, respelt as bawaya, means ‘snake’. At first sight this is an unlikely match for ‘sick’ in the entry above it, especially ‘sick’ meaning specifically ‘pain in bowels’. The “pow.wer.yer” record was made by George Augustus Robinson, but who told it to him is unknown.
However, it is conceivable that the informant had a pain, perhaps even in the bowels, after an encounter with a snake that did not agree with him (or her). This pain might have been caused by a bite. Or perhaps eating the snake caused a pain in the bowels.
Accordingly a correct translation for ‘har.war.yer’ might be ‘snake’ rather than ‘pain in bowels’.
Jeremy Steele

 

Wednesday 17 June 2015

Mocha early: Tasmanian salt water

First visit to SOAS
Twenty years ago, on Monday 3 April 1995, your Sydney-based amateur researcher into Australian languages called on the  ‘School of Oriental and African Studies [SOAS: part of the University of London] in London in a vain quest to look up information on the Sydney Aboriginal language gathered by First Fleeter William Dawes’. It was known that they held the notebooks compiled by Dawes. A diary entry further records that: ‘however, one needed a letter of introduction to gain access, from an authority such as a professor anywhere.  My own business card from the University of Sydney, where I was an employee in its administration, was not good enough’.
Yemmerawannie
Three years later, on another visit to London, another diary entry records a busy day: Monday 5 October 1998: ‘Then to St John the Baptist church, Eltham, to see the register of Yemmerawannie’s burial. This was an old book about 450 x 250 mm, brown leather bound with two large clasps, with entries from the 1600s. Photographed the Yemmerawannie entry.’ Yemmerawannie was one of two Aboriginals taken to London in 1792 by retiring Governor Arthur Phillip. Yemmerawannie arrived in England in 1793, and died there a year later, aged about 19.
Second visit to SOAS
Then that afternoon having caught the train to Charing Cross — the diary continues: ‘Walked to the School of Oriental and African Studies in Bloomsbury, where three years ago had been denied admission. This time, with a letter of introduction obtained from the professor of Classics at Sydney University, got in without trouble [and so to the library and] to the Special Reserve, where after a fright of their not holding the material —they being the school of Oriental and African (not Australian) studies), they finally found it. The purpose of the journey: to see the word lists of the Sydney Aboriginal language compiled around 1790 by Lt William Dawes, Royal Marine on the First Fleet. …
Dawes’s notebooks
‘The precious packet, a small cardboard envelope-folder containing two pocket notebooks [was produced]. The slightly larger had a coloured cover, affecting waterworn stones. The smaller with a plain cover was a re-binding of two notebooks, one a word list arranged alphabetically, the other a “grammar”, all in Dawes’s own elegant handwriting.
I was not required to handle these with surgical gloves, nor prevented from writing on them. The only security control was signs saying only portable computers and pencils could be used in the room: yet there was no frisking or search for ballpoints or pens. There I was, with Dawes’s actual notebooks, probably the best record anywhere of the Sydney Aboriginal language.
Tasmanian word lists
‘On beginning to make a few notes, I found in a home-made sleeve in the back of the large notebook some lists on differently sized pieces of paper of words of the Van Dieman’s Land language made by the French in 1792 or 1793. Amazingly, these included in two separate lists the word ‘kanguru’ for ‘kangourou’, (spelt in one case with k and the other with c). This suggested the possibility or probability that the word for ‘kangaroo’, already known not to be from Sydney, is of Tasmanian origin. I had always supposed that it might be from Cooktown, the other place where Cook had had some contact with Aborigines when his ship the Endeavour was repaired there after being damaged on the Great Barrier Reef. When was the word first used by white people? From Cook’s (1770) or Phillip’s (1788) visits?’
On later reflection your researcher concluded that the Guugu-Yimidhirr word /gaŋuru/ must have been brought to Tasmania by even earlier ships visiting the island, the Aboriginals repeating it back to the subsequently visiting members of the Bruni d’Entrecasteaux party in Recherché Bay.
Database
Following the 1998 visit to London, a small database was begun of the 200 or so words in the SOAS Van Diemen’s Land  lists, and once completed that area was allowed to slip from the mind.
Book gift
On your researcher’s completing a master’s research degree on the Sydney language in 2005, his Macquarie University supervisor generously presented him with a book by way of congratulation. This was a work on Tasmanian languages. It was placed on the bookshelves and, like the SOAS vocabularies, slipped from the mind. And so the years passed.
Visiting Tasmania
In the meantime a tourist visit had been made to Tasmania, in October 1999, being your researcher’s first experience of the island. It was not until the present year, 2015, that a second, briefer, visit was made there, during the course of which modest enquiries were made about languages in the course of visiting various museums. 
 
Vocabularies
A volunteer in one of the local museums was kind enough to go home and fetch a book she had on the subject of languages, and on being shown it your researcher thought it looked familiar. Indeed on returning home a few days lated he found it was the very work presented to him in 2005-06. This is a collection of all the known 40 or so vocabularies:
Plomley, Norman James Brian. 1976. A word-list of the Tasmanian Aboriginal languages. Launceston: N.J.B. Plomley in association with the Government of Tasmania.
It is a work of 478 pages, in which all the word-list entries are presented in the manner of a dictionary, English head word alphabetically by English head word, with all the Tasmanian records listed below for each, complete with all the diverse and often bizarre spellings of them, together with information of the recorder and informant for each, and the area (where known in Tasmania) where it was collected.
Of the Tasmanian vocabularies noted scholar of Australian languages R.M.W. Dixon wrote in 1980:
Dixon, R.M.W. 1980. The Languages of Australia. Edited by W. S. Allen and et al., Cambridge Language Surveys. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.:
  • “A handful of word lists were taken down by early settlers but these are of extremely poor quality; they were compiled by people who for the most part had little respect for the Tasmanians or their languages, and no clear idea of how to represent the sounds they heard. Within the last few decades a new manuscript vocabulary has come to light, compiled by George Augustus Robinson, a self-styled missionary who rounded up the survivors of Tasmanian tribes between 1829 and 1834 and transported them to offshore islands, effectively there to die off. Robinson took down a considerable quantity of  vocabulary, some of it from parts of the island that had not been represented in previous lists; but the standard of his transcription was even worse than the rest.”
Processing the records
Your researcher considered that it was time to look at the Tasmanian language records more closely, especially given that he appeared to have virtually all of them in a book in his own study. By a process of scanning, optical character recognition and other manipulation, he added all the records to his initial tiny Tasmanian database, thereby enlarging it from 200 records to 10500. But this is just the beginning. The next step is to respell all the records consistently, and to provide consistent translations. These processes will reveal points of interest and enable searches to be made.
Various scholars have already concluded that there were probably several languages on the island, and here is a language map by one of them, Claire Bowern, in 2012. She has identified five languages. A sixth area — coloured grey on the map — was largely uninhabited, and hence had no language recorded for it.
First example of what the database can reveal
After the foregoing introduction, your researcher now offers a small point for this blog entry.
There is a record :
mocha early: salt water
It is by:
Braim in History of New South Wales (1846); 
(bmm) manuscript vocabulary, Braim papers, Mitchell Library.
The database is already able to provide the following analysis:
“mocha early” is nothing to do with being ‘early’. Rather mocha is a word for ‘water’.
And “early” is in all probability a misreading of the original handwriting of “carty”, as porvided in:
Vocabulary of Jorgen Jorgenson: (jj) words collected by Jorgen
featured in the 5th line of the table above. “carty”, respelt as /gadi/ turns out to be a word for ‘bad’.
Consequently “mocha carty” or /mudya gadi/ (in the 6th line) is ‘water bad’, or ‘bad water’.
‘Bad water’ is one of the ways the Tasmanians spoke of ‘salt water’, or the ‘sea’. It was, after all, not drinkable.
This in turn reveals that the translation of “mocha carty” in the 5th line of the table above itself contains an error in the translation. It does not mean ‘water bag’ but rather ‘water bad’.
This brief enquiry already confirms what Dixon stated so bluntly: the Tasmanian records are ‘of extremely poor quality’.

 

JMS Monday 25 May 2015