Beneath the Sands of Egypt

by Donald P. Ryan, PhD

  Modern development, too, has had its effect, and once-desolate areas have become resorts and expensive communities, putting people, some with vandalistic tendencies, in close proximity to these precious images from the past. Indeed, Polynesian petroglyphs are very worthy of epigraphic attention, and in between my journeys to Egypt in the early 1980s, and several times thereafter, I went to Hawaii to record and preserve what I could.

  On the western coast of the “Big Island” of Hawaii, one can find a region called Kona. It’s on the dry side of the island, and a significant portion of its landscape is miles upon miles of black lava descending to the sea from a large, hulking volcano named Hualalai. Kona had been a home base for the great warrior-chief Kamehameha, who unified the islands into a kingdom, and it was here that the first missionaries came with their goal of Christianizing Hawaiian society. Today the town of Kailua-Kona is a delightful population hub and tourist destination.

  About a dozen miles north of the town is an ancient region called Ka‘upulehu. The name itself means “roasted breadfruit” and derives from an ancient legend in which the volcano goddess, Pele, visits two sisters in the area. (Legend has it that one sister shared her breadfruit with the incognito goddess, and her home was spared during a volcanic eruption.) Up until about the 1960s, the coast here was accessible only by boat or by hiking for miles on old trails. Around that time a man named Johnno Jackson came up along the coast and laid the foundation for what would become the Kona Village Resort, a quiet complex of Polynesian-style huts that continues to attract those seeking a simple yet luxurious hideaway. And it just so happened that in the lava field right behind the resort lay one of the most impressive collections of petroglyphs to be found in the Hawaiian Islands, if not in all of Polynesia.

  Old Ka‘upulehu had once supported a village on a beautiful bay, but by the mid-twentieth century there were just a few inhabitants at best. Most everyone had moved to towns with modern conveniences. When an archaeological survey came through in the early 1960s, the researchers found mere remnants of civilization: some stone platforms that served as the floors of grass houses, shelter caves littered with seashells from ancient meals, some well-hidden burial caves, and the petroglyphs. Unlike others found in the Islands, the petroglyphs at Ka‘upulehu are distinctly different. At other sites one tends to find simple carvings of sticklike figures and a lot of circles and dots. At Ka‘upulehu the style and motifs are remarkably unique, some appearing dynamic and almost animated rather than static. There are many dozens of depictions of what appear to be canoe sails, some showing ripples in their fabric as if being blown by the wind. There’s a figure of a man fishing with a long line outfitted with huge hooks, a group that appears to depict two men carrying a body on a pole, and there are several examples of men wearing headdresses as if chiefs. There are also numerous examples of what in Hawaiian are called papamu, rectangular patterns of dots pecked into the rock, which some locals will interpret as venues for the playing of konane, a checkerslike game involving black and white stones.

  It has been proposed that the profusion of sail motifs suggests that Ka‘upulehu might have once served as the site of a kind of sailing school for canoe voyaging, and perhaps the papamu are actually a teaching tool in which white stones could be placed in various holes to duplicate the patterns in the sky used in celestial navigation. As opposed to the typical static norm, the petroglyphs at Ka‘upulehu were excitingly dynamic.

  Sadly, several of the most intriguing examples had suffered rudely from attempts to bring their mystery elsewhere. Some had been excessively rubbed, their edges degraded from repeated copying by paper and crayons. Worse yet is an example in which latex was poured directly into a petroglyph in an attempt to make a cast. The damaging result was scarring with latex embedded in the porous surface of the lava. Likewise, an ill-considered attempt to use resin for the same purpose left a disastrous result.

  Motivated by a desire to preserve these precious items, accompanied by what I had learned about the scholars at Chicago House and their epigraphic methods, I asked the manager of Kona Village if I might attempt to document the petroglyphs on that property. Being fascinated with Hawaiian history and culture himself, he enthusiastically agreed. I set out for Hawaii alone, old survey reports and maps in hand, and headed for the Kona lava fields.

  An example of Hawaiian petroglyphs studied by the author. Are they fighting or dancing?

  Denis Whitfill/Experimental Epigraphy Expedition

  The first step was to locate as many of the petroglyphs behind the village as I could. It was an incredibly daunting task as the area was thickly infested with the nasty kiawe trees, whose thorns tore at my skin and clothing and whose leafy debris covered much of the lava surface. Scattered jagged chunks of black rock surrounding the trunks of the kiawe were a constant reminder of the destruction taking place in the midst of this amazing site. How many petroglyphs were being literally exploded apart by these botanical outsiders? And it was genuinely hot. Not the dry heat of the Egyptian desert but the humid heat of a tropical island, accelerated by the black surface of the lava rock, which in places became too hot to touch.

  As I crawled across the lava with brooms of various sizes, the task of locating all the petroglyphs, let alone effectively documenting them, was quickly turning from my imagined jolly concept of easy, fun Hawaiian epigraphy to something bordering on the truly arduous and impractical. The amount of plant debris to sweep away so that I could confidently declare that all petroglyphs had been revealed was immense. Also, the solo surveying technique I had contrived was nearly impossible to implement, as the kiawe interfered with my line of sight. Lighting, too, was an issue, and some petroglyphs visible in the early-morning or late-afternoon light were barely discernible for much of the day. It was terribly frustrating.

  However, I had more success in another area. About half a mile away, across the lava desert, are scattered groups of petroglyphs in an area that the kiawe have yet to conquer, some of which are truly exceptional and vibrant. In one such example there is a dramatic figure that seems to be wearing a tall, elaborate headdress—and two men dancing or fighting with paddles over their heads. Even farther along the harsh landscape is another site where stone shelter walls still stand in isolation within just a few yards of a lava flow that cut across the landscape in 1801. The lava devastated everything in its path and filled in a good part of the nearby bay, and one wonders what might have lain beneath. Nearby are more papamu, sails, and a curious, deeply carved petroglyph depicting a six-toed foot.

  The author mapping petroglyphs solo in the lava fields at Ka‘upulehu, Hawaii. The intrusive kiawe trees in the background spread quickly, crack the lava, and can damage petroglyphs.

  Donald P. Ryan

  Using a compass along with a protractor affixed to a flat lava surface and also some long measuring tapes, I was able to map parts of the open area and at least inventory the petroglyphs in the vicinity. I enjoyed the solitude, and I was often reminded of Egypt by the wide expanses of dry wilderness, the heat, the fresh air, and the open sky. After a couple of weeks of work, I issued a report to the resort with recommendations for conservation. The experience left me ever more interested in documentation of ancient sites and the preservation of such things as petroglyphs.

  The interpretation of ancient rock art raises persistent questions. Do petroglyphs depict real things and events accompanied, perhaps, by a symbolic or ritualistic meaning? Do we, or can we, understand their meaning, or are we merely engaging in our own brand of storytelling, with a kind of Rorschach test in stone? Could some examples be mere graffiti, spontaneous creations inspired by the existence of other petroglyphs in the vicinity? Rock art is notoriously difficult to date, too. One might, for example, be able to geologically determine the age of the lava flow in which the petroglyphs were carved, but if the lava flow is five thousand years old and human colonization of the islands took place only about fifteen hundred years ago, then we could surmise that they were carved somet
ime between then and their encounter with an archaeologist.

  Occasionally there are clues to age in the themes. The depiction of a horse or a goat indicates that the petroglyph is more recent. It was only after the arrival of the Europeans that such animals were introduced to the islands. At Ka‘upulehu, there is a large inscription that reads “1820,” but even then one can’t assume it’s the date in which the petroglyph was carved. It could be someone’s year of birth or any other significant event.

  Wonderful things have happened at Ka‘upulehu after my own simple efforts. Most of the kiawe were removed from the primary petroglyph field, and a well-crafted boardwalk was installed, with explanatory signs that allow visitors to enjoy the rock art without trampling on it. And a project led by archaeologist Georgia Lee did a very credible job of documenting many of the petroglyphs in a precise, epigraphic fashion.

  A number of years later, I returned to Ka‘upulehu with a small volunteer team of friends. We called our effort the Experimental Epigraphy Expedition, and our goal was to experiment with methods of documenting such things as petroglyphs using the benefits of modern technology. We brought laptop computers, digital cameras, and other equipment and got to work. In one experiment we attempted to duplicate a kind of Chicago House method out in the lava. Using a digital camera, we photographed a sample of a petroglyph and then immediately downloaded the image into the laptop, where we brought it onto the screen using the Adobe Photoshop program. From there we traced over the image using a digital pen, and with a portable battery-powered printer we were able to immediately produce a hard copy, compare it to the original, make further corrections on the image, and voilà—a quick, inexpensive, and accurate rendition of a petroglyph. Would this work in Egypt? Could similar techniques eventually replace that of the traditional Chicago House method? Perhaps, but it’s one thing to document relatively simple subjects such as Polynesian petroglyphs and another to address the superb detail preserved in many pharaonic inscriptions. I’m sure that Chicago House will continue its superb work with the finest means possible.

  I was interested, too, in the possibilities of photographing as much as possible of the entire site using high-resolution photographs for the purpose of documentation but also as a tool for studying the relationship between the various petroglyphs as groups. Kite aerial photography seemed like it might have the potential to do the job, and with the generous assistance of the Drachen Foundation—a foundation dedicated to all things kite-related—we recruited an expert who brought a special kite to Kona with a camera rig attached to its line that could take pictures remotely. Kites, of course, are wind-dependent, and there would be some waiting around until conditions were just right. Eventually we got some great pictures from high in the air, but unfortunately it was hard to control the kite with the precision we preferred.

  Operating in the jagged lava also provided hazards for both the operators and the kite, especially when landing. We endured some nasty scrapes and cuts, and at one point there was a structural malfunction on the kite and a camera fell from the sky, smashing into the rocks below. Overall the results were mixed, but certainly not discouraging.

  On our last day, we improvised one final experiment. At a local store, we bought several party kits that included dozens of colorful balloons and a tank of helium. After inflating a substantial bouquet, we proceeded out to the petroglyph fields, dodging palms and the stray kiawe, which threatened to literally deflate our efforts. Unlike a kite, the balloons required absolutely no wind whatsoever to be effective, and we again waited for just the right conditions. Using lines for control, we were able to float an attached camera over groups of petroglyphs to get some reasonable images from a desired height. With lessons learned and plenty of new insights, we’ll probably come back someday and try it again—but next time with more sophisticated gear.

  FIVE

  UNTYING THE MUNDANE

  TO A MOUNTAIN CLIMBER, a rope is a valued companion. It has the potential to save one from a fatal fall down a sheer cliff or a plunge into the depths of a crevasse. It can provide a sense of security that inspires confidence in ascending and traversing dangerous terrain, and it can facilitate one’s descent to terra firma. As a climber, therefore, I have an intrinsic interest in this technology, it often being tied, literally, to my very survival.

  Modern mountaineering ropes are made of artificial materials and are composed of continuous bundles of nylon strands protected by a woven outer sheath. Their thickness, in terms of diameter, is an important factor in their strength, while their length affects their utility. A standard useful rope length today is 60 meters with a diameter of 10.5 millimeters, and ropes are available in a variety of colors and patterns. They are flexible enough to be tied and knotted into one’s harness or affixed to anchors and can be coiled for transport or storage. Climbing ropes can be “dynamic,” that is, with a bit of stretch to cushion a fall, or “static,” with little give in order to facilitate very specific uses, such as long vertical entries and exits into caves.

  While my own interests in rope might seem a bit esoteric, its versatility, even in this arguably fringe activity, is dramatic. What we call rope, and things of similar utility, can be grouped under the general term “cordage.” Theoretically at least, cordage can be defined as an assemblage of fibers, combined by twisting or braiding into a flexible line capable of bearing weight and being tied. It can take many functional forms, whether it’s fine silk thread used to sew a delicate Chinese garment, twine or string used to tie up a package, or big cables made of grass spanning ravines in the Peruvian highlands. If you look around, you’ll find lots of examples of cordage in different sizes and materials. And it was even more prominent before the age of duct tape.

  The ancient Egyptians certainly made good use of cordage. As masters of simple technology, they put it to use in dozens of necessary, creative ways. Scenes of daily life depicted on tomb walls show elaborate rigging aboard their ships, and one of the most dramatic discoveries ever from ancient Egypt, a well-preserved forty-six-hundred-year-old wooden funerary boat, was literally held together by rope. Uncovered in 1954, in a pit sealed under stone slabs at the foot of the Great Pyramid, the boat was constructed from cedar planks of various sizes, lashed together with rope, which were also found well preserved among the jigsaw puzzle of dismantled pieces.

  Scholars and tourists alike marvel at the pyramids and the colossal statues of the pharaohs, but when you think about it, the simple, mundane technology of rope was an essential part of the process. These heavy objects were pulled, lifted, and tied down, and cordage was there as the unsung but vital technology of the ancient world. Simple and taken for granted, it is easy to ignore.

  As a climber with an appreciation for rope well-established, I found it an easy decision when Dr. W asked me if I’d like to try to make sense of a sundry collection of cordage fragments recovered from his excavation at a site in Middle Egypt called El-Hibeh. There were about eighty pieces in several sizes, mostly dirty and dating back two thousand to three thousand years. Old Egyptian rope! Where to start? I turned to a likely source, a reference book entitled Ancient Egyptian Materials and Industries by Alfred Lucas and J. R. Harris. It’s an amazing piece of scholarship covering all kinds of topics from bricks and beads to pottery and wood. Fortunately, there was a little article dealing with cordage that got me started with some general information. Not surprisingly, I learned that there was not very much available on the subject.

  I did find some insights, however, outside the realm of Egyptology, in the archaeological literature of North America. In fact, there were some wonderful studies done on the subject based on many surviving ancient examples, especially from the dry regions of the Southwest. There I found strategies and techniques for analysis that could be directly applied to the Egyptian materials I was dealing with. The American examples brought home a reality that holds true with other examples: Egyptologists are spoiled. Their embarrassment of riches in the form of dramatic monuments, goo
d preservation, tomb art, and, most important, the crutch of texts, shaped the development of Egyptology in such a way that there are few specialists who deal with the relatively “common” artifacts. Lacking inscriptions, a well-established framework of history, and, frankly, the alluring glory of the pharaohs, the archaeology of North America developed in a much different way, with an emphasis on scrutinizing every bit of evidence, no matter how minute or seemingly inconsequential. There are specialists who deal with such subjects as stone tools, tiny grains of pollen, pottery, animal bones, and even dung. American archaeology, then, would give me a grasp on how to deal with several dozen pieces of old rope from a land rich in artifacts but weak in the understanding of those bits and pieces that aren’t particularly pretty.

  Three factors help determine a cord’s function: how it’s made, its material of manufacture, and its size or diameter. Archaeologists classify the construction of cords by the number of strands and the direction in which they are twisted. Strands can be described as either S-twisted (to the left) or Z-twisted (to the right). The tension between such opposite-twisted strands holds the rope together. Typically, three S-twisted strands are combined to form a single Z-twisted cord. The analyst can effectively record this construction with a simple formula such as Z = s/s/s. And cords like this can be combined to make even bigger and stronger rope.

  The samples from el-Hibeh varied from what one might call “string” to much larger pieces, some of them appearing as if manufactured just days earlier, while others crumbled into loose fibers at the touch. Even so, it was fun to work with this stuff, sitting in a cramped laboratory surrounded by little boxes and bags full of truly old items handmade by ancient Egyptians. I created a standardized form for recording the data, on which I wrote whatever information I could glean. The construction formula was easily discerned, and determining the diameters of the strands was simply a matter of measuring them with calipers. Actually, most of the time spent with this small project was spent just finding out how to study the materials.