Beneath the Sands of Egypt (11 page)

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 sometime 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.

T
O 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, good 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.

There wasn't much to conclude from all this other than adding to the sparse descriptive data on the subject. It would have been
nice if it were possible to assign how each piece was specifically used, but there really wasn't much to go on, unless you wanted to speculate based on size or perhaps a knot or two. There was one aspect of the study, though, that did border on interpretation. The samples of cordage were derived from two excavations at different parts of the site of El-Hibeh, and the kinds retrieved from each were quite different. One might suggest, therefore, perhaps with other supporting data, that these two areas varied in function, based on surviving cordage and other objects. At El-Hibeh the evidence seemed to suggest that this was the case, one excavation revealing domestic or home sites and the other associated with some sort of public architecture. But regardless of what little I could add to the history of ancient Egypt by this study, I at least added to my own knowledge and experience, and my interest was piqued.

During my fortuitous encounter with Harry James on that Red Sea cruise, I asked if the British Museum's Egyptian collection possessed any cordage. “Bits of string!” replied Harry. “Yes, in fact, we do.” In my own enthusiastic way, I tried to impress upon him how important cordage was to the ancient Egyptians. The man in charge of galleries of superb sculptures, mummies, and priceless works of art was indeed well aware that everything, no matter how mundane, had the potential of contributing a little something to our knowledge. “Come on by the department on your way through London, and we'll have a look!” I arrived a few weeks later, and, as promised, there were pieces of ancient rope to examine, each well preserved and well cared for.

It was a wonderful collection of ropes from different eras and places in Egypt, which together formed a nice, varied sample. There was a huge fragment almost the diameter of my wrist and another that was lengthy and gathered into a coil. Yet another huge piece
was composed mostly of a single very large knot. Harry provided whatever data the museum possessed in its records, and I selected seventeen specimens for detailed analysis based on the extent of surviving information on each item. Most of the samples were collected around or prior to the turn of the century when interest in these sorts of artifacts was not a priority to archaeologists working in Egypt. Thankfully, a number of specimens had made their way to the museum with notes recording such data as their place of discovery and the overall context in which they were found.

From my study of the El-Hibeh material, I had a good idea about how to document this stuff. This time, though, I was intent on pursuing the one vital variable I didn't have the skills to deal with before: material. What were these artifacts made of? Determining material of manufacture of artifacts made from ancient plants certainly must fall within the realm of botany, and soon after I returned home, I went to the biology department at Pacific Lutheran University looking for a willing consultant. Professor David Hansen must have thought it a strange proposition when approached by an animated ancient rope enthusiast, but I somehow convinced him that the project was sufficiently interesting to give it a deeper look. His lack of background in Egyptian archaeology wasn't detrimental—I'd cover that—but his botanical knowledge was essential.

After delving into what limited literature we could find on the subject, Dave had a good idea of what would be required. Fiber samples extracted from the ancient ropes could be cut into very thin slices and mounted on slides. As each plant species is anatomically distinct in microscopic cross section, we should be able, in theory at least, to compare the ancient samples with slides made in a similar way from modern reference specimens of plants known to be used in ancient Egypt. So back to London I would need to go, in order to retrieve the necessary fiber samples.

The opportunity came that fall, actually twice, while I was traveling to and from a stint as a tutor aboard an oilman's private yacht in the Aegean, a curious story in its own right that would only distract from my exciting unfolding tale of ancient rope. Needless to say, it was delightful to spend time in the British Museum. I looked forward each day to showing up at the Egyptian department's “students' room,” accessed by a nondescript door between statues of the lion-headed goddess Sekhmet, situated on one of the museum's grand staircases. Pushing a button would bring a greeter, and soon I would be going about my work, facilitated by a helpful and hospitable staff. It took several days to examine and document the ropes as I conducted my usual descriptive analysis. With permission, of course, I was able to take samples from each artifact, placing a few fibers in small coin envelopes to be brought home with me to PLU.

Back at Dave's lab, we found that many of the samples were brittle, and the first task was to soften them a bit, which Dave did in an appropriate chemical solution. Afterward individual fibers were embedded into small paraffin blocks before meeting their fate in the microtome. The microtome is a little machine that wields a dangerously sharp blade, capable of slicing samples of many things, from diseased human tissue to ancient cordage fibers, to a thickness of only microns. “It will cut you if you just look at it!” I joked, and I let Dave do the serious stuff. By turning a small crank, like a butcher cutting pastrami in a deli, he guided the microtome to slice each fiber into thin ribbons, which were then mounted on slides and stained to bring out their features.

Under the microscope one could certainly see an array of anatomical features resembling pockets and strands that varied between some specimens but were clearly identical in others. To identify the actual materials, though, a series of reliable reference
specimens were needed to compare with our ancient samples. For starters I was able to obtain fibers from date palms growing at the family homestead in Southern California. We would, however, need quite a number of other species, and it was clear that a collecting trip to the place where they grew naturally, Egypt, would be required.

With a list of species in hand, Dave and I ventured off to the Land of the Pharaohs. Unfortunately for my friend, the airline had lost virtually all of his luggage, and Dave was left with just the clothes on his back and a plant press. It's a device consisting of layers of thick paper and cardboard pressed between two wooden frames by tightening straps. Also unfortunate was that the other necessary tools, including our “floras”—reference books for identifying plant species—were also lost in the luggage, as were some devices for retrieving samples. We suspect that one such device used for coring trees, and somewhat resembling a metal pipe, might have been the culprit that invited airport suspicion and thus caused the vital suitcase to be held. (As an aside, Dave's suitcase, mostly intact, arrived on his doorstep in Olympia, Washington, without explanation about three months later.) After waiting a few days for the lost bag, we decided to proceed, and I lent Dave some of my clothes, which looked quite comical on him as I was several sizes larger. Nonetheless, we pressed on.

One of our plants of interest was papyrus, a plant almost synonymous with ancient Egypt, where it served as a source material for making paper. The Egyptians had ample use for the product, and during the Greek and Roman dominations of Egypt it was exported all over the Mediterranean. The Egyptians themselves also used the plant for a variety of other things, including the making of naturally buoyant boats, sandals, and yes, ropes. A couple of ancient Greek visitors to Egypt even noted that the plant could be
used as food, prompting a colleague of mine—the late, great Donald Farmer—to coin the word “papriphagic.”
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