Auswahl der wissenschaftlichen Literatur zum Thema „Straits Settlements records“

Abstract. In comparison to the Northern Hemisphere, especially Europe and North America, there is a scarcity of information regarding the historic weather and climate of Southeast Asia and the Southern Hemisphere in general. The reasons for this are both historic and political, yet that does not mean that such data do not exist. Much of the early instrumental weather records for Southeast Asia stem from the colonial period and, with some countries and regions changing hands between the European powers, surviving information tends to be scattered across the globe making its recovery a long and often arduous task. This paper focuses on data recovery for two countries that were once joined under British governance: Singapore and Malaysia. It will explore the early stage of a project that aims to recover surviving instrumental weather records for both countries from the late 1780s to the 1950s, with early research completed for the Straits Settlements (Singapore, Penang and Malacca) between 1786 and 1917. Taking a historical approach, the main focus here is to explore the types of records available and the circumstances of their production. In so doing, it will consider the potential for inaccuracy, highlight gaps in the record and use historical context to explain how and why these problems and omissions may have occurred. It will also explore the availability of narrative and data evidence to pinpoint extreme periods of weather such as drought or flood and consider the usefulness of historical narrative in identifying and analysing extreme events.

In 1964 F.R.J. Verhoeven, then Director General of the National Archives of Malaysia, wrote an article entitled ‘The lost archives of Dutch Malacca’ in which he lamented the apparent disappearance of the c. 2,000 volumes of records which he estimated must have been produced during the Dutch administration of Melaka from 1641 to 1824. Apart from 150 volumes in the National Archives of Indonesia in Jakarta, some fifteen volumes of Church registers now in the National Archives of Malaysia, and a small number of records in The Hague and elsewhere, nothing was known to have survived. It was only with the publication in 1983 of Ian Baxter' listing of series R/9 in the India Office Records that it became widely known that a portion of the archives had been shipped to London early in the twentieth century:The records of the Malacca Orphan Chamber and Court of Justice, R/9, occupy 44 feet of shelving (ninety-eight boxes) at the India Office Records in London. They were donated by the Government of the Straits Settlements to the India Office in June 1927, after lying, neglected, for many years in the basement of the Court House at Malacca. It is only recently (1981) that they have been completely sorted and listed. They comprise thirty-six boxes of Orphan Chamber records, fifty-four boxes of records of the College of Justice, one box of records of the Political Council and seven boxes of miscellanea. For the most part the records are written in Dutch and although they extend in date from 1685 to 1835 the bulk of them relate to the period 1785–1825, i.e. the last years of the Dutch East India Company's administration, the British occupation of 1795–1818 and the second Dutch administration of 1818–25.

When NATO was created on 4 April 1949 by the United States, Britain, Canada, and several Western European countries with the aim tocontain the Soviet Union’s expansion of power, it was rather peculiar that Greece and Türkiye were excluded, while their Mediterranean neighbour, Italy, was included in this new military organisation. As Greece suffered from the communist insurgents in the Greek Civil War (1946–1949), and Türkiye was unceasingly under Soviet military and diplomatic threat over the provinces of Kars and Ardahan and the Turkish Straits settlements (1946–1953), both seemingly had valid reasons for being included in NATO. However, Britain, one of the renowned founding members of NATO, determinedly repudiated to invite Greece and Türkiye to join NATO. This paper analyses the reasons for Britain to deny these countries NATO membership. The existing literature on this exclusion subject argues that the geographical location and the forthcoming Mediterranean Pact were two apparent causes that influenced Britain to reject Greece and Türkiye’s NATO membership. This paper however, investigates other rejection reasons that have yet to be studied by previous scholars. This paper offers an analysis of Britain’s objections to Greece and Türkiye’s NATO membership during NATO’s creation years through the study of British primary historical records. The finding shows that Foreign Secretary Ernest Bevin was eager to have NATO promptly formed, and he believed the proposal for Greece and Türkiye’s inclusion in NATO would hamper this aim, since these two countries were in a dispute over Cyprus. Bevin reckoned that the bitter relationship between Greece and Türkiye over Cyprus would alarm the delegations, hence prolonging the discussions that would lead to further postponement of NATO’s ratification. Thus, Bevin’s démarche was not to propose the inclusion of Greece and Türkiye in NATO at the time.

Between September and October 2021, a total of seven adult specimens (five females and two males) of Umbrina ronchus Valenciennes, 1843 were caught in the waters off Portopalo di Capo Passero and Porto Empedocle (the south-eastern coast of Sicily). This was the first record of this species in the Strait of Sicily and the deepest record of this species within the Mediterranean Sea. Individuals of U. ronchus ranged from 180–240 mm total length and 69–149 g total weight. Gonad stages ranged from maturing to spent/resting. Otoliths sagittae were oval shaped with high rectangular yet complex contour. Counting the growth zones by transverse section, the estimated age ranged from 3 to 5 years. Since sciaenids are considered a high-longevity species, a quite recent settlement of U. ronchus in the Strait of Sicily is suggested. As the biogeographic nature of the Strait of Sicily is the main boundary between the western basin, which is characterized by a high affinity for (sub)tropical Atlantic species such as U. ronchus, and the eastern basin, which has an affinity for the indo-pacific warm waters species, the present records could be the limit to the eastward expansion of the geographic distribution of U. ronchus in the Mediterranean Sea.

Abstract. Transport networks in coastal, urban areas are extremely vulnerable to seismic events, with damage likely due to both ground motions and tsunami loading. Most existing models analyse the performance of structures under either earthquakes or tsunamis, as isolated events. This paper presents a numerical approach that captures the sequential earthquake–tsunami effects on transport infrastructure in a coastal area, taking into consideration the combined strains of the two events. Firstly, the dynamic cyclic loading is modelled, applied to the soil-structure system using a finite-difference approximation to determine the differential settlement, lateral displacement and liquefaction potential of the foundation. Next, using a finite-volume method approach, tsunami wave propagation and flooding potential are modelled. Finally, the hydrostatic and hydrodynamic loads corresponding to the wave elevation are applied to the post-earthquake state of the structure to obtain a second state of deformation. The sequential model is applied to an embankment in Manzanillo, Mexico, which is part of a main urban road; the response is analysed using ground motion records of the 1995 Manzanillo earthquake–tsunami event.

A dedicated analysis of spring and fall migration of the Eastern Imperial Eagle (Aquila heliaca) and Steppe Eagle (Aquila nipalensis) in Turkmenistan has never been conducted before. Both species have been considered migratory, although in the last decade some individuals began to overwinter. Wide portions of their flyways pass over Turkmenistan. Both species are more often found and concentrated in the southern half of the country and areas containing an abundance of Great Gerbil (Rhombomys opimus) and Libyan Jird (Meriones erythrourus), especially in population outbreak years. The migrating Imperial Eagle may be encountered almost everywhere, preferring areas in various open habitats in the flat parts of the country. It is difficult to estimate the total number of migrating Imperial Eagles, as well as Steppe Eagles, because it is rarely possible to record them over large areas during migration. We have put together the few known facts: a migrating flock of 26 individuals was recorded on April 28, 1939, near the Karabogazgol Strait (Isakov, Vorobyev, 1940); after detailed observations in 1949–1958 the Imperial Eagle was recorded twice in Badkhyz (Sukhinin, 1971), and only once in 1984–1997 (Bukreev, 1997); 37 Imperial Eagles have been observed in a flyway on October 20, 1976, in the delta of the Murghab River (in the Karakum lowlands), 36 km north of the village of Chashgyn. In the South-Eastern shore of the Caspian Sea there were 2 sightings over the period of 1977–1991: in October 1977 (3 individuals near Maloye Delili Lake) and March 1979 (2 individuals near Cheloyuk settlement) (A.A. Karavaev, unpublished data); In Central Kopetdagh in 1990–2010 this eagle was recorded only 7 times, with 1–2 birds observed each time, for a total of 27 birds (Efimenko, 2010), including once a flock of 9 individuals (Efimenko N.N., unpublished data); In the Western Kopetdagh in 2009–2018 it was also recorded 7 times, usually 1–2 individuals, with one observation of 6 individuals at one time (March 6, 2015) (Khodjamuradov, Rustamov, 2010; 2019). Although Steppe Eagles can be found throughout Turkmenistan, they migrate mostly over the western and southeastern parts of the country. The first flyway is predominantly over the Western Kopetdag and then through Southern Ustyurt (territories surrounding Karabogasgol bay and Sarakamysh lake), while the other goes through the broader Badkhyz corridor further along the edge of the Southeastern Karakum and Karabil to the southern half of the Sundukly Desert (Tallimerjen massif). Individual migrant streams can be traced along the foothills of the Bolshoi Balkhan and Maliy Balkhan, Kopetdag and/or across the Karakums. At the same time, birds can be seen everywhere in small groups and even singly (as if in isolation, but parallel to the main stream), crossing the flat portion of Turkmenistan in a broad front. Compared to the Imperial eagle, there are considerably more recorded sightings of Steppe Eagles (detailed analysis is given in the report).

PurposeThe British East India Company (EIC) made connections between the Malay Archipelago and Bengal and established a penal settlement at Bencoolen, followed by the Straits Settlements for the Indian convicts. The convicts from different parts of South Asia today were generally described as “Indian”, such generalisation often hides the identity of specific convicts from South Asia. Among the Indian convicts, the Bengalis were transported to Bencoolen and the Straits Settlements. However, the generic term has made it difficult to reconstruct the history of Bengali convicts’ experiences and pathos. Therefore, this paper attempts to “rediscover” the afterlife of transportation of Bengali felons in the Malay Peninsula.Design/methodology/approachBy examining a range of archival records and current scholarships, this article shows the inclusivity, diversity and accessibility of convict labourers with mainstream society. This study will open up a new avenue of convict histories and subaltern studies on Asia.FindingsThe Bengali convicts in the Straits Settlements, one of the oldest migrant sections, have largely been ignored in historical literature. Though the Bengalis, among other South Asian convicts, constituted a significant portion, they were categorised under the generic term “Indian” (Rai, 2014). Their manual labour was invaluable for the colonial economy and the development of the Straits Settlements.Research limitations/implicationsResearcher faced difficulties to get the descendant of Bengali convicts.Originality/valueThis article is a research paper based on mostly archival records; therefore, it is an original contribution to the existing knowledge on the convict history.

Special Care Notice This article contains images of deceased people that might cause sadness or distress to Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander readers. Introduction Like many cities, Perth was founded on wetlands that have been integral to its history and culture (Seddon 226–32). However, in order to promote a settlement agenda, early mapmakers sought to erase the city’s wetlands from cartographic depictions (Giblett, Cities). Since the colonial era, inner-Perth’s swamps and lakes have been drained, filled, significantly reduced in size, or otherwise reclaimed for urban expansion (Bekle). Not only have the swamps and lakes physically disappeared, the memories of their presence and influence on the city’s development over time are also largely forgotten. What was the site of Perth, specifically its wetlands, like before British settlement? In 2014, an interdisciplinary team at Edith Cowan University developed a digital visualisation process to re-imagine Perth prior to colonisation. This was based on early maps of the Swan River Colony and a range of archival information. The images depicted the city’s topography, hydrology, and vegetation and became the centerpiece of a physical exhibition entitled Re-imagining Perth’s Lost Wetlands and a virtual exhibition hosted by the Western Australian Museum. Alongside historic maps, paintings, photographs, and writings, the visual reconstruction of Perth aimed to foster appreciation of the pre-settlement environment—the homeland of the Whadjuck Nyoongar, or Bibbulmun, people (Carter and Nutter). The exhibition included the narrative of Fanny Balbuk, a Nyoongar woman who voiced her indignation over the “usurping of her beloved home ground” (Bates, The Passing 69) by flouting property lines and walking through private residences to reach places of cultural significance. Beginning with Balbuk’s story and the digital tracing of her walking route through colonial Perth, this article discusses the project in the context of contemporary pressures on the city’s extant wetlands. The re-imagining of Perth through historically, culturally, and geographically-grounded digital visualisation approaches can inspire the conservation of its wetlands heritage. Balbuk’s Walk through the City For many who grew up in Perth, Fanny Balbuk’s perambulations have achieved legendary status in the collective cultural imagination. In his memoir, David Whish-Wilson mentions Balbuk’s defiant walks and the lighting up of the city for astronaut John Glenn in 1962 as the two stories that had the most impact on his Perth childhood. From Gordon Stephenson House, Whish-Wilson visualises her journey in his mind’s eye, past Government House on St Georges Terrace (the main thoroughfare through the city centre), then north on Barrack Street towards the railway station, the site of Lake Kingsford where Balbuk once gathered bush tucker (4). He considers the footpaths “beneath the geometric frame of the modern city […] worn smooth over millennia that snake up through the sheoak and marri woodland and into the city’s heart” (Whish-Wilson 4). Balbuk’s story embodies the intertwined culture and nature of Perth—a city of wetlands. Born in 1840 on Heirisson Island, Balbuk (also known as Yooreel) (Figure 1) had ancestral bonds to the urban landscape. According to Daisy Bates, writing in the early 1900s, the Nyoongar term Matagarup, or “leg deep,” denotes the passage of shallow water near Heirisson Island where Balbuk would have forded the Swan River (“Oldest” 16). Yoonderup was recorded as the Nyoongar name for Heirisson Island (Bates, “Oldest” 16) and the birthplace of Balbuk’s mother (Bates, “Aboriginal”). In the suburb of Shenton Park near present-day Lake Jualbup, her father bequeathed to her a red ochre (or wilgi) pit that she guarded fervently throughout her life (Bates, “Aboriginal”).Figure 1. Group of Aboriginal Women at Perth, including Fanny Balbuk (far right) (c. 1900). Image Credit: State Library of Western Australia (Image Number: 44c). Balbuk’s grandparents were culturally linked to the site. At his favourite camp beside the freshwater spring near Kings Park on Mounts Bay Road, her grandfather witnessed the arrival of Lieutenant-Colonel Frederick Irwin, cousin of James Stirling (Bates, “Fanny”). In 1879, colonial entrepreneurs established the Swan Brewery at this significant locale (Welborn). Her grandmother’s gravesite later became Government House (Bates, “Fanny”) and she protested vociferously outside “the stone gates guarded by a sentry [that] enclosed her grandmother’s burial ground” (Bates, The Passing 70). Balbuk’s other grandmother was buried beneath Bishop’s Grove, the residence of the city’s first archibishop, now Terrace Hotel (Bates, “Aboriginal”). Historian Bob Reece observes that Balbuk was “the last full-descent woman of Kar’gatta (Karrakatta), the Bibbulmun name for the Mount Eliza [Kings Park] area of Perth” (134). According to accounts drawn from Bates, her home ground traversed the area between Heirisson Island and Perth’s north-western limits. In Kings Park, one of her relatives was buried near a large, hollow tree used by Nyoongar people like a cistern to capture water and which later became the site of the Queen Victoria Statue (Bates, “Aboriginal”). On the slopes of Mount Eliza, the highest point of Kings Park, at the western end of St Georges Terrace, she harvested plant foods, including zamia fruits (Macrozamia riedlei) (Bates, “Fanny”). Fanny Balbuk’s knowledge contributed to the native title claim lodged by Nyoongar people in 2006 as Bennell v. State of Western Australia—the first of its kind to acknowledge Aboriginal land rights in a capital city and part of the larger Single Nyoongar Claim (South West Aboriginal Land and Sea Council et al.). Perth’s colonial administration perceived the city’s wetlands as impediments to progress and as insalubrious environments to be eradicated through reclamation practices. For Balbuk and other Nyoongar people, however, wetlands were “nourishing terrains” (Rose) that afforded sustenance seasonally and meaning perpetually (O’Connor, Quartermaine, and Bodney). Mary Graham, a Kombu-merri elder from Queensland, articulates the connection between land and culture, “because land is sacred and must be looked after, the relation between people and land becomes the template for society and social relations. Therefore all meaning comes from land.” Traditional, embodied reliance on Perth’s wetlands is evident in Bates’ documentation. For instance, Boojoormeup was a “big swamp full of all kinds of food, now turned into Palmerston and Lake streets” (Bates, “Aboriginal”). Considering her cultural values, Balbuk’s determination to maintain pathways through the increasingly colonial Perth environment is unsurprising (Figure 2). From Heirisson Island: a straight track had led to the place where once she had gathered jilgies [crayfish] and vegetable food with the women, in the swamp where Perth railway station now stands. Through fences and over them, Balbuk took the straight track to the end. When a house was built in the way, she broke its fence-palings with her digging stick and charged up the steps and through the rooms. (Bates, The Passing 70) One obstacle was Hooper’s Fence, which Balbuk broke repeatedly on her trips to areas between Kings Park and the railway station (Bates, “Hooper’s”). Her tenacious commitment to walking ancestral routes signifies the friction between settlement infrastructure and traditional Nyoongar livelihood during an era of rapid change. Figure 2. Determination of Fanny Balbuk’s Journey between Yoonderup (Heirisson Island) and Lake Kingsford, traversing what is now the central business district of Perth on the Swan River (2014). Image background prepared by Dimitri Fotev. Track interpolation by Jeff Murray. Project Background and Approach Inspired by Fanny Balbuk’s story, Re-imagining Perth’s Lost Wetlands began as an Australian response to the Mannahatta Project. Founded in 1999, that project used spatial analysis techniques and mapping software to visualise New York’s urbanised Manhattan Island—or Mannahatta as it was called by indigenous people—in the early 1600s (Sanderson). Based on research into the island’s original biogeography and the ecological practices of Native Americans, Mannahatta enabled the public to “peel back” the city’s strata, revealing the original composition of the New York site. The layers of visuals included rich details about the island’s landforms, water systems, and vegetation. Mannahatta compelled Rod Giblett, a cultural researcher at Edith Cowan University, to develop an analogous model for visualising Perth circa 1829. The idea attracted support from the City of Perth, Landgate, and the University. Using stories, artefacts, and maps, the team—comprising a cartographer, designer, three-dimensional modelling expert, and historical researchers—set out to generate visualisations of the landscape at the time of British colonisation. Nyoongar elder Noel Nannup approved culturally sensitive material and contributed his perspective on Aboriginal content to include in the exhibition. The initiative’s context remains pressing. In many ways, Perth has become a template for development in the metropolitan area (Weller). While not unusual for a capital, the rate of transformation is perhaps unexpected in a city less than 200 years old (Forster). There also remains a persistent view of existing wetlands as obstructions to progress that, once removed, are soon forgotten (Urban Bushland Council). Digital visualisation can contribute to appreciating environments prior to colonisation but also to re-imagining possibilities for future human interactions with land, water, and space. Despite the rapid pace of change, many Perth area residents have memories of wetlands lost during their lifetimes (for example, Giblett, Forrestdale). However, as the clearing and drainage of the inner city occurred early in settlement, recollections of urban wetlands exist exclusively in historical records. In 1935, a local correspondent using the name “Sandgroper” reminisced about swamps, connecting them to Perth’s colonial heritage: But the Swamps were very real in fact, and in name in the [eighteen-] Nineties, and the Perth of my youth cannot be visualised without them. They were, of course, drying up apace, but they were swamps for all that, and they linked us directly with the earliest days of the Colony when our great-grandparents had founded this City of Perth on a sort of hog's-back, of which Hay-street was the ridge, and from which a succession of streamlets ran down its southern slope to the river, while land locked to the north of it lay a series of lakes which have long since been filled to and built over so that the only evidence that they have ever existed lies in the original street plans of Perth prepared by Roe and Hillman in the early eighteen-thirties. A salient consequence of the loss of ecological memory is the tendency to repeat the miscues of the past, especially the blatant disregard for natural and cultural heritage, as suburbanisation engulfs the area. While the swamps of inner Perth remain only in the names of streets, existing wetlands in the metropolitan area are still being threatened, as the Roe Highway (Roe 8) Campaign demonstrates. To re-imagine Perth’s lost landscape, we used several colonial survey maps to plot the location of the original lakes and swamps. At this time, a series of interconnecting waterbodies, known as the Perth Great Lakes, spread across the north of the city (Bekle and Gentilli). This phase required the earliest cartographic sources (Figure 3) because, by 1855, city maps no longer depicted wetlands. We synthesised contextual information, such as well depths, geological and botanical maps, settlers’ accounts, Nyoongar oral histories, and colonial-era artists’ impressions, to produce renderings of Perth. This diverse collection of primary and secondary materials served as the basis for creating new images of the city. Team member Jeff Murray interpolated Balbuk’s route using historical mappings and accounts, topographical data, court records, and cartographic common sense. He determined that Balbuk would have camped on the high ground of the southern part of Lake Kingsford rather than the more inundated northern part (Figure 2). Furthermore, she would have followed a reasonably direct course north of St Georges Terrace (contrary to David Whish-Wilson’s imaginings) because she was barred from Government House for protesting. This easier route would have also avoided the springs and gullies that appear on early maps of Perth. Figure 3. Townsite of Perth in Western Australia by Colonial Draftsman A. Hillman and John Septimus Roe (1838). This map of Perth depicts the wetlands that existed overlaid by the geomentric grid of the new city. Image Credit: State Library of Western Australia (Image Number: BA1961/14). Additionally, we produced an animated display based on aerial photographs to show the historical extent of change. Prompted by the build up to World War II, the earliest aerial photography of Perth dates from the late 1930s (Dixon 148–54). As “Sandgroper” noted, by this time, most of the urban wetlands had been drained or substantially modified. The animation revealed considerable alterations to the formerly swampy Swan River shoreline. Most prominent was the transformation of the Matagarup shallows across the Swan River, originally consisting of small islands. Now traversed by a causeway, this area was transformed into a single island, Heirisson—the general site of Balbuk’s birth. The animation and accompanying materials (maps, images, and writings) enabled viewers to apprehend the changes in real time and to imagine what the city was once like. Re-imagining Perth’s Urban Heart The physical environment of inner Perth includes virtually no trace of its wetland origins. Consequently, we considered whether a representation of Perth, as it existed previously, could enhance public understanding of natural heritage and thereby increase its value. For this reason, interpretive materials were exhibited centrally at Perth Town Hall. Built partly by convicts between 1867 and 1870, the venue is close to the site of the 1829 Foundation of Perth, depicted in George Pitt Morrison’s painting. Balbuk’s grandfather “camped somewhere in the city of Perth, not far from the Town Hall” (Bates, “Fanny”). The building lies one block from the site of the railway station on the site of Lake Kingsford, the subsistence grounds of Balbuk and her forebears: The old swamp which is now the Perth railway yards had been a favourite jilgi ground; a spring near the Town Hall had been a camping place of Maiago […] and others of her fathers' folk; and all around and about city and suburbs she had gathered roots and fished for crayfish in the days gone by. (Bates, “Derelicts” 55) Beginning in 1848, the draining of Lake Kingsford reached completion during the construction of the Town Hall. While the swamps of the city were not appreciated by many residents, some organisations, such as the Perth Town Trust, vigorously opposed the reclamation of the lake, alluding to its hydrological role: That, the soil being sand, it is not to be supposed that Lake Kingsford has in itself any material effect on the wells of Perth; but that, from this same reason of the sandy soil, it would be impossible to keep the lake dry without, by so doing, withdrawing the water from at least the adjacent parts of the townsite to the same depth. (Independent Journal of Politics and News 3) At the time of our exhibition, the Lake Kingsford site was again being reworked to sink the railway line and build Yagan Square, a public space named after a colonial-era Nyoongar leader. The project required specialised construction techniques due to the high water table—the remnants of the lake. People travelling to the exhibition by train in October 2014 could have seen the lake reasserting itself in partly-filled depressions, flush with winter rain (Figure 4).Figure 4. Rise of the Repressed (2014). Water Rising in the former site of Lake Kingsford/Irwin during construction, corner of Roe and Fitzgerald Streets, Northbridge, WA. Image Credit: Nandi Chinna (2014). The exhibition was situated in the Town Hall’s enclosed undercroft designed for markets and more recently for shops. While some visited after peering curiously through the glass walls of the undercroft, others hailed from local and state government organisations. Guest comments applauded the alternative view of Perth we presented. The content invited the public to re-imagine Perth as a city of wetlands that were both environmentally and culturally important. A display panel described how the city’s infrastructure presented a hindrance for Balbuk as she attempted to negotiate the once-familiar route between Yoonderup and Lake Kingsford (Figure 2). Perth’s growth “restricted Balbuk’s wanderings; towns, trains, and farms came through her ‘line of march’; old landmarks were thus swept away, and year after year saw her less confident of the locality of one-time familiar spots” (Bates, “Fanny”). Conserving Wetlands: From Re-Claiming to Re-Valuing? Imagination, for philosopher Roger Scruton, involves “thinking of, and attending to, a present object (by thinking of it, or perceiving it, in terms of something absent)” (155). According to Scruton, the feelings aroused through imagination can prompt creative, transformative experiences. While environmental conservation tends to rely on data-driven empirical approaches, it appeals to imagination less commonly. We have found, however, that attending to the present object (the city) in terms of something absent (its wetlands) through evocative visual material can complement traditional conservation agendas focused on habitats and species. The actual extent of wetlands loss in the Swan Coastal Plain—the flat and sandy region extending from Jurien Bay south to Cape Naturaliste, including Perth—is contested. However, estimates suggest that 80 per cent of wetlands have been lost, with remaining habitats threatened by climate change, suburban development, agriculture, and industry (Department of Environment and Conservation). As with the swamps and lakes of the inner city, many regional wetlands were cleared, drained, or filled before they could be properly documented. Additionally, the seasonal fluctuations of swampy places have never been easily translatable to two-dimensional records. As Giblett notes, the creation of cartographic representations and the assignment of English names were attempts to fix the dynamic boundaries of wetlands, at least in the minds of settlers and administrators (Postmodern 72–73). Moreover, European colonists found the Western Australian landscape, including its wetlands, generally discomfiting. In a letter from 1833, metaphors failed George Fletcher Moore, the effusive colonial commentator, “I cannot compare these swamps to any marshes with which you are familiar” (220). The intermediate nature of wetlands—as neither land nor lake—is perhaps one reason for their cultural marginalisation (Giblett, Postmodern 39). The conviction that unsanitary, miasmic wetlands should be converted to more useful purposes largely prevailed (Giblett, Black 105–22). Felicity Morel-EdnieBrown’s research into land ownership records in colonial Perth demonstrated that town lots on swampland were often preferred. By layering records using geographic information systems (GIS), she revealed modifications to town plans to accommodate swampland frontages. The decline of wetlands in the region appears to have been driven initially by their exploitation for water and later for fertile soil. Northern market gardens supplied the needs of the early city. It is likely that the depletion of Nyoongar bush foods predated the flourishing of these gardens (Carter and Nutter). Engaging with the history of Perth’s swamps raises questions about the appreciation of wetlands today. In an era where numerous conservation strategies and alternatives have been developed (for example, Bobbink et al. 93–220), the exploitation of wetlands in service to population growth persists. On Perth’s north side, wetlands have long been subdued by controlling their water levels and landscaping their boundaries, as the suburban examples of Lake Monger and Hyde Park (formerly Third Swamp Reserve) reveal. Largely unmodified wetlands, such as Forrestdale Lake, exist south of Perth, but they too are in danger (Giblett, Black Swan). The Beeliar Wetlands near the suburb of Bibra Lake comprise an interconnected series of lakes and swamps that are vulnerable to a highway extension project first proposed in the 1950s. Just as the Perth Town Trust debated Lake Kingsford’s draining, local councils and the public are fiercely contesting the construction of the Roe Highway, which will bisect Beeliar Wetlands, destroying Roe Swamp (Chinna). The conservation value of wetlands still struggles to compete with traffic planning underpinned by a modernist ideology that associates cars and freeways with progress (Gregory). Outside of archives, the debate about Lake Kingsford is almost entirely forgotten and its physical presence has been erased. Despite the magnitude of loss, re-imagining the city’s swamplands, in the way that we have, calls attention to past indiscretions while invigorating future possibilities. We hope that the re-imagining of Perth’s wetlands stimulates public respect for ancestral tracks and songlines like Balbuk’s. Despite the accretions of settler history and colonial discourse, songlines endure as a fundamental cultural heritage. Nyoongar elder Noel Nannup states, “as people, if we can get out there on our songlines, even though there may be farms or roads overlaying them, fences, whatever it is that might impede us from travelling directly upon them, if we can get close proximity, we can still keep our culture alive. That is why it is so important for us to have our songlines.” Just as Fanny Balbuk plied her songlines between Yoonderup and Lake Kingsford, the traditional custodians of Beeliar and other wetlands around Perth walk the landscape as an act of resistance and solidarity, keeping the stories of place alive. Acknowledgments The authors wish to acknowledge Rod Giblett (ECU), Nandi Chinna (ECU), Susanna Iuliano (ECU), Jeff Murray (Kareff Consulting), Dimitri Fotev (City of Perth), and Brendan McAtee (Landgate) for their contributions to this project. The authors also acknowledge the traditional custodians of the lands upon which this paper was researched and written. 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IntroductionTasmania hangs from the map of Australia like a drop in freefall from the substance of the mainland. Often the whole state is mislaid from Australian maps and logos (Reddit). Tasmania has, at least since federation, been considered peripheral—a region seen as isolated, a ‘problem’ economically, politically, and culturally. However, Tasmania not only cleaves to the ‘north island’ of Australia but is also subject to the gravitational pull of an even greater land mass—Antarctica. In this article, we upturn the political conventions of map-making that place both Antarctica and Tasmania in obscure positions at the base of the globe. We show how a changing global climate re-frames Antarctica and the Southern Ocean as key drivers of worldwide environmental shifts. The liquid and solid water between Tasmania and Antarctica is revealed not as a homogenous barrier, but as a dynamic and relational medium linking the Tasmanian archipelago with Antarctica. When Antarctica becomes the focus, the script is flipped: Tasmania is no longer on the edge, but core to a network of gateways into the southern land. The state’s capital of Hobart can from this perspective be understood as an “Antarctic city”, central to the geopolitics, economy, and culture of the frozen continent (Salazar et al.). Viewed from the south, we argue, Tasmania is not a problem, but an opportunity for a form of ecological, cultural, economic, and political sustainability that opens up the southern continent to science, discovery, and imagination.A Centre at the End of the Earth? Tasmania as ParadoxThe islands of Tasmania owe their existence to climate change: a period of warming at the end of the last ice age melted the vast sheets of ice covering the polar regions, causing sea levels to rise by more than one hundred metres (Tasmanian Climate Change Office 8). Eleven thousand years ago, Aboriginal people would have witnessed the rise of what is now called Bass Strait, turning what had been a peninsula into an archipelago, with the large island of Tasmania at its heart. The heterogeneous practices and narratives of Tasmanian regional identity have been shaped by the geography of these islands, and their connection to the Southern Ocean and Antarctica. Regions, understood as “centres of collective consciousness and sociospatial identities” (Paasi 241) are constantly reproduced and reimagined through place-based social practices and communications over time. As we will show, diverse and contradictory narratives of Tasmanian regionality often co-exist, interacting in complex and sometimes complementary ways. Ecocritical literary scholar C.A. Cranston considers duality to be embedded in the textual construction of Tasmania, writing “it was hell, it was heaven, it was penal, it was paradise” (29). Tasmania is multiply polarised: it is both isolated and connected; close and far away; rich in resources and poor in capital; the socially conservative birthplace of radical green politics (Hay 60). The weather, as if sensing the fine balance of these paradoxes, blows hot and cold at a moment’s notice.Tasmania has wielded extraordinary political influence at times in its history—notably during the settlement of Melbourne in 1835 (Boyce), and during protests against damming the Franklin River in the early 1980s (Mercer). However, twentieth-century historical and political narratives of Tasmania portray the Bass Strait as a barrier, isolating Tasmanians from the mainland (Harwood 61). Sir Bede Callaghan, who headed one of a long line of federal government inquiries into “the Tasmanian problem” (Harwood 106), was clear that Tasmania was a victim of its own geography:the major disability facing the people of Tasmania (although some residents may consider it an advantage) is that Tasmania is an island. Separation from the mainland adversely affects the economy of the State and the general welfare of the people in many ways. (Callaghan 3)This perspective may stem from the fact that Tasmania has maintained the lowest Gross Domestic Product per capita of all states since federation (Bureau of Infrastructure Transport and Regional Economics 9). Socially, economically, and culturally, Tasmania consistently ranks among the worst regions of Australia. Statistical comparisons with other parts of Australia reveal the population’s high unemployment, low wages, poor educational outcomes, and bad health (West 31). The state’s remoteness and isolation from the mainland states and its reliance on federal income have contributed to the whole of Tasmania, including Hobart, being classified as ‘regional’ by the Australian government, in an attempt to promote immigration and economic growth (Department of Infrastructure and Regional Development 1). Tasmania is indeed both regional and remote. However, in this article we argue that, while regionality may be cast as a disadvantage, the island’s remote location is also an asset, particularly when viewed from a far southern perspective (Image 1).Image 1: Antarctica (Orthographic Projection). Image Credit: Wikimedia Commons, Modified Shading of Tasmania and Addition of Captions by H. Nielsen.Connecting Oceans/Collapsing DistanceTasmania and Antarctica have been closely linked in the past—the future archipelago formed a land bridge between Antarctica and northern land masses until the opening of the Tasman Seaway some 32 million years ago (Barker et al.). The far south was tangible to the Indigenous people of the island in the weather blowing in from the Southern Ocean, while the southern lights, or “nuyina”, formed a visible connection (Australia’s new icebreaker vessel is named RSV Nuyina in recognition of these links). In the contemporary Australian imagination, Tasmania tends to be defined by its marine boundaries, the sea around the islands represented as flat, empty space against which to highlight the topography of its landscape and the isolation of its position (Davies et al.). A more relational geographic perspective illuminates the “power of cross-currents and connections” (Stratford et al. 273) across these seascapes. The sea country of Tasmania is multiple and heterogeneous: the rough, shallow waters of the island-scattered Bass Strait flow into the Tasman Sea, where the continental shelf descends toward an abyssal plain studded with volcanic seamounts. To the south, the Southern Ocean provides nutrient-rich upwellings that attract fish and cetacean populations. Tasmania’s coast is a dynamic, liminal space, moving and changing in response to the global currents that are driven by the shifting, calving and melting ice shelves and sheets in Antarctica.Oceans have long been a medium of connection between Tasmania and Antarctica. In the early colonial period, when the seas were the major thoroughfares of the world and inland travel was treacherous and slow, Tasmania’s connection with the Southern Ocean made it a valuable hub for exploration and exploitation of the south. Between 1642 and 1900, early European explorers were followed by British penal colonists, convicts, sealers, and whalers (Kriwoken and Williamson 93). Tasmania was well known to polar explorers, with expeditions led by Jules Dumont d’Urville, James Clark Ross, Roald Amundsen, and Douglas Mawson all transiting through the port of Hobart. Now that the city is no longer a whaling hub, growing populations of cetaceans continue to migrate past the islands on their annual journeys from the tropics, across the Sub-Antarctic Front and Antarctic circumpolar current, and into the south polar region, while southern species such as leopard seals are occasionally seen around Tasmania (Tasmania Parks and Wildlife). Although the water surrounding Tasmania and Antarctica is at times homogenised as a ‘barrier’, rendering these places isolated, the bodies of water that surround both are in fact permeable, and regularly crossed by both humans and marine species. The waters are diverse in their physical characteristics, underlying topography, sea life, and relationships, and serve to connect many different ocean regions, ecosystems, and weather patterns.Views from the Far SouthWhen considered in terms of its relative proximity to Antarctic, rather than its distance from Australia’s political and economic centres, Tasmania’s identity undergoes a significant shift. A sign at Cockle Creek, in the state’s far south, reminds visitors that they are closer to Antarctica than to Cairns, invoking a discourse of connectedness that collapses the standard ten-day ship voyage to Australia’s closest Antarctic station into a unit comparable with the routinely scheduled 5.5 hour flight to North Queensland. Hobart is the logistical hub for the Australian Antarctic Division and the French Institut Polaire Francais (IPEV), and has hosted Antarctic vessels belonging to the USA, South Korea, and Japan in recent years. From a far southern perspective, Hobart is not a regional Australian capital but a global polar hub. This alters the city’s geographic imaginary not only in a latitudinal sense—from “top down” to “bottom up”—but also a longitudinal one. Via its southward connection to Antarctica, Hobart is also connected east and west to four other recognized gateways: Cape Town in South Africa, Christchurch in New Zealand; Punta Arenas in Chile; and Ushuaia in Argentina (Image 2). The latter cities are considered small by international standards, but play an outsized role in relation to Antarctica.Image 2: H. Nielsen with a Sign Announcing Distances between Antarctic ‘Gateway’ Cities and Antarctica, Ushuaia, Argentina, 2018. Image Credit: Nicki D'Souza.These five cities form what might be called—to adapt geographer Klaus Dodds’ term—a ‘Southern Rim’ around the South Polar region (Dodds Geopolitics). They exist in ambiguous relationship to each other. Although the five cities signed a Statement of Intent in 2009 committing them to collaboration, they continue to compete vigorously for northern hemisphere traffic and the brand identity of the most prominent global gateway. A state government brochure spruiks Hobart, for example, as the “perfect Antarctic Gateway” emphasising its uniqueness and “natural advantages” in this regard (Tasmanian Government, 2016). In practice, the cities are automatically differentiated by their geographic position with respect to Antarctica. Although the ‘ice continent’ is often conceived as one entity, it too has regions, in both scientific and geographical senses (Terauds and Lee; Antonello). Hobart provides access to parts of East Antarctica, where the Australian, French, Japanese, and Chinese programs (among others) have bases; Cape Town is a useful access point for Europeans going to Dronning Maud Land; Christchurch is closest to the Ross Sea region, site of the largest US base; and Punta Arenas and Ushuaia neighbour the Antarctic Peninsula, home to numerous bases as well as a thriving tourist industry.The Antarctic sector is important to the Tasmanian economy, contributing $186 million (AUD) in 2017/18 (Wells; Gutwein; Tasmanian Polar Network). Unsurprisingly, Tasmania’s gateway brand has been actively promoted, with the 2016 Australian Antarctic Strategy and 20 Year Action Plan foregrounding the need to “Build Tasmania’s status as the premier East Antarctic Gateway for science and operations” and the state government releasing a “Tasmanian Antarctic Gateway Strategy” in 2017. The Chinese Antarctic program has been a particular focus: a Memorandum of Understanding focussed on Australia and China’s Antarctic relations includes a “commitment to utilise Australia, including Tasmania, as an Antarctic ‘gateway’.” (Australian Antarctic Division). These efforts towards a closer relationship with China have more recently come under attack as part of a questioning of China’s interests in the region (without, it should be noted, a concomitant questioning of Australia’s own considerable interests) (Baker 9). In these exchanges, a global power and a state of Australia generally classed as regional and peripheral are brought into direct contact via the even more remote Antarctic region. This connection was particularly visible when Chinese President Xi Jinping travelled to Hobart in 2014, in a visit described as both “strategic” and “incongruous” (Burden). There can be differences in how this relationship is narrated to domestic and international audiences, with issues of sovereignty and international cooperation variously foregrounded, laying the ground for what Dodds terms “awkward Antarctic nationalism” (1).Territory and ConnectionsThe awkwardness comes to a head in Tasmania, where domestic and international views of connections with the far south collide. Australia claims sovereignty over almost 6 million km2 of the Antarctic continent—a claim that in area is “roughly the size of mainland Australia minus Queensland” (Bergin). This geopolitical context elevates the importance of a regional part of Australia: the claims to Antarctic territory (which are recognised only by four other claimant nations) are performed not only in Antarctic localities, where they are made visible “with paraphernalia such as maps, flags, and plaques” (Salazar 55), but also in Tasmania, particularly in Hobart and surrounds. A replica of Mawson’s Huts in central Hobart makes Australia’s historic territorial interests in Antarctica visible an urban setting, foregrounding the figure of Douglas Mawson, the well-known Australian scientist and explorer who led the expeditions that proclaimed Australia’s sovereignty in the region of the continent roughly to its south (Leane et al.). Tasmania is caught in a balancing act, as it fosters international Antarctic connections (such hosting vessels from other national programs), while also playing a key role in administering what is domestically referred to as the Australian Antarctic Territory. The rhetoric of protection can offer common ground: island studies scholar Godfrey Baldacchino notes that as island narratives have moved “away from the perspective of the ‘explorer-discoverer-colonist’” they have been replaced by “the perspective of the ‘custodian-steward-environmentalist’” (49), but reminds readers that a colonising disposition still lurks beneath the surface. It must be remembered that terms such as “stewardship” and “leadership” can undertake sovereignty labour (Dodds “Awkward”), and that Tasmania’s Antarctic connections can be mobilised for a range of purposes. When Environment Minister Greg Hunt proclaimed at a press conference that: “Hobart is the gateway to the Antarctic for the future” (26 Apr. 2016), the remark had meaning within discourses of both sovereignty and economics. Tasmania’s capital was leveraged as a way to position Australia as a leader in the Antarctic arena.From ‘Gateway’ to ‘Antarctic City’While discussion of Antarctic ‘Gateway’ Cities often focuses on the economic and logistical benefit of their Antarctic connections, Hobart’s “gateway” identity, like those of its counterparts, stretches well beyond this, encompassing geological, climatic, historical, political, cultural and scientific links. Even the southerly wind, according to cartoonist Jon Kudelka, “has penguins in it” (Image 3). Hobart residents feel a high level of connection to Antarctica. In 2018, a survey of 300 randomly selected residents of Greater Hobart was conducted under the umbrella of the “Antarctic Cities” Australian Research Council Linkage Project led by Assoc. Prof. Juan Francisco Salazar (and involving all three present authors). Fourteen percent of respondents reported having been involved in an economic activity related to Antarctica, and 36% had attended a cultural event about Antarctica. Connections between the southern continent and Hobart were recognised as important: 71.9% agreed that “people in my city can influence the cultural meanings that shape our relationship to Antarctica”, while 90% agreed or strongly agreed that Hobart should play a significant role as a custodian of Antarctica’s future, and 88.4% agreed or strongly agreed that: “How we treat Antarctica is a test of our approach to ecological sustainability.” Image 3: “The Southerly” Demonstrates How Weather Connects Hobart and Antarctica. Image Credit: Jon Kudelka, Reproduced with Permission.Hobart, like the other gateways, activates these connections in its conscious place-branding. The city is particularly strong as a centre of Antarctic research: signs at the cruise-ship terminal on the waterfront claim that “There are more Antarctic scientists based in Hobart […] than at any other one place on earth, making Hobart a globally significant contributor to our understanding of Antarctica and the Southern Ocean.” Researchers are based at the Institute for Marine and Antarctic Studies (IMAS), the Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organisation (CSIRO), and the Australian Antarctic Division (AAD), with several working between institutions. Many Antarctic researchers located elsewhere in the world also have a connection with the place through affiliations and collaborations, leading journalist Jo Chandler to assert that “the breadth and depth of Hobart’s knowledge of ice, water, and the life forms they nurture […] is arguably unrivalled anywhere in the world” (86).Hobart also plays a significant role in Antarctica’s governance, as the site of the secretariats for the Commission for the Conservation of Antarctic Marine Living Resources (CCAMLR) and the Agreement on the Conservation of Albatrosses and Petrels (ACAP), and as host of the Antarctic Consultative Treaty Meetings on more than one occasion (1986, 2012). The cultural domain is active, with Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery (TMAG) featuring a permanent exhibit, “Islands to Ice”, emphasising the ocean as connecting the two places; the Mawson’s Huts Replica Museum aiming (among other things) to “highlight Hobart as the gateway to the Antarctic continent for the Asia Pacific region”; and a biennial Australian Antarctic Festival drawing over twenty thousand visitors, about a sixth of them from interstate or overseas (Hingley). Antarctic links are evident in the city’s natural and built environment: the dolerite columns of Mt Wellington, the statue of the Tasmanian Antarctic explorer Louis Bernacchi on the waterfront, and the wharfs that regularly accommodate icebreakers such as the Aurora Australis and the Astrolabe. Antarctica is figured as a southern neighbour; as historian Tom Griffiths puts it, Tasmanians “grow up with Antarctica breathing down their necks” (5). As an Antarctic City, Hobart mediates access to Antarctica both physically and in the cultural imaginary.Perhaps in recognition of the diverse ways in which a region or a city might be connected to Antarctica, researchers have recently been suggesting critical approaches to the ‘gateway’ label. C. Michael Hall points to a fuzziness in the way the term is applied, noting that it has drifted from its initial definition (drawn from economic geography) as denoting an access and supply point to a hinterland that produces a certain level of economic benefits. While Hall looks to keep the term robustly defined to avoid empty “local boosterism” (272–73), Gabriela Roldan aims to move the concept “beyond its function as an entry and exit door”, arguing that, among other things, the local community should be actively engaged in the Antarctic region (57). Leane, examining the representation of Hobart as a gateway in historical travel texts, concurs that “ingress and egress” are insufficient descriptors of Tasmania’s relationship with Antarctica, suggesting that at least discursively the island is positioned as “part of an Antarctic rim, itself sharing qualities of the polar region” (45). The ARC Linkage Project described above, supported by the Hobart City Council, the State Government and the University of Tasmania, as well as other national and international partners, aims to foster the idea of the Hobart and its counterparts as ‘Antarctic cities’ whose citizens act as custodians for the South Polar region, with a genuine concern for and investment in its future.Near and Far: Local Perspectives A changing climate may once again herald a shift in the identity of the Tasmanian islands. Recognition of the central role of Antarctica in regulating the global climate has generated scientific and political re-evaluation of the region. Antarctica is not only the planet’s largest heat sink but is the engine of global water currents and wind patterns that drive weather patterns and biodiversity across the world (Convey et al. 543). For example, Tas van Ommen’s research into Antarctic glaciology shows the tangible connection between increased snowfall in coastal East Antarctica and patterns of drought southwest Western Australia (van Ommen and Morgan). Hobart has become a global centre of marine and Antarctic science, bringing investment and development to the city. As the global climate heats up, Tasmania—thanks to its low latitude and southerly weather patterns—is one of the few regions in Australia likely to remain temperate. This is already leading to migration from the mainland that is impacting house prices and rental availability (Johnston; Landers 1). The region’s future is therefore closely entangled with its proximity to the far south. Salazar writes that “we cannot continue to think of Antarctica as the end of the Earth” (67). Shifting Antarctica into focus also brings Tasmania in from the margins. As an Antarctic city, Hobart assumes a privileged positioned on the global stage. This allows the city to present itself as central to international research efforts—in contrast to domestic views of the place as a small regional capital. The city inhabits dual identities; it is both on the periphery of Australian concerns and at the centre of Antarctic activity. Tasmania, then, is not in freefall, but rather at the forefront of a push to recognise Antarctica as entangled with its neighbours to the north.AcknowledgementsThis work was supported by the Australian Research Council under LP160100210.ReferencesAntonello, Alessandro. “Finding Place in Antarctica.” Antarctica and the Humanities. Eds. Peder Roberts, Lize-Marie van der Watt, and Adrian Howkins. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016. 181–204.Australian Government. 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Early European accounts document the presence of Labrador Inuit in northern Newfoundland, the Strait of Belle Isle, and the northeastern Gulf of St. Lawrence in the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. Controversy over the interpretation of the historical record and the extent and nature of Southern Inuit presence has been clarified by recent archaeological research on the Quebec Lower North shore, which demonstrates a series of seventeenth- and eighteenth-century winter sod-house villages in every major region from Brador to Petit Mécatina. House types are similar to those found on the Central Labrador coast, and all contain much Basque and other European material culture, indicating extensive trade contacts rather than the spoils of sporadic raids. The Hare Harbor Inuit settlement at Petit Mécatina is found at a Basque/European whaling and fishing station and appears to have been a European-Inuit enterprise facilitated by the Little Ice Age expansion of Arctic marine mammals.

Abstract In attempting to interpret archaeological traces of houses, we might Wrst consider what factors inXuenced their construction and use. Sanders (1990) identiWed seven such factors. Two were environmental, namely climate and topography; three were variable according to circumstance, namely available materials, level of technology, and economic resources; and two were cultur- ally Wxed, namely function and cultural conventions. The last category, though the least visible archaeologically, would be for many archaeologists and social anthropologists the most important. These factors will also aVect the archaeological survival of houses, whilst research strategies and recovery techniques deployed by archaeologists, as already indicated, will further condition our capacity to recognize and recover the surviving evidence. In interpretation, Carsten and Hugh-Jones (1995b, 45) actually complained that social anthropologists since Le´vi-Strauss tended to overstate the importance of ritual aspects of social life to the detriment of the study of everyday aspects of community living, a concern that sometimes has resonance in relation to archaeological discussions. Sanders (1990, 45) acknowledged that ‘interpret- ations of function are generally founded on the formula ‘‘form follows function’’ and/or on assumptions from loose ethnographic parallels and ancient textual records’. The application of ethnographic parallels by archae- ologists may sometimes be less than rigorous in failing to recognize that they can only illuminate general principles rather than explaining speciWc features of houses from an unrelated culture. ‘Meanings’, as Carsten and Hugh-Jones (1995, 46) stressed, ‘constantly shift within cultures, and they have no inher- ent cross-cultural validity. However, although the meanings of a house may be speciWc, the patterns by which these are generated . . . are much more general.’ If form follows function it need not follow that only one form can satisfy the same function. Furthermore, identifying function may not be so straightfor- ward.

Traditionally, the sociocultural changes of Mesoamerica’s Early Formative period (2000–1000 cal BCE), which included an increasing reliance on domesticates and the adoption of more complex modes of social organization, have been considered from theoretical perspectives focused on discussion of trade routes, settlement practices, and especially of subsistence economies. This theoretical bias is due, perhaps, to a lack of textual records from the era and the notion that the further one goes back in time the more one strays from ethnographic and ethnohistoric data. Far fewer are the serious considerations of Early Formative period cosmology and phenomenology. In this chapter Hepp explores the sensorial implications of Early Formative period archaeological contexts, particularly in coastal Oaxaca, Mexico, with the archaeology of the senses providing a glimpse of the lived experience of this period of significant transformation. Ethnographic and ethnohistoric data indicate some of the sensorial aspects of social change in the Early Formative were maintained in later Mesoamerican history. Comparisons of evidence for feasting, public performance, ball games, and ritual evince diverse patterns of shared practice and regionalism demonstrating that Oaxaca, today one of the most culturally diverse places in the Americas, has long been home to compelling diversity.

The main recommendations of the panel report can be summarised under five key headings:  Building blocks: The ultimate aim should be to build rich, detailed and testable narratives situated within a European context, and addressing phenomena from the longue durée to the short-term over international to local scales. Chronological control is essential to this and effective dating strategies are required to enable generation-level analysis. The ‘serendipity factor’ of archaeological work must be enhanced by recognising and getting the most out of information-rich sites as they appear. o There is a pressing need to revisit the archives of excavated sites to extract more information from existing resources, notably through dating programmes targeted at regional sequences – the Western Isles Atlantic roundhouse sequence is an obvious target. o Many areas still lack anything beyond the baldest of settlement sequences, with little understanding of the relations between key site types. There is a need to get at least basic sequences from many more areas, either from sustained regional programmes or targeted sampling exercises. o Much of the methodologically innovative work and new insights have come from long-running research excavations. Such large-scale research projects are an important element in developing new approaches to the Iron Age.  Daily life and practice: There remains great potential to improve the understanding of people’s lives in the Iron Age through fresh approaches to, and integration of, existing and newly-excavated data. o House use. Rigorous analysis and innovative approaches, including experimental archaeology, should be employed to get the most out of the understanding of daily life through the strengths of the Scottish record, such as deposits within buildings, organic preservation and waterlogging. o Material culture. Artefact studies have the potential to be far more integral to understandings of Iron Age societies, both from the rich assemblages of the Atlantic area and less-rich lowland finds. Key areas of concern are basic studies of material groups (including the function of everyday items such as stone and bone tools, and the nature of craft processes – iron, copper alloy, bone/antler and shale offer particularly good evidence). Other key topics are: the role of ‘art’ and other forms of decoration and comparative approaches to assemblages to obtain synthetic views of the uses of material culture. o Field to feast. Subsistence practices are a core area of research essential to understanding past society, but different strands of evidence need to be more fully integrated, with a ‘field to feast’ approach, from production to consumption. The working of agricultural systems is poorly understood, from agricultural processes to cooking practices and cuisine: integrated work between different specialisms would assist greatly. There is a need for conceptual as well as practical perspectives – e.g. how were wild resources conceived? o Ritual practice. There has been valuable work in identifying depositional practices, such as deposition of animals or querns, which are thought to relate to house-based ritual practices, but there is great potential for further pattern-spotting, synthesis and interpretation. Iron Age Scotland: ScARF Panel Report v  Landscapes and regions:  Concepts of ‘region’ or ‘province’, and how they changed over time, need to be critically explored, because they are contentious, poorly defined and highly variable. What did Iron Age people see as their geographical horizons, and how did this change?  Attempts to understand the Iron Age landscape require improved, integrated survey methodologies, as existing approaches are inevitably partial.  Aspects of the landscape’s physical form and cover should be investigated more fully, in terms of vegetation (known only in outline over most of the country) and sea level change in key areas such as the firths of Moray and Forth.  Landscapes beyond settlement merit further work, e.g. the use of the landscape for deposition of objects or people, and what this tells us of contemporary perceptions and beliefs.  Concepts of inherited landscapes (how Iron Age communities saw and used this longlived land) and socal resilience to issues such as climate change should be explored more fully.  Reconstructing Iron Age societies. The changing structure of society over space and time in this period remains poorly understood. Researchers should interrogate the data for better and more explicitly-expressed understandings of social structures and relations between people.  The wider context: Researchers need to engage with the big questions of change on a European level (and beyond). Relationships with neighbouring areas (e.g. England, Ireland) and analogies from other areas (e.g. Scandinavia and the Low Countries) can help inform Scottish studies. Key big topics are: o The nature and effect of the introduction of iron. o The social processes lying behind evidence for movement and contact. o Parallels and differences in social processes and developments. o The changing nature of houses and households over this period, including the role of ‘substantial houses’, from crannogs to brochs, the development and role of complex architecture, and the shift away from roundhouses. o The chronology, nature and meaning of hillforts and other enclosed settlements. o Relationships with the Roman world