The word for 'person, human' in certain Formosan languages is:
Favorlang/Babuza - babosa
Ci'uli Atayal - ci'uli?
Squliq Atayal - squliq
Sediq Taroko - sediq
Siraya - sidaia
Bunun - bunun
Which is a very obvious answer to 'What do you call yourselves?'
But not as good as the Australian native who was asked what a certain animal was, and answered: 'How the f**k should I know?' which is why we now call it a kangaroo.
The indri (lemur)'s name means nothing special; it's just 'Here it is!' in Malagache, the local Austronesian language of Madagascar. In Filipino Bisayan, also an Austronesian language, more closely related to Malagache (6000 miles away) than French (22 miles away) is to English, the same expression is "Diri na!"
If I could read Chinese (台灣;) I might tell you what T'ai-wan means. Wikipedia says "Both Tayoan and the island name Taiwan derive from a word in Sirayan, one of the Formosan languages"
The only word I can find in Siraya that remotely resembles that is 'mat-tauwa' meaning 'laugh'. Perhaps the colonising Dutch really were laughable, before they started in on the usual native massacres.
Formosa just means 'beautiful', so, if I was one of the very few Formosans left, I would be happy that everyone else, including even linguists ;-) called me that.
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Many years ago, I went travelling around Wadi Rum in Jordan, with a local guide named Ahmed Hellawi. We kept on getting lost, so he still has the nickname: "Where The?"
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Monday, November 26, 2007
Base 4 - How?
A very well known Austronesian linguist wrote, in the An-Lang group:
"I cannot imagine what may have been the source of having '4' as a base for numeration."
I responded: The 1-4 numeral system is not so baffling when you consider that virtually all numbering systems began with finger-counting.
It just comes down to whether you consider the thumb part of the finger-count or not.
Different ways (and directions) in totting up fingers seem to have quite perceivable effects on the resulting number words.
Either way.
You might [ignore the thumb or] even emphasise it:
Bargam (Papuan) uses abainakinta (thumb) for 5.
The 'Papuan' Kewa of the PNG Southern Highlands have two number systems, a full body part tally (hand, up arm, over, and down the other side) giving a 47-cycle number system, used mainly by elders for massive gift exchanges, and a 1-4 cycle system for everyday stuff.
They're described at:http://www.uog.ac.pg/PUB08-Oct-03/franklin1.htm
(The strange bit, that I still can't fathom, is how 7 = hand + 3 thumbs).
---------------------------------------------------------
There's even a Papuan language (Kote, from Morobe Prov) that has a 22 cycle system, because they count both nostrils as well as their fingers and toes. (Wouldn't want to buy a dozen bread rolls from them, though).
----------------------------------------------------------
There are more than a few Austronesian numeral systems that [seem to] show vestiges of an archaic 4 cycle system, with 8 at the end of the 2nd cycle, but most are now overlaid with a 10
cycle.
In fact, they are rarer in New Guinea, with its multiple language families, and quite absent in Papuan languages west of there. They're not so very common elsewhere. (Except in California - where else?)
And there is even a suggestion of a vestigial trace of a 4 cycle system in Indo-European, in that *oktô is apparently the dual form of *kwetwores - Beeler (1964, p. 1). Common counting in dozens may be another vestige.
----------------------------------------------------------
If the 6-9 numbers are simple 5+1, 5+2, etc, then 8 would include, somewhere, 3. If it's subtractive from 10, it would include 2. If it includes 4 then that indicates something
quite different.
If 9 includes a 1 morpheme, then it might be like 'sembilan' in Indonesian, or 'salapan' in Sunda, ie 1 from 10, or it could 'start again' from 8, which it would seem to do in the cases where 8 involves 4.
The next cycle, to 12, seems to have been mostly overlaid now by 10/teen systems.
Except, perhaps, in English, where 11 and 12 are 'irregular'.
----------------------------------------------------------
Austronesian 4 cycles:
Formosa: Siraya, Thao, Favorlang/Babuza, Taokas, Saisiyat,
Atayal, Sedeq - all show no. 8 inclusive of 4, then start again with 'something different', often including a 1 morpheme.
Enggano (which may not be An at all) - has an 8 related to 4.
Simba: Gaura Nggaura and Lamboya have 8 = pondopata ='x'.4 (or cognate) and banda' iha (or cognate) for 9.
Flores: Ende, Rongga, Lio and Nghada - have 8=2x4 and 'ta esa' (or cognate) for 9
Aru: Kola, Dobel, Ngaibor, Barakai, Tarangan West, Ujir - 8= karua and 9= ser, or tera (or cognates)
Keule, Wogeo, and Biem, offshore of E Sepik Prov, PNG, have straightforward and obvious 1-4 systems: Boiken, a neighbouring Papuan language shares this, but only in one offshore island dialect, near the An speakers. But the system may be related to nearby Vanimo, Rawo and Mountain Arapesh, Papuan languages, also with 1-4 number systems.
Ormu, Tobati/Yotafa and Kayupulau near Jayapura, have 'symptoms' of a 4 cycle. Adjacent to them is Nafri, the only member of the Sentani family to have a 4 cycle system.
Of all these, it seems only the Wogeo/Biem and Ormu/Yotafa groups may have existing neighbouring non-An languages with 1-4 systems. But those Papuan languages are very much in the minority themselves, so without more information there is no way of telling which way the influence went.
There are other languages that have a 4 morpheme in 8, but they seem to have a multiplicative system, with 6=2x3, etc, rather than a 1-4 cycle:
Wuvulu-Aua, in the Admiralties, has a strange (and very lonely) number system, analysed by Dempwolff (1905) as:
aiai : 1 - 1
gu-ai : 2 - 1
odu-ai : 3 - 1
gui-ne-roa : 2 - 2
ai-pan : 1 hand
ode-roa : 3 - 2
ode-ro-miai : 3 - 2 +1
vai-ne-roa : 4 - 2
vai-ne-ro-miai : 4 - 2 +1
(Almost all other Admiralties numerals show the unique Manus subtractive system).
'Motu' languages (under the 'tail' of Papua New Guinea) also (mostly) have a number 8 related to 4 (taura hani), and 9=8+1, but these also have 6='2'x3 (taura toi) with 7 = a 'regular' hitu, or ima ua =5/2 or 6/1 (karakoi ka pea). Quite mongrel systems.
Some of the Formosan number systems may be similar to this.
Or something else:
Makassarese: 8=7+1 - mystery in Sulawesi
but many languages in Borneo have 7= tudju (or cognate) and 8 = aya, hanga, or mai, followed by 9 = piah, jalatien, riqi (or cognates), which look as if they might just be 'start-agains'.
Cognates of 'hanga' for 8 also appear in the Solomons.
(I have no translations or even speculative etymologies for any of them, having 'discovered' them only yesterday, thanks to Anthony Jukes giving me the link to his excellent new Makassarese Grammar at: http://www.sendspace.com/file/2ps9y0).
----------------------------------------------------------
"I cannot imagine what may have been the source of having '4' as a base for numeration."
I responded: The 1-4 numeral system is not so baffling when you consider that virtually all numbering systems began with finger-counting.
It just comes down to whether you consider the thumb part of the finger-count or not.
Different ways (and directions) in totting up fingers seem to have quite perceivable effects on the resulting number words.
Either way.
You might [ignore the thumb or] even emphasise it:
Bargam (Papuan) uses abainakinta (thumb) for 5.
The 'Papuan' Kewa of the PNG Southern Highlands have two number systems, a full body part tally (hand, up arm, over, and down the other side) giving a 47-cycle number system, used mainly by elders for massive gift exchanges, and a 1-4 cycle system for everyday stuff.
They're described at:http://www.uog.ac.pg/PUB08-Oct-03/franklin1.htm
(The strange bit, that I still can't fathom, is how 7 = hand + 3 thumbs).
---------------------------------------------------------
There's even a Papuan language (Kote, from Morobe Prov) that has a 22 cycle system, because they count both nostrils as well as their fingers and toes. (Wouldn't want to buy a dozen bread rolls from them, though).
----------------------------------------------------------
There are more than a few Austronesian numeral systems that [seem to] show vestiges of an archaic 4 cycle system, with 8 at the end of the 2nd cycle, but most are now overlaid with a 10
cycle.
In fact, they are rarer in New Guinea, with its multiple language families, and quite absent in Papuan languages west of there. They're not so very common elsewhere. (Except in California - where else?)
And there is even a suggestion of a vestigial trace of a 4 cycle system in Indo-European, in that *oktô is apparently the dual form of *kwetwores - Beeler (1964, p. 1). Common counting in dozens may be another vestige.
----------------------------------------------------------
If the 6-9 numbers are simple 5+1, 5+2, etc, then 8 would include, somewhere, 3. If it's subtractive from 10, it would include 2. If it includes 4 then that indicates something
quite different.
If 9 includes a 1 morpheme, then it might be like 'sembilan' in Indonesian, or 'salapan' in Sunda, ie 1 from 10, or it could 'start again' from 8, which it would seem to do in the cases where 8 involves 4.
The next cycle, to 12, seems to have been mostly overlaid now by 10/teen systems.
Except, perhaps, in English, where 11 and 12 are 'irregular'.
----------------------------------------------------------
Austronesian 4 cycles:
Formosa: Siraya, Thao, Favorlang/Babuza, Taokas, Saisiyat,
Atayal, Sedeq - all show no. 8 inclusive of 4, then start again with 'something different', often including a 1 morpheme.
Enggano (which may not be An at all) - has an 8 related to 4.
Simba: Gaura Nggaura and Lamboya have 8 = pondopata ='x'.4 (or cognate) and banda' iha (or cognate) for 9.
Flores: Ende, Rongga, Lio and Nghada - have 8=2x4 and 'ta esa' (or cognate) for 9
Aru: Kola, Dobel, Ngaibor, Barakai, Tarangan West, Ujir - 8= karua and 9= ser, or tera (or cognates)
Keule, Wogeo, and Biem, offshore of E Sepik Prov, PNG, have straightforward and obvious 1-4 systems: Boiken, a neighbouring Papuan language shares this, but only in one offshore island dialect, near the An speakers. But the system may be related to nearby Vanimo, Rawo and Mountain Arapesh, Papuan languages, also with 1-4 number systems.
Ormu, Tobati/Yotafa and Kayupulau near Jayapura, have 'symptoms' of a 4 cycle. Adjacent to them is Nafri, the only member of the Sentani family to have a 4 cycle system.
Of all these, it seems only the Wogeo/Biem and Ormu/Yotafa groups may have existing neighbouring non-An languages with 1-4 systems. But those Papuan languages are very much in the minority themselves, so without more information there is no way of telling which way the influence went.
There are other languages that have a 4 morpheme in 8, but they seem to have a multiplicative system, with 6=2x3, etc, rather than a 1-4 cycle:
Wuvulu-Aua, in the Admiralties, has a strange (and very lonely) number system, analysed by Dempwolff (1905) as:
aiai : 1 - 1
gu-ai : 2 - 1
odu-ai : 3 - 1
gui-ne-roa : 2 - 2
ai-pan : 1 hand
ode-roa : 3 - 2
ode-ro-miai : 3 - 2 +1
vai-ne-roa : 4 - 2
vai-ne-ro-miai : 4 - 2 +1
(Almost all other Admiralties numerals show the unique Manus subtractive system).
'Motu' languages (under the 'tail' of Papua New Guinea) also (mostly) have a number 8 related to 4 (taura hani), and 9=8+1, but these also have 6='2'x3 (taura toi) with 7 = a 'regular' hitu, or ima ua =5/2 or 6/1 (karakoi ka pea). Quite mongrel systems.
Some of the Formosan number systems may be similar to this.
Or something else:
Makassarese: 8=7+1 - mystery in Sulawesi
but many languages in Borneo have 7= tudju (or cognate) and 8 = aya, hanga, or mai, followed by 9 = piah, jalatien, riqi (or cognates), which look as if they might just be 'start-agains'.
Cognates of 'hanga' for 8 also appear in the Solomons.
(I have no translations or even speculative etymologies for any of them, having 'discovered' them only yesterday, thanks to Anthony Jukes giving me the link to his excellent new Makassarese Grammar at: http://www.sendspace.com/file/2ps9y0).
----------------------------------------------------------
Monday, September 10, 2007
Ilongot Number System - A Wild Exception (Updated 5/12/07)
The Ilongots are the only group in the entire Western Malayo-Polynesian language family area (coloured violet on the map below) that still retain their original non-decimal counting system, where everything is hunky-dory up to No 5, then goes 5+1, 5+2, etc, in the usual way of people who have not yet made the break from counting their fingers to having a full decimal system.
The Ilongots are a head-hunting tribe of Central Luzon (the northernmost large island of the Philippines). You can find out more about them here and here, and here.
"The Ilongot live in Nueva Vizcaya Province of Luzon in the Philippines. They numbered about 2,500 in 1975. The name "Ilongot" is Tagalog and Spanish, and is derived from "Quirungut" (of the forest), one of the people's own names for themselves. The Ilongot language is Austronesian, and there are three dialects: Egongut, Italon, and Abaka. They use Ilocano and Tagalog in trading. The Ilongot are culturally conservative and unsubjugated. They live as an enclave and resist incursions into their territory".
Their numbers go:
I don't know their words for 11-19, or if they continue carrying on to count their toes, but they do call twenty duwampu, which means 'two tens', ie they do (now) have a decimal system, after all.
They call No 5 gima, which is the usual lima word for 5, but they also have tambiang, which is remarkably close to many of the words from New Guinea, more than 3000km away (and not used anywhere at all in between those areas). Bang, if you remember from my earlier post, is very widespread as a 'hand/five' word there.
This strengthens my case that the standard proto-Austronesian numbers:
esa/isa *duSa *telu *Sepat *lima *enem *pitu *walu *Siwa *sa-puluq?
did not exist, at all, when the 'ancestral' language was actually being spoken.
If the PAn numbers did exist way back then, then comparative linguists, following their arcane rules, would have to call the Ilongot number word combinations 'innovations' (ie new inventions), as indeed, they do.
The continued existence of the 'aberrant' Ilongot system proves that it is not just a few obscure and primitive New Guineans who didn't learn their new Austronesian numbers properly, but a previous stage of language development that has only been suppressed by massive population movements and growth in the WMP area during the past two millenia.
Update (5/12/07) I have since seen a fuller Ilongot number-word list, that includes the teens and decades. It shows what I consider an earlier system overlaid with loanwords from neighbours.
The Ilongots are a head-hunting tribe of Central Luzon (the northernmost large island of the Philippines). You can find out more about them here and here, and here.
"The Ilongot live in Nueva Vizcaya Province of Luzon in the Philippines. They numbered about 2,500 in 1975. The name "Ilongot" is Tagalog and Spanish, and is derived from "Quirungut" (of the forest), one of the people's own names for themselves. The Ilongot language is Austronesian, and there are three dialects: Egongut, Italon, and Abaka. They use Ilocano and Tagalog in trading. The Ilongot are culturally conservative and unsubjugated. They live as an enclave and resist incursions into their territory".
Their numbers go:
| 1 | sít | 2 | deva | 3 | tago | 4 | epát | 5 | gima,tambiang |
| 6 | tambiang nu sít | 7 | tambiang nu dava | 8 | tambiánggot tagó | 9 | tambiang nu apát | 10 | támpu |
I don't know their words for 11-19, or if they continue carrying on to count their toes, but they do call twenty duwampu, which means 'two tens', ie they do (now) have a decimal system, after all.
They call No 5 gima, which is the usual lima word for 5, but they also have tambiang, which is remarkably close to many of the words from New Guinea, more than 3000km away (and not used anywhere at all in between those areas). Bang, if you remember from my earlier post, is very widespread as a 'hand/five' word there.
This strengthens my case that the standard proto-Austronesian numbers:
esa/isa *duSa *telu *Sepat *lima *enem *pitu *walu *Siwa *sa-puluq?
did not exist, at all, when the 'ancestral' language was actually being spoken.
If the PAn numbers did exist way back then, then comparative linguists, following their arcane rules, would have to call the Ilongot number word combinations 'innovations' (ie new inventions), as indeed, they do.
The continued existence of the 'aberrant' Ilongot system proves that it is not just a few obscure and primitive New Guineans who didn't learn their new Austronesian numbers properly, but a previous stage of language development that has only been suppressed by massive population movements and growth in the WMP area during the past two millenia.
Update (5/12/07) I have since seen a fuller Ilongot number-word list, that includes the teens and decades. It shows what I consider an earlier system overlaid with loanwords from neighbours.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Pidgin in the Making - Boronglish
The new-style numbers used by the Borong tribe, of that little bump, the Huon Peninsula, on the 'rear end' of Papua New Guinea, were in the very process of 'pidginising' a new set of numbers, still under the influence of English colonialists, when these numbers were recorded in 1984:
But the numbers beyond 10, which went: 11 henareka, 12 henembing, 13 nemungawong, 14 henaru, still followed their traditional system.
This example shows all the symptoms of pidginisation, when a language keeps its own grammar, structure, and idiosyncracies (more or less) but adopts someone else's words.
Much the same must have occurred to those Melanesians along the coasts and islands of New Guinea (and much of the rest of Island South East Asia) when the Austronesian languages first became dominant.
Numbers have been almost standardised now, with the national language of PNG, Tok Pisin, numbers:
wan, tu, tri, foa, faiv, sikis, seven, et, nain, ten, with 11 = wanpela ten wan
The Tok Ples (Talk Place - native tribal) number systems are being fast forgotten. Perhaps in less than a couple of generations, the majority of the 800+ languages spoken until recently in New Guinea, may have disappeared.
Alternatively, they will survive, and Tok Pisin will just be a superficial lingua franca, as Latin once was, and many of the unique customs and languages of New Guinea will survive,after all.
| ‘Native’ Borong | Boronglish | ||
| 1 motongo | wan kembing | One finger ? | |
| 2 woic | tu kembing | Two finger? | |
| 3 karong | tiri kembing | 3 finger | |
| 4 nemumgac | fo lolo | ‘4’ – 2 2 | |
| 5 boro mong | Hand one | fa ingambe | My hand? |
| 6 boromong ano motongo | Hand one + one | sapsap | Now this one? |
| 7 boromong ano woic | Hand one + two | tepelonga | Longer? |
| 8 | hetewe | 8 e wa | |
| 9 | hene roka | 9 e wa | |
| 10 borowoic | Hand two | he ten ing | This 10 |
But the numbers beyond 10, which went: 11 henareka, 12 henembing, 13 nemungawong, 14 henaru, still followed their traditional system.
This example shows all the symptoms of pidginisation, when a language keeps its own grammar, structure, and idiosyncracies (more or less) but adopts someone else's words.
Much the same must have occurred to those Melanesians along the coasts and islands of New Guinea (and much of the rest of Island South East Asia) when the Austronesian languages first became dominant.
Numbers have been almost standardised now, with the national language of PNG, Tok Pisin, numbers:
wan, tu, tri, foa, faiv, sikis, seven, et, nain, ten, with 11 = wanpela ten wan
The Tok Ples (Talk Place - native tribal) number systems are being fast forgotten. Perhaps in less than a couple of generations, the majority of the 800+ languages spoken until recently in New Guinea, may have disappeared.
Alternatively, they will survive, and Tok Pisin will just be a superficial lingua franca, as Latin once was, and many of the unique customs and languages of New Guinea will survive,after all.
Numbers - This Little Piggy - Finger Tallying
I mentioned the strange counting system used by the Maisin people of coastal New Guinea, in my Why Study Austronesian Numbers? post.
Their numbers went:
1 - sesei
2 - sandi
3 - sinati
4 - fusese
5 - fakete
6 - faketi-tarosi-taure-sesei
7 - faketi-tarosi-taure-sandi
8 - faketi tarosi taure sinati
9 - faketi tarosi taure fusese
10- faketi tau tau
It helps to understand it when you learn that fakete (5) is hand.
6 is faketi-tarosi-taure-sesei = hand-one side-other side-one.
But other New Guinea Papuan language groups take the body-part tallying to extremes.
The Oksapmin developed a body-part counting system that went beyond one hand, up the arm to the head, and then down the other side. The Oksapmin example results in a numbering system of base 27.
They also had to memorise each of the 27 body-part names:
(1) tip^na, (2) tipnarip, (3) bum rip, (4) h^tdip, (5) h^th^ta, (6) dopa, (7) besa, (8) kir, (9) tow^t, (10) kata, (11) gwer, (12) nata, (13) kina, (14) aruma, (15) tan-kina, (16) tan-nata, (17) tan-gwer, (18) tan-kata, (19) tan-tow^t, (20) tan-kir, (21) tan-besa, (22) tan-dopa, (23) tan-tip^na, (24) tan-tipnarip, (25) tan-bum rip, (26) tan-h^tdip, (27) tan-h^th^ta.s
It's easier than it looks - you only have to go up one side, and then repeat the same names in reverse, down the other.
Most numbering systems started with finger-tallying, and the physical way this was done affects the number words that were derived from it.
Their numbers went:
1 - sesei
2 - sandi
3 - sinati
4 - fusese
5 - fakete
6 - faketi-tarosi-taure-sesei
7 - faketi-tarosi-taure-sandi
8 - faketi tarosi taure sinati
9 - faketi tarosi taure fusese
10- faketi tau tau
It helps to understand it when you learn that fakete (5) is hand.
6 is faketi-tarosi-taure-sesei = hand-one side-other side-one.
But other New Guinea Papuan language groups take the body-part tallying to extremes.
The Oksapmin developed a body-part counting system that went beyond one hand, up the arm to the head, and then down the other side. The Oksapmin example results in a numbering system of base 27.
They also had to memorise each of the 27 body-part names:
(1) tip^na, (2) tipnarip, (3) bum rip, (4) h^tdip, (5) h^th^ta, (6) dopa, (7) besa, (8) kir, (9) tow^t, (10) kata, (11) gwer, (12) nata, (13) kina, (14) aruma, (15) tan-kina, (16) tan-nata, (17) tan-gwer, (18) tan-kata, (19) tan-tow^t, (20) tan-kir, (21) tan-besa, (22) tan-dopa, (23) tan-tip^na, (24) tan-tipnarip, (25) tan-bum rip, (26) tan-h^tdip, (27) tan-h^th^ta.s
It's easier than it looks - you only have to go up one side, and then repeat the same names in reverse, down the other.
Most numbering systems started with finger-tallying, and the physical way this was done affects the number words that were derived from it.
Filipinos, for example, start with a closed fist, extending fingers one by one, starting with the smallest |
But in other parts, they fold their fingers down, one by one, stating with one - the little finger of the left 'weak' hand.  |
Or six can be the little finger on the second, left hand.
In Gadsup, 6 = apä?tä?te mänayemänä?i - 1 added to 'weak hand'
In Bargam, the word for 5 is abainakinta (thumb-1); thumb is abainagin.
Fist should show up in many of the number words for 5, as well. (Trouble is, I don't know many Papuan languages, and not many travelling language recorders wrote down words for 'fist').I'll find the connections someday
Sissano Lagoon 1998
This is what happened to Sissano Lagoon and its inhabitants on the evening of 17 July 1998. Such disasters, or similar ones, happen regularly to coastal areas anywhere, and have quite random, but devastating effects. It's almost as if the Earth and the Sea are casually swatting a few irritants.
This is an area of low-lying coastal plain broken by isolated hills of basement rocks: Oligocene volcanic arc rocks and associated limestone. Further inland, foothills give way to the steep-fronted Bewani and Torricelli ranges. The coastal plain is bounded seaward by a coastal sand barrier that stands 1-2 m above sea level and is typically a few hundred meters across. The sand barrier is highest at the beachfront and slopes gently downwards away from the sea -- a common morphology for coastlines where sea level is rising relative to the land, and where there is a steady supply of sand distributed along the coast by longshore drift. Much of the sand barrier is planted with coconut palms and there are occasional large trees (kalopilam Callophylum inophyllum; breadfruit or kapiak Atocarpus altissima; talis Terminalia catappa; and mango Magnifera indica) and thickets of yar (Casuarina equisetifolia).
On the evening of 17 July 1998, on the Aitape coast of Papua New Guinea, a strongly felt earthquake was followed some 10-25 minutes later by a destructive tsunami. The tsunami comprised three waves, each estimated to be about 4 m high. The second of the three waves rose to a height of 10-15 m above sea level after it had crossed the shoreline and caused most damage. Maximum wave heights and greatest damage were recorded along a 14-km sector of coast centered on Sissano Lagoon. In this sector the wave fronts moved from east to west along the coast; all structures were destroyed, and 20-40 percent of the population was killed. Partial destruction extended 23 km to the southeast and 8 km to the northwest, and effects of the tsunami were felt as far as 250 km to the west-northwest, beyond the international border. More than 1600 people are known to have died, with some estimates as high as 2200; 1000 were seriously injured, and 10,000 survivors were displaced.
Before the tsunami, about 12,000 people lived in the coastal villages west of Aitape, from Malol to Sissano. Most houses were of traditional materials, and most were within a few hundred meters of the waterfront and on land that was not more than a few metros above sea level. Each village extended for a kilometer or more along the coast.
The main shock was sufficiently vigorous and prolonged that at Malol, Arop and Warapu people left their houses and moved into open space. At Arop and Warapu cracks opened in the ground, and water squirted upwards, house foundation posts shook and water rose around the posts, and there was a smell of hydrogen sulfide. At Sissano Mission the earthquake caused minor damage to the 62-year-old church, and in the nearby villages some houses collapsed. At Malol the shaking was strong enough to cause concern that the water tanks at the Mission might collapse. At Vanimo, 140 km from the epicenter, the earthquake was described by one long term resident as stronger and more prolonged than any he had experienced.
The main shock was followed, some minutes later, by a loud boom, as though of thunder; this was heard from Sissano to Malol. A few minutes or up to five minutes later there was a roaring sound, variously described as the noise of a low-flying heavy jet plane, the approach of a large ship, or as the woop-woop-woop of a heavy helicopter. The sound progressed eastward along the coast then back again to the west, and was heard all along the coast from Sissano in the west to Aitape High School in the east.
Although the sun had set at 6.37 pm, there was still sufficient daylight that the day's activities were continuing. Men were painting a canoe, young people were playing touch football and their elders were moving around in the villages. People went to the beach to investigate the unusual noise and observed that the sea was 'boiling' or bubbling, and had receded by 50 m or so, exposing the nearshore sea bed. They then saw a wave develop in the distance, as a dark line on a sea surface that otherwise reflected the light of the sky. The wave approached and, when 200-300 m from the beach, started to break, rolling from the top. 'Smoke' or haze rose from the top of the wave, and many saw a red glow in the top of the wave.
One observer (John Sanawe, a former Colonel in the PNG Defense Force) reported that he first saw the sea on the skyline rise and explode, sending spray high in the air where it caught and diffracted the late afternoon sunlight into rainbow colors. He then heard a sound like distant thunder. He wondered at hearing thunder on a day when the sky was clear, then linked this sound to the explosion. Then there was a sound like a heavy helicopter, or such as can be heard when a bottle is held under water, and the sea started to retreat from the shore. The rhythm of the helicopter noise slowed as the retreat of the sea slowed. Then there was silence for 4-5 minutes, followed by the noise of a low-flying jet aircraft. Sanawe looked to sea and saw that a wave had formed at or near the site of the explosion. The wave then approached at great speed.
People ran from the approaching waves but almost all were caught. A few escaped by climbing trees, or pushing their boats into the lagoon.
People in the waves were vigorously tumbled and turned in water that was laden with sand and debris. They were stripped of their clothing, lost skin by sand abrasion, were battered by hard objects and some cut or impaled by timber and metal objects. Those who were fortunate were carried into the lagoon and were able to cling to floating debris. An infant was deposited miraculously on the floating roof of a house. Those less fortunate were carried into swampland or into the mangroves that fringe the lagoon where some were impaled or were buried under piles of logs and debris. Some who had survived the initial impact were swept out to sea as the waters receded. Most had ingested water from the waves.
Wave heights, on shore, were 10-15 m above sea level and there was extensive damage for distances of up to 500 m from the coast. Damage was less on either side of a 14-km sector.
By 7.20 or 7.25 pm the water had retreated, though much standing water remained. At this moment, according to survivors, the sky was filled with a yellow or yellow-red glow that provided sufficient light for people to start searching for family members. They said that without the glow this would not have been possible.
At Sissano Lagoon a low haze had advanced with the wave and this now blotted out the stars, so that it became pitch dark, so dark that people moving inland, away from the lagoon, held on to each other to maintain contact.
Rescue began that night, the survivors helping each other. The first outside help arrived 16 hours after the event on the Saturday morning, and a major rescue effort began a day later, 40 hours after the event.
Three concrete slabs (right) are all that remained of the class rooms at Warapu school.
Amazingly, the coconut trees mostly survived.
This photo, taken from the sea's edge, at Arop village, shows the destruction inland of the belt of coconut palms at the top of the beach.
And there were other horrors accopanyng the waves, which arrived just after dusk:
John Kimene of Nimas was one of a group that was fishing at a drowned reef 8-10 km from the coast at about 10 am on Thursday 16 July 1998. This probably is the reef marked on the map just inside the 200 m isobath, which stands at 82 m depth. As the party trolled 1-2 km west of the submerged reef they were surprised to run into a succession of 2-3 m waves that loomed and steepened as though about to break. They took this to be evidence of a new shoaling of the water in an area that previously had been quite deep. There was a smell of dead fish.
On Friday 17 July 1998 at about noon Tom Kaisiera, a teenager from Nimas, paddled to the same general area and was surprised to find the sea bubbling with odorless gas. The area of bubbling was large, perhaps 100-200 m across. The canoe was drawn toward the center of bubbling area and it was only by paddling strongly that he could escape.
Three unusual lighting effects were reported. Many observers saw a red light on the horizon before the tsunami developed: "After the first earthquake, a long streak of red light like fire appeared just above the ocean on northern horizon, it flashed and then disappeared, then within seconds there was a loud bang". Also, many observers described a red glow or "fire" in the top of the wave.
After the wave passed, observers at widely separated locations (Warapu, Malol and Raihu) saw a yellow or yellow-red glow in the sky over the sea. "The sky lit up after the wave had destroyed the villages" (observer at Malol) and "after I climbed down from the tree I saw a big light over Arop and in the direction of Aitape" (observer on an island near the lagoon mouth). The Sisters at Malol recall that after the waves had passed they looked seaward and saw a calm golden sea. Warapu survivors recall that the yellow glow in the sky helped light their search for survivors.
I'm indebted to the following excellent report for the pictures and descriptions:
The Aitape 1998 tsunami: Reconstructing the event from interviews and field mapping.
This is an area of low-lying coastal plain broken by isolated hills of basement rocks: Oligocene volcanic arc rocks and associated limestone. Further inland, foothills give way to the steep-fronted Bewani and Torricelli ranges. The coastal plain is bounded seaward by a coastal sand barrier that stands 1-2 m above sea level and is typically a few hundred meters across. The sand barrier is highest at the beachfront and slopes gently downwards away from the sea -- a common morphology for coastlines where sea level is rising relative to the land, and where there is a steady supply of sand distributed along the coast by longshore drift. Much of the sand barrier is planted with coconut palms and there are occasional large trees (kalopilam Callophylum inophyllum; breadfruit or kapiak Atocarpus altissima; talis Terminalia catappa; and mango Magnifera indica) and thickets of yar (Casuarina equisetifolia).
On the evening of 17 July 1998, on the Aitape coast of Papua New Guinea, a strongly felt earthquake was followed some 10-25 minutes later by a destructive tsunami. The tsunami comprised three waves, each estimated to be about 4 m high. The second of the three waves rose to a height of 10-15 m above sea level after it had crossed the shoreline and caused most damage. Maximum wave heights and greatest damage were recorded along a 14-km sector of coast centered on Sissano Lagoon. In this sector the wave fronts moved from east to west along the coast; all structures were destroyed, and 20-40 percent of the population was killed. Partial destruction extended 23 km to the southeast and 8 km to the northwest, and effects of the tsunami were felt as far as 250 km to the west-northwest, beyond the international border. More than 1600 people are known to have died, with some estimates as high as 2200; 1000 were seriously injured, and 10,000 survivors were displaced.
Before the tsunami, about 12,000 people lived in the coastal villages west of Aitape, from Malol to Sissano. Most houses were of traditional materials, and most were within a few hundred meters of the waterfront and on land that was not more than a few metros above sea level. Each village extended for a kilometer or more along the coast.
The main shock was sufficiently vigorous and prolonged that at Malol, Arop and Warapu people left their houses and moved into open space. At Arop and Warapu cracks opened in the ground, and water squirted upwards, house foundation posts shook and water rose around the posts, and there was a smell of hydrogen sulfide. At Sissano Mission the earthquake caused minor damage to the 62-year-old church, and in the nearby villages some houses collapsed. At Malol the shaking was strong enough to cause concern that the water tanks at the Mission might collapse. At Vanimo, 140 km from the epicenter, the earthquake was described by one long term resident as stronger and more prolonged than any he had experienced.
The main shock was followed, some minutes later, by a loud boom, as though of thunder; this was heard from Sissano to Malol. A few minutes or up to five minutes later there was a roaring sound, variously described as the noise of a low-flying heavy jet plane, the approach of a large ship, or as the woop-woop-woop of a heavy helicopter. The sound progressed eastward along the coast then back again to the west, and was heard all along the coast from Sissano in the west to Aitape High School in the east.
Although the sun had set at 6.37 pm, there was still sufficient daylight that the day's activities were continuing. Men were painting a canoe, young people were playing touch football and their elders were moving around in the villages. People went to the beach to investigate the unusual noise and observed that the sea was 'boiling' or bubbling, and had receded by 50 m or so, exposing the nearshore sea bed. They then saw a wave develop in the distance, as a dark line on a sea surface that otherwise reflected the light of the sky. The wave approached and, when 200-300 m from the beach, started to break, rolling from the top. 'Smoke' or haze rose from the top of the wave, and many saw a red glow in the top of the wave.
One observer (John Sanawe, a former Colonel in the PNG Defense Force) reported that he first saw the sea on the skyline rise and explode, sending spray high in the air where it caught and diffracted the late afternoon sunlight into rainbow colors. He then heard a sound like distant thunder. He wondered at hearing thunder on a day when the sky was clear, then linked this sound to the explosion. Then there was a sound like a heavy helicopter, or such as can be heard when a bottle is held under water, and the sea started to retreat from the shore. The rhythm of the helicopter noise slowed as the retreat of the sea slowed. Then there was silence for 4-5 minutes, followed by the noise of a low-flying jet aircraft. Sanawe looked to sea and saw that a wave had formed at or near the site of the explosion. The wave then approached at great speed.
People ran from the approaching waves but almost all were caught. A few escaped by climbing trees, or pushing their boats into the lagoon.
People in the waves were vigorously tumbled and turned in water that was laden with sand and debris. They were stripped of their clothing, lost skin by sand abrasion, were battered by hard objects and some cut or impaled by timber and metal objects. Those who were fortunate were carried into the lagoon and were able to cling to floating debris. An infant was deposited miraculously on the floating roof of a house. Those less fortunate were carried into swampland or into the mangroves that fringe the lagoon where some were impaled or were buried under piles of logs and debris. Some who had survived the initial impact were swept out to sea as the waters receded. Most had ingested water from the waves.
Wave heights, on shore, were 10-15 m above sea level and there was extensive damage for distances of up to 500 m from the coast. Damage was less on either side of a 14-km sector.
By 7.20 or 7.25 pm the water had retreated, though much standing water remained. At this moment, according to survivors, the sky was filled with a yellow or yellow-red glow that provided sufficient light for people to start searching for family members. They said that without the glow this would not have been possible.At Sissano Lagoon a low haze had advanced with the wave and this now blotted out the stars, so that it became pitch dark, so dark that people moving inland, away from the lagoon, held on to each other to maintain contact.
Rescue began that night, the survivors helping each other. The first outside help arrived 16 hours after the event on the Saturday morning, and a major rescue effort began a day later, 40 hours after the event.
Three concrete slabs (right) are all that remained of the class rooms at Warapu school.Amazingly, the coconut trees mostly survived.
This photo, taken from the sea's edge, at Arop village, shows the destruction inland of the belt of coconut palms at the top of the beach.And there were other horrors accopanyng the waves, which arrived just after dusk:
John Kimene of Nimas was one of a group that was fishing at a drowned reef 8-10 km from the coast at about 10 am on Thursday 16 July 1998. This probably is the reef marked on the map just inside the 200 m isobath, which stands at 82 m depth. As the party trolled 1-2 km west of the submerged reef they were surprised to run into a succession of 2-3 m waves that loomed and steepened as though about to break. They took this to be evidence of a new shoaling of the water in an area that previously had been quite deep. There was a smell of dead fish.
On Friday 17 July 1998 at about noon Tom Kaisiera, a teenager from Nimas, paddled to the same general area and was surprised to find the sea bubbling with odorless gas. The area of bubbling was large, perhaps 100-200 m across. The canoe was drawn toward the center of bubbling area and it was only by paddling strongly that he could escape.
Three unusual lighting effects were reported. Many observers saw a red light on the horizon before the tsunami developed: "After the first earthquake, a long streak of red light like fire appeared just above the ocean on northern horizon, it flashed and then disappeared, then within seconds there was a loud bang". Also, many observers described a red glow or "fire" in the top of the wave.
After the wave passed, observers at widely separated locations (Warapu, Malol and Raihu) saw a yellow or yellow-red glow in the sky over the sea. "The sky lit up after the wave had destroyed the villages" (observer at Malol) and "after I climbed down from the tree I saw a big light over Arop and in the direction of Aitape" (observer on an island near the lagoon mouth). The Sisters at Malol recall that after the waves had passed they looked seaward and saw a calm golden sea. Warapu survivors recall that the yellow glow in the sky helped light their search for survivors.
I'm indebted to the following excellent report for the pictures and descriptions:
The Aitape 1998 tsunami: Reconstructing the event from interviews and field mapping.
Numbers: Backwards, Forwards, or Sideways?
Trying to find out the reasons for the extreme primitiveness of some of the numbering systems, particularly around New Guinea, is the crux of my research.
I've come up with certain possibilities:
1) Austronesians arriving from the West (about 3500 years ago, with 'proto-Austronesian numbers', already invented) married into, and converted some local tribes to speak their language, but the locals retained much of their original language, and the numbering systems that they'd always used before, merely adopting new Austronesian pidgin names for them.
The Austronesian speakers' systems regressed.
2) Austronesian speakers were already resident some time before that, and were (and still are) in the process of forming their own numbering systems, from scratch.
The systems progressed, (and are still doing so).
I see indications of this in the strange numbering systems used by the Manus islanders, the Motu aound Port Moresby, the 4-base system of the Schouten islands, further West in Irian Jaya, and so on.
In addition, the Papuan languages in the interior of Cape Finistere (the bump above the tail) are much more sophisticated (ie tending towards decimalisation) than other non-Austronesian languages. I'll discuss each of these in later posts.
I've come up with certain possibilities:
1) Austronesians arriving from the West (about 3500 years ago, with 'proto-Austronesian numbers', already invented) married into, and converted some local tribes to speak their language, but the locals retained much of their original language, and the numbering systems that they'd always used before, merely adopting new Austronesian pidgin names for them.
The Austronesian speakers' systems regressed.
2) Austronesian speakers were already resident some time before that, and were (and still are) in the process of forming their own numbering systems, from scratch.
The systems progressed, (and are still doing so).
I see indications of this in the strange numbering systems used by the Manus islanders, the Motu aound Port Moresby, the 4-base system of the Schouten islands, further West in Irian Jaya, and so on.
In addition, the Papuan languages in the interior of Cape Finistere (the bump above the tail) are much more sophisticated (ie tending towards decimalisation) than other non-Austronesian languages. I'll discuss each of these in later posts.
I have found three such groups; the Sissano, the Dawawa, and the Kuni, widely separated.
Neither the Sissano nor the Kuni have any more number names than 1, 2, and a few, and perhaps many. The Dawawa and some of their neighbours have names for only 1 and 2, and make up all bigger number combo-names from these two alone.
Sissano: 1 = pontanen, 2 = entin, and many = tartar.
Kuni has only kaona, lua, and koi.
Dawawa has only 1 = tegana, and 2 = rabui. 5 is rabui rabui be tenagu.
The number names in Sissano resemble nothing else at all, in either the local Papuan languages or the Austronesian. The
Kuni names are recognisably 'Austronesian', and the Dawawa names are used by a number of other An groups in their area.
The Rev Dr Strong wrote this of the Kuni a century ago:
"There is one quite exceptional Melanesian-speaking people who are strangely deficient as regards counting. In 1905 I was in their country. They live on the south coast in the Kuni district, inland from Hall Sound. These people have, or at least in 1905 had, no trace of any numeral beyond three. For "two" they used lua, and for " three" koi. These words are both obviously of Melanesian origin.
In 1905 I was using a Motu-speaking Kuni native as guide. On asking him how many times we would have to sleep on the road in going from Mafulu to Kabadi, he replied in Motuan, " three times, toi. Like many of the people around Hall Sound he was unable to say a "t" and pronounced all his "t's" as "k's." So his pronunciation of the Motuan word toi was really koi.
On my asking the names of the places we had to sleep at, he correctly mentioned five names, and these names I afterwards verified. On asking him to explain why he said we had to sleep koi times and yet gave five names, he seemed quite unaware that the fact required explanation.
At the time, I discussed this with some of the missionaries who could talk the Kuni language, and they confirmed the fact that in practice the Kuni people used the word koi to mean a few.
The Kuni people, in fact, really only counted one, two, a few, many.
The Kuni are the only Melanesian-speaking people in British New Guinea who have gone far inland. Their language is obviously a regular Melanesian one, very closely allied indeed to the Motu of Port Moresby, which has a well-defined system of numeration, going at least up to a thousand.
It is very difficult to see how the Kuni people can have lost numerals like " five," if they ever had them.
I feel rather driven to the conclusion that the Melanesian numerals above toi are a comparatively recent introduction, subsequent to the arrival of the Melanesians in New Guinea.
The Kuni natives are by no means deficient in intelligence. The Kuni guide I had was quite intelligent and particularly energetic". [He needed to be, if he was going to stop for 5 nights, but only sleep 3].
Some Personal Experiences in British New Guinea. W. M. Strong
The Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute of Great Britain and Ireland, Vol. 49. (Jul. -Dec., 1919), pp. 292-308. Available at JSTOR
Note: At that time, Austronesian speakers in New Guinea and around about, were called 'Melanesians'.
In fact, the Motu have a very strange numbering system, where 5 = ima (An), but 6 = 'a bit more' 7 = 6 +1, 8 = other 4, and 9 = 8+1, but they were active traders along the coast, and needed sophisticated numbers for just that.
But how could Austronesian immigrants, with inherited, and very simple, proto-Austronesian numbers, possibly have regressed?
I don't think that Austronesian immigrants came with ready-made numbers at all. The numbers developed around New Guinea, and were taken back to the West, and on to the East, together with a host of cultural characters we like to think of as 'pure' Austronesian.
There simply wasn't a simple 'Express Train' migration from Taiwan to Polynesia.
There is, confusingly, a third possibility.
New Guineans, during the last two centuries, have been overwhelmed by a 'superior' culture, that has introduced new languages, customs, mores, and a monetary economy. The hundreds of small groups, each speaking their own language, have travelled away from their own areas to work, stopped headhunting, and, however painfully, are being absorbed into a larger entity.
Most of all, though, they had to become more number conscious now that they were trading more widely, and , for the first time in some 40,000 years of human presence in New Guinea, were being gainfully employed, for money.
The New Guineans first invented a pidgin, that has now developed into a fully-formed creole language of its own: Tok Pisin, with elements of 'Papuan', English, some German, and even some of a world-wide lingua franca, Nautical Pidgin.
Almost all New Guineans have adopted the new numbers: wan, tu, tri, foa, faiv, sikis, seven, et, nain, ten, with 11 = wanpela ten wan
But most still employ their own native numbers, from 1 to 5, in everyday use, just as my neighbours here in Siargao do: qesa, duhá, tuyú, qepát, lima, but then the 'Spanish' sais, siete, otso, nueve, jeis.
In Siargao, all the native numbers above nine have been completely forgotten, except for isa ka gatus (100), which is used by fishermen for depth-sounding, and by the locals for 100 pesos ($2), which is a lot of money around here.
It is therefore possible that the Sissano, Dawawa and Kuni have just completely forgotten their old number systems. But if that's happened, why have all the others not done the same?
I prefer to think that they are just the outlying remnants of the area where number systems first developed, and that, somewhere in the area in between them, simple number systems evolved.
But then, in some mysterious area, the 'proto-Austronesian higher numerals' were invented, and were brought back, though not to the whole area, or indeed, to very much at all of Melanesia.
PS The Sissano have had a very raw deal, and it is surprising that their language survives at all - see coming post.
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