Bison Guts: How Underappreciated Foodstuffs Could Change our Understanding of Human Biocultural Evolution

Raven Garvey
University of Michigan, Ann Arbor

Food is central to our theories of human biological and cultural evolution. For example, access to ‘high quality’ foods—ones that are nutrient-dense and easily digestible—has been linked to changes in hominins’ brain, body, tooth, and gut size (Aiello and Wheeler 1995; McHenry 1992), to cognitive capacities (Silk and House 2011) and to a wide range of social behaviours (e.g., Winterhalder 1996). Yet these hypotheses (and many others) hinge on our understanding of which substances in an environment are edible, their respective nutrient profiles and costs associated with procuring them and preparing them to be digestible, palatable, or even delicious (Dunn and Sanchez, 2021). In addition, as one recent meta-analysis shows, scientists’ assumptions about edibility may be overly dependent on “guesstimates and Western standards” (Morin et al. 2022, 525). So, how might our understanding of the human past change if we were to learn that some of our fundamental assumptions about food are wrong?

This question has been keeping me awake at night. Truly. In particular, I have been thinking about large-bodied game and their outsized influence on humanity: our ability to regularly acquire larger prey has been linked not only changes in physiology and cognition, as noted above, but also to the origins and expressions of the sexual division of labour (Hawkes 1990; Murdoch 1949; Washburn and Lancaster 1967) and to major reorganizations of subsistence and mobility (e.g., Bettinger 2018; Frison 1991; Surovell and Waguespack 2009). Archaeological and ethnographic records clearly demonstrate the dietary importance of large prey in many periods and places throughout the human career. Still, while it hardly seems possible, we anthropologists may be routinely underestimating the importance of large game…

This is because we tend to think of animals’ food value strictly in terms of their native tissues—their muscles, organs, blood, and bones. However, the vegetal matter undergoing digestion in herbivores’ stomachs and intestines—the ‘digesta’—is also edible to humans and is rich in nutrients that are virtually absent from the animals’ own tissues. Including digesta in our calculations of large-bodied herbivores’ food value substantially increases both their total caloric yield and their nutrient profiles. When their digesta are also consumed, large herbivores essentially become one-stop shopping for an abundance of calories and nutrients—including nutrients typically associated with plant resources.

Foraging Economics

While largely absent from animal tissues, carbohydrates, “a universal fuel for all cells” (Bier et al. 1999, S177), are nevertheless abundant in plants. We humans require a continual supply of fuel to sustain basic body functions and perform physical work (Institute of Medicine, 2005). Carbohydrates are one of three dietary macronutrients—along with proteins and fats—that contribute to humans’ maintenance of normal body function, long-term health, and reproduction (Crosby et al. 2021; Fung et al. 2010; Kosinski and Jorneyvaz 2017; Pham et al. 2021). Accordingly, several agencies including the World Health Organization (2003) and the US Department of Agriculture (2021) have established guidelines for healthful proportions of carbohydrates and other key macronutrients in our diets; beyond the first two years of life, carbohydrates should comprise between 45-65% of calories consumed, protein should make up between 10% and 35% and fat 25-35%.

For decades, anthropologists have used foraging theory as a means of understanding hominins’ biological and social evolution in terms of energetic efficiency. Foraging theory is, in essence, an economic approach to studying organisms’ pursuit of food. The analyst’s goal is to identify the optimal-decision rule that would maximize an organism’s (forager’s) returns (e.g., calories) relative to costs associated with obtaining those returns (e.g., calories, time) and to use such models to draw inferences about observed biology or behaviour. Because plants and animals tend to differ with regards to costs associated with their procurement and the nutrients each provides, the foraging literature routinely treats these food categories as dichotomous. Indeed, a plant/ animal dichotomy underlies historical arguments for the evolution of humans’ sexual division of labor: “foraging efficiency drives a system wherein foods provided by females—targeted because they reliably sustain offspring and do not conflict with reproduction or child care (e.g., plants)—are supplemented with others provided by males (typically meat) for a pooled diet that is nutritionally complete” (Garvey 2023a, 3 [citing Isaac 1968]; Murdoch 1949; Washburn and Lancaster 1967).

Much of the time, plant and animal resources are distinct in the ways assumed, but consumption of herbivore digesta complicates the strict plant/animal dichotomy and any foraging hypotheses that assume such a division. This is because carbohydrates are abundant in herbivores’ digesta (Buck and Stringer 2014) and people who consume digesta can therefore derive carbohydrates (from digesta) plus protein and fat (from animal tissues) in ample quantities from a single source.

This reimagining of large, herbivorous prey as ‘mixed’ resources could have profound implications for our understanding of human foraging in the past. Unsettled yet excited by this realization, I recently used bison (Bison bison) as a model to generate foraging predictions for a landscape that includes large, calorie-dense ‘packages’ of protein-plus-carbohydrates (Garvey 2023a; Figure 2). Bison are large ruminant herbivores (up to 2000 lb. or c. 900 kg) native to North America and Europe whose complex digestive systems readily break down cellulose and other plant compounds normally inedible to humans. A 1000 lb. bison in prime condition yields approximately 176,000 kcal from skeletal muscle protein alone (Hauer, 2021); a bison stomach at full capacity affords around 81,000 additional kcals from carbohydrates (Smithsonian’s National Zoo and Conservation Biology Institute 2021; see also Garvey 2023a). For digesta consumers, this increases the animal’s total caloric yield by nearly 50% and provides a substantial carbohydrate allowance. In fact, if a group of 25 adult foragers bagged this 1000 lb. bison and ate both its muscle tissues and digesta, each person could meet the USDA’s average recommendations for protein (22.5% of calories consumed) and carbohydrates (55% of calories consumed) for three full days without any further supplementation.

Figure 2. Bison skulls excavated from an archaeological site in the Southwestern United States (University of Michigan Museum of Anthropological Archaeology objects UMMAA 83209 a and b). Bison could have been an important source of both protein (from the animal’s native tissues) and carbohydrates (from digesta). Photo courtesy of the University of Michigan Museum of Anthropological Archaeology.

Evolutionary Implications of Digesta as Food

Elsewhere, I have explored the implications of this bison model in the context of humans’ sexual division of labour (Garvey 2023a, 2023b). Very briefly, digesta consumption could have reduced or eliminated the need to obtain protein and carbohydrates from separate and often spatially discrete sources, relaxing an incentive for strongly sex-divided foraging labour and, potentially, increasing females’ active participation in large game hunting. Recent accounts of ancient female skeletons buried with hunting accoutrements (e.g., Haas et al. 2020) might therefore reflect times and places where digesta was on the menu and large herbivores were abundant. So, while the digesta model aligns with (and supports) explanations of labour division that acknowledge the potential for behavioural plasticity and cross-cultural variability (e.g., Bliege Bird and Codding 2015; Elston and Zeanah 2002), its predictions unsettle traditional ‘man the hunter’ narratives.

The implications of digesta consumption extend to other aspects of foraging behaviour as well. For example, the practice could have contributed to well-documented changes in dietary breadth and human mobility, such as the North American ‘Archaic turn’. Archaeological records suggest that so-called Archaic populations—descended from highly mobile, specialized hunters of the late Pleistocene / early Holocene (LPEH)—were more sedentary than their forebears and had broader diets, including a range of previously-ignored small game and plants (Garvey 2023a [citing Bettinger 2018]; Frison 1991; cf. McDonough et al. 2022). If digesta was an important source of carbohydrates for LPEH hunters, the need to close the ‘carbohydrate gap’ evident in the bison model (Figure 3) could have triggered a major subsistence reorganization as human populations grew during the Archaic Period.

Figure 3. Estimated person-days of nutrition (USDA 2021) per 1000 lb. bison for protein and carbohydrates (from data in Haur 2021). Heavy blue line = person-days of protein when individuals’ consumption is based on the USDA average recommended daily allowance (RDA; USDA 2021). Heavy orange line = person-days of carbohydrates per the USDA RDA. The shading around each line indicates the USDA’s recommended range for each nutrient type, again based on a 2000-calorie diet: 10-35% calories consumed as protein, and 45-65% as carbohydrates. Figure reproduced with permission from Evolutionary Anthropology (Garvey 2023a, Figure 2 top panel).

While the actual amounts of protein and carbohydrates surely vary by animal and species, their relative proportions—and the amounts of each required for healthful nutrition—are such that digesta-reliant foragers would have needed to make a fresh kill much more often than would be predicted if they were targeting large herbivores for their protein alone: Our hypothetical group of 25 adult foragers could meet protein-plus-carbohydrate requirements for over three days, and protein requirements alone for an additional six. At relatively low human population densities, as likely characterized the LPEH (Zahid et al. 2018), it is conceivable that foraging groups closed the carbohydrate gap simply by hunting more often (e.g., every three days, as in the example above) …and wasting a significant share of each animal (Kelly and Todd 1988; Speth 2020). As human populations grew, though, it may have become impractical to fill the carbohydrate gap in this way, not necessarily because large herbivores were harder to come by, but because the required hunting frequency was unsustainable. This could have triggered a major reorganization of subsistence and mobility: “When group size exceeds the level at which dietary needs can reliably be met through large-bodied herbivores and their digesta, groups of optimizing foragers should reduce their day-to-day mobility (become more sedentary) and encamp near reliable sources of carbohydrates, sending out logistical hunting parties as necessary” (Garvey 2023, 6 [citing O’Connell and Allen 2012]; Zeanah 2004).

Palatability is subjective and perceptions of it very widely depending on cultural, regional, and individual perspectives, as was surely also true in the past. Such differences reflect the spectacular diversity within and among human cultures and, when we allow our own perceptions to be challenged, we sometimes find ourselves on new and exhilarating culinary paths. Likewise, when we, as archaeologists, question our deep-seated notions of edibility and entertain the possibility that large herbivore digesta and other overlooked resources played a vital role in human diets, we open the door to innovative hypotheses that may reveal the underappreciated significance of these foodstuffs in shaping human biocultural evolution.

References

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A new peculiar mass deposition of headless human bodies from the LBK settlement in Vráble, SW Slovakia

Martin Furholt,1 Ivan Cheben,2 Maria Wunderlich1, Alena Bistáková2, Katharina Fuchs1, Zuzana Hukel’ová2, Kata Szilágyi1 and Till Kühl1

1Museum of London Archaeology 
2Slovak Academy of Sciences 

The LBK and Želiezovce site of Vráble is one of the largest settlement sites of the late 6th millennium BCE in Central Europe. See Figure 6.

Figure 6. Map showing the location of Vráble-Veľké Lehemby and Farské in SW Slovakia.

It was discovered during excavations at one of the largest Bronze Age settlements in the region, located nearby (Bátora et al. 2009; Bátora et al. 2012). Since 2012, a joint Slovak-German research team (The Archaeological Institute of the Slovak Academy of Sciences, Nitra and the Institute for Pre and Protohistoric Archaeology at Kiel University) investigated Vráble with a focus on questions of the dynamics and potential transformation of social cohesion in this early village, as it is reflected in settlement structure and the distribution of resources, material culture, stylistic elements and subsistence strategies. This has been published elsewhere, both as a monograph (E. by M. Furholt et al. 2020), as well as a series of articles dealing with issues of chronology (Meadows et al. 2019; Müller-Scheeßel et al. 2020), subsistence (Gillis et al. 2020) and social organization (Furholt et al. 2020). To give a simplified account, we reconstruct Vráble as a village (Figure 7), founded around 5250 BCE which grew over time (attracting settlers from surrounding contemporaneous sites in the valley) to become a regional settlement concentration around 5100 BCE featuring up to 80 contemporary farms.

Figure 7. Settlement plan of Vráble based on the magnetic survey conducted by Knut Rassmann in 2010, showing a minimum of 3016 houses grouped into three neighbourhoods, one of which is surrounded by a double ditched enclosure.

However, those settlers did not form a coherent village community, but rather a loose collection of farms which opted to be part of a bigger structure (a kind of low-density agglomeration). They also split up into three, spatially distinct neighbourhoods, of which one, at the end of its history, was walled in by a double ditch enclosure system. Since this enclosure—judging by the position of entrances facing away from the other two neighbourhoods—created a physical barrier between the social entities of the village community (as opposed to being a fortification against some outside foe), we interpret it as reflecting social conflicts within the community. We argue that these conflicts likely stemmed from unequal access to resources between farms.

Excavation of burials and body depositions

Towards what we thought would be the end of our excavations in 2017, we opened two sections of the enclosure ditches (two entrance areas) and found a number of human burials and depositions of human body parts and bones (Müller-Scheeßel et al. 2021). We see a clearly differentiated treatment of the dead, some of whom received standard LBK burials (i.e., placed in a crouched position in a pit alongside grave goods), while others were only partially deposited, or were part of more complex ritual practices. Several body parts (often individual legs or arms, or single long bones) were found in the innermost of the two ditches.

What drew our attention were two pairs of skeletons without skulls, each pair deposited at the bottom of the outer ditch, to the west of the entrance. Could this be a pattern? In 2021, this was confirmed during the excavation of two more entrances. We indeed find pairs of headless individuals in the ditch to the west of all four entrances. There were some anomalies, however: in one case, the two headless individuals were found in the inner ditch instead of the outer one; in another case, there was a complete skeleton next to the two headless ones in the outer ditch. Thirdly, we found several headless individuals in the eastern ditch of one of the entrances. This discovery was done in the very late days of the 2021 campaign; we decided to cover it and look at it during the next season – not knowing what a spectacular find we would uncover*.

A mass deposition – a mass grave?

In the summer of 2022, the ditch was reopened under the direct supervision of two osteologists (KF and ZH). The results were spectacular. We found a minimum of 37 individuals, 36 of whom were headless, like the ones we had identified to the west of every entrance thus far. Just one infant was found (with its head still in place). Two jawbone fragments as well as a few individual teeth were also found in the fill. The individuals were placed directly on (or close to) the bottom of the enclosure ditch, which slightly bulks out in this specific part. Figures 8 and 9 show that body positions were diverse with skeletons overlapping and intertwined.

Beside the lack of skulls, most skeletons are well articulated, including hand and foot bones. Yet, those skeletons placed along the edges of the ditch appear to be better preserved in terms of their anatomical articulation. We observe diverse body positions, such as stretched out on the back, on the belly and with bent, spread or stretched legs and arms. Towards the centre of the ditch, such positions are less recognizable. In addition, the centre of the ditch held 15 bone complexes (i.e., agglomerations of bones without a clear anatomical context) as well as at least 25 more articulated elements (such as lower legs) and more than 50 single human bones.

Figure 8. Overview view from the west of the mass deposition of headless individuals excavated in 2022.

Figure 9. Overview picture from above, extracted from a 3D-model of the mass deposition of headless individuals excavated in 2022.

A detailed osteological and archaeothanatological investigation is pending, but some on-site observations can already be made. We know that subadult as well as adult individuals were buried in this ditch, indicating a wide age spectrum. As for the most intriguing aspect of the missing heads, the technique of skull removal and the possible motives remain unclear at the moment. An extraordinary ritual practice or an act of violence must obviously be considered. So far, we observed that, in most cases, individuals’ spines were well-preserved, lacking the signs of the application of heavy mechanical force. In some cases, the upper cervical vertebrae (atlas and axis) were still present, while they were missing in others. A careful examination regarding manipulations (such as cut marks and atypical fractures) as well as the preservation patterns of the cervical spine will be carried out, including aspects from forensic research. In a Neolithic context, signs of interpersonal violence would predominantly be expected on peoples’ skulls; thus, it is almost impossible to rule this out. The general absence of lower jaws suggests that the removal of the heads was intentionally carried out in such a manner so as to keep the faces intact. Thus, it seems that the heads were the main target of the practice that left us with headless corpses in the ditch.

Time certainly is a crucial aspect in unravelling the events leading up to deposition. How much time passed between the removal of the heads and the deposition of the corpses in the ditch? Alternatively, were the skulls removed afterwards? Were they all deposited at the same time, thus marking a mass burial event? One individual was placed with the spine directly at the ditch wall, suggesting that he or she had been laid down there after his or her head was removed. However, this does not prove that this would have been the case for all individuals. Some finds were recovered in the fill, often directly attached to specific individuals (e.g., pieces of LBK pottery, a polished stone axe, three perforated teeth and several radiolarite blades). It is unclear if they should be seen as varieties of grave goods, or if they were worn on the bodies of the individuals whose heads were removed.

The different states of skeletal articulation and manners of deposition for the individuals deposited along the ditch edge and those in the centre could also be indicative of time-depth in terms of their deposition; for instance, a temporal laying out along the sides and a subsequent pushing of bodies towards the centre to make place for the addition of new corpses. A histotaphonomical study focused on bone bioerosion (planned via cooperation with the University of York) and archaeothanatological analyses might help us get answers.

Thus far, radiocarbon dates have not done much more than place the individuals in the expected time frame around 5100 to 5000 BC. However, dating could become more fine-grained if we are able to retrieve biological kinship data through aDNA analysis. Ongoing and planned interdisciplinary analyses aim at gaining better knowledge of the population as a whole—both those buried in the ditch, as well as those in regular graves. Who received—or was targeted for—exceptional treatment? Insights into the context of their deposition, lifeways, degree of biological relatedness and social characteristics are being obtained through e.g., ongoing stable isotope analyses of animal and human remains, paleogenetic studies and soil biomarker analyses.

Figure 10. Sketch of the different deposition practices and treatments of human bodies at the different entrances in Vráble. Note that the skeletons depicted are symbols not in-scale representations of the actual finds. Sketch by Martin Furholt.

Contextual considerations

In order to understand the significance of this new mass deposition, it is important to put it into its local and regional context. As already laid out above, the find is exceptional. Nevertheless, it comes with references to other activities along the ditches in Vráble, as well as in other contemporaneous LBK sites. In Vráble, the special significance of headless corpses in the ditch takes different forms: a more patterned deposition practice of pairs to the west of entrances in addition to the mass deposition in one place. If we look at our finds so far, we can see that a complex pattern of practices along the enclosure ditches emerges. See Figure 10.

Some deposition patterns (such as those involving the headless individuals or individual limbs or bones) seem to appear in all the areas of the ditch in Vráble excavated so far while other practices are more restricted to a single or to two entrances. Most notably, ‘regular’ LBK burials only appear at the easternmost entrance (gate 1). Also, the mass burial stands out as an individual pattern at gate 2. At gates 3 and 4, there is a peculiar combination of bones and skeletons with a large number of river pebbles placed among the bones which was not observed at the other gates. At gate 5 (further to the west, outside of the plan of Figure 5) we found no bones whatsoever, but an even larger number of river pebbles, this time densely covering the bottom of the inner ditch. The significance of these pebbles should not be underestimated, especially as they seem to be connected with (and to partly replace) the deposition of human bodies.

These patterns indicate that the practices observed are structured by distinct, complex layers of meaning. Although they were connected by an overall theme (human body parts in enclosure ditches), they were nonetheless subject to local variation and re-interpretation which was possibly performed by different groups of people. From a contextual assessment, it seems reasonable to assume that what we see are practices directed towards the demarcation of settlement space and community membership. The use of human bodies as well as river pebbles for this purpose could very well reflect a magical cosmology. It is possible that the remains of bodies or running water represented powerful substances to enforce or fortify the enclosed space. However, such a fortification was not mainly directed against some outside foe. Rather, if we consider the position of entrances mentioned in the introduction, this structure seems to indicate internal community conflict(s.) One could argue that this observation has consequences for the overall understanding of the regional phenomenon of LBK mass graves and human body depositions, often in enclosure ditches, as they are known in contemporaneous sites, such as Herxheim (Zeeb-Lanz 2016; Zeeb-Lanz 2019), Talheim (Wahl et al. 2012), Asparn-Schletz (Teschler-Nicola 2012), Schöneck-Kilianstetten (Meyer et al. 2015), Halberstadt (Meyer et al. 2018), Vaihingen (Krause 1998; Bogaard et al. 2011) and others. To see those as a sign of warfare (an interpretation that might hold true from some of the sites due to numerous cases of interpersonal violence) does not seem an adequate representation of the variability of practices at each of those sites. Moreover, this does not explain the overall phenomenon. Alternatively, a broader concept of crisis and variable practices would correspond with the observed phenomenon much better. These practices would possibly reflect a shared worldview allowing for—quite different—magical solutions (Hofmann 2020) to common problems of social conflict accompanied by instances of violence (or even massacre).

References

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Notes

This is even more remarkable, as the section of the ditch in question had already been targeted in 2017. In the monograph published in 2020, on p. 157. fig. 3.1.65, it reads, truthfully: “Object S23/201, a section of the outer ditch, was not excavated”. In 2017, the decision not to excavate this one section of the ditch was made due to lack of time and with a heavy heart. Fortunately, during the 2021 campaign we made the decision to re-open it, and after discovering multiple skeletons, it was then fully excavated in 2022.

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Introducing the SahulArch database

Wanchese M. Saktura and Jacqueline Wales
University of Wollongong

With collective contributions by Emma Rehn, Lauren Linnenlucke, Henry Munack, Rachel Wood, Fiona Petchey, Alexandru T. Codilean, Zenobia Jacobs, Tim J. Cohen, Alan N. Williams and Sean Ulm

Knowing the ages of ancient objects or events is crucial to archaeological research. It facilitates the formation of timelines, enables site comparisons and allows for the exploration of broader questions about the past. Consequently, the accuracy and precision of site chronology directly impacts the resolution of inquiries. But how does one evaluate whether an age is accurate, precise, or appropriate to the task at hand? Context and data quality assurance are the way forward!

When we refer to context, we mean e.g., the spatial distribution of dated materials, the sedimentary and excavation units in which they were found and the archaeology associated with them—the field data that every archaeologist painstakingly records. Data quality assurance includes laboratory-acquired results from analytical and statistical procedures scrupulously performed by scientists alongside numeric dating protocols that are then used to evaluate the reliability of an age estimate.

These datasets accumulate fast; thus, data management becomes increasingly complex, particularly when working with multiple sites. However, such exercises are becoming an academic requirement as the body of knowledge and the data on which it is built is vigorously expanding thanks to the public’s appreciation of archaeology, technological advancements, and the formation of stronger bridges between archaeology and science.

Well-designed databases can help. Databases are a convenient means of managing contextual and geochronological data, and such databases are frequently created worldwide (see e.g., p3k14c). The critical factor that elevates the usefulness of a database and ensures its longevity lies within its design. Here we present an example of a unique database which places equal importance on capturing chronological age data, the accompanying contextual information, and the data quality assurance relevant to those age estimates. The latter two (contextual information and data quality assurance) represent information which we collectively refer to as ‘auxiliary data’. The Australasian SahulArch database includes geochronological data for Sahul—the continental landmass that encompassed mainland Australia, New Guinea, Tasmania, and the lands found between them during Pleistocene low sea levels.

In Figure 13, we summarise the types of auxiliary data that are captured in SahulArch by using a radiocarbon age as an example and showcase the types of information that are worth including in database compilations. In this database design scheme, the auxiliary data for radiocarbon age and optically stimulated luminescence (OSL) age, for example, will have different methodological data categories. Nevertheless, such ages from the same site will share the same site location and geography data and have compatible contextual data. Categories and attributes incorporated into the SahulArch database have been carefully selected with input from expert archaeologists and geochronologists.

Figure 13. Using a radiocarbon date as example, here is a graphic representation of the types of auxiliary data that are captured in SahulArch.

These categories represent the current minimum requirements of data reporting standards that enable data quality evaluation, result in reproducibility and are the foundation of transparency in science. While the content of the SahulArch database from ‘Down Under’ might not be relevant to archaeologists focusing on Europe, the database’s framework, and the type of information it prioritises, is very much applicable!

Hosted by OCTOPUS v.2, SahulArch is a relational database for which data are split into multiple theme-based flat tables that are linked (related) to each other. This design allows for efficient updates, as an update made to one table is automatically applied to all linked data entries. This relational framework structure is described in detail on our GitHub repository.

An advantage of having extensive auxiliary data included in the database structure is that it unlocks the database for a variety of uses. It can serve as a public administrative repository of archaeological sites, an archive of geochronological data or a research project planner, to name but a few examples! The capture of comprehensive contextual information means original reports, articles, or theses do not have to be revisited for basic information each time a regional review is undertaken. Having such information for hundreds or thousands of sites in one place enables efficient data review, while also unlocking the possibility for more advanced statistical analyses (e.g., Bradshaw et al. 2021). The capture of auxiliary data that conforms with best-practice data reporting standards allows others to better understand the data that are available to them.

During the design of our SahuArch database, we hoped that bringing more attention to auxiliary data would also encourage good publishing etiquette of this frequently side-lined data, which are as important as an age estimate itself. Equal attention was put towards creating a platform that embodies CARE principles for Indigenous data governance (collective benefit, authority to control, responsibility and ethics) to ensure safe data sharing. This involved, for example, the randomisation of site locations within a 25 km radius (~1,275 km2 area) to ensure protection of cultural sites from depredations.

Databases that are well-designed and incorporate auxiliary data can be aligned with FAIR (Findable, Accessible, Interoperable and Reusable) data principles. The FAIR data approach supports high-quality and responsible research but also maximises data use and reuse. Incorporating the most useful auxiliary data means that data collection only needs to be done once and will provide long-term benefits to research and public communities. Incorporating exhaustive bibliographical information into the database design also provides others with the key information to find the original sources whenever more specific information is required. Thus, links to original sources are never lost and the research legacy is preserved. Extensive auxiliary data can also provide users with additional useful information that would otherwise not be considered or would require tremendous efforts to acquire (e.g., in the case of difficult-to-access theses, articles, or laboratory reports). Embracing auxiliary data capture encourages data use and reuse for purposes that are beyond the scope of the original studies that produced them. Such databases allow researchers to assess and effectively communicate the current state of knowledge and identify knowledge gaps for future research.

For more information

The inner workings and capabilities of the OCTOPUS platform are described in detail by Codilean et al. (2022). More information about SahulArch can be found in Saktura et al. (2023). These scientific articles are also supplemented by practical user guides found on our GitHub repository (‘Data access’ section) which can help with navigation through the data at hand.

References

  • Bradshaw, C.J., Norman, K., Ulm, S., Williams, A.N., Clarkson, C., Chadœuf, J., Lin, S.C., Jacobs, Z., Roberts, R.G., Bird, M.I., Weyrich, L.S., Haberle, S.G., O’Connor, S., Llamas, B., Cohen, T.J., Friedrich, T., Veth, P., Leavesley, M., Saltre, F. 2021, ‘Stochastic models support rapid peopling of Late Pleistocene Sahul’, Nature Communications, vol. 12, article no. 2440.
  • Codilean, A.T., Munack, H., Saktura, W.M., Cohen, T.J., Jacobs, Z., Ulm, S., Hesse, P.P., Heyman, J., Peters, K.J., Williams, A.N., Saktura, R.B.K., Rui, X., Chishiro-Dennelly, K. & Panta, A. 2022, ‘OCTOPUS database (v. 2)’, Earth System Science Data, vol. 14, no. 8, p. 3695-3713.
  • Saktura, W.M., Rehn, E., Linnenlucke, L., Munack, H., Wood, R., Petchey, F., Codilean, A.T., Jacobs, Z., Cohen, T.J., Williams, A.N. & Ulm, S. 2023, ‘SahulArch: A geochronological database for the archaeology of Sahul’, Australian Archaeology, vol. 89, no. 1, p.1-13.

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