A short history of nearly everything - Bill Bryson [217]
The extraordinary fact is that we don't know which is more likely, a future offering us eons of perishing frigidity or one giving us equal expanses of steamy heat. Only one thing is certain: we live on a knife edge.
In the long run, incidentally, ice ages are by no means bad news for the planet. They grind up rocks and leave behind new soils of sumptuous richness, and gouge out fresh water lakes that provide abundant nutritive possibilities for hundreds of species of being. They act as a spur to migration and keep the planet dynamic. As Tim Flannery has remarked: “There is only one question you need ask of a continent in order to determine the fate of its people: ‘Did you have a good ice age?' ” And with that in mind, it's time to look at a species of ape that truly did.
28 THE MYSTERIOUS BIPED
JUST BEFORE CHRISTMAS 1887, a young Dutch doctor with an un-Dutch name, Marie Eugène François Thomas Dubois, arrived in Sumatra, in the Dutch East Indies, with the intention of finding the earliest human remains on Earth.*46
Several things were extraordinary about this. To begin with, no one had ever gone looking for ancient human bones before. Everything that had been found to this point had been found accidentally, and nothing in Dubois's background suggested that he was the ideal candidate to make the process intentional. He was an anatomist by training with no background in paleontology. Nor was there any special reason to suppose that the East Indies would hold early human remains. Logic dictated that if ancient people were to be found at all, it would be on a large and long-populated landmass, not in the comparative fastness of an archipelago. Dubois was driven to the East Indies on nothing stronger than a hunch, the availability of employment, and the knowledge that Sumatra was full of caves, the environment in which most of the important hominid fossils had so far been found. What is most extraordinary in all this—nearly miraculous, really—is that he found what he was looking for.
At the time Dubois conceived his plan to search for a missing link, the human fossil record consisted of very little: five incomplete Neandertal skeletons, one partial jawbone of uncertain provenance, and a half-dozen ice-age humans recently found by railway workers in a cave at a cliff called Cro-Magnon near Les Eyzies, France. Of the Neandertal specimens, the best preserved was sitting unremarked on a shelf in London. It had been found by workers blasting rock from a quarry in Gibraltar in 1848, so its preservation was a wonder, but unfortunately no one yet appreciated what it was. After being briefly described at a meeting of the Gibraltar Scientific Society, it had been sent to the Hunterian Museum in London, where it remained undisturbed but for an occasional light dusting for over half a century. The first formal description of it wasn't written until 1907, and then by a geologist named William Sollas “with only a passing competency in anatomy.”
So instead the name and credit for the discovery of the first early humans went to the Neander Valley in Germany—not unfittingly, as it happens, for by uncanny coincidence Neander in Greek means “new man.” There in 1856 workmen at another quarry, in a cliff face overlooking the Düssel River, found some curious-looking bones, which they passed to a local schoolteacher, knowing he had an interest in all things natural. To his great credit the teacher, Johann Karl Fuhlrott, saw that he had some new type of human, though quite what it was, and how special,