The skull in the cave

"If humans came from monkeys, why are there still monkeys?"

If there is one phrase that makes me want to throw a chair across the room, it's that one.  (Oh, that and, "The Big Bang means that nothing exploded and became everything.")  Despite the fact that a quick read of any of a number of reputable sites about evolution would make it clear that the question is ridiculous, I still see it asked in such a way that the person evidently thinks they've scored some serious points in the debate.  My usual response is, "My ancestors came from France.  Why are there still French people?"  But the equivalence of the two seems to go so far over their heads that it doesn't even ruffle their hair.

Of course, not all the blame lies with the creationists and their ilk.  How many times have you seen, in otherwise accurate sources, human evolution depicted with an illustration like this?

It sure as hell looks like each successive form completely replaced the one before it, so laypeople are perhaps to be excused for coming away with the impression that this is always the way evolution works.  In fact, cladogenesis (branching evolution) is far and away the more common pattern, where species split over and over again, with different branches evolving at different rates or in different directions, and some of them becoming extinct.

If you're curious, this is the current best model we have for the evolution of hominins:

The cladogenesis of the hominin lineage; the vertical axis is time in millions of years before present  [Image licensed under the Creative Commons Dbachmann, Hominini lineage, CC BY-SA 4.0]

The problem also lies with the word species, which is far and away the mushiest definition in all of biological science.  As my evolutionary biology professor put it, "The only reason we came up with the idea of species as being these little impermeable containers is that we have no near relatives."  In fact, we now know that many morphologically distinct populations, such as the Neanderthals and Denisovans, freely interbred with "modern" Homo sapiens.  Most people of European descent have Neanderthal markers in their DNA; when I had my DNA sequenced a few years ago, I was pleased to find out I was above average in that regard, which is undoubtedly why I like my steaks medium-rare and generally run around half-naked when the weather is warm.  Likewise, many people of East Asian, Indigenous Australian, Native American, and Polynesian ancestry have Denisovan ancestry, evidence that those hard-and-fast "containers" aren't so water-tight after all.

The reason all this comes up is because of a new study of the "Petralona Skull," a hominin skull found covered in dripstone (calcium carbonate) in a cave near Thessaloniki, Greece.  The skull has been successfully dated to somewhere between 277,000 and 539,000 years ago -- the uncertainty is because of estimates in the rate of formation of the calcite layers.

The Petralona Skull  [Image licensed under the Creative Commons Nadina / CC BY-SA 3.0]

Even with the uncertainty, this range puts it outside of the realm of possibility that it's a modern human skull.  Morphologically, it seems considerably more primitive than typical Neanderthal skulls, too.  So it appears that there was a distinct population of hominins living in southern Europe and coexisting with early Neanderthals -- one about which paleontologists know next to nothing.

Petralona Cave, where the skull was discovered [Image licensed under the Creative Commons Carlstaffanholmer / CC BY-SA 3.0]

So our family tree turns out to be even more complicated than we'd realized -- and there might well be an additional branch, not in Africa (where most of the diversification in hominins occurred) but in Europe.  

You have to wonder what life was like back then.  This would have been during the Hoxnian (Mindel-Riss) Interglacial, a period of warm, wet conditions, when much of Europe was covered with dense forests.  Fauna would have included at least five species of mammoths and other elephant relatives, the woolly rhinoceros, the cave lion, cave lynx, cave bear, "Irish elk" (which, as the quip goes, was neither), and the "hypercarnivorous" giant dog Xenocyon.  

Among many others.

So as usual, the mischaracterization of science by anti-science types misses the reality by a mile, and worse, misses how incredibly cool that reality is.  The more we find out about our own species's past, the richer it becomes.

I guess if someone wants to dismiss it all with a sneering "why are there still monkeys?", that's up to them.  But me, I'd rather keep learning.  And for that, I'm listening to what the scientists themselves have to say.

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Southern European retrospective

Greetings, loyal readers, I'm back a couple of days earlier than anticipated from a two-and-a-half week's trip to Europe, still a bit jet-lagged but otherwise unscathed.  We visited Italy, Croatia, Greece, France, and Spain, so only got a touch of each place (Italy is the place we got to explore the most thoroughly), but it was still, overall, a wonderful trip.

Flying, not so much.  Unlike certain other trips I can recall, it was mishap-free -- no missed connections or lost luggage, and not so much as a delay -- but flying in general has become a fairly miserable experience.  Witness our flight from Paris back to New York, wherein a passenger in the seat in front of my wife reclined her seat so far that Carol had about six cubic centimeters of space left in front of her.  She couldn't even bend over to get anything from underneath the seat.  It was tempting for her to recline her own seat, but she resisted, not only out of consideration and compassion for the passenger behind her, but for fear of triggering the dreaded Reclining Seat Chain Reaction, which continues like a row of human dominoes until you get to the row in the very back where the seats don't recline, and the last person ends up getting compressed into a vaguely human-shaped splat mark against the rear bulkhead.

But, honestly, these are clearly First World Problems, and we were privileged to get to travel and see some amazing places.  Here are a few high points, and some photos I took of cool spots, in the order we visited them.

First off, Rome.  Oh, my goodness, Rome.  The sense of antiquity there is palpable, almost everywhere you go.  So is the sense that you're taking your life into your own hands when you step into the street.  Roman drivers are flat-out insane.  They use their horns to communicate three things: (1) buongiorno!; (2) get out of the damn way, you idiot tourist; and (3) my car has a horn.  Lane markings are considered merely suggestions.  If you're on a motorcycle, lane markings are considered imaginary.  But we escaped without being run down, and got to see places like Palatine Hill:

Palatine Hill is where Augustus and Livia had their home.  Yes, that Augustus and Livia.  The foundation of their house still exists, in fact, which I find astonishing given that Augustus died in the year 14 C.E.  Then there's the Forum:

And the abso-freakin-lutely huge second-century temple of the emperor Antoninus Pius:

And the Fontana degli Dioscuri:

The last-mentioned is one of many giant statues we saw featuring extremely attractive naked people, which was a popular subject of sculpture back in ancient Rome and a tradition I definitely think we should bring back.

From Rome, our next stop was the lovely city of Dubrovnik, Croatia.  Here I parted ways with the rest of our group (Carol and I were traveling with four friends) and went on a boat ride through a wetland nature preserve north of the city.  The coastline of Croatia is stunningly beautiful -- one of the prettiest places I saw on the entire trip.

After Croatia, we had a day on the lovely island of Corfu.  Coastal Greece has the clearest water I've ever seen -- unfortunately, it was still a little cool to go for a swim.  The following photo is unretouched -- no filters, nothing.  That's actually the color of the water.

We got to do some tasting of local food and drink -- something that became a bit of a theme on the trip -- and were treated to Greek limoncello (much better than the Italian variety, we were told by the proprietor), various olives and olive oils (with freshly-baked bread), honeys, jams, and marmalades.

After Corfu we were supposed to go to Malta, long a fascination of mine for its role in the Crusades, but the weather turned very windy and the ship was unable to dock.  So, unfortunately, we had a day at sea instead -- Malta will have to wait for another time, I suppose.

The next stop was the island of Sicily, where we got to take a cooking class in the town of Taormina.  Here's a picture from near the restaurant.  That's Mount Etna in the background.

We learned how to make traditional hand-made pasta and pizza and then got to lunch on the results -- accompanied, of course, with large quantities of amazingly good wine.

At the end of the meal, we had a digestif of limoncello, which the proprietors assured us was much better than the Greek variety.

At this point we were in volcano-and-earthquake territory, which long-time readers of Skeptophilia will know is a major fascination of mine.  The 1908 earthquake in Messina, our guide told us, killed eighty thousand people and flattened nearly the entire city; most of the casualties, she said, died within a span of thirty-seven seconds as the ground lurched and buildings collapsed.  The Messina-Taormina fault, which lies just offshore of the east coast of the island, is still very much active, and as you saw, Mount Etna looms over the town of Taormina.  As we were sailing away that evening, we got a light show from the pretty well constantly-erupting island of Stromboli, which has been nicknamed "The Lighthouse of the Mediterranean."

Speaking of volcanoes, we next went to Naples, which sits in the shadow of Vesuvius -- in fact, a magmatic system underlies the entire region, leading to its nickname of the "Campi Flegrei" ("burning fields") about which I've written before.  We visited the ruins of Pompeii, which was an overwhelming enough experience that I'm planning an entire post devoted just to that, so you'll have to wait for photos and commentary.  But here's a photo of the city of Naples taken from the slopes of Vesuvius, just to give you an idea of how many people live in the bullseye.

After Naples we docked in the rather unattractive industrial port town of Livorno, and took a bus into Florence.  Florence, as you undoubtedly know, is famous for its art and architecture, including the Duomo -- the city cathedral -- which is truly incredible.

We also got to see David -- not the David, but a replica that is out in the square near the Accademia Gallery, home of the original.  Even the replica was suitably amazing.

As an amateur sculptor, I was gobsmacked by the beauty of the human figure, and the incredible detail Michelangelo was able to work into the musculature.  That man was a true genius.

It rained just about the entire time we were in Florence, so we went to the Galileo Museum, which is very much worth a visit if you're a science nerd.  The museum has a fine collection of early scientific devices, including this amazing armillary sphere that stands about eight feet tall:

And a hand-cranked glass lathe used for making lenses for telescopes and microscopes:

After Florence, we had a quick stop in coastal France.  This was the place I most felt shortchanged about, time-wise; we only had time to take a quick run in from our port (Cannes) to the charming little village of St. Paul de Vence.  It was still raining, but it's a lovely place, and one I wish I'd been able to spend more time exploring.  I also would have loved to go farther north; my father's family comes from only about two hundred kilometers north of there, up in the high Alps.  Once again -- like Malta -- that'll have to wait for another trip.

After Cannes, we went to the island of Ibiza.  Ibiza is one of two islands in the Balearic Archipelago, east of Spain, that we got to visit.  When a friend found out we were going to Ibiza, he said he'd been there, and that it was famous for sun, swimming, sex, and alcohol, and because of the last-mentioned he didn't remember much about the other three.  But true to form, we did something extremely nerdy instead and went to visit an organic farm, where we got to make our own herbal liqueur (which, amazingly enough, we were able to successfully transport home without the bottles breaking).

I didn't get any good photos of the farm, but here's an evening shot of the Ibiza lighthouse:

After Ibiza we went to another island in the Balearics, Mallorca, and while there we took a taxi up to Bellver Castle (which overlooks the city of Palma) and hiked our way back down, stopping along the way for some truly amazing cappuccino.

We finished up the trip in the city of Barcelona, where we got to visit the Sagrada Familia (again, which will be the subject of another post), and the wild, Dr.-Seussian Park Güell, conceived by the astonishingly creative mind of the Catalan architect Antoni Gaudí:

From there, it was a quick flight to Paris, a long flight to New York City, a quick flight to Rochester, and a drive back home, where we got in at two AM.  Then had to get up at seven to go pick up the dogs from the kennel.  So I think I'll be fighting the dregs of jet lag for a couple more days.

It was a whirlwind tour but an opportunity to visit some amazing places, have some awesome food and wine (and limoncello, about which I will not be pinned down to rank by any Greek or Italian partisans in the audience).  But it's nice to be home as well, where spring has finally set in and the garden is ready to plant.

So goodbye for now, southern Europe.  With luck, I'll be back someday.

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A dangerous beauty

The Greek island of Thera -- often known by its Italianized name of Santorini -- is the southernmost of the Cyclades, an island chain in the Aegean Sea southeast of mainland Greece.  Like much of the region, it's a stunningly beautiful place.  In fact, one of Thera's names in antiquity was Καλλίστη -- "the most beautiful one."

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Pedro Szekely from Los Angeles, USA, Santorini, Greece (38051518795), CC BY-SA 2.0]

The steep, rugged, rocky terrain, though, didn't happen by accident.  Thera and the other Cyclades formed because they sit near the margin of the Hellenic Subduction Zone, where the northern edge of the enormous African Plate is being shoved underneath the much smaller Aegean Sea Plate.  The result is the formation of an island arc, where the material in the subducted plate is pushed downward to a depth were it melts, and the blobs of magma rise toward the surface to create a chain of volcanoes.  (Most of the islands in the Caribbean, the Aleutians, and pretty much the entirety of the nations of Japan and Indonesia were formed this way.)

This makes it a dangerous place to live.  It was the site of the Minoan-era city Akrotiri, which became prosperous because of being a central port for the copper trade out of Cyprus (the Latin word for copper, cuprum, actually means "metal from Cyprus").  It was second only to Crete as a center of civilization for the Minoan Empire, and was famed for its art, especially elaborate and beautiful frescoes, pottery, and sculpture.  Many of the houses there had running water carried by bronze pipes, and geothermal heat.

The geothermal heat might have clued its residents in that something was going on underground.  All of the high times came to an end with a colossal eruption of the volcano just offshore in around 1600 B.C.E. 

[Nota bene: this is not what inspired the myth of Atlantis, despite the claims you see all over the place on the interwebz.  Plato made it clear that the legend said Atlantis was "west of the Pillars of Hercules" (the Straits of Gibraltar), somewhere out in the Atlantic (thus the name).  But... allow me to stress this point... Atlantis never existed.  Because it's a myth.]

Anyhow, the eruption of Thera not only destroyed pretty much the entire island, but blew an estimated forty cubic kilometers of dust and ash into the air, triggering atmospheric and climatic effects that were recorded by contemporaneous scholars in Egypt and China and draw comparisons from modern geologists to the Mount Tambora eruption of 1815 that caused "The Year Without A Summer."  The eruption generated a tsunami that devastated coastal cities all over the Mediterranean, including the Minoan city of Knossos on the north shore of Crete.  (The Minoan civilization limped along for another couple of hundred years after this calamity, but was finally finished off by a massive earthquake in 1350 B.C.E. that destroyed Knossos completely.)

Here's the thing, though.

The volcano off the coast of Thera is still active.

A paper last week in Nature Communications looked not at the enormous 1600 B.C.E. eruption, but a much smaller eruption in 1650 C.E.  The leadup to this eruption, however, was about as ominous as you could get.  People noticed the water in the seas off the north coast of Thera boiling and changing color -- and dead fish rising to the surface as well, cooked in situ.  Sulfurous gases wafted over the island.  This was followed by a cinder cone emerging from the sea, which proceeded to fling around molten rocks and ash plumes.

Then... boom.

The new research suggests that what triggered the eruption was a landslide, similar to what kicked off the famous Mount Saint Helens eruption of 1980.  In this case, though, the landslide was underwater, off the northwest flank of the volcano.  This landslide did two things -- it displaced huge amounts of water, generating a twenty-meter-high tsunami, and it took the pressure off the top of the magma chamber, causing it to explode.

The combination killed seventy people and hundreds of domestic animals -- horrible, but nowhere near what the island proved itself capable of 3,600 years ago.  The study found that the magma chamber is refilling at a rate of four million cubic meters per year, meaning with regards to subsequent eruptions -- to invoke the old cliché so often used in connection to active volcanoes and tectonic faults, it's not a matter of "if," it's a matter of "when."

Unsurprisingly, the people in the region seem unaware of the time bomb they're sitting on.  "Local populations, decision-makers, and scientists are currently unprepared for the threats posed by submarine eruptions and slope failures, as has been demonstrated by the recent 2018 sector collapse of Anak Krakatau and the 2022 [Hunga Tonga] eruption," the authors write.  "Therefore, new shore-line crossing monitoring strategies... are required that are capable of being deployed as part of rapid response initiatives during volcanic unrest and which enable real-time observation of slope movement."

It remains to be seen how this could help the almost two thousand people who currently live on the slopes of the island, many of them living in houses sitting on layers of fused ash deposited there during the 1600 B.C.E. eruption.  It's something we've seen here before; people like living in tectonically active regions because (1) the terrain is often dramatic and beautiful, (2) volcanic soils are good for agriculture, and (3) people have short memories.  If the last time things went kablooie was almost three hundred years ago, it's easy for folks to say, "What, me worry?"  (Witness the millions of people living near the terrifying Cascadia Subduction Zone, about which I wrote three years ago.  As well as all the people in the aforementioned countries of Japan and Indonesia.)

Anyhow, that's our rather ominous scientific study of the day.  The Earth is a beautiful and dangerous place, and nowhere does that combination come into sharper focus than the Greek islands.  Makes me glad I live where I do -- despite the cold winters, at least I don't have to worry about the place blowing up.

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Mystery disk

I'm always fascinated by a good mystery, and that's definitely the appropriate category for an artifact called the Phaistos Disk.

Found in the Minoan palace of Phaistos, on the island of Crete, in 1908, the Phaistos Disk is fifteen centimeters in diameter, made of fired ceramic clay, and (most interestingly) has an inscription on it. Here's a photograph:

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons C messier, Δίσκος της Φαιστού πλευρά Α 6380, CC BY-SA 4.0]

The Disk is thought to have been made in the second millennium B.C.E., making it approximately contemporaneous with the Linear B script of Crete, which was successfully deciphered in the early 1950s by Alice Kober, Michael Ventris, and John Chadwick.  This accomplishment was the first time that anyone had cracked a script where not only was the sound/letter correspondence unknown, but it wasn't even known what language the script was representing.  (As it turned out, it was an early form of Mycenaean Greek.  Earlier guesses were that it represented Etruscan, a proto-Celtic language, or even Egyptian.  The script itself was mostly syllabic, with one symbol representing a syllable rather than a single sound, and a few ideograms thrown in just to make it more difficult.)

The problem is, the Phaistos Disk is not Linear B.  Nor is it Linear A, an earlier script which remains undeciphered despite linguists' best attempts at decoding it.  The difficulty here is that the Phaistos Disk has only 242 different symbols, which is not enough to facilitate translation.  Once again, we're not sure what the language is, although it's a good guess that it's some form of Greek (other linguists have suggested it might be Hittite or Luwian, both languages spoken in ancient Anatolia (now Turkey), and which had their own alphabet that bears some superficial similarities to the symbols on the Disk).

This lack of information has led to wild speculation.  Various people have claimed it's a prayer, a calendar, a story, a board game, and a geometric theorem, although how the hell you'd know any of that when you can't even begin to read the inscription is beyond me.  But it only gets weirder from there.  Friedhelm Will and Axel Hausmann back in 2002 said that the Disk "comes from the ruins of Atlantis."  Others have suggested it's of extraterrestrial origin.  (Admit it, you knew the aliens were going to show up here somehow.)

Others, more prosaically, think it's a fake.  In 2008 archaeologist Jerome Eisenberg proclaimed the Disk a modern hoax, most likely perpetrated by Luigi Pernier, the Italian archaeologist who claimed to have discovered it.  Eisenberg cites a number of pieces of evidence -- differences in the firing and in how the edges were cut, as compared to other ceramic artifacts from the same period; the fact that it's incredibly well-preserved considering how old it supposedly is; and vague similarities to Linear A and Linear B characters, with various odd ones thrown in (Eisenberg says the symbols were chosen to be "credible but untranslatable" and selected "cleverly... to purposely confuse the scholarly world."

Of course, this didn't settle the controversy.  Archaeologist Pavol Hnila cites four different artifacts, all discovered after the Disk, that have similar characters to the ones on the Disk, and that there is not enough evidence to warrant accusing Pernier and his team of something as serious as a deliberate hoax.

So the mystery endures, as mysteries are wont to do.  I find this fascinating but more than a little frustrating -- to know that there is an answer, but to accept that we may never find out what it is.  That's the way it goes, though.  If you're a true skeptic, you have to be willing to remain in ignorance, indefinitely if need be, if there is insufficient evidence to decide one way or the other.  This leaves the Phaistos Disk in the category of "Wouldn't this be fun to figure out?" -- a designation that is as common in science as it is exasperating.

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Mystery disk

I'm always fascinated by a good mystery, and that's definitely the appropriate category for an artifact called the Phaistos Disk.

Found in the Minoan palace of Phaistos, on the island of Crete, in 1908, the Phaistos Disk is fifteen centimeters in diameter, made of fired ceramic clay, and (most interestingly) has an inscription on it.  Here's a photograph:

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons C messier, Δίσκος της Φαιστού πλευρά Α 6380, CC BY-SA 4.0]

The Disk is thought to have been made in the second millennium B.C.E., making it approximately contemporaneous with the Linear B script of Crete, which was successfully deciphered in the early 1950s by Alice Kober, Michael Ventris, and John Chadwick.  This accomplishment was the first time that anyone had cracked a script where not only was the sound/letter correspondence unknown, but it wasn't even known what language the script was representing.  (As it turned out, it was an early form of Mycenaean Greek.  Earlier guesses were that it represented Etruscan, a proto-Celtic language, or even Egyptian.  The script itself was mostly syllabic, with one symbol representing a syllable rather than a single sound, and a few ideograms thrown in just to make it more difficult.)

The problem is, the Phaistos Disk is not Linear B.  Nor is it Linear A, an earlier script which remains undeciphered despite linguists' best attempts at decoding it.  The difficulty here is that the Phaistos Disk has only 242 different symbols, which is not enough to facilitate translation.  Some seem to be ideographic, but as you undoubtedly know, many symbols that start out as pictographic end up representing phonetic units, so we can't rely on "it looks like a dog so it means 'dog'."  Once again, we're not sure what the language is, although it's a good guess that it's some form of Greek (other linguists have suggested it might be Hittite or Luwian, both languages spoken in ancient Anatolia (now Turkey), and which had their own alphabet that bears some superficial similarities to the symbols on the Disk).

This lack of information has led to wild speculation.  Various people have claimed it's a prayer, a calendar, a story, a board game, and a geometric theorem, although how the hell you'd know any of that when you can't even begin to read the inscription is beyond me.  But it only gets weirder from there.  Friedhelm Will and Axel Hausmann back in 2002 said that the Disk "comes from the ruins of Atlantis."  Others have suggested it's of extraterrestrial origin.  (Admit it, you knew the aliens were going to show up here somehow.)

Others, more prosaically, think it's a fake.  In 2008 archaeologist Jerome Eisenberg proclaimed the Disk a modern hoax, most likely perpetrated by Luigi Pernier, the Italian archaeologist who claimed to have discovered it.  Eisenberg cites a number of pieces of evidence -- differences in the firing and in how the edges were cut, as compared to other ceramic artifacts from the same period; the fact that it's incredibly well-preserved considering how old it supposedly is; and vague similarities to Linear A and Linear B characters, with various odd ones thrown in (Eisenberg says the symbols were chosen to be "credible but untranslatable" and selected "cleverly... to purposely confuse the scholarly world."

Of course, this didn't settle the controversy.  Archaeologist Pavol Hnila cites four different artifacts, all discovered after the Disk, that have similar characters to the ones on the Disk, and that there is not enough evidence to warrant accusing Pernier and his team of something as serious as a deliberate hoax.

So the mystery endures, as mysteries are wont to do.  I find this fascinating but more than a little frustrating -- to know that there is an answer, but to accept that we may never find out what it is.  That's the way it goes, though.  If you're a true skeptic, you have to be willing to remain in ignorance, indefinitely if need be, if there is insufficient evidence to decide one way or the other.  This leaves the Phaistos Disk in the category of "Wouldn't this be fun to figure out?" -- a designation that is as common in science as it is exasperating.

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Lights in the sky

In March of 2022, dozens of people saw a UFO near the town of Lygurio, Greece.  The apparition has yet to be explained.

Lygurio is in the eastern Peloponnese, in a wooded region at the foot of Mt. Arachnaion.  It only has 2,500 inhabitants, but its scenic beauty and the proximity to the ancient Sanctuary of Asclepius attracts a good many tourists every year.  It's a rural area, far enough from Athens that it's mostly the quiet home of olive growers and vineyard owners.

The UFO was seen by many people in the village, but the best account comes from a man named Christos Tarsinos and his fifteen-year-old son.  Their story was corroborated over and over by others who had witnessed the mysterious occurrence.

"They were six bright lights," Tarsinos said.  "At first we thought it was a military helicopter, but it just flew meters above our car without wind or making any type of noise.  It was silent."

After a few minutes of watching, they saw the light rise and hover over some nearby houses.  "It was a bright tube of light," Tarsinos said.  "It appeared to shine down on the houses for a minute or two, as if looking for something.  The lights were low, about fifteen or twenty meters or so above the roofs.  They then moved down towards the old abandoned quarry.  The UFO, or whatever it was, hovered above the quarry for a few more minutes."

At that point, his view was obstructed by nearby hills and trees.

"We couldn’t see the lights anymore but we could hear them doing something.  A loud mechanical sound started to come from behind those hills.  It sounded like some type of hammering or drilling… it was mechanical in nature, I can tell you that."

Tarsinos's son asked what it was, and the father had to admit he had no idea.

"I told my dad that it was too big to be a drone, and I knew it wasn’t a helicopter," his son said.  "They were so bright and scary.  The lights were different colors.  The first two were red, the second two were white, and the last pair were greenish in color...  It was so bright, we couldn’t see our hands in front of us.  I thought we were going to die."

Several witnesses took photographs on their phones, but the quality is poor -- all they show is a scene at night and some glowing lights on the horizon of a hill in the distance.  (If you want to see the photographs, go to the link provided, but be aware they're nothing to write home about.)

Police investigated, and while a dozen witnesses who had been out on the road all said pretty much the same thing about the floating lights, interestingly none of the inhabitants of the village who were home at the time noticed anything amiss during the time when Tarsinos's "bright tube of light" was scanning the houses.  Myself, if a UFO sent a brilliant beam of light down toward my house at night, I think I'd notice.  Or at least my dogs would.  Someone would.

So, what are we to make of this?

The story is certainly suggestive, and the fact that we don't have the usual UFO situation of a lone observer in the middle of nowhere lends credence to the claim that the people in Lygurio saw something.  In other words, it isn't just a hoax.  But what was it?

The fact is, we have next to nothing to go on.  The poor quality of the photographs isn't really that surprising; phones take notoriously bad shots in dim light unless you know what you're doing to compensate.  But a couple of distant lights in an otherwise black photograph doesn't really prove anything.

As far as the eyewitness testimony, I'm in agreement with astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson; "In science, we need more than 'you saw it.'  Eyewitness accounts, by themselves, do not meet the minimum standard of evidence a scientist needs to support any kind of conclusion."

It's unfortunate, but in the many accounts of UFO sightings I've read, not one has reached that minimum standard -- hard evidence, of the kind that can be studied in the lab, of something of alien manufacture.  Now, understand that I'm not saying that none of the thousands of UFO sightings could possibly be alien spacecraft; there are a good many that have defied conventional explanation, and I'm also in agreement with physicist Michio Kaku that if even one percent of sightings cannot be accounted for, that one percent is well worth studying.

So, it could be that what Christos Tarsinos, his son, and a dozen other witnesses in Greece saw that night was a visitor from another planet.  But "it could be" is a far cry from "therefore it is one."

The whole incident, as curious as it is, can be summed up by another quote from the eminent Dr. Tyson: "Remember what the 'U' in 'UFO' stands for.  It stands for 'unidentified.'  Well, if it's 'unidentified,' that's where the conversation stops.  You don't go on to say 'therefore it must be' anything."

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Wishing wells and chicken curses

Combatting magical thinking can be an uphill battle, sometimes.

Even as a diehard skeptic, I get where it comes from.  It can sometimes be an amazingly short trip from "I wish the world worked this way" to believing the world does work that way.  Besides wishful thinking, superstitions can sometimes arise from correlation/causation errors; the classic example is going to watch your favorite sports team while wearing a particular shirt, and your team wins, so you decide the shirt's a lucky charm and proceed to wear it to subsequent games.

This reminds me of one of my college philosophy teachers, who recounted to us something that happened the previous evening.  There'd been a big thunderstorm, and the power went out, and his three-year-old daughter got scared and said, "Daddy, make the lights come back on!"

So he stood up and said, in a thunderous voice, "LET THERE BE... LIGHT."

And the power came back on.

His daughter really respected him after that.  But I bet she started getting suspicious the next time there was a power outage, and his magical ability suddenly didn't work so well any more.

Once a superstitious belief is in place, it can be remarkably hard to eradicate.  You'd think that, like my professor's daughter, once you had some experience disconfirming your belief, you'd go, "Oh, okay, I guess my lucky shirt doesn't work after all."  But we've got a number of things going against us.  Confirmation bias -- we tend to give more weight to evidence that supports what we already believed to be true.  The sunk-cost fallacy -- when we've already put a lot of energy and time into supporting a claim, we're very reluctant to admit we were wrong and it was all a waste.

Another, and weirder, reason superstitions can get cemented into place is the peculiar (but substantiated) nocebo effect.  As you might guess, the nocebo effect is kind of an anti-placebo effect; nocebo is Latin for "I will harm" (placebo means "I will please").  When somebody believes that some magical action will cause them injury, they can sometimes sustain real harm -- apparently the expectation of harm manifests as actual, measurable symptoms.  (This has sometimes been used to explain cases where "voodoo curses" have resulted in the targets becoming ill.)

The reason this comes up is because of two recent discoveries of artifacts for delivering curses in ancient Greece.  The ancient Greeks were a fascinating mix of science and superstition -- but, as I mentioned above, that seems to be part of the human condition.  When we think of them, it's usually either in the context of all the scientific inquiries and deep thought by people like Aristarchus, Pythagoras, Archimedes, and Aristotle, or because they had gods and sub-gods and sub-sub-gods in charge of damn near everything.  

This latter tendency probably explains the 2,500 year old tablets that were recovered from a well in Athens, each one containing a detailed curse targeting a specific person.  The people who wrote each one didn't sign them; apparently, cursing someone and then signing it, "cordially yours, Kenokephalos" was considered a stupid move that was just asking for retribution.

The tablets, which were made of lead, were found by a team led by Jutta Stroszeck, director of the Kerameikos excavation on behalf of the German Archaeological Institute in Athens.  They were found in a well supplying a bath-house near the Dipylon -- the city gate near the classical Athenian Academy.

One of the curse tablets discovered by Stroszeck et al.

Apparently throwing the curses into the well started happening because the previous technique was to put them in the coffins of recently-deceased persons, with the intent that the dead guy's spirit would bring the curse-tablet down to the Underworld and say to Hades, "Hey, bro, get a load of this," and Hades would obligingly smite the recipient.  But around that time Athens tried to put the kibosh on people practicing the Black Arts, and made it illegal to put curses in coffins, so the would-be hexers started to throw them into wells instead.

You have to wonder if any ill effects their targets suffered upon drinking the well water came not from the curse, but from lead poisoning.

The second discovery, which was described in the journal Hesperia last week, is even more gruesome; the remains of a dead chicken that had been chopped up, its beak tied shut, then put in a clay vessel pierced with a nail.  It also contained a coin, presumably to pay whatever evil spirit found the cursed Chicken-o-Gram for carrying out the intent of the spell, which was probably to render the target unable to talk.  The paper describes a similar spell launched against one Libanos, a fourth-century C. E. Greek orator:

To his despair, Libanos had lost the ability to speak before an audience.  He could neither read nor write; he was plagued by severe headaches, bodily pain, and gout.  Libanos's condition improved upon the discovery and removal of a mutilated, dismembered chameleon, which had been hidden in his classroom -- a place where he spent much time.  The animal's head was bent between its hind legs, one of its front limbs cut off, and the other was stuffed into its mouth.

The weird mutilations and twisted pose had an obvious aim; to visit upon Libanos painful symptoms and an inability to speak.  What I suspect, though, is that the problems he had were purely natural in origin, and the discovery and removal of the curse acted as a placebo -- he thought, "Okay, now I should get better!", and did.

Why exactly the nocebo and placebo effects work isn't known; it may have to do with the production or inhibition (respectively) of stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline, which are known to have long-term bad effects if levels stay high.  But honestly, that's just a guess.

Although I still think it's more likely than damage delivered directly by cursed chickens.

In any case, the discoveries are fascinating, and illustrate that the magical thinking we're still fighting today has a long genealogy.  Wouldn't it be nice if logical and science came as readily?

You have to wonder what the human race would have accomplished by now if we had an inborn tendency toward evidence-based thinking rather than believing in evil curses and wishing wells.

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Astronomer Michio Kaku has a new book out, and he's tackled a doozy of a topic.

One of the thorniest problems in physics over the last hundred years, one which has stymied some of the greatest minds humanity has ever produced, is the quest for finding a Grand Unified Theory.  There are four fundamental forces in nature that we know about; the strong and weak nuclear forces, electromagnetism, and gravity.  The first three can now be modeled by a single set of equations -- called the electroweak theory -- but gravity has staunchly resisted incorporation.

The problem is, the other three forces can be explained by quantum effects, while gravity seems to have little to no effect on the realm of the very small -- and likewise, quantum effects have virtually no impact on the large scales where gravity rules.  Trying to combine the two results in self-contradictions and impossibilities, and even models that seem to eliminate some of the problems -- such as the highly-publicized string theory -- face their own sent of deep issues, such as generating so many possible solutions that an experimental test is practically impossible.

Kaku's new book, The God Equation: The Quest for a Theory of Everything describes the history and current status of this seemingly intractable problem, and does so with his characteristic flair and humor.  If you're interesting in finding out about the cutting edge of physic lies, in terms that an intelligent layperson can understand, you'll really enjoy Kaku's book -- and come away with a deeper appreciation for how weird the universe actually is.

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A window into the distant past

I love a good mystery, and mysteries abound regarding human prehistory.

Of course, that's kind of self-evident, given that it's pre-history.  Anything we know is based on inference, from looking at artifacts and other traces left behind for us to find.  And like fossils, we have to keep in mind that what we're seeing is a small percentage -- no one knows how small -- of what was originally out there.  (One of my biology professors said that trying to reconstruct the Tree of Life from the existing fossil record is analogous to reconstructing the entire History of Art from a dozen paintings or sculptures chosen at random from the tens of thousands that have been created by humanity.  This was before the use of genetic evidence for determining phylogeny, so the situation has improved -- but we're still working from inference and very incomplete evidence.)

So that's pretty much where we are with our knowledge of human prehistory.  Which is why when there are eye-opening new discoveries in that field, it always makes me sit up and take notice.

Today we're going to look at three new archeological finds that have given us a new lens into our distant ancestors' lives, and all of which were published in the last week.

First, some new artifacts from Scotland have provided information about one of the least-known European cultures -- the Picts.

The Picts were a collection of (probably) Celtic-speaking tribes that inhabited Scotland prior to its invasion first by the Irish Dál Riata and then by the Vikings.  We know next to nothing about them or their culture.  Even the name of the group isn't native to them -- it comes from the Latin pictus ("painted"), from their habit of going into battle naked, covered with paint.

Which, I have to admit, is pretty damn badass.

But we don't know much else about them, because they left no written records at all.  We assume they spoke a Celtic language, but don't really know for sure; and any suggestion of root words in Gaelic that may have come from Pictish are guesses (such as the claim that place names starting with Pit-, Lhan-, and Aber- come from Pictish words).

So any artifacts that are unequivocally Pictish in origin are pretty amazing.  Like the ones discovered earlier this year by Anne MacInnes of the North of Scotland Archaeological Society.

The face of the stone in the photograph not only has designs and a pretty cool-looking mythical beast, it has an inscription -- in Latin letters -- that may well be a Latin transliteration of the Pictish language.  Which makes it a rarity indeed.

"The two massive beasts that flank and surmount the cross are quite unlike anything found on any other Pictish stone," said John Borland, of Historic Environment Scotland and the Pictish Arts Society.  "These two unique creatures serve to remind us that Pictish sculptors had a remarkable capacity for creativity and individuality.  Careful assessment of this remarkable monument will be able to tell us much about the production of Pictish sculpture that we could never have guessed at."


Then, there's the discovery that was made near the Tollense River, on the Baltic coast of Germany, that indicates the existence of mercenary soldiers -- three thousand years ago.

On a historic -- well, prehistoric -- battleground, a team from the Lower Saxony State Agency for Cultural Heritage discovered, alongside skeletal remains showing war-related injuries, a toolkit brought in by one of the soldiers.  It contains a chisel, a knife, an awl, and a small sword, along with fasteners that seem to indicate its origin in southern Germany -- a distance of about five hundred miles.

"It was a surprise to find a battlefield site.  It was a second surprise to see a battlefield site of this dimension with so many warriors involved, and now it's a big surprise that we are dealing with a conflict of a European scale," says Thomas Terberger, co-author of the study.  "We had before speculated that some of these people might have come from the south.  Now we have, from our point of view, a quite convincing indication that people from southern Central Europe were involved in this conflict."

Suggesting that the man who carried the bag may have been a mercenary, although that is (of course) an inference.  So right around the time King David ruled the Israelites, there were professional soldiers waging war upon either other in northern Europe.

Last, we have a study showing that the Greek islands have been occupied for longer than we'd realized...

... a lot longer.

When most people in North America and Western Europe think of an "old civilization," they come up with Greece, Rome, Egypt, Sumer, China, India, the Inca, the Mayans...  but all of those (venerable and fascinating though they are) only date back a few thousand years.  The Great Pyramid at Giza, for example, was built around 3,500 years ago -- which seems like a lot.

But this new discovery shows that the island of Naxos was inhabited by our ancestors (and/or near relatives) two hundred thousand years ago.

At that point, they weren't exactly human, or at least not what we usually consider to be modern humanity.  These inhabitants of Naxos were Neanderthals, and had crossed into what is now an island during a time when the sea level was considerably lower because a lot of the water was locked up in glacial ice.

"Until now, the earliest known location on Naxos was the Cave of Zas, dated to 7,000 years ago," said project director Tristan Carter, an anthropologist at Ontario’s McMaster University.  "We have extended the history of the island by 193,000 years...  It was believed widely that hominin dispersals were restricted to terrestrial routes until the later Pleistocene, but recent discoveries are requiring scholars to revisit these hypotheses."

The word "Neanderthal" has, in common parlance, become synonymous with "uncultured cave man," and that characterization misses the mark by a mile.  They had culture -- they buried their dead, apparently made music, and may have even had spoken language (DNA studies show that they had the FOX-P2 gene, which is one of the genetic underpinnings of language in humans).  They made artifacts not only of utility but of great beauty:

A Neanderthal Acheulean hand-axe from about 50,000 years ago

Some of the archaeologists associated with the Naxos study even think the Neanderthal inhabitants of the island may not have walked there when the sea level was low -- they may actually have arrived there by boat.

Pretty smart folks, the Neanderthals.

It's also uncertain that they actually represent a different species from us.  Most of us carry Neanderthal genetic markers -- apparently I have three-hundred-odd of them, making me in the sixtieth percentile, cave-man-wise -- so there was definitely interbreeding between them and modern humans.  So they might be more correctly considered a subspecies -- although, as I've mentioned before, the concept of species is one of the wonkiest definitions in biology, and all attempts to refine it have resulted in more exceptions and contradictions than ever.

So probably best just to say that they're part of the family.

In any case, we've got three papers in one week that give us some very impressive new data on prehistory.  Until we invent time travel, this kind of evidence is about all we can rely on to create a picture of what life was like back then.  Which, even with the new information, leaves lots of room for refinement -- and imagination.

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In keeping with Monday's post, this week's Skeptophilia book recommendation is about one of the most enigmatic figures in mathematics; the Indian prodigy Srinivasa Ramanujan.  Ramanujan was remarkable not only for his adeptness in handling numbers, but for his insight; one of his most famous moments was the discovery of "taxicab numbers" (I'll leave you to read the book to find out why they're called that), which are numbers that are expressible as the sum of two cubes, two different ways.

For example, 1,729 is the sum of 1 cubed and 12 cubed; it's also the sum of 9 cubed and 10 cubed.

What's fascinating about Ramanujan is that when he discovered this, it just leapt out at him.  He looked at 1,729 and immediately recognized that it had this odd property.  When he shared it with a friend, he was kind of amazed that the friend didn't jump to the same realization.

"How did you know that?" the friend asked.

Ramanujan shrugged.  "It was obvious."

The Man Who Knew Infinity by Robert Kanigel is the story of Ramanujan, whose life ended from tuberculosis at the young age of 32.  It's a brilliant, intriguing, and deeply perplexing book, looking at the mind of a savant -- someone who is so much better than most of us at a particular subject that it's hard even to conceive.  But Kanigel doesn't just hold up Ramanujan as some kind of odd specimen; he looks at the human side of a man whose phenomenal abilities put him in a class by himself.

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