11August2005
Over the last five weeks the staff at the Canterbury Museum have been producing a set of replica moa bones from the wonderful original boney moa skeleton that they have owned for many years. These replica bones are being cast out of polyester resin and are just about the same colour and weight as the real thing. The bones of Dinoris Robustus. The Dinoris Robustus skeleton breaks down into about 756 separate parts. The prime purpose behind this amazing exercise is to provide a set of moa bones for the natural history collection of Canada’s Royal Ontario Museum. Apparently they’ve got the bones of just about every other extinct animal other than the moa. It’s said they’re in negotiations for a Paul Holmes skeleton. Apparently he’s just become extinct.
Sebastian Denzie, the exhibition’s preparator said “we had our problems. In the end only experts would be able to tell which bones are original and which are replica.” I wondered then having got piles of replica moa bones how you’d reassemble them. Quite easy apparently. “To help the Canadians put the puzzle back together again we label them, number them and then draw up an assembly diagram. The bones are then going to be packed into boxes and freighted to Canada.” Well so far so good. No doubt that Sebastian and his colleagues have done a great job but I’m wondering about the assembly instructions. I mean how would you begin to write a set of instructions for assembling a moa. And how would the Canadians interpret them. Over the years I’ve had to grapple with a myriad of instructional assembly leaflets. I’ve dealt with five piece beach chairs, ten piece barbeque tables and an eight piece reading lamp (still unassembled). In most cases all the instructions were either in Mandarin or Cantonese – take your pick. Then there was the Super Chef barbeque. Complete with rotisserie, castor wheels with brakes, gas tank holder, wok burner, utensil drawer and four gas burners with electronic ignition. Forty five parts excluding the screws, nuts and bolts. I gave up in the end, took the whole lot back to where I brought it. Gave them $50.00 and a non-descript unlabeled bottle of pinot. The next day it was delivered to me all assembled. The barbeque up and burning.
I’m thinking it might be the same for these Canadians at the Royal Ontario Museum. I can just imagine it. The courier arrives with 48 cardboard boxes. “Sign here” says the courier. A bewildered young intern who has just graduated with first class honours from the University of British Columbia in Archeology signs the delivery chit. She tells the Museum’s curator. “So they’ll be those moa bones from New Zealand. Open them up.” It would be just like you getting a new fridge or flat screen TV. Piles of cardboard. Polystyrene bubbles. Metres of plastic wrapping. And then a pile of wooden straw encasing what looks like a big bone. Numbered 68. Then the fun starts. No one in Canada has ever seen a moa. Well not since 1400 AD. So where would you start. The Canadians have unpacked all the boxes. They’re faced with a pile of numbered moa bones. They read the assembly directions. “The foot bone number 78 is connected to the ankle bone number 74. This is connected to the leg bone number 52. And this is connected to the thigh bone number 21” – “oh connect dem bones. Dem bones – dem bones – dem dry bones – now hear the word of the Lord”. Soon everyone is singing. But it’s not helping in the reconstruction of the Canterbury moa. Then one of the interns has a bright idea. After all you don’t get a PhD in archeology without some degree of brightness. “Why don’t we assemble according to bingo rules. Like 66 Clickety Click. Or 53 Stuck in a tree. Or Overweight 28. So that’s what happened. They sat there with the numbered bones and the curator acting as the caller shouting out. Who’s got Cup of tea number 3. Three calls later. Knock on the door number 4. Legs eleven number 11.” And finally the last call. “Strive and strive 75” came the shout. Bingo indeed. There it stood reassembled in all its glory. Well almost. The foot bone was connected to the shoulder bone. The shoulder bone got connected to the thigh bone …
Sebastian Denzie, the exhibition’s preparator said “we had our problems. In the end only experts would be able to tell which bones are original and which are replica.” I wondered then having got piles of replica moa bones how you’d reassemble them. Quite easy apparently. “To help the Canadians put the puzzle back together again we label them, number them and then draw up an assembly diagram. The bones are then going to be packed into boxes and freighted to Canada.” Well so far so good. No doubt that Sebastian and his colleagues have done a great job but I’m wondering about the assembly instructions. I mean how would you begin to write a set of instructions for assembling a moa. And how would the Canadians interpret them. Over the years I’ve had to grapple with a myriad of instructional assembly leaflets. I’ve dealt with five piece beach chairs, ten piece barbeque tables and an eight piece reading lamp (still unassembled). In most cases all the instructions were either in Mandarin or Cantonese – take your pick. Then there was the Super Chef barbeque. Complete with rotisserie, castor wheels with brakes, gas tank holder, wok burner, utensil drawer and four gas burners with electronic ignition. Forty five parts excluding the screws, nuts and bolts. I gave up in the end, took the whole lot back to where I brought it. Gave them $50.00 and a non-descript unlabeled bottle of pinot. The next day it was delivered to me all assembled. The barbeque up and burning.
I’m thinking it might be the same for these Canadians at the Royal Ontario Museum. I can just imagine it. The courier arrives with 48 cardboard boxes. “Sign here” says the courier. A bewildered young intern who has just graduated with first class honours from the University of British Columbia in Archeology signs the delivery chit. She tells the Museum’s curator. “So they’ll be those moa bones from New Zealand. Open them up.” It would be just like you getting a new fridge or flat screen TV. Piles of cardboard. Polystyrene bubbles. Metres of plastic wrapping. And then a pile of wooden straw encasing what looks like a big bone. Numbered 68. Then the fun starts. No one in Canada has ever seen a moa. Well not since 1400 AD. So where would you start. The Canadians have unpacked all the boxes. They’re faced with a pile of numbered moa bones. They read the assembly directions. “The foot bone number 78 is connected to the ankle bone number 74. This is connected to the leg bone number 52. And this is connected to the thigh bone number 21” – “oh connect dem bones. Dem bones – dem bones – dem dry bones – now hear the word of the Lord”. Soon everyone is singing. But it’s not helping in the reconstruction of the Canterbury moa. Then one of the interns has a bright idea. After all you don’t get a PhD in archeology without some degree of brightness. “Why don’t we assemble according to bingo rules. Like 66 Clickety Click. Or 53 Stuck in a tree. Or Overweight 28. So that’s what happened. They sat there with the numbered bones and the curator acting as the caller shouting out. Who’s got Cup of tea number 3. Three calls later. Knock on the door number 4. Legs eleven number 11.” And finally the last call. “Strive and strive 75” came the shout. Bingo indeed. There it stood reassembled in all its glory. Well almost. The foot bone was connected to the shoulder bone. The shoulder bone got connected to the thigh bone …
posted by Lundon at 1:52 PM
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