Neanderthal Pussy
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Neanderthal Pussy
Neanderthal Bones: Signs of Their Sex Lives
With whom did Neanderthals mate? In some cases, inbreeding looks likely.
P lease note that this article includes images of human remains.
I n a cave tucked into the limestone hills of the Asturias region of Spain, there lie the remains of a group of 13 Neanderthals that date to between 50,600 and 47,300 years ago . The site is infamous among anthropologists who study the Paleolithic period for the evidence of what appears to be the massacre and possible cannibalization of a family: Their bones seem to have been hacked at by stone tools and hammers, probably by another group of Neanderthals, to remove their flesh and marrow.
B ut more importantly, for this story, those bones also reveal something of the sex life of the cave’s inhabitants. Anomalies and deformations, along with the DNA buried within their bones, suggest that the members of this group (and their parents) were mating with their close kin.
L ately, much news from the field of paleoarchaeology and anthropology has centered on Neanderthal bedfellows. You would be forgiven for thinking that paleoanthropologists think about little other than paleo-sex. Within the past several years, genetic evidence has emerged that Neanderthals interbred on more than one occasion with both anatomically modern humans and our newfound ancient relative, the Denisovans . One finger bone fragment from Denisova Cave in Siberia is now famous for belonging to a teenage girl who had a Neanderthal mother and a Denisovan father.
B ut evidence also shows that while some Neanderthals were apparently breeding well outside of the family group, some were also finding mates much closer to home.
Researchers catalogued 17 congenital anomalies in a group of Neanderthals in the El Sidrón Cave in Spain. (The number of instances of each type of deformation is shown in blue.) Ríos et al./ Nature
I n the remains from El Sidrón Cave, paleoanthropologist Luis Ríos and colleagues found 17 examples of congenital anomalies—structural malformations of various body parts that occur while an individual is developing in the womb.
O ne young El Sidrón individual, for example, had an oddly shaped patella, the bone that forms the kneecap: It had three lobes rather than just one. This Neanderthal probably had a limp. An adult male in the same cave had a markedly narrow nasal passage and a “retained deciduous mandibular canine,” writes Ríos and his co-authors—this adult Neanderthal never lost one of his lower canine baby teeth. That tooth developed a painful cyst, which left its mark on the bone of his jaw. Microscopic striations on the tooth itself suggest that he coped with the pain by avoiding chewing on that side of his mouth.
O ne possible explanation for these skeletal abnormalities is that they resulted from extremely stressful environmental conditions, such as brutally cold weather and scarce food. A pregnant mother experiencing a lot of physical stress and nutritional deprivation might give birth to an infant with some of the same conditions seen at El Sidrón.
Inbreeding leads to a problematically small gene pool.
B ut DNA tests from these bones indicate that inbreeding and a small population size were likely factors contributing to the physical peculiarities in this family. The 13 El Sidrón Neanderthals share much longer segments of their DNA than would be expected if they were the offspring of non-relatives.
G enetically, the three adult males in the group were closely related enough to be brothers, cousins, or uncles, while the four adult females in the group came from three distinct genetic lines. While all individuals were likely distantly related to one another (think third or fourth cousins), it is likely that the males exchanged females with another local, slightly less closely related group.
T oday inbreeding carries connotations of “kissing cousins” or intimacy between even closer familial relations. But the term simply means mating between relatives, which increases the number of common ancestors in a family tree and the likelihood of inheriting deleterious genes from those common ancestors. Even third or fourth cousins are genetically similar enough for issues to arise.
T he younger El Sidrón individuals (ranging in age from 5 to 15 years of age, along with one infant) were likely the offspring of at least some of the adults. At least one of these children, the young male mentioned above, possessed skeletal malformations that were likely passed down from parents who were fairly closely related.
T he tangled familial ties of the El Sidrón Neanderthals are not a unique situation; DNA evidence from other Neanderthals elsewhere in Eurasia also shows elevated instances of shared DNA segments around this time, suggesting that mating between individuals who shared recent ancestors was fairly frequent, and possibly unavoidable, if local populations were small.
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I n general, inbreeding leads to a problematically small gene pool. Rare harmful traits that might disappear in larger populations tend to be amplified if close kin interbreed. Yet inbreeding has happened throughout human history, especially in the royal families of different cultures. Just look at the Habsburg family line in Spain or the royal families of Ancient Egypt to see the effects of keeping family bloodlines “pure.”
Inbreeding has caused developmental abnormalities throughout human history: These oddly shaped bones and fused premolars were found in humans who lived between 1.5 million and 11,700 years ago. Trinkaus/ PNAS
N eanderthals were not the only ancient hominins to mate with their close relatives. Anatomically modern humans have also been found with skeletal evidence of inbreeding , such as abnormally bowed thigh bones, deformed arm bones, and even a case of a toddler with a swollen brain case consistent with hydrocephalus .
A t the time that these congenital malformations appear, between 100,000 and 50,000 years ago, modern humans were traveling out of Africa. They fanned out across vast geographical regions, and, at times, were quite isolated from one another. Populations might have been separated by hundreds of kilometers at a time, only rarely encountering one another. This might be a simple reason why inbreeding occurred: Pickings were slim.
D uring the time that the El Sidrón Neanderthal family occupied their cave, it is likely that they were also fairly isolated. Their mating patterns probably had much more to do with small population size and low population density than any sort of cultural practice. There is no way to know if cultural taboos against mating with close relatives existed back then.
I nterestingly, most of the individuals in the El Sidrón family group lived well past infancy despite physical conditions that, in some cases, would have made it difficult for them to get around and perform their day-to-day tasks. This family cared for one another, sharing physical burdens and helping each other to survive. Their relations, and their care, are recorded in their bones.
This column is part of an ongoing series about the Neanderthal body: a head-to-toe tour. See our interactive graphic .
Biology / Genetics / Neanderthals / Sex
Anna Goldfield , an archaeologist who received her Ph.D. from Boston University, specializes in analyzing faunal remains from archaeological sites, with particular emphasis on the diets of Neanderthals and anatomically modern humans. She is currently an adjunct instructor in anthropology at Cosumnes River College in Sacramento and at the University of California, Davis. Goldfield is the illustrator of The Neanderthal Child of Roc de Marsal: A Prehistoric Mystery and co-host of The Dirt , an archaeology podcast. Follow her on Twitter @AnnaGoldfield .
An editorially independent magazine of the Wenner‑Gren Foundation for Anthropological Research Published in partnership with the University of Chicago Press
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The downside of sex with Neanderthals
Some modern humans carry immune genes that originated in Neanderthals and a related species. But these genes may have come at a price
Interbreeding with Neanderthals (above) and Denisovans may have brought short-term health benefits but long-term problems. Photograph: Chris Howes/Alamy
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One question seemed to hang in the air more than any other when scientists first turned the powerful techniques of modern genetics on the fragile and damaged remains of ancient humans: did we or didn't we? Have sex with them, that is.
The answer came after years of painstaking work, when material extracted from the leg of a Neanderthal and the fingerbone of a Denisovan , an apparent sister species, yielded readable DNA. It turned out that most of us have some of their genes. The Neanderthals contributed up to 4% of modern Eurasian genomes , while the Denisovans contributed roughly 4-6% of modern Melanesian genomes. That doesn't happen by holding hands.
And so the scene was set. Hundreds of thousands of years ago, early humans in Africa split into several groups, among them Homo sapiens , Neanderthals and their apparent sister species, the Denisovans. The Neanderthals headed for West Asia and Europe, the Denisovans to East Asia. Our ancestors left Africa much later, and arrived in Eurasia where the others had set up home. Cue amorous encounters, and surely a fair amount of less than amorous contact.
But the question of whether our ancestors mated with these other human-like groups was always just the starting point for a line of inquiry. With interbreeding now well-established the intriguing question is, what came of it? How did our ancestors' antics shape the people we are today?
A glimpse of the legacy of those ancient encounters is revealed in a study reported today in the US journal, Science . An international team of scientists, led by Stanford University, scoured the Neanderthal and Denisovan genomes for gene variants that are central to the immune system. These genes belong to a group known as the HLA class I genes, which govern the body's ability to recognise and destroy dangerous pathogens.
By comparing the HLA genes of modern human populations with those from Denisovans and Neanderthals, the scientists identified a handful that could be traced back to ancient sexual encounters between the groups. One variant, known as HLA-B*73, likely arose in modern humans after cross-breeding with Denisovans. The variant is most common in West Asian populations, the region where the mating probably happened. The Neanderthals contributed a string of HLA gene variants, or alleles, to the modern Eurasian population's gene pool, the study found.
There was good reason for Neanderthal and Denisovan immune system genes to have spread through the populations of modern humans who encountered them. Both Neanderthals and Denisovans had established themselves long before modern humans arrived. Their immune systems had adapted to the threats of the local environment. When those genes crossed into modern humans, they conveyed an advantage. Natural selection took care of the rest.
But the scientists think there was a downside. Inheriting Denisovan or Neanderthal immunity genes will have helped modern humans to fight the diseases of the day, but beyond the age of reproductive maturity they might have a more harmful effect, turning our immune systems on ourselves.
Paul Norman, a co-author on the paper, put it like this: "There's enormous genetic variation in people's immune systems and that can control how different people fight different diseases. This could go some way to explaining why some people are better at fighting some infections than others, but we think it also goes some way to explaining why some people are susceptible to autoimmune diseases."
Autoimmune diseases are conditions that arise when the immune system turns its firepower on the body, usually when it mistakenly identifies the body's tissues as foreign, and so potentially dangerous.
"The vast majority of autoimmune diseases have been shown by genome-wide association studies to be associated with particular HLA alleles and we find a couple of those in Denisovans," Norman added. "So it looks to me like modern humans have acquired these alleles, but we weren't kind of prepared for them, we hadn't grown up with them, and in some circumstances, they can start to attack us as well as the viruses and other pathogens."
The group is now investigating a gene variant called HLA-B51, which came from cross-breeding with Neanderthals and has already been linked to Behcet's disease , a rare and chronic inflammatory condition.
How else might immune genes inherited from Neanderthals and Denisovans affect the health of modern humans? The question is intriguing and will differ from population to population. Here, at least, is a worthy successor to the question of "did we or didn't we?"
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F or a certain kind of girl—born in the ’70s or ’80s—the very mention of Jean M. Auel’s The Clan of the Cave Bear stirs up something. It’s not nostalgia: for many women, the 1980 novel was a gateway to the erotic, albeit in epic paleo packaging. Once the raspberry cordials of Anne of Green Gables and the sports cars of Sweet Valley High had become too innocent, we sought out sexual references wherever we could find them: Flowers in the Attic, The Blue Lagoon, The Mists of Avalon , and, of course, The Clan of the Cave Bear.
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This was before the internet. Before sexting. Most of our fathers’ porn was out of reach—if we even wanted it, anyway. Meanwhile, Auel’s six-part Earth’s Children series, of which the 500-page Clan is the first title, has sold 45 million copies. Many of our mothers had one lying around.
Clan tells the story of Ayla, a beautiful blond Homo sapiens child who, after being orphaned by an earthquake, is raised by a clan of Neanderthals. Although blessed with some language and primitive medicine, the clan in which Ayla finds herself does not know etiquette as we define it today: among other caste and gender customs, they initiate sex via hand signal. Leaving aside the rather complicated nature of Ayla’s first sexual encounter (she’s about ten when it happens, and it’s not exactly consensual), the portrayal of sex in the clan overall is also lusciously graphic, with mentions of ripe females, loincloths, male organs that are “thick and throbbing,” and climaxes that culminate in an eruption of “built up heat.”
The historical fiction genre has never really seen another blockbuster like Clan . And in spite of the proliferation of erotic tastes online, and a society theoretically more accepting than it was thirty years ago of the kind of soft-core erotica most likely to be read by women (think Fifty Shades of Grey ), perhaps we need one. Our fascination with the Neanderthal hasn’t really gone away—in fact, it’s growing, fuelled by new research and also by fads such as paleo diets and CrossFit workouts.
In her newly published novel, The Last Neanderthal , Toronto writer Claire Cameron cuts back and forth between a family that lived around 40,000 years ago and the activities of Rosamund Gale, a present-day archaeologist excavating Neanderthal sites in France. In one scene, Gale travels to a museum to sell its administrators on her findings. “Modern humans . . . developed a certain kind of story about the Neanderthals that played to their benefit. It’s a story that we continue to tell. It’s the story we should challenge,” she says, making a point that also acts as a kind of thesis statement for the book. Rather than highlighting the brutishness of Neanderthal life portrayed in Clan , Cameron is interested in exploring our common ground.
In 2010, a team of scientists published a draft of the Neanderthal genome, showing that Neanderthals shared 99.7 percent of their DNA with humans. Nevertheless, Homo neanderthalensis are believed to have constituted a distinct species. Though Neanderthals have been extinct for 40,000 years, recent research suggests that modern humans—at least in Europe and Asia, where Neanderthals lived—inherited between 1 and 4 percent of their DNA from Neanderthals, which suggests that there was interbreeding among humans and Neanderthals for at least some of the roughly 5,000 years they coexisted. This fact suggests that the stereotypically unsophisticated, grunting caveman might not, perhaps, have been so different from humans of the same time period. Cameron, whose last book, The Bear (nominated for the Baileys Women’s Prize for Fiction), dealt with survival in the wilderness, followed the news with some excitement. “It really struck me that the head of this project said Neanderthals were much more like us than we ever thought,” she told me. (For the record, DNA tests show that Cameron is 2.5 percent Neanderthal, but she was hoping to be more like 4 percent.) It was after seeing a cave while snowshoeing in the Niagara Escarpment that the author started to think about how Neanderthals might have lived during the Ice Age. Cameron, forty-four, says she read Clan in high school, but has not returned to it since (“It is [for] when Judy Blume’s no longer dirty enough”).
“You’ve never seen such a magnificent creature,” Cameron writes in her prologue. Her Neanderthal heroine Girl is anything but grotesque. Here she is, setting out to kill some bison:
She knew how she looked, dressed for the hunt with hardened hides strapped tight to her shins and forearms. The black ocher paint on her face showed the two streaks of the family on each cheek. A shock of red hair stood up from her head. She wore a single shell on a thin lash around her neck. Her skin smoothed over muscles and gleamed with hazel oil.
Girl’s hunter-gatherer family in the late Ice Age world spends almost all its time on basic survival—from stocking up on food to defending itself from predators such as bears and leopards. At its head is the aging Big Mother, now so old “there were more than thirty springs she could remember,” whose breasts lie flat over her belly, whose chin is whiskered,
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