Bilfinger Berger Magazine 1/2009

Ottmar Kullmer’s fingertips gently wander over the 2.5-millionyear- old lower jaw of Homo rudolfensis, the oldest member of the genus Homo. Grooves in the worn tooth surfaces of “UR 501” reveal the plant material this prehistoric man once consumed. “So we know what the ecosystem he inhabited was like,” says Kullmer. The 44-year-old paleontologist at the Senckenberg Natural Research Society in Frankfurt reads the microscopically small grooves as others might read a book.

Kullmer’s penchant for teeth is not limited to prehistory. Quite the opposite. The Senckenberg paleontologist shares his knowledge with modern dentistry: “It makes no sense to fit a forty-year-old with an implant that looks brand new,” he explains. He came up with the idea of artificial dentures with individual micro-grooves that perfectly match the patient’s existing teeth. Ottmar Kullmer also collaborates with engineers and radiologists who build scanners and computer tomographs for use in dental medicine: “In paleontology we are used to measuring uneven surfaces with great precision, which is why the experts ask us for tips on how to further refine their equipment.”

The fact is, the work carried out on finds from the distant past can provide the impetus for some surprising new ideas — which is entirely in tune with how the time-honored Senckenberg institution sees its role: Research should feed back into society, knowledge gained from nature should enrich mankind.

The Senckenberg society is known to the general public mainly because of its museum. In the atrium a Tyrannosaurus rex bares its fearsome fangs. Beneath the ceiling Quetzalcoatlus — a flying dinosaur the size of a small airplane — spreads its wings. The three-story building is filled with cabinets containing countless birds and mammals and exhibits that explain subjects from plate tectonics to evolution.

UR 501, the jaw of Homo rudolfensis found in Malawi in 1991, gives an idea of just how much hard work goes into collecting these exhibits. “There we were with the complete lower jaw in our hands. It was a sensation! There was just one corner missing from a molar,” Kullmer explains. To find this fragment, the Senckenberg researchers sifted through twelve tons of sand grain by grain. But they found it.

THE FOUNDERS’ IDEAS LIVE ON
The researchers are continuing a tradition that dates back almost 200 years. The Senckenberg society was founded in 1817 by 32 citizens of Frankfurt. The popular natural history museum opened four years later. The society was named after Johann Christian Senckenberg who had died almost 50 years before. This Frankfurt doctor had lost three wives and all of his children to disease. On his death in 1763 he left his fortune to finance a people’s hospital and other scientific initiatives. The concept continues to this day, on a scale both large and small.

The society has over 4,000 members, including many families whose subscription entitles them to free entry. Some supporters “adopt” an exhibit — their name is then noted on the display cabinet. From bilbies to cuscuses to porcupines — they all have their patrons. The museum itself, its costly special exhibitions and excavations the world over are financed by major sponsors — of whom Bilfinger Berger is one.

“THE COLLECTIONS ARE OUR MEMORY BANKS”
Today’s Senckenberg society maintains laboratories, collections and institutes in Gelnhausen, Weimar, Dresden, Görlitz, Müncheberg and Wilhelmshaven. Its researchers are recovering fossils from the former opencast mine at Messel near Darmstadt, fishing for animalicula off the coast of Japan, taking part in Antarctic expeditions. The plants, animals and tissue samples they collect are painstakingly categorized, catalogued and archived. Bags of mussel shells, pinned beetles, flies, mosquitoes and spiders, shrimps, fish, frogs and snakes preserved in fluid rest in countless cupboards. Retired biologists and passionate amateurs regularly donate their collections to the Senckenberg society.

The research institute houses over 25 million objects. “The collections are our memory banks,” explains 47-year-old preparator Udo Becker. On his desk is a glass jar containing a longnose chimaera preserved in alcohol. The 80-centimeter long fish shimmers with a whitish hue, staring out of hollow eyes. Scientists first encountered the species off New Zealand in 1895. Becker’s specimen was taken from the sea on July 5, 2007: “If we were to find no more of them, we would have to ask the question, why?”

Changes in the ecosystem can only be described by comparison with past times, Becker continues. His workplace resembles an old curiosity shop. Hanging over the back of an office chair are two fox pelts. The dogsized skeleton is waiting on the table to be wrapped. Becker also models reptiles, insects and fish in plastic. One of the museum’s most popular showpieces is a giant anaconda in the act of swallowing a capybara.

“The museum does the public relations work for our research,” says Professor Volker Mosbrugger, 55, who heads the 450-strong Senckenberg team. He regards it as an important task to highlight the consequences of human activity. “100 species become extinct every day,” says Mosbrugger. Many of them are still unknown to science. There could be sponges or plants among them that might provide the basic ingredients for effective medical drugs. Now gone forever.

In his role as science manager, Mosbrugger is currently developing a “biodiversity and climate” research center in which ten professors will investigate concrete issues. “The question of how many degrees warmer the climate will become is too abstract for us,” Mosbrugger explains. “We want to know which plants we will no longer be able to grow in future.”

INTERACTING WITH NATURE REQUIRES FORESIGHT
Mosbrugger also sees a need for much more research into the deep oceans. Every voyage reveals new species from the eternal darkness. And despite the fact that we know so little about the ocean depths, there are plans to increase the extraction of raw materials from the seabed and even dump carbon dioxide down there. Mosbrugger is not a man to demand that these plans be abandoned. “There is equal value in both protecting nature and utilizing it,” he explains. “However we ought to know what we are doing, so we do not do any harm that cannot be undone.” Mosbrugger is not the only one calling for such foresight. Perched atop the gable of the museum, Chronos the Greek god of time holds out his hourglass towards the skyscrapers of Frankfurt’s banking district as if to say: “Remember that nature measures progress in millennia, not in quarters.”

Text: Mathias Rittgerott, Photos: Rainer Kwiotek
Bilfinger Berger Magazine 1/2009