Marothodi Field Manual 2004

Department of Archaeology UNIVERSITY OF CAPE TOWN

MAROTHODI 2004

International Archaeological Field School South Africa

Field Manual

Mark S. Anderson

First edition printed 2004 This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2009 by Atikkam Media Limited 23 Paddock Road Woodford Northamptonshire England NN14 4FL Text copyright © 2004 Mark Steven Anderson This document is in copyright. No distribution or reproduction of any part, in any form or by any means, digital or mechanical, may take place without the written permission of Atikkam Media Ltd, subject to statutory exception and to the provisions of relevant collective licensing agreements. This Field Manual has been produced for specific educational purposes, and is not distributed for commercial gain. To request additional copies in eBook format please email: [email protected]

Field Manual: Contents

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Contents Introduction 1 Chapter One: The Archaeological Background 2 Chapter Two: Marothodi 16 Chapter Three: Archaeological Surveying 24 Chapter Four: Archaeological Recording – The Written Record 29 Chapter Five: Archaeological Recording – The Drawn Record 38 Chapter Six: Excavation 44 Bibliography and Image Credits 55

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Introduction On behalf of the Department of Archaeology at the University of Cape Town, I am delighted to welcome you to the 2004 International Archaeological Field School at Marothodi. I hope that you will find your experience here both educational and stimulating, and that you will develop a range of useful archaeological skills and techniques as you learn about African heritage. For some of you, this expedition will be your first experience of archaeological fieldwork. It may also be your first major trip overseas, and there are bound to be many things you want to know about what is in store over the coming weeks! My primary concern is for your safety, welfare and enjoyment, and our team of supervisors and project officers are here to help and guide you with any concerns you may have – whether practical or personal – on or off the field. On the first day of fieldwork you will receive an induction by our Health and Safety Officer, Sarah Court. She will brief you on a range of specific health and safety issues related to the expedition, and will offer an opportunity for you to raise any particular concerns you may have. By now, you will all have received a copy of the Expedition Pamphlet, which contains maps of the Bosele camp and of the wider region. This shows all of the major facilities and amenities you might need during your stay, and includes emergency contacts and a list of all the staff mobile/cell numbers. Please do not hesitate to contact any of us at any time if you need assistance or have a query. Remember, we are here to help! This short manual has been written to help place your work here within the wider context of our research goals. It is important that you understand how your efforts are contributing to the project as a whole, so I have included a brief account of the research background and an introduction to the Marothodi site. For those of you who have not excavated before, the rest of the manual presents some of the main techniques of archaeological excavation and systems of recording that you will be using during your training programme. If you need to be formally assessed for degree requirements during your time here, please let me have your assessment or grading form on the first day of fieldwork. This will help me to ensure that you receive training in as wide a range of activities as possible during your participation. I wish you a successful and enjoyable expedition, and I look forward to getting to know you during your stay.

Mark Anderson, Director.

Marothodi International Archaeological Field School 2004

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Chapter One: The Archaeological Background Approaches to archaeological research of pre-colonial farming communities in southern Africa have undergone significant changes since systematic study of the topic was initiated in the 1960s. In terms of both theory and methodology, the discipline has evolved from its early emphasis on description and classification, through the application of normative models intended to offer insight into pre-colonial worldview, to a deeper consideration of detail, variability and historical context. My research emphasizes the historical, political and economic ‘setting’ of Tswana towns, focussing on the organization and specialization of production. The aim is to gain a more intricate understanding of the variation in form and scale that existed both within and between Tswana settlements, and to explore the extent to which each was a unique response to its specific circumstances. This chapter offers a summary of the research background, outlining some of the major theoretical frameworks and assumptions that have shaped approaches to southern African Iron Age archaeology over the last few decades, particularly in relation to the stone-walled sites of the Pilanesberg region. European Observation and Ethnography The material culture of Sotho-Tswana speaking farming communities living in the Pilanesberg area, including aspects of their settlement organization, was first described by European missionaries and explorers such as Campbell (1822), Kay (1833), Sanderson (1860) and Burchell (1953), who traveled through the region in the early 19th century. Their accounts were recorded prior to, during, and in the immediate aftermath of a period of considerable social and political disturbance, characterized by inter-chiefdom warfare. This culminated in the ‘Difaqane’ wars, during which Ndebele armies swept through the region and established a state under their chief, Mzilikazi. The early European descriptions were supplemented between the 1920’s and 1960’s by more systematic ethnographic research, undertaken by anthropologists like Schapera and Duggan-Cronin. This composite pool of data formed the bulk of available information relating to Tswana populations in this region by the time systematic archaeological investigation began in the early 1960s. Data gathered during this period is described by archaeologists and anthropologists as the “ethnographic present”. It records the manner in which communities were living when they were first contacted by European observers, and before their lifestyles were significantly altered as a result of colonial influences. Aerial Photography

The stone walling used to define boundaries and enclosures on many Late Iron Age sites is a structural characteristic that appears in the archaeological record from around AD1600, and is a distinctive element of the archaeological period known as the late Moloko. Mason (1968) regards this development as representing the beginnings of a concept of ‘personal space’ or private territory “…registering an increase in personal wealth held by families…” (46) that soon became physically manifest in the form of ‘embayments’, physically separating distinct groups of houses from each other in the domestic areas of settlements.

Field Manual: The Archaeological Background

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The use of stone walling makes such sites visible from the air, an attribute that was utilized during early archaeological studies of settlement distribution and classification. By analyzing aerial photographs of a 3,300 square mile area south of the Pilanesberg and east of Zeerust, Seddon (1968) produced a distribution map of stone-walled sites which attempted to represent not only site location, but also the size of the settlements identified. The resulting plots show a broad linear clustering of larger sites in a band from north-west to south-east, an early indication that some kind of geographical preference may have been operating which influenced the location of the big settlements.

However, Seddon used small-scale aerial photographs for his analysis, each image covering nine square miles. The settlements visible on each image were represented on the plot as a single circle to indicate the presence of sites on that photograph. The size of the circle varied according to the density or quantity of visible sites, the highest distinction being a cluster of 5 or more on any individual photograph. As a result, the distribution plots are very vague, and while they do indicate broad spatial trends, they are considerably lacking in finer detail. In addition, the plots represent all photographs containing more than 5 individual settlement units in exactly the same way, whether there were 6 or 56. Consequently, a significant amount of information relating to site scale was subdued.

Mason also conducted an analysis of stone walled sites using aerial photographs, from which he identified a number of distinct settlement ‘classes’, classified according to identifiable patterns in spatial layout. He also noted a clustering of site distribution into 9 observable areas of density (Mason, 1968). The overall aims of Mason’s initiative were described as being “…to find behavioural evidence in terms of material artefacts and their spatial disposition on sites, associated foodwaste and topographic location of living sites” (167), but one of the major contributions of the project was the recognition that there were observable patterns of variation in site layout and distribution across the landscape, and that such patterns might be related to different historical identities adapting to specific environmental conditions (Mason, 1962), the concept of the ‘Culture Area’:

The nine areas of settlement concentration delineated by the present aerial photo analysis may be explained as expressions of distinct Iron Age behaviour linked with the environmental variation from area to area, or merely as distinct behavioural developments due to relative geographic isolation (Mason 1968:175).

The survey of aerial photographs covered 47,733 square miles of what was then southern Transvaal/northern Natal, and with a team of six students, 6,237 Iron Age settlements were located and categorized into five identified classes based on variations in their plan-form. The use of aerial photographs to categorize the settlements, whilst having the advantage of covering a large geographic area, is acknowledged by Mason as being problematic. Some of the features were obscured by encroaching bush, rendering substantial settlements, which were known from ground reconnaissance, virtually invisible on the photographs. Another kind of visual deception occasionally made natural geological features look like archaeological remains, which also confused accurate identification of settlements.


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Other problems were identified within the methodological approach to classifying the settlement types, not least of all the fact that classification was based on the consensus of seven individual workers, who may have had different perspectives on the settlement plans they were observing. In an attempt to measure this variability, a blind test was undertaken whereby all seven workers were given the same aerial photograph from which to categorize the varied settlements it displayed. Their conclusions were recorded, and indicated a wide range of variation with only “…a certain measure of agreement” (173).

This hinted at the need for an ethnographic standard by which to define settlement units, rather than their physical form alone. It also proved difficult to define the actual categories of settlement type in some cases. In instances where a settlement was composed of a large number of distinct ‘wards’ or homesteads, it was not easy to define the extent of an individual settlement, and some of the boundaries chosen were somewhat arbitrary. In addition, some of the boundary walls appeared to join settlements together, and would have made the decision to record either a single settlement or two distinct units something of a subjective choice on the part of the classifier. Mason readily concedes that the sites identified by his team represent only a small proportion of the settlements that exist on the ground, and that his study area covers but a fraction of their geographical distribution, but the stage had been set for further exploration, at least in this sample area of the country. Mason followed up his earlier initiative with a substantial publication in 1986, an attempt to account for all of his work to date, which had primarily revolved around excavations. The volume was also driven by his interest in encouraging “…education programmes aimed at developing improved awareness of the humanity of the different groups in contact in the Transvaal…” (1), with an emphasis on raising the profile of “prehistoric achievements” through archaeological research and teaching. The Magaliesberg Valley is discussed in light of its potential to be developed into a “Culture Historical Education Area” in which archaeological sites from a range of periods and cultural contexts would be preserved and managed as educational resources, to encourage a heightened appreciation for the contribution of different groups to the origins of South African society.

Having concluded that the analysis of aerial photographs alone provided insufficient data to devise a classification system of Iron Age stone-walled sites, Mason (1986) “withdraws” his earlier (1968) site typology and replaces it with an expanded classification system. The new typology, based on ground survey and excavation as well as aerial photography, includes 9 “classes” of sites distinguished by their settlement plans, ranging from the small and simplistic in Class 1, to the largest and most complex

Fig 1 . Mason’s 1986 typology of stone walled settlements.


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arrangements in Class 9. The latter class includes the ‘megasites’ of the Bankenveld region, and it is suggested that the variety of resources offered by this environmental context may have been a significant factor in understanding the evident economic prosperity that supported, and encouraged the growth of, such large populations;

We do not have the facts from the megasites themselves but we may guess that the megasites owed their existence to the set of resources found in the grassveld and savanna regions within a day’s walk south or north of the megasites (Mason 1986:319).

Extending this idea, Mason suggests that the sites he refers to as “Class 3”, consisting of a ‘chain’ of circular walled enclosures around an open central space, may have been ‘cattle posts’ purposefully located on the southerly boundary between Bankenveld savanna and Grassland, serving the “Class 9” megasites further to the north. This hint of an ecological perspective is an angle that the current research aims to explore more fully. In 1976, Tim Maggs published the results of an extensive project incorporating aerial photograph analysis and excavation, concentrating on the Free State area further south. One of the aims of this work was to “…outline both the Iron Age archaeology and the early history of the southern Highveld, as well as make comparisons between the two” (xiv). The chapter outlining previous research examines all sources of Iron Age knowledge prior to Maggs’ project in some detail, and is divided into three sections; the reports of early explorers and missionaries, the oral histories, and the archaeological investigations. The conclusion is reached that little useful work had previously been carried out on the Iron Age archaeology of his study area, thus enabling Maggs to make a “fresh start” with this initiative.

Maggs describes an approach similar to that adopted by Mason, involving the study of aerial photographs of the research area. Like Mason, the sites were classified according to their plan form, although inevitably according to slightly different criteria than those used in the earlier research due to difference in site style in this more southerly region. Maggs also reports similar problems associated with the use of aerial photographs, and describes the additional complication of trying to view the images at a large enough scale to facilitate meaningful analysis. The settlements are categorized into four primary ‘types’: N, V, Z and R, which are then used as the framework for a series of excavations at a sample of sites from each classified group. Excavations were conducted based upon the site typology, and the results of each project are presented and discussed. Settlement plans are displayed along with descriptions and illustrations of the primary finds from each site, and photographs of some of the main excavated features. An attempt is then made to correlate the archaeological data with a review of the historical background of the area, with the aim of correlating historical identities with the sites. In doing so, Maggs reveals an awareness of the role of history in assigning identities to settlement types, but does not really embrace history as a process, a motive. Maggs concludes that more detailed archaeological investigation is required before meaningful cultural interpretations can be achieved. In this sense the initial objectives of the project may be seen as somewhat over-ambitious, although an observable success of


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the work was to create a framework within which some of the future research could take place. Both Mason and Maggs were concerned primarily with relating their site typologies to historical identities, but their work was undertaken in a phase of Iron Age research during which the emphasis was on description and classification, based on intuition, or ‘common sense’. Although the detail and variability of the archaeology was being explored on a certain level, ethnographic data was used in a piecemeal and selective fashion, in relation to specific features or finds. Consequently, the settlements were classified according only to their physical characteristics, and interpreted in functionalist terms, rather than with the deeper understanding of historical identity that might have been possible through the wider application of ethnographic analogy. Normative Model In stark contrast, ethnography formed the very framework for most research during the 1980s, at the expense of any historical component that had previously been incorporated. Structuralist approaches to understanding Iron Age settlement organization and spatial dynamics began to be asserted via the application of ethnographically derived normative models. Huffman (1986) argued that an understanding of prehistoric ideology was not only an achievable objective, but was in fact essential if we were to gain any understanding of Iron Age ways of life. Huffman advocated the application of normative models to the study of prehistoric cognition. Patterns of organisational behaviour that were not only applicable to specific examples, but which were operating at a grand enough scale to subsume smaller scale variations. His approach was based on this underlying principle:

The internal arrangement of a settlement reflects sociocultural organization because space is a cultural variable: its use is the result of a worldview, and people with the same worldview organize their settlements according to the same set of principles (Huffman 1986: 89).

The premise for this cognitive approach to Iron Age archaeology was an ethnographic model developed by Kuper (1982) identifying certain aspects of worldview, shared by both Nguni and Sotho-Tswana speaking communities, that seemed to influence and characterize physical aspects of their settlement designs. By identifying similarities between the settlement organization of the recent communities of the ethnographic present and those of the archaeological record, Huffman suggests that corresponding similarities would also have existed in their ideology and worldview. In his 1986 paper, Huffman argues for the theoretical validity of applying modern and recent ethnography to the past, and suggests that normative models are not only valuable for understanding ideological aspects of the Iron Age, but also for recognizing long term evolution and change in the world view of those societies. As an example, he refers to our understanding of the evolution from the Central Cattle Pattern to the Zimbabwe Culture Pattern, in which it is possible to identify the rearrangement of the same principles in a different physical expression. This would not have been recognized


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without the application of large-scale normative models through which to compare and explore the appearance of different settlement patterns in the archaeological record. Huffman’s ideas, and his application of the Central Cattle Pattern, provoked considerable criticism. Lane (1994/95) expresses some of the commonly held arguments against Huffman’s approach, and casts doubt over the validity of applying ethnographic models to the archaeology. He recognizes that there are different kinds of ethnographic analogy, with variable strength or viability in their application, and draws a distinction between ‘formal analogy’ and ‘relational analogy’. While formal analogies “…rely principally on the assumption that similarities in the shape and appearance of source and subject imply the existence of other, non-material similarities between them” (51), a relational analogy has the additional strength of an established relevance between the source (ethnographic data) and subject (archaeological record), based on some demonstrated cultural or historical continuity, or shared technological constraints between them. An example of the importance of incorporating ethnographic data when interpreting the African Iron Age archaeological record has been demonstrated by archaeologists who have misinterpreted their data, like Mason (1986:241) in his discussion of an excavated hut floor on the Middle Iron Age site 29/72 at Olifantspoort. By employing a purely ‘common sense’ approach to interpretation devoid of ethnographic analogy, he misinterpreted some of the interior features of the hut, and consequently misunderstood the whole orientation of the structure, including the position of the hut entrance. Indeed, Lane acknowledges that the African archaeological context offers a degree of cultural, historical and environmental continuity between source and subject that enables the application of a ‘direct historical approach’ to ethnographic analogy. However, his main criticisms are of what he perceives to be a synchronic perspective, demonstrating a lack of consideration for the historical context and processes operating within the community that are not implicit in the ethnographic data alone. In terms of the Central Cattle Pattern, Lane criticizes the inability of the model to explain variation in settlement pattern and life ways between individual communities. His skepticism deepens as the span of time between the source and subject increases, and he expresses considerable doubt over the validity of applying an ethnographic model like the Central Cattle Pattern to the Early Iron Age. He concludes by suggesting that to accept the validity of applying an ethnographic model to a group of people for 2000 years is to assert that such communities were ‘conservative’ and unable to evolve without external stimulus, thereby encouraging a negative perception of Iron Age societies. It is useful at this point to discuss Huffman’s 2001 paper, which responds to many of Lane’s criticisms. It begins with a new explanation of the Central Cattle Pattern, how it was derived, and why it is valid as a normative spatial model. One of the basic premises is the assumption that, although one worldview could lead to more than one type of settlement pattern, the reverse is unlikely to be true. That is, two different worldviews would be unlikely to create the same complex spatial organization. Consequently, in the absence of another more convincing model, we can assume that a particular spatial settlement style can be used to recognize holders of a particular corresponding worldview.


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The Central Cattle Pattern is derived from Eastern Bantu speakers, including Nguni and Sotho-Tswana. This inclusion illustrates that the model is not restricted to a particular identity group, or to environmental factors, but at a general level it can encompass such smaller-scale variations. With mainstream archaeological thought having been focused on the application of such normative models in recent years, it is possible to see how the significance of detail and variability has been downplayed over the last decade of Iron Age research. Huffman then goes on to justify his application of a model derived from ethnographic data to an archaeological context, emphasizing that the Central Cattle Pattern is applied using a direct historical approach, and not formal analogy. The formation of the model begins by confirming a close relationship between ethnographic data and archaeological material of similar date. Then when a model has been derived by exploring relationships between these two sets of data, it is applied back in time to earlier archaeological remains. The paper then illustrates the application of the Central Cattle Pattern to specific archaeological examples, notably the sites of Kgaswe in Botswana, Broederstroom and KwaGandaganda, the latter two of which suggest the successful application of the model to Eastern Bantu speaking communities as far back as the 5th to 7th centuries. Huffman emphasizes the fact that the Central Cattle Pattern is an ahistorical normative model, operating on a scale general enough to incorporate regional, cultural and environmental variations without having to explain them. Many critics of the model seem to have failed to grasp this, and Huffman suggests that “...to challenge this model successfully, critics must propose an alternative that interprets the data better at the same scale of abstraction. At the normative scale, the evidence for the Central Cattle Pattern … is overwhelming” (31).

Between 1981 and 1983, the work of Pistorius (1992) at the large stone-walled site on the farm Selonskraal in North-West Province, referred to as Molokwane in the oral records and praise poetry, provided a detailed example of how ethnographic models like the Central Cattle Pattern could be used to explain the spatial and social organization of a Late Iron Age Sotho-Tswana ‘megasite’.

The research was “…aimed at proving that the site’s settlement style is representative of the settlement system of historical and contemporary Sotho-Tswana villages (metse) in its ground plan, composition and settlement layout” (1), focusing on the settlement as a whole via analysis of aerial photography, and on a single settlement unit (kgôrô) through archaeological excavation of an individual component (SEL1). Following a description of the geographical and environmental context of Molokwane, and another large site, Boitsémaganô on the farm Shylock to the north of Selonskraal, an account of the oral-historical records and genealogies concludes that both sites were occupied by Bakwena Bamodimosana. In particular, Molokwane was inhabited by the Bakwena Bamodimosana Bammatau under Sekano from the early 18th century until the difiqane in around 1826, by which time Kgaswane had become chief.

Pistorius emphasises the distinction between ‘macro’ settlement features, referring to the layout of the settlement as a whole, and the ‘micro’ scale, which focuses on the numerous individual units from which the settlement is composed. Referring to previous Iron Age settlement studies, he suggests that the plan form of Molokwane correlates most closely


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with the classes 6, 7 and 9 identified by Mason (1986) in the area north of the Vaal River, and with the ‘Type Z’ distinguished by Maggs (1976) in the Free State region further south.

On the macro level, Pistorius draws attention to the formation of three distinct clusters, referred to as Zones A, B and C, arranged linearly north to south roughly parallel to the course of the Selons River to the west. Zone A in the centre is interpreted as the high status zone, in light of its central position on slightly elevated ground, the comparative density and complexity of the stone walling, and the large size of the enclosures here. This interpretation was based on the perceived link between the quantity of cattle, wealth, status and settlement size, and supported by ethnographic data from historical Sotho-Tswana settlements indicating that the central area was home to the ruling lineage of the settlement.

The micro settlement style was explored by planning and excavating SEL1, one of the individual settlement units interpreted and described ethnographically as dikgôrô. Three main spatial components are identified, “…an outer scalloped circumference wall containing dwellings or malapa; inner or centrally located kraal complexes and an

intervening space between these two features” (73). Excavations were conducted in each of these spatial units, revealing numerous hut floors (many with veranda foundations and sliding door bases), paved platforms, stone piles and structural foundations attributed with various agricultural functions (such as granary bases, pot stands, threshing floors, etc), a range of artefactual evidence including tools of bone, iron and stone, ceramics, ochre and clay figurines, faunal remains, and evidence for structural alterations of the kgôrô revealed in traces of earlier boundaries in the kraal complex, stratigraphically sealed by the standing walls. The spatial, structural and artefactual data retrieved from the investigation of SEL1 is analysed and interpreted in relation to ethnographic evidence. Indeed, Pistorius’ detailed synthesis of ethnographic sources relating to Sotho-Tswana settlement organization and

Fig 2. Oblique aerial photograph of the central portion of Molokwane.


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function is a valuable element of this publication. Data relating to settlements of Bakgatla, Bangwato, Bakwena, Ntšhabaleng, Bapedi and Batlôkwa are explored, along with schematic representations of the way social systems are expressed spatially within these settlements, “…in accordance with recommendations that as many analogies as possible must be considered for comparison with archaeological data” (50).

From the basis of the ethnography, Pistorius identifies enclosures for formal and informal meetings, the private court (kgotla), and enclosures for managing cattle and smaller stock. His ethnographic summary reminds us that this area was the activity space and conceptual domain of men. The head male members of senior lineages were buried within central enclosures, private and public meetings among men (both informal and judicial) were held here, and only men were directly involved with the management of

cattle. Women, on the other hand, were physically and conceptually attached to the domestic realm, spatially structured around the perimeter of the settlement, and associated with agricultural activities.

The gender binary nature of Sotho-Tswana settlement units described in cognitive ethnographic models appears to be supported by the archaeological evidence from SEL1, in that the inner area of the settlement, including the central kraal complex, is

Fig 3. The author examines the stone walling at Molokwane.


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characterized by artefacts associated with male use, like bone tools and soapstone pipe. By contrast, the perimeter zone is dominated by domestic and agricultural features and artefacts, including hearths, threshing floors, grindstones, mortars and pestles, and structures associated with grain storage.

It might be concluded therefore, that the project successfully achieved what it set out to accomplish. The historical evidence points quite securely to the occupation of Selonskraal by the Bakwena Bamodimosana Bammatau, and archaeological investigation has demonstrated convincing parallels between the spatial organization of macro and micro elements of Molokwane, and the organization and social structure of historic settlements occupied by Sotho-Tswana groups as revealed in ethnographic studies. It would be difficult to dispute the fact that the Central Cattle Pattern, as a cognitive model explaining spatial organization on a normative scale, is comfortably applicable to Molokwane. This work however, was still essentially ahistoric.

Hall (1995) in his review of Pistorius (1992) agrees that, “In the face of Pistorius’ aims, I find little about this work which can be faulted” (88). But Molokwane is an historic site, tightly identified in the oral and historical records as a Tswana settlement, and the Tswana ethnographic data base with which Pistorius is working is also historical. Essentially then, he is comparing the ‘ethnographic present’ with the ‘ethnographic present’, and as Hall points out, “Given the unassailable tie between Molokwane and its Kwena occupants, Pistorius’ general aim becomes somewhat spurious” (88).

Pistorius’ early work at Molokwane was undertaken at a time when there was high enthusiasm for demonstrating the application of the Central Cattle Pattern to Iron Age sites, as it was then a relatively recent development in southern African Iron Age archaeology. By the time the work was published in 1992 however, new streams of archaeological enquiry were already emerging, and structuralist approaches were coming under criticism for their subsumption of local variation and a tendency to be ahistoric. Detail and Variability

This lack of attention to “…smaller scale variability and specific historical circumstance…” and the way in which these two factors relate to one another, is criticized by Hall (1995:88). He goes on to suggest a need to place more emphasis on the reasons behind the large size and population densities of ‘megasites’ like Molokwane, as opposed to the treatment of this characteristic as “…some inherent ethnographic principle whereby growth is axiomatic” (88). Hall perceives a need to focus once again on the detail and variability within and between sites, as initiated by Mason (1968, 1986) and Maggs (1976), but within an established framework of specific historical context.

Accordingly, a number of Iron Age archaeologists have started to look ‘through’ the normative model, and towards the smaller-scale exploration of the variability and detail that the Central Cattle Pattern is not designed to explain. Hall (1998) examines the dynamics of gender relations operating within Sotho-Tswana domestic households of the western Highveld, and how changes in these relations may be observed from the archaeological record during the Late Iron Age. In particular, Hall explores the tight link between pottery, the social processes translated through pottery, and the spatial settings of transaction. Such an approach asks radically different questions to those posed by previous ceramic studies, which have traditionally


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concentrated on identifying broad regional patterns and classification of styles to trace population movements. Hall’s study focuses on the Tswana house, which has hitherto been somewhat neglected by archaeologists influenced in one way or another by structuralist models such as the Central Cattle Pattern, which does not deal with detail on such an intimate scale.

The house is described as the main setting for interaction between men and women, and in the earlier LIA (early 14th century to mid 17th century) the archaeological evidence reveals hut floors that are full of material culture, such as pottery and items associated with food production and consumption, the ‘ritual’ apse at the rear, and features like sunken wooden mortars in the hut floor and pot dimples. A left-right female-male spatial division within the hut is advocated, and Hall suggests that this arrangement facilitated the mediation of interaction between men and women across gender boundaries. These boundaries were tightly controlled and “compressed” within the confines of the hut. In this earlier period, the arrangement of space within settlements does not seem to have been as “architecturally segmented” as in later periods, when we see the introduction of stone walling. Consequently, in the earlier phases there seem to have been fewer physical divisions to control the interaction across gender boundaries, which Hall suggests resulted in “…a greater role for the mediation of boundaries through mobile symbols, particularly pottery” (242). By comparison, the settlements of the later LIA (18th century onward) are characterized by stone walling that formally and physically organized space and controlled boundaries.

Fig 4. A Tswana house, painted by Charles Bell in 1834.


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Inside the house, the organization of space has undergone significant changes. There ceases to be such a high density and variability of material culture, suggesting that the huts were now used primarily for sleeping. The preparation and consumption of food now occurs outside the hut, where different activities are carried out in “…functionally discrete spaces that are conceptually and physically separated” (344). Hall suggests that this spatial separation has served to isolate women, as they are associated with work involving the preparation of food in spaces that are now physically confined. With interaction between men and women across gender boundaries now physically controlled, it would follow that there was a reduced need for regulation of interaction via other means of communication, such as pottery. To test this theory, Hall conducted an analysis of all previously published collections of Iron Age ceramics, and by applying a multivariate system of classification (combining profile with decorative position of the ceramic to create multivariate classes) he was able to demonstrate that the pottery associated with the earlier LIA huts had a significantly higher frequency of decoration and greater stylistic variability than the pots of the later LIA, which were comparatively stylistically bland. These results suggest that there was a greater need to regulate interaction between men and women through mobile forms of communication (ceramics) in the earlier LIA, when the interface between genders was not physically controlled, but occurred within the confines of the house. During this time, the pottery produced was varied in form and style, with high incidences of decoration, and considerable variation within that decoration, which may have been used to communicate across boundaries. By contrast, in the later LIA we see the introduction of stone walling to physically segregate different spatial arenas within the settlement, and as a consequence the interface between men and women becomes more formally separated. This architectural control of the gender boundaries leads to a reduced need for other means of regulation, and consequently the ceramics become plain, uniform, and it is suggested, endowed with less symbolic meaning. It is possible, of course, that settlements from the early Moloko sequence also utilized some form of architectural control, but with organic materials now rendered invisible through post-depositional processes. It is also possible that the trend towards stylistically bland ceramics reflects other socio-economic trends, such as an increased scale of production, or a down-playing of the expression of individual identities as towns grew and their populations became more mixed. A growing emphasis on agriculture and its additional demands on the women may have left them with less time to invest in producing elaborate ceramics. But Hall’s attempt to move away from structuralist models and back towards the archaeological detail is a refreshing development. Lane (1998) also seeks to interpret settlement space, particularly relating to gender divisions, within the normative scale of the Central Cattle Pattern. He argues that such normative models rely too heavily on “dominant representations of social reality” without accounting for the variations within that reality, or over time. He suggests that individuals within the same gender group, for example, may have completely different views of the world, and of space and material culture, depending on their age, and social/political status, and that the status or identity of individuals also changes through time. By contrast, models like the Central Cattle Pattern seem to assume that the experience for a


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gender group was the same for all members all the time, without taking this kind of variability into account. Like Hall (1998), Lane directs attention to the house. He describes them as the “atoms” of the Tswana world, which are built and occupied by women. Being effectively the centres for procreation, and therefore survival of the lineage, great importance is attached to the house, and to women’s bodies within them, as “…the source of both practical and symbolic sustenance” (188). Lane continues with his association between the woman’s body and the house by suggesting that “just as the actions of women’s bodies within houses invested these spaces with meaning, so houses could also stand as metaphors for women’s bodies…” (188). He then extends this metaphor to the physical world by suggesting that some of the house layouts resemble female reproductive anatomy in plan, indicating conceptual links between sex, childbirth, houses and women’s bodies. This is then extended further by pointing to physical similarities between the layout of whole settlements and female genitalia, and suggests that the nightly herding of cattle into the central byres of the settlement is metaphorically representative of reproductive conception. Although it is generally accepted that the hut is conceptually related to the female body, the application of this idea to the whole settlement plan seems somewhat speculative, especially in light of the lack of direct ethnographic data to support it. Lane bases his interpretation on aspects of the ethnography that indirectly point to a possible link between female physical bodies, procreation, and settlement plan form, although he concedes that there is certainly no explicit indication of this in either ethnographic data or historical documents. Lane’s interpretation in relation to the whole settlement seems generally weak. The point that Lane is making however, is that archaeologists need to move beyond the dominance of normative models like the Central Cattle Pattern, and start to “…develop interpretative frameworks that treat gender relations more as situational constructs than as fixed categories, and in ways that allow for as much consideration of the variations within social categories as between them” (201), an approach that might also benefit research into other elements of space and material culture in the Iron Age.

Summary Perhaps the most significant development in the evolution of theoretical frameworks in Iron Age archaeology has been the change from the earlier focus on functionalist description and interpretation, aimed at locating and classifying Iron Age settlements and aspects of material culture, to the pursuit of ideological enquiry, incorporating ethnographic data in an attempt to understand cognitive aspects of pre-colonial societies. Although this new approach has been dominated by the debate over the application of a structuralist model, the move towards directing research beyond simple description and classification must be considered a positive step. There can not be any serious doubt about the existence of the Central Cattle Pattern as a normative model. It has been demonstrated repeatedly on a variety of Iron Age sites, and


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although we should approach it more cautiously with respect to the earlier Iron Age it can be accepted, within its own limitations, as a valid model. As previously discussed, ethnography is a valid, if not essential, source of data for an analysis of Late Iron Age Sotho-Tswana settlements. But the ethnographic present is observed only at the end of a diachronic sequence of site development, and is in fact characterized by the large amalgamated settlements that represent the climax of this process. Attention needs to be directed to the sequence itself, if any insight is to be gained into the origins of the settlement forms of the early 19th century. Normative models are only designed to examine behaviour at a very general level, and the more recent move towards investigating the detail and variation encompassed within the Central Cattle Pattern marks the beginnings of research in these new directions. Although an ethnographic base is still critical, the general attitude emerging towards normative models might be summarized in the question “why keep confirming the obvious?” which creates something of a contrast to Lane’s (1998) evident objection to the very principles of the Central Cattle Pattern, which seems to have led him to attempt a completely different way of looking at settlement organization that lacks credibility. It would seem though, that most of this new research, and definitely the work of Hall (1998) and Lane (1998) discussed here, has adopted a qualitative approach to analyzing archaeological data. Hall’s ceramic analysis using a multivariate system served to introduce a semi-quantitative element to his research, but overall little quantitative analysis has been incorporated. The work carried out by Fuggle (1971) on the environmental influences affecting the location of settlements in the Lesotho mountains might be considered a useful demonstration of the application of quantitative data to address detail and variability. For stone-walled settlements of the western Highveld, there is a need to collect new archaeological, ecological and historical data relating to Late Iron Age Sotho-Tswana sites, in an attempt to explore them as unique responses to their individual contexts. Referring to the settlement at Vlakfontein, the most northerly of the Tswana megasites that we now know as Marothodi, Mason (1986) suggested that it was located too far north to take advantage of the southerly grassland. It “…must therefore represent specialized exploitation of the grazing prospects in adjacent savanna environments” (57).

Indeed, the exceptional environmental and geographical context of this site warranted detailed investigation of the economic dynamics that sustained such a significant population, and how the site related to the regional economic system. The current research is beginning to offer some insight into these issues, and might be considered a first step towards an understanding of Tswana settlement organization as a unique reaction to specific circumstances, rather than a generic ethnographic norm.


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Chapter Two: Marothodi On the farm Vlakfontein 207JP, about 20km south-west from the Pilanesberg volcanic complex, Revil Mason identified the remains of a huge, sprawling stone walled settlement as he flew over the area in a helicopter. One of the photographs he took from the aircraft appeared in his 1986 volume, Origins of Black People of Johannesburg and the South Western Transvaal AD350-1880, in which he noted that “…Vlakfontein has the largest cattle enclosures registered in the Transvaal…” and indeed, “…some of the largest cattle enclosures known in the African Iron Age” (Mason 1986, Boeyens forthcoming).

Colossal ‘megasites’, like the one on Vlakfontein that we now know as Marothodi, were not unheard of in this region. Others had been identified and explored, including Molokwane, Boitsemagano and Olifantspoort further south, and Kaditshwene over to the west. Hundreds of smaller stone walled sites had also been recorded, scattered across the entire region. But it is the scale of the megasites that makes them distinctive, and the fact that they all occurred within the environmental zone known as the Bankenveld, which runs in a ribbon from east to west for about 200km across this northerly region of South Africa. The Bankenveld offered a unique environmental context, providing access to grassveld to the south, and savannah to the north. Such ecological variety may have been essential to sustain such large populations (Mason 1986). Historical Background Because the megasites were home to an entire ‘tribe’, with the Chief himself in residence, it is possible to identify these settlements in the oral histories of the communities who lived in this area. Most oral records are primarily accounts of royal successions, population

Fig 5. Oblique aerial photograph of Marothodi, on the farm Vlakfontein 207JP.

Field Manual: Marothodi

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movements and shifts in political power, which is why smaller settlements without royal lineage are seldom mentioned. But oral histories relating to communities in this area recorded by Breutz (1953) and Ellenberger (1939) indicate that the megasites were home to Tswana-speaking people, an identity that was initially asserted by some early European visitors to the settlements, and which has since been confirmed by ethnographic comparison and archaeological research. More specifically, recent historical research by Jan Boeyens has revealed that Marothodi was home to a Batlokwa lineage under the Chief Bogatsu, who ruled here from about 1810 until 1815 when he was succeeded by his son, Kgosi. Marothodi was abandoned in about 1820-23, and the Batlokwa moved northward into present-day Botswana (Boeyens forthcoming). It is said that a Batlokwa contingent returned briefly to Marothodi some years later in the late 1820’s, but by this time the heyday of the town had passed and the re-occupation was brief. The Batlokwa of Marothodi eventually settled in Botswana under the Chief Gaborone, after whom the modern capital is named.

Although Tswana-speakers have come to be identified with ‘town living’ in settlements like Marothodi, they did not always live in such large centres of population. Originally, individual family units lived in separate ‘homesteads’ or small villages, which were physically dispersed across the landscape. It seems to have been as late as the 18th century when a process of aggregation began, during which the hitherto segregated homesteads converged to form large combined settlements, with the royal family at the centre. But what was the driving force behind such a dramatic change? The oral records and historical syntheses of this period suggest that this was a time of conflict and friction among the different tribes and lineages occupying the region. It has been suggested that earlier high levels of rainfall, and the subsequent increase in agricultural productivity, led to an expansion of population which, combined with the environmental restrictions that

Fig 6. Tswana town life: Serowe in 1934, Botswana.


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limited demographic dispersal, may have contributed to heightened tensions over environmental resources and livestock acquisition. Both of these factors were closely related to the maintenance of economic and political power, and the resources of the Bankenveld zone may have become fiercely contested (Manson 1995, Parsons 1995). The tension seems likely to have been further aggravated by the development of trading opportunities with the Delagoa Bay depot on the east coast which gave rise to increased competition over trading commodities, in addition to the expansion of colonial interests from the south.

Consequently, it would seem that the region was already a cauldron of turbulence and hostility by the time Mzilikazi led his Ndebele through the area in the 1820’s, in a wave of warfare known as the Difaqane. This caused the final destruction and abandonment of many Tswana settlements (Lye & Murray 1980) and it is usually their deserted and burnt remains that survive today in the archaeological record. But despite the atmosphere of

aggression among competing groups, there seems to have been little attempt to endow the Tswana megasites with the capability of physical defence. There are no traces of defensive earthworks or structures, and little use has been made of strategically advantageous topography in the location or arrangement of the settlements. Marothodi itself is situated on a relatively low-lying flat expanse of land, and can be overlooked or approached from any direction. Therefore, the process of aggregation and the accompanying political centralisation, rather than being geared towards physical defence, may have been an attempt to gain a tighter control over the economic resources of the lineage, in terms of personnel, commodities and the organization of production. The character of this organization at Marothodi, and the nature of the response of the Batlokwa to the pressures of their historical context, are some of the issues we are exploring with the current research. The Site The systematic exploration of Marothodi began in 2002, with the production of a map of the settlement. This was created from an analysis of enlarged vertical aerial photographs of the site, parts of which were elaborated by ground survey in order to capture additional detail. Looking at the site map in Figure 8, you will see that the settlement is composed of numerous individual flower-shaped ‘clusters’. Each cluster is a separate ‘homestead’, occupied by a single extended family. We call them ‘Settlement Units’ and each one has been numbered to aid clarity during the research. You will notice two Settlement Units that are larger than the rest, located in the centre of the site. These were the homesteads of the high status families, SU1 on the left and SU2

Fig 7. Tswana (left) vs Ndebele (right), both formidable warriors.


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on the right. Look at the larger scale maps of these two homesteads, and you will see that it has been possible to record a great deal of data without excavating. Traces of a wide variety of features and collapsed structures are visible on the ground surface, and because most Settlement Units follow a similar pattern in terms of spatial arrangement, we can quickly become familiar with their general layout and orientation. A typical Tswana homestead is composed of one or more sub-circular enclosures, surrounded by linked semi-circular courtyards, or malapa (pl). Cattle were kept in the central enclosures, but some also served as meeting places for the men of the homestead. The malapa were domestic spaces, the living quarters where people slept and prepared food. Each lelapa (sing.) usually contained at least one dominant ‘sleeping hut’, represented archaeologically on the ground surface as a low, circular mound of reddish brown. The hut mound is frequently located between the ends of the lelapa walls, and in many cases it is possible to detect an elliptical formation of standing stones extending like an apron from the mound, the surviving foundations of what was once the front veranda of the hut.

Similar arrangements of standing stones can be seen in all Settlement Units, in practically every lelapa. Some are completely circular, and represent the foundations of some other kind of domestic structure, such as a ‘kitchen’ hut or threshing floor. As you walk around, look out for lower grindstones imbedded in the earth, shaped like stone bird baths where they have been worn down through hours of use. If you are lucky, you might spot the slightly more elusive upper grindstone, a smooth rounded rock about the size of a cricket ball, once grasped in the hands of a Tlokwa woman and now left forgotten somewhere in the courtyard.

Fig 11. Hut floor with front veranda foundation stones at Marothodi, with unexcavated ‘hut mound’ in the background.


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Scatters of pottery on the ground surface will be seen frequently, along with pieces of slag and other indications of metallurgical activity, even iron tools themselves. Remember though, any significant loose artefacts should be left undisturbed until reported to a Project Officer. In 2003, a number of preliminary excavations were carried out at carefully selected parts of the site. Settlement Unit 25 was a prime target, not only because of its distinctive spatial characteristics, but also due to the high concentration of metallurgical evidence visible on the ground. Two hut mounds were excavated down to their intact floors, and trenches were put into some of the domestic middens. Along with the rich quantities of domestic material we retrieved, clues started to emerge about the

economic focus and organization of this particular homestead. Dozens of pieces of smelting slag turned up from the midden, along with actual pieces of furnace lining, and many of the faunal remains showed signs of reuse as scraping and piercing tools, probably for hide work. The highlight of this homestead was the cluster of copper smelting furnaces discovered behind one of the domestic courtyards. Upon excavation, it was revealed that the furnaces were re-lined numerous times, indicating that these furnaces had been used for more than one smelt.

Outside another homestead away to the south-west, a different kind of furnace was excavated, one that had been used for the smelting of iron. The attempt made to veil this structure, demonstrated by the enveloping foundations of a circular screen, supported our expectation that the process of iron smelting was a fiercely protected secret, shrouded in mystery. The visiting team from UNISA complemented our initiatives by almost completely excavating an entire domestic courtyard located in the highest status area of Marothodi. This lelapa is a strong contender for being identified as the household of the Chief’s senior wife, a woman of great importance in the community. Just before they finished last season, a tantalizing glimpse of an unexpected structure had begun to emerge, which will be revealed this year.

Fig 12. Lower grindstone at Marothodi.

Fig 13. Settlement Unit 25

Fig 14. Copper smelting furnace in SU25.


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Chapter Three: Archaeological Surveying The twin purpose of archaeological surveying is usually to create a detailed graphical record of features, monuments or settlements, and to integrate this spatial data with known ‘real’ space, like the Ordnance Survey Grid, or other such recognised geographical system. Producing a scale map or plan of an archaeological site in the field is all about measuring distances, measuring angles, and calculating the relationship between the two. Some of the surveying methods still in use today have changed little in principle over countless generations. Other methods use such cutting edge technology that even the Archaeologists of today struggle to keep abreast of the latest developments. In this chapter we will discuss the basic principles of archaeological surveying, and demonstrate the use of both modern applications and the more traditional survey methods commonly used on archaeological projects. Setting out a grid. Before excavation begins, it is necessary to establish a framework on and around the site, so that the spatial relationships between archaeological features or excavated areas can be accurately recorded. This is usually done by creating a grid, commonly of 5 or 10 metre squares, either across the whole archaeological site, or over an area selected for excavation. Within the grid the position of all features, finds or working areas can be recorded in relation to the grid co-ordinates, and the location of the grid itself can be established in relation to features in the wider world, such as survey beacons or permanent buildings. Laying out a site grid is usually one of the first surveying tasks a new Archaeologist will have to undertake, and it is a good way to become familiar with the basic principles of site survey. As you might expect, the procedure is based on establishing straight lines, measuring distances, and ascertaining right angles. The first step will be to establish a datum point – a point on the ground that is going to form the origin of your grid. Then extend a straight line of string from your datum point across the site, either along one edge of it or through the middle, depending on which directions your grid will need to grow in. This is going to be your grid datum line, so set up a measuring tape along it, close to the string. The rest of the grid is created from this line simply by extending new regularly spaced lines from it at 90o. Right Angles Establishing right angles for this purpose can be achieved quite accurately using only measuring tapes and principles of triangulation, particularly Pythagoras’ theorem. This method is commonly called the ‘3-4-5 triangle’, and is used to establish a true right angle. Theoretically, if the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle is 5m long, then the lengths of the other two sides must be 3m and 4m. If you can create a triangle on the ground with these dimensions, one of its corners must have an angle of 90o.

Field Manual: Archaeological Surveying

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So, let’s assume we want to establish a 90o angle to extend a new grid line from our datum line. Select a suitable point along the datum line, say at the 10m mark. Use a surveyor’s arrow or 9 inch nail to secure the zero end of another measuring tape at this point. Extend this tape perpendicularly from the datum line to a length just over 4m. Secure the zero end of another tape to a point on the datum line 3m away from the first point (at either 7m or 13m in this example). Extend this tape towards the far

end of the first tape, so forming a triangle. Bring the two ends of the tape together in your hands. The 3m side of the triangle has already been established along the datum line. Ensuring that the tapes are taut and level, you need to adjust the position of the apex in your hands until the tapes intersect at the 4m mark on the first tape, and the 5m mark on the second tape (the hypotenuse). When you have established this position, mark the point of the intersection on the ground with a surveyor’s arrow or nail, using a plumb bob if necessary. This point should be at exactly 90o from your original point along the datum line. The line can now be extended in that direction, using ranging poles.

Right angles can also be established in this way using larger triangles, which make it easier to construct a grid containing squares with 5m or 10m sides. The triangle length combinations of 5-12-13, 8-15-17, and 20-21-29 can be used for this purpose. When you have established a square using this method, always check its accuracy by ensuring both diagonal measurements are the same, and are the appropriate length.

Fig 15. Using the ‘3-4-5’ triangle method to establish a right angle.

Fig 16. Using triangulation to set out a row of 5m X 5m grid squares.


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Using tapes and triangulation to establish a site grid is a sufficiently accurate method for most purposes, and can be very convenient in certain circumstances on site. But even greater accuracy and speed can be obtained by using more advanced surveying technology, like EDM.

Electronic Distance Measuring

There are a number of different kinds of systems that use EDM technology, but the principle is generally the same. The unit sends out a beam (usually infra-red) to a prism on a pole, held on the point you wish to plot. The beam bounces back from the prism to the unit, and by accounting for the speed of the beam and the time it took to make the journey, the distance is calculated. The EDM actually takes several readings in quick succession, and the average distance calculation is displayed on the screen.

For the purposes of surveying, early types of EDM unit were attached to a traditional theodolite (an instrument that optically measures distances and angles), thus increasing the accuracy and speed of the survey. More commonly these days, you are likely to encounter purpose-built machines that combine a computerised theodolite with an EDM unit in the same case, with some kind of telescopic sight. This is usually called a Total Station, and has the capability to send survey data directly to a personal computer, eliminating the need to keep a written record of the readings.

Total Stations made by different manufacturers will operate slightly differently and have variable functions and capabilities, so each time a new model is used in the field it will be necessary to learn how to operate it. However, the basic

principles will be the same for all models, and it should not take long to master the functions of an unfamiliar machine.

Tasks like laying out a site grid are very quick, accurate and easy with the use of an EDM. The machine is set up over the site datum point, and levelled. The head can then be rotated to any horizontal angle, but for the purposes of laying out a grid you would swivel it to 90o, and lock it in that position. A second person would take the staff with the prism attached, and whilst keeping it vertical, position it on the telescopic line of sight as

viewed from the Total Station. When the staff is accurately positioned, a distance reading is taken from the EDM, and the staff-holder is instructed to move backward or forward until the required distance is reported by the EDM. When the correct point has been established, a grid peg can be inserted.

Fig 17. Setting up the Total Station over an established site datum point – definitely

a two-person job!

Fig 18. Using a Total Station at Marothodi

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The Total Station can also be used for mapping large features, like the stone walls of a Marothodi homestead for example. In this case, the staff-holder would position the prism at various points along the contour of the walling, while the EDM operator takes readings and records the distances and angles of each point from the EDM. These readings can either be reproduced to scale using traditional methods of scale rule, pencil and protractor, or a plot can be generated automatically on a computer if the necessary software is available. This instrument can also be used for taking levels on archaeological features, and at Marothodi we will be using it for this purpose instead of a ‘dumpy’ level. The Plane Table Although more of a ‘traditional’ method of surveying, the plane table is still used on many sites, particularly for earthwork surveys. In the absence of electronic equipment it is one of the most accurate and versatile surveying methods available, and for this reason we will discuss it here briefly, although we will not be using this technique at Marothodi.

The instrument itself consists of a wooden drawing board screwed onto a tripod, and an alidade. An alidade is an instrument that combines a sighting device with a flat edged ‘blade’. A sheet of drawing film is attached to the surface of the board, and the alidade rests on top of this. The plane table is set up over a datum point near the features to be mapped, and a spirit level is used to ensure that the board is horizontal. A plumbing fork is then used to connect the datum point on the ground with a point on the drawing film directly above. This point

Fig 19. Surveying with a plane table, using a telescopic alidade.


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is then marked on the page. The alidade is sighted onto the feature you wish to plot, making sure its edge is touching the datum point on the paper, and the distance between the datum point on the ground and the point you have sighted is measured with a tape. Thus you now know the distance and angle of the feature from the datum point. The distance is scaled down and drawn on the page using the straight edge of the alidade. Some alidades are a bit more sophisticated and have telescopic sights with stadia wires, enabling the distances to be calculated by tacheometry. Electronic alidades make use of an EDM system, which is particularly useful if the feature is some distance away from the plane table and saves a great deal of time.

Fig 20. A plumbing fork is used to correlate the position of the site datum point with a

point drawn on the board directly above it.

Fig 21. Using an alidade with EDM capabilities. The assistant is holding the prism.

Field Manual: Archaeological Recording – The Written Record

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Chapter Four: Archaeological Recording – The Written Record In this chapter we discuss some of the recording techniques commonly used by Archaeologists as they strive to capture on paper all the physical and contextual data contained by the archaeological remains on a site. There is no getting away from the fact that excavation, regardless of how carefully controlled or masterfully executed, is destructive. Once a feature or a site has been excavated, it no longer exists. It is not possible to look again at the archaeology and ask new questions of it, or approach it from alternative angles. It can only be excavated once, which is why it is so important that, during the process of excavation, the Archaeologist records as much information about each component of the site as possible. The project archive – the collection of written, drawn, photographic and material data – is all that future researchers will be able to refer to, and is the only remnant for humanity of that particular component of our collective heritage. Excavation, without adequate recording and subsequent publishing, is theft. The Written Record Traditionally, all archaeological descriptions, drawings, measurements and notes from an excavation were collected by one person (usually the site director) in a single field notebook. Even today, on certain kinds of projects, this might be a valid method for recording retrieved data. Indeed, regardless of what other recording systems are used, it is important for the director to maintain her own record of the excavation as it progresses, and a notebook provides plenty of room for sketches and thoughts about daily developments on site. However, the use of standardized recording forms or cards is becoming increasingly common on many excavations around the world, partly because of the sheer quantity and complexity of data now recovered by modern archaeological research. A recording form will have distinct fields for the different kinds of data required, minimizing the potential for omissions, and reducing variability in the quality of recording among Archaeologists with different levels of skill or experience. This point is particularly important on larger excavations, on which many different individuals are likely to contribute to the project archive. Similarly, on training excavations it is important that trainees play an active role in recording data themselves, rather than simply exposing archaeological features and then waiting for the designated record-keeper to come around and record them. Different kinds of archaeological projects will use a variety of styles of record form, depending on the nature of the archaeology encountered and the system of excavation being used. However, there are certain data fields that will be common to most kinds of form, usually relating to a unique record number, the provenience (three-dimensional position) of the feature, it’s description, and an account of any associated artefacts or notable inclusions. Some projects will require individual record forms and plans to be created for each separate archaeological ‘context’, the smallest archaeological components of a site. This is called the Single-Context Recording System and was developed by the Museum of London Archaeology Service in Britain, in response to the specific problems associated with excavating and recording deeply stratified, spatially complex urban sites, such as are


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usually encountered below the modern City of London. It is now used for many different kinds of sites across the UK and Europe, and is becoming widely recognized as an efficient method for collecting high quantities of data, in a way that accurately preserves the physical and stratigraphic relationships between large numbers of individual archaeological events. The system is based on conceptually breaking the site down into its smallest stratigraphic components, referred to as ‘contexts’. Each context is allocated its own unique number, and a site record sheet is completed to describe it. Then a scale plan is drawn of that single archaeological entity on its own sheet of drawing film, with its stratigraphic and physical relationships to other contexts carefully recorded. In theory, it should be possible to lay a multitude of single-context plans over one another in the correct sequence, and thereby ‘re-create’ the stratigraphic and spatial sequence on paper. For example, for the purposes of creating a phase plan, an archaeological feature like a posthole would be treated as a single entity and drawn on a plan with other postholes that seem to be related to it. But in the single-context system, the posthole would be sub-divided into its smallest components: the ‘cut’ (the hole that was dug to accommodate the post), the ‘post pipe’ (the remains of the post itself that was placed inside the cut), and the ‘fill’ (the packing material put around the post inside the hole to hold it in place). Each of these three contexts would be given a unique number, its own record sheet, and would be drawn separately on its own plan (sometimes ‘fills’ of postholes or pits are not planned separately unless to do so would record information not captured on the plan of the cut). In addition, the posthole would then be half-sectioned, and the three contexts would be labelled on a section drawing of the feature. Usually a stratigraphic matrix, often called a ‘Harris Matrix’, would be created for the entire site sequence as it is being excavated and recorded, to graphically depict the stratigraphic relationships between complex combinations of hundreds of contexts. Looking similar to a family tree, the matrix is useful when it comes to piecing the site sequence back together again on paper, and for identifying archaeological phases. At Marothodi, the recording system revolves around the Feature Record Form, which is designed to record recognized features as single entities. This is more appropriate for our site than single-context recording because Marothodi represents a single phase of occupation, and we are unlikely to encounter deep, complex stratigraphy. Plus, we are more likely to stop excavating when the feature has been exposed satisfactorily, and it will be recorded at this stage. However, some features will require dissection by excavation if they have a complex structure or hidden information that we need to record. Consequently, it may be necessary to describe certain components of such features individually. Context Record Forms have been designed for this purpose, and must be carefully cross-referenced to the ‘parent’ Feature Record Form with which they are associated. Contexts recorded individually in this way will also need to be drawn on single-context plans (see below). Completing the Feature Record Form The Feature Record Form is designed to hold a summary record of a complete feature being investigated, whether as complex as a ‘hut mound’, or simple like a stone granary base. In the case of more complex features, and especially if the feature is being dissected


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by excavation beyond the ‘exposure’ stage, the Feature Record Form can be supplemented with Context Record Forms which capture individual components of a feature in more detail. On all record forms, use black ink for text and sketch plans, and try to cultivate the habit of writing in clear block capitals. This may feel awkward at first but you will soon get used to it, and it makes the recorded information much easier to read and photocopy. Beginning at the top left of the form, the Site Code is going to be the same for all features and contexts this season, so it is already printed on the form. The code stands for University of Cape Town / Marothodi 2004.

Fig 22. Example of a completed Feature Record Form.


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The Area Code is the sub-division of the site in which you are working. For example, you might be recording a feature inside a particular Settlement Unit, in which case the Area Code would be ‘SU’ followed by the number of the settlement unit. If you are working in the spaces between settlement units, your area will still be assigned a code of its own. If in doubt, ask your supervisor what the code for your area is. It is important to record the Feature Co-ordinates here, so that anyone analyzing the record later on will know exactly whereabouts on the site your feature is situated. If you imagine that the whole site or area is divided into 5m squares, the co-ordinates of the south west corner of the 5m square within which your feature is situated should be recorded here. The feature can be located more precisely by referring to the accompanying plan. The Feature Number is the unique numerical reference for the feature. When you are about to begin recording a new feature, you must go to the feature record index file, and fill in the required details on the next available line. This line will be numbered, and that number will be your unique feature number. For features, the number is pre-fixed by an ‘F’, to distinguish it from a context number, which will be pre-fixed by a ‘C’. In the Feature Type space, briefly mention whether you are dealing with a hut mound, or a midden, or a furnace, etc. If you cannot identify your feature (and in some cases your identification may be speculative) write ‘Undetermined’ here. You will have room to discuss your thoughts below in the ‘Notes’ field. The Describe Location field offers another quick reference to the position of your feature. Here you might enter the number of a particular lelapa within your settlement unit, or describe that the furnace is “approximately 25m to the south east of SU15”, for example. Next, briefly describe the methods used to expose the feature, e.g. “troweling with light brushing”, or “mattocking followed by trowel”, etc. In the next field, indicate whether the feature was then dissected by excavation or not, by deleting the appropriate square. If the feature was dissected by excavation, use this field to list all the component context record numbers generated during the process. This enables a quick cross-reference to the relevant associated records. Then briefly describe the method of excavation, “hand-pick, trowel” etc, in the appropriate box. The describe and discuss box is where you should provide a detailed description of the feature, including details of its structure, the materials used, notable inclusions (e.g. charcoal, daga fragments) its dimensions and it’s physical context. Is it in a domestic space? What other features or artefacts are nearby? In this field you may also freely discuss your thoughts about what function the feature may have performed, what significance it may have, problems with recording or excavating, etc. You can continue your discussion on the back of the form if you need more space. In the space provided, draw a sketch plan of the feature. Sometimes it is easier to draw your proper scale plan first, and then draw a copy here on the Feature Record Form. Other times you will have to draw your sketch first. As the sketch will be ‘floating in space’ (not


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visually tied up to the site grid) and not to scale, it is important to ensure that you add the following features to your finished sketch: Co-ordinates: Just mark a + or two on the sketch around the feature where you know positions of certain co-ordinates. Then write the co-ordinates next to the +. These positions are only rough, and act as a guide to orientating the sketch and locating the feature with reference to the proper scale plan. Dimensions: Draw arrows along the E-W and N-S edges of your sketched feature, and indicate what these dimensions are in centimeters on the ground. North: As with your scale plan, the top of the page should be the direction of site north. But draw a north arrow on your sketch anyway to leave no room for doubt. Levels: Indicate the positions of spot-heights on the sketched feature, using numbered symbols. When you have taken the level readings, list them neatly on the sketch plan. They should also be represented on your proper scale plan. When you have added all these features, tick the relevant check-boxes on the form. The next field is where you record all the artefacts and ecofacts (ceramics, metal objects, bone, beads, etc) that were recovered in association with your feature, including the find numbers of any ‘special finds’. Again, you can use the back of the form if you need more space. At the bottom left, indicate the scale plan number of your feature. This will usually be the same as the feature number, but pre-fixed with a ‘P’. Entering the number here indicates that the associated plan has been completed. Similarly, the numbers of section drawings are pre-fixed with an ‘S’. If there is a section drawing associated with your feature, enter the number here in the section number box. All recorded features need to have official photographs taken with the site cameras, and there is a photographic register that records all shots taken during the excavation. Whether you are taking the photos yourself or someone else has, you should note the page in the photo register on which the record appears, and write the page number in the photo log page box. (You may, of course, also take your own photographs for your personal record.) Write your name in the box provided, so we can locate you for supplementary information or clarification. Write the date on which the record was completed (not the dates on which the feature was excavated). When the form is completed, and all associated plans and sections are finished, put the form in the ‘To Be Checked’ folder for Feature Record Forms. Your supervisor will check it in due course, before passing it to the project director for the final check and storage in the archive.


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Completing the Context Record Form If a particular feature needs to be subdivided into its component parts, for the purposes of more detailed recording or to facilitate dissection by excavation, every component (or ‘context’) must be assigned a context number and a Context Record Form must be completed for each one. The first two boxes are the same as on the Feature Record Form, the site code and area code. The feature number box is where you record the number of the whole feature, of which this context is a component. This is essential as a means of cross-referencing between the two associated records. In the rare instance where an archaeological deposit is being recorded as an individual context, but does not form part of a feature, its site co-ordinates can be written here instead of a feature number. The context number is generated in the same way as a feature number, by adopting the next available number in the context register. Context numbers are always pre-fixed by a ‘C’. The context type box is where you indicate whether the context is a cut (a ‘negative’ feature like a post-hole or a depression in a hut floor) or a deposit (a ‘positive’ feature like a tread layer or furnace lining). Just tick the relevant box. The context description field is designed to capture more detail than the equivalent field on the Feature Record Form. Guidelines are printed on the form for the recording of cuts or deposits, and information should be provided for each of the numbered headings. Where a particular heading is not relevant, ‘N/A’ should be written. For describing a cut:

1) Shape in plan. When viewed in plan, is the cut square, rounded, sub-circular, amorphous, etc?

2) Depth. Measure the maximum depth of the cut. 3) Break in slope top. What is the relationship between the exterior ground surface,

and the inside wall of the cut? Is this angle sharp, rounded or shallow? 4) Sides. How regular are the inside walls of the cut, and what is the angle of slope? 5) Break in slope bottom. What is the relationship between the inside wall of the cut at

the bottom, and the base itself? Is this angle sharp, rounded or shallow? 6) Nature of base. What shape is the base? How regular is the surface? Is it flat or

rounded? Does it slope in a particular direction? 7) Truncations (cuttings). Has this context itself been cut by another event? 8) Fill numbers. What are the context numbers of the fill deposits within the cut? 9) Relationship to feature. How does this cut relate to its ‘parent’ feature? Is it a post-

hole in a hut floor, or a tuyere port in a furnace, etc? 10) Other comments. Add here any other information or thoughts about the context

not covered above.


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Fig 23. Example of a completed Context Record Form.


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For describing a deposit:

1) Compaction. When you crush a solid cube of the deposit between thumb and forefinger, does it crumble without resistance (loose), with low pressure (friable), with reasonable pressure (firm), or does it not break up (compact)?

2) Colour. Soil colour should be described with a ‘tone’ (light/mid/dark), a ‘hue’ (reddish/greyish/brownish, etc), and a ‘dominant colour’ (brown/grey/orange, etc). So for example, the colour of collapsed daga on a hut mound might be described as a “mid reddish brown”. Also be aware of colour variation within the same context, and describe this range using the same format, e.g. “…ranges from light greyish brown to mid brownish grey”.

3) Composition. This is where you describe what the deposit consists of. Usually, it will be either a sand, clay or silt, or some combination of the three. There are various methods used to ascertain the composition of a soil, and in the field environment we can only hope to generate a reasonable estimate. The following technique is usually helpful: Gather a small amount of the deposit in your hand and dampen it with water. Knead it until it is as plastic as possible, and roll it into a ball. Now try to make it into a sausage, and then (if possible) make a loop out of the sausage. Now refer to the flow chart below, and follow it by answering the questions about your experiment. You should end up with a reasonably accurate description of the deposit composition.

4) Inclusions. Inclusions are the materials visible in your soil that typically form less than 10% by volume of the deposit you are recording (any substance that forms more than 10% would be considered under heading 3, as part of the deposit composition). Substances recorded here might include things like charcoal fragments, flecks of bone or shell, stones or gravel, etc. For each

Fig 24. Flow chart for describing deposit composition.


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identified inclusion, record whether it occurs in an ‘occasional’, ‘moderate’ or ‘frequent’ quantity.

5) Thickness and extent. Take some measurements of your deposit with a hand tape, and record them here.

6) Excavation method and conditions. If the deposit is to be removed by excavation, record the tools and techniques employed.

7) Relationship to feature. How does this context relate to the ‘parent’ feature? E.g. is it a charred deposit on a hut floor, or a distinctive layer within a ‘court midden’, etc?

8) Other comments. Add here any other information or thoughts about the context not covered above.

At the base of the description box are two small fields in which you must indicate the context numbers that are stratigraphically earlier and later than the context you are recording. For example, if you were recording a post hole, the stratigraphically earlier context might be the occupation layer into which the hole was cut, and the later context would be either the remains of the post or the fill inside the post hole. The relevant context numbers should be entered here. It is quite possible that your context may be above or below a number of contexts from the same phase. If more space is needed to record their numbers, write them on the back of the sheet with a clear indication of which data field they relate to. In a similar way to the Feature Record Sheet, there is a space for a sketch plan of your context. Although you are drawing only a single discrete context here, the same information is needed on the plan: co-ordinates, dimensions, north arrow and levels. In the next field, record the artefacts and ecofacts associated with your context. The find numbers of any ‘special finds’ should be recorded here also. The remaining fields are the same as on the Feature Record Form. Indicate the numbers of any plans or section drawings of your context, the relevant page number in the photographic register, your name and the date, and then put the form in the ‘To Be Checked’ folder for Context Recording Forms.


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Chapter Five: Archaeological Recording – The Drawn Record All archaeological features, and sometimes their individual components where appropriate, need to be measured and drawn to scale after they have been accurately defined. Aside from section drawings, you are likely to encounter three different types of plan on archaeological excavations – the ‘top plan’, the ‘phase plan’ (including ‘feature-specific’ plans) and the ‘single context plan’. Top Plan. Also called a ‘single-level’ plan, this is a drawing of all features exposed on the whole site, or in the excavated area, at any arbitrary point during the excavation. On complex sites with any depth of stratigraphy, this kind of plan has little value in terms of trying to interpret the archaeology, as the features represented are simply those that happen to have been revealed at an artificial level created by the Archaeologists. Consequently, features belonging to different phases of the site’s development will appear together on the plan, and some partially excavated features will not be visible in their entirety. The only real use that a top plan could have on such a site is perhaps to provide a record of how far the excavation has progressed at the end of a season of fieldwork, if the project is to continue at a later date. An exception to this would be with regard to sites that are accessed on the ground surface only, without excavation. Surveying a complex of earthworks, for example, would produce a top plan. The stratigraphic relationships between earthworks of different phases would perhaps be indicated on such a plan by means of hachures, and from this it might be possible to construct phase plans.

Phase Plan. Unlike the top plan, phase plans are interpretative in nature, because decisions have been made about which features or deposits on the site belong together in a particular phase of the site’s history. This fact obviously adds a subjective element to the data being recorded,

Fig 25. Archaeological recording on a Mayan site in Guatemala in the

1950’s.

Fig 26. Different types of plan commonly produced on archaeological excavations.

Field Manual: Archaeological Recording – The Drawn Record

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which could lead to problems later on if the phasing of a site needs to be re-examined in light of new insights into the site’s history. However, the phase plan is a useful way to graphically record the spatial relationships of features that existed in the same period of occupation, and is especially appropriate for single-phase sites like Marothodi. Single Context Plan. As discussed above, this system records each archaeological component separately, and individual plans are drawn for each context identified in this way. The benefits of using the single-context recording system on complex, deeply stratified sites are obvious. On single-phase sites like Marothodi however, it would not be appropriate to adopt it in its entirety. We will use it only to record the different structural components of features in instances where these would be difficult to record fully on the same plan (like the different layers of daga lining on the inside of a smelting furnace, for example). But generally speaking the features at Marothodi are sufficiently discrete, and the stratigraphy sufficiently shallow, to be recorded adequately by feature-specific and phase planning in most cases. Planning Techniques Whichever kind of plan is being produced, the actual methods for creating the scale drawings of contexts or features on a site are more or less universal. All techniques work from a grid system imposed over the entire excavation, within which it is possible to locate any point on the site in relation to its grid co-ordinates. These days it is unusual to see the grid lines physically laid out across the whole site with string. It is more common to see only the corners of 5 or 10 metre squares permanently marked with grid pegs. Measuring tapes and string are set up between two grid pegs close to where the Archaeologist is working, to create a convenient temporary baseline. Measurements are then taken from that baseline to the feature or context being planned. There are three plotting methods commonly used for archaeological planning: offsetting, triangulation and the plotting frame. Offsetting. This is a simple case of taking right-angled measurements with a hand-tape (offsets), from your temporary baseline to various points on the feature being planned. The baseline may be lightly drawn to scale in the appropriate place on the page with the ‘zero’ end indicated, to assist you with accurately plotting the measured points on the paper. The measuring itself is ideally a two-person job. One person, with the plan and a pencil to hand, holds the zero end of the hand-tape on the point to be plotted. The other person takes the cassette end of the hand-tape across the baseline, and ensures that it crosses the baseline at a right angle. This is done by

Fig 27. Plotting the contours of a wall with the one-person off-set method,

using a plumb bob to bridge the vertical gap.


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‘swinging’ that end of the hand-tape along the baseline in both directions, until the shortest distance on the hand-tape intersects with the baseline. In this position, the hand-tape should intersect at 90˚. That person then reads aloud the measurement along the baseline at the point of intersection, followed by the measurement on the hand-tape. The other person then calculates the appropriate scale reduction, measures those distances on the plan, and plots the point. This process is then repeated until a series of plotted points gives the outline of the feature or context in sufficient detail. The points are then carefully joined up on the page, whilst at the same time closely observing the feature in real life to capture the detail of its outline as accurately as possible. Offset plotting can be accomplished by one person if necessary, in which case the zero end of the hand-tape is hooked (sometimes precariously) over the baseline, and the cassette end is extended to the point being plotted. The Archaeologist then reads both tape measurements and plots the point. The problems of doing this alone include a reduced certainty about the accuracy of your right angle, and the instability of the hand-tape as you try to keep it hooked over the baseline. Both difficulties are aggravated when you are trying to use a plumb bob at the same time, and there is a strong breeze billowing around you. In general it is best to ask a colleague to assist you, especially if the feature being planned is more than a metre away from your baseline. Triangulation. In a similar way to offsetting, triangulation involves taking measurements from a nearby baseline to the archaeological feature being planned. The main difference is that instead of measuring with a single tape at a right angle to the baseline, two tapes are used. The zero end of each tape is positioned at different known points along the baseline. The other ends of the tapes are then brought together over the point you wish to plot. By dropping a plumb bob from the intersection of the two tapes, it should be possible to adjust the point of intersection (keeping the tapes taut and level) until it is directly over the point to be plotted. Then you read the measurement on each tape, and in combination with the distance between the two points used on the baseline, you know the length of all three sides of the triangle. With this information, you calculate the appropriate scale reduction and use a pair of compasses to plot the point on your plan. Although more accurate for one person working alone than the offset method, triangulation can be quite cumbersome for planning smaller features, and is best reserved for larger-scale mapping such as earthwork survey, or for plotting the position of single points.

Fig 28. Plotting a feature using the triangulation method.


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Drawing Frame. Sometimes called a planning frame or plotting frame, this piece of equipment is simply a square frame of wood or aluminum, commonly 1m x 1m, within which is set a taut grid of string, wire or twine. It helps with the accurate plotting of more intricate features by providing a tighter reference framework around them. The drawing frame is laid horizontally over the feature to be planned and should be kept as level as possible, using a spirit level if necessary. Where the ground surface is very uneven it may be necessary to prop up one or two corners of the frame on piles of stones, or other supporting structures.

The four corners of the inside of the frame should be carefully positioned in relation to a nearby baseline and, where possible, held in place by surveyor’s arrows or 6 inch nails. The corners should then be accurately plotted at the appropriate scale on the plan in relation to the wider site grid. As an additional guide, it might be helpful to lightly plot each string intersection on the plan also, helping you to see at a glance the area represented on the page by each square inside the drawing frame. The Archaeologist stands directly over the frame, and views the underlying feature vertically through the string grid. The portion of the feature visible through each square is then carefully reproduced to scale in the corresponding square on the plan. Accuracy can be lost when there is a significant distance between the drawing frame and the underlying archaeology, or when it is difficult to get a 90˚ ‘bird’s eye’ view through the grid. In such cases, the use of a plumb bob can help to reduce the likely error.

Surface Detail and Planning Conventions. When the boundaries of the feature or context have been accurately drawn on the plan, it will be necessary to add some vertical information. Spot heights (also called ‘levels’) should be taken at various points on the context, their quantity and positions depending on the size and irregularity of the surface. The levels taken should be

Fig 29. Greater accuracy can be obtained by using a drawing frame to plot intricate features.

Fig 30. Planning conventions.


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numbered and their positions marked accurately on the plan using the appropriate convention. The height of each level should be listed neatly at the bottom of the page. Additional surface information can be represented on the plan using hachures. This is an effective way to illustrate anomalies like raised platforms or hollows in the surface of the context you have drawn. Any significant inclusions visible in the context should also be represented on the plan Section Drawing Depending on the depth, profile or stratigraphic complexity of an excavated feature, it may be necessary to produce a scale drawing of an exposed vertical face. Using a similar logic to the planning methods described above, a datum line is established across the section face, and offset measurements are taken at 90o from the datum line at numerous points along its length.

Begin by driving a nail into the section face at one end, preferably about halfway up. Attach a length of string to the nail, and draw it across the length of the section face to the other end. Use a line level to make sure that the string is exactly horizontal, before driving another nail into the section to secure it at that end. Take EDM level readings on each of the nails to confirm that they are both at exactly the same height. Then secure a measuring tape along the length of the string just below it, fastened to two more nails driven into the section face at either end.

Fig 31. Drawing a ditch section. (Note: Bikinis and bare feet not recommended on most archaeological sites).


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When the datum line has been established, mark it on your drawing at the appropriate scale. Then, using a hand tape (and plumb bob if necessary) take offset measurements upward and downward from the string (NOT from the tape underneath) to the various points on the section face you wish to plot. It is usually easier to plot one feature or deposit at a time, e.g. the contour of the ground surface, then the bottom edge of the top layer, then the outline of the intrusive cut feature, etc. Ensure that you add all the required information to the finished drawing, and put it into the ‘To be checked’ file for Section Drawings.


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Chapter Six: Excavation

There are a range of approaches to excavation, and a variety of methods and techniques that can be applied to different kinds of sites, according to the nature and complexity of the archaeological remains. In addition, certain sites may benefit from the application of a combination of excavation methods, in response to the requirements of different archaeological contexts within the same site.

Constraints of budget and time are an inevitable component of all archaeological fieldwork, and will also influence the choice of excavation method and the level of recovery. At Marothodi for example, the physical extent of the archaeological area is very large, and we have only 9 or 10 weeks each year to retrieve or record as much useful data as possible. Consequently, as is the case with most archaeological projects, we need to devise a sampling strategy for excavation. We cannot excavate the entire site, so we need to target small parts of it. All archaeological fieldwork needs to be planned and approached with specific research questions in mind, and the chosen strategies should be those that promise to generate answers to particular questions, not those that promise to generate the most material. The research questions will dictate the nature of the sampling strategy used and the excavation techniques employed. At Marothodi, we are very lucky in that much of the archaeology is either on, or close to, the ground surface. We can see and touch it just by walking across the landscape, and consequently we have the advantage of being able to identify different parts of the site, undertake site survey and mapping, and develop an excavation strategy without having to resort to arbitrary random sampling or carry out extensive geophysical surveys. Because we know where the site is physically located, how it is spatially organized and (thanks to ethnographic data and other researched sites) the social, economic and political significance of different parts of the settlement, we can choose to target specific areas. This approach to sampling is described as nonprobabilistic, because we are consciously choosing to target certain areas and features within the settlement that we think will provide us with the particular kinds of comparative data we need. By contrast, a probabilistic sampling strategy would select targets in a random fashion across the site, and we would work under the assumption that the data retrieved from the selected sample was representative of the whole. Although not well suited to our overall research objective, this method might have a role to play at Marothodi in relation to excavating large homogenous deposits such as middens, or ancient dung deposits within livestock enclosures. We might use a probabilistic sampling strategy to determine positions for test pits, perhaps based on a grid framework.

Fig 32. Heinrich Schliemann at Troy – someone else who had to deal with a lot of stone walling!

Field Manual: Excavation

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Because Marothodi is a single-phase site (without much overlapping or inter-cutting stratigraphy) and was occupied for a short period, we can predict that our excavations will be comparatively shallow, and that the excavation techniques we employ will not involve deeply stratified deposits, as, for example, on rock shelter floors. Indeed, in many instances we are effectively ‘cleaning’ extant archaeological features, as opposed to systematically removing all traces of a feature until natural deposits are all that remain. Consequently, the focus at Marothodi is going to be on ‘horizontal’ or open area excavation, with test pits and linear trenches also used where appropriate. The aim of this chapter is to provide an outline of some of the various excavation techniques used on different kinds of sites, and to discuss the rationale behind particular choices of method. Archaeological sites and the features they contain are obviously three dimensional in nature. They exist in ‘horizontal space’ as well as in ‘vertical space’, and most decision-making processes about the choice of excavation method will revolve around the relative importance of the horizontal or vertical planes. If your chief objective was to record the stratigraphic sequence of a deep archaeological deposit, you would be more concerned with the vertical plane, and would perhaps sacrifice data relating to horizontal patterning by focussing on the section of a deep trench. On most archaeological sites however, the horizontal plane is also very important for understanding spatial organization and cultural dynamics. Urban sites, like Roman London or Pompeii, will contain important vertical and horizontal data, so both planes need to be explored as fully as possible as excavation proceeds. This is sometimes difficult to accomplish, and some sophisticated excavation and recording methods have been developed to try to meet this requirement. Let’s now look at some of the most commonly used excavation techniques, some of which we will be using at Marothodi this year. Test Pit Also referred to as a ‘sondage’, the test pit is usually employed in an exploratory capacity, with the aim of providing a keyhole into an archaeological area or deposit, either to locate a site or to reveal the depth of an archaeological sequence. They are commonly 1m2 and positioned either in a particular spot that promises to be archaeologically rich, or laid out according to some kind of sampling framework as described above. The area within the square is usually excavated right down to natural deposits and all artefactual material is retrieved for analysis. Because of their relatively small area, test pits do not usually provide much in the way of horizontal information. Their value is primarily in the four sections exposed within, and this sometimes encourages careless excavation, either straight down to natural or in arbitrary layers (‘spits’) without due regard to any horizontal stratigraphy that may be encountered. Consequently there is a risk that important contextual relationships between retrieved artefacts and cultural layers may be

Fig 33. A 1m X 1m test pit.


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lost, so test pits should be used with the same care and attention to recording as any other archaeological method. Trench

On a typical archaeological excavation, any hole in the ground tends to be referred to as ‘the trench’, but here we are specifically considering the narrow linear cut (sometimes also called a ‘transect’) that is also generally used as an exploratory or sampling method. Ranging in width from 50cm to perhaps 3m, a trench can be excavated to any length, and is useful for retrieving artefactual material from across large homogenous deposits. We have used 1m to 1.5m wide trenches at Marothodi as a method for gathering data from middens. We excavated the layers within the trenches in arbitrary 5cm horizontal spits, and recorded the vertical and horizontal provenience of retrieved artefacts.

Trenches are also used on other kinds of sites for exploring earthworks, such as defensive ditches. The trench is excavated perpendicularly across the ditch, down to the profile of the ditch’s original cut. The layers of ditch fill are revealed in the two trench sections. In some cases, a ‘’box-section’ will over-cut the original profile of the ditch, so that it too is visible in the sections. Using trenches to investigate ditches is far from ideal however, and can be misleading. The sequences of ditch fill exposed in the sections, even a couple of metres apart, can look radically different to one another. Quadrant The quadrant system is an excavation technique most commonly used on particular features that are circular in shape, like round barrows or circular middens. At Marothodi, we often use this method to excavate hut mounds, as it has the advantage of exposing horizontal information about the composition of the feature whilst preserving vertical stratigraphic information in the sections of the preserved baulks or unexcavated portions. Typically, string would be laid across the centre of the feature, and crossed at 90˚ by a second line. Then two opposing quarters of the feature are excavated and recorded in plan (horizontally), and the four vertical sections exposed in the sides of the unexcavated

Fig 34. An exploratory trench.

Fig 35. A box-section across a ditch, revealing the profile of the cut in the section face


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quarters are recorded, before those quarters are also excavated and recorded in the same way as the first two. On larger circular features, all four quarters might be excavated at the same time, but with narrow baulks left unexcavated between them to preserve the stratigraphic sequence. The baulks are then excavated after their sections have been recorded. The quadrant technique can also be used on large pits, provided they are not too deep. However, for most pits (and postholes) a variation of this method is employed called ‘half-sectioning’. One half of the feature is excavated first, thus exposing a section in the unexcavated half. The section is recorded, and the second half of the feature is then excavated. When excavating postholes, the line of the half-section should be placed across the ‘post pipe’ (the remains of the actual post within the post-hole) if it can be detected, thus ensuring that its profile appears in the recorded section. Area Excavation In contrast to the indiscriminate use of exploratory trenching favoured by the Archaeologists of yesteryear, (geared towards exposing vertical stratigraphy or ‘chasing’ features) area excavation emphasizes the need to capture lateral data. It is now generally recognized that recording horizontal spatial patterning is vital to developing a coherent understanding of an archaeological site, and a number of techniques have been developed that try to facilitate detailed area excavation whilst maintaining a record of the vertical stratigraphic sequence. Perhaps the earliest method to attempt this was developed by Mortimer Wheeler in the early 20th century. His ‘Box’ or ‘Grid’ system worked by excavating square holes within a grid framework, and sought to preserve stratigraphic data by leaving thin strips between the unexcavated squares. These standing strips or ‘baulks’ provided four-sided sections around each square as the excavation proceeded.

Although still sometimes used in the US, this excavation method is now generally regarded as methodologically unsound. The standing baulks can obscure vital relationships and spatial patterns between features on the horizontal plane, and by themselves tend to offer little more than a confused or misleading representation of the stratigraphic sequence.

Fig 36. A half-sectioned post hole.

Fig 37. Wheeler’s ‘Box’ method in action.


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These days, ‘open area’ excavation is a widely preferred alternative for many kinds of archaeological sites. In combination with the occasional test pit or trench, this is the approach we have adopted at Marothodi. Instead of arbitrary squares being the units of excavation, the individual archaeological features themselves define the units. A granary platform, for example, is treated as a single unit and is recorded and excavated as a distinct ‘event’. Using this technique, the whole site (or the part of the site selected for excavation) is excavated as a continuous sequence, one ‘event’ at a time, in the reverse order to which it occurred. So, beginning with the most recent archaeological ‘event’ (for example, the debris on top of a collapsed hut) each event is identified, defined, recorded and removed, before tackling the next recent (a post hole buried by the debris), then the next recent (the hut floor into which the post hole is cut) and so on, until only natural (pre-cultural) deposits are left. However, as Marothodi is a single-phase site, and is not threatened with destruction, we will usually cease to excavate when the ‘primary archaeological event’, such as the hut floor and wall foundations, are exposed. We do not generally remove everything right down to the underlying natural strata, instead emphasizing preservation of the archaeological features. For the open area approach, a site grid is still used but only to aid the spatial plotting and recording of features. It does not influence the physical process of excavation like it does for the box method. Because the spatial position of each event, or ‘context’, is recorded three dimensionally in relation to the site grid, and its relationships to other features are recorded carefully, the ‘vertical’ stratigraphic sequence is preserved on record as the excavation proceeds. In this way, the process is akin to dismantling and reassembling a car. You would carefully record where each component came from, what it was connected to, and the sequence in which you removed it so that, in theory, someone else could put the car together again from your records alone.

Fig 38. Open area excavation underway at Silchester Roman Town, UK.


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Excavation Techniques We will now briefly discuss some of the different activities you will be performing on site as part of the excavation process. Troweling This is, almost inevitably, the activity that you will experience most consistently during the project. It may be tempting for some to dismiss troweling as being very straightforward and simple to perform, but it is a crucial skill for all Archaeologists to develop, and a great deal depends on its effective use. There are various types of trowel that you might use, and by now many of you will have acquired your own personal model of one kind or another. The most frequently used brands of regular pointing trowel are WHS (UK and Europe) and Marshalltown (US). These are to be recommended because, unlike many cheaper versions, they have single forged steel blades. In other words, the blade is not welded to the tang, but is a single piece of steel, thereby making the blade more reliable and longer lasting. Both models should be able to endure all of your archaeological adventures around the world, and last until they are little more than stumps. Indeed, even as stumps they are useful as excavation tools in certain contexts. If you compare the two models, you will see that they each have slightly different attributes. The blade of the WHS trowel is slightly thicker and less flexible. This is ideal for tough deposits and more robust layers, but as the blade starts to wear down, the thickness means it will get blunt as time goes on, and may need to be sharpened. In addition, WHS trowels are not made the way they used to be, and you may find after a few weeks of heavy troweling that that collar starts to loosen and the blade starts swiveling around inside the handle. Do not despair, as this should be perceived as your trowel’s ‘adolescence’. Glue the blade and collar back in place with a permanent adhesive (Araldite is good) and leave it to dry overnight. After this initiation ritual, your trowel will be ready to go the distance. The Marshalltown trowel has a slightly broader blade, and is thinner and more flexible than the WHS. This has the advantage of offering increased sensitivity in the hand of the excavator (please try not to cultivate the habit of wearing gloves while troweling – manual sensitivity can be crucial), and the sharper blade will give you cleaner ‘slices’ through some deposits, as well being useful for cutting string.

Fig 39. A Marshalltown trowel, next to some copper ore and slag found at Marothodi.


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Another useful type of trowel is the plasterer’s leaf. With long, narrow steel handle and flexible pointed blade, this tool is ideal for delicate cleaning or defining subtle interfaces between complex deposits. They can get somewhat uncomfortable to hold with consistent rigorous use however, and should be reserved for appropriate tasks. Archaeologists use trowels for a range of functions during the course of an excavation, but most commonly they will be used for two particular tasks, ‘cleaning’ and removing deposits. Cleaning. You are likely to get a bit fed up with your supervisors asking you to clean your area or feature, but it is one of the most vital processes of excavation. It is almost impossible to make informed decisions about the behaviour of a context when loose soil, bits of windblown grass or some other disturbance obscures it. The object of cleaning is to remove all such detritus in a careful, controlled way, to reveal the archaeological deposits as vividly as possible. Sometimes one would aim to remove a millimeter or two of the deposit at the same time, to ‘freshen up’ the soil, making colour distinctions and interfaces more obvious.

Skilful cleaning is essential when the stratigraphic relationship between one deposit and another is difficult to determine, or when recording the faces of vertical sections. When the limits of a deposit are difficult to define, it is usually helpful to focus first on a part of the deposit that is more obvious, or that you are

familiar with, and then carefully explore from there towards the uncertain edge – working from the ‘known’ to the ‘unknown’. It could be said (at the risk of sounding peculiar) that the archaeology ‘speaks’ to you during delicate cleaning. With a combination of optical focus, tactile sensitivity and a questioning mind as you clean, much information can be absorbed through this subtle, almost ‘Zen-like’ communion. The answers to baffling stratigraphic problems are often revealed in this way. The trowel should be held close to the blade, with the blade itself at a default angle of about 20-30˚ to the surface being trowelled. The pressure exerted should generally be light, and remember that when cleaning, you do not want to interfere with the deposit in any way. You only want to reveal it more clearly, to help you to define its physical extent and its stratigraphic relationship with other contexts, so enabling you to record it accurately before (and during) its removal.

Fig 40. Cleaning a copper smelting area at Marothodi.


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As you walk around the site, please be on the lookout for areas that other people have trowelled clean. Never walk across a cleaned area, or step on a cleaned feature without the permission of the Archaeologist working there. Removing Deposits. Removing a deposit is, of course, very different from cleaning. Contexts should only be removed when you are sure it is the latest event in the stratigraphic sequence, its physical limits on all sides have been defined, it has been recorded textually and graphically, and

photographed (if necessary). Then the deposit can be carefully removed with a trowel, either in a similar technique to that used for cleaning but with increased pressure, or by using the point of the trowel for more compacted deposits. Keep focussed on the nature of the material you are removing, and be aware when it changes. This will usually mean that you have reached the extent of that particular deposit, and you do not want to start taking away the layers underneath by accident. It is during the removal phase that artefacts are collected, so your

technique should be sufficiently sensitive to avoid damaging any objects during excavation. Have your labeled bags ready to receive larger artefacts as they exhumed, and remember to sieve all loose soil so that smaller items can be retrieved during sorting. Technique. An important element of effective troweling is correct posture. This is vital when working with a trowel for long periods of time, and helps to reduce physical discomfort as well as maintain a higher standard of workmanship. The first rule is that one should never sit down while troweling. This is not only bad practice, but it slows you down, looks lazy and is unprofessional. Your reach will be restricted, and you will not have the necessary mobility to shift your body in response to what the trowel is telling you. You need to have as much information about your feature or deposit at all times to help you make the right choices in tackling it. This is difficult if you are sitting on part of it most of the time. Troweling is a dynamic activity. As the primary interface between you and the archaeology, it should be dynamic and focussed. Your weight needs to be in front of your body, on the trowel itself. Some people like to kneel at first, while they start to get to grips with the troweling technique. This can get bad for your knees, and you should use kneeling pads to reduce the stress on your joints. The best position is to squat, with some of your weight resting on your toes, and most of the weight on your trowel. This may feel unfamiliar and uncomfortable at first, but as your limbs start to adjust you will find that you can spend many hours in this position much more comfortably than when kneeling. In addition you will have increased dexterity, and you will be able to move around easily,

Fig 41. Exposing the door slide of a Marothodi hut with careful troweling.


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allowing you to follow your context as you remove it, or to adjust the angle from which you connect with it. Always trowel towards yourself. Never push your trowel outward, away from your body. Ensure that your feature or deposit is in front of you, and trowel from your outstretched arm back towards your toes. As the area in front of you nears completion (whether you are just cleaning a layer or removing a deposit), shift your body backwards a bit, and continue. Mattocking The mattock is a heavy tool that looks like a pick, but with flat blades instead of pointed ones. The head of the mattock is usually not permanently fixed to the handle, but is wedged on securely. It is very useful for the controlled excavation of larger or very compact deposits that require a bolder or more rapid approach than troweling alone. Its effective use is more about technique than the physical strength of the Archaeologist, and everyone should try to develop some level of competency with this tool. Legs should be roughly shoulder-width apart, one in front of the other and slightly bent. Hold the mattock with one hand towards the end of the handle, and the other further up the handle closer to the blade. Raise the mattock in front of you to roughly chest height. You should never raise a mattock above head height. Let the mattock fall by relaxing the arm closest to the blade. As the head falls towards the deposit under its own weight, pull it slightly towards you with the hand closest to your body, and at the same time slide the other hand down the handle towards you. To lift up for the next stroke, push the hand that was closest to the head back up the handle, and lift the mattock up to chest height again. Always be careful of shins, toes and fingers, and look out for people working near you. With practice, you will be able to adjust the force of the mattock stroke from a gently controlled chiseling to remove a 5mm skim, to the more energetic removal of 20cm square chunks, depending on the requirements of the archaeological context and the physical nature of the deposit. It is best to start with small, controlled jobs before progressing to more heavy-duty activity as your skill improves. At Marothodi, we may use mattocks for excavating trenches through midden deposits, or for removing overburden or compacted archaeological layers, like the daga collapse of a hut mound. When an arbitrary spit or archaeological deposit has been removed with the mattock, it is followed up by troweling the newly exposed surface to make sure that you are still within the same context, to identify any revealed features, and to maintain the tidiness of your area.

Fig 42. A mattock.


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Because of the larger quantities of loose material usually generated by mattocking, this method is normally used in conjunction with long-handled shoveling to shift the spoil to a wheelbarrow or spoil heap. Good shoveling also relies on healthy, effective technique, but as most of our spoil will need to be sieved before dumping, we are likely to be using hand shovels and buckets to shift most of it. When using a mattock, remember to look particularly carefully for artefacts. Being further away from the ground as you excavate, combined with the comparatively rapid generation of loose soil, might cause you to miss smaller objects that you would have recovered if you were troweling. Check your spoil carefully before throwing it on the spoil heap, and remember that all deposit excavated from middens should be sieved first. In some cases, you might use hand picks, or hand mattocks. These are just smaller versions, and have the advantage of greater earth-moving power than the trowel, but with finer precision than regular-sized mattocks. Do watch out for your fingers though! Brushing Experienced Archaeologists tend to have mixed feelings about the use of hand brushes to clean features for analysis, and in most cases their criticism is justified. Brushing can obscure delicate interfaces between deposits and cloud subtle differences in soil colour or texture that might be vital to understanding the nature of a context, especially if the brush is too soft, or the deposit even slightly damp.

At Marothodi however, the air and most archaeological deposits tend to be quite dry and dusty. With a bit of attention given to technique, careful brushing in this environment can be the most effective way to clean up or expose certain features. This is especially true when revealing delicate substances, like occupation debris on the floor of a hut, daga furnace lining, or dry wood preserved in-situ. In a similar fashion to troweling you should always work backwards, brushing towards yourself, and refrain from simply dragging the bristles across the surface of the deposit as if you were sweeping the kitchen floor. A gentle ‘flicking’ motion should be used, so that the

bristles of the brush flick dust and debris off of the archaeological deposit and into the air, rather than smearing them across the surface. Site Tidiness During excavation you should aim to keep the area in which you are working as clean and tidy as possible. This helps to reduce potential hazards caused by cluttering, and ensures that any visitors to the site are able to observe our work proceeding in a controlled, scientific and professional manner. On any archaeological excavation, and particularly in

Fig 43. Brushing a recently exposed surface in SU25.


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the African context, Archaeologists are ambassadors for the discipline itself, as well as for any associated institutions. Try not to let loose soil build up around your working space, and always remember to remove it before leaving the site for tea breaks. This is also when you should ensure that your tools are neatly (and safely) placed next to your area, that your buckets are placed upside down (we are unlikely to get rain at Marothodi, but your future supervisors will thank me for encouraging this habit) and that any records or plans are not left open to the elements or roaming animals. Finally, if you are unsure about anything or find yourself struggling with a particular task or archaeological feature, please don’t hesitate to ask your supervisor or a Project Officer for practical guidance. Tackling tricky problems on site with trained Archaeologists in arm’s reach is the quickest and most effective way to learn.

Fig 44. Students learn to use a Total Station for

EDM survey at Marothodi.

Field Manual: Bibliography

55

Bibliography

Arlinghaus, S. L (ed.). 1994. Practical Handbook of Digital Mapping: Terms and Concepts. Boca Raton: London. Bettess, F. 1998 Surveying for Archaeologists. University of Durham Department of Archaeology. Breutz, P. L. 1953. The Tribes of Rustenburg and Pilanesberg Districts. Ethnological Publications: No. 28. Pretoria: Government Printer. Campbell, J. 1822. Travels in South Africa … being a narrative of a second journey (1820). London: Westley. Coertze, R. D. 1987. Bafokeng Family Law and Law of Succession. SABRA: Pretoria. Connah, G. 2001. African Civilizations. Cambridge University Press. Drewett, P. 1999. Field Archaeology: An Introduction. University College London. Evers, T. 1984. ‘Sotho-Tswana and Moloko settlement patterns and the Bantu Cattle Pattern’. In Hall, M. et al (eds.): Frontiers: southern African archaeology today. BAR International Series 207. Oxford: England. Feddema, J.P. 1966. ‘Tswana rituals concerning rain’. African Studies 25 (4). Kuper, A. 1982. Wives for Cattle: bridewealth and marriage in southern Africa. Routledge and Keegan Paul: London. Hall, S. 1998. ‘A consideration of gender relations in the Late Iron Age “Sotho” sequence of the Western Highveld, South Africa’. In Kent, S. (ed.): Gender in African Prehistory. Altamira Press: Walnut Creek. Hammond-Tooke, W. D (ed.). 1974. The Bantu Speaking People of Southern Africa. Routledge: London. Hammond-Tooke, W. D. 1993. The Roots of Black South Africa. Jonathan Ball Ltd. Hester, T., Shafer, H. and K. Feder. 1997. Field Methods in Archaeology. Mountain View, California. Huffman, T. N. 1982. ‘Archaeology and ethnohistory of the African Iron Age’. Annual review of Anthropology, 11. Huffman, T. N. 1986(a). ‘Archaeological evidence and conventional explanations of southern Bantu settlement patterns’. Africa 56 (3). Huffman, T. N. 1986(b). ‘Iron Age settlement patterns and the origins of class distinction in southern Africa’. In Wendorf, F. and A. E. Close (eds.): Advances in World Archaeology 5. Academic Press: Texas. Huffman, T. N. 1986(c). ‘Cognitive studies of the Iron Age in southern Africa’. World Archaeology 18 (1).


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Huffman, T. N. 1996. Snakes and Crocodiles: Power and Symbolism in Ancient Zimbabwe. Witwatersrand University Press: Johannesburg. Huffman, T. N. 2001. ‘The Central Cattle Pattern and interpreting the past’. Southern African Humanities 13. Lane, P. 1994/1995. ‘The use and abuse of ethnography in the study of the Southern African Iron Age’. Azania 29/30. Lane, P. 1998. ‘Engendered spaces and bodily practices in the Iron Age of Southern Africa’. In Kent, S. (ed.): Gender in African Prehistory. Altamira Press: Walnut Creek. Lock, G. R (ed.). 2000. Beyond the Map: Archaeology and Spatial Technologies. Oxford University Press. Lock, G. R. and Z. Stancic (eds.). 1995. Archaeology and Geographical Information Systems: A European Perspective. Taylor & Francis: London. Lye, W. F. and C. Murray. 1980. Transformations on the Highveld: The Tswana and Southern Sotho. David Philip: Cape Town and London. McIntosh, J. 1999. The Practical Archaeologist: How we know what we know about our past (Second Edition). Facts on File, New York. McIntosh, S. K (ed.). 1999. Beyond Chiefdoms: Pathways to Complexity in Africa. Cambridge University Press. Maggs, T. M. O’C. 1976. Iron Age Communities of the Southern Highveld. Natal Museum: Pietermaritzburg. Manson, A. 1995. ‘Conflict in the Western Highveld/Southern Kalahari, c. 1750-1820’. In C. Hamilton (ed.): The Mfecane Aftermath. Witwatersrand University Press: Johannesburg. Mason, R. J. 1968. ‘Iron Age settlement in the Transvaal and Natal revealed by aerial photography and excavation’. African Studies 27 (4). Mason, R. J. 1986. Origins of the Black People of Johannesburg and the Southern Western Central Transvaal, AD350-1880. Witwatersrand University Press, Johannesburg. Moffat, R. 1842. Missionary Labours and Scenes in Southern Africa. Seventh edition. Carter: New York. Museum of London Archaeology 1994. Archaeological Site Manual (Third Edition). Museum of London, London. Parsons, N. 1995. ‘Prelude to Difaqane in the interior of Southern Africa c. 1600 – c. 1822’. In Hamilton, C. (ed.): The Mfecane Aftermath. Witwatersrand University Press: Johannesburg. Pistorius, J. C. C. 1992. Molokwane: An Iron Age BaKwena Village. Perskor printers: Johannesburg. Pistorius, J. C. C. 1995. ‘Rathateng and Mabyanamatshwaana: cradles of the Kwena and Kgatla’. South African Journal of Ethnology18 (2). Pistorius, J. C. C. 1996. ‘Spatial expressions in the kgosing of Molokwane’. South African Journal of Ethnology19 (4).

Field Manual: Bibliography

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Pistorius, J. C. C. 1997. ‘Mmatshetshele: the settlement of a displaced group in the Bankeveld’. South African Journal of Ethnology 20 (4). Rapport, N. and J. Overing. 2000. Social and Cultural Anthropology: The Key Concepts. Routledge: London and New York. 117-126. Roskams, S. 2002. Excavation. Cambridge University Press. Schapera, I. 1935. ‘The social structure of the Tswana ward’. Bantu Studies 9. Schapera, I. 1938. A Handbook of Tswana Law and Custom. Oxford University Press for the Institute of African languages and Cultures: London. Schapera, I. 1952. ‘The ethnic composition of Tswana tribes’. Monograph on Social Anthropology No. 11. The London School of Economic and Political Science: London. Schapera, I. 1976. The Tswana. Ethnographic survey of Africa: Southern Africa Part 3. International African Institute: London. Sharer, R. J and W. Ashmore. 1979. Fundamentals of Archaeology. Menlow Park. Image Credits Figures 3, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 18, 22, 23, 38, 39 and 41 © Mark Steven Anderson Figures 2 and 5 © R. J. Mason/Wits Department of Archaeology. Figures 14, 17, 40, 43, 44 and front cover main picture © Neil Rusch/UCT Department of Archaeology Figure 20 from Bettess, F. 1998 Surveying for Archaeologists. University of Durham Department of Archaeology. Figures 31, 33, 34, 35 and 36 from Drewett, P. 1999. Field Archaeology: An Introduction. University College London. Figures 4, 6 and 7 from Hammond-Tooke, W. D. 1993. The Roots of Black South Africa. Jonathan Ball Ltd. Figures 19 and 21 from Hester, T., Shafer, H. and K. Feder. 1997. Field Methods in Archaeology. Mountain View, California. Figure 1 from Mason, R. J. 1986. Origins of the Black People of Johannesburg and the Southern Western Central Transvaal, AD350-1880. Witwatersrand University Press, Johannesburg. Figures 24 and 30 from Museum of London Archaeology 1994. Archaeological Site Manual. Museum of London, London. Figures 15, 16, 26, 27 and 37 from Roskams, S. 2002. Excavation. Cambridge University Press. Figures 25, 28 and 29 from McIntosh, J. 1999. The Practical Archaeologist: How we know what we know about our past (Second Edition). Facts on File, New York.

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Marothodi Field Manual 2004

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