Desert Peoples: Archaeological Perspectives

Desert Peoples Archaeological Perspectives Edited by Peter Veth (Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait I...

Author: Peter Veth | Mike Smith | Peter Hiscock

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Desert Peoples Archaeological Perspectives Edited by

Peter Veth (Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies), Mike Smith (National Museum of Australia), and Peter Hiscock (The Australian National University)

Desert Peoples

Desert Peoples Archaeological Perspectives Edited by

Peter Veth (Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies), Mike Smith (National Museum of Australia), and Peter Hiscock (The Australian National University)

ß 2005 by Blackwell Publishing Ltd BLACKWELL PUBLISHING 350 Main Street, Malden, MA 02148-5020, USA 108 Cowley Road, Oxford OX4 1JF, UK 550 Swanston Street, Carlton, Victoria 3053, Australia The right of Peter Veth, Mike Smith, and Peter Hiscock to be identified as the Authors of the Editorial Material in this Work has been asserted in accordance with the UK Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, except as permitted by the UK Copyright, Designs, and Patents Act 1988, without the prior permission of the publisher. First published 2005 by Blackwell Publishing Ltd Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Desert peoples: archaeological perspectives / edited by Peter Veth, Mike Smith, Peter Hiscock. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 1-4051-0090-7 (hardcover: alk. paper) — ISBN 1-4051-0091-5 (pbk. : alk. paper) 1. Desert people. 2. Archaeology. I. Veth, Peter Marius. II. Smith, M. A. III. Hiscock, Peter, 1957– GN390.D47 2005 306’.09154—dc22 2004014009 A catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library. Set in 10.5/13pt Minion by Kolam Information Services Pvt. Ltd, Pondicherry, India Printed and bound in the United Kingdom by T J International Ltd, Padstow, Cornwall The publisher’s policy is to use permanent paper from mills that operate a sustainable forestry policy, and which has been manufactured from pulp processed using acid-free and elementary chlorine-free practices. Furthermore, the publisher ensures that the text paper and cover board used have met acceptable environmental accreditation standards. For further information on Blackwell Publishing, visit our website: www.blackwellpublishing.com

Contents

Notes on Contributors

vii

1 Global Deserts in Perspective

1

Mike Smith, Peter Veth, Peter Hiscock, and Lynley A. Wallis

Part I Frameworks

15

2 Theoretical Shifts in the Anthropology of Desert Hunter-Gatherers

17

Thomas Widlok

3 Pleistocene Settlement of Deserts from an Australian Perspective

34

Peter Hiscock and Lynley A. Wallis

4 Arid Paradises or Dangerous Landscapes: A Review of Explanations for Paleolithic Assemblage Change in Arid Australia and Africa

58

Peter Hiscock and Sue O’Connor

Part II Dynamics

79

5 Evolutionary and Ecological Understandings of the Economics of Desert Societies: Comparing the Great Basin USA and the Australian Deserts

81

Douglas W. Bird and Rebecca Bliege Bird

6 Cycles of Aridity and Human Mobility: Risk Minimization Among Late Pleistocene Foragers of the Western Desert, Australia

100

Peter Veth

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Contents

7 Archaic Faces to Headdresses: The Changing Role of Rock Art Across the Arid Zone Jo McDonald

116

8 The Archaeology of the Patagonian Deserts: Hunter-Gatherers in a Cold Desert Luis Alberto Borrero

142

Part III Interactions

159

9 Perspectives on Later Stone Age Hunter-Gatherer Archaeology in Arid Southern Africa Anne I. Thackeray

161

10 Long-Term Transitions in Hunter-Gatherers of Coastal Northwestern Australia Kathryn Przywolnik

177

11 Hunter-Gatherers and Herders of the Kalahari during the Late Holocene Karim Sadr

206

12 Desert Archaeology, Linguistic Stratigraphy, and the Spread of the Western Desert Language Mike Smith

222

13 People of the Coastal Atacama Desert: Living Between Sand Dunes and Waves of the Pacific Ocean Calogero M. Santoro, Bernardo T. Arriaza, Vivien G. Standen, and Pablo A. Marquet

243

14 Desert Solitude: The Evolution of Ideologies Among Pastoralists and Hunter-Gatherers in Arid North Africa Andrew B. Smith

261

15 Hunter-Gatherer Interactions with Sheep and Cattle Pastoralists from the Australian Arid Zone Alistair Paterson

276

16 Conclusion: Major Themes and Future Research Directions Peter Veth

293

General Index

301

Index of Archaelogical Features and Subjects

303

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Bernardo T. Arriaza is Professor of Physical Anthropology at the University of Nevada, Department of Anthropology and Ethnic Studies, Las Vegas, and Visiting Researcher at Centro de Investigaciones del Hombre en el Desierto, Universidad de Tarapaca´ Arica, Chile. The focus of his research is the bio-cultural adaptation and evolution of prehistoric Andean populations. He has taught bio-anthropology at both undergraduate and postgraduate levels in the Unites States, Chile, Argentina, and Mexico. Douglas W. Bird is an Assistant Research Professor in the Climate Change Institute and Department of Anthropology at the University of Maine. He grew up in the Great Basin and has spent the last few years working with Martu peoples in Australia’s Western Desert. He was educated at the University of Utah and University of California, Davis. His research focuses on foraging ecology and its archaeological implications in small-scale societies. Rebecca Bliege Bird is an Assistant Professor in the Department of Anthropology at the University of Maine. She received her PhD in Anthropology from the University of California, Davis in 1996. After a long-term ethnographic project in the Torres Strait, she began working with the Martu community in 2000. She is especially interested in the ecology of foraging and gender, and the role of women’s economic activities in shaping Martu land management strategies. Luis Alberto Borrero received his PhD from the Universidad de Buenos Aires in 1986. He is a Senior Archaeologist at the Consejo Nacional de Investigaciones Cientificas y Tecnicas and Professor at the Universidad de Buenos Aires. He has worked widely in Patagonia, with an active research interest in hunter-gatherers.

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No t e s o n C o n t r i b u t o r s

Peter Hiscock is a Reader in the School of Archaeology and Anthropology at The Australian National University. He is a leading researcher into prehistoric stone technology, with a record of developing models about prehistoric (Paleolithic) technology, both in Australia and elsewhere. He has worked extensively in, and published widely on, the Australian deserts, although his current focus is the analysis of European Paleolithic technologies. Jo McDonald is Managing Director of Jo McDonald Cultural Heritage Management Pty Ltd. She completed her PhD at The Australian National University in Canberra. Her thesis used information exchange theory to understand the regional variability in a dual media art system in the Sydney Basin, in southeastern Australia. In addition to managing a cultural heritage consultancy business in Sydney, her current research interests lie in the prehistoric graphic systems of the Western Desert. Pablo A. Marquet is Associate Professor in the Center for Advanced Studies in Ecology and Biodiversity and Departamento de Ecologıá, Pontificia Universidad Cato´lica de Chile, Santiago. The focus of his research is in the emergent discipline of macroecology, centered in the search for general principles that underlie the structure and function of ecological systems. Sue O’Connor is a Senior Research Fellow in the Department of Archaeology and Natural History at The Australian National University in Canberra. Her research interests include issues of colonization and technological and subsistence change in northern Australia and Island Southeast Asia. Alistair Paterson is an archaeology lecturer at the University of Western Australia. He researches the archaeology of colonial Australia and culture contact. He has published in a range of leading Australian journals and contributed to the Encyclopedia of Historical Archaeology. Kathryn Przywolnik completed her PhD at the University of Western Australia in 2000. Her thesis explored issues of long-term hunter-gatherer occupation and mobility on the arid Cape Range Peninsula in coastal northwest Western Australia. She has worked on a range of historic and precolonial archaeological excavations and field surveys throughout Australia, and her current research interests include environmental and social constructions in archaeology. She is currently employed as an archaeologist with the Department of Environment and Conservation (NSW) in Sydney. Karim Sadr’s PhD is based in the School of Geography, Archaeology, and Environmental Studies at the University of the Witwaterstrand in Johannesburg. His current research interest is the transition to food production in Southern Africa.

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Calogero M. Santoro is a Full Professor of Archaeology, Executive Director of the Centro de Investigaciones del Hombre en el Desierto, Universidad de Tarapaca´ Arica, Chile and co-editor of the journal Chungara Revista de Antropologıá Chilena. His research focuses on late prehistoric farming societies and the Inka state, and Holocene hunter-gatherers in the Atacama Desert. Andrew B. Smith is Associate Professor in the Department of Archaeology, University of Cape Town, Rondebosch. His research interests include the origins and development of herding societies in Africa, the prehistory of modern Saharan pastoralists, relations between hunters and herders at the Cape, and the origins of Khoekhoen. Mike Smith is Director of Research and Development at the National Museum of Australia. He is an internationally recognized field archaeologist, researcher, lecturer, and museum curator, having pioneered research into late Pleistocene settlement of the Australian desert. He has published widely in leading international journals. Vivien G. Standen is Professor of Bioarchaeology at the Centro de Investigaciones del Hombre en el Desierto, Universidad de Tarapaca´ Arica, Chile and co-editor of the journal Chungara Revista de Antropologıá Chilena. Her research focuses on both the cultural and environmental factors that shaped the prehistoric populations that inhabited the Atacama Desert, examining both hunter-gatherers and farmers. Anne I. Thackeray is an Honorary Research Associate in the Archaeology Division of the School of Geography, Archaeology, and Environmental Studies at the University of the Witwaterstrand in Johannesburg. Her research interests focus on the stone tools of the southern African Middle and Later Stone Ages, and she writes on wide-ranging African archaeological topics for non-specialist readers. Peter Veth is Head of the Research Section at the Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies in Canberra. He has conducted extensive archaeological research throughout the arid zone of Australia and has produced over 200 academic articles, chapters, books, and peer-reviewed reports focusing on desert archaeology, ethno-economics, cultural heritage issues, and native title. Peter has given invited lectures on these topics in the USA, UK, Europe, and Southeast Asia. Lynley A. Wallis is a Visiting Research Fellow in the Department of Archaeology and Natural History at the Australian National University in Canberra, where she completed her PhD in 2001. She is currently researching the timing and nature of Aboriginal occupation in the semi-arid region of northwest Queensland, human– paleoenvironmental interactions during the Late Quaternary, and the application

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No t e s o n C o n t r i b u t o r s

of phytolith analysis to archaeological and paleoenvironmental research questions in northern Australia Thomas Widlok completed his MSc and PhD in anthropology at the London School of Economics, where he has also taught. Currently he lectures in anthropology at the University of Heidelberg and leads an interdisciplinary research project at the Max Planck Institute for Psycholinguistics in Nijmegen (Netherlands). He has conducted long-term ethnographic field research in Namibia and Australia and has published on these regions as well as comparative work on settlement patterns, language change, and ritual dynamics.

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Global Deserts in Perspective Mike Smith, Peter Veth, Peter Hiscock, and Lynley A. Wallis

Introduction For centuries, deserts have captured the public imagination as places of extremes. These are landscapes that might be perceived as impenetrable barriers to human occupation or instead as the domain entered into by individuals pursuing a revelatory experience. They are of course also the same terrain through which the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers passed and which, when hydraulically ‘‘tamed,’’ became the agricultural powerhouses of the Near East. Desert societies have also been central to the anthropological imagination. The classic ethnographies of hunter-gatherer societies – of the Ju/’hoansi (!Kung), the Paiute and Shoshone, the Arrernte, Pitjantjatjara, and Pintubi – all deal with desert peoples. Surprisingly, very few analyses have adopted a comparative perspective on a global scale (however, see Peterson 1979). This volume aims to bring together studies which, as a corpus, allow us to take a comparative approach to the emergence and diversity of global desert societies. Over the last century, hunter-gatherer studies have moved from a social evolutionary perspective at the close of the nineteenth century (Spencer and Gillen 1899), to structural-functionalist or cultural ecology frameworks in the twentieth century (Gould 1969; Lee 1979; Steward 1938). The Man the Hunter symposium (Lee and DeVore 1968) promulgated a now popular model of hunter-gatherer society, the ‘‘generalized forager’’ model, which was based substantially on these desert hunter-gatherer groups. Under this model, generalized foragers shared five basic characteristics: egalitarian society; low population density; lack of territoriality; minimal food storage; and fluid band composition with changes in residential mobility used to maintain social ties and reduce intragroup conflict – though it remains to be determined whether these are characteristic of foragers in desert environments, rather than hunter-gatherers in general. The elements of this socioeconomic model had been formulated in Steward’s (1938) pioneering study of

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S mith , V e t h, H is c oc k , W a l l i s

Great Basin Shoshone and Paiute foragers. This model was reinvigorated during the 1970s, and at that time !Kung bushmen came to be seen as the quintessential hunter-gatherers. A review of social and behavioral variability in hunter-gatherers shows that there is a wide spectrum of hunter-gatherer societies if groups living in other types of habitats are included in the analysis (Kelly 1995). Over the last 20 years, hunter-gatherer research has shifted towards either behavioral ecology (Smith and Winterhalder 1992) or historical analyses of these societies (e.g., Schrire 1984; Wilmsen 1989). (For accessible interdisciplinary overviews of hunter-gatherer studies, see Lee and Daly 1999 or Panter-Brick et al. 2001.) In putting this volume together, we felt that it was time to reframe questions about the structure and dynamics of foraging groups, using the desert environment as a frame of reference and comparison. Deserts have a special role in human evolution and adaptation. They appear to be the major terrestrial habitat that channeled early human dispersal, representing barriers at some times, corridors at others (cf. Gamble 1993). Studies of desert societies have also provided some of the most fertile ground for debates about human adaptability and how societies cope with marginal – often precarious – environmental circumstances, and about the effects of these environmental conditions on human land use, mobility, and dispersal (Kelly 1995). How do societies in marginal environments actually deal with risk in either a reactive or strategic sense? Many desert foragers in the ethnographic record appear to have responded by changing their diet-breadth and residential mobility. For others, such as in the Old World deserts of the Northern Hemisphere, the proximity of deserts to the major zones of plant and animal domestication appears to have provided a mutual ecology for change, in both the mode and relations of production. The long-term dynamics of both desert societies and the desert environment are not readily accessible to analysis using standard ethnographic or historical approaches. For this, the longer perspective provided by archaeology is necessary. The emphasis of this volume is therefore squarely on deserts as a major world habitat, on hunter-gatherer peoples in deserts, and on the rapidly growing body of archaeological data on the deep history of these groups.

Deserts: A Modicum of Facts and Figures Deserts are one of the world’s major habitats, forming large bands of drylands along the tropics in both the Northern and Southern Hemispheres (see Mares 1999 and Middleton and Thomas 1997 for overviews of world deserts). A recent map of the extent of world deserts has been produced by the United Nations Environment Program (UNEP) (see Middleton and Thomas 1997) and is reproduced here as Figure 1.1. Deserts cover around 25,500,000 sq km, approximately 20 percent of the land area of the world (see Table 1.1). The boundaries of these drylands are neither static nor abrupt: they have changed throughout the Quaternary in response to shifts in global climate and weather systems – and will no doubt change over the next century as human-induced global warming takes effect. The defining

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Gl ob a l D e s e r t s i n P e r s p e c t i v e Table 1.1 Area of world deserts by region and zone. Figures are square kilometers x 1,000,000 (after Middleton and Thomas 1997: table 1.1). Zone

Africa

Asia

Australia

Europe

North America

Arid Hyperarid Total

5.04 6.72 11.76

6.26 2.77 9.13

3.03 0.00 3.03

0.11 0.00 0.11

0.82 0.31 1.13

South America

Total

0.45 0.26 7.02

15.69 9.78 25.47

characteristic of world deserts – aridity – can be measured in a number of ways. The current UNEP definition is that it represents a moisture deficit under normal climatic conditions where P/PET 3) Weakly (S/W 1.3-3) seasonal

15

UNIFORM DISTRIBUTION

1 20

2 L Eyre

30

3 35

WINTER RAIN Weekly seasonal (W/S 1.3−3) Strongly seasonal (W/S >3)

135

150

Figure 3.2 The contemporary Australian arid zone (thick line), where potential evaporation exceeds actual evaporation (modified from Gentilli 1986 and Hesse et al. 2004). Rainfall seasonality is shown as the ratio of summer to winter rainfall. Three broad regions are numbered as (1) Kimberley and the northwest, (2) Lake Eyre and its catchment, and (3) Willandra Lakes.

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P e t e r H is c oc k a n d L y n l e y A . W a l l i s

of the Great Sandy Desert, have revealed increasing aridity during the last 300,000 years, with several lacustral phases prior to 40,000 years ago. The record from Lake Wood to the east shows similar trends, but differences in the precise timing and extent of high water conditions, indicating interregional and local variations (Bowler et al. 1998). The long-term trend towards increasing aridity is also reflected in vegetation change during the late Quaternary. Studies of soil organic matter from Lake Gregory have indicated a trend, over the last 100,000 years, away from exclusively tree and shrub floral assemblages towards a grass dominated flora as increasing water stress developed (Pack et al. 2003). These data are consistent with the evidence for vegetation change available from the phytolith record at Carpenter’s Gap 1 where, 45,000 years ago, there was a diverse grassland ecology and palms outside their modern geographical range, suggesting the existence of wetter conditions at that time than in any more recent period (Wallis 2001). In the Lake Eyre Basin of central Australia, a region in which water availability reflects not only local conditions but also seasonal rainfall patterns in its northerly catchment, broadly similar trends towards desiccation have been well documented. As evidenced by the nature of regional vegetation patterns, the Australian monsoon was more effective before 45,000 years ago than at anytime since (Johnson et al. 1999). This is also seen within Lake Eyre itself, which was for the most part a permanently wet lake until about 60,000 years ago, when it changed to a groundwater dominated system as it progressively dried out (Magee and Miller 1998). Up until about 30,000 years ago enhanced winter westerly circulation might have penetrated more regularly to the Lake Eyre region than under the present climate, bringing with it enhanced winter rainfall and wetter conditions than at any time since. Preserved tree roots and trace fossils of large roots replaced by secondary gypsum also reveal that trees were more common during that period than today (Hesse et al. 2004). These climatic differences in the Lake Eyre Basin probably stem from an interaction of enhanced winter rainfall, greater inflow from enhanced storms in northern Australia, and reduced evaporation associated with substantially lower temperatures than at present (Magee and Miller 1998; Miller et al. 1997). In contrast, far from the influence of monsoonal rainfall in southeastern Australia the archetypal locality for describing arid/semi-arid environmental history and archaeology is the Willandra Lakes, and especially Lake Mungo. Bowler (1998) has demonstrated the alternation of dry and wet phases at Lake Mungo during the late Pleistocene, with a long-term drying trend. Prior to 45,000–42,000 years ago there was a prolonged lacustral phase with high water levels. A further series of water bodies were also present 36,000–22,000 years ago, although low and fluctuating lake levels are features of the period following 42,000 years. Other lake systems in the arid southeast have been shown to display somewhat similar trends, although with distinct hints of local variations in the timing and pattern of high water levels (Harrison 1993). This overall pattern of drying since 50,000–40,000 years ago is also visible in the activation of linear dunes, particularly during the last 25,000 years (Wasson 1984). These brief pictures of surface hydrology and vegetation in widely separated regions of the Australian interior provide an image of the landscapes into which we

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P l e i s t o c en e S e t t l e m e n t o f D e s e r t s

believe the first human colonists moved. Prior to about 45,000 years ago conditions were similar to, but probably cooler than, those of today, with a long-term trend towards aridification and increased aeolian activity. In many regions it is likely that up until about 45,000 years ago – and perhaps to 30,000 years ago in some locations – the availability of fresh surface water would have been at least as good, if not better, than during the Holocene. Hence at the time humans began exploring these landscapes they were still drier than many parts of the continental margins, but they were noticeably different from their contemporary state. In each of the three regions reviewed above, and many others not summarized here, seasonal floods and large standing water bodies were common and comparatively predictable prior to 45,000–40,000 years ago in ways that they have not been over the last 35,000 years. We hypothesize that human colonization of these landscapes involved a number of general patterns that reflect the environmental conditions and are likely to be unique to this particular period (a point also made by Thorley 1998). The greater relative availability and predictability of resources, including large permanent water bodies, prior to 45,000–40,000 years ago, would have facilitated exploration and exploitation of these unique interior landscapes. It is likely that the pattern and rate of exploration and colonization varied between regions in response to the specific nature and distribution of landscape features within each region. Both ethnographic and biogeographic perspectives indicate that colonization is most likely to have taken place along corridors of distinct landscape features such as rivers or mountain ranges (Kelly 2003; Veth 1989). Since such features vary between regions we suggest that there is unlikely to have been a uniform pattern of colonization across these diverse interior landscapes. More significantly, the movement of people into the interior of Australia prior to 40,000 years ago would have meant that their economic and social systems were developed in response to the existing environmental conditions. Hence, interior colonization may not have required a refined or specific adaptation to extreme aridity. Thorley (1998, 2001) has previously discussed this proposition for the initial human occupation of the central Australian ranges and plains, where Lake Amadeus and the Finke and Palmer rivers catchment would have provided more regular and more abundant resources at the time of colonization than today. Our review suggests that this notion should be extended to many of the inland regions for which we now have evidence. Without doubt the gradual desertification that followed the period of interior colonization (post-35,000 years ago) would have required modifications to foraging and social strategies. However, these modifications would have been made by forager groups which by that time had established familiarity with the landscape structure of each region. Readjustment of economic systems to even rapid trends towards aridity would have been facilitated by local group knowledge of the environment; these groups would have been advantaged by modifying their existing systems in situ, building new economic and technological strategies based on knowledge of the local landscape. In this sense we hypothesize that the widespread colonization of the Australian interior prior to the pronounced drying of the late Pleistocene meant that many foraging groups with generalized

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terrestrial economic strategies probably evolved more dedicated desert economic strategies in situ. This ‘‘desert transformation’’ model removes the paradox of explaining how people were able to migrate into Australian deserts in the late Pleistocene; in some important ways the modern deserts of Australia came to inland dwelling people, rather than the reverse. Of course, there is no connection of this model with the idea of coastal colonization (contra Thorley 1998), since the process we hypothesize implies that groups moving into interior lands had effective terrestrial foraging strategies suited to a variety of dry, semi-arid, and arid landscapes. These were not coastally adapted peoples (also as argued by O’Connor and Veth 2000); but our model predicts they were also foragers without many of the specific desert economic and social traits observable in the late Holocene and historic period. This prediction is consistent with features of the archaeological record in these interior lands. For instance, a number of the strategies taken to be risk reduction responses in the late Holocene desert economies are either absent or little utilized in the archaeological residues of the colonists moving into those regions more than 40,000 years ago. No compelling evidence for trade or long distance transportation of resources has been identified, perhaps not surprising given the exploratory nature of occupation and the indications in extremely low artifact discard rates that population densities may have been very low and perhaps territories large. Furthermore, although grinding stones are likely to have been a technology employed to exploit plant foods throughout Australian prehistory (Fullagar and Field 1997; Gorecki et al. 1997), the earliest archaeological assemblages contain few grindstones. This pattern probably reveals that the intensive processing of seeds, a key characteristic of risk minimization in historical arid zone economic strategies, emerged in response to specific conditions in the Holocene and was neither a central nor a universal feature of the initial occupation of the interior. The exploitation of the large lacustrine and riverine resources that existed at the time, plus the low densities of people occupying many inland territories, may be cited as likely reasons that seed processing was not given the same prominence during the pre-40,000 year old colonizing phase as it was in much later times. These earliest inland economies were based on a broad spectrum and flexible foraging strategy. Although not all of the early archaeological sites spread across the Australian interior have good faunal preservation, the key characteristics of hunting and animal foods can be defined as follows. A wide range of small to medium sized game was hunted, including marsupials, reptiles, and, near lacustrine systems, fish and mussels. The taxa represented varied between sites and regions in response to local conditions. Plant foods were also exploited, but as explained above, the discovery of grindstones at only one locality to date also indicates variation in the way these broad spectrum systems were implemented. A radically different view on the economy of colonizing groups proposes that early foragers targeted large land animals and were responsible for the extinction of all megafauna in Australia, during the first millennia of human occupation of the continent (e.g., Miller et al. 1999; Roberts et al. 2001). Many kinds of megafauna (species of animals exceeding 44 kg at adult weight) have become extinct in Australia

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over the last 100,000 years; however, the claim that all megafauna became extinct soon after humans colonized Australia is fraught with sampling problems and fails to consider the discovery of sites where megafaunal species existed until only 30,000–20,000 years ago (Field and Dodson 1999; Wroe et al. 2002). More significantly, not a single ‘‘kill’’ site from the initial period of interior colonization has been identified, and it seems doubtful that there could have been enough humans in interior Australia around 50,000–45,000 years ago to cause the extinction of multiple species (Hughes and Hiscock in press). A more likely explanation is that the environmental transformation of the Australian interior through the process of aridification was the trigger for faunal changes of many kinds, including local extinctions. Humans were not immune to those environmental changes and the archaeological sequence records the impact of desertification on inland foragers.

Subsequent Use of Desert Areas of Australia One consequence of our ‘‘desert transformation’’ model of pre-hyperarid colonization of the interior by generalist foragers concentrating on riverine and lacustrine resources is that desert adaptations emerged during the subsequent period. In this chapter we are concerned with two aspects of the modification of economies: the nature of economic life in the Pleistocene deserts prior to the LGM, and the impact of the LGM on desert dwellers. Archaeological evidence now reveals dynamic and varied subsistence and settlement responses to the onset of desert conditions, and suggests that these responses are not identical to the desert adaptation that emerged in the Holocene. Following a gradual cooling and drying trend initiated at about 45,000 years ago, the last glacial cycle intensified rapidly with the onset of what is called Oxygen Isotope Stage 2 (OIS2) approximately 30,000 years ago. At that time sea levels dropped rapidly by nearly 50 m over perhaps 1,000 years or less, exposing large areas of the continental shelf and making many inland areas even more continental than they had been (Chappell 1991; Lambeck and Chappell 2001; Lambeck et al. 2002; Yokoyama et al. 2001). From 30,000 to about 20,000 years ago the monsoon was the least effective it had been over the last 100,000 years or so (Johnson et al. 1999); and average air temperatures in low latitude regions, including the continental interior of Australia, appear to have been at least 6–98C lower than at present (Miller et al. 1997). Many inland areas show pronounced reductions in the availability and reliability of surface water, and of related food resources. For instance, by 35,000 years ago Lake Eyre had become dry and remained so until around 10,000 years ago (Magee and Miller 1998). During the same period there were lower and fluctuating lake levels in the Willandra system and the activation of dune building processes (Bowler 1983b, 1986, 1998). In many other lacustrine systems across Australia lake levels show significant decreases in this period, although the timing varies locally (Harrison 1993). The radically reduced precipitation/evaporation indices in OIS2 had severe consequences for not only water availability but also for vegetation patterns. Transitions to landscapes with reduced

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amounts of vegetation, floral assemblages with fewer trees/shrubs, and an increased grassland component have been inferred across many inland regions as extreme desert conditions emerged. Examples of such transformations include Carpenter’s Gap 1 in the northwest (Wallis 2001), Puritjarra rock shelter in central Australia (Bowdery 1998; Smith et al. 1995), and Cuddie Springs and Ulungra Springs in northern and western New South Wales (NSW) (Dodson and Wright 1989; Dodson et al. 1993). Changes in precipitation, temperature, and surface water availability acted in concert to enlarge the portion of Australia that would be regarded as desertic, with the semi-arid zone expanding laterally towards the continental margins, the previously semi-arid zone becoming fully arid, and deserts becoming far more inhospitable than they are today (see Jones and Bowler 1980). At least in the early portion of OIS2 some inland forager groups appeared to have continued and even consolidated their occupation, perhaps refining their generalist economic strategies to suit the landscapes in which they found themselves and in response to the desiccation of those landscapes. Adjustment of groups to different environments implies that localized adaptations were probably emerging at this time. For instance, in some localities, such as the central Murray–Darling lake systems, the number of dated archaeological sites was greater for the period 35,000–25,000 years ago than for earlier periods (Hope 1993). In other regions, such as northwestern Australia, increases in artifact discard rates have been observed within some rock shelters during this period (Morse 1993; O’Connor et al. 1993, 1999). These patterns of increased debris have been interpreted as population growth in some interior localities (e.g., Beaton 1985; Jones 1979; O’Connor et al. 1993). While models of population increase prior to 25,000 years ago are plausible, interpretations of the evidence from some localities indicate the nature and uniformity of occupation clearly varies, and no single trend can be inferred for settlement across the inland. The question of population size raises the unresolved issue of what comprised inland occupation at this time. Although numbers of sites or numbers of artifacts are notoriously unreliable indicators of the amount of human activities or number of people visiting a site, archaeological investigations of Pleistocene rock shelters and lake margins in some regions of interior Australia, such as the northwest and southeast, may indicate relatively high levels of occupation during OIS2 (Balme 1995; O’Connor et al. 1998). In contrast, other landscapes show archaeological sequences with very low artifact discard rates in this period compared to the Holocene (O’Connor et al. 1993; Smith 1989). In some sites artifact discard rates are as low as a few specimens per meter per millennium – rates which are so slow that it is unclear whether this really represents permanent occupation of the territory, or whether occasional but extended excursions by mobile foragers from adjoining landscapes during favorable seasons might be a more accurate interpretation. Irrespective of whether these differences reflect the number of people in residence or their mobility, these indicators of occupation intensity may reveal substantial differences in occupation between regions. For instance, while occupation of lake lunettes in several localities shows systematic, intensive, and sometimes dedicated exploitation of lacustrine resources (Balme 1995; Bowler 1998), there is

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minimal evidence of continuing occupation in many of the sandy deserts, except where they are bounded by other kinds of landscapes (see Hughes and Hiscock in press; O’Connor et al. 1998, 1999; Veth 1989). This variation in whether or not we have archaeological evidence for continued occupation probably reflects environmental differences between regions. This is an indication that the colonizing economic strategy, perhaps dependent on reliable access to surface water and focusing on the exploitation of riverine and lacustrine resources supplemented with nearby terrestrial resources, continued to form the core theme of many inland foragers in the period after 35,000–30,000 years ago. In a number of landscapes which retained these features, such as desert regions containing uplands, major coordinated drainage, and/or extant lake systems, archaeological evidence for occupation is found from the start of OIS2; in contrast, archaeological investigations in regions without those features have found little or no evidence of occupation. This contrast parallels Veth’s (1989) model that proposed sandy deserts without coordinated drainage and large permanent lakes often acted as barriers to occupation during the Pleistocene and early Holocene. In view of the now apparent widespread colonization of inland Australia, including sandy deserts (O’Connor et al. 1998, 1999), we hypothesize that this pattern of abandonment/avoidance of barriers of sandy deserts arose only during the period of extreme desiccation marking OIS2. If current archaeological evidence can be interpreted as revealing abandonment or greatly reduced use of some desert areas at the start of OIS2, then apparent responses of inland foragers to the intensification of arid conditions around 25,000 years ago can be viewed as an exaggeration of the existing land use strategies. The intensity of desiccation and consequent geographical expansion of arid interior Australia peaked towards the end of OIS2, during a relatively short phase spanning approximately 25,000–18,000 years ago, which we refer to as the Last Glacial Maximum (LGM). During this period conditions were both exceptionally cold and dry, and it is likely that evaporation was more effective and windiness enhanced compared to today, at least on a seasonal basis (e.g., Chappell 1991; Hubbard 1995; Magee and Miller 1998). Estimates of rainfall typically suggest levels approximately half that of today across interior Australia (Dodson and Wright 1989; Singh and Geissler 1985). The consequences of these extreme conditions must not be underestimated. Across the continent reduced vegetation cover was probably one trigger of a major phase of dune building initiated at this time (Ash and Wasson 1983; Bowler 1986; Bowler and Wasson 1984; Nanson et al. 1991; Wasson 1984) and aeolian dust storms were intense (Hesse 1994; Hesse and McTainsh 1999). Drying of lakes, and more general decline of surface water, was frequently linked to reductions in the level of water tables and, in some localities, formation of salt crusts on lake surfaces (Magee et al. 1995). These extreme conditions during the LGM caused widespread environmental stress, triggering massive – sometimes irreversible – changes to the landscape and to plant and animal resources. Some of these changes involved the temporary disappearance of food resources, such as in the Willandra Lakes where alterations to temperature, salinity, and water levels caused the loss of fish and freshwater mussels (Bowler 1998). Other kinds of changes may have involved a reduction in

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the predictability of resources, such as greater periodicity or irregularity in the refilling of water sources from rainfall. During this period it is likely that many portions of inland Australia were substantially drier than today, and archaeological research has yielded many instances of sites in which the absence of cultural material during the LGM indicates local or regional abandonment (Hiscock 1988; O’Connor et al. 1993, 1998, 1999; Veth 1989). Yet in other isolated inland regions occupation persisted, apparently within better resourced refuges. Sometimes these refuges were ranges or desert tablelands with aquifer-recharged water sources which provided plentiful, and more importantly unvarying, sources of water, as well as plants and animals (Hiscock 1984, 1988; Lamb 1996; Smith 1987, 1989). People may have exploited broader territories from these reliable bases, but in at least the case of Lawn Hill and Louie Creek Gorges in northern Queensland a contraction of territory has been demonstrated, with the residents abandoning high risk portions of the landscape from approximately 22,500 until 16,500 years ago (Hiscock 1988). Similar patterns of territorial contraction have been observed on Cape York and in northwestern Australia (Lamb 1996; Marwick 2002). These refuges would have supported only small groups of humans, and perhaps only on a semi-permanent basis, depending on the number of people and resource abundances in and around the refuge. The lake systems of western NSW represent another, perhaps shorter lived kind of refuge; there the appearance of grinding stones in archaeological deposits, either during or immediately after the LGM, is an example of the use of technological means to broaden resource use and obtain reliable access to food (Bowler 1998). Another predicted strategy would have been for groups of foragers to retreat to the semi-arid margins of inland Australia and to undertake long range trips to explore the arid zone during favorable conditions. One implication of decreased exploitation or abandonment of many deserts is that at some time following the termination of the LGM and coincident with the amelioration of climatic conditions foragers recolonized all portions of interior Australia. The timing and process of such recolonization events appear to be complex. In some localities, such as the JSN site in the Strzelecki Desert, there may be near immediate, if fleeting, exploration or exploitation of the desert (see Hughes and Hiscock in press). Another rapid resumption of land use occurred around the Lawn Hill and Louie Creek Gorges, where resource exploitation in once-abandoned landscapes was reinitiated approximately 17,000–16,000 years ago (Hiscock 1988). However, there are regions of the arid zone in which the earliest dated evidence of human reoccupation takes place many millennia after the end of the LGM (Hughes and Hiscock in press; Morse 1988; Veth 1989). These differences may reflect the environments being recolonized, especially in the favorable climatic conditions of the early Holocene. However, they also probably reflect the historical circumstances of the colonizing groups, namely whether they derived from an LGM refuge or from non-arid lands on the continental periphery, whether the colonizing groups possessed specific economic or technological capacities that might enhance their ability in the new desert landscapes, and so on. When desert occupation recommenced and/or intensified in the Holocene the distinctive recent desert economy is clearly visible, most easily recognized by the frequent use of

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grindstones to process reliable and abundant grass seeds, the abundant discard of tula adzes reflecting standardized woodworking, and the ramified long distance social and economic networks (Veth 1989). We can therefore date the emergence of that late Holocene strategy for desert adaptation to the terminal Pleistocene or early Holocene; that is, the period after the LGM. Like Veth (1989), we suspect that the roots of these Holocene adaptive systems may eventually be traced to the experiences of foragers in the refuges of the LGM.

Australian Desert Colonization in a Global Perspective Our synthesis indicates that an arid zone adaptation, of the kind observed historically, was absent from the initial colonization of the Australian deserts, and indeed from inland economies prior to the LGM. We therefore support Veth’s (1989) suggestion that the ethnographic forms of desert economy and subsistence are relatively recent, rather than representing features of inland occupation from the start (contra Gould 1977). Our hypothesis is that the historic form of desert adaptation in Australia emerged subsequent to the LGM, perhaps as a consequence of heavy selection/experimentation during the hyperarid conditions of that period and the later recolonization of desert areas. Because the evidence from Australia, both archaeological and environmental, is exceptional in its extent and detail, we have developed these propositions in reference to the Australian landmass. We now turn to a consideration of whether the pattern of early desert occupation in other parts of the globe displays similarities with the Australian situation. The following review briefly examines available evidence from current desert regions of Africa, North America, and South America. In southern Africa the environmental and archaeological history of the Kalahari Desert is known from only fragmentary records (Deacon and Lancaster 1988). As in Australia, the period leading up to the onset of OIS2 was wetter and more humid than today, while cold, dry, and arid conditions persisted through OIS2, and wetter and more humid conditions returned in the terminal Pleistocene and early Holocene (Blumel et al. 1998; Brook et al. 1996; Lancaster 1989; Robbins et al. 1996; Scott 1989; Shaw and Thomas 1996; Thomas and Shaw 2002; Thomas et al. 2003). Archaeological data from the Tsodilo Hills in the northwest Kalahari (which, it should be noted, is currently considered sub-humid rather than arid) reveals human occupation throughout the last 100,000 years, irrespective of climatic conditions (Robbins et al. 2000). Nevertheless, during periods of higher relative precipitation and more permanent water resources (such as during the terminal Pleistocene) there is evidence for more substantial occupation, with foragers exploiting nearby lacustrine resources. This image of Kalahari foragers with knowledge of the local environment adjusting to the onset of aridity offers some similarity with our interpretation of Australian prehistory. By contrast, while it is often stated that the Namib Desert situated along the southwest coast remained hyperarid throughout the late Quaternary, there is

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evidence to indicate it experienced periods of relatively increased humidity prior to the LGM and in the terminal Pleistocene–early Holocene period (Heine 1992, 1998; Lancaster 2002; Vogel 1989). Current archaeological evidence from within the Namib indicates use of the area during posited periods of relatively greater moisture availability, although given the lack of resolution about local impacts of climatic changes it is unclear whether this represents a permanent or intensive desert adaptation prior to the Holocene (Deacon and Lancaster 1988: 51–2). At the other end of the African continent the also fragmentary archaeological and climatic records from the Sahara–Sahel Desert for the period between 100,000 and 50,000 years ago tentatively reveal a positive relationship between the timing of lacustrine phases and presence of Acheulian and Levallois-Mousterian sites, although the timing of the lacustral phases is not necessarily in concert with those in the south (Petit-Maire 1991). Unfortunately, despite good climatic records of a hyperarid LGM–terminal Pleistocene followed by a substantial wet phase during the early Holocene (Gasse 2002; Haynes et al. 1989; Hoelzmann et al. 2001; Pachur and Hoelzmann 2000; Pachur and Wunnemann 1996; Salzmann 1996), the response of foragers to these environmental changes prior to the introduction of cattle domestication in the Holocene is little known. These three African areas share a pattern of long-term human occupation, perhaps extending back to and beyond the emergence of modern Homo sapiens sapiens, and there is evidence, albeit tentative, for continued occupation in some regions despite dramatic changes in climate, water availability, and food resources. Although current archaeological and paleoenvironmental evidence is limited, it appears that each region displays occupational histories that share both similarities and differences to the one reconstructed for Australia, as well as similarities and differences between each other. This perhaps suggests that no single process of desert colonization is displayed and that settlement patterns reflect the environmental and historical features of each landscape. This proposition is clarified by summaries of the situation in the New World. Desert adaptations in the Americas offer a different context in which to test models of desert colonization, primarily because the generally accepted antiquity of humans in the New World dates to only 14,000–12,000 years ago, following the end of the LGM. Our review of the terminal Pleistocene occupation of American deserts examines three landscapes: the Great Basin of North America, the cold deserts of Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego, and the high altitude deserts of the Atacama and Peruvian coast. In the Great Basin available evidence indicates lower temperatures and higher average annual precipitation rates in the terminal Pleistocene period compared to today (Grayson 1993; Thompson 1990; Wells 1976; Woodcock 1986). Under these conditions there would have been greatly expanded water resources available within the Basin, with one estimation suggesting there would have been perhaps ten times more surface water than at present (Grayson 1993: 84–6). When combined with the presence of glaciated mountainous regions (Osborn and Bevis 2001) these lacustrine and riverine features meant that late Pleistocene huntergatherers in the Great Basin operated in a very different environment to the one

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that exists today. Archaeological evidence indicates people had moved into the Basin by 11,000 years ago and continued to be archaeologically visible and widespread until ca. 7,500 bp (see Chapter 5, this volume). During this period they were utilizing a broad array of resources from a wide range of environmental settings, although there seems little doubt ‘‘the lakes and marshes were key to the adaptations of these people’’ (Grayson 1993: 242). In contrast, high temperatures and low annual precipitation produced substantially more arid conditions during the midHolocene and marked economic change involving a settlement focus on remaining permanent sources of water and the emergence of seed grinding technology (Elston 1986; Grayson 1993; Thomas 1982; Warren and Crabtree 1986). This pattern of a late emergence of the historic desert economic system, during a phase of Holocene aridification, parallels the Australian experience. In Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego people probably colonized now arid regions in the terminal Pleistocene as highly mobile foragers concentrating on forest resources, with initial colonization delayed in some deserts until climate change at the Pleistocene/Holocene boundary increased precipitation and water availability (Borrero 1999; Markgraf 1989, 1993; McCulloch et al. 1997; see also Chapter 8, this volume). The Atacama Desert and adjacent Peruvian coastline is today a high altitude desert. Initial occupation of this desert region apparently occurred about 13,000 years ago, when environmental conditions can be characterized as relatively humid, with extensive grass cover, abundant flowing rivers, and high lake levels (Betancourt et al. 2000; Grosjean and Nun˜ez 1994; Latorre et al. 2002, 2003; Nun˜ez et al. 2002; Rech et al. 2002; Sandweiss 2003; see also Chapter 13, this volume). The extensive occupation of the region during a period prior to the transition to current environmental conditions may have facilitated the in situ development of a more specific desert economic strategy, a mechanism with similarities to the process apparent in Australia.

Conclusion Colonization of deserts is a widespread and varied human experience. Our review of selected desert areas has revealed that the timing and process of colonization has varied within and between continents, but that there are themes that are displayed in the initial movement of people into landscapes that are currently deserts. This exploration of these processes has centered on what we believe to be the most comprehensive environmental and archaeological data-set, the extensive Australian deserts. Prehistoric patterns in Australia are explicable in terms of the ‘‘desert transformation’’ model advanced herein, in which people colonize terrestrial landscapes using flexible and generalized broad spectrum foraging focused on available riverine and lacustrine resources. This model posits that following the adjustment of these foragers to the local resources climatic trends towards aridification transformed these landscapes into desert, or more extreme desert, environments. This process of foragers developing modified economic behaviors in response to

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changes to their familiar environment provides an explanation for the development of diverse practices suited to different Australian deserts. Similar processes have been observed elsewhere in the world, particularly in the Americas, and represent one mechanism by which Pleistocene foragers colonized deserts. Distinctive desert adaptations of the kind seen in historical records arose much later than the period of initial desert colonization, in many cases only well into the Holocene. The emergence and form of specific historic desert economic and social systems also varied around the globe in response to specific contingent environmental and cultural histories. For instance, the occupation of Australian deserts was interrupted, and perhaps fundamentally altered, by the severe, hyperarid conditions of the LGM. In contrast, while it seems likely that the onset of desertic conditions in the Holocene of North and South America was not as extreme as those experienced during the LGM, they were apparently still dramatic enough to precipitate substantial shifts in American forager strategies. While archaeology and paleoenvironmental data from African deserts are not as yet sufficiently detailed to allow such interpretations, we have little doubt that future sustained research in these localities will reveal unique histories of desert dwellers and their cultural responses to periods of extreme climatic change during the late Pleistocene and Holocene periods. Exploring the dynamic and changing relationship between climate, landscape, and the human colonization and occupation of dry regions is likely to refine our understanding of the processes by which people moved into and adapted to these landscapes. The central limitation archaeologists currently face in refining models of ancient desert dwellers is the rarity of detailed, paired environmental and archaeological sequences (cf. Veth et al. 2000). As high resolution paleoenvironmental and archaeological information is obtained, the choices that past peoples made about their survival strategies, and the context in which they made them, will become increasingly clear.

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Arid Paradises or Dangerous Landscapes A Review of Explanations for Paleolithic Assemblage Change in Arid Australia and Africa Peter Hiscock and Sue O’Connor

Introduction An inspection of archaeological studies from the arid and semi-arid regions of Australia and sub-Saharan Africa reveals very different images of the human occupation of each continent. Since the human history of each landmass is obviously distinct, many aspects of these images of the human past may reflect divergent cultural processes being played out in dissimilar arid environments. Such arguments fail to explain why the archaeological record in each continent displays parallel patterns, and discount fundamental questions about our characterization and explication of archaeological changes in the two continents. For example, in both Africa and Australia ancient humans employed a particular technology that involved backing of flakes to produce distinctive and regularly shaped stone implements that we will call backed artifacts. (The term microlith has often been used for these forms but is applicable only to small size variants.) In both continents this technological behavior has been present for extended periods of time, but was emphasized in some periods but not in others. Rather than presume these parallel patterns must be unrelated or are uninteresting, this chapter examines the explanations that have been offered for the periodic emphasis on backed artifacts by archaeologists exploring the human history of these two continents. Our examination reveals that the formulation of seemingly similar themes of archaeological change has been radically different in each continent, and we employ that insight to both evaluate the viability of various kinds of explanations and to demonstrate that the inferred histories of humans in each landmass are founded on different images of human life in deserts.

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Ar i d P a r a d i s e s o r D a n g e r o u s L a n d s c a p e s

Depicting the Archaeological Changes Our starting point in this exploration is to describe the broad chronological and spatial patterns of backed implements on each continent and to discuss the way archaeologists have described changes in lithic assemblages. Our review includes sites that are presently in arid and semi-arid environments, but is of course not limited to those places, since the location of environmental boundaries has shifted through time.

Assemblage Change in Australia Backed artifacts have been reliably dated to the early Holocene (9,000–6,000 bp) in Australia, but may have been present in the terminal Pleistocene (Hiscock and Attenbrow 1998). However, prior to the mid-Holocene backed artifact production was clearly occurring at low levels and may have been regionally restricted (Hiscock 2002). For at least some regions in eastern Australia these early examples of backed artifacts appear to be extremely similar to the size and morphological patterns found in later backed artifacts in each region, although the size and manufacturing strategies vary between regions. The relationship between these terminal Pleistocene/early Holocene specimens and later backed artifacts was unclear until Hiscock and Attenbrow (1998) emphasized the importance of distinguishing between the appearance of backed artifacts and subsequent periods of increased rates of production. The importance of this distinction is that low rates of backed artifact production may be hard to detect archaeologically and such a period might be mistaken for one without such implements, while a subsequent period in which backed artifacts were frequently manufactured will be highly visible in the archaeological record and may appear to signal the ‘‘introduction’’ of backed artifacts to a region when in fact it represents the ‘‘efflorescence’’ of production. This methodological issue was accentuated by the low discovery probabilities for backed artifacts in small assemblages that were common in the early Holocene levels of a number of key sites (Hiscock 2001). These considerations have removed doubts about the existence of early Holocene backed artifacts and clarified the emergence of intensive backed artifact production following an extended period of low level backed artifact manufacture (Hiscock 2002). During the mid- and late Holocene the production rate for backed artifacts increased dramatically (Hiscock 2002). The timing of this proliferation appears to vary between regions, with some regions displaying marked increases in discarded backed artifacts around 4,000 bp, while other regions show the increased rate of backed artifact production at about 3,000 bp or less. This phase of high rates of backed artifact manufacture was brief in Australia, and in most localities was concluded by 1,000 bp. In some regions the chronology of these changes is not yet precisely known. The regionalized nature of these patterns is displayed on a continental scale. Backed artifacts are absent from the tropical north-central and northwestern

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portions of the continent, landscapes in which bifacial points were manufactured. The island of Tasmania also has no recorded backed artifacts. Elsewhere on mainland Australia backed artifacts are known, although their relative and absolute abundance varies regionally. One broad scale spatial pattern involves the differential distribution of symmetrical and asymmetrical variants. Asymmetrical backed artifacts are very common on the east coast and in the southwest of the continent, while symmetrical crescent, triangle, and trapeze forms are abundant in the arid and semi-arid landscapes. The significance of these geographic differences for explanations of assemblage variation is currently being debated.

Assemblage Change in Africa By comparison to the Australian situation the history of backed artifacts in subSaharan Africa is both long and complex. Large, thick backed artifacts have been present in very low quantities in at least some African assemblages during the initial phases of the Middle Stone Age (MSA) more than 300,000–200,000 years ago, although they were often infrequent. However, in central Africa the Lupemban Industry comprised assemblages dominated by backed artifacts dated to 300,000– 250,000 bp (Barham 2002; Clark 1988; Cornelissen 2002). This demonstrates that backing of small flakes is a technical process that is present in sub-Saharan Africa from the very start of the MSA. In southern Africa backed artifacts are known from sites such as Klasies River during the last interglacial and are present in assemblages designated as Phases 1 and 2 of the MSA, labeled MSA 1 and MSA 2 (Wurz 2002). However, although present, backing is comparatively infrequent in MSA 1/2 assemblages of southern Africa. Nevertheless, backed artifact production proliferates approximately 80,000– 70,000 bp in a series of southern African assemblages. Termed the Howieson’s Poort Industry, these assemblages are best known for their numerous backed artifacts, although they also contain a range of other retouched artifacts including bifacially and unifacially flaked points with bulb thinning (Deacon and Wurz 1996). As represented at sites such as Klasies River these backed objects were regular in shape and were often made from non-local, fine-grained siliceous raw materials (Ambrose 2002; Wurz 2002). Following the Howieson’s Poort Industries the subsequent culture historical periods, Phases 3 and 4 of the MSA, labeled MSA 3 and MSA 4, have no recorded backed artifacts. Although the MSA 3/4 assemblages are rare and low density phenomena, creating questions of sample adequacy in assessing assemblage composition, the consensus is that backed artifacts are absent from the MSA 3 and MSA 4 assemblages that succeed Howieson’s Poort (Ambrose 2002). However, this interpretation is not universally supported by archaeological evidence and in eastern African assemblages backed artifacts are present in the MSA, from at least 65,000–50,000 bp (McBrearty and Brooks 2000). We therefore suggest that MSA 3/4 assemblages have very few backed specimens, but that it is not clear that such implements were absent from all sites during those phases.

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In southern Africa archaeologists classify assemblages containing small backed artifacts, points, bipolar cores, and denticulates, often making extensive use of good quality fine-grained raw material, as the Later Stone Age (LSA). The chronological and culture-historical coherence of early LSA assemblages is a matter of uncertainty, with most examples dating to less than 25,000 bp while a few sites display these characteristics at approximately 40,000 bp (Ambrose 2002). The early LSA assemblages have been classified into a variety of industries, including the Robberg and Albany, but the relevant feature is that although they typically contain backed artifacts these are infrequent elements in these assemblages (although see Mitchell 1988). Transitional and LSA industries in east Africa, such as the Nasera and Lemuta Industries of Tanzania and Kenya, also have backed artifacts and high quality non-local raw material imported a considerable distance (Ambrose 2002). In the early LSA industries of east Africa the proportional frequency of backed artifacts is highly variable. While backed specimens are extremely frequent in some assemblages, such as the Nasampolai as represented in Enkapune Ya Muto shelter, they are minor elements in many other east African LSA assemblages of the period prior to 25,000 bp. In both eastern and southern Africa during the LGM/terminal Pleistocene (20,000–13,000 bp) backed artifacts are less common in most industries than at earlier and later times (Ambrose 2002). Backed artifacts are again a dominant element in some Holocene industries, most notably that called the Wilton, which is concentrated in the more arid period of the mid-Holocene. Wilton assemblages have high frequencies of regular, usually small backed artifacts and fine-grained raw materials. Volman (1984) and others have suggested that both the MSA and LSA backed artifacts were produced for hafting. Direct evidence is sparse, although a few examples have been found with mastic traces. Because of the relative difference in size it has been suggested that MSA backed artifacts were hafted in spears, whereas their LSA counterparts were inserted into arrows. Employing the distinction advocated by Hiscock and Attenbrow (1998) between periods representing a proliferation or efflorescence of backed artifacts and periods in which they are present but not emphasized, the sub-Saharan African sequence can be read as having multiple phases in which backed artifacts were produced at relatively high rates (measured as a proportion of retouched flakes), interspersed with phases in which backed artifacts were either absent or produced in relatively lower frequencies. While the patchy nature of high quality assemblage information through time and space makes it difficult to unambiguously specify the nature and duration of periods it is clear that we can talk of at least three or four efflorescence phases. The earliest is the early MSA backed artifact proliferation discussed by Barham (2002) for sites such as Twin Rivers and Kalambo Falls in central Africa. A distinct efflorescence is represented by Howieson’s Poort (ca. 70,000 bp), which is usually thought to be chronologically far earlier than LSA assemblages and therefore ‘‘is not considered to be transitional to the LSA’’ (Ambrose 2002: 12). A third period of intensified backed artifact production is found in some regional variants of the early LSA (50,000–30,000 bp). The fourth obvious efflorescence is represented by the Wilton and similar Holocene industries

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(8,000–3,000 bp). It is not our intention to hypothesize that there are only four periods in which assemblages have large quantities of backed implements, that during a period of high backed artifact production rates every assemblage in a region will display that pattern, or that this sequence applies across all of subSaharan Africa. What is important here is the recognition of the reoccurrence of technological patterns emphasizing backed artifacts. In Africa, assemblages dominated by backed artifacts are neither randomly situated in time and space nor restricted to a single culture-historical horizon. It is not merely the existence of early backed artifacts in the African sequence that contrasts with Australia and requires explanation, but also this reoccurring pattern of backed artifact efflorescence through time.

Explanations for Backed Artifact Efflorescence We now turn to different explanations that archaeologists have offered for ancient backed artifacts in these two continents. Our concern is to characterize influential explanations and to evaluate their capacity to explicate the archaeological patterns as we have described them. Mitchell (1995) has presented a classification of ‘‘approaches’’ to Paleolithic studies in south Africa, in which he describes four kinds of models: organizational, functional, sociological, and techno-environmental. Rather than engage in a classificatory exercise of this kind our critique proceeds by examining specific explanations that have been offered for changes in backed artifact frequency.

Cognitive Capacity as an Explanation One widely discussed explanation for the proliferation of backed artifacts in Africa is the emergence of modern human behavior or ‘‘cultural modernity’’ (Wadley 2001; see also Ambrose 2001). This explanation is based on the notion that earlier hominids had little or no capacity for language and symbolism and the social interactions that follow from those capacities. It is often argued that these capacities define modern human social life and that they must have emerged rapidly, as a revolution in human evolution (Wadley 2001). Authors such as Klein (2000: 27) have suggested a biological basis for the revolutionary shift in cultural capacities, arguing that we are observing a change in the ‘‘neural capacity for language or for ‘symboling.’ ’’ The archaeological signatures of such modern behavior are typically argued to be the manipulation and storage of symbolic information, represented by works of art and ornamentation, by campsite structures that reveal group interaction, by ritualized burials, and by stylistic expression in artifacts (e.g., Henshilwood et al. 2001a, 2002; Wadley 2001). It is this final feature that has been invoked in explaining patterns of backed artifacts in Africa. Some researchers have argued that the nature of backing, perhaps being preparation for insertion in a composite tool, and the precise and repeated form of backed artifacts, makes them indicators of specifically designed and style-laden behavior indicative of

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cultural modernity. For instance, Barham (2001, 2002) concludes that the existence of large numbers of backed artifacts in the Middle Pleistocene Lupemban Industry indicates a new suite of behaviors were present approximately 300,000 bp. Other archaeologists demand more stringent evidence and therefore place the transition to cultural modernity at more recent dates. For example, a number of archaeologists have hypothesized that the standardized and rather modern looking backed specimens common in the Howieson’s Poort Industry are a better signal that modern-like tool concepts and social networks are present, and therefore argue that the Howieson’s Poort represents the transition point to modern behavioral systems at approximately 70,000 bp (Wurz 1999, 2002). Even more conservative arguments are presented by archaeologists such as Wadley (2001), who require archaeological evidence for multiple forms of symbolic behavior as an indicator that the ‘‘package’’ of symbolic behaviors was present (but see Henshilwood et al. 2001b for claims of an early ‘‘package’’). Wadley (2001) rejects the Howieson’s Poort Industry because she concludes that it does not display the rapid turnover of styles she anticipates in modern behavioral systems, and instead argues that the LSA assemblages of sites such as Rose Cottage Cave and Sibudu Cave reveal the origins of cultural modernity in southern Africa about 40,000 years ago. Thackeray (1992) has likewise argued that the Howieson’s Poort backed artifacts (or any MSA examples) do not constitute evidence of modern behavior as they lack the standardization seen in the later LSA assemblages and what standardization as occurs is due to the functional requirements of hafting. Wurz (1999) has countered this with a metrical analysis that demonstrates that the backed artifacts of the Howieson’s Poort are as standardized as that of the Wilton and with the addition that the focus on exotic raw materials during the Howieson’s Poort is superfluous to hafting requirements. There are several dilemmas associated with these vigorous debates about the origins of modern behavior in sub-Saharan Africa and the explanation of backed artifact proliferation in terms of the transition to cultural modernity. One potential weakness of such an explanation is that it is not applicable to later episodes of backed artifact proliferation in Africa, since all later industries are presumed to have been created by behaviorally modern humans. Indeed, the bold Foley and Lahr (1997, 2003) argument that modern behavior is associated with Mode 3 technologies would imply that such an explanation is not even applicable to the first episode of backed artifact proliferation. Reference to the onset of behavioral modernity as an explanation must also be invalid in the Australian situation where modern humans colonized the continent, and where backed artifact proliferation occurs in the Holocene. Consequently, only one of the multiple episodes of backed artifact proliferation can be understood with this explanation, and it follows that other causes must exist for the emphasis of such a technological strategy by a hunter-gatherer group. Torrence (2002) is correct in arguing that there may be multiple reasons for hunter-gatherer groups to emphasize backed artifacts, and hence the cause of an industry such as the Howieson’s Poort may be different to the cause of later backed artifact

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proliferations. While this argument has merit it is nevertheless puzzling to see archaeologists invoke a major evolutionary shift to explain an archaeological phenomenon on one occasion, being obliged to seek more mundane explanations for the same technological shift on other seemingly similar occasions. Avoiding explanations of cognitive capacity by substituting models of demographic intensification (Shennan 2001) offers the theoretical advantage that population densities may increase and decrease through time and therefore provide a mechanism for multiple proliferation events. Furthermore, it is curious that archaeologists have on the one hand advocated that backed artifacts acted as symbols in prehistoric African societies, but have not identified the first proliferation of those implements as the point at which symbolic behavior was initiated (e.g., Wadley 2001; Wurz 1999, 2002). Unless archaeologists adopt the argument that the earliest episode of backed artifact proliferation marks the onset of modern behaviors, at more than 300,000 years ago, we are left with a scenario in which backing was a strategy employed prior to modern behavior, and therefore modern behavior/cognition is not a necessary explanatory condition of implement backing. On the other hand, if the Middle Pleistocene examples of backed artifact proliferation are taken as an indication of cultural modernity in the absence of other evidence of symbolic activity, one of two conclusions must be reached. The first is that backed artifact production might be taking place in contexts without symbolic storage, in which case the conclusion that modern symbolic behavior is evidenced is unnecessary. The second possible conclusion is that backed artifacts alone demonstrate modern human symboling. If this inference is advocated the question that is raised is how to explain the subsequent appearance/proliferation of art and other symbolic paraphernalia if those phenomena do not emerge with the onset of cultural modernity but appear substantially later. This discussion reveals the fundamental limitation of this explanation citing cognitive capacity. The shortcoming demonstrated above is that in invoking the ‘‘capacity’’ for symboling such an explanation has obvious constraints. Such an explanation can be employed on only one instance in any region without hypothesizing the displacement of behaviorally modern populations by non-symboling ones. Furthermore, since the development of a capacity does not require it to be used, this model does not adequately explain why in some situations the capacity was employed to make large numbers of backed artifacts while on other occasions the ability to construct symbols was directed towards other ends. If backed artifacts were symbols, the capacity for symbolic expression is a precondition of their production, but not a sufficient explanation for high rates of backed artifact production at any particular time. In other words, this model can be used as an explanation of the appearance/existence of these implements but not of their numerical proliferation or decline through time and space. As we have discussed, this model, by itself, cannot explain either the proliferation of backed artifacts in Australia or the pattern of multiple proliferations that occurred in Africa. For that reason archaeologists should seek additional or alternative explanatory models for these phenomena.

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Ethnicity and Social Interaction as an Explanation A longstanding explanatory model that has been applied to variation in lithic assemblages is that implement forms denote not merely the capacity for symbolic behavior but the use of those symbols as markers of group identity. This kind of model explains the proliferation of specific implement types in terms of the immigration of a group into a region, the spread of a cultural system, or change in the intensity and nature of cultural contact between groups. In Australia it has been models of diffusion of socioeconomic organization, with accompanying symbols, that have commonly been discussed. Specifically, the Holocene proliferation of regular implement forms, including backed artifacts and unifacial and bifacial points, has been linked by many authors to either migrations of people or diffusion of symbolic systems through cultural contacts (e.g., Evans and Jones 1997; McConvell 1996). A dominant form of this argument has conventionally been based on a supposed coincidence in the timing of the arrival of the dingo and the appearance of these types of implement (Bowdler and O’Connor 1991; Flood 1983: 195). For example, Bowdler (1981) has argued at length that backed artifacts were a symbol of new religious and economic systems introduced with the dingo during the mid-Holocene. However, although this idea has been popular with Australian archaeologists, the notion that a mid-Holocene culture contact event explains the proliferation of backed artifacts in Australia is doubtful. For instance, the demonstration that the introduction of the dingo, economic change, and the first production of backed artifacts are not contemporary, and that backed artifacts were occasionally produced for millennia prior to a widespread proliferation, has removed the empirical basis for a hypothesis of midHolocene contact as a viable explanation (Hiscock 1994, 2001; Hiscock and Attenbrow 1998). A further cause for skepticism about such diffusionist explanations arises because the mere existence of contact with different cultural systems and new forms of material culture does not explain their adoption across Australia; theories of external introduction still require an explanation for the acceptance of traits by recipient groups. One mechanism hypothesized to trigger the acceptance and/or spread of symbols in Holocene Australia is the reorganization of social units. For instance, David and Lourandos (1998) have argued that the emergence of compartmentalized cultural landscapes created a context in which symbols that assisted groups in the negotiation of resource rights would have been advantageous, and backed artifacts were one of the objects employed in more intensive social interactions. Ethnic or social symbolic explanations for the intensive use of backed artifacts have been much more extensively employed in African archaeology. In considering the criteria necessary to identify discrete social entities in the archaeological record, Clark (1988) contended that differences between social entities will be expressed in the types of material culture which groups carry and distribute. He advocated the view that distinctive styles embodying social identity would be applied to the items common to different groups. This view, long held in European archaeology, has also been explored in archaeological investigations of backed artifacts in Africa over

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the last 30 years. For example, Singer and Wymer (1982: 107–9, 209–10) argued that the Howieson’s Poort, with its backed artifacts of non-local raw materials, was so unlike the preceding (MSA 2) and succeeding phases (MSA 3) of the MSA that it most likely represented the tool kit of an incoming or invading group whom they call the ‘‘Howieson’s Poort people’’ who, having occupied Klasies River Mouth for a relatively short period, moved on, taking their tool kit with them. The Indigenous population then reverted to producing the types of tools they had made during MSA 2. Singer and Wymer (1982: 107) explicitly rejected the notion that the technological emphasis on backing could have resulted as a response by the ‘‘Indigenous population . . . to a change of circumstances.’’ Less direct social explanations, such as those interpreting stylistic differences in terms of social communication and signaling, have become especially popular in the African literature since the Bleek and Lloyd historical accounts of !Kung were ‘‘rediscovered’’ in the 1980s. An example is Mazel’s (1989) argument that changes in the distribution of backed artifacts and steep scrapers across the Thukula Basin during the LSA from 9,000–2,000 bp reflect alterations in social regions and in the extent and complexity of regional alliance/exchange networks. Backed implements dominate the assemblages region wide in the early phase, beginning about 9,000 years ago and continuing until sometime after 5,000 bp, when three distinct regions emerge: those whose diagnostic component is dominated by backed segments, those dominated by backed points and blades but which also have segments, and those dominated by backed points and blades but which lack segments. The variations in assemblages through time and space were interpreted by Mazel as demarcating social regions. He proposes that through time a single social network disintegrated and separated into three distinct social regions and alliance networks. Mazel’s model invokes Clark’s proposition that backed artifacts function to mark material cultural boundaries and thus express and maintain difference between social entities. What is clear in Mazel’s argument is the detailed and extensive use of ethnographic images from historic Africa. Broadly similar models have also been advanced for the earlier proliferation events in southern Africa. For example, Deacon and Wurz (Deacon 1992; Deacon and Wurz 1996; Wurz 1999) have proposed that the backed artifacts of the MSA Howieson’s Poort assemblages were manufactured to be given as gifts in formal exchange systems and themselves functioned as symbols of mutual reliance and reciprocity in much the same way as the ethnographic projectiles produced and used by the San, discussed by Wiessner (1982, 1983). While such arguments are plausible in the historic and recent period, the basis for positing these social interactions in the distant past is insubstantial. Barham (1993) has argued that these models of social symbolic behavior are unjustified. In particular he argues that as expedient tools there is minimal capacity for these objects to store and convey social information. However, since the actual usage of these objects is unclear the conclusion that small expedient artifacts could not have performed social purposes should not be considered to have been established. A critique of such symbolic models can nevertheless be offered. To begin with, if they are to be comprehensive these models must also be capable of explaining the

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decline in backed artifact production that has occurred in both continents. Hypotheses explaining backed artifact proliferation in terms of social interaction rarely suggest that subsequent declines indicate substantial decline in social connectivity, perhaps revealing a unilinear and progressivist image of cultural evolution. Symmetry in the logic of these models can be expected here; if the decline of backed artifact production is not indicative of reduced intensity of social networking, then the necessity of explaining backed artifact proliferation in these terms is diminished. The difficulty can be outlined as follows. If declining rate of backed artifact production reveals decreased social interaction or identity symboling, then the relevance of recent ethnographic accounts becomes a central question. On the other hand, if the nature and level of social information is undiminished when backed artifact production rates drop, the social value of high backed artifact production is called into question. These questions need to be explored if models of style are to be adopted. Added to these questions is an elementary issue of establishing the veracity of statements about ancient social interaction. The point about these models of social uses of symbolism in stone implements is the difficulty of providing independent tests of the hypothesized mechanisms for assemblage differences. In the absence of independent measures of group identity or the nature and intensity of social uses of symbolism these discussions have often relied only on untested assertions of the symbolic nature of archaeological implements.

Economics as an Explanation An alternative form of explanation is reference to the economic function of backed artifacts in foraging life. There are a large number of studies exploring this issue generally, and specific applications to both Australia and Africa. These explanations typically revolve around the technological responses by foragers to changing provisioning costs and risks. Costs are incurred because the rapid consumption of stone material creates a regular need to replenish the supply available to the individual or group, creating a provisioning cost. These provisioning needs may not only influence the structure of landscape use; they may also have involved a considerable expense in effort or required rescheduling of activities to enable resupply of materials (see Bamforth 1986; Hiscock 1986, in press; Jeske 1992; Torrence 1983, 1989a). In addition, the economic context of a foraging group involved the costs and returns for those tasks in which stone tools were involved. In response foragers employed technological strategies that lowered provisioning costs or facilitated greater returns. A distinctive form of economic explanation that has been employed to explain backed artifacts is the cultural response to ‘‘risk.’’ Archaeologists often think of risk as the probability and consequence of being unsuccessful in procuring resources (see Hiscock in press). For ancient foraging groups the magnitude of risk reflected the frequency or likelihood with which a group failed to procure adequate resources, representing the failure probability, and the consequences for the group of not obtaining adequate resources in an efficient manner, representing

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the failure cost (see Bamforth and Bleed 1997). The proposition advanced in risk models is that at least in some contexts ancient foraging groups may have adopted economic, social, and technological strategies that reduced the failure probabilities and costs (see Bamforth and Bleed 1997; Bousman 1993; Hiscock 1994; Kelly 1988; Nelson 1996; Torrence 1989b). Such models have been employed in both Africa and Australia for the emphasis of backed artifacts in tool kits, but with a different explanatory emphasis in each continent. In Australia the focus has been on models of technological responses to environmentally induced foraging risk. For example, Hiscock (1994) hypothesized that the movement of foragers into new landscapes created contexts in which resource availability was relatively unpredictable and foragers responded with an emphasis on reliable and maintainable multifunctional technologies, reflected archaeologically in the high production rates of standardized stone implements. His argument was that although backed artifacts could have had emblematic qualities their extensive use was probably caused by their capability as a technological device that reduced the level or consequence of economic risks. Subsequently, Hiscock (2002) argued that the onset of the ENSO controlled climate was one factor acting to increase foraging risk in the mid-Holocene, and that the increased production and use of backed artifacts, perhaps as part of a composite tool kit, was one response to the new context. More recently he has hypothesized that there were probably multiple environmental and social triggers to increased foraging risk, with the nature and timing of factors varying regionally and chronologically (Hiscock in press). These risk focused models typically cite the onset of heightened foraging risk as a key cause for the proliferation of backed artifacts and the reduction of foraging risk as allowing shifts to other technological strategies. In Australia less developed theories have proposed that social decisions may have been an integral part of both the construction of risk and the selection of responses to risk (see David and Lourandos 1998), although Hiscock (2002) has pointed out that environmental causes are embedded even in those theories. Dealing with Aboriginal occupation of the deserts of Western Australia, Gould (1977) inferred a multifaceted risk reduction system operating throughout the Holocene. He claimed technological strategies enhanced energy extraction from the landscape by permitting both high mobility and effective tool use, and that risk was additionally reduced through the maintenance of social networks displayed archaeologically in the circulation of raw material from distance sources. Gould did not explore possible connections between these risk minimizing strategies and the proliferation of backed artifacts in the Australian deserts, but explanatory models attempting to do that have been offered outside Australia. In the archaeological discussions of prehistoric sub-Saharan Africa, foraging risk has also been considered from a variety of perspectives ranging from ecological cost-benefit models to those that emphasize social relations. For instance, Ambrose and Lorenz (1990: 25) view the assemblage changes from MSA 2 to Howieson’s Poort, and from Howieson’s Poort to MSA 3, as ‘‘a technological response to shifting patterns of raw material resource procurement’’ resulting from changes in territorial organization; most probably expansion and contraction of foraging

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range. They argue that a change from warmer moister conditions, such as those that prevailed during MSA 1 and MSA 2, towards a cooler climate at the end of the last interglacial, would have resulted in more open environments or a mosaic of open and closed habitats which would have reduced the exploitable game biomass and thus ‘‘the spatio-temporal abundance and predictability of faunal and floral resources’’ (Ambrose and Lorenz 1990: 25). In response to the reduced game biomass and increased risk, people enlarged their territorial range, thereby gaining access to better quality raw materials, thus allowing them to make more finely retouched tools. Ambrose and Lorenz (1990) dismiss the possibility that exotic fine-grained raw materials were acquired in order to produce backed artifacts because they argue that the archaeological record indicates that abrupt changes in lithic technology are imposed on more gradual changes in raw material, whereas the reverse would be expected if fine-grained raw materials were acquired in order to produce hafted backed blades. There are several problems with the Ambrose and Lorenz model. Firstly, the Howieson’s Poort faunal assemblages provide only partial support for the model in that, while they contain small numbers of large grazing open grassland species, they are dominated by small to medium-sized non-gregarious species that prefer closed habitats. Secondly, the model fails to explain the relationship between climate/environment change, territorial expansion, and the proliferation of backed artifacts at this time, except to the extent that because better raw material was available people used it to make more backed artifacts. Where recent evidence has been presented backing technologies appear to be associated with a variety of environments and not explicable in terms of the existence of a single niche or environmental change (e.g., Cornelissen 2002). Thirdly, and perhaps most importantly, as Ambrose and Lorenz (1990) themselves acknowledge, the model fails to account for the demise of backed artifacts in the MSA 3. During this time conditions became colder and drier, and more open vegetation communities prevail. The model predicts that this ecological scenario should result in higher territorial and logistic mobility and therefore an increase in exotic raw material and backed artifacts. While the MSA 3 faunal assemblages do indicate an increasing reliance on gregarious nomadic ungulates, the lithic assemblage of the MSA 3 runs entirely counter to the prediction, with no or few backed artifacts and a significant decline in the use of exotic material. Rather than question the relevance of the modern huntergatherer analogs they use to derive the model to the MSA, Ambrose and Lorenz interpret the non-compliance of MSA hunters with the predictive model (derived from modern hunter-gatherer behaviors) as proof of their lesser cognitive capabilities compared with their LSA counterparts or later modern humans. Recent and influential models propose that the solution to unpredictable and unproductive environments was not an increase in foraging range or an economically beneficial technology, but a socially advantageous one. For instance, Deacon and Wurz (1996), while concurring with Clark (1992) that the backed blades of the Howieson’s Poort functioned as projectiles, have specifically argued against the use of the backed artifacts in composite tools to increase hunting efficiency. They follow Klein (2000) in proposing that any differences in prey species hunted during

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this phase of the MSA can be ‘‘linked to ecological factors rather than the effectiveness of projectile equipment’’ (Deacon and Wurz 1996). Instead, they (Deacon 1992, 1995; Deacon and Wurz 1996) advance the proposition that backed artifacts in the Howieson’s Poort were symbolic items that were central to delayed reciprocal exchange systems that evolved into the ethnographically documented San hxaro gift system. The production of backed artifacts on non-local stone materials is seen as having no technological or practical advantage given backed artifacts were also made on local coarser materials; but as ‘‘value adding’’ to their use as exchange items. By exchanging ornaments the foragers are inferred to have promoted social solidarity that maintained these social networks during periods of heightened environmental risk, and that the continuation of these social interactions facilitated resource sharing, thereby reducing the consequences of resource failure for foraging groups. Wurz (1999), in a slightly different slant on this position, has demonstrated (contra Thackeray 1992: 423) that the MSA backed artifacts are as standardized as those of the LSA and argued that the degree of standardization is independent of functional requirements or the form/size of the raw material, but is due rather to social stylistic conventions intrinsically linked to symboling. Deacon (1992, 1995; Deacon and Wurz 1996), Ambrose (2002), and Wurz (1999) have hypothesized that such reciprocity-based risk minimizing systems, literally symbolized by backed artifact manufacture, were one of the key innovations in the evolution of modern human behavior and a contributing factor in the success of our species at the expense of other hominids. These ethnographically derived social models fail to explain variability seen in the archaeological record. Why, for example, during the most arid phase of the LSA age, the Last Glacial Maximum (LGM), when social reciprocity and reliance networks should have been most highly developed, is the Robberg Industry almost totally devoid of backed artifacts or indeed any standardized retouched tool form? Although citing foraging risk as the context in which these innovations emerge, such models are less about economic responses to environmental circumstances than they are economically situated variants of models emphasizing ethnicity and social interaction. For instance, by interpreting backed artifacts as functioning symbolically and identifying symbol use as a distinctively modern behavioral trait, archaeologists like Ambrose (2002: 21–2) have explicitly viewed backed artifacts as an archaeological marker of the movement and dispersal of behaviorally modern populations. Other researchers have seen long-term cultural continuity in southern Africa in the inferred emergence of the hxaro system from MSA occupation. These models raise the same questions (discussed above) of other symbolic interpretations of these stone artifacts: Why are images of behavioral modernity applied to one backed artifact proliferation event but not to the earliest one, and how do models of continuous symbolic activity explain declines in the production of, or the disappearance of, those symbols? By linking assemblage variation to changing economic contexts a mechanism for explaining increases and decreases in backed artifact production rates is created, but if backed artifacts are primarily symbols the interpretation of those changes in social terms requires further exploration.

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Research Programs as Reflections of Desert Images We have described and evaluated a number of the models offered to explain the chronological and spatial changes in backed artifacts in Australia and Africa. Although we could have chosen a number of other traits we have focused on those which illustrate that the emphasis given to archaeological explanations has varied between these continents. Since these two regions are both dominated by arid and semi-arid lands, characterized by rich ethnographic records, and studied by schools of archaeological thought with strong historical links to the British paleoeconomy approach, we argue that these contrasts are worth considering further. Specifically, we suggest that these differences exemplify distinctive research programs (pace Lakatos 1978) that have built on divergent images of archaeological material and different images of deserts and human life in them, largely derived from historical and modern ethnographic sources. Perhaps most influential and formative were the images of African desert dwellers arising from the Man the Hunter conference held in 1966. Its ethnographic studies of the Kalahari !Kung San groups, emphasizing the affluence of their subsistence base and the abundance of their leisure time (at least for the males), fostered a view of deserts as relatively benign landscapes for hunter-gatherers. In particular, the abundance of the wondrous, tasty, and highly nutritious plant food staple, the mongongo nut (Schinziophyton rautanenii) (Lee 1968, 1979), led to characterizations of the !Kung as enjoying ‘‘a kind of material plenty’’ (Marshall 1961: 243, as cited in Sahlins 1974: 9), a theme taken up and developed by Sahlins (1974: 1–39) in his essay on hunter-gatherer material existence entitled ‘‘The original affluent society.’’ While such generalized forager models stressed notions of egalitarianism, neoMarxist anthropologists emphasized the way in which the social structures of hunter-gatherer groups were reinforced by delayed return systems such as gift exchange which acted to ensure reciprocal access to territory, acted as buffers against subsistence failure and thereby provided ‘‘each individual !Kung with reciprocal and guaranteed access to the material conditions of production’’ (Keenan 1981: 18). These images of African deserts as arid paradises have been powerful influences on archaeological thinking. As mentioned above, recent archaeological models for the context of backed artifact production in sub-Saharan Africa have been inspired by historic ethnographic images (e.g., Bleek and Lloyd n.d.), but have emphasized the structural rather than materialist position of social relations. Although they have stimulated archaeological analogies it is difficult to see why these images of historical Kalahari Desert life have any relevance to the context under which backing took place in the MSA or for that matter most of the LSA in sub-Saharan Africa. Cultural continuity from MSA or LSA to historic cultures has not been demonstrated, and evidence independent of ethnographic analogy for the moderation of environmental risk by reciprocal social relationships is a moot point. Even the claim that backed artifact production is a social response to lower and less predictable environmental productivity is not clearly established in the southern African case. Indeed, simple

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functional associations between backed artifacts and a single environment or environmental productivity seem unfounded. For example, there is no strong association between production of backed artifacts and aridity. The archaeological assemblages indicate that when backed artifacts made of exotic material were first produced in large numbers, hunter-gatherers were living in close proximity to the coast in relatively warm humid conditions, and exploiting the resources of predominantly closed vegetation communities. There is little evidence to suggest these environments were extremely unproductive. As noted earlier, backed artifacts are also absent from the Robberg lithic assemblages made during the heightened arid conditions of the LGM by LSA hunter-gatherers. This suggests that citing historic environmental conditions and cultural responses will not be an effective framework for exploring MSA patterns. Similar complexities exist in explaining patterns of Australian backed artifact production in simple environmental terms. Ethnoarchaeological studies of arid zone foragers in Australia, also carried out in the 1960s to 1980s, created an image diametrically opposite to the one developed in Africa. Australian researchers emphasized that desert life could be harsh and precarious and that social behavior and subsistence decisions were dominated by a variety of stress factors, primary among them being drought. Studies of Australian foragers typically adopted this image and described desert lifeways as marginal and conservative, stressing economic necessity rather than social advantages as the stimulus for reciprocity. These images of Australian deserts as dangerous landscapes have been powerful influences generally on archaeological models of Sahul. The dominant proponent of the dangerous desert explanation for prehistoric Australia, Richard Gould, argued these strategies were reflected in the long-term archaeological sequences from the Western Desert demonstrating conservative unchanging technologies, and emphasizing risk-minimizing economic strategies throughout the Holocene. Following this lead some subsistence models for Pleistocene hunter-gatherers assumed that desert dwelling was a late adaptation only possible during the Holocene and that earlier foragers would have avoided arid inland areas (Bowdler 1977), or that the arid center of Australia may have initially sustained human life but must have been abandoned with onset of aridity during the late Pleistocene (e.g., Horton 1981). Models of Holocene arid zone settlement and technology as consequences of harsh and unpredictable environments also reflect the image of Australian deserts as dangerous landscapes (Hughes and Hiscock in press; Ross et al. 1992; Veth 1995). Some recent research into the archaeology of Australian deserts has argued against inferences of conservative technologies and uniform economic systems (Hiscock and Veth 1991; Hiscock 1994; O’Connor and Veth 1996; O’Connor et al. 1998; Veth 1993), and has instead argued that both archaeological and historical evidence suggests that diverse and flexible economic and social systems were employed. These revisionist models of Australian desert culture and cultural evolution were based more on archaeological patterns than ethnohistoric images, but most explanations for assemblage change in Australia remain based on ethnohistorical images whose relevance to the past is questionable.

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Having characterized the desert images embedded in archaeological models from each continent in this way it is necessary to pose the obvious question: Are the dissimilar pictures of African deserts of abundance and Australian deserts of danger reflections of genuine environmental differences? Without doubt the environments found on the two continents are different. As Gould (1991: 16) points out, differences in physiography and rainfall predictability in the two continents underlie divergent images of their deserts. For example, the Kalahari has some coordinated drainage networks and catchments, whereas the Western Desert of Australia has none and all water supplies depend entirely upon rain capture in impermanent surface and sub-surface catchments. More importantly, rainfall in the Western Desert is not only lower than that for the Kalahari, but also extremely unpredictable. Even the central deserts of Australia, which have limited catchments, display annual rainfall patterns that are less predictable than the Kalahari. There may therefore be an empirical basis for the images of deserts generated on each continent, although the complexity of socially mediated economic strategies makes any simple equation of environmental characteristics and social or economic hazard difficult. However, if such an argument is sustained, and the Australian deserts are and have been inherently more difficult for foragers, archaeologists will be compelled to return to the question with which we began this chapter, namely, why does the archaeological record in each continent display parallel patterns of backed artifact proliferation and decline? Comprehending in more detail the environmental and social contexts of technological change in each continent, and testing models of the prehistoric past against the archaeological rather than modern cultural evidence, will be one path forward in exploring not only the differences in ancient desert life between Australia and southern Africa but also the similarities. This quest should form one agenda of the research programs on each continent, and as we have demonstrated in this chapter archaeological model building will benefit by moving away from local scales of explanation to a broad intercontinental comparative approach.

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Ar i d P a r a d i s e s o r D a n g e r o u s L a n d s c a p e s Henshilwood, C. S., d’Errico, F., Marean, C. W., Milo, R. G., and Yates, R. 2001a: An early bone tool industry from the Middle Stone Age at Blombos Cave, South Africa: Implications for the origins of modern human behavior, symbolism, and language. Journal of Human Evolution, 41, 631–78. Henshilwood, C. S., Sealy, J. C., Yates, R., Cruz-Uribe, K., Goldberg, P., Grine, F. E., Klein, R. G., Poggenpoel, C., van Niekerk, K., and Watts, I. 2001b: Blombos Cave, Southern Cape, South Africa: Preliminary report on the 1992–1999 excavations of the Middle Stone Age levels. Journal of Archaeological Science, 28, 421–48. Henshilwood, C. S., d’Errico, F., Yates, R., Jacobs, Z., Tribolo, C., Duller, G. A., Mercier, N., Sealy, J. C., Valladas, H., Watts, I., and Wintle, A. G. 2002: Emergence of modern human behavior: Middle Stone Age engravings from South Africa. Science, 295, 1278–80. Hiscock, P. 1986: Technological change in the Hunter River Valley and the interpretation of late Holocene change in Australia. Archaeology in Oceania, 21 (1), 40–50. Hiscock, P. 1994: Technological responses to risk in Holocene Australia. Journal of World Prehistory, 8 (3), 267–92. Hiscock, P. 2001: Sizing up prehistory: Sample size and composition of artifact assemblages. Australian Aboriginal Studies, 1, 48–62. Hiscock, P. 2002: Pattern and context in the Holocene proliferation of backed artifacts in Australia. In S. Kuhn and R. Elston (eds), Thinking Small: Global Perspectives on Microlithization, Washington, DC: Anthropological Papers of the American Anthropological Association (AP3A) no. 12, American Anthropological Association, 163–77. Hiscock, P. in press: Blunt and to the point: Changing technological strategies in Holocene Australia. In I. Lilley (ed.), Archaeology in Oceania: Australia and the Pacific Islands. Oxford: Blackwell. Hiscock, P. and Attenbrow, V. 1998: Early Holocene backed artifacts from Australia. Archaeology in Oceania, 33, 49–63. Hiscock, P. and Veth, P. 1991: Change in the Australian Desert Culture: A reanalysis of tulas from Puntutjarpa. World Archaeology, 22 (3), 332–45. Horton, D. R. 1981: Water and woodland: The peopling of Australia. Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies Newsletter, 16, 21–7. Hughes, P. and Hiscock, P. in press: The archaeology of the Lake Eyre South Area. In Aboriginal Occupation of the Lake Eyre South Region: Ethnography and Archaeology, Adelaide: Lake Eyre Monograph Series vol. 6, Royal Geographical Society of South Australia. Jeske, R. 1992: Energetic efficiency and lithic technology. American Antiquity, 57, 467–81. Keenan, J. 1981: The concept of the mode of production in hunter-gatherer societies. In J. S. Kahn and J. R. Llobera (eds), The Anthropology of Pre-Capitalist Societies, London: Macmillan Press, 2–21. Kelly, R. L. 1988: The three sides of a biface. American Antiquity, 53, 717–34. Klein, R. G. 2000: Archeology and the evolution of human behavior. Evolutionary Anthropology, 17, 18–36. Lakatos, I. 1978: Falsification and the methodology of scientific research programmes. In I. Lakatos and A. Musgrave (eds), Criticism and the Growth of Knowledge, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 91–196. Lee, R. B 1968: What hunters do for a living, or, how to make out on scarce resources. In R. B. Lee and I. De Vore (eds), Man the Hunter, New York: Aldine, 30–48. Lee, R. B. 1979: The !Kung San. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Pe t e r H i s c o c k a n d S ue O’ C o n n o r McBrearty, S. and Brooks, A. S. 2000: The revolution that wasn’t: A new interpretation of the origin of modern human behavior. Journal of Human Evolution, 39, 453–563. McConvell, P. 1996: Backtracking to Babel: The chronology of Pama-Nyungan expansion in Australia. Archaeology in Oceania, 31, 125–44. Mazel, A. D. 1989: Changing social relations in the Thukela Basin, Natal 7,000–2,000 bp. Southern African Archaeological Society Goodwin Series, 6, 33–41. Mitchell, P. J. 1988: The late Pleistocene early microlithic assemblages of southern Africa. World Archaeology, 20, 27–39. Mitchell, P. J. 1995: Stories in stone: A review of south African lithic research. Lithics Studies Society Occasional Paper, 5, 71–88. Nelson, M. 1996: Technological strategies responsive to subsistence stress. In J. Tainter and B. Tainter (eds), Evolving Complexity and Environmental Risk in the Prehistoric Southwest, New York: Addison-Wesley, 107–44. O’Connor, S. and Veth, P. 1996: A preliminary report on recent archaeological research in the semi-arid/arid belt of Western Australia. Australian Aboriginal Studies, 2, 42–50. O’Connor, S., Veth, P., and Campbell, C. 1998: Serpent’s Glen rock shelter: A Pleistoceneaged archaeological sequence from the Western Desert. Australian Archaeology, 46, 12–21. Ross, A., Donnelly, T., and Wasson, R. 1992: The peopling of the arid zone: Human– environment interactions. In J. Dodson (ed.), The Naive Lands, Melbourne: Longman Cheshire, 76–114. Sahlins, M. 1974: Stone Age Economics. London: Tavistock. Shennan, S. 2001: Demography and cultural innovation: A model and its implications for the emergence of modern human culture. Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 11, 5–16. Singer, R. and Wymer, J. 1982: The Middle Stone Age at Klasies River Mouth in South Africa. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Thackeray, A. I. 1992: The Middle Stone Age south of the Limpopo. Journal of World Prehistory, 6, 385–440. Torrence, R. 1983: Time budgeting and hunter-gatherer technology. In G. Bailey (ed.), Hunter-Gatherer Economy in Prehistory, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 11–22. Torrence, R. 1989a: Tools as optimal solutions. In R. Torrence (ed.), Time, Energy, and Stone Tools, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1–6. Torrence, R. 1989b: Retooling: Towards a behavioral theory of stone tools. In R. Torrence (ed.), Time, Energy, and Stone Tools, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 57–66. Torrence, R. 2002: Thinking big about small tools. In S. Kuhn and R. Elston (eds), Thinking Small: Global Perspectives on Microlithization, Washington, DC: Anthropological Papers of the American Anthropological Association (AP3A) no. 12, American Anthropological Association, 179–89. Veth, P. M. 1993: Islands in the Interior: The Dynamics of Prehistoric Adaptations Within the Arid Zone of Australia. International Monographs in Prehistory, Archaeology Series no. 3, Ann Arbor, MI. Veth, P. 1995: Marginal returns and fringe benefits: Characterizing the prehistory of the lowland deserts of Australia. Australian Archaeology, 40, 32–8. Volman, T. P. 1984: Early prehistory in southern Africa. In R. G. Klein (ed.), Southern African Prehistory and Paleoenvironments, Rotterdam: A. A. Balkema, 169–220. Wadley, L. 2001: What is cultural modernity? A general view and a South African perspective from Rose Cottage Cave. Cambridge Archaeological Journal, 11, 201–21.

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Ar i d P a r a d i s e s o r D a n g e r o u s L a n d s c a p e s Wiessner, P. 1982: Risk reciprocity and social influences on !Kung San economics. In E. Leacock and R. B. Lee (eds), Politics and History in Band Societies, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 61–94. Wiessner, P. 1983: Style and social information in Kalahari San projectile points. American Antiquity, 48, 253–76. Wurz, S. 1999: The Howieson’s Poort at Klasies River – an argument for symbolic behavior. South African Archaeological Bulletin, 54, 38–50. Wurz, S. 2002: Variability in the Middle Stone Age lithic sequence, 115,000–60,000 years ago at Klasies River, South Africa. Journal of Archaeological Science, 29, 1001–15.

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Part II

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Dynamics

The chapters in part two give an archaeological perspective on the long-term dynamics of desert societies. Both the regional and evidential focus of these chapters is varied, but each examines chronological change in human activities within deserts over a period of at least ten millennia. Douglas Bird and Rebecca Bliege Bird (Chapter 5) contrast the ecological strategies of North American and Australian hunter-gatherers. Pursuit of sophisticated understandings of life in arid lands is reflected in the modeling of forager response to environmental and social variability through time and space offered by both Bird and Bliege Bird (Chapter 5) and Veth (Chapter 6). Peter Veth’s chapter focuses on the key concepts of risk and marginality in desert life. Jo McDonald (Chapter 7) characterizes the nature and variability of rock art in the Australian deserts to explore the role of art and symbols in the adaptation of foragers to deserts. Luis Borrero (Chapter 8) examines Patagonian archaeology as an exemplar of hunter-gatherer adaptations to cold deserts. One of the significant outcomes of these diverse investigations is the demonstration of the mechanisms by which humans have adapted to changing desert landscapes. For instance, each of the chapters in part two presents detailed arguments about how technological, foraging, and social strategies were employed by human groups to enhance their lives in desert environments. Each chapter also describes the dynamic nature of these desert adaptations, with regionalization and reorganization of social and subsistence patterns being widely observable in the archaeological record. Importantly, these chapters also reveal the complicated and historically contingent processes of cultural evolution in these desert landscapes. In particular, there are clear examples of the fact that change is not inevitably directional. Additionally, each of the chapters provides unambiguous evidence that ancient life in deserts was in some ways distinctively different from that observed in historic occupation of arid lands, reinforcing at a global level the inference that historically observed desert societies and adaptations are relatively

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recent consequences of evolving systems. These chapters build on that understanding to demonstrate how awareness of variability in desert life, and of the intricacy of employing ethnographic images of that life in archaeological reconstructions, can enhance our study of the long-term dynamics of human life in arid lands.

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Evolutionary and Ecological Understandings of the Economics of Desert Societies Comparing the Great Basin USA and the Australian Deserts Douglas W. Bird and Rebecca Bliege Bird

Introduction In this chapter we provide a comparative synthesis of evolutionary and ecological analyses of economic life among Indigenous peoples in the Great Basin of North America and the central deserts of Australia. We review the development of research in human–environmental dynamics and look at current approaches in these regions that draw on theory in ‘‘evolutionary ecology.’’ In keeping with a long tradition of research in both areas, we focus primarily on introducing readers to factors that influence variability in subsistence strategies, especially those related to sex-linked differences in hunting and gathering. The goal is to provide students and non-specialists with a broad understanding of the issues regarding subsistence strategies in two desert regions of the world that are very similar in some respects and very different in others.

Background Discussion The central theme of this chapter is that the economic lives of desert huntergatherers are arranged around variability in sex-linked foraging strategies. Twenty years ago, Thomas (1983: 439), an archaeologist working the Great Basin, wrote that despite their central economic role, ‘‘Female hunter-gatherers are almost invisible archaeologically.’’ While reflecting on this, James O’Connell (2003: pers. comm.), an anthropologist who has worked for many years in Australia and the Great Basin, commented: ‘‘If women are archaeologically invisible in the Great

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Basin and Desert Australia, it is only because their economic presence is so large that we can’t see the forest through the trees.’’ The arid Great Basin of North America and the Western and Central Deserts of Australia provide a comparative setting for testing hypotheses about variability in this key component of desert hunter-gatherer socioeconomy (see Figures 5.1 and 5.2). Anthropologists have often noted a number of parallels among the Indigenous inhabitants of these two regions. One of the most obvious is the presence of a traditional subsistence economy based on a broad spectrum of resources acquired mostly by women. Ethnographic and archaeological studies that illustrate this pattern include Beck (1999), Cane (1987), Elston and Zeanah (2002), Fowler and Liljeblad (1986), Fowler and Fowler (1971), Gould (1969, 1991), Gould et al. (1972), Grayson (1993), I. Kelly (1932), R. Kelly (1995), Liljeblad and Fowler (1986), Meggitt (1957, 1964), O’Connell and Hawkes (1981, 1984), O’Connell et al. (1983), Peterson (1977, 1978), Service (1962), Steward (1933, 1936, 1938,

Hydrographic boundary Language boundary 200 km

old

r

Rive

Shoshone

alt

ts

L.

Western Shoshone

Washoe

Goshute

da M

eva

Wa

ra N

sat

Sier

San Francisco

tS

t

ea

mb

Gr

Hu

Mn

Northern Paiute

ch

40 N

nts

Ute

Mono Owens Valley Paiute

Panamint

Pacific Ocean

Southern Paiute

Colorado Plateau

Kawaiisu

N 120 W

Figure 5.1 The hydrographic Great Basin in North America indicating languages and groups discussed in the text.

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The Economics of Desert Societies

Hydrographic boundary Language boundary

Alawa

Kimberley Plateau

400 km Karajarri Walpiri Gugadja

20 S

Alyawara

R. Pilbara Plateau

Ru

Central Desert

Pintupi

ll da

L. Mackay

Mardu

Ngatatjara

Macdonell Ranges

Luritja

L. Disappointment

Pitjantjara

Western Desert

S

d an

ov

e r R.

Arrernte Fi

nk

e

R. Lake Eyre Basin

L. Carnegie

Nyanganyatjara Kokatha

Indian Ocean Perth

N 130 E

Figure 5.2 The hydrographic Western and Central Deserts in Australia indicating languages and groups discussed in the text.

1941, 1955), Stewart (1941), Tonkinson (1991), Veth and Walsh (1988), and Walsh (1987, 1990). Studies such as these have also led to a greater appreciation of how flexible socioeconomic life actually was, and in some cases still is, among foraging societies in these regions. In this chapter we explore the ecological underpinnings of such variability. At this point, a word of caution is in order. Comparing any two groups of people is problematic for at least two reasons. Firstly, by definition, we are analyzing different social contexts with different histories and environments. In comparing Great Basin and Australian subsistence strategies, we should not discount the influence of specific historical circumstances on social behavior. On the contrary, variability in these social and historical contexts is what we are trying to explain. Secondly, cross-cultural comparisons reflect our theoretical positions and the way we pose questions. The Great Basin and arid Australia invite comparison partly because they both have relatively long histories of research focused on subsistence

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from a common theoretical approach. We need to keep in mind that this can be a potential source of bias. However, as long as we state our assumptions and methods clearly, working from a single theoretical approach (here, evolutionary ecology) can greatly facilitate comparative analyses.

Adaptation: A Key Concept Ecological questions about subsistence variability within groups, between groups, and through time in the Great Basin and arid Australia have often been framed by the concept of adaptation. Steward’s (1938) ethnographic synthesis of Numic speaking groups in the Great Basin was especially influential, and one of the first to explicitly apply an adaptive model to hunter-gatherer social groupings (cf. Fowler 1986). He was particularly interested in moving away from attempts to define large culture areas to focus on the actual behavior of people. How do desert hunter-gatherers maintain social organization without large scale centralized institutions? Steward argued that in the Great Basin, ethnographic patterns of low population density, flexible local organization and mobility, and a highly portable technology, were closely articulated with specific features of the natural environment, which in turn structured the nature of subsistence and kin-based social organization. Due to the scarcity of large game (the focus of men’s subsistence) in the Great Basin, people relied extensively on dependable wild seeds and roots collected by women. Groups of many families congregated when certain resources were abundant enough at particular times and places. But these larger groups were ephemeral and would soon disperse into small family units to wander across overlapping ranges exploiting a wide array of plants and small game. Thus, for Steward (1955), the ‘‘family’’ (a ‘‘patrilineal band’’) was a basic adaptive unit, organized around sex-linked differences in foraging and extensive food sharing. Steward (1938: 230–1) argued this sexual division of labor was an adaptation to efficiently provide food for the patrilineal band. In the 1950s Jennings began to develop the argument that the pattern of ‘‘adaptation’’ described by Steward had deep temporal roots and a large geographic distribution in western North America. Commonly referred to as the ‘‘Desert Culture’’ or ‘‘Desert Archaic’’ (Jennings 1957, 1964, 1974), Jennings posited that a pattern of low population density, hunting and gathering based on annual resource cycles, and mobile band social organization lasted for over ten millennia in the Great Basin. He proposed that this Desert Culture was a regional variant of a continent wide culture stage based on a foraging economy closely adapted to local resource abundance and variability (Jennings 1974). Traditional approaches to Australian prehistory and ethnography have also placed a heavy emphasis on the influence of local resource ecology (cf. Lourandos 1997). Cultural variability, especially subsistence and mobility, has often been seen as an adaptation to particular environmental circumstances. Stanner (1965) considered the ecological basis of Aboriginal territorial organization in terms of cultural adaptation to varying resource abundance. This approach was developed

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further by Peterson (1976), who argued that large adaptive units of Aboriginal society were scaled to major continental drainage basins. The approach is analogous to Jennings’ Desert Culture concept: similarities in basic forms of subsistence and technology were adaptations to the abundance and variable distribution of key resources across large areas. With similar logic, Gould (1982, 1991) argued that many aspects of Ngatatjara Aboriginal society were adapted to ensure success in unpredictable environments. He proposed that open-ended kin-based social organization, highly flexible band composition, and group mobility were adaptations to minimize the risks associated with unpredictable droughts. Periods of drought required social organization and mobility strategies that allowed either intensified use of reliable water sources within the ‘‘home’’ area, or complete abandonment of an estate for an extended period of time. This would require an extensive network of classificatory kin and sharing. Gould hypothesized that if sharing is an adaptation to reduce temporal and spatial fluctuations in important resources, food sharing should be especially important in highly variable environments, where it can build social bonds that can be relied on in times of need. Among the Ngatatjara where resources are highly unpredictable and the environment especially austere, sharing is extensive, as opposed to other groups where resources are more reliable and sharing is restricted to a much smaller social radius.

Critiques of the Use of ‘‘Adaptation’’ from Evolutionary Ecology What do the above studies mean by ‘‘adaptation’’? The general argument is that groups of people in the Great Basin and desert Australia adapted to local environments to ensure some measure of success. But success in terms of what (nutritional needs, social bonds, survival, reproduction) and for whom (the individual, the group)? Do the studies simply conclude there is often a correlation between large scale environmental constraints and patterns of behavior; or, by adaptation do they mean specific traits that are designed to ensure survival and reproduction? If the former, why does the correlation take on the observed pattern as opposed to some alternative? If the latter, what is the adaptive unit: the ‘‘individual,’’ the ‘‘family,’’ the local ‘‘band,’’ or the ‘‘society’’? Units above the level of the individual are very difficult to define, especially in the Great Basin and Australia, where local organization is fluid, and groups are made up of individuals with varying degrees of competing interests. So by adaptation do we mean ‘‘shaped by natural selection’’ or rather that there is some observed benefit in a specific behavior? A pattern of behavior may have a beneficial outcome, but this does not necessarily mean that the behavior was designed for that purpose. These issues have been significantly clarified over the last 30 years with the development of ‘‘evolutionary ecology’’ and its application toward understanding human diversity (cf. Winterhalder and Smith 2000). Evolutionary ecology is the study of adaptive design in particular ecological contexts. In the framework of evolutionary biology, behavior is adaptive when it tracks environmental variability in ways than enhance an individual’s inclusive

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fitness, most generally defined as an organism’s propensity to survive and reproduce (Williams 1966). Behavioral ecology is the subset of evolutionary ecology that studies fitness-related decisions that individuals face in particular social and physical environments (Krebs and Davies 1997). The working assumption is that an individual’s success at surviving and reproducing depends on its behavior; thus natural selection will favor variants with the capacity to solve fitness related tradeoffs efficiently. This capacity may involve various kinds of decision making, based on information obtained through individual effort or social learning; behavioral ecology does not rest on the claim that behavior is genetically determined. The optimal outcome of these tradeoffs is shaped by the opportunities and constraints of local environments (Krebs and Davies 1993: 4–22). The focus of behavioral ecology is on individuals: selection generally creates adaptive design through differential reproductive success of individuals within a population. This is simply because individuals reproduce at higher rates and with higher fidelity than groups. As a result, individual level selection tends to swamp the effects of group selection (Williams 1966). Thus (except under special circumstances) traits are adaptive only when they are designed to contribute to the inclusive fitness of individuals, regardless of their effect on the group. No trait is absolutely adaptive; individuals continually face fitness related tradeoffs whose parameters change with variable ecological circumstances. For people, those circumstances are often defined by an individual’s social and cultural situations (Cronk 1991). ‘‘Human behavioral ecology’’ (HBE) applies evolutionary ecology concepts to study human behavioral diversity through systematic hypothesis testing (Smith and Winterhalder 1992). HBE does this through the use of formal modeling tools that analyze behavior in terms of a stated goal in relation to (1) a decision (fitness related tradeoff) of interest; (2) a currency (e.g., energy) in which to analyze the various choices; and (3) the proposed constraints on an individual’s choices (the intrinsic and extrinsic factors that define the relationship between the decision and currency) (Stephens and Krebs 1986: 5–12). Formal models provide a systematic guide for investigating the interaction of a limited number of variables (justified on theoretical grounds) and their predicted outcome relative to observable behavior; they clearly isolate mismatches between hypothetical expectations and observations. As we will discuss below, HBE analyses of desert socioeconomic life in Australia and the Great Basin have developed in tandem over the last 25 years, and have made important contributions to the way we think about the adaptive nature of human–environmental dynamics.

Subsistence Strategies Many researchers have noted broad social similarities between Great Basin groups and Australian desert Aborigines. Gould et al. (1972) presented a detailed account of parallels in the economic and colonial histories of the two regions. They noted that environmental constraints of these arid and unpredictable environments are

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linked to similar social responses: low population density; high residential mobility with highly portable technology; flexible local organization, with fluid dispersal and coalescence of groups of people; and open-ended, widely extended social organization based on classificatory kinship. These similarities are especially striking in the economy where foraging is based on sex-linked differences in subsistence activities.

Links between Sex, Foraging, and Sharing Prior to European contact, socioeconomic life in the Great Basin and the Australian deserts revolved around collecting seeds from grasses and trees, seasonal fruit, insects, and small game. In arid Australia at least 92 plant species are identified as edible (Latz 1995; O’Connell et al. 1983; Veth and Walsh 1988; Walsh 1987), while in the Great Basin over 150 plants have been catalogued as edible (Fowler 1972). In both regions, plants and small game were mainly supplied by women. Men focused on the (infrequently encountered) larger game, which often gave very low returns given the time required for pursuit (Bliege Bird and Bird in press; Gould 1969; Gould et al. 1972). In both regions, the resources acquired by women were usually directed to a small group of dependants. Conversely, men’s efforts were often focused on providing more public goods. In the Great Basin, especially south of the Humboldt River, annual subsistence and mobility revolved around harvesting pine nuts in the fall. These provided staple resources stored through the winter, when family groups in some areas would congregate in ‘‘villages’’ of up to 200 people. Villages would break up in the spring when smaller groups would disperse to focus on roots, grass seeds, and small game. North of the Humboldt River, more abundant roots and berries took the place of pine nuts which were not locally available (see Fowler and Liljeblad 1986; Thomas et al. 1986). In his classic ethnography of Great Basin Paiute and Shoshone people, Steward (1938) stressed the daily importance of women’s activities, and the more public nature of men’s subsistence labor: Seeds [for Owens Valley Paiute] were the most important food (52) . . . A woman gathered seeds only for her immediate family (59) . . . Migrations during the year depended upon local abundance of seeds (60) . . . Animal foods were of secondary importance . . . Game procured by individual [male] hunters was divided among all members of the village, the hunter keeping only the hind quarter for himself and family (66) . . . [Among western Shoshone] seeds gathered were private property. Women shared them only with their husbands, children, and sometimes parents whom they supported . . . Large game, on the other hand, was shared communally with all village members, whether they were related or not (74) . . . Relative scarcity of animals made meat a minor importance . . . Hunting was relatively of greater importance during seed shortage, but considerable reliance was placed on rodents (83) . . . Large game was of secondary importance (90) . . . [In the northern Great Basin] there are more roots and berries [harvested by women] in proportion to seeds (103–4) . . . Big game hunting was carried out by individual hunters in accessible mountains. Meat was distributed freely to one’s neighbors (115) . . . [Among Gosiute

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D o u g l a s W. Bir d a nd R e b e c c a B l i e g e B i r d Shoshone] The importance of rodents [for women] was considerable in this region (138) . . . Communal hunts [of antelope and rabbits] were organized by a local chief, but he received no more meat than other participants [which included men, women, and children] (163) . . . It was customary if not obligatory for a hunter to share large game with his neighbors. (184)

Similar accounts are common for Australian Aborigines. In the cool-dry season (April–August) grass seeds, roots, Solanum fruit, and goannas were daily staples. During the late spring and summer (September–March), if water supplies were replenished with isolated rains, larger groups would congregate for religious purposes. Acacia tree seeds and goannas made up much of the diet during this time (Bliege Bird and Bird in press; Cane 1987; Gould 1969, 1991; Tonkinson 1991; Walsh 1987, 1990). Gould et al. (1972: 266) noted: the Pitjantjatjara [Western Desert] peoples subsisted mainly on vegetable foods, including eight staple varieties of fruits, berries, and seeds as well as a multitude of supplemental or occasional varieties. Nearly all these foods were collected by women. Except for after a successful hunt (a fairly rare event), vegetable foods comprised ‘‘ . . . 70 or 80 percent of the total food supply’’ (Meggitt 1964: 33). Protein was supplied primary by various lizards (mainly goannas [Varanus spp.]) and small ground-dwelling marsupials . . . Most small game was collected by women; men concentrated on larger game.

Gould (1982) also observed that sharing patterns among Western Desert peoples were similar to those recorded by Steward in the Great Basin. The results of women’s efforts were directed toward a narrow range of dependants, whereas men focused on game that was shared widely beyond a single hearth group.

Flexible Hunting and Sharing Strategies It is important to recognize that in both regions, sex-linked differences in subsistence were flexible with variable seasonal, environmental, and social contexts. For example, among contemporary Martu of Australia’s Western Desert, during the cool-dry season (May–August) women spend a great deal of their foraging time hunting burrowed goannas and collecting Solanum fruit in the sandplains and dunes. In contrast, men spend almost all their foraging time hunting mobile game (bustard, kangaroo, and emu) across a range of habitats (Bliege Bird and Bird in press). During this season women’s resources are ‘‘owned’’ by the acquirer and shared with a relatively small group of dependants. Conversely, if successful, male hunters make no claim to the animal – the game is usually given to an elder (often to a spouse’s father) who takes responsibility for wide distributions (Tonkinson 1991). Primary sharing of kangaroo and emu is often dictated by kinship categories, but thereafter the appropriate recipient shares freely with anyone who desires a portion. The pattern of Martu subsistence is notably different during the hottest part of the year (January–April). During this time, sand goanna (Varanus gouldii) and perenti (V. giganteus) are more commonly encountered on the surface, and women

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and men sometimes coordinate their hunting activities. If men have been unsuccessful in hunting larger game, they sometimes shift strategies and search for game resources targeted by women, something they very rarely do at other times of the year (Bliege Bird and Bird in press). Large game is encountered less often during this season, and sharing patterns for men during the hot season tend to be more narrowly focused. Ethnographers have noted similar variability in Great Basin hunting. During the fall, especially in areas south of the Humboldt River, large groups of men, women, and children would cooperate in game drives for both antelope and rabbits. Brush structures were constructed in a long V-shape and flanked by people. Large crowds would then drive the game into a corral (for antelope) or nets (for rabbits) at the far end of the drive. The game acquired was shared among all participating families, with the organizer receiving no more than anyone else (Steward 1938: 163). Throughout the rest of the year, men independently hunted deer and mountain sheep, which when successful, were shared widely with all families in the local group and their neighbors. Outside of communal drives, women’s game acquisition was focused on trapping and snaring small mammals (especially ground squirrels) for immediate family consumption. Game drives were less important north of the Humboldt River. There men focused on deer and mountain sheep, but in the fall, men and women would sometimes cooperate in trapping and snaring small game (groundhogs, ground squirrels, rabbits), fishing, and netting waterfowl (Kelly 1932; Steward 1938; Stewart 1941).

Hypotheses about Subsistence Variability Human behavioral ecology in Australia and the Great Basin is to some extent an attempt to put previous ecological approaches (such as those of Steward and Gould discussed above) on a solid theoretical foundation; in a sense, to make their assumptions explicit and hypotheses testable. As we noted previously, Steward (1938, 1955, 1968) had argued that many of the socioeconomic similarities discussed above were adaptations designed to benefit a narrowly defined affinal and consanguineal corporation (a man, his wives, and their offspring). These were selfsufficient units: without cooperation, individuals would not survive, and larger cooperative groups were rarely advantageous or feasible. Steward (1938: 230–7) surmised this was determined by the abundance and distribution of the subsistence resources discussed above. The ‘‘family organization of the local band’’ was based in a sexual division of labor, which served as a mini-economy of scale, by which men and women specialized in different kinds of subsistence to more effectively provision their common interests. Cooperative groups larger than this were ephemeral because they would quickly depress the local resource base. ‘‘The functional basis of band organization, then, was the habitual cooperation of its members in joint enterprises and its objective expression was the common name, chieftainship, and ownership of territory’’ (Steward 1938: 51).

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O’Connell, Hawkes, and colleagues were the first to formally apply HBE to questions about subsistence in the Great Basin and desert Australia (Hawkes and O’Connell 1981; Madsen and O’Connell 1982; O’Connell and Hawkes 1981, 1984; O’Connell et al. 1982). Their analyses, along with the more recent work discussed below, have brought into question two essential assumptions of previous ecological work in these areas: 1 2

That there is a straightforward relationship between resource abundance and subsistence/mobility patterns. That local groups are units of adaptation (i.e., that labor is designed to serve the common interests of the members of the group).

HBE in Desert Australia Initial HBE investigations in Australia were based on O’Connell’s measurements of the efficiency of hunting and gathering among Arandic-speaking Alyawara in the Central Desert in 1974–5. On the assumption that natural selection has shaped decision-making capacities, and that efficient foraging will enhance individual fitness, O’Connell and Hawkes (1981, 1984) generated specific predictions about the range of activities and prey types that would maximize foraging returns relative to the options available. They used two formal models from behavioral ecology to predict foraging decisions: the ‘‘prey choice model’’ (PCM) and the ‘‘patch utilization model’’ (PUM). The PCM assumes that the goal of foraging is to maximize energy (the currency) per unit time spent foraging (searching and handling). The decision it analyzes is whether a forager should handle an encountered resource, or pass it over to search for other resources. The most important constraint of the PCM is that it assumes that resources are distributed randomly; more accurately, that an encounter with an item of one type does not change the probability of encountering other items. The model ranks resources according to their ‘‘profitability’’ – the ratio of energy gained relative to its expected post-encounter handling time (pursuit, capture, and processing). It assumes that foragers will take an encountered item only if its profitability is greater than that expected by searching for and handling more profitable resources. The main predictions of the PCM are: . The decision as to whether a resource will be handled when it is encountered is determined by the abundance of the more profitable resource, rather than the abundance of the resource encountered per se. . Lower encounter rates with the most profitable resources serve to expand dietary breadth to include less profitable resources (Stephens and Krebs 1986: 17–24). The PUM relaxes the random distribution constraint of the PCM to consider situations where resources are patchy in time or space. The model ranks patches

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according to their profitability (yield for time spent foraging within a patch) and predicts the threshold at which a forager should exploit additional patches. Lower ranked patches will be exploited when the marginal gain of continuing to forage in a given patch drops its profitability below the overall return rate of the habitat (yield for time spent traveling and foraging) (Stephens and Krebs 1986: 24–34). O’Connell and Hawkes (1981, 1984) have considered two questions about Alyawara foraging: 1 Why did women select a particular set of resources and ignore others that were abundant and formerly important in the diet? 2 Why did men pick particular hunting locales and ignore others that were at least equally accessible? Contrary to the conventional wisdom of cultural ecology, Alyawara socioeconomic patterns were not directly determined by sheer abundance or seasonality of subsistence resources. The difference in energy yields between the sandplain (3,200 kcal/hr searching and handling) and mulga woodland (652 kcal/hr) were such that when women traveled to these patches, if they chose to handle the abundant ripe acacia and grass seeds (98 100 60

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sites and are predicted to have been present also at the sites of Puritjarra and Kulpi Mara. Secondly, the cline in increasing protein stress away from the ranges lends support to models of marginality which predict that the highest levels of residential mobility will occur on the desert lowlands (cf. Smith 1989).

Archaeological Indices of High Residential Mobility The intensity of stone reduction On the assumption that occupation was by small groups and for a short duration it is expected that the intensity of reduction of locally available lithics will be relatively low. Locally available and abundant stone materials account for between 90 to 100 percent of the Pleistocene assemblages. The intensity of utilization of these materials is seen to be a product of occupation intensity and to reflect group mobility. Assuming that assemblage variability can be strongly determined by occupation intensity (after Rolland and Dibble 1990), this factor is examined by considering changes in artifact discard rates (Smith 1988), degree of artifact curation (cf. Shott 1989: 26), and the presence of economizing strategies, such as bipolar knapping (after Hiscock 1996). The number of artifacts clearly ascribed to the pre-glacial layers of the Western Desert sites is small and contrasts, in two of the three cases, markedly with numbers of artifacts from the Holocene units. Estimates of artifact discard rates for the three sites are provided in Table 6.3. Differences of this high order in themselves must indicate that different settlement patterns have operated through time. With reference to curation at Serpent’s Glen there are no retouched/utilized artifacts in the Pleistocene layers (O’Connor et al. 1998). At Puritjarra there are only amorphous retouched artifacts in Layer 2 and these are substantially larger than those in the upper Holocene layer (Smith 1988); see Table 6.4. Size reduction is evident in both local (silcrete/silicified sandstone) and exotic (chert/chalcedony) raw materials (see Table 6.5). There are only three retouched/utilized artifacts in the pre-LGM layer from Kulpi Mara (Square C) with Thorley (1998a: 235) concluding: ‘‘Use of local materials appears to have been predominantly opportunistic and the production Table 6.3 Estimated artifact discard rates from pre-LGM and Holocene layers from Pleistocene Western Desert sites. Site Serpent’s Glen Puritjarra Kulpi Mara

Pre-LGM number of artifacts/kyr

Late Holocene number of artifacts/kyr

5 6 140

1600 2087 250

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Pe t e r V eth Table 6.4 Mean weight of amorphous retouched artifacts in grams, Puritjarra (after Smith 1988: 119). Pit Layer Ia Layer Ib Layer II

N9

N10

QR9

Z10

Total number

6.9 18.2 17.0

8.0 8.0 75.5

37.7 10.8 691.7

14.1 8.0 104.1

51 33 9

Table 6.5 Mean weights of total artifacts in grams, Puritjarra, Pit N19 (after Smith 1988: table 4.10). Pit

Local lithics

Exotic lithics

2.3 3.5 24.0

0.7 1.1 15.3

Layer Ia Layer Ib Layer II

of whole silcrete/quartzite flakes . . . independent of [later] backed artifact manufacture and discard.’’ The combination of low numbers of artifacts and their low degree of modification attests to a low intensity of site occupation with expedient use of locally available raw materials. It is possible that tools brought into these sites as part of a high residential mobility pattern were made from higher quality ‘‘exotics’’ and that these were extensively curated and transported until a preferred resupply zone was encountered, thereby increasing the expedient use of local lithics. Available data from Puritjarra and Kulpi Mara do not presently allow an assessment of reduction stages; however, the small assemblage from Serpent’s Glen is typical of other assemblages in the Western Desert dominated by early stages of reduction of local raw materials (see O’Connor et al. 1998; Veth 1993a). None of the site reports indicate any bipolar reduction in the Pleistocene, argued to be an indicator of lower residential mobility from other parts of northern Australia (Hiscock 1996).

The Diversity of Artifacts A number of studies have illustrated that there is an inverse relationship between assemblage diversity and level of residential mobility (cf. Andrefsky 1998: 204; Shott 1986: 25). This relationship is shown in Figure 6.2. Assemblage diversity equates with the number of artifact types (tools) recovered from an assemblage. A more sensitive index of technological diversity may be defined by measuring the number of tool classes used during daily activities (Shott 1986: 23). Shott’s analysis was based on artifact data and mobility information from 12 ethnographic studies of hunter-gatherer groups. Base camps (after Binford 1980) where a more logistical strategy was practiced showed a positive correlation between artifact diversity and length of stay.

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Figure 6.2 Proposed relationship between artifact diversity and residential mobility (Andrefsky 1998: figure 8.5, adapted from Shott 1986: 25).

Andrefsky (1998: 206) contrasts this pattern with the low diversity expected at task specific sites and states: Although no ethnographic data on artifact diversity were available for special-taskoriented or field camps, it would be logical to assume that special-task-oriented camps, such as hunt camps, plant collecting stations, or butchering sites, would have a relatively low diversity of artifacts. In other words, if a narrow range of activities were performed at a particular location, one would expect to find a relatively low number of artifact types.

Such data are available, however, from ethnoarchaeological work carried out by the author from 1986 to 2004 with Martu Aborigines of the Western Desert (see Veth 1987, 1989, 1993a, 1996, unpublished notes). A range of artifact sites which had been used by Martu before contact with Europeans from the 1920s to the 1960s (cf. Tonkinson 1991) was analyzed. Because of these historical associations, localities could be reliably ascribed, at least for the historic period, as (a) major residential base camps which were used for aggregations; (b) smaller residential camps used predominantly in an ephemeral mode; and finally, (c) those which were clearly taskspecific or field camps. A combination of high water permanency and high diversity of economic plant species predicted for greater permanency of occupation at sites and often by larger groups of people. Localities near ephemeral water sources and less diverse plant patches witnessed the highest residential mobility. Assumed aggregation sites located near permanent waters had the highest values for artifact diversity, the highest proportion of exotic materials, evidenced a greater proportion of artifacts in later reduction stages, contained more tools exhibiting high levels of curation and recycling, and had significantly more basal grinding stones (Veth 1993a, 1996). The sites used by Martu custodians as ephemeral residences and which were referred to as ‘‘passing-through places’’ generally reflected the converse pattern.

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I am not suggesting here that the late Holocene assemblages are directly comparable to those of the Pleistocene. Rather, I argue that the material outcomes of different mobility configurations in the Western Desert are tangible and do not support previous models arguing for the homogeneity of residential sites (Hayden 1976). Tools identified in sites which had been used by Martu in the historic period included retouched/utilized flakes, amorphous grindstones, millstones, groundedge axes, backed blades, backed geometrics, tula adzes, and burren adzes. Artifact diversity values for these three classes of sites are shown in Table 6.6. It was expected that the Pleistocene assemblages of the three Western Desert sites would have diversity values closer to those of the ephemeral and task specific sites in contrast to the base camps. It must be noted, however, that the introduction of new standardized tools from the mid-Holocene, such as the adzes and backed pieces, will inflate the diversity values for the Holocene sites (cf. Hiscock and Veth 1991). Diversity values for the Pleistocene-aged sites are provided in Table 6.7. The tools located from these three sites may be incorporated into the category of retouched/utilized flakes (referred to as ‘‘amorphous retouched’’ by Smith 1988: 126) where clear evidence of modification to a blank is visible through retouch/ use-wear. These artifacts are made on a wide variety of blank morphologies and are consistent with the expedient tools recorded by Hayden (1979) from the Western Desert. Another category is also recognized here: primary flakes that may have microscopic evidence for use-wear. This is simply a cautionary category that serves to inflate the artifact diversity values in lieu of use-wear analyses that are clearly in order. These values are clearly very low and stand in stark contrast to those recorded from the major aggregation sites, as shown in Table 6.6. It should be stressed that sample size effect and the known increase in formal tools by the mid-Holocene will serve to exaggerate this difference. It is reasonable to conclude on the basis of the

Table 6.6 Artifact diversity from Western Desert sites (from Veth 1993a, in prep.). Site type

Number of sites

Artifact diversity

9 34 15

8 4 2

Residential base camp Ephemeral residence Task specific

Table 6.7 Artifact diversity values for Pleistocene assemblages from Western Desert sites. Site

Layer

Artifact diversity

Serpent’s Glen Puritjarra Kulpi Mara

3 2 3

1 2 2

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available data, however, that there is a low diversity of tools in the Pleistocene assemblages.

The Presence of Local and Exotic Lithics It is expected that large foraging ranges associated with a high residential mobility strategy will result in the curation, maintenance, and occasional discard of lithics which may come from distant sources and hence be termed exotic – especially where suitable alternative sources are not readily available. The presence of abundant though highly variable quality silcretes and quartzites in the vicinity of all three Western Desert sites will have provided the range of blanks generally required for expedient maintenance tools in the Western Desert. The majority of artifacts from the three sites are from local materials (90–100 percent), with the presence of exotics likely a reflection of the scale of territorial range (Binford and Stone 1985 vs Gould 1985). Increases in the proportion of exotics are associated with the later appearance of standardized hafted tools, such as tula adzes and backed blades, by the midHolocene (e.g., Hiscock 1994; Hiscock and Veth 1991; Thorley 1998a: 235) and particularly during the subsequent emergence in the late Holocene of what are argued to be intensifying long distance exchange and ritual networks (Thorley 1998a). Major aggregation sites that served as centers of ‘‘production’’ for such regional networks evidence a significant increase in the proportion of exotics. This increase in exotics is argued to be a reflection of longer distance exchange networks and the higher number of source areas from which participating groups traveled (e.g. Cane 1984; Thorley and Gunn 1996; Veth 1993a).

The Quantity of Grinding Material Pleistocene assemblages from arid Australia rarely contain seed grinders (e.g., Gorecki et al. 1997) and this may be linked to a range of factors, including the function and permanency of site use, assemblage size effect, and a general lack of intensive seed/food processing (see, however, Edwards and O’Connell 1995). Grindstones conforming to a wide range of morphologies are commonly found in stratified contexts from the arid and semi-arid zone from after approximately 3,500 bp (Smith 1986). This has been argued to represent one of the major transitions in the economy and settlement of arid land peoples as they shift towards the exploitation of unpredictable yet densely clustered resources, with consequent changes in mobility strategy (Thorley 1998a). At the site of Serpent’s Glen, Veth and O’Connor (1996) have recorded hundreds of whole and fragmented formal millstones, mullers, and amorphous grindstones on the surface and surrounding sandplains which are assumed to date to the late Holocene. In contrast, there are no ground artifacts in the Pleistocene layer of Serpent’s Glen. Equally, there are no grinding implements before the midHolocene in the sites of Puritjarra and Kulpi Mara (Thorley 1998a: 323). There is abundant ethnohistorical evidence (cf. Smith 1986) that seed grinding stations

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were established at major aggregation sites and that these helped to underpin larger gatherings of people for extended periods of time. The mobility configuration of such sites was clearly more towards a logistical strategy. The lack of any seed grinding materials in the Pleistocene layers of the three Western Desert sites is consistent with their use as ephemeral occupation sites. Data collected by Veth (1993a) from occupation sites adjacent to water sources of varying permanency show a clear correlation between water permanency and number of intact grindstones (see Table 6.8). Martu Aborigines noted that the sites adjacent to more reliable waters had acted as major aggregation venues and that groups from many linguistic affiliations had come to such places, sometimes traveling hundreds of kilometers in small family groups.

Stylistic Uniformity of Rock Art Patterning in art has been used by a range of researchers to indicate aggregation and dispersion patterns resting largely on interpretations of inside/outside (exclusive/inclusive) access to information networks (Conkey 1980; Galt-Smith 1997; Gould 1980). The high residential mobility scenario of the Pleistocene would predict for high stylistic uniformity and the predominant use of outside symbols. Both the Serpent’s Glen site, and the sites of Kaalpi and Durba Springs to the north in the Little Sandy Desert, have extensive rock art galleries comprising both petroglyphs and pictographs. Although dating the rock art is in its early stages, the majority of paintings are thought to date to the late Holocene, with ocher specimens from the site of Kaalpi dating from 1,300 bp and essentially absent from before this time (Haley 1999: 61). Recent dates from a shelter with paintings at Durba Springs also support a relatively recent origin for the paintings (Veth in prep.). In contrast, a large number of the engravings occur on quartz sandstone panels which have been significantly weathered, chemically altered, and in some cases covered in very thick coatings of natural varnish and other crusts. It is quite likely that many of these engraved motifs date to the Pleistocene. Preliminary recording of motifs at these three sites suggests there are significant differences in the style, spatial patterning, and frequency of different classes of motifs between the engravings and the paintings. It is suggested that these reflect a change in site function from the Pleistocene to the late Holocene (Veth et al. 2001). This is seen to be due to their changing nature as ephemeral residential sites in the Pleistocene to major aggregation sites in the late Holocene. The engravings include

Table 6.8 Mean number of whole grindstones located at sites adjacent to permanent, semi-permanent, and ephemeral water sources (from Veth 1993a). Water permanency Permanent Semi-permanent Ephemeral

Number of sites

Mean number of grindstones

8 23 16

16.625 4.739 1.188

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a range of tracks, circles, concentric circles, and arcs, in addition to a range of naturalistic motifs including macropods, marsupials, and various birds. Noticeable are some very large anthropomorphs which have extensive infilling and the socalled archaic faces – disembodied faces which have a distribution through the arid zone from the coastal Pilbara to the Cleland Hills of central Australia, where Puritjarra is located (Dix 1977; see Chapter 7, this volume). The geometric motifs, archaic faces, and large anthropomorphs can be found in differing proportions at Kaalpi, Serpent’s Glen, and Durba Hills. The majority of the motifs appear to refer to foraging themes with the geometric motifs typical of those that have been documented as acting as mnemonic devices for mapping both water hole and ancestral routes at the regional level (after Gould 1980). This is assumed to reflect an outside or inclusive symbolic configuration. In contrast, the paintings display greater assemblage diversity and contain a higher proportion of complex designs, although many of the fundamental geometric motifs are also present. Several Martu with whom I have worked had participated in ceremonies and gatherings at Kaalpi and Durba before contact with Europeans and were able to provide some mythological referants for the figurative paintings. Very detailed anthropomorphs are depicted with expanded headdresses, these only being recorded from this specific locality of the Western Desert – as such they may be signifiers of corporate identity. The use of inside/outside symbols is consistent with the increasing role of these sites for aggregation, rather than dispersion (cf. Galt-Smith 1997).

Changes in Sedimentary Records A shift from ephemeral occupation of a site under a high residential mobility regime to greater permanency may be registered in the matrix of a deposit. Such a process has been identified in the Pleistocene-aged occupation horizons at Puritjarra. Smith (1989: 99) concluded, a major change in the use of the shelter is clear from changes in the character of the sediments, with large amounts of finely divided charcoal and fine rock fragments and a more open fabric.

Equally, short duration and low intensity occupation episodes are more likely to leave intact living surfaces due to longer periods of site abandonment and ongoing sedimentation processes and the decreased likelihood of disturbance during subsequent occupations (cf. O’Connor et al. 1993). Shorter site visits will also result in lower indices for artifact breakage due to treadage, as has been demonstrated by Hiscock (1988) for the Colless Creek sites.

Changes in Ocher Provenance The study of ocher distributions from Puritjarra dating to the terminal Pleistocene demonstrates changing provenance (Smith et al. 1998). From 32,000 to 13,000 bp

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the red ocher source is located 125 km across major dunefields of the Western Desert. The occupants of Puritjarra were either moving over large portions of the desert lowlands to obtain ocher or were in contact with groups that had access to this quarry. The pattern changes significantly after 13,000 bp and particularly between 7,500 and 1,000 bp, with the ocher supply shifting to a much closer source located in the central Australian ranges. More intensive use of the rock shelter and increased quantities of ocher are registered after 7,500 bp. Smith et al. (1998: 287) synthesize both the changes in ocher source and other archaeological signatures of territoriality to conclude: If we see the production of pigment art . . . at the site as reflecting an increasing need to assert corporate rights and relationships to the site, and the more restricted catchment reflected in the ochers as reflecting an actual reduction in residential mobility, we get a picture of a shift from an open spatially extensive pattern of land use to a more closed system with smaller group territories after 13,000 bp.

Continuity of Occupation at Sites The three Western Desert sites all evidence a decrease, if not an absence, of occupational material during the LGM (O’Connor et al. 1998: 16; Smith 1988: table 4.4; Thorley 1998a: 239). At least two of the sites are located adjacent to permanent water sources, a rare commodity in the Western Desert at any time of its human occupation. The expectation for groups continuing to occupy a region as conditions became harsher and semi-permanent water sources are lost would be for greater tethering at permanent waters. This is not the case for any of the three sites. As Thorley (1998a: 323) concludes: As a site near permanent water, Puritjarra would be expected to show indications of more intensive occupation around the time ephemerally watered sites such as Kulpi Mara ceased to be occupied. This would be consistent with a model of populations falling back on more reliable ‘‘refuge’’ sites. Yet like Kulpi Mara, Puritjarra also shows a slowing of sediment and artifact deposition rates during the glacial maximum.

The late glacial record from all three sites sits more comfortably with groups who have restricted their territorial range rather than those who continue to occupy a landscape employing a high residential mobility strategy.

Implications of Mobility Indicators In this chapter I have examined eight different lines of archaeological evidence which may be used to infer residential mobility from Pleistocene assemblages in the Western Desert. Such assemblages are relatively intractable when compared to similar aged assemblages from tropical northern Australia. Clearly, multiple lines of evidence are preferable and can act as potential cross-checks on each other. The Pleistocene assemblages conform to the behavioral and archaeological predictions

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of Ambrose and Lorenz (1990: 10), where the archaeological correlates of huntergatherer behaviors in an unpredictable and scarce resource regime are defined. I have argued that the identification of changes in configurations of residential mobility is central to understanding variability in the assemblages of these three Western Desert sites. Assumptions that early occupation was by small and highly mobile groups finds empirical support in this analysis. Independent lines of evidence for resource stress, such as the Index of Fragmentation, help to calibrate differences in resource scarcity and hence stress from different regions. Detailed analyses of the intensity of stone reduction, the provenance of stone artifacts and ocher, the diversity of tools and art, and sedimentary records all have the potential to inform on mobility strategies. It is clear from this review that flexibility in mobility patterns, including territorial abandonment and strategy switching, will always have been a necessary part of risk minimization in Western Desert foraging behavior.

References Ambrose, S. H. and Lorenz, K. G. 1990: Social and ecological models of the Middle Stone Age in southern Africa. In P. Mellars (ed.), The Emergence of Modern Humans, Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 3–33. Andrefsky, W. 1998: Lithics: Macroscopic Approaches to Analysis. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Binford, L. R. 1980: Willow smoke and dog’s tails: Hunter-gatherer settlement systems and archaeological site formation. American Antiquity, 45, 4–20. Binford, L. R. and Stone, N. M. 1985: ‘‘Righteous rocks’’ and Richard Gould: Some observations on misguided ‘‘debate.’’ American Antiquity, 50, 151–3. Cane, S. 1984: Desert camps: A case study of stone artifacts and Aboriginal behavior in the Western Desert. Unpublished PhD thesis, Canberra: The Australian National University. Conkey, M. W. 1980: The identification of hunter-gatherer aggregation sites: The case of Altamira. Current Anthropology, 21, 609–30. Dix, W. 1977: Facial representations in Pilbara rock engravings. In P. J. Ucko (ed.), Form in Indigenous Art, London: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies Prehistory and Material Culture Series no. 13, Duckworth, 277–85. Edwards, D. A. and O’Connell, J. F. 1995: Broad spectrum diets in arid Australia. Antiquity, 69, 769–83. Galt-Smith, B. 1997: Motives for motifs: Identifying aggregation and dispersion settlement patterns in the rock art assemblages of central Australia. Unpublished BA (Hons) thesis, Armidale: University of New England. Gorecki, P., Grant, M., O’Connor, S., and Veth, P. 1997: The morphology, function, and antiquity of grinding implements in northern Australia. Archaeology in Oceania, 32, 141–50. Gould, R. A. 1978: Archaeological signatures of stress in the Australian Desert. Los Angeles: Unpublished paper presented at the 1978 Annual Meeting of the American Anthropological Association. Gould, R. A. 1980: Living Archaeology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Gould, R. A. 1985: The empiricist strikes back: Reply to Binford. American Antiquity, 50 (3), 638–44.

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Pe t e r V eth Gould, R. A. 1991: Arid land foraging as seen from Australia: Adaptive models and behavioral realities. Oceania, 62, 12–33. Gould, R. A. 1996: Faunal reduction at Puntutjarpa rock shelter, Warburton Ranges, Western Australia. Archaeology in Oceania, 31 (2), 72–86. Haley, M. 1999: Kaalpi: Investigation of archaeological assemblages from the Calvert Ranges Western Desert, Western Australia. Unpublished BA (Hons) thesis, Townsville: James Cook University. Hayden, B. 1976: Australian Western Desert lithic technology: An ethno-archaeological study of variability in material culture. Unpublished PhD thesis, Toronto: University of Toronto. Hayden, B. 1979: Paleolithic Reflections. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. Hiscock, P. 1988: Prehistoric settlement patterns and artifact manufacture at Lawn Hill, northwest Queensland. Unpublished PhD thesis, St Lucia: University of Queensland. Hiscock, P. 1994: Technological responses to risk in Holocene Australia. Journal of World Prehistory, 8 (3), 267–92. Hiscock, P. 1996: Mobility and technology in the Kakadu coastal wetlands. Indo-Pacific Prehistory Association Bulletin, 15 (2), 151–7. Hiscock, P. and Veth, P. 1991: Change in the Australian Desert Culture: A reanalysis of tulas from Puntutjarpa. World Archaeology, 22, 332–45. Kelly, R. L. 1992: Mobility/sedentism: Concepts, archaeological measures, and effects. Annual Review of Anthropology, 21, 43–66. Kelly, R. L. 1995: The Foraging Spectrum. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press. Mabbutt, J. A. 1977: Desert Landforms vol. 2. Canberra: The Australian National University Press. Morse, K. 1994: West Side Story: Towards a prehistory of the Cape Range Peninsula. Unpublished PhD thesis, Perth: University of Western Australia. O’Connor, S., Veth, P., and Barham, A. 1999: Cultural versus natural explanations for lacunae in Aboriginal occupation deposits in northern Australia. Quaternary International, 59, 61–70. O’Connor, S., Veth, P., and Campbell, C. 1998: Serpent’s Glen rock shelter: Report of the first Pleistocene-aged occupation sequence from the Western Desert. Australian Archaeology, 46, 12–21. O’Connor, S., Veth, P., and Hubbard, N. 1993: Changing interpretations of postglacial human subsistence and demography in Sahul. In M. A. Smith, M. Spriggs, and B. Fankhauser (eds), Sahul in Review: The Archaeology of Australia, New Guinea, and Island Melanesia, Canberra: The Australian National University, 95–105. Rolland, N. and Dibble, H. L. 1990: A new synthesis of Middle Paleolithic variability. American Antiquity, 55 (3), 480–99. Ross, A., Donnelly, T., and Wasson, R. 1992: The peopling of the arid zone: Human–environment interactions. In J. Dodson (ed.), The Naı¨ve Lands, London: Longman, 76–114. Shott, M. J. 1986: Technological organization and settlement mobility: An ethnographic examination. Journal of Anthropological Research, 42, 15–51. Shott, M. J. 1989: On tool class use lives and the formation of archaeological assemblages. American Antiquity, 54 (1), 9–30. Smith, M. A. 1986: The antiquity of seed grinding in central Australia. Archaeology in Oceania, 21, 29–39. Smith, M. A. 1988: The pattern and timing of prehistoric settlement in central Australia. Unpublished PhD thesis, Armidale: University of New England.

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C y c l es o f A r i d i t y a n d H u m a n M o b i l i t y Smith, M. A. 1989: The case for a resident human population in the central Australian ranges during full glacial aridity. Archaeology in Oceania, 24, 93–105. Smith, M. A. 1996: Prehistory and human ecology in central Australia: An archaeological perspective. In S. R. Morton and D. J. Mulvaney (eds), Exploring Central Australia: Society, Environment and the 1894 Horn Expedition, Chipping Norton: Surry Beatty and Sons, 61–73. Smith, M. A., Fankhauser, B., and Jercher, M. 1998: The changing provenance of red ocher at Puritjarra rock shelter, central Australia: Late Pleistocene to present. Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society, 64, 275–92. Smith, M. A., Prescott, J. R., and Head, M. J. 1997: Comparison of 14C and luminescence chronologies at Puritjarra rock shelter, central Australia. Quaternary Science Reviews, 16, 1–22. Thorley, P. B. 1998a: Shifting location, shifting scale: A regional landscape approach to the prehistoric archaeology of the Palmer River catchment, central Australia. Unpublished PhD thesis, Darwin: Northern Territory University. Thorley, P. B. 1998b: Pleistocene settlement in the Australian arid zone: Occupation of an inland riverine landscape in the central Australian ranges. Antiquity, 72, 34–45. Thorley, P. B. and Gunn, B. 1996: Archaeological research from the eastern border lands of the Western Desert. Canberra: Unpublished paper presented at the Western Desert Origins Workshop, Australian Linguistic Institute. Tonkinson, R. 1991: The Martu Aborigines: Living the Dream in Australia’s Desert. Fort Worth, TX: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston. Varien, M. D. 1999: Sedentism and Mobility in a Social Landscape. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Veth, P. 1987: Martujarra prehistory: Variation in arid zone adaptations. Australian Archaeology, 25, 102–11. Veth, P. 1989: Islands in the interior: A model for the colonization of Australia’s arid zone. Archaeology in Oceania, 24, 81–92. Veth, P. 1993a: Islands in the Interior: The Dynamics of Prehistoric Adaptations within the Arid Zone of Australia. International Monographs in Prehistory, Archaeology Series no. 3, Ann Arbor, MI. Veth, P. 1993b: The Aboriginal occupation of the Montebello Islands, northwest Australia. Australian Aboriginal Studies, 2, 39–50. Veth, P. 1995: Aridity and settlement in northwest Australia. Antiquity, 69, 733–46. Veth, P. 1996: Current archaeological evidence from the Little and Great Sandy Deserts. In P. Veth and P. Hiscock (eds), Archaeology of Northern Australia: Regional Perspectives, Tempus: Archaeology and Material Culture Studies in Anthropology no. 4, Anthropology Museum, University of Queensland, St Lucia, 50–65. Veth, P. 2000: Origins of the Western Desert language: Convergence in linguistic and archaeological space and time models. Archaeology in Oceania, 35 (1), 11–19. Veth, P. in prep.: Durba Springs and the emergence of the Wati language. Veth, P. and O’Connor, S. 1996: A preliminary analysis of basal grindstones from the Carnarvon Range, Little Sandy Desert. Australian Archaeology, 43, 20–2. Veth, P., Smith, M., and Haley, M. 2001: Kaalpi: The archaeology of a sandstone outlier in the Western Desert. Australian Archaeology, 52, 9–17. Yellen, J. E. 1976: Long-term hunter-gatherer adaptation to desert environments: A biogeographical perspective. World Archaeology, 8 (3), 262–74.

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Archaic Faces to Headdresses The Changing Role of Rock Art Across the Arid Zone Jo McDonald

Introduction The art systems of the Australian arid zone have long been thought of as culturally and stylistically homogeneous. Rock art, sand paintings, shields, body painting, and headdresses have been seen as different expressions of the same graphic systems from a region which is essentially culturally homogeneous (Tonkinson 1991). The rock art, in particular, is seen as a longstanding graphic tradition (Rosenfeld 2002). The Western Desert peoples engaged in a settlement pattern marked by high residential mobility across vast territories. This kind of mobility was dynamic. The environment required periodic spatial dispersal and aggregation. This necessitated maintaining relationships with people in one’s own residence group as well as with those from ‘‘far away’’ (Myers 2002). This extreme flexibility in mobility is seen to underpin a raft of risk minimizing strategies in the Western Desert (Veth 2000a). It is generally understood that this type of mobility was accommodated by widely ramified open social networks with institutionalized kinship, marriage exchange, and ceremonial organization, and reciprocal rights to country. These different institutions of identity and exchange are the media for sustaining political relations over space and time in conditions that combine aggregation and dispersal (Myers 2002: 47). A common signal for this type of mediated social network would be the homogeneity of the arid zone art systems (Jochim 1983; Munn 1966; C. Smith 1989; Wiessner 1990). The central Australian and Western Deserts encompass lands which fall within the ‘‘Western Desert Cultural Bloc,’’ its people all speaking the Western Desert language (see Figure 7.1). The current linguistic model (McConvell 1996) sees this language moving from northwest to east across the arid zone possibly as recently as 1,500– 1,000 years ago (Veth 2000b). It has been argued (Veth and McDonald 2002) that

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alliance networks must have already been in place throughout the Western Desert to enable the rapid transmission of this language. By 5,000 years ago, then, the domestic and totemic landscapes would have been established across all landscapes and habitats of the Western Desert. Implicit in this proposition is that such long distance exchange networks were present well before the Holocene, and could have been in operation from the earliest period of occupation ca. 30,000 bp. Australia is the most arid continent on earth and the Western Desert arguably its most marginal populated landscape. A paucity of permanent water, absence of coordinated drainage, high temperatures and patchy resources are factors in this marginality. Despite this, we know that humans have lived in this region for at least 25,000 years. Key sites such as Serpent’s Glen, Puritjarra, Katampul, and further afield at Kulpi Mara and Allen’s Cave (see Figure 7.1) have evidence for occupation between 30,000–22,000 bp. These sites have varying records for subsequent occupation during the peak aridity of the Last Glacial Maximum (LGM). All sequences, however, register occupation from 5,000 years ago and at the majority of stratified

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Figure 7.1 The Western Desert in the context of the Australian arid zone (after Veth 2000b).

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sites there are increases in discard rates and changes in lithic technology during the last 2,000 years through to the contact period. All arid zone researchers agree that Aboriginal culture has undergone significant transformation during this recent period (O’Connor et al. 1998; Smith 1996; Thorley 1998; Veth 1993). Ongoing archaeological research in the Western Desert indicates an early date for occupation of all landscapes by groups employing a high residential mobility pattern. Dynamism in both residential mobility and the nature and size of territories is assumed for much of this history. While there is some evidence for long distance exchange from the terminal Pleistocene onwards (e.g., pearl and baler shell from the coast; see Ackerman and Stanton 1994), there are signs of increasing circumscription of territory by the early to mid-Holocene (see Table 7.1). These trends are supported by ocher distribution patterns (Smith et al. 1998) and the efflorescence of group identifying behavior as inferred from the in situ development of regionally unique localized pigment art styles (Galt-Smith 1997; Gunn 1995, 2000a). A number of workers have now argued for changes in the function and intensity of occupation in major habitation sites during the last 2,000 years. Across the Western Desert for much of the year, groups are highly nucleated and dispersed across vast areas of country, and there is evidence for this being longterm behavioral patterning. Major aggregation events occur during times of resource stress, when group territories contract into refugia (Veth 1993), or for major ceremonial activities during periods of resource abundance. At such times, it has been predicted that there will be a greater diversity of activities, both everyday economic, as well as religious and ceremonial. These types of sites occur where there are permanent water sources and where there is a range of other resources nearby. Recent work at one such location indicates a long period of art production and a changing graphic structure over the period of this area’s occupation. The art of the Calvert Ranges – an outlier in the midst of the vast sand dunes of the Little Sandy Desert – will be used as exemplar of the issues raised in this chapter (see Figure 7.1). Table 7.1 Occupation phases and key elements for the Western Desert (after Veth 2000b). Phase 1 2

3 4 5

Features

Timing

Early colonization of Western Desert; all landscapes used with high residential mobility Period of instability in population levels; subregional abandonment and/or more opportunistic use of marginal lands Onset of climatic amelioration; territorial expansion from ‘‘refuges’’ Occupation of all desert ecosystems; (re)establishment of information networks Increased intensity of occupation; accelerated ritual and ceremonial cycles

>25,000–22,000 bp

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13,000–5,000 bp 5,000 bp to contact 1,500 bp to contact

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In this chapter I am interested in tracking diachronic changes in the artistic systems of the arid zone. I will explore how the role of art has transmogrified along with changes in stone tool technologies and subsistence strategies. The ways that art might be used to recognize changing mobility and territoriality are discussed. To demonstrate the changing graphic system over time and space, I will focus on a particular engraved figurative motif – the so-called ‘‘archaic face’’ – and look at its distribution, likely antiquity, and possible role within the Western Desert graphic system. The implications of a ‘‘shared’’ motif over a very extensive area and through many millennia will be examined. The way that this motif has been transformed, both into engraved anthropomorphic motifs and painted forms, is discussed. The development of headdresses as localized group identifying behavior across various arid desert and coastal style regions is shown to be part of the in situ development of local group identifying behaviors and a traceable factor in the changing graphic from the Panaramitee to a myriad of localized, mostly figurative styles.

The Arid Zone Art Graphic It is generally understood that Aboriginal painters from the arid zone paint their Dreamings (Gunn 1995, 2003; Kimber 1977; Layton 1992; Megaw 1982; Myers 1989, 2002; Spencer and Gillen 1899). Painters involved in the production of Western Desert acrylic art state that their paintings represent the Dreaming (Tjukurrpa) and their country (ngurra). They insist that the representations and images that they use ‘‘come from the Dreaming’’ (tjukurrtjana), and are more valuable than anything humans might invent (Myers 2002: 32–3). These paintings are representational and make use of a system of graphic signs: Munn’s ‘‘visual categories.’’ The iconic elements of this system are circles, arcs, lines, and meanders. In the Warlpiri graphic systems each visual element conveys a number of possible meanings. The ability to interpret the meaning depends on having the knowledge of relevant mythological information. It has been argued that this ambiguity provides a degree of this art’s aesthetic force (Morphy 1991). We have a relatively good appreciation of how rock art functioned in the recent past, based on solid anthropological and ethnographic evidence. The production of art is known to have taken place in a number of social contexts – from secular and casual, to sacred and ceremonial (Gunn 2000b). A number of researchers have noted the interconnectedness of art (or graphic) systems with other social institutions in this arid environment where the social networks were widely ramified. The interdependent relationship between the environment, belief systems, social structure, politics, and graphic system served to integrate and reinforce knowledge of the landscape into a holistic body of meanings; the graphic systems interweave the social, physiographic, and spiritual knowledge of society (Chewings 1909; Frederick 2000; Gillen 1968; Layton 1986, 1992; Myers 1986, 2002; C. Smith 1989). All members of society, regardless of levels of practice and cognizance of encoded meaning, have some involvement in the production and maintenance of the graphic system (Morphy 1989, 1991; Munn 1973).

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The graphic systems of the Western Desert were an important tool for promoting and controlling the exchange of information. They functioned at a multitude of levels, to identify and integrate as well as to demarcate social boundaries (David and Chant 1995; Dickens 1996; Frederick 2000; Galt-Smith 1997; Jestribek 1997; C. Smith 1989; and in other regions Lewis 1988; McDonald 1994, 1999). The application of a graphic system in the production of rock art served a number of functions and operated within a variety of social contexts (Frederick 2000). It was a way of marking place and concomitantly an individual’s affiliation to it; it had a significant storytelling or instructive context; it was recorded as being used in initiation ceremonies (Spencer and Gillen 1899), and also often provided a physical manifestation of an ancestral being or event. Rock art was also a way of ‘‘marking country’’ by the identification and naming of nodes in the social geography (Rosenfeld 2002).

Arid Zone Rock Art Research Rock art research in the Australian arid zone has had a recent efflorescence with a number of rock art specialists commencing or expanding research interests in this area (Frederick 2000; Galt-Smith 1997; Gunn 1995, 2000b; Rosenfeld 1993, 2002; Rosenfeld and Smith 2002; Ross 2003). There have also been a number of recent archaeological analyses of other arid zone graphic systems which have broadened our understanding of the social context of art production (Dickens 1996; Jestribek 1997; C. Smith 1989). Revealed by this increased research activity is the amount of localized stylistic variability apparent in rock art, particularly in the recent past, across the arid zone. This had not been documented previously, and like early views of Aboriginal occupation of this continent, people had identified only homogeneity and assumed a broad continuity and unchanging nature of rock art production across the arid zone (e.g., Dix 1977; Edwards 1968; Gould 1969; Maynard 1977; McCarthy 1979). Spencer and Gillen (1899) recorded that the primary difference between ‘‘ordinary and sacred’’ rock art was the location in which they were painted (Gunn 2000b, 2003). They commented: ‘‘motifs painted in sacred places were sacred: those painted elsewhere were not, even if visually the two motifs were identical’’ (Spencer and Gillen 1899: 618). Rosenfeld (2002) has pointed to a difference in design structure as indicative of which art was socially restricted. The Emily Gap (Ntherrke) painting site (which has recently had its restricted access lifted to allow public visitation) comprises a series of large formally structured bichrome designs, which Gunn (2003) calls Dreaming (or atywerrwenge) designs. Rosenfeld notes that striped designs such as these mark localities with powerful mythological significance to informants (Stirling 1896: 67). Projecting the mythological significance of motifs into the archaeological past is of course the nub of the problem (see Gunn 2003). This problem is of relevance when it comes to interpreting the social messaging potential of art in its social context (e.g., Wiessner 1990). Galt-Smith’s (1997) work on aggregation locales in central Australia demonstrates that the social context of the art’s production does affect social messaging.

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For instance, pigment art (and engravings) that occur in rock shelters (or open contexts) where there is other evidence for domestic habitation (stone tools, hearths, grinding stones or patches, and so on) was art largely produced in a public context. On the other hand, pigment and engraved art less tangibly connected with habitation sites may equate with a less public art medium (see McDonald 1999). Of course, through time, sites may have periods where they were closed access and other episodes of open context. The longevity of rock art sites means that these can demonstrate changing social contexts and record past social geographies (Rosenfeld 2002; Rosenfeld and Smith 2002). Both the archaeological evidence, from occupation deposits and an art graphic that varies over time, can demonstrate such changes.

Rock Art Chronology Determining the age of rock art across the arid zone has not been well researched at this time, and we have few dates to help in establishing a firm chronology. There are, however, a number of dates from surrounding regions, including a small number of direct dates on art motifs and several dated art contexts. Broad temporal trends can be defined on the basis of the excavated evidence. Fairly recent developments have resulted in the successful use of Accelerator Mass Spectrometry (AMS) to date very small samples of carbon directly from rock art motifs (David et al. 1999; McDonald 2000; Watchman et al. 1997). Carbon is found within the actual art matrix (e.g., charcoal, organics in the binders) or as organics within skins which have formed on top of the art (e.g., oxalate crusts and desert varnish). Optically Stimulated Luminescence (OSL) has also been used in the Kimberley region to date mud-wasp nests which have been constructed on top of (Bradshaw style) pigment motifs (Roberts et al. 1997). We can assume that the pigment art of the arid zone is mostly relatively recent. Pigment and ochers generally do not have the same long-term survival potential presented by engravings as these materials fade and weather (although the probability of red pigment surviving is greater; see Cook et al. 1990; Roberts et al. 1997) and many rock shelter surfaces are unstable. Engravings, on the other hand, unless created on very soft friable surfaces, can survive for considerable periods of time. Most of the arid zone bedrock consists of case-hardened rocks. High levels of iron in the soils and extreme temperatures mean that the greatest threat to most engraved art comes from cracking of the matrix over time. At Puritjara, the use of ocher has been dated back to ca. 32,000 bp, and the earliest period of the site’s occupation. It has been argued that pigment use here was initially for body painting and that rock art production only commenced after 13,000 bp when a prevalence of ochers was located close to the back wall of the shelter (Smith et al. 1998; Rosenfeld and Smith 2002). While much of the arid zone pigment art is arguably recent, very old pigmented motifs are found in locations where there are good conditions for preservation. The Bradshaw figures in the Kimberley region have been dated to greater than 25,000 bp (Roberts et al. 1997)

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and pigment on buried rock fragments at the Carpenter’s Gap rock shelter has been dated to >40,000 bp (O’Connor 1995). Pecked and highly weathered Panaramitee style engravings (after Maynard 1977) are found throughout virtually the entire arid zone. This longstanding graphic tradition comprises circles, tracks, lines, and arcs, and the occasional figurative motif – the same visual categories identified by Munn (1973) in contemporary Warlpiri iconography and recent arid engraving traditions, albeit with the addition of a number of new motifs (Rosenfeld 2002). It has generally been considered that the pecked petroglyphs of the Panaramitee date to the Pleistocene. Engravings of this style have been dated (elsewhere) to 30,000 bp (Nobbs and Dorn 1988, 1993; although see Watchman 1992), and the weathering condition and patina of many of these sites indicate that they are indeed ‘‘ancient’’ in their production. Regional variants of this style are found elsewhere across the continent, with eastern variants being found in Laura (Queensland) and Sydney (New South Wales), where they have been found to predate the more recent regional art styles (McDonald 1998; Rosenfeld et al. 1981). It has been maintained that this multivalent and largely iconic art system connected groups over hundreds and indeed thousands of kilometers. Certainly, this graphic system crosses currently recognized geographic, language, and cultural boundaries. Increasingly apparent as a result of detailed current research is that across the arid zone recent rock engraving styles have also developed. These are largely figurative, but still contain track and geometric components. While not dated, it is assumed (on the basis of regional coastal trends) that these are a Holocene development. In those areas where there has been recent research (e.g., the Calvert Ranges, Burrup Peninsula, and the western portion of the central Australian ranges) these engraving styles can be seen as associated with developing localized pigment traditions. Not all recent pigment traditions, particularly those in central Australia, however, have associated highly developed engraved components (Ben Gunn, pers. comm.). This, too, would appear to be one of the traits of more recent localized artistic behavior – a mosaic of pigment and engraved components. While there is a paucity of direct dating, it is clear that art has probably been produced throughout the arid zone, from the time of its earliest occupation (at least ca. 30,000 bp), in both engraved and pigment forms. While there is little evidence of ancient pigment art surviving on rock surfaces across the arid zone proper (cf. the Bradshaws in the Kimberley region), the evidence from Carpenter’s Gap and Puritjarra indicates that pigments were being used on rock surfaces early and that this may have increased substantially by 13,000 bp. While we have no direct dates from the arid zone proper for engraved art, dates in excess of 30,000 bp for the oldest Panaramitee art style are posited.

Correlating Rock Art with Other Arid Zone Land Use Patterns So how can patterns in rock art production throughout the arid zone be correlated with archaeological models and linguistic evidence across the arid zone?

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‘‘Centralian’’ and Western Desert art are rarely linked (e.g., Gould 1969), although researchers recognize that the Western Desert Cultural Bloc, which describes the extent of this specific language area, transcends other geographic divisions (that is, the more marginal Western Desert compared with the better watered central uplands). Numerous researchers have identified close similarities in both the style and execution of Western Desert and Pilbara engravings and have documented mythological narratives which clearly link the two areas and their art (e.g., Dix 1977; Maynard 1977; Tonkinson 1991; Veth 2000b). While sharing a number of traits, distinctive styles are found on the Burrup Peninsula, within the central Pilbara uplands, and at several ranges along the Canning Stock Route. Engraved gracile anthropomorphic figures, elaborate headdresses, and a range of painted and engraved naturalistic motifs and geometrics would appear to link these areas in a stylistic sense. The Wandjina/Bradshaw styles of painting from the southern Kimberley region do not occur in the Western Desert, although it is notable that many of the early Wandjina motifs bear striking similarity to the archaic faces found across the arid zone (e.g., Crawford 1977; and see below). The mythological sagas of Wati Kutjarra (the two men), Papa (dingo), and Seven Sisters (Pillades), to name a few, connect specific sites (often with art) between the Pilbara and the Western Desert (cf. Tonkinson 1991; Peter Veth, pers. comm.). These narratives do not necessarily extend to the central Australian ranges or the Kimberley. While all the art regions being discussed still require reliable dating, it is reasonable to assume that the recent ‘‘maintained’’ art sites, and those forming an integral part of the mythological narrative, can be treated as recent, and connected. The distribution of these sites in the recent period gives us insight into the scale of the interrelatedness of sites throughout prehistory. While there are early connections evident throughout the northwest and arid zone proper, throughout time there has been a changing focus of contacts into and across the arid zone. Based on regional patterns in stratified archaeological sites and shared cultural attributes, Veth (2000b) has shown that the Western Desert language probably originated in the vicinity of the Pilbara uplands and that its spread occurred in the late Holocene (see also Chapter 12, this volume). This conclusion supported the linguistic models (e.g., McConvell 1996) which indicated that the homeland of Wati was located in or near the Hammersley (Karijini) Ranges and that the homeland of Western Desert was very close to the Calvert Ranges (see Figure 7.1). The linguists argue that proto-Wati moves out of the Hammersley Ranges after 3,000 bp, with initial Western Desert unity in the southern Pilbara dating from about 2,000 bp. It is proposed that with the spread of the Western Desert language came an increased intensity of site occupation, an accelerated ritual and ceremonial cycle, and an increase in long distance exchange. The proposed correlation of the linguistic and archaeological data gives a clear indication of how you might model the role of art within this changing social system (see Table 7.2). It is likely that the ramified social networks described by current anthropological research have functioned for at least 1,000–1,500 years and possibly for as much as 5,000 years (Veth 2000a, 2000b).

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>22,000 bp

22,000–13,000 bp

13,000–5,000 bp

5,000–1,500 bp

1,500–500 bp

500 bp to contact

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4

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Timing

1

Occupation phase

Western Desert speakers encroach into central Australia

Spread of Western Desert languages; loan words from northern languages; some evidence of Arandic contact

Pama-Nyungan occupation of Western Desert

Non-Pama-Nyungan speakers

Linguistic correlations

Increased interaction with social networks in central Australia

Early colonization; all land systems in use; broadly based economy Changes in residential patterns; shifts in demography (LGM); lowlands used more opportunistically Climatic amelioration; marginal lands used more systematically Occupation of all desert ecosystems; reestablishment of regional exchange/information networks Increased intensity of site occupation; accelerated ritual and ceremonial cycle; increase in long distance exchange

Occupation model

Table 7.2 Occupation phases and language movements (after Veth 2000b) and likely art correlates.

Increased use of art to negotiate broad scale and local group identity with distinctive localized style regions evolving – art influences at this time come from the north As above – art influences also appear from the east and further afield

Art used to negotiate broad scale and local group identity

Broad scale social cohesion with perhaps increased localized identifying behavior – territorial tethering

Sporadic art production; widespread group cohesion

Likely art correlate


It is also plausible that a tightening of social and territorial organization occurred just before the LGM following a long phase of high mobility and multivalent art. Groups could have become more tethered to uplands like the Calvert Ranges due to intensified aridity. A likely consequence of this would have been an inevitable intensifying process in those locations where occupation was maintained. Using this model, and information exchange theory, it is proposed that art was used to negotiate identity within this time frame. It is likely that networks functioning across the arid zone throughout the Pleistocene were more open and far reaching than observed at present, reflecting an extreme form of residential mobility (Veth 2000b). It is plausible that the initial occupation of the region was accompanied by the use of rock art. Low intensity, sporadic art production at this time would have demonstrated widespread group cohesion, resulting in a visually homogenous multivalent art graphic. The Panaramitee art fits within this schema, supported by the various early dates around the continent. Extensive art networks functioned in the European Paleolithic at a similar time. Equally, the very early dates for the Bradshaw (pigment) art of the Kimberley region and art production at Carpenter’s Gap reinforce such a proposition. The addition of the so-called archaic face into the graphic system would appear to date to the earliest period of Panaramitee art. All examples are heavily weathered, highly patinated, and many are geologically altered. Since their earliest documentation, every rock art researcher who has observed these motifs has commented on their obvious antiquity (David et al. 1992; Dix 1977; Edwards 1968; McCarthy 1979; Terry 1932; Walsh 1988). One of the characteristics of the Panaramitee is the small proportion of figurative motifs which occur among the largely non-figurative and track repertoire. Interestingly, it is this minor figurative component of the style which provides insight into what could be classed ‘‘localized style regions’’ among this early art form. The distribution of archaic faces does not reflect the overall distribution of Panaramitee rock engravings. In other regions there are other unique forms which contribute to the small proportion of unusual motifs, such as the spoked concentric circles at Sturt’s Meadows (see Walsh 1988: 65). With the LGM and changes in residential patterning (Phases 2 and 3, from 22,000–13,000 bp), it is likely that there was broad scale social cohesion. Increased localized identifying behavior may well have resulted from territorial tethering during this period. Perhaps it was at this time that the large decorative infilled motifs at the Calvert Ranges and localized variants of the archaic faces (many with bodies) were developed across the Western Desert. In the Calvert Ranges this type of motif is geologically old – the tops of the heads of one panel having weathered away. In this location, this style (on the basis of patination and weathering) appears at least as old as the other elements of classic Panaramitee art at this location. Three ancient-looking simple archaic faces (minus bodies) are also found among this assemblage. In other localities within the arid zone and its coastal margins, similar trends within developing local styles appear to have occurred. It is suggested that the use of rangeland systems such as the Calverts may have intensified with the onset of heightened aridity during the latter phase of the LGM. In coping with increased stress and the imperative to maintain ties to country,

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obvious responses would be to make shifts in residential mobility and to signal increasing boundedness as groups’ ranges were reconfigured. This is just the sort of catalyst that would create an artistic vocabulary signifying corporate identity (or identity of any kind) in the Western Desert during the Pleistocene (viz Rosenfeld 1993). Prior to the arrival of the Western Desert language, from around 5,000 years ago, it has been suggested that antecedent regional social networks would have developed (Veth 2000b). At this time, art would again have been used to negotiate both broad scale and local group identity. It would still be expected to have been relatively homogenous, given the requirements of ramified open social networks, although it is likely that there was an increased use of art to negotiate broad scale and local group identity with distinctive localized style regions evolving. Art influences at this time would be expected to have come from the northwest, coinciding with a range of archaeological and linguistic evidence. This pattern could have continued during the spread of the Western Desert language. In the period between 1,500 and 500 years ago one would expect that the regionally specific art provinces in operation at contact would have developed. Anthropological and archaeological evidence (e.g., Smith et al. 1998) supports a flow of artistic (social) influences from the West to the East across the arid zone during the last 500 years. This set of correlates identifies the likely triggers and social mechanisms that would have resulted in a complex graphic system, particularly one involving figurative motifs (cf. Rosenfeld 1993) developing in some areas before others. It also takes account of the ‘‘pulses’’ of artistic activity which are indicated by the (so far) limited archaeological evidence (e.g., Smith et al. 1998). This suggested patterning for diachronic change in the social context of art production and the likely manifestations of this in the graphic system, illustrating local versus regional patterns of land use, rest largely on interpretations of information exchange networks. The geographic scale at which these arid zone information networks are operating is colossal by world standards (see Gamble 1982), and the nature of the arid zone (with focalized rock art locations interspersed by vast tracts of sand dune country) provides us with a unique opportunity to investigate the dynamics of information exchange. The notion of style as social strategy (following Wobst 1977) is based on stylistic principles of communication processes. The major function of stylistic behavior is seen as linking members of a community who are not in constant verbal contact with each other, making their interaction more predictable and less stressful. ‘‘Style’’ here is defined as the particular way of doing or producing material culture which signals the activity of a particular group of people who distinguish themselves from other, similarly constituted groups. Style is non-verbal communication which negotiates identity (Wiessner 1990). ‘‘Stylistic heterogeneity’’ is perceived here as being the variability in style which demonstrates widely dissimilar artistic components; the end result of doing or producing material culture which signals either a less culturally fettered activity by a certain group of people, or the activity of a certain group which has less rigorous

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stylistic rules. In either case the heterogeneity needs to be ‘‘relative’’; that is, it can only be defined in comparison to more homogeneous stylistic activity. Previous rock art studies using information exchange theory have correlated stylistic variability with the nature of prehistoric social networks. Studies of art in fertile regions, where social networks are closed, have demonstrated a high degree of social information, and distinctive group identifying and bounding behavior (e.g., McDonald 1998). In the arid zone, where there are widely ramified open social networks, it has been argued that a stylistically homogeneous art form will demonstrate broad scale intergroup cohesion (C. Smith 1989). Current work indicates that not all arid zone art is homogeneous, but that information exchange theory can be used to explain the recent proliferation of localized style regions throughout the arid zone (Veth and McDonald 2002). The model presented here for the changing role of arid zone art throughout different phases of territorial mobility has also been based on these precepts. The rock art of the Calvert Ranges (Figure 7.2) encapsulates the changes in rock art production which have arguably occurred throughout the human occupation of the arid zone. The Calvert Ranges (or Kaalpi) are on the Canning Stock Route, south of Lake Disappointment. They comprise a series of well watered gorges in a small outlier of conglomerate quartz sandstone in the otherwise vast dune fields of the Little Sandy Desert. This location characterizes one of the more marginal landscapes to have been occupied by people in the Western Desert. The engraved art in this location is stylistically diverse, with time accounting for much of the variability inherent in the overall assemblage. The use of this art province extends back over a vast period of time. Here we find intaglio/classic Panaramitee style art of mainly bird and macropod tracks, circles, arcs, and dots. There are cupules (deeply pecked hollows arranged across vertical – or horizontal – surfaces), archaic faces, and small anthropomorphic figures based around the theme of archaic faces, including decorated body and disembodied archaic face with headdress. There is a suite of very large (>3 m) pecked and decoratively infilled anthropomorphic figures (these too appear to have considerable antiquity). And there are small infilled terrestrial animals, battered figurative motifs, pecked outline and infilled animals, and abraded outline figurative motifs. One site in the Calvert Ranges has been excavated previously (Veth et al. 2001). This decorated living site yielded an engraved plaque with a minimum age of 2,500 bp. At another site found during the current work an engraved motif was observed extending beneath the occupation deposit. A test probe next to the wall in this shelter revealed that the motif – an archaic face with headdress – did indeed extend beneath the deposit. Preliminary dates are equivocal, but one from ca. 20 cm below the current surface suggests that the upper portion of this buried motif was initially covered by deposit around 1,000 years ago (1,050110 bp, Wk-8807). This would suggest the actual production predated this date considerably (that is, enough time to allow at least 40 cm of deposit to accumulate). More extensive excavations are planned to explore the possible age and association of this motif.

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N 400 km

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LE

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Depuch Island Port Hedland P

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Abydos L

Durba Hills

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Cleland Hills

Kaalpi

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S. A.

Perth

Figure 7.2 Distribution of archaic faces across the arid zone.

Archaic Faces Archaic faces have a predominantly arid zone distribution (see Figure 7.2). They are found between the coastal and eastern Pilbara region to Wardaman country in the north, and between Cleland Hills in the east and the Calvert Ranges in the southwest. The site at which this motif type was originally recorded is some 200 km west of Alice Springs (Edwards 1968). The engravings here are found around a semipermanent rock hole in the Cleland Hills. The Cleland Hills site has the largest recorded concentration of this motif (n ¼ 16), although illustrations for only nine have been published (David et al. 1992; Dix 1972, 1977; Edwards 1968; Morwood 2002; Walsh 1988).

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Generally, these engravings have pecked eyes, comprised of dots surrounded by concentric circles, mouths (these are sometimes natural cavities on the rock surface), and some have noses and ears. The face is generally heart- (or pear-) shaped – and there are various examples which have no upper face outline above the eyes (see Figure 7.3). At Cleland Hills there are three examples which also have bodies. One of these comprises simple lines, while the other two are more complex designs. Several are found as part of more complex non-figurative (CXNF) engraved designs. It is the embodiment of the faces, and development of more complex design structures, which suggests the development of localized stylistic traits – a pattern which can be observed at other sites which also have the simple archaic face present. We do not know how old the archaic faces are, but the extensive geological alteration to the substrate on which they have been engraved and their generally

Figure 7.3 Examples of archaic faces used in the current analysis.

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Figure 7.4 Archaic face with body – the development of localized group identifying behavior (an example from the Calvert Ranges).

high degree of weathering is strongly suggestive of at least a terminal Pleistocene age (ca. 25,000–10,000 bp) for many of them. More than 1,000 km north of Cleland Hills is Wardaman country. Here, in a secluded sandstone gorge at a site known as Jalijbang 2, are three large complex pebraded (pecked and abraded) anthropomorphs on vertical sandstone walls. Nearby on large boulders are three pecked, highly weathered faces (David et al. 1992; Lewis and McClausland 1987). Nearby occupation evidence was found to be 4,000–3,000 years old, but none of the engravings was in a directly dateable context. It was concluded that ‘‘their precise antiquity remains a matter for speculation’’ (David et al. 1992: 74). An earlier analysis of the archaic face was undertaken using multidimensional scaling to compare the 21 motifs in the sample (David et al. 1992). This indicated strong regional clustering, although the Jalijbang 2 boulder and wall faces (located within 20 m of each other) are separated significantly. Diachronic as well as synchronic variability would appear to account for these differences. For this chapter I analyzed a sample of 39 archaic faces from the Burrup Peninsula (n ¼ 18), Cleland Hills (n ¼ 10), the Calvert Ranges (n ¼ 4), Durba Hills (n ¼ 1), and Jalijbang 2 (n ¼ 6).1 A total of 19 variables were defined and counted on this sample. Of these variables, 14 were binary (presence/absence) and 5 were metrical (see Table 7.3). Details of associated body, headdress, or other CXNF features were not measured, since these traits were not present on all motifs. Because the sample size is relatively small, a simple cluster analysis (using squared Euclidian distance on binary data) was undertaken to identify any grouping within the sample. The analysis found that the simple archaic faces could be classified on the basis of just six of the non-metrical traits (see Table 7.3). These traits demonstrated a clustering of the archaic faces from Cleland Hills, the Burrup Peninsula,

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Ar c h a i c Fa c e s t o H e ad d r e s se s Table 7.3 Variables used in the analysis of the archaic faces and codes used for the analyzed sample (see Figure 7.5). Variable 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19

Codes

Pecked dot eye Concentric circle around eyes Head enclosed by outline? Pear/heart-shaped head Hair or headdress Nose Ears Distinctive mouth Associated body (simple) Intaglio elements Concentric facial elements Neck Associated body (complex) Part of complex-non-fig? Length of head Width of head Distance between center eyes Number of concentric rings (left eye) Number of concentric rings (right eye) Burrup Peninsula Cleland Hills Calvert Ranges Durba Hills Jalijbang 2 wall and boulder

Binary

Metrical

B1-B12 CH1-CH10 CR1-CR4 DH1 JW1-JW3; JB1-JB3

and the Calvert Ranges. When a further two variables are included in the analysis a separation [is achieved] which broadly can be defined on the basis of complexity of association and degree of embellishment (see Figure 7.5). There is a slight separation of the Burrup motifs, but generally there is a development of complexity across the sample area which creates patterning within the sample. And this cannot be explained purely in terms of geographic separation. It is considered significant that this analysis did not demonstrate a geographic split and that all archaic faces (as generally defined in the literature), regardless of provenance, clustered together. It is only when we consider the development of the face into full body figures and/or other associations that geographic emphasis appears to emerge. The absence of clear geographic divisions indicates that there are stylistic similarities between all areas analyzed. This is hardly surprising since the basis for selection within the sample was the presence of an archaic face! Regionalization is, however, present and the observed differences between the style provinces can be summarized as follows:

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0

5

10

15

20

25

CH7 B17 B18 CH1 JW1 DH1 JB2 B2 JW2 JW3 CH6 CR1 CR3 B8 CH3 JB1 CH2 CH9 CH10 B4 CR2 B11 B12 B10 B13 CH8 B14 CH4 CH5 B6 B7 B3 B5 B15 CR4 B16 JB3 B1 B9

Figure 7.5 Dendrogram showing results of analysis on archaic faces (refer to Table 7.3 for codes).

Burrup Peninsula: Small overall motif size, strong intaglio component, highly complex graphic with strong decorative infill component, highly variable body shapes (human and animal), many faces have hair or headdress (Figures 7.6 and 7.7). Cleland Hills: Incorporation of one face into complex non-figurative engraved panel (see Figure 7.8), highly variable body shape (simple and more complex), in situ development of simple face (maybe an artifact of sample size).

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Figure 7.6 Burrup Peninsula. Fish motif (B17) with archaic face (courtesy Peter Kendrick).

Figure 7.7 Burrup Peninsula. Two archaic faces (B15 and B16) in complex non-figurative graphic (courtesy Peter Kendrick).

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Figure 7.8 Cleland Hills (CH1) archaic face (courtesy Mike Smith).

Calvert Ranges: Development of pecked complex body association (small and large; see Figure 7.4), incorporation of natural features (e.g., large quartz clasts) into motif design, complex decorative infill, anthropomorphs have hands and feet (some with digits), some have a square head shape incorporating headdress, some have headdresses similar to the local painted varieties. Durba Hills: This single example looks more like several of the Burrup variants, but clusters most strongly with one of the boulder faces from Jalijbang 2. Wardaman Country: The simple pecked and highly weathered faces on the boulders are differentiated from those on the wall by both technique and traits. The three anthropomorphs on the wall are characterized by concentric infill, the use of pebrading (pecking and abrading), and the addition of small koala-like ears; limbs are shown (some incomplete) and fingers indicated. The embellishment of these faces in the various localities in which they are found raises the possibility that the faces are a common and shared theme over a huge area, acting initially to connect groups over long distances. The introduction and variations in body form and infill and headdress style over time serve to signify a development of local identity and territoriality. So what are the likely circumstances that might have resulted in the development of individual identifying behavior within a social system which generally encour-

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Figure 7.9 Calvert Ranges. Panel of more recent anthropomorphs with pecked eyes and intaglio decorative infill.

aged stylistic homogeneity? When does individual identity override the practice of group identity? Wiessner (1989) has modeled the different social situations that might stimulate a different identity emphasis. She proposed that group identity will be emphasized where there is real or potential intergroup competition and/or aggression, and a need for cooperation to achieve goals and impose political control. Individual identity, on the other hand, will dominate when there is real competition between individuals, when there are options for individual economic gain or status, or where there is a breakdown in the social order that would require individuals to seek solutions to their own problems. Similarly, Myers’ (2002: 48) work on contemporary Western Desert acrylic paintings concluded that artists elaborate certain representational templates motivated by the politics of personal and social identity. In a system of dynamic mobility, one might also suggest that periods of aggregation would result in the intense interaction of both groups and individuals seeking to establish themselves in the social order. Aggregation locales, then, are likely sites for stylistic innovation to occur. Across the arid zone the art that we find at aggregation sites appears to record the interaction of neighboring (frequently dispersed) groups, but we should also expect to be able to identify innovation in stylistic traits (Conkey 1980). This is exactly what we appear to be seeing in the development of the more complex graphic based on the archaic face. Since their earliest usage, then, aggregation locales have allowed groups to assert identity and difference.

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The early graphic form, the archaic face, is generally found at the type of refugia generally assumed to have functioned as arid zone aggregation locales – Cleland Hills, Calvert Ranges, and Durba Hills. This would appear to have had a dual signaling purpose, to both connect and differentiate people. The distribution of this motif not only demonstrates that the ancient pecked Panaramitee art provided an essential underpinning for groups with extreme forms of residential and territorial mobility, but it also shows us that the likely range of this connection was over thousands of kilometers. The widespread presence of the archaic face – a clearly identifiable and relatively uniform graphic element – so early in the history of occupation of the Western Desert suggests groups were in contact over vast tracts of country. It also suggests that long distance arid zone information exchange networks appear to have considerable antiquity. Similar evidence occurs in the terminal Pleistocene from other archaeological evidence (e.g., the movement of ochers around the arid zone; Smith et al. 1998), in the late Holocene (e.g., exotic lithics such as Wingelina porphyry at Puntutjarpa; Gould 1977), and during the last 2,500 years with pearl shell and baler (from the Pilbara and/or Kimberley coastline) at rainmaking and ceremonial sites along the Percival Lakes and Canning Stock Route (Ackerman and Stanton 1994; Smith and Veth, 2004). The well watered gorges of the Calvert Ranges have evidence of extraordinary stylistic heterogeneity in the recent art (pigment and engraved) as well as demonstrating long-term diachronic change. The high degree of stylistic variability displayed here indicates that this place has acted as an aggregation locale over a considerable period of time [(Veth and McDonald 2002)]. We know that aggregation sites have served as important centers of ritual production, as well as facilitating the rapid exchange of language, material culture, and genes. During their periodic coalescences groups would renegotiate social contracts and reciprocity relations that set the necessary conditions for subsequent dispersal (Gibbs and Veth 2002). Aggregation locales in the Western Desert provide vital evidence for long-term patterns of mobility and exchange across the arid zone. They provide the foci in the landscape where changes in economy, intensity of site use, and the graphic systems signifying both local identity and long distance alliances are demonstrated. It is in these locations that changes in a complex and far reaching social system can be observed. Multiple phases of occupation at arid zone aggregation locales are most clearly demonstrated by multiphase rock art assemblages. This analysis of archaic faces has been based on their widespread distribution and assumption of great antiquity and the subsequent regional development of different stylistic signatures. It is suggested that there has been a change in the signifying role of rock art across arid zone social systems throughout its 30,000þ years of human occupation. The archaic face, developed out of a representational graphic into a simple but evocative figurative form, appears to have served a dual role. It initially connected people within a huge cultural bloc. Its figurative nature then allowed the development and demonstration of individual and local group identity. The development of individual traits and innovation within a representational graphic must have been triggered by the types of social factors that would be

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expected in the ‘‘hot tub’’ environment of periodic aggregation. By viewing the art of the arid zone in terms of its information potential and likely role in mediating social situations, it is suggested that this is not a conservative and unchanging graphic. Indeed, the art of the arid zone has played a fundamental role in the success of extreme mobility and human adaptation to the most marginal landscapes of this most arid of continents.

Note 1 I have excluded two of the motifs used by David et al. (1992) in the current analysis. The Sturt Creek sample (Walsh 1988) was excluded on the basis of its non-comparable appearance, and the Yingalarri example because I could not find a published scaled drawing. Sources for the current sample are attributable to Edwards (1968), David et al. (1992), and Dix (1972, 1977). Unpublished material was provided by Peter Kendrick and Peter Veth, as well as my own recording work.

References Ackerman, K. and Stanton, J. 1994: Riji and Jakoli: Kimberley Pearl Shell in Aboriginal Australia. Darwin: Northern Territory Museum of Arts and Science. Chewings, C. 1909: ‘‘About the blacks’’: Natives of central Australia. The Register, 1 (16), 1–11. Conkey, M. W. 1980: The identification of hunter-gatherer aggregation sites – the case of Altimira. Current Anthropology, 21 (5), 609–30. Cook, N., Davidson, I., and Sutton, S. 1990: Why are so many ancient rock paintings red? Australian Aboriginal Studies, 1, 30–2. Crawford, I. M. 1977: The relationship of Bradshaws and Wandjina art in northwest Kimberley. In P. J. Ucko (ed.), Form in Indigenous Art, London: Duckworth, 357–69. David, B., Armitage, R. A., Hyman, M., Rowe, M. W., and Lawson, E. 1999: How old is north Queensland rock art? A review of the evidence with new AMS determinations. Archaeology in Oceania, 34, 103–20. David, B. and Chant, N. 1995: Rock art and regionalization in north Queensland prehistory. Memoirs of the Queensland Museum, 3 (2), 357–528. David, B., Chant, N., and Flood, J. 1992: Jalijbang 2 and the distribution of pecked faces in Australia. Memoirs of the Queensland Museum, 32 (1), 61–77. Dickens, J. 1996: Change and continuity in central Australian graphic systems. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology, 15, 20–40. Dix, W. 1972: Rock art along the Stock Route. Hemisphere, 16 (7), 18–25. Dix, W. 1977: Facial representations in Pilbara rock engravings. In P. J. Ucko (ed.), Form in Indigenous Art, London: Duckworth, 277–85. Edwards, R. 1968: Prehistoric rock engravings at Thomas Reservoir, Cleland Hills, western central Australia. Records of the South Australian Museum, 15 (4), 647–70. Frederick, U. 2000: Keeping the land alive: Changing social contexts of landscape and rock art production. In R. Torrence and A. Clarke (eds), The Archaeology of Difference: Negotiating Cross-Cultural Engagements in Oceania, London: Routledge, 300–30.

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Jo McD o n a l d Galt-Smith, B. 1997: Motives for motifs: Identifying aggregation and dispersion settlement patterns in the rock art assemblages of central Australia. Unpublished BA (Hons) thesis, Armidale: University of New England. Gamble, C. S. 1982: Interaction and alliance in Palaeolithic society. Man, 17 (1), 92–107. Gibbs, M. and Veth, P. 2002: Ritual engines and the archaeology of territorial ascendancy. In S. Ulm, C. Westcott, J. Reid, A. Ross, I. Lilley, J. Prangnell, and L. Kirkwood (eds), Barriers, Borders, Boundaries: Proceedings of the 2001 Australian Archaeological Association Annual Conference, St Lucia: University of Queensland, 11–19. Gillen, F. J. 1968 [1901–2]: Gillen’s Diary: The Camp Jottings of F. J. Gillen on the Spencer and Gillen Expedition Across Australia. Adelaide: Libraries Board of South Australia. Gould, R. A. 1969: Yiwara: Foragers of the Australian Desert. London: Collins. Gould, R. A. 1977: Puntutjarpa Rockshelter and the Australian Desert Culture. New York: Anthropological Papers of the American Museum of Natural History no. 54, American Museum of Natural History. Gunn, R. G. 1995: Regional patterning in the Aboriginal rock art of central Australia: A preliminary report. Rock Art Research, 12, 117–27. Gunn, R. G. 2000a: Central Australian rock art: A second report. Rock Art Research, 17 (2), 111–26. Gunn, R. G. 2000b: Spencer and Gillen’s contribution to Australian rock art studies. Rock Art Research, 17 (1), 56–64. Gunn, R. G. 2003: Arrernte rock art: Interpreting physical permanence in a changing social landscape. Australian Aboriginal Studies, 1, 52–73. Jestribek, K. 1997: Different domains. An examination of gender relations and motif use in contemporary art from Balgo, Western Australia. Unpublished BA (Hons) thesis, Perth: University of Western Australia. Jochim, M. A. 1983: Paleolithic cave art in ecological perspective. In G. Bailey (ed.), HunterGatherer Economy in Prehistory: A European Perspective, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 212–19. Kimber, R. 1977: Mosaics you can move. Hemisphere, 21 (1), 2–7. Layton, R. 1986: Uluru: An Aboriginal History of Ayers Rock. Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies. Layton, R. 1992: Traditional and contemporary art of Aboriginal Australia: Two case studies. In J. Coote and A. Shelton (eds), Anthropology, Art and Aesthetics, Oxford: Clarendon Press, 137–59. Lewis, D. 1988: The Rock Paintings of Arnhem Land, Australia: Social, Ecological, and Material Culture Change in the Post-Glacial Period. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports International Series no. 415, Hadrian Books. Lewis, D. and McClausland, B. 1987: Engraved human figures and faces from Wardaman country, eastern Victoria River District, Northern Territory. Australian Aboriginal Studies, 1, 67–79. McCarthy, F. D. 1979: Australian Aboriginal Rock Art (4th edn). Sydney: Australian Museum. McConvell, P. 1996: Backtracking to Babel: The chronology of Pama-Nyungan expansion in Australia. Archaeology in Oceania, 31 (3), 125–44. McDonald, J. J. 1994: Dreamtime superhighway: An analysis of Sydney basin rock art and prehistoric information exchange. Unpublished PhD thesis, Canberra: The Australian National University.

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Ar c h a i c Fa c e s t o H e ad d r e s se s McDonald, J. J. 1998: Shelter rock art in the Sydney basin – a space-time continuum: Exploring different influences on stylistic change. In C. Chippendale and P. S. C. Tacon (eds), The Archaeology of Rock Art, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 319–35. McDonald, J. J. 1999: Bedrock notions and isochrestic choice: Evidence for localized stylistic patterning in the engravings of the Sydney region. Archaeology in Oceania, 34 (3), 145–60. McDonald, J .J. 2000: AMS dating charcoal drawings in the Sydney region: Results and issues. In G. K. Ward and C. Tuniz (eds), Advances in Dating Australian Rock Images: Papers from the First Australian Rock Picture Dating Workshop, Melbourne: AURA, 90–4. Maynard, L. 1977: Classification and terminology in Australian rock art. In P. J. Ucko (ed.), Form in Indigenous Art, Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies, 385–402. Megaw, V. 1982: Western Desert acrylic painting – artifact or art? Art History, 5, 205–18. Morphy, H. (ed.) 1989: On representing ancestral beings. In H. Morphy (ed.), Animals into Art, London: Unwin Hyman, 144–60. Morphy, H. 1991: Ancestral Connections: Art and an Aboriginal System of Knowledge. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Morwood, M. J. 2002: Visions from the Past: The Archaeology of Australian Rock Art. Sydney: Allen and Unwin. Munn, N. D. 1966: Visual categories: An approach to the study of representational systems. American Anthropologist, 66, 939–50. Munn, N. D. 1973: Walbiri Iconography: Graphic Representation and Cultural Symbolism in a Central Australian Society. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Myers, F. R. 1986: Always ask: Resource use and ownership among Pintupi Aborigines of the Australian Western Desert. In N. Williams and E. Hunn (eds), Resource Managers: North American and Australian Hunter-Gatherers, Canberra: Australian Institute of Aboriginal Studies, 173–96. Myers, F. R. 1989: Truth, beauty, and Pintupi painting. Visual Anthropology, 2, 163–95. Myers, F. R. 2002: Painting Culture: The Making of an Aboriginal High Art. Durham, NC: Duke University Press. Nobbs, M. F. and Dorn, R. I. 1988: Age determinations for rock varnish formation within petroglyphs. Rock Art Research, 5 (2), 108–46. Nobbs, M. F. and Dorn, R. I. 1993: New surface exposure ages for petroglyphs from the Olary Province, South Australia. Archaeology in Oceania, 27, 199–220. O’Connor, S. 1995: Carpenter’s Gap rock shelter 1: 40,000 years of Aboriginal occupation in the Napier Ranges, Kimberley, WA. Australian Archaeology, 40, 58–9. O’Connor, S., Veth, P., and Campbell, C. 1998: Serpent’s Glen rock shelter: Report on the first Pleistocene-aged occupation sequence from the Western Desert. Australian Archaeology, 46, 12–22. Roberts, R., Walsh, G. L., Murray, A., Olley, J., Morwood, M., Tuniz, C., Lawson, E., Macphail, M., Bowdery, D., and Naumann, I. 1997: Luminescence dating of rock art and past environments using mud-wasp nests in northern Australia. Nature, 387, 696–9. Rosenfeld, A. 1993: A review of the evidence for the emergence of rock art in Australia. In M. A. Smith, M. Spriggs, and B. Fankhauser (eds), Sahul in Review: Pleistocene Archaeology in Australia, New Guinea, and Island Melanesia, Canberra: The Australian National University, 71–80. Rosenfeld, A. 2002: Rock art as an indicator of changing social geographies in central Australia. In B. David and M. Wilson (eds), Inscribed Landscapes: Marking and Making Places, Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 61–78.

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The Archaeology of the Patagonian Deserts Hunter-Gatherers in a Cold Desert Luis Alberto Borrero

Introduction Most of this volume deals with hunter-gatherer groups located in hot deserts. However, in high latitudes there are significant areas of cold desert where aridity is largely a function of low temperature. Do cold deserts pose different problems for hunter-gatherer populations? Do cold deserts have different histories? This chapter explores some of these issues using the early settlement of the Patagonian deserts as a case study (see Figure 8.1). Early Patagonian ethnographic sources describe the Tehuelche ; hunter-gatherers who relied on guanaco (Lama guanicoe) and nãndu´ (Rhea americana, Pterocnemia pennata) hunting. The sources particularly noticed their use of bola stones to immobilize and capture these animals. This hunting device is characteristic of open spaces, and it is one of the more salient cultural responses to the exploitation of cold desert resources. Different ethnic groups displaying a variety of subsistence strategies, including a strong emphasis on the recollection of small package resources, were recognized in the northwest portion of Patagonia. This emphasis on a wide variety of low return resources is another characteristic of groups adapted to the Patagonian deserts.

Regional Background Patagonia and Tierra del Fuego extend today over more than 1,000,000 sq km, but at the end of the Pleistocene they constituted a single landmass that covered a much larger space, including a significant area today flooded by the sea. Large portions of Patagonia are included within the ‘‘arid diagonal’’ of South America

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T he Ar c h a eo l og y o f t he Pa t a g o n i a n D eserts

Figure 8.1 Map of the Upper Limay River showing locations of archaeological sites mentioned in the text.

(Iglesias 1982), which is characterized by an arid climate not moderated by maritime air masses from the Atlantic or Pacific Oceans. Patagonia includes a series of discontinuous desert regions. Deserts in the north of Patagonia, between 388 and 418S, are highly seasonal and very cold (seasonality increases with latitude and the south of Patagonia is more seasonal than the north). Available paleoclimatic and paleoecological data point to the existence of discontinuous arid conditions since at least the end of the Pleistocene. Late Pleistocene times were marked by the retreat of the cordilleran glaciers, a process that was well under way by ca. 14,000 bp (Clapperton 1993). This process was accompanied by an amelioration of climate, punctuated by short cold pulses (Clapperton 1993; Heusser 1993a; Markgraf 1993). Compared to northern North America the development of glaciers was less extensive in South America, with the more maritime late Pleistocene climate representing a less stressful habitat.

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L u i s A lb er to Bo r r e r o

The Colonization of Patagonian Deserts The human exploration and colonization of Fuego-Patagonia began in late Pleistocene times and took place under very cold and dry conditions. Most of the oldest available evidence comes from the cold deserts of the south, which is probably an artifact of the better archaeological visibility of sites in those regions. The colonization of new lands is a case of exogeny, in which new species are usually at an advantage. To start with, unless we are talking of niche expansion within a given biome, newly arrived species are usually generalists. In spite of several voices claiming that the first human foragers to arrive in Patagonia were specialized, the consensus now is that they were not. Within this context it is relevant to ask: ‘‘How did humans adapt to new lands?’’ Several authors (Beaton 1991; Borrero 1989; Meltzer 2002; Rockman and Steele 2003) have explored this question. If we combine their insights with the evidence from Patagonia, we can conclude that considerable time was needed to colonize this huge area. Indeed, some time was required to establish a pattern of use in the use of a place and its surroundings, including acquiring critical knowledge about the location of the best lithic sources, the less costly paths for movement, and so on. The concept of ‘‘ecological perception’’ has been recently proposed to explain the kind of knowledge needed to interact with a new environment (Gutierrez and Martinez 2003). This would have been accompanied by the symbolic appropriation of territory (Politis 2003), a process which can take several generations to complete (Rockman 2003). What were the likely constraints on early settlement in these deserts? Did they include water, shelter, or food? Or were low temperatures a constraint? It must be noted that humans living in the northwest corner of Patagonia were not exposed to extreme cold. Thus physiological adaptations, such as those recorded for periArctic or Fuegian environments, were not required. Cultural responses easily compensated for observed climatic fluctuations. Available evidence suggests that food was probably widespread and thus its distribution was not the organizing principle for the first settlers. As for shelter, there is substantial support for the notion that the first inhabitants of America possessed appropriate technology for constructing shelters and therefore were not dependant on the availability of caves for protection. Dillehay (1991) explored the role of diseases in colonizing populations, which may have been a retarding factor for the peopling of tropical America, but the constraints were probably not very important in cold Patagonia. For the more arid areas of Patagonia, the likely constraint was water, which was heterogeneously distributed (Belardi and Campan 1999). Very few major rivers, with an east–west axis, cross Patagonia and most of these rivers have their origin near the Cordillera at glacial lakes. Although there were changes in the availability of water through time, as well as regional differences, it is difficult to visualize a Patagonian archaeological period when water was not a critical resource. In its extreme form a sequence from Cardiel Lake (498S) informs us that the lake was completely dry around 11,000 bp (Gilli et al. 2001). Initial human occupation at Cardiel is dated

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ca. 6,500 bp and appears to be related to fluctuations in the lake stands (Gon˜i 2000–2). A similar situation was observed at Lago Argentino (Borrero and Franco 2000). If water was a constraining factor for colonizing human populations, then it is necessary to evaluate how difficult it was to access it in northwest Patagonia – a vast and relatively flat piece of land. It has been suggested that rivers were probably the main corridors for human circulation (Anderson and Gillam 2000; Kelly 2003). Others have suggested that it is opportunities rather than constraints that are more important for modeling the settlement of Patagonia. Following this line, it has been argued that the presence of a naive fauna unfamiliar with human predators would have been a factor underlying initial human movements into these regions (Martin 1973). The ecological process by which humans enter a new world can be analyzed as a series of stages, each of which involves different kinds of interactions between humans and other components of the environment. Exploration waves are likely to have been characterized by small groups of people that retained links with larger units, within which their social lives took place (e.g., Rogers 1990). For contrary views arguing for discontinuities in settlement see the ‘‘point and arrow pattern’’ proposed by Rockman (2003). Any human group entering a new landscape should have more than one social unit, in order to be successful. An adequate reproductive pool is a basic requirement to the survival of the social unit (MacDonald and Hewlett 1999; Moore and Moseley 2001; Wobst 1974). The rate of colonization remains a key issue, with archaeologists posing either models of fast moving (e.g., Martin 1973) or slow moving groups of people (e.g., Jaffe 1992). Most models infer the rate of spread from the chronological distribution of early sites (Hazelwood and Steele 2003), although it is often acknowledged that the rate need not have been constant (e.g., Dillehay 2000; Kelly 2003), and that the presence of barriers may retard dispersal of populations (Borrero 1994–5; Steele et al. 1998). In the case of human dispersion into Fuego-Patagonia, I argue that available spaces were only slowly filled, with settlement being discontinuous in time and space (Borrero 1989). A process of fissioning of bands together with changes in hunting and collecting ranges is all that is required in order to explain this process of slow expansion (see also Surovell 2000). I argue that exploration is largely a logistic process. At least two scales of mobility were involved: one employed during the ‘‘exploration’’ phase, which is tied to the necessities of entering unknown territory; and the other during the ‘‘installation’’ phase, which is the multigenerational scale where finding mates and rearing children are considerations. This distinction between explorers and colonists was also highlighted by Mandryk (2003) and is also discussed in Chapter 1 of this volume. With some of these concepts in mind we can now explore the archaeological record of the initial occupation of Patagonia. With the important exception of Monte Verde, a site located west of the Andean Cordillera in an area not always included in Patagonia, the oldest radiocarbon dates available are early Holocene. These dates are late in comparison to those obtained farther south, which lie between 11,000–10,500 bp.

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Northern Patagonia The deserts of northwest Patagonia which lie between latitudes ca. 388S and 418S are characterized by an arid climate (Chiozza and Gonzalez van Domselaar 1958). Only near the Cordillera is precipitation high enough to support a forest, and here it only develops as a narrow band. The net result is that temperate rainforests occur mainly west of the Cordillera, while eastwards the Patagonian steppe stretches all the way to the Atlantic coast. The forest is evergreen and formed by several associations, including Anemone-Nothofagetum pumilionis, Fitzroyetum, and Pilgerodendronetum (Ramirez 1989). This forest is consistent with the resource zone that Beaton (1991) labeled a ‘‘megapatch’’; that is, a spatial unit of relative environmental homogeneity for foragers. In the eastern plains another megapatch occurs, comprising a xeric steppe dominated by coiroń amargo (Stipa speciosa, S. humilis) and shrubs like neneo (Mulinum spinosum) and paramela (Adesmia campestris). The forest as a unit therefore differs markedly from the eastern desert environment. In the first instance, water is plentiful in the forest, while it is scarce on the steppe. Additionally, the macrovertebrate faunas of the forest are dominated by two species of deer (Hippocamelus bisulcus and Pudu pudu), while in contrast a camelid – the guanaco (Lama guanicoe) – and flightless birds (Pterocnemia pennata and Rhea americana) inhabit the steppe. From the point of view of foragers, these are two different worlds. The evidence for early human presence in north Patagonia west of the Andes (in what is known as the Chilean Lake Region) has been obtained at three sites: Monte Verde, Chinchihuapi, and Marifilo 1. Monte Verde is a stratified open air site. It has provided a suite of radiocarbon dates falling around 12,500 bp (Dillehay and Pino 1997) for human occupations characterized by adaptation to a forest environment. Monte Verde has good preservation of organic remains, including bones, logs, plants, cordage, and hide. The variety of plants includes several species that are interpreted as important for human subsistence (Rossen and Dillehay 1997). Only a few lithic implements, such as lanceolate projectile points and bola stones, were found associated with these remains (Collins 1997). The Chinchihuapi site is located nearby, and is dated to 12,420130 bp (Beta-65842), making it almost contemporaneous with Monte Verde. Two flakes, one spheroid, and three wooden artifacts were found at this site (Dillehay and Pino 1997). Finally, Marifilo 1, which was occupied later than the previously described sites at about 8,42040 bp (Beta138919), is also associated with a forest environment. The pudu (Pudu pudu) is the most important resource used by the earliest inhabitants of this site (Vela´squez and Adań 2002), with small birds and mustelids also present. A hearth, lithic artifacts, and one artifact made on a pudu bone were also found. In sum, these three sites testify to the importance of the forest in early human adaptations within South America. Even though ca. 4,000 radiocarbon years separate Monte Verde/ Chinchihuapi from Marifilo 1, the existence of the latter illustrates some continuity in the use of the forests. East of the Andes the available archaeological evidence comes from three caves, all of them located in the upper basin of the Limay River (see Figure 8.1) and

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chronologically the occupations are restricted to the early Holocene. Cueva Traful and Cueva Cuyıń Manzano, which lie some 7 km from each other, are situated in the forest-steppe ecotone, near the headwaters of the basin. Cueva Epullań is on the steppe on the left side of the Limay River, some 100 km east of the ecotone. Available palynological data suggest that the environmental panorama at the beginning of the Holocene was similar to that of today (Heusser 1993b; Markgraf 1993; Prieto and Stutz 1996); however, some changes important for human expansion/occupation have occurred. For example, palynological research at Epullań Grande shows that from approximately 10,000–7,000 bp the availability of water near the cave was greater than today (Prieto and Stutz 1996). This is a significant observation, given the fact that human residential patterns in this region appear to be controlled by water distribution (Borrero and Nami 1996).

Cueva Traful Cueva Traful is located on the right side of the Traful River near its confluence with the Limay. The initial occupation of the site is dated to between 9,430230 bp (AC-2676) and 9,285105 bp (GX-1711AMS) (Crivelli Montero et al. 1993: 33). The intensity of occupation appears to be very low and testifies to ephemeral human installation. The initial occupation took place on an irregular surface on the floor of the cave, with a hearth positioned directly on top of the basal rock. Several short-term occupation events have produced small, discrete assemblages. The lithic repertoire includes mostly unretouched flakes, with only a few modified items. No bifacial artifacts were found; however, a few bifacial reduction flakes attest to the existence of this technology (Cuńeo 1993: 165). Abundant fox (Dusicyon griseus and D. culpaeus) and low frequencies of guanaco (Lama guanicoe) bones characterize the faunal assemblage. Abundant remains of rodents were interpreted as the result of owl regurgitates (Pearson and Pearson 1993). The presence of Lagidium sp., birds, a small felid, and freshwater molluscs was also noted. It had been suggested that foxes were an important component of the diet of the initial inhabitants of the cave (Crivelli Montero et al. 1993: 38); however, the faunal analysis has not yet been fully published. Unfortunately, the lack of a taphonomic assessment of the faunal assemblages prevents this suggestion from being easily accepted (Martin 1998). Immediately after these initial occupations, the assemblages of the Component 1-Traful Unit, dated to 7,308285 bp (LP-8113) and 7,85070 bp (LP-5133), include well defined hearths and lithic artifacts, including triangular projectile points. Guanaco remains are numerically more important, with the presence of Lagidium sp., fox, and small rodents also noted. With the evidence at hand it is not possible to assess the role of these animals in the human diet.

Cueva Cuyıń Manzano Cueva Cuyıń Manzano is a site located on a small tributary of the Traful River. The lower occupation, which while also ephemeral, seems to indicate a higher intensity

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of occupation than at Traful (Crivelli Montero et al. 1993: 39). The lowest layer is dated to 9,320240 bp (KN-1432) (Gonza´lez and Lagiglia 1973), with the first occupation occurring in a natural depression (Ceballos 1982: 32). Bifacial artifacts are absent, but scrapers are a significant component of the modified lithic repertoire. Two endscrapers and nine sidescrapers were described, as well as 12 retouched flakes (Ceballos 1982). The faunal remains – which have not been published in any detail – include guanaco and appear not to be as abundant as fox and rodent remains. Ceballos (1982) considered that rodents (mainly Ctenomys sp.) were deposited by humans. However, the relationship of the faunal remains with human activities cannot be assigned with any certainty at this time. Generally speaking, consumption of rodents has proved difficult to demonstrate in the absence of a detailed taphonomic analysis (Pardinãs 1999). Even though the contribution of large mammals in the human diet is easier to evaluate, it still requires site formation information that is not yet available for Cuyin Manzano.

Cueva Epullań Grande Cueva Epullań is a site located on the xeric steppe. Its basal occupation includes small hearths, lithic artifacts, rock engravings, and probably one human skeleton. Lithic artifacts were manufactured from obsidian and basalt. Bifacial reduction debris makes up 39 percent of the assemblage, being more important in the initial occupations of Epullań than later in the sequence (Crivelli Montero et al. 1996: 200). Since obsidian is not locally available, this patterning argues for logistical mobility during initial occupation of the site. It appears that the site was only used on an intermittent basis from a distant base. Occupation events are dated to between 9,970100 bp (LP-213) and 7,550100 bp (Beta-47401). The faunal assemblage is composed of a variety of species. Guanaco remains are abundant, but several smaller species are also important. South American ostrich (cf. Pterocnemia pennata) bones are present and they display cut marks and burning. The presence of egg fragments, some of them also burnt, was also recorded. There are also cut marks on a skunk mandible (Conepatus sp.) and scraping marks on armadillo plaques (Chaetophractus villosus). Other small prey present at the site include red fox (Lycalopex culpaeus), grey fox (L. gymnocercus), a small Felidae, and rodents. A detailed taphonomic analysis of the latter clearly demonstrated that most of the rodent remains were deposited as bird regurgitates. Well preserved regurgitates were found in the upper, but not lower, layers (Pardinãs 1999: 277). At Epullań the exploitation of cacti, especially Austrocactus aff. A. Bertinii, is documented starting at ca. 7,06090 bp (Beta-41622) (Crivelli Montero et al. 1996: 188). Later in the sequence there is abundant proof for the storage of this cacti and a generally higher diversity of species (Crivelli Montero et al. 1996: 206). This diversity is usually interpreted as a move towards a broader diet. The site was also used as a burial place with a total of four individuals recorded for the earlier period (Crivelli Montero et al. 1996: 214-16). Burial number 40 consists of human remains lying above a round platform made of rocks and plants. Redeposited charcoal found directly above the burial was dated to 7,90070 bp

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(Beta-44412), which represents a maximum date for the burial. The bones are badly preserved, stained with ocher, and dispersed. The burial was covered with stones in the same way as the historically known chenques, which are stone cairns marking the location of Tehuelche bodies. Burial number 82 is a juvenile also covered with stones which were deposited after ca. 7,900 bp. The same pattern was observed with Burial number 126, which is an individual of 5–7 years of age and for which a maximum date of 7,55070 bp (Beta-47401) has been attributed. Skeleton number 31 is a poorly preserved individual of more than 13 years of age, with its bones badly fragmented and dispersed, with only a few in anatomical position. It is dated by association to ca. 9,970100 bp. The skeleton was found in physical association with guanaco bones and the authors speculate that this may be a case of an individual dying at a locality and being subsequently covered by natural processes. The association of dates and burials appears to be secure, but direct dates on the bones would be highly desirable. With one exception, the skeletons were placed on beds of rocks or grass and ocher was used extensively in the burials. All the skeletons were located near the rear of the cave, especially the chenques (see also Mena and Reyes 1998, for a similar case at Banõ Nuevo but in a different setting). It would appear that one of the oldest modes of internment, which thus far has only been recorded in caves – possibly due to sampling bias – is to cover the body with rocks. In later times this mode became dominant in Patagonia. The main difference between the two areas is that in Patagonia many were open air cairns. Finally, it must be emphasized that panels of wall engravings, in the form of finger markings and incised lines, were discovered on the lower walls of Epullań Cave. They were covered by sediments dated between 9,970100 and 7,100 bp (Crivelli Montero et al. 1996: 190). These engravings testify to the use of the cave before the subsequent sediments were deposited. Although the sample of sites described above is small, their particular characteristics are relevant to an understanding of the process of initial human occupation, since in all three cases the first occupation took place immediately above basal rock. This suggests that humans were important sedimentary agents, and that they selected these places for occupation during the early Holocene. Moreover, the abandonment of one unburied individual and the abundant presence of obsidian artifacts at Cueva Epullań Grande are consistent with an exploratory use of the region. The same can be said of the ephemeral character of the initial occupations as recorded at the three sites.

Late Holocene The late Holocene history of human occupation in northwest Patagonia is characterized by the repeated use of places located near water and the exploitation of a variety of resources, including small mammals, birds, molluscs, and plants (Barberena et al. in press; Borrero et al. 1996; Sanguinetti and Curzio 1996). Large vertebrates such as the guanaco were part of the human diet, but it appears that they

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did not play a central role, as guanaco remains are rarely abundant or dominant in faunal assemblages. When present, guanaco bones are highly fragmented, suggesting intensive exploitation. This latter pattern may be associated with the fact that many of these sites are dated around the Medieval Warm Period (Stine 1994; Villalba 1994), which was probably a period of water (and possibly protein) stress for humans inhabiting the warmest deserts of Patagonia (Borrero and Franco 2000). This diversity of resources is usually interpreted as an indication of greater dietary breadth (Borrero 1981; Crivelli Montero et al. 1996; Fernańdez 1988–9). However, in the absence of taphonomic analysis it is difficult to accept that the presence of a wider variety of small mammals, birds, and other small package resources at several late Holocene sites necessarily indicates such a broadening in the diet. In the first instance, the superior preservation of smaller resources at younger sites or layers must be taken into account. Their absence at some older sites or layers might be simply due to their lower potential for preservation. Secondly, even though these resources are present it is still necessary to demonstrate that they are actually related to human activities. For example, the hypothesis of human consumption of rodents was sustained for only a few of the many examples submitted to taphonomic scrutiny (Pardinãs 1999). Finally, since the number of remains is usually greater in later occupations, the effect of sample size on diversity must be taken into account.

Discussion Subsistence Initial occupations of several sites in northern Patagonia, located both to the west and east of the Andes, show that guanaco – the most abundant vertebrate today – was not necessarily the most important prey (Ceballos 1982; Crivelli Montero et al. 1993; Dillehay 1997). Plants, perhaps foxes, and other small mammals appear to have been the most important resources. Since this evidence comes from both caves and open air sites, it invites researchers to (re)consider the existence of adaptations not centered on the guanaco. In this context, it is necessary to consider the case of megamammals, which are present at Monte Verde and Traful. At Traful the remains of ground sloth (Mylodontinae) were interpreted as probably being unassociated with initial human occupations (Crivelli Montero et al. 1993: 35). At Monte Verde, even where mastodon remains (Cuvieronius sensu Casamiquela) are present in the cultural layers (Casamiquela and Dillehay 1989), they do not appear to have been important for subsistence. Effectively, the mastodon bones were recovered with non-local embedded dirt (Karathanasis 1997), suggesting that they were collected as bones away from the site. It appears that in many regions of northern Patagonia, especially near the Andean Cordillera, the Pleistocene fauna had already become extinct when the first humans arrived. Two radiocarbon dated paleontological locations indicate that ground

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sloths were available in the region between 14,665–13,750 bp (Hofreiter et al. 2003) and 12,600–10,800 bp (Nami 1996). We know that by ca. 12,500 bp humans were already installed west of the Cordillera, but there is no evidence of their presence east of the mountains. This is a pattern that can be traced to other sites located near the Cordillera, especially to the south (Borrero 2002), where all of the available evidence suggests that humans arrived in the area after the extinction of the megafauna. In comparison, small mammals appear to have sometimes made a higher dietary contribution. One example is the importance of fox remains in the lower layers at Traful and other sites. If their presence can be attributed to human activities, this evidence – together with that from Banõ Nuevo (Trejo and Jackson 1998) and the Pampas (Politis 1996) – illustrates the early importance of a resource which was then later ignored. The pattern observed for the Pleistocene–Holocene transition is one of dependence on small-sized prey from the forest, and on the guanaco – the largest modern vertebrate – on the steppe. Later in the sequences, there is evidence of increasing use of guanaco in the forest, and of a broad variety of resources on the steppe. The reality of these apparent patterns in terms of human dietary contribution must await further taphonomic analysis.

Mobility All of the early Holocene archaeological assemblages from northwest Patagonia appear to reflect ephemeral occupation and it is suggested that population levels were very low at this time. The existence of extensive home ranges is compatible with this scenario, but cannot however be assumed for all desert groups (see below). Ephemeral archaeological signatures are often taken to reflect the transient occupation of sites due to a system of high residential mobility (Binford 1980). In such cases, the low redundancy in the use of places results in a relatively high integrity of deposits. However, given that all of these early sites are caves, the functional requirements associated with the use of them may be shaping the record as we can now observe it. As the case of Monte Verde makes it abundantly clear, the different patterning in open sites may serve to change our perceptions of the mobility systems of the first inhabitants. As water appears to have been permanent at only a few predictable locations, a pattern of land use relying on logistical forays is plausible. This is a variant of the system described as ‘‘tethered foraging’’ (cf. Kelly 1995: 126–7), whereby the known location of springs and other waterholes is used to organize movements to satellites which are still centrally focused on a permanent river. Given this suggested model of tethering, groups were probably not covering as much territory as would free wandering nucleated groups. The available archaeological evidence is consistent with this latter scenario. Here I argue that rivers were functioning as corridors into the arid zone. A corollary of this situation is that during drier periods there was probably a strong pressure on resources located close to the basin (see Kelly 1995: 127; Smith 1989).

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Technology There are also technological issues worthy of consideration. On the basis of the Traful data it was suggested that some of the early deposits found east of the Andes were based on a tradition of unifacial reduction (Crivelli Montero et al. 1993). However, further analysis of the lithic debitage instead supports the existence of bifacial reduction at the site. The same critique can be applied at several other early assemblages in other areas of Fuego-Patagonia that do not include projectile points (Nami 1993–4). The importance of these observations stems from the fact that a unifacial tradition has been proposed at this stage for the whole of South America (Dillehay 2000; Krieger 1964). It is necessary to stress that the samples recovered have been small, and that functional requirements within the context of initial peopling of the region, together with sampling error, may better explain the lack of visibility of bifacial reduction. The bifacial issue is also crucial in the discussion of southern cases. For that reason I will briefly mention the findings at the lower layers of Los Toldos, El Ceibo, and other sites in the middle Deseado River located to the south of this region at ca. 488S (Cardich 1987). This region appears to constitute one of the ‘‘hotspots’’ or places of initial settlement. It appears that the quality and abundance of lithic sources, together with the presence of water sources and well protected canyons, constituted a ‘‘magnet’’ for human occupation. The earlier evidence at these sites is sometimes presented as proof of the existence of an industry named Level 11, which is characterized by large scrapers and unretouched flakes. In order to maintain a separate identity for the Level 11 Industry, Cardich (1987) emphasized differences with another industry recognized by most other researchers working in the region, the Toldense. It seems to be a moot point whether there are one or two industries, unless we are asserting much more than techno-typological difference. Overall, faunal and lithic assemblages between the ‘‘industries’’ exhibit great similarity. The findings at the lower layers of the Arroyo Feo site are crucial here. They are similar to the so-called Level 11 Industry, but chronologically overlap with the Toldense at ca. 9,000 bp (Gradıń et al. 1979). It appears that the absence of projectile points at some sites was taken as a marker that a separate industry existed. On reflection it would appear that the evidence for a unifacial tradition in Patagonia is not strong. If we now look at the wider picture of the peopling of America, it is clear that there is no need to invoke a unifacial industry belonging to these southern settlers. The production of bifacial points, the production of blades, and the use of bone and other so-called ‘‘sophisticated’’ technologies appear to have always been available to the initial explorers of Fuego-Patagonia, as exemplified by recoveries from a number of early sites (e.g., Aguerre 1997; Nami 1993–4; Paunero 1993–4; Scheinsohn 1997; Yacobaccio and Guraieb 1994). During the earliest period of human adaptation to different habitats in Fuego-Patagonia, lithic artifacts were routinely and expediently made on rocks available in the immediate vicinity, with an emphasis on the transport of bifacial artifacts and/or preforms, adequate for situations of high mobility. Local raw material was used predominantly, with high quality and heavily curated exotic materials only present in very low frequencies.

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In the cases where ‘‘exotics’’ are relatively abundant, such as at Epullań Grande, the patterns suggest that logistical mobility is the dominant strategy. On the other hand, if we review the archaeological record of the southern – and coldest – part of Patagonia, the chronological picture is much more consistent. In general, all of the sites on the middle Deseado River display only minimal evidence of use before the Pleistocene–Holocene transition, with dates of ca. 11,000 bp accepted as the oldest for initial human occupation (Miotti 1996; Paunero 1993–4). More intense and repetitive occupation occurs from ca. 10,000 bp. Remains of Pleistocene mammals are present in the earliest levels at some of the sites, but never in large numbers. Instead, guanaco is the dominant large vertebrate. Radiocarbon dates falling between ca. 11,000–10,500 bp are available from different areas in the south (Bird 1988; Nami and Nakamura 1995; Prieto 1991), including what today is referred to as Tierra del Fuego (Massone 1987). In all of these cases the stratigraphic evidence is backed with a reliable radiocarbon chronology, and the assemblages contain bifacial lithic artifacts, basin-shaped hearths, and butchered faunal remains. The archaeological evidence for the presence of humans in southern Patagonia near the end of the Pleistocene is clear and relatively abundant. This pattern indicates that some 2,000 years before the Pleistocene–Holocene transition there were human populations exploiting different landscapes within the region, and that around 11,000–10,500 bp most of the cold desert areas were already known to humans. The deserts of northwest Patagonia, in contrast, only appear to have been used for the first time during the early Holocene. Should this be taken as evidence that this was a more difficult and less attractive environment for humans? In answer I reiterate the fact that the northwest Patagonian deserts, being flat and watercontrolled, would have been far less inviting environments for human occupation. While this may well be the case, the intensity of survey and sampling is still too low to make any firm conclusions at this stage about the exact timing of settlement.

Conclusion The deserts of northwest Patagonia appear to have been occupied later than the forested environments of Monte Verde and Chinchihuapi located to the west. The later chronology for human occupation from northwest Patagonia might imply that the costs of colonizing these deserts were higher. This would be consistent with the fact that detailed knowledge of plants is more difficult to transfer to new and different lands, since they are usually highly specific to certain habitats (Rockman 2003: 19). These are exactly the kinds of ‘‘problems’’ envisioned by Beaton (1991) when he proposed that movement within the same environmental zone was probably faster, implying a less costly adaptation. On the basis of present data it appears that desert habitats were probably not at the top of the list of habitats selected for systematic human occupation. The presence of a biogeographical barrier between the forests and the deserts, the Andean Cordillera, may have added to the ‘‘costs’’ of colonizing the Patagonian deserts.

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When we look at the settlement of northwest Patagonia within the larger regional context, it is clear that the process of human expansion toward the south was not one that required saturation of landscapes providing donors. From what is known of the archaeological record large areas remained sparsely populated or were not used at all. This appears similar to the spread of the North American populations as recorded through the distribution of projectile points (Anderson and Faught 2000). It seems that most landscapes near the Cordillera were only settled during the early Holocene and after the extinction of Pleistocene megafauna. The available evidence suggests that exploitation took the form of logistical forays from eastern settlement nodes (Borrero 2002; Franco 2002a, 2002b). One reason for this chronological pattern may be that these regions were at the same time too distant from the early circulation routes and equally too close to important biogeographical barriers, such as the Continental Ice Cap. In summary, the colonization of cold deserts required the selection of settlements, artifact production, and subsistence technologies that were organized to accommodate the patchy distribution of resources. This colonization process probably occurred at a multigenerational time scale, and began around the time of the Pleistocene–Holocene transition. The available evidence suggests that the drier cold deserts of Patagonia were colonized after other Patagonian habitats.

References Aguerre, A. M. 1997: Replanteo de la industria Toldense. Arqueologıá de Patagonia CentroMeridional. Unpublished PhD thesis, Buenos Aires: Universidad de Buenos Aires. Anderson, D. G. and Faught, M. K. 2000: Paleoindian artifact distributions: Evidence and implications. Antiquity, 74, 507–13. Anderson, D. G. and Gillam, J. C. 2000: Paleoindian colonization of the Americas: Implications from an examination of physiography, demography, and artifact distribution. American Antiquity, 65, 43–66. Barberena, R., Manzi, L., and Campan, P. in press: Arqueologıá de rescate en Piedra del Aguila, Neuqueń: Sitio cueva del Choique. Relaciones de la Sociedad Argentina de Antropologıá. Beaton, J. 1991: Colonizing continents: Some problems from Australia and the Americas. In T. D. Dillehay and D. J. Meltzer (eds), The First Americans: Search and Research, Boca Raton, FL: CRC, 209–30. Belardi, J. B. and Campan, P. 1999: Estepa y bosque: La utilizacioń de lagos y lagunas en la regioń de Lago Aregentino, Provincia de Santa Cruz. In Soplando en el viento. Actas de las III Jornadas de Arqueologıá de la Patagonia, Neuquen-Buenos Aires: Instituto Nacional de Antropologıá y Pensamiento Latinoamericano, 25–41. Binford, L. R. 1980: Willow smoke and dog’s tails: Hunter-gatherer settlement systems and archaeological site formation. American Antiquity, 45, 4–21. Bird, J. 1988: Travels and Archaeology in South Chile. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press. Borrero, L. A. 1981: La economıá prehisto´rica de los pobladores del Alero de los Sauces (Neuqueń, Argentina). Trabajos de Prehistoria, 1, 113–26. Borrero, L. A. 1989: Spatial heterogeneity in Fuego-Patagonia. In S. Shennan (ed.), Archaeological Approaches to Cultural Identity, London: Unwin Hyman, 258–66.

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T he Ar c h a eo l og y o f t he Pa t a g o n i a n D eserts Borrero, L. A. 1994–5: Arqueologıá de la Patagonia. Palimpsesto. Revista de Arqueologıá, 4, 9–69. Borrero, L. A. 2002: The archaeozoology of the Andean dead ends in Patagonia: Living near the Continental Ice Cap. Durham: Unpublished paper presented at the International Congress of the International Council for Archaeozoology. Borrero, L. A. and Franco, N. V. 2000: Cuenca superior del rıó santa Cruz. Perspectivas temporales. Rıó Gallegos: Desde el pais de los gigantes. Perspectivas arqueolo´gicas en Patagonia vol. 2, Universidad Nacional de la Patagonia Austral, 345–56. Borrero, L. A. and Nami, H. G. 1996: Arqueologıá en Piedra del Aguila: Prospecciones y propuestas metodolo´gicas. III. Algunas hipo´tesis y propuestas de trabajo para una arqueologıá regional. Praehistoria, 3, 35–42. Borrero, L. A., Campan, P., Martin, F. M., and Botella, F. 1996: La margen derecha del rıó Limay entre el canãdoń del Potro y el canãdoń Mencue´. Informe preliminar. Praehistoria, 3, 173–84. Cardich, A. 1987: Arqueologıá de Los Toldos y El Ceibo (Provincia de Santa Cruz, Argentina). Estudios Atacamenõs, 8, 98–117. Casamiquela, R. and Dillehay, T. D. 1989: Vertebrate and invertebrate faunal analysis. In T. D. Dillehay (ed.), Monte Verde: A Late Pleistocene Settlement in Chile vol. 2, Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 205–10. Ceballos, R. 1982: El sitio Cuyıń Manzano. Series y Documentos, 9, 1–66. Chiozza, E. and Gonzalez van Domselaar, Z. 1958: Clima. La Argentina. Suma de Geografıá vol. 2, Buenos Aires: Peuser, 3–183. Clapperton, C. 1993: The Quaternary Geology and Geomorphology of South America. Amsterdam: Elsevier. Collins, M. 1997: The lithics from Monte Verde: A descriptive-morphological analysis. In T. D. Dillehay (ed.), Monte Verde: A Late Pleistocene Settlement in Chile vol. 2, Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 383–506. Crivelli Montero, E. A., Curzio, D., and Silveira, M. J. 1993: La estratigrafıá de la cueva Traful 1 (provincia de Neuqueń). Praehistoria, 1, 9–160. Crivelli Montero, E. A., Pardinãs, U. F. J., Fernańdez, M. M., Bogazzi, M., Chauvin, A., Fernańdez, V., and Lezcano, M. 1996: Cueva Epullań Grande (Provincia del Neuqueń): Informe de Avance. Praehistoria, 2, 185–265. Cuńeo, E. M. 1993: Ana´lisis de los desechos de talla de las ocupaciones iniciales y del Componente I de la Cueva Traful 1. Praehistoria, 1, 161–205. Dillehay, T. D. 1991: Disease ecology and initial human migration. In T. D. Dillehay and D. J. Meltzer (eds), The First Americans: Search and Research, Boca Raton, FL: CRC, 231–64. Dillehay, T. D. (ed.) 1997: Monte Verde: A Late Pleistocene Settlement in Chile vol. 2, Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press. Dillehay, T. D. 2000: The Settlement of the Americas: A New Prehistory. New York: Basic Books. Dillehay, T. D. and Pino, M. 1997: Radiocarbon chronology. In T. D. Dillehay (ed.), Monte Verde: A Late Pleistocene Settlement in Chile vol. 2, Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 41–52. Fernańdez, J. 1988–9: Ocupaciones de la cueva. Anales de Arqueologıá y Etnologıá, 43–45, 661–98. Franco, N. V. 2002a: Estrategias de utilizacioń de recursos lı´ticos en la cuenca superior del rıó Santa Cruz. Unpublished PhD thesis, Buenos Aires: Universidad de Buenos Aires.

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L u i s A lb er to Bo r r e r o Franco, N. V. 2002b: (Es posible diferenciar los conjuntos lı´ticos atribuı´dos a la exploracioń de un espacio de los correspondientes a otras etapas del poblamiento? El caso del extremo Sur de Patagonia. Werken, 3, 119–32. Gilli, A., Anselmetti, F. S., Ariztegui, D., Bradbury, J. P., Kelts, K. R., Markgraf, V., and McKenzie, J. A. 2001: Tracking abrupt climate change in the Southern Hemisphere: A seismic stratigraphic study of Lago Cardiel, Argentina (498S). Terra Nova, 13, 443–8. Gonzalez, A. R. and Lagiglia, H. 1973: Registro nacional de fechados radiocarbońicos. Necesidad de su creacioń. Relaciones de la Sociedad Argentina de Antropologıá, 7, 291–312. Gon˜i, R. 2000–2: Poblamiento humano, paleoambientes y cronologıá en la cuenca de los lagos Cardiel y Strobel. Cuadernos del Instituto Nacional de Antropologıá y Pensamiento Latinoamericano, 19, 669–71. Gon˜i, R. and Barrientos, G. 1998: Estudio de chenques en el lago Salitroso, provincia de Santa Cruz. Rıó Gallegos: Desde el Paı`s de los Gigantes. Perspectivas Arqueolo´gicas en Patagonia vol. 1, Universidad Nacional de la Patagonia Austral, 161–75. Gradıń, C., Aschero, C., and Aguerre, A. M. 1979: Arqueologıá del Area Rıó Pinturas. Relaciones de la Sociedad Argentina de Antropologıá, 13, 187–227. Gutierrez, M. and Martinez, G. 2003: Human arrivals, ecological perception, and megamammal exploitation in the Pampean region of Argentina. Washington, DC: Unpublished paper presented at the Fifth World Archaeological Congress. Hazelwood, L. and Steele, J. 2003: Colonizing new landscapes: Archaeological detectability of the first phase. In M. Rockman and J. Steele (eds), Colonization of Unfamiliar Landscapes: The Archaeology of Adaptation, London: Routledge, 203–21. Heusser, C. J. 1993a: Late glacial of southern South America. Quaternary Science Reviews, 12, 345–50. Heusser, C. J. 1993b: Palinologıá de la secuencia sedimentaria de la Cueva Traful 1. Praehistoria, 1, 206–10. Hofreiter, M., Betancourt, J. L., Pelliza Sbriller, A., Markgraf, V., and McDonald, G. 2003: Phylogeny, diet, and habitat of an extinct ground sloth from Cuchillo Cura´, Neuqueń Province, southwest Argentina. Quaternary Research, 59, 364–78. Iglesias, A. 1982: Tipos de clima. In E. Chiozza and R. Figueira (eds), Atlas Total de la Repu´blica Argentina, Buenos Aires: Tomo Fı´sico, 193–200. Jaffe, A. J. 1992: The First Immigrants from Asia: A Population History of the North American Indians. New York: Plenum Press. Karathanasis, A. D. 1997: X-ray diffraction, x-ray fluorescence, and differential scanning calorimetry analysis of sediments from selected features and bones. In T. D. Dillehay (ed.), Monte Verde: A Late Pleistocene Settlement in Chile vol. 2, Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 817–24. Kelly, R. L. 1995: The Foraging Spectrum: Diversity in Hunter-Gatherer Lifeways. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press. Kelly, R. L. 2003: Colonization of new land by hunter-gatherers: Expectations and implications based on ethnographic data. In M. Rockman and J. Steele (eds), Colonization of Unfamiliar Landscapes: The Archaeology of Adaptation, London: Routledge, 44–57. Krieger, A. 1964: Early man in the New World. In J. Jennings and E. Norbeck (eds), Prehistoric Man in the New World, Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 28–81. MacDonald, D. H. and Hewlett, B. S. 1999: Reproductive interests and forager mobility. Current Anthropology, 40, 501–23. Mandryk, C. 2003: Foreword. In M. Rockman and J. Steele (eds), Colonization of Unfamiliar Landscapes: The Archaeology of Adaptation, London: Routledge, xiii–xv.

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T he Ar c h a eo l og y o f t he Pa t a g o n i a n D eserts Markgraf, V. 1993: Paleoenvironments and paleoclimates in Tierra del Fuego and southernmost Patagonia, South America. Palaeogeography, Palaeoclimatology, Palaeoecology, 102, 53–68. Martin, F. M. 1998: Madrigueras, dormideros y letrinas: Aproximacioń a la tafonomıá de zorros. In L. A. Borrero (ed.), Arqueologıá de la Patagonia Meridional (Proyecto ‘Magallania’), Concepcioń del Uruguay: Ediciones Bu´squeda de Ayllu, 73–96. Martin, P. 1973: The discovery of America. Science, 179, 969–74. Massone, M. 1987: Los cazadores paleoindios de Tres Arroyos. Anales del Instituto de la Patagonia, 17, 47–60. Meltzer, D. J. 2002: What do you do when no one’s been there before? Thoughts on the exploration and colonization of the Americas. Memoirs of the California Academy of Sciences, 27, 27–58. Mena, F. and Reyes, O. 1998: Esqueletos humanos del Arcaico temprano en el margen occidental de la estepa centropatagońica (Cueva Banõ Nuevo, XI Region). Boletıń de la Sociedad Chilena de Arqueologıá, 25, 19–24. Miotti, L. 1996: Piedra Museo (Santa Cruz): Nuevos datos para la ocupacioń Pleistoceńica en Patagonia. In J. Go´mez Otero (ed.), Arqueologıá, So´lo Patagonia, Puerto Madryn: CENPAT-CONICET, 27–38. Moore, J. H. and Moseley, M. E. 2001: How many frogs does it take to leap around the Americas? Comments on Anderson and Gillam. American Antiquity, 66, 526–29. Nami, H. G. 1993–4: Observaciones sobre desechos de talla procedentes de las ocupaciones tempranas de Tres Arroyos (Tierra del Fuego, Chile). Anales del Instituto de la Patagonia, 22, 175–80. Nami, H. G. 1996: New assessments on early human occupations in the south core. In T. Akazawa and E. J. E. Szathma´ry (eds), Prehistoric Mongoloid Dispersals, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 254–69. Nami, H. G. and Nakamura, T. 1995: Cronologıá radiocarbońica con AMS sobre muestras de hueso procedentes del sitio Cueva del Medio. Anales del Instituto de la Patagonia, 23, 125–33. Pardinãs, U. F. J. 1999: Tafonomıá de microvetebrados en yacimientos arqueolo´gicos de Patagonia (Argentina). Arqueologıá, 9, 265–340. Paunero, R. S. 1993–4: El sitio Cueva 1 de la localidad arqueolo´gica Cerro Tres Tetas (Estancia San Rafael, Provincia de Santa Cruz, Argentina). Anales de Arqueologıá y Etnologıá, 48/49, 73–90. Pearson, O. and Pearson, A. 1993: La fauna de mamı´feros pequenõs de Cueva Traful 1, Argentina: Pasado y presente. Praehistoria, 1, 211–24. Politis, G. 1996: A review of the late Pleistocene sites of Argentina. Fundamentos, 1, 153–70. Politis, G. 2003: The end of the trip: Homo sapiens expansion into the southern core of South America. Washington, DC: Unpublished paper presented at the Fifth World Archaeological Congress. Prieto, A. 1991: Cazadores tempranos y tardıós en Cueva Lago Sofıá 1. Anales del Instituto de la Patagonia, 20, 75–99. Prieto, A. and Stutz, S. 1996: Vegetacioń del Holoceno en el Norte de la estepa patagońica: palinologıá de la Cueva Epullań Grande (Neuqueń). Praehistoria, 3, 267–78. Ramirez, C. 1989: Past and present landscape and land use. In T. D. Dillehay (ed.), Monte Verde: A Late Pleistocene Settlement in Chile vol. 1, Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 53–85.

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L u i s A lb er to Bo r r e r o Rockman, M. 2003: Knowledge and learning in the archaeology of colonization. In M. Rockman and J. Steele (eds), Colonization of Unfamiliar Landscapes: The Archaeology of Adaptation, London: Routledge, 3–24. Rockman, M. and Steele, J. (eds) 2003: Colonization of Unfamiliar Landscapes: The Archaeology of Adaptation. London: Routledge. Rogers, A. 1990: Group selection by selective emigration: The effects of migration and kin structure. American Naturalist, 135, 398–413. Rossen, J. and Dillehay, T. D. 1997: Modeling ancient plant procurement and use at Monte Verde. In T. D. Dillehay (ed.), Monte Verde: A Late Pleistocene Settlement in Chile vol. 2, Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 331–50. Sanguinetti, A. C. and Curzio, D. 1996: Excavaciones arqueolo´gicas en el sitio Piedra del Aguila 11. Praehistoria, 3, 43–99. Scheinsohn, V. 1997: Explotacioń de materias primas o´seas en la Isla Grande de Tierra del Fuego. Unpublished PhD thesis, Buenos Aires: Universidad de Buenos Aires. Smith, M. A. 1989: The case for a residential human population in the central Australian ranges during full glacial aridity. Archaeology in Oceania, 24, 93–105. Steele, J., Adams, J., and Sluckin, T. 1998: Modeling Paleoindian dispersals. World Archaeology, 30, 286–305. Stine, S. 1994: Extreme and persistent drought in California and Patagonia during Medieval time. Nature, 369, 546–9. Surovell, T. A. 2000: Early Paleoindian women, children, mobility, and fertility. American Antiquity, 65, 493–508. Trejo, V. and Jackson, D. 1998: Cańidos patagońicos: identificacioń taxono´mica de mandı´˜ irihua, XI Region). Anales del Instituto de bulas y molares del sitio Banõ Nuevo 1 (Alto N la Patagonia, 26, 181–94. Vela´squez, H. and Adań, L. 2002: Evidencias arqueofaunı´sticas del sitio Marifilo-1. Adaptacioń a los bosques templados de los sistemas lacustres cordilleranos del centro sur de Chile. Boletıń de la Sociedad Chilena de Arqueologıá, 33/34, 27–35. Villalba, R. 1994: Tree-ring and glacial evidence from the Medieval Warm Epoch and the Little Ice Age in southern South America. Climatic Change, 26, 183–97. Wobst, M. 1974: Boundary conditions for Paleolithic social systems: A simulation approach. American Antiquity, 39, 147–78. Yacobaccio, H. D. and Guraieb, G. 1994: Tendencia temporal de contextos arqueolo´gicos: Area del Rıó Pinturas y zonas vecinas. In C. J. Gradıń and A. M. Aguerre (eds), Contribucioń a la Arqueologıá del Rıó Pinturas, Concepcioń del Uruguay: Editorial Bu´squeda de Ayllu,13–28.

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Part III

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Interactions

The chapters in part three explore factors shaping desert societies in addition to environmental conditions. The operation of social and political processes, and their possible roles in shaping desert societies, is examined for different places and times. The articulation of these processes with economic strategy and ecological context is an additional theme displayed in this section. Anne Thackeray (Chapter 9) describes changes in Later Stone Age settlement in the southern African deserts. Kathryn Przywolnik (Chapter 10) explicates long-term transitions in hunter-gatherers of arid coastal northwestern Australia. Karim Sadr (Chapter 11) explores the complex interactions between Kalahari hunter-gatherers and encroaching Iron Age farmers and pastoralists. Mike Smith (Chapter 12) considers how independent data sources from disciplines as different as archaeology and linguistics might be reconciled to create more robust depictions of change in desert life. Calogero Santoro and colleagues (Chapter 13) describe the consequences of interactions between hunter-gatherer groups in different environments in northern Chile. Andrew Smith (Chapter 14) focuses on the role of ideological systems in the contacts between hunter-gatherers and pastoral nomads in North Africa. Finally, Alistair Paterson (Chapter 15) examines issues of culture contact during the historic period in Australia, examining interactions of desert hunter-gatherers and European pastoralists in Australian drylands. These chapters share a number of features that build upon the perspectives established in parts one and two of the book. A primary theme reproduced by the authors contributing to part three is the importance of social configurations and cultural interactions for the nature of emergent desert adaptations. Social mechanisms revealed as important in shaping desert life in these chapters include ideological constructions and the role of identity in negotiating cross-cultural

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contacts. While these chapters primarily discuss such processes during the late Holocene, it is likely that their operation extends beyond recent times, as McDonald (Chapter 7) makes clear. Furthermore, these chapters are explicit in representing these social processes as acting in conjunction with the environment to create the context in which desert societies operated and evolved.

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Perspectives on Later Stone Age Hunter-Gatherer Archaeology in Arid Southern Africa Anne I. Thackeray

Introduction Arid southern Africa comprises the regions of the western subcontinent embraced by the 500 mm isohyet which cover most of Botswana, Namibia, and the Northern Cape Province of South Africa (see Figure 9.1). Nomadic Later Stone Age (LSA) hunter-gatherer bands lived throughout these regions, although not continuously in any given area, during the past 25,000 years or so. The LSA was originally defined in the late 1920s as consisting of several stone artifact industries which replaced the large triangular flakes and long flake-blades of the preceding Middle Stone Age (MSA) with a package of innovations. This included the production of small microlithic stone tools less than 25 mm long – which were often shaped by retouch (secondary working) and hafted in wooden handles – items made from organic materials like ostrich eggshell beads, worked leather and bone, ornaments, decoration on artifacts, rock art, and burial in formal graves (see also Chapter 4, this volume). The LSA was considered to have been the legacy of physically modern people who originated in North Africa and became southern African huntergatherers (Goodwin and Van Riet Lowe 1929). However, it is now established that anatomically modern people were present in southern Africa at least 100,000 years ago, long before the emergence of the LSA, and many of the items in the package are now known to have first appeared in MSA times, while others became common only during the LSA. This has generated vigorous and ongoing debate about how to define modern behavior, and whether MSA people or only LSA people were behaviorally modern (Klein 2001). In the 1970s, radiocarbon dating pushed the antiquity of the LSA back into the late Pleistocene, but the dating of its beginnings remains unclear. The earliest claimed LSA from South Africa is a 38,000 bp microlithic stone industry featuring

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Nos

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White Paintings Tsodilo⎧ ⎨ Depression Hills⎩ Okavango Delta Dobe ≠Gi Ju/'hoansi Toteng 7

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Figure 9.1 Selected Later Stone Age archaeological sites and the boundaries of simplified biomes in arid southern Africa (after Rutherford and Westfall 1986).

bladelets and tiny cores, together with ostrich eggshell beads and bone points from Border Cave in KwaZulu-Natal Province. However, some consider this and other South African industries dating to between 40,000–30,000 bp as transitional between the MSA and LSA, with elements of both stages present (Wadley 1993, 1997). In arid southern Africa, the youngest MSA dates to shortly before 25,500 bp at Apollo 11 in southern Namibia and a similar age at Driekoppen in the Northern Cape, while LSA microlithic technology may already have been present in northwest Botswana since 33,000 bp (Brooks et al. 1990). Worked ostrich eggshell is found there at 31,880 bp (Robbins 1999), while microlithic assemblages appear on the southern fringes of arid southern Africa in the period between 22,000–17,000 bp (Parkington 1990). The LSA became well established in the region in the period between 25,000–20,000 bp, though the origins, spread, and reasons for the widespread adoption of this new technology which ushered in the last stage of the Stone Age are unknown. About 2,000 years ago, LSA pastoralists with domesticated animals, pottery, temporary settlements, and social hierarchies began to move into the better watered parts of western southern Africa, and shortly thereafter metal was

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introduced to the subcontinent by Iron Age mixed farmers who were spreading from the north into eastern southern Africa (see Chapter 11, this volume). Europeans reached the southern African coast by ship and made contact with the indigenous inhabitants of arid southern Africa from the late fifteenth century onwards. They initially traded with the pastoralists at the coast, but soon became colonists and moved inland, taking over the land and water resources from the hunter-gatherers. The latter resisted and in many areas waged guerilla war on the colonists, who greatly feared their poisoned arrows and hunted them down on the grounds that they were no better than vermin and required extermination. Those close to European settlements were killed or reduced to servitude, resulting in the destruction of hunter-gatherer cultures and languages in these areas by 1910. Others in more remote regions and areas lacking reliable supplies of surface water continued their way of life longer, despite interaction with other cultures, and survived in parts of Botswana and Namibia into the twentieth century. Today, all inhabitants of arid southern Africa are part of the so-called global village and only a handful still subsist by hunting and gathering.

Names for People The indigenous hunter-gatherers of southern Africa were nomads living in small bands consisting essentially of a few siblings and their children – bands which aggregated in times of plenty and dispersed in times of hardship. In general, women gathered the dietary staples of plant foods, while men hunted, trapped, and snared wild animals. They spoke a number of mutually unintelligible languages and did not have a name to refer to themselves in groupings larger than linguistic units; however, early European colonists needed a term of reference and used the name ‘‘Bushmen,’’ which appeared in written records from the late seventeenth century onwards. Unfortunately, it acquired derogatory connotations and in the 1960s was replaced in academic literature with San (pronounced ‘‘Saan’’), from the word used by the indigenous pastoralist Nama people for hunter-gatherers. This term was nevertheless subsequently also shown to have pejorative overtones since it referred to a person of low social status too poor to own livestock. Indigenous people without livestock living in the Western Cape Province of South Africa during the 1650s were in contemporary records called Sonqua or Soaqua (variously translated as ‘‘Bush-people’’ or ‘‘thief ’’). Other names include the Bantu language Tswana term used by the government of Botswana, BaSarwa (‘‘Sarwa’’ meaning ‘‘Bushmen’’ and the prefix ‘‘Ba’’ signifying ‘‘people’’), which is sometimes used to refer to southern African hunter-gatherers not only within but also outside Botswana. Some of the surviving groups in Botswana and Namibia prefer being called ‘‘Bushmen’’ while others choose BaSarwa. Another term initially applied by Europeans to all indigenous people living in the Western Cape Province and later used only for pastoralists was ‘‘Hottentot,’’ apparently derived from a European attempt to reproduce a word sung during a dance. This also came to have abusive connotations and has been replaced by

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Khoekhoen (previous spelling Khoikhoin, the initial syllable sounding like a breathy pronunciation of the first three letters of ‘‘quest’’), a Nama self-appellation meaning ‘‘people’’ or ‘‘men of men.’’ Seventeenth-century records indicate that pastoralists living in the Western Cape at the time called themselves Quena (pronounced like Khoe with the suffix ‘‘-na’’ added for the plural). A collective term for both indigenous hunter-gatherers and pastoralists, Khoisan, was coined by Leonhard Schultze in 1928 to indicate biological similarities between these people. It continues to be used as a convenient shorthand reference not only for biology but also for language and culture, although it is recognized that it is a construct of dubious validity. For the want of a generic name coined by, and acceptable to, southern African hunter-gatherers themselves, and where it is not possible to refer to individual groups by their own names for themselves, in this chapter the English term ‘‘Bushmen’’ will be used without any implied denigration.

Perceptions of Bushmen Modern-day Bushmen living in Botswana and Namibia are popularly believed to be one of the last remaining links with the hunting and gathering way of life that humans have pursued for most of their existence on earth, and are arguably the world’s most studied Aboriginal people. A considerable degree of our understanding of the lifeways of Stone Age people not only in arid southern Africa during LSA times, but elsewhere and during earlier times, has been inspired by sometimes uncritically used information about these people. Historical accounts of Bushmen by early European travelers, hunters, and naturalists unfortunately generally recorded only chance encounters with the hunter-gatherers, which provide tantalizing but flawed glimpses of their way of life. These Europeans regarded them as curiosities from pre-civilized times and took some of them to Europe to be displayed at freak shows for the public to gawk at the ‘‘primitive savages,’’ and especially at perceived peculiarities of their anatomy. One of the most notorious such sad cases involved not a Bushman, but a Khoekhoen, the so-called ‘‘Hottentot Venus,’’ Sarah Baartman, who became a symbol of racist, colonialist, and sexist oppression, and whose remains were returned to South Africa and ceremoniously buried in 2002. Dignity was accorded southern African hunter-gatherers as a result of detailed ethnographic studies of contemporary hunter-gatherers in Botswana and Namibia conducted since the 1950s (e.g., Barnard 1992). Accounts describing their foraging lifestyle as successful and egalitarian transformed them from the barely human savages of colonial times into the ‘‘Harmless People.’’ Although they were not direct descendants of people who once lived throughout southern Africa (or elsewhere), but of people who had lived in Botswana and Namibia for at least thousands of years, the late twentieth-century accounts of their societies were nevertheless considered to epitomize a non-violent affluent and isolated life that must have existed in Stone Age times everywhere in the world before the advent of agricul-

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ture. Archaeologists voraciously raided the accounts for data that could be used to interpret the archaeological record. However, the data concentrated only on selected societies, especially those of the !Kung-speaking Ju/’hoansi, and there is no direct link between the people in the ethnographic accounts and those who left Stone Age archaeological remains. Indeed, the idea that the ethnographic accounts of the Bushmen of Botswana and Namibia made in the 1950s and 1960s faithfully reflect one of our last connections with our Stone Age hunter-gatherer past has been challenged since the 1980s, resulting in a bitter argument dubbed the Great Kalahari Debate (Kent 1992). Revisionists argue that the accounts fail to show the hunter-gatherers as a dispossessed underclass that has been wracked by violence and poverty at least since the widespread introduction of borehole water wells from the 1950s allowed pastoralists to move into hunter-gatherer territories (Wilmsen 1989). Moreover, the presence of Stone Age artifacts in Iron Age sites and vice versa is claimed to show that the hunter-gatherers were once part of an Iron Age economy, and that such contact first with Iron Age and later with European farmers and traders precludes using their lifestyle as a model for pristine Stone Age society. Others point out great diversity in social organization and economic strategies among groups of hunter-gatherers and suggest that the relationships between the huntergatherers and agriculturalists varied from place to place and time to time, and that some could well have remained autonomous hunter-gatherers until comparatively recently. Yet others downplay the significance of a few potsherds, pieces of metal, and bones of domesticated animals in Stone Age sites and point out that the LSA archaeology of Botswana remains under researched (Sadr 1997).

Windows on the Past This is not to deny that critical use of historical and modern Bushmen records can provide windows through which archaeologists can glimpse the LSA world of arid southern Africa. Such an example is a remarkable collection of some 12,000 pages of verbatim accounts of daily life, rituals, and beliefs by a group of /Xam Bushmen from the Northern Cape Province of South Africa made by a German linguist, Dr Wilhelm Bleek, and his sister-in-law, Lucy Lloyd, in the 1870s and 1880s (Deacon and Dowson 1996). The Bushmen informants were convicts who came to the attention of Bleek, who devised a script for representing the click sounds of the /Xam language. He and Lucy Lloyd recorded the convicts’ accounts in notebooks, with the /Xam text on one side and the English translation on the other, an extraordinary record of a language and culture that are now extinct. The ethnographic studies of the Bushmen of Botswana and Namibia from the 1950s sparked renewed interest in Bushman records and led to the rediscovery of the Bleek and Lloyd notebooks, which provided Lewis-Williams (1981, 1983) with a key to interpreting Bushman rock art. There are many thousands of examples of Bushman rock art throughout arid southern Africa, from paintings on the walls of rock shelters and caves in

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mountainous areas like the Tsodilo Hills of northwest Botswana and Daûres (Brandberg) massif of central Namibia, to engravings on boulders and exposed rocks in countless localities in the Northern Cape and Namibia, as well as small slabs of painted or engraved stones found in archaeological deposits in caves. The rock paintings vary from being monochrome (one color) to bichrome and polychrome, while the engravings can be incised, scraped, or pecked. The subjects depicted are often wild or domesticated animals, scenes with human figures, creatures with both animal and human features called therianthropes, hand prints, and designs including dots, zigzags, wavy lines, and grid patterns. There are also historical scenes which provide datable images and indicate that rock art continued until recent times, although such scenes may not necessarily depict actual events. The oldest known dated examples of rock art in arid southern Africa are painted, broken hand-sized slabs found in the Apollo 11 Cave in southern Namibia in 1969 and 1972 by Wendt (1976). The slabs are associated with artifacts from the end of the MSA and radiocarbon dated to 27,500 bp, indicating that they are of the same order of age as the oldest known rock art in Europe. However, some prefer to be cautious and date the slabs to at least 18,500 bp; the age of the base of the overlying layer. The oldest dated engraving in the region is also a small, portable broken slab of rock, this time showing a 10,200 year old fine-line engraving of an unfinished mammal without a head. It was excavated in 1979 by Francis and Anne Thackeray from LSA layers which accumulated around a huge stalagmite near the entrance to the impressive Wonderwerk Cave (see Figure 9.2) in the Northern Cape Province of South Africa (Thackeray et al. 1981).

Figure 9.2 Interior of the Wonderwerk Cave, Northern Cape Province, South Africa, where radiocarbon dated engraved slabs were recovered by Francis and Anne Thackeray in 1979.

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Initial attempts to interpret the art dismissed it as ‘‘art for art’s sake,’’ a quaint record of the life of a hunter-gatherer, or ‘‘hunting magic.’’ From the 1970s, however, the insights into the beliefs of the Bushmen obtained especially from the Bleek records, and corroborated by other ethnographic and historical records, enabled Lewis-Williams to revolutionize southern African rock art studies by placing the art within a Bushman rather than a European worldview. This enabled him to propose that the art is essentially religious and related to the trance experiences of shamans (medicine men and women) (Lewis-Williams and Dowson 1988). He argued that many otherwise inexplicable depictions, such as eland bleeding from the nose, are metaphors for the trance experience, and that geometric designs and strange creatures are related to three stages of hallucination experienced by shamans. His shamanic interpretation has, however, recently been challenged on the grounds that many images of apparent shamanic activity could otherwise be interpreted in terms of mythology about creation, death, and the afterlife (Solomon 2000), while Helvenston and Bahn (2002) claim that his three stages of hallucination could not have been naturally induced, but brought about only by certain plants whose availability in southern Africa has not been demonstrated. While one cannot assume that hunter-gatherers living all over arid southern Africa throughout the LSA had exactly the same beliefs as the /Xam or other recent Bushmen, nor that these beliefs remained constant over time, the fact that there are noticeable similarities in the style of their rock art and stone tools in comparison with regions further north suggests that there were communication networks and a common belief system, at least on a regional scale. Moreover, although modern hunter-gatherers in Botswana and Namibia do not produce rock art and some do not even attribute it to their ancestors, their beliefs and rituals are very similar to those of the /Xam Bushmen from the Northern Cape, hence the Bleek and other ethnographic and historical records can justifiably be used cautiously as keys to an insider’s view of the art. Lewis-Williams’ approach also highlighted the fact that there were social reasons for the choices people made, rather than the 1960s and 1970s emphasis on largely environmental conditions (Deacon 1990). The ethnographic record has consequently inspired archaeologists to look at sites not only in terms of available resources, but also as part of seasonal rounds of aggregation or dispersal, associated with different patterns of ritual activity, exchange of goods, and gender relations, and how these changed over time. The Ju/’hoansi practice a form of sharing and delayed kin-based gift exchange called hxaro during times of aggregation. This reinforces social and economic networks and is a form of insurance for times of hardship, as the giver can exploit resources in areas where hxaro trading partners live during such times. Beads are one of the most important items for exchange. Some consequently suggest that quantities of ostrich eggshell beads in certain sites indicate this practice has an antiquity of at least 40,000 years or even earlier, while others (Wadley 1993) consider that it may go back some 12,000 years, when it aided the survival of people expanding into the arid southern African interior at this time by cementing

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their social relationships. However, it is often impossible to identify items as necessarily hxaro items rather than originating in other forms of procurement or acquisition, and Bushman groups other than the Ju/’hoansi have different exchange systems.

Environments – Past and Present Social ties were the glue which held the fabric of LSA societies together, but people’s stomachs were probably filled mainly with plant foods. Although meat hunted by men was socially important for twentieth-century southern African hunter-gatherers, some 80 percent of their diet was provided by plants gathered mainly by women. Plant food remains from southern African LSA archaeological sites indicate that both above ground plant foods such as melons, fruits, and nuts, as well as geophytes (bulbs, corms, tubers, rhizomes, and rootstocks) were an important source of food also during LSA times (Deacon 1993).

Modern Environments The dominant plants can be used to subdivide present-day arid southern Africa into three generalized biomes (see Figure 9.1).

The Kalahari The Kalahari of Botswana and eastern Namibia is an extensive basin some 1,000 m above sea level (asl) on the interior plateau of southern Africa, stretching from the Orange or !Garib River in South Africa to southern Angola, and from the mountains of central Namibia to the hills of eastern Botswana and western Zimbabwe. Landforms and deposits in this biome have accumulated mostly under semi-arid to arid conditions and are capped by windblown sands that form dune systems currently stabilized by vegetation. Although the area is known as the Kalahari Desert and there is no permanent water except in the inland drainage systems of the Okavango Delta and Makgadikgadi Pans of northern Botswana, the erratic summer rainfall creates temporary pans and allows a variable tree, bush, and grass cover. At least since historical times, this has supported large herds of animals, including springbok, gemsbok (oryx), blue wildebeest, Burchell’s zebra, and warthog, and, in the wetter areas, elephant and buffalo.

The Namib Extending some 2,000 km along the western coast from southern Namibia to southern Angola, and 100–200 km inland, this is the driest region of southern Africa. It varies from rocky plains to sand seas and dune areas, as well as gravel plains with occasional hills and inselbergs. The coast is cool and foggy and receives less than 20 mm of rain annually, while areas further inland receive no more than

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130 mm summer rainfall. Vegetation is very sparse with trees confined to the major river valleys, although grasses appear after rains and provide grazing for herds of springbok and gemsbok. Dassies (rock hyrax), hares, steenbok, klipspringer, and mountain zebra are also found.

The Nama-Karoo This biome consists of vast semi-arid rocky plains with mesas ranging between the Cape Fold Mountains and the Orange River in South Africa and a belt through western Namibia. The annual rainfall of approximately 150–400 mm falls mainly in summer in the wetter northeastern parts, but mostly in winter, spring, or autumn in the drier western parts. The vegetation comprises small shrubs and succulents, with sparse grass between bare ground, and trees (mostly acacias) restricted to watercourses. Animals present in historical times included dassies, hares, springbok, gemsbok, steenbok, grey duiker, black wildebeest, and quagga (an extinct zebra).

Past Environments These present environments of arid southern Africa are continually subject to change, as evidenced by a wide variety of data, such as geomorphological evidence from dunes, caves, and lakes, and biological evidence from animal and plant remains, including fossil pollens and charcoal. These data are difficult to quantify precisely and results are usually reported in terms of a comparison with the present or another time period, such as ‘‘cooler’’ or ‘‘drier.’’ It is also often difficult to tease apart which and to what extent different animal and human agents contributed to and biased biological evidence. Short-term change includes local spells of wet and dry years (Tyson 1986), while on a global scale during the past 800,000 years there has been a series of warmer and colder periods, documented in cores from deep sea sediments and ice caps, known as oxygen isotope stages (OIS). Although it is difficult to slot evidence from non-continuous land-based records into the global record, available data provide generalized glimpses of conditions in arid southern Africa during the last three oxygen isotope stages which are relevant here (Deacon and Lancaster 1988). OIS3 between about 60,000–25,000 bp saw mostly cooler but changeable conditions, with parts of arid southern Africa such as the Kalahari at times experiencing very wet conditions. OIS2 between about 25,000–10,000 bp had a mean annual temperature of 5–68C colder than today, with maximum aridity at about 18,000 years ago (during the Last Glacial Maximum (LGM)), although the northern Kalahari and southern Namib experienced a shorter period of aridity, and there was a shallow lake in the Tsodilo Hills between about 17,500–15,000 bp, as well as evidence for high lake and pan levels in the Kalahari until about 11,000 bp (Brook et al. 1992; Robbins et al. 1996). OIS1 dating to the last 10,000 years saw changeable but essentially modern conditions, with temperatures at their highest about 7,000 bp.

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Patterns in the LSA Archaeological Record of Arid Southern Africa The Earliest LSA The first traces of the LSA in arid southern Africa are microlithic assemblages containing bladelets from northwest Botswana, which date back to before the LGM at Depression Cave in the Tsodilo Hills (Robbins 1990) and possibly as early as 33,000 bp at 6¼Gi, slightly further south (Brooks et al. 1990). Two worked ostrich eggshell pieces from White Paintings rock shelter in the Tsodilo Hills are directly radiocarbon dated to 31,880 bp and 26,460 bp (Robbins 1999). Further south, early LSA assemblages which lack bladelets are known from Apollo 11, Nos, Haalenberg, and Pockenbank in southern Namibia, but these are not well described (Vogel and Visser 1981; Wendt 1976). Those from Apollo 11 date to ca. 20,000 bp and have small cores crushed on both ends as a result of splitting on an anvil with a hammerstone – referred to as bipolar cores – and large scraper-like tools, as well as ostrich eggshell and bone beads. Few formal tools or bladelets are present at Elands Bay on the coast of the Western Cape Province of South Africa between about 22,000–17,000 bp (Parkington 1990). These tantalizing glimpses of the first LSA technology in arid southern Africa provide no insights into the reasons for its adoption or apparent regional variability, nor how it spread through the subcontinent. It has been suggested that the development of the weapon synonymous with southern African hunter-gatherers – the bow and arrow – played an important role in the switch from MSA to LSA technology. Bone points suitable for arrow inserts are indeed present in the southern African archaeological record from even before LSA times, but they become frequent only after about 12,000 bp. Moreover, their presence does not explain the bladelets, which would not have been suitable arrow inserts, and which are characteristic of many early LSA assemblages (see extended arguments in Chapter 4, this volume). In the period between about 18,000 bp until perhaps as late as 10,000 bp, in the southern coastal regions of South Africa, perhaps as far west as Elands Bay and as far inland as the southern margin of the Kalahari, assemblages characterized by quantities of bladelets produced with a punch technique from small cores, scrapers, and bone tools are recorded in cave sites. These assemblages comprise a readily identifiable regional and temporal stone artifact pattern called the Robberg Industry. Although bladelets continued to be produced at this time in northwest Botswana at sites like White Paintings (Robbins 1990) and until 11,000 bp at Kwihabe (Robbins et al. 1996), they do not occur in the quantities found in the southern sites. Assemblages dating to this period from Namibia are not well described, but do not appear to record quantities of bladelets (Shackley 1985). The dichotomy in stone artifact patterning noted for the earliest LSA between the northern and southern regions of arid southern Africa thus appears to continue beyond the LGM. Very little is known about the subsistence strategies of LSA people in arid southern Africa during OIS2. This was a time of generally colder and drier conditions when places such as northwest Botswana and southern Namibia have

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archaeologically visible populations and are thought to have experienced favorable local conditions which ensured supplies of standing water. There is no evidence that people lived at least temporarily in large territorial groups that moved over the landscape after herds of migrating animals, as was once thought the Robberg people did. Rather, new data for the Robberg and evidence such as that for the exploitation of freshwater fish in northwest Botswana at this time (Robbins et al. 1994) suggest that the early LSA people of arid southern Africa made good use of specific locations and employed expedient subsistence strategies. However, it seems that they were not tied to these locations or at least had contact with people further afield: chert used for bladelets at Depression Cave in northwest Botswana and hornfels used for artifacts at Elands Bay Cave originated some 100 km away from these sites.

New Environments and New Tools The period from ca. 12,000–7,000 bp saw the establishment of broadly modern environmental conditions in southern Africa. Many areas in the interior of southern Africa were occupied by LSA people for the first time, while on the coast previously exposed areas of the continental shelf were drowned by rising sea levels. A few animals became extinct in arid southern Africa, including the Cape horse (Equus capensis) and the giant hartebeest (Megalotragus priscus), last recorded at Wonderwerk Cave at about 10,000 bp and 7,500 bp, respectively. There are, however, no data to indicate to what extent, if any, expanding human populations played a role in these extinctions. In South Africa, the microlithic bladelet technology of the early LSA was replaced by the non-microlithic Oakhurst Complex, a tradition with a preference for coarse-grained rocks, rare bladelets, and few retouched tools, mostly large sideand D-shaped scrapers and sometimes naturally backed knives. Larger numbers of polished bone points like those used as arrowheads by Bushmen in historical times, as well as other bone tools, are also found; hence it has been suggested that the bow and poison-tipped arrow came into widespread use at this time. Regional industries in arid southern Africa include the Kuruman at Wonderwerk Cave (Humphreys and Thackeray 1983) and in parts of the Free State and Northern Cape Provinces of South Africa, the Lockshoek, which has few dated shelter sites (e.g., Blydefontein) but is highly visible. Some 829 sites have been reported in a 5,000 sq km area of the Seacow Valley, these usually being located close to water sources (Sampson 1985). It has been suggested that the large scrapers of the Oakhurst originated in southern Namibia, where they continued to be made from the earliest LSA times at sites like Apollo 11, which has one of the earliest dated Oakhurst occurrences at 12,000 bp. However, the large scraper pattern did not spread to northwest Botswana, where the bladelet tradition continued at sites like Depression Cave and Kwihabe. There is more evidence for the use of plant foods at this time. In central Namibia, people at Zebrarivier and Mirabib collected the protein- and fat-rich

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!nara melon (Acanthosicyos horrida) seeds, which are still an important food source for hunter-gatherers in this area. Along the coast at Elands Bay Cave, food sources that come in small packages, like shellfish, fish, rock lobster, seabirds, ostrich eggs, tortoises, and newborn small antelope, were exploited more intensively. The greater archaeological visibility of Oakhurst populations, especially the increase in the number of open sites and occupation of new areas at this time, is considered to indicate a population expansion. It is thought that this would probably have been coupled with changes in social organization and that traces of the social relations such as the hxaro exchange system recorded among twentieth-century Bushmen may now arguably be seen in the archaeological record for the first time (Wadley 1993).

Microlithic Assemblages Southern African LSA assemblages post-dating 7,000 bp (or earlier) are known as the Wilton Complex, consisting of a number of regional industries and characterized by the systematic production of small scrapers thought to have been used to prepare leather, especially ‘‘thumbnail’’-shaped ones, and backed microliths such as segments and backed blades. There are more formal tools, more frequent use of fine-grained rocks, and a greater quantity and variety of bone and shell ornaments, decoration, and rock art, as well as burials with grave goods such as ostrich eggshell beads and shell pendants. Classic Wilton assemblages dominated by small scrapers date to between about 7,000–4,000 bp, and thereafter backed blades and sometimes adzes – presumed woodworking tools with steep retouch – become more frequent. The earliest dates for the Wilton Complex are from Apollo 11 at 10,420 bp from the very base of the layer and 9,430 bp slightly higher in the layer. One of the richest Wilton sites in arid southern Africa is Wonderwerk Cave (Humphreys and Thackeray 1983), where the Wilton Complex makes its appearance about 8,500 bp and records changes in style and frequencies of scrapers, backed microliths, and raw materials over the succeeding millennia, as well as unusual artifacts like stone pendants and rings, bone, shell, and wooden items, and the engraved stones mentioned above. Specularite, a greasy, silvery iron-ore available from only a few localities in the region and used in historical times as a cosmetic, occurs throughout the Wilton layers. Although large grazing animals were consumed by the occupants of the cave, small game such as porcupines, dassies, hares, and tortoises were an important part of their diet. Microfaunal remains indicate that conditions were dry during the first few millennia of Wilton occupation, but that environments like those of the present developed after about 5,000 bp. The richest LSA archaeological record of the post-7,000 bp period in southern Africa is from the Cape Fold Mountains south of the arid areas. It is thought that high temperatures and extreme aridity played a role in limiting settlement in the arid areas, especially during the first few millennia of this period. However, it also seems that people chose strategies to live sufficiently successfully in some such areas to leave archaeologically visible traces, and that the apparent non-occupation of some sites, such as the disuse of Elands Bay Cave between 7,900–4,300 bp, is

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probably a consequence of local rather than regional conditions. The occupation of sites in northwest Botswana, such as the rich backed scraper occurrences between 3,650–3,200 bp and after 2,260 bp at Dobe, the hunting of lechwe, common reedbuck, and bushpig, and the use of barbed bone points to exploit aquatic resources at White Paintings, are indeed probably linked to wetter episodes. Nevertheless, increasing aridification after about 3,200 bp at Toteng 7 in the southern Okavango Delta actually resulted in intensified fishing probably because fish became easier to catch as the water became shallower (Robbins et al. 1998). The inselbergs of the Erongo Mountains in Namibia trapped water and were occupied from about 6,000 bp, as were shelters in the Daûres. There is, however, no evidence for sustained occupation in vast tracts of the Nama-Karoo biome between some 7,000–4,500 bp. Southern Namibia seems to have been unoccupied between 5,100–2,300 bp, although the adjacent area of Bushmanland in the northwest Northern Cape Province of South Africa was occupied episodically by makers of the backed blades of the Springbokoog Industry between 4,500–4,300 bp and 2,600–2,300 bp. Wilton people in the Seacow Valley opted for sites with commanding views suitable for game spotting and were not as closely tied to water sources as their Lockshoek predecessors, perhaps because they made more use of storing water in ostrich eggshell water flasks. It has also been suggested that people along the west coast had the best of two worlds by moving seasonally between the coast and the interior (Parkington 2001), though this is not supported by chemical studies of skeletal remains (Sealy and Van der Merwe 1988).

Concluding Perspectives Arid southern Africa is traditionally regarded as a marginal area, not only in present-day environmental terms, but also in terms of its archaeological record. LSA research in the subcontinent has focused on rich sites in the wetter southernmost areas, while those in the arid areas to the north tend to be seen in terms of ephemeral occupation pockets, such as northwest Botswana, or individual sites like Apollo 11 or Wonderwerk, where local conditions are thought to have been sufficiently favorable to permit settlement and the accumulation of archaeological deposits. Indeed, a 1980s map showing numerous significant southern African LSA archaeological sites did not include a single one from Botswana (Deacon 1984: 230). Although the situation in some areas like northwest Botswana is improving, the LSA archaeology of arid southern Africa remains sidelined. This is unfortunate because many of the innovations in the LSA archaeological record of the subcontinent are first recorded from sites located in arid southern Africa. Seasonal and short-term changes in the availability of plant foods have nutritional and demographic consequences for hunter-gatherers and long-term changes in the distribution and yield of these foods would have played a role in LSA demographic patterns and the choice of sites. However, archaeological studies of arid areas like the Seacow Valley show that people could nevertheless make choices about how to subsist and organize themselves, even in the harshest of

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environments. This contrasts with interpretations of change in the LSA record of the wetter areas, where changes in artifacts and food remains have often been tied to climatic and environmental changes. Even though there appears to be a time lag of the order of thousands of years between dates of marked environmental change and the appearance of new technology in these areas, the archaeological remains are still considered to be a delayed response to ‘‘social stress’’ caused by the changes. However, this does not explain why the artifacts took the form they did. There is indeed an increasing awareness that people make choices for personal, social, and historical reasons as much as for the need to feed themselves, and that they did not necessarily opt for what a twenty-first century archaeologist would consider the most advantageous. Nevertheless, archaeologists still tend to write about the ‘‘limits’’ imposed by the environment and how people ‘‘coped,’’ rather than focusing on the possibilities and the choices made. Perhaps more insight into LSA lifeways could be gained by viewing the environment not as the prime mover in changing patterns in the LSA archaeological record, but as the scenery behind the stage on which the action took place. The makers of the remarkable LSA archaeological record could then become flesh and blood characters, rather than shadowy figures jerked by the strings of changing environments, and their relationship to the indigenous hunter-gatherers of the historical and ethnographic accounts could become better understood. Indeed, although southern African museums no longer place displays of Indigenous hunter-gatherers in natural history sections, they still tend to be presented romantically and ahistorically as ‘‘living fossils’’ from the deep human past, a view that is encouraged by movie makers and the tourism industry. The LSA archaeology of arid southern Africa is thus uniquely charged to contribute to the story of both past and present communities.

References Barnard, A. 1992: Hunters and Herders of Southern Africa: A Comparative Ethnography of the Khoisan Peoples. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Brook, G. A., Haberyan, K. A., and De Filippis, S. 1992: Evidence of a shallow lake at Tsodilo Hills, Botswana, 17,500 to 15,000 yr bp: Further confirmation of a widespread late Pleistocene humid period in the Kalahari Desert. Palaeoecology of Africa, 23, 165–75. Brooks, A. S., Hare, P. E., Kokis, J. E., Miller, G. H., Ernst, R. D., and Wendorf, F. 1990: Dating Pleistocene archaeological sites by protein diagenesis in ostrich eggshell. Science, 248, 60–4. Deacon, H. J. 1993: Planting an idea: An archaeology of Stone Age gatherers in South Africa. South African Archaeological Bulletin, 48, 86–93. Deacon, H. J. and Deacon, J. 1999: Human Beginnings in South Africa: Uncovering the Secrets of the Stone Age. Cape Town: David Philip. Deacon, J. 1984: Later Stone Age people and their descendants in southern Africa. In R. G. Klein (ed.), Southern African Paleoenvironments and Prehistory, Rotterdam: A. A. Balkema, 221–328. Deacon, J. 1990: Weaving the fabric of Stone Age research in southern Africa. In P. T. Robertshaw (ed.), A History of African Archaeology, London: James Currey, 39–58.

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T h e L at er S t o n e A g e o f A r i d S ou thern A fr ic a Deacon, J. and Dowson, T. A. (eds) 1996: Voices from the Past: /Xam Bushmen and the Bleek and Lloyd Collection. Johannesburg: Witwatersrand University Press. Deacon, J. and Lancaster, N. 1988: Late Quaternary Paleoenvironments of Southern Africa. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Goodwin, A. J. H. and Van Riet Lowe, C. 1929: The Stone Age cultures of South Africa. Annals of the South African Museum, 27, 1–289. Helvenston, P. A. and Bahn, P. G. 2002: Desperately Seeking Trance Plants: Testing the ‘‘Three Stages of Trance’’ Model. New York: RJ Communications LLC. Humphreys, A. J. B. and Thackeray, A. I. 1983: Ghaap and Gariep: Later Stone Age Studies in the Northern Cape. Cape Town: South African Archaeological Society. Kent, S. 1992: The current forager controversy: Real versus ideal views of hunter-gatherers. Man, 27, 45–70. Klein, R. G. 2001: Southern Africa and modern human origins. Journal of Anthropological Research, 67, 1–16. Lewis-Williams, J. D. 1981: Believing and Seeing: Symbolic Meanings in Southern San rock Paintings. London: Academic Press. Lewis-Williams, J. D. 1983: The Rock Art of Southern Africa. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Lewis-Williams, J. D. and Dowson, T. A. 1988: Images of Power: Understanding Bushman Rock Art. Johannesburg: Southern Books. Mitchell, P. 2002: The Archaeology of Southern Africa. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Parkington, J. E. 1990: A view from the south: Southern Africa before, during, and after the Last Glacial Maximum. In C. S. Gamble and O. Soffer (eds), The World at 18,000 bp, Volume 2: Low Latitudes, London: Unwin Hyman, 214–28. Parkington, J. E. 2001: Mobility, seasonality, and southern African hunter-gatherers. South African Archaeological Bulletin, 56, 1–7. Robbins, L. H. 1990: The Depression site: A Stone Age sequence in the northwest Kalahari Desert, Botswana. National Geographic Research, 6, 329–38. Robbins, L. H. 1999: Direct dating of worked ostrich eggshell in the Kalahari. Nyame Akuma, 52, 11–16. Robbins, L. H., Murphy, M. L., Campbell, A. C., Brook, G. A., Reid, D. M., Haberyan, K. H., and Downey, W. S. 1998: Test excavation and reconnaissance paleoenvironmental work at Toteng, Botswana. South African Archaeological Bulletin, 53, 125–32. Robbins, L. H., Murphy, M. L., Stevens, N. J., Brook, G. A., Ivester, A. H., Haberyan, K. A., Klein, R. G., Milo, R., Stewart, K. M., Matthiesen, D. G., and Winkler, A. J. 1996: Paleoenvironment and archaeology of Drotsky’s Cave: Western Kalahari Desert, Botswana. Journal of Archaeological Science, 23, 7–22. Robbins, L. H., Murphy, M. L., Stewart, K. M., Campbell, A. C., and Brooks, G. A. 1994: Barbed bone points, paleoenvironment, and the antiquity of fish exploitation in the Kalahari Desert, Botswana. Journal of Field Archaeology, 21, 257–64. Rutherford, M. C. and Westfall, R. H. 1986: Biomes of Southern Africa – An objective classification: Pretoria. Memoirs of the Botanical Survey of South Africa, 54, 1–98. Sadr, K. 1997: Kalahari archaeology and the Bushman debate. Current Anthropology, 38, 104–12. Sampson, C. G. 1985: Atlas of Stone Age settlement in the Seacow Valley. Memoirs of the National Museum Bloemfontein, 20, 1–116.

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An n e I . T h a c k e r a y Sealy, J. C. and Van der Merwe, N. J. 1988: Social, spatial, and chronological patterning in marine food use as determined by d13C measurements of Holocene human skeletons from the southwestern Cape, South Africa. World Archaeology, 20, 87–102. Shackley, M. L. 1985: Palaeolithic archaeology of the central Namib Desert. Cimbebasia, 6, 1–84. Solomon, A. 2000: On different approaches to San rock art. South African Archaeological Bulletin, 55, 77–8. Thackeray, A. I., Thackeray, J. F., and Beaumont, P. B. 1981: Dated rock engravings from Wonderwerk Cave, South Africa. Science, 214, 64–7. Tyson, P. D. 1986: Climatic Change and Variability in Southern Africa. Cape Town: Oxford University Press. Vogel, J. C. and Visser, E. 1981: Pretoria radiocarbon dates II. Radiocarbon, 23, 43–80. Wadley, L. 1993: The Pleistocene Later Stone Age south of the Limpopo River. Journal of World Prehistory, 7, 243–96. Wadley, L. 1997: Rose Cottage Cave: Archaeological work 1987 to 1997. South African Journal of Science, 93, 439–44. Wendt, W. E. 1976: ‘‘Art mobilier’’ from the Apollo 11 Cave, South West Africa: Africa’s oldest dated works of art. South African Archaeological Bulletin, 31, 5–11. Wilmsen, E. N. 1989: Land Filled with Flies: A Political Economy of the Kalahari. Chicago: University of Chicago Press.

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Long-Term Transitions in Hunter-Gatherers of Coastal Northwestern Australia Kathryn Przywolnik

Introduction This chapter discusses transitions in patterns of hunter-gatherer occupation and use of coastal northwest Australia, with particular reference to archaeological research undertaken in northern Cape Range Peninsula as a case study (see Figure 10.1). Two rock shelter sites, Jansz and C99, have occupational sequences dating to 35,000 bp and 34,000 bp, respectively, which is the earliest evidence for human site use on the Western Australian coast. This area is of particular interest to studies of prehistoric hunter-gatherers worldwide, as there is a widespread assumption that long-term trends in hunter-gatherer economies are unidirectional, and therefore irreversible. In Australia, this metanarrative of unidirectional change in huntergatherer economies has been almost universally assumed to be one associated with an ‘‘intensification’’ phase in the mid-to late Holocene, after which huntergatherers are understood to have developed similar economies to those that were recorded at the time of contact with Europeans during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Long-term patterns in the archaeology of the study area demonstrate a complex series of changing patterns of land use in which hunter-gatherer economies become at first more sedentary during the early Holocene, and after a mid-Holocene abandonment associated with mangrove environmental decline, ‘‘revert’’ to a more mobile specialist land use strategy. The data discussed here are considered to support Rowley-Conwy’s (2001) ‘‘adaptationist’’ view of longterm hunter-gatherer change, which perceives social change as non-directional and reversible, and a flexible response to adaptive necessity rather than an inevitable move toward increasing complexity.

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Figure 10.1 Map of northwestern Australia and archaeological sites mentioned in the text. Inset: map of study area in northern Cape Range Peninsula.

H u n t e r - Ga t h e r e r s o f C o a s t al NW A u s tr a l ia

Patterns of Hunter-Gatherer Change in Northern Cape Range Peninsula Cape Range Peninsula Environmental Context The case study area for this chapter is the northern tip of Cape Range Peninsula, an area of approximately 20 km by 10 km encompassing considerable environmental diversity (see Figure 10.1). Cape Range Peninsula is the westernmost extent of the Australian mainland, an 80 km long extension of rugged limestone range and coastal plain jutting into the Indian Ocean. Cape Range is the central limestone spine of the peninsula, which is accompanied on both the west and east sides by lower lying foothills and extensive coastal plains. The peninsula is flanked by Ningaloo Reef to the west and Exmouth Gulf, a large, shallow, mangrove-edged embayment, to the east. Ningaloo Reef is a Holocene formation that is thought to have developed as the sea level rose following the Last Glacial Maximum (LGM) (Hatcher 1991). The reef is uniquely situated, being in very close proximity to both the mainland and the continental shelf, and is renowned for its marine biodiversity. The western coastline is dominated by dune systems and limestone reef, with alternating stretches of sandy bay interspersed along the predominantly rocky coast. On the eastern side of the peninsula, the coastline is less rocky, and the shallow waters of Exmouth Gulf are rimmed with sandy beaches and coastal dune systems. Cape Range Peninsula is also one of the closest points of the Australian mainland to the continental shelf, which is located only 12 km offshore. Cape Range is the westernmost extent of the semi-arid/arid zone of Western Australia, and is an extremely dry and harsh environment. It is also at the southern boundary of the tropics, and although the Cape Range area does not experience the strong seasonal monsoon characteristic of the north of Australia, there are distinct seasonal differences between the summer and winter months. The summer months between October and March are hot and dry, and are also the tropical cyclone season, when cyclonic high pressure systems originating from further north often descend to the peninsula, bringing heavy rains and strong winds. The winter months between April and September are cooler and on average wetter, while the months between September and December are typically dry.

Previous Archaeological Research in Cape Range Peninsula Cape Range Peninsula was archaeologically unknown until systematic archaeological research was first carried out by Morse during the late 1980s and early 1990s (Morse 1993a). Her research focused on the analysis of excavations and surface collections from three stratified rock shelters and four unstratified coastal middens located within Cape Range National Park towards the middle and southern end of the range, and documented some of the oldest human occupation sites in Western Australia (Morse 1993b, 1993c, 1996, 1999). Morse’s study aimed primarily to establish a regional sequence for occupation of the region, and provide a model describing the subsistence strategies of past peoples in Cape Range Peninsula.

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K at h r y n P r z y w o l n i k

Morse interpreted two main phases of occupation separated by a hiatus coinciding with the LGM, a pattern that was consistent between the three rock shelters. Dates obtained on marine shell show evidence of human occupation from at least 34,200 bp at Mandu Mandu Creek rock shelter, 17,410 bp at Pilgonaman Creek rock shelter (although dating at this site proved to be problematic), and 10,490 bp at Yardie Well rock shelter. The excavations uncovered well preserved archaeological assemblages, particularly in the Holocene layers, including artifactual stone, ocher, marine and terrestrial fauna, and an extremely rare example of body ornamentation in the form of shell beads dated to ca. 32,000 bp from the basal unit of an excavation square in Mandu Mandu Creek (Morse 1993d). Morse argued the archaeological evidence demonstrates a sophisticated and specialized utilization of marine resources from the earliest occupation in the Pleistocene when the coast was ca. 10–12 km away, which increased in intensity and frequency once the sea level ameliorated during the mid-to late Holocene (Morse 1993c). The midden sites investigated by Morse (1996: 22) were seen to provide supporting evidence to the overall importance of the coast to the human occupation, and ‘‘clearly demonstrate an ongoing and continued use of the coast and its resources from the beginning of the Holocene to recent times.’’

Northern Cape Range Archaeological Sites: Rock Shelters In 1997–8 I excavated a series of three rock shelter sites and made surface collections from eight shell middens in the study area at the northern tip of Cape Range Peninsula (Przywolnik 2002a). The rock shelters, Wobiri, C99, and Jansz, are three of twelve such sites in a small section of the foothills located approximately 5 km from Vlaming Head at the northern tip of Cape Range Peninsula (see Figure 10.1). The complex of shelters is just over 2 km from the current coast, in the lower to middle reaches of the western slopes of the range. Jansz and Wobiri are both small shelters, while C99 is a much larger, multichambered cave. The walls and ceiling of C99 are covered in ocher and charcoal rock art. Jansz and C99 share similar stratigraphic profiles: gray charcoal-rich, Holocene deposit overlaying deep red Pleistocene sands, containing between 70 and 90 cm of occupational deposit. The Wobiri deposit contains only the upper section of this profile, and has gray Holocene sands only, followed by sterile decomposing limestone. The dates obtained from the three sites are summarized in Table 10.1.

Cape Range Pleistocene Occupation The combined archaeological evidence from Wobiri, C99, and Jansz paints an interesting picture of human occupation in Cape Range Peninsula. The regional sequence for the study area is summarized in Table 10.2. Humans first became archaeologically visible in the northern Cape Range landscape approximately 35,000 years ago, when they sporadically sheltered in sites in the western foothills of the limestone slopes. The Pleistocene archaeological remains, particularly the faunal remains, from both Jansz and C99 are extremely fragmentary and small in

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Site

Koolan Shelter 2 Koolan Shelter 2 Koolan Shelter 2 Koolan Shelter 2 Koolan Shelter 2 Koolan Shelter 2 Widgingarri Shelter 1 Widgingarri Shelter 1 Widgingarri Shelter 1 Widgingarri Shelter 1 Widgingarri Shelter 1 Widgingarri Shelter 2 Widgingarri Shelter 2 Widgingarri Shelter 2 High Cliffy Island Shelter High Cliffy Island Shelter High Cliffy Island Shelter HC-3 HC-3 HC-3 HC-2

Location

South West Kimberely

Wk 1287 Wk 1372 Wk 1098 Wk 1099 Wk 1365 Wk 1366 Wk 110 Wk 1490 ANU/AMS 5–10 R11720 R11795 Wk 1397 Wk 1398 Wk 1101 Wk 1286 Wk 1257 Wk 1096 Wk 1863 Wk 2460 Wk 1864 Wk 1095

Lab Code 0–5 cm 22–27 cm 47–52 cm 48–53 cm 64–69 cm 64–69 cm 19–22 cm 30–34 cm ˜75 cm 80–89 cm 80–89 cm 15–20 cm 35–41 cm 45–50 cm 0–5 cm 5–10 cm 15–20 cm 35 60 70 0–1 cm

Context 630 3,710 23,900 10,550 26,500 14,400 320 1,700 18,900 modern 28,060 1,510 4,970 7,780 2,620 2,740 3,210 modern 650 6,690 370

Date (BP) charcoal marine shell charcoal marine shell marine shell charcoal charcoal marine shell marine shell charcoal marine shell marine shell marine shell marine shell marine shell marine shell marine shell charcoal charcoal charcoal marine shell

Sample rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter open site open site open site open site

Site type

(Continued )

O’Connor 1999a O’Connor 1999a O’Connor 1999a O’Connor 1999a O’Connor 1999a O’Connor 1999a O’Connor 1999a O’Connor 1999a O’Connor 1999a O’Connor 1999a O’Connor 1999a O’Connor 1999a O’Connor 1999a O’Connor 1999a O’Connor 1999a O’Connor 1999a O’Connor 1999a O’Connor 1999a O’Connor 1999a O’Connor 1999a O’Connor 1999a

Reference

Table 10.1 Radiocarbon dates obtained from archaeological sites in northwestern Australia. Note that all dates shown are uncalibrated.

Noala 1 Noala 1 Noala 2 Haynes Cave Haynes Cave Haynes Cave Haynes Cave Haynes Cave Haynes Cave Haynes Cave Haynes Cave Haynes Cave North West Cape Midden 2 Babjarrimannos Midden 1 Babjarrimannos Midden 2 C99 SQ2 C99 SQ2 C99 SQ2 C99 SQ2 C99 SQ2 C99 SQ2 C99 SQ2

Monte Bello Islands

Northern Cape Range Peninsula

Site

Location

Table 10.1 (cont.)

Wk 2912 Wk 2913 WK 2905 Wk 2915 Wk 2910 Wk 2911 Wk 2906 Wk 2914 Wk 2907 Wk 2908 Wk 2909 Wk 2719 Wk 8468 Wk 8467 Wk 8466 Wk 8930 Wk 8928 Wk 8929 Wk 8927 NZA 10528 Wk 8926 Wk 8925

Lab Code Spit 1 Spit 6 Spit 7 Spit 6 Spit 1 Spit 7 Spit 1 Spit 3 Spit 5 Spit 8 Spit 12 Spit 13 surface surface surface 9 15 18 24 54 67 75

Context 8,730 10,030 27,220 7,930 7,810 8,240 7,460 8,090 7,630 7,890 7,820 7,560 4,830 960 5,620 2,110 650 1,980 8,010 28,050 31,570 33,930

Date (BP)

Terebralia Baler Baler Baler Baler Baler Baler Baler Baler Baler

Sample rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter Midden Midden Midden rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter

Site type

Veth 1995 Veth 1995 Veth 1995 Veth 1995 Veth 1995 Veth 1995 Veth 1995 Veth 1995 Veth 1995 Veth 1995 Veth 1995 Veth 1995 Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a

Reference

C99 SQ3 C99 SQ3 C99 SQ3 C99 SQ3 C99 SQ3 C99 SQ3 C99 SQ3 Jansz SQ1 Jansz SQ2 Jansz SQ2 Jansz SQ2 Jansz SQ2 Jansz SQ2 Jansz SQ2 Jansz SQ2 Wobiri Giralia Road site 11

Giralia Road site 9

Mangrove Bay Coral Bay

Southern

Cape Range

Peninsula

Beta 26269 WK 1729

Wk 2859

Wk 8937 Wk 8936 Wk 8935 Wk 8934 Wk 8933 Wk 8932 Wk 8931 Wk 6321 Wk 8923 Wk 8924 Wk 8922 Wk 8920 NZA 10566 Wk 8921 Wk 8919 Wk 8611 Wk 2858

surface surface

surface

11 16 22 50 60 75 81 44 8 21 27 42 44 67 73 44 surface

1,092 5,620

1,640

1,510 900 2,430 7,210 21,110 29,450 33,480 2,360 710 920 9,900 10,730 31,360 34,490 35,230 5,160 1,528

marine shell marine shell

marine shell

Baler Baler Baler Terebralia Baler Baler Baler Baler Baler Baler Baler Terebralia Baler Baler Baler Baler marine shell

rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter surface scatter surface scatter midden midden (Continued )

Morse 1993a Morse 1993a

Morse 1993a

Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Przywolnik 2002a Morse 1993a

Location

WK 1430 WAIT 116 Wk 1512 WAIT 117 Wk 1511 SUA 2614 WK 1575 SUA 2354 Wk 1513 Wk 1576 Wk 1429 Wk 1474 R16098/2 Wk 2524 Wk 1520 R1698/1 R11879/1 ARL 245 WAIT 118

Creek Creek Creek Creek Creek Creek Creek Creek Creek

Low Point

Mandu Mandu Mandu Mandu Mandu Mandu Mandu Mandu Mandu Mandu Mandu Mandu Mandu Mandu Mandu Mandu Mandu Mandu Mulanda Bluff

Pilgonaman Creek Pilgonaman Creek Pilgonaman Creek Pilgonaman Creek Pilgonaman Creek Pilgonaman Creek Tulki Well Turquoise Bay north

Lab Code Wk 1729

Site

Coral Bay

Table 10.1 (cont.)

30–35 cm 40–45 cm 50–55 cm 60–65 cm 60–65 cm 70–75 cm surface 25–35 cm

10 cm 25–30 cm 30–35 cm 35–40 cm 40–45 cm 65–70 cm 81 cm 85–90 cm 91 cm surface

surface

surface

Context

480 10,150 12,100 9,990 31,770 17,410 5,660 5,430

430 1,960 2,420 5,490 20,040 22,100 25,200 34,200 30,000 7,210

4,820

6,270

Date (BP) mangrove gastropod mangrove gastropod charcoal marine shell marine shell marine shell marine shell marine shell carbonate marine shell marine shell mangrove gastropod charcoal marine shell marine shell marine shell marine shell marine shell marine shell marine shell

Sample

rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter midden midden

rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter midden

midden

midden

Site type

Morse 1993a Morse 1993a Morse 1993a Morse 1993a Morse 1993a Morse 1993a Morse 1993a Morse 1993a

Morse 1993a Morse 1993a Morse 1993a Morse 1993a Morse 1993a Morse 1993a Morse 1993a Morse 1993a Morse 1993a Morse 1993a

Morse 1993a

Morse 1993a

Reference

Peron

Shark Bay:

Island Shark Bay: Useless Loop

Dirk Hartog

Wk 2755 Wk 2754 Wk 2439 Wk 2438 GS/CC 290 GS/CC 291 GS/CC 292 GS/CC 293 Beta 31499

Useless HK

Heirisson Prong 1 Heirisson Prong 2 Whale Well Whale Well Whale Well Whale Well Whale Well Eagle Bluff Well 2 ANU 7459

Wk 2562

Useless Inlet 4

Eagle Bluff

Wk 2996 Wk 2437 Wk 2561

WK 1476 Wk 1477 R11519/2 Wk 2997

Yardie Well Yardie Well Yardie Well Notch Point

Notch Point Useless Inlet 2 Useless Inlet 3

SUA 1735

Warroora

22 cm

surface surface 24 cm surface surface surface surface surface

surface

42–53 cm

surface

surface

30–35 cm 55–60 cm 95–100 cm surface

surface

4,690

5,980 4,890 1,820 1,240 1,510 190 190 3,970

7,400

6,620

5,160 2,300 7,020

5,690 7,290 10,490 7,460

7,810

mangrove gastropod marine shell marine shell marine shell mangrove gastropod marine shell Baler mangrove gastropod mangrove gastropod mangrove gastropod marine shell marine shell marine shell marine shell marine shell marine shell marine shell mangrove gastropod mangrove gastropod midden

midden midden midden midden midden midden midden midden

midden

midden

midden midden midden

rock shelter rock shelter rock shelter midden

midden

(Continued )

O’Connor 1999b

O’Connor 1999b O’Connor 1999b O’Connor 1999b O’Connor 1999b O’Connor 1999b O’Connor 1999b O’Connor 1999b O’Connor 1999b

O’Connor 1999b

O’Connor 1999b

O’Connor 1999b Bowdler pers.com. O’Connor 1999b

Morse 1993a Morse 1993a Morse 1993a O’Connor 1999b

Morse 1993a

Peninsula

Location

Beta 31498 Wk 7608 Beta 31497 Wk 6349 Wk 7609 ANU 7457 ANU 7456 Wk 2433 Wk 2434 Wk 2436 Wk 2435 ANU 7105 ANU 8223 ANU 7106

Eagle Bluff

Eagle Bluff Denham Site 9 Denham Burial 1 Silver Dollar Silver Dollar

Silver Dollar

Silver Dollar

Silver Dollar

Silver Dollar

Silver Dollar

Silver Dollar Silver Dollar Silver Dollar

Lab Code WAIT 141

Site

Eagle Bluff

Table 10.1 (cont.)

30–40 cm 73 cm 30–40 cm

9 cm

24 cm

9 cm

23 cm

0–1 cm

57 cm

surface surface

surface

surface

Context

18,730 20,160 19,750

7,360

7,290

7,260

7,240

6,950

4,880 3,460 430 4,940 6,640

4,870

4,690

Date (BP) mangrove gastropod mangrove gastropod marine shell marine shell Baler marine shell mangrove gastropod mangrove gastropod mangrove gastropod mangrove gastropod mangrove gastropod mangrove gastropod marine shell marine shell emu eggshell

Sample

open site open site open site

midden

midden

midden

midden

midden

midden midden open site midden midden

midden

midden

Site type

Bowdler 1999 Bowdler 1999 Bowdler 1999

Bowdler 1999

Bowdler 1999

Bowdler 1999

Bowdler 1999

Bowdler 1999

Bowdler pers.com. O’Connor 1999b Bowdler pers.com. Bowdler pers.com. Bowdler 1999

O’Connor 1999b

O’Connor 1999b

Reference

Dampier Archipelago

South of Shark Bay

ANU 8220 WATT 139 WAIT 140 Beta 22535 Beta 22534

Silver Dollar

Monkey Mia 1 Monkey Mia 2 Zuytdorp gully site

Zuytdorp clifftop site Wk 3460 Wk 3461 Wk 3462 Wk 3339 Wk 3337 Wk 3338 Wk 3345 Wk 3346 Wk 3347 Wk 3348 Wk 2647 Wk 2648 Wk 1780 Wk 2480 Wk 3210 Wk 3343 Wk 2650

ANU 8222

Silver Dollar

Wadjuru Rockpool Wadjuru Rockpool Wadjuru Rockpool Wadjuru Rockpool Clarke’s Cave Clarke’s Cave Anadara Mound Anadara Mound Anadara Mound Anadara Mound Anadara Shelter Anadara Shelter Nickol River Mound Nickol River Mound Nickol River Mound Nickol River Mound Not-so-Secret Shelter

ANU 7458

Silver Dollar

0.4 m 0.55 m 0.8 m 1.2 m 0.0 m 1.2 m 0.0 m 0.5 m 0.4 m 1.25 m 0.3 m 0.7 m 0.0 m 0.5 m 1.2 m 2.38 m 0.55 m

93 cm 60 cm

102 cm

86 cm

110 cm

6440 6530 6840 8520 1470 7140 2270 4270 6290 6510 4240 6380 1780 2480 3210 4090 6080

5,080

680 1,010 4,450

22,540

21,840

21,700

emu eggshell emu eggshell emu eggshell charcoal charcoal mangrove gastropod mangrove gastropod Terebralia Terebralia Terebralia Terebralia Anadara Terebralia Anadara Anadara Terebralia Terebralia Anadara Terebralia Anadara Anadara Anadara Anadara Terebralia open site open site open site open site rock shelter rock shelter open site open site open site open site rock shelter rock shelter open site open site open site open site rock shelter

midden

rock shelter rock shelter midden

open site

open site

open site

Bradshaw 1995 Bradshaw 1995 Bradshaw 1995 Bradshaw 1995 Bradshaw 1995 Bradshaw 1995 Bradshaw 1995 Bradshaw 1995 Bradshaw 1995 Bradshaw 1995 Bradshaw 1995 Bradshaw 1995 Bradshaw 1995 Bradshaw 1995 Bradshaw 1995 Bradshaw 1995 Bradshaw 1995

O’Connor 1999b

Bowdler 1995 Bowdler 1995 O’Connor 1999b

Bowdler 1999

Bowdler 1999

Bowdler 1999

16

13 14 15

10 11 12

4 5 6 7 8 9

1 2 3

0

Years bp 1000

Increasing

Decreasing Maximum

Modern configuration

Mangrove distribution

Advancing

1–1.5 m asl

Modern

Sea level

Increasing humidity

Onset of monsoon

Monsoon in modern configuration

Climate

Table 10.2 Northern Cape Range Peninsula regional sequence.

Earliest Terebralia

Increase in ocher, first rock art phase, intensive occupational phase

Latest Terebralia Initial occupation

New rock art motifs, increase in turtle bone, fine-grained stone, desert walnuts, intensive occupational phase

Cultural

Hiatus 9,900 bp 10,730 bp

2,360 bp

Jansz

Hiatus 7,210 bp 8,010 bp

2,430 bp

C99

5,160 bp

Wobiri

Retreating

19 20 21 22

32 33 34 35 36

23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31

120 m asl

17 18

Increasing aridity

Maximum aridity

Initial occupation Initial occupation

Pleistocene archaeological remains fragmentary, but indicate a mixed marine and terrestrial economy

35,230 bp

Hiatus 31,360 bp

33,930 bp

Hiatus 21,110 bp


size; it appears that only the more robust pieces of bone and shell have been preserved. These earliest occupants utilized both marine and terrestrial resources, hunting macropods, turtles, and fish, as well as collecting shellfish and emu eggs. The sites’ occupants flaked coarse-grained, partially silicified limestone (PSL) and medium-grained silcrete that was quarried from a local outcrop located close to the sites, leaving behind amorphous flakes, flaking debris, and cores. Jansz and C99 were abandoned for several thousand years during the final stages of the terminal Pleistocene. Jansz was abandoned between 31,000–11,000 bp, a span of some 20,000 years. C99 was abandoned considerably later than Jansz at ca. 21,000 bp, and reoccupation of the site also seems to have been slightly later at ca. 8,000 bp. While the large span of time could be in part attributed to the samples that were submitted for dating, sediment and artifact accumulation rates in both sites show that deposition either stopped completely or slowed dramatically during these times. This supports the conclusion that human use of the sites at this time all but ceased. The occupational hiatus coincides with the span of the LGM, a period that is associated in arid Australia with increased aridity and generally colder, drier conditions (Ross et al. 1992; see also Chapter 3, this volume). Maximum glaciation is thought to have been reached ca. 18,000 bp, and at this time sea levels worldwide were lowered as a result of large volumes of sea water being trapped in the enlarged polar icecaps, to an estimated maximum low stand of 130–120 m below the modern level (Chappell 1983, 2002; Fairbanks 1989; Lambeck and Chappell 2001). Unlike most parts of Australia, the lowered sea level would not have removed the coast more than 10–12 km from its current position in Cape Range Peninsula, due to the uniquely proximal continental shelf (Wyrwoll 1993). It is unclear whether people departed the study area to follow the retreating coast or relocated to a more ecologically attractive region to escape the increasing aridity and deteriorating local environment in Cape Range.

Cape Range Early to Mid-Holocene Occupation Evidence of mangroves appears for the first time in northern Cape Range Peninsula at approximately 10,730 bp, when fragments of Terebralia palustra (a mangrove dwelling gastropod) appear in the Jansz deposit for the first time. The appearance of mangroves coincides with the reoccupation of the study area by humans following the LGM. The presence of remains such as chiton and baler shell, fish bone, and turtle bone in the deposit occurring at the same time as mangrove species indicates that sections of rocky shore and sandy bay were interspersed with mangrove along the coast. The combination of mangrove, rocky shore, and sandy bay marine resources would have provided a rich economic environment for human occupation, as is demonstrated by the rates of artifact and sediment accumulation that in many cases suggests a more intensive occupation of the sites. During this early Holocene period, the first phase of rock art in C99 emerged, and for the next few thousand years motifs applied with dry, white ocher crayons were drawn on the walls and ceiling of the site.

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C99 and Jansz were abandoned for a second time during the mid-Holocene. The intensive mangrove phase of habitation in the sites lasted for only a few thousand years. Jansz was reoccupied following the glacial phase abandonment at 11,000 bp and was used until 9,900 bp. In C99 the reoccupation occurred slightly later at 8,010 bp and lasted until 7,210 bp. In both sites the Holocene occupational hiatus lasted until ca. 2,500 bp. This period of abandonment occurred at the same time as the decline in mangrove distribution along the Cape Range Peninsula coast. The gradual disappearance of the mangroves in Cape Range Peninsula meant the loss of a significant economic resource. The diversity and abundance of plants and animals in mangrove communities has been shown to be of value to Aboriginal people for a variety of reasons, only one of which is the procurement of food (Meehan 1982; White et al. 1990).

Cape Range Late Holocene Occupation Occupation of the rock shelters during the late Holocene following ca. 2,500 bp was more intensive than the previous two occupational phases during the early Holocene and the Pleistocene. Sediment and artifact accumulation rates are at the most rapid at this time, particularly in the last 1,000 years. A change in lithic raw material is also apparent in the late Holocene stone tool assemblage. Locally available stone featured prominently in the Pleistocene and early Holocene, particularly stone from a silcrete quarry located directly above Wobiri and C99, less than 30 m away. The proportion of the ‘‘local’’ silcrete and coarse-grained PSL decreased from the early to late Holocene, when increased amounts of exotic finegrained PSL were introduced into the sites. Coincident with the increase in fine-grained stone was the introduction of a suite of new tool types characterized by hafted composite tools with secondary retouch such as tula adzes, burren adzes, and backed artifacts and points (e.g., Lourandos 1997; McCarthy 1976). The artifacts found in Jansz, Wobiri, and C99 were predominantly tula and burren adzes made using fine-grained PSL, and show use-wear consistent with hard wood processing (Kamminga 1982). New and distinctive rock art motifs were introduced to the sites during the late Holocene. The older motifs were all drawn using white pigment applied dry to the walls. Red ocher motifs are consistently superimposed over the white pigment motifs, and are estimated to be late Holocene in age (a date obtained of ca. 1,980 bp using marine shell in C99 is associated with red ocher pigment in the shelter deposit, located immediately below red ocher motifs on the shelter ceiling). The red ocher motifs were applied much more thickly than the white pigment motifs, and appear more ‘‘bold’’ and visible in the sites. One of the ways in which archaeologists have attempted to delineate relationships between groups of people and landscapes in the past is through an analysis of the distribution of rock art styles in time and space. When particular styles of rock art are present in some areas and not in others, assumptions can be made about relationships between the groups of people who shared stylistic similarities, and those who were outside of stylistic culture boundaries. Analyses of changes in rock art stylistic regions over

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time have been interpreted as demonstrating fundamental shifts in land tenure and alliance systems elsewhere in Australia (e.g., David and Chant 1995; David et al. 1994; Harrison 2000; McDonald 1998). The presence of a broad two phase stratigraphic sequence of rock art styles and colors at the sites within the study area suggests that an examination of stylistic affinities in the broader region may reveal further information regarding the cultural history of the region. The use of the sites in the late Holocene is characterized by an increased dependence on particular marine resources, predominantly turtle and fish. These resources feature prominently in the ethnohistorical descriptions of Aboriginal life in Cape Range Peninsula (Bates n.d.; Scurla 1996; Tindale 1974), and provided people with eggs, shell, and oil, in addition to edible flesh. Turtles spend most of their lives in deep sea waters, but during the summer months female turtles come ashore to lay eggs. Turtle hatcheries occur along all the sandy beaches on the northern Cape Range coast, and also on the offshore islands to the northeast of North West Cape and in Exmouth Gulf. The increase in turtle remains occurs at the same time that the hafted and composite stone artifacts appear in the rock shelters. Ethnohistorically, Aboriginal people in the Cape Range region hunted turtles from wooden watercraft using nets and wooden composite fishing spears (Scurla 1996). The appearance of desert walnuts (Owenia reticulata) as a food source in the rock shelter deposits also occurred during the late Holocene. Both desert walnuts and turtles are seasonally available resources. Desert walnuts must be roasted prior to consumption to breach the hard outer husk, and are ready for harvesting after flowering in the late summer when the nut has dried (Latz 1995). This coincides with the seasonal increase in availability of turtles in the study area, and suggests a systematic exploitation of these resources focused on the warmer months from December to May. An important implication of this specialized seasonal adaptation is that people must have spent significant amounts of their time during an annual cycle somewhere else, presumably taking advantage of different resource abundance in adjoining areas. Such a specialized mobile land and resource use strategy would require relatively open social alliance networks and relations with neighboring social groups, or a large territory to move within.

Northern Cape Range Archaeological Sites: Coastal Shell Middens More than 60 shell midden sites were located and recorded in the northern tip of the peninsula during fieldwork, and detailed mapping and surface collections were undertaken at a sample of eight middens (Przywolnik 2002a). Shell middens are located in a wide spectrum of coastal and sub-coastal environments in Cape Range Peninsula, but are generally found in dune blowouts and swales behind the foredunes. The middens in the study area generally occurred in three geographical locations. Type 1 middens were found in sparsely vegetated dune blowouts extending from behind a usually low foredune to close to the high tide zone. Type 2 middens were located in swales or blowouts behind lightly to moderately vegetated, more substantial foredunes with the extent of the midden deposit

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located further from the high tide zone. Type 3 middens were generally furthest from the shore, situated in swales or blowouts well behind the current foredunes in more consolidated sands and surrounded by moderately to densely vegetated stable dunes. Midden deposits in Cape Range Peninsula vary considerably in size, composition, location, and density. All of the recorded shell middens in the Cape Range region are unstratified surface sites, ranging from dense surface accumulations of marine shell and artifactual stone to small sparse scatters of one or two species of shell (Morse 1996; Przywolnik 2002a, 2003). As argued elsewhere, the regular occurrence of severe weather in the form of tropical cyclones is a contributing factor to the appearance and condition of the sites (Przywolnik 2002b). Radiocarbon dates on samples of marine shell have been obtained from several midden sites in Cape Range Peninsula. Obviously, using archaeological material from an unstratified open site subject to all manner of turbation and climatic processes does not produce as reliable a sequence as would perhaps be obtained from other stratified sites. The unstratified nature of the middens precludes the use of familiar stratigraphic principles, such as the principle of superposition, therefore the dates obtained from these midden sites can only be interpreted as isolated dates for a single occupation episode at each site, rather than accurate estimates of initial, or even final, occupation. Radiocarbon determinations were obtained using marine gastropod shell from three midden sites and are summarized in Table 10.1. All of the shell middens in this study are estimated to have been deposited during the mid- to late Holocene, and in general the middens located closer to the current shore tend to be younger, dating to the late Holocene, while middens situated further inland, Types 2 and 3 middens, tend to be older, dating to the midHolocene (Przywolnik 2002a). The composition of shellfish species in midden sites is consistent with excavated stratified rock shelter deposits and geomorphological information for the Cape Range region.

Broader Patterns in the Archaeology of Hunter-Gatherers in Coastal Northwestern Australia Pleistocene Occupation of Northwestern Australia Pleistocene occupation in coastal sites in northwestern Australia was characteristically intermittent and infrequent. Although cultural remains dated to between 35,000 bp and 10,000 bp are uniformly sparse in all sites along the northwest coast, archaeological evidence from Cape Range Peninsula, the coastal Pilbara, and the western Kimberley all suggest a broad based, mixed marine and terrestrial economy (Morse 1999; O’Connor 1999a; Veth 1999). The Pleistocene economy of the Noala 1 site in the Monte Bello Islands includes both marine and terrestrial resources, but between initial occupation at 27,000 bp and 10,030 bp terrestrial remains dominate the faunal assemblage (Veth 1993a, 1999). Like the Kimberley and Cape Range sites, however, there is an indisputable marine component in the Monte Bello site that links the first humans to use the site

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with the coast, and demonstrates the importance of marine foods in the Pleistocene diet. The Silver Dollar site in Shark Bay is the only site in the northwest where remains of marine resources were not recovered from the Pleistocene units (Bowdler 1999). The Silver Dollar Pleistocene faunal component consisted of macropod teeth, baler shell (Melo amphora), and emu eggshell (Bowdler 1990a). Bowdler suggests that this is a reflection of the distance of the site from the coast during the Pleistocene, between 50 km and at least 100 km, and concludes that Silver Dollar is evidence of successful early occupation of the arid interior (Bowdler 1999). Interestingly, fragments of marine shell were found in the Silver Dollar deposit dating to ca. 18,000 bp, which suggests a tenuous, if long distance, link with the coast even when the site itself was more than 100 km from the LGM coastline (Bowdler 1990a). The ‘‘coastal colonization’’ model proposed by Bowdler (1977) more than 20 years ago is still a relevant and debated issue in Australian archaeology. The model proposes that the Greater Australian land mass was colonized by humans following the coast, who entered the continental interior via estuarine and riverine environments where economic adaptation to unfamiliar environments was minimal. Bowdler (1977) argued that evidence for economic change in the Pleistocene was minimal, which she interpreted as evidence of a dominant stable, successful maritime economy. After a reevaluation of the archaeological evidence available some 10 years after her model was proposed, Bowdler only slightly adjusted her position, and while she reaffirmed the validity of coastal colonization, conceded that the model must allow for regional variation and that adaptation to nonaquatic resource use occurred earlier than was originally perceived (Bowdler 1990b). In contrast, O’Connor and Veth (2000) proposed that although the first colonization of Greater Australia some 60,000 to 50,000 years ago required several oceanic water crossings, there is no evidence to suggest that the early colonists employed a maritime economy once arriving on the continent. They argued that despite a number of sites being located close to the coast and continental shelf in northwest Australia (particularly the southern Cape Range Peninsula sites investigated by Morse) and therefore strategically placed to provide a record of use by Aboriginal people in the past, the evidence of Pleistocene resource use gives ‘‘no hint of maritime dependence but rather suggests a terrestrial resource base with the ad hoc addition of coastal-fringe resources or a generalized mixed economy’’ (O’Connor and Veth 2000: 100). O’Connor and Veth (2000: 129) concluded that despite the necessity of maritime proficiency to gain entry into Greater Australia, after initial colonization ‘‘the inland water systems of the savanna interior were the main drawcard.’’ This conclusion is based on a number of lines of evidence. The oldest dates are currently from sites well inland in the north of Australia, coastal sites all post-date 35,000 bp, Pleistocene faunal assemblages are not marine specific, and sites show an increasing reliance on marine resources as conditions become increasingly arid over the LGM (O’Connor and Veth 2000). The archaeological evidence from Jansz and C99 points to an ephemeral and intermittent use of the sites during the Pleistocene. The significant terrestrial faunal

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component indicates that the Pleistocene diet did not rely exclusively on resources procured from the sea, and that the early hunter-gatherers in Cape Range subsisted on a range of foods from all environmental contexts in the region. In this way, the Pleistocene economy in the study area is comparable with the economies described from sites with similar antiquity in the northwest, such as Mandu Mandu Creek, Widgingarri, and Noala 1. The archaeological evidence from Cape Range Peninsula demonstrates that Pleistocene humans were proficient at utilizing a range of environments, which suggests a flexible and versatile subsistence strategy, without a dependence on any one resource.

Glacial Transition Veth’s (1989, 1993b) model of arid zone colonization predicts ephemeral human use of arid, marginal areas during the Pleistocene, particularly over the period of maximum aridity between 18,000–15,000 bp. According to the model, occupation of arid environments until ca. 5,000 bp was limited by the lack of fully developed desert adaptive strategies, such as intensive seed grinding, hafting, and extended social networks, that enabled marginal environments to be permanently populated (Veth 1993b: 103–5). Veth (1993b) argued that occasional Pleistocene forays into marginal arid environments were uniformly intermittent and fleeting. Drawing from a biogeographic framework, Veth’s model proposed that the arid interior of Australia housed several zones of ‘‘refuge,’’ ‘‘barrier,’’ and ‘‘corridor,’’ referring to the relative hospitality of the areas in terms of coordinated drainage and resource availability (Veth 1993b: 106). Barriers to human habitation were considered to be areas of sandridge desert, while three main zones of refuge were located in Western Australia: the southwest, inland western Pilbara, and western Kimberley (see Veth 1993b: 107). According to this model, Cape Range Peninsula is located in a corridor zone between the southwest and Pilbara refuges. The model predicts that while offering favorable occupational environments during the ‘‘lacustral’’ (i.e., pre-22,000 bp) Pleistocene period and Holocene, corridor zones would have acted as barriers to human occupation at the height of glaciation from 18,000–15,000 bp (Veth 1993b: 106). Based on Veth’s predictive model sites in corridor zones should therefore exhibit an occupational hiatus spanning the period of maximum aridity when environmental conditions deteriorated. As climatic amelioration increased the habitability of corridor regions, the model suggests that sites may be reoccupied as human groups repopulate and expand in response to the more favorable conditions. Periods of occupational hiatus spanning the LGM have been identified in both Jansz and C99. Sedimentation and artifact accumulation rates indicate that the sites were visited either extremely infrequently or not at all at the time of maximum glaciation, when deposition in the site abruptly diminished to a much slower rate. The timing of site abandonment differs somewhat between the two sites. Jansz, the smaller rock shelter of the two, was abandoned between 31,000 bp and 11,000 bp, a span of 20,000 years. The period of occupational hiatus in C99 was considerably shorter, and lasted from 21,000 bp until 8,000 bp.

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The glacial sequence of occupational abandonment in Jansz and C99 is in keeping with Veth’s arid zone model. The Mandu Mandu Creek site located further south in the region also shows a phase of occupational abandonment over the LGM, between 20,040 bp and 5,490 bp. Morse (1993c) links the abandonment of Mandu Mandu Creek with the retreating coastline, and speculates that the human population moved westward with the coastline, making only very occasional forays to the range itself. She comments that a single date from 17,000 bp in Pilgonaman Creek rock shelter located south of Mandu Mandu Creek is very likely to have been a result of geographical circumstance; Pilgonaman Creek is larger and more visible in its surrounds than Mandu Mandu Creek, making a more obvious shelter spot for hunter-gatherers venturing inland from the coast (Morse 1999: 76). Sites in the west Kimberley and Shark Bay also appear to have been abandoned around this time. In both regions the coast during the LGM would have been much further from its current position as the continental shelf lies a greater distance west. O’Connor (1999a: 122) argues that the occupational hiatus apparent in the Koolan and Widgingarri sites is not a response to a retreating coast, as Widgingarri was not abandoned until 19,000 bp when the coast was over 150 km distant from the site.

Early Holocene Transition: The Big Swamp When humans returned again to the northern tip of Cape Range Peninsula, the coastline was considerably different to the one they had left prior to glaciation. Mangrove forest now fringed parts of the coastline, and a large mangrove swamp dominated what is now the northern tip of the peninsula. The mangroves were a very rich environment, and provided a variety of economic resources that were exploited by the region’s occupants. Among the mangroves, and particularly along the southwestern edge of the study area, sections of rocky shore and sandy bay provided different foods to mangroves, such as chiton, turtle, and reef fish. By 4,000 bp the sea level stabilized at its present level, and mangroves were no longer extant at the northern tip of the peninsula, having retracted in distribution to the southern margin of the Exmouth Gulf and small pockets on the southern peninsula coast. This ecological drama is reflected in the archaeology of Cape Range, and is visible in both the midden sites and the rock shelters. The Jansz and C99 sites were used relatively intensively after they were reoccupied following the LGM. It is interesting to note the possible existence of stone fish trapping technology at this early date. The manufacture and use of fixed facilities (such as fish and eel traps), which require ongoing maintenance for the gathering of food surpluses, have been linked elsewhere to phases of intensification. Most facilities of this kind in Australia, although notoriously difficult to date, are thought to have developed in the late Holocene. The implication of the use of such a ‘‘delayed return’’ system is that the early to mid-Holocene saw a shift to a more intensive and logistical land and resource use strategy which required complex socioeconomic relations. This is a significant transition from the pre-LGM occupational pattern, and appears to be a

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localized response to changed environmental conditions resulting in ‘‘intensification’’ of site and resource use in the area with evidence of more ‘‘closed’’ social networks. The early Holocene rock art phase in Cape Range, with its meandering lines and random cross hatching, finds few parallels in the rock art traditions of the broader region. Where rock art styles occur over relatively limited distributions with clear boundaries between stylistic-culture areas it has been interpreted as evidence for relatively closed, local alliance networks and localized group signifying behaviors. During the early to mid-Holocene, evidence from excavations and the presence of possible stone fish trapping structures suggests a less seasonal, more intensive occupation of the Cape. Wobst’s (1977) information theory of exchange posits a relationship between highly resource rich environments and relatively heterogeneous rock art styles (see also Smith 1989). The rich mangrove environments of ca. 10,000–4,000 bp appear to have encouraged more sedentary, intensive, and territorial occupation of the Cape than the more recent ethnohistorically derived land and resource use strategy. The occurrence of social boundary maintenance activity with evidence for more logistical settlement patterns suggests the occurrence of complex socioeconomic relations and more intensive land management during the early to mid-Holocene.

Mid-Holocene Transition There is considerable evidence that the study area was used on an extremely intermittent basis during the mid-Holocene. This is in stark contrast with views of mid-Holocene change and expansion current in most other parts of Australia (e.g., Lourandos 1997). No radiocarbon dates were obtained from any of the sites in this study that produced a result between 4,830 bp and 2,360 bp. Sedimentation and artifact accumulation rates from C99 and Jansz indicate that use of the shelter by humans reduced dramatically at this time, particularly in the latter where occupation of the site appears to have ceased. This site abandonment phase coincides with the decline and eventual disappearance of mangroves from the study area and Cape Range Peninsula region in general. As has already been demonstrated, the mangroves provided a rich economic environment for human habitation, and that resulted in a systematic and ‘‘high maintenance’’ exploitation of the coast. The increased distribution of mangroves during the early and mid-Holocene was not confined to Cape Range Peninsula, but occurred right along the northwest coast from Shark Bay to the western Kimberley (O’Connor 1999b). The decline of the mangroves triggered a range of social responses in different areas, which is perhaps indicative of both the range of human economic and resource use strategies along the Western Australian coast and the large diversity of ecological conditions in the long, but single stretch of northwest coast. In contrast to the mid-Holocene hiatus in Cape Range, Veitch (1999) argues that a mid-Holocene change from mangrove species exploitation to a focus on Anadara granosa was a purely social strategy that enabled larger populations to subsist in formerly

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Years BP

Figure 10.2 Histogram of all radiocarbon determinations from coastal sites in northwestern Australia.

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marginal environments or difficult environments. Veitch (1999: 60) comments that this behavioral shift was not a response to environmental change, but an ‘‘elaboration of pre-existing themes’’ already discernible in Aboriginal society in that area, at that time. As with the northern Cape Range Peninsula sequence, no dates between 4,820– 2,420 bp were obtained from the archaeological sites in the central and southern Cape Range. As many radiocarbon sequences from coastal northwestern sites as possible were collated and the number of times radiocarbon determinations occurred within 500 year increments from the present to 36,000 bp was plotted as a histogram (see Figure 10.2), which shows that for sites located on the current coast between Shark Bay in the south and the southwest Kimberley in the north very few radiocarbon determinations produced results between 5,000–2,500 bp. From 50 sites and a total of 141 determinations (with more than 20 sites in the sample with a sequence of more than two dates and numerous sites with single dates) only twelve determinations were obtained between 2,500–4,500 bp, representing 8.5 percent of the sample. Between the present and 2,500 bp, 39 determinations were obtained (27.7 percent), and 30 determinations (21.2 percent) were obtained between 4,500–7,000 bp. These results clearly indicate that the use of sites in the coastal northwest region decreased dramatically in the mid-Holocene. The late Holocene section of the histogram – from the present to 2,500 bp – shows that sites were once again reoccupied with at least the same frequency as during the early Holocene. This pattern, however, may be influenced by several factors, such as taphonomic processes or differential preservation of archaeological remains due to localized conditions and sea level fluctuation. The Silver Dollar and other Shark Bay sites such as Eagle Bluff have clear evidence of occupational abandonment during the mid-Holocene. Bowdler (1999) observes that the early Holocene economy in Shark Bay was highly dependant on mangroves. The apparent hiatus in site use coincides with the decline of mangroves in the Shark Bay region, and Bowdler (1999: 82) concludes ‘‘the local population diminished after ca. 3,500 bp, consequent on an environmentally determined decline in local mangrove populations.’’ This decline is site use from 6,000–2,500 bp has obvious connotations regarding population movement and relocation. The people who deserted the newly mangrove-impoverished regions of the northwest presumably moved elsewhere to utilize environments that were more economically valuable. This contrasts markedly with notions of steady population growth and expansion in most other parts of the continent (Beaton 1985; Lourandos 1997: 301; Smith 1986).

Late Holocene Transition The reoccupation of the study area following the mid-Holocene abandonment phase heralds a suite of new and different adaptive strategies employed by humans in Cape Range Peninsula. At this time a technological change occurs in the region characterized by the introduction of new tool types, primarily hafted and composite implements such as tulas, burrens, and backed artifacts. The new tool types are

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found in the uppermost stratigraphic layers in the rock shelters and on the midden sites, predominantly Type 1 middens which date to within the last 2,500 years. A wider range of stone raw materials was also introduced at this time, and the formal tools were made almost exclusively using fine-grained raw materials. Prior to the late Holocene the dominant lithic raw materials tended to be medium- and coarse-grained locally available stone. The introduction of exotic fine-grained stone suggests the installation of a more wide ranging set of social networks extending beyond the immediate confines of Cape Range, an expansion of the territory in which the people who inhabited the peninsula foraged, or a combination of these. The appearance of new rock art motifs during the Holocene with stylistic links to the Pilbara and Murchison regions suggests that long distance social networks with neighboring regions were established at this time. Archaeological assemblages from the rock shelter and midden sites in the study area indicate that the dominant land use strategy was seasonally based, and focused heavily on marine resources. This correlates well with the ethnohistoric model of human occupation of the region, which emphasized the high mobility and wide geographical range of the Cape Range occupants, who lived almost exclusively on marine resources, particularly turtle, while in the area. The maintenance of mobile and wide ranging resource procurement strategies in resource-rich environments is generally associated with ‘‘open’’ social networks with neighboring regions (Wobst 1977).

Was there Always ‘‘Intensification’’ in the Mid- to Late Holocene? Challenging the Progressivist View of Hunter-Gatherer Change in Australia The most debated and discussed paradigm for explaining late Holocene change in Australian hunter-gatherer studies, particularly in southeastern Australia, is the ‘‘intensification’’ model proposed by Lourandos (1983, 1997; see also Ross et al. 1992). Lourandos’ model is based on the premise that through time more complex and dynamic social systems are produced as a result of sociodemographic pressures and change. While he (Lourandos 1997: 21) specifies that hunter-gatherer societies may shift either way along a spectrum of complexity that does not require a unidirectional trajectory of change, the model identifies a general trend of increasing complexity in the mid- to late Holocene fueled by a range of factors, including environmental conditions, demographic variation, and sociocultural and technological change. The ‘‘more complex and dynamic’’ late Holocene social systems are characterized by a number of attributes visible in changes of land and resource use such as: . Use of smaller sized territories, and increased evidence of territoriality. . Sedentism and other changes in ‘‘logistical’’ strategies, such as earth mounds. . Use of ‘‘delayed-return’’ economic systems, such as fish traps.

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. Resource specialization and economic intensification (for example, exploiting resources such as grass seeds, roots, tubers, nuts, and large marine fauna that require specialized technology to access them). . Increased use of sites and increased rate of establishment of new sites. . Increased use of marginal environmental areas. . ‘‘Closed’’ societal networks (Lourandos 1997: 319). The late Holocene period in Cape Range Peninsula shares similarities with some of the predictions in the intensification model, particularly evidence of increased frequency and intensity of site use and resource specialization. In the main, the attributes listed above are more descriptive of the early Holocene occupational phase than the mid- to late Holocene occupation of Cape Range and northwest Australia more generally. I have argued that the late Holocene in Cape Range was a period of ‘‘open’’ social networks maintained by highly mobile groups who made seasonal cycles of resource procurement within a wide ranging territory. Although the use of the landscape appears more ‘‘intensive,’’ with more midden sites dating to the late Holocene and increased rates of artifact accumulation in the rock shelter sites, this reflects an archaeological signature of an extremely specialized resource procurement system centered primarily on turtles, which is mobile and seasonal but still focused and systematic. This is in opposition to the view that late Holocene resource specialization encourages sedentism and territoriality (Lourandos 1997: 319). One of the major criticisms of subsequent interpretations of regional models of ‘‘intensification’’ is the reliance on what are essentially unilinear models of sociocultural change, in which societies necessarily become more ‘‘complex’’ with time and change in a manner that is seen as ‘‘advancing’’ or ‘‘progressing.’’ This ‘‘progressivist’’ view assumes that social movement toward complexity is generally directional and irreversible. In contrast, the ‘‘adaptationist’’ view rejects traditional notions of progression, and perceives social change as non-directional and reversible, a flexible response to adaptive necessity rather than an inevitable move toward increasing complexity (Rowley-Conwy 2001). The archaeological research presented here suggests a late Holocene adaptive strategy that is seemingly at odds with the prevailing notions of ‘‘closed,’’ ‘‘sedentary,’’ and ‘‘territorial’’ land use patterns that are seen to characterize this period in Australia. These attributes are in general more descriptive of the early Holocene pattern of occupation discussed above, and therefore counter-progressivist notions of social-demographic change directed toward ‘‘complexity.’’ Lourandos’ intensification model is most applicable in those parts of Australia where environmental conditions are most amenable to providing for increased sedentism, ‘‘closed’’ social networks, territoriality, use of delayed-return economic systems, and long-term population growth, that is, the southeastern section of the continent. Although archaeological evidence from more arid regions in many cases supports some aspects of the intensification model, it appears that in the Cape Range region the basic environmental infrastructure, access to reliable and permanent water, which would establish the long-term sociodemographic systems that are central to

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Lourandos’ model, is lacking. This interpretation of archaeological evidence from the late Holocene Cape Range Peninsula provides a social framework for human use of the landscape that incorporates notions of ‘‘intensity’’ of site use that need not subscribe to the current views of ‘‘intensification.’’ This does not refute Lourandos’ intensification model, but provides an example of regional variation that occurs within a prevailing broader paradigm of late Holocene social change. The Cape Range case study stands in opposition to any notion of unidirectionality of change, as the late Holocene adaptive response by the hunter-gatherers of Cape Range peninsula does not demonstrate an inevitable progression toward sedentism or ‘‘intensification’’ in the traditional sense, nor even a continuation and increase in complexity of an existing occupation pattern.

Conclusion Many archaeological studies of long-term hunter gatherer change have adopted a progressivist view, which sees societies necessarily becoming more complex with time and changing in a manner that is seen as advancing or progressing towards increased sedentism and incipient forms of agriculture. This has particularly been the case in Australia, where Lourandos’ model of sociodemographic intensification in the late Holocene in southeastern Australia has often been assumed to describe long-term patterns of hunter-gatherer change throughout the continent. The archaeology of northern Cape Range Peninsula, and coastal northwest Australia in general, demonstrates that the rate and direction of hunter-gatherer change may be somewhat more complex than a simple trajectory towards increased sedentism and ‘‘complexity’’ through time. In the study area, a trend towards increased sedentism in the terminal Pleistocene and early Holocene is reversed after the depletion of favored mangrove environments, when hunter-gatherers developed a highly seasonal and mobile use of the study area with more in common with the Pleistocene occupation of the study area than the early Holocene. This case study supports Rowley-Conwy’s (2001) adaptationist view of long-term hunter-gatherer change, which perceives social change as non-directional and reversible, and a flexible response to adaptive necessity rather than an inevitable move toward increasing complexity.

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H u n t e r - Ga t h e r e r s o f C o a s t al NW A u s tr a l ia Smith, M. A. 1986: The antiquity of seed grinding in Australia. Archaeology in Oceania, 21, 29–39. Tindale, N. 1974: The Aboriginal Tribes of Australia. Canberra: The Australian National University Press. Veitch, B. 1999: Shell middens on the Mitchell Plateau: A reflection of a wider phenomenon? In J. Hall and I. J. McNiven (eds), Australian Coastal Archaeology, Canberra: The Australian National University, 51–64. Veth, P. 1989 Islands in the Interior: A model for the colonization of Australia’s arid zone. Archaeology in Oceania, 24, 81–92. Veth, P. 1993a: The Aboriginal occupation of the Monte Bello Islands, northwest Australia. Australian Aboriginal Studies, 2, 39–47. Veth, P. 1993b: Islands in the Interior: The Dynamics of Prehistoric Adaptations within the Arid Zone of Australia. International Monographs in Prehistory, Archaeology Series no. 3, Ann Arbor, MI. Veth, P. 1999: The occupation of arid coastlines during the terminal Pleistocene of Australia. In J. Hall and I. J. McNiven (eds), Australian Coastal Archaeology, Canberra: The Australian National University, 65–72. White, N., Meehan, B., Hiatt, L., and Jones, R. 1990: Demography of contemporary huntergatherers: Lessons from Arnhem Land. In B. Meehan and N. White (eds), HunterGatherer Demography: Past and Present, Sydney: University of Sydney Press, 171–85. Wobst, M. 1977: Stylistic behavior and information exchange. In C. E. Cleland (ed.), Papers for the Director: Research Essays in Honour of James B. Griffin, Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 317–42. Wyrwoll, K.-H. 1993: An outline of Late Cenozoic paleoclimatic events in the Cape Range region. In W. F. Humphreys (ed.), The Biogeography of Cape Range, Western Australia. Records of the Western Australian Museum, Supplement no. 45, 39–50.

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Hunter-Gatherers and Herders of the Kalahari during the Late Holocene Karim Sadr

Introduction In popular imagination, the Kalahari Desert is the ‘‘land-that-time-forgot,’’ where Bushmen (also known as San or Basarwa; see Chapter 9, this volume) continue to hunt and gather in Paleolithic style. Contesting this image are scholars who claim that today’s Kalahari Bushmen are impoverished descendants of people who in the past two millennia had been cattle herders and suppliers of bush products to the Indian Ocean commercial network in medieval times. This has become known as the Kalahari Debate and is the focus of much anthropological and archaeological research. In this chapter three archaeological case studies are presented which suggest that through contact with farmers and herders, many Indigenous huntergatherers in and around the Kalahari were assimilated and did indeed turn to herding and trading, but at different times and under varying circumstances. In the deepest Kalahari, the evidence suggests that Bushmen managed to keep their traditional way of life until very recently. Still, this is not to say that the 1960s !Kung Bushmen, as recorded by the Harvard ethnographers around the Dobe waterhole, were indeed pristine hunter-gatherers. New interpretation of archaeological evidence suggests various groups of hunter-gatherers in different parts of the subcontinent herded livestock well before direct contact with Bantu-speaking farmers and herders (see also Chapter 2, this volume).

Environmental Background The Kalahari means different things to different people. At its most extensive, it is a sand covered plain that stretches from the Orange River to central Africa (Deacon

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and Lancaster 1988; Thomas and Shaw 1991). Here, I focus only on the southern half of this sandy expanse, from the Orange River to northern Botswana, and from the highlands of eastern Botswana and western Zimbabwe to the mountains of central Namibia (see Figure 11.1). In the northern part of the Kalahari annual

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Figure 11.1 Map of southern Africa with places mentioned in the text.

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rainfall is 500–800 mm, but is reduced to only 150–200 mm per year in the south. This means the Kalahari is not a desert proper but a ‘‘thirstland’’ where surface water is rare due to the permeable sands. Most drainage in the Kalahari is internal and the largest pans are at Makgadikgadi, which are the remnants of an ancient lake, the modern version of which is the Okavango Delta. This inland delta, fed by rainfall in the highlands of Angola, is now the only permanent surface water in the Kalahari (Cooke 1979). Recent research in the northern Kalahari has indicated several wetter episodes in the past, including one during the mid-Holocene and another about 1,500–1,000 bp (Robbins et al. 1996, 1998).

Archaeological Research in the Kalahari The most famous archaeological site in the Kalahari is not archaeological at all. In 1886 G. A. Farini, circus owner and tightrope walker, reported finding a lost city in the Kalahari (Farini 1973). The news inspired at least 25 later expeditions to relocate the site, which eventually turned out to be a natural rock formation near Rietfontein in South Africa (Clement 1967). Among other early but more conventional archaeological discoveries in the Kalahari were the descriptions of rock paintings in the Tsodilo Hills by Passarge (1904, 1907) during the late 1890s. Thereafter, many Europeans passing through the Kalahari collected stone tools (Campbell 1998). Until the 1960s, however, the lack of substantial sites encouraged relatively little archaeological interest in the Kalahari. It was only after ethnographers from Harvard University drew attention to the !Kung hunter-gatherers of the deepest Kalahari that interest in the region’s prehistory quickened (Lee and DeVore 1976; Marshall 1976). Yellen and Brooks (1989) carried out the first professional excavations in Later Stone Age (LSA) sites of the Kalahari, starting in 1968 with eight sites in the Qangwa and Cae Cae (also known as /Xai /Xai) areas of western Ngamiland. In the late 1970s Wilmsen (1978, 1989a) also excavated at Cae Cae, and made it the cornerstone of what came to be known as the Kalahari Debate. In the early 1980s Robbins (1985, 1986) excavated rock shelters on the southeastern margin of the Kalahari near the village of Thamaga. In 1982 he and Campbell moved north and excavated rock shelters in the Tsodilo Hills. From there they have produced by far the richest body of information on the prehistory of the Kalahari (Robbins 1990; Robbins and Campbell 1989; Robbins et al. 1996). Aside from rock shelters, Iron Age villages have also been excavated in the Tsodilo Hills and elsewhere throughout northern and eastern Botswana by Denbow (1984, 1986, 1990) and Wilmsen (Wilmsen and Denbow 1990), among others. Since 1990, the local staff of the University of Botswana and the National Museum in Gaborone, as well as visiting researchers, have also been active in this field (cf. van Waarden 1999). Some noteworthy examples are excavations at Toteng, which have provided new information about the earliest herders in the Kalahari (Campbell 1992; Huffman 1994). Other recent work in the Kalahari includes that by Walker (1994, 1995, 1998) on the origins of linguistic diversity

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among Bushmen in Botswana; excavations in Iron Age village sites in eastern Botswana by Reid and Segobye (2000); and ongoing research in northeast and northwestern Botswana by Tsheboeng, Dingalo, and van Waarden. Following in Robbins’ footsteps, in late 1996 I carried out excavations in LSA rock shelters near Thamaga in southeastern Botswana (Sadr 2002; Sadr and Plug 2001). Outside Botswana, Smith has been a prominent researcher. With Lee (Smith and Lee 1997) he investigated the antiquity of contact between Bushmen and farmers in the Namibian Kalahari. Further west, he and Jacobson excavated at Geduld (Smith and Jacobson 1995). To the south, Smith excavated several sites in the Orange River valley on the fringe of the South African Kalahari (Beaumont et al. 1995; Smith 1995). Other research on hunters and herders in the Namibian and the South African Kalahari and its fringes has been carried out by staff of the University of Cologne in northwestern Namibia, as well as by the Kinahans in western Namibia, and Beaumont, Humphreys, Thackeray, and Parsons in the northern Cape of South Africa (Albrecht et al. 2001; Beaumont and Vogel 1984; Humphreys and Thackeray 1983; Kinahan 1991, 2000; Parsons 2002). Despite the many active researchers, the archaeology of the Kalahari overall remains poorly understood. This is partly due to the lack of rich and informative sites. Small group sizes and the degree of mobility required to survive in a thirstland meant that few artifacts were left behind on small, short-term encampments. There are few rock outcrops and other natural features which would attract huntergatherers to camp repeatedly in the same spot – sites with significant archaeological deposits are thus rare in the Kalahari. Another factor that may account for the low density of known archaeological sites is the size of the Kalahari and the difficult logistics for archaeological work in such an inhospitable region. We are still far from a detailed understanding of late Holocene hunters and herders in the Kalahari, but a vague outline of their history can perhaps be discerned. The focus here is, first, on the interactions between Bushman hunter-gatherers and Bantu farmers and, second, on the significance and antiquity of livestock herding among Kalahari hunter-gatherer groups.

The Kalahari Debate Few, if any, Kalahari Bushmen now make a living by hunting and gathering. Since the 1950s, cordon fences designed to check the spread of foot and mouth disease have disrupted game migrations, while mechanically dug bore holes have allowed cattle posts to encroach deeper and deeper into the Kalahari, helping to drive away game while providing employment for Bushmen as cowboys (Campbell 1981; Hitchcock 1978; Williamson and Williamson 1981). The popular image of the Bushmen as the last true hunter-gatherers owes much to the publications of van der Post (1958) and the Marshall (1976) family, as well as to the Harvard ethnographers who worked in the Kalahari during the 1960s (Lee and DeVore 1976). In the 1980s and 1990s other scholars reacted against this isolationist view, and began to explore the history and recent archaeology of

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Kalahari groups (e.g., Wolf 1982). Wolf, Wilmsen, and others suggested that the Kalahari Bushmen, far from being Paleolithic leftovers, had been client-herders of Bantu-speaking, iron-using, village farmers and herders since the first few centuries ad, and had been supplying ivory to the Indian Ocean commercial network for at least 1,000 years (Wilmsen 1989b; Wilmsen and Denbow 1990). The stormy debate between the ‘‘isolationists’’ and the ‘‘revisionists’’ has calmed down and a synthesis now seems at hand (Sadr 1997). All Bushmen throughout southern Africa were clearly not major players in the mercantile world of the eleventh century ad as the revisionists indicated, but neither were they living fossils of Paleolithic hunting and gathering economies as the Harvard ethnographers had implied. Different groups of Bushmen in different parts of the subcontinent experienced contact and assimilation at different times and to different degrees (Kent 2002). Significantly, archaeology now shows that across southern Africa many groups of Bushmen herded small stock even before the arrival of Bantuspeakers in the second century ad (Henshilwood 1996; Sealy and Yates 1994; Webley 1992). Clearly, some Bushmen were not ‘‘pristine’’ hunter-gatherers even 2,000 years ago. Three archaeological case studies are presented below to illustrate the variations in the timing and tempo of contact and assimilation among hunters and herders in and around the Kalahari. I start with the Thamaga area on the southeastern margin of the Kalahari, where Bushmen became absorbed into the herding and farming economy of Bantu-speakers in the nineteenth century. Then I discuss the sequence at the Shashe Limpopo confluence, well off the eastern edge of the Kalahari, where the same thing happened as at Thamaga, but much earlier. Finally, I turn to the deepest Kalahari, where the process of Bushman assimilation only now seems to have reached its final phase.

Contact between Bushmen and Bantu in the Kalahari It is believed that, beginning in the second century ad, Bantu-speaking, iron-using, village-dwelling farmers and herders began to spread southwards from the great lakes region of East Africa (Phillipson 1993). By the third century ad their villages were established on the coast of Kwa Zulu Natal Province in South Africa (Maggs 1984). By the seventh century ad, Iron Age villages had spread to the fringes of the Kalahari (Campbell et al. 1991, 1996; Denbow and Wilmsen 1983, 1986). The continuing influx of farmers and herders from the north, the growth of populations already in southern Africa, and, beginning in the seventeenth century, the encroachment of European settlers, interacted to force some elements of the Bantu-speakers into the Kalahari proper (Boonzaier et al. 1996; Hall 1987; Huffman 1989). In close contact, it was generally (but not always) the Indigenous Bushmen who were culturally and economically assimilated into the Bantuspeakers’ world. The archaeological case study presented below, from the southeastern fringe of the Kalahari, illustrates the process.

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Contact at Thamaga Approximately 40 km west of Gaborone, the capital of Botswana, and only 50 km off the southeastern edge of the Kalahari sands, a long sequence of contact between hunter-gatherers and farmers is documented in two rock shelters – the Radiepolong and Ostrich shelters – near the village of Thamaga (Sadr 2002; Sadr and Plug 2001). Early Iron Age villages, presumably occupied by Bantu-speaking farmers and herders, appeared in this landscape ca. ad 600 and lasted until ca. ad 1000 (Campbell et al. 1996). The succeeding Middle Iron Age villages from ad 1000– 1500 contain a different style of ceramics known as Eiland Ware. In turn, the Late Iron Age villages from about ad 1500 to the early nineteenth century can be identified by yet another style of ceramics known as Moloko Ware. These Late Iron Age villages may represent settlements of early Tswana-speakers. Both Middle and Late Iron Age ceramics are found in the Thamaga rock shelters, indicating contact between hunter-gatherers and farmers since at least ad 1000. The early contact period is marked at Radiepolong rock shelter by a major peak in the quantities of artifacts, especially in formal stone tools such as arrowheads and skin scrapers, in the numbers of ostrich eggshell fragments and beads, in the numbers of animal bones, and other general occupational debris. This peak might merely represent a period when the shelter was inhabited for longer or by more people. It might, however, also represent an episode of increased production of traditional goods, such as beads and processed skins. Such a peak in production is evident in contact situations elsewhere too, in places as far apart as the Shashe Limpopo area, the Namib Desert, and the Australian interior (Hall and Smith 2000; Kinahan and Kimber pers. comm.). The peak in material debris may thus provide proxy evidence for heightened activity by hunter-gatherers, perhaps in response to the new economic climate created by proximity to a village of farmers and herders. It coincides with a regional economic boom created by the Indian Ocean trade network of that time. The Middle Iron Age village site of Moritsane, 20 km east of Thamaga, yielded a cache of glass beads and a cowrie shell, indicating its participation in the regional and international trade (Denbow and Wilmsen 1983: 406). It is possible that the Thamaga hunter-gatherers were also involved, however peripherally, in the Indian Ocean trade network of the time via Middle Iron Age villages such as Moritsane. Oral histories combined with archaeology suggest that the Middle Iron Age villagers of the Thamaga area, such as the occupants of Moritsane, were pushed into the Kalahari a few centuries ago by Tswana-speaking newcomers (Campbell et al. 1991; Okihiro 1976). The relationship between the Thamaga hunter-gatherers and the newly arrived Late Iron Age farmers was different. The late contact period in the Thamaga rock shelters is marked by layers which contain Late Iron Age ceramics in fairly high numbers, and much fewer of the traditional items such as stone tools and ostrich eggshell beads than in the early contact layers. The increase in the quantities of exotic, imported objects as seen in the rock shelters of Thamaga, and the concomitant decrease in the numbers of traditional objects manufactured by the hunter-gatherers, is perhaps an indication of the gradual

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assimilation of the Thamaga Bushmen into the farmers’ world during the late contact period. There was an overall drop in the quantities of material debris in the late contact layers at the Thamaga shelters; this may reflect the economic marginalization of the Bushmen beginning about three centuries ago. At Ostrich shelter, occupied in the nineteenth century and located immediately adjacent to a contemporary Late Iron Age village, assimilation and marginalization had progressed so far that only a few stone tools and ostrich eggshell beads, along with now faded rock art, help us to identify the shelter occupants as the descendants of local hunter-gatherers. Their economy in the nineteenth century could no longer be described as hunting and gathering. A high proportion of bones of domestic stock and imported ceramic vessels found in Ostrich shelter indicate consumers of domesticated foods such as the meat of sheep and cattle and presumably the cereal products that were transported in ceramic pots. The domesticated foods may have been introduced into the shelter as rations from the neighboring Late Iron Age farmers in payment for services rendered, an arrangement which is common in Kalahari cattle posts (Hitchcock 1978; Silberbauer and Kuper 1966). The cultural and economic assimilation seen in the nineteenth-century layer at Ostrich shelter may represent a case of encapsulation in its original sense (Woodburn 1988); a condition when there was too little open land or game left for the pursuit of a traditional hunting and gathering life (see Sampson 1995 for a similar situation in the Karoo Desert of South Africa). Just 4 km away from Ostrich, the contemporary terminal occupation at Radiepolong shelter shows a lesser degree of material acculturation and less reliance on domestic animals. Even as short a distance as an hour long walk seems to have made a substantial difference in the effects of contact and its resultant pressures to assimilate. The same thing happened in the Shashe Limpopo area, but earlier.

Contact in the Shashe Limpopo Rock shelters in the South African part of the Shashe Limpopo show significant similarities with those in Thamaga (Hall and Smith 2000). Prior to 2,000 bp, the Limpopo Basin was inhabited by LSA hunters and gatherers. From ad 350–600 contact at a distance is attested by the occasional potsherd found in the rock shelter deposits. At Salt Pan shelter, for example, the LSA hunter-gatherer levels are overlain by 30 cm of early pottery period occupation, which can be divided into two phases. The earlier phase contains so-called Bambata ceramics that may have been produced by the Indigenous hunter-gatherers themselves. The later part of the early pottery period includes potsherds of the so-called Happy Rest type, which are associated with Early Iron Age farmers in this region. The farmers’ villages, however, have so far only been found some 50 km south of the Limpopo Valley. The valley itself was perhaps too dry for farmers in the first millennium, and may have formed a refuge for the hunter-gatherers of that time (Hall and Smith 2000). Echoing the finds at Thamaga, at a rock shelter in the Limpopo Valley called Little Muck ca. ad 1000 there was an increase in the number of scrapers with a

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concomitant decrease in arrowheads, more worked bone tools, ostrich eggshell, and land snail shells (for bead manufacture), ocher for painting, and animal bones from food waste. This peak in material remains at Little Muck, which recalls the peak in the Thamaga shelters, came at a time when the first Iron Age chiefdom was emerging in the Limpopo Valley with its capital at the site of Schroda (Huffman 2000). The heightened activity at Little Muck during this period has been interpreted by the excavator as a reflection of the intensity of contact with the Iron Age chiefdom. The hunter-gatherers probably supplied hides and shell beads to the farmers who in turn were positioned at the terminus of the nascent Indian Ocean trade network. A short distance of 3–4 km from Little Muck, at the shelter called Balerno, contemporary hunter-gatherer occupations showed little sign of such ‘‘hyperactivity,’’ perhaps because even at that short a distance it lay outside the interaction sphere of the nearest farmer settlement at Leokwe Hill (Hall and Smith 2000). This florescence of contact and hunter-gatherer participation in the larger trade networks did not last long. By the time the Iron Age chiefdom had become more complex and a state society had crystallized in the Limpopo Valley with successive capitals at K2 and Mapungubwe (ca. ad 1100–1270), activity at Little Muck had subsided. There is hardly any debris in the rock shelters of this period and the excavator believes the profitability of the Indian Ocean trade had led the lower classes of the farmer society to usurp the economic role played by the huntergatherers. Alternatively, the hunter-gatherers themselves may have become the lower classes. In either case, after ad 1350 there are no more traces of conventional hunter-gatherer LSA technology to be found in the Shashe Limpopo area, suggesting the total (material) assimilation of the local Bushmen into the farmer’s world.

The Deepest Kalahari Wilmsen (1989b), using evidence from his excavations at Cae Cae, claimed that in the deepest Kalahari the Bushmen had become encapsulated client herders of the Early Iron Age farmers by the sixth century ad. This would suggest intense, close contact and assimilation in the deepest Kalahari even earlier than in the Shashe Limpopo. The archaeological site at Cae Cae is an extensive scatter of LSA artifacts spread over an area of more than 3 sq km. This large area was sampled by Wilmsen (1978) with dozens of excavation pits. The finds included many typical LSA stone tools and other traditional items such as ostrich eggshell beads, plus a very few imported pieces of pottery and metals. The animal bones were mostly from wild game, but a few bones of cattle were also found in layers dated as early as ad 800. The numbers of imported objects are small, and the cow bones – assuming they were indeed correctly identified and associated with the dated levels (see Yellen 1990; Yellen and Brooks 1989, 1990) – account for a relatively small proportion of the entire mammalian faunal sample (Wilmsen 1989a). Rather than encapsulation of Bushmen at Cae Cae since the mid-first millennium ad, these quantities of foreign objects, when compared with the evidence from Thamaga and the Shashe Limpopo area, suggest contact at a distance with Iron Age villages, presumably those at Nqoma and later Divuyu in the Tsodilo Hills over 100 km to the northeast

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of Cae Cae. Like the remains from the period of contact at a distance in the Shashe Limpopo and Thamaga shelters, the hunter-gatherers of Cae Cae seem to have maintained their traditional diet, tool kit, and other technologies while sampling new materials such as ceramics and receiving some domestic animals such as cattle. Perhaps significantly, the archaeological remains at Cae Cae show no sign of the heightened activity followed by the drop in traditional technologies, which characterize the sequence of contact and assimilation in the Shashe Limpopo and Thamaga areas. Recent archaeological and ethnographic work at Cho/ana on the Namibian side of the border supports this general picture: the hunter-gatherers in the deepest Kalahari maintained only contact at a distance with Bantu-speakers until the twentieth century (Lee 2002; Smith 2001; Smith and Lee 1997). Contact seems to have intensified since the second half of the twentieth century, when bore hole technology opened the desert to ranchers. Today’s Bushman craft producing village of D’Kar, near Ghanzi, from whence most of the ostrich eggshell bead necklaces and Bushman hunting kits found in southern African souvenir shops come from, might represent the period of heightened production of traditional items – the hyperactive phase – which in the Shashe Limpopo Valley and the Thamaga area happened in the first and early second millennia ad, just before full assimilation of hunter-gatherers. In the Tsodilo Hills themselves, however, the situation was somewhat different. Here, Bushmen hunter-gatherers were apparently involved in mining and trading specularite (a crystalline form of hematite with a distinctive metallic luster) – widely used throughout southern Africa for sparkling body and hair decoration – with the Iron Age villagers who had settled at Tsodilo in the sixth century ad. The intensive mining activity documented at several places in the hills (Robbins et al. 1998) may represent the local version of a hyperactive phase of contact. Overall, the evidence from Cae Cae, far from showing early encapsulation of the Bushmen as Wilmsen claims, seems to confirm that the Harvard ethnographers of the 1960s were indeed there to witness the end of the traditional Bushman way of life in the deepest Kalahari. Nevertheless, to say the deepest Kalahari was in effect the final refuge of the traditional Bushman way of life is not to say it was the final refuge of Paleolithic hunters and gatherers. As the next section attempts to illustrate, the Bushmen in the Kalahari had already ceased to be pristine huntergatherers a few centuries before direct contact with Iron Age farmers.

The First Herders in the Kalahari A more recent generation of ethnographers in the central Kalahari, such as Kent (1992, 1993) and Ikeya (1993), recognized and reported what the 1960s ethnographers such as Silberbauer (1965) and Tanaka (1976) ignored: Kalahari Bushmen hunter-gatherers kept small herds of goats and even tended melon gardens. Kent provides much detail about this form of low intensity food production among hunter-gatherers, pointing out that it consumed only about 10 percent of total time spent on subsistence activities and showed up in the camp’s refuse also as

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about 10 percent of the food debris. The Bushmen at Kutse, where Kent did her groundbreaking ethnographic work, considered themselves to be hunter-gatherers and strictly followed the traditions of sharing the meat of hunted game to maintain equality in their community. But they had found a way to own and herd domesticated small stock as a fallback option – a form of insurance policy – without negating their egalitarian ethos. Archaeology now suggests that this type of low intensity food production has considerable antiquity among the southern African hunter-gatherers, and predates the arrival of the Iron Age farmers by a few centuries. As described below, a few case studies from the Kalahari and its fringes provide an overview of this earliest herding economy in southern Africa.

Neolithic Herders at Toteng Just south of the Okavango Delta, near Lake Ngami, a series of sites was excavated around the village of Toteng by Campbell (1992). These open air sites in Kalahari sands preserved traces of a long sequence of occupation, beginning with LSA hunter-gatherers from the last few centuries bc. Unusually for the Kalahari, populations at Toteng had been attracted repeatedly to the same knolls that lay just above the reach of the flooding Thamalakane River, thus creating archaeological sites with significant depth to their deposits. The layers from the first few centuries ad include pieces of thin-walled ceramic vessels of a type that have come to be known as Bambata Ware, named after the cave in the Matopos Hills of Zimbabwe where they were first discovered (Walker 1983). As at Bambata Cave, at Toteng these thin-walled ceramics occur in an LSA context where many of the stone tools and ostrich eggshell beads show clear continuity with the pre-ceramic LSA occupations. These early ceramic layers at Toteng also include bones of domesticated sheep or goats and cattle, and show changes in the proportions of formal stone tools. Livestock at Toteng (and Bambata Cave) are only present in very small numbers: they constitute about a tenth of the mammalian bones found at these sites. Such proportions are comparable with the numbers generated by Kent at Kutse. The specific changes in the formal stone tools at Toteng are also illuminating. There was a shift away from the production of arrowheads towards the production of scrapers. The evidence suggests that at Toteng, nearly four or five centuries before the arrival of the Early Iron Age farmers, the LSA inhabitants had ceased to be pristine hunters and gatherers and had become low intensity herders. Further west, a similar situation is evident in Namibia.

Early Herders in Namibia At Geduld we can see the same sorts of changes as documented at Toteng, but with a local flavor. Situated in north central Namibia, the site of Geduld is an LSA occupation and has pristine hunter-gatherer layers dated prior to 2,000 bp (Smith and Jacobson 1995). As at Toteng, in the first few centuries ad thin-walled ceramics and small stock were introduced to Geduld. What is particularly interesting is the

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style of ceramics at Geduld. Technologically, these sherds are of the thin-walled wares associated with early herding sites throughout southern Africa, but they were not decorated in quite the same style as the Bambata Ware from Toteng. The specific style of pottery decoration at Geduld suggests a local ceramic stylistic tradition. Oruwanje, further northwest in Namibia, also shows all the typical elements of an early first millennium ad herding site, and its thin-walled vessels sport yet another distinct, local style of decoration (Albrecht et al. 2001; Keding and Vogelsang 2001). There are plenty of other such early first millennium ad herding sites throughout southern Africa (e.g., Deacon et al. 1978; Schweitzer 1974; Webley 1992). Taken together, they point to the same fact: before the arrival of the Iron Age farmers and herders, Bushmen in southern Africa had ceased to be pristine hunters and gatherers, had adopted herding to various degrees, and had developed different styles of ceramics in different parts of southern Africa. Interesting questions remain: Did some groups of hunters and gatherers entirely reject food production, and if so why? Why did other groups, such as at Kasteelberg on the west coast of South Africa during the late first millennium, go beyond low intensity herding to engage in intensive animal husbandry (Klein and Cruz-Uribe 1989)? And why did some of these groups eventually revert to low intensity herding or even to hunting and gathering without food production?

Hunter-Gatherers and Herders of the Kalahari The popular image of modern Kalahari Bushmen as the last of the Paleolithic hunter-gatherers is clearly myth. The archaeological record suggests that by about 2,000 bp many hunter-gatherer communities throughout southern Africa started to adopt small stock herding as a minor component of their subsistence activities. In parts of the central Kalahari such low intensity food production strategies could still be documented in the 1980s and 1990s. In other parts of the subcontinent, such as on the west coast, certain groups went further and established economies based on more intensive husbandry of small stock. Other Bushmen communities elsewhere in southern Africa may have gone to the other extreme and rejected animal husbandry. To make this patchwork of Neolithic adaptations in southern Africa even more complex, through time people changed their economic focus: intensive pastoralists became hunters-with-sheep, hunters-with-sheep went back to full time hunting and gathering, and full-time hunter-gatherers elsewhere decided to give intensive animal husbandry a go, at least for a while. The Neolithic gradually came to an end when, at some point in time, depending on where in the subcontinent they lived, Bushmen came into close contact with Iron Age, village-dwelling farmers and herders (or Europeans as the case may be). In the early phases of close contact and interaction, economic activity among the hunter-gatherers seems to have peaked, perhaps in response to new economic opportunities provided by the newcomers. Interestingly, such peaks in production have been observed elsewhere in Namibia and even Australia, in the close contact between Indigenous populations and Europeans (see Chapter 15, this volume).

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Following this peak in production, the hyperactive phase of contact, many southern African LSA and Neolithic archaeological groups started to disappear from the record. Presumably, the majority were materially assimilated into the world of village farmers and lost their independent archaeological identity when they gave up their traditional crafts and ways of living. It is likely that this happened when the locals found themselves encapsulated in the farmer’s world, without the space and the means to continue their independent mobile, herding and foraging way of life. The evidence suggests that this happened first around ad 1200 in the Shashe Limpopo, the heartland of the southern African economic boom during the Iron Age. In the economically more peripheral zones of southeastern Botswana, encapsulation took place later and was not complete until the nineteenth century. In the deepest Kalahari, it was perhaps only in the second half of the twentieth century that the traditional, Indigenous way of life became untenable with modern bore hole technology allowing the encroachment of cattle into the thirstland. Ultimately, geography, the environment, and the economic climate seem to have played the significant roles in the timing and tempo of contact and assimilation between hunter-gatherers and herders in southern Africa.

References Albrecht, M., Berke, H., Eichhorn, B., Frank, T., Kuper, R., Prill, S., Vogelsang, R., and Wenzel, S. 2001: Oruwanje 95/1: A late Holocene stratigraphy in northwestern Namibia. Cimbebasia, 17, 1–22. Beaumont, P. B. and Vogel, J. C. 1984: Spatial patterning of the ceramic Later Stone Age in the Northern Cape Province, South Africa. In M. Hall, G. Avery, D. M. Avery, M. L. Wilson, and A. J. B. Humphreys (eds), Frontiers: South African Archaeology Today, Cambridge: Cambridge Monographs in African Archaeology no. 10, BAR International Series, 207, 80–95. Beaumont, P. B., Smith, A. B., and Vogel, J. C. 1995: Before the Einiqua: The archaeology of the frontier zone. In A. B. Smith (ed.), Einiqualand: Studies of the Orange River Frontier, Cape Town: University of Cape Town Press, 236–64. Boonzaier, E., Malherbe, C., Smith, A., and Berens, P. 1996: The Cape Herders: A History of the Khoikhoi of Southern Africa. Cape Town: David Philip. Campbell, A. C. 1981: A comment on Kalahari wildlife and the Khukhe fence. Botswana Notes and Records, 13, 111–18. Campbell, A. C. 1992: Southern Okavango Integrated Water Development Study. Archaeological Survey of the Proposed Main Reservoir. Gaborone: Department of Water Affairs. Campbell, A. C. 1998: Archaeology in Botswana: Origins and growth. In P. Lane, A. Reid, and A. Segobye (eds), Ditswa Mmung: The Archaeology of Botswana, Gaborone: Botswana Society and Pula Press, 24–49. Campbell, A. C., Holmberg, G., and van Waarden, C. 1991: A note on recent archaeological research around Gaborone. Botswana Notes and Records, 23, 288–90. Campbell, A. C., van Waarden, C., and Holmberg, G. 1996: Variation in the Early Iron Age of southeastern Botswana. Botswana Notes and Records, 28, 1–22. Clement, A. J. 1967: The Kalahari and its Lost City. Cape Town: Longman. Cooke, H. J. 1979: The origin of the Makgadikgadi Pans. Botswana Notes and Records, 11, 37–42.

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Karim Sadr Deacon, H. J., Deacon, J., Brooker, M., and Wilson, M. 1978: The evidence for herding at Boomplaas Cave in the southern Cape, South Africa. South African Archaeological Bulletin, 33, 39–65. Deacon, J. and Lancaster, N. 1988: Late Quaternary Paleoenvironments of Southern Africa. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Denbow, J. R. 1984: Prehistoric herders and foragers of the Kalahari: The evidence for 1,500 years of interaction. In C. Schrire (ed.), Past and Present in Hunter-Gatherer Studies, Orlando, FL: Academic Press, 175–94. Denbow, J. R. 1986: A new look at the later prehistory of the Kalahari. Journal of African History, 27, 3–28. Denbow, J. R. 1990: Congo to Kalahari: Data and hypotheses about the political economy of the western stream of the Early Iron Age. African Archaeological Review, 8, 139–76. Denbow, J. R. and Wilmsen, E. N. 1983: Iron Age pastoralist settlements in Botswana. South African Journal of Science, 79, 405–8. Denbow, J. R. and Wilmsen, E. N. 1986: Advent and the course of pastoralism in the Kalahari. Science, 234, 1509–15. Farini, G. A. 1973: Through the Kalahari Desert. Cape Town: Struik. [Facsimile reprint of 1886 edition.] Hall, M. 1987: The Changing Past: Farmers, Kings, and Traders in Southern Africa 200–1860. Cape Town: David Philip. Hall, S. L. and Smith, B. W. 2000: Empowering places: Rock shelters and ritual control in farmer–forager interactions in the Northern Province. South African Archaeological Society Goodwin Series, 8, 30–46. Henshilwood, C. 1996: A revised chronology for pastoralism in southernmost Africa: New evidence for sheep at ca. 2,000 bp from Blombos Cave, South Africa. Antiquity, 70, 945–9. Hitchcock, R. K. 1978: Kalahari Cattle Posts. Gaborone: Ministry of Local Government and Lands, Republic of Botswana. Huffman, T. N. 1989: Iron Age Migrations. Johannesburg: University of Witwaterstrand Press. Huffman, T. N. 1994: Toteng pottery and the origins of Bambata. Southern African Field Archaeology, 3, 3–9. Huffman, T. N. 2000: Mapungubwe and the origins of the Zimbabwe Culture. South African Archaeological Society Goodwin Series, 8, 14–29. Humphreys, A. J. B. and Thackeray, A. I. 1983: Ghaap and Gariep: Later Stone Age Studies in the Northern Cape. Cape Town: South African Archaeological Society. Ikeya, K. 1993: Goat raising among the San in the central Kalahari. African Studies Monograph, 14 (1), 39–52. Keding, B. and Vogelsang, R. 2001: Vom Ja¨ger-Sammler zum Hirten: Wirtschaftswandel im nordo¨stlichen und su¨dwestlichen Afrika. In B. Gehlen, M. Heinen, and A. Tillmann (eds.), Zeit-Raüme: Gedenkschrift fu¨r Wolfgang Taute, Bonn: Deutschen Gesellschaft fu¨r Ur-und Fru¨hgeschichte, 257–82. Kent, S. 1992: The current forager controversy: Real versus ideal views of hunter-gatherers. Man, 27, 45–70. Kent, S. 1993: Sharing in an egalitarian Kalahari community. Man, 28, 479–514. Kent, S. (ed.) 2002: Ethicity, Hunter-Gatherers, and the ‘‘Other’’: Association and Assimilation in Africa. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press. Kinahan, J. 1991: Pastoral Nomads of the Central Namib Desert. Windhoek: Namibia Archaeological Trust.

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H u n t e r - Ga t h e r e r s a n d H e r d e r s o f t h e K a l a h a r i Kinahan, J. 2000: Cattle for Beads: The Archaeology of Historical Contact and Trade on the Namib Coast. Uppsala: Department of Archaeology and Ancient History. Klein, R. G. and Cruz-Uribe, K. 1989: Faunal evidence for prehistoric herder–forager activities at Kasteelberg, Western Cape Province, South Africa. South African Archaeological Bulletin, 44, 82–97. Lee, R. B. 2002: Solitude or servitude? Ju/’hoansi images of the colonial encounter. In S. Kent (ed.), Ethnicity, Hunter-Gatherers, and the ‘‘Other’’: Association and Assimilation in Africa, Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 184–205. Lee, R. B. and DeVore, I. 1976: Kalahari Hunter-Gatherers. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Maggs, T. 1984: The Iron Age south of the Zambezi. In R. G. Klein (ed.), Southern African Prehistory and Paleoenvironments, Rotterdam: A. A. Balkema, 221–329. Marshall, L. J. 1976: The !Kung of Nyae Nyae. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press. Okihiro, G. Y. 1976: Hunters, Herders, Cultivators, and Traders: Interaction and Change in the Kgalagadi, Nineteenth Century. Ann Arbor, MI: University Microfilms International. Parsons, I. 2002: Later Stone Age lifeways in the Northern Cape, SA. Cape Town: Unpublished paper presented at the biennial conference of the South African Association of Archaeologists, 7–10 July. Passarge, S. 1904: Die Kalahari. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer. Passarge, S. 1907: Die Buschma¨nner der Kalahari. Berlin: Dietrich Reimer. Phillipson, D. W. 1993: African Archaeology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Reid, A. and Segobye, A. 2000: Politics, society, and trade on the eastern margins of the Kalahari. South African Archaeological Society Goodwin Series, 8, 58–68. Robbins, L. 1985: The Manyana rock painting site. Botswana Notes and Records, 17, 1–15. Robbins, L. 1986: Recent archaeological research in southeastern Botswana: The Thamaga site. Botswana Notes and Records, 18, 1–13. Robbins, L. H. 1990: The Depression Site: A Stone Age sequence in the northwest Kalahari Desert, Botswana. National Geographic Research, 6, 329–38. Robbins, L. H. and Campbell, A. C. 1989: The Depression rock shelter, Tsodilo Hills. Botswana Notes and Records, 20, 1–3. Robbins, L. H., Murphy, M. L., Campbell, A. C., and Brook, G. A. 1998: Intensive mining of specular hematite in the Kalahari. Current Anthropology, 39, 144–50. Robbins, L. H., Murphy, M. L., Stevens, N. J., Brook, G. A., Ivester, A. H., Haberyan, K. A., Klein, R. G., Milo, R., Stewart, K. M., Matthiesen, D. G., and Winkler, A. J. 1996: Paleoenvironment and Archaeology of Drotsky’s Cave: Western Kalahari Desert, Botswana. Journal of Archaeological Science, 23, 7–22. Sadr, K. 1997: Kalahari archaeology and the Bushman debate. Current Anthropology, 38, 104–12. Sadr, K. 2002: Encapsulated Bushmen in the archaeology of Thamaga. In S. Kent (ed.), Ethnicity, Hunter-gatherers, and the ‘‘Other’’: Association and Assimilation in Africa, Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 28–47. Sadr, K. and Plug, I. 2001: Faunal remains in the transition from hunting to herding in southeastern Botswana. South African Archaeological Bulletin, 56, 76–82. Sampson, C. G. 1995: Acquisition of European livestock by Seacow River Bushmen between ad 1770–1890. South African Field Archaeology, 4, 30–6. Schweitzer, F. R. 1974: Archaeological evidence for sheep at the Cape. South African Archaeological Bulletin, 29, 75–82.

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Karim Sadr Sealy, J. and Yates, R. 1994: The chronology of the introduction of pastoralism to the Cape, South Africa. Antiquity, 68, 58–67. Silberbauer, G. B. 1965: Report to the Government of Bechuanaland on the Bushman Survey. Gaborone: Bechuanaland Government Publications. Silberbauer, G. B. and Kuper, A. J. 1966: Kgalagari masters and Bushman serfs: Some observations. African Studies, 25, 171–9. Smith, A. B. 1995: Archaeological observations along the Orange River and its hinterland. In A. B. Smith (ed.), Einiqualand: Studies of the Orange Rive Frontier, Cape Town: University of Cape Town Press, 265–301. Smith, A. B. 2001: Ethnohistory and archaeology of the Ju/’hoansi Bushmen. African Study Monographs Supplement, 26, 15–25. Smith, A. B. and Jacobson, L. 1995: Excavations at Geduld and the appearance of early domestic stock in Namibia. South African Archaeological Bulletin, 50, 3–14. Smith, A. B. and Lee, R. B. 1997: Cho/ana: Archaeological and ethnohistorical evidence for hunter-gatherer/agropastoralist contact in northern Bushmanland, Namibia. South African Archaeological Bulletin, 52, 52–8. Tanaka, J. 1976: Subsistence ecology of central Kalahari San. In R. B. Lee and I. DeVore (eds.), Kalahari Hunter-Gatherers: Studies of the !Kung San and their Neighbors, Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 98–120. Thomas, D. S. G. and Shaw, P. 1991: The Kalahari Environment. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. van der Post, L. 1958: Lost World of the Kalahari. London: Hogarth. van Waarden, C. 1999: The Prehistory and Archaeology of Botswana: An Annotated Bibliography. Gaborone: Botswana Society. Walker, N. 1983: The significance of an early date for pottery and sheep in Zimbabwe. South African Archaeological Bulletin, 38, 88–92. Walker, N. 1994: The Later Stone Age of Botswana: Some recent excavations. Botswana Notes and Records, 26, 1–35. Walker, N. 1995: The archaeology of the San. In A. J. G. M. Sanders (ed.), Speaking for the Bushmen, Gaborone: Botswana Society, 54–85. Walker, N. 1998: The Later Stone Age. In P. Lane, A. Reid, and A. Segobye (eds), Ditswa Mmung: The Archaeology of Botswana, Gaborone: Botswana Society and Pula Press, 65–80. Webley, L. 1992: Early evidence for sheep from Spoegrivier cave, Namaqualand. Southern African Field Archaeology, 1, 3–13. Williamson, D. T. and Williamson, J. E. 1981: An assessment of the impact of fences on large herbivore biomass in the Kalahari. Botswana Notes and Records, 13, 107–10. Wilmsen, E. N. 1978: Prehistoric and historic antecedents of a contemporary Ngamiland community. Botswana Notes and Records, 10, 5–18. Wilmsen, E. N. 1989a: The antecedents of contemporary pastoralism in western Ngamiland. Botswana Notes and Records, 20, 29–39. Wilmsen, E. N. 1989b: Land Filled with Flies. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Wilmsen, E. N. and Denbow, J. R. 1990: Paradigmatic history of San-speaking peoples and current attempts at revision. Current Anthropology, 31, 489–524. Wolf, E. 1982: Europe and the People Without History. Berkeley: University of California Press. Woodburn, J. 1988: African hunter-gatherer social organization: Is it best understood as a product of encapsulation? In T. Ingold, D. Riches, and J. Woodburn (eds), Hunters and Gatherers, Volume 1: History, Evolution, and Social Change, Oxford: Berg, 31–65.

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H u n t e r - Ga t h e r e r s a n d H e r d e r s o f t h e K a l a h a r i Yellen, J. E. 1990: Comment on: Paradigmatic history of San-speaking peoples and current attempts at revision, by E. N. Wilmsen and J. R. Denbow. Current Anthropology, 31, 516–17. Yellen, J. E. and Brooks, A. S. 1989: The Later Stone Age archaeology of the !Kangwa and /Xai /Xai Valleys, Ngamiland. Botswana Notes and Records, 20, 5–28. Yellen, J. E. and Brooks, A. S. 1990: The Later Stone Age archaeology in the /Xai /Xai region: A response to Wilmsen. Botswana Notes and Records, 22, 17–20.

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Desert Archaeology, Linguistic Stratigraphy, and the Spread of the Western Desert Language Mike Smith

Introduction Prehistory is written from many sources. When I began archaeological work in central Australia more than 20 years ago, my long-term objective was to use different strands of evidence to provide a fine-grained reconstruction of the prehistory of the region. I hoped – eventually – to be able to compare a regional occupation sequence, obtained through archaeological excavations, with detailed information on changes in regional environments, rock art, patterns of trade and exchange between regions, and data on the genetic and linguistic history of central Australian Aboriginal groups. My premise was that an interdisciplinary approach and a wide range of data would be necessary before we could understand the development of the distinctive central Australian societies documented by ethnographers at the close of the nineteenth century. The task as I saw it was broadly historical, but concerned with cultural process and with environmental history, as much as with culture history. The problem is that it has taken much longer to build up this data-set than anyone imagined. Until recently, one major gap has been information relating to the linguistic history of central Australian groups. Despite a brief flirtation in the late 1960s (e.g., Wurm 1972), linguists and archaeologists have largely worked in isolation over the last 30 years, each amassing larger data-sets for central Australia and the Western Desert and developing more detailed interpretations of linguistic relationships and regional prehistory, respectively. This period of independent growth has been beneficial to both disciplines, but it is time to bring the two strands of research closer together, as McConvell (1990) has also strongly advocated. In the 1980s linguists were extraordinarily coy about the historical relationships and chronology of central Australian languages. This changed sharply with the first Archaeology and

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Linguistics (ARCLING) conference in 1991 (McConvell and Evans 1997), followed in 1996 by McConvell’s pioneering synthesis of the linguistic prehistory of arid Australia, and in 1996 by a workshop on the origins of the Western Desert (Wati) language. In this chapter I provide a sketch of current archaeological knowledge of central Australia and the Western Desert and attempt to test the linguistic prehistory (as set out in McConvell 1996) against the archaeology of the region. A similar exercise was recently undertaken by Veth (2000), and both his paper and this chapter were originally written for the 1996 Western Desert workshop. While we reach similar conclusions about the apparent convergence of archaeological and linguistic data, in this chapter I want to draw attention to how we go about correlating the two data-sets.

Linguistic Prehistory Most Aboriginal people in the Western Desert today speak one or more of a series of closely related dialects (e.g., Pitjantjatjara or Pintupi) that are known collectively as Wati (see Figure 12.1). The expansion of the Wati language group to cover the entire western half of the Australian arid zone, >2,000,000 sq km, in recent

Figure 12.1 Map showing locations of Pama-Ngungan linguistic subgroups referred to in the text (from McConvell 1996: figure 1).

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prehistoric times offers a clear focus for interdisciplinary research into desert prehistory. This pattern – involving the establishment of a common language and culture over a huge area – is precisely what we would expect to find if the region had been recently colonized by people, but this raises many questions for the archaeology of the region.

The Spread of Wati In one of the most important contributions to desert prehistory over the last decade, McConvell (1996) outlined the linguistic prehistory of the region. He suggested that differentiation of languages within the Nyungic group began around 4,000–3,000 bp in central-western Queensland, with groups of Nyungic speakers moving both south (South Nyungic) and west (Northern Nyungic), bypassing existing non-Nyungic PN (Pama-Nyungan) groups, such as Arandic in central Australia. The subsequent break up of Northern Nyungic involved the movement of groups over the next millennium or so into the Tanami Desert, the Pilbara, the Gascoyne-Murchison region, and the western edge of the Western Desert. Over the next 2,000 years Warnman and Western Desert (Wati) languages differentiated and speakers of the latter moved east occupying the desert, reaching the western edge of the central Australian ranges by about 1,000 bp. Although the spread of a language may also occur through language shift, diffusion, and small scale population movements, McConvell (1996) opted strongly for migration as the principal mechanism of language spread through the Australian arid zone. The chronology for these developments is necessarily speculative. Historical linguistics provides only a relative sequence of linguistic differentiation, together with some poorly constrained estimates of the rate of change. If we assume uncertainties of at least 50 percent for these estimates, differentiation of the Nyungic group may have begun as early as 8,000 bp and the split between Wati and Warnman may have taken place sometime between 3,000–1,000 bp. In fact, McConvell’s estimate for the timing of Wati expansion largely relies on external factors – and here it is only weakly constrained by estimates of gene flow between Western Desert and Arrernte populations and by tentative correlation with changes in the archaeological record ca. 1,000 bp in central Australia.

Implications for Archaeology Even a cursory reading of the archaeological literature will suggest the linguistic model presents a challenge to the interpretations of cultural continuity and internal development generally favored by archaeologists working in these regions. Archaeologists themselves have moved away from the model of long-term cultural stability originally proposed by Gould (1977), towards a more dynamic view of settlement and cultural change in desert systems. However, most would still lean towards reticulate models of cultural interaction and social change to explain observed trends in the record, rather than invoke widespread replacement of existing regional populations during the late Holocene (e.g., Evans and Jones

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1997; Thorley and Gunn 1996). Cultural and linguistic diffusion are likely to have been especially important factors in the Australian deserts because of the small, highly mobile population of these areas. Veth (pers. comm.) suggested that we could think of diffusion as operating as an earlier form of contemporary ritual and religious movements such as the ‘‘Desert Crusade’’ (cf. Evans and Jones 1997; Tonkinson 1974; Veth 2000). Distinguishing between cultural diffusion, language shift, and population movement is important for ideas about how desert cultural systems operated. Was Wati expansion part of a post-glacial recolonization of unoccupied land in the sandridge deserts (e.g., Smith 1993; Veth 1989); a correlate of new social networks in the Holocene (Veth 2000); or does it reflect displacement of an established desert population of hunter-gatherers by an outside group sometime in the late Holocene (McConvell 1996)? To discriminate between these scenarios we obviously need some internal chronological benchmarks for the linguistic sequence.

North American Deserts The North American experience shows how much is at stake here. In 1958, in an interesting parallel to McConvell’s study, Lamb (1958) argued that the historic distribution of Numic languages such as Shoshone, Paiute, and Ute in the desert regions of western North America was the result of a recent migration of Numicspeaking people across the region. However, after more than 30 years of research and despite a much richer archaeological record than in Australia there is still no general agreement on how the American linguistic and archaeological data fit together (e.g., Bettinger and Baumhoff 1982; Grayson 1993: 258–76; Madsen and Rhode 1994). Some archaeologists allow Numic linguistic prehistory to drive their interpretation of archaeological data – effectively treating the linguistic model as the dominant paradigm. Others now doubt whether Numic prehistory can be reconstructed at all. In a recent review Madsen and Rhodes (1994: 3) commented: After a century, and despite the publication of scores of papers, about the only thing linguists, prehistorians, and ethnohistorians widely agree upon is the historic distribution of Numic languages.

The major obstacle to intercalibrating archaeological and linguistic sequences has been continuing uncertainty about Numic linguistic chronology. And because the archaeology of hunter-gatherers and historical linguistics provide such different structural perspectives on the past, any correlation of these invariably hinges on chronology. Without some chronological benchmarks for Numic languages, interdisciplinary analysis of these data-sets floundered. There are lessons here for Australian research. If we wish to use the different strengths of linguistics and archaeology to provide complementary perspectives on the prehistory of desert populations we will need a sound chronology for the linguistic sequence – not just a relative sequence of linguistic differentiation with some guesstimates of time depth. McConvell’s (1996) concept of ‘‘linguistic

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stratigraphy’’ is an important breakthrough because it presents the possibility of correlations between linguistic and archaeological sequences by looking for items embedded within both sequences. Before looking at some of the opportunities for this sort of analysis in central Australia I want to examine some implications of the archaeological evidence for the linguistic prehistory.

Archaeological Background Initial Phase of Research The first phase of systematic archaeological research in the Western Desert began with Gould’s (1977) excavation of Puntutjarpa rock shelter, near Warburton, between 1967 and 1970. The Puntutjarpa sequence was initially thought to be a more-or-less continuous cultural sequence spanning the last 10,000 years. Gould emphasized the lack of significant change in the archaeological record and saw the site as exemplifying long-term cultural stability in the Western Desert. During the same period linguists such as Wurm (1972: 160–7) were beginning to draw connections between the spread of ‘‘Common Australian’’ and the late Holocene spread of new types of hafted artifacts. My impression is that the emerging archaeological picture of long-term cultural stability in the Western Desert cut short any attempt to pursue this line of thinking. In other parts of the world the existence of cultural and linguistic uniformity across a large geographic area is typically seen as evidence of recent population spread. In the Western Desert case it was seen as the product of cultural conservatism and open social networks (see, for example, Tonkinson 1978: 7), largely on the basis of the archaeological evidence.

Current Views Fieldwork in the arid zone since 1980 has revealed much greater regional and temporal variability in the archaeological record than previously allowed (e.g., Gunn 1995; Hiscock and Veth 1991; Smith 1988; Thorley 1998a; Thorley and Gunn 1996; Veth 1993). The new frameworks for desert prehistory that have emerged suggest the question of Wati origins should be reopened. This work also provides a framework against which any linguistic changes must have been played out. The late Pleistocene is not directly relevant to the period spanned by the linguistic prehistory but warrants brief comment here, followed by more detailed discussion of the last 5,000 years in the sections which follow. In doing this I shall try to restrict myself to those aspects where there is broad agreement among archaeologists working in the region about interpretation of the evidence. 1

Human groups were using rock shelter sites in various parts of the arid zone by 35,000–20,000 bp, including western central Australia (Puritjarra, Kulpi Mara), the Wiluna area (Serpent’s Glen), and in the Pilbara (O’Connor et al. 1998; Smith et al. 1997; Thorley 1998b; Veth 1995). Scale and resolution are perennial

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problems in interpreting the data, but in western central Australia the evidence appears to reflect occupation of the region rather than episodic visitation, with exploitation of regional ocher mines beginning by 32,000 bp (Smith et al. 1998). The same is probably also true of the Pilbara given the frequency of early evidence there. There is little evidence to indicate how widespread human occupation was in this period (Smith 1993). Interpretations vary according to how individual site records are related to broader patterns of adaptation; however, most researchers agree that occupation may have been patchy prior to 25,000 bp (cf. Veth 2000). 2 Paleoenvironmental reconstructions for the Last Glacial Maximum (LGM) suggest that the period of peak aridity, centered around 18,000 bp, would have created difficult conditions for people in many parts of the arid zone (see also Chapter 3, this volume). This is likely to have led to some contraction of settlement in the arid zone, perhaps abandonment of some regions, but researchers differ on the extent, scale, and duration of any impact (cf. Smith 1989; Veth 1989). In western central Australia, people appear to have continued to visit Puritjarra rock shelter intermittently throughout the LGM, suggesting that human occupation of the central ranges and the sandy desert immediately west of the ranges continued throughout this period. Veth (1995) has summarized evidence for regional abandonment in northwestern Australia, based on links between patterns of rock shelter sedimentation and occupation. In the desert the clearest evidence for site abandonment is from Serpent’s Glen, where there is a sterile layer, dating somewhere between about 24,000 bp and 5,000 bp. The regional significance of this gap in site use is yet to be determined. 3 By 12,000–10,000 bp there is evidence of occupation at several sites throughout the region, including Walga Rock in the Murchison region (Bordes et al. 1983), Puntutjarpa in the Warburton area, and at both Puritjarra and Kulpi Mara in western central Australia. At Puntutjarpa there is only a single hearth dated to ca. 10,200 bp, beneath rock fall and more recent occupation. At Puritjarra this time period is marked by an assemblage of distinctive large flake implements. 4 Phytolith data and charcoal within the Puritjarra sediments indicate that the post-glacial period in central Australia saw a rapid amelioration of arid conditions with an increase in grasses and acacias by 13,000 bp, peaking around 7,000– 6,000 bp (Bowdery 1998; Smith et al. 1995). By 7,500–6,000 bp both Puntutjarpa and Puritjarra rock shelters have evidence for substantial occupation. At Puntutjarpa this is marked by a rich dark occupation soil, while at Puritjarra there is a major increase in the level of site use and evidence for a more localized site catchment. By 13,500–7,500 bp people may have begun painting the walls of the rock shelter and engraved boulders on the shelter floor with a series of plain circles, possibly an assertion of corporate rights in a site. Deeply patinated rock engravings at several locations in central Australia, the Pilbara, and in parts of the Western Desert (e.g., in the Calvert Range, south of Lake Disappointment) indicate systematic occupation of these regions by at least the early Holocene, though these could also relate to an earlier phase of occupation (perhaps preglacial). It is not clear when the major sandridge deserts, including the core of the

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Western Desert, were first occupied. Certainly, there is evidence for occupation by 5,000–3,000 bp (Smith and Clark 1993; Veth 1993). 5 On the western fringes of the Western Desert there is a series of excavated sites dating to the late Holocene. Sites in the Rudall River area have dates back to about 5,000–3,000 bp (Veth 1993). The upper unit at the Serpent’s Glen rock shelter dates from ca. 5,000 bp (O’Connor et al. 1998). Kaalpi rock shelter in the Calvert Range has occupation back to at least 2,300 bp (Veth et al. 2001) and there are indications that deeply weathered rock engravings in this range reflect an earlier occupation of this system. In a comparable environmental setting on the eastern fringe of the Western Desert, the Puritjarra shelter has an uninterrupted stratigraphic sequence with occupation over the last 32,000 years and with good evidence for occupation in the mid-to late Holocene. If we exclude sites other than those in the central part of the Western Desert we are left with few dated sites. Puntutjarpa (Main Cave) may have a broken sedimentary record. The upper occupation unit dates from ca. 400 bp and the lower about 7,000–6,000 bp. There may have been some use of the main rock shelter site at ca. 4,000 bp, but the presence of dense rock fall and a confused series of radiocarbon dates mean this cannot be determined with any certainty. At Puntutjarpa (West Cave) there is firmer evidence of occupation at this time – a hearth dated to ca. 3,800 bp. Winpuly, an open site situated 110 km east of Warburton, was occupied over the last 800 years, apparently with some occupation prior to this date (Gould 1982). 6 In the central Australian ranges, research by Thorley (1998a) has shown that there was also widespread occupation of the Palmer River catchment at 4,000–3,000 bp. The field evidence suggests a discrete pulse of occupation rather than sustained use of sites at this time. However, the Palmer catchment is susceptible to fluvial action which periodically reconfigures resource zones, and also affects sedimentary processes in these sites. As a result, many sites in the catchment show discontinuous stratigraphic and occupation sequences, suggesting that evidence from other parts of the ranges will be needed to characterize occupation at this time. 7 The last 1,000 years appears to have been a period of major change in the Western Desert and central Australia. There are indications of more sedentary occupation and significant changes in levels of site use at about 1,000 bp (Smith 1988, 1996), possibly as part of a late Holocene demographic transition towards higher regional populations. A similar trend is evident in the Rudall River region of the Great Sandy Desert (Veth 1993). Phytolith data from Puritjarra show that at about 1,500 bp grasses stabilized at their highest level of representation in regional vegetation after a period of instability between 5,000–1,500 bp (see Bowdery 1998), suggesting that the modern summer rainfall regime became established shortly before these changes in settlement. Recent work in central Australia (e.g., Graham and Thorley 1996; Thorley and Gunn 1996) is beginning to refine this picture, showing that even within this period there is evidence for cultural change at a range of geographic and time scales, particularly within the last 500–200 years. Other evidence indicates changes in rock art within the last 1,000 years (Layton 1992; Rosenfeld and Smith 2002).

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Implications for Linguistic Models The implication of these data for linguistic models is that the Western Desert and surrounding regions were occupied in some fashion prior to the postulated expansion of Wati languages 2,000 years ago. In western central Australia and in the Pilbara there have evidently been well established regional settlement systems since at least the terminal Pleistocene. Although archaeologists have explored the possibility of abandonment of parts of the desert during the LGM, it is unlikely that a significant portion of the area now occupied by Wati languages was unoccupied in the late Holocene – immediately prior to Wati expansion. Even in the central parts of the Western Desert there is evidence for occupation prior to 2,000 bp, despite the fact that there has been very little fieldwork in these areas, other than Gould’s early research. If Wati languages spread across the Western Desert through a combination of diffusion, language shift, and small scale population movements this could be readily accommodated within current archaeological interpretations. However, if the expansion of Wati languages involved migration – rather than language shift – it must have involved movement across territory occupied by other desert groups, and the displacement of those groups. So what evidence is there for actual population movements?

Population Movements in the Desert? Movements from the West? Is there any evidence for an incursion of Wati speaking groups into western central Australia about 1,500–1,000 bp, apart from that provided by historical linguistics? Major movements of Pintupi, Pitjantjatjara, and Yankunytjatjara people appear to have taken place in the first few decades of the twentieth century as people migrated eastwards in response to severe drought conditions in their homelands (Goddard 1995; Myers 1986: 28–9; Tindale 1972). Today, Pintupi sometimes refer to themselves as yapurramalu kula, literally ‘‘he is from the west, indeed!’’ (see Myers 1986: 28 for further context). We need to ask whether these movements are a response, in some fashion or another, to the establishment of missions and ration depots in central Australia, or whether they reflect longer term historical processes. Some evidence indicates the latter. The Tingarri traditions, which involve mythological traveling groups of men and novitiates journeying west to east into the region (Myers 1986: 60–4), are suggestive of at least cultural diffusion from the west over a longer period. Similarities in rock engraving indicate more ancient west to east links (see below). However, the strongest evidence for population movement, rather than diffusion of Wati languages, is from genetics. The genetic evidence for movement of people in recent prehistory into western central Australia seems unequivocal. Birdsell (1993: Appendix F) drew attention to the sharp genetic divide coinciding with the linguistic boundary between Western

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Desert and Arandic languages. Other genetic research has independently confirmed the uniformity and distinctiveness of Western Desert groups (e.g., Balakrishnan et al. 1975; White 1997). This distinctiveness is particularly clear in serological data (where the highest frequencies of blood group A1 are in the Western Desert) and in the phenotype for tawny hair (which is characteristic of this population) (Birdsell 1993: figures B-1 and D-4). Given current rates of genetic exchange between the various groups, Birdsell estimated that the observed boundary between Arrernte and Western Desert groups could not have existed for more than 1,200–500 years. Birdsell’s view was that this had involved migration of the Arrernte into the region from an area south of the Gulf of Carpentaria, though in this view he was influenced by linguistic evidence for such a relationship (e.g., Wurm 1972). However, the remarkable genetic and linguistic homogeneity shown by the various Western Desert groups suggests it is more likely that it is this population that is a recent arrival in central Australia, rather than the Arrernte.

Archaeological Evidence Is there any archaeological evidence for an incursion of Wati speakers into central Australia? Exactly what the material correlates of such a movement would be is unclear, and the archaeology of hunter-gatherers only rarely affords the opportunity to address issues of ethnic identity directly (cf. Veth and McDonald 2002). If we take the obvious alternative route and attempt to correlate periods of major change in the archaeological record with the linguistic prehistory this inevitably takes us back to questions about the chronology proposed for Wati expansion. For instance, there are major changes at several points in the archaeological record: within the last 500 years; ca. 1,500–1,000 bp; 4,000–3,000 bp; and earlier at ca. 7,000 bp. Any one of these could be associated with population movements of the type specified by McConvell, but none inherently demand this sort of explanation. The Puritjarra sequence is an obvious starting point to review the archaeological evidence, as this site is strategically located, west of the MacDonnell Ranges, in an area that could be expected to have undergone a shift in cultural orientation with any movement of Wati speakers into western central Australia (cf. McConvell 1996: figures 4 and 5). 1

Recent changes in rock art and ochers. At Puritjarra, changes in the rock art – in particular in iconography and composition – indicate that geographic linkages towards the southeast weakened during the last millennium, and were replaced by stronger connections to the north (Rosenfeld and Smith in press). Other shifts in the rock art reflect changes in either the totemic referent of the site or the identity of the people occupying it. Changes in the provenance of red ocher reaching the site at this time also indicate a realignment of contacts, with a strengthening of links to the northwest of the Cleland Hills. Taken together, the evidence suggests a reorientation of cultural contacts at this rock shelter after ca. 1,000 bp, towards stronger connections with Western Desert and Walpiri groups to the north and northwest. While there is no strong evidence of

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population movement, these changes in cultural landscape may reflect the arrival of (new) Western Desert groups in the region. Thorley and Gunn (1996) summarize other evidence for changes in site use and rock art in western central Australia, within the last 500 years, that they suggest may indicate new or renewed associations with Western Desert groups. 2 Late Holocene changes in site use and population density. If the expansion of Wati languages involved population spread it must have been fueled to some extent by a growing population. It is relevant therefore that the best archaeological evidence for population growth – on both sides of the Western Desert – is dated ca. 1,500–1,000 bp. There are major changes in the archaeological record in central Australia ca. 1,000 bp, including a widespread increase in intensity of site use across the region, effectively registering a more sedentary pattern of occupation and possibly higher regional population densities than before (see Smith 1988, 1996 for details). However, as these changes also take place in parts of the central Australian ranges well away from the contact zone with Western Desert groups, there is no necessary connection with population movements from the west. It remains possible that both Wati expansion and higher regional populations are epiphenomena of some third factor, such as climate change. 3 Changes in technology. We might expect that the spread of desert adapted Wati speakers would be associated with the introduction of new items of material culture in these regions. At 4,000–3,000 bp a major change in tool kits occurs in central Australia with the appearance of an assemblage of small backed artifacts, hafted tula adzes, small semi-discoidal thumbnail scrapers, seed grinding implements, and (possibly) ground-edge axes (see Smith in press for description of the artifact sequence at Puritjarra). Some of these elements – such as hafted adzes and seed grinding implements – would be regarded as quintessential desert implements, raising the possibility that their appearance in central Australian assemblages marks the movement of Western Desert people into the region. If so this must have occurred somewhat earlier than the linguistic prehistory indicates. For other implement types – such as backed artifacts and thumbnail scrapers – current evidence indicates mainly a southern distribution (and southern origin). These implement types appear to have diffused across the southern half of the continent ca. 4,000–3,000 years ago, including the southern part of the Western Desert – though current research also shows that some backed artifacts occur in early Holocene contexts in eastern Australia (Hiscock and Attenbrow 1998). Ground-edge axes occur in late Pleistocene contexts in northern Australia and only spread across central and eastern Australia after 4,000 bp, but they appear to have been absent or rare in the southern sector of the Western Desert. These patterns of distribution cut across the geographic distribution of Wati languages and indicate there is no straightforward relationship between the new implement types and Wati expansion. 4 Population expansion in the early Holocene. Some interpretive problems posed by Wati expansion would be reduced if this coincided with initial colonization – or recolonization – of unoccupied desert lowlands in the post-glacial period. This process was probably in train by 13,000 bp but may not have been

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completed until 7,000–6,000 bp. By ca. 7,000 bp there is evidence of substantial use of sites such as Puntutjarpa and Puritjarra, but Serpent’s Glen was not reoccupied until ca. 5,000 bp. If the latter indicates a widespread regional lag, then Wati expansion might correspond to the period when the western parts of the Western Desert are reoccupied. This would involve significant recalibration of the linguistic prehistory. This illustrates a common difficulty: there is usually more than one plausible solution for matching up linguistic and archaeological sequences. Unless we can determine the relative position of technological, lexical, or other developments embedded in both sequences I doubt we can adequately discriminate between competing possibilities. Also, although existing archaeological evidence for this time period could be accommodated comfortably within the linguistic framework (e.g., migration ca. 1,500 bp), the archaeology alone would also support a number of other interpretations (e.g., cultural diffusion, demographic growth, new social networks). I would also be reluctant to rule out either longer (5,000–3,000 bp) or shorter chronologies (500 bp) for the spread of Western Desert people.

Movements from the East? Geneticists who have looked at population history in central Australia have also suggested that the Arrernte may be recent arrivals, from an area south of the Gulf of Carpentaria. This idea seems to have originated with Birdsell (1950) and was repeated in his 1993 magnum opus Microevolutionary Patterns in Aboriginal Australia. Balakrishnan et al. (1975) found that the Arrernte are genetically closer to some northern groups such as the Yolgnu (northeastern Arnhem Land) and people at Port Hedland, than to Western Desert groups. White (1997: 69) reached similar conclusions to Birdsell, but Cavalli-Sforza et al. (1994) found little evidence for migration. The evidence for migration of the Arrernte seems to rest on two observations: their genetic distance from neighboring Western Desert groups and their genetic similarity to populations to the north. The first may simply reflect recent migration of Western Desert groups into central Australia (as discussed above). The second is difficult to assess without some genetic data on populations north and east of the Arrernte. It may be simpler to see the Arrernte as one end of a genetic cline. White (1997) makes several important points here that indicate this is more likely than recent migration: 1 2

Any migration of the Arrernte must have occurred sufficiently long ago for skin pigmentation to adapt to local conditions. There is evidence for linear gene flow into central Australia from the southwestern Cape York, which could result either from long-term intergroup marriages or from migration.

A further problem with the migration scenario is that it requires mass migration of people in sufficient numbers to genetically or linguistically swamp an established

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population in the main central Australian ranges, one of the most densely populated parts of the arid zone. Given that any migration into the region would involve demographic expansion across less productive desert lowlands and semi-arid savanna, it seems unlikely that it would involve sufficient numbers of people to physically displace an established population. My view is that contemporary Arrertne speaking people are most likely derived from late Pleistocene–early Holocene groups occupying the central Australian ranges. This gains some support from Cavalli-Sforza et al. (1994), who identify three major genetic trends in Australia: two are genetic clines across the continent, respectively from the northwest and northeast, while the third (Cavalli-Sforza et al. 1994: figure 7.6.2.C) delineates the central Australian ranges and is consistent with a long established population in this region.

Western Desert Origins Two main classes of archaeological data can be brought to bear on the question of Western Desert origins: stone tools and rock art (categories suggested as useful by Veth and McDonald 2002). Both illustrate the cultural links across the area occupied by Wati speakers, but neither yields a clear picture of likely origins.

Stone Tools Stone tool assemblages are not highly differentiated across the region and may therefore be of limited use in identifying donor areas. While central Australian assemblages have one or two types of implement, such as Pirri gravers and isolated finds of trimmed points, not found further west, these additional tool types are so rare in site assemblages – excavated or otherwise – as to negate their usefulness as markers. There are regional differences in the morphology and trimming of seed grinding implements which link these items in the Western Desert to those in the Pilbara and other areas in arid northwestern Australia, rather than to those in central Australia or western New South Wales, but this is an area that awaits further formal study. Backed artifacts in central Australia comprise mainly small geometric microliths made on flakes (Smith 1988), whereas asymmetric backed artifacts made on long, thin blades are found in very low numbers in parts of the Western Desert (e.g., in the Rudall River area, Veth 1993: 16–19).

Rock Art Rock art on the western fringes of the Western Desert suggests early links with the Pilbara, replaced more recently by a new corpus of motifs with widespread affinities across the region from the upper Gascoyne region to western central Australia. The most relevant recent analysis of continental patterning in Australian rock art is by Layton (1992). Using his classification, recent rock paintings in the Durba

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Hills, Calvert Range, and Great Sandy Desert are dominated by small silhouette motifs. All three of Layton’s ‘‘geometric’’ styles (Types A, B, and C) are also present. There are affinities with rock art in parts of western central Australia with that in regions occupied by Wati speaking groups, where Type B and C geometric motifs and small silhouette motifs also occur. In the upper Gascoyne area, identified as the likely area of origin for Wati languages by McConvell (1996), Type A geometric motifs and small silhouettes are also common. In contrast, recent rock art in other parts of central Australia consists primarily of Type A geometric motifs (Panaramitee style), while in the Pilbara it is dominated by large silhouette motifs. Neither of these regions seems a likely origin for the corpus of recent rock art found in the Western Desert. However, this is not true of the earlier phase of rock art production, where regional linkages seem to have been quite different to those in the late Holocene. In the Calvert Range there are deeply weathered engravings which although undated must be of at least early Holocene age. The affinities of the large silhouette and anthropomorphic figures represented in these engravings unequivocally point to connections with the Pilbara. The contrast between the older engraved motifs and the recent paintings suggests that significant cultural changes took place in this region, although we presently do not have a clear picture of the chronology of these changes. The presence of engraved face motifs, similar to some of those in the Cleland Hills, 800 km to the east, also suggest movements – or at least strong contacts – from west to east across the Western Desert and into the western part of central Australia in the early Holocene or late Pleistocene (see Chapter 7, this volume). Although there is clear evidence of cultural links from western central Australia across the Western Desert, these data provide little indication of the ‘‘direction’’ of spread or ‘‘point of origin’’ for these traits. On present evidence we cannot rule out the Western Desert as a center of development for the Wati linguistic group – a conclusion which Veth (2000) independently reached. Recent archaeological work on chemically fingerprinting red ochers from different sources (see Smith and Fankhauser 1996) may provide a means of directly testing some of these ideas. The famous red ocher mine of Wilgi Mia lies close to the putative homeland for Wati languages in the upper Gascoyne area. As Wati speakers occupied the Western Desert we could expect the new cultural networks that this dispersal created to facilitate widespread exchange of Wilgi Mia ocher across the region. Provided the linguistic prehistory has correctly identified the homeland of Wati languages we could expect to find major changes in the distribution of this red ocher within the last 2,000 years.

Mechanisms We now need to return to the question of what processes would allow an expanding hunter-gatherer group to displace an established desert population over a wide area. If we accept the linguistic chronology, this replacement took

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place despite the fact that there was little difference in the technologies of the two groups: both used seed grinding implements and both had hafted adzes and other composite implements. If the desert was already occupied – and archaeological evidence indicates that it was – how then would Wati expansion have proceeded? One clue as to possible replacement mechanisms is provided by the inherent variability in these natural systems. It is clear that the ethnographic ‘‘pulse and reserve’’ model operated on a range of scales: as part of the annual cycle of population aggregation and dispersal in the Western Desert, as well as a response on a larger scale to cyclic drought. During major drought periods desert groups would fission and disperse in small groups and the bulk of the population would fall back on better watered country. It is not difficult to see this process acting as a sort of ‘‘cultural pump,’’ drawing people into the desert during good seasons and forcing people out towards the margins of the region, or towards key waters within the desert, during drought periods. Tindale (1972: 219) provides a pertinent account of the process: During the almost country-wide drought of the years 1914–15, lack of water became so great a problem that the Pitjandjara were forced eastward. In desperation, and by reason of power of superior numbers, they drove the rightful inhabitants of the Eastern Musgrave ranges, the Jangkundjara, out of part of their territory, forcing them down Officer Creek toward the southern limits of their territory, in the Everard Ranges . . . When the rains came again and the pressure was relieved, not all of the Pitjandjara returned within their former bounds. Instead, they remained in the Musgraves, usurping the country as far east as Ernabella.

Any systematic west to east differences in drought occurrence would accelerate the eastward movement of human populations. Such a scenario is obviously speculative, but it would account for the ability of Wati speakers to displace other hunter-gatherer groups in some relatively well watered ranges and uplands in western central Australia (e.g., George Gill Range, Musgrave Ranges). A corollary of the hypothesis is that the process must have operated throughout the Holocene. Wati expansion may then be simply the most recent example of a longer historical process of people being drawn into the desert and then forced out to its margins. The similarity of deeply weathered engravings on either side of the Western Desert (see above) provides suggestive evidence for earlier west to east movements across the desert.

Stratigraphic Correlation If the chronology for Wati expansion could be reliably calibrated, the linguistic prehistory would throw the archaeological changes, described above, into much sharper focus. There is great potential here for a finer-grained reconstruction of recent desert prehistory than either discipline can deliver in isolation. But how do we establish some unequivocal points of connection between the linguistic stratigraphy and archaeological sequences in this region?

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Any correlations will need to be more concrete than the arbitrary juxtaposition of linguistic and archaeological reconstructions attempted above. There are well known problems with the latter approach. First, there is the danger of constructing a circular argument, particularly as there are strong incentives for archaeologists to take the richly detailed linguistic findings into account in their interpretations of the more spartan archaeological record. Secondly, if we uncritically seek to align major points of change in the two sequences (e.g., the ‘‘Small Tool Tradition’’ with ‘‘Common Australian’’) we risk creating spurious event horizons. In doing this we would also lose the opportunity to explore more complex social processes shaping the prehistory of arid Australia, especially if the major linguistic and archaeological changes were in reality out of phase. McConvell (1996) has argued that there is a notional linguistic stratigraphy, produced by the overprinting of language divergence by specific semantic shifts, sound changes, and word borrowing. This concept is of fundamental importance for developing correlations between linguistic and archaeological prehistories. It opens the possibility of true stratigraphic correlations between the two sequences based on the relative position of technological or other developments embedded in both sequences. Ideally, these ‘‘benchmarks’’ will provide a dated terminus post quem or terminus ante quem for a given linguistic event. I point to several potential examples below, but the intense interdisciplinary conversations that this work requires have barely begun (for a rare example, see Evans and Jones 1997). As a preliminary observation I suggest there are two marker horizons – one at 1,000 bp, the other at 4,000–3,000 bp – which provide chronological benchmarks for linguistic prehistory in the Australian desert. What such ‘‘lexical strata’’ might consist of is described below.

Lexical Stratum at 1,000 bp Changes in the archaeological record at ca. 1,000 bp in central Australia reflect higher regional population densities, possibly accompanied by a trend away from open social networks towards greater emphasis on maintaining boundaries. What are the likely linguistic correlates of these changes? One possibility might be accelerated linguistic change. Rapid population growth would reduce the incentive to deal with people outside a particular cultural bloc, producing similar linguistic effects to isolation. If so, the archaeological changes may find some linguistic expression in the series of radical sound changes (dropping first the initial consonant, then the remainder of the initial syllable) which have transformed Arandic languages relatively recently, making them appear aberrant as PamaNyungan (PN) languages (Koch 1997). In Arandic, linguists should look for corresponding semantic changes in kinship terms, changes in terms for strangers, in the terminology for camp, country, heartland, or clan estate, or in the nomenclature associated with the ownership of sites or ceremonies (e.g., for ritual ‘‘manager’’ and ‘‘owner,’’ respectively kwertengerl and arrngertelengkwek-artwey in Alyawarr). If the age of the Arandic sound changes can be determined, the

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next step will be to ask whether or not there are any loan words from the Western Desert language into Arrernte that predate these changes.

Lexical Stratum at 4,000–3,000 bp The changes in stone tool technology at about 4,000–3,000 years ago essentially reflect a shift towards greater use of hafted composite implements and the use of thermoplastics such as Triodia and Plechtrachne resin as hafting cements. Many of the new tool types were made on higher quality raw materials such as cherts and chalcedony. Somewhere in the linguistic stratigraphy, therefore, there should be a series of semantic changes, or new terminology, relating to resins, hafts, composite implements, woodworking tools, and new stone materials. These changes might also represent a fundamental shift towards identifiable men’s and women’s tool kits (along the lines suggested by Hamilton 1980), with women continuing to use handheld, amorphous flake implements of quartzite and silcrete and men appropriating the new technology. If such a linguistic stratum exists, it should predate Wati expansion but postdate initial break up of proto-PN. Another point of connection concerns implements used to process seeds. The most easily recognized in archaeological contexts are the large grooved millstones and small faceted topstones used for wet grinding grass and acacia seeds. These appear in archaeological sequences in the Western Desert and in central Australia around 4,000–3,000 bp. Some seed grinders appear much earlier at approximately 30,000 bp at Cuddie Springs in western New South Wales. There is an active debate about whether this means we have missed them elsewhere in the arid zone (Gorecki et al. 1997). Even if this is shown to be the case, the fact still remains that such implements do not become common across the arid zone until 4,000–3,000 bp. Irrespective of the uncertainties surrounding the earliest dating of this technology, 4,000–3,000 bp can be regarded as a useful minimum age. Somewhere in the linguistic stratigraphy there should be a stratum with a series of linguistic changes relating to grindstones and millstones, grass seeds and other seed foods, other seed processing gear and processes (winnowing and husking, parching grain), and terms for key grass species. It would be useful here to look at terms used for edible seeds as a major food group (such as ntange in Arrernte). The introduction of the dingo (Canis lupus dingo) to Australia ca. 3,500 bp (Corbett 1995) provides another potential chronological benchmark. There is little doubt that dingos would have spread rapidly across the continent and that Aboriginal people would have had to find a term in their lexicon for what was an entirely new animal. There would presumably have been many different semantic and lexical solutions to this problem, resulting in a great variety of forms across the continent. The relative position of early words for dog in the linguistic stratigraphy should therefore provide a useful temporal marker as well as point to the origins of the Western Desert language. The last three of these markers should occupy the same relative position in the linguistic stratigraphy. Collectively, they allow an internal test of the chronology proposed for Wati expansion, at least to the extent that it should be possible to

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determine whether the differentiation of Wati occurred before or after 3,000 bp. It is important that we attempt such tests before archaeologists and linguists begin to borrow heavily from each other’s interpretations of desert prehistory.

Conclusions Desert Prehistory A rapid colonization of the Western Desert within the last few thousand years, by a small founding population drawn from existing desert groups, is indicated by the remarkable cultural, linguistic, and genetic uniformity of the region. The problem is to determine just when this took place. Genetic data provide the strongest evidence for recent spread of people across the region, but do not provide firm age estimates for this, and merits further work by geneticists. In particular, Birdsell’s estimate of less than 1,200–500 years for gene flow between Western Desert and Arandic populations urgently needs critical reassessment before it becomes the cornerstone of an interdisciplinary prehistory. Linguistic data provide evidence for the recent expansion of the Wati language group across the region, but leave open questions about both chronology and the mechanism for this language spread. Archaeological sequences for the Western Desert and central Australia provide only indirect evidence of these developments and offer a number of alternative possibilities for their timing within the last 7,000 years. Changes in the archaeological record ca. 1,000 bp reflect population growth in the region and, together with evidence for realignment of cultural linkages at this time, are likely to be connected with the spread of Western Desert populations. However, it is premature to rule out longer or shorter chronologies for this. For instance, we could plausibly correlate Wati expansion with reoccupation of desert sites such as Serpent’s Glen at ca. 5,000 bp and the subsequent spread of new types of implements at 4,000–3,000 bp. Or we might correlate Wati expansion with changes in the archaeological record around 500 bp. In such a view the arrival of (new) Western Desert people in central Australia might be one of a number of cultural, demographic, and environmental changes set in motion during the last millennium. If Wati expansion took place 4,000 m asl). The head was treated similarly – they added a long wig made from locks of human hair and a paste of manganese paint for the face, modeling the facial characteristics, as well as securing the wig to the head. Afterwards, the entire body except the face and wig was painted with red ocher. This red style first appeared approximately 4,000 years bp and continued for almost 500 years (Arriaza and Standen 2002). The ‘‘bandaged mummies’’ were basically a variation on the red mummies except the skin was reattached in the form of bandages. The ‘‘mud-coated mummies’’ were naturally dried bodies that were covered with a layer of mud, possibly prepared with a mixture of earth, water, and an adhesive of unknown origin (Arriaza and Standen 2002). Why did these groups expend so much energy and engage in such complex procedures to prepare their dead? Perhaps it was thought that the dead were going to face an unknown world of supernatural metaphysical forces or perhaps, instead, they would start a new life within their own community; therefore becoming a new category of social actor. It may be that their function was to mitigate the impact their death caused in their own social group. We do not know the reasons why different mummification procedures were applied to members of the same group and if the members who received greater attention enjoyed greater social prestige during their lifetime and had certain privileges that they maintained even after death. These questions warrant further investigation. Arriaza and Standen (2002) suggest that through the act of mummification groups produced inanimate beings with simultaneous spiritual bonds to the living, their ancestors, and to the gods. Particularly, it might be possible that post-mortem manipulation of the dead began due to beliefs that ‘‘the soul of the deceased runs the risk of losing its existence if the body decomposes, or the living would lose contact with the soul of the deceased should the body decompose’’ (Arriaza and Standen 2002: 40–1). Thus, these mortuary rituals may have been necessary to ensure the eternal existence of the body and the soul of the deceased, as well as the continuity of the group (Arriaza and Standen 2002: 40–1). What is certain, however, is that the Chinchorro invested a considerable amount of time and energy in mummifying their dead, which makes these mummies a unique phenomenon in the world, as much for their antiquity as for the social context in which they were produced. The technical knowledge and ideological concepts tied to mummification, as well as the subsistence patterns which underpinned these, all required a system that allowed for the preservation of a historic memory for several millennia. To ensure the cultural continuity of such a legacy from one generation to the next, people adopted a course of action which included mummification. This practice may have served to preserve internal cohesion, reinforce social integrity, and perpetuate a collective historic memory. The momentum created by the actual process of mummifying a newly deceased member of the community may have created a selfsustaining milieu for the Chinchorro people. Codes of social conduct could be instilled during the process of mummification, as this practice may have created the necessary conditions for cultural transmission and reproduction.

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S a n t o r o , A r r i a z a , S t a n d e n , Ma r q u e t

Conclusion The cultural history of the people in the Atacama Desert can be divided into three major epochs, summarized as follows. The early epoch corresponds to immigrants arriving on the coast of the Atacama no later than 11,000 bp at Quebrada Jaguay and Quebrada Tacahuay, north of Arica. The available archaeological data show that these people were equipped with simple and non-specialized technologies and focused their procurement on a narrow spectrum of molluscs, sea birds, and fish. There is, however, evidence for the possible use of nets for fishing, even at this early stage. Populations also occupied the high Andes at altitudes of 3,000–4,500 m asl on the margins of the desert from around 10,800 bp, but here they employed a more technologically sophisticated lithic industry characterized by highly formalized tools for the capture and butchering of large game (including camelids, deer, and occasionally the American horse), as well as small rodents and birds (Aldenderfer 1999; Nuń˜ez et al. 2002; Santoro and Nuń˜ez 1987). This different adaptation may be linked to the arrival of two cultural ‘‘traditions’’ to the Atacama Desert, which maintained their character through prehistory. While the modern descendents of these original coastal peoples are hard to distinguish among the current population of the coastal cities, the highland people have survived the pressure of European invasion and the acculturation trends of the modern republic and today they assert different forms of social and ethnic recognition. The first populations detected archaeologically in the Atacama may be related to earlier immigrants into the Americas, from 13,000–12,000 bp (or even earlier). They may have moved rapidly through new lands, as Birdsell (1977) suggested for Australia, leaving behind parties that started the more serious process of colonization as seen in Quebrada Jaguay (site QJ 280) at around 11,000 years bp (Sandweiss et al. 1989). This fast movement of the colonists is consistent with the tight chronological sequence of the first Americans, given that there is no clear chronological gap between the earliest known settlements in North vs South America. In fact, the earliest Paleo-Indian site in the South Americas is Monte Verde, south of Chile, dated between 13,500 and 12,500 bp, with other early sites from Patagonia (i.e., Cueva del Medio, Piedra Museo, and Los Toldos) dated to between 12,390 and 12,890 bp (Massone and Prieto 2004). The occurrence of later dates for the first occupants of the Atacama Desert provides a challenge for future archaeologists to investigate whether a cline in settlement of this desert has occurred (a lag effect) or whether sites of comparable age have simply not been investigated yet or have not survived due to taphonomic processes. In the second epoch, dated to the Holocene, the coastal desert people show a clear shift in their subsistence technology, as well as their social and ideological strategies, which persevered, with only minor changes, for several millennia. The material expressions of this new ideology seem to have been quite dynamic, as seen in the wide variety of methods used for artificial mummification. Specialized technological solutions for exploitation of marine resources were developed by

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the mid-Holocene, and remained in place with only minor changes until late prehistory. A distinctive feature of the hunter-gatherer-fishermen of the Atacama Desert was the opportunity to engage in agriculture, afforded by the presence of valleys and quebradas that cross-cut the desert in the northern section (see Figure 13.3). From ca. 4,000–3,000 bp the introduction of agriculture is seen to complement a maritime focused economy, thereby allowing desert people to establish permanent settlements in the form of small hamlets, with simple architecture (wooden posts, reed mats, and cane) of no more that 10 hectares in extension, as seen late in prehistory. This kind of infrastructure is commonly found along the quebradas and inland basins, such as Pampa del Tamarugal. Along the coast, people maintained more simple open camps until the sixteenth century ad; the time of the European invasion. This change in the way of life of the peoples of the coastal Atacama Desert can be accommodated by the concept of the ‘‘Neolithic Revolution,’’ as coined by the influential Australian archaeologist V. Gordon Childe, whose ideas were incorporated into the interpretation of Andean cultural history during the 1960s and 1970s. This ‘‘revolution’’ within the coastal economies of the Atacama did not result in substantial change in staple foods, however, as these were still provided by the ocean. Processes of social class differentiation and other cultural ‘‘sophistication’’ classified elsewhere as ‘‘civilization’’ took a different form here. The waves of the ocean and the sand dunes of the desert witness a different human social creation that we have attempted to shed some light on within this chapter.

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Pe o p l e o f t h e C o a s t a l At a c a m a D e s er t Llagostera, A., Weisner, R., Castillo, G., Cervellino, M., and Costa-Junqueira, M. 2000: El Complejo Huentelauqueń bajo una perspectiva macroespacial y multidisciplinaria. In Actas XIV Congreso Nacional de Arqueologıá Chilena, Tomo I, Contribucioń Arqueolo´gica no. 5, Atacama: Museo Regional de Atacama, 461–81. Lozano-Machuca, J. 1885 [1581]: Cartas del Factor de Potosı´ Juan Lozano Machuca al Virrey del Peru´, en donde se Describe la Provincia de Lipes. Madrid: Relaciones Geogra´ficas de Indias, Tomo II. Marquet, P., Gonza´lez, H., Pinto, R., Santoro, C., Standen, V., and Zeballos, H. 2002: Desiertos Costertos del Peru´ y Chile. In R. Mittermeier, C. Goettsch Mittermeier, ´ reas Silvestres: P. Robles Gil, J. Pilgrim, G. Fonseca, T. Brooks, and W. Konstant (eds), A ´ las Ultimas Regiones Vı´rgenes del Mundo, Mexico: CEMEX, 364–73. Massone, M. and Prieto, A. 2004: Evaluacioń de la Modalidad Cultural Fell 1 en Magallanes. Chungara Revista de Antropologıá Chilena, special volume, 303–15. Meltzer, D. 1993: Search for the First Americans. Montreal: St Remy Press. Moraga, M., Aspillaga, E., Santoro, C., Standen, V., Carvallo, P., and Rothhammer, F. 2002: Ana´lisis de ADN Mitocondrial en Momias del Norte de Chile Avala Hipo´tesis de Origen Amazońico de Poblaciones Andinas. Revista Chilena de Historia Natural, 74, 719–26. Morphy, H. 1998: Aboriginal Art. Singapore: Phaidon Press. Mulvaney, J. and Kamminga, J. 1999: Prehistory of Australia. Sydney: Allen and Unwin. Munõz, I. 1993: Spatial dimensions of complementary resource utilization at Acha-2 and San Lorenzo, northern Chile. In M. Aldenderfer (ed.), Domestic Architecture, Ethnicity, and Complementarity in the South-Central Andes. Iowa City: University of Iowa Press, 94–102. Nuń˜ez, L. 1983: Paleoindian and Archaic Cultural Period in the arid and semi-arid region of northern Chile. Advances in World Archaeology, 2, 161–222. Nuń˜ez, L. 1999: Chile. In T. Murray (ed.), Encyclopedia of Archaeology: History and Discoveries vol. 1, Santa Barbara, CA: ABC Clio, 301–15. Nuń˜ez, L., Grosjean, M., and Cartajena, I. 2002: Human occupations and climate change in the Puna de Atacama, Chile. Science, 298, 821–4. Quilter, J. 1991: Late Preceramic Peru. Journal of World Prehistory, 5, 387–438. Quiroz, D. and Sanchez, M. 2004: Poblamientos Iniciales en la Costa Septentrional de la Araucanıá [6500–2000 ap]. Chungara Revista de Antropologıá Chilena, special volume, 289–302. Rauh, W. 1985: The Peruvian Chilean deserts. In M. Evenary, M. Noy-Meir, and D. Goodall (eds), Hot Deserts and Arid Shrublands, Amsterdam: Elsevier, 239–66. Richardson, J., III 1981: Modeling the development of early complex economies on the coast of Peru: A preliminary statement. Annals of Carnegie Museum, 50, 139–50. Rivera, M. and Rothhammer, F. 1986: Evaluacioń Biolo´gica y Cultural de las Poblaciones Chinchorro. Nuevos Elementos para la Hipo´tesis de Contactos Transaltiplańicos: Cuenca Amazonas-Costa Pacı´fico. Chungara, 16–17, 295–306. Rivera, M. and Rothhammer, F. 1991: The Chinchorro people of northern Chile 5,000 bc– 500 bc: A review of their culture and relationships. International Journal of Anthropology, 6, 243–55. Rosenfeld, A. and Smith, M. 2002: Rock art and the history of Puritjarra rock shelter, Cleland Hills, central Australia. Proceedings of the Prehistoric Society, 68, 103–24. Rothhammer, F., Coccilovo, J., and Quevedo, S. 1984: El Poblamiento Temprano de Sudame´rica, Chungara, 18, 99–108.

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S a n t o r o , A r r i a z a , S t a n d e n , Ma r q u e t Sandweiss, D. 2003: Terminal Pleistocene through mid-Holocene archaeological sites as paleoclimatic archives for the Peruvian coast. Palaeogeography, Palaeoclimatology, Palaeoecology, 194, 23–40. Sandweiss, D., McInnis, H., Burger, R., Cano, A., Ojeda, B., Paredes, R., Sandweiss, M., and Glascock, M. 1998: Quebrada Jaguay: Early South American maritime adaptations. Science, 281, 1830–2. Sandweiss, D., Richardson, J., III, Reitz, E., Hsu, J., and Feldman, R. 1989: Early maritime adaptations in the Andes: Preliminary studies at the Ring Site, Peru. In D. Rice, C. Stanish, and P. Scarr (eds), Ecology, Settlement, and History in the Osmore Drainage, Peru, Oxford: British Archaeology International Series no. 545, 35–84. Sandweiss, D., Richardson, J., III, Reitz, E., Hsu, J., Feldman, R., Sandweiss, M., Cano, A., Ojeda, B., and Roque, J. 1999: Pescadores Paleoindios del Peru´. Investigacioń y Ciencia, 277, 55–61. Santoro, C. 2001: Cultures of the Chilean Desert. Arica: Ediciones Universidad de Tarapaca´. Santoro, C. and Nuń˜ez, L. 1987: Hunters of the dry and salt Puna. Andean Past, 1, 57–109. Santoro, C., Standen, V., Arriaza, B., and Dillehay, T. in press: Archaic funerary pattern or post-depositional alteration? The Patapatane burial in the highlands of south central Andes. Latin American Antiquity. Schiappacasse, V. and Niemeyer, H. 1984: Descripcioń y Ana´lisis Interpretativo de un Sitio Arcaico Temprano en la Quebrada de Camarones. Santiago: Museo Nacional de Historia Natural. Standen, V. 2003: Chinchorro. Chungara Revista de Antropologıá Chilena, 35, 175–207. Standen, V., Santoro, C., and Arriaza, B. 2004: Sıńtesis y propuestas para el perıódo Arcaico en el extremo norte de Chile. Chungara Revista de Antropologıá Chilena, special volume, 201–12. Uhle, M. 1919: La Arqueologıá de Arica y Tacna. Boletıń de la Sociedad Ecuatoriana de Estudios Histo´ricos Americanos, 3 (7/8), 1–48. Usselmann, P., Fontugne, M., Lavalleé, D., Julien, M., and Hatte´, C. 1999: Estabilidad y Rupturas Dina´micas en el Holoceno de la Costa Sudperuana: El Valle de la Quebrada de Los Burros (Departramento de Tacna). Bolletin Institute Francais Etudes Andines, 28, 1–11. Yesner, D. 1980: Maritime hunter-gatherers: Ecology and prehistory. Current Anthropology, 21, 727–50.

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Desert Solitude The Evolution of Ideologies Among Pastoralists and Hunter-Gatherers in Arid North Africa Andrew B. Smith

Introduction: Religion Borne of Desert Solitude Then was Jesus led up of the Spirit into the wilderness . . . and when he had fasted forty days and forty nights, he was afterward anhungered. (Matthew 4: 1–2)

Jesus went on a vision quest into the desert solitude, where, after sensory deprivation of 40 days, he proved his holiness by refusing to be tempted by the Devil who appeared before him. In the third and fourth centuries ad, St. Anthony – the father of monasticism – had similar experiences in his desert retreat at Dayr al-Maymun in Egypt. His later hermitage at Dayr Mari Antonius, near the Red Sea, where he died in ad 356, still exists. In the early twentieth century, Charles de Foucauld built his cell at Assekrem in the Hoggar Mountains of southern Algeria, where he died at the hands of rebel Tuareg fighting against France in 1916. It was no accident that St. Catherine’s monastery was set up in the Sinai Desert, where an experience similar to that of Jesus or St. Anthony would be possible by other monks. It is also close to the Red Sea, across which it is said that Moses led his people out of Egypt. In the Hebrew religion, Yahweh is recognized as a guide through the wilderness. He knows the safe trails, the rare wells, the spots where vegetation may be found for the cattle, and can guide His people without danger to themselves. This combination of mountain spirit, storm and volcanic deity, and wilderness guide, clearly goes back to the nomad period of Israel’s history. (Oesterley and Robinson 1966: 155)

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Judeo-Christian-Islamic religions all come from desert nomadic traditions, and each still looks to the desert for solace. Colonel Gaddafi, the Libyan leader and son of nomadic pastoral parents from the Fezzan, believes his strength and wisdom for his new world order comes from his asceticism in the desert. Desert solitude has given direction to philosophers and sages throughout the ages. The Greek word eremos, from which we derive ‘‘hermit’’ in English, means desert. Saharan nomads equally have traditions and beliefs about spirits of the lonely places, many of which would appear to predate the influence of Islam upon them.

Desert Nomads in Saharan Prehistory The following discussion considers the antiquity and development of pastoralism in northern Africa and likely scenarios for interaction between hunter-gatherers and these pastoralists. There is some dispute over whether early cattle bones found at Nabta Playa in the Western Desert of Egypt and dated to 10,000 years ago are wild or not. Wendorf and Schild (1994) used an ecological argument based on the fact that 90 percent of the fauna are hares and gazelles, and thus a reflection of arid conditions. They interpreted this as suggesting the environment at the time of occupation was dry, and therefore the cattle could not have lived so far from surface water without human intervention: thus, the cattle were domesticated. In contrast, the fragmentary condition of the specimens from Nabta led Clutton-Brock (1989) to question the domestic status. Smith (1992) suggested the environmental argument is weak, since there are no environments in Africa with just hares and gazelles, and that medium-size antelopes, like oryx, are missing from the faunal assemblage. In addition, the cattle bones are all large, comparable to the size of wild cattle from elsewhere in North Africa and Europe. It is a well known phenomenon that, with domestication, animals become smaller. By 7,400 bp, when the first ovicaprids from the Near East appear in North Africa, we can be quite sure that these were domesticated. The cattle which appear at the same time are smaller than the wild forms, so we can also assume they were domesticated. Although there is evidence to support the idea that some of the indigenous wild cattle of North Africa were a source of genetic material found in modern African breeds (Hanotte et al. 2002), as yet there is no way of dating when this might have occurred, or whether it really was an independent domestication event. It is possible that wild African cattle were crossbred with incoming domesticates from the Near East approximately 7,400 years ago. In Di Lernia’s (1999a) Early Pastoral period of the central Sahara (7,400–6,400 bp) it would appear that herders lived alongside indigenous hunters for a while, as two different pottery types are evident. High lake levels indicate good rains and a savanna environment that provided the necessary grazing for keeping cattle. At the end of this period a dry spell lasting ca. 400 years made the central Sahara a difficult environment for cattle herding, but this was followed by climatic amelioration improving the conditions once more.

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The Middle Pastoral period (6,080–5,100 bp) was a time of pastoral consolidation, in which herding strategies were to keep cattle in the low lying areas and the small stock in the mountains. This may be the time of the black-faced bovidian rock art (Smith 1993), where people with African physical features are seen with detailed depictions of cattle, showing their many coat colors (Lajoux 1963). A complete cow skeleton, found at Adrar Bous in the central Sahara and dated to 5,800 bp, had the bowed appearance of an animal which had died from drought, with tightened skin (Clark et al. 1973), suggesting that even during this period conditions were not always favorable. Around 5,100 bp the climate of the Sahara began to fluctuate (Petit-Maire and Riser 1983; Servant and Servant-Valdary 1980), with lakes becoming seasonal and possibly drying up completely in some years. This corresponds with the Late Pastoral period (5,100–3,900 bp) when the unpredictable conditions saw a greater reliance on small stock. By 4,000 years ago the environmental conditions began to approach those of the present in the central Sahara, where rainfall only occurs every few years and typically in single events. Accordingly, pastoralists had to make significant adjustments to their lives, such as having to rely on underground water from wells, and perhaps only including the deep desert in their annual pastoral round during those years in which rain might fall (S. E. Smith 1980). Certainly, the mountainous areas, where sub-surface water could be tapped, would have been convenient refuges. Perhaps the greatest adjustment of pastoralists at this time was to begin controlling and manipulating the wild grains – sorghum and millet – and to begin growing these in gardens close to semi-permanent villages. Two such villages have been studied in Niger – Iwelen and Chin Tafidet – and both show similar dates of development (Paris 1990, 1992). Saharan nomads are notorious for their personal aversion to agriculture. They are, however, quite happy for other people to grow grains for them and to extract their tribute at harvest-time. It may well be that around 3,500 bp, with the first appearance of domesticated grains, slaves were being brought from the south to work the fields for the nomads. If so, this would represent the first signs of a hierarchical system where there was a social separation between the nomads and the agricultural Harratin of the desert oases. Pressure on agricultural people on the southern fringes of the Sahara may have been one significant reason for the development of organized states, such as Ghana and Mali, for defense against pastoralist depredations (MacDonald 1998; Munson 1980). These villages coincided with the clustering of graves with well defined mortuary architecture into cemeteries. These cemeteries are argued to represent more than just a collection of graves – they became a marker for social identity and a focus for ritual activity (cf. Pardoe 1988). Thus the cultural landscape of the central Sahara now included not only pastoralists, who tend to be hierarchical, but lower caste black slaves, whose job was to produce grains for their masters, a situation which still pertains in many places. The new villages could then be reoccupied for periods of the year, especially at the height of the dry season when Saharan nomads would be forced to stay around permanent water points.

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Saharan Rock Art and Religious Life The drying up of the Sahara, ultimately forcing pastoralists to adopt a wider food base, also coincided with the appearance of later bovidian rock art in the Acacus Mountains and Tassili n’Ajjer of the central Sahara. This rich parietal art depicts cattle herders in social activities, as well as ritual observances. One such depiction is of a fire ceremony (Kuper 1978: 426) (see Figure 14.1) where several men and a woman appear to be controlling fire, watched by two horned animals with wavyline decoration on their coats. It is tempting to suggest that the wavy lines on the animals are related to the flickering of the fire. Several other paintings show this same unnatural decorative motif on cattle (Kuper 1978: 224–5, 430–1; Lajoux 1963: 110). Belief in fire spirits was found among all pre-Islamic peoples of North Africa. The Arabs referred to them as madjus, meaning fire worshippers (Mone`s 1988). Today, there are still remnant rituals of this belief among the Tuareg (Kel Tamasheq) of the Sahara (Rasmussen 1992). The artisans among the Tuareg (Inadan) are an endogamous caste who have a special relationship with the fire djinns (spirits). These people are respected for their ability to control the fire djinns, but are otherwise despised and considered of low status. These people are ritual specialists whose power allows them to be marriage brokers, and be politically active behind the scenes. The artisans both control the fire djinns and also embody them. They practice curing in spirit possession, and because of their perceived liminal position within the society, can be seen as a ‘‘bridge’’ between nature and culture, between heaven and earth (Rasmussen 1992). Rock art is widely recognized as reflecting deep beliefs of the society of the artists. Often this is used as a metaphor for religious experiences, some of which may be shamanistic in form (Lewis-Williams 1981). In the pre-bovidian art of the Sahara we find enigmatic human forms juxtaposed with depictions of Barbary sheep (Sansoni 1994). In one cave, Uan Afuda, in the Acacus Mountains of southwest Libya, a dung layer had formed (Di Lernia 1999a). From the excavation, it was apparent that this layer was created by Barbary sheep, whose bones

Figure 14.1 ‘‘Fire Ritual,’’ Uan Derbaouen, Tassili n’Ajjer from Colombel (in Kuper 1978).

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comprised over 90 percent of the fauna from these layers. The archaeologists have deduced that the sheep were being penned inside the cave. Since these were wild animals, not easy to control in numbers, the occurrence of a poisonous plant among the floral remains can be suggested as having been used as a soporific to keep the animals acquiescent, much like Turkish herders do with willow leaves among their sheep today. The relationship between the hunters, the wild sheep, and the rock art can be inferred as one of control over the animal. Since rock art is not usually narrative, but is a metaphor for belief, the depiction of the animals on the rock walls of the cave suggest that these animals were not simply being used as a food source, but may have been kept on hand for ritual purposes some 10,000– 8,000 years ago. In this same period, further to the east in the Western Desert of Egypt, early remains of wild cattle have been found under conditions which suggest they may have been in the desert under human control. Certainly, by 6,400 bp cattle burials under stone tumuli are found in this area (Wendorf and Schild 1994). In Niger, charred cattle bones, also under a stone cairn, have been dated to 6,200 bp (Paris 2000). The combined evidence hints at a widespread cattle cult across the Sahara, even predating the cattle rituals which were central to religious belief in the predynastic Nile Valley of the Badarians. Cattle become central to religious belief in the Sahara from this time on. There are two distinct periods of cattle paintings in the rock art: one showing people of African genetic stock (Kuper 1978) (see Figure 14.2), while the later period shows people of Mediterranean ancestry (Kuper 1978) (see Figure 14.3). It is within paintings of the second group that there seems to be a relationship between decorated cattle and fire. Decorated cattle paintings and engravings are widespread across the Sahara from Mali to the Nile Valley (Allard-Huard and Huard 1983). Even today, Fulani herders of Mali will paint some of their cattle during the annual migrations (Dupuy 1998).

Figure 14.2 ‘‘Black face’’people in cattle cleansing ritual, Uan Derbaouen, Tassili n’Ajjer from Colombel (in Kuper 1978).

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Figure 14.3 ‘‘White face’’people in camp, Iheren, Tassili n’Ajjer from Colombel (in Kuper 1978).

Saharan Landscapes Today, the Sahara is a dry land, comprising a mixture of sand seas (ergs), stony plains (regs), and mountainous areas, some of which reach over 3,000 m above sea level. Herders are mostly restricted to the edges of the mountains, where water and pasture are available, although in the southern Sahara where rain sometimes falls a seasonal use of the open plains is possible. The environment was not always so harsh, and, as described above, before conditions reached those of the present, some 4,000 years ago, rainfall and evaporation regimes were such that much of the Sahara was a grassland biome. This meant that conditions were amenable to pastoral occupation in places that today would be impossible. Hunters and herders, although reliant on the landscape for their sustenance, have strong psychological and emotional ties to their exploitation territories. The space may be structured on cosmological principles, and camps/homesteads which are laid out according to belief in how the world is structured. Equally, the landscape comprises social spaces, and, as Jacobsohn (1995: 53) remarks of a group of nomadic herders from Namibia, the Himba, feel connected to their historical environment rather than to any built space . . . [the] perception of a broader spatial text contains a representation of the biographical past and the social and economic future. Although it is not built space, this text, with

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E v o l u t i o n o f Id e o l o g i e s i n A rid No r t h Afr ic a both ‘‘natural’’ and cultural properties, can be shown to be as implicated in the organization of the Kaoko social world as any onganda [homestead].

The landscape is equally a place of referents which are built into the oral histories, myth, and stories of the people. Even the most monotonous landscape to an outside observer is rich in events, the significance of which are passed down through generations. Identity points may be natural or cultural, such as rock art or cemeteries. Tracks linking points are avenues along which people, animals, goods, and information are passed from person to person. As Tilley (1994: 27) notes: All locales and landscapes are . . . embedded in their social and individual times of memory. Their pasts as much as their spaces are crucially constitutive of their presents. Neither space nor time can be understood apart from social practices which serve to bind them together.

The landscape, therefore, has real meaning with respect to individual and group identity, and is more than just a backdrop for social and economic activities. The distribution of cattle paintings may well indicate social and ceremonial paths across the Sahara. Tracks linking identity points in the landscape are often built into stories and myths. These would have included important rock art sites, especially if indeed, as suggested here, that rock art is not simply narrative (i.e., depicting historical events), but used as a metaphor for religious experiences that could be understood within the cultural memory.

The Desert Solitude Today, virtually all North African nomads – Tuareg, Toubou, Fulani, and Maures – have come under the influence of Islam. Even though the Arab conquest of North Africa began in ad 670, we can recognize earlier beliefs, upon which Islam lays as a veneer. Among the Kel Ferwan Tuareg of Niger, esuf is the word for solitude or desert expanses. The desert winds that sweep across the Sahara are built into belief and stories. The spirits of the winds are called kel esuf, which are feared as potentially malevolent. The desert nomads will orient their tents so that the back is always into the wind (i.e., to the north), where the spirits lurk at night. The layout of the tent by the cardinal points will protect the owners from evil spirits: ‘‘If one lifts any of the lateral mats during the day, one must be very careful, when night falls, to drop those which face north, because a tent opened to the north will be exposed to the worst dangers’’ (Casajus 1987: 56). Of the cardinal points, the south is the least dangerous and the source of divine benediction. The south and north of the tent are thus spatial opposites which lead to other binary separations, such as benediction, danger, or ostentation (pride) (faste); bad luck, solemnity (nefaste). Inside the tent the bed is oriented east–west, with the head to the east.

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The husband sleeps to the north, thus protecting his wife against the kel esuf. Such an orientation in turn leads to the idea of north (nefaste) being masculine, and the south (faste) feminine (Casajus 1987: 57). It is among Tuareg women that spirit possession is most likely to be found. They, then, can be seen to adhere more to pre-Islamic beliefs, as a foil against the men who are more liable to follow Islam, and will be the marabouts (priests). Tension thus exists between Islam (men) and spirit belief (women), even though the marabouts are not averse to falling back on spirit beliefs if the perceived need arises. This does not stop the more fundamental of the Islamicists bemoaning the lack of faith among the people as seen in the words of the Tuareg poet Al-Hajj Muhammad Abdullah bin Khalil al-Rahman al-Aghlali (as cited in Norris 1975: 191): Our Great Sahara has customs false and base which Contravene a Sunna proud and glorious. All we observe is the letter of the law and tribal customs We are like a people who have camped unceasingly in one wadi . . .

He goes on to say: Those lands which are inhabited save for our country Progressed. Their advance was rapid thinking with the mind. They attained a prominent state on lofty heights, While we were backward or retarded due to sterile custom Amidst a community which God’s book says, ‘‘Possessed what it deserved of treasures stored.’’ It evolved in habitations in the wilderness, but it grew up On deepening ignorance, denying us the power to think and to perceive. Many a youth of ours longs to awake and stay alert But the wasteland has made him simple, blurred his memory. By my father’s life, to travel, always on the move, is indeed a quickening, Reminding us of resurrection and the assembling on judgment day.

The Kabyle House The ideology behind the spatial orientation of the Tuareg tent is a nomadic analogue to the equally comprehensive and symbolic layout of the Kabyle house of the Atlas Mountains of Algeria and Morocco. The house is divided into ‘‘a dark part (the west and north sides) and a light part (the east and south sides)’’ (Bourdieu 1973: 109). According to the Kabyles, this reflects the division of the year into wet and dry seasons. Bourdieu orients his reader to the house by reference to the threshold on the light (east) side, across which one enters the abode. This is the entry that men or visitors (male) would be expected to use. The back, or west, door is a private portal used by women, and it is closest to the loom that is the domain of the woman of the house. As Bourdieu (1973: 110) states:

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‘‘The orientation of the house is fundamentally defined from the outside, from the point of view of men and, if one may say so, by men for men, as the place from which men come out.’’ Bourdieu, as a man, received the male perspective on Kabyle cosmology. If he had been a woman interviewing women perhaps a slightly greater emphasis would have been given to the world from the female side. In the 1977 translation of his book Outline of a Theory of Practice there is no mention of the woman’s door in the section dealing with the Kabyle house (Bourdieu 1977: 90–1). In the 1973 paper his reference to the door is almost in passing: ‘‘ . . . the low and narrow door, reserved for women, which opens in the direction of the garden, at the back of the house . . . ’’ (Bourdieu 1973: 106). The Tuareg tent is owned and made by a woman (often with her mother’s help before marriage). Thus the domain of women is the domestic sphere, while of men it is the herd and public life. Like the Kabyle house there is only one appropriate approach to the dwelling, but in the case of the Tuareg tent it is from the west where the door is located. Is there a connection between the two? If so, which influenced the other? The woman’s entry from the west might be a clue. In addition, both groups speak a Berber language. The archaeology of grain agriculture in the Mahgreb suggests that it arrived quite late, and like the rest of North Africa was preceded by nomadic pastoralism. As Camps (1974: 276) states: ‘‘There is no analytical element which will allow us to affirm that agriculture was being practiced before the fifth millennium bc on the African littoral.’’ Domestic animals were already in the Aure`s Mountains of Algeria in the sixth millennium bc (Roubet 1978). Thus fully sedentary communities like the Kabyles probably have their ancestry in mobile herding societies. If this is indeed the case, then the tents of the nomads, which existed before Islam, may have been the original structures on which the houses of the Kabyles were later modeled. Bourdieu (1977: 89) makes the point that Islam also affected the Kabyles where religion is male and magic female.

Funerary Monuments and Rituals Graves with finely finished funerary architecture are common in any of the mountainous areas of the Sahara where stone was available. Paris (1996), in his detailed study of funerary monuments in Niger, has shown there are several types which start appearing around 5,000 bp. There are two dominant styles. The first are platesformes cylindriques a` gravillons (PCG) – a flat-topped, gravel filled tumulus, with larger rocks holding the structure together, and the skeleton found in a hole dug into the parent soil – which exist over a period from 5,000–3,000 years ago, with the greatest number of such graves dating between 4,400–4,000 bp. The second type are known as tumulus tronconiques a` crete`re (TAC) – a conical tumulus, without the large retaining stones found in the above, with a depression in the middle – and overlap in time with the PCG style from 4,000–2,500 bp, but tend to dominate in the period 3,000–2,500 bp. There are several examples of a TAC grave being built upon an already existing PCG grave. While the details of construction of these monuments

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differ significantly, the common feature of several of the styles is a flat top. Flattopped tombs are found across the Sahara to the Sudan (Sadr et al. 1994). Camps (1961) has suggested that flat-topped cairns were used as a form of altar for rituals. He notes that the Nasemonians during the Roman period ca. 2,000 years ago would consult their ancestors by lying on their graves. The appearance of cemeteries with large numbers of graves in Niger after 4,000 bp is an indication that burial grounds were probably taking on a life of their own, where graves of respected elders were reference points for propitiation ceremonies. This idea is supported by the cultural material, such as pots, associated with the graves (Paris 1996: 303), presumably used as part of mortuary rituals. Certainly, there is evidence that during the pre-Islamic period in North Africa whole cemeteries grew up around respected people (Desanges 1981). As Parker (1999: 196) notes: ‘‘tombs are not just somewhere to put dead bodies: they are representations of power.’’ Such power symbols could be the rock art mentioned above, cemeteries, or any other humanly built structures. Tilley (1994: 109), in talking about megaliths in southwest Wales, says they were ‘‘created primarily as symbolic reference and ritually important ceremonial meeting-points on paths of movement, drawing attention to the relationship between local groups and the landscape.’’ Animal burials are often close to human graves, but analysis of cattle burials by Paris (2000) indicates no direct association with human burials, even though there appears to be no doubt that the animals were ritually slaughtered by slitting the throat (apparent from cut marks on the fifth cervical vertebra of one individual). All were positioned in an east–west direction lying on their right side.

Hunter-Gatherers on the Periphery Prior to the advent of pastoralism ca. 7,500 bp, the Sahara was occupied by huntergatherers. These hunters have left signs of their passing in the caves of the central Sahara, where archaeological excavations have produced large quantities of the bones of the wild Barbary sheep, along with paintings of these animals on the rock walls (Di Lernia 1999a). For a short while these hunters apparently lived side by side with the new pastoral life in the Sahara (Di Lernia 1999b), but they quickly disappear from the archaeological record. Di Lernia (pers. comm.) believes that some of the small sites with slightly different pottery styles may have belonged to later hunters, but these people were most likely encapsulated or overrun by the more dominant herders, who would either incorporate them into their society as low status members, or keep them on the periphery as a convenient labor source. Certainly, this is the case for Saharan hunters, called Nemadi, who still survived by addax hunting until the 1950s. These people were socially marginalized by the pastoral Maures, and considered almost sub-human. This may have been due in part to their limited adherence to Islam, but more likely their status as non-stock owners would have placed them very much at the bottom of a social hierarchy which had slaves. To the Maures, the Nemadi were considered outcasts who were ignorant and

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who would steal. Their status was such that it was shameful for a Maure to marry a Nemadi (Gabus 1952). Nevertheless, like hunters on the edge of herding societies elsewhere, the labor of the Nemadi and their knowledge of the desert were important to the dominant culture, among whom they would have patrons demanding tribute (Smith 1998).

Saharan Cultural Connections If the cosmology and cultural traditions of the Berber-speaking Tuareg and Kabyles have a common ancestry, with the nomads being potentially the original source, what is the history of the nomads? In their study of the genetic material of North Africans, Cavalli-Sforza et al. (1994) show a link between the Tuareg and the Beja, another desert pastoral group living between the Nile Valley and the Red Sea. What possible connection could there be between a Berber-speaking group from the central Sahara (Tuareg) and Cushitic speakers (Beja) from the Red Sea Hills? On the surface there would appear to be little in common, except that they are both camel herders. To seek some connection we need to go back to the beginning of the Holocene, some 10,000 years ago. I have already mentioned the hunters of wild Barbary sheep. There is a cultural connection between these hunters and people who were exploiting an aquatic habitat of the Saharan lakes and the Nile Valley using bone harpoons. These hunters and fishers made a distinctive pottery type with a decorative motif known as Wavy-Line or Dotted Wavy-Line Ware which is found from Mali to the Gezira in Sudan, where the Blue and White Niles converge (A. B. Smith 1980). This is a vast area, but the pottery decoration is so similar, as are the radiocarbon dates, that we have to recognize a cultural connection. These linkages, which we can identify on the basis of cultural material, must also have been the result of connecting paths between sustainable water points for these nomadic hunters. Around 6,000 bp pottery of the pastoral Tenerian in Niger (A. B. Smith 1980) was decorated with a diamond rocker-stamped motif. This same motif is also to be found on pottery from around Khartoum in the Nile Valley, Sudan. Again, like the earlier period, it would appear that cultural connections can be postulated. Whether they were built upon the earlier pathways is difficult to say, but the mobile aspect of first nomadic hunters, and later pastoralists, would have used similar water points. The later connections appear to be with the focus on cattle, first in the intentional burial of these animals, ca. 6,200 bp, and in the later bovidian paintings and engravings in the rock art ca. 4,500 bp. History has divided the Saharan nomads into somewhat smaller groups, but even if we look at the present day Tuareg and Fulani we see they are equally spread over vast areas of land. We might suggest that the linkages between the different groups of present day nomads, although broken today, might be connected by looking at the later influences upon them. For example, in the recent past the Tuareg have been arch-enemies of the Toubou, who live to the east beyond the Tenere Sand Sea. Both share a great deal in common, even though they do not look

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alike, or speak similar languages. Not only are they camel herders, but they also have a hierarchical social organization of nobles, vassals, and slaves. Like the Tuareg, the Toubou have an endogamous caste of artisans who are both feared as the intermediaries with the spirit world and considered unclean and of low status. As noted above, the historical connection of the Tuareg appears to be with the Berbers of the North African littoral. With the Toubou, these Kanuric speaking people have more in common with the Sahel and Bornu to the south around Lake Chad. Both Tuareg and Toubou were well connected with trade routes to their respective neighbors, but we really have little information on the time depth of these connections. Earlier and more widespread connections are hinted at by a recent analysis of human genes from northern Cameroon, south of Lake Chad. One group has shown the distinctive gene markers only found among Asians, and this has been interpreted as a back migration to Africa from Asia (Cruciani et al. 2002). What this potentially means is that the almost inherent needs of nomadic pastoralism – pasture and water – across large tracts of open country from the Red Sea to the central Sahara resulted in complex movements of people and cultural material over considerable periods of time, and that they have left a sizable genetic imprint wherever they went. The period 4,000–3,000 years ago was a time of unstable climatic conditions that resulted in the drying out of freshwater lakes that had stood for millennia. This must have put tremendous pressure on the cattle nomads. The percentage of cattle remains from sites in this Later Pastoral period drop off in favor of small stock (Di Lernia 1999b). As noted above, this is also the time of domestication of African grain crops and the appearance of gardens attached to the semi-permanent villages of Niger (Paris 1992) and Mauretania (Holl 1993), with their associated cemeteries. Increase in rock art and possible use of ancestral graves for propitiation ceremonies are clues to a resurgence of religious belief resulting from these environmental pressures. Although cattle were central to religious and social life, they probably became psychologically more important as conditions deteriorated and animal numbers decreased. Their widespread depiction on the rock walls all across the Sahara suggests strong links over vast distances. These spaces were also inhabited by spirits who needed to be dealt with very carefully, or mishap might befall. Today, the Tuareg wear Koranic inscriptions wrapped in leather or encased in brass amulets (grisgris) to ward off the ‘‘evil-eye’’ or to protect the wearer against malevolent spirits. Thus we see in the present a blending of Islam with earlier spirit beliefs. The vast landscape of the Sahara allowed cultural contact from Mali to the Nile Valley as far back as 9,000 years ago. There appear to have been no barriers to movement, and even political entities which may have grown up did not deter culture transmission. An analogy might be made with Tuareg or Fulani herders today whose culture and languages are to be found over long distances. The environmental conditions allowed widespread appearance of lakes and rivers, permitting ease of movement, first by hunter-fishers and later by pastoralists. The distribution of wavy-line pottery ca. 9,000 bp is virtually the same as that of

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diamond rocker-stamped wares ca. 6,000 bp, the former made by the lake and river dwelling hunters and the latter by pastoralists, such as the Tenerian people of Niger. The opening up of the Sahara for herding after 7,400 bp was made easier, not only by the convenient grassland niche, but also by lack of epizootic problems that later beset pastoralists as they tried to move southwards into tropical Africa. Tropical diseases such as Malignant Catarrhal Fever and East Coast Fever are transmitted by wild animal hosts endemic to the grasslands of eastern and southern Africa (Gifford-Gonzalez 2000). Thus, we can suggest that the tracks and water points opened up by the earlier hunter-fishers were capitalized upon by later pastoral people. Every African landscape is redolent with myth and stories, passed on from generation to generation. It might be postulated that the geographical overlap between these two economic groups infers a transmission also of belief about the environment, and how to use it symbolically. These stories may well have been codified in the rock art. We are aware that the art is not purely narrative, but contains the deep meaning and belief systems of the artists. There is no reason to doubt that the same would have pertained with prehistoric Saharan rock art. The spread of decorated cattle paintings in the later bovidian period (after 5,000 bp) shows a focus on large stock that is supported by intentional burial of whole cattle under formal funerary architecture. Why should open desert environments spawn such belief systems? Anyone who has spent time in the desert can be totally overwhelmed by the experience, or be totally afraid of it. Either way, the open landscape holds the individual in thrall, and it is to desert spaces that ascetics go to commune with their gods or spirits. Africa has never been separated from the Arabian Peninsula and the Near East. There are suggestions based on work in northeastern Africa (Steve Brandt pers. comm.) that pre-Semitic languages and an African form of pastoralism were introduced to Arabia and the Near East 6,500 years ago. Both the Sahara and the Levant felt the increasing aridity after 4,500 bp (Hassan 2000). The proposition that drought conditions unsettled pastoral nomads in the Near East is suggested by the movements of the Patriarch Abraham from Ur of the Chaldees, in the Tigris– Euphrates Basin, to the Levant (Genesis 11: 31; 12: 5), then subsequently to Egypt (Genesis 12: 10). Is it purely a coincidence that the development of ideologies in the dry lands of the Sahara by nomadic people was also happening at the same time in the Levant? References Allard-Huard, L. and Huard, P. 1983: Les Gravures rupestres du Sahara et du Nil: Ii l’e`re pastorale. E´tudes scientifiques, 1983 (March–June). Bourdieu, P. 1973: The Berber House. In M. Douglas (ed.), Rules and Meanings, Harmondsworth: Penguin Books, 98–110. Bourdieu, P. 1977: Outline of a Theory of Practice. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Camps, G. 1961: Aux origines de la Berbe´rie: monuments at rites fune´raires protohistoriques. Paris: AMG.

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An d r e w B. S mith Camps, G. 1974: Les Civilisations pre´historiques de l’Afrique du Nord et du Sahara. Paris: Doin. Casajus, D. 1987: La Tente dans la solitude: la socie´te´ et les morts chez les Touaregs Kel Firwan. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cavalli-Sforza, L. L., Menozzi, P., and Piazza, A. 1994: The History and Geography of Human Genes. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Clark, J. D., Williams, M. A. J., and Smith, A. B. 1973: The geomorphology and archaeology of Adrar Bous, central Sahara: A preliminary report. Quaternaria, 17, 245–97. Clutton-Brock, J. 1989: Cattle in ancient North Africa. In J. Clutton-Brock (ed.), The Walking Larder: Patterns of Domestication, Pastoralism, and Predation, London: Unwin Hyman, 200–6. Cruciani, F., Santolamazza, P., Shen, P., Macaulay, V., Moral, P., Olckers, A., Modiano, D., Holmes, S., Destro-Bisol, G., Coia, V., Wallace, D. C., Oefnet, P. J., Tottoni, A., CavalliSforza, L. L., Scozzari, R., and Underhill, P. A. 2002: A back migration from Asia to subSaharan Africa is supported by high resolution analysis of human Y-chromosome haplotypes. American Journal of Human Genetics, 70 (5), 1197–214. Desanges, J. 1981: The proto-Arabs. In G. Mokhtar (ed.), UNESCO General History of Africa vol. 2, London: Heinemann, 423–40. Di Lernia, S. 1999a: The Uan Afuda Cave: Hunter-Gatherer Societies of Central Sahara. Rome: Arid Zone Archaeology Monographs no. 1, Universita` degli Studi di Roma ‘‘La Sapienza.’’ Di Lernia, S. 1999b: Discussing pastoralism: The case of the Acacus and surroundings (Libyan Sahara). Sahara, 11, 7–20. Dupuy, C. 1998: Reflexion sur l’identite´ des guerriers repre´sente´s dans les gravures rupestres de l’Adrar des Iforas et de l’Aı¨r. Sahara, 10, 31–54. Gabus, J. 1952: Contribution a` l’e´tude des Ne´madi, chasseurs archaı¨ques du Djouf. Bulletin de la Socie´te´ suisse d’Anthropologie et d’Ethnologie, 52, 49–93. Gifford-Gonzalez, D. 2000: Animal disease challenges to the emergence of pastoralism in sub-Saharan Africa. African Archaeological Review, 17 (3), 95–139. Hanotte, O., Bradley, D. G., Ochieng, J. W., Verjee, Y., Hill, E. W., and Rege, J. E. O. 2002: African pastoralism: Genetic imprints of origins and migrations. Science, 296, 336–9. Hassan, F.A. 2000: Holocene environmental change and the origins and spread of food production in the Middle East. Adumatu, 1, 7–28. Holl, A. 1993: Late Neolithic cultural landscape in southeastern Mauretania: An essay in spatiometrics. In A. Holl and T. E. Levy (eds), Spatial Boundaries and Social Dynamics. International Monographs in Prehistory, Archaeology Series no. 2, Ann Arbor, MI, 95–133. Jacobsohn, M. 1995: Negotiating meaning and change in space and material culture: An ethnoarchaeological study among semi-nomadic Himba and Herero herders in northwestern Namibia. Unpublished PhD thesis, Rondebosch: University of Cape Town. Kuper, R. (ed.) 1978: Sahara: 10,000 Jahre Zwischen Weide und Wuste. Koln: Museen der Stadt. Lajoux, J.-D. 1963: The Rock Paintings of Tassili. London: Thames and Hudson. Lewis-Williams, J. D. 1981: Believing and Seeing: Symbolic Meanings in Southern San Rock Paintings. London: Academic Press. MacDonald, K. C. 1998: Before the Empire of Ghana: Pastoralism and the origins of cultural complexity in the Sahel. In G. Connah (ed.), Transformations in Africa: Essays on Africa’s Later Past, Leicester: Leicester University Press, 71–103.

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E v o l u t i o n o f Id e o l o g i e s i n A rid No r t h Afr ic a Mone`s, H. 1988: The conquest of North Africa and Berber resistance. In M. El Fasi and I. Hrbek (eds), UNESCO General History of Africa vol. 3, London: Heinemann, 224–45. Munson, P. J. 1980: Archaeology and the prehistoric origins of the Ghana Empire. Journal of African History, 21, 457–66. Norris, H. T. 1975: The Tuaregs: Their Islamic Legacy and its Diffusion in the Sahel. Warminster: Aris and Phillips. Oesterley, W. O. E. and Robinson, T. H. 1966: Hebrew Religion: Its Origins and Development. London: SPCK. Pardoe, C. 1988: The cemetery as symbol: The distribution of prehistoric Aboriginal burial grounds in southeastern Australia. Archaeology in Oceania, 23 (1), 1–16. Paris, F. 1990: Les Se´pultures monumentales d’Iwelen (Niger). Journal de la Socie´te´ des Africanistes, 60 (1), 47–74. Paris, F. 1992: Chin Tafidet village neólithique. Journal de la Socie´te´ des Africanistes, 62 (2), 33–53. Paris, F. 1996: Les Se´pultures du Sahara Nigerien a` l’Islamisation. Paris: ORSTOM. Paris, F. 2000: African livestock remains from Saharan mortuary contexts. In R. M. Blench and K. C. MacDonald (eds), The Origins and Development of African Livestock: Archaeology, Genetics, Linguistics, and Ethnography, London: University College of London Press, 111–26. Parker, M. P. 1999: The Archaeology of Death and Burial. College Station: Texas A&M University Press. Petit-Maire, N. and Riser, J. 1983: Sahara ou Sahel?: Quaternaire recent du Bassin de Taoudenni (Mali). Paris: CNRS. Rasmussen, S. J. 1992: Ritual specialists, ambiguity, and power in Tuareg society. Man, 27, 105–28. Roubet, C. 1978: Une Ećonomie pastorale pre´-agricole en Alge´rie orientale: le Neólithique de tradition capsienne. L’Anthropologie, 82 (4), 583–6. Sadr, K., Castiglioni, A., Castiglioni, A., and Negro, G. 1994: Archaeology of the Nubian Desert. Sahara, 6, 69–75. Sansoni, U. 1994: Le Piu` Antiche Pitture del Sahara: L’arte delle Teste Rotonde. Milan: Jaca Books. Servant, M. and Servant-Valdary, S. 1980: L’Environnement quaternaire du basin du Tchad. In M. A. J. Williams and H. Faure (eds.), The Sahara and the Nile, Rotterdam: A. A. Balkema, 133–62. Smith, A. B. 1980: The Neolithic tradition in the Sahara. In M. A. J. Williams and H. Faure (eds.), The Sahara and the Nile, Rotterdam: A. A. Balkema, 451–65. Smith, A. B. 1992. Pastoralism in Africa: Origins and Development Ecology. London: Hurst. Smith, A. B. 1993: New approaches to Saharan rock art. Memoria della Societa` Italiana di Scienze Naturale, 26, 467–77. Smith, A. B. 1998: Keeping people on the periphery: The ideology of social hierarchies between hunters and herders. Journal of Anthropological Archaeology, 17 (2), 201–15. Smith, S. E. 1980: The environmental adaptation of nomads in the West African Sahel: A key to understanding prehistoric pastoralists. In M. A. J. Williams and H. Faure (eds.), The Sahara and the Nile, Rotterdam: A. A. Balkema, 467–87. Tilley, C. 1994: A Phenomenology of Landscape: Places, Paths, and Monuments. Berg: Oxford. Wendorf, F. and Schild, R. 1994: Are the early Holocene cattle in the eastern Sahara domestic or wild? Evolutionary Anthropology, 3 (4), 118–28.

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Hunter-Gatherer Interactions with Sheep and Cattle Pastoralists from the Australian Arid Zone Alistair Paterson

Introduction Across the globe during the Holocene hunter-gatherers came into contact with farmers and herders. For desert dwellers this process was often delayed and took different forms due to ecological and environmental conditions specific to the world’s deserts. This chapter examines the interaction of Aboriginal people with sheep and cattle pastoralists in the Australian arid zone (also referred to as the drylands). In the continuum of these types of hunter-gatherer/pastoral interactions throughout the world the Australian example represents one of the most recent phases. It involved the extensive introduction of fully domesticated species (with no immediate wild ancestors) for commercial purposes and invoked massive environmental change. Pastoralism was linked to colonization and colonialism, and thus part of historical social and political processes. This chapter examines the arrival of pastoralists and the nature of Australian Aboriginal life at that time, beginning with a brief historical and geographical overview of sheep and cattle pastoralism. It considers interaction between Aboriginal people and settlers, and what happened to nomadic life and pre-contact settlement and subsistence. To explore processes of pastoralist and hunter-gatherer interaction, studies from archaeology, anthropology, and history are used to explore how Aboriginal people became involved (or not, as the case may be) in pastoral activities. This requires an understanding of how the different pastoral industries worked, and considering environmental, technical, and social parameters.

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H un ter- G a t h e r e r – p a s t o r a l i s t c o n t a c t s i n A u s t r a l i a

Hunters and Foragers, Pastoralists, and Ranchers Firstly, it is necessary to consider the differences between hunting-foraging, pastoralism, and ranching. Here we are distinguishing between broad categories of human interactions with plants and animals, the models for which have developed from simple models to those accommodating more complicated dynamics (Harris and Hillman 1989). Australia was the last continent to be introduced to pastoralism; however, Aboriginal people have been present in this landscape for more than 40,000 years (Roberts et al. 1990; see also Chapters 3, 6, and 12, this volume). The first domesticated animal was the dingo, having been introduced from island Southeast Asia during the mid-Holocene (Corbett 1985; Gollan 1984). No native species were domesticated by Australian Aborigines (Diamond 1998); however, there is evidence for complex human interactions with the environment through seed grinding, replanting of seeds and tubers, and the use of fire (e.g., Jones 1980; Jones and Meehan 1989; Latz 1995; Singh et al. 1981; Smith 1989; Yen 1989). What do we mean by pastoralists? In Pastoralists at the Periphery: Herders in a Capitalist World, Chang and Koster (1994) review archaeological studies of modern and ancient pastoralists. The term pastoralist is often applied to ‘‘those who live by relying on the products of their herd animals in regions of Asia and Africa where a settled agricultural life is deemed too risky’’ (Chang and Koster 1994: 1). Yet in Australia (and other settler nations such as the Americas, New Zealand, and Canada) there is a more recent form of pastoralism, where Europeans established pastoral industries as capitalist and colonizing enterprises to provide commodities within a global network to industrialized states backed by international investment. This considerably broadens the notion of a pastoral mode of production. With this in mind, Chang and Koster (1994: xi) invited archaeologists to ‘‘investigate pastoralism in more recent periods such as the nineteenth century. Such a reorientation would allow archaeologists to use a rich empirical database to address important questions concerning pastoral adaptation.’’ Clutton-Brock (1988: 117) highlighted differences between sheep pastoralism and cattle ranching: The rancher loosely owns herds of animals for exploitation of meat and other resources that are often marketed. In origin the animals may be wild, feral, or domestic but they live as wild animals except that their territory is usually restricted.

Protection of sheep (and goats) from predators and during lambing was provided by shepherds or well-maintained fenced paddocks. In Australia, cattle required less care and may only come into contact with humans annually, or less often (McLaren 2000). Cattle were typically raised for their meat value, a process which required mustering, overland transport to market by droving (in the era before trucks), and butchery. The most common sheep product was wool fleece, which required keeping the sheep alive, although during drought and price slumps mutton and tallow could also be profitable. There was also local use of animals for meat

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and dairy products, a distinction possibly apparent in a herd’s age and sex structure: ‘‘A meat herd will contain a high number of adolescent and young adult animals, whereas a dairy herd will consist mainly of adult females’’ (Renfrew and Bahn 1996: 278). This would be true, for example, for goats, which were present at some pastoral properties to provide dairy produce.

The Arrival of Pastoralists in Australia British settlement from 1788 heralded the introduction of farming. While the dominant animals introduced to Australia were sheep and cattle, other animals were important – namely goat, pig, camel, buffalo, donkey, and horse. The last four were largely used for transport and cartage. Additionally, European arrival saw the introduction of other species including rabbits, foxes, cats, and dogs. Sheep were well suited for semi-arid areas of Australia where other forms of crop farming were unsuitable, and cattle were particularly suited to the wetter northern regions. The history of the Australian pastoral cattle industry is well documented (Duncan 1967; McLaren 2000), as is the sheep industry (Barnard 1962; Bean 1910; Collier 1911; Culey 1970; Munz 1950). In brief, Australian drylands are away from the well watered coastal regions in southeastern Australia that were initially settled by Europeans (Heathcote 1987). In the interior is a zone of intermittent surface waters and interior deserts where surface waters are rare. Importantly for pastoralism, large artesian basins of subterranean water exist which were accessed from the 1880s onwards using bores. Sheep and cattle industries are restricted in their distribution (see Figure 15.1). This distribution would have changed over time as land suitable for crop production was taken up, as droughts pulled back the frontier, as grasslands changed, and as the limits of domesticated species and the carrying capacities of different environments were determined. There were great differences in grazing quality. The finest was where 0.4 hectares of pasture supported one sheep. In poor seasons and on more marginal land there existed poorer pastures where up to 8 hectares were required for each sheep. Seasonal variability impacted on pastoral industries. For example, in October 1859, at the Strangways Springs Station in the arid Lake Eyre Basin, Howitt (1859) wrote bitterly: ‘‘the country is perfectly worthless and would not feed a bandicoot.’’ During extensive droughts five years later the pastoral frontier retreated from arid regions; stations failed and sheep, cattle, Aboriginal people, and pastoralists fell back to dwindling waters. At Strangways Springs in 1865 the station manager, Jeffreys (Letter to Warren, July 6, 1865), wrote: ‘‘This terrible visitation has completely destroyed the prospects of our beautiful station.’’ Yet, in March the following year, he wrote (Letter to Warren, March 18, 1866): Now I have news to tell you. It is the most beautiful station we have, equal to any country I ever saw in Queensland, New South Wales, Victoria or South Australia. The pasture is so magnificent . . . Where is another station in the colony where you can

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Figure 15.1 Distribution of sheep and cattle properties (after Cantrill 1963: 96; Heathcote 1987; O’Loghlen 1963: 295; Scott 1987). put nearly 4,000 sheep in one flock? . . . In six weeks I will guarantee [the sheep] will be as fat as pigs.

It would take the introduction of artesian bores from the 1880s to provide more reliable water supplies, though not necessarily improved grazing. Pastoral expansion into the Australian drylands intensified from the 1840s, with overlanding of sheep, cattle, and horses into South Australia (SA) and Queensland (QLD). Pastoralists quickly followed on the heels of early explorers and surveyors, whetted by descriptions of inland grasslands. By the 1860s settlement had crossed from western QLD into the Gulf Country and onto the Barkley Tablelands via central Australia and QLD into the Northern Territory (NT) in the 1870s, by the mid-1850s into the Pilbara (WA), and into the Kimberley region in the 1880s. It should be noted that my focus is Australian drylands, and I shall not consider pastoralism elsewhere, such as in Tasmania and southeastern Australia. However, it should be remembered that there was access to a convict (indentured labor) workforce in these two instances, which was not the case for central and northern Australia.

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The Europeans’ knowledge of resources and Australian conditions improved over time, changing introduced herding practices, and setting the scene for settlement of drylands. After the 1830s European settlers were accustomed to bush life. Stockmen were self-sufficient, most life was spent in camps away from homesteads, supplies were delivered by wagon to outstations, and the techniques of controlling livestock without fences and permanent yards established. Knowledge of water is essential in Australian drylands, and pastoralists learned the value of saltbushes versus grasses and herbs, and the value of mulga (Acacia aneura) and kurrajong (Brachychiton) foliage during drought. Other plants proved poisonous, and restricted the distribution of animals.

Transitions Several transitions in the sheep and cattle industries are reflected in the archaeological record. First, over time the pastoral stations were built up from small ventures to more permanent industries. This is reflected in the material remains including fences; wells, tanks, dams, artesian bores, and drains; yards; head stations and outstations; wool scours, wool sheds, and shearing sheds; roads, tracks, and fords (ICOMOS 1995; Woodhouse 1993). Second, there were new technologies and techniques over time. After the 1870s local innovations and labor were replaced with imported materials, technologies, and labor (Heathcote 1987); however, there was variation in this general trend. Two examples of technology transforming the pastoral domain were the introduction of artesian bores and fencing wire. These allowed the establishment of large fenced paddocks, which changed the organization of pastoral work. There was much variation in the use of fencing; by 1900 most sheep properties had boundary fences, although there was not widespread use of internal fences until the 1960s. In the NT cattle country in the 1960s, 90 percent of properties were not fenced, and in the Gulf Country in 1979 only 11 percent of properties were fenced (Heathcote 1987). Third, shepherding declined over time. On sheep stations shepherding was practiced to protect against predators (dogs and Aboriginal hunters). However, over time, labor intensive shepherding stopped, a transition facilitated by a shift from open range to closer paddocking with surveillance by boundary riders. Fourth, there were differences in the distribution of sheep and cattle over time (see Figure 15.1). This distribution reflects the fact that sheep were found to be unsuited to what would become cattle country in northern Australia. For example, in the Kimberley region and NT in the late nineteenth century sheep had low breeding rates and were common victims of native dogs. Additionally, the expense of carting fleece and difficulties with finding shepherds and shearers made sheep non-viable in northern regions. Nearly all sheep properties on the Barkley Tablelands and Kimberley were abandoned by the early twentieth century. Fifth, there were key differences between the handling of cattle and sheep. The cattle muster occurred only once or twice a year, a much lower rate of animal

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Figure 15.2 Aboriginal rock painting of pack horses and pastoralists on Wiluna Station (from Mulvaney 1989: plate 8).

handling than in other contexts such as North American rangelands (McLaren 2000; Osgood 1957), while sheep required constant shepherding unless in well fenced paddocks.

Interaction between Aboriginals and Pastoralists: Three Regional Studies In semi-arid and arid Australia the arrival of herders represented the first sustained presence of Europeans, occurring 60 years after permanent European settlement in eastern Australia and preceded by diseases that may have disrupted Aboriginal health, population, and society (Reynolds 1972). The pastoral industries competed with Aboriginal people for access to land and resources, with economic, environmental, social, and political consequences. The eventual entry of new animals and people needed to be dealt with by Aboriginal people; Figure 15.2 shows animals herded across an inland station represented in a rock painting. New animals surprised Aboriginal people. The first European to cross Australia, Stuart (as cited in Hardman 1964: 86–7), describes meeting Arabana people in Warriners Creek in 1858: [I] saw some natives walking along a valley . . . I hailed them and an old man came up to me. He was rather frightened, and trembled a great deal . . . I made [them]

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Al i s t a i r P a t e r s o n understand that I wanted water . . . I expected they were going to take us to some springs, and was disappointed when they showed us some rain water in a deep hole. They were quite surprised to see our horses drink it all.

New animals were to compete for resources with Aboriginal people. Aboriginal hunting caused dispute across Australia (Reynolds 1972), reducing stock and inducing panic; yet hunting decreased over time (Davidson 1988). In May 1865 Strangways Springs Station manager Jeffreys (Letter to Warren, May 28, 1865) wrote to his employer: ‘‘You will be glad to hear that there has been no sheep hunting for two months.’’ Violence played a role in the decrease in hunting. There are accounts of extreme violence on and near pastoral stations, some of the worst in the earliest days, but continuing into the twentieth century and constituting the colonial legacy. The historiography of European–Aboriginal interaction is contested (Attwood and Foster 2003), yet clearly the frontier was sometimes horrific. To date, our understanding of Aboriginal involvement with European pastoralists has largely been based on historical sources and oral accounts. Oral histories assist our understanding of pastoralism, as some white and black pastoral workers survive to remember earlier days. This is less true for regions where pastoralism was introduced earlier, and much knowledge of the early days of pastoral settlements is gone. The pastoral industry often involved Aboriginal people as the earlier industries were labor intensive and the Europeans required knowledge of the environment and country. One Aboriginal veteran of the pastoral industry describes those times: All right, olden time people, whitefella, you know, for cattle, on the country, and no bore, nothing at all. Old blackfella, old blackfella like me, they used to bring out all whitefella mob of cattle and show rock hole, so we can give to cattle drink, or horses or nanny goats. Well that’s why olden time people, Aboriginal people used to show that rock hole, so he can bring is cattle, you know, give them a drink . . . You can’t walk. You can’t drive your car, only the horses and cattle. That’s all. Well, old blackfella know the rock hole. So, old blackfella used to work for whitefella, old whitefellas drive out the cattle. Well old blackfella used to show the rock hole. So they can give their cattle drink. Because no bore, nothing at all. No bore. (M. Kennedy 2002: pers. comm.).

An emerging research area is the archaeology of interaction between settlers and Indigenous Australians (see Murray 2002). The pastoral domain is an essential element of this topic because sustained interaction occurred on and near sheep and cattle stations, and many Aboriginal people became involved in these industries (McGrath 1987). Aboriginal people describe the pastoral industries as a central part of their life (e.g., Gill et al. in press; Rose 1991). However, there has been little archaeological research in arid contexts into white pastoralists’ interaction with Aboriginal people. This perhaps reflects the difficulty of the task: such studies require access to multiple sites within pastoral stations, most of which were – and some still are – very large. It is more manageable to focus more on localized sites, such as missions or townsites, in order to interpret forms of cultural interaction

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(e.g., Birmingham 2000). Important research into white–black interaction has occurred outside of the Australian drylands (and thus the topic of this chapter) but remains important for building method and theory more broadly. Three regions are explored here: the northern region of SA, the Kimberley region in northwest Australia, and the central NT. Some of the earliest pastoral properties in the central Australian drylands were in northern SA, where sheep stations were established after the 1850s. In one instance, at a set of artesian springs located between a stony plain and linear dunefields, the Strangways Springs Station was established in 1862. This place had been used for millennia by Aboriginal people, who know it as Pangki Warruna. An analysis of archaeological sites across the station and written reports from station managers provided insight into the early years of the station (Paterson 2000, 2003). The nature of cultural interaction changed as the pastoralists adapted and transformed their economic and social behavior in response to the harsh environment and to economic and technical parameters related to the fledgling pastoral industry. This historical archaeological project revealed two phases of interaction in the period ad 1862–1900. Phase 1 saw pastoral outstations established at artesian springs – these had been the main sites for Aboriginal occupation before and following European arrival. The outstations were simple huts and had brush yards to keep the flocks at night. The pastoralists attempted to improve the flow of water from the artesian springs, and were forced to rely on the pastures near the springs. In Phase 2, from the 1880s onwards, bores were used to access the artesian basin. Once that happened, it was possible to move the flocks to new locations and to better use grasslands and herbage. Fencing decreased the need for shepherds. The evidence from campsites and worksites demonstrates differential Aboriginal involvement in the nineteenth-century pastoral domain. Some outstations indicated Aboriginal engagement (through the presence of artifacts, food processing equipment, and ocher). Over time, large camps were present at the head station, probably created by Aboriginal seasonal workers during the wool washing following shearing, and animal husbandry during the lambing season. These camps may have been rationed from the head station, supplied by both private and government rations. This research provided insight into the role of Aboriginal people on the sheep station. There was seasonal work (lambing, wool scouring) and more permanent work (animal herding and husbandry). The key unit of work was the family, and children and women were important workers. Some Aboriginal people were located within the pastoral domain, as seasonal or permanent workers. These people were described as receiving rations from the pastoralists on occasion. Other Aboriginal people were clearly ‘‘outside’’ the pastoral domain according to the pastoralists, who sometimes repelled ‘‘wild’’ blacks with force. Yet, on occasion, ‘‘outsiders’’ visited the station to involve the Aboriginal pastoral workers in ceremonial events. This case study shows that archaeological and historical evidence each provide different perspectives on past culture contact and human agency. Overall the evidence from Strangways Springs Station suggests Aboriginal ‘‘insiders’’ to the pastoral domain who were present at outstations and the head station with access

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to ‘‘new’’ material culture and rationed items (e.g., food, tobacco). The impact of new foods such as flour is indicated by a decrease in seed grinding equipment in Aboriginal camps, which may also suggest ‘‘freeing up’’ of time for pastoral work by women. Both men and women worked with the introduced animals, with some trained when young. Presumably there is an archaeological record of ‘‘outsiders’’ to the pastoral domain, although that was not revealed in this research, except perhaps by imported ocher found in shepherds’ huts. In the Kimberley region Fullagar and Head (1997, 1999), Smith (2002; Smith and Smith 1999), and Harrison (2002a, 2002b, 2002c) have used archaeological data to explore changes resulting from the presence of pastoralists, such as seen in settlement location, rock art, tool assemblages, plant uses, and diet. Changes seen in use of new materials, technologies, foods, and settlements are assumed to reflect social changes and continuities. These studies reveal that Aboriginal people were able to reaffirm cultural traditions and attachment to place. Overall, it becomes clear that the pastoral domain was created by both European and Aboriginal participants; within pastoral economies rationing of foods, tobacco, and clothes, rather than monetary payment, was widespread for Aboriginal workers. Elsewhere in northern Australia pastoralism was introduced later (Duncan 1967). A study of the pastoral industries in the Murchison and Davenport Ranges (northern central Australia) examines the late nineteenth and twentieth centuries (Gill et al. 2002, in press; Paterson et al. 2003). The project was supported by an Aboriginal elder and veteran of the pastoralist industry (M. Kennedy) and a geographer (Dr Nicholas Gill). In this research the analysis of archaeological sites, combined with oral histories, biographical mapping, and archival research, was used to recreate individual and group work histories across the landscape. This provided a fine-grained insight into Aboriginal involvement with pastoralists and vice versa. The project revealed potential nodes for archaeological research within the pastoral domain, such as campsites used by Aboriginal people, head stations, and small camps run by non-pastoralists such as missionaries, miners, travelers, and butchers, to name but a few. There is material evidence for a range of past functions in this landscape, including ceremonial sites; religious places; yards for horses, cattle, pigs, or goats; huts and small shelters used for overnight camps; tracks for droving cattle; camel pads; horse or donkey trails; motor vehicle tracks; trucking yards; cattle dips; watering sites (rock holes, waterholes, rivers, wells, springs, and bores). These form a network of material evidence in the landscape to be compared with historical and oral accounts. In the Murchison Ranges, as elsewhere, pastoral activities ranged from larger mainstream pastoral ventures – which often still exist today – to smaller concerns. More marginal pastoralism existed on poor country such as in rocky rangeland and often involved Aboriginal people to a greater degree. It appears that in the twentieth century mixed descent men ran cattle and were granted grazing licenses, albeit rarely. This indicates that some Aboriginal people were running their own cattle ventures within one or two generations of the arrival of white pastoralists, while most pastoral stations relied to some extent on Aboriginal labor. Aboriginal work

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in the Murchison Ranges was diverse. Some camps represented the remains of Aboriginal people working with white pastoralists, such as those near yards for animals. Other camps networked with local towns, such as at Kelly Well, where Aboriginal people raised pigs and kept cattle for town butchers. Over time Aboriginal people moved around stations according to factors such as pay and rations, whether pastoralists were too violent, ceremonial and family obligations, the quality of station managers, and government policies. Women and men’s work differed. Generally, women were often responsible for the goat herds, while men worked with horses and cattle. Some women worked at the pastoral head stations as domestic laborers. Following the return of land, some Aboriginal people ran their own stock. Today, in the Murchison Ranges the Aboriginal people have some of the land and they run it with cattle and horses, although much of the interest in and knowledge of pastoral work is being lost as the older people die.

What Happened to Nomadic Life and Pre-Contact Settlement and Subsistence? Aboriginal hunter-foragers were inevitably altered by European settlement. This was immediate in some instances; however, Aboriginal subsistence continued in many cases, although restricted by some station owners. However, as late as 1951 in the Murchison Ranges, Patrol Officer Sweeney wrote about Kurundi Station, on the edge of the Barkley Tablelands: ‘‘I consider natives on this station are still nomadic, the main boy being walkabout from Phillip Creek,’’ and station manager Driver wrote at the same time that not all Aboriginal people on the station were employees and ‘‘generally live a normal happy life hunting, fishing etc. . . . and I expect more to come in . . . I don’t think they would be happy anywhere else’’ (F133 1963/488 Kurundi Station 1951–63). Aboriginal involvement with the pastoral properties depended on the availability of work, the weather, and what other places were available for them. In 1952 Driver (F133 1963/488 Kurundi Station 1951–63) wrote about the drought at Elkedra: ‘‘As a result of no tucker and no water the natives are crowding in the few available waters and looking for assistance from the station owner.’’ Another aspect of traditional life that changed was the ability to travel and conduct trade, potentially indicated by the presence of traded goods in archaeological sites. For example, in the Kimberleys the movement of artifacts is revealed by a specific type of artifact – the Kimberley point – a bifacially flaked projectile point often made from bottle glass (Fullagar and Head 1997, 1999; Harrison 2002a). Another example is provided by ocher traded throughout the Lake Eyre Basin in a network with other items, such as stone grinders, pituri, and information (McBryde 1987, 2000). Pastoral properties became staging points in trade networks, as recalled at Strangways Springs by the station manager (Oastler 1908): The Aborigines had a custom of going periodically, in large and well-armed parties, usually 50 to 60 strong, to an Aboriginal red ocher mine, situated at Parachilna Creek.

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Al i s t a i r P a t e r s o n This ocher was to the Aborigines what gold is to the Whites. And consequently they would travel long distance and go through great hardships to obtain it. To illustrate this, I once weighed at Strangways Springs the loads carried by each member of those parties [returning] from Parachilna Creek, a distance of some 213 miles, and they weighed from 60 to 80 pounds.

For the Kimberley region, Fullagar and Head (1997) describe that during the wet season when there is little opportunity for pastoral work there was an increased occupation in rock shelters in remote locations. Seasonality should be evident for Aboriginal involvement with pastoralists in other regions. In southern central Australia the working year was punctuated by high demands for pastoral labor, such as for wool washing and during the lambing, which was met by Aboriginal people at Strangways Springs (and presumably elsewhere): ‘‘All my Black lambminders have come back to me as promised’’ (Oastler to Warren, March 4, 1868). Some Aboriginal people on sheep stations in Australian drylands became client herders. The shepherding work involved males and females, and children and adults. For example, at Strangways Springs European shepherds were commonly described as having been assisted by Aboriginal people. This is evidenced by the archaeological remains of outstations, where the assemblages in huts suggest both Aboriginal and European usage, as supported by historic accounts. Soon after the establishment of the pastoral station Aboriginal people were caring for animals – not just sheep, but also goats, horses, and bullocks. For example, according to letters there were Aboriginal girls shepherding at Strangways Springs in 1864, two years after the pastoralists first arrived. In 1866 Jeffreys (March 5, 1866) described the detrimental effect of the drought on the bullocks and horses, which required treating with tar to help heal wounds caused by fly bites: [Jeffreys] gave them in charge to Annie, Kalli Kalli’s little sister, one of the little shepherdesses. She looks after them with great care and musters them every day to a rain water hole three miles from here [Strangways Springs].

In the Murchison Ranges in the twentieth century Aboriginal people became proficient with not just cattle, but also donkeys, camels, goats, and horses. For example, Marks (NTRS 226 TS 289, 1980) remembers Aboriginal women shepherding goats: The goats were taken away every morning. They were penned up at night and brought in about half a mile from the homestead and penned up there in log yards, railing type yards, because the dingoes would kill them otherwise. But every morning they were taken out and walked out to a waterhole about 5 miles away. They fed there all day with these goat shepherds and they walked back at night. The kids were left locked up in the yard and the goats were milked and the milk was brought up to the homestead.

The archaeological records of this herding process include outstations, camps, and yards; such sites need to be the focus of future archaeological research into

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Aboriginal care of animals and the gendered nature of client herding in Australia. Aboriginal people also assisted in the development of pastoral technologies; sites such as yards or droving camps potentially reflect Aboriginal work.

Approaches to Pastoral Domains as Settings for Cross-Cultural Interaction For southern Africa, Sadr (2002: 28) asked ‘‘how does one actually distinguish encapsulated or subjugated Bushmen from independent hunter-gatherers in the archaeological record?’’ Like Africa, the material signature of Australian Aboriginal peoples’ interactions with pastoralists is often difficult to determine (Colley and Bickford 1996). One problem identified by Sadr, as well as by Colley and Bickford, is that the material signature of cross-cultural processes is often faint. However, often ‘‘new’’ material culture, or shifts in subsistence, are visible. For example, changes in diet may be indicated by the presence of new foods (for Aboriginal people, sheep and cattle remains) or tin cans, or by the absence of ‘‘traditional’’ food processing and hunting equipment. However, simple measures of the presence of European or settler material culture rely on ‘‘acculturation’’ as a framework for evaluating culture contact. Acculturation theories are diverse, yet have been criticized for being Eurocentric, one sided, and oriented towards trait lists; for treating cultures as singular ‘‘entities’’; for not emphasizing agency; and for not accommodating power structures inherent in colonial contexts (Cusick 1998). This is particularly true when relying on material culture in isolation from other forms of evidence, or when the taking up of European elements by Aboriginal people is viewed as a direct reflection of Aboriginal involvement in European social, political, and economic spheres. What does it mean when Aboriginal people do not use new material culture? It remains difficult to disengage acculturation from assimilationist explanatory models. There are several other difficulties with acculturation. It has tended to be applied at the nodes or centers of settler activity, such as head stations, yet interaction occurs at many different locales as both pastoralists and Aboriginals move around the landscape. The availability of ‘‘new’’ material culture may be limited by external non-cultural factors such as the cost of goods, transport infrastructure, financial resources, government expenditure, and policy concerning rations. Explanatory models also need to take into account site formation factors. For example, NT government records indicate that Aboriginal camps, particularly those close to pastoral head stations, were sometimes ‘‘cleaned’’ with bulldozers and fire. Thus, the presence of new material culture is applicable as a rude indicator of contact, yet better approaches are required to interpret the nature of culture change and interactions. The concept that there is a gradual assimilation of settler lifeways by Aboriginal people seems overly simplistic, if not flawed. Another important theoretical concept is ‘‘resistance.’’ For archaeologists, resistance refers to conscious human decisions to oppose the domination by another group (Orser 2002: 476). Archaeological evidence is effective in illustrating covert

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resistance, as shown by Birmingham (1992) at Wybalenna Mission whose concept of ‘‘cultural accommodation’’ already built on existing Australian literature (such as Reynolds 1972). Resistance has the potential to link actions by different cultures. The frontier was sometimes a setting for resistance and violence, as it was in other countries. For example, this can be seen in the remains of fortified European outposts, such as the Barrow Creek Telegraph Station (NT). More recently, twentieth-century ‘‘walk-off’’ sites represent Aboriginal resistance to contemporary working conditions and power structures, and are subject to archaeological analysis (Deacon 2002). Other approaches have explored the evidence for social and economic stability in pastoral domains. For example, in the Kimberley region, Rowse (1987) identified how pastoralists provided rations, work, and patronage to Aboriginal people who then accommodated the needs of the pastoralists. This ‘‘cooperation’’ is tested by archaeological research, such as that cited above for the Kimberley, which explores the archaeological correlates for the pastoral domain, as well as testing longer term transformations in Aboriginal life extending from prior to the arrival of pastoralists (see Fullagar and Head 1997, 1999; and Harrison 2002c) in a similar way to Sadr (2002). Similarly, the term ‘‘shared histories’’ (Murray 1996) characterizes a range of studies which explore a previously understudied aspect of Australian history, namely Aboriginal contributions and experiences following European arrival. ‘‘Shared history’’ describes the intention to explore both Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal histories, yet requires explanatory frameworks to interpret cultural processes and methodology to link archaeological data to other evidence (e.g., historical sources, oral histories), as stated by Murray (2002). The concept of landscape is useful for archaeological studies of cross-cultural interaction, as it provides the potential to interpret the spatial organization of the environmental, economic, technical, and social settings for pastoralism. Additionally, mapping different Aboriginal and settler realms in ‘‘landscape formats’’ provides a potential to link different data (archaeological, oral, documentary, and environmental). GIS are potentially valuable in this regard in linking finegrained site-based data to regional data. Cross-cultural behavior at group and individual level may be linked into environmental histories – ‘‘ecohistories’’ (Hardesty and Fowler 2001) – to form ‘‘landscape biographies.’’ For example, in the Murchison Ranges project referred to above the material from archaeological sites is used with oral histories, biographical mapping, and archival research to recreate individual and group work histories across this landscape. In this, an Aboriginal elder’s life provides a microstudy mapping the ranges over time, and forms a ‘‘biography’’ of a historical landscape and social processes. Additionally, oral data assist our interpretation of the past uses and current distribution of material evidence. In conclusion, this chapter shows that the arrival of pastoralists in Australia resulted in extensive incursions into Aboriginal land, and was linked to a colonial society. The archaeological understanding of colonial enterprises and intentions is still relatively recent, although recent methodological and explanatory approaches described here may assist future interpretation.

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References Attwood, B. and Foster, R. (eds) 2003: Frontier Conflict: The Australian Experience. Canberra: National Museum of Australia. Barnard, A. 1962: The Simple Fleece: Studies in the Australian Wool Industry. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press in association with The Australian National University. Bean, C. E. W. 1910: On the Wool Track. London: A. Rivers. Birmingham, J. 1992: Wybalenna: The Archaeology of Cultural Accommodation in Nineteenth Century Australia. Sydney: Australian Society for Historical Archaeology. Birmingham, J. 2000: Resistance, creolization, or optimal foraging at Killalpaninna Mission, South Australia. In R. Torrence and A. Clarke (eds), The Archaeology of Difference: Negotiating Cross-Cultural Engagements in Oceania, London: Routledge, 360–401. Cantrill, A. K. 1963: Sheep. In A. H. Chisholm (ed.), Australian Encyclopedia vol. 8., Sydney: Grolier Society of Australia, 89–98. Chang, C. and Koster, H. A. 1994: Pastoralists at the Periphery: Herders in a Capitalist World. Tucson: University of Arizona Press. Clutton-Brock, J. 1988: Introduction to pastoralism. In J. Clutton-Brock (ed.), The Walking Larder: Patterns of Domestication, Pastoralism, and Predation, London: Unwin Hyman, 115–18. Colley, S. and Bickford, A. 1996: ‘‘Real’’ Aboriginals and ‘‘real’’ archaeology: Aboriginal places and Australian historical archaeology. World Archaeological Bulletin, 7, 5–21. Collier, J. 1911: The Pastoral Age in Australasia. London: Whitcombe and Tombs. Corbett, L. K. 1985: Morphological comparisons of Australian and Thai dingoes: A reappraisal of dingo status, distribution, and ancestry. Proceedings of the Ecological Society of Australia, 13, 277–91. Culey, A. G. 1970: An Australian Bibliography on the Biology of the Sheep and the Sheep Industry, 1925–1967. Melbourne: Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organization. Cusick, J. G. 1998: Historiography of acculturation: An evaluation of concepts and their application in archaeology. In J. G. Cusick (ed.), Studies in Culture Contact: Interaction, Culture Change, and Archaeology, Carbondale: Center for Archaeological Investigations, Southern Illinois University, 126–45. Davidson, I. 1988: Escaped domestic animals and the introduction of agriculture to Spain. In J. Clutton-Brock (ed.), The Walking Larder: Patterns of Domestication, Pastoralism, and Predation, London: Unwin Hyman, 59–71. Deacon, J. 2002: A spatial analysis of Ngurrutji, an Aboriginal historic site in central Australia. Unpublished BA (Hons) thesis, Perth: University of Western Australia. Diamond, J. 1998: Guns, Germs, and Steel: A Short History of Everybody for the Last 13,000 Years. London: Vintage. Duncan, R. 1967: The Northern Territory Pastoral Industry, 1863–1910. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press and Monash University. Fullagar, R. and Head, L. 1997: Hunter-gatherer archaeology and pastoral contact: Perspectives from northwest Northern Territory, Australia. World Archaeology, 28 (3), 418–28. Fullagar, R. and Head, L. 1999: Exploring the prehistory of hunter-gatherer attachments to place: An example from the Keep River area, Northern Territory, Australia. In P. J. Ucko and R. Layton (eds), The Archaeology and Anthropology of Landscape: Shaping Your Landscape, London: Routledge, 322–35. Gill, N., Paterson, A., and Kennedy, M. 2002: Hidden landscapes. Cultural Survival Quarterly, 26 (2), 37–8.

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Al i s t a i r P a t e r s o n Gill, N., Paterson, A., and Kennedy, M. in press: ‘‘Murphy, do you want to delete this?’’ Hidden histories and hidden landscapes in the Murchison and Davenport Ranges. In G. Ward (ed.), Power of Knowledge and the Resonance of Tradition: AIATSIS Conference 2001, Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Gollan, K. 1984: The Australian Dingo: In the shadow of man. In M. Archer and G. Clayton (eds), Vertebrate Zoogeography and Evolution in Australasia, Perth: Hesperian Press. Hardesty, D. L. and Fowler, D. D. 2001: Archaeology and environmental changes. In C. L. Crumley (ed.), New Directions in Anthropology and Environment: Intersections, Walnut Creek, CA: AltaMira, 72–89. Hardman, W. (ed.) 1964: Explorations in Australia: The Journals of John McDouall Stuart During the Years 1858, 1859, 1860, 1861, and 1862 When He Fixed the Centre for the Continent and Successfully Crossed it from Sea to Sea. London: Saunders Otley. Harris, D. R. and Hillman, G. C. (eds) 1989: Foraging and Farming: The Evolution of Plant Exploitation. London: Unwin Hyman. Harrison, R. 2002a: Archaeology and the colonial encounter: Kimberley spearpoints, cultural identity, and masculinity in the north of Australia. Journal of Social Archaeology, 2 (3), 352–77. Harrison, R. 2002b: Australia’s Iron Age: Aboriginal post-contact metal artifacts from Old Lamboo Station, southeast Kimberley, WA. Australasian Historical Archaeology, 20, 67–76. Harrison, R. 2002c: Shared histories and the archaeology of the pastoral industry in Australia. In R. Harrison and C. Williamson (eds), After Captain Cook: The Archaeology of the Recent Indigenous Past in Australia, Sydney: Sydney University Archaeological Methods Series vol. 8, Archaeology Computing Laboratory, 37–58. Heathcote, R. L. 1987: Pastoral Australia. In D. N. Jeans (ed.), Australia–A Geography, Vol. 2: Space and Society, Sydney: Sydney University Press, 259–300. Howitt, A. W. 1859: Diary kept by A. W. Howitt on journey to Davenport Range September 21, 1859–Oct. 31, 1859. Melbourne: La Trobe University Library. ICOMOS 1995: Pastoral Technology and the National Estate. Canberra: Australian Heritage Commission. Jones, R. (ed.) 1980: Northern Australia: Options and Implications. Canberra: The Australian National University. Jones, R. and Meehan, B. 1989: Plant foods of the Gidjingali: Ethnographic and archaeological perspectives from northern Australia on tuber and seed exploitation. In D. R. Harris and G. C. Hillman (eds), Foraging and Farming: The Evolution of Plant Exploitation, London: Unwin Hyman, 120–35. Latz, P. K. 1995: Bushfires and Bushtucker: Aboriginal Plant Use in Central Australia. Alice Springs: IAD Press. McBryde, I. 1987: Goods from another country: Exchange networks and the people of the Lake Eyre Basin. In D. J. Mulvaney and P. W. White (eds), Australians to 1788 vol. 1, Sydney: Fairfax, Syme, and Weldon, 253–73. McBryde, I. 2000: Travelers in storied landscapes: A case study in exchanges and heritage. Aboriginal History, 24, 152–74. McGrath, A. 1987: ‘‘Born in the Cattle’’: Aborigines in Cattle Country. Sydney: Allen and Unwin. McLaren, G. 2000: Big Mobs: The Story of Australian Cattlemen. South Fremantle: Fremantle Arts Centre Press.

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H un ter- G a t h e r e r – p a s t o r a l i s t c o n t a c t s i n A u s t r a l i a Mulvaney, D. J. 1989: Encounters in Place: Outsiders and Aboriginal Australians 1606–1985. St Lucia: University of Queensland Press. Munz, H. 1950: The Australian Wool Industry. Sydney: Angus and Robertson. Murray, T. 1996: Contact archaeology: Shared histories? Shared identities? In S. Hunt and J. Lydon (eds), SITES: Nailing the Debate: Interpretation in Museums, Sydney: Historical Houses Trust of New South Wales, 199–213. Murray, T. 2002: Epilogue: An archaeology of Indigenous/non-Indigenous Australia from 1788. In R. Harrison and C. Williamson (eds), After Captain Cook: The Archaeology of the Recent Indigenous Past in Australia, Sydney: Sydney University Methods Series vol. 8, Archaeology Computing Laboratory, 213–24. Oastler, J. 1908: Administration of justice in the back blocks. The Honorary Magistrate, July, 205–9. O’Loghlen, F. 1963: Cattle industry. In A. H. Chisholm (ed.), Australian Encyclopedia vol. 2., Sydney: Grolier Society of Australia, 292–9. Orser, C. E. 2002: Encyclopedia of Historical Archaeology. New York: Routledge. Osgood, E. S. 1957: The Day of the Cattleman. Chicago: University of Chicago Press. Paterson, A. 2000: Situating belonging: The role of historical archaeology in locating cultural relationships using examples from Australian pastoral domains. Balayi: Culture, Law, and Colonialism, 1 (2), 109–31. Paterson, A. 2003: The texture of agency: An example of culture contact in central Australia. Archaeology in Oceania, 38 (2), 53–67. Paterson, A., Gill, N., and Kennedy, M. 2003: Archaeology of historical realities? Two case studies of the short term. Australian Archaeology, 57, 82–8. Renfrew, C. and Bahn, P. G. 1996: Archaeology: Theories, Methods, and Practice (2nd edn.). London: Thames and Hudson. Reynolds, H. 1972: Aborigines and Settlers: The Australian Experience, 1788–1939. North Melbourne: Cassell Australia. Roberts, R., Jones, R., and Smith, M. 1990: Thermoluminescence dating of a 50,000 yearold human occupation site in northern Australia. Nature, 345, 153–6. Rose, D. B. 1991: Hidden Histories: Black stories from Victoria River Downs, Humbert River and Wave Hill Stations. Canberra: Aboriginal Studies Press. Rowse, T. 1987: ‘‘Were you ever savages?’’ Aboriginal insiders and pastoralists’ patronage. Oceania, 58 (1), 81–99. Sadr, K. 2002: Encapsulated Bushmen in the archaeology of Thamaga. In S. Kent (ed.), Ethnicity, Hunter-Gatherers, and the ‘‘Other’’: Association and Assimilation in Africa, Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 28–47. Scott, P. 1987: Rural land use. In D. N. Jeans (ed.), Australia – A Geography, Vol. 2: Space and Society, Sydney: Sydney University Press, 201–36. Singh, G., Kershaw, A. P., and Clark, R. 1981: Quaternary vegetation and fire history in Australia. In A. Gill, R. Groves, and I. Noble (eds), Fire and the Australian Biota, Canberra: Australian Academy of Science, 23–54. Smith, M. 1989: Seed gathering in inland Australia: Current evidence from seed grinders on the antiquity of the ethnohistorical pattern of exploitation. In D. R. Harris and G. C. Hillman (eds), Foraging and Farming: The Evolution of Plant Exploitation, London: Unwin Hyman, 305–17. Smith, P. A. 2002: Station camps: Legislation, labour relations, and rations on pastoral leases in the Kimberley region, Western Australia. Aboriginal History, 24, 75–97.

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Al i s t a i r P a t e r s o n Smith, P. A. and Smith, R. M. 1999: Diets in transition: Hunter-gatherer to station diet and station diet to the self select store diet. Human Ecology, 27 (1), 117–34. Woodhouse, M. C. A. 1993: Elements of a pastoral landscape: Holowiliena, South Australia, in 1888. Australasian Historical Archaeology, 11, 88–98. Yen, D. E. 1989: The domestication of environment. In D. R. Harris and G. C. Hillman (eds), Foraging and Farming: The Evolution of Plant Exploitation, London: Unwin Hyman, 55–75.

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Conclusion Major Themes and Future Research Directions Peter Veth

This volume has for the first time brought together regional studies of huntergatherers from deserts around the world. These different hunter-gatherer societies have experienced different evolutionary trajectories and have clearly adopted different organizational states through time. These organizational states include variations in settlement and mobility behaviors, territorial boundary making, technological strategies, and trade and exchange relations with neighboring groups. With respect to the interactions with these hunter-gather societies to adjacent groups, it is clear from all of the case studies that these were not simple demarcations with other hunter-gatherer, herder, pastoralist, or colonial settler societies. Desert hunter-gatherers, once established in new territories, established complex interactions with other land using groups. They might exercise rights to reciprocal access to other groups’ lands during times of resource scarcity, carry out herding on an opportunistic basis, or indeed swap into that mode of production for extended periods of time. Hunter-gatherers can also establish symbiotic production systems with colonial pastoralists and farmers or, somewhat alternatively, ‘‘devolve’’ into a hunting and gathering mode of production when faced with external competition or resource scarcity brought on by climate change. This collection of case studies from different deserts demonstrates overwhelmingly that arid zone hunter-gatherers are infinitely flexible and adaptable – both during their ‘‘colonizing’’ and ‘‘estate establishment’’ phases (see Chapter 1). Case studies have been presented from deserts that are located at both high and low altitudes, as well as on the coast and within the interior. These are both hot and cold deserts and landscapes that either concentrate or dissipate localized rainfall. Some of the desert systems, such as those of Australia, are enormous by global standards, while others, such as those of Patagonia, are quite circumscribed. To apply a formulaic set of predictions about what a desert hunter-gatherer society should look like, whether the analogue is from Australia, South Africa, or

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South America – and presumed to be in a ‘‘pristine’’ state – makes little sense in terms of the different biogeographic and historic settings of these groups. My own ethnoarchaeological and archaeological research with the Martu Aboriginal people of the Western Desert (a subset of members from one of the last societies in the world to come into contact with European colonialists in the 1960s; see Tonkinson 1991) aptly illustrates some of these points. Some members of this Western Desert group who were closer to better watered portions of northwest Australia came in – often under force or duress – from the desert in the early 1900s and focused their residency on government ration depots, missions, and pastoral and mining centers. While many Martu served as stockmen, maintenance teams, and domestic laborers, by the mid-1900s some had secured mining tenements or pastoral leases, and were actively engaged in the wider domestic economy. At most sedentary nodes, such as the pastoral stations, townships, and mining centers, there were (and still are) camps of transient groups who still align themselves with the more remote and essentially undeveloped interior desert lands. Today, the Common Law native title rights of Martu have been recognized through the Federal Court and this provides the right of both urban and remote constituents to engage in regional decision making, negotiate with land users, and establish appropriate governance structures. While members of the last Martu groups to have contact with Europeans in the 1960s were leading an unquestionably hunter-gatherer lifestyle, many of their countrymen had established alternative modes of existence and production around the fringes of the desert. The ability of these groups to engage in what was essentially a modern Western economy in such a compressed period of time, and the evidence for their active expansion, language spread, and territorial ascendancy in the millennium leading up to contact (see Chapters 2, 5, 6, 12, and 15), lend support to their infinite adaptability to cope with new modes of production and land use. As highlighted in Chapter 1 and in the introductions to each of the three parts of the volume, there are a number of recurrent themes that are woven throughout the regional case studies whose comparative examination has only begun. These themes are worthy of consideration, as they offer researchers some of the most productive and outstanding questions worthy of future research in the world’s deserts. Rather than adopt a prescriptive theoretical approach here (e.g., an evolutionary ecological approach), I will aim to identify some of the core issues and then tease out areas of research likely to be productive for further comparative examination. It is expected that a range of interpretive and reconstructive approaches can be brought to bear on these problems. These core issues may be summarized as: 1 2 3

What kinds of environments qualify as deserts? Do groups need to be resident within such landscapes to qualify as desert societies, or might they use them in an opportunistic and episodic fashion? How can you discriminate from the archaeological record between early colonization and exploration of arid lands, as opposed to the establishment

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of continuous populations that assert territorial rights via domestic and totemic geographies? 4 Equally, given the apparent hyperfluidity of some of these groups, how can researchers understand mobility patterns that might involve episodes of local, regional, and even territorial abandonment – sometimes for considerable periods of time (cf. Kelly 1995; Veth 2003)? 5 What is the relationship between the perceptions and reality of marginality of resources in a desert landscape and the risk minimization measures adopted by different groups? 6 What are the different expressions of risk minimization adopted by these different groups? Themes that might be explored here include highly flexible and responsive residential and logistical mobility patterns, standardization in the organization of technology, territorial ascendancy, and recruitment of allies on the margins to provide reciprocal access to lands. 7 Ramified kinship networks and long distance information exchange systems exist in one form or another in many desert societies; however, the ways they are expressed archaeologically will differ. The role of aggregation cycles, the nature of exchange goods, and the kinds of graphic systems employed both on portable objects and as rock art are worthy of further exploration. 8 The degree to which desert hunter-gatherers engage with other production systems, such as those of herders and pastoralists, and perhaps even swap between these strategies through time due to changing environmental and social circumstances, begs further comparative work. 9 The global timing for occupation of deserts by hunter-gatherers and how this may be linked to anatomically modern human behaviors (such as sea voyaging and the production of art) needs to be critically examined. Do the early sequences from Africa actually provide evidence for occupation of desertic landscapes before the emergence of Homo sapiens sapiens? 10 Finally, the implications of past human responses to climate change, and specifically the desertification of lands that were once more lacustral, represents a topic of interest to all students of landscape evolution and human adaptation. These topics are expanded on further below, by way of seeding ideas and data-sets that might be taken up by the burgeoning number of archaeologists who now take it upon themselves to study deserts in a comparative fashion.

What Kind of Environments Qualify as Deserts? As Chapters 1 and 4 highlight, there is a clear need to accurately define what a desert is and then to focus on those elements of the desert landscape which are of consequence to hunter-gatherers. Is it appropriate to compare archaeological settlement patterns for hunter-gatherers from the Atacama and northwest Australian deserts – which front onto highly productive maritime provinces – with interior deserts such as Botswana or the Western Desert? Should hyperarid deserts

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(both dry and cold) be compared with those which in wetter cycles actually support livestock? Given that the boundaries between arid and adjacent semiarid areas are known to have moved through time – for example, in southeastern Australia where freshwater lakes become saline (see Johnston et al. 1998; Ross et al. 1992) – the relative richness, diversity, and abundance of key economic species are likely to have fluctuated through time.

Do Groups Need to be Resident Within Such Landscapes to Qualify as Desert Societies, or Might They Use Them in an Opportunistic and Episodic Fashion? There is an ongoing debate in the Australianist literature about when it is that groups permanently map on to deserts (e.g., Smith 1989; Thorley 1998; Veth et al. 2001). Are the elements of a desert adaptation finally in place by the terminal Pleistocene or are early groups only using desert lowlands in an opportunistic fashion from better watered ranges and drainage systems (if you like, ‘‘refugia’’) and making the final adaptation by the Holocene? The patterns appear to be complex and regionally variable.

What are the Expected Differences in the Archaeological Record between Early Colonization and Exploration as Opposed to the Establishment of Continuous Populations? The differentiation between colonization and establishment of groups in marginal settings is fraught with issues such as sample size, visibility, and taphonomic processes, let alone presumed changes in residential mobility. It appears that the majority of occupation sites in the Australian deserts that predate 20,000 bp are marked by small assemblages with low indices for permanency of occupation (see Chapter 6). Most authors agree that founding or early occupations were made up of small, highly mobile groups and that the processes may not be visible in the archaeological record – especially given the sandy matrices of most rock shelter sites. Where continuous records are available, there appears to be a quantum increase in both the size, breadth, and complexity of assemblages by the mid-to late Holocene – suggesting that a different kind of pattern of land use occurs – as well as significant changes in population size.

Given the Hyperfluidity of Some Groups, How can Researchers Understand Mobility Patterns that Might Involve Episodes of Local, Regional, and Even Territorial Abandonment? Despite high concentrations of people in deserts during aggregation events, the general population densities across arid zone territories are generally low. Abandonment of country can occur for myriad reasons, including death, conflict, and prolonged drought (cf. Gould 1991; Veth 2003). Clearly, such patterns will only be discernable from regional studies which contain numerous dated sequences and

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even then there will be residual issues such as dating resolution compatible with seasonal/generational changes and climate phases.

What is the Relationship Between the Perceptions and Reality of Marginality of Resources in a Desert Landscape and the Risk Minimization Measures Adopted by Different Groups? If a range of mitigation measures is available to offset risks, then it is reasonable to pose the question: Do groups perceive that the relative paucity of resources and their patchiness across space and through time constitute a ‘‘marginal’’ environment? Ethnobotanical research and ecological modeling, and studies of prey choice and scheduling of companion foods, appear to render this concept somewhat redundant (cf. Veth 1993). This noted, it is fair to argue that the risks of deserts are real and the mitigation measures quite extreme on a global scale, including the exhaustive comminution of bone to extract protein (Gould et al. 2001) and the abandonment of entire territories during drought (after Kelly 1995).

What are the Different Expressions of Risk Minimization Adopted by Groups? Highly variable residential and logistical mobility patterns through time and in space are likely to be a hallmark of risk minimization (cf. Veth 2000), as is the standardization in the organization of technology, such as in the production of specialized implements (e.g., Hiscock 1994). Territorial expansion and the active ritual recruitment of ‘‘allies’’ in adjacent (and often more fertile) lands has also been argued to ensure reciprocal access to these lands (see Gibbs and Veth 2002). The role of aggregation cycles and locales in the exchange of ceremonial objects, durable goods, and genes is central to the active (re)negotiation of alliance and reciprocity networks (cf. Veth and McDonald 2002).

The Nature of Exchange Goods and the Kinds of Graphic Systems Employed at Aggregation Locales will Inform on Regional Alliances and Information Exchange It has been argued that the social contracts underpinning regional alliance networks are actively (re)negotiated at aggregation locales (Gibbs and Veth 2002; Veth and McDonald 2002). In the Australian deserts, group identifying behavior may be expressed through graphic systems, such as decoration on wooden artifacts and in pigment and engraved art. Graphic systems are seen to be either ‘‘inclusive’’ – such as geometric motifs (reaffirming regional alliance networks) – or ‘‘exclusive’’ – such as regionally distinctive anthropomorphs with unique headdresses – stressing territorial differences. The emergence of group identifying behaviors combining inclusive and exclusive graphic vocabularies in parallel is seen to be a key element in understanding the emergence of territoriality in desert societies (see Chapters 7 and 14).

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The Degree to Which Desert Hunter-Gatherers Engage with Other Production Systems, such as Herding and Pastoralism, Begs Further Comparative Work The archaeological interpretation of the complex relationships between huntergatherers and nearby herders and pastoralists has now begun in earnest (see Chapters 11 and 15). The comparative archaeology of the colonial occupation of lands fringing deserts occupied by hunter-gatherers has really only begun.

The Timing for Occupation of Global Deserts and How this may be Linked to Anatomically Modern Human (AMH) Behaviors such as Sea Voyaging and the Production of Art Archaeological evidence from Africa and Australia suggests that deserts were occupied at approximately the same time that Homo sapiens sapiens engaged in the systematic production of art, made personal adornments, and had the capacity to engage in successful sea voyaging ca. 60,000–40,000 years ago (see Chapters 1, 3, 4, and 6). Earlier evidence for the pre-AMH occupation of deserts in Africa, when they were better watered, remains contested. Recent arguments for pre-AMH sea crossings from Bali to Lombok (and then to Flores) have now been discounted (Mike Morwood pers. comm.).

Past Human Responses to Climate Change, and Specifically the Desertification of Lands that were Once More Lacustral, Represents a Topic of Interest to all Researchers There are many questions that emerge for researchers interested in human responses to climate change when the global patterns for the evolution of desert societies are considered. Have modern humans always had the social systems to occupy deserts and cope with the onset of more arid conditions or is the permanent occupation of all desert habitats a more recent phenomenon – say of the midto late Holocene? If deserts represent such marginal landscapes, why were they occupied so early on? What was the role of population pressure in this process? Where occupation of more favorable landscapes was followed by more arid conditions, does persistence require a significant change in economy, social organization, and territorial configuration?

Prologue A Eurocentric perspective of deserts, as captured in the imagination of novelists, filmmakers, theologians, explorers, and perhaps even early anthropologists, has seen them as harsh and uncompromising landscapes. They are equated with extreme experiences, including revelations, religious epiphanies, treks through the ‘‘wilderness,’’ and privations of the most horrible kind.

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Yet archaeological evidence from around the world suggests that people actually chose to enter desert environments willingly or persisted in their occupation of landscapes that subsequently became arid. This may have occurred as early as 60,000–40,000 years ago. Persistence of modern humans in the glacial landscapes of Europe and Eurasia also occurred during this time, likely underpinned by complex information sharing behaviors – reflected in widespread sharing of iconographic objects such as the Venus figurines. Indeed, Gamble (2003) has noted parallels in regional occupation patterns in response to glacial cycles associated with the LGM from the Northern Hemisphere and the trends in occupation noted during LGM from the Southern Hemisphere (after Veth 1993). Occupation of marginal landscapes such as deserts appears to be dated as early as other modern behaviors, such as the development of artistic expression, and the ability to make ocean crossings. This creates the fascinating scenario in which modern humans appear to have colonized the world’s deserts at the same time that they developed other ‘‘modern’’ attributes underpinning a successful global diaspora, such as complex information exchange and maritime skills.

References Gamble, C. 2003: Keynote Address. Canberra: Unpublished paper presented at the 23 Degrees South: The Southern Deserts InterWorld Archaeology Conference, National Museum of Australia. Gibbs, M. and Veth, P. 2002: Ritual engines and the archaeology of territorial ascendancy. In S. Ulm, C. Westcott, J. Reid, A. Ross, I. Lilley, J. Prangnell, and L. Kirkwood (eds), Barriers, Borders, Boundaries: Proceedings of the 2001 Australian Archaeological Association Annual Conference, St Lucia: University of Queensland, 11–19. Gould, R. A. 1991: Arid land foraging as seen from Australia: Adaptive models and behavioral realities. Oceania, 62, 12–33. Gould, R. A., O’Connor, S., and Veth, P. 2001: Bones of contention: A reply to Walshe. Archaeology in Oceania, 37, 96–101. Hiscock, P. 1994: Technological responses to risk in Holocene Australia. Journal of World Prehistory, 8 (3), 267–92. Johnston, H., Clarke, P., and White, J. P. (eds) 1998: The Willandra Lakes: People and Palaeoenvironments. Sydney: Archaeology in Oceania, 33 (3), Oceania Publications. Kelly, R. L. 1995: The Foraging Spectrum. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press. Ross, A., Donnelly, T., and Wasson, R. 1992: The peopling of the arid zone: Human– environment interactions. In J. Dodson (ed.), The Naive Lands, London: Longman, 76–114. Smith, M. A. 1989: The case for a resident human population in the central Australian ranges during full glacial aridity. Archaeology in Oceania, 24, 93–105. Thorley, P. B. 1998: Pleistocene settlement in the Australian arid zone: Occupation of an inland riverine landscape in the central Australian ranges. Antiquity, 72, 34–45. Tonkinson, R. 1991: The Martu Aborigines: Living the Dream in Australia’s Desert. Fort Worth, TX: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston. Veth, P. M. 1993: Islands in the Interior: The Dynamics of Prehistoric Adaptations within the Arid Zone of Australia. International Monographs in Prehistory, Archaeology Series no. 3, Ann Arbor, MI.

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Pe t e r V eth Veth, P. 2000: Cycles of aridity and human mobility: Risk minimization amongst late Pleistocene foragers of the Western Desert, Australia. Philadelphia, PA: Unpublished paper presented at the Society of American Archaeology Conference. Veth, P. 2003: ‘‘Abandonment’’ or Maintenance of Country? A Critical Examination of Mobility Patterns and Implications for Native Title. Canberra: Native Title Research Unit, Australian Institute of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Studies. Veth, P. and McDonald, J. 2002: Can archaeology be used to address the principle of exclusive possession in native title? In R. Harrison and C. Williamson (eds), After Captain Cook: The Archaeology of the Recent Indigenous Past in Australia, Sydney: Sydney University Archaeological Methods Series no. 8, 121–9. Veth, P., Smith, M., and Haley, M. 2001: Kaalpi: The archaeology of a sandstone outlier in the Western Desert. Australian Archaeology, 52, 9–17.

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Page numbers in bold refer to figures and tables abandonment 45–6, 85, 101, 103, 111–13, 118, 149, 188–9, 190–1, 195, 197, 199, 227, 229, 296–7 adaptationist approaches 2, 21–3, 26, 28, 34–5, 43–4, 48, 50, 79, 84–5, 89–90, 177, 194, 201–2, 216, 226, 256, 277, 294–6 agriculture 8, 24, 26–7, 162–5, 162, 166, 202, 257, 263, 269 alliance networks 66, 117–37, 192, 297 anatomically modern humans (AMH) 9, 37, 48, 62–4, 70, 161–74, 298 Arandic language, Australia 124, 223, 224, 230, 236, 238 Archaic Phase, North America 7, 94 classic approach 21 Clovis period, North America 7 coastal desert 3, 5, 48–9, 103, 177–202, 243–57, 295–6 coastal resources 9, 72, 172, 177–202, 244, 248, 247, 248, 250–2, 256–7 colonization 6–7, 9, 35–50, 72, 100–13, 142–55, 194, 231, 238, 243–4, 249–51, 256, 294, 296, 299, 347 cultural contact 19, 20, 24, 163, 206–17, 230, 261–73, 276–88 cultural ecology 1, 9, 65, 91

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demography 9, 21, 26, 42, 44, 87, 101, 118, 173, 199, 209, 227, 228, 231, 236 Desert Culture, North America 84–5 dingo 65, 237, 277, 280, 286 division of labor 87–9, 91–2, 94–5, 285 Dreaming, Australia 119, 120 drought 19, 72, 85, 101, 229, 234–5, 249, 263, 273, 277–8, 280, 285–6, 296–7 economy/economic strategy 6, 21, 35, 41–2, 46, 49, 65, 67–70, 72, 81, 105, 109, 118, 137, 167, 177, 194, 199, 251, 277, 288 evolutionary ecology 23, 81–96 film 18–19, 25 foragers 1–2, 6, 20–1, 23–4, 26, 34–5, 41–6, 49, 67–8, 70–2, 79, 81–96, 100, 144, 146, 151, 200, 217 genetics 136, 229–30, 232, 238, 249, 271–2 group identity 65–7, 125–6, 130, 134–7, 163, 191, 263, 267, 297 Holocene 35, 41–3, 45–50, 59–61, 65, 68, 72, 93–5, 103–5, 108–11, 117–18, 122–3, 130, 142–54, 162–3, 172–3, 177, 179–80, 188, 190–3, 195–7, 199–202,

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Index 206–17, 222–39, 246–57, 247, 248, 252, 253, 262–73, 276–7, 296, 298 human behavioral ecology 2, 23, 63–4, 70, 81–96, 295

reflecting paradigm 25–6 revisionist approaches 21–4, 28, 210 risk minimization 2, 10, 42, 67–70, 72, 85, 100–13, 116, 295, 297

indigenist approach 22–3, 29 Indigenous rights 22, 23, 25, 27, 294 inflecting paradigm 27–9 intensification 200–2 Iron Age, Africa 159, 162–3, 165, 208–17

sea voyaging 9, 194, 250, 295, 298 sedentism 6, 87–8, 201–2, 228, 231, 257, 263, 269, 294 sediment accumulation 111, 113, 149, 169, 190–1, 195, 197, 227–8 settlement patterns 21, 37–8, 145, 147 social networks/organization 6, 10, 21, 34, 41, 47, 63, 65, 70–3, 79, 84–5, 87, 89, 95, 116–37, 124, 145, 162, 165, 167–8, 172, 192, 196, 200, 225, 243–4, 254–5, 266–7, 272, 276, 281, 283, 288, 295, 298 socioeconomic model 1, 6, 65, 82–3, 86–7, 89, 91, 95, 196 subsistence 35, 47, 79, 81–96, 103, 119, 142, 150–1, 154, 168, 170–2, 179–80, 193–5, 214–216, 244, 255–6, 262, 276, 285–7

Kalahari Debate 8, 18, 24, 165, 206, 208–9 kin/kinship 29, 84–8, 116, 236, 295 linguistics 8, 23, 110, 116–17, 122–7, 159, 163, 208–9, 222–39, 273 Man the Hunter conference 1, 26, 71 middens 10, 19, 178, 179–80, 190, 192–3, 196–7, 200–1, 247–8, 247, 248, 251–3, 252, 253 middle range theory 29 mobility 1, 2, 6, 9, 21, 27–8, 30, 44, 69, 84–5, 87, 90, 95, 100–13, 101, 107, 116–37, 118, 145, 151–3, 192, 201, 209, 225, 249, 272, 293, 295–7 optimal forager theory 26 Paleolithic (African) 60–2, 206, 210, 214, 216 pastoralists 20, 26–8, 159, 162–3, 165, 206–17, 261–73, 276–88, 281, 293–4, 298 patch utilization model (HBE) 90–5 Pleistocene 2, 7, 9, 15, 34–50, 59–63, 72, 93–4, 100–13, 118, 122, 125–6, 130, 136, 142–4, 150–1, 153–4, 161–74, 180–90, 188–9, 193–6, 202, 226–7, 229, 231, 233–4, 243, 245–6, 248–51, 296 prey choice model (cultural ecology) 90–5, 297

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taphonomy 36, 103–4, 147–8, 150–1, 199, 256, 296 technology/technological organization 10, 42, 46, 58, 63, 67–9, 72–3, 79, 84–6, 94–5, 106, 119, 144, 152–4, 162, 171, 174, 196, 199, 214, 217, 231–2, 236–7, 239, 244, 251–2, 255–6, 280, 284, 287–8, 293, 295, 297 territorial organization 1, 6, 34, 69, 71, 84–5, 101, 112, 118–19, 124, 125, 144, 170, 192, 200–1, 244, 293, 295, 297–8 water availability 3, 6, 34–5, 40–9, 73, 85, 93–4, 100–3, 110, 112, 117–18, 127, 144–7, 149, 151, 153, 163, 165, 168–71, 173, 201, 208, 214, 235, 244, 246–7, 249, 250, 262–3, 278–80

302

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Index of Archaeological Features and Subjects

archaeological sites Africa Apollo 11, 162, 166, 170–3 Balerno 213 Bir Tarfawi 7 Blydefontein 171 Border Cave 161–2, 162 Cae Cae 207, 208, 213–14 Chin Tafidet 263 Cho/ana 214 Daures 162, 166, 173 Depression Cave 162, 170–1 Divuyu 213 Dobe 162, 173, 206 Driekoppen 162 Elands Bay 162, 170–3 Enkapune Ya Muto 61 Free State 171 Geduld 207, 209, 215–16 Gi 162, 170 Haalenberg 162, 170 Iwelen 263 K2 213 Kalambo Falls 61 Klasies River 60, 66 Kwihabe 170–1 Leokwe Hill 213 Little Muck Shelter 212–13 Mapungubwe 213 Mauretania 272

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Mirabib 171–2 Moritsane 211 Nos 162, 170 Nqoma 213 Oruwanje 216 Ostrich Shelter 211–12 Pockenbank 170 Radiepolong 211–12 Rose Cottage Cave 63 Salt Pan site 212 Schroda 213 Sibudu Cave 63 Thamaga sites 207, 208–14 Toteng 7, 162, 173, 207, 208, 215–16 Tsodilo Hills 47, 162, 166, 169–70, 207, 208, 213–14 Twin Rivers 61 Uan Afuda 264–5 White Paintings 162, 170, 173 Wonderwerk Cave 162, 166, 171–3 Zebrarivier 162, 171–2 Australia Allen’s Cave 37–8, 38, 117 Anadara mound 187 Babjarimanos 1 midden 178, 182 Babjarimanos 2 midden 178, 182 Barrow Creek Telegraph Station 288 Burrup Peninsula 117, 122–3, 128, 131–4, 131, 133, 134, 178

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Index archaeological sites (Continued) C99 site 177, 178, 180–1, 182, 183, 188–9, 190–1, 194–7 Carpenter’s Gap 1, 37–8, 38, 40, 43–4, 121–2, 125 Clarke’s Cave 187 Colless Creek 111 Coral Bay midden 178, 183–4 Cuddie Springs 37–8, 38, 43–4, 237 Denham 186 Durba 102, 110–11, 117, 128, 131–4, 131, 136, 233–4 Eagle Bluff 178, 185–6, 199 Emily Gap 120 Giralia Road site 9 178, 183 Giralia Road site 11 178, 183 GRE8 37–8, 38 Haynes Cave 178, 182 Heirisson Prong sites 178, 185 High Cliffy Island 178, 181 Intirtekwerle 104 Intitjikula 104 Jalijbang 2 117, 128, 130–4, 131 Jansz 177, 178, 180, 183, 188–9, 190–1, 194–7 JSN 46 Kaalpi 102, 104, 110–11, 117, 127, 128, 228 Katampul 117 Koolan 178, 181, 196 Kulpi Mara 102, 102–6, 105, 108–9, 108, 112, 117, 226–7 Lake Mungo 9, 36–8, 38, 40, 45 Laura 122 Lawn Hill 46 Louie Creek Gorge 46 Low Point midden 178, 184 Mandu Mandu Creek 103, 178, 180, 184, 195–6 Mangrove Bay midden 178, 183 Monkey Mia site 178, 187 Mulanda Bluff 178, 184 Nickol River Mound 187 Noala Cave 103, 178, 181, 182, 193, 195 Notch Point 185 Not-So-Secret Shelter 187 NW Cape midden 2 178, 182 Pilgonaman Creek 178, 180, 184, 196

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Pilgramunna Bay midden 178 Puntutjarpa 102, 104, 117, 136, 226–8, 232 Puritjarra 37–8, 38, 44, 102, 102–6, 105, 106, 108–9, 108, 111–12, 117, 121–2, 226–8, 230–2 Riwi 37–8, 38 Rudall River sites 83, 228, 233 Serpent’s Glen 102–6, 102, 104, 105, 108–11, 108, 117, 226–8, 232, 238 Silver Dollar 178, 186, 194, 199 Strangways Springs Station sites 278, 282–3, 285–6 Sturt’s Meadows 125 Tulki Bay midden 178, 184 Turquoise Bay midden 178, 184 Ulungra Springs 43–4 Useless Inlet 178, 185 Wadjuru Rockpool 187 Walga Rock 227 Warroora midden 178 Whale Well 185 Widgingarri 178, 181, 195–6 Wilga Mia 234 Winpuly 228 Wobiri 178, 180, 183, 188–9, 191 Wybalenna Mission 288 Yardie Well 178, 180, 185 Zuytdorp sites 187 South America Aragon 245, 252 Arroyo Feo 152 Bano Nuevo 149, 151 Camarones 245, 248, 253 Chinchihuapi 146, 153 Cueva Cuyin Manzano 143, 147–8 Cueva del Medio 256 Cueva Epullan Grande 143, 147–9, 153 Cueva Traful 143, 147, 151–2 El Ceibo 152 Las Conchas 245, 250, 254 Los Burros 245 Los Toldos 152, 256 Marifilo 1 146 Monte Verde 145–6, 150–1, 153, 256 Patillo 245, 253–4 Piedra Museo 256 Punta Pichalo 245, 251–3, 252

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In d e x Quebrada Jaguay 245, 250–1, 256 Quebrada Tacahuay 245, 250–1, 256 Quiani 9, 253 Ring Site 245, 250 Tacahuay 251 Tiliviche 245, 252–3, 253 cultural groups Africa BaSarwa 163, 206 Beja 271 Berber 269, 271–2 Fulani 265, 267, 271, 272 Hadza 25 Hai//om 20, 28 Harratin 263 Himba 266 Ju/’hoansi 1, 19, 22, 162, 165, 167–8 Kabyle 268–9, 271 !Kung 2, 19, 66, 71, 165, 206, 208 Maures 267, 270–1 Nemadi 270–1 Quena 164 San 18–20, 22–4, 27–8, 66, 70–1, 162, 163–74, 206–17 Sonqua/Soaqua 163 Toubou 267, 271–2 Tuareg 261, 264, 267, 268, 269, 271, 272 Australia Alyawara (Alyawarr) 83, 90–4, 236 Arabana 281 Arrernte 1, 83, 224, 230, 232–3, 236–8 Gugadja 91 Jangkunjara 235 Martu/Mardu 83, 88, 93, 107–8, 110, 111, 294 Ngatatjara 83, 85 Pintubi 1, 83, 223, 229 Pitjantjatjara 1, 83, 88, 223, 229, 232–5 Wardaman 128, 130–4 Warlpiri 83, 119, 122, 230 Yankunytatjara 229 Yolngu 232 South America Selknam 244 Tehuelche 142, 149 North America Numic 84, 225

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Paiute 1, 2, 82, 87–8, 225 Shoshone 1, 2, 82, 87–8, 225 dating techniques 236 Accelerator Mass Spectometry (AMS) 121 ESR dating 36 luminescence dating 10, 36, 37, 121 radiocarbon dating 35, 37, 148, 181–7, 193, 198, 199 U-series dating 10, 36 faunal remains 10, 20, 42, 69, 94, 103–5, 105, 147–53, 169, 172, 180–90, 193–4, 211–13, 215, 250–2, 256, 262, 264–5, 272 Index of Fragmentation 104–5, 105, 113 megafauna 8, 42–3, 150–1, 154, 168–9, 171–3, 213 protein stress 103–5 floral remains 10, 103, 146, 171–2, 192 seeds 47, 84, 87–8, 91, 93–5, 172, 237 geographical locations Africa 1–3, 4–5, 6–7, 9, 19–20, 22, 24–5, 27, 47–8, 58–73, 161–74, 162, 206–7, 207, 261–73, 277, 287, 295, 298 Cape Fold Mountains 169, 172 Erongo Mountains 162, 173 Euphrates River 1 Kalahari Desert 3–4, 5, 7, 18, 20, 22, 24, 47, 71, 73, 159, 161–74, 162, 206–17, 207, 244, 248 Karoo Desert 212 Nama-Karoo 162, 163–4, 169, 173, 212 Namib Desert 3, 5, 7, 20, 47–8, 162, 168–9, 211, 244, 246, 248, 250 Northern Cape Province 161–74, 162, 209 Nyae Nyae 19 Okavango Delta 162, 168, 173, 207, 208, 215 Orange River 162, 168–9, 206–7, 207, 209 Qangwa 208 Sahara Desert 3, 4, 7, 48, 58, 60–1, 63, 68, 71, 262–7, 269–70, 272–3 Sahel Desert 48, 72, 272

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Index geographical locations (Continued) Seacow Valley 162, 171, 173 Shashe Limpopo 207, 212–14, 216–17 Sinai Desert 261 Thamalakane River 215 Thukula Basin 66 Trafal River 147, 150–2 Atlantic Ocean 4, 143 Australia 1, 5, 6–10, 18–20, 22, 27, 34–50, 38, 39, 58–73, 81–96, 83, 100–13, 102, 116–37, 117, 128, 159, 177–202, 178, 198, 211, 216, 222–39, 244, 247–8, 256, 276–88, 279, 293, 295, 297–8 Alice Springs 102, 117, 128 Barkley Tablelands 37, 279, 280, 285 Calvert Ranges 118, 122–3, 125, 127–8, 130, 131–6, 131, 135, 227–8, 234 Canning Stock Route 123, 127, 136 Cape Range Peninsula 177–202 Cape York 46, 232, 246 Central Desert 9, 37, 40–1, 43–4, 73, 82, 83, 90–3, 102–4, 111–12, 122–3, 124, 222–39, 279, 283–4, 286 Cleland Hills 111, 128, 128–9, 130–6, 131, 135, 230, 234 Davenport Ranges 284 Everard Ranges 235 Finke River 41, 83 Gascoyne-Murchison region 102, 117, 224, 233–4 George Gill Ranges 235 Gibson Desert 102, 117 Great Sandy Desert 39–40, 102, 117, 228, 234 Great Victoria Desert 102, 117 Hammersley Ranges 102, 117, 123 Kimberley 20, 37, 39, 44, 46, 83, 102, 117, 128, 178, 193–4, 121–3, 125, 136, 193, 195–7, 199, 201, 227, 233, 279–80, 283–6, 288, 294–5 Lake Amadeus 41 Lake Disappointment 83, 102, 117, 127, 227 Lake Eyre 9, 39–40, 38, 39, 43, 83, 278–9, 283, 285 Lake Gregory 39–40 Lake Wood 40

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Little Sandy Desert 110, 118, 127 MacDonnell Ranges 37, 83, 102, 117, 230 Monte Bello Islands 178, 193 Murchison Ranges 102, 117, 200, 227, 284–6, 288 Musgrave Ranges 235 North West Cape 177–202, 178, 188–9, 198 Nullabor Plain 37, 102, 117 Palmer River 41, 228 Percival Lakes 136 Pilbara 83, 111, 123, 128, 136, 178, 193, 195, 200, 224, 226–7, 229, 233–4, 279 Simpson Desert 102, 117 Strzelecki Desert 46 Tanami Desert 102, 117, 224 Warburton 19, 227–8 Western Desert 3, 5, 18–19, 68, 72–3, 81–96, 83, 100–13, 108, 116–37, 117, 118, 124, 222–39, 223, 294, 295 Willandra Lakes 39–40, 39, 43, 45 Wiluna 226 Egypt 261, 273 Nabta Playa 262 Nile Valley 265, 271–2 Western Desert 262, 265 Europe 27, 65, 87, 111, 163–5, 167, 177, 208, 216, 243, 256–7, 277–9, 281–8, 299 Indian Ocean 4, 83, 179, 206, 210–11, 213 Indonesia 9, 250, 298 Levant 273 Near East 1, 8, 262, 273 Tigris River 1, 273 North America 1, 2, 3, 4, 7, 10, 20, 22, 48–50, 81–96, 82, 143, 154, 225–6, 243, 249, 256, 281 Great Basin 2, 3, 4, 48–50, 81–96, 82 Humboldt River 82, 87, 89 Mojave Desert 7 Pacific Ocean 4–5, 82, 143, 244, 247, 249–50 South America 4, 6–7, 10, 47–50, 142–54, 143, 152, 243–57, 245, 247, 248, 294

306

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In d e x Andes Cordillera 3, 145–6, 150, 152–3, 244, 246–7, 249, 251, 254–7 Atacama Desert 3, 4, 6, 49, 243–57, 245, 248, 295 Cardiel Lake 144–5 Chile 3, 143, 159, 246, 248, 250, 256 Colombia 249 Cupisnique Desert 246 Deseado River 152–3 Fertile Coast 248 Lago Argentina 145 Limay River 143, 146–7 Pampa de los Fosiles 246 Pampa del Tamarugal 247, 249, 252, 257 Pampas 151 Patagonia 3, 4, 49, 79, 142–54, 143, 256, 293 Peru 243, 246, 248, 253, 254 Sechura Desert 246 Tierra del Fuego 49, 142–54, 244 human skeletal remains 36, 148–9, 161, 172–3, 244, 253–5, 263, 269 cemeteries 263, 267, 269–70, 272–3 lithics 8–9, 44, 58–73, 93–4, 101, 103, 105–10, 105, 106, 108, 118, 144, 146–8, 152–3, 161–74, 190–1, 199–200, 211, 212, 215, 227, 231, 233, 237, 249–52, 256, 273, 285 Acheulian Industry 7, 48 adzes 47, 108–9, 191, 199, 231 Albany Industry 61 backed artifacts 58–73, 106, 108–9, 161–74, 191, 199, 231, 233 discard rates 42, 44, 59, 105–6, 118 grinding 34, 42, 46–7, 49, 84, 87, 91, 93–5, 107–10, 110, 195, 231, 233, 237, 277, 284–5 Howieson’s Poort Industry 60–1, 63, 66, 68–70 Kuruman Industry 171 Later Stone Age 24, 61, 63, 66, 69–72, 161–74, 162, 208–9, 213–15, 217, 295 Lemuta Industry 61 Levallois Industry 48 Level 11 Industry 152 Lockshoek Industry 171, 173

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Lupemban Industry 60, 63 Middle Stone Age 7, 60–1, 63, 66, 68–72, 161–2, 166, 170, 295 Mousterian Industry 48 Nasampolai Industry 61 Nasera Industry 61 Oakhurst Complex 171–2 Paleo-Indian assemblages 93–5, 256 reduction sequences 105–6, 152 Robberg Industry 61, 70, 72, 170–1 Springbokoog Industry 162, 173 style 67 Toldense Industry 152 use wear 108, 191 Wilton Industry 61, 63, 172–3 paleoenvironment 2, 6–7, 9–11, 34–50, 68–9, 94–5, 100–1, 104, 112, 118, 143–4, 147, 150, 168–9, 171, 174, 188–9, 190, 197, 208, 227, 231, 246, 249, 250, 262–3, 266, 272, 293–8 coral records 10 diatoms 10 foraminifera 10 hyperaridity 3, 6, 47–8, 100–1, 246, 296 ice cores 10, 169 isotopes 10 Last Glacial Maximum 35, 43, 45–8, 50, 70, 72, 100, 103, 105, 112, 117, 125, 169, 179–80, 190, 194–6, 227, 229, 299 marine cores 10, 39, 169, 298 mud wasp nests 10 phytoliths 10, 40, 227, 228 pollen 10, 147, 169 sea level change 43, 180, 190, 196, 250 speleothem 10 stick nest rat middens 10 tufa 10 people Dunlop, Ian 18–19, 25 Jennings, Jessie 84–5 Marshall, John 19, 25, 209 Sahlin, Marshall 21, 71 Steward, Julian 1–2, 23, 82, 84, 87–9 pottery 262 Bambata Cave ware 212, 215–16 Dotted Wavy-Line ware 271 Eiland ware 211

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Index pottery (Continued) Geduld pottery 215–26 Happy Rest ware 212 Moloko ware 211 rocker stamped pottery 271, 272 style 216 Wavy-Line ware 271, 272 rock art 79, 110–12, 116–37, 124, 129, 130, 131, 132, 133, 134, 135, 148–9, 161, 165–7, 172, 180, 188, 190–2, 197, 200, 208, 212, 227, 228, 229, 230–1, 233–4, 244, 263–5, 267, 273, 281, 284, 295 Bradshaws 121–2, 125 Burrup Peninsula 117, 122–3, 128, 131–4, 131, 133, 134, 178 dating rock art 110, 121–2, 127, 166, 191, 234

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ocher 102–3, 110–13, 118, 121, 136, 149, 180, 188, 190–1, 213, 227, 230–1, 234, 251, 255, 283, 285–6 Panaramitee 119, 122, 125, 127, 136, 234 style 110, 116, 126–7, 133–7, 191, 230–1 symbolism 62–70, 79, 110–11, 116–37, 144 Wandjina 123 trade/exchange 20, 42, 61, 66, 109, 111–12, 117–18, 123, 124, 136–7, 163, 167–8, 172, 194, 206, 211, 213–14, 222, 251, 285–6, 293, 295, 297 exotic raw materials 70, 72, 101, 105–6, 109, 152–3, 191, 200, 211, 213, 251 hxaro system 70, 167–8, 172 reciprocity 34, 70–2, 116, 137, 293, 295, 297

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