Marothodi Field Manual 2004

Department of Archaeology
UNIVERSITY OF CAPE TOWN
MAROTHODI 2004
International Archaeological Field School
South Africa
Field Manual
Mark S. Anderson

First edition printed 2004
This edition published in the United Kingdom in 2009 by Atikkam Media Limited
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Text copyright © 2004 Mark Steven Anderson
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Field Manual: Contents
i
Contents
Introduction 1
Chapter One: The Archaeological Background 2
Chapter Two: Marothodi 16
Chapter Three: Archaeological Surveying 24
Chapter Four: Archaeological Recording – The Written Record 29
Chapter Five: Archaeological Recording – The Drawn Record 38
Chapter Six: Excavation 44
Bibliography and Image Credits 55

1
Introduction
On behalf of the Department of Archaeology at the University of Cape Town, I am
delighted to welcome you to the 2004 International Archaeological Field School at
Marothodi.
I hope that you will find your experience here both educational and stimulating, and
that you will develop a range of useful archaeological skills and techniques as you
learn about African heritage.
For some of you, this expedition will be your first experience of archaeological
fieldwork. It may also be your first major trip overseas, and there are bound to be
many things you want to know about what is in store over the coming weeks!
My primary concern is for your safety, welfare and enjoyment, and our team of
supervisors and project officers are here to help and guide you with any concerns you
may have – whether practical or personal – on or off the field. On the first day of
fieldwork you will receive an induction by our Health and Safety Officer, Sarah
Court. She will brief you on a range of specific health and safety issues related to the
expedition, and will offer an opportunity for you to raise any particular concerns you
may have.
By now, you will all have received a copy of the Expedition Pamphlet, which contains
maps of the Bosele camp and of the wider region. This shows all of the major
facilities and amenities you might need during your stay, and includes emergency
contacts and a list of all the staff mobile/cell numbers. Please do not hesitate to
contact any of us at any time if you need assistance or have a query. Remember, we
are here to help!
This short manual has been written to help place your work here within the wider
context of our research goals. It is important that you understand how your efforts are
contributing to the project as a whole, so I have included a brief account of the
research background and an introduction to the Marothodi site. For those of you who
have not excavated before, the rest of the manual presents some of the main
techniques of archaeological excavation and systems of recording that you will be
using during your training programme.
If you need to be formally assessed for degree requirements during your time here,
please let me have your assessment or grading form on the first day of fieldwork. This
will help me to ensure that you receive training in as wide a range of activities as
possible during your participation.
I wish you a successful and enjoyable expedition, and I look forward to getting to
know you during your stay.
Mark Anderson, Director.

Marothodi International Archaeological Field School 2004
2
Chapter One: The Archaeological Background
Approaches to archaeological research of pre-colonial farming communities in southern
Africa have undergone significant changes since systematic study of the topic was
initiated in the 1960s. In terms of both theory and methodology, the discipline has
evolved from its early emphasis on description and classification, through the application
of normative models intended to offer insight into pre-colonial worldview, to a deeper
consideration of detail, variability and historical context.
My research emphasizes the historical, political and economic ‘setting’ of Tswana towns,
focussing on the organization and specialization of production. The aim is to gain a more
intricate understanding of the variation in form and scale that existed both within and
between Tswana settlements, and to explore the extent to which each was a unique
response to its specific circumstances. This chapter offers a summary of the research
background, outlining some of the major theoretical frameworks and assumptions that
have shaped approaches to southern African Iron Age archaeology over the last few
decades, particularly in relation to the stone-walled sites of the Pilanesberg region.
European Observation and Ethnography
The material culture of Sotho-Tswana speaking farming communities living in the
Pilanesberg area, including aspects of their settlement organization, was first described
by European missionaries and explorers such as Campbell (1822), Kay (1833), Sanderson
(1860) and Burchell (1953), who traveled through the region in the early 19th
century.
Their accounts were recorded prior to, during, and in the immediate aftermath of a period
of considerable social and political disturbance, characterized by inter-chiefdom warfare.
This culminated in the ‘Difaqane’ wars, during which Ndebele armies swept through the
region and established a state under their chief, Mzilikazi.
The early European descriptions were supplemented between the 1920’s and 1960’s by
more systematic ethnographic research, undertaken by anthropologists like Schapera and
Duggan-Cronin. This composite pool of data formed the bulk of available information
relating to Tswana populations in this region by the time systematic archaeological
investigation began in the early 1960s. Data gathered during this period is described by
archaeologists and anthropologists as the “ethnographic present”. It records the manner in
which communities were living when they were first contacted by European observers,
and before their lifestyles were significantly altered as a result of colonial influences.
Aerial Photography
The stone walling used to define boundaries and enclosures on many Late Iron Age sites
is a structural characteristic that appears in the archaeological record from around
AD1600, and is a distinctive element of the archaeological period known as the late
Moloko. Mason (1968) regards this development as representing the beginnings of a
concept of ‘personal space’ or private territory “…registering an increase in personal
wealth held by families…” (46) that soon became physically manifest in the form of
‘embayments’, physically separating distinct groups of houses from each other in the
domestic areas of settlements.

Field Manual: The Archaeological Background
3
The use of stone walling makes such sites visible from the air, an attribute that was
utilized during early archaeological studies of settlement distribution and classification.
By analyzing aerial photographs of a 3,300 square mile area south of the Pilanesberg and
east of Zeerust, Seddon (1968) produced a distribution map of stone-walled sites which
attempted to represent not only site location, but also the size of the settlements
identified. The resulting plots show a broad linear clustering of larger sites in a band from
north-west to south-east, an early indication that some kind of geographical preference
may have been operating which influenced the location of the big settlements.
However, Seddon used small-scale aerial photographs for his analysis, each image
covering nine square miles. The settlements visible on each image were represented on
the plot as a single circle to indicate the presence of sites on that photograph. The size of
the circle varied according to the density or quantity of visible sites, the highest
distinction being a cluster of 5 or more on any individual photograph. As a result, the
distribution plots are very vague, and while they do indicate broad spatial trends, they are
considerably lacking in finer detail. In addition, the plots represent all photographs
containing more than 5 individual settlement units in exactly the same way, whether there
were 6 or 56. Consequently, a significant amount of information relating to site scale was
subdued.
Mason also conducted an analysis of stone walled sites using aerial photographs, from
which he identified a number of distinct settlement ‘classes’, classified according to
identifiable patterns in spatial layout. He also noted a clustering of site distribution into 9
observable areas of density (Mason, 1968).
The overall aims of Mason’s initiative were described as being “…to find behavioural
evidence in terms of material artefacts and their spatial disposition on sites, associated
foodwaste and topographic location of living sites” (167), but one of the major
contributions of the project was the recognition that there were observable patterns of
variation in site layout and distribution across the landscape, and that such patterns might
be related to different historical identities adapting to specific environmental conditions
(Mason, 1962), the concept of the ‘Culture Area’:
The nine areas of settlement concentration delineated
by the present aerial photo analysis may be explained
as expressions of distinct Iron Age behaviour linked
with the environmental variation from area to area, or
merely as distinct behavioural developments due to
relative geographic isolation (Mason 1968:175).
The survey of aerial photographs covered 47,733 square miles of what was then southern
Transvaal/northern Natal, and with a team of six students, 6,237 Iron Age settlements
were located and categorized into five identified classes based on variations in their plan-
form. The use of aerial photographs to categorize the settlements, whilst having the
advantage of covering a large geographic area, is acknowledged by Mason as being
problematic. Some of the features were obscured by encroaching bush, rendering
substantial settlements, which were known from ground reconnaissance, virtually
invisible on the photographs. Another kind of visual deception occasionally made natural
geological features look like archaeological remains, which also confused accurate
identification of settlements.

4
Other problems were identified within the methodological approach to classifying the
settlement types, not least of all the fact that classification was based on the consensus of
seven individual workers, who may have had different perspectives on the settlement
plans they were observing. In an attempt to measure this variability, a blind test was
undertaken whereby all seven workers were given the same aerial photograph from which
to categorize the varied settlements it displayed. Their conclusions were recorded, and
indicated a wide range of variation with only “…a certain measure of agreement” (173).
This hinted at the need for an ethnographic standard by
which to define settlement units, rather than their physical
form alone.
It also proved difficult to define the actual categories of
settlement type in some cases. In instances where a
settlement was composed of a large number of distinct
‘wards’ or homesteads, it was not easy to define the extent
of an individual settlement, and some of the boundaries
chosen were somewhat arbitrary. In addition, some of the
boundary walls appeared to join settlements together, and
would have made the decision to record either a single
settlement or two distinct units something of a subjective
choice on the part of the classifier.
Mason readily concedes that the sites identified by his team
represent only a small proportion of the settlements that exist
on the ground, and that his study area covers but a fraction
of their geographical distribution, but the stage had been set
for further exploration, at least in this sample area of the
country.
Mason followed up his earlier initiative with a substantial
publication in 1986, an attempt to account for all of his work
to date, which had primarily revolved around excavations.
The volume was also driven by his interest in encouraging
“…education programmes aimed at developing improved
awareness of the humanity of the different groups in contact
in the Transvaal…” (1), with an emphasis on raising the
profile of “prehistoric achievements” through archaeological
research and teaching. The Magaliesberg Valley is discussed
in light of its potential to be developed into a “Culture
Historical Education Area” in which archaeological sites
from a range of periods and cultural contexts would be
preserved and managed as educational resources, to
encourage a heightened appreciation for the contribution of
different groups to the origins of South African society.
Having concluded that the analysis of aerial photographs alone provided insufficient data
to devise a classification system of Iron Age stone-walled sites, Mason (1986)
“withdraws” his earlier (1968) site typology and replaces it with an expanded
classification system. The new typology, based on ground survey and excavation as well
as aerial photography, includes 9 “classes” of sites distinguished by their settlement
plans, ranging from the small and simplistic in Class 1, to the largest and most complex
Fig 1 . Mason’s 1986 typology
of stone walled settlements.

5
arrangements in Class 9. The latter class includes the ‘megasites’ of the Bankenveld
region, and it is suggested that the variety of resources offered by this environmental
context may have been a significant factor in understanding the evident economic
prosperity that supported, and encouraged the growth of, such large populations;
We do not have the facts from the megasites
themselves but we may guess that the megasites owed
their existence to the set of resources found in the
grassveld and savanna regions within a day’s walk
south or north of the megasites (Mason 1986:319).
Extending this idea, Mason suggests that the sites he refers to as “Class 3”, consisting of
a ‘chain’ of circular walled enclosures around an open central space, may have been
‘cattle posts’ purposefully located on the southerly boundary between Bankenveld
savanna and Grassland, serving the “Class 9” megasites further to the north. This hint of
an ecological perspective is an angle that the current research aims to explore more fully.
In 1976, Tim Maggs published the results of an extensive project incorporating aerial
photograph analysis and excavation, concentrating on the Free State area further south.
One of the aims of this work was to “…outline both the Iron Age archaeology and the
early history of the southern Highveld, as well as make comparisons between the two”
(xiv). The chapter outlining previous research examines all sources of Iron Age
knowledge prior to Maggs’ project in some detail, and is divided into three sections; the
reports of early explorers and missionaries, the oral histories, and the archaeological
investigations. The conclusion is reached that little useful work had previously been
carried out on the Iron Age archaeology of his study area, thus enabling Maggs to make a
“fresh start” with this initiative.
Maggs describes an approach similar to that adopted by Mason, involving the study of
aerial photographs of the research area. Like Mason, the sites were classified according to
their plan form, although inevitably according to slightly different criteria than those used
in the earlier research due to difference in site style in this more southerly region. Maggs
also reports similar problems associated with the use of aerial photographs, and describes
the additional complication of trying to view the images at a large enough scale to
facilitate meaningful analysis. The settlements are categorized into four primary ‘types’:
N, V, Z and R, which are then used as the framework for a series of excavations at a
sample of sites from each classified group.
Excavations were conducted based upon the site typology, and the results of each project
are presented and discussed. Settlement plans are displayed along with descriptions and
illustrations of the primary finds from each site, and photographs of some of the main
excavated features. An attempt is then made to correlate the archaeological data with a
review of the historical background of the area, with the aim of correlating historical
identities with the sites. In doing so, Maggs reveals an awareness of the role of history in
assigning identities to settlement types, but does not really embrace history as a process,
a motive.
Maggs concludes that more detailed archaeological investigation is required before
meaningful cultural interpretations can be achieved. In this sense the initial objectives of
the project may be seen as somewhat over-ambitious, although an observable success of

6
the work was to create a framework within which some of the future research could take
place.
Both Mason and Maggs were concerned primarily with relating their site typologies to
historical identities, but their work was undertaken in a phase of Iron Age research during
which the emphasis was on description and classification, based on intuition, or ‘common
sense’. Although the detail and variability of the archaeology was being explored on a
certain level, ethnographic data was used in a piecemeal and selective fashion, in relation
to specific features or finds. Consequently, the settlements were classified according only
to their physical characteristics, and interpreted in functionalist terms, rather than with
the deeper understanding of historical identity that might have been possible through the
wider application of ethnographic analogy.
Normative Model
In stark contrast, ethnography formed the very framework for most research during the
1980s, at the expense of any historical component that had previously been incorporated.
Structuralist approaches to understanding Iron Age settlement organization and spatial
dynamics began to be asserted via the application of ethnographically derived normative
models. Huffman (1986) argued that an understanding of prehistoric ideology was not
only an achievable objective, but was in fact essential if we were to gain any
understanding of Iron Age ways of life.
Huffman advocated the application of normative models to the study of prehistoric
cognition. Patterns of organisational behaviour that were not only applicable to specific
examples, but which were operating at a grand enough scale to subsume smaller scale
variations. His approach was based on this underlying principle:
The internal arrangement of a settlement reflects
sociocultural organization because space is a cultural
variable: its use is the result of a worldview, and
people with the same worldview organize their
settlements according to the same set of principles
(Huffman 1986: 89).
The premise for this cognitive approach to Iron Age archaeology was an ethnographic
model developed by Kuper (1982) identifying certain aspects of worldview, shared by
both Nguni and Sotho-Tswana speaking communities, that seemed to influence and
characterize physical aspects of their settlement designs. By identifying similarities
between the settlement organization of the recent communities of the ethnographic
present and those of the archaeological record, Huffman suggests that corresponding
similarities would also have existed in their ideology and worldview.
In his 1986 paper, Huffman argues for the theoretical validity of applying modern and
recent ethnography to the past, and suggests that normative models are not only valuable
for understanding ideological aspects of the Iron Age, but also for recognizing long term
evolution and change in the world view of those societies. As an example, he refers to
our understanding of the evolution from the Central Cattle Pattern to the Zimbabwe
Culture Pattern, in which it is possible to identify the rearrangement of the same
principles in a different physical expression. This would not have been recognized

7
without the application of large-scale normative models through which to compare and
explore the appearance of different settlement patterns in the archaeological record.
Huffman’s ideas, and his application of the Central Cattle Pattern, provoked considerable
criticism. Lane (1994/95) expresses some of the commonly held arguments against
Huffman’s approach, and casts doubt over the validity of applying ethnographic models
to the archaeology. He recognizes that there are different kinds of ethnographic analogy,
with variable strength or viability in their application, and draws a distinction between
‘formal analogy’ and ‘relational analogy’.
While formal analogies “…rely principally on the assumption that similarities in the
shape and appearance of source and subject imply the existence of other, non-material
similarities between them” (51), a relational analogy has the additional strength of an
established relevance between the source (ethnographic data) and subject (archaeological
record), based on some demonstrated cultural or historical continuity, or shared
technological constraints between them.
An example of the importance of incorporating ethnographic data when interpreting the
African Iron Age archaeological record has been demonstrated by archaeologists who
have misinterpreted their data, like Mason (1986:241) in his discussion of an excavated
hut floor on the Middle Iron Age site 29/72 at Olifantspoort. By employing a purely
‘common sense’ approach to interpretation devoid of ethnographic analogy, he
misinterpreted some of the interior features of the hut, and consequently misunderstood
the whole orientation of the structure, including the position of the hut entrance.
Indeed, Lane acknowledges that the African archaeological context offers a degree of
cultural, historical and environmental continuity between source and subject that enables
the application of a ‘direct historical approach’ to ethnographic analogy. However, his
main criticisms are of what he perceives to be a synchronic perspective, demonstrating a
lack of consideration for the historical context and processes operating within the
community that are not implicit in the ethnographic data alone.
In terms of the Central Cattle Pattern, Lane criticizes the inability of the model to explain
variation in settlement pattern and life ways between individual communities. His
skepticism deepens as the span of time between the source and subject increases, and he
expresses considerable doubt over the validity of applying an ethnographic model like the
Central Cattle Pattern to the Early Iron Age. He concludes by suggesting that to accept
the validity of applying an ethnographic model to a group of people for 2000 years is to
assert that such communities were ‘conservative’ and unable to evolve without external
stimulus, thereby encouraging a negative perception of Iron Age societies.
It is useful at this point to discuss Huffman’s 2001 paper, which responds to many of
Lane’s criticisms. It begins with a new explanation of the Central Cattle Pattern, how it
was derived, and why it is valid as a normative spatial model. One of the basic premises
is the assumption that, although one worldview could lead to more than one type of
settlement pattern, the reverse is unlikely to be true. That is, two different worldviews
would be unlikely to create the same complex spatial organization. Consequently, in the
absence of another more convincing model, we can assume that a particular spatial
settlement style can be used to recognize holders of a particular corresponding
worldview.

8
The Central Cattle Pattern is derived from Eastern Bantu speakers, including Nguni and
Sotho-Tswana. This inclusion illustrates that the model is not restricted to a particular
identity group, or to environmental factors, but at a general level it can encompass such
smaller-scale variations. With mainstream archaeological thought having been focused
on the application of such normative models in recent years, it is possible to see how the
significance of detail and variability has been downplayed over the last decade of Iron
Age research.
Huffman then goes on to justify his application of a model derived from ethnographic
data to an archaeological context, emphasizing that the Central Cattle Pattern is applied
using a direct historical approach, and not formal analogy. The formation of the model
begins by confirming a close relationship between ethnographic data and archaeological
material of similar date. Then when a model has been derived by exploring relationships
between these two sets of data, it is applied back in time to earlier archaeological
remains. The paper then illustrates the application of the Central Cattle Pattern to specific
archaeological examples, notably the sites of Kgaswe in Botswana, Broederstroom and
KwaGandaganda, the latter two of which suggest the successful application of the model
to Eastern Bantu speaking communities as far back as the 5th
to 7th
centuries.
Huffman emphasizes the fact that the Central Cattle Pattern is an ahistorical normative
model, operating on a scale general enough to incorporate regional, cultural and
environmental variations without having to explain them. Many critics of the model seem
to have failed to grasp this, and Huffman suggests that “...to challenge this model
successfully, critics must propose an alternative that interprets the data better at the same
scale of abstraction. At the normative scale, the evidence for the Central Cattle Pattern …
is overwhelming” (31).
Between 1981 and 1983, the work of Pistorius (1992) at the large stone-walled site on the
farm Selonskraal in North-West Province, referred to as Molokwane in the oral records
and praise poetry, provided a detailed example of how ethnographic models like the
Central Cattle Pattern could be used to explain the spatial and social organization of a
Late Iron Age Sotho-Tswana ‘megasite’.
The research was “…aimed at proving that the site’s settlement style is representative of
the settlement system of historical and contemporary Sotho-Tswana villages (metse) in its
ground plan, composition and settlement layout” (1), focusing on the settlement as a
whole via analysis of aerial photography, and on a single settlement unit (kgôrô) through
archaeological excavation of an individual component (SEL1).
Following a description of the geographical and environmental context of Molokwane,
and another large site, Boitsémaganô on the farm Shylock to the north of Selonskraal, an
account of the oral-historical records and genealogies concludes that both sites were
occupied by Bakwena Bamodimosana.
In particular, Molokwane was inhabited by the Bakwena Bamodimosana Bammatau
under Sekano from the early 18th
century until the difiqane in around 1826, by which
time Kgaswane had become chief.
Pistorius emphasises the distinction between ‘macro’ settlement features, referring to the
layout of the settlement as a whole, and the ‘micro’ scale, which focuses on the numerous
individual units from which the settlement is composed. Referring to previous Iron Age
settlement studies, he suggests that the plan form of Molokwane correlates most closely

9
with the classes 6, 7 and 9 identified by Mason (1986) in the area north of the Vaal River,
and with the ‘Type Z’ distinguished by Maggs (1976) in the Free State region further
south.
On the macro level, Pistorius draws attention to the formation of three distinct clusters,
referred to as Zones A, B and C, arranged linearly north to south roughly parallel to the
course of the Selons River to the west. Zone A in the centre is interpreted as the high
status zone, in light of its central position on slightly elevated ground, the comparative
density and complexity of the stone walling, and the large size of the enclosures here.
This interpretation was based on the perceived link between the quantity of cattle, wealth,
status and settlement size, and supported by ethnographic data from historical Sotho-
Tswana settlements indicating that the central area was home to the ruling lineage of the
settlement.
The micro settlement style was explored by planning and excavating SEL1, one of the
individual settlement units interpreted and described ethnographically as dikgôrô. Three
main spatial components are identified, “…an outer scalloped circumference wall
containing dwellings or malapa; inner or centrally located kraal complexes and an
intervening space between these two features” (73). Excavations were conducted in each
of these spatial units, revealing numerous hut floors (many with veranda foundations and
sliding door bases), paved platforms, stone piles and structural foundations attributed
with various agricultural functions (such as granary bases, pot stands, threshing floors,
etc), a range of artefactual evidence including tools of bone, iron and stone, ceramics,
ochre and clay figurines, faunal remains, and evidence for structural alterations of the
kgôrô revealed in traces of earlier boundaries in the kraal complex, stratigraphically
sealed by the standing walls.
The spatial, structural and artefactual data retrieved from the investigation of SEL1 is
analysed and interpreted in relation to ethnographic evidence. Indeed, Pistorius’ detailed
synthesis of ethnographic sources relating to Sotho-Tswana settlement organization and
Fig 2. Oblique aerial photograph of the central portion of Molokwane.

10
function is a valuable element of this publication. Data relating to settlements of
Bakgatla, Bangwato, Bakwena, Ntšhabaleng, Bapedi and Batlôkwa are explored, along
with schematic representations of the way social systems are expressed spatially within
these settlements, “…in accordance with recommendations that as many analogies as
possible must be considered for comparison with archaeological data” (50).
From the basis of the ethnography, Pistorius identifies enclosures for formal and informal
meetings, the private court (kgotla), and enclosures for managing cattle and smaller
stock. His ethnographic summary reminds us that this area was the activity space and
conceptual domain of men. The head male members of senior lineages were buried
within central enclosures, private and public meetings among men (both informal and
judicial) were held here, and only men were directly involved with the management of
cattle. Women, on the other hand, were physically and conceptually attached to the
domestic realm, spatially structured around the perimeter of the settlement, and
associated with agricultural activities.
The gender binary nature of Sotho-Tswana settlement units described in cognitive
ethnographic models appears to be supported by the archaeological evidence from SEL1,
in that the inner area of the settlement, including the central kraal complex, is
Fig 3. The author examines the stone walling at Molokwane.

11
characterized by artefacts associated with male use, like bone tools and soapstone pipe.
By contrast, the perimeter zone is dominated by domestic and agricultural features and
artefacts, including hearths, threshing floors, grindstones, mortars and pestles, and
structures associated with grain storage.
It might be concluded therefore, that the project successfully achieved what it set out to
accomplish. The historical evidence points quite securely to the occupation of
Selonskraal by the Bakwena Bamodimosana Bammatau, and archaeological investigation
has demonstrated convincing parallels between the spatial organization of macro and
micro elements of Molokwane, and the organization and social structure of historic
settlements occupied by Sotho-Tswana groups as revealed in ethnographic studies. It
would be difficult to dispute the fact that the Central Cattle Pattern, as a cognitive model
explaining spatial organization on a normative scale, is comfortably applicable to
Molokwane. This work however, was still essentially ahistoric.
Hall (1995) in his review of Pistorius (1992) agrees that, “In the face of Pistorius’ aims, I
find little about this work which can be faulted” (88). But Molokwane is an historic site,
tightly identified in the oral and historical records as a Tswana settlement, and the
Tswana ethnographic data base with which Pistorius is working is also historical.
Essentially then, he is comparing the ‘ethnographic present’ with the ‘ethnographic
present’, and as Hall points out, “Given the unassailable tie between Molokwane and its
Kwena occupants, Pistorius’ general aim becomes somewhat spurious” (88).
Pistorius’ early work at Molokwane was undertaken at a time when there was high
enthusiasm for demonstrating the application of the Central Cattle Pattern to Iron Age
sites, as it was then a relatively recent development in southern African Iron Age
archaeology. By the time the work was published in 1992 however, new streams of
archaeological enquiry were already emerging, and structuralist approaches were coming
under criticism for their subsumption of local variation and a tendency to be ahistoric.
Detail and Variability
This lack of attention to “…smaller scale variability and specific historical
circumstance…” and the way in which these two factors relate to one another, is
criticized by Hall (1995:88). He goes on to suggest a need to place more emphasis on the
reasons behind the large size and population densities of ‘megasites’ like Molokwane, as
opposed to the treatment of this characteristic as “…some inherent ethnographic principle
whereby growth is axiomatic” (88). Hall perceives a need to focus once again on the
detail and variability within and between sites, as initiated by Mason (1968, 1986) and
Maggs (1976), but within an established framework of specific historical context.
Accordingly, a number of Iron Age archaeologists have started to look ‘through’ the
normative model, and towards the smaller-scale exploration of the variability and detail
that the Central Cattle Pattern is not designed to explain. Hall (1998) examines the
dynamics of gender relations operating within Sotho-Tswana domestic households of the
western Highveld, and how changes in these relations may be observed from the
archaeological record during the Late Iron Age.
In particular, Hall explores the tight link between pottery, the social processes translated
through pottery, and the spatial settings of transaction. Such an approach asks radically
different questions to those posed by previous ceramic studies, which have traditionally

12
concentrated on identifying broad regional patterns and classification of styles to trace
population movements.
Hall’s study focuses on the Tswana house, which has hitherto been somewhat neglected
by archaeologists influenced in one way or another by structuralist models such as the
Central Cattle Pattern, which does not deal with detail on such an intimate scale.
The house is described as the main setting for interaction between men and women, and
in the earlier LIA (early 14th
century to mid 17th
century) the archaeological evidence
reveals hut floors that are full of material culture, such as pottery and items associated
with food production and consumption, the ‘ritual’ apse at the rear, and features like
sunken wooden mortars in the hut floor and pot dimples. A left-right female-male spatial
division within the hut is advocated, and Hall suggests that this arrangement facilitated
the mediation of interaction between men and women across gender boundaries. These
boundaries were tightly controlled and “compressed” within the confines of the hut.
In this earlier period, the arrangement of space within settlements does not seem to have
been as “architecturally segmented” as in later periods, when we see the introduction of
stone walling. Consequently, in the earlier phases there seem to have been fewer physical
divisions to control the interaction across gender boundaries, which Hall suggests
resulted in “…a greater role for the mediation of boundaries through mobile symbols,
particularly pottery” (242).
By comparison, the settlements of the later LIA (18th
century onward) are characterized
by stone walling that formally and physically organized space and controlled boundaries.
Fig 4. A Tswana house, painted by Charles Bell in 1834.

13
Inside the house, the organization of space has undergone significant changes. There
ceases to be such a high density and variability of material culture, suggesting that the
huts were now used primarily for sleeping.
The preparation and consumption of food now occurs outside the hut, where different
activities are carried out in “…functionally discrete spaces that are conceptually and
physically separated” (344). Hall suggests that this spatial separation has served to isolate
women, as they are associated with work involving the preparation of food in spaces that
are now physically confined. With interaction between men and women across gender
boundaries now physically controlled, it would follow that there was a reduced need for
regulation of interaction via other means of communication, such as pottery.
To test this theory, Hall conducted an analysis of all previously published collections of
Iron Age ceramics, and by applying a multivariate system of classification (combining
profile with decorative position of the ceramic to create multivariate classes) he was able
to demonstrate that the pottery associated with the earlier LIA huts had a significantly
higher frequency of decoration and greater stylistic variability than the pots of the later
LIA, which were comparatively stylistically bland.
These results suggest that there was a greater need to regulate interaction between men
and women through mobile forms of communication (ceramics) in the earlier LIA, when
the interface between genders was not physically controlled, but occurred within the
confines of the house. During this time, the pottery produced was varied in form and
style, with high incidences of decoration, and considerable variation within that
decoration, which may have been used to communicate across boundaries.
By contrast, in the later LIA we see the introduction of stone walling to physically
segregate different spatial arenas within the settlement, and as a consequence the
interface between men and women becomes more formally separated. This architectural
control of the gender boundaries leads to a reduced need for other means of regulation,
and consequently the ceramics become plain, uniform, and it is suggested, endowed with
less symbolic meaning.
It is possible, of course, that settlements from the early Moloko sequence also utilized
some form of architectural control, but with organic materials now rendered invisible
through post-depositional processes. It is also possible that the trend towards stylistically
bland ceramics reflects other socio-economic trends, such as an increased scale of
production, or a down-playing of the expression of individual identities as towns grew
and their populations became more mixed. A growing emphasis on agriculture and its
additional demands on the women may have left them with less time to invest in
producing elaborate ceramics. But Hall’s attempt to move away from structuralist models
and back towards the archaeological detail is a refreshing development.
Lane (1998) also seeks to interpret settlement space, particularly relating to gender
divisions, within the normative scale of the Central Cattle Pattern. He argues that such
normative models rely too heavily on “dominant representations of social reality” without
accounting for the variations within that reality, or over time. He suggests that individuals
within the same gender group, for example, may have completely different views of the
world, and of space and material culture, depending on their age, and social/political
status, and that the status or identity of individuals also changes through time. By
contrast, models like the Central Cattle Pattern seem to assume that the experience for a

14
gender group was the same for all members all the time, without taking this kind of
variability into account.
Like Hall (1998), Lane directs attention to the house. He describes them as the “atoms”
of the Tswana world, which are built and occupied by women. Being effectively the
centres for procreation, and therefore survival of the lineage, great importance is attached
to the house, and to women’s bodies within them, as “…the source of both practical and
symbolic sustenance” (188).
Lane continues with his association between the woman’s body and the house by
suggesting that “just as the actions of women’s bodies within houses invested these
spaces with meaning, so houses could also stand as metaphors for women’s bodies…”
(188). He then extends this metaphor to the physical world by suggesting that some of the
house layouts resemble female reproductive anatomy in plan, indicating conceptual links
between sex, childbirth, houses and women’s bodies.
This is then extended further by pointing to physical similarities between the layout of
whole settlements and female genitalia, and suggests that the nightly herding of cattle
into the central byres of the settlement is metaphorically representative of reproductive
conception.
Although it is generally accepted that the hut is conceptually related to the female body,
the application of this idea to the whole settlement plan seems somewhat speculative,
especially in light of the lack of direct ethnographic data to support it. Lane bases his
interpretation on aspects of the ethnography that indirectly point to a possible link
between female physical bodies, procreation, and settlement plan form, although he
concedes that there is certainly no explicit indication of this in either ethnographic data or
historical documents. Lane’s interpretation in relation to the whole settlement seems
generally weak.
The point that Lane is making however, is that archaeologists need to move beyond the
dominance of normative models like the Central Cattle Pattern, and start to “…develop
interpretative frameworks that treat gender relations more as situational constructs than as
fixed categories, and in ways that allow for as much consideration of the variations
within social categories as between them” (201), an approach that might also benefit
research into other elements of space and material culture in the Iron Age.
Summary
Perhaps the most significant development in the evolution of theoretical frameworks in
Iron Age archaeology has been the change from the earlier focus on functionalist
description and interpretation, aimed at locating and classifying Iron Age settlements and
aspects of material culture, to the pursuit of ideological enquiry, incorporating
ethnographic data in an attempt to understand cognitive aspects of pre-colonial societies.
Although this new approach has been dominated by the debate over the application of a
structuralist model, the move towards directing research beyond simple description and
classification must be considered a positive step.
There can not be any serious doubt about the existence of the Central Cattle Pattern as a
normative model. It has been demonstrated repeatedly on a variety of Iron Age sites, and

15
although we should approach it more cautiously with respect to the earlier Iron Age it can
be accepted, within its own limitations, as a valid model. As previously discussed,
ethnography is a valid, if not essential, source of data for an analysis of Late Iron Age
Sotho-Tswana settlements. But the ethnographic present is observed only at the end of a
diachronic sequence of site development, and is in fact characterized by the large
amalgamated settlements that represent the climax of this process. Attention needs to be
directed to the sequence itself, if any insight is to be gained into the origins of the
settlement forms of the early 19th
century.
Normative models are only designed to examine behaviour at a very general level, and
the more recent move towards investigating the detail and variation encompassed within
the Central Cattle Pattern marks the beginnings of research in these new directions.
Although an ethnographic base is still critical, the general attitude emerging towards
normative models might be summarized in the question “why keep confirming the
obvious?” which creates something of a contrast to Lane’s (1998) evident objection to the
very principles of the Central Cattle Pattern, which seems to have led him to attempt a
completely different way of looking at settlement organization that lacks credibility.
It would seem though, that most of this new research, and definitely the work of Hall
(1998) and Lane (1998) discussed here, has adopted a qualitative approach to analyzing
archaeological data. Hall’s ceramic analysis using a multivariate system served to
introduce a semi-quantitative element to his research, but overall little quantitative
analysis has been incorporated. The work carried out by Fuggle (1971) on the
environmental influences affecting the location of settlements in the Lesotho mountains
might be considered a useful demonstration of the application of quantitative data to
address detail and variability.
For stone-walled settlements of the western Highveld, there is a need to collect new
archaeological, ecological and historical data relating to Late Iron Age Sotho-Tswana
sites, in an attempt to explore them as unique responses to their individual contexts.
Referring to the settlement at Vlakfontein, the most northerly of the Tswana megasites
that we now know as Marothodi, Mason (1986) suggested that it was located too far
north to take advantage of the southerly grassland. It “…must therefore represent
specialized exploitation of the grazing prospects in adjacent savanna environments” (57).
Indeed, the exceptional environmental and geographical context of this site warranted
detailed investigation of the economic dynamics that sustained such a significant
population, and how the site related to the regional economic system. The current
research is beginning to offer some insight into these issues, and might be considered a
first step towards an understanding of Tswana settlement organization as a unique
reaction to specific circumstances, rather than a generic ethnographic norm.

16
Chapter Two: Marothodi
On the farm Vlakfontein 207JP, about 20km south-west from the Pilanesberg volcanic
complex, Revil Mason identified the remains of a huge, sprawling stone walled settlement
as he flew over the area in a helicopter. One of the photographs he took from the aircraft
appeared in his 1986 volume, Origins of Black People of Johannesburg and the South
Western Transvaal AD350-1880, in which he noted that “…Vlakfontein has the largest
cattle enclosures registered in the Transvaal…” and indeed, “…some of the largest cattle
enclosures known in the African Iron Age” (Mason 1986, Boeyens forthcoming).
Colossal ‘megasites’, like the one on Vlakfontein that we now know as Marothodi, were
not unheard of in this region. Others had been identified and explored, including
Molokwane, Boitsemagano and Olifantspoort further south, and Kaditshwene over to the
west. Hundreds of smaller stone walled sites had also been recorded, scattered across the
entire region. But it is the scale of the megasites that makes them distinctive, and the fact
that they all occurred within the environmental zone known as the Bankenveld, which runs
in a ribbon from east to west for about 200km across this northerly region of South Africa.
The Bankenveld offered a unique environmental context, providing access to grassveld to
the south, and savannah to the north. Such ecological variety may have been essential to
sustain such large populations (Mason 1986).
Historical Background
Because the megasites were home to an entire ‘tribe’, with the Chief himself in residence,
it is possible to identify these settlements in the oral histories of the communities who
lived in this area. Most oral records are primarily accounts of royal successions, population
Fig 5. Oblique aerial photograph of Marothodi, on the farm Vlakfontein 207JP.

Field Manual: Marothodi
17
movements and shifts in political power, which is why smaller settlements without royal
lineage are seldom mentioned. But oral histories relating to communities in this area
recorded by Breutz (1953) and Ellenberger (1939) indicate that the megasites were home
to Tswana-speaking people, an identity that was initially asserted by some early European
visitors to the settlements, and which has since been confirmed by ethnographic
comparison and archaeological research.
More specifically, recent historical research by Jan Boeyens has revealed that Marothodi
was home to a Batlokwa lineage under the Chief Bogatsu, who ruled here from about 1810
until 1815 when he was succeeded by his son, Kgosi. Marothodi was abandoned in about
1820-23, and the Batlokwa moved northward into present-day Botswana (Boeyens
forthcoming). It is said that a Batlokwa contingent returned briefly to Marothodi some
years later in the late 1820’s, but by this time the heyday of the town had passed and the
re-occupation was brief. The Batlokwa of Marothodi eventually settled in Botswana under
the Chief Gaborone, after whom the modern capital is named.
Although Tswana-speakers have come to be identified with ‘town living’ in settlements
like Marothodi, they did not always live in such large centres of population. Originally,
individual family units lived in separate ‘homesteads’ or small villages, which were
physically dispersed across the landscape. It seems to have been as late as the 18th
century
when a process of aggregation began, during which the hitherto segregated homesteads
converged to form large combined settlements, with the royal family at the centre.
But what was the driving force behind such a dramatic change? The oral records and
historical syntheses of this period suggest that this was a time of conflict and friction
among the different tribes and lineages occupying the region. It has been suggested that
earlier high levels of rainfall, and the subsequent increase in agricultural productivity, led
to an expansion of population which, combined with the environmental restrictions that
Fig 6. Tswana town life: Serowe in 1934, Botswana.

18
limited demographic dispersal, may have contributed to heightened tensions over
environmental resources and livestock acquisition. Both of these factors were closely
related to the maintenance of economic and political power, and the resources of the
Bankenveld zone may have become fiercely contested (Manson 1995, Parsons 1995). The
tension seems likely to have been further aggravated by the development of trading
opportunities with the Delagoa Bay depot on the east coast which gave rise to increased
competition over trading commodities, in addition to the expansion of colonial interests
from the south.
Consequently, it would seem that the
region was already a cauldron of
turbulence and hostility by the time
Mzilikazi led his Ndebele through
the area in the 1820’s, in a wave of
warfare known as the Difaqane. This
caused the final destruction and
abandonment of many Tswana
settlements (Lye & Murray 1980)
and it is usually their deserted and
burnt remains that survive today in
the archaeological record.
But despite the atmosphere of
aggression among competing groups, there seems to have been little attempt to endow the
Tswana megasites with the capability of physical defence. There are no traces of defensive
earthworks or structures, and little use has been made of strategically advantageous
topography in the location or arrangement of the settlements. Marothodi itself is situated
on a relatively low-lying flat expanse of land, and can be overlooked or approached from
any direction.
Therefore, the process of aggregation and the accompanying political centralisation, rather
than being geared towards physical defence, may have been an attempt to gain a tighter
control over the economic resources of the lineage, in terms of personnel, commodities and
the organization of production. The character of this organization at Marothodi, and the
nature of the response of the Batlokwa to the pressures of their historical context, are some
of the issues we are exploring with the current research.
The Site
The systematic exploration of Marothodi began in 2002, with the production of a map of
the settlement. This was created from an analysis of enlarged vertical aerial photographs of
the site, parts of which were elaborated by ground survey in order to capture additional
detail.
Looking at the site map in Figure 8, you will see that the settlement is composed of
numerous individual flower-shaped ‘clusters’. Each cluster is a separate ‘homestead’,
occupied by a single extended family. We call them ‘Settlement Units’ and each one has
been numbered to aid clarity during the research.
You will notice two Settlement Units that are larger than the rest, located in the centre of
the site. These were the homesteads of the high status families, SU1 on the left and SU2
Fig 7. Tswana (left) vs Ndebele (right), both formidable
warriors.

19
0100m
Fig8.MapofMarothodicentralzone.

20
Fig9.MapofSettlementUnitOne,theKgosingofMarothodi

21
Fig10.SettlementUnitTwo,the‘Junior’KgosingofMarothodi

22
on the right. Look at the larger scale maps of these two homesteads, and you will see that it
has been possible to record a great deal of data without excavating. Traces of a wide
variety of features and collapsed structures are visible on the ground surface, and because
most Settlement Units follow a similar pattern in terms of spatial arrangement, we can
quickly become familiar with their general layout and orientation.
A typical Tswana homestead is composed of one or more sub-circular enclosures,
surrounded by linked semi-circular courtyards, or malapa (pl). Cattle were kept in the
central enclosures, but some also served as meeting places for the men of the homestead.
The malapa were domestic spaces, the living quarters where people slept and prepared
food. Each lelapa (sing.) usually contained at least one dominant ‘sleeping hut’,
represented archaeologically on the ground surface as a low, circular mound of reddish
brown. The hut mound is frequently located between the ends of the lelapa walls, and in
many cases it is possible to detect an elliptical formation of standing stones extending like
an apron from the mound, the surviving foundations of what was once the front veranda of
the hut.
Similar arrangements of standing stones can be seen in all Settlement Units, in practically
every lelapa. Some are completely circular, and represent the foundations of some other
kind of domestic structure, such as a ‘kitchen’ hut or threshing floor. As you walk around,
look out for lower grindstones imbedded in the earth, shaped like stone bird baths where
they have been worn down through hours of use. If you are lucky, you might spot the
slightly more elusive upper grindstone, a smooth rounded rock about the size of a cricket
ball, once grasped in the hands of a Tlokwa woman and now left forgotten somewhere in
the courtyard.
Fig 11. Hut floor with front veranda foundation stones at Marothodi, with unexcavated ‘hut mound’ in the
background.

23
Scatters of pottery on the ground surface will be
seen frequently, along with pieces of slag and
other indications of metallurgical activity, even
iron tools themselves. Remember though, any
significant loose artefacts should be left
undisturbed until reported to a Project Officer.
In 2003, a number of preliminary excavations
were carried out at carefully selected parts of the
site. Settlement Unit 25 was a prime target, not
only because of its distinctive spatial characteristics, but also due to the high concentration
of metallurgical evidence visible on the ground. Two hut mounds were excavated down to
their intact floors, and trenches were put into some of the domestic middens. Along with
the rich quantities of domestic material we retrieved, clues started to emerge about the
economic focus and organization of
this particular homestead. Dozens of
pieces of smelting slag turned up
from the midden, along with actual
pieces of furnace lining, and many of
the faunal remains showed signs of
reuse as scraping and piercing tools,
probably for hide work. The highlight
of this homestead was the cluster of
copper smelting furnaces discovered
behind one of the domestic
courtyards. Upon excavation, it was
revealed that the furnaces were re-
lined numerous times, indicating that
these furnaces had been used for more
than one smelt.
Outside another homestead away to the south-west, a different kind of furnace was
excavated, one that had been used for the smelting of iron. The attempt made to veil this
structure, demonstrated by the enveloping foundations of a circular screen, supported our
expectation that the process of iron smelting was a fiercely protected secret, shrouded in
mystery.
The visiting team from UNISA complemented our
initiatives by almost completely excavating an entire
domestic courtyard located in the highest status area of
Marothodi. This lelapa is a strong contender for being
identified as the household of the Chief’s senior wife,
a woman of great importance in the community. Just
before they finished last season, a tantalizing glimpse
of an unexpected structure had begun to emerge, which
will be revealed this year.
Fig 12. Lower grindstone at Marothodi.
Fig 13. Settlement Unit 25
Fig 14. Copper smelting furnace in SU25.

24
Chapter Three: Archaeological Surveying
The twin purpose of archaeological surveying is usually to create a detailed graphical
record of features, monuments or settlements, and to integrate this spatial data with known
‘real’ space, like the Ordnance Survey Grid, or other such recognised geographical system.
Producing a scale map or plan of an archaeological site in the field is all about measuring
distances, measuring angles, and calculating the relationship between the two. Some of the
surveying methods still in use today have changed little in principle over countless
generations. Other methods use such cutting edge technology that even the Archaeologists
of today struggle to keep abreast of the latest developments.
In this chapter we will discuss the basic principles of archaeological surveying, and
demonstrate the use of both modern applications and the more traditional survey methods
commonly used on archaeological projects.
Setting out a grid.
Before excavation begins, it is necessary to establish a framework on and around the site,
so that the spatial relationships between archaeological features or excavated areas can be
accurately recorded. This is usually done by creating a grid, commonly of 5 or 10 metre
squares, either across the whole archaeological site, or over an area selected for
excavation. Within the grid the position of all features, finds or working areas can be
recorded in relation to the grid co-ordinates, and the location of the grid itself can be
established in relation to features in the wider world, such as survey beacons or permanent
buildings.
Laying out a site grid is usually one of the first surveying tasks a new Archaeologist will
have to undertake, and it is a good way to become familiar with the basic principles of site
survey. As you might expect, the procedure is based on establishing straight lines,
measuring distances, and ascertaining right angles. The first step will be to establish a
datum point – a point on the ground that is going to form the origin of your grid. Then
extend a straight line of string from your datum point across the site, either along one edge
of it or through the middle, depending on which directions your grid will need to grow in.
This is going to be your grid datum line, so set up a measuring tape along it, close to the
string. The rest of the grid is created from this line simply by extending new regularly
spaced lines from it at 90o
.
Right Angles
Establishing right angles for this purpose can be achieved quite accurately using only
measuring tapes and principles of triangulation, particularly Pythagoras’ theorem. This
method is commonly called the ‘3-4-5 triangle’, and is used to establish a true right angle.
Theoretically, if the hypotenuse of a right-angled triangle is 5m long, then the lengths of
the other two sides must be 3m and 4m. If you can create a triangle on the ground with
these dimensions, one of its corners must have an angle of 90o
.

Field Manual: Archaeological Surveying
25
So, let’s assume we want to establish a
90o
angle to extend a new grid line from
our datum line. Select a suitable point
along the datum line, say at the 10m mark.
Use a surveyor’s arrow or 9 inch nail to
secure the zero end of another measuring
tape at this point. Extend this tape
perpendicularly from the datum line to a
length just over 4m.
Secure the zero end of another tape to a
point on the datum line 3m away from the
first point (at either 7m or 13m in this
example). Extend this tape towards the far
end of the first tape, so forming a triangle. Bring the two ends of the tape together in your
hands.
The 3m side of the triangle has already been established along the datum line. Ensuring
that the tapes are taut and level, you need to adjust the position of the apex in your hands
until the tapes intersect at the 4m mark on the first tape, and the 5m mark on the second
tape (the hypotenuse). When you have established this position, mark the point of the
intersection on the ground with a surveyor’s arrow or nail, using a plumb bob if necessary.
This point should be at exactly 90o
from your original point along the datum line. The line
can now be extended in that direction, using ranging poles.
Right angles can also be established in this way using larger triangles, which make it easier
to construct a grid containing squares with 5m or 10m sides. The triangle length
combinations of 5-12-13, 8-15-17, and 20-21-29 can be used for this purpose. When you
have established a square using this method, always check its accuracy by ensuring both
diagonal measurements are the same, and are the appropriate length.
Fig 15. Using the ‘3-4-5’ triangle method to establish a
right angle.
Fig 16. Using triangulation to set out a row of 5m X 5m grid squares.

26
Using tapes and triangulation to establish a site grid is a sufficiently accurate method for
most purposes, and can be very convenient in certain circumstances on site. But even
greater accuracy and speed can be obtained by using more advanced surveying technology,
like EDM.
Electronic Distance Measuring
There are a number of different kinds of systems that use EDM technology, but the
principle is generally the same. The unit sends out a beam (usually infra-red) to a prism on
a pole, held on the point you wish to plot. The beam bounces back from the prism to the
unit, and by accounting for the speed of the beam and the time it took to make the journey,
the distance is calculated. The EDM actually takes several readings in quick succession,
and the average distance calculation is displayed on the
screen.
For the purposes of surveying, early types of EDM unit
were attached to a traditional theodolite (an instrument that
optically measures distances and angles), thus increasing
the accuracy and speed of the survey. More commonly
these days, you are likely to encounter purpose-built
machines that combine a computerised theodolite with an
EDM unit in the same case, with some kind of telescopic
sight. This is usually called a Total Station, and has the
capability to send survey data directly to a personal
computer, eliminating the need to keep a written record of
the readings.
Total Stations made by different manufacturers will
operate slightly differently and have variable functions and capabilities, so each time a new
model is used in the field it will be necessary to learn how to operate it. However, the basic
principles will be the same for all
models, and it should not take long to
master the functions of an unfamiliar
machine.
Tasks like laying out a site grid are
very quick, accurate and easy with the
use of an EDM. The machine is set up
over the site datum point, and
levelled. The head can then be rotated
to any horizontal angle, but for the
purposes of laying out a grid you
would swivel it to 90o
, and lock it in
that position. A second person would
take the staff with the prism attached,
and whilst keeping it vertical, position
it on the telescopic line of sight as
viewed from the Total Station. When the staff is accurately positioned, a distance reading
is taken from the EDM, and the staff-holder is instructed to move backward or forward
until the required distance is reported by the EDM. When the correct point has been
established, a grid peg can be inserted.
Fig 17. Setting up the Total
Station over an established
site datum point – definitely
a two-person job!
Fig 18. Using a Total Station at Marothodi

Field Manual: Archaeological Surveying
27
The Total Station can also be used for mapping large features, like the stone walls of a
Marothodi homestead for example. In this case, the staff-holder would position the prism
at various points along the contour of the walling, while the EDM operator takes readings
and records the distances and angles of each point from the EDM. These readings can
either be reproduced to scale using traditional methods of scale rule, pencil and protractor,
or a plot can be generated automatically on a computer if the necessary software is
available.
This instrument can also be used for taking levels on archaeological features, and at
Marothodi we will be using it for this purpose instead of a ‘dumpy’ level.
The Plane Table
Although more of a ‘traditional’ method of surveying, the plane table is still used on many
sites, particularly for earthwork surveys. In the absence of electronic equipment it is one of
the most accurate and versatile surveying methods available, and for this reason we will
discuss it here briefly, although we will not be using this technique at Marothodi.
The instrument itself consists of a wooden drawing board screwed onto a tripod, and an
alidade. An alidade is an instrument that combines a sighting device with a flat edged
‘blade’. A sheet of drawing film is attached to the surface of the board, and the alidade
rests on top of this.
The plane table is set up over a datum point near the features to be mapped, and a spirit
level is used to ensure that the board is horizontal. A plumbing fork is then used to connect
the datum point on the ground with a point on the drawing film directly above. This point
Fig 19. Surveying with a plane table, using a telescopic alidade.

28
is then marked on the page. The alidade is sighted onto the feature you wish to plot,
making sure its edge is touching the datum point
on the paper, and the distance between the datum
point on the ground and the point you have sighted
is measured with a tape. Thus you now know the
distance and angle of the feature from the datum
point. The distance is scaled down and drawn on
the page using the straight edge of the alidade.
Some alidades are a bit more sophisticated and
have telescopic sights with stadia wires, enabling
the distances to be calculated by tacheometry.
Electronic alidades make use of an EDM system, which is particularly useful if the feature
is some distance away from the plane table and saves a great deal of time.
Fig 20. A plumbing fork is used to correlate
the position of the site datum point with a
point drawn on the board directly above it.
Fig 21. Using an alidade with EDM capabilities. The assistant is holding the prism.

Field Manual: Archaeological Recording – The Written Record
29
Chapter Four: Archaeological Recording – The Written Record
In this chapter we discuss some of the recording techniques commonly used by
Archaeologists as they strive to capture on paper all the physical and contextual data
contained by the archaeological remains on a site.
There is no getting away from the fact that excavation, regardless of how carefully
controlled or masterfully executed, is destructive. Once a feature or a site has been
excavated, it no longer exists. It is not possible to look again at the archaeology and ask
new questions of it, or approach it from alternative angles. It can only be excavated once,
which is why it is so important that, during the process of excavation, the Archaeologist
records as much information about each component of the site as possible. The project
archive – the collection of written, drawn, photographic and material data – is all that
future researchers will be able to refer to, and is the only remnant for humanity of that
particular component of our collective heritage. Excavation, without adequate recording
and subsequent publishing, is theft.
The Written Record
Traditionally, all archaeological descriptions, drawings, measurements and notes from an
excavation were collected by one person (usually the site director) in a single field
notebook. Even today, on certain kinds of projects, this might be a valid method for
recording retrieved data. Indeed, regardless of what other recording systems are used, it is
important for the director to maintain her own record of the excavation as it progresses,
and a notebook provides plenty of room for sketches and thoughts about daily
developments on site.
However, the use of standardized recording forms or cards is becoming increasingly
common on many excavations around the world, partly because of the sheer quantity and
complexity of data now recovered by modern archaeological research. A recording form
will have distinct fields for the different kinds of data required, minimizing the potential
for omissions, and reducing variability in the quality of recording among Archaeologists
with different levels of skill or experience. This point is particularly important on larger
excavations, on which many different individuals are likely to contribute to the project
archive. Similarly, on training excavations it is important that trainees play an active role
in recording data themselves, rather than simply exposing archaeological features and then
waiting for the designated record-keeper to come around and record them.
Different kinds of archaeological projects will use a variety of styles of record form,
depending on the nature of the archaeology encountered and the system of excavation
being used. However, there are certain data fields that will be common to most kinds of
form, usually relating to a unique record number, the provenience (three-dimensional
position) of the feature, it’s description, and an account of any associated artefacts or
notable inclusions.
Some projects will require individual record forms and plans to be created for each
separate archaeological ‘context’, the smallest archaeological components of a site. This is
called the Single-Context Recording System and was developed by the Museum of London
Archaeology Service in Britain, in response to the specific problems associated with
excavating and recording deeply stratified, spatially complex urban sites, such as are

30
usually encountered below the modern City of London. It is now used for many different
kinds of sites across the UK and Europe, and is becoming widely recognized as an efficient
method for collecting high quantities of data, in a way that accurately preserves the
physical and stratigraphic relationships between large numbers of individual
archaeological events.
The system is based on conceptually breaking the site down into its smallest stratigraphic
components, referred to as ‘contexts’. Each context is allocated its own unique number,
and a site record sheet is completed to describe it. Then a scale plan is drawn of that single
archaeological entity on its own sheet of drawing film, with its stratigraphic and physical
relationships to other contexts carefully recorded. In theory, it should be possible to lay a
multitude of single-context plans over one another in the correct sequence, and thereby ‘re-
create’ the stratigraphic and spatial sequence on paper.
For example, for the purposes of creating a phase plan, an archaeological feature like a
posthole would be treated as a single entity and drawn on a plan with other postholes that
seem to be related to it. But in the single-context system, the posthole would be sub-
divided into its smallest components: the ‘cut’ (the hole that was dug to accommodate the
post), the ‘post pipe’ (the remains of the post itself that was placed inside the cut), and the
‘fill’ (the packing material put around the post inside the hole to hold it in place). Each of
these three contexts would be given a unique number, its own record sheet, and would be
drawn separately on its own plan (sometimes ‘fills’ of postholes or pits are not planned
separately unless to do so would record information not captured on the plan of the cut). In
addition, the posthole would then be half-sectioned, and the three contexts would be
labelled on a section drawing of the feature.
Usually a stratigraphic matrix, often called a ‘Harris Matrix’, would be created for the
entire site sequence as it is being excavated and recorded, to graphically depict the
stratigraphic relationships between complex combinations of hundreds of contexts.
Looking similar to a family tree, the matrix is useful when it comes to piecing the site
sequence back together again on paper, and for identifying archaeological phases.
At Marothodi, the recording system revolves around the Feature Record Form, which is
designed to record recognized features as single entities. This is more appropriate for our
site than single-context recording because Marothodi represents a single phase of
occupation, and we are unlikely to encounter deep, complex stratigraphy. Plus, we are
more likely to stop excavating when the feature has been exposed satisfactorily, and it will
be recorded at this stage.
However, some features will require dissection by excavation if they have a complex
structure or hidden information that we need to record. Consequently, it may be necessary
to describe certain components of such features individually. Context Record Forms have
been designed for this purpose, and must be carefully cross-referenced to the ‘parent’
Feature Record Form with which they are associated. Contexts recorded individually in
this way will also need to be drawn on single-context plans (see below).
Completing the Feature Record Form
The Feature Record Form is designed to hold a summary record of a complete feature
being investigated, whether as complex as a ‘hut mound’, or simple like a stone granary
base. In the case of more complex features, and especially if the feature is being dissected

31
by excavation beyond the ‘exposure’ stage, the Feature Record Form can be supplemented
with Context Record Forms which capture individual components of a feature in more
detail. On all record forms, use black ink for text and sketch plans, and try to cultivate the
habit of writing in clear block capitals. This may feel awkward at first but you will soon
get used to it, and it makes the recorded information much easier to read and photocopy.
Beginning at the top left of the form, the Site Code is going to be the same for all features
and contexts this season, so it is already printed on the form. The code stands for
University of Cape Town / Marothodi 2004.
Fig 22. Example of a completed Feature Record Form.

32
The Area Code is the sub-division of the site in which you are working. For example, you
might be recording a feature inside a particular Settlement Unit, in which case the Area
Code would be ‘SU’ followed by the number of the settlement unit. If you are working in
the spaces between settlement units, your area will still be assigned a code of its own. If in
doubt, ask your supervisor what the code for your area is.
It is important to record the Feature Co-ordinates here, so that anyone analyzing the
record later on will know exactly whereabouts on the site your feature is situated. If you
imagine that the whole site or area is divided into 5m squares, the co-ordinates of the south
west corner of the 5m square within which your feature is situated should be recorded here.
The feature can be located more precisely by referring to the accompanying plan.
The Feature Number is the unique numerical reference for the feature. When you are about
to begin recording a new feature, you must go to the feature record index file, and fill in
the required details on the next available line. This line will be numbered, and that number
will be your unique feature number. For features, the number is pre-fixed by an ‘F’, to
distinguish it from a context number, which will be pre-fixed by a ‘C’.
In the Feature Type space, briefly mention whether you are dealing with a hut mound, or a
midden, or a furnace, etc. If you cannot identify your feature (and in some cases your
identification may be speculative) write ‘Undetermined’ here. You will have room to
discuss your thoughts below in the ‘Notes’ field.
The Describe Location field offers another quick reference to the position of your feature.
Here you might enter the number of a particular lelapa within your settlement unit, or
describe that the furnace is “approximately 25m to the south east of SU15”, for example.
Next, briefly describe the methods used to expose the feature, e.g. “troweling with light
brushing”, or “mattocking followed by trowel”, etc.
In the next field, indicate whether the feature was then dissected by excavation or not, by
deleting the appropriate square.
If the feature was dissected by excavation, use this field to list all the component context
record numbers generated during the process. This enables a quick cross-reference to the
relevant associated records.
Then briefly describe the method of excavation, “hand-pick, trowel” etc, in the appropriate
box.
The describe and discuss box is where you should provide a detailed description of the
feature, including details of its structure, the materials used, notable inclusions (e.g.
charcoal, daga fragments) its dimensions and it’s physical context. Is it in a domestic
space? What other features or artefacts are nearby? In this field you may also freely
discuss your thoughts about what function the feature may have performed, what
significance it may have, problems with recording or excavating, etc. You can continue
your discussion on the back of the form if you need more space.
In the space provided, draw a sketch plan of the feature. Sometimes it is easier to draw
your proper scale plan first, and then draw a copy here on the Feature Record Form. Other
times you will have to draw your sketch first. As the sketch will be ‘floating in space’ (not

33
visually tied up to the site grid) and not to scale, it is important to ensure that you add the
following features to your finished sketch:
Co-ordinates: Just mark a + or two on the sketch around the feature where you know
positions of certain co-ordinates. Then write the co-ordinates next to the +. These positions
are only rough, and act as a guide to orientating the sketch and locating the feature with
reference to the proper scale plan.
Dimensions: Draw arrows along the E-W and N-S edges of your sketched feature, and
indicate what these dimensions are in centimeters on the ground.
North: As with your scale plan, the top of the page should be the direction of site north.
But draw a north arrow on your sketch anyway to leave no room for doubt.
Levels: Indicate the positions of spot-heights on the sketched feature, using numbered
symbols. When you have taken the level readings, list them neatly on the sketch plan. They
should also be represented on your proper scale plan.
When you have added all these features, tick the relevant check-boxes on the form.
The next field is where you record all the artefacts and ecofacts (ceramics, metal objects,
bone, beads, etc) that were recovered in association with your feature, including the find
numbers of any ‘special finds’. Again, you can use the back of the form if you need more
space.
At the bottom left, indicate the scale plan number of your feature. This will usually be the
same as the feature number, but pre-fixed with a ‘P’. Entering the number here indicates
that the associated plan has been completed.
Similarly, the numbers of section drawings are pre-fixed with an ‘S’. If there is a section
drawing associated with your feature, enter the number here in the section number box.
All recorded features need to have official photographs taken with the site cameras, and
there is a photographic register that records all shots taken during the excavation. Whether
you are taking the photos yourself or someone else has, you should note the page in the
photo register on which the record appears, and write the page number in the photo log
page box. (You may, of course, also take your own photographs for your personal record.)
Write your name in the box provided, so we can locate you for supplementary information
or clarification.
Write the date on which the record was completed (not the dates on which the feature was
excavated).
When the form is completed, and all associated plans and sections are finished, put the
form in the ‘To Be Checked’ folder for Feature Record Forms. Your supervisor will check
it in due course, before passing it to the project director for the final check and storage in
the archive.

34
Completing the Context Record Form
If a particular feature needs to be subdivided into its component parts, for the purposes of
more detailed recording or to facilitate dissection by excavation, every component (or
‘context’) must be assigned a context number and a Context Record Form must be
completed for each one.
The first two boxes are the same as on the Feature Record Form, the site code and area
code.
The feature number box is where you record the number of the whole feature, of which
this context is a component. This is essential as a means of cross-referencing between the
two associated records. In the rare instance where an archaeological deposit is being
recorded as an individual context, but does not form part of a feature, its site co-ordinates
can be written here instead of a feature number.
The context number is generated in the same way as a feature number, by adopting the
next available number in the context register. Context numbers are always pre-fixed by a
‘C’.
The context type box is where you indicate whether the context is a cut (a ‘negative’
feature like a post-hole or a depression in a hut floor) or a deposit (a ‘positive’ feature like
a tread layer or furnace lining). Just tick the relevant box.
The context description field is designed to capture more detail than the equivalent field on
the Feature Record Form. Guidelines are printed on the form for the recording of cuts or
deposits, and information should be provided for each of the numbered headings. Where a
particular heading is not relevant, ‘N/A’ should be written.
For describing a cut:
1) Shape in plan. When viewed in plan, is the cut square, rounded, sub-circular,
amorphous, etc?
2) Depth. Measure the maximum depth of the cut.
3) Break in slope top. What is the relationship between the exterior ground surface,
and the inside wall of the cut? Is this angle sharp, rounded or shallow?
4) Sides. How regular are the inside walls of the cut, and what is the angle of slope?
5) Break in slope bottom. What is the relationship between the inside wall of the cut at
the bottom, and the base itself? Is this angle sharp, rounded or shallow?
6) Nature of base. What shape is the base? How regular is the surface? Is it flat or
rounded? Does it slope in a particular direction?
7) Truncations (cuttings). Has this context itself been cut by another event?
8) Fill numbers. What are the context numbers of the fill deposits within the cut?
9) Relationship to feature. How does this cut relate to its ‘parent’ feature? Is it a post-
hole in a hut floor, or a tuyere port in a furnace, etc?
10) Other comments. Add here any other information or thoughts about the context
not covered above.

35
Fig 23. Example of a completed Context Record Form.

36
For describing a deposit:
1) Compaction. When you crush a solid cube of the deposit between thumb and
forefinger, does it crumble without resistance (loose), with low pressure
(friable), with reasonable pressure (firm), or does it not break up (compact)?
2) Colour. Soil colour should be described with a ‘tone’ (light/mid/dark), a ‘hue’
(reddish/greyish/brownish, etc), and a ‘dominant colour’ (brown/grey/orange,
etc). So for example, the colour of collapsed daga on a hut mound might be
described as a “mid reddish brown”. Also be aware of colour variation within
the same context, and describe this range using the same format, e.g. “…ranges
from light greyish brown to mid brownish grey”.
3) Composition. This is where you describe what the deposit consists of. Usually,
it will be either a sand, clay or silt, or some combination of the three. There are
various methods used to ascertain the composition of a soil, and in the field
environment we can only hope to generate a reasonable estimate. The following
technique is usually helpful:
Gather a small amount of the deposit in your hand and dampen it with water.
Knead it until it is as plastic as possible, and roll it into a ball. Now try to make
it into a sausage, and then (if possible) make a loop out of the sausage. Now
refer to the flow chart below, and follow it by answering the questions about
your experiment. You should end up with a reasonably accurate description of
the deposit composition.
4) Inclusions. Inclusions are the materials visible in your soil that typically form
less than 10% by volume of the deposit you are recording (any substance that
forms more than 10% would be considered under heading 3, as part of the
deposit composition). Substances recorded here might include things like
charcoal fragments, flecks of bone or shell, stones or gravel, etc. For each
Fig 24. Flow chart for describing deposit composition.

37
identified inclusion, record whether it occurs in an ‘occasional’, ‘moderate’ or
‘frequent’ quantity.
5) Thickness and extent. Take some measurements of your deposit with a hand
tape, and record them here.
6) Excavation method and conditions. If the deposit is to be removed by
excavation, record the tools and techniques employed.
7) Relationship to feature. How does this context relate to the ‘parent’ feature?
E.g. is it a charred deposit on a hut floor, or a distinctive layer within a ‘court
midden’, etc?
8) Other comments. Add here any other information or thoughts about the context
not covered above.
At the base of the description box are two small fields in which you must indicate the
context numbers that are stratigraphically earlier and later than the context you are
recording. For example, if you were recording a post hole, the stratigraphically earlier
context might be the occupation layer into which the hole was cut, and the later context
would be either the remains of the post or the fill inside the post hole. The relevant context
numbers should be entered here. It is quite possible that your context may be above or
below a number of contexts from the same phase. If more space is needed to record their
numbers, write them on the back of the sheet with a clear indication of which data field
they relate to.
In a similar way to the Feature Record Sheet, there is a space for a sketch plan of your
context. Although you are drawing only a single discrete context here, the same
information is needed on the plan: co-ordinates, dimensions, north arrow and levels.
In the next field, record the artefacts and ecofacts associated with your context. The find
numbers of any ‘special finds’ should be recorded here also.
The remaining fields are the same as on the Feature Record Form. Indicate the numbers of
any plans or section drawings of your context, the relevant page number in the
photographic register, your name and the date, and then put the form in the ‘To Be
Checked’ folder for Context Recording Forms.

38
Chapter Five: Archaeological Recording – The Drawn Record
All archaeological features, and sometimes their
individual components where appropriate, need to be
measured and drawn to scale after they have been
accurately defined. Aside from section drawings, you
are likely to encounter three different types of plan on
archaeological excavations – the ‘top plan’, the ‘phase
plan’ (including ‘feature-specific’ plans) and the ‘single
context plan’.
Top Plan.
Also called a ‘single-level’ plan, this is a drawing of all
features exposed on the whole site, or in the excavated
area, at any arbitrary point during the excavation. On
complex sites with any depth of stratigraphy, this kind
of plan has little value in terms of trying to interpret the
archaeology, as the features represented are simply
those that happen to have been revealed at an artificial level created by the Archaeologists.
Consequently, features belonging to different phases of the site’s development will appear
together on the plan, and some partially excavated features will not be visible in their
entirety. The only real use that a top plan could have on such a site is perhaps to provide a
record of how far the excavation has progressed at the end of a season of fieldwork, if the
project is to continue at a later date.
An exception to this would be with regard to sites that are accessed on the ground surface
only, without excavation. Surveying a complex of earthworks, for example, would produce
a top plan. The stratigraphic relationships between earthworks of different phases would
perhaps be indicated on such a plan by means of hachures, and from this it might be
possible to construct phase plans.
Phase Plan.
Unlike the top plan, phase plans are interpretative in nature, because decisions have been
made about which features or deposits on the site belong together in a particular phase of
the site’s history. This fact obviously adds a subjective element to the data being recorded,
Fig 25. Archaeological recording on
a Mayan site in Guatemala in the
1950’s.
Fig 26. Different types of plan commonly produced on archaeological excavations.

Field Manual: Archaeological Recording – The Drawn Record
39
which could lead to problems later on if the phasing of a site needs to be re-examined in
light of new insights into the site’s history.
However, the phase plan is a useful way to graphically record the spatial relationships of
features that existed in the same period of occupation, and is especially appropriate for
single-phase sites like Marothodi.
Single Context Plan.
As discussed above, this system records each archaeological component separately, and
individual plans are drawn for each context identified in this way.
The benefits of using the single-context recording system on complex, deeply stratified
sites are obvious. On single-phase sites like Marothodi however, it would not be
appropriate to adopt it in its entirety. We will use it only to record the different structural
components of features in instances where these would be difficult to record fully on the
same plan (like the different layers of daga lining on the inside of a smelting furnace, for
example). But generally speaking the features at Marothodi are sufficiently discrete, and
the stratigraphy sufficiently shallow, to be recorded adequately by feature-specific and
phase planning in most cases.
Planning Techniques
Whichever kind of plan is being produced, the actual methods for creating the scale
drawings of contexts or features on a site are more or less universal. All techniques work
from a grid system imposed over the entire excavation, within which it is possible to locate
any point on the site in relation to its grid co-ordinates. These days it is unusual to see the
grid lines physically laid out across the whole site with string. It is more common to see
only the corners of 5 or 10 metre squares permanently marked with grid pegs. Measuring
tapes and string are set up between two grid pegs close to where the Archaeologist is
working, to create a convenient temporary baseline. Measurements are then taken from
that baseline to the feature or context being planned.
There are three plotting methods commonly used for archaeological planning: offsetting,
triangulation and the plotting frame.
Offsetting.
This is a simple case of taking right-angled
measurements with a hand-tape (offsets), from your
temporary baseline to various points on the feature
being planned. The baseline may be lightly drawn to
scale in the appropriate place on the page with the
‘zero’ end indicated, to assist you with accurately
plotting the measured points on the paper.
The measuring itself is ideally a two-person job. One
person, with the plan and a pencil to hand, holds the
zero end of the hand-tape on the point to be plotted.
The other person takes the cassette end of the hand-
tape across the baseline, and ensures that it crosses
the baseline at a right angle. This is done by
Fig 27. Plotting the contours of a wall
with the one-person off-set method,
using a plumb bob to bridge the vertical
gap.

40
‘swinging’ that end of the hand-tape along the baseline in both directions, until the shortest
distance on the hand-tape intersects with the baseline. In this position, the hand-tape
should intersect at 90˚.
That person then reads aloud the measurement along the baseline at the point of
intersection, followed by the measurement on the hand-tape. The other person then
calculates the appropriate scale reduction, measures those distances on the plan, and plots
the point. This process is then repeated until a series of plotted points gives the outline of
the feature or context in sufficient detail. The points are then carefully joined up on the
page, whilst at the same time closely observing the feature in real life to capture the detail
of its outline as accurately as possible.
Offset plotting can be accomplished by one person if necessary, in which case the zero end
of the hand-tape is hooked (sometimes precariously) over the baseline, and the cassette end
is extended to the point being plotted. The Archaeologist then reads both tape
measurements and plots the point. The problems of doing this alone include a reduced
certainty about the accuracy of your right angle, and the instability of the hand-tape as you
try to keep it hooked over the baseline. Both difficulties are aggravated when you are
trying to use a plumb bob at the same time, and there is a strong breeze billowing around
you. In general it is best to ask a colleague to assist you, especially if the feature being
planned is more than a metre away from your baseline.
Triangulation.
In a similar way to offsetting, triangulation involves
taking measurements from a nearby baseline to the
archaeological feature being planned. The main difference
is that instead of measuring with a single tape at a right
angle to the baseline, two tapes are used. The zero end of
each tape is positioned at different known points along the
baseline. The other ends of the tapes are then brought
together over the point you wish to plot. By dropping a
plumb bob from the intersection of the two tapes, it
should be possible to adjust the point of intersection
(keeping the tapes taut and level) until it is directly over
the point to be plotted. Then you read the measurement on
each tape, and in combination with the distance between
the two points used on the baseline, you know the length
of all three sides of the triangle. With this information,
you calculate the appropriate scale reduction and use a
pair of compasses to plot the point on your plan.
Although more accurate for one person working alone
than the offset method, triangulation can be quite
cumbersome for planning smaller features, and is best
reserved for larger-scale mapping such as earthwork
survey, or for plotting the position of single points.
Fig 28. Plotting a feature using the
triangulation method.

Marothodi Field Manual 2004

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