Let's Walk before We Run: An Appraisal of Historical Materialist Approaches to the Later Stone Age

South African Archaeological Society

Let's Walk before We Run: An Appraisal of Historical Materialist Approaches to the LaterStone AgeAuthor(s): Lawrence S. BarhamSource: The South African Archaeological Bulletin, Vol. 47, No. 155 (Jun., 1992), pp. 44-51Published by: South African Archaeological SocietyStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/3888991 .

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44 South African Archaeological Bulletin 47: 44-51, 1992

LET'S WALK BEFORE WE RUN: AN APPRAISAL OF HISTORICAL MATERIALIST APPROACHES TO THE LATER STONE AGE*

LAWRENCE S. BARHAM 31 Newtown, Bradford-on-Avon Wiltshire BA15 INF, England

ABSTRACT

The theoretical underpinnings of Later Stone Age (LSA) studies appear to be shifting after more than 20 years of consensus. The ecological approach which has guided research since the 1960s is being superceded by models of social change based on the tenets of historical materialism. This paper examines two recent examples of the new social history as applied to the LSA sequences in the southern Transvaal and eastern Natal.

It is argued that the reconstruction of social history is most effective where the direct historical method can be used. Ethnographic and historical accounts of the San have been especially valuable in unravelling the symbolic and social context of rock art. However, the bulk of surviving LSA material culture consists of stone tool assemblages, for which there are few direct accounts of manufacture and use.

If historical materialist models of the LSA are to be informative rather than speculative, they must be founded on an appropriate data base. The search for social or symbolic patterning in lithic assemblages should follow from the careful elimination of alternative sources of variation which structure the archaeological record. Replication studies are recommended as one means of identifying and removing functional and technological variables, thus strengthening the case for socially derived patterning.

* Received September 1991

Introduction Archaeologists have long struggled to explain variation

within and between assemblages and industries. In the formative years of southern African archaeology, models of population migration and the diffusion of ideas were commonly invoked to account for observed changes in the LSA sequence (see Deacon 1984, 1990 and Parkington 1984 for recent historical reviews). The new archaeology of the 1960s offered an alternative view of the past, one in which variation and change could be explained as independent responses to environmental pressures, potentially free from external cultural influences. The concept of adaptation replaced migration as the touchstone of archaeological explanation.

The epistemology of the new archaeology was based on logical positivism, a philosophy drawn from the inorganic sciences, which gave archaeology an air of scientific rigour as it applied a deductive method of hypothesis testing in the search for general laws of cultural dynamics. This was a largely anti-historical archaeology, shunning the particular in favour of the general (Trigger 1970). The human capacity for individual decision-makcing was subsumed in the process of adaptation, with the cultural system behaving as an autonomous entity, responding to

external stimuli according to systemic principles. Dissatisfaction with the explanatory limitations of eco-

logical functionalism grew throughout the 1980s, spawning a postprocessualist movement championing a more humanist and historical archaeology (e.g. Hodder 1986; Shanks & Tilley 1987). As Robertshaw (1988:115) observed, "correlating environment and culture by invoking adaptation does not tell us anything about how and why any particular cultural manifestation came into being." In southern Africa, attempts to correlate changes in past environments with changes in archaeological sequences - a research priority in the heyday of the ecological paradigm - have met with limited results in LSA studies. Technological change as seen in the LSA lithic sequence appears to be largely independent of environmental pressures. Deacon (1988:155) concludes that in the southern Cape sequence, "there is little evidence to support any hypothesis that environment determines technology or that environmental change stimulates technological change in any direct way."

Now that the evidence is in and the theory found to be wanting, what next? In southern Africa, disillusionment with the ecological approach is evident in recent calls for a more social archaeology (Mazel 1987, 1989a,b; Wadley 1987,1989; Deacon 1990), one which gives primacy to the human side in the equation of culture change. The two major proponents of the new social archaeology, Wadley and Mazel, both acknowledge their intellectual debt to David Lewis-Williams who introduced historical materialism into LSA studies in the context of his pioneering research on rock art. Lewis-Williams argued early on (1982) that archaeologists should consider the social context of change, noting that all societies contain within them the seeds for change in the social inequalities which govern access to goods and services and the organisation of their production and distribution. In historical materialism, the relations of production - social patterns of access to land and other resources including human resources - are ultimately determinate in structural change. The technologial and environmental infrastructure merely exercise constraints on the relations of production which "dominate the entire functioning of the larger system, defining the specificity of the mode of production and its developmental tendencies" (Friedman 1975:164). Options for change are chosen by a society within the parameters of access to resources, control of production and reproduction, and the redistribution of resources. The impetus for change arises from internal conflict in the relations of production around which a society is organized, such as age, sex, and kinship in pre-capitalist societies.

Lewis-Williams relies on the direct historical approach to illuminate the social content of San art. In particular, it is the ethnographic data collected by the Bleek family during the 1870s from /Xam informants living in the Cape Colony which provides a link with the ideology of the painters themselves. Using this and more recent ethnography, Lewis-Williams (1982:438) argues that "art was part of a symbolic and ideological practice which dealt with the reproduction of world order and the social processes of production." In other words, San art reaffirmed the existing social and economic order - in symbolic fashion - and in doing so was part of its creation and maintenance. The point here, is that Lewis-Williams established a theoretical framework, that of historical



South African Archaeological Bulletin 45

materialism, and a means of operationalizmg its tenets from the ethnographic data. It is this combination of materialist theory with the direct historical method which Wadley and Mazel apply in their respective studies.

It is not my intention to discuss the theoretical shortcomings of historical materialism (see Harris 1979; Hodder 1986), but to tackle the methodological nuts and bolts of applying this social theory to the LSA. The crux of the matter is whether it is possible to reconstruct with any degree of certainty the relations of production operating at any point in the past which is not accessible by direct historical comparison. In such cases it is necessary to make assumptions about the underlying social structure and to work from this basis (e.g. Gilman 1984). The danger is that the hypothesis may become self- affirming as the data are selectively chosen. If it is necessary to tease from the archaeological record social or symbolic content - and of course it is, if we are to reconstruct relations of production - then we must develop the appropriate methodology. It is on this ground that historical materialism will succeed or fail as an alternative paradigm.

Gender Relations in the Southern Transvaal Historical materialism as social history is particularly

suited to cases where continuity between past and present can be demonstrated, as with the interpretation of San art. For archaeologists in southern Africa, the contemporary San are the obvious link with the LSA, though clearly they can no longer be considered as pristine hunter-gatherers living an uninterrupted stone age life (cf. Solway & Lee 1990; Wilmsen & Denbow 1990). Regardless of their history of interaction with larger economic systems over the past two thousands years, the San exhibit structural features in common with most modern hunter-gatherers. These include an aggregation/dispersal cycle of settlement pattern (Lee 1979:360), a division of labour by sex varying directly with the importance of hunting (Hayden 1981:406), and a kin based network of alliances necessary for biological and social viability (Wobst 1974).

Armed with these structural fundamentals, we can approach the LSA from a historical materialist perspective, seeking the conditions for change in the internal contradictions which inevitably arise in each of these social arenas. The San provide the living link with the past for interpreting specific material patterning in the archaeological record. Briefly then, this is the course taken by both Wadley and Mazel.

Wadley chooses the aggregation/dispersal cycle and gender relations as the primary structural elements in her analysis. The theme of underlying gender tensions among marriage partners and between kin members is played out against the background of seasonal movement from large to small camps. The aggregation phase offers several outlets for the release of accumulated social stress. It is a time to recite stories from San mythology in which women gain the ascendancy over the fallible men folk. The institutionalized exchange of non-food gifts takes place during the aggregation phase, with gifts passing between consanguineous kin and indirectly to affines through their spouses, thus minimizing tensions between kin. The communal trance dance involves both sexes, uniting them in an essential act which is vital to maintaining the social and physical well-being of the community (the shamans' curative powers are invoked in the trance ceremony). The dispersal phase, by contrast, is a period of relative isolation with little ritual activity and minimal socializing.

In theory, it should be possible to detect patterning in

the archaeological record relating to the aggregation! dispersal cycle and by implication keep an eye on stability or change in gender relations. As long as the mechanisms for minimizing the inherent inequalities in San gender relations operate smoothly (trance dance, hxaro, and mythology), then we could expect little evidence of change. To operationalize this model, Wadley identifies gender specific artefacts (based on San ethnography) which are likely to be present in aggregation sites, and in some cases have a gender specific spatial distribution within these sites.

The arrow, with its strong association with hunting and hence male labour and ritual, is given primacy as an indicator of an aggregation site. Other male items include oracle discs for divining the hunt and all leather goods - these are made by men. The arrow with its association with the provision of meat - men distribute the fruits of the hunt - is particularly imbued with strong ritual symbolism. Wadley observes that quartz would be a prime material for arrow making given its near universal magical appeal and associations with sha stic power, in particular the power of flight. Finally, Wadley speculates that arrows are artefacts of passage for the adolescent boy en route to adulthood.

Women provide the plant foods which sustain the Kung, and derive much of their prestige and power in

!Kung society from this role. Female artefacts associated with gathering include bored stones and digging sticks. Ostrich eggshell beads are a major class of female artefacts, with beads worn by all members of the band. Beads are an important hxaro item, and their manufacture and distribution occurs primarily during the aggregation phase. Beadwork was also worn in the trance dance, which further strengthens the association of this artefact class with aggregation sites. In addition to arrows and beadwork, pigments and dressed skins are known to have been acceptable hxaro gifts (Wadley citing Bleek & Lloyd 1911:283,377).

As well as identifying aggregation phase artefacts, Wadley expects a distinct pattern of artefact distribution to occur. The enforcement of avoidance rules is a feature of the populous aggregation phase, with strict seating rules segregating men and women around the hearth, men to one side and women to the other.

Given these criteria for distinguishing aggregation from dispersal sites, it should be a relatively straightforward process to recognize these sites on the basis of artefact content. The archaeological record is, unfortunately, rarely so cooperative. Wadley recognizes that a major drawback in applying the gender based model is securing the material evidence for aggregation phases and in particular identifying male hxaro gifts (1987:91). I suggest that the nature of the archaeological record itself poses a more formidable barrier to the application of historical materialism theory than its proponents recognize.

In southern Africa we do not have an unbroken ethnographic record which links the historic San with the stone tool making traditions of the LSA. The extent and even the presence of symbolic and social patterning in lithic assemblages is something we must assume if we are to apply historical materialist models. As with stone tool makting, we have no ethnographic accounts of San life inl caves and rockshelters (cf. Potgeiter & Ziervogel 1955). We assume that the activities and social rules which apply to San living in the open are the same for those in the confines of shelters and caves. Our inability to date open sites other than by typological correlations with dated cave or shelter sequences is a further and significant hindrance



46 South African Archaeological Bulletin

to our efforts to distinguish aggregation and dispersal sites. Each point is elaborated below, but suffice it to say that the database for building materialist models of the LSA is itself flawed with untested assumptions.

Identifying aggregation sites: a cautionary tale

The aggregation/dispersal model is potentially important for explaining spatial variability between LSA sites, but ultimately the utility of the model must be judged against the data in the field. In Wadley's study, we are dealing primarily with two sites in the Magliesburg range, Jubilee Shelter and Cave James. The Wilton levels at Jubilee are identified as an aggregation site given a relatively high density of possible hxaro items such as backed bladelets, bone points and ostrich eggshell beads and the debris from their manufacture. There also appears to be a distinct spatial segregation of these male and female artefacts around a central hearth, as might be expected from an aggregation site. The presence of possible ritual objects, such as quartz crystals and pigments for painting, lends further support to the aggregation interpretation. The Wilton levels at Cave James are a stark contrast with few tools and little evidence of beadwork, in otherwords, a dispersal site.

To test the apparent strength of the aggregation/ dispersal contrast, I have applied much the same criteria to interpreting the Wilton levels of Siphiso Shelter, in north- eastern Swaziland (Barham 1989b). Here the preservation of bone and beadwork is good so that if hxaro items were being made on site, the evidence would survive. In fact, ostrich eggshell beads and bead blanks are a prominent feature of the 15 000 year old sequence, with distinct changes in bead dimensions noted between the Late Glacial and Holocene levels (Barham 1989a). Bone points, though few in number, occur along with evidence for the making of eyed bone needles. Bladelets, possible com- ponents of arrowheads, are common but not backed bladelets which appear to be rare in the Holocene of Swaziland (Barham 1989b). Haematite, an import from the Ngwenya region of Swaziland some 100 km west of Siphiso, is present in all levels. Unmodified quartz crystals also occur sporadically in the Wilton assemblages.

By the criteria of the aggregation/dispersal model, Siphiso is clearly an aggregation site, given the quantity of hxaro items - but is it? (Unfortunately, individual hearths were not preserved to check for spatial patterning.) The shelter is small, with a floor area of only 34 sq m, and a clearance between the present floor surface and ceiling of 1 m and less along the back third. Today the shelter can comfortably accommodate up to six adults, with any more than this posing severe constrictions on living space. How does this square with the aggregation hypothesis? In the case of Jubilee Shelter, Wadley (1987:58) observes that the site is small and difficult to envisage as home to a large gathering, but counters that the site apron and surrounding surfaces could have been inhabited. This is unlikely at Siphiso where the slopes are steep and rocky. It is more likely that Siphiso was a dispersal site, perhaps home to an extended family for a few months of the year. The faunal remains suggest a subsistence strategy involving snaring small game, an activity consistent with the dispersal behaviour of the !Kung (Lee 1979:208).

These opposed interpretations of roughly similar data sets highlight the current methodological weakness of the aggregation/dispersal model. Clearly, we know little of San behaviour in the confines of rockshelters and caves. Would it be the same as in open sites where there is a distinction between the space for communal activities and separate family areas centered around individual hearths

(Yellen 1976:66-67)? At Siphiso, there would be insufficient room to allow more than one family its hearth space. How would the confines of caves or shelters affect the avoidance rules which separate the sexes: might they be intensified, or perhaps ignored altogether? The answer has implications for interpreting patterning in the archaeological record, but without direct historical analogues we can only speculate.

The poor resolution of most LSA assemblages makes the argument academic, since it is highly unlikely that individual occupation events can ever be distinguished. Can we hope to disentangle the occupation history of a site which may have been used alternately as an aggregation center and dispersal site? The dispersal phase, as defined above, would be swamped by the sheer density of aggregation phase debris. Only under exceptional circumstances could the two be separated. To assume that a site would be used for the same purpose over generations of occupation imputes, inter alia, a very conservative settlement strategy.

We know from observations of the San that favoured localities are re-occupied but not the exact spot of the previous occupation (Brooks 1984). The result is a gradual spread of occupation debris representing repeated use of the area, but giving the impression of a single large site. In the Siphiso valley, two large open sites were sampled and found to contain few formal tools and low frequencies of haematite (Barham 1989b). (Organic remains were not preserved.) On the basis of size and location (near streams or pans which would attract game, but not too near) I concluded that these were aggregation sites, but by the criteria applied in the Magliesburg they would rank as dispersal sites.

On beads and bows and arrows

We have seen that the aggregation/dispersal model is based on the tenet that the two site types differ in kind as well as degree. We have also seen that in the case of Siphiso shelter and nearby open sites, the model is not sufficiently developed to consider the effect of site size and the classification of sites where organic preservation is poor. If we look more closely at each of the diagnostic criteria which characterize an aggregation site, further questions arise regarding their associations.

Beads and evidence for their manufacture are considered prime evidence of the aggregation given the association with the hxaro system, puberty ritual and trance dances. I would argue that beads and beadwork are made throughout the year, and that the dispersal phase would be a particularly good time to devote to such activities in preparation for the hxaro exchanges of the coming aggregation phase. To say that such items would only be made during the aggregation phase, because of the limits which the San place on the transport of materials, is not logical if you consider what happens to the gift items once the aggregation camps disperse. Surely, beads are not left behind because they are too burdensome to carry. If we look at the hxaro gifts as a whole they are all relatively light and easily transported. Beads are particularly easily transported since they are worn as headbands or belts. There is no practical reason why such items could not be manufactured during the dispersal phase in the context of a single band or even a single family unit such as might have occupied Siphiso.

Commenting on the differences between dispersal and aggregation sites, Yellen (1976:66-67) observes that materially they differ by degree rather than kind. He observes that the manufacture of wooden artefacts, arrows and ostrich eggshell beads - all potential hxaro items:




can take place in all types of camps because the necessary tools are always carried from site to site ... Furthermore, my general impression is that as much spare time from subsistence activities is available in transient camps [dispersal phase] as in more permanent ones [aggregation phase]. Thus, while it is possible to predict how subsistence activities will vary from area to area, the same does not hold true for manufacturing processes.

The differences between types of camps lie in the density of debris - it is greater at the longer lived aggregation sites - and in the types of food remains with aggregation camps more likely to contain the remains of large game killed during communal hunts.

As Wadley (1987:60) herself notes, the evidence from stone tools alone, such as artefact density and percentages of tool types tools, is insufficient for differentiating site use. Supplementary support is sought in the raw material variability in the Wilton levels at Jubilee Shelter and the more restricted use of quartz at Cave James. Wadley suggests that the greater range of raw materials used at Jubilee is compatible with an aggregation site which contains a larger group of people who in the course of extended foraging encounter and collect a wider range of materials than is available locally. Raw material variability is also thought to reflect the tasks carried out on site, with a greater range of activities expected at the more populous aggregation camps.

Returning to Yellen's (1976:67) study of the !Kung camp organisation, he concludes "That there is no close correlation between the location of raw materials and the camps at which they are processed." In this instance he is referring to non-lithic materials, but the principle is the same. If we accept that the full range of manufacturing and processing activities takes place in both large and small camps, then the primary factor determining their density is length of occupation: "The only general rule applicable is that, for any specific manufacturing process, the longer a camp is occupied, the greater the likelihood that an activity in question occurred there" (Ibid.).

As observations of the !Kung and G/wi show, a major constraint on length of occupation is the availability of resources, water in particular. The association of aggregation sites with long lived camps holds true for the Dobe !Kung where the availability of water at the Dobe pan throughout the dry season acts as a magnet for sustained occupation (Yellen 1976:56). In contrast, water availability in the southern Kalahari is more erratic with the result that the G/wi (Silberbauer 1981:195-6) have a shorter aggregation phase and spend more time in isolated household units during the dispersal phase. The differing distribution and density of !Kung and G/wi seasonal camps illustrates the danger of interpreting site use on the basis of size and density. The archaeological implication is that we need a relatively fine grained paleoenvironmental database on which to base our reconstructions of settlement strategies and hence site use.

The expedient choice

The distinction between expedient tool and curated tool technology is suggested as another means of distinguishing between dispersal and aggregation sites respectively (Wadley 1987:47). Dispersal sites are thought have higher frequencies of informal or expedient artefacts made from materials at hand for immediate use and then discarded. Cave James is cited as an example (ibid:55) where the assemblage contains few standardized tools and much flaking debris. In this case, the predominance of quartz as

a raw material at Cave James may account for much of the informal appearance of the assemblage since quartz produces prodigious amounts of amorphous debitage (Dickson 1977), lowering the percentage frequencies of formal tools when compared with non-quartz assemblages. Sample error may also be a factor in the apparent informality at Cave James: we are dealing with only 2 sq m (Wadley:fig. 9) compared with approximately 12,5 sq m at Jubilee Shelter (ibid: fig. 4).

Unequal comparisons aside, there is the underlying assumption that stone tool making habits differ with the dispersal phase because there are fewer people performing fewer activities of the sort which require specialized or formal tools. If we consider the range of formal stone tools diagnostic of Wilton assemblages, there are really only two primary types: microlithic scrapers and backed bladelets. The function of these two retouched elements appears to be fairly basic, scrapers for working skins and wood (Binneman 1984) and backed bladelets presumably serving as cutting edges in composite tools. The activities associated with either tool type are unlikely to be exclusive to either aggregation or dispersal sites, with the result, as Yellen (1976) observes, that the material distinction between these sites becomes a function of the length of occupation.

Crystals and shamans

The presence of unmodified quartz crystals in the Wilton levels at Jubilee Shelter is proposed as additional support for an aggregation interpretation of the site (Wadley 1987:46). The apparent association of quartz with shamanism, and the association of intense ritual activity with aggregation sites leads inevitably to this conclusion. Or does it?

That shamans are most active during the aggregation phase is not in doubt; the ethnographic record is clear on this point, but we have no direct evidence for the ritual use of quartz by the San. In the absence of such evidence, the interpretation of quartz frequencies should be based on careful deduction, particularly where quartz is a commonly used raw material for flaking. Unmodified crystals of clear and milky quartz occur at Siphiso Shelter, where this raw material was used to make bladelets. How then do we discriminate between two possible uses, one ritual the other economic? I suggest that replication experiments, designed to reveal the flaking properties of crystals as a raw material, can at least provide some basis for informed interpretation. Bipolar flaking experiments carried out with chalcedony and quartz pebbles from the Siphiso area (Barham 1987) suggest a working size minimum of 20 mm for making bladelets. Assuming a similar flaking size limit holds true for quartz, we are now in a stronger position to infer a ritual value for crystals smaller than 20 mm.

Haematite and hxaro

Red pigments are known to have been hxaro gift items among the southern San (Wadley 1987:15 citing Bleek & Lloyd 1911:283). Armed with this observation, we could rightly expect the incidence of pigments to be greatest in aggregation sites given the greater intensity of ritual activity. Again, I turn to Siphiso Shelter as an exception to the expectations of the aggregation/dispersal model.

Haematite, brought 100 km from the highlands of Swaziland, occurs throughout the Siphiso sequence and the nearby open sites, though in lower relative frequencies (Barham 1989b). Its presence this far from the source suggests the existence of a widespread hxaro network, perhaps verging on being a formal trade route from east to




west. If we can indeed expect a greater frequency of this pigment at sites of intensive ritual activity, whether it be for painting or body ornamentation, then little Siphiso would appear to be a site of considerable ritual activity compared with its neighboring open sites.

Before equating pigment with ritual activity and hence aggregation sites, we should first consider other possible uses which could account for its presence. Perhaps haematite, like quartz crystals, has other uses in addition to its symbolic value. Haematite may have been used as a hide preservative (Keeley 1980:170-2) in the Magdalenian of western Europe, and in Australia as a protection against insects and as a salve for treating wounds and burns (Velo 1984).

The possibility that this mineral was put to a variety of uses in the LSA sequence at Siphiso must be examined before accepting a single, ideological explanation. Again, replication experiments may help narrow the range of possible uses, assuming the wear patterns on the haematite lumps are indicative of application. And if the interpretation of Siphiso as a dispersal site housing a single extended family is acceptable, then we must explain how this material reached the site, whether through hxaro, organized trade or direct acquisition. Each option has its own disruptive implications for the aggregation/dispersal model.

Contradictions

What do we make of this contradictory evidence? On the one hand, we have a small shelter perched on a steep slope which would appear to be a sensible dispersal site for a single family unit, but, on the other, it contains items associatd with larger aggregation sites. Wadley identifies arrows and beads as the primary embodiments of the aggregation phase and of the social relations of production which underlie San society. Both these items, the latter particularly, are found at Siphiso, a site too small to hold an aggregation phase group, a site in which the faunal remains suggest an economy based on trapping (Barham 1989b). These contradictory data can only be reconciled if we accept Yellen's (1976) observations regarding differences in camp type being ones of kind rather than degree.

If it is not possible to distinguish between site types on the basis of artefact content alone, then we must rely on a combination of economic/environmental data regarding season of occupation and foods extracted. In doing so, we are further hampered by the generally poor resolution of the archeological record. Only rarely can we recognize individual occupation events; open sites without pottery are notoriously difficult to date other than by typological comparisons with dated shelter deposits, a practice which may lead to errors of recognition (where are the Late Glacial microlithic open sites?). Shelter and cave assemblages may at best represent a few generations worth of accumulation and at worst hundreds. With such poor resolution, can we really speak of social relations of production when the evidence is so wanting? Direct historical comparisons are fine when there is strong evidence of historical continuity (e.g. O'Brien 1990), but with the San and the more distant realms of the LSA the connection becomes tenuous.

Is it really usefull to make the distinction between aggregation and dispersal sites given the poor resolution of the archaeological record and the equivocal evidence on which to base such a dichotomy?

Historical Materialism in the Thukela Basin Mazel (1987, 1989a, b) in his application of historical

materialism avoids any consideration of differential site use in favour of a model of changing gender relations as inferred from evidence of economic intensification through the Holocene. He argues, and here I summarize the case greatly, that the status of women in hunter-gatherer society (vis a' vis their social relations of production) is directly related to their economic contribution. Under changing demographic or environmental circumstances, the status of women may change accordingly. Applying this principle to the Holocene in the Thukela Basin, Mazel provides indirect evidence for the growing status of women as the exploitation of small game, fish, microfauna and plant foods increases (1989a:34), this as a result of decisions made in response to a growing population and increased sedentism. Economic intensification would have followed from social changes, this as predicted by the tenets of historical materialism which place social relations in a determinant position in the dialectical relationship with the forces of production (Friedman & Rowlands 1978).

To summarize further, the status of women improved during the Holocene as they provided the basic foodstuffs through gathering which sustained their societies. Mazel, like Wadley, recognizes that hunter-gatherers do not live in a vacuum but are reliant on a network of alliances with other bands to ensure their social and biological reproduction. Wadley, in her model of social relations, identifies the aggregation phase with its hxaro exchange network as the nexus of social cohesion and change. For Mazel, the operative details of settlement strategy and hxaro network are subsumed in the concept of the social region. Each region consists of a group of bands, which have a collective identity and common dialect (Wobst 1974) which distinguishes them from other such groupings. Mazel thinks he can detect the development of three distinct social regions coexisting in the Thukela basin sometime before 4000 BP, replacing an earlier single alliance network. The material evidence for these divisions is partly based on changes in the stylistic elements of the lithic assemblages, and partly on frequencies of worked bone and ostrich eggshell artefacts. As with the aggregation/dispersal model, it is the lithic evidence for social cohesion which is critically examined and found to be equivocal.

Looking for style

Most archaeologists assume that some degree of style or symbolic loading is to be found in stone tool assemblages if only we are clever enough to separate it from other sources of morphological variation (e.g. Clarke 1989; Close 1978, 1989; Sackett 1982). As discussed above, LSA assemblages as a whole strike me as being essentially expedient in design compared with, say, the Upper Palaeolithic of western Europe where specialized stone tools are so prominent (Hayden & Gargett 1988). Wilton scrapers, backed bladelets and segments, for instance, are all easily and rapidly made and in themselves offer little scope for expressing individual or group identity (cf. Close 1989). On the other hand, where a malleable materIal such as iron is available, San arrowheads (Wiessner 1983) and Maasai spearheads (Larick 1985) are known to be imbued with style. Where we might expect to see the expression of symbolic or stylistic content among LSA lithics is not on the actual working edges, or choice of raw material, but rather in the hafts which held the stone bits. Hafts, whether of bone or wood, are easily decorated giving greater rein for the




expression of individual and group identity compared with stone. A decorated scraper haft from Plettenburg Bay (Deacon & Deacon 1980) is a case in point. It is unrealistic, however, to expect such organic items to be preserved in any great number and certainly not to the extent that social regions can be identified.

We are left, then, with having to make the most of the lithic data which is frequently all that survives in LSA assemblages. If detection of style is to be a meaningful exercise, then, as with the interpretation of quartz crystals frequencies at Jubilee Shelter, we must first eliminate other sources of possible variation before accepting an ideological or symbolic explanation. Mazel, asserts that the backing applied to scrapers is primarily a stylistic variable, and that geographical and temporal changes in the position of retouch relative to the scraping edge reflect past social regions in the Thukela Basin, each with its own distinctive pattern of backing. Before accepting the equation of backing with social identity, we must consider what other factors could account for the observed patterns.

Replication experiments of the life cycle of Mousterian scrapers (Dibble 1987) demonstrate that scraper morphology is largely a function of length of use. Re-use and repeated resharpening can dramatically alter scraper size and shape, with the tool proceeding through the Mousterian typological sequence in the course of its working life. This implies that typological variability may be a function of intensity of use (ibid: 116). LSA microlithic scrapers, unlike their Mousterian counterparts, were hafted, but, nonetheless the principle of reduction through use applies.

Hafting imposes an obvious constraint on blank size compared with the relatively unrestrained freedom of unhafted hand-held scrapers. The result is that changes in scraper morphology from continued use and resharpening will be more subtle than the transmogrification seen in Dibble's (1987) Mousterian examples. Personal experience with the replication and use of LSA hafted scrapers shows that continued re-use eventually reduces the working edge to the extent that it approaches the surrounding mastic and is no longer effective. At this point, the bit may be removed, resharpened and reinserted. Alternatively, with the bit removed another edge may be sharpened and the former working edge, now blunt and nearly at right angles, acts as a backed surface.

It is this sort of use and re-use which makes the classification of microlithic scrapers on the basis of size or morphology such a questionable exercise (Thackeray 1981). A further complication arises in distinguishing purposeful backing from that formed naturally in the course of producing a flake blank. Striking platforms, if

0 20mm

Fig. 1. Scraper from Siphiso Shelter, Swaziland, with natural backing on all but the working edge.

intact, provide a ready-made blunted edge; similarly, a blank ending in a steep hinge or step fracture can appear to be backed. Figure 1 illustrates such an example of unin- tentional backing on a mid-Holocene scraper from Siphiso Shelter. The scraper blank is a thick flake of chalcedony with a step termination, an intact platform and one abrupt cortex edge unsuitable for retouching. The platform and step fracture are too thick for scraper retouch leaving only one acute edge. According to Mazel's classification (1989a:36), this is a Type 3 scraper (two backed laterals perpendicular to the working edge) which features in his reconstruction of social regions in the Thukela Basin. The point of this example is that the apparent backing is not a deliberate stylistic feature but a technological attribute predetermined by the flake blank. Of course it is possible that such a blank would be selected precisely because it accorded with some group norm for backing, but it is equally likely that the blank simply offered a potential working edge without further modification.

It is worth noting that deliberately backing a scraper, particularly along two laterals, greatly reduces its working life since these edges can no longer be held in reserve as potential scrapers. Replication experiments to assess the function and value of backing when using a mastic base would be relevant to sorting nonessential from essential backing, hence in detecting possible stylistic variations.

In the context of Mazel's study, the attribution of stylistic significance to patterns of backing is difficult to reconcile with the observation that scraper morphology is partly a function of its life-cycle. Does this mean that differing norms of discard behaviour operated in the middle Holocene of the Thukela Basin? It seems unlikely that the expression of social identity should extend to such an unpromising variable as the position of backing relative to the working edge. Regardless of the fact that the process of reduction through use has an arguably unpredictable effect on scraper shape, we must ask when would the location of backing be a visible signifier of identity other than at the point of discard? Even then, any adhering mastic could mask the vital signifiers, so why invest the attribute of backing with such a role? A bone or wood haft would certainly be a preferable medium for symbolic expression, but, given the paucity of such finds in southern Africa, archaeologists would be better served looking for social markers in artefact attributes - such as ostrich eggshell bead size (e.g. Jacobson 1987; Barham 1989:41) - for which there is an ethnographic precedent and the artefacts themselves occur with regularity in LSA assemblages.

Too many variables remain unexplored for us to accept patterns in scraper backing as supporting evidence for changing alliance networks. Factors such as changing raw material availability, for instance, may have a bearing on how long a scraper is conserved by resharpening. Increased competition for lithic resources, as could be expected to result from Mazel's model of economic intensification and population growth in the Thukela Basin, would manifest itself in the extent of scraper re-use and ultimately in the size of the working bit when discarded. In fact, more frugal patterns of backing - those characterized by only a single backed edge - are increasingly coommn in the later phases of the Thukela sequence.

Discussion The intent of this article has been to pull up short the

headlong rush toward applying macrosocial models - historical materialism in this case - to an insufficiently




explored data base. On the other hand, it may be that it is not the database which is inadequate, but our methodology for disentangling the social content from other sources of variability. This is not to say that a social approach should be abandoned or fire held until the proverbial 'more data' are in. Such conservatism would be stiffling to the development of southern African archaeology. Equally damaging however is the temptation, overzealous I would say, to apply theory without fully testing alternative interpretations of the data. This smacks of an impatience to do social science (see Trigger 1970:32), by applying 'top down' theories of history, such as historical materialism, using the archaeological record as a convenient repository of examples to fit the theory. We must be wary of treating the past as an "unproblematic reflection of macrosocial processes' (Thomas 1990:336).

Conclusion The direct historical approach has certainly enhanced

and enlivened our interpretations of LSA behaviour, in particular our understanding of much of LSA rock art in terms of San cosmology (Lewis-Williams 1981; Dowson 1988). Where we are dealing with primarily lithic assemblages, as is the case for much of the LSA record, there are few direct links with the recent past. This limitation forces us to presuppose certain continuities from the historical present to the prehistoric past, if social history is to be meaningfully reconstructed. We are left imposing an ideological content on lithic assemblages without an adequate methodology to distinguish between causative variables. Efforts to detect gender relations or identify aggregation sites are further complicated by the palimpsest which is the archaeological record in southern Africa. Our reliance on cave and rockshelter sequences and our inability to date accurately non-ceramic open sites are serious drawbacks to understanding the social processes operating at any particular point in the past (cf. O'Brien 1990).

At this point we could throw up our hands in despair and retreat to the safety of culture history. Such a defeatist approach does not advance the study of the past; we must come to grips with intangibles of social relations and internal dynamics of change. Whether a single overarching theoretical structure such as historical materialism is suited to explaining change in LSA society remains to be seen, but its application does focus the mind wonderfully on the shortcomings of our lithic dominated data base. Let's get out there and test our theories, recognizing that objectivity is in itself culture bound, but also that it is still worth trying to achieve some consensus on a particular theory which best fits the data of the moment.

Archaeologists as participants in society are obviously receptors and reflectors of currents ideas and trends. The current desire to give the past a social life and to present the past as human is a reflection of the undercurrents of the early 1990s (Trigger 1990). But before we throw out the ecological baby with the positivist bath water, we should recall the most significant contribution of the new archaeology - the imposition of a logical and methodological rigour to the study of the past. This legacy must be incorporated into the heart of materialist paradigms if they are to move beyond tantalising speculation.

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Let's Walk before We Run: An Appraisal of Historical Materialist Approaches to the Later Stone Age