I made it to Heraklion at around 1PM, minus one piece of luggage. My Amman to Istanbul to Athens to Crete flights had started at 3:30AM that day, and the suitcase containing the majority of my clothes and my dig boots had gotten lost somewhere in-between. The site is about 1.5 hours away by bus, but the next bus wasn’t for a couple of hours, so I had some nice coffee with Dan in Heraklion’s main plaza. I was still dazed from transit but I couldn’t help but notice….
Everybody was naked.
It was true! I hadn’t seen that much flesh for what seemed like ages and I found myself completely shocked. Bikinis! Tiny shorts! Shirtless guys! Such a startling change from dusty ol’ Dhiban. Well, the nudity and the sparkling Med, olive orchards and absolute disinterest from the locals–a blessing after the constant harassment in Jordan.
When the bus pulled into Istron we got off at the bus stop and were immediately sighted by Barry, the site director. He picked us up and we had a quick beer at the local bar. The dig house is about a mile away from town, down a small road that wanders through olive orchards, tiny house gardens, and WWII gun emplacements. Each of the apartments has a small kitchen inside, so I’ve been eating lovely greek salads and ratatouille and as many vegetables as I can stomach. There are lemon trees outside and the cicadas buzz so loudly you can’t hear the person next to you at times. I’m sharing the flat with a lovely Polish couple who made mead to drink tonight at sunset.
The site is on the coast, a walk back up the town road and then a short walk to the beach, where the ruins rise out of a rocky outcropping in the sea. It’s a beautiful walk in the morning, wandering between the shadows of the olive trees and checking out the first swimmers of the day.
Sadly it’s been a slow start when it comes to the archaeology. The permit process has been slow this year and we can’t start work until it is issued. So we’ve been cleaning and planning and the students have been washing and sorting pottery until they’re half-blind. I have been taking my time planning the area I’ve been assigned, which mostly fits onto a 5m x 7m grid of graph paper. There’s a scatter of stones to the north and what looks like a room to the south, but the walls are a bit wonky and the coursing is strange, so I’ll have to sort it all out when we are allowed to dig.
The site is multi-phase (it has a really excellent website if you want details) but it looks like I’m up in the Byzantine again, with a hint of Hellenistic. Odd work for a girl that likes the prehistoric, but I’m quite happy as we’re digging the site using a modified single-context system. It’s amazing how much of a difference that makes for me. I’ve vowed not to dig at sites that use other recording systems, but that vow will probably go the way of the vow I made several years ago that I’d never dig for free again. Hah.
My dig boots arrived yesterday so hopefully the permit will come in soon. In the meantime, I think I’ll go for a swim after my glass of mead.
One of my goals this season was to hold a photo show, highlighting photos from work on the tall and in the community to show some of the people of Dhiban what we were doing. We rarely get visits from local folks so we thought it’d behoove us to bring some of the tall to them. I intended to do something similar last year, but ran out of time. It was a priority for the 2010 season.
After a couple of meetings with the mayor, he allowed us to use the Dhiban town hall, a building in the middle of the town that is used for community functions. We had the photos developed in Madaba, and bought frames there as well. Hanging them was rough as the town hall, like almost every other building in Dhiban, was made out of cinder blocks. But after much preparation (including runs to buy sweets and tea) we held the show last Thursday.
Along with the photos on the wall we ran a slide show with a lot more of the images taken from the season. This seemed to be the most popular part of the show, and people sat and watched until photos of themselves or of people they knew appeared on the screen, then cheered.
A lot of town dignitaries showed up, but not as many of the regular townsfolk. It was disappointing in that respect, but a good first step. I’ll have a lot more details in my dissertation, if you care to know!
A couple of days ago I posted on my Facebook wall: if you had the choice, would you draw a big fortification wall or would you dig a cistern. The answer was overwhelmingly the cistern, and I was already leaning that way as I’d never dug a cistern before, but I’ve drawn many walls. So yesterday we (me and Leith and Mohammad) started clearing out all of the surface debris that had fallen into the cistern. Lots of trash had either been blow into it or had been deposited on purpose and I wanted to clear it off so that I could get a better picture of the whole thing.
Here’s an assortment of the modern trash (and one Mamluk pot sherd) that I cleared out, a quickie shot for the contemporary archaeologists. Not shown are the many many black plastic bags that were tied shut with mysterious substances inside. I’m a curious girl, but not THAT curious.
So we made it as tidy as possible and took a photo and I drew an overall plan of the thing that looks more like a Georgia O’Keefe drawing than a plan–I use the MoLAS drawing conventions and all the hachures indicating slope make it look like a big flower. Anyway, so that brought us through the first part of the day and I decided to tidy it up as much as possible so I could take an early morning shot before the sun hit the west side of the tell.
On day two we decided where to section the cistern fill so that our geomorphologist would be able to ascertain the different episodes of collapse and fill. We are cutting it from north to south, not exactly in the middle, but close. After trying to figure out where the best place would be to enter and exit and where to haul out the gufaf, we started. More modern trash. A lot more. I found a weird metal wire and a garden hose and lots of potato chip wrappers. There were three or four of the same kind, was it someone’s favorite place to hang out while having an afternoon snack? I can’t really imagine, as the cistern sort of reeks of pee when the sun hits it just right. Did I mention that I have started to question the judgement of my lovely Facebook friends?
We also ran into seven scorpions, three of which were black and as big as my hand. I usually try to run a peace-and-love trench with the minimum of killing small crawly things, but I let the workmen kill the akrab immediately while in the cistern. It’s just too confined of a space to successfully maneuver them out of the way. Not so with the huge, cool gecko that I found. My workmen were really keen on killing it and I had to physically put myself between them and the small creature. It was then that I found out that not killing them was haram. I mentally added it to my haram list next to singing and abusing cats, which are in the medium haram range–not heavily punished, but frowned upon. Sometimes. Anyway, I carried him away and put him safely in the rubble of an Umayyad trench. Later I tried to get an explanation about why not killing lizards was haram, but I didn’t really understand–something about Abraham and the lizard gathering sticks to help him burn?
So, after .3m or so, we came upon a change in the color and texture of the dirt, our next layer of stratigraphy. Unfortunately, we had to haul out around 250 gufaf before this happened, with a line of three people: one person digging, the next person lifting the guffa up overhead, and the last person carrying it to the backdirt pile. We didn’t sieve this layer, as we were still getting modern trash, and the hand picked assortment of pottery that I looked at was absolutely miscellaneous surface wash. We also had to lift a half dozen ashlars out of the trench–this is only going to get worse as the trench goes down.
It is also hot in the cistern, and Leith, Mohammad and I were sweltering during a blazing, breezeless and oddly humid day. With some help from Dr. Bruce we finished clearing out the second context all the way to the soil change, so I can do a bit of drawing and get a photo tomorrow. I am also getting final photos of the walls in my last trench tomorrow, after which I’ll draw the elevations and the sections. I’ll probably post a rough draft of the trench report in the next couple of days, if I don’t drop dead at the bottom of a cistern. Or get clobbered by a falling goat. It could happen.
For now though, I’m going to post this and prepare for my photo show, and hopefully watch Spain beat Holland tonight! Go Espania, I’m mostly rooting for you because all of the workmen on site like Spain!
(written on 30 June)
The music downstairs shakes the windows and my tongue is still numb from drinking boiling hot coffee. Yes, it’s wedding season in Dhiban. As seasonal visitors to this large town we inevitably become enmeshed in the local social scene and attend at few weddings each season. After slinging a pickaxe all day the absolutely last thing I want to do is go to a wedding, but they are socially awkward to avoid.
It seems that a lot of people liked the post Haram at the Beach, so I thought I’d open up another tiny little window into Jordan–the local wedding parties. The definitive work on this subject has been done by Jennifer Jacobs, and I can only provide a faint ghost of her analysis, based mostly on what she’s told me and what I’ve been able to pick up on my own.
As an ajanibia athar (foreign woman archaeologist – probably misspelled) I always feel scruffy when I attend a wedding, especially since the unmarried women there are out of their burqas and dressed to the nines in tight-fitting club gear and blingin’ high heels. The married women are still dressed up, but are covered, and the old ladies are mostly in full black. There aren’t any men–they have their own party, ostensibly guarding the house by drinking coffee in a tent nearby. After greeting the bride (more about her later) we are served several rounds of flaming hot coffee to start–it’s a special green bedouin coffee that tastes like a strong herbal tea and is served by the hostess out of a thermos into one or two cups. She stands over you as you drink it, and you are expected to drink it in a single gulp. It is bad form to serve cold coffee, so it’s always scalding. After you burn the entire interior of your mouth, you shake the cup, indicating that she can move on to serve/burn the next person. Then there are rounds of tea and sweets and I usually try to sit next to a really old lady so that we can pretend to understand one another while we engage in small talk. My Arabic is still completely awful, but I can at least exchange pleasantries.
After sitting and drinking tea for a while, the Persian pop starts thumping and the unmarried women dance with each other. There is some circle dancing and ululation, but it is club-like dancing for the most part. The dancing can get mildly risque, which can be strange with women you don’t really know and hardly ever see out of their veils. The bride sits on a big, overstuffed chair on a platform several feet above the action. At the couple I’ve been to she often looks bored and mildly distressed and is dressed in the most unbelievable sequin-Barbie concoction with sky-high heels and intense make-up. We dance for her, and sometimes she comes down to dance with us. An interesting side note–I was wearing a big scarf to make one of my short-sleeve shirts less “risque” but the scarf was triumphantly torn off of me, not once but twice now. The comfort and security of being around all women and being able to show bare arms and legs was an extraordinary feeling.
Anyway, after some dancing and awkward chit-chat with older ladies, the groom’s female relations come in, chanting their acceptance of the bride into the family. It’s a very moving scene and the chanting is interspersed with ululation. This chanting happens off and on throughout the night, and is accompanied by fantastic drumming. I’m told that the chants are customized for each occasion with specific references to the bride and her circumstances.
Throughout all of this, there are some great intergenerational interactions going on. There are always hoards of little kids around, getting in the way and begging for attention, but generally just running around in a big pack and enjoying themselves. The younger married women sit inside the diwwan (receiving room) and frown. If you talk to any one of them, they’ll instantly break into a smile and be chatty, but the default is a look of general disapproval. The old ladies are all outside of the hot diwwan, sitting in chairs in long rows and hectoring the small children and chatting with each other. They are my favorite, and before I sit down with one of the ladies I’ll exchange several kisses on alternate cheeks with them. I used to be confused with the whole cheek kissing thing in Turkey and England, with one, two, or three kisses given, but this is just a long series of kisses until either party seems to want to stop. There’s probably some order to it, but I generally lose count after five. Quite a few of the older ladies have facial tattoos, and a few of them have gone through a curious set of motions with me, touching each of their tattoos and touching the corresponding place on my face, like they are transferring them to me. They also quite like holding my hand and pinching my cheeks. After the relentless negative attention from men we ajanib attar get while walking down the street, it can be quite comforting to be with the women in their own environment.
So the night winds down, and the next day the bride is taken to the groom’s house for a small, informal marriage ceremony. After living in this world of women’s world of sisters and grandmothers it seems like it might be scary to move into a man’s household, but I’ve never asked. I just go to the women’s parties, drink hot tea, dance, and watch the summer wedding fireworks that dot the horizon.
Saleh and I moved 123 qufaf today, 80 of them before breakfast. A quffa (pronounced goo-fah) is a bucket made out of an old tire–they’re great for hauling dirt around, cheap, and relatively easy to repair. I hope to never use another plastic bucket. Anyway, I swung the pickaxe for most of the day, bashing through a layer of undifferentiated collapse inside my trench. There was a really late (I’m talkin’ TPQ 1970s here–modern screws and some bottle glass, along with a pull tab) pit cut into the eastern extent that was full of cobbles and very dark dirt that was pretty easy to boost out and once that was gone I was able to see that it cut into a relatively homogenous matrix. So, out came the pickaxe.
It was good to finally be able to move on my trench–I had been spending too much time on things like defining the big wall in the western extent and digging this late pit. I worked from known to unknown, removing the dirt where I could see spatial relationships to other architectural elements and moving out from there. A cluster of stones in the northwestern corner became an installation against the western wall, and I carefully cleaned around it to define the architectural aspects versus the stones that came in through the collapse. Soon, I came down to a nice flagstone paving for the room. Well, relatively nice, as it had been bashed up from the stone ceiling collapsing on it. The room terminated much more quickly than I had guessed–only two courses of stones remaining before the ground level. Some nice finds surfaced right above the floor–a nice fragment of a molded oil lamp, a bracelet fragment, and a whole lot of Mamluk-era pottery.
It’s surprising how none of the above description really does justice to excavating on a terrace over a wadi in Jordan. A hot wind whips up through the wadi, blowing your paperwork and any light artifacts. Little gazelle-like ants pause then scatter over my dustpan, too fast for my camera. Late in the day your tools become too hot to touch and any water left in the sun becomes tea-hot. I try to save most of my slow tasks for after our watermelon break, so I can draw or write up paperwork or bag artifacts instead of slinging dirt during the hottest part of the day. Sweat drips down your nose and splashes whatever you are working on, making dark spots on the ground that dry almost instantly. At the end of the day my arms are covered in swirls of white salt crystals that wash over my tattoos like a second skin.
So, today was a better day. I had some nice archaeology come up and was able to work out a few of the grad-school kinks in my back. Tomorrow I’ll finish revealing that nice paving, then photograph, draw, and otherwise fully record it.
Oh! And we found the missing rebar in a dip in the tell about 20 meters from the pit. So my hypothesis was correct: orneriness was to blame.