THE SOCIAL ORGANISATION OF SPACE IN HUNTER-GATHERER COMMUNITIES:

SOME IMPLICATIONS FOR SOCIAL INFERENCE IN ARCHAEOLOGY

TODD MATTHEW WHITELAW ST. JOHN'S COLLEGE

SUBMITTED IN CANDIDATURE FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY FACULTY OF ARCHAEOLOGY AND ANTHROPOLOGY UNIVERSITY OF CAMBRIDGE

1989

CONTENTS1
List of Figures List of Tables PREFACE ACKNOWLEDGMENTS CHAPTER 1: TOWARD THEORY BUILDING IN ARCHAEOLOGY 1.1: Introduction: Explicit theory in archaeology. 1.2: Settlement Archaeology: Its goals and promise. 1.3: The nature of the archaeological record: Middle range and general theory. 1.4: The archaeological record and the aims of archaeology. 1.5: Analogy and ethnoarchaeology: From insight to theory building. 1.6: General theory and uniformitarianism in human behaviour. 1.7: Establishing a context for behavioural variability: A cultural ecological framework. 1.8: Conclusions: A framework for the investigation of spatial behaviour in human communities. Page iv ix x xiii
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4 7 10 14 16 18 20

CHAPTER 2: APPROACHES TO UNDERSTANDING SPACE IN SETTLEMENTS 2.1: Introduction: Space as a medium for studying behaviour and meaning. 23 2.2: Patterns of behaviour in space: The archaeological investigation of site structure. 25 2.3: Space and its perception. 28 2.4: Behaviour in space and non-verbal communication. 30 2.5: The psychology of the built environment. 34 2.6: Space as symbol. 39 2.7: Synthesis: Alternative perspectives on human spatial behaviour. 44 CHAPTER 3: PEOPLE AND SPACE IN SETTLEMENTS 3.1: Introduction: Social organisation and spatial organisation in settlements. 3.2: People and space in settlements. 3.3: People and space in a cultural context: Ethnoarchaeological studies of the settlement behaviour of the !Kung San. 3.4: Toward a behavioural model: The social context of variation. 3.5: From population estimation to the social organisation of space: The definition of a problem for cross-cultural investigation. CHAPTER 4: HUNTER-GATHERER SOCIAL ORGANISATION 4.1: Introduction. 4.2: The elucidation of social organisation as an archaeological objective. 4.3: Human social organisation and social evolution: Unilinear and multilinear perspectives. 4.4: Hunter-gatherer social organisation: Classificatory perspectives.

49 51 53 56 61 63 65 66 69

1 NB Pagination does not correspond to that of copy on file in Cambridge University Library. The data appendices are not included here.

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4.5: 'Man the Hunter' and the search for simple models of hunter-gatherer behaviour. 4.6: Re-constructing models of hunter-gatherer social behaviour. 4.7: Social groups in hunter-gatherer societies: General characteristics and patterns of variation. 4.8: Group membership, access to resources, and social differentiation. 4.9: Social organisation as a given or as an objective in archaeological research. CHAPTER 5.1: 5.2: 5.3: 5.4: 5.5: 5.6: 5: THE SOCIAL ECOLOGY OF FORAGING Introduction: Toward a cultural ecology of foraging. Environmental variability, subsistence risk, and uncertainty. Cultural responses to risk and uncertainty. Resource acquisition strategies as risk-minimising behaviour. Consumption strategies as risk-buffering behaviour. Conclusions: Alternative subsistence strategies and their implications for social and settlement behaviour.

73 76 79 83 86 89 91 94 96 102 111

CHAPTER 6: HUNTER-GATHERER COMMUNITY ORGANISATION: CROSS-CULTURAL ANALYSIS 6.1: Introduction: Objectives of the analysis. 6.2: The definition and scope of the dataset. 6.3: Global patterns in hunter-gatherer settlement behaviour. 6.4: The definition of analytical groups within the dataset. 6.5: Desert ecosystem adaptations. 6.6: Savanna ecosystem adaptations. 6.7: Tropical forest ecosystem adaptations. 6.8: Temperate ecosystem adaptations. 6.9: Subarctic ecosystem adaptations. 6.10: Arctic ecosystem adaptations. 6.11: Summary: Ecologically-based variation in hunter-gatherer community organisation. CHAPTER 7: THE SOCIAL ORGANISATION OF SPACE 7.1: Introduction: Approaches to the use of space in hunter-gatherer communities. 7.2: Dimensions of variation in the social organisation of space. 7.3: Exemplification: When hunter-gatherers settle down. 7.4: Implications for a broader study of social organisation and spatial behaviour. CHAPTER 8: RETROSPECT AND PROSPECT 8.1: Introduction: Approaches to theory in archaeology. 8.2: The relationship between social and spatial behaviour. 8.3: The study of human social organisation. 8.4: Prospects for the archaeological inference of social behaviour. FIGURES TABLES

118 119 123 126 129 138 147 153 164 170 180

185 187 194 200 207 208 209 210

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FIGURE LIST
Figure 3.1: Figure 3.2: Figure 3.3: Figure 3.4: Figure 3.5: Figure 3.6: Figure 3.7: Figure 3.8: Figure 3.9: Figure 3.10: Figure 3.11: Figure 3.12: Figure 4.1: Figure 5.1: Figure 5.2: Figure 5.3: Figure 5.4: Figure 5.5: Figure 5.6: Figure 5.7: Figure 5.8: Figure 5.9: Figure 5.10: Figure 5.11: Figure 5.12: Figure 6.1: Figure 6.2: Figure 6.3: Figure 6.4: Figure 6.5: Figure 6.6: Figure 6.7: Figure 6.8: Figure 6.9: Figure 6.10: Figure 6.11: Figure 6.12: Figure 6.13: Figure 6.14: Figure 6.15: Figure 6.16: Figure 6.17: Figure 6.18: Population and settlement area in aboriginal California. Hunter-gatherer community population and settlement area. Rainy season !Kung camps: Comparative plans. Dobe 1968-69 dry season camp plan. Relationship between kinship and spatial distance for !Kung rainy season camps. Relationship between kinship and spatial distance for !Kung dry season camps. !Kung kinship systems. a) Idealised system; b) Kin composition of Dobe residential group during the 1960s. MDSCAL models of kin groups and spatial arrangements. MDSCAL analysis of !Kung dry season camps. San camps: nearest neighbour spacing and camp population. San camps: camp population and occupation density. !Kung sedentism at Dobe. Changes in social relationships with changes in group size. The relative importance of gathering, hunting and fishing in the diets of human foragers, by latitude. Simulations of resource acquisition, varying with resource package size distributions. Simulations of daily access to resources with different storage strategies, balanced distribution of resource package sizes. Storage and daily access to resources. Changes in mean level with different package size distributions and different storage potential. Storage and daily access to resources. Changes in coefficient of variation with different package size distributions and different storage potential. Storage and wastage of resources. Changes in level of loss with different package size distributions and different storage potential. Simulations of daily access to resources with different sharing strategies, balanced distribution of resource package sizes. Sharing and daily access to resources. Changes in mean level with different package size distributions and different numbers of cooperating hunters. Sharing and daily access to resources. Changes in coefficient of variation with different package size distributions and different numbers of cooperating hunters. Sharing and wastage of resources. Changes in level of loss with different package size distributions and different storage potential. Alternative sharing strategies for four hunters, with different resource package distributions. Alternative sharing strategies, balanced distribution of resources, by sharing strategy and number of hunters cooperating. World-wide distribution of hunter-gatherer communities considered in this study. Culture locations and sample size. Community population and area for complete settlements, logarithmic axes. Entire sample: Community population and occupation density, linear axes. Entire sample: Community population and occupation density, logarithmic axes. Entire sample: Occupation density by traditional character of community. Entire sample: Occupation density by economic orientation of community. Entire sample: Occupation density by social nature of settlement unit. Entire sample: Occupation density by duration of occupation. Environmental classification of cultures in sample. Variation in forager subsistence strategies, by ecological context. Entire sample: Occupation density by ecological context of communities. Mean and coefficient of variation in daily access to resources, from simulations of Ngadadjara resource procurement, with different periods of potential storage. Mean daily access to resources, from simulations of Ngadadjara resource procurement, with different numbers of cooperating hunters. Coefficient of variation in daily access to resources, from simulations of Ngadadjara resource procurement, with different numbers of cooperating hunters. Alyawara, Bendaijerum camp residential patterns. Relationship between kinship and spatial distance for Bendaijerum. Pintupi, Papunya camp 3 residential patterns, December 1971. Desert communities: Population size distribution by traditional and non-

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Figure 6.19: Figure 6.20: Figure 6.21: Figure 6.22: Figure 6.23: Figure 6.24: Figure 6.25: Figure 6.26: Figure 6.27: Figure 6.28: Figure 6.29: Figure 6.30: Figure 6.31: Figure 6.32: Figure 6.33: Figure 6.34: Figure 6.35: Figure 6.36: Figure 6.37: Figure 6.38: Figure 6.39: Figure 6.40: Figure 6.41: Figure 6.42: Figure 6.43: Figure 6.44: Figure 6.45: Figure 6.46: Figure 6.47: Figure 6.48: Figure 6.49: Figure 6.50: Figure 6.51: Figure 6.52: Figure 6.53: Figure 6.54: Figure 6.55: Figure 6.56: Figure 6.57: Figure 6.58:

traditional communities. Desert communities: Population size distribution by complete communities and segments. Desert communities: Occupation density by traditional and non-traditional communities. Desert communities: Population and occupation density, linear axes. Desert communities: Population and occupation density by data reliability, logarithmic axes. Desert communities: Population and occupation density, identified by culture. Contributions to the diet in different savanna contexts. G/wi San, seasonal variation in access to different size meat packages. Gidjingali, seasonal variation in subsistence consumption. Mean and coefficient of variation in daily access to resources, from simulations of G/wi resource procurement, with different periods of potential storage. Mean daily access to resources, from simulations of G/wi resource procurement, with different numbers of cooperating hunters. Coefficient of variation in daily access to resources, from simulations of G/wi resource procurement, with different numbers of cooperating hunters. Mean and coefficient of variation in daily access to resources, from simulations of Gidjingali resource procurement, with different periods of potential storage. Mean daily access to resources, from simulations of Gidjingali resource procurement, with different numbers of cooperating hunters. Coefficient of variation in daily access to resources, from simulations of Gidjingali resource procurement, with different numbers of cooperating hunters. G/wi San, N/utscha band camp, 1970s. G/wi San, relationship between kinship and spatial distance for the N/utscha camp. !Ko San, Takatswane band camp, late 1960s-70s. !Ko San, relationship between kinship and spatial distance for the Takatswane camp. Birhor, Sijhua camp, 1955. Birhor, relationship between kinship and spatial distance for the Sijhua camp. Gunwinggu, Momega outstation, 1980. Gunwinggu, relationship between kinship and spatial distance for Momega camp. Liverpool River groups, distribution of local groups at Maningrida settlement, 1960. Shavante, Sa Domingos settlement, 1958. Bororo, Kejara village, ca. 1935-36. Savanna communities: Population size distribution by three ecological contexts. Dry savanna communities: Population size distribution by complete communities and segments. Australian savanna communities: Population size distribution by complete communities and segments. Savanna communities: Occupation density distribution by three ecological contexts. Savanna communities: Population by occupation density, distinguished by ecological context, linear axes. Dry savanna communities: Population by occupation density, distinguished by data reliability, logarithmic axes. Australian savanna communities: Population by occupation density, distinguished by data reliability, logarithmic axes. South American savanna communities: Population by occupation density, distinguished by data reliability, logarithmic axes. Dry savanna communities: Population and occupation density, identified by culture. Australian savanna communities: Population and occupation density, identified by culture. South American savanna communities: Population and occupation density, identified by culture. Ache, seasonal variation in subsistence consumption. Mean and coefficient of variation in daily access to resources, from simulations of Ache resource procurement, with different periods of potential storage. Mean daily access to resources, from simulations of Ache resource procurement, with different numbers of cooperating hunters. Coefficient of variation in daily access to resources, from simulations of Ache resource procurement, with different numbers of cooperating hunters.

Figure 6.59: Figure 6.60: Figure 6.61: Figure 6.62:

Mbuti, band camp, 1957-58. Mbuti, relationship between kinship and estimated spatial distance within camp. Semang, Bersiak camp, 1920s. Semang, relationship between kinship and estimated spatial distance for Bersiak camp. Figure 6.63: African tropical forest groups, assessment of estimated scales. Figure 6.64: Tropical forest communities: Population size distribution by complete communities and segments. Figure 6.65 Tropical forest communities: Population and occupation density, linear axes. Figure 6.66 Tropical forest communities: Population and occupation density by data reliability, logarithmic axes. Figure 6.67: African tropical forest communities: Population and occupation density, identified by culture. Figure 6.68: Asian and South American tropical forest communities: Population and occupation density, identified by culture. Figure 6.69: Contributions to the diet among Californian and Northwest Coast cultures. Figure 6.70: Tlingit, seasonal variation in allocation of time to subsistence pursuits. Figure 6.71: Cahuilla, Pic _ekiva village, ca. 1870s. Figure 6.72: Wappo, ?unu?cawa?hlma.noma village, ca. 1870. Figure 6.73: Nomlaki, idealised community plan. Figure 6.74: Haida, Skedans village, ca. 1878. Figure 6.75: Nootka, Actis village, 1972-74. Figure 6.76: Temperate communities: Population size distribution by regional group. Figure 6.77: Temperate communities: Occupation density by regional group. Figure 6.78: Temperate communities: Occupation density by traditional and nontraditional communities, by regional group. Figure 6.79: Temperate communities: Population and occupation density by regional groups, linear axes. Figure 6.80: Temperate communities: Population and occupation density by data reliability, logarithmic axes. Figure 6.81: Californian and other temperate communities: Population and occupation density, identified by culture. Figure 6.82: Northwest Coast temperate communities: Population and occupation density, identified by culture. Figure 6.83: Mistassini Cree, seasonal variation in subsistence consumption. Figure 6.84: Mean and coefficient of variation in daily access to resources, from simulations of Mistassini Cree resource procurement, with different periods of potential storage. Figure 6.85: Mean daily access to resources, from simulations of Mistassini Cree resource procurement, with different numbers of cooperating hunters. Figure 6.86: Coefficient of variation in daily access to resources, from simulations of Mistassini Cree resource procurement, with different numbers of cooperating hunters. Figure 6.87: Chipewyan, Wollaston Lake group, fishing camps, 1975. Figure 6.88: Montagnais, St. Augustin camp, 1971. Figure 6.89: West Cree, Shamattawa settlement, 1976. Figure 6.90: Gilyak, Puir summer village, ca. 1930s. Figure 6.91: Subarctic communities: Population size distribution by traditional and nontraditional communities. Figure 6.92: Subarctic communities: Population size distribution by regional group. Figure 6.93: Subarctic communities: Population size distribution by complete communities and segments. Figure 6.94: Subarctic communities: Occupation density by traditional and nontraditional communities. Figure 6.95: Subarctic communities: Occupation density by duration of occupation. Figure 6.96: Subarctic communities: Population and occupation density, linear axes. Figure 6.97: Subarctic communities: Population and occupation density by data reliability, logarithmic axes. Figure 6.98: Subarctic communities: Population and occupation density by traditional character, for reliable data. Figure 6.99: Eastern North American subarctic communities: Population and occupation density, identified by culture. Figure 6.100: Western North American and Asian subarctic communities: Population and occupation density, identified by culture.

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Figure 6.101: Iglulingmiut, seasonal variation in resource consumption. Figure 6.102: Mean and coefficient of variation in daily access to resources, from simulations of Iglulingmiut resource procurement, with different periods of potential storage. Figure 6.103: Mean and coefficient of variation in daily access to resources, from simulations of Naujamiut resource procurement, with different periods of potential storage. Figure 6.104: Mean and coefficient of variation in daily access to resources, from simulations of Nunamiut resource procurement, with different periods of potential storage. Figure 6.105: Mean daily access to resources, from simulations of Iglulingmiut resource procurement, with different numbers of cooperating hunters. Figure 6.106: Coefficient of variation in daily access to resources, from simulations of Iglulingmiut resource procurement, with different numbers of cooperating hunters. Figure 6.107: Mean daily access to resources, from simulations of Naujamiut resource procurement, with different numbers of cooperating hunters. Figure 6.108: Coefficient of variation in daily access to resources, from simulations of Naujamiut resource procurement, with different numbers of cooperating hunters. Figure 6.109: Mean daily access to resources, from simulations of Nunamiut resource procurement, with different numbers of cooperating hunters. Figure 6.110: Coefficient of variation in daily access to resources, from simulations of Nunamiut resource procurement, with different numbers of cooperating hunters. Figure 6.111: Ammassalik longhouse, Tasinsarsik kangigdlek, ca. 1880s. Figure 6.112: Netsilingmiut, Pelly Bay camp, 1956. Figure 6.113: Netsilingmiut, relationship between kinship and estimated spatial distance for Pelly Bay camp. Figure 6.114: Quebec Inuit, Inukjauk group, summer fishing camps, 1958. Figure 6.115: Quebec Inuit, relationship between kinship and spatial distance for summer fishing camps. Figure 6.116: Interior North Alaskan Inuit (Nunamiut), Anaktuvuk Pass summer camp, 1960. Figure 6.117: Interior North Alaskan Inuit, relationship between kinship and spatial distance for Anaktuvuk Pass summer camp. . Figure 6.118: North Alaskan Coast Inuit, Utqiagvik, ca. 1895. Figure 6.119: North American arctic communities: Population size distribution by traditional and non-traditional communities. Figure 6.120: Greenlandic arctic communities: Population size distribution by traditional and non-traditional communities. Figure 6.121: North American arctic communities: Population size distribution by regional groups. Figure 6.122: North American arctic communities: Population size distribution by complete communities and segments. Figure 6.123: Greenlandic arctic communities: Population size distribution by complete communities and segments. Figure 6.124: North American arctic communities: Occupation density by traditional and non-traditional communities. Figure 6.125: Greenlandic arctic communities: Occupation density by traditional and nontraditional communities. Figure 6.126: North American arctic communities: Occupation density by regional groups. Figure 6.127: North American arctic communities: Occupation density by occupation duration. Figure 6.128: North American arctic communities: Population and occupation density, linear axes. Figure 6.129: Greenlandic arctic communities: Population and occupation density, linear axes. Figure 6.130: North American arctic communities: Population and occupation density by data reliability, logarithmic axes. Figure 6.131: North American arctic communities: Population and occupation density by traditional and non-traditional communities. Figure 6.132: Greenlandic arctic communities: Population and occupation density by data reliability, logarithmic axes. Figure 6.133: Greenlandic arctic communities: Population and occupation density by traditional and non-traditional communities. Figure 6.134: Greenlandic arctic communities: Population and occupation density, identified by culture. Figure 6.135: North American eastern and central arctic communities: Population and occupation density, identified by culture. Figure 6.136: North American western arctic communities: Population and occupation density, identified by culture. Figure 6.137: Trends in the relationship between community population and occupation density, tropical, subtropical, and temperate groups.

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Figure 6.138: Trends in the relationship between community population and occupation density, subarctic and arctic groups. Figure 7.1: San camp layout comparison, !Kung and G/wi. Figure 7.2: San community layout. Figure 7.3: Mbuti and Efe community layout. Figure 7.4: Group residential arrangements. Figure 7.5: Northwest Coast communities. Figure 7.6: Australian desert communities. Figure 7.7: Subarctic communities. Figure 7.8: Arctic Inuit communities. Figure 7.9: !Kung sedentism. Figure 7.10: Mbuti sedentism. Figure 7.11: Australian Aboriginal sedentism. Figure 7.12: Entire sample, population and occupation density trends, traditional and nontraditional communities. Figure 7.13: Netsilingmiut resettlement, Pelly Bay, 1956-68. Figure 7.14: Australian Aboriginal resettlement. Mitchell River groups, Kowanyama, 1973. Figure 7.15: Chipewyan resettlement, Mission, 1970. Figure 7.16: Caribou Inuit resettlement, Rankin Inlet, 1959-69. Figure 7.17: West Cree resettlement, Rat Lake, 1974-75.

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LIST OF TABLES
Table 5.1: Table 5.2: Table 5.3: Table 5.4: Table 6.1: Table 6.2: Table 6.3: Table 6.4: Table 6.5: Table 6.6: Table 6.7: Table 6.8: Table 6.9: Table 6.10: Table 6.11: Table 6.12: Table 6.13: Table 6.14: Table 6.15: Table 6.16: Table 7.1: Table 7.2: Table 7.3: Table 7.4: Table 7.5: Table 7.6: Table 7.7: Table 7.8: Table 7.9: Table 7.10: Hunting simulation, input data. Storage strategies: Different package distributions, and periods of potential storage Sharing strategies: Number of individuals cooperating, with balanced resource distribution. Sharing strategies: Different strategies and resource distributions, for four cooperating hunters. Geographical distribution of the settlement sample. Data quality assessment, measured plans and reported areas. Population and area reliability assessments. Traditional character of settlement pattern, by data reliability. Cumulative distribution of occupation density, complete sample and traditional and reliable cases only. Traditional character of settlement pattern, by economic orientation, social group composition, and occupation duration. Ecological variables by environmental biome. Average demographic variables by environmental biome. Package size distributions for hunting returns simulations. Cultural distribution of sample of desert communities. Cultural distribution of sample of savanna communities. Cultural distribution of sample of tropical forest communities. Cultural distribution of sample of temperate communities. Cultural distribution of sample of subarctic communities. Cultural distribution of sample of arctic communities. Comparative Density Trends. Occupation duration and occupation density, complete sample. Occupation duration and occupation density, traditional communities. Structure durability by occupation duration. Structure durability by biome. Structure durability by occupation density. Community layout by social group. Community layout by biome. Community layout by structure durability. Community layout by occupation duration. Community layout by occupation density.

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PREFACE
While the Preface in a dissertation usually serves simply as a vehicle for acknowledgements, I have chosen to expand this somewhat, since, during the extended gestation of this dissertation, it has changed direction substantially, both in terms of the topic it deals with, but also in terms of approach and emphasis. The reasons for these changes should make the objectives of the work more readily understandable. To some extent the changes are due to opportunities which have become available as other work along similar lines has appeared in print. Perhaps more importantly, its emphasis has changed as my own experience in archaeology has broadened, both through a variety of fieldwork and research experiences, through teaching archaeological method and theory in undergraduate and M.Phil. courses, and in debating with colleagues about what should be part of an archaeology course. The dissertation addresses a fairly defined issue, but also uses this as a basis to consider a number of more fundamental questions which I feel are generally being side-stepped or confused in archaeology and in discussions of archaeological theory. Shortly before beginning doctoral research, one of my teachers asked me if I saw myself as a theory maker, or simply as a theory user. At that point, I was formulating ideas for a dissertation on economic and social change in Early Bronze Age Crete, and felt that I was poised in the position of being able to bring various theoretical approaches to bear on the data of early prehistoric Crete - then as now, largely unencumbered by the impositions of theory. I had no hesitation at all in expressing my satisfaction with the role of theory user. At about that time, however, the limitations of existing archaeological theory began to impinge on my work, raising a spectre of disquiet. I had written a Masters dissertation reanalysing data from the excavation of a small Cretan Early Bronze Age community (Whitelaw 1979; 1983a), reaching a rather different interpretation than the excavator (Warren 1972). While that re-interpretation has come to be accepted generally in the field (Cadogan 1987; Warren 1987; Cherry 1986), on discussing it with the excavator, we could simply agree to differ; in his words, he had one story and I had another. While I felt mine was a better story, I had little basis on which to assert this, since there was no real theoretical under-pinning to either interpretation. As I worked on the Cretan evidence during my first year of research, it became more and more apparent to me that an effective theoretical base was lacking, not just for the interpretation of settlement remains, but also for mortuary analysis, exchange studies, and settlement locational analysis. In short, the theoretical bases which might allow the inference of behaviour at particular periods in the past was insufficiently developed to withstand a critical appraisal. About this time, my growing concerns were fueled by reading through a bootlegged typescript of Binford's Bones book (1981b), which had a profound effect on the way I thought about the archaeological record, and about where I thought research was really needed in archaeology. This realisation was certainly encouraged by the atmosphere of debate at Cambridge, where I began to take the same critical perspective on my own approach to archaeological data that I inflicted on others. Thus, most of the way through my first year of research, I decided to switch to looking at questions, rather than for stopgap answers, and fell back on my earlier interest in settlement behaviour, but from a different perspective. The initial aim was to attempt to develop some general models of human spatial behaviour in settlements, ranging from mobile hunter-gatherers to simple agriculturalists, since the latter was the area where my principal archaeological interests lay. At that point, I was working within the collection of assumptions about the use of space that took the place of explicit theory, and so did not doubt that such general models could be found. As I read more critically in the field, and through more ethnographies, I began to seriously question

whether any relationship between settlement layout and social organisation could be established, and a major objective of the work became simply to establish whether there was a relationship which was worth investigating. Since existing attempts at cross-cultural modelling were too vague to be of much value in archaeology, it became necessary to get back to data and try to see if any patterns could be established. Agreeing with Binford's dictum that actualistic experience was the most effective basis for theory building, I turned to ethnoarchaeological data for inspiration. I began work with John Yellen's !Kung dataset (1977a), and simply played with it, inductively looking for patterns. A few patterns, and a few preconceptions led me into San ethnography, and it soon became clear that superficial cross-cultural correlations were not going to be particularly helpful for an understanding of behaviour, and I began to read more widely in San and other hunter-gatherer ethnography, to establish the cultural context of !Kung spatial behaviour. While this led to insights into !Kung behaviour, it also resulted in something of a quandary, since few ethnoarchaeological studies had been published at that point, and there was little other ethnographic documentation (of hunter-gatherers or other types of group) with sufficient detail to address comparable issues. At about this time, however, a number of studies by Binford on site structure began to appear in print (1978a; 1983), and it became clear to me that my principal interest lay in the broader patterns of behaviour underlying the organisation of settlement space, not so much in the detail of debris patterns on sites. This led me to explore the surprisingly plentiful, but less detailed record of other huntergatherer groups, in an attempt to generalise about spatial behaviour (Whitelaw 1983b). At that point, a variety of fieldwork opportunities became available, in which it was possible for me to return to Aegean data, but to explore methods for investigating settlements archaeologically (Whitelaw, in press a; Whitelaw and Davis, in press), and to conduct ethnoarchaeological research into broader-scale settlement patterns (Whitelaw, in press b). The latter work occupied most of my research time for the next several years. During this interval, a number of ethnoarchaeological studies of hunter-gatherers was published (Binford 1983; 1987; Janes 1983; Gould 1980; Hitchcock 1980; 1982; 1987; O'Connell 1987; Meehan 1982), as well as a series of volumes concerned with huntergatherers more generally, departing from the simplicity of the Man the Hunter model, and beginning to emphasise variability in hunter-gatherer behaviour (Leacock and Lee 1982; Schrire 1984a; Price and Brown 1985a; Riches 1982). Indeed, human spatial behaviour began to receive wider interest, and a number of important studies were published during the same period (Kramer 1982; Watson 1978a; Ardener 1981; Hietala 1984; Kent 1984; 1987; Hillier and Hansen 1984; Moore 1986; Cribb 1982). Concurrently, a number of studies began to emerge concerning the ecology of a wide variety of hunter-gatherer groups (Hames and Vickers 1983; Winterhalder and Smith 1981; Hart and Hart 1986; Abruzzi 1979; 1980; Schalk 1981; Binford 1980; Jones 1980a; Wiessner 1977; 1982b; Cashdan 1983; 1984a; Cashdan 1984b; Lee 1979; 1984; Silberbauer 1981a; Tanaka 1980; Harako 1976; Ichikawa 1979; Irimoto 1981; Tanner 1979; Brody 1981; Meehan 1982; Riches 1982; Woodburn 1980; 1982; Steegman 1983a; Hill and Hawkes 1983; Cavalli-Sforza 1986a), laying the groundwork for a serious ecological approach to foraging behaviour, which for the first time made it possible to think in terms of a dissertation focused on hunter-gatherers. Since the opportunity now existed, I considered it desirable to deal with a more limited body of material in some depth, rather than covering a broader spectrum of societies more superficially. Some prospects for a broader comparative perspective are given consideration in chapter 7. At the same time that this wealth of information concerning hunter-gatherer cultures has become available, there is as yet no synthesis of it, nor indeed any clear re-assessments of earlier general models of hunter-gatherer behaviour in the light of the new information (but see Smith and Winterhalder 1981; Barnard 1983; Myers 1988a; Thomas 1986; Bettinger 1980).

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Indeed, this would be extremely difficult at this point, since the detailed studies undertaken in recent years are usually much more particularistic and focused than the broad ethnographies that were the vogue in anthropology in earlier decades. While such detail is necessary if we are to understand the nature of variation in hunter-gatherer behaviour, the focus of each study is almost always unique, making comparison and synthesis extremely difficult. Thus any attempt to develop some general perspectives, whether on huntergatherer social organisation (chapter 4), foraging behaviour (chapter 5), or ecology (chapter 6), must currently remain fairly superficial. It has been constantly necessary to keep in mind that this study is about settlement organisation, not an attempt at a new synthesis of huntergatherer socio-ecology. If the latter study could be attempted at this point, it would have to be much broader in scope than is conceivable within the compass of a doctoral dissertation. The discussions in chapters 4 through 6 have attempted to pull together enough information to support the argument at hand, while treading the fine line between superficiality and getting side-tracked altogether into a broader consideration of hunter-gatherer behaviour. I can only hope that an appropriate balance has been achieved. One more issue deserves preliminary discussion. This is the lack of an archaeological case study, usually included in a dissertation such as this to illustrate the validity of the approach developed. While I initially intended to include such an example, it will become clear in chapter 1 that the aim of this dissertation is to contribute to the development of general theory relating the organisation of space in human communities to the social organisation of the occupying group. I distinguish this objective explicitly from the middle range aspects of the problem, which also need to be addressed. Other researchers have made considerable progress in the latter direction in the past decade, though our understanding of the natural and behavioural processes which affect the formation of the archaeological record is still not well-developed. At the present, it is very difficult to assess independently either component of an archaeological interpretation. Without a suitable understanding of the middle range concerns, no interpretation will be particularly satisfactory. In such a situation, a case illustration would be more misleading than helpful. In fact, as will become clear, the ethnographic data with which this dissertation is concerned provides the best assessment of the degree to which the arguments developed here have value for the understanding of human spatial behaviour, and for future archaeological interpretation. This dissertation is the result of my own work, and includes nothing which is the outcome of work done in collaboration. Furthermore, no portion of this work has already been, or is being concurrently submitted for any other degree or qualification at this or any other university.

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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, it is appropriate that I acknowledge the support that I have received from my supervisor, Colin Renfrew, during the pursuit of this study. He always stressed that it should be a limited piece of work, not one's life undertaking - advice which I have finally taken at least somewhat to heart. I am also very grateful for his faith that I would finish eventually - which I have presumed from the fact that he was always willing to sign the forms that I sent in his direction. While we have often disagreed about the form and content of the dissertation during its various transformations, his comments have always been welcome. In the last few years, he has recognised the difficulties of trying to make progress while maintaining a full-time teaching commitment. On the administrative side, I have out-lasted a number of advisors, including John Coles and Paul Mellars, though my last advisor, Sander van der Leeuw, took up the position with an aggressive vigour which has undoubtedly contributed to the completion of the project. Geoff Bailey has kindly provided advice on administrative details over the years. On the practical side, my eclectic borrowing habits have strained the patience of a succession of Haddon Librarians, particularly Sue Bury, Aidan Baker and Margaret Bliss, to whom I am grateful for their forbearance. The librarians of the Scott Polar Research Institute, and of the University Library Map Room have also been unfailingly helpful. Colin Shell has generously provided assistance with computing matters in this project as in others, and John Cherry and Chris Chippindale have supplied advice to a novice MacUser in the final production of the dissertation. Lisa Nevett typed nearly all of the references, coping with the fiddly bits to a degree which would have severely tried my patience. Marie-Louise Srensen translated several paragraphs from the Danish when I realised I couldn't fake it. From the beginning, the research has been financially supported by the Masters and Fellows of St. John's College, initially in the form of a Benefactor's Studentship and a supplementary support grant, and was further pursued during the tenure of a Research Fellowship. My colleagues on the staff of the Department of Archaeology, and more widely within the Faculty of Archaeology and Anthropology, have been very helpful over the years, especially in the last few, when it has sometimes been precarious balancing both of my hats within the Department. The non-academic staff of the Department have always been very supportive, in particular Josie John, Val Shadrack, Diana Linden, Sally Wilford, Jessica Hale, and Nick Winder. Drafts of chapters have been read by Anick Coudart, Tim Murray, Colin Renfrew, Steve Shennan, Sue Shennan, Robin Torrence, and Sander van der Leeuw, for whose perseverance, and supportive noises at the right time, I am extremely grateful. Sander and Anick provided detailed comments on early chapters during their gestation, which were encouraging when it was needed, Steve and Robin and Sander fought their way through the entire thesis and provided crucial advice and support in the final throes of production. Others have listened to, or read and commented on parts of the research, presented as papers in various contexts over the years, for which I am grateful. These include Lewis Binford, Roland Fletcher, Rob Foley, Clive Gamble, Paul Halstead, Ian Hodder, Phylis Lee, Sue Rowley, John O'Shea, James Woodburn, and Henry Wright. Others interested in related issues have very kindly sent me data, unpublished papers, or replied to queries, including James Eder, Jack Fisher, Brian Hayden, Susan Kent, Jim O'Connell, Polly Wiessner, Bobby Jo Williams, and John Yellen. I would also like to express my gratitude to my colleagues in the Department of Archaeology, both staff and research students, for creating an atmosphere where theoretical issues are the subject of (at the least) lively debate. In addition, I would like to thank those undergraduates and M.Phil. students who have put up with the development of some of the ideas pursued in this study.

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In addition to the above, many other friends have been supportive during the long gestation of this study, and I would also like to note my appreciation for support from Gina Barnes, John Bennet, Bob, Jill, Hannah and Fiona Bewley, Ceridwen Cherry, Polly Fahnestock, David Hughes, Glynis Jones, Lisa Nevett, Kate Pretty, Pete, Debbie, Gabriel and Eleanor Rowley-Conwy, Colin Shell, Sophie and Henry Shennan, Anthony Snodgrass, Tjeerd van Andel, Sally Wilford, and of course Ghengis, Bamba, Muggles, and the rest of my family.

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CHAPTER 1 TOWARD THEORY BUILDING IN ARCHAEOLOGY

1.1: INTRODUCTION: EXPLICIT THEORY IN ARCHAEOLOGY.
Probably the most important component of the shift in emphasis in the practice of archaeology which followed the polemic writings of the New Archaeology, was a recognition of the need for explicit attention to the theories we work with in attempting to explain the data of the archaeological record. One can readily admit that 1962 did not see the birth of theory in archaeology, but it did see a change to a more self-critical awareness, which recognised the need for explicit attention to theory, which until that point, had remained largely implicit, and often unrecognised as such (Clarke 1973). For that matter, the call for explicit consideration of theory was perhaps more implicit than many of the other positions taken by proponents of the New Archaeology. However, I would suggest that it was possibly the most important component of the New Archaeology, and in fact the principal concern that has survived the intervening years, and continues as a focal concern of Processual and Post-processual archaeology. Other issues, such as the role of archaeology as a science, and a concern with the proper procedures for scientific argumentation, took precedence in the debates and programmatic statements which are the hallmark of the New Archaeology, but were ultimately less important. As noted by Thompson (1956), archaeological interpretation usually followed directly upon the observation of data and the recognition of pattern within it. As long as there was no intervening consideration of theory to explain the patterns identified, from which expectations could be derived and compared with the observed patterns, there was little basis on which to assess an interpretation. In the absence of explicit consideration of theory, the validity of an interpretation could only depend on the insight and experience of the analyst, and of course any criticism became a personal attack on the intelligence or credentials of that individual, leading to entrenched positions and the slow pace of development of new perspectives. The New Archaeology argued that this was an inappropriate (and fairly ineffective) approach to gaining knowledge, and tried to establish the validity of an alternative approach by an appeal to science (Binford 1962; 1982a). In attempting to support this view with the idea of science, the proponents of the New Archaeology got hung up on procedures and the form of archaeological explanation, rather than pursuing issues about content (Fritz and Plog 1970; Watson et al. 1971). The debates over how science should be done masked considerable misunderstanding about what a theory is, how one arrives at it, and what one does with it. Debate focussed upon the process of hypothesis assessment, but hypothesis formation was given little attention. While an hypothesis could come from anywhere, why were some ideas better than others? Obviously, hypotheses that are consistent with, or have some referent in a general understanding of human behaviour are more likely to embody realistic expectations for past behaviour. The major problem facing archaeologists in the 1960s, and now, is that few such theories, whether derived from anthropology, psychology, or other branches of the social sciences, are couched in terms directly translatable into the data of the archaeological record. So archaeologists generally side-stepped this part of the problem. For some archaeologists, a short-cut to explanation was found by re-defining explanation, not as understanding a situation, but being able to predict it. From this perspective, empirical generalisations took the place of explanations (Watson et al. 1971; Schiffer 1981). Any notion could be set up as an hypothesis for testing, but there was no sense that these hypotheses should take their legitimacy from any prior position, or understanding of

human behaviour. Not surprisingly, this led to descriptive empirical generalisations of archaeological phenomena, but little understanding of why they took the form that they did. I take a theory of human behaviour to be a general statement purporting to explain some aspect of human behaviour. Such theories can be relevant at different levels of specificity. At the most general level, we may look for broad theories relating to all human beings, or all examples of a particular behaviour or behavioural transformation. At this level, any theory is likely to be very general indeed, but will serve as a basis for building more specific theories, incorporating more and more elements of specific local contexts, ultimately, brought down to the level of behaviour within an individual culture or local group. Essentially, working out an understanding of human behaviour in a specific context can be viewed as a process of working from the universal to the unique. In contrast, most archaeological, and indeed, anthropological explanations begin at a fairly specific level, so that their generality or relevance to other situations is unclear. With no over-arching general theory to develop implications or expectations from, such explanations take on the character of ad hoc accommodative arguments. While it is axiomatic that each individual and each culture is unique, we explain behaviour by distinguishing that which is unique from that which is more general, and proceeding to try to break down the unique, by building in more specific aspects of the local context into our theory. Such an approach is comparable to the process of model-building: a model is always a simplification of reality, which allows us more readily to grasp the working of specific factors, otherwise lost in the detail. We can then go on to build increasingly complex models, incorporating more and more of the real situation, both in terms of context, and behaviour. As an example, one of the most quoted 'theories' in archaeology is the proposition, put forward by Saxe (1970:119), that: "To the degree that corporate group rights to use and/or control crucial but restricted resources are attained and/or legitimized by means of lineal descent from the dead (i.e., lineal ties to ancestors), such groups will maintain formal disposal areas for the exclusive disposal of their dead and conversely." While invoked as a universal characteristic of human behaviour in all places and all times, this proposition was an empirical generalisation, based on a single ethnographic case study (Saxe 1970:119-21). Subsequent 'testing' by Goldstein (1981) has simply shown that the proposition is not inconsistent with the behaviour of a number of other cultures, though it is only exemplified in some of the societies studied. A theory to account for this empirical observation, would probably build upon basic ethological theories of human and other vertebrate territorial behaviour (Sack 1986). But such a theory would also attempt to account for variation in such behaviour, for instance identifying factors which would account for why specific cultures in Goldstein's sample (or any other sample) do or do not exhibit such behaviour. Interestingly, the recognition of the need for explicit theory is also perhaps the major unifying characteristic of Post-processual archaeology - largely a search for an appropriate, explicit, theoretical umbrella to shelter under. This search accounts for the somewhat schizophrenic character of Post-processual archaeology, as individuals publicly chart their voyages of discovery through various theoretical realms. In a similar fashion to the New Archaeology as a movement, Post-processualists have stuck together for solidarity, despite the fact that their individual positions are often at least as divergent from each other as they are from any Processual position. Post-processualism has therefore become a fairly unwieldy umbrella which attempts to encompass the different approaches which individual researchers have settled with. Whether such explorations will result in more than enthusiastic prescriptive claims for each perspective, and the accompanying critiques of other views, will await the appearance of substantive archaeological applications; at present,

only a few studies have begun to pursue the implications of such theoretical perspectives for the data of the past. The drawback is that individual perspectives often become reified - followers of one view consider that theirs must be right. Rather, one can adopt the position (contra Harris 1979; Shanks and Tilley 1987b) that different theoretical perspectives may be more appropriate for approaching different aspects of a question, and that the interface between different perspectives can lead us to ask different questions - sitting on the fence can be uncomfortable, but it may still provide the best view! Interestingly, while anthropology has gone through similar periods of debate over the same conceptual issues, no solution has been agreed upon, and studies with very different theoretical perspectives are published side by side in the same journals, contributing to our broader understanding of human behaviour. Very few of these different perspectives would actually fall into different and incommunicable 'paradigms', in the sense attributed to Kuhn (1970; Binford and Sabloff 1982; Meltzer 1979). Within archaeology, more progress in wrestling with theoretical issues has come from attempts to clarify the process of archaeological explanation, than has come from debates over alternative perspectives. One may suggest that there are two principal strategies ahead of us: we can principally address the issues of middle range theory, which is what principally concerns us when we work with archaeological data, or take our place as one of the social sciences with regard to the pursuit of general theory concerned with understanding human behaviour. In support of the first position, one could argue that until we get our act sorted out on this level, archaeology will have little to offer the more general study of human behaviour. But on the other hand, we will always be tempted, and in fact required, to give our best interpretation of the archaeological evidence given the theoretical understanding at our disposal. From this perspective, it is worth attempting to build on all fronts at once, even including data collection. In addition to working on middle range theory, and applying general theory developed in the social sciences, we can take a more active stance, and as well as coping with our own problems, attempt to contribute to the general understanding of human behaviour. This was part of the position advocated by the New Archaeology - that archaeologists take their role in Anthropology seriously, and contribute, not just exploit the linkage. Some archaeologists have developed this latter notion in two ways. First, they point out that we have a unique contribution to make in two ways to the study of human behaviour: 1) We have the long time depth of archaeology through which we alone can investigate long-term processes of behavioural change. 2) We alone have access to data on the origins of human behaviour, whether that be human behaviour as such, at or before the point of emergence of our species, prior to 100,000 BP, or later 'origins' or major transformations such as the shift to sedentary communities, food production, or urban living. Both situations have encouraged much archaeological endeavour, though it is still fair to say that more attention is given to the empirical collection of data relating to these processes, than is given to theorising about how we explain them. A second approach focuses on developing theory on how human beings use material culture. While the data of the archaeological record give us no particular insight into this, we are drawn to this aspect of human behaviour because, while amenable to study in the present, it has been neglected by anthropologists and other social scientists. Since understanding the material remains of past societies is critical to our pursuit, we have to build general theory in this area, since there is little existing to rely upon. Work in this area can be viewed either as filling a gap in our attempts to understand human behaviour, or as providing theory which will be essential to our comprehension of the archaeological record. This study falls clearly in this last area of research, and is aimed specifically at understanding archaeological data, though working from the more fully documented

perspective of recent material behaviour. Specifically, the present study attempts to identify and explain patterns of spatial behaviour within communities, as they relate to the social organisation of the residential group. It attempts to generalise cross-culturally about such behaviour, and about the relevant aspects of the meaning attached to space in individual cultures, and compared among different cultures. It is aimed particularly at the identification of general patterns of behaviour which will have implications for the material record, and so have relevance for the interpretation of the archaeological record. The remainder of this chapter explores general issues relevant to the development of such theory.

1.2: SETTLEMENT ARCHAEOLOGY: ITS GOALS AND PROMISE.

It has long been recognised that there is some sort of relationship between the arrangement of houses and other structures within a settlement, and the social organisation of the community. That an understanding of this relationship would be crucial to the reconstruction of past social behaviour was made explicit in Lewis Henry Morgan's Houses and House Life of the American Indians (1881), originally written as the worked example to accompany Ancient Society (1877), his treatise on human social organisation. Yet despite this recognition, there has been little attempt in either archaeology or anthropology to develop explicitly an increased understanding of the nature of this relationship. Rather, an understanding has been assumed, based on unstated or vaguely formulated assumptions, ethnocentric experience, and on selective reference to ethnographic detail. An interest in specifying the nature of this relationship, as a basis for archaeological inference, emerged in American archaeology in the 1950s and early 1960s. Settlement Archaeology was in fact one of the first of the sub-disciplines defined in archaeology, a process following from the increasing breadth and compartmentalisation of the field since the 1950s. This interest was based on a view, well expressed by Willey (1956b:1), that: "In settlement, man inscribes upon the landscape certain modes of his existence. These settlement arrangements relate to the adjustments of man and culture to environment and to the organization of society in the broadest sense. Viewed archaeologically... settlements are a more direct reflection of social and economic activities than are most other aspects of material culture available to the archaeologist." The renewed interest in settlements as an integrating focus presaged and arose from parallel concerns to those which fired the development of the New Archaeology in the early 1960s. Initially taking the form of discussions of settlement patterns in particular cultural contexts (Willey 1956a), there were also limited attempts to abstract more general characteristics of human settlement (Beardsley et al. 1956). The latter approach was particularly promising in Chang's early work (1958a; 1958b; 1962), though he eventually became side-tracked into typological and definitional issues (1968; 1972). Apart from his earlier, largely ethnographic studies, Chang never developed the approach very far, or in a form which could be operationalised archaeologically. Perhaps the most coherent statement of what Settlement Archaeology could be, was made by Bruce Trigger in a 1968 article, where he tried to spell out a few basic generalisations. In subsequent theoretical statements (e.g. Tringham 1972; Clarke 1977), Trigger's insights have been repeated, but without much development. In Trigger's original, more general paper along these lines, however, he defined a broader scope for the new sub-field, including essentially all social inferences in archaeology (Trigger 1967). This sounded stirring, but set

up considerably more diffuse objectives, and little comprehensive discussion of the theoretical issues followed. In a sense, a hampered development, due to a lack of theory, has characterised much of the New Archaeology, though Settlement Archaeology has come off rather worse than other lines of study which have developed since about the same time. Some of these, such as the study of state formation and exchange systems, have thrived, since they tapped into areas of interest and lively debate within anthropology more generally, where both theoretical and material issues have remained topics of interest. Similarly, the study of regional settlement systems links directly to areas of long-standing and continuing interest in geography. Other fields, such as mortuary studies, have made progress, though less dramatically, since while not aligning directly with a major area of anthropological debate, they have come face-toface with at least some anthropological interest. In contrast, settlement studies have rather languished, since they have neither walked into a body of theory which they could pillage from another discipline, nor even stumbled into a field with a substantial amount of practical descriptive observation or interest. This in itself seems rather surprising, but one is relatively hard pressed to find evidence of interest in the internal organisation of settlements, except at the level of the city, for which the geographical literature is substantial. The investigation of settlement organisation has seen only tentative ventures by a handful of anthropologists, historians, architects, sociologists, psychologists, and geographers, depending on how broadly one casts one's net. These studies have provided little in the way of theory for archaeologists to borrow, which perhaps accounts for the very diverse and relatively weak approaches of the archaeologists who have attempted to explore the subject on a theoretical level. These approaches will be reviewed in the next chapter. Yet even in fields for which there was some existing relevant theoretical work, this has often taken considerable time in filtering through into archaeological investigations, and informing archaeological inferences, and even longer to be fully taken on board, in the light of the properties of the archaeological data base. In the meantime, we have tried to run before we can walk. To a majority of practitioners in the field, the business of archaeologists is to excavate, or study archaeological material, and 'theory' is still considered something which one can opt to take or leave. In this sense, the tendency to push poorly developed theory as far as it will go with data for answers now, rather than encouraging the development of more firmly-founded theory in its own right, leads to the fairly confused situation in which we currently find ourselves. Paralleling the New Archaeology generally, Settlement Archaeology pushed ahead, with archaeological analyses devoid of either theoretical underpinning, or a clear methodology. It is instructive of the potential of the area that several of the most widely-hailed early studies of the New Archaeology explicitly focussed on the analysis of settlements as complete entities: Longacre's work at Carter Ranch (1970), Hill's at Broken K pueblo (1970a), and Binford's at Hatchery West (Binford et al. 1970). These initial projects have been followed by a large number of interesting studies, dealing with data from different periods and places (e.g. Clarke 1972a; Rock and Morris 1975; DeGarmo 1977; Dean 1970; Drewett 1979; Stanley Price 1979; Halstead, Hodder and Jones 1978; Whitelaw 1983a; Whalen 1981; Bogucki and Grygiel 1981). All are united by an attempt to use evidence about the spatial distribution of artefacts and features within a site, to inform on the social organisation of the past occupants of that community. All likewise attempt this without a firm theoretical basis. These are basically exercises in pattern recognition, in which patterns are noted in the spatial arrangement of features, or in the distribution of artefactual materials, and an interpretation is read onto the patterns identified. Some work has even been aimed at establishing a methodology for such pattern recognition (often in retrospect) (Hill 1970b; Wilcox 1975), though in effect this simply

enshrines the preconceptions of the original studies, without contributing to any real understanding of the nature of human spatial behaviour. The problem stems from a complete lack of any explicit theory. Instead, the interpretive inferences are built on intuitive assumption. A classic example is the 'matrilocal residence' hypothesis used by both Longacre (1970) and Hill ( 1970a). While ostensibly derived from the ethnography of the Pueblo area, and relying on 'the direct historical approach' for its justification, it was based on a mis-reading of the ethnography of Pueblo pottery production (Stanislawski 1973), took little account of the relevant anthropological information from Pueblo societies (Parsons 1936; Ellis 1951; Dozier 1965; Allen and Richardson 1971), and ignored earlier ethnographic studies from the same area which investigated in some detail the issue of residential location within Pueblo communities (Mindeleff 1900; Kroeber 1919), in addition to facing considerable analytical problems (Johnson 1972; Lischka 1975; Plog 1980). From a number of perspectives, then, the approach to the study of past settlements which was exemplified in the New Archaeology was naive and optimistic. However, what is particularly disappointing is that it never got much further than simply specifying a few broad assumptions about human behaviour in space. There was little attempt to develop these ideas in breadth or depth, nor to assess their validity. The failure of the New Archaeology to produce any workable theory or method for the investigation of social organisation through settlement data can be broken down into a number of distinct issues. These will be explored further in this introduction, and an attempt to address some of the issues will be made in the remainder of this dissertation. The first major concern revolves around our conception of the archaeological record - what do we have to work with, how can that best be used, and how do we develop an understanding of it? Secondly, what do we mean by a theory of human behaviour, how might we establish such a theory, and how would we expect to use it. These issues will receive further attention in this chapter, and the second will be further explored in chapters 2 and 3. Third, we have to understand the objective of the exercise - if the principal aim of Settlement Archaeology is to allow us to say something about the past social organisation of a community, based on certain categories of material evidence, what do we actually mean by 'social organisation'? This may have been hailed as the principal objective of 'Social Archaeology' (Renfrew 1973; Redman et al. 1978), but relatively little attention has been given to defining what is meant by 'social organisation'. This will be addressed in chapters 4 and 5. Finally, consistent with the approach we decide upon to develop an understanding of human behaviour, and build theory, we would have to look at how spatial behaviour relates to social behaviour (chapter 6), and look for general patterns and the principles underlying their interrelationship (chapter 7). Finally, it will be worthwhile to return to the basic problem of archaeological analysis, and assess whether it is possible to make progress toward an effective theoretical basis for Settlement Archaeology (chapter 8).

1.3: THE NATURE OF THE ARCHAEOLOGICAL RECORD: MIDDLE RANGE AND GENERAL THEORY.
In nearly all of the studies already cited, the archaeological record was viewed as unproblematic, and artefact distributions and associations were interpreted directly as 'fossilised residues of human behaviour'. Such a view was shown clearly to be simplistic by Schiffer, who developed a series of basic concepts relating to the natural and cultural processes of transformation of the archaeological record, which intervene between the production of a material record, and its recovery by archaeologists - the formation processes of the archaeological record (1972; 1976; 1987). Among the cultural formation processes, some behavioural process are those which we wish to reconstruct, involving the creation of

the material (archaeological) record. Others are modifications of that record, in Schiffer's terms, distortions of the record. This perspective has been usefully honed through debate (Binford 1981a; Schiffer 1985), and considerable progress has been made over the past decade in refining the concepts, and building up a substantive base for understanding the formation of the archaeological record (Schiffer 1987). It would be fair to say, however, that more progress has been made toward understanding natural formation processes, than cultural. While christened with the grand title of 'Behavioral Archeology', and purporting to address the full range of the human use of material culture, in practice, Schiffer tried to re-define the aim of archaeology as the study of the formation processes of the archaeological record, losing sight of the fact that for most archaeologists, this is merely a means to an end. A broader, but less developed perspective was taken by Clarke (1973), though it remained for Binford, in a series of polemical statements and studies (1977a; 1981a; 1981b; 1982b; 1983) to focus attention on the nature of the archaeological record, the expectations we develop about it, and the methodology by which we attempt to derive information from it. Because considerable debate has arisen around these issues, it is worth elaborating how I understand and will address them. What Binford has called 'middle range theory' addresses the relationship between the aims of our discipline and the raw material we work with. We wish to make statements about past human behaviour - dynamics that are not directly observable - but must work with observations in the present, on static properties of the archaeological record. In essence, we are studying the archaeological record, not the past. However, this does not mean that archaeologists must limit the statements they make to inferences about the nature of the archaeological record, but rather that we must recognise the distinction between the data we build on, and the content of the inferences we draw. In order to convert our observations on the present into inferences about dynamics in the past, we must understand the formation of the archaeological record - we must give meaning to the observed properties of the archaeological record. Such meanings are not absolute, since observations on properties of the archaeological record do not carry inherent meanings, and meanings are inferred relevant to the specific questions asked. How do we attach meaning to the archaeological record? This crucial problem has been identified as the concern of middle range theory. This recognises two conceptually distinct problems: 1) We need to convert the observationally static facts of the archaeological record into statements of dynamics. 2) We need to get from contemporary observations to statements about the past. To deal with the first point, we need models which link static material derivatives to dynamic behaviour. While such models can be formulated through any means, in practice the most comprehensive and satisfactory models are constructed on the basis of observations and experience, hence the importance of ethnographic analogy, ethnoarchaeology, and experimental archaeology. Such research needs to be conducted in the present, or the ethno-historically known past, where we can document the linkage between behaviour in a living system, and the static archaeological products which derive from its dynamics. Likewise, to be useful to archaeologists, the linkages must be unambiguous, or the degree of ambiguity over the link between statics and dynamics critically assessed. With regard to the second point, moving from contemporary observations to statements about the past, we need to be able to project that causal behavioural link into the past. This entails the assumption that the particular behaviour responsible for comparable traces in the present, also acted in a similar, and in fact, in a similarly unambiguous, way in the past. This is a uniformitarian assumption - we are assuming that the same dynamic process (the same relationship between cause and effect) operative in the present was operative in the

past. However (and here I part company with Binford), as with the arguments linking statics and dynamics, in practice, the uniformitarian nature of the process may be subject to varying degrees of certainty - it is not a simple case of being 'uniformitarian' or not. A clear distinction may be drawn between the degree to which we are willing to accept a uniformitarian status for natural processes (erosion, decay, etc.) implicated in the formation of the archaeological record, and cultural processes, subject to human decisions and variations in behaviour. These two points are the basic thrust of middle range theory, and in turn suggest the two major ways of assessing middle range propositions. They are reliable only to the extent that they accurately and unambiguously link statics and dynamics, and in the degree to which we are justified in making a uniformitarian assumption that the process observable in the present was similarly active in the past. It is important to emphasise that these are not new propositions about how archaeological research ought to be conducted - as it were 'the gospel according to Binford'. They are a conscious formalisation or model of the way archaeological reasoning is conducted, but a formalisation which requires that we confront and justify the assumptions that lie at the base of most archaeological interpretations and explanations, and in our case, have served as the shaky foundations for Settlement Archaeology. Middle range theory, whether considered theory or methodology, embodies the methods, conceptual tools, and theories necessary to render archaeological statics into statements about past dynamics. Viewed this way, there is no body of middle range theory, rather, when we attempt to use observations on the archaeological record to make statements about behaviour in the past, we incorporate an element of middle range reasoning. In essence, then, middle range theory, like the observations we marshal as 'evidence', is question specific - each question approached through the archaeological record will have its own, specific, middle range concerns. What unites these concerns is the type of problem they present, and the concepts and processes of reasoning we must use to address them. Why has it been called middle range theory? To emphasise that it is inferentially distinct from general theory (Binford 1977, contra Raab and Goodyear 1984). General theory refers to our ideas about the dynamics of a living system. Archaeological observations are not relevant to the formulations of general theory, but must be translated into statements of dynamics. In short, middle range theory deals with those characteristics of archaeological inquiry which are tied to the nature of our data base. It has been called middle range because it is intended to serve as the link between data and theory in explanation. Just as middle range theory does not exist as a monolithic entity, so also general theory cannot be considered such. However, it serves as a conceptual catch-all for the theories of human behaviour that we use to describe or explain past behaviour. It follows that there is no general theory specific to archaeology, though we may attempt to develop theories that refer to particular types of behaviour involving material culture which take on particular importance because of the nature of our data base. To some extent, this accounts for the dearth of theory in anthropology relating social and spatial behaviour - anthropologists have a variety of avenues to the study of social behaviour which do not necessitate a focus on material culture. This exposition of the contrast between middle range and general theory has been necessary for two reasons. First, in retrospect, it can be seen that approaches to Settlement Archaeology have, in general, failed on both counts: they have failed to provide middle range arguments which explicitly link behaviour and its material consequences, and they have failed to develop general theory relating spatial behaviour within settlements to concepts concerning social organisation. Second, the discussion has illustrated the difference between the concerns of middle range theory and those of general theory.

The focus of this dissertation is on general theory, to the exclusion of the middle range concerns. Currently, there is a substantial amount of research underway which addresses middle range concerns relevant to the interpretation of settlement debris (section 2.2), but very little which attempts to wrestle with the more general behavioural issues. It will take far more than one major study to work out the outlines of a general theory relating settlement morphology to community social organisation, and this dissertation simply aims to contribute to this. It will take numerous other studies to successfully deal with the explicitly middle range concerns, which will make such work archaeologically operationalisable. An initial focus on the general theory aspects of the problem is essential simply to establish whether there is a relationship to be studied - as the preceding review of approaches to Settlement Archaeology has argued, the belief that social organisation can be inferred from material patterning within settlements is simply an assumption. The aim of this study is to establish that there is a relationship between social and spatial behaviour which deserves serious attention, and to begin to explore the nature of that relationship. Looked at another way, one approach to archaeology is to work up from the data we have. Within any research project, there are likely to be phases of inductive research, but as a programme for research, this presupposes that we have access to all the data potentially available, and that there are known and definable limits to archaeological inference. While one might back off from the optimism of Binford's early war cry that "The formal structure of artifact assemblages together with the between element contextual relationships should and do present a systematic and understandable picture of the total extinct cultural system." (Binford 1962:218-9), one would be premature to try to set what those limits are or ought to be. Rather, the approach taken here is to work down from theory, first defining our questions, and how we might most productively approach them, and then working out how we can do it with the methods and data available. In this case, any shortcomings serve as a challenge to develop the appropriate methodology.

1.4: THE ARCHAEOLOGICAL ARCHAEOLOGY.

RECORD

AND

THE

AIMS

OF

A second dimension to recent debates over the nature of the archaeological record concerns not what that record is, but rather how we view it, and what kind of information we want to get from it. These issues are also fundamental, and will have implications for the approach taken in the remainder of this dissertation. To date, the issues have been best stated by Patrik (1985), in her formulation of two alternative models of the archaeological record. While I consider her models to be extreme formulations, they do correspond fairly well to existing polarised positions (Hodder 1982a; 1985; 1986; Binford 1982a; 1987). Personally, I find the oppositions unhelpful; I feel both positions have some merit, but are addressing different issues, and hence their protagonists are talking past each other. Patrik's physical model is presented as the intuitive model held by most archaeologists, subscribes to a positivist philosophy, and is exemplified in the work of Binford and most Processual archaeologists. In this view, the archaeological record is the static, passive, consequence of past processes, some natural, some behavioural. We aim to reconstruct the dynamic processes in the past which produced the present, static consequences, through observation of the latter, and our understanding of the causal processes. This approach avoids the logical fallacy of affirming the consequent by positing a direct, unambiguous, and therefore deterministic connection between cause and effect. This corresponds to the 'law and order' school of thought within the New Archaeology (Flannery 1973), which saw the goal of archaeology as the elucidation of cross-cultural 'general laws' of human behaviour (Watson et al. 1971).

Patrik's text model corresponds to a major thrust of the recent Post-processual critique of the New Archaeology (Hodder 1985; 1986; Leone 1982). In this view, the archaeological record is composed of material symbols (encoded ideas), which had meaning in the past, and can inform us about the intentions of their creators and the rules and conventions of the society in which they participated. Such meanings are generated by individual action within the constraints of cultural norms, and must be considered culture specific. The underlying codes which they follow may be unconscious, are not directly observable, and can only be understood within their total cultural context. There must be a certain amount of agreement between followers of both models as to some characteristics of the archaeological record. The archaeological record is static, and results from the action of both natural and cultural formation processes. At the same time, systems of meaning are instrumental in at least some aspects of its formation. The real difference is one of emphasis, and in defining what the aims of archaeological research should be. Even a strict adherent of the physical model will accept that people are not 'helpless spectators always subject to external forces over which they have very little control", blindly adapting to their environment (Tilley 1981:131), and that ideas govern behaviour, but will stress that the archaeological record is a record of behaviour: "I don't have to know how the participants thought about the system to investigate it as a system of adaptation in a knowable natural world" (Binford 1982b:162). At the same time, the archaeological record is not just a record of behaviour, though for any idea to be potentially recoverable from archaeological evidence, it must have had some effect on behaviour. However, any attempt to define the limits of inference is in direct conflict with the optimistic war cry of the early New Archaeology, and strict adherence to the physical model is tantamount to saying that only behaviour is of interest, not the motivation behind that behaviour. On the other hand, adherents of the text model are equally blinkered, in asserting that an explanation of patterning in the archaeological record in terms of behaviour alone is inadequate. Surely, this must vary with the question being investigated; the perspectives are different, but one is not necessarily better than the other. Another major distinction between the approaches is in terms of methodology, and thereby the success with which the different objectives can be pursued. Followers of a somewhat less strict physical model (Processualists), have made progress over the past 25 years in developing methodologies which allow them to address the archaeological record in terms of the aims of their research. Followers of the text model (many self-proclaimed Postprocessualists), have not, as yet, developed a workable methodology for the investigation of meaning through the archaeological record. To date, writings have been polemical, but weak on convincing archaeological analysis; most examples illustrating the importance of the perspective have been ethnoarchaeological, where meaning can be elicited through interview, though even here, little attention has been given to whose meanings are accepted, what variation in concepts can be documented, etc. The basic methodological limitations of the text model in archaeology are dictated by theoretical commitments which have boxed Post-processual research into a relativistic corner. According to the text model, meanings are culture specific, and negotiable by individuals within a culture. Following arguments from structural linguistics and semiotics, the association between symbol and meaning is arbitrary, in the sense of there being no necessary causal connection between the two. Finally, meanings are context specific, and a full understanding of the context is necessary to elicit an association between symbol and meaning. An anthropologist, as observer or participant, can build up a context based on associations, where the meaning of one symbol or action is interpreted in terms of previously determined meanings. Dealing simply with static patterns of material in the archaeological record, what is the archaeologist's point of entry? To reconstruct the meaning of a material symbol, at least some understanding of the context is necessary, which itself presupposes an understanding of the meaning of other symbols. For this, the

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archaeologist's traditional reliance on ethnographic analogy is ruled out, since meanings are culture specific, denying the validity of cross-cultural generalisations. The route out of this impasse will require the integration of both approaches, such that a reconstruction of patterns of behaviour in the past will provide a sufficient context to allow the identification of behavioural patterns which can be argued to document particular systems of meaning. The degree to which ideas are directly manifest in behaviour will affect our ability to identify them through pattern and redundancy in the material record, though the active manipulation of meanings through material symbols is likely to be the most difficult to identify and decode. In fact, both views can be subsumed within a more embracing perspective on causality. Explanation of the material record in terms of the specific behaviour responsible for it constitutes a proximate level of explanation. This essentially provides us with a description of behaviour inferred to have taken place in the past; for many questions, that may be a sufficient form of explanation. However, we can move backwards and ask why that specific behaviour took place in that specific context. This may lead us to search for an explanation in terms of conscious motivation, involving conceptualisation, decision, and action, within a context of cultural codes and norms. This often constitutes an emic explanation, which appears to have been accepted by many Post-processualists as the level at which explanation ends, though likewise, etic explanations have their own validity (Harris 1979; Price 1982). But explanation need not stop there, since motivation may be further pursued in terms of physiological or psychological needs, consciously recognised or not by the actors involved. Finally, explanation may be pursued to even broader levels, such as that of the ecology of the individual, or the evolutionary ecology of the species, etc. No level a priori constitutes the proper, or even the most appropriate level for explanation. A complete explanation would have to address the question at all levels. From this perspective, both of Patrik's models, as they are pursued, can be viewed as partial and inadequate. While Patrik largely equates the physical model with Binford's model of archaeological inference, with his stress on the crucial role of middle range theory, and the necessarily uniformitarian, unambiguous, deterministic nature of the linkage between archaeological statics and past dynamics, I would take issue with two points. First, in sympathy with the text model, I have already questioned the relevance of such a deterministic approach to human behaviour, by stressing that the uniformitarian character of any generalisation concerning human behaviour is open to debate, and is likely to be a matter of degree rather than absolute. Second, I would argue that middle range concerns are part of any archaeological problem, and that we must deal with the linkage between statics and dynamics before we attempt any type of explanation in terms of dynamics, whether concerning behaviour or meaning. Middle range concerns appear more directly relevant to the physical model because there is a logical progression through the reconstruction of dynamic behaviour in the past, before one can even frame questions with reference to motivation and meaning. We must have some idea about what people in the past did, before we can ask why they did it - whether we are looking for an emic or etic explanation. I suggest that an effective integration of these models, and progress toward the archaeological investigation of meaning, will entail a less polemical, and more pragmatic approach than has been adopted by Post-processualists so far, as well as an explicit recognition of the Processual approaches which will be necessary as a foundation. The descriptive reconstruction of behaviour in the past is a necessary first step, and for settlements, would entail information such as how many people lived at the site, for how long, what activities they engaged in, and where, etc. This does not necessarily explain why those individuals were gathered there, why they did what they did, etc. An explanation of the latter might involve either an etic perspective, an emic perspective, or both, depending on the interests of the investigator.

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Taking an etic perspective allows the investigator to view the specific case within the context of similar work on other bodies of data, exploring similarities and differences, to assign meaning to different aspects of the observed patterning. The meaning ascribed to a pattern may come from any source, often simply so-called 'common sense' - an intuitive understanding of such behaviour in the investigator's own society, involving an ethnocentric bias. Archaeologists have traditionally tended to favour analogies drawn from historic or ethnographic situations - where the linkage between symbol and meaning is known. The potential role of such approaches will be considered in the next section. An emic perspective is considerably more problematic, since unless we have some sort of emic record from the society (such as historical documentation) which we can match with the pattern identified in the archaeological record, there is no opportunity for insight into culture specific meaning. This is particularly the case if we subscribe to the view that there need be no necessary causal link between symbol and meaning. There are two potential routes for progress against this problem. First, while there need not be a necessary link between symbol and meaning, in some situations there may be, in which case we may be able to build up a pattern of associations, an approach used to effect in deciphering the symbolic content of representational art (cf. Lewis-Williams 1980; Morgan 1988). This would suggest that occasionally we may be able to proceed with an emic analysis of meaning, though the feasibility in any case would have to be established, rather than assumed, and one must always be wary of the role of masking ideologies, misrepresentation, and meanings specific to only a sub-segment of a society. Second, in some cases we may be able to ascribe significance to an observable pattern, in that we can be quite sure that a distinction will have been perceived in the culture under study, though the meaning attached to the distinction may only be elucidated from the pattern of associations with it. This is the basis for arguing the importance of gender cross-culturally, and a similar case may be made for age distinctions, though in these cases, the nature of the distinctions, as well as the specific meanings attached to them, are not inherent in the pattern of natural variation. The importance of such an approach to the interpretation of symbolic behaviour can be seen in a critical appraisal of mortuary studies, where these same distinctions are the basic foothold for analysing variability in the archaeological record, and building patterns of associations (O'Shea 1984). It might be possible to justify a similar approach to concepts such as value, as represented by artefactual elaboration. The investment of time in the embellishment of an artefact, beyond that necessary to carry out the functional task for which it was created, lies at the root of archaeological assessments of craft specialisation (Renfrew 1972; 1986). The justification for such an argument would have to be based on the decision to invest time in that artefact, rather than in an alternative activity. An enhancement of the second type of opportunity which may facilitate the elucidation of meaning from purely material evidence, is where a universally perceivable distinction carries an inherent meaning or consequence. Human spatial behaviour takes on particular significance in this regard, since distance may be considered a material variable with an intrinsic meaning. I make this suggestion on two grounds: The acuity of sensory perception declines naturally with increasing distance, and the body consumes more energy in moving greater distances (section 2.3-4). While it is true that cultural conventions affect the meaning attached to each of these universally perceivable conditions, they cannot alter, nor reverse the associations of either. I would suggest that for this reason, human spatial behaviour has a particular importance for archaeologists interested in eliciting meaning from the archaeological record. The universally perceivable nature of the variable also holds out the possibility of developing cross-cultural generalisations about human spatial behaviour.

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1.5: ANALOGY AND ETHNOARCHAEOLOGY: FROM INSIGHT TO THEORY BUILDING.

It has already been noted that the principal source of inspiration about potential patterns of human behaviour in the past is the wide variation in behaviour experienced by the investigator, or recorded either historically or ethnographically. This has a basic advantage over pure imagination since the pattern drawn on for analogy has at least been observed, and can therefore be assumed to be within human capabilities. In addition, however, the actualistic nature of such examples may allow the detailed documentation of the link between cause and effect, dynamics and statics, meaning and symbol - essential for assessing the relevance of the comparison between the known and unknown situations. Traditionally, such a comparison takes the form of an argument by analogy, in which, because some elements of the two situations are comparable, other elements are assumed to be as well. However, with such a range of potential comparisons available, the appropriateness of the source for the analogy must be justified in terms of relevance. Analogies have usually been divided into two forms, direct historical analogy, and general analogy (Steward 1942; Ascher 1961; Chang 1967; Binford 1967; Hodder 1982b; Wylie 1985). Of these, the direct historical form was felt to be more reliable, and characterised a situation where direct continuity could be argued between the ethnographic source of the analogy, and its archaeological subject - essentially a process of extrapolation back from the known to the unknown. If no such continuity could be demonstrated, a general analogy might be drawn from any culture, though the analogy was regarded as more secure the closer the match between the environment, social organisation, and technological complexity of the ethnographic source and archaeological subject cultures. In actuality, there is no logical difference between the two forms of analogy. Given the mutability of material culture meanings, even if it was possible to demonstrate cultural continuity between an ethnographic and an archaeological culture (usually assumed rather than demonstrated), this provides no assurance that the characteristics involved in the analogy have themselves maintained the same meaning or mutual relationships. This is in effect just the extreme case of the general analogy, since environment, social organisation and technology are most likely to be comparable if there is a direct link between the cultures. Both forms of analogy are simply attempts to justify the unspoken part of the analogical formula: 'given that these characteristics are similar between these too cases, it is likely that other characteristics, not represented in the archaeological record, were as well, other things being equal'. The stipulation of similar contexts is simply an implicit attempt to control for some of the other things. Recently, the logical basis of analogical argument in archaeology has received renewed attention (Wylie 1985; Hodder 1982b; Gould and Watson 1982; Wylie 1982; Murray and Walker 1987), and has been somewhat clarified. Wylie has distinguished a scale of analogies, ranging from formal to relational (Wylie 1985; Hodder 1982b:16-18). Analogies at the formal end of the scale are based on the simple sharing of the presence or absence of properties, between the source of the analogy and the subject - if there are some common properties, there may be others. Analogies at the relational end, however, depend on arguments of relevance which relate the shared properties to those under investigation in a causal dependence. The stipulation of causal dependence is as crucial as Binford's call for uniformitarian, deterministic links between statics and dynamics; in this sense, middle range arguments constitute relational analogies. As I have argued for the uniformitarian character of middle range propositions, however, an analogy may not be either formal or relational, but rather lie somewhere between - dependent on how confident we are in the causal nature of the link between the properties. Wylie accepts the common perspective that all archaeological arguments are fundamentally based on analogy (1985). However, this leaves serious unresolved issues. A relational analogy would ideally be able to specify which characteristics should be similar or different

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between the source and subject of the analogy, but this relationship cannot specify how they should be different. This becomes a crucial problem in archaeological inference, however, because the cultures documented in detail historically or ethnographically cannot be considered more than a small sample of the different, unique cultures which have existed since the emergence of our species prior to ca. 100,000 years ago, and we can make no supposition that the sample we have is representative (Freeman 1968; Clarke 1972b). To cope with this anticipated variability, we need to move beyond relational analogies to explanations, directly linking variables in a causal fashion. If we can do this and link variation in cultural behaviour to variation in cultural context (cf. the text model), then we can model past behaviour in contexts (such as the low latitude tundras of the European ice ages: Gamble 1986) which have no analogue among historically or ethnographically recorded societies, and can attempt to account for and explain differences between source and subject in analogies. This is why there is a need for general theory in archaeology analogy alone is not enough. While ethnographic accounts form the principal explicit source for analogies used by archaeologists, we also draw on others, such as historical records, experiments, and our experience in our own culture. While that should provide plenty of scope for analogies, and to serve as a basis for theory building, archaeologists have begun to explore their own sources through ethnoarchaeological research. The principal justification for such work is that no other field has the same interest in material behaviour, and detail comparable to that which we must attempt to interpret in the archaeological record, is rarely, if ever, collected by workers in other disciplines. Ethnoarchaeological research has been actively pursued for about two decades, though the number of monograph-scale studies which have been published is still exceedingly small. Some of this research has been addressed specifically at examining interpretive assumptions used in recent archaeology (e.g. Stanislawski 1977; Longacre 1981; Graves 1982), while other work has been more problem-oriented, and focussed on limited questions (e.g. Arnold 1985; Miller 1985). Many such ethnoarchaeological studies are primarily descriptive, however taken together, such work is beginning to form a large enough body of well-documented material behaviour to be used to formulate ideas concerning the way people use material culture in different situations (e.g. Hodder 1982b). Spatial behaviour has been the focus of a number of studies from a variety of perspectives, which shall be reviewed in the next chapter. Often more explicitly archaeological in intent are ethnoarchaeological cautionary tales. These may point to useful aspects of patterning in material data (e.g. David 1971; DeBoer and Lathrap 1979), but more often simply comment on potential fallacies in archaeological interpretation (e.g. Bonnichsen 1973; Murray and Chang 1981). Unfortunately, while such cases constitute potential sources of refinements for our interpretive methodologies, rarely is the positive aspect developed. A smaller number of studies attempt to explain material behaviour in a specific context in a way which could serve as the basis for the development of more general theory (Kent 1984; Moore 1982; 1986; Miller 1985; Hodder 1979). A limitation in most of these cases is that the investigator usually succumbs to the anthropological 'my people' syndrome, and fails to distinguish general and culture specific aspects of behaviour, at both descriptive and explanatory levels. As detailed, well-considered studies, their potential contribution to the development of generalisations about the meaning and use of material culture may be great, but is seldom realised. The scope for increasing our understanding of human spatial behaviour has been made abundantly clear through a handful of ethnoarchaeological studies (including those by Yellen 1977a; Binford 1978a; 1983; 1987; Hitchcock 1982; 1987; Kent 1984; Kramer 1982; O'Connell 1987; Moore 1986; Hayden and Cannon 1983; Wilk 1983; Deal 1985). These, as

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well as work in the fields of geography and architecture (see chapter 2) give at least hints that there are some broad patterns in human spatial behaviour, and that behaviour need not be simply culture specific. Yet to date, most ethnoarchaeological studies of spatial behaviour have focussed on individual societies and tried to explain spatial behaviour at the idiosyncratic, culture specific level. Without a broader, comparative perspective, it is difficult, if not impossible, to separate out the unique from the general. As a basis for generalisation about potential human behaviour, the existing ethnoarchaeological studies constitute a limited and hardly representative sample. However, many ethnographic accounts include descriptive information about spatial behaviour, even if not at a detail comparable to ethnoarchaeological work. Depending on the question addressed, it may be feasible to combine the two sources of information, studying spatial behaviour through the detail of ethnoarchaeological documentation, yet situating that within a broader framework of inquiry, drawing upon a larger body of ethnographic documentation. This is the approach adopted in this dissertation, and it necessitates a coherent approach to cross-cultural generalisation about behaviour.

1.6: GENERAL BEHAVIOUR.

THEORY

AND

UNIFORMITARIANISM

IN

HUMAN

The need for generalisations about human behaviour has been claimed at several points in the preceding sections, and deserves further justification. A similar position was advocated by proponents of the New Archaeology, and their elucidation was the explicit aim of Settlement Archaeology. On the other hand, the existence of such general patterns in human behaviour has been questioned by Post-processualists (Hodder 1986). This latter critique is justified by reference to the text model, wherein meanings are held to be culture specific, and therefore not amenable to cross-cultural generalisation (Patrik 1985). This can be challenged on both theoretical and pragmatic grounds. While meaning may be context specific, it will still be possible to generalise about meanings, if a relational link can be made between a pattern of meaning and particular types of context - such that similar patterns of meaning can be identified in similar contexts. On a more pragmatic level, if there are no general patterns of human behaviour, how do we account for the patterns which can be detected concerning human spatial behaviour, the intuitive patterns which have been identified to date, those that form the basis of the field of geography, or those documented in detail in later chapters? What is ignored in such programmatic assertions is that causality is likely to involve some components which are fairly general, and others which are unique to the specific event: Some will be general to all mammals, to our species, to societies with a particular economic orientation, technological repertoire, or political organisation. Other patterns of behaviour will be limited to members of a particular culture, to a particular group within that culture, to each individual, or to a single individual at a specific point in time. Different behaviours may be explicable at different points along this scale from universal to unique, and it is part of our task to identify the appropriate scale of analysis for the question under investigation. For some reason, many advocates of Post-processual archaeology (e.g. Hodder 1982b; Hodder 1982c; 1986) appear to have decided that the appropriate level of investigation for any question is that of the local cultural group (however that is defined). Even if generalisation at a broader level is not considered, this blinkered view ignores the fact that norms within a society are simply modes in behaviour, which individuals may recognise and follow with more or less faithfulness. It is these patterns in behaviour, including conscious norms, rules and cultural codes, which we need to investigate, rather than treat as a sufficient explanation in themselves (Binford 1962; Raab 1980-81). On the other hand, it is also possible to generalise about patterns of deviation from norms, a major focus for psychological research.

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Explicit cross-cultural generalisation has a somewhat schizophrenic position in anthropology, since it runs completely counter to the model of anthropological research wherein an investigator engages in individual, in-depth study of a single culture. However, generalisation is unavoidable, and underlies any attempt at comparison, or explanation, beyond idiosyncratic description. Two principal approaches have been used in crosscultural research in anthropology, controlled comparison and hologeistic research. In a controlled comparison, two or more societies may be compared with respect to particular characteristics. Usually, some aspects of behaviour in the two societies are comparable, though other major components differ, and the contrast is used to develop ideas about how the characteristics which are similar relate to those which are different. This approach can be used to build up an understanding of how different characteristics of cultural behaviour relate to each other, or to broader contextual variables, either as part of a relational analogy, or in building an explanation (e.g. Murphy and Steward 1956; Ingold 1980; Binford 1980; Riches 1982; Peterson 1979; Cashdan 1983; Dyson-Hudson and Smith 1978). The other principal approach aims at developing nomothetic propositions about human behaviour, relevant to all human cultures (Jorgensen 1979; McNett 1979), either as universal cross-cultural generalisations, or as universal causal-deterministic relationships. This has usually been done using large cross-cultural samples, either assembled with a specific question in mind (e.g. Pryor 1977), or intended as a representative sample of the world's cultures which have been ethnographically or historically documented (Murdock and White 1969). Such samples may be used to assess a particular proposition (e.g. Lee 1968; Testart 1982), or may be searched inductively for patterns which can be expressed statistically (e.g. Textor 1967; McNett 1973; Ember 1973; Ember 1978; Plsson 1988). Much attention in hologeistic research has been focussed on the definition of an appropriate sample for world-wide research (Murdock 1967; Murdock and White 1969). Unlike questions of sampling in archaeology, where the archaeologist may have complete freedom to decide what to sample, existing ethnographic accounts are a finite resource, and it is this body of ethnographic documentation which is sampled, rather than the variety of world cultures. When samples are assembled to address a specific question, they are often haphazard - based on the ethnographic accounts which the investigator could get ready access to, which have at least a particular level of detail about the specific question under investigation. The sample used in this study falls in this category (chapter 6). General studies attempting to encompass all the variability in human culture have aimed at assembling representative samples of the world's cultures. The most extensive of these was the Ethnographic Atlas, which coded information on 96 variables for 1170 cultures (Murdock 1967). From this, a smaller, supposedly representative sample was selected (Murdock and White 1969). While considerable attention has been given to the sampling characteristics, there is no realistic way that such a sample can be considered representative of existing world cultures, let alone (from the perspective of the archaeologist) representative of all the human cultures which have existed since the origin of our species prior to ca. 100,000 years ago. From this perspective, the attempts to inject statistical rigour into the analysis of such a sample are of limited value; they serve to describe the characteristics of the sample, but cannot be used inferentially to describe the notional population of all human cultures. Add to this the ambiguity and mis-coding of attributes for many cultures, and the reliance upon out-dated ethnographic accounts subject to little quality-control, and the value of such hologeistic surveys becomes very limited. An alternative approach has been to use such cross-cultural investigations to identify relationships between behavioural characteristics which warrant closer analysis. In these cases, the relationship may be investigated in more detail for a range of cultures where something of the social and environmental context is understood, such that the conditions under which such a relationship pertains may be identified. This may lead to an

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understanding of the relationship under study (e.g. Goody 1976), rather than a meaningless attribution of statistical significance (e.g. Ember 1973; Naroll 1962). A more detailed consideration of variation can also better cope with the non-deterministic nature of causality in human behaviour. Such an approach can be used to build up an understanding of the relationships between different cultural characteristics, and between them and elements of their context - an approach integrating the broad perspective of hologeistic study, with the detail of controlled comparison. This allows the exploration of both similarities and differences between cultures, and can lead to the development of expectations about behaviour in particular contexts.

1.7: ESTABLISHING A CONTEXT FOR BEHAVIOURAL VARIABILITY: CULTURAL ECOLOGICAL FRAMEWORK.

If the aim of general theory is to develop an understanding of similarities and differences in behaviour, we need to have a means of making this relevant to archaeological investigation. In this case, we must relate our understanding of variability in human behaviour to aspects of its context which are monitorable through the archaeological record. Since the behavioural context is something we are trying to reconstruct, we must move beyond this to link our arguments to characteristics of the context of behaviour, which are independent of our reconstructions of that behaviour. The natural environment provides such a context, and indeed one that we are rather better at reconstructing than we are when it comes to questions of past human behaviour. This follows fairly directly from the relative facility with which we are willing to accept uniformitarian assumptions about environmental processes and phenomena. Similarly, and importantly, we can fairly readily accept uniformitarian assumptions about the selective pressures exerted on human populations by characteristics and conditions of the natural environment. The study of cultural ecology was explicitly formulated by Steward, though it had a variety of intellectual antecedents (Ellen 1982). Originally intended as the basis of a broadly-based comparative study, it has not been pursued on that basis. Rather, we have individual studies informed, to various degrees, by ecological ideas. The few attempts to argue a culture-ecological synthesis are either largely compendia of previous research (e.g. Netting 1977; Jochim 1981), or thematic about the approach, but not synthetic about human behaviour (Hardesty 1977; Bennett 1976; Moran 1982). A limited number of studies have tried more synthetic approaches to particular regions or ecological contexts (Brookfield and Hart 1971; Steegman 1983; Brown and Podelefsky 1976). Recent years have seen both an expansion in the number of, and increasing sophistication in, explicitly ecological studies of human behaviour. A majority of these studies deal with hunting and gathering societies, seemingly with the justification that such a perspective is more appropriate to societies which are 'closer to nature' than their food-producing counterparts. While there is something intuitively attractive about such a view (Netting 1977), the situation is far from so simple. A major contrast may be drawn between foraging and other subsistence adaptations such as pastoralism, horticulture and agriculture, in that the latter usually embody major modifications of the natural habitat. However, this distinction begins to blur when it is recognised that hunters and gatherers can and do modify their environments, whether inadvertently (for instance through the overexploitation of particular species), or purposively (to create environments conducive to particular resources). Such modifications may generally be considered as part of a society's exploitive technology, much of which is aimed at controlling the variability in the natural abundance and distribution of subsistence resources. With increasing complexity in productive technology, from the simple tool-kit and exploitive practices of some hunter-gatherers, to the complex agro-industrial system of the

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modern Western world, individuals are increasingly removed from direct interaction with the natural environment. However, this does not serve to reduce the value of an ecological approach, since human behaviour must still take place within an environmental context, albeit an increasingly artificial environmental context. Even in such a context, the value of an ecological perspective is in linking human behaviour to particular selective pressures, whether naturally, or artificially created. The preferential emphasis of anthropological ecological studies on hunter-gatherer behaviour is the consequence, not of a closer relationship between behaviour and environment, but of the more direct causal link between behaviour and the natural environment, and therefore, the relative ease with which we can identify the relevant selective pressures. Additionally, in dealing primarily with a natural rather than artificial environment, it is analytically more straightforward to distinguish between the selective pressures, and the behavioural responses to them, than it is when both environment and response are cultural creations. The environment may be understood from the perspective of either a participant, or an external observer. Even if we adopt the latter, we must accept the importance of the former, since the participants make the decisions which structure their behaviour, with respect to their perception of the environment. The latter must be a subset of the environment as it may be described by an outside observer, since resources can only be exploited if they exist, though the converse is not true, since resources will not be exploited if they are not recognised as being within the scope of exploitation. This non-reciprocal relationship is one of the major limitations of the concept of 'optimality' for the prediction of human behaviour. The importance of the context of behaviour was stressed in both the text model of the archaeological record, and from the perspective of developing generalisations about human behaviour. At the same time, a particular problem arises for archaeological investigations, where any behavioural context must itself be inferred. The perspective taken here is that the environmental context provides a firm entry for archaeological analysis, since it both presents opportunities and imposes constraints on the activities of the individuals under investigation. In discussing the investigation of meaning, the importance of spatial behaviour was identified in the non-arbitrary association of meaning with the property of distance and hence spatial arrangement. Characteristics of the natural environment can have a similar importance for the investigation of patterns of behaviour in the past, since the meaning which can be attached to environmental characteristics may also be non-arbitrary. For example, seasonal cycles in climate or resource availability are not neutral distinctions, but can have implications of crucial importance to an individual or group. Whether these are perceived, and given an appropriate meaning will often have direct implications for the survival of the individual or group. The importance of such a perspective on behaviour will be further explored in chapter 5. For a number of reasons, then, characteristics of the natural environment may serve as the point of entry for building up a pattern of associations which will enable generalisations, and the construction of models of the relationship between different behavioural characteristics, and can provide insight into the meaning attached to patterns of behaviour in the past.

1.8: CONCLUSIONS: A FRAMEWORK FOR THE INVESTIGATION OF SPATIAL BEHAVIOUR IN HUMAN COMMUNITIES.
In the preceding pages, a variety of issues has been addressed, covering a range of recent and current debates in archaeology. The consideration given to each has, of necessity, been brief, particularly since each involves at least some debate, and none have a generally

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accepted solution. I hope the treatment has been sufficient to explain and somewhat to justify my own position, since in all cases, my views differ from those expressed previously by others. These issues are important, and provide the framework which will be used in the remainder of this study. For this reason, a brief recapitulation is appropriate. Settlement Archaeology was one of the first of the sub-fields within archaeology to be defined, paralleling the New Archaeology, and developing out of much the same sentiment. While never clearly defined, the area of study focussed on using the distribution of artefacts and features within a settlement site to infer the spatial organisation of activities in the past; in turn this was expected to provide insights into the social organisation of the occupants of the community in the past. The theoretical basis for such inference remained essentially implicit, and the few 'general principles' which were suggested (e.g. Trigger 1968) were based on 'common-sense', an intuitive understanding of behaviour within our own society, or a selective culling of detail from ethnographic accounts. This situation was not particularly different from the status of theory in other areas focussed upon by practitioners of the New Archaeology, though a few such as the study of exchange (e.g. Renfrew 1975; 1977; Torrence 1986) or mortuary practices (e.g. Binford 1972; Tainter 1978; O'Shea 1984) received more systematic treatment. A serious change in the orientation of archaeological research began in the 1970s, with the development of a more critical perspective on the nature of the archaeological record and its formation (Schiffer 1972; 1976; 1987). This was developed into a formal model of archaeological investigation by Binford, with his distinction of middle range and general theory (1977a; 1981b; 1987). This model recognises two particular aspects of archaeological inference which are tied to the nature of our database; we need to convert our observation of the static archaeological record into an inference about the behavioural dynamics responsible for its formation, and then project that reconstruction into the past, by ascribing it uniformitarian status. More recently, it has been emphasised that this reflects a concentration on the reconstruction of past behaviour, but ignores the meaning and motivation behind that behaviour, a major point of the Post-processual critique (Hodder 1985). This difference in aim can be linked with a difference in the conception of the nature of the archaeological record, which Patrik (1985) has distinguished as the physical and textual models of the archaeological record. However, both models may be viewed as only partially correct, and themselves are only part of a series of levels of causality, and we can look for explanations of different sorts, at different levels, depending both on our interests and the nature of the question being investigated. Both models are linked, and one cannot skip the attention to middle range concerns, or the reconstruction of behaviour in the past, if one is to accept the aim of pursuing meaning. In addition, the elucidation of past behaviour retains its central role in archaeological inference, since we can only get at those meanings which do have an effect on behaviour, and are therefore recorded in the archaeological record. Contrary to the view expressed by many adherents of a Post-processual perspective, an interest in meaning and motivation does not necessarily carry with it a dependence on an emic explanatory perspective, nor deny the appropriateness of generalisation about human behaviour - in fact, no viable alternative approach to explanation has been developed. If we are to approach meaning, we need to be able to reconstruct enough of a past context to begin to build up patterns of association. In this, a variable such as distance is crucial, since it is universally perceivable, and given the effect of distance on sensory perception and energy consumption with movement, it is likely to have non-arbitrary associations of meaning, unlike most symbols. Similarly, the natural environment presents a variety of distinctions which are unlikely to be neutral in meaning. These can serve as an essential context for building up the patterns of associations which are necessary to the decoding of meaning.

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Both Settlement Archaeology and the New Archaeology had as a goal the identification of generalisations about human behaviour which would be the basis for the explanation of patterns of behaviour inferred in the past. Considerable debate took place over the nature of such generalisations, though it is clear that few, if any, aspects of conscious human behaviour can be explained in terms of deterministic cause and effect, since human behaviour involves perception, choice, decision-making, cultural conventions, and deviation, conscious and unconscious. At best, then, we can speak of general patterns and tendencies, and try to determine how particular behaviours or behavioural characteristics relate to others, and to elements of the context of the behaviour (both cultural and natural), in our attempt to explain the behaviour. Dealing with the archaeological record, we do not observe behaviour directly, but have to infer it from the patterns in the archaeological record, and our understanding of the nature of the linkage between particular behaviours and individual traces. Many of our insights or understandings of human behaviour derive from comparisons between different cultures, for which the ethnographic record, with its wealth of documented variation, is a major source. Much of archaeological inference, then, is based on analogy with known ethnographic situations, though we can move beyond such analogy to attempt an explanation of variations in particular behaviours in terms of the relationship between individual characteristics of behaviour and its context. Recently, archaeologists have turned to their own and other societies and have conducted their own ethnographic observations, with a particular focus on the use and role of material culture, and the material consequences of behaviour. These studies provide a wealth of detail, but at present do not provide a very large pool of comparative information; yet generalisations developed about behaviour can be viewed against the broader base of ethnographic documentation available through traditional ethnographic investigation. This then sets the course for the remainder of this study, the key elements of which can be summarised as follows: The present study attempts to identify and explain patterns of spatial behaviour within communities, as they relate to the social organisation of the residential group. It attempts to generalise cross-culturally about such behaviour, essentially dealing with the meaning attached to space in individual cultures, and compared among different cultures. It is aimed particularly at the identification of general patterns of behaviour which will have implications for the material record, and so have relevance for the interpretation of the archaeological record. It tries to understand differences in behaviour within a broad environmental context, so that differences in environmental context, identifiable through the archaeological record, can serve as part of the framework for archaeological inference. These objectives are concerned specifically with developing some aspects of general theory, rather than focussing on the middle range, explicitly archaeological concerns. Finally, the study concentrates on ethnoarchaeological data, but for a broad, comparative perspective on human behaviour, views that within the wider context of comparative cross-cultural ethnography.

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CHAPTER 2 APPROACHES TO UNDERSTANDING SPACE IN SETTLEMENTS

2.1: INTRODUCTION: SPACE AS A MEDIUM FOR STUDYING BEHAVIOUR AND MEANING.
In addition to the substantive issues favouring the investigation of human spatial behaviour, outlined in the previous chapter, there are pragmatic issues which are particularly important to the archaeologist. Location in space, and in relation to other characteristics of the archaeological record, is one of the principal forms of evidence which we document in archaeological research, hence the strength of archaeological reaction against the looting of archaeological sites and the extraction of artefacts from their - essentially spatial - context. Location in space is also one of the variables which may be objectively measured, as opposed to being inferred, as are other elements of context, such as chronology, contemporaneity of associations, etc. But it is crucial to recognise that the location in space of artefacts, features, or characteristics of the soil matrix, as measured, is neutral - location as measured has no intrinsic meaning, either from an etic or emic perspective. At the same time, as was emphasised in the preceding chapter, the location of individuals and things in space is important both in monitoring and interpreting behaviour and particularly, in communication between individuals. Spatial behaviour has considerable potential for investigating symbolic behaviour and meaning, because it may carry nonarbitrary meanings, associated with distance. This is because distance (and hence location in space) has a direct effect on sensory perception, which (without artificial enhancement) declines with increasing distance. This has obvious implications for patterns of communication and interaction between individuals, which will be explored further below. Second, distance is often associated with costs - usually to overcome the impediments to perception and communication imposed by distance. The principal problem then becomes one of measuring those costs, whether energy costs through movement, social costs through incomplete communication, etc., and how they are perceived and acted upon. Measurement of such costs is exceedingly difficult, and most attempts, as with the study of transport costs in economic geography, are culture specific simplifications, designed to explore one set of concepts at a time. Obviously there will be differences in how various costs are assessed and ranked against each other, which will vary among cultures, and even between individuals within the same culture. Models of idealised behaviour, stressing a particular perspective on costs have been developed, often based on the assumption of optimising behaviour. These can be of analytical use when trying to understand particular characteristics of behaviour, but have little value when simply presumed to represent real behaviour. In any real situation, a behavioural strategy is likely to be a compromise, balancing several conflicting demands or ideals, different perceived costs and benefits, which are bound to vary, depending on the reason for the interaction. Despite these problems in operationalising the perspective, it is clear that distance presents costs which, if perceived and assessed as important, place constraints on behaviour. This has lead some investigators to attempt to generalise about the relative effects of different types of costs, translated as factors differentially influencing behaviour at different spatial scales. Trigger (1967) and Clarke (1977) emphasised environmental, economic and political factors at the largest, regional scale, social, cosmological, and to some extent economic factors at the scale of the internal organisation of communities, and social factors at the level of individual dwellings.

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However, severely qualifying such general assumptions are studies which cross-cut such scales: studies of journey-to-work behaviour reveal substantial 'laboursheds' at the regional level, within which there may be indifference to economic distance costs (Parkes and Thrift 1980). Similarly, individuals may have very different patterns of fall-off in frequency of interaction with distance, depending on the social context of the interaction. On the other hand, even at the small-scale level of the layout of farmyards, homesteads, houses, and even an academic's desk, activity areas and storage spaces may be laid-out so as to economise on movement (Jackle et al. 1976). Therefore, at this stage in our understanding of human spatial behaviour, broad generalisations will be very difficult to justify, and different types of interaction, at different spatial scales, still need to be documented in considerable detail. We can start by trying to ascertain how distance, and behaviour in space, are likely to affect behaviour. While it cannot be presumed that any specific difference in distance necessarily will be perceived, or given significance, the degree to which distance affects sensory perception does make it a variable worth attention in studies of communication and interaction. Furthermore, a ranked scale of differences may be inferred, since perception with any sense becomes increasingly difficult with distance, unless technological means are used to amplify or transform the signal. A rather different characteristic of behaviour in space is that any behaviour may constrain and structure other behaviours, particularly once defined by material traces, whether simply paths in natural vegetation, debris from activities, or built space, defined by structures. All such material traces will serve to channel or at least affect the pursuit of subsequent activities. To the degree that the young are enculturated within an environment so constrained, they will take it in as part of their understanding of the cultural world, and it will be viewed as 'natural', reinforcing continuity in cultural patterns. This can obviously be unconscious, unintentional, or intentional. In this sense, the material organisation of space has recently been considered not just to reflect human behaviour, but also to generate it (e.g. Moore 1986; Hillier and Hansen 1984; Kus 1983). This position will be explored in more detail below (sections 2.5-6). A further characteristic of space is its dimensionality; architects and archaeologists often discuss space as a 2-dimensional phenomenon, though of course we live in and perceive a 3dimensional spatial world. For archaeologists, this is essentially because the spatial pattern we recover is nearly always planimetric, even if somewhat distorted vertically by underlying topography. For architects, such a view is justified by the fact that when space is experienced or moved through, it is essentially 2-dimensional, since we are a terrestrial species. While landscape and our artificial constructions may be manifest in 3-dimensions, we generally move through them as a 2-dimensional plan, displaced vertically. From the above and the previous chapter, it should be apparent that the study of behaviour in space has considerable potential. While it would be fair to say that much of this potential has been overlooked, that is not to say that no work has been addressed to trying to understand human spatial behaviour. Rather, interest has focussed on this topic from a wide variety of perspectives. This is potentially very fertile ground, since each discipline that has approached the question, has done so emphasising different objectives, and different ways of looking at patterning. In the remainder of this chapter, I shall briefly summarise the major approaches which have been used to date to investigate human spatial behaviour, and try to tie together the various inter-disciplinary strands. At the same time, major limitations of such work will become apparent, particularly when viewed against the questions raised in the previous chapter. This essentially lays the foundation for the approach explored in the remainder of this study. One approach to space which shall not be reviewed is that of semiotics (Preziosi 1979a; 1979b; 1983). While the organisation of space has and can be viewed as a system for communication (sections 2.3-2.6), one of the starting points of semiotics is that the connection between the sign and what is signified is arbitrary (Eco 1979). As pointed out in

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the previous chapter, such a situation presents considerable difficulties for archaeological investigation; in the absence of a systematic linkage between symbol and its meaning, the former may be identified, but the latter is lost. While it has been suggested in section 1.4 that one can approach such meanings through the pattern of contextual associations, semiotic theory has no particular strengths to contribute to such an approach.

2.2: PATTERNS OF BEHAVIOUR IN SPACE: INVESTIGATION OF SITE STRUCTURE.

THE ARCHAEOLOGICAL

Many approaches to the study of spatial behaviour, whether by architects, psychologists, or geographers, are principally descriptive. This is certainly the case with the majority of archaeological investigations, including those mentioned in chapter 1 as examples of Settlement Archaeology. With the lack of any theory attempting to explain the organisation of behaviour in space, archaeological analysis has been a case of (often sophisticated) pattern recognition, but fairly simplistic interpretation (cf. Hietala 1984; Flannery 1986b; Reynolds 1986; Whallon 1986). This has followed a general pattern-recognition strategy whereby human behaviour is identified in archaeological materials as a deviation from the organisation of matter that we would expect in the absence of any human intervention. The degree to which we can attribute any such change to human agency depends on the degree to which we understand the potential alternative processes which could have produced a similar pattern. This in itself tells us nothing about the nature of such behaviour, nor does it explain it. Over the past decade, a series of studies have tried to put more rigour into the investigation of the organisation and use of space on sites, defined as 'site structure', using models developed from ethnoarchaeological observations (Binford 1978a; 1983; 1987; Hayden and Cannon 1983; Spurling and Hayden 1984; Deal 1985; Yellen 1977a; Brooks and Yellen 1987; Anderson 1982; Oswald 1987; Kent 1984; O'Connell 1987; Gordon 1980; Murray 1980). Such studies were conceived by Binford as comparable to his studies of the economic anatomy of animals - dealing with classes of data susceptible of being the basis for uniformitarian propositions about human behaviour (Binford 1977a). As an explicit research strategy, Binford initially focussed on the constraints on various activities which were imposed by the mechanics of the human body, and working positions, which could be presumed to be constant for our species (1978a; 1983). These involved individual patterns of activity, and their characteristic debris signatures, such as patterns produced while seated working around a hearth, standing work areas, such as areas for butchering large game, and basic patterns of refuse disposal, which would define 'drop zones' and 'toss zones' around an activity focus. Further patterns were identified, such as sleeping arrangements (Binford 1983), since "the basic physiological requirements of living, eating, sleeping, child care, etc., condition the internal spatial accommodations found in domestic life space" (Binford 1987:501). The importance of such middle range research is apparent, since "the development of frames of reference phrased in terms of cross-culturally valid determinant conditioners of behaviour are necessary before the differing organizations of behavior, characteristic of differing cultural systems, can be seen by archaeologists" (Binford 1987:503). The crucial point here is that actualistic studies allow the development of a series of expectations about the material record which can be presumed to have a uniformitarian character. From this initial position, Binford has developed propositions about the orientation of work areas in relation to sources of heat and light, hearth areas in relation to sleeping areas, and activity areas within constrained spaces (1983). Obviously, each of these has moved away from the strict uniformitarian control of the mechanics of the body, and involves inferences about past individual's perceptions and decisions, where there may be more than one alternative behaviour. This ambiguity was recognised in Binford's original call for such

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work, since "the way in which this behaviour is organized must be conditioned by certain relationships between the properties of alternative spatial organizations and the labour and social pressures operative during periods of organized behavior" (1977a:9). However, little attempt has been made to justify the models in these terms, rather, they have assumed a uniformitarian basis, though this has yet to be demonstrated, and in many cases certainly is not obvious. While sidestepping the crucial theoretical issues surrounding potential variation in behaviour, Binford and others have continued, through site-structural ethnoarchaeological investigations, to develop models concerned with the spatial organisation of activities within a site. Moving away from the signatures left by individual activities, researchers have begun to look at how different activities are integrated in space: "Organization is not just behavior. It is the manner in which behaviors are juxtaposed and integrated with one another, and these generalizations cannot be seen simply by the identification of discrete behaviors themselves, nor by inventorying the different ones present at different sites" (Binford 1987:503). A variety of organisational issues have been addressed, and while no-one can yet write a handbook for the interpretation of site structure, we do have a series of detailed descriptions of spatial behaviour and its material residues in a variety of different ethnographic contexts. As descriptions, these provide much better sources for analogies to support the interpretation of archaeological distribution patterns, which to date have relied upon assumption and guesswork. As further attention is given to variations in such behaviour, and attempts are made to understand the contexts in which such behaviour will vary, we will move toward the middle range understanding which will be essential for the explanation of the archaeological record. Issues addressed to date in such work (though not always explicitly) include: a) The distinction between single-purpose and multi-purpose activity areas, and their relation to constraints on site area, the specificity of tasks and any facilities associated with them, the duration of the task, and the frequency with which it is undertaken. b) The conditions under which activity areas are maintained by cleaning-up and secondary disposal of refuse, relating to the anticipated and actual length of site occupation, their location at the centre or periphery of sites, the frequency of use of the activity area, and whether it is single or multipurpose, whether secondary disposal is local or more distant, whether items of refuse or debris are capable of reuse, and the nature of the debris (noxious or not). c) Whether trash disposal areas are single-purpose or multi-purpose, and the relationship with the organisation of the activity that produced the debris, who does the activity, whether trash items may be salvaged for reuse, whether different materials are considered symbolically distinct. d) How different activity areas relate spatially to each other, whether the activities are related, whether the task group involved is the same or otherwise linked, whether they share facilities or raw materials, or are scheduled at the same or different points in time. e) Whether some activities require particular locations (central or peripheral) because of the nature of the task (bulk processing, messy, noxious), the nature of any facilities required, or the social role of those taking or not taking part. f) The effect of length of occupation, or pattern of re-use on the amount of debris left on site, the variety of activities undertaken and the debris they leave, and on the segregation of activities. g) The effect of scheduling of activities that compete for space on the overall spatial organisation of the site. h) The social context of activities, and the nature of the composition of the task group. This list gives some idea of the questions being asked about the spatial organisation of behaviour on sites. It will also be clear that few if any gain uniformitarian status from the mechanics of the human body. Rather, many involve a consideration of movement, for which effort minimising assumptions may or may not be considered relevant, involve communication or cooperation between different individuals, or involve conceptual issues

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such as the symbolic classification of activities and materials. All of these implicate perception and decision-making and require a framework of study which will investigate such behaviour within its context of meaning, rather than presume a simple deterministic relationship. From this perspective, presumption of uniformitarian patterns of behaviour is premature, though explanation of variability simply in terms of 'cultural differences' is hardly adequate. As site structural studies have developed in the past ten years, they have begun to address far more interesting issues than simply "the aerodynamics of beer cans" (Hodder, pers. comm.). On the other hand, in branching out, they have moved away from their original claim to cross-cultural relevance. This does not negate the value of such work, but it does undermine the position of their most dogmatic proponents. It also means that the theoretical issues, especially developing a perspective which can encompass cultural behaviour and cultural variability, will stand in the way of the further development and the application of such behavioural models in archaeological interpretation. The difficulty of developing a framework for dealing with cultural variability is also manifest in a major characteristic of the site structure work which has been done to date. It essentially deals with components of site structure - individual activity areas or specific behaviours - rather than with the integration of such components into whole sites. While Binford has recently attempted to do so in his analysis of Alyawara site structure (1987), and his discussion of residential site organisation, the overall structure of such a camp remains unexplained: What integrity is there for 'domestic areas'? Why should 'kitchen' areas be adjacent to sleeping areas? Why should food preparation and consumption areas be directly associated? Similarly, why are specific peripheral activity areas located where they are, rather than behind the sleeping structure or further away? Finally, how does one such residential camp relate spatially to others, and why? Basically, the current approach to site structure has been quite successful at focussing muchneeded attention on detailed patterning which may allow the interpretation of individual components of spatial behaviour, but by attempting to avoid anything with the taint of cultural variability or individual choice, it is not possible to assemble the pieces. It is therefore essential to re-assess the basis for human spatial behaviour, and our approach to explaining it, incorporating the problems of perception, meaning, and decision-making. Looking back to the previous chapter, we must also consider whether it is feasible to generalise about such issues and about human spatial behaviour.

2.3: SPACE AND ITS PERCEPTION.

In most fields, such as geography, dealing with human spatial behaviour, the objective measurement of distance, while retaining value as a basic reference dimension, has come to be replaced with different subjective assessments of distance, when it comes to attempting to explain spatial behaviour (Gatrell 1983; Parkes and Thrift 1980; Carlstein 1982). This is because distance and space are differentially perceived and given significance within different cultures, and by different individuals or in different contexts. The sensory inputs upon which perception is based are potentially comparable in any (physiologically) fully-functioning member of our species, since we are all equipped with the same sensory organs, distributed around our bodies in the same way. On the other hand, our different senses may be trained to be more sensitive, whether we speak of the palate of a wine-taster or the hearing of a blind individual. This is because stimuli are not just perceived by our sense organs, but are also interpreted according to learned patterns and associations. Sensory inputs are commonly divided into immediate perceptors and distance perceptors. Immediate perceptions depend largely on taste, touch, and kinesthetic signals from muscles

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and skin about the position of parts of the body. These forms of perception essentially depend on contact, or close proximity (e.g. perception of heat) with another individual or object. Distance perception is more directly implicated in our perception of our broader environment, and in inter-individual interaction and communication, and depends on the senses of sight, hearing, and smell. Each of the latter senses has limitations, and varies in the degree of discrimination possible, as well as in the decline in effectiveness of perception with distance. As humans use them, they are often mutually reinforcing, with vision used to locate more precisely auditory or olfactory stimuli. While based on species-wide abilities, all three are readily susceptible to conditioning, particularly hearing and smell, and the potential conditioning of each varies, both inter-culturally, and between individuals. In general, the sense of smell is fairly short-range, and can only be used over very short distances in inter-individual communication, though more effective in cultures which place less stress on concealing odours than cultures in northern Europe and North America. The distance over which particular odours carry has received little research, and because of the suppression of odours in our own culture, is not so readily apparent in our individual experience. While smells certainly travel, especially when carried on the wind, our noses are less sensitive than those of many other species. Hearing is more effective than the sense of smell at a distance, and we can modify other aspects of communication, such as the loudness at which we speak, to facilitate communication. Normal conversations may be overheard at well over seven m., depending on the acoustics of the area, the volume of the sound, and competing distractions. Yet to be regularly heard with clarity over ca. 2.5-3 m., one will need to raise one's voice above the level usually considered conversational in northern Europe and North America. Verbal communication can take place at over 30 m., but may be difficult, and to communicate effectively beyond 4-5 m., one usually needs to speak louder, more formally and more clearly. While more precise than smell, hearing is less effective than vision for pin-pointing the spatial location of a stimulus, whether by direction, or as to distance. Vision is probably the most versatile of our senses for perception, since it is effective over the greatest distance, and can be extremely sensitive, even at a distance. Large-scale bodily gestures may still be perceivable at over 1 km, though fine details of facial gestures begin to be lost at about five m. Beyond ca. 10 m. gestures may need to be exaggerated to be effectively perceived, and bodily gestures become more effective than facial expressions, for communication. Vision is particularly effective at identifying the direction and distance of stimuli, and vision is often used as a supplement to, or to help orient or focus the other senses. While studies on distance perception have been made with subjects from a number of cultures (Hall 1966; Watson 1970), there has been little synthesis of such studies to determine the limits on such perception, or species-wide tendencies, as opposed to culture specific characteristics. On the other hand, we can expect that there will be general patterns in such perception for a given culture and context, and that patterns of spatial behaviour linked to communication will bear a relation to the general pattern of perception, regardless of occasional differences due to freak acoustical conditions, or variations between individuals. Additionally, we can anticipate that the sense of smell will be relevant to communication (that is in communication of emotional states, not simply documenting the presence of another individual through bodily odours) only at fairly intimate distances (usually less than one m.). Hearing will be a major channel for communication up to at least 5-10 m., and can remain effective over substantially larger distances. Sight will remain an effective channel over greater distances, though its resolution will also decline with distance, particularly from about 10 m. or so (beyond ca. 5 m. objects begin to appear flattened). By putting such constraints on perception, distance alters our ability to communicate effectively, and becomes an important variable in any consideration of social interaction.

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The discussion so far has treated the potential for perception in a fairly general fashion. However, in addition to the perception of differences, such differences may be treated with varying degrees of significance. The relationship between perception and meaning has received attention, as in the perception of colour, or phonetic sounds, but less attention has been focussed on the perception of distance. One such study, conducted by an ethnoarchaeologist, deserves comment (Fletcher 1977a). Fletcher was particularly concerned with the question of whether there were regularities in spatial behaviour, and whether these supported cultural concepts of spatial order. In a small Konkombo village in Ghana, various distances in the built environment were measured, including doorway widths, bench dimensions, hut diameters, and yard dimensions; these were then analysed to determine whether there was any demonstrable order in the series of measurements. Several patterns were detected, principally that certain distances were favoured, but these were not constant intervals over the range of distances measured. Likewise, variation around modal values was not constant across the range of measurements observed. This was taken to demonstrate that the perception of distance was not linear. Differences in such patterning between different cultures were held to demonstrate the existence of culture specific concepts of spatial order (Fletcher 1977a). While provocative, the significance of this work remains unclear for three principal reasons. First, the statistical analysis of the data is rather elaborate, but arbitrary, and meaning is ascribed to particular patterns with no suggestion of how such attributions might be assessed. Secondly, functional considerations are given little consideration. While the potential effect on dimensions of particular building materials is given short discussion (by no means exhaustive), little consideration is given to other functional constraints. For example, there is considerably more variation in larger distances, yet one might expect this since a difference of 20 cms. may be crucial in designing a doorway for human use, but be less significant when locating two huts 30 m. apart. Finally, by the presumed demonstration of patterned spatial behaviour, its importance within its cultural context is simply assumed, tautologously (Fletcher 1977a; 1981b; 1984). Therefore, the significance to be attached to different spacing patterns in different cultures deserves further exploration, but will need further theoretical and methodological consideration before significance can be attached to the patterns recovered. It is an essential assumption in archaeology that statistically significant patterns detected in material culture patterning may be of substantive interest, but the substantive significance of a pattern cannot necessarily be assumed on the basis of statistical significance alone. In addition, any such patterns need to be explained, rather than simply attributed to normative cultural 'differences' (Binford 1962). From this perspective, differences which may be documented in spatial patterning as the result of human behaviour, may, but cannot necessarily be assumed to have been, perceived, and may have had significance. The archaeologist must attempt to establish such significance based on associations with other differences in behaviour, and in the context of the behaviour. In this section, it has been argued that distance, because of its negative effect on sensory perception, is of crucial importance in human communication. Because of the consistent inverse relationship between spatial distance and sensory perception, spatial patterning can provide a non-arbitrary context for the investigation of communication, social interaction, and meaning. However, because of inter-cultural differences in perception, no deterministic rules can be formulated, though the relative importance of the different senses at different spatial scales can be suggested. So, to support the suggestion made in the previous chapter that space potentially carries meaning in any cultural context, but is likely to be variable in degree, we can add the spatial implications of perception. This serves as a basis for looking for general patterns of human

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spatial behaviour, linked to social interaction and organisation, but we have to wrestle directly with the problem of meaning, shared meaning, and communication.

2.4: BEHAVIOUR IN SPACE AND NON-VERBAL COMMUNICATION.

An investigation of spatial behaviour as communication, and its meaning, may begin at the level of non-verbal communication. Beginning from the perspective of ethology, this demands explicit consideration of spatial behaviour at different scales of resolution whether of all animals, mammals, our species, cultural groups, local groups, families and task-specific groups, or of individuals. From a purely pragmatic perspective, the level at which particular behaviours may be most appropriately investigated may be defined by the scale at which common forms of behaviour may be recognised. When dealing with human cultural behaviour, there is a tendency for researchers in many fields to separate humans from other species a priori, rather than using similarities and differences with other species as a powerful approach to understanding both the nature and the evolutionary origin of our behavioural and cognitive capabilities (e.g. Leach 1972; Giddens 1979; Shanks and Tilley 1987b). On the other hand, a broader ethological perspective can provide the context for our studies of human behaviour, particularly when trying to identify pre-cultural, pan-cultural, and culture specific patterns of behaviour (Hinde 1974; 1987). Ethological studies of animal behaviour also have a number of advantages over the most similar studies of human behaviour. First, there has been a substantial amount of work on a wide variety of animal behaviour patterns, based on field observation in natural conditions, and in controlled laboratory conditions. Second, ethics, while under challenge, allow experimental manipulation of other species which could not be countenanced among human beings - the closest we often approach to a controlled experiment are short-term studies of college students or prison inmates, under controlled but highly artificial conditions, or short-term sociological and anthropological studies in situations where few variables can be effectively considered 'controlled'. For these reasons, human ethological studies, still small in number, are limited in generality. Third, long-term, multiple generation studies with other species can take place over a matter of weeks, months or years, rather than generations. In addition, studies of human behaviour, particularly non-verbal behaviour, are dominated by the popularised account (e.g. Hall 1969; 1976; Morris 1977; Scheflen 1976), rather than the academic synthesis (e.g. Hinde 1972). Similarly, where systematic work on human behaviour has been done, it tends to be dominated by subjects from a limited range of cultural backgrounds (Hall 1969; Watson 1970; 1972; Sommer 1969), permitting little understanding of differences in cultural conditioning. The study of human non-verbal communication is complicated by the fact that so many of our gestures and expressions accompany and act as qualifiers to verbal communication (Hinde 1974). As it is, much research has aimed to identify expressive movements, such as smiles and nods, which appear to carry similar meanings across different cultures (EiblEibesfeldt 1972a). Some such expressions have been identified, though the degree to which they are manifest in any particular society is regulated by cultural conventions. Such basic similarities may be held to be part of man's common phylogenetic heritage - essentially a sub-stratum underlying cultural behaviour. In qualification, it has been noted that the motivational bases of such movements and expressions may be more labile than the movement patterns themselves (Hinde 1974). However, as an alternative to positing a common behavioural evolutionary heritage, "expressive movements that are similar across cultures could depend on aspects of experience that are common to those cultures" (Hinde 1974:125). This is the situation which

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would appear most likely with respect to conscious behaviour, rather than particular patterns of expression, and would encompass patterns of behaviour in space. A related perspective on non-verbal communication looks to explain 'natural symbols' (Douglas 1970) as linked to elements of common human experience, such as the orientation of the body (Tuan 1977), or parts of the body (Leach 1972). As described by Leach (1972): "Some signals are almost culture-independent. Others have a culturallyindependent core but may be more or less affected by the influences of particular cultures... Others may have a degree of cultural universality which depends on the use of parts of the body or objects inevitably associated with particular contexts by the very nature of man or of the world in which he lives. And of course others are culture-specific." Aspects of human spatial behaviour may fall into any of these classes, though I have suggested that those linked to the perception of distance are likely to lie within the second category. Human spatial non-verbal communication has received considerable attention in the last 3 decades, defined as the study of environmental psychology (Altman and Chemers 1980) and proxemics (Hall 1969; 1976; Watson 1970; 1972; Sommer 1969). Such studies, while working principally with North American subjects, have attempted to distinguish species-wide patterns of behaviour, though recognising that these will be manifest somewhat differently in different cultures (Hall 1969). Many of the documented patterns in human spatial behaviour have analogues in observations of animal behaviour, though environmental psychologists have been more concerned with documenting variations in such behaviour, than in explaining their origins. We can anticipate that norms concerning behaviour during different types of interaction will exist, and we may be able to estimate some of the parameters for such behaviour, for instance to the degree that distance will inhibit interaction, but the actual norms will be culture specific. Individuals within each culture will learn those norms as part of their enculturation, and may never give them conscious consideration, or be aware that they exist. Hall was one of the first anthropologists to attempt to synthesise information on human spatial behaviour, from the perspective of proxemics. One of his principal contributions, which has stood up to testing across different cultures (Watson 1970), was the definition of different spacings for different types of social interaction. The potentially cross-cultural nature of his propositions relies on his explanation in terms of the natural constraints on sensory perception, outlined in the preceding section. Hall defined four major spacings, each with a near and far phase (1969:114-29): 1. Intimate distance. Close phase ranges from physical contact to about 15 cms, far phase 15 to 45 cms. The involvement between the individuals is likely to be close, intimate, and physical. 2. Personal distance. Close phase 45 to 75 cms, far phase 75 to 120 cms. Physical contact is still possible, though not intimate. At the close phase, the individuals interacting will usually be well acquainted, whereas the far phase will be used for normal conversation between people who may not know each other personally, but share some attitudes or status in common - in other words, people who are not completely unknown quantities. 3. Social distance. Close phase 1.2 to 2 m, far phase 2 to 3.5 m. Interaction does not require personal involvement - a typical distance for individuals working together, though not necessarily cooperatively. By the far phase, interaction is somewhat formalised, voices may need to be raised somewhat, be reinforced by eye contact, etc.

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4. Public distance. Close phase 3.5 to 7.5 m, far phase over 7.5. communication is strained, and carries no personal involvement.

At this distance

While the precise spacing may shift between different cultures, the relative ranking of interaction intensity with distance will be the same, as will the approximate distances, since they are linked to sensory perception. While fairly general as a model for linking social interaction to distance, Hall's propositions can be operationalised to develop expectations of the nature of social interaction based on spatial behaviour. Hall explicitly contrasted the flexible patterns of human spacing, dependent on the nature of the interaction and the social relationships between those interacting, with the material constraints of the environment, which can be distinguished as either fixed or semi-fixed features (Hall 1969:103). Fixed features are those which cannot be varied with the situation. These usually constitute the basic environmental frame for behaviour, such as the size of a room, or the layout of a house or collection of houses. These may be features of the unmodified natural environment, or artificial constructions. The effect of fixed feature space has been most extensively explored by architects and environmental psychologists, interested in why particular types of space facilitate or inhibit specific forms of behaviour and interaction. In particular, architects have begun to investigate why the 'hard spaces' created by many urban renewal projects have failed as contexts for cooperative social behaviour (Sommer 1974; Newman 1973; Rapoport 1982). Semi-fixed features are those which present material constraints, but may be adjusted to adapt a space to different types of activity; furniture, if movable, can be re-arranged to facilitate communication, or to inhibit it. Most investigation has focussed on how people interact with elements of the built environment in different social situations, such as seating patterns around a table in situations ranging from cooperation and conversation to competition (Sommer 1969; Hall 1969). Fixed and semi-fixed features may be contrasted with informal (Hall 1969:111) or non-fixed features, which consist of other individuals who, through body orientation and spacing, will affect the behaviour of others near them. Some discussion has attempted to assess the relative importance of fixed and semi-fixed features in controlling behaviour, since while the built environment may be planned in anticipation of particular types or conventions of behaviour, it will impose some constraints on the subsequent use of the same space. Fixed features are, by definition, not susceptible to re-arrangement, and may create a rigid spatial framework, particularly if they incorporate functionally-specific features or facilities. On the other hand, many spaces are only defined in a very basic way by fixed features, such as an open rectangular room - in this case, the semi-fixed features will present the major material constraints on behaviour. This is a point which will deserve further consideration, in connection with the psychology of spatial behaviour (section 2.5). Several other concepts developed in proxemics and environmental psychology are crucial to the investigation of human spatial behaviour, and in particular, communication and social interaction. These have quite explicit links with ethology, though our interest focuses on their manifestation in human behaviour, rather than their origins - territoriality, privacy, and crowding. Territoriality may be defined as behaviour by an individual or group which attempts "to affect, influence, or control people, phenomena, and relationships, by delimiting and asserting control over a geographic area" (Sack 1986:19), or in short, 'control over space'. This may manifest itself in human behaviour from the scale of a favourite chair, to national boundaries. Territorial behaviour has been identified as universal in our species, though

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again, the degree and nature of its manifestation varies both among cultures and individuals. Privacy may be considered the selective control over interaction, "an interpersonal boundary regulation process by which a person or group regulates interaction with others" (Altman and Chemers 1980:75). Privacy is linked conceptually to territoriality and other proxemic behaviour, since "personal space and territory, along with verbal and non-verbal responses and cultural practices, operate as behavioral mechanisms to facilitate privacy regulation" (Altman and Chemers 1980:75). Crowding is a more difficult concept to deal with, since its definition and interpretation is subject to considerable debate (e.g. Gurkaynak and LeCompte 1979). While crowding refers to the density of people in space - a physical state, it also refers to a conscious or unconscious psychological state - a reaction to the density within its context. Because of cultural and individual variations in density expectations and their perception, particular density levels cannot be presumed to be positive, neutral, or negative. Crowding, when it can be identified, is generally considered a negative state, essentially precipitating too much interaction, leading to psychological stress through 'communication overload' (e.g. Saegert 1979; Severy 1979; Fletcher 1981a). On the other hand, while it is undeniable that an increased density of individuals leads to increased sensory stimulation, this need not always have negative psychological effects (Freedman 1979). The perception of crowding will depend on the nature of the stimuli, the expectations developed for each context, and the control that the individual has over the stimuli to which they are subjected. Because of a wide variety of behavioural strategies for modulating perception and regulating interaction (e.g. Katz 1974), no cross-cultural stress thresholds have been defined, nor are such likely. The search for absolute limits to residential density (Fletcher 1977b; 1978; 1981a), divorced from the study of human behavioural and psychological mechanisms for controlling social interaction, would appear to be a somewhat sterile pursuit. Privacy may then be viewed as an essential behavioural strategy for coping with crowding and 'communication overload'. While potentially convenient as a blanket explanation for much of human spatial behaviour, crowding appears to be far from straightforward as an operational concept. The investigation and explanation of human spatial behaviour may more profitably be pursued within a more general perspective as one of the strategies available for the control of communication and social interaction.

2.5: THE PSYCHOLOGY OF THE BUILT ENVIRONMENT.

The psychology of spatial behaviour is clearly of direct relevance to individuals in a variety of fields, including psychologists, sociologists, anthropologists, architects, geographers and planners, yet there has been only limited systematic exploration of the basic issues investigated as proxemics and environmental psychology. In anthropology, the study of spatial behaviour and the built environment has been as neglected as the study of other forms of material culture (Humphrey 1988). The exploration of such issues has perhaps been pursued the furthest in architecture, where a critique has focussed on the aims and practice of architectural design. The major thrust of the argument is that planners and designers have established their own objectives, without regard for, or particular interest in, the needs and values of the public who constitute the majority of the individuals who use the resulting built environment (Rapoport 1982; Hillier and Hansen 1984; Lawrence 1987). One of the most straightforward analyses of architectural space in terms of its perception and meaning was that of Goffman, a sociologist, in his discussion of the presentation of the

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self (1959). He argued, using a theatrical metaphor, that individuals pursue a variety of roles in daily life, and that the places where they perform, whether at work, in public, or in the home, have some of the characteristics of a stage. Individuals engage in their roles in what he has called front zones, while they are able to relax those roles, or adopt different roles backstage - in the back zone. In Goffman's view, space serves as the framework for social behaviour, and can take on a perceived character or meaning. At the same time, that meaning can change with any change in who is using it, when, with whom, and for what purpose (1959). In other words, space can have meaning, but that meaning depends on the context of its use. These ideas have been pursued somewhat in anthropological studies of the use of space. Portnoy (1981) adopted the concepts of front and back space to describe spatial zones within !Kung campsites. However, her attribution ignores the subtlety of Goffman's analysis, since she pays little attention to the social context of different camp areas, nor the roles pursued by a camp's occupants. A far more successful application of Goffman's ideas, including the metaphor of theatre and performance, is Gregor's analysis of behaviour in a Mehinaku village in Amazonian Brazil (1977). There, because of the open layout and tightly-knit nature of the community, most activities are carried out under public scrutiny. He devotes particular attention to the creation of roles, and the psychological, behavioural and material strategies that are pursued to create privacy and regulate social interaction. Because of their generality, the concepts of front and back zones, and their respective behaviours, may have considerable cross-cultural relevance. However, precisely because of their generality and flexibility, they also carry little explanatory potential, and may serve more as convenient descriptive devices. Somewhat more specific models of human spatial behaviour have been developed by architects, and are exemplified by two approaches, that of Rapoport (1969; 1982), and that of Hillier and his colleagues (Hillier et al. 1978; Hillier and Hansen 1984). Both sets of studies start from a similar dissatisfaction with current architectural design, and look for a solution in an understanding of vernacular design. The approaches complement each other, since Rapoport's discussion is principally theoretical, while Hillier's is essentially methodological. Rapoport's aim is to explore the meaning of the built environment, emphasising the role of architecture as non-verbal communication. This position is an explicit reaction to any attempt to explain architectural form simply in terms of the constraints of structural materials, or purely functional concerns; rather, a poorly-defined notion of 'socio-cultural variables' is given primacy (1969; 1982). As non-verbal communication, the built environment serves as a mnemonic device, and presents individuals with cues that help "people behave in a manner acceptable to the members of a group in the roles that the particular group accepts as appropriate for the context and the situation" (Rapoport 1982:56). These cues "provide information that constrains and guides behaviour, influences communication, and generally have meaning" (1982:57). Such cues may be consciously created, as when the house embodies strict cosmological and social principles (e.g. Cunningham 1964; Tambiah 1969). However, many of the cues are provided simply by the associations of meaning which accrue to the built environment through habitual use, are learned through enculturation, and reinforced through everyday behaviour. Spatial settings provide the context for both the production and the perception of meaning. Yet while material culture may elicit meanings, such meanings are not intrinsic, and material symbols are inherently ambiguous. Success in reinforcing culture necessitates decoding that meaning, and reading the cues for appropriate behaviour, which in turn require both an understanding of the code, and a willingness to act accordingly (Rapoport 1982:189). The pathology of modern western architecture, identified by many architects, lies in our increasing insensitivity to the material cues of the built environment. To some extent this is bound to occur with the mixing of individuals from many different cultural backgrounds,

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but is exacerbated by the separation of the design process from those who use architecture. Architects, with their own design criteria, design buildings from the perspective of cultural concepts that do not conform with those that are held by the consuming public. To the degree that we still perceive cues in the built environment, or more basic proxemic patterns, these may be in open conflict with the intended social context of use (Sommer 1974; Newman 1973; Rapoport 1982; Lawrence 1987). With such conflicting cues, we tend more and more to screen out the meaning in the built environment. This same disjunction can be seen even more clearly in the failure of many housing projects in the Third World, where western architects approach the design problems in their own terms, without an appreciation of local cultural behaviour. The resulting housing projects are unlikely to conform with local behaviour patterns, and are often disruptive to indigenous patterns of social interaction and communication (section 7.3). At best such schemes are abandoned by those they are intended to assist - at worst they contribute to the breakdown of traditional culture. This disjunction in current practice has led some architects to look for an understanding of human spatial behaviour in vernacular and non-western architecture, where dwellings are designed and constructed by those who live in them, and culture and the built environment are still mutually reinforcing (Rudolfsky 1964; Oliver 1969; 1971; 1977; 1987; Doumanis and Oliver 1974; Doxiadis 1968; Rapoport 1969; 1982; Lawrence 1987). Rapoport's work presents perhaps the most explicit theoretical perspective on the meaning of the built environment, though it (as well as other treatments - e.g. Tuan 1977) remains quite vague and anecdotal. This is particularly the case when discussion moves beyond the most general, and it never really comes to grips with the nature of the 'socio-cultural' factors which influence architectural form. Likewise, other factors such as technological constraints and functional needs are completely neglected, though they also need to be incorporated in any comprehensive theory of vernacular architectural form (Lawrence 1987). Several of Rapoport's suggestions contrasting industrialised and traditional societies deserve mention. First, he notes that in small-scale societies, where every individual may be known, environmental cues as to social relationships and patterns of communication may be less necessary. Similarly, because cultural homogeneity is greater in traditional, smallscale societies, material cues to acceptable behaviour will not be as necessary (1982:183). On the other hand, in industrialised cultures, fixed feature space is often non-specific, and adaptable for different behaviours, whereas semi-fixed and non-fixed features carry most of the symbolic load. This is obviously problematic for archaeologists, since the most enduring artefacts are generally those that define fixed feature space. With greater cultural homogeneity, there may be a closer fit between fixed features and both behaviour and meaning (1982:98). Contrarily, with increasing permanence of the built environment, fixed features are likely to be more general, to be responsive to changes in behaviour patterns - for instance with respect to seasonal work schedules and longer-term changes in household composition during the course of the developmental cycle of domestic groups (Fortes 1958; Kramer 1982; Moore 1986). In addition to the vague nature of much of Rapoport's work, two crucial problems currently inhibit much development of this approach. First, Rapoport gives little attention to the cross-cultural validity of his observations. Most of his work is tied to recent North American architecture, and his own cultural understanding of the behaviour patterns involved and the meanings held. These ideas are held to have cross-cultural validity when "some suggestive examples from varied cultures can be found" (1982:65,123). Given the variability in human spatial behaviour, support in these terms can be found for a wide variety of claims, particularly when little attention is given to their specific cultural context.

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Second and linked to the first point, Rapoport lacks any methodology for analysing or ascribing meaning to the built environment, other than his intuitive understanding of behaviour in his own culture, and empathy (1982:123): "one begins by looking and observing; one sensitizes oneself to see, observe, and understand: It is not a linear process, but one inviting an intuitive 'creative leap' once one has saturated oneself in the information." "Of course, knowing the cultural context is extremely useful, but even that can be suggested by observation." While Rapoport may see the lack of explicit theory or method as an advantage in the study of architecture as non-verbal communication (1982:198), as reviewed in chapter one, this same situation has precluded progress in Settlement Archaeology. The work of Hillier and his colleagues begins from a similar position as Rapoport's (Hillier and Hansen 1984:ix): "By giving shape and form to our material world, architecture structures the system of space in which we live and move. In that it does so, it has a direct relation - rather than a merely symbolic one - to social life, since it provides the material preconditions for the patterns of movement, encounter and avoidance which are the material realisation - as well as sometimes the generator - of social relations." Unlike Rapoport, they have developed a methodology for describing and comparing the organisation of architectural space. This focuses on the morphology of space - the articulation of spaces - rather than on distance, location, or even the use of individual spaces. They concentrate on how the interconnection of spaces can serve to organise encounters, either integrating or segregating inhabitants and strangers, either in communities or individual structures. They explore the implications for spatial order which can develop from comparatively simple restrictions on a random pattern of spatial growth. This serves to illustrate how relatively complicated global patterns can be developed from fairly simple local rules. Though a point they do not develop, this begins to go some way towards addressing the problem of how culturally distinct patterns in settlement form can emerge on the basis of decisions made by individual actors. While their procedures permit a consistent description of a system of interconnected spaces, the social interpretation of such networks is far from clear. In fact, there is little investigation of just how the pattern of interconnection between spaces will constrain or determine the pattern of interaction between occupants; the system of encounters is simply inferred on the basis of 'intuitive experiences' with variation in the use of English domestic space. The exercise in analytical model-building "at its best, will reveal a series of clues leading at least to informed conjectures as to the sociology of their spatial structure" (Hillier and Hansen 1984:163). This is consistent with a view that "interpretation is, of course, more of an art than a procedure" (Hillier and Hansen 1984:122). Their interpretation of social behaviour is taken from Durkheim, but the relevance to their analysis of space is far from justified (cf. Leach 1978). Their model is used to describe vernacular village layout and non-western house and compound layout, but little attention is given to the behavioural context of these examples; only the plan is discussed in detail, not the use of space or the symbolic meaning associated with it. As with Rapoport's work, the non-western examples are token, and far removed from the investigators' intuitive experience - the alleged basis for their understanding of behaviour and meaning. Unlike Rapoport's work, theirs is more likely to have direct relevance to other cultural contexts, but only because it is merely a system for description, without explanatory content.

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The linkage between social and spatial behaviour is to some extent an extrapolation of Goffman's notion of front and back spaces. In this case, however, the role of the space is inferred purely on the basis of its position relative to other spaces, rather than with reference to the behaviour that takes place there at any one time, or the social context of that behaviour. Because of this, spaces have only a single meaning, and that meaning cannot change, even if the use of the space does. One has only to consider the changing use of many English Victorian terrace houses over the past century (until recently without major re-structuring of the internal layout of the spaces) to see major shortcomings of this approach. This is particularly a problem when dealing only with fixed feature space, which may endure longer than the social formations for which it was most appropriate. There is no denying that their network approach to the organisation of space has value, but only if integrated with a coherent and appropriate theoretical orientation. In addition, ignoring the value of spaces, in terms of the behaviour that takes place within them and the meaning ascribed to them, will forestall a more comprehensive understanding of spatial organisation. On the other hand, integrating such additional information will put additional constraints on their model of the generation of spatial order as the result of minor restrictions on random processes. Their work, in concentrating on the fixed feature component of the built environment, has had obvious appeal for archaeologists, who often have difficulty inferring the use of particular areas of a site, let alone approaching the problem of meaning (e.g. Yiannouli and Mithen 1986; Foster 1989; Parkington and Mills, in press). As a consistent method for describing architectural space, it would be possible to compare and contrast different forms of spatial organisation, as manifest in the archaeological record. However, to explain those differences will require a theoretical understanding of the nature of the differences. As long as Hillier's approach remains primarily a method of description, it has little to offer towards the understanding of spatial behaviour in the past. Considered together, the works of Rapoport and Hillier, and others working from a similar perspective (e.g. Tuan 1977; Lawrence 1987) provide useful critiques of current architectural practice, and some insights into human spatial behaviour, but remain unsatisfactory as explanatory approaches. A more critical approach to both theory and methodology will be necessary, as well as more attention to the generalising aims of such work, and how those may be achieved. In addition, scholars approaching the question of meaning in the built environment must give more attention to the social context of spatial behaviour and beliefs. This runs contrary to the pictorial surveys which are the most popular form of cross-cultural study (Rudolfsky 1964; Oliver 1987; Duly 1979; Guidoni 1979; Fraser 1968).

2.6: SPACE AS SYMBOL.

In direct contrast to most architectural studies, the importance of context is fully appreciated in anthropological studies of human spatial behaviour. Surprisingly, however, the number of anthropological studies which deal with spatial behaviour is limited. Those that do exist, principally address the symbolism of space, taking the material behaviour as an opportunity to study "social and mental processes through objective and crystalised external projections of them" (Lvi-Strauss 1963:285). As with architectural studies, there has been a tendency to discuss symbolism with respect to the individual house or compound, rather than at the scale of aggregates, such as villages. The exception to this has been the study of individual public monuments, such as temples, or entire cities, when formal principles have governed their layout (e.g. Wheatley 1971; Andrews 1975; Kus 1983; Fritz et al. 1984). The general avoidance of the spatial scale of the village is intriguing, but presents, for archaeologists, a problem similar to that resulting

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from studies of site structure - uncertainty as to how the individual component parts fit together into aggregates. The tendency to avoid the intermediate scale may reflect three particular sets of problems. First, the layout of the house is likely to be perceived by the anthropologist as patterned, simply through the replication of individual households within the community which is focal for the ethnographic study, whereas similarity in spatial organisation among communities will be more difficult to identify, even if it exists. Such replication will be, to a fair degree, produced by the similar space requirements of different families in performing similar activities on a day-to-day basis. Second, individual houses or compounds may actually be more standardised than entire communities for a variety of reasons. For example, the area required for individual houses or compounds is often quite limited, and therefore the physical site may impose few constraints on design and layout, leaving a fairly free hand for spatial organisation according to preconceived models. On the other hand, the organisation of individual houses into a larger community will be more constrained by the topography of the site, preexisting features, and other local factors. Similarly, at the smaller scale of the household, relationships and the nature of interactions between members may either be allowed for, or intentionally channeled by the internal organisation of household space. On the other hand, the wider network of relationships between members of a community will be less predictable, involving a larger number of individuals who fall into a wider range of potential roles, requiring particular types of interaction. Third, the layout of the house and the community may be considered to require different scales of decision-making. Individuals are likely to be responsible for designing the layout of the home - either explicitly incorporating cultural beliefs, or simply following custom. On the other hand, the existence of 'order' at the extra-household scale is usually taken to presuppose that some individual or collective makes planning decisions, though this is problematic for small-scale societies where there is no central authority to exercise such a role. Indeed, in archaeological interpretation, the documentation of such spatial order has been taken as evidence in itself for the existence of such centralised organisation (Trigger 1967). However, it is useful to bear in mind the point stressed by Hillier and Hansen (1984) - that simple local rules can produce global order. As an example, the common circular form of many Amazonian villages, with houses arranged around a circular, central open space gives the appearance of community organisation. On the other hand, there is little centralised authority in such tribal societies. Yet while the community layout exhibits order, very few spatial rules are needed to generate it. The necessary rule may have to do with spatial behaviour, in that all houses should face onto the central, public space (Gregor 1977), or it may be social - that individuals construct their dwellings adjacent to those of close kin and social allies (Whitelaw 1983b; chapter 3). For various reasons, then, spatial organisation at the community-wide scale has received relatively little attention from anthropologists, though many of the perspectives developed on the organisation of household space may have relevance to larger-scale spatial organisation. Turning to the organisation of household space, a number of individuals have discussed the relevance of space as a medium for symbolic expression (e.g. Douglas 1972; Leach 1972; Tuan 1977). Two characteristics of such expression have widespread cultural relevance. Space is usually perceived in geographical terms, particularly oriented around the east as the direction of the sunrise and west as the sunset, and up and down, distinguishing the earth we walk on from the sky above us. Space is often also perceived with reference to the human body and its orientation, distinguishing front and back, right and left, head and feet, etc. These two points of reference may also be used in combination, such that bodily orientation toward the east may lead to consistent associations for right and left, though unlike the east/sunrise, the associations of right and left are unlikely to carry intrinsic

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meaning. On the other hand, up and down, associated with the head and feet, often carry ranked distinctions, with elevation corresponding to higher ranked individuals, activities, etc. Numerous studies have documented the spatial orientations and associations held by individual cultures, but, with the specific meanings the result of arbitrary, culture specific concepts, there has been little scope for cross-cultural generalisation. If the organisation of space, relative or absolute, is consistent within a culture, this may be detectable simply through patterning in the material record. However, the reason for such patterning will not necessarily be apparent. Similarly, comparable patterning in other cultures need not be an indication of similar spatial concepts. In addition, we must ask what such patterns of orientation tell us about a culture - that they exist simply becomes part of our description of that culture. What is of more interest is how they articulate with other cultural characteristics, and from the perspective of this study, how concepts of space and orientation are associated with aspects of social behaviour. Examples of the latter are where the seating arrangement within a family shelter, or the living compartments within a multi-family structure, are linked to concepts of rank, secular importance, or spiritual purity (e.g. Paulson 1952; Boas 1909; Drucker 1951; Humphrey 1974; Tanner 1979). The explanation of such spatial patterns has lent itself particularly to structural expositions, where the status of individuals may be linked to their spatial location within the house, and similarly linked to other systems of meaning, and to wider world views. In some cases, the pattern of symbolic associations can be read fairly directly, as in Cunningham's study of the Atoni house (1964), where the house is explicitly viewed as a medium for communication of concepts of social, linked to spatial, order. Such a reading, as in the Atoni case, is aided by the explicit relationships expressed within that culture, and embodied in the names and expressions used to refer to different components and areas within the house. Such an argument becomes more contentious when the relationships are drawn less explicitly by those within the culture, as in Tambiah's analysis of three systems of classification in northeast Thailand (1969). In his argument, he develops the notions of "marriage and sex regulations as a scale of social distance, house categories as a scale of spatial distance with social implications, and rules that apply to the eating of domestic and forest animals as a scale of 'edibility distance'" (1969:441). These three systems are held to be homologous, in that a similar system of rules, and propitiations in their violation, govern both sex and marital relations, and dietary behaviour. The linkage between the two is provided by the organisation of the house, with social rules governing the areas of the house in which different individuals interact, and parallel rules concerning where animals are stabled below the house at night. In the end, however, the linkage between the different classificatory schemes is somewhat strained, and without the presumption that the three systems must somehow correspond, the argument is not particularly convincing, despite limited linguistic links. At least some aspects of the layout of the house do relate to the social relations between individual members of the household, though even here, the tie with the rules regulating sex and marriage are not clear-cut. As with most structuralist analyses, the assertion that one relationship parallels or is a metaphor for another becomes essentially a matter of faith. This problem is exemplified by Bourdieu's analysis of the spatial organisation of the Kabyle house (1979). This study is an example of classic structural analysis, where concepts are matched as homologous binary oppositions. In this case, spatial concepts such as high and low and inside and outside, are matched against other concepts such as male:female, raw:cooked, dark:light, culture:nature, etc. In essence, such a process of analysis is not particularly problematic, since such dichotomised variables can be matched against each other, and against fairly simple patterns in everyday activities and relationships. While it may be more problematic to discern a pattern among such relationships - presumably, among all the possible oppositions which could be drawn, those that do not fit with such a

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scheme are not elaborated upon. Ultimately, such an exposition, as with Bourdieu's study of the Kabyle house, appears to be an arbitrary collection of observations. A major distinction may be drawn between situations such as that studied by Cunningham, where the cosmological significance of the house is explicitly recognised by the participants, embodied in nomenclature, and can be articulated to the observer, and a case such as Bourdieu's, where the associations originate with the outside observer; by being conceived as lying within practical rather than discursive consciousness (Giddens 1979), the justification for the identified pattern lies solely with the analyst, "the internal organization of space never being consciously perceived as such - still less deliberately planned - by those who inhabit it" (Bourdieu 1979:153). Additionally, even if such associations exist, one must inquire to what degree they can be considered 'generative schemes' or are simply by-products of culturally standardised patterns of behaviour. The location of the loom and the animal byre are given particular significance within Bourdieu's conceptual scheme. However, as he notes, the loom is situated in the only part of the interior of the house lit by sunlight through the east-facing door, and the lower level of the byre facilitates drainage (1979:135). Similarly, the femalespecific activity associations of the hearth and hearth-side activities may encourage gender associations for particular parts of the house, without the latter having conceptual priority. This example raises two fundamental problems with the symbolic interpretation of spatial behaviour: what sort of explanation are we looking for, and how do we arrive at it? Presumably we are trying to understand why certain things are done the way they are, which involves participant perception and decision-making (even if only the decision to conform to the culture's norms). This objective can still be approached from different perspectives, yielding different forms of explanation. We can work at the level of conscious emic understanding, and symbolism, as with Cunningham's study, where participant exposition and linguistic associations justify the emic interpretation. An etic explanation may attempt a totally 'outsider' perspective, somewhat as advocated by cultural materialists (Harris 1979; Price 1982). This has obvious limitations, since emic perceptions are considered merely epiphenomena (Harris 1979), whereas in the preceding discussion of site structural approaches to the study of space (section 2.2), a major failing was recognised in the exclusion of cultural perception and meaning. However, an etic perspective can expand on the emic understanding of a situation, by viewing the participant explanation within a wider, cross-cultural context: 'they say they do this because ..., but they really do it because...', with the latter linked to a broader theoretical position, the universality of which can be considered at a remove from the specific case. One might argue that the structural explanation, as exemplified by Bourdieu's analysis, is not conceptually different: it may or may not be based upon emic statements and explanations, but we are told what the system is really like - though not necessarily perceived as such by the participants. In this case, however, the universality of the etic component of the argument is not necessarily claimed, as the set of structural relationships is culture specific, and is based simply on the analyst's own perceptions and assertions. However, the explanation is still presented as the participant's (emic) perspective, but this is imposed by the analyst, from an etic perspective. Such mixed objectives and procedures would appear to have little justification, or assessability. Methodologically, there are also distinctions in the approaches. A conscious emic approach accepts the significance attached to behaviour that is supplied by the participants. To those emic statements, an etic approach can also incorporate a series of expectations of what other aspects of behaviour and patterns of variation will also be important for a full understanding of the behaviour. These expectations are derived from a broader, crosscultural theoretical perspective, which can then be explored with the culture specific data. A structural perspective has neither of these strengths, attaching no necessary significance

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to the consciously-articulated views of the participants, yet likewise bringing no set of more general concepts, unless these rest at the uselessly general, yet fully malleable level of oppositions such as raw:cooked, nature:culture, etc. From the perspective of this study, it is essential to consider behaviour within its local context, and within its own system of meaning, but to situate this within a broader, crosscultural theoretical perspective. Structural approaches may hold particular attractions for archaeologists, since the meaning they ascribe to behaviour documented in the archaeological record may be culture specific, yet need not depend on emic perceptions. That may fit the canons of such inquiry, but one has to ask whether through such an approach we learn anything about the past culture, rather than simply about the imagination of the analyst. From a culture specific approach to the symbolic content of spatial organisation, the emic identification of significance has been critical to successful anthropological analyses. However, these will be the very meanings which are particularly difficult to decipher from the material record alone, since spatial properties themselves have no intrinsic meaning at this level of specificity. Therefore, it would seem that spatial organisation itself does not provide an access to such meaning (cf. Fritz 1978) - rather we must work in reverse, and look to the associations of spatial location and arrangement with other variables, such as the nature of activities and the social roles of the participants, to infer the meaning attached to space. One final anthropological study merits discussion, since it represents an attempt to move in the direction advocated here, linking emic and etic perspectives in an understanding of spatial behaviour, and the meaning of space. This is Moore's study of gender and space among the Marakwet of Kenya. Her objective is to "focus on the organization of household space in an attempt to understand one particular form of cultural representation, how it is produced and how it changes" (1986:xi). A stronger methodological position is established by recognising "the need to relate 'meaning' to the economic and social realities which both produce and are produced by the ordering of domestic space" (Moore 1986:107). The case study focuses on relations of production, as they are invoked through male-female relationships, and are manifest in gender-specific activities and use of space. These are documented through the layout and use of the structures in residential compounds, and the patterned deposition of refuse. Moore is able to argue for such a pattern of associations in her case study, but the relationships are very specific, and no attempt is made to generalise at a broader level. Indeed, such generalisation would be very difficult to support, with our current understanding of human behaviour. By taking a more coherent approach to meaning, and its relation to its context, Moore's study stands as one of the major studies of the conceptualisation and meaning of space. Yet it still contributes little to a generalising perspective on human spatial behaviour. At the same time, Moore's study raises several fundamental issues which have been sidestepped or overlooked in most anthropological studies of spatial behaviour. First, she recognises that different individuals may have different spatial concepts, or experience space in different ways, whether as individuals, or as members of different segments of the local population (1986:51,74,84,190). A second issue concerns the nature of, and recognition of spatial patterning in the material record. Other anthropological studies of spatial behaviour have given little attention to variation between specific examples. The house described is taken as a generic model, and others are said to conform, though how closely is not made clear. In Moore's case, "while household space is continually changing and developing, there are certain principles of organisation which can be apprehended in the layout of all compounds" (1986:102). This may be true, but their identification may be at a fairly intuitive level, since the use of

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particular huts may change through time, with changes in family wealth, or position in the domestic developmental cycle (1986:90-102). Similarly, relative spatial relations, while dictated by custom, may be altered by specific circumstance, so that spatial patterning may be adapted continuously (1986:102-6; Oswald 1987). While the observer with some idea of the rules may work out the nature of the deviations, this is a different problem from trying to identify the rules from the material record alone - random modifications of a pattern can render the original pattern impossible to detect. Finally, this also raises the issue of how strictly cultural rules or norms may be followed. The effectiveness of meaning in the built environment as cues for behaviour depends not only on the occupants being able to decode the cue, but also agreeing to act accordingly (Rapoport 1982). The ability to recognise patterning in the material record will depend directly on the consistency of the patterning. This in turn will depend on the inflexibility with which cultural rules and norms are adhered to in spatial behaviour. Deviation from the norms may be the result of misunderstanding, laxity, or through working out conflicting principles. Little attention has been focussed upon this, but deviation can clearly prevent the recognition of any pattern, depending on the degree of variation, relative to the size of the sample investigated. Anthropological studies of spatial behaviour have focussed principally on issues involving the symbolism attached to space and spatial organisation, such as orientation and relative position. Such explanations have often succeeded in linking spatial concepts to other aspects of local cultural behaviour and conceptual schemes, through very heavy reliance on informant accounts. As a result of this orientation, anthropologists have developed little observational or interpretive methodology for the investigation of material behaviour, and have given little attention to the observation and documentation of variation in behaviour and concepts. With the immediacy of informant information, and the fascinating richness of emic accounts, anthropologists have tended away from generalisation toward particularism, such that many of the most important issues for the archaeologist do not appear relevant to the anthropologist. Thus, there has been little attempt to situate individual culture specific behaviour with respect to space, within a broader theoretical framework.

2.7: SYNTHESIS: BEHAVIOUR.

ALTERNATIVE PERSPECTIVES ON HUMAN SPATIAL

In the preceding sections of this chapter, an attempt has been made to survey the principal approaches to human spatial behaviour which are relevant at the scale of small-scale community organisation. The aim of this review was not to be comprehensive, but to point to some of the perspectives which might be taken, and to touch on findings which it might be appropriate to attempt to incorporate in any broader perspective on the question. Similarly, it will be apparent that particular types of problem must be explicitly addressed in any attempt to develop general theory concerning spatial behaviour, which will be of use in archaeological interpretation, linking back to the issues addressed in chapter 1. In his 1968 article, Trigger put forward a series of proposals about the different concerns which were likely to particularly influence or set constraints on spatial behaviour at different spatial scales, from the distribution of settlements within a region, down to the level of activity organisation within the individual house. The preceding review suggests that a variety of concerns are likely to be relevant at each spatial scale, and that it is difficult, at this stage in our understanding of human spatial behaviour, to assign primacy at any spatial scale to one particular set of concerns or factors. On the other hand, the disciplinary organisation of the preceding review would support the view that different approaches may have particular relevance depending on the social scale of the behaviour we are trying to explain. For instance, non-verbal communication and proxemics will have most relevance

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for explaining species-wide behaviour patterns, while an emic anthropological perspective may allow the most detailed comprehension of culture specific behaviour. Having looked at some of the issues which are relevant to the study of human spatial behaviour, we can tighten up the scope of the investigation somewhat, by returning to the problem-orientation of this study. As outlined in chapter 1, the aim of the work is to attempt to arrive at an understanding of the relationship between community spatial organisation and social organisation within small-scale societies. At the most basic level, we are dealing with behaviour within a spatial setting - who does what, and where. The archaeological interest in site structure, developed over the past decade, has led to closer investigation of human spatial behaviour, and has also begun to produce insights linking the material record to past behavioural dynamics. This approach is at its most secure when dealing with individual activities, and their material signatures, where a deterministic link can be drawn between behavioural cause and material effect, through the dimensions and mechanics of movement of the human body. More recently, investigators have begun to branch out to the study of the relationships between different activities in space, and between the individuals engaging in those activities. This expansion is obviously essential, but is much more problematic; using the mechanics of the body as a basis, the only conclusion that could be drawn is that different individuals cannot perform activities in precisely the same space at the same time (Binford 1978a). From this perspective, the material patterns on a site could as well be formed by a group of individuals performing separate operations, as one individual performing each activity sequentially. This really tells us nothing about interaction. Even a single individual deciding to move to a different area, because pre-existing debris would hamper the performance of the current task, involves us in questions of perception and decisionmaking, which are not addressed by the theoretical foundations of site structural investigations. Similar considerations are involved in individual behaviour within fixed or semi-fixed feature space. Clearly, the identification of behavioural episodes is essential for understanding past spatial behaviour through the archaeological record, but alone, it explains the material record only in strictly mechanical terms. While explanation at the middle range level is achieved, this does not constitute an explanation for the behaviour, since it does not deal with perception, motivation, decision-making or meaning. It also does not provide any basis for approaching the interaction between individuals, unless in the most mechanical sense. Throughout the present chapter, I have referred to questions of cognition, as manifest in perception, motivation and decision-making, as meaning, in contrast with behaviour. This is comparable to Rapoport's usage in The Meaning of the Built Environment. On the other hand, meaning, as often used, will refer to the very specific interpretation or conceptual associations attached to signs or symbols. The investigation of this type of meaning has largely preoccupied anthropological investigations of spatial behaviour. At this level of detail, meaning is essentially culture specific, rather than susceptible of cross-cultural investigation. While it may be possible to investigate meaning at this level of specificity, through the archaeological record, neither the theoretical foundations, nor the methodological procedures for such a study currently exist. Where undertaken by archaeologists, convincing accounts have been contingent on the existence of detailed historical documentation of the ideological context of the behaviour (e.g. Deetz 1977; Glassie 1975; Leone 1984; Johnson 1989). If the meaning of spatial behaviour is to be investigated at this level, we will probably have to work from the associations of spatial behaviour with better-understood cultural phenomena, to infer the meaning attached to space within a specific cultural context, rather than the reverse process. An analogy to the approach to meaning taken here can be found in recent work on artefact variability or style (Wiessner 1983; 1984). This research focuses on how stylistic variation is used in communication, for example to emphasise personal identity, or group affiliation,

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and has had a significant impact on the interpretation of regional artefact variability (e.g. Gamble 1982; Conkey 1978; 1980; Jochim 1983a). This is in contrast to attempts to explicitly interpret individual symbols, or elements of artefact style. Despite claims to recover archaeologically the emic significance of stylistic motifs on pottery (Tilley 1984; Hodder 1982d; Shanks and Tilley 1987a), the latter approach has yet to develop a methodology for identifying the significance of individual symbols, or theories to allow their interpretation. Human behaviour in space, particularly as it relates to inter-individual interaction and communication, depends first and foremost on perception. While perception, as the recognition and interpretation of sensory inputs, is filtered through culturally acquired experience, it still depends on basic sensory inputs. While these can vary somewhat, our physiological sensory apparatus sets parameters on effective communication, such as the maximum distance over which certain forms of communication are likely to succeed, and the minimum distances needed to block or inhibit such interaction. From this point of view, physical distance is one of the prime factors which can be used to regulate human interaction. In addition, of course, there are cultural mechanisms, such as fixed and semifixed features of the built environment, which can take the place of distance in insulating individuals from interaction, as well as various cultural practices, whereby other individuals or their actions will be ignored under specific circumstances (e.g. Katz 1974). The latter are culture specific, though some general psychological patterns may exist, such as a greater concern accorded to acquaintances, as opposed to strangers. Some aspects of human spatial behaviour will be influenced directly by species-wide physiological and psychological needs, which may largely remain unconscious. These characteristics of behaviour have begun to be investigated through proxemic research, and essentially constitute a backdrop for conscious behaviour. To the degree that such behaviour remains unconscious, it can most fruitfully be investigated from an etic perspective. Moving to the level of conscious spatial behaviour, we approach the area of study which is likely to be most relevant when considering social behaviour and interaction. At the other extreme from proxemic spatial behaviour is the culture specific symbolic interpretation of space, which has been principally investigated by anthropologists. At this level of specificity, an emic perspective has principally been pursued. Such studies, in existing societies, usually take the emic perspective as a given, through informant interview. In dealing with past cultures, where such direct insight is not available, the meaning of specific spatial behaviours will have to be ascertained through patterns of association with other material behaviour. At present, however, archaeologists have not developed the equivalent methodology for eliciting an emic perspective from, or deciphering the symbolic content of, other forms of material behaviour. From the perspective of this study, exploring the potential of spatial behaviour to provide such an insight, there is little yet to say. Rather, this study falls between the areas addressed by proxemics and anthropology, and only treated tangentially in architectural studies - the conscious use of distance and fixed-feature space to organise social interactions: while potentially culture-specific, there may be broad patterns in such behaviour - essentially similar reactions to similar problems. Some similarity can be anticipated on the basis of the common sensory apparatus, and common psychological needs encountered in social interaction. Such study is amenable to both etic and emic forms of investigation, and can probably most usefully be pursued by incorporating both. Architectural studies, while sometimes working at a similar level, have failed to produce many insights into spatial behaviour, because of inexplicit aims and the lack of integration between method and theory. Specifically, architectural studies have lacked a coherent methodology for an etic approach, and have failed to give enough attention to cultural context for an adequate emic understanding.

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Since the present study is aimed at identifying the degree to which we can generalise about human spatial behaviour, cross-cultural patterns of behaviour, whether conscious or unconscious are relevant, though the former are of particular interest in the context of social interaction. On the basis of the studies reviewed in this chapter, we should anticipate some common patterns in human spatial behaviour, related to distance and fixed and semi-fixed feature space, and their role in controlling communication. Ultimately, if we can come to an understanding of some aspects of the relationship between spatial and social behaviour, we can look at variations in spatial patterns, to see how spatial organisation is used by different cultures and individuals to create, amplify, facilitate, manipulate and control social interactions and social organisation. At the present time, we may accept that considerable progress is being made in the ethnoarchaeological investigation of site structure, but that this approach can only provide us with a limited understanding of past spatial behaviour. On the other hand, anthropological studies are far less limited in the range of behaviour which can be approached, though without an emic insight, this approach holds little promise for the archaeological investigation of culture specific behaviour and meaning. Rather than these two approaches, what has received the least attention, but will be essential for any progress in the archaeological study of spatial behaviour in the past, is a generalising approach to spatial behaviour, as it relates to communication, social interaction, and social organisation. To pursue this investigation, we first need to establish that there is some sort of relationship linking spatial and social behaviour. This is explicitly addressed in the next chapter, building on a detailed case study. It will then be appropriate to investigate how and why such patterning occurs. To do this, we will need a more concrete perspective on context specific patterns of social organisation, which is developed in chapters 4 and 5. It will then be appropriate to investigate the nature of the variability in behaviour which can be documented in a variety of contexts, pursued in chapter 6. Chapter 7 develops a comparative perspective on variation in spatial behaviour. Finally, we can return to the implications of such an understanding for archaeological investigations (chapter 8).

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CHAPTER 3 PEOPLE AND SPACE IN SETTLEMENTS

3.1: INTRODUCTION: SOCIAL ORGANISATION IN SETTLEMENTS. ORGANISATION AND SPATIAL

It is implicit in the architectural and anthropological approaches to spatial behaviour, reviewed in the preceding chapter, that there is a relationship between spatial organisation and social organisation within communities. In studies such as Rapoport's (1982) and Hillier and Hansen's (1984), a range of ethnographic examples are used to illustrate this point. However, a broader perspective on the ethnographic record would reveal some examples which would appear to support such an assumption, while others would not. This was highlighted some time ago by Lvi-Strauss (1963:292): "These examples are not intended to prove that spatial configuration is the mirror image of social organisation but to call attention to the fact that, while among numerous peoples it would be extremely difficult to discover any such relation, among others (who must accordingly have something in common) the existence of a relation is evident, though unclear, and in a third group spatial configuration seems to be almost a projective representation of the social structure." While a point which he did not pursue, Lvi-Strauss identified the crucial phrase parenthetically - in studying such a relationship, we cannot simply focus on those examples where such a relationship is obvious; rather, we must document the variation in such behaviour, and attempt to gain an understanding of the causes of such variation. This has generally not been done, and approaches to the interpretation of community organisation, as in Settlement Archaeology, have simply extrapolated the relationship from a few straightforward examples, to any archaeological situation. This is simply imposing an interpretation on the past, and allows little scope for learning what any past situation was actually like. For such an approach, built on empirical generalisation, variability in such a relationship or ambiguity in our understanding of it, are a liability. If we are attempting to understand human behaviour, such variation is a challenge to further investigation. To understand variation in the relationship between spatial and social organisation, we need to know how and why such a relationship exists, and whether it varies systematically under different conditions. In this chapter, a detailed examination of a limited body of data will be undertaken to demonstrate that such a relationship does exist, at least under some conditions. The examination will also suggest which aspects of social organisation and spatial organisation will be suitable for such an examination, at least within a particular class of societies (hunter-gatherers). These ideas will be taken further in chapters 4 and 5, where more attention will be focussed on the nature of hunter-gatherer social organisation. Finally, in chapter 6, the analysis begun in the present chapter will be extended to a cross-cultural sample of cultures, which will enable a consideration of variability in the relationship between social and spatial organisation in a variety of different contexts. The question of what we mean by hunter-gatherer social organisation will need to be addressed in some detail in chapter 4, once it is established that there is a question to be addressed. In this chapter, a less well-defined position will be taken, relying on the generally accepted definition of hunter-gatherer society which emerged from the influential Man the Hunter conference in 1966 (Lee and DeVore 1968a). This view, which was itself a reaction to Service's notion of the patrilocal band (Service 1971), emphasised the bilateral, flexible nature of hunter-gatherer local groups (Lee and DeVore 1968b). The normal residential group was likely to be a bilateral group of kinsmen, varying in number from 15

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to 50, but averaging about 25 individuals - the minimal band (Birdsell 1968). During short periods of the year, usually in periods of local abundance of subsistence resources, several minimal bands would gather together in larger groups (maximal bands) for social and ceremonial interaction, trading, and the arrangement of marriages, etc. (Lee and DeVore 1968b). Because membership in both minimal and maximal bands was flexible, though based on kinship, and because an egalitarian nature was widely documented for band level societies (Service 1971; Fried 1967), there was little question about the internal social composition of such groups. The question of hunter-gatherer social organisation, particularly for archaeologists, became simply one of identifying whether a site represented the campsite of a minimal or maximal band - local group or aggregation site (e.g. Conkey 1980; Gamble 1979; David 1973; Mellars 1976). Such an identification could most directly be made through an estimation of the probable population of the residential group which occupied a particular site. While the estimation of site population is a fundamental issue which archaeologists wish to address on sites produced by all types of society, for non-nomadic societies with a richer and more varied material record, alternative approaches have been developed for the inference of social organisation, and the different perspectives can be used to complement each other. For hunter-gatherer groups, population estimation has assumed greater importance as about the only source of insight into the social organisation of past groups. Because it is such a basic question, the estimation of site population has received considerable attention from archaeologists, and more recently, from ethnoarchaeologists. Unfortunately, nearly all of this has been directed at producing empirical generalisations about human spatial behaviour, rather than at attempting to understand the basis for the observed behaviour. As we shall see, such behaviour is extremely variable; without an understanding of how and why such behaviour varies in different contexts, such variation simply builds ambiguity into any empirical generalisation, often to the point of uselessness. The aim of this chapter is to look in more detail at the relationship between the number of occupants of a community and the residential space they occupy, and how this problem has been approached by archaeologists and ethnoarchaeologists. In attempting to approach the question in a more positive way, a detailed examination will be made of the relationship among one cultural group for which a fair amount of good-quality ethnoarchaeological data is available, the !Kung San. In an attempt to understand variation in the relationship between people and space in !Kung camps, a more detailed examination of the relationship between social and spatial organisation will be undertaken, which will demonstrate that more interesting aspects of social organisation may be indicated in the archaeological record of hunter-gatherers than simply how many individuals camped at a single site. In this chapter, we shall move from a fairly mundane, but crucial point, the estimation of population from settlement area, through an attempt to explain the nature of that relationship, toward more interesting aspects of the basis for that relationship - the way people use space in social relations.

3.2: PEOPLE AND SPACE IN SETTLEMENTS.

The study of the relationship between settlement population and settlement space has generated a sizeable volume of literature, nearly all of it building on Naroll's 1962 study of population and floor area (Naroll 1962; Cook and Heizer 1965; 1968; LeBlanc 1971; Casselberry 1974; Clarke 1974; Wiessner 1974; Drager 1976; Read and LeBlanc 1978; Kramer 1980; Sumner 1979; Wedel 1979; Aurenche 1981; Hassan 1981; Schacht 1981). In that study, Naroll compared the population and roofed settlement area of the largest settlement for a cross-cultural sample of 18 societies. He found that a logarithmic transformation of both variables produced the highest correlation, and identified the relationship between the

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variables as allometric. However, he suggested that archaeologists could approximate the relationship by estimating population as approximately 1/10 of the floor area of a settlement, measured in square metres. This has come to be known in archaeology as 'Naroll's Constant' (Thomas 1976:429), and even considered as a 'law-like generalisation' (Read and LeBlanc 1978:313)! While much of the criticism which can be leveled against Naroll's rule actually applies to the way archaeologists uncritically apply it, most of this is inherent in the way Naroll intended it to be used, as an empirical generalisation to translate the archaeological record. However, there are also fundamental problems with Naroll's formulation: The 1/10 version is a critical distortion of the allometric relationship actually observed - it would have been more appropriate to use the curvilinear regression equation, rather than try to simplify it in a way that would systematically distort the relationship described. In addition, his model was presented in a rigidly deterministic form with no indication of variation around the regression line, as could have been indicated by the confidence interval of the regression. Perhaps even more worrying, however, are questions over the validity of the relationship documented. Naroll used a logarithmic transformation on both variables because of the supposedly curvilinear nature of the relationship - largely due to the extreme values for Cuzco. Logging the axes has two results: to bring in outliers, and so linearise a non-linear trend, but in bringing in outliers, it can also greatly tighten up an otherwise diffuse relationship. In Naroll's case, the figures he uses for Cuzco are clearly wildly erroneous, indicating only .83 square metres of settlement space per person (Schacht 1981:127). If Cuzco is dropped from the dataset, there is no curvilinear trend apparent to justify logging the axes, and the data points are actually quite dispersed. The correlation coefficient of 0.665 (p<.004; down from Naroll's r = 0.879), does not indicate that this is strong enough to warrant the confidence often bestowed upon it by archaeologists. While Naroll's analysis itself has rarely been questioned (however see Wiessner 1974), its application in particular circumstances has. This is usually the result of trying his formula in a particular case, and deciding that the values produced 'just don't look right' (e.g. Smith 1978:178-82; Mellars 1976; Watson 1978b). Some individuals have responded by constructing formulae for specific cultures or regions (Cook and Heizer 1965; 1968; Clarke 1974; Drager 1976; Wedel 1979; Adams 1965:21-5; Wenke 1975:164-71; Parsons 1971:22; Carothers and McDonald 1979; Kolb 1985; De Roche 1983), or settlement forms (Wiessner 1974; Read and LeBlanc 1978; Hassan 1981:66-74, 83-92; Casselberry 1974; Clarke 1974). The rationale is either 'this formula is more relevant to my site', or 'to really get to grips with this question, we need a whole battery of different formulae, relevant to different situations'. From the point of view of empirical generalisation, population estimates probably will be better, but such a strategy does not advance the understanding of why and under what conditions we can expect particular variations of the relationship to hold. To date, only one investigator has suggested that we attempt to identify variations in the relationship to determine why they are different (Schacht 1981:128-9). Archaeologists seem to overlook the fact that variation in the relationship between people and space is the result of variation in behaviour, not simply attributable to differences in environment, culture area, settlement type, family type, etc. The regional study of aboriginal California by Cook and Heizer (1965; 1968), is so far the only study to try to investigate the nature of the variability in the people/space relationship. Unfortunately, their work is usually invoked in the formulaic form, like Naroll's, for 'translation'. The major disappointment, however, is that neither they, nor anyone since, has explored some of the questions their analysis raised; they were interested in identifying variability and some of its characteristics, not necessarily in understanding it. Their primary conclusions were to contrast the relationship between settlement house floor area and population - which is highly standardised throughout the entire region - and total

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settlement area and population - which is regular within individual regions, but increasingly variable as the regional scale of analysis expands to include different culture groups. They note that this "distinction between the two kinds of space must be referable to a qualitative difference between those factors responsible for floor space and those which operate with total village or site space" (1968:110). If they had asked why, they could have noted that the first, floor space, is based on the spatial requirements of the individual household. These will include factors such as the spatial locus of individual activities (particularly whether inside or outside), the spatial requirements of individual activities, the degree of simultaneous performance of different activities, the degree to which specialised or permanent facilities are necessary for particular activities, the size of social group involved in any activity, the social context of activities, the necessary displacement of particular activities, the frequency of performance, etc. - all factors currently being investigated under the heading of site structure (section 2.2). On the other hand, settlement space is largely referable to the spatial positioning of households, one to the other, and differentiation in the organisation and use of community space. The range of variability is potentially greater in the latter, and this is the scale that is particularly relevant to the investigation of community social organisation. The greater variability is largely inter-cultural, as within any specific culture, the conception of space and the way it is used tends to follow a consistent set of attitudes. Within a culture, the relationship between settlement area and population and between floor area and population are surprisingly comparable, since both sets of spatial behaviour are fairly stable. However, on an inter-cultural scale, the relationship between settlement floor area and population, linked to some of the functional factors investigated as site structure, remains more stable than the relationship between total settlement area and population. Before leaving the work of Cook and Heizer, it is worth making one observation on their data which they and others have overlooked, but which suggests the potential for trying to understand the variability in the population/area relationship. This concerns the relationship between mean population and mean site area for 27 regions of California, which yield a very diverse scatter of points (figure 3.1). Their conclusion was that: "one cannot claim, therefore, that there is convincing evidence in favor of any systematic relationship between these two variables" (1968:107). However, they identified three subgroups in their data set, which can be identified as three distinct distributions, indicating patterned variation with environmental and social variables. From the point of view of simple translation, the relationship between population and site area is ambiguous, and the relationship cannot be used with any confidence to estimate population from site area by archaeologists. From the point of view of trying to understand human behaviour, it is obvious that there is something else going on that is worth investigating. These same issues may be addressed at a broader scale using large cross-cultural samples which clearly document considerable variability in the relationship between people and space in settlements. Fletcher has maintained that "the wish to estimate community size [population] from settlement area is a forlorn hope which has obscured the relationship between people and space in settlements" (1981:97). This has been re-interpreted to mean that he has shown "that correlations between spatial area and numbers of people cannot be supported by ethnographic data" (Hodder 1982b:8; 1982c:193). The latter is not, in fact, the case (cf. figure 6.2), but both authors are caught in the view wherein variation represents ambiguity in empirical generalisation - they then presume that this negates that any such relationship exists. Only a very broad relationship can be documented cross-culturally if those two variables alone are used, but when other variables are incorporated, such as basic subsistence orientation, in Fletcher's own work (1981:fig.1), patterns in the relationship between people and space emerge. The importance of variations in context in determining the nature of this relationship is appreciated by both authors, though in this case, their interest in the relationship appears to stop at the level of the cautionary tale. To pursue the relationship between people and space in settlements will require more detailed investigations within particular contexts.

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3.3: PEOPLE AND SPACE IN A CULTURAL CONTEXT: ETHNOARCHAEOLOGICAL STUDIES OF THE SETTLEMENT BEHAVIOUR OF THE !KUNG SAN.
The investigation so far has been cursory at best - but the intent has not been to say something definite about the relation between people and space. The intent has been to indicate that there is likely to be a relationship, and that patterned variations in that relationship may be understood in terms of variation in human behaviour. To try to reach an understanding of what those variations mean, it is necessary to focus in much greater detail on particular cases, as a basis for generalisation about specific variables and their interaction, which in aggregate produce some of the patterns visible on a wider scale. For this part of the discussion I shall focus on population, camp area, and the social use of space among the !Kung San of the Kalahari, well-known to archaeologists as the 'original affluent society' (Sahlins 1968a). Their relevance in this context is that they provide one of the best data sets for such an investigation - in the form of John Yellen's ethnoarchaeological work (1977a), in which he mapped a number of recent campsites and interviewed the inhabitants concerning the activities carried out during each occupation.1 This data set contrasts markedly with the traditional 'cautionary tale', in that information on multiple camps of the same group allows the identification of general patterns, rather than the monitoring of isolated events. This is absolutely essential if ethnoarchaeology is to make methodological or theoretical contributions to the study of human behaviour. It should be noted at the outset that the !Kung traditionally followed a pattern of seasonal aggregation and dispersion. The aggregate, dry season camps were established at permanent water-holes, and could be occupied for up to six months by a complete band, ranging from 35 to 60 individuals. The dispersed, rainy season camps were occupied for a number of days by up to seven nuclear families, usually belonging to one extended family, or possibly two linked by marriage. All of Yellen's mapped camps are rainy season camps, though he presents schematic information on the organisation of two dry season camps (1977a:70-1). Turning to Yellen's analysis, he defines the relevant variables as follows (1977a:99-100): "Group size, organization and length of occupation at a particular site fall within the social category, while the term material refers to actual remains left at a camp after the site is abandoned. At the heart of this analysis lies an attempt to establish the relationship between these two categories of variables: the number of people or social groups involved and the length of occupation, on the one hand, and the observable by-products of the occupation, on the other... To estimate predictive relationships of this nature can provide a valuable tool in archaeological interpretation...."

1It should be noted that Yellen's work was not primarily based on observation of the activities which took place in camp and resulted in the formation of the archaeological record. In most cases, he returned to campsites after their abandonment with some of the former occupants, and collected information about the activities which took place there. Most of his informants appear to have been male, and therefore most of his behavioural data relate to how many individuals were present at the camp and for how long, and about the hunting activities of the men. Little observational data is presented about the activities of the women or children in the camps, which account for most of the patterning in the archaeological debris. To this extent, our understanding of the activities which produced the documented traces is fairly vague.

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As the framework for his analysis, Yellen created an abstraction, the Ring Model : !Kung campsites are formed of a circle of huts, each of which is a household activity space, consisting of a shelter, hearth, and hearth-side activity area, oriented inwards around a central, open, community activity area. Analytically, a line drawn around the perimeter of the hut circle, Yellen's Limit of Nuclear Area Total (LNAT), will reflect the population of the camp or number of social units. A further measure of area, encompassing all the cultural debris - the Absolute Limit of Scatter (ALS), will reflect the duration of the camp occupation. The linear correlation coefficient for LNAT and population is 0.8986, (p<0.0005) for ALS and days of occupation, 0.6373, (p<0.01) (Yellen 1977a:124). Yellen's behavioural explanation for the Ring Model is fairly limited: "The circle permits maximum face to face interaction, and such a pattern has been observed over and over again in the ethnographic present" (1977a:131). "While the reasons may be unclear, these correlations do exist, and both length of occupation and group size can be predicted once the area of scatter is known" (1977a:123-5) But this is consistent with his objectives - essentially to aid archaeological translation: "What I have tried to do is provide a concrete approach to the analysis of living floors. With the ring model, an archaeologist may start by asking a series of very specific questions of his data to see if they conform to a particular pattern. If they do, then interesting and anthropologically valuable questions can be answered" (1977a:131). But such an approach has considerable problems, since Yellen has not asked why such relationships should obtain, or attempted to specify under what conditions they should be expected to be relevant, nor attempted to understand the potential variation in such relationships. This limitation is explicitly recognised, but severely qualifies the value of the work (1977a:131): "I must frankly admit that, in the event that data do not fit into this mold, I am uncertain just what the next step should be." Restricting our attention to the relationship between population and LNAT2, the problem is that Yellen's regression equation only serves to describe the relationship for 15 camps (information on size of group and duration of occupation is available for 15 of Yellen's 16 mapped camps) - we cannot realistically use his equation to predict beyond the data it describes because, although the 15 camps may be a sample, they are a sample from a universe with unknown characteristics, and the relationship between sample and universe is unknown. Other researchers have attempted to establish the relevance of such predictions by developing mathematical models which would account for the observed relationship between camp population and area. Two different approaches to modelling !Kung campsites have been used. Wiessner's work (1974) arose from questioning the development of Naroll's population/floor area equation, and its applicability for analysing huntergatherer camps. She attempted to derive a specific formula for the relationship between
2The relationship between length of occupation and ALS is also rather more complicated than Yellen concludes. Since basic site layout is related to the number of occupants (established by his correlation between LNAT and population), length of occupation will be only one of the factors affecting ALS to some extent recognised by Yellen's attempt to explore partial correlations (1977a:125). However, ALS is also likely to be affected by taphonomic processes, since all sites had been scavanged by animals prior to mapping (1977a:102).

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settlement size and population from Nordbeck's more general exploration of allometric growth and city size (1971). Unfortunately, the relevance and mathematical justification for Nordbeck's basic concept of 'dimensionality' is undeveloped, and Wiessner's derivation for hunter-gatherer camps was therefore left without support. The fit of her model to the !Kung data was very good, though Nordbeck's work does not provide the theoretical support she hoped, and no attempt was made to specify why the relationship documented should obtain, in terms of the mathematical relationship between the two variables.3 Because there is no explanation of the mathematical equation in real terms, the formula is an adequate description, but inadequate explanation of the relationship between people and space in !Kung camps. This is apparent when its fit to other data sets is examined, since it was generated as relevant to hunter-gatherer camps in general. Figure 3.2 plots camp area and population for a sample of communities of hunter-gatherer cultures from other contexts (cf. chapter 6). Her model does fit the data from savanna dwelling cultures fairly well, but does not adequately describe the more variable behaviour of groups from other contexts. From the points graphed in figure 3.2, it is also clear that there is systematic variation in hunter-gatherer spatial behaviour in different ecological contexts, though without an understanding of the basis of the population/area relationship, the reasons for the patterns of variation cannot be addressed. Formally specifying the nature of the relationship between population and !Kung camp area was the task performed by Read's excercise in formal theory construction (Read and LeBlanc 1978). In terms of specifying directly the nature of the relationship being mathematically modeled, Read's work is more satisfactory than Wiessner's. However, Read's attempt to build a formal descriptive theory leads him away from trying to answer any question about !Kung camps or hunter-gatherer behaviour, and into model building for its own sake, to some extent fitting the context of his work, but also fitting more generally into the whole approach to explanation which he was attempting to exemplify - elegant but reminiscent of Flannery's (1973) 'Mickey Mouse Laws'. This can be seen when he chooses parameters for his model by searching for the values that in his model give the best fit to the data, whereas he could have used available mean values derived from the data to test the model. This results in an irrelevant formal model in which the key variables are behaviourally meaningless. Again, the problem arises because he does not ask why such a relationship should obtain. In his own words (Read and LeBlanc 1978:317): "I am assuming that a certain structural arrangement - a circular pattern characterizes residence locations in hunter and gatherer camps and that certain spatial relationships within that arrangement are constant, regardless of population size." No argument was presented to support either assumption, and in fact, in the case of Yellen's !Kung data, both are actually wrong. Read is simply formally stating that if population and space are ordered in a particular fashion, and growth is in a particular fashion, the relation of area to population will be adequately described by a series of geometric relationships. This does explain the form of the equation which Wiessner found through regression of the data, but has little substantive content. Although the model can be tailored to fit the data, this does not mean that the model explains the actual situation. This excercise in geometry helps us to understand neither !Kung settlement, nor the general relationship between population and settlement area. A third attempt at mathematical modelling of Yellen's data was made by Hassan (1981:6773), though he contributed little to the work of Wiessner or Read, relying instead on different approaches to empirically describe the trend through the data, producing three
3 Her eventual equation, as published and applied by others, was the linear regression of the logarithmically-transformed data, not the theoretically-derived model. The equation she published was also in error, noted and corrected by Read (Read and LeBlanc 1978) and Casteel (1979).

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different equations to describe !Kung camp size, without explaining the difference between them. His final model is a derivation from Read's, making adjustments for a slightly better fit with the data.

3.4: TOWARD A BEHAVIOURAL MODEL: VARIABILITY.

THE SOCIAL CONTEXT OF

What is needed is a behaviourally relevant model, which identifies and incorporates the variables which are important in determining the nature of the people/space relationship in the !Kung case. As a first step, we can ask whether Yellen's Ring Model is an adequate abstraction of !Kung camp behaviour. Formally, the Ring Model of camp organisation consists of three elements (Yellen 1977a:125-30): 1) The huts with their nuclear areas4 are arranged in a circle. 2) The individual huts are oriented toward the centre of the camp. 3) The huts are arranged around an open communal area. None of these generalisations are specifically examined in Yellen's work, nor are they particularly valid for the camps he maps (figure 3.3). Specifically: 1) It is difficult to put less than five dots on a plane and not have them enclose an open area of some sort. 2) Hut orientation is very diverse, even taking no account of the use of bushes to interrupt intervisibility. 3) The centres of Yellen's camps are generally broken up with bushes, trees, and other huts. The communal activities he suggests such areas were used for - dancing and communal sharing of meat - are activities only possible, or necessary with the larger aggregations of population in dry season camps (Marshall 1976; Lee 1979; Yellen 1977b). Yellen acknowledges the variable fit of his model when he notes (1977a:89): "In camps occupied by greater numbers of people and for longer periods of time, the ideal circular shape more nearly obtains". This does not constitute an explanation of the variability that occurs. Rather, that variability is ignored, and it is assumed that the same organisational principles apply to all camps, despite the fact that the small, temporary, rainy season, extended family camps and the large, long term, dry season, full band camps, represent very different community situations. The dry season camps do fit Yellen's Ring Model (figure 3.4), but he has imposed this order on the smaller camps he mapped, without justification. Discarding the Ring Model as not particularly relevant to all rainy season camps, several points must be kept in mind when trying to account for the organisation of space in !Kung camps: Camps are collections of social units arranged in space, not amorphous aggregations of individuals. Second, two different sets of dimensions determine camp area (considered as Yellen's LNAT, which usually includes about 90% of the archaeological camp debris): the areas occupied by the separate social units, or nuclear areas, and the spacing of those units on the ground. As with the distinction noted in the consideration of Cook and Heizer's work between dwelling floor area, as compared with total settlement area, these two sets of dimensions have reference to different sets of variables: Nuclear areas are remarkably stable, though there is some variation according to the number of individuals in a household (ranging from 1 to 6), and the duration of occupation, though the variation is relatively small. In contrast, the spacing between households is quite variable. The area taken up by all the nuclear areas within a camp accounts for between 36 and 91% of the

4Nuclear areas are defined by Yellen as the hearth-side activity areas associated with each family hut. They essentially incorporate the debris deposited around the hearth by members of the family, and visiting friends, while socially interacting around the hearth, preparing food and eating (Yellen 1977a). They generally correspond to Binford's 'drop zone' (1978a). They are quite standardised across all of Yellen's camps, and indeed, in comparison with other hunter-gatherer nuclear areas (Binford 1983). This is because this scale of spatial patterning relates most directly to the effects of bodily mechanics on debris pattern formation (section 2.2; Binford 1978a; 1983).

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LNAT area in Yellen's 16 camps. The remaining area, and its variation is ascribable to the effect of differences in spacing between the individual households. Ethnographic accounts by Marshall (1976) and Yellen (1977a) among the !Kung, and similar observations by Silberbauer (1981a) and Tanaka (1980) among the G/wi San indicate that the spacing between households within a camp relates to the social relationships between different families; discussing dry season camps, Yellen (1977a:89) notes that the "placement of huts around the circle is generally by extended family, with the huts of such a group contiguous to one another". Similarly, "the fires of the nuclear families which compose an extended family are always near each other, not scattered about in the werf [encampment]" (Marshall 1976:343). This suggests that we should expect patterning in the placement of huts within a camp, and that it may bear some relation to the kinship relationships between hut residents. Because the residents of Yellen's camps (and !Kung rainy season camps in general) belong to related families, a fairly limited number of kin relationships are represented in the sample, all of them fairly close. Each nuclear area normally has two adults, whose kinship connections are rather different. Since residential patterns usually depend on the nature of the relationship between one individual of a marital pair and their close kin, but rarely both, a realistic expectation for a bilocal society would be for there to be a relationship between the physical distance between nuclear areas, and the minimum lineal kinship distance between any individual of each independent residence (figure 3.5). Perhaps not surprisingly, this reveals a clear trend of increasing physical distance with increasing kinship distance, for the sample of 15 camps with kinship data. The rank-order correlation for the relationship supports the visually apparent trend: rs = 0.5811 (p<.001). Within any small sample, individual personal relationships would be expected to modify such basic patterns, but even these may indicate differences in the nature of the relationship between the individuals. In Yellen's sample, many of the camps are those of the families of two adult brothers, and their bachelor younger brother. Across all camps, the youngest brother preferentially camped closer to the brother that was closest to him in age, reflecting a more general pattern of association noted by !Kung ethnographers, attributable to the long birth interval between siblings (Marshall 1976; Howell 1979). As noted previously, all of Yellen's camps were small, rainy season camps, occupied for at most a few days. The larger, dry season camps are occupied for longer, by a larger number of individuals, representing a wider range of kin relationships. Yellen did not present measured maps of any dry season camps in his 1977 study, though he did give schematic plans of two camps (1977a:70-1).5 It was the dry season camps that both Yellen and Marshall referred to in the previously quoted passages, and indeed, a similar relationship between kinship distance and relative distance between hut locations can be clearly documented in each camp (figure 3.6). Spearman's rank-order correlation between kinship and spatial distance for both camps is 0.3948 (p<.000). The proposition that kinship distance and spatial distance are fairly directly related - or essentially that kinship relations are used to organise space in !Kung campsites - finds support in both the small, rainy season camps, and the large, full band, dry season camps. But if similar social factors underlie spatial organisation in both forms of camp, why do we see a formal circular structure - Yellen's Ring Model - emerge with the larger camps (figure 3.4), but not clearly with the smaller camps (figure 3.3)? At this point, some modelling of camp layout is appropriate, to see to what degree a local generative rule based on kinship - that kin will tend to camp close to each other - is
5In the subsequently published plan of the 1969 dry season camp (Brooks et al. 1984), the number of huts indicated differs from that documented in the sketch plan in Yellen's 1977 volume (1977a:71), and so an exact correspondence of huts occupants with mapped position is not possible.

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sufficient to produce the global pattern in camp layouts actually encountered. Using the minimum kinship distance between the occupants of each hut as a statistical measure of distance (dissimilarity), it is possible to generate a camp configuration, such that the physical distance between each pair of huts is matched as closely as possible with the relative kinship distance between the occupants, using Non-Metric Multi-Dimensional Scaling (MDSCAL). This is similar to exercises in reconstructing maps from partial distance information (Gatrell 1983; Kendall 1971b; Cherry 1977; Tobler and Wineburg 1971). !Kung (and more generally San) kinship systems are fairly simple, and very presentoriented; in common with many societies which place little emphasis on ownership and inheritance of material or rights to resources, !Kung kinship reckoning is focussed on the living and residence arrangements, rather than on the dead and keeping account of distant kinship relations. This leads to a situation in which local residential bands are composed of a series of extended families, chained together by marriage between particular members (figure 3.7; Marshall 1976; Wiessner 1977; Tanaka 1980). From a pattern of simple extended family chains, it is possible to model the spatial implications of the simple residential rule that close kin will tend to situate near each other within a camp. In figure 3.8, a series of models for groups of different complexity are illustrated in the first column. These kinship models were used as the input to different MDSCAL routines, with two configurations displayed in the two other columns. The centre column represents the least-stress configuration produced when the distances between each point (representing a nuclear family) are simply kept as close as possible to their relative order (Non-Metric MDSCAL). The column on the right represents the two-dimensional solution when the metric qualities of the distances are preserved (Metric MDSCAL, or Principal Coordinates Analysis); it is worth noting that results similar to those in the right column were also produced by the Non-Metric technique, so that simply retaining only the relative ranking of distances will result in camp configurations tending toward arc-shaped or circular patterns. As is apparent in the sixth model, a recursive link back along the chain of families will tend to force a circular component into the plan. Together, these models suggest that both the amorphous plan of Yellen's small rainy season camps, and the circular layout of the larger, dry season camps, are consistent with the simple rule posited - that kin will situate themselves close to each other, such that kinship relations are mapped fairly directly in space - without requiring any formal concept of planning in the larger camps. Why should this be the case? Here, we can turn to a phenomenon noted in some archaeological MDSCAL applications, particularly pottery seriations (Kendall 1971a; Drennan 1976), where a 'horseshoe-shaped' distribution often results. This is because when comparing assemblages composed of types which have only a limited chronological duration, where the sample spans a period of time encompassing the relative popularity of a number of different types, only units relatively close together in time will share many types; those distant in time will all be very distant from each other (equivalent to the 'chaining' of families in the models). From the perspective of calculations of dissimilarity, all examples which are maximally distant are effectively equally distant, and a MDSCAL routine (particularly a metric routine) will try to space them the same distance apart, hence pulling the linear seriated sequence around into an arc. We can see this effect very clearly in the dry season camps for which we have kinship and spatial information. In figure 3.9, a Non-Metric MDSCAL analysis has been performed on the 1968 and 1969 camps at Dobe, using as input simply the minimum kin distance between the adult members of each hut. The intention was to generate model camp plans in two dimensions, relating, as far as possible, the physical distance between each pair of huts to the relative minimum kin distance between the occupants. In the upper plane in each illustration, the actual camp layout is documented, and the component extended families of each camp are indicated. In the lower plane, the least-stress configuration resulting from ten trials with different random starts is displayed for each camp. Primary kin linkages (parent-child, sibling) are indicated by connecting lines, while extended families are shaded.

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Lines connect the actual mapped position of each hut with its position as determined in the MDSCAL analysis.6 The linear correlation coefficient for the relationship between the observed and modeled distance between each pair of huts provides a more formal assessment of the fit between the models and the actual situation: 0.374 for the 1968 camp, and 0.505 for the 1969 camp. While on the low side, variations in actual behaviour from any ideal, as well as inaccuracies in the sketch maps of the camps will have affected the relationship.7 In addition, the MDSCAL configuration may not necessarily be the global optimum. However, a general correspondence is obvious, and the kinship structure of the camp is clearly mapped in space. As can be seen from the comparison of modeled against actual camp layout, the circular form is consistent with, but may also be something of a regularisation of, the tendency for !Kung to map their social relations in space. At what point and why does this formalisation take place? I suggest that this is a function of scale and increasing social distance, along with the nature of !Kung band recruitment strategies - essentially the result of the increasing social distance between the ends of a chain of families. In San kin classification systems, few individuals are recognised as falling within specific close categories, while many individuals are simply 'close' or 'distant' kin (figure 3.7a; Marshall 1976; Silberbauer 1981a). I suggest that the tendency toward formalisation begins when camps are composed of more than two extended families, as the two groups at the ends of the chain form blocks of individuals who are likely to be rather distantly related, not actual close kin. The importance of the difference in social scale of different types of camps is also supported by an increase in average nearest neighbour distances between huts with increasing camp population (figure 3.10; for hunter-gatherer, unclumped plans, rs = 0.6852 (p<.001); Gould and Yellen 1987).8 While the kinship relations between specific individuals do not change with the addition of new individuals to the community, the larger dry season camps are occupied for substantially longer periods of time than the smaller rainy season camps, changing the nature of the social situation. The longer occupation of the dry season camps is likely to encourage greater spacing, since residential stability does not allow the frequent reshuffling of residence arrangements that is possible with short-term camps, and which is a primary mechanism for alleviating social stress among mobile hunter-gatherers (Marshall 1976; Lee 1979; Silberbauer 1981a; Lee and DeVore 1968b; Turnbull 1968; Savishinsky 1971). So not only are larger camps characterised by greater relative spatial organisation, in the circular arrangement of shelters, but also by systematic differences in absolute spacing behaviour. Both factors imply that both distance, and location in space are actively used by San individuals in communication and social interaction, and document a fairly direct relationship between social and spatial organisation. Together, both aspects of spatial layout contribute to lower residential densities in larger communities. This difference between small and large camps seems documented in an 'elbow' in the size/density curve for San camps at about 20-25 individuals (figure 3.11). The same factor of increasing kin heterogeneity with increasing camp size may also help to regulate band size less than around 60 members, as five or more extended families create a chain where the end blocks of individuals are only recognised as 'distant kin', an observation which usefully supplements Johnson's exploration of scale and social stress in
6The MDSCAL analysis was carried out with a program maintained by the Statistical Laboratory at Cambridge. Principal Coordinates analysis was undertaken with a routine written in the GENSTAT statistical analysis package. The two configurations were scaled and rotated for the closest fit, using a routine written in GENSTAT. 7 The fact that the 1969 camp cannot be matched with the measured map of the camp published elsewhere (Brooks et al. 1984) suggests only approximate accuracy in the sketch plans. 8 The graphed nearest neighbour distances are on the low side, particularly for the larger camps, because of a tendency for huts to clump together, so that many measurements are based on reflexive pairs of huts.

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!Kung social groups (1982; section 4.7). The recognition that an increase in scale brings a concomitant increase in social distance is important for pin-pointing the reasons for increasing social stress. As residential density studies show, stress is not related to crowding per se, but to crowding by strangers (Draper 1973; Altman and Chemers 1980).

3.5: FROM POPULATION ESTIMATION TO THE SOCIAL ORGANISATION OF SPACE: THE DEFINITION OF A PROBLEM FOR CROSS-CULTURAL INVESTIGATION.
In the preceding analysis of !Kung spatial behaviour, two points have been established relevant to the relationship between people and space in !Kung camps: First, Yellen's Ring Model is not particularly valid for small camps, though it is an adequate abstraction of large, dry season camp layout. The circular structure of the larger camps emerges with an increasing number of components as a result of the application of a simple local rule. The patterns may then be given discursive meaning by the residents (Yellen 1977a:89). Second, Read's assumption of constant nuclear area spacing appears to be unjustified. Rather, variation in spacing between separate social units (represented by huts and nuclear activity areas) is highly responsive to differences in the social distance between the residents of each unit. Furthermore, such spacing varies with changes in the social context of each community, as well as with occupation duration. Both points emphasise the importance of social factors in determining camp layout among the !Kung. In addition, while the global, circular pattern of the larger camps can emerge from the local pattern of residential propinquity, in most cases the circular form will also represent a regularisation of that inherent pattern. In this sense, it represents another level of spatial organisation, which the inhabitants explicitly recognise, formalise, and emphasise through the general orientation of huts inward toward the centre of the circle. One can also note that !Kung camps, in comparison with those of many other huntergatherers (figure 3.2), have very high residential densities. Wiessner (1982a) and Draper (1973; 1975) have suggested that both features are related - that camp density and the open, circular plan result from the fundamental role of sharing in !Kung subsistence. The camp in many respects serves as a common subsistence unit, and the density and intervisibility of nuclear areas allows constant monitoring of what others have, facilitating cooperation and acting as a powerful deterrent against hoarding. The relevance of this point is amply documented by the changes in camp plan that accompanied the process of sedentisation during the 1970s (figure 3.12), particularly the increasing distance between huts and consequent drop in residential density, the construction of fences around some households, and indeed the breakdown of the circular camp structure (Draper 1975; Hitchcock 1980; 1982; 1987; Brooks et al. 1984; Gould and Yellen 1987). Yet, cooperation and sharing are fundamental to many other hunter-gatherer groups. The arguments suggested here to account for !Kung camp density and layout, if valid, should be more generally applicable. On the other hand, while a number of small-scale societies live in dense communities with a roughly circular layout, there are many that do not. Such variation suggests that there are additional factors which affect the relationship between social and spatial organisation. Defining the nature of this variability, and attempting to explain it, will require a comparative, cross-cultural perspective. Such an investigation will be undertaken in chapters 6 and 7 of this study, focussing on a wide range of other huntergatherer societies. In section 7.4, the implications of that examination will be viewed more generally in the context of other types of small-scale societies. This chapter began with the relatively simple problem of attempting to estimate community population from settlement size. A cross-cultural perspective suggested that there is more variability in this relationship than is commonly recognised by archaeologists, such that any simple formula, such as Naroll's (1962), is unlikely to have much value. On the other hand,

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simple empirical generalisations of more defined scope, such as applying to huntergatherers (Wiessner 1974), multi-family residences (Casselberry 1974), or pueblo-type communities (Clarke 1974; Drager 1976) may yield more accurate estimates, though until we investigate and understand the nature of such variation, we will not know why any specific relationships should take the form that they do, or indeed whether any specific formula is appropriate for the case we are studying. The detailed case study, focussing on the social organisation of space in !Kung campsites, suggests that such variation, while representing ambiguity as far as empirical generalisation is concerned, can represent patterned behaviour, which itself can lead us into more interesting questions concerning social organisation. If our aim is simply to estimate hunter-gatherer group population from camp area, it should be clear that the key variable determining camp size is not simply the number of individuals in a camp, but, at least as important, the pattern of spacing between the domestic units into which those individuals are organised. While we might extrapolate the !Kung pattern to other hunter-gatherer groups, we cannot necessarily presume that all hunter-gatherers are comparable in the degree to which social relations are mapped in space. In terms of actual metrics, inter-cultural variability (figure 3.2) will limit the relevance of the type of crosscultural formulation envisaged by Yellen (1977a:99-100) or Wiessner (1974), and applied in the interpretation of archaeological sites (e.g. Price 1978; Jacobi 1978; Mellars 1976; Wilmsen 1974; Odell 1980). To estimate camp population, we would probably do better to count the number of domestic hearths (if identifiable), and multiply by an estimate of the population of each social unit. For the latter, the layout and extent of nuclear areas appears to be fairly stable between cultures, and together, both variables should allow some estimation of overall site population. On the other hand, the examination of spatial behaviour among the !Kung San has indicated that more interesting aspects of social organisation than simply population numbers may be documented in camp layout and spatial organisation. To pursue this line of investigation further will require a more detailed understanding of variation in hunter-gatherer social organisation than is provided by the Man the Hunter model utilised so far. This issue will therefore be addressed in the next two chapters, before returning to a cross-cultural study of hunter-gatherer settlement organisation in chapters 6 and 7.

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CHAPTER 4 HUNTER-GATHERER SOCIAL ORGANISATION

4.1: INTRODUCTION.
The previous chapter has established that in the case of !Kung San hunter-gatherers, there is a relationship between the spatial organisation of individual domestic family shelters within a community, and at least some aspects of social organisation, in this case kinship relations between the adult individuals in each family. While this point can be supported with descriptive statements relevant to a number of other hunter-gatherer groups and other types of community, the nature of and variation in such a relationship has received little explicit attention in any field (chapter 2). The previous chapter has therefore established that there is a question worth further investigation - that will bring us directly to confront the issue of meaning in the material record. It has also established that this relationship should be amenable to systematic investigation, within a specific culture as in chapter 3, and (potentially) comparatively across cultures, as will be pursued in chapters 6 and 7. While the material record may provide us with a fairly concrete set of entities (huts, hearths and domestic activity areas) and the spatial relations between them, to investigate, it is clear that the concept of 'social organisation' needs further consideration. This chapter will focus particularly on defining some aspects of hunter-gatherer social organisation which should be particularly relevant to spatial organisation within such communities. The hunter-gatherer focus of this study has been commented upon in preceding chapters, though the reasons can be made explicit at this point. One obviously concerns the sheer volume of ethnographic variability to be encompassed in any generalising study of human behaviour. One approach would be to try to deal with a smaller, more explicitly drawn sample of a broader range of societies. In this case, however, given the archaeological interest of the study, and the emphasis placed on human behaviour within an ecological context (section 1.7), a strong case can be made for a more comprehensive study of societies which have similar sorts of interactions with their environments - in this case, largely extractive, rather than productive (Meillassoux 1973). For the question of spatial organisation under study, hunter-gatherers constitute a particularly critical study population for two basic reasons. First, because most of the world's hunter-gatherers are or until recently have been nomadic or semi-nomadic, the constant re-establishment of communities enables a fairly immediate adjustment of spatial organisation to changes in social organisation which are almost inevitable with changes in membership (whether through demographic processes or as a result of movement between residential groups) in small-scale societies. With decreasing mobility usually comes a switch to more permanent architecture, which often has a longer life-cycle than the social unit it houses, resulting in something of a disjunction between the social and physical components of a community, and in the spatial organisation of the latter. In the present study, where the nature of the relationship between social and physical organisation is under investigation, the fewer such complicating factors, the more straightforward the identification of patterns in behaviour. The second important factor concerns the potential complexity of human social organisation. In one form or another, this issue underlies much of what is considered under the heading of anthropology. From this perspective, there are a wide variety of characteristics which different cultures have defined as social dimensions, and which are used as a basis on which to organise society. These essentially constitute dimensions of differentiation, and evolutionary distinctions between 'simple' and 'complex' societies reflect the variety of such dimensions recognised within a society. It is important, then, to note that there are generally few such dimensions within hunter-gatherer societies, at least as

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conventionally recognised, because these small-scale societies are not highly differentiated. Among hunter-gatherers, kinship, residence, limited task-group affiliations, competence, seniority, gender, and to a small degree wealth and status serve as a basis for differentiating individuals. This follows almost directly from the nature of an extractive subsistence regime where there is little scope for occupational specialisation, and mobility, with limited potential for the accumulation of wealth. Of the potential dimensions of differentiation listed, most would allow individuals to fit along a sliding scale, from little to much. On the other hand, kinship, residence and task-group affiliations link all individuals within a local group into a single network of relations, and correspond most directly with the way I am considering the term 'social organisation'. Why kinship should have such prominence in hunter-gatherer societies, indeed in determining both residence and task-group formation, is a question which will be returned to later in this chapter and in chapter 7. While limiting the study to hunter-gatherer societies serves to reduce the variability in behaviour to a scale which can be dealt with in a study such as this, all interesting variability has not been lost. Indeed, great variety exists among hunter-gatherer communities, from small extended family camps of mobile arctic or desert foragers, to large, semi-permanent village communities of over 500 individuals in certain coastal regions9. This variation has, in fact, led some ethnographers and archaeologists to question the usefulness of the concept of hunter-gatherer, but I feel it still has utility, as I will argue particularly in the next chapter; for archaeologists, it is the only category of relevance for all but the last ten millennia of human existence. It is crucial to ascertain how general the relationship is between social and spatial organisation, as suggested for the !Kung San, and the degree to which variations in such a relationship can be accounted for in terms of variations in the context of such behaviour. Before such an investigation can be undertaken, we need to be rather more specific about what we mean by social organisation in the context of hunter-gatherer societies. Equally, we need to give some consideration to what we would consider to be relevant 'contexts' for variations, both in social organisation, and in the relationship between social and spatial behaviour. In the present chapter, the former will be addressed, while the latter will be considered in more detail in chapter 5. As will become apparent in this chapter, I do not feel that much progress has been made recently toward understanding variability in hunter-gatherer social behaviour. However, it is not the aim of this study to sort out these major problems. From the objectives already outlined, it will be apparent that some aspects of hunter-gatherer social organisation must be agreed upon, so that their relationship with spatial organisation can be investigated. On the other hand, sorting out variability in hunter-gatherer social behaviour is an incredibly broad problem, which cannot possibly be tackled effectively in this study, and warrants major comparative studies of its own. What is required for the remainder of this study is not a comprehensive model of hunter-gatherer social organisation, but rather some working definitions which relate to the problem at hand. Therefore, this chapter shall review some of the main elements of recent discussions of hunter-gatherer social organisation, and comment on those which I feel are the most profitable avenues for pursuit, particularly from the perspective of the archaeological record. Consonant with the objectives of this study, this will explicitly involve a generalising perspective, and will concern those aspects of social behaviour which can most

9In this study, I have not included equestrian hunters, such as those of the North American Great Plains, or of Patagonia. These societies existed within a very particular cultural context, on the fringes of intrusive European societies, and underwent continuous social change throughout their existence. While strictly hunter-gatherers, they were also highly parasitic on the neighbouring agriculturalists, constituting what Steward has called 'predatory bands'. It is certainly open to doubt whether such societies could have existed as a cultural form independent of their very particular cultural and historical context. Settlement data for such groups are also largely anecdotal.

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plausibly be tied to the ecological context of the culture involved, a point of entry for contextual investigations of human behaviour in the past (section 1.7).

4.2: THE ELUCIDATION OF ARCHAEOLOGICAL OBJECTIVE.

SOCIAL

ORGANISATION

AS

AN

The study of past social organisation has been identified as one of the principal goals of archaeological research by many practitioners of Processual Archaeology, and is enshrined in concepts such as Social Archaeology (Renfrew 1973; Redman et al. 1978), and Trigger's formulation of Settlement Archaeology (1968; section 1.2). Despite this interest, explicit definition of the aim of such inquiry has generally been side-stepped. This becomes problematic when only vague aims are held to justify the means - e.g. Processual mortuary analysis may have contributed to our understanding of social organisation through the archaeological record, though the value of what has been achieved is difficult to establish without any clear idea of just what it is that we wish to learn. This is symptomatic of the inexplicit position of theory in Processual Archaeology (cf. section 1.1). Where more explicit indication of the aims of such investigation is given (Renfrew 1976), a distinction between two dimensions of social organisation is usually made - the horizontal organisation of individuals into groups and the vertical differentiation between individuals into statuses - a distinction made clearly by Service (1971). In archaeology, the investigation of social groupings has received the least attention methodologically and theoretically, partially stemming from confusions over the definition and nature of groups in the archaeological record. Moving away from the view which took archaeological 'cultures' as definitionally obvious (e.g. Rouse 1972) and interpretively meaningful (Childe 1956; Willey and Phillips 1958), archaeologists currently have considerable difficulty deciding if archaeological groups exist (Renfrew 1976), if such groups do exist, whether they can be identified through material culture (Hodder 1982c) or through the archaeological record (e.g. Binford 1973; Shennan 1978). Despite these very real problems, we can observe ethnographically that social groups do exist as, and within societies, and can anticipate that they will have done so in the past. Archaeologists and ethnoarchaeologists (e.g. Conkey 1978; Wiessner 1983; 1984; Rowley 1985) have begun to work in a more analytical fashion on the problem of their identification in the material record, and in attaching meaning to different scales of material patterning. At the same time, work has been addressed to developing expectations about the nature and role of such groups, as task groups (Smith 1981; 19854; Irimoto 1981), local residential groups (Forge 1972; Tanno 1976; Ichikawa 1979), and larger breeding demes (Williams 1974; Wobst 1974; 1975; Meyer 1985), and about the short and long-term viability of such groups in different social, ecological and economic contexts. Within archaeology, more attention has focussed on vertical differentiation and the centralisation of authority and power, usually measured through the investigation of particular cultural behaviours such as exchange (Renfrew 1975; Johnson 1973; Earle and Ericson 1977), mortuary ritual (Tainter 1978; Peebles and Kus 1977; O'Shea 1984) settlement patterns (Adams 1981; Parsons 1972; Johnson 1977) and the organisation of production (Brumfiel and Earle 1987; Isaac 1986), all argued to link systemically to social organisation (Renfrew 1972), and effectively serving as proxy measures for social differentiation. The expectations for such studies derive largely from generalised evolutionary schemes such as that of band, tribe, chiefdom and state developed by Service (1971; 1979), and others (Sahlins 1968b; Fried 1967; Sanders and Webster 1978). These have favoured essentially typological exercises - trait list approaches (Renfrew 1974; Peebles and Kus 1977). Such work is exemplified by the identification of specific social forms in the archaeological record, for instance chiefdoms in later Neolithic and Bronze Age Europe. While insights may emerge when classifications provide heuristic models for further investigation, one can

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question the value of much of this work, where classification appears to be the principal objective; in studying the development of state institutions, the trait-list approach (Childe 1950) was explored and found sterile a substantial time ago (Adams 1966; Wright 1977). Much of the attraction of such a focus on vertical differentiation and on trait-list approaches to monitoring it may lie in the material, accumulative aspects of differentiation, and the materialist theories underlying such approaches to the study of power relations. These are obviously particularly attractive to archaeological study, whereas the identification and interpretation of horizontal divisions within a society will rely more on an understanding of a system of value based on differences of kind, rather than of degree - rather more difficult to identify and interpret through the material record. I would argue that such a focus on classification tells us little, and there has been much less work attempting to document and explain variability within and between such societies. There should be no surprise then, that some archaeologists have begun to become frustrated with, and question the value of such classificatory exercises (Shennan 1987; Shanks and Tilley 1987a; 1987b). The sterility of the approach comes from simply changing one set of restrictive descriptive terms for another, without learning anything particularly new. In the example of hunter-gatherers, simply defining most hunter-gatherer groups as 'bands' tells us very little about them, and nothing that we did not know already. As with nearly all intellectual cul-de-sacs, however, the principal problem does not lie with any generalising scheme, but with how it is used (in this case, similar to the problem of empirical generalisation versus explanation reviewed in section 1.1). When looking at human social organisation, anthropological discussions of social organisation, and particularly generalisations concerning human social evolution, have produced a number of fairly well-defined concepts which will form a useful point of entry.

4.3: HUMAN SOCIAL ORGANISATION AND SOCIAL EVOLUTION: UNILINEAR AND MULTILINEAR PERSPECTIVES.
The anthropological writings of early evolutionists such as Tylor (1871) and Morgan (1877) served two principal roles. First, they allowed the ordering through classification of the wealth of data about the diversity of human behaviour which was being brought to the attention of European society through the great expansion in imperialist, missionary, and colonial activity witnessed during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Following the success of the evolutionary models then only recently proposed to account for the variety in plant and animal species, the synchronic variability documented ethnographically was hypothesised into an evolutionary sequence which gave an order to such a classification. Such schemes could then also serve the second role, which was to attempt to account for the development of social customs which were documented historically, as in Biblical or Classical literature, or which could be observed in the societies to which the early anthropologists belonged. These roots account for characteristics of social evolutionary perspectives which still limit their value. The first of these is the teleological notion of progress in human evolution (Dunnell 1980; Wenke 1981), where evolution is interpreted as advance rather than as change, and cultural 'advance' is assumed as a natural order, rather than as something which needs to be explained (Cherry 1983). There is also a tendency to look at socially less complex societies retrospectively, as transitional forms in which we may trace the emergence of characteristics seen in more complex societies, rather than focussing attention on such 'simpler' societies in their own right as coherent social formations. This leads to discussion of hunter-gatherer or band societies principally in terms of the absence of more complex social behaviour (Service 1971; Fried 1967). The early evolutionists such as Morgan (1871) were principally interested in the overall social evolution of the species, rather than individual local sequences. Societies elsewhere

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which had not developed social forms comparable to those of the Western European nations were viewed as survivals of earlier social forms, which had essentially failed to progress at some stage. This same attitude is still readily apparent in the anthropological perspective which sees hunter-gatherers as some sort of 'palaeolithic survivals' - a view which explicitly denies modern-day hunter-gatherers a history or context (Schrire 1980; 1984b). The view which focuses on such species-wide developments, on a global scale, has been labeled unilinear, since it is concerned with the single trajectory of overall human development, and is well represented in more recent literature by the works of Childe (1951) and White (1959). To support such a perspective, these schemes are generally tied to cumulative developments in technology, often linked to the efficiency of subsistence pursuits. The major emphasis in explanations is therefore tied to the forces of production, rather than to the relations of production. Such a view tallies neither with current perspectives on the nature of innovation, nor with trends in materialist theory, which now lay considerably more stress on the social context of innovation, and on differences in the social relations of production. For hunter-gatherers, the postulation of hunting and gathering as a universal stage in human development presents no particular problems; at least until the emergence or introduction of food production in different areas of the world, it was the only show in town. However, with more attention to the coherence of local systems, rather than an assumption of progress, it is now becoming clear that agriculture need not be a preferential economic strategy to foraging, and there is no necessary unilinear path of human social development. Yet even when accurate, as in the millennia before the neolithic, the identification of hunting and gathering as a cultural form may be obvious, but is hardly illuminating, even if sub-divided into different stages, dependent on particular forms of technology (Morgan 1877; Childe 1951). To a degree, a unilinear position still had relevance for Childe, as a relative scheme for ordering social patterns in the past, as long as he was trying to establish 'what happened in history?'. However it was much less useful as a framework for White, who was more interested in how and why particular behaviours developed. No unilinear scheme has yet been able to cope with individual variations and local adaptations. To approach questions concerning 'why?', as Steward pointed out, it becomes essential to look at actual sequences of development in particular times and places (1955); we should be attempting to generalise about the processes, not about the events. Multilinear evolution, a perspective developed most explicitly by Steward, attempted to recognise and account for significant variation in human social behaviour in terms of context. It "assumes that certain basic types of culture may develop in similar ways under similar conditions but that few concrete aspects of culture will appear among all groups of mankind in a regular sequence....The cross-cultural regularities which arise from similar adaptive processes in similar environments are functional or synchronic in nature" (Steward 1955:4). "Cross-cultural regularities are thus conceived as recurrent constellations of basic features - the cultural core - which have similar functional interrelationships resulting from local ecological adaptations and similar levels of socio-cultural integration" (1955:5-6). Because of his emphasis on local sequences and adaptation, Steward attached specific importance to those behavioural characteristics of a culture which were most closely tied to 'subsistence activities and economic arrangements', which he designated as the 'cultural core'. While the 'cultural core' might be redefined with respect to the question under investigation, for Steward it usually involved features such as "the means of obtaining food, the social co-operation required, population density, the nature of population aggregates, socio-political controls, the functional role of religion, warfare, and other factors [which] will have an understandable relationship with one another" (1955:88). Other features were anticipated as being more variable, as they were less directly tied to the ecological context, and to the other elements of the core. "Cultural ecology pays primary attention to those

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features which empirical analysis shows to be most closely involved in the utilization of the environment in culturally prescribed ways" (1955:37). Such an explicit definition of what cultural features he considered important distinguishes Steward's evolutionary work from that of most other researchers before him or since, in that he makes it very clear what characteristics he is dealing with when he discusses social organisation, and why they have been selected. In this way, any classification he developed could be assessed as to whether it was actually relevant to any particular question under discussion (1955:79) - a feature generally not part of anthropological classificatory schemes, and seemingly forgotten by those who have either reified or criticised Steward's cultural types as universals. A major advantage with Steward's approach for the present study is that it was developed with problem orientation in mind, and it explicitly focuses on human behaviour within an ecological context, a perspective already explicitly adopted, and justified by the archaeological orientation of this study (section 1.8). The principal drawback is that the elements of Steward's cultural core were to be determined empirically. While relational in intent, such a cultural core would likely be a formal assemblage of traits, in practice. Steward viewed classification as a necessary prerequisite for systematic, scientific study, however it was simply an heuristic device, rather than an end in itself (1955:79,93; 1968). The types he formulated as recurrent cultural configurations were meant to be explanatory, rather than simply descriptive: "The occurrence of such configurations...among widely separated societies suggests that similar processes or causal factors have been operating independently in each" (1955:85). He identified three particular 'cross-cultural types' of hunter-gatherer social organisation, though at the same time, he did not rule out the likelihood that there were other such types, and that many societies would not fit into those which he had defined (1955:25). In later debates on the nature of hunter-gatherer bands (e.g. Service 1971; Lee and DeVore 1968b), his three types were taken as definitive classificatory types, and the open-endedness of his initial formulation was lost on his critics, and in their own formulations. The continuing importance of Steward's work on hunter-gatherer social organisation is that he remains one of the few authors to adopt an explicitly explanatory approach. While most of his conclusions may be doubted, he approached the question in a fashion which would allow problem oriented generalisation. This was not a characteristic of unilinear perspectives, nor has it been appreciated strongly enough in most of the subsequent work on hunter-gatherer social organisation.

4.4: HUNTER-GATHERER SOCIAL ORGANISATION: PERSPECTIVES.

CLASSIFICATORY

Steward's cultural ecology was founded on the view that there will be regularities in the relationship between the resources available within an environment, the technology and expertise necessary to exploit those resources, and the organisation of labour necessary to effectuate that exploitation with the given technology. The organisation of labour will have a close and direct effect upon other aspects of social behaviour, such as the characteristics of social organisation noted previously. It was viewed as an empirical question "whether the adjustments of human societies to their environments require particular modes of behaviour or whether they permit latitude for a certain range of possible behaviour patterns" (Steward 1955:89). In his work on hunter-gatherer societies, Steward defined three different configurations of cultural features, which he was able to relate to characteristics of the exploited environment, particularly to the common subsistence resources and the manner in which they could be most effectively exploited. "Among societies which devote a very great proportion of their

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time and energy to food-getting, these differences in hunting patterns will greatly affect the size, permanency, composition, and general behavior pattern of the group" (Steward 1955:134). These three configurations were defined as distinct cross-cultural types: the family level of organisation; the patrilineal band; and the composite band. From his ethnographic work with the Shoshone, Steward observed that all of the basic subsistence tasks, and indeed virtually all cultural activities within the cultural repertoire, could be carried out by a family in isolation. Furthermore, the low density of resources, and their unpredictable distribution in space due to variation in rainfall, precluded the association of more than a few families, except at rare times of resource abundance. Occasionally, families might group together for a communal hunt, but because such groups were opportunistic and did not regularly incorporate the same families, such groups were not considered a formal band, nor did they necessitate a supra-familial level of social organisation (Steward 1938). While couched in the same terms, Steward's last discussion of Shoshone social groups, in the aftermath of the interest in hunter-gatherer social organisation and the problem of the band, recognised the regular association of between two and seven families though most groups averaged two families (Steward 1977). This is more directly comparable to the bilateral bands discussed by other researchers (e.g. Lee and DeVore 1968b; Damas 1963; Helm 1965), though falling at the small end of the size range.10 The ecological conditions which restricted the highest level of social integration within a society to the family, were the low density of resources available in the environment (predominantly gathered plants), the very simple technology, and the unpredictable distribution of resources. In parts of the Great Basin where resources were more predictable, more stable associations of families developed, and stable bands and village communities could be maintained (Steward 1938; 1968; 1977; Thomas 1981; 1983). The second type of hunting and gathering group which Steward identified was the 'patrilineal band'. This was "characterized by certain inevitable relationships between a hunting economy, descent, marriage, and land tenure" (1955:24). In particular, the importance of hunting small, non-migratory game animals placed a premium on the knowledge hunters had of their residential territory. The hunter's familiarity with the local region was gained through long association with the region and its habitats, which required that male hunters remain within their natal territories after marriage, rather than moving to the territory of their wife's natal group (or to a new area). Steward argued that patrilocal stability in membership and the use of territory would become embodied in concepts of patrilineal descent and territorial ownership. In addition, such game resources can often more effectively be taken through limited cooperative hunting techniques, so that there is an advantage in stable, cooperative groups. Such groups were normally limited in size to less than 50 individuals, rarely up to 100; small group size would be maintained by the low density of resources and the constraints of pedestrian travel and transport. Steward's third type was the composite hunting band. Composite bands were substantially larger than patrilineal bands, and were characterised by the lack of a unilineal kinship structure. The latter was largely a factor of the larger group size; while Steward stressed that such bands were composed of unrelated families, what he appears to have meant was that such groups would encompass more than one kin group (Steward 1968), not that there was no kin relationship between any of the component families, the latter a meaning closer to Service's interpretation of composite bands as those where the pre-existing kinship integration had broken down through depopulation, marginalisation, etc., as the result of Western contact (Service 1971).

10While perhaps not as valid for Shoshone social groups as Steward originally argued, the 'family level of sociocultural integration' may characterise the maximum social group of the G/wi San of the Central Kalahari for up to 10 months of the year (Silberbauer 1981a; Tanaka 1980). The category and the arguments Steward presented for it would appear still to have relevance for a consideration of variation in hunter-gatherer social organisation.

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The principal integrating factor in composite groups was residential association, following from economic cooperation in large-scale collective hunting. Such groups were identified by Steward as relying principally on the hunting of large migratory fauna, such as caribou, who moved in herds whose migratory path ranged far beyond the region which would normally be exploited by a small group of hunters such as a patrilineal band. Efficient transport by water or sled over snow facilitated the large-scale movement of such groups of hunters. A subsidiary factor accounting for composite groups was the regular practice of some custom which brought members from other patrilineages into the local band, whether through adoption, or through relaxation of marriage regulations. Steward suggested that such customs were generally temporary, to adjust for imbalances in membership due to short-term demographic events (1955:150), though this explanation appears somewhat forced and would have equal relevance for other social forms. In actual fact, this variation on the composite band fits only poorly with the principal definition, and Steward presented no justification for such social behaviour in terms of cultural ecology. Interestingly, what Steward foresaw was the bilateral band, such as he later accepted for the Shoshone (1977), a concept developed in the 1960s (e.g. Lee and DeVore 1968b; Helm 1965; Turnbull 1968) and linked directly to ecological variability. Steward fully recognised that these three forms represented only a few of the potential forms of hunter-gatherer social organisation, though he also felt they were widely represented cross-culturally, and he did not devote much attention to other variations. Comments indicate that he saw some groups as characterising distinctly different social forms: A large population density, permitted by dense resources such as acorns in aboriginal California, could result in large multi-lineage (composite) bands or villages (1955:150,171). Similar groups could be produced "if tribal movements, war, or other factors dislocate the bands or lineages from their territories or villages, causing them to intermingle in the same locality" (1955:171). Finally, he noted that the hunter-fishers of the Pacific coast of North America, due to "extraordinarily abundant local resources", developed "large, cohesive bands that have supra-kin features" such as social classes and chieftainship (1977:392). In some circumstances, while such a system might not have developed locally, it could be adopted and maintained in areas with a less abundant resource base (1955:175). Finally, he drew attention to the particular circumstance of what he called 'predatory bands', which were usually equestrian hunters who lived on the fringes of intrusive Europeanderived society. Generally composite, such groups were formed as an amalgamation of smaller, displaced hunter-gatherer groups (1977:393-9). The basis for the definition of each of these social models lies clearly in Steward's definition of the cultural core as those elements of cultural behaviour most directly tied to the subsistence pattern of the group, which in turn is constrained, though not necessarily determined, by the resources available in the environment, and the technology available to exploit them. From this perspective, Steward attempted to explain variation in huntergatherer social organisation as the organisation of subsistence behaviour, essentially the social relations of production (cf. Meillassoux 1973). For Steward, the key points about social organisation which his approach was intended to address were the social cooperation required in subsistence and related activities, the population density which could be supported by local resources and the techniques (technological and social) for their exploitation, the size and nature of local population aggregates, and socio-political controls (1955:88). He dealt with these to varying degrees in each of his models, though it is not worth reviewing his arguments in depth for two reasons. First, much of the data he had to work with was the product of unsystematic research by non-anthropologists, some of it very good, but some fairly poor, and has since been revised or contradicted by more detailed work. Second, some of his basic concepts seem, today, rather unjustifiable. As examples of the latter, while some collective hunting may yield greater returns for the labour invested (Smith 1981), in other situations collective hunting may simply serve to diminish confusion at popular hunting locations (Riches 1982). The need for male hunters to remain in their natal areas to gain familiarity with the local resources may be important in

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particular environments, depending on the predictability of prey behaviour and environmental variability, though even here, the common practice wherein male hunters will do a period of up to several years 'bride-service' in their wife's natal territory suggests that a young hunter, even without familiarity with a local region, is still an economic asset. Likewise the actual flexibility in hunter-gatherer residential behaviour suggests that stable residence is considerably less important than Steward envisioned (Binford 1982c; Peterson 1972; 1979). Continuing with Steward's assumptions, males cannot be assumed to be of greater economic importance than females (Lee 1968), though one should not rush to the other extreme (Tanner 1981; Slocum 1975; Zihlman 1981), since male and female contributions to subsistence have rarely been documented in detail (Altman 1987; Hill et al. 1985; Hurtado et al. 1985). Likewise, the importance of prestige in different subsistence pursuits will also be relevant (Testart 1985; 1986). Primate social organisation, once held to be a baseline for the patrilineal, patrilocal organisation of human groups (Steward 1968; Service 1971) is now seen to be more complex, and to vary systematically with ecological context (Dunbar 1988; Foley and Lee 1989). Finally, with the development of a more open receptivity to questions concerning gender in anthropology, notions of innate male dominance must at least be subject to investigation, rather than be presumed (Steward 1955; Service 1971). One may question, then, the viability or relevance of the models which Steward formulated, and indeed, the degree to which his type of cultural ecology focussed in enough detail on resource characteristics to allow a true ecological explanation (chapter 5; Orlove 1982; Ellen 1982). On the other hand, he was explicit in his aims and arguments, and pointed in a direction which is potentially of much value in attempting to understand variation in hunter-gatherer social organisation. Indeed, if there was little strength in his arguments, his models, particularly that of the patrilineal band, would not have enjoyed the popularity that they have for the past 50 years. As Steward presented his models, and indeed his observations on other forms of variation, he gives something of an impression that he viewed the patrilineal band as a baseline form of organisation, from which others deviated for specific reasons. This is not strictly true, as he was careful to justify the existence of the patrilineal band within a very specific context (1938; 1955:122-42; 1968). On the other hand, this impression may to some extent be responsible for Service's later attempt to identify the patrilineal band as the primordial human social form, from which other variants were adaptations in the context of cultural contact and disintegration (Service 1971). Service, along with Sahlins, successfully re-popularised the idea of cultural evolution within anthropology, and particularly, in archaeology, through attempting to integrate the concepts of unilineal and multilineal evolution as complementary (Sahlins and Service 1960). Their subsequent work, however (Service 1971; 1979; Sahlins 1968b) was largely typological, serving to define types of society, firmly viewed as different stages in cultural evolution. A unilineal emphasis is still clear in their work (Service 1971), though the fundamental limitation is that they define different types of societies in the absence of any particular question, a pursuit which Steward recognised as pointless.11 However, as a convenient general scheme, archaeologists have adopted Service's classification, and forced archaeological data to fit it, whatever the archaeological question under examination. The prevalence of adherence to such a scheme has also promoted purely descriptive exercises, where the objective of the work appears to be simply the identification of Service's tribes or chiefdoms in the archaeological record, with no justification of why this might be of interest.
11Fried (1967), while producing a typology of societies which many cite interchangeably with that of Service because of the general correspondence between the two schemes, produced (to my mind) a substantively more useful study, precisely because he defined the aim of his classification - to identify fundamentally different forms of political integration. However, for our perspective it has only limited relevance, since nearly all aboriginal hunter-gatherer societies fall into his single category of egalitarian society.

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In Service's scheme, societies were distinguished as bands, tribes, chiefdoms, or states. Nearly all hunter-gatherers were classed as band societies, while a few qualified as chiefdoms (1971:143). In Service's view, Steward had "codified the ethnographically-known bands into two polar types...the patrilineal band and the composite band" (1971:47). Service noted that these were extreme types, and that many modern societies were intermediate between them. He argued that an ordering from patrilineal to composite bands "also seems to conform to relatively isolated aboriginal conditions at the time of description on one extreme to breakdown and readaptation under the influence of civilization at the other" (1971:48). The patrilocal (patrilineal) band was proposed as the universal aboriginal form of band social organisation, and the documented behavioural variability (recognised simply as towards Steward's family bands or composite bands) was dismissed as the product of the breakdown of traditional societies. While incorporation and adaptation within a different world system was undoubtedly a factor in some cases, as Steward had earlier argued (Murphy and Steward 1956), Service made his case for only a few examples. Even in those cases, as Steward pointed out with regard to the Shoshone (1977), Service did not do justice to the ethnography of the different cultures, nor to the historiography of ethnographic research on the cultures, in propounding such a reductionist classification. As others pointed out, the patrilocal band need not be the prototype of human social organisation, but rather a specialised development from a more flexible form of structure (Eggan 1968), as Steward's observations on the variety of contexts which might be responsible for some form of composite structure might suggest. Service's analysis of hunter-gatherer social organisation produced a typology without a question and a monolithic entity - the patrilocal band - which does not appear to fit much ethnographic documentation, and provides few insights into variation, or its explanation. While Service's general scheme has been widely embraced by archaeologists, its other categories have fared equally poorly, such as the tribe (Fried 1966) and the chiefdom (Earle 1977; Taylor 1975; Sanders and Webster 1978). In sum, this purely typological approach can be viewed as a step backward from the promise of Steward's approach (Eggan 1968) - no new data was brought to bear on the question, and the progress made by Steward was misinterpreted and dismissed. Unfortunately, Service's work was presented in a very accessible form, which has served as a cookbook for archaeologists looking for simple models of 'social organisation', without all the muss and fuss of variation.

4.5: 'MAN THE HUNTER' AND THE SEARCH FOR SIMPLE MODELS OF HUNTER-GATHERER BEHAVIOUR.
Service's work was the last synthesis of hunter-gatherer social behaviour to be made which relied largely on data acquired before the Second World War.12 During the late 1950s, and 1960s, there was a resurgence of ethnographic interest in hunter-gatherer societies, and despite gloomy predictions of the total demise of hunting and gathering societies (Murdock 1968), that interest has been maintained to the present, resulting in an enormous expansion of the ethnographic coverage of hunting and gathering societies, and a variety of attempts to synthesise the information relevant to individual and comparative group organisation.13 This work became well-known through the publication of the Man the Hunter volume (Lee and DeVore 1968a). Because many of the scholars participating in the conference which produced that volume were young, had recently completed their fieldwork, and were
12 Most of the case studies in Service's second edition of his textbook The Hunters (1979), rely upon ethnographies published before the Second World War, in spite of more recent publications on the same societies, and better documented examples which might have been chosen. 13 In the 1960s, hunter-gatherers were generally viewed as 'palaeolithic survivals', and so the number of 'uncontaminated' societies was viewed as extremely limited. In fact, it is now recognised that no existing huntergatherers can be considered as existing in isolation, nor have they done so for a considerable period of time, usually centuries. But this is only problematic if we are looking for 'survivals', rather than trying to understand viable social formations, which may interact with neighbouring or encapsulating societies to a greater or lesser degree.

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reacting to syntheses such as Steward's and Service's, which relied on old and poorly detailed data, their work had a revolutionary impact in anthropology. Because this was also the time that the New Archaeologists were championing the use of anthropological models and an evolutionary perspective, there was also a substantial knock-on effect in archaeology. Assisted by the style of presentation (e.g. Lee and DeVore 1968b), the view presented of hunter-gatherer society replaced most of what had gone before, essentially establishing a new orthodoxy, which it is still difficult to escape, twenty years later.14 Much of the comparative and synthetic work has been, and continues to be, firmly in the line of empirical generalisation, trying to describe how hunter-gatherers behave. This is clearly important, and is a first step toward defining and attempting to explain patterns of variation in hunter-gatherer behaviour. However, with ethnography as with archaeology, there has been a tendency to attempt to reduce the documented variations in behaviour to a small number of patterns, or a single model, without recognising the point stressed by Steward, that such reduction is only relevant to particular sets of questions, and that different schemes might be pursued, depending on the behaviour under study. This has meant that we are left with a series of static models, which, like Service's, do not adequately address the documented variability in hunter-gatherer behaviour, nor adequately address questions to which the study of such variability is relevant. The renewed round of fieldwork challenged existing descriptions of many hunter-gatherer groups, and societies formerly classified as patrilineal, such as the !Kung, the Mbuti, the Inuit, the sub-arctic Dene, and even the Australian Aborigines, the archetype of RadcliffeBrown's patrilocal horde (1930) were redescribed on the basis of intensive fieldwork as essentially bilateral groupings (Marshall 1960; Lee 1979; Turnbull 1965a; 1965b; 1968; Damas 1963; 1968; Helm 1965; 1969; Hiatt 1962; 1968). While a few patrilocal groups were recognised (Williams 1974), opinion stressed the prevalence of more flexible integration. This was viewed as particularly adaptive in marginal regions, since it permitted "the adjustment of group size to resources, the leveling out of demographic variance, and the resolution of conflict by fission" (Lee and DeVore 1968b:8). Yet the variable adaptive advantage of such behaviour in different ecological contexts was not explored in any detail rather, a series of propositions, relevant to 'most' hunter-gatherers, was ventured under the rubric of 'nomadic style' (Lee and DeVore 1968b:11-12). As one could have predicted, this served to replace Service's monolithic concept of the patrilocal band, with a new monolithic concept, the Man the Hunter model: It was assumed that hunter-gatherers live in small groups (averaging 25-50 people) and move about a lot. They maintain a division of labour with males hunting and females gathering, the latter often providing the bulk of the subsistence inputs. Collected food resources are widely shared within the local group. The local population is likely to be regulated well below the potential carrying capacity of the region through social mechanisms. From these assumptions followed a series of implications (Lee and DeVore 1968b:12): Social relations are egalitarian, since mobility does not allow the accumulation of material wealth. The food supply keeps local groups small, but several such groups may amalgamate into a 'regional band' (generally on the order of 500 individuals - adequate to serve as a breeding pool) during periods of abundance in resources, for purposes of social interaction. Because of demographic variation in small groups, band membership will be flexible, allowing the adjustment of local populations to resources. Local groups do not maintain exclusive access to the resources of a territory, rather, flexibility in exploitation allows the movement of people to resources, and is manifest in frequent visiting between local groups. Such frequent visiting prevents the development of territorial notions or exclusive rights to the resources of an area. Frequent movement of individuals or components of a local group also serves to reduce social conflict, mitigating the need for any supra-kinship patterns of authority or integration.
14 Personal observation at the Sixth International Conference on Hunting and Gathering Societies, London, 1986.

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While a theoretically coherent model, or cultural core, in Steward's sense, all of these assumptions and implications can be challenged when faced with ethnographic data from different hunter-gatherer groups. However, such a model could still be considered useful, if it gave us some reason for developing expectations concerning variation in hunter-gatherer behaviour; what type of mobility, territoriality, band integration or accumulation of wealth might we anticipate in specific contexts? Rather, 'nomadic style' has been broadly accepted as characterising all hunter-gatherer societies. Its predictions fit neatly with Lee's own descriptions of the !Kung San (1968; 1979; 1984), though a number of these have been successfully challenged with longer-term studies of the !Kung (long-term continuity in group membership: Wiessner 1977; periodic subsistence stress: Wilmsen 1982a; notions of territoriality and ownership of resources: Marshall 1960; 1976; Cashdan 1983). The Man the Hunter model was widely adopted as the universal model for hunter-gatherers, resulting in a two million year record of palaeolithic foragers, modeled directly on the !Kung (e.g. Isaac 1968a; 1968b; Pfeiffer 1978; Leakey and Lewin 1977). In recent years, however, this model has come under increasing attack, as it has been recognised that it does not appear to fit all ethnographic or archaeological data (Koyama and Thomas 1981; Testart 1982; Keeley 1988). Spearheading much of this critique have been researchers dealing with the mesolithic of the Near East and Europe, where large, supposedly sedentary populations can be documented well before the advent of agriculture (Moore 1985; Wright 1978; RowleyConwy 1983; Renouf 1984; Price 1978; Zvelebil 1986). In this case, the data have led to the development of a contrasting model of 'complex hunters' (Rowley-Conwy 1983; Price and Brown 1985b), stressing sedentism, large local group size, the exploitation of diverse coastal resources, storage, accumulation of wealth, and the potential for social differentiation. Such interpretations remain problematic, since storage, wealth and social differentiation are extrapolated from the possible documentation of year-round sedentism on sites, and large site size - not allowing for the problem of sites as palimpsests. A few analyses of cemeteries have independently suggested some social differentiation (e.g. O'Shea and Zvelebil 1984; Wright 1978). More important as a general concern, such arguments merely put up another straw man in polar opposition to the Man the Hunter model, without coming to grips with the variability in forager societies. Rather, individual characteristics of such societies need to be investigated and their inter-relationships understood, not simply assumed. Again, the problem is that we are attempting to generalise about classificatory descriptions, not about the processes responsible for variation. The same can be said for Woodburn's recent distinction between delayed return and immediate return systems (1980; 1982), a development from Meillassoux (1973). What began as a useful observation on the temporal relationship between economic production and consumption, was confused by the introduction of ideological exceptions - gerontocracy among Australian Aborigines (cf. Altman 1987). Subsequently, Woodburn has tried to fit this bipolar classification to various other variables, such as acculturation (1988), essentially trying to develop a new classification of hunter-gatherer societies. Again, this falls into the trap of presenting a classification without a question, and the value of his initial discussion has declined as he moves away from its original economic context. Since Steward's work, synthetic approaches to hunter-gatherer behaviour have been classificatory, rather than explanatory. Indeed, Steward's work can be, and generally has been, viewed in a similar light, for which there is justification. However, Steward emphasised that classification with respect to the question under investigation was a necessary first step toward explanation, not an end in its own right. Subsequent classifications have lost the problem orientation which Steward maintained; in their attempt to be all-purpose classifications, they lose most of their potential value. Without an explicit objective for such exercises, it is not surprising that little account has been given to the nature of the models developed or to how such generalisation can be used in explaining hunter-gatherer behaviour.

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This critique is not to imply that Steward had hunter-gatherer behaviour adequately sorted out. Rather, unlike subsequent discussions, he had a perspective which can be modified and built upon. To move further in this direction, it will be worthwhile to reconsider some of the aspects of hunter-gatherer social organisation which have been touched on in preceding sections of this chapter, and which will have to be considered if our objective is to identify and explain variation in behaviour, rather than to ignore it.

4.6: RE-CONSTRUCTING MODELS OF HUNTER-GATHERER SOCIAL BEHAVIOUR.

To move in a positive direction, building at least on the large amount of data accumulated in recent years, if not so much on the syntheses reviewed above, needs clarification of two points: what do we wish to know about hunter-gatherer social organisation, and how should we study variability? The first point is, to some degree, established by accepting Steward's definition of the cultural core - a statement that what is of particular relevance to this study are those aspects of social behaviour which relate most directly to subsistence, and which, through the nature of the exploitable resources of a region, can be linked directly to the local environment. This position has been argued as particularly fruitful for archaeological objectives, where we must establish an independent context for behavioural variation (section 1.7). From this perspective, much previous discussion of hunter-gatherer social organisation may have focussed on misleading issues. Patrilineality, and indeed kinship organisation per se may be one of these. In the past two decades, when the concept of the patrilineal/patrilocal band has come under considerable criticism, it has become apparent that when detailed kinship relations were documented for local groups (e.g. Helm 1965; Damas 1963; Burch 1975; Marshall 1976), particularly when these could be traced through time, residential patterns tended toward bilateral associations, regardless of how explicit the emic ideology of unilineal descent and residence, elicited by the anthropologist, might be. What may be important is not whether a system is patrilineal, matrilineal or bilateral, but the degree to which it can be considered lineal or not. In other words, we should be looking at the contexts in which kinship may be part of an ideology for limiting access to group membership, or perhaps more importantly, access to resources to which one is entitled as a member of the group. Such variably open or closed social systems might be predicted as corresponding to variation in group territoriality and local resource structure (Cashdan 1983; Dyson-Hudson and Smith 1978; Peterson 1972; 1975; Yellen and Harpending 1972). Pursuing this perspective, we can ask why kinship appears to be such a basic mechanism for organising social relations among hunter-gatherers, rather than simply assuming its importance and getting lost in the detail of kinship systems. While kin terminology and marriage rules may be explicitly recognised among hunter-gatherers, the presumed importance of kinship among all societies may tell us more about social anthropologists' pre-occupation with social rules than it does about actual behaviour. On the contrary, except for direct reckoning for identifying incestuous behaviour, kinship may have relatively little importance in the organisation of local, day to day residence and task groups, except in contexts where ownership and inheritance of property, rights and obligations exists. In these situations, lineality may be the issue, with kinship the mechanism for recognising and documenting it. In societies without lineal inheritance ideologies, kinship may be a de facto consequence of patterns of local group affiliation, rather than the integrating factor as such. Most huntergatherers engage in mobility to some degree, and may travel over large distances in the course of an annual round, yet they will habitually reside in and exploit the same territory. Regardless of any reasons for regular association between different families (see below), individuals will become most familiar with those who reside within the same general

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territory, and particularly familiar with their own families, and those with whom they are enculturated. Unless individuals are migrating away from a region, many of the families within a region will be closely related as kin. Indeed, it is rare for the members of local residential groups not to be fairly closely related; this will not necessarily be the result of a conscious policy of kinship affiliation, but of the lack of a general pattern of out-migration. Within such a local group, siblings, enculturated together, will be most familiar with each others' behaviour, and this aspect of predictability will encourage mutual reliance. One would then expect a fall-off in the degree of association and co-operation in residence and task-groups, with genealogical distance (cf. Sahlins 1972 for a similar argument for exchange relations). This de facto situation is explicitly recognised in many societies, and supported by recognised rights and obligations with respect to kin. Kinship becomes a channel for social behaviour, to the degree that non-kin may be incorporated as pseudo-kin through any number of special conventions, so that they too may be incorporated within such a network. Reciprocally, kinship relations have less significance if not supported by residential propinquity (Sahlins 1972). This emergent role for kinship is revealed by differences in task-group performance. When a task requires a large number of individuals, it is often fairly unspecialised, and individuals may be recruited fairly generally. For this, kinship may provide a convenient basis for incorporating a large number of people. On the other hand, if the task is quite specialised, or particularly crucial, a smaller number of individuals may be recruited, as in hunting and trapping partnerships, fishing and whaling crews, etc. In these cases, members often may not be direct kin, since other specific qualities such as skill, reliability, etc., are likely to be more significant to the effectiveness of the group. In the example of hunting partnerships, one member is entirely reliant on the other, particularly in the case of accident, and such partners are chosen carefully. Because kin may be known particularly well, through a common context of enculturation, such partnerships often involve fathers and sons, siblings, or other close kin, but they need not. In contrast, in a berry collecting expedition or collective hunting drive, the performance of each individual is less crucial, reliance on partners is not so extreme, and less importance need be attached to the mutual selection of those cooperating. The importance attached by anthropologists to kinship, despite its lower profile in local residential group composition, has been a source of major confusion in studies of Australian Aboriginal social organisation throughout this century (Hiatt 1962; 1968; Birdsell 1970; 1973; Stanner 1965). Thus, while kinship is often a definable major component of hunter-gatherer social organisation, it may be fairly epiphenomenal to the nature of local group composition, and social organisation, in terms of on-the-ground behaviour - that which is documented in the material and archaeological record. In this context, we might give more attention to the suggestions by Steward (1968:334) and Harris (1968), that archaeologists should free themselves of the constraints of traditional ethnographic concepts and objectives, many of which may be irrelevant to the study of the archaeological record. This point has obviously come home more strongly in recent years, through more explicit consideration of the nature of the archaeological record (section 1.3). Given these cautions, it may seem surprising that in chapter 3, and indeed in later chapters, I devote considerable attention to the kinship relations between members of a local group. This is largely because it is one of the few social variables which anthropologists regularly record - few hunter-gatherer ethnographies include detailed discussion, let alone documentation of task-group composition and variation, and even more rarely in conjunction with information about spatial organisation. In this situation, I have had to rely on the generalisation that kinship often does relate to patterns of cooperation and other organisational features, whether through emic intent, or de facto, as suggested above. This extended example has served to illustrate several points about some limitations in the way anthropologists and archaeologists look at hunter-gatherer societies. First,

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anthropologists often adopt a descriptive approach in which certain topics are presumed to be necessary for a competent or comprehensive ethnographic account. These tend to focus on issues or cultural characteristics that have been the focus of other studies, without necessarily justifying why those have been selected, or why they are of interest. In contrast, a problem orientation may encourage us to look at very different things, or to look at familiar characteristics in rather different ways, thereby gaining an insight, rather than simply documenting more information in a single mould. Similarly, in viewing the ethnographic record as a 'more complete' version of the archaeological record, archaeologists may simply adopt the apparent aims of ethnographic research, without asking whether those objectives are of relevance to any question archaeologists wish to address, or whether they are even appropriate to archaeological investigation. The second issue involves how we study variation in behaviour, rather than ignoring it through models of such encompassing generality that they carry little explanatory value (e.g. band organisation (Service 1971); egalitarian societies (Fried 1967)); the hunting mode of production (Meillassoux 1973)). There are two principal aspects of this issue which need to be addressed, the documentation and explanation of variation in behaviour, and its documentation and explanation through the archaeological record. With reference to our problem orientation, we can distinguish stable from variable behaviour, and distinguish those aspects of the context for that behaviour which are either constant or variable. While this may establish correlations, it does not establish causation. The latter must be argued through theoretical propositions linking potential cause and effect in a necessary, relational, and for archaeological inference, uniformitarian linkage. Further complications are added to our investigation if we wish our understanding of variation and its causes to have relevance for explaining archaeological situations, since we must be able to identify variation in the behaviour to be explained through the archaeological record, and likewise, we must also be able to identify the related variation in the aspect of its context, to which we are appealing to explain the behavioural variation. While many aspects of variation in social behaviour will relate to the social context of that behaviour, unless the latter is documented by the material (archaeological) record in a clear and unambiguous way, any explanation we construct will have the character of a house of cards. The approach to this problem adopted in this study is two-fold: First, the environmental context of human behaviour is accepted as that part of the total context to which we have most direct access through the archaeological record, in a way that is independent of any of our interpretations of past human behaviour (section 1.7). Second, the insights which have emerged from some ethnographic accounts (chapter 2), and the study of the !Kung San (chapter 3) suggest that those aspects of human social organisation which are likely to be most relevant to within-community spatial organisation in hunter-gatherer societies are those which concern the social relations of production. Like Steward's cultural core, these relate, through subsistence behaviour, fairly directly to the natural environment, and so may be modeled in the past based on our understanding of the past environmental context. It is fully accepted that there are other aspects of hunter-gatherer social organisation which may be of interest both ethnographically and archaeologically, and indeed that there are other social factors which are likely to affect spatial organisation. On the other hand, one has to begin somewhere - in an exploratory study such as this, a strong argument can be made for building our understanding from the securest ground possible, which can then serve as a foundation for further work.

4.7: SOCIAL GROUPS IN HUNTER-GATHERER SOCIETIES: CHARACTERISTICS AND PATTERNS OF VARIATION.

GENERAL

In the absence of a comprehensive survey of ethnographically documented hunter-gatherer societies, any overview of elements of hunter-gatherer social organisation will, of necessity, be vague and somewhat anecdotal. In the following synthetic sketch, I have relied both on

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recent detailed ethnographies of a variety of hunting and gathering cultures, and on broader, less-detailed surveys (e.g. Hayden 1981; Riches 1982; Kirk 1981; Damas 1984; Heizer 1978; Helm 1981; D'Azevedo 1986).15 While my comments are roughly organised under a series of headings, this belies the integral connections between the different dimensions of variability, but is necessary for a sequential presentation. The most important point to bear in mind is that each characteristic touched on is variable among different societies, and it is such variation which needs to be explained; contrary to the view presented by classifications such as the Man the Hunter model, hunter-gatherer social behaviour is multivariate, and cannot be reduced to a single norm, or even a polarised scale (e.g. simple to complex; mobile to sedentary; immediate to delayed return; foragers to collectors). From a strict evolutionary perspective, natural selection acts on the individual, though the survival of the individual, and transmission of both genetic and behavioural characteristics, is likely to depend on the cooperation of a group of individuals. From the perspective of cultural behaviour, Steward argued, and it is commonly accepted, that among undifferentiated societies (including most hunter-gatherers), the members of the nuclear family perform complementary roles, and can carry out the full range of activities necessary for the survival of the family and the enculturation of the young (Steward 1955:102). At the same time, nuclear families cannot exist as viable demographic isolates, and will be linked into a wider social and mating network. Given the universality of some form of incest prohibition, this larger deme must include 125-500 individuals to survive in the long run (Wobst 1974; 1975; Meyer 1985). In addition, nuclear families aggregate in groups of different sizes for a variety of other reasons, including mutual aid, information sharing, and socialisation. While the nuclear family can be taken as something of a constant for huntergatherers, there is some latitude for variation in the nature of its integration, much of which appears to depend on the sexual division of labour. This in turn is largely responsive to the nature and variety of the subsistence tasks undertaken, which will vary with the nature of the resources available and exploited within the environment. Considerably wider variation exists at the level of larger-scale multi-family groupings, both as to the size and composition of such groups, and with respect to their function and degree of social integration. Such supra-familial integration is what is usually considered by anthropologists as 'social organisation'. Since different reasons may be primary in the formation of such groups, we should anticipate that there may be considerable variation in the mechanisms used to integrate them. Similarly, if we accept, with Steward, that a considerable amount of variation in hunter-gatherer social organisation relates directly to the social relations of production and to the nature of subsistence activities, we would expect considerable variation, given the wide variety of subsistence behaviour and environmental contexts within which hunter-gatherers have existed. The direct impact of the natural environment has been down-played in recent general discussions of huntergatherers, largely through the romanticisation of the hunter-gatherer way of life. However, even the !Kung San, described as the 'original affluent society' (Sahlins 1968a; Lee 1968), are now documented as suffering periodic subsistence stress (Wilmsen 1982a; Wiessner 1981), and other hunter-gatherer groups frequently face the prospect of starvation (e.g. Burch 1980; Rogers 1983; Steegman 1983b; Silberbauer 1981a; Cane 1987; Rowley 1985). A variety of forms of supra-family organisation have been proposed for hunter-gatherers, including micro-bands, macro-bands, kin groups, and residential groups. The first two are empirical descriptions, for which a variety of potential explanations have been proposed
15 A number of cross-cultural collections of information are available which include a range of hunter-gatherer societies among their sample, such as the Ethnographic Atlas (Murdock 1967) and the Standard Cross-Cultural Sample (Murdock and White 1969). Such compilations suffer from all the limitations of non-problem oriented data collection, and in attempting to complete the hunter-gatherer component of the latter dataset for fuller analysis, it has become apparent to me that the codings are often inconsistent, in error, or rely on poor or out-ofdate information. Therefore, while providing the only extensive cross-section of ethnographically-documented hunter-gatherer societies, any patterns detected in the analysis of such data need to be treated with care and caution, though such analysis may still provide a starting point for further investigation (section 1.6).

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(Birdsell 1968; Lee and DeVore 1968b). The first refers to the local residential group, which may have a stable or varying membership, but has been documented to fluctuate around a modal value of 25 individuals. Such a group, on average, would provide 3-5 adult male hunters, who could act cooperatively (Hassan 1981; Martin 1973). Similarly, recent simulation work suggests that such a number of hunters may be optimum for providing a regular supply of meat to a camp, when individual hunting events have a considerable risk of failure (Smith 1988; Winterhalder 1986). From the perspective of social integration, one should note that 25 individuals would be about the modal size for a bilateral extended family, based on hunter-gatherer demographic characteristics (Damas 1963; Helm 1965; 1969; Howell 1979; Wiessner 1977). For a variety of reasons, both empirical and theoretical, one might expect such a group to correspond to the minimum size of the local group in regular day to day association - the local residential group. Macro-bands are the larger regional groupings into which most micro-bands are affiliated, and which may aggregate at certain times of the year for purposes of socialisation. These may be open-ended, such that different micro-bands gather in different years, or (probably more usual) may have a fairly stable membership. Such groups usually constitute the local breeding deme, which in consequence may be relatively open, or more endogamous (Birdsell 1958; 1968; 1973; Geunther 1981; Cashdan 1983; Silberbauer 1981a; Tanaka 1980; Damas 1963; Harako 1976; Ichikawa 1979; Burch 1975; 1980; Smith 1978). Kin groups rarely correspond exactly with any regularly associating group among most hunter-gatherers. Among non-literate societies, and particularly those recognising little in the way of heritable property, rights, or obligations, kinship reckoning is very presentoriented, rarely extending back through more than one deceased generation. With standard conditions of hunter-gatherer demography, such as wide birth-spacing and high infant mortality, the number of individuals with which one will have a specifiable kin relation will be relatively small (a segment of the local macro-band). Given spatial patterns of intermarriage (Harpending 1976; Hewlett et al. 1986), kin groups will be relatively localised, depending on mobility, overall population density, and the area covered by the breeding population. Therefore, we might expect that most members of a local residential group will be related through kinship, though not all those related through kinship will reside together. A kinship group may be defined theoretically by the anthropologist, but may have only limited relevance for describing actual social behaviour. As Sahlins has observed with respect to economic behaviour, the importance of kinship affiliation declines with physical distance and the lack of regular interaction (1972). It appears unlikely, therefore, that the concept of the kin group as such has much relevance for an archaeological investigation of social organisation, except to the degree that it is manifest in the local residential group. While it was suggested that a modal figure of 25 individuals might be expected as a minimum residential group size for a variety of reasons, no upper limit has been suggested. The maximum day to day group size may be governed by both environmental and social parameters. Since hunter-gatherers extract their subsistence resources from the natural environment, their population density will be limited by the density of the resources they exploit. Most of the hunter-gatherers documented ethnographically have lived in what, at least from the perspective of agriculturalists, are considered marginal habitats: desert, thorn forest, boreal forest and arctic tundra. Even those living in lusher environments, such as tropical rainforests, can maintain only low population densities, given the relatively low abundance of resources that can be metabolised directly by humans as food (Hart and Hart 1986; Milton 1985). The overall density of subsistence resources will therefore act as an effective ceiling, often keeping hunter-gatherer regional populations very low. In addition, the distribution of resources will affect how the human population can be distributed. Where resources are low in density and fairly regularly distributed, local groups must be small and dispersed to exploit them effectively (Wilmsen 1973; Heffley 1981). Similarly, a low density of resources may only allow larger aggregations, such as

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those of macro-bands, to occur during limited periods of resource super-abundance. Seasonal variation in the availability of resources will serve as a check on local population density, with the period of lowest resource abundance serving as a bottleneck on population density, unless some strategy such as storage, for extending the use-life of a resource, is employed. While the hunter-gatherers best-known ethnographically have existed in low resourcedensity environments, some groups have been documented in regions with more abundant resources, such as the native populations of California, temperate Australia, northern coastal Asia, and the northern Pacific coast of North America. It is clear from the ethnographies of such areas that abundant resources, often combined with storage technologies, will allow hunter-gatherers to maintain dense regional populations and even large residential groups. The second group of factors limiting hunter-gatherer residential group size is social. Because there is little need for differentiation of roles between adult individuals of the same sex, there is little need for supra-family integration, and little to base it on; leadership roles may exist with respect to specific tasks, such as the co-ordination of a collective hunt, but generally do not carry over into other areas. Particular individuals may be respected as knowledgable, and their opinions sought and followed, but they have no power to back up their authority (Fried 1967). What leadership exists is usually negotiated and transient, and is often simply based on the seniority and experience of the head of an extended family group. For small micro-bands, of about 25 individuals, this is likely to be sufficient for the coordination of cooperative activities and the integration of the group. For larger groups this is rarely sufficient, and the frequency of conflicts and disputes increases with the size of the group in continual day to day association (e.g. Lee 1979:370; White 1977). Johnson has linked this directly to more general patterns of small-group decision-making, pointing out that groups with more than about six individuals have difficulty coming to a consensus unless some hierarchical decision-making structure emerges (1978; 1982; 1983). Such a pattern is widely documented among small-scale societies, where an extended family of siblings can only be held together by a strong patriarch. Johnson related this directly to the exponential increase in inter-individual relationships with increase in group size, suggesting that the limits relate to the amount of information that the human brain can integrate at any one time (Johnson 1982). Something he did not comment on, however, was the change in the nature of relationships with increasing group size. In a forager group, as more families are added to the group, they are likely to be only distantly related to a significant proportion of the rest of the group (cf. section 3.4); the increase in the number of interactions is compounded by the increasingly stressful nature of the interactions - mostly with relative strangers. To illustrate this, I have taken two local groups, from Damas' work with the Iglulingmiut, and Marshall's with the !Kung, and looked at the nature of the kinship relations within different sized sub-groups of the bands.16 As can be seen in figure 4.1, the average kinship distance between families rises significantly as group size increases. In addition, social stress is often created or exacerbated by economic stress - many ethnographers have commented that hunter-gatherer seasonal aggregate camps only last as long as the local food supply - as large groups eat through the local resources, acquiring food becomes an increasingly serious problem; less favoured resources may need to be brought into the diet or greater distances need to be traveled to reach resources not yet
16 Damas documents the changes in group composition throughout the year (1963). In Marshall's data, this is not done, but the band is broken down by extended family segments which form smaller camps (1976). I have treated linked extended families as intermediate-sized groups in figure 4.1.

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utilised. This leads to greater grumbling, disputes over access to resources, and eventually to the fragmentation and dispersion of the group (Lee 1979; Silberbauer 1981a; Savishinsky 1971). For hunter-gatherers, stable local residential groups appear to have a modal size of about 25, though they commonly range up to 50, and less commonly, to about 100 individuals. The latter might be the maximum we would expect, following Johnson's argument, as an amalgamation of five or six extended family groups. Where groups at the larger end of this range are documented, they are often residentially associated for only a part of the year, fissioning to defuse the disagreements and conflicts which develop in the larger groups (Turnbull 1968; Savishinsky 1971). Similarly, the larger macro-band aggregations are generally very short-lived, fragmenting as disputes arise over the decreasing availability of food resources in the immediate environs of the joint camp, and disputes develop over the utilisation of local resources between hosts and visitors. The stability of local groups is also variable in different cultures, and under different conditions. Flexibility in band membership has been well-documented among most huntergatherer groups studied in recent decades. Unfortunately, with the short time-scale of most anthropological field research, it is usually not clear whether shifts in membership are temporary, allowing visiting with friends and relatives in other local groups, or more permanent. Sometimes, because of the resources exploited during particular parts of the year, some families of a band will choose to forage in one part of the joint band territory, or with a neighbouring group, whereas others will forage independently (Turnbull 1965a; Williams 1974; Tanaka 1980; Burch 1980; Damas 1963). From short-term documentation, it is not clear whether such patterns of association are regular between years, or opportunistic. Where longer-term census data is available, it is clear that there usually is long-term continuity in the membership of local groups, and a regular association between individuals and a particular territory (Wiessner 1977; Peterson 1972; Damas 1963; Rogers 1963; Marshall 1976; Burch 1980; Pederson and Whle 1988).

4.8: GROUP MEMBERSHIP, ACCESS TO RESOURCES, AND SOCIAL DIFFERENTIATION.

Regular residence in, and exploitation of the resources of, a specific territory may be a universal characteristic of hunter-gatherer societies, though it has different implications in different cases, and does not automatically lead to 'territorial' behaviour. In some cases, the boundaries between local groups may be very vague or fluid, and individuals can readily exploit resources within another group's range. In other cases, boundaries are well-fixed, and trespass, or exploitation without permission may lead to feuds and conflict (McCorkle 1978). Such variability has begun to receive serious comparative consideration (DysonHudson and Smith 1978; Peterson 1972; 1975; Geunther 1981; Cashdan 1983). One reason for increasing attention is the recent importance of native land-claim settlements, where the issue of 'ownership' and rights to the use of a territory and its resources has become of paramount importance, despite the disparity between many native and Western legal concepts of 'ownership' (Steward 1977; Brody 1981; Freeman 1976; Feit 1982; Scott 1988; Peterson 1982; Burch 1984). In many situations, rights and responsibilities (often of a ritual nature) to a region and its resources may be inherited from one or either parent, and remain inalienable (e.g. much of Australia: Peterson 1972; 1975; Myers 1988b; Hamilton 1982). In other cases, while rights may be inherited, they are activated through use, and it may also be possible to gain such rights, either through marriage, or by permission and through habitual use (Marshall 1960; 1976; Wiessner 1977). In the latter case, it may be more reasonable to consider rights of access to resources as contingent upon membership in the local group.

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What comparative work has been done suggests that there are regularities in human territoriality, such that the concept of exclusive ownership or access to resources, will be strongest in situations in which individual resources are both dense and predictable in occurrence (Dyson-Hudson and Smith 1978; Cashdan 1983). Perhaps not surprisingly, it is in such situations that the individual ownership of particular resources, such as shellfish beds, fishing locations, or even fruit trees, is particularly well-developed among ethnographically documented hunter-gatherers (Drucker 1963; 1983; Schebesta 1928). Ownership necessitates a mechanism for transferring it, and kin-lineality (whether matri- or patri-lineal) has particular importance in such contexts. Periods of seasonal abundance may allow the short-term aggregation of several local residential groups, or of a regional macro-band, but because of the temporal restriction of such periods of plenty, local populations will be limited by the more restricted availability of resources at other times of the year. In areas of low resource density, even if such abundance could be more evenly distributed throughout the year, its availability would do little to raise the local carrying capacity. On the other hand, where there are seasonal periods of super-abundance, and the available resources can be adequately harvested and processed, there may be an incentive to develop a storage strategy which will allow the uselife of the resource to be extended. This would allow either longer periods of aggregation, or if the storage life can be extended through the period(s) of scarcity, an overall increase in the regional carrying capacity. Regions with a great seasonal disparity in resource abundance are generally situated in temperate and higher latitudes, where many terrestrial, marine and avian animal species have adapted to climatic seasonality through migratory behaviour. Not surprisingly, it is in such latitudes that hunter-gatherers have developed a wide variety of storage techniques, though principally relying upon drying, smoking, and (in higher latitudes) freezing. The potential for the accumulation, whether of subsistence resources or of items of wealth, underwritten by the accumulation of subsistence resources (O'Shea 1981), presents an opportunity for social differentiation not available to mobile, non-storing groups (Cashdan 1980). The separation in time between the acquisition of resources and their consumption also presents opportunities for the alienation of rights of access which are not possible with more immediate-return systems (Woodburn 1980; 1982; Ingold 1983). It is, in fact, in limited areas with marked seasonality, seasonal resource super-abundance, developed storage technologies, and accumulation, that non-egalitarian forms of social organisation are documented among hunter-gatherers. It is in the context of control over access to dense, predictable resources, and control over their processing, storage, and consumption, that formal leadership roles are found in aboriginal hunter-gatherer societies. With centralised, hierarchical leadership, larger populations can be integrated into local residential communities, since leaders can arbitrate disputes and regulate conflicts. High resource abundance, extended throughout the year, will also allow high regional populations, as well as large and potentially sedentary local communities. Such a constellation of features, characterising hunter-gatherers in only limited, favourable areas, has led to the definition of a class of 'complex hunter-gatherers' in the ethnographic record, and its reconstruction in archaeological contexts with similar resource characteristics (Rowley-Conwy 1983; Renouf 1984; Price and Brown 1985b). I feel the creation of such a model as the configuration of a variety of different ecological features and behavioural adaptations to them, obscures the separate nature of the processes and interactions involved. Similarly, such a catch-all category ignores the substantial variations which can be documented within such societies, even within a single region, such as along the Pacific coast of North America, from central California to the Arctic Ocean. By adopting a classificatory, rather than an explanatory approach focussing on variability, we cannot recognise and appreciate differences in the archaeological cultures studied, and all are reconstructed according to a single, simple analogy.

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Local residential groups are primarily cooperative groups - there is little other basis for the regular residential association of independent families in traditional contexts. The aggregation of groups which do not cooperate at some economic or social level is largely a feature of the post-contact period, when either legally or financially sanctioned government re-settlement plans, or the existence of a trading or mission post with its contact with the wider world (and its goods) have brought together formerly separate residential groups. Sometimes, such amalgamations are successful, and the groups merge, or, while maintaining social independence, actively cooperate (e.g. Graburn 1969). On the other hand, since such a mixed community will almost always be located within the traditional lands of one group, but not the other(s), one part of the community may feel its rights trespassed upon (e.g. Meehan 1982), or one group, through greater experience in dealing with the outside world, may be advantaged, and preserves its position through social isolation (Sinha 1967; Freeman 1984a; Honigmann 1975). Aboriginally, such conflict or competition would rarely continue, since cooperation would be the reason for aggregation; when conflicts began to become serious, the groups would separate. Two situations are documented where large groups were associated residentially at the same sites for a substantial period of time. In these cases, a single community would be composed of more than one independent (and therefore to at least some degree competing) social and economic group. The first is where different subsistence groups aggregate for the exploitation of an abundant but localised resource, as documented for whale hunting in the Bering Strait. Presently, and in the recent past, elaborate rules concerning both hunting and sharing have mitigated the competition between different whaling crews (Burch 1975; 1981; VanStone 1961; Spencer 1959; Cassell 1988), though during the last century, oral traditions make it clear that at some periods, competition between whaling crews and their associated social groups involved conflict and stress (Burch 1975). It is not clear whether such a situation could have been maintained for any length of time. A somewhat different situation is well documented along much of the Pacific northwest coast of North America, where, large semi-sedentary communities developed in the centuries preceding Western contact. Each community was made up of from one to several dozen house-groups, each of which would have had an hereditary leader. Each housegroup was an independent subsistence unit of from 15 to perhaps 100 individuals (comparable to a local residential group or micro band among mobile hunter-gatherers), and villages (at least in the post-contact period) may occasionally have had in excess of 1000 inhabitants. Such large population concentrations were permitted economically by the localised abundance of subsistence resources and the technology to harvest and store them in bulk, and appear to have been possible socially only because of the development of hierarchical social systems. Coordination of community activities was regulated by the house leaders (chiefs), and interactions between members of the different house-groups within a community were limited and defined by rules of prestige and precedence (Drucker 1963; 1983; Ames 1985; Townsend 1980). While some incentive for nucleation may have come from the localisation of subsistence resources, a major reason for aggregation appears to have been for defence against other communities. Formal warfare and raiding was endemic, and it is clear from native accounts that the capture of stored resources and slaves was a prime incentive behind it (Ferguson 1983; 1984). In this case, the cooperation between the independent subsistence units was founded upon a need for mutual aid in defence; economically, such groups were in competition, best documented through the elaboration of visual display, and the prestige competition of the potlatch (Codere 1950; Drucker and Heizer 1967; Rosman and Rubel 1971; Piddocke 1965; Suttles 1962; 1968; Ferguson 1983). In summary, there are clearly a variety of factors which are likely to have influenced the formation and integration of social groups. We can agree with Steward that subsistence factors appear often to have been of considerable importance, though they need not have been the only factors. Therefore, the size and nature of a hunter-gatherer social group is

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likely to be a compromise between a number of relevant, possibly conflicting tendencies, or different selective pressures.

4.9: SOCIAL ORGANISATION AS A GIVEN OR AS AN OBJECTIVE IN ARCHAEOLOGICAL RESEARCH.

The principal aim of this chapter has been to argue that to understand hunter-gatherer social organisation, we need models which can provide insights into variation in that behaviour, rather than classificatory models which attempt to reduce or to ignore it. With a recognition of variability, we can focus on the processes responsible for behavioural differences, using the ethnographic record to build models of human behaviour, rather than simply to provide analogues. The importance of such a position has begun to be recognised, in that we cannot presume that the documented historical and ethnographic records preserve a representative sample of the variations in human culture which have existed since the evolution of our species (Freeman 1968; Clarke 1972a). The corollary of this position is that for a full understanding of variation in human behaviour, we cannot rely on the historical or ethnographic records alone - we must expand our sample to include cultures documented solely through the archaeological record. This will require a means of investigation that will allow us to learn how situations in the past were different. Without explanatory models, as abstractions from the detail of specific cultures, we will also not be able to deal with contexts in the past which differ from the (largely marginal) environmental contexts of most hunter-gatherers documented ethnographically. For example, the sample of temperate zone hunter-gatherers who survived displacement by agriculturalists until they could be documented by anthropologists is extremely limited, and is unlikely to provide a particularly relevant analogue for e.g. Natufian, Erteblle, or Jomon sedentary hunter-gatherers, nor provide particularly relevant insights into the contexts in which experimentation with plant and animal domestication flourished. More basically, with a reliance on analogy, rather than on more general models, is it possible to learn how the past was different? We may note that the archaeological case does not fit the analogue in certain ways, but we cannot account for that difference. Usually, in fact, we do not pursue our analogies so far, and past hunter-gatherers are interpreted fairly indiscriminately on the basis of the current favourite analogue - for the past two decades the !Kung, now being replaced by the Nunamiut, as Binford's detailed studies of Nunamiut behaviour supplant in detail those of Lee and Yellen. Model-building is essential if we are to escape from the 'tyranny of the ethnographic record' (Wobst 1978). If we aim to learn what social organisation in a particular context in the past was like from the archaeological record, rather than simply impose an ethnographic picture upon it, we need a source of information about social organisation which is preserved in the material (archaeological) record. Furthermore, to address variability we need an understanding of the linkage between that material record and the social behaviour which produces it. Within-community spatial organisation has been presumed to be such a source, though we have yet to establish an understanding of how and why social organisation is manifest in the spatial record. However, a simple formal linkage between social and spatial behaviour will not be sufficient - we need to explain the nature of that relationship, so that we can anticipate variation in it under different circumstances. The elements of social organisation touched on in the preceding sections of this chapter principally revolve around the composition and integration of the local residential group obviously the social unit of interest for an investigation of community social organisation, as manifest in the archaeological record of hunter-gatherer sites. From this perspective, it becomes important to determine whether the archaeological site under investigation resulted from the occupation of a regular residential group, or from a more short-term gathering, such as that of a macro-band. While size alone might be informative, it will also

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be worth investigating whether hunter-gatherers organise themselves differently in space, depending on the social context of the camp, as was seen in the previous chapter for both the density and arrangement of !Kung San camps. Similarly, the variation between different sites documented for the same culture may indicate the range of different types of community they created, the spectrum of different residential groups formed, and indicate the role of any individual site in a broader seasonal pattern. Since there are a variety of reasons why hunter-gatherers may aggregate, the size of the aggregation may be suggestive of the role of such a group: a small group may be cooperating in day to day subsistence, a larger group may aggregate for socialisation or large collective endeavours (such as hunts), or for defence. A variety of different sized groups within the same culture may suggest that cooperative tasks vary throughout the year (e.g. Turnbull 1965a), or that the nature of task-group cooperation exerts little influence on residential group size. Similarly, the degree of spatial integration may indicate something of the type of cooperation involved, since cooperation entails communication: does the entire camp form an integrated unit, or are there definable sub-groups within it? Territoriality is an important, but variable factor in different hunter-gatherer societies. While it may be apparent on the larger scale, perhaps through distinctiveness in regional artefact style boundaries (Wiessner 1983; Conkey 1980; Koz/owski l 1973), it is difficult to see how it would be manifest in local community organisation. On the other hand, a distinction was drawn between societies where access to the resources of a territory is conferred by birth (Peterson 1973), and those where access, while heritable, is essentially acquired through membership and residence in the local group (Marshall 1976; Cashdan 1983; Wiessner 1977). Such a contrast may affect group integration and solidarity, and therefore be represented in settlement organisation. Leadership and social differentiation may be apparent through differentiation in the material record, evidence for storage or accumulation, and the spatial organisation of storage facilities, if present on a site. Likewise, community size and the spatial layout of habitation structures may suggest whether independent productive groups are present, and document any patterns of community-wide integration and leadership. This touches on some of the ways that we might look at community spatial organisation, if we wish to learn something of the social organisation of past hunter-gatherer groups. At the same time, it must be recognised that sorting out the different social factors which may be responsible for patterning in spatial organisation is likely to be extremely difficult. However, since many of the processes under study are inter-linked, spatial patterning may inform us about several related aspects of social organisation. At this point, I have simply attempted to establish that there are a number of different aspects of hunter-gatherer social organisation which we may wish to investigate, and about which the spatial organisation of residential sites may be informative. It is the purpose of chapters 6 and 7 to explore this more systematically. The approach adopted in this study is three-pronged, focussing on particular characteristics of social behaviour, as outlined in this chapter, spatial behaviour as documented in the material record, and the environmental context of such social and spatial behaviour, and the linkages between all three. A cultural ecological perspective on social behaviour, as advocated by Steward, itself would allow us to hypothesise some aspects of social behaviour in the past, though we would have no independent check on that reconstruction. Without such a check, we cannot learn if the past was different. In developing a link between spatial organisation and environmental context, via social organisation, a discrepancy between our expectations and observations indicates one of two things potentially of interest: either our understanding of the linkage between social behaviour and its environmental context is incomplete, or our understanding of the linkage between social and spatial behaviour is incomplete. In either case, we can learn that the past was different, and expand our perspective on variability in human behaviour; our

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understanding of the linkages between the different behaviours and their contexts should point us in the direction to investigate what is going on. The present chapter has attempted to isolate some important characteristics of huntergatherer social organisation which we may wish to monitor through the material record. The next chapter develops a cultural ecological perspective on hunter-gatherer social behaviour, prior to utilising that perspective in an analysis of hunter-gatherer social and spatial community behaviour (chapters 6 and 7).

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CHAPTER 5 THE SOCIAL ECOLOGY OF FORAGING

5.1: INTRODUCTION: TOWARD A CULTURAL ECOLOGY OF FORAGING.
In the preceding chapter, it was suggested that the most fruitful approach adopted to date to try to explain major aspects of the variability in hunter-gatherer social organisation was that developed by Julian Steward, as cultural ecology. By focussing on the similarities and differences in the ecological context of subsistence behaviour, he tried to account for similar patterns of social integration among hunter-gatherer groups in widely separated parts of the world - similarities which could not be accounted for simply by the diffusion of cultural traits. From the perspective of archaeology, such an approach has obvious attractions, since the environmental context of past human behaviour is something which we can reconstruct independent of our ideas about human behaviour. This is not to go as far as some Palaeoeconomists or Cultural Materialists, and to claim that subsistence behaviour is all that we may wish to learn about the past, or that, in the final analysis, it is the most important element (Higgs and Jarman 1975; Harris 1979). Rather, it is an acknowledgment that this is a good place to begin, in order to attempt to construct a firm grounding for social inferences about societies in the past. Steward did not set out to explain all variations in hunter-gatherer social organisation, but rather identified what he considered to be several major, recurrent forms, which he linked to particular forms of subsistence behaviour, and general ecologies, essentially through the social relations of production. In this chapter, I wish to expand this perspective somewhat, to focus more on processes, or dimensions of variability, which may allow us to anticipate differences in social organisation, rather than on developing any classification of specific forms. Two major shortcomings in Steward's ecological approach may be identified which need to be addressed if such an approach is to be developed further. First, his approach to human ecology was pioneering, but purely intuitive. Because of the vagueness of the environmental characteristics he dealt with, it is almost impossible to develop any concrete models or expectations, or to identify when the models do or do not fit a body of data - an essential part of the assessment of any model. Ecology today is substantially more sophisticated, allowing detailed models of animal social behaviour (e.g. Dunbar 1988), and even detailed suggestions about the evolutionary ecology of our own species (e.g. Foley 1987; 1988). On the other hand, we are hardly yet in the position to develop as sophisticated models concerning human behaviour, though there are a handful of recent studies moving in this direction (Winterhalder and Smith 1981; Smith 1988; Winterhalder 1986; Winterhalder et al. 1988; Belovsky 1987; 1988; Kaplan and Hill 1985b; Mithen 1988). Progress in this direction, however, is hampered by a broader feeling in anthropology that generalising predictive models are deterministic and dehumanising, a fundamental misunderstanding of the role of modelling in developing understanding (Clarke 1972a; Foley 1985; Dunbar 1988; Stephens and Krebs 1986). To some extent, however, this criticism has been justified by some of the less sophisticated attempts at an ecological perspective, particularly as practiced by archaeologists of the Palaeoeconomy school (Higgs and Jarman 1975; Higgs and Vita-Finzi 1972). Yet even supposedly ecological studies in anthropology (e.g. Lee 1979; Silberbauer 1981a; Gould 1980; Steegman 1983a; Nelson 1973; 1980; Tanaka 1980; Watanabe 1972; Irimoto 1981) still contain little of the detailed documentation of human behaviour or its ecological context which will be necessary for effective ecological modelling. In this context, the perspectives developed in this and further chapters must also, unfortunately, remain vague, though I hope they focus more directly on the relevant issues, and build upon the data from foraging societies that is currently available.

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The second major limitation of Steward's approach is that his linkage between social behaviour and the environment was purely inductive; the cultural core consisted of "those features which empirical analysis shows to be most closely involved in the utilisation of the environment" (Steward 1955:37). This is a similar approach to the 'empirical generalisation' model for archaeological explanation, and suffers from all of the same limitations (section 1.1). While constituting a reasonable approach for initial pattern recognition, this provides little basis for model-development and suffers all the tautology of adaptationist and specific functional explanations (Kirch 1980; Orans 1975; Ellen 1982). The alternative, in attempting to escape the circularity of adaptationist argument, is to look at the nature of the environmental context, and to identify some of the crucial problems which characteristics of the environment present - particularly those relevant to a hunting and gathering mode of subsistence. Expectations for potential human responses or solutions to those problems may then be developed, irrespective of the details of any specific case (though obviously informed by an awareness of the documented range of hunter-gatherer behaviour). Particular problems may have more or less relevance in specific contexts, and the degree to which the responses are standardised or vary in different contexts can be informative about human perceptions and decision-making, as well as selection pressure. To note and try to account for why many different individuals in different societies respond to a similar problem in a similar way is not being deterministic about human behaviour. Rather, it is identifying an issue which needs to be explained, and pointing to some of the common elements which will be relevant to a full understanding of those similarities and differences. Such an approach has been adopted by those who have begun to apply ecological models to human behaviour, particularly concerning foraging behaviour and decision-making (Hawkes et al. 1982; O'Connell and Hawkes 1981; 1984; Winterhalder and Smith 1981; Winterhalder et al. 1988; Smith 1983; 1988; Hames and Vickers 1983; Foley 1985; Mithen 1988; Belovsky 1987; 1988). In this case the models have been developed largely with reference to the behaviours of other species (Stephens and Krebs 1986; Foley 1985; Jochim 1983b), and one of the principal points of interest is establishing the degree to which they adequately describe human foraging behaviour. On the other hand, this often leads to a tendency to view human behaviour purely from the ecological perspective, with the explanation of all investigated behaviour essentially in terms of reproductive fitness or a comparable biological currency. While ultimately relevant to any explanation of the behaviour in question, this does not necessarily constitute a full explanation (see Kaplan and Hill 1985b for such a perspective on Ache sharing, and the comments which follow their article; Layton 1989). To date, a limited range of issues concerning hunter-gatherer behaviour has been approached through formal ecological models - partly because the datasets which have the detail to be usefully employed are very limited - and many of these studies remain more illustrative than conclusive, given ambiguities in the datasets, small sample sizes, or particular post-contact or local conditions (e.g. Smith 1981; O'Connell and Hawkes 1981; 1984). On the other hand, what has received much less attention in recent years is the existing body of ethnographic documentation, which while of a quality which will rarely allow detailed quantitative modelling, can allow qualitative generalisation, and more importantly, can define points or problem areas for more detailed treatment, possibly through the collection of new data. Developing the existing ethnographic record in this fashion, while often frustrating through uncontrolled biases, the lack of detail, and ambiguities in documentation, is important as a complement to present ecological studies for two important reasons. First, it allows us to situate the more detailed, but limited number of recent, explicitly ecological studies, within the wider context of variability in human behaviour. Second, it keeps our attention firmly focussed on human behaviour, rather than limiting our investigations to behaviour which can be explicated through models developed with reference to other species. For instance, while some form of sharing behaviour is seen among other species, it is precisely the meanings attached to exchange which make it of

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crucial importance in the study of human interaction (Mauss 1967; Sahlins 1972; Gregory 1982; Marshall 1961). In this study, I have focussed on this second strategy, since most of the variability which I wish to explore has not yet fallen within the scope of comparative ecological models. At the same time, I will draw on explicitly ecological studies which have developed concepts or perspectives relevant to the problems at hand. The next section of this chapter outlines such an approach, while the final four sections investigate some of its implications for our understanding of hunter-gatherer behaviour. Since the objective of this investigation is to develop some perspectives on hunter-gatherer social behaviour, the discussion in the last sections of this chapter will focus on variations in inter-individual cooperation in subsistence behaviour, the nature of hunter-gatherer social groups, and the role of economic factors in their integration. The chapter aims to develop a few expectations about hunter-gatherer group organisation, and particularly, some expectations of factors likely to be represented by community spatial organisation.

5.2: ENVIRONMENTAL UNCERTAINTY.

VARIABILITY,

SUBSISTENCE

RISK,

AND

The principal characteristic linking all hunter-gatherer societies is the nature of their subsistence economy, which is primarily extractive, rather than productive. This distinction begins to blur somewhat when one considers a variety of practices by some hunter-gatherer groups which may be considered as some form of resource management, whether burning off of vegetation to encourage new growth (Jones 1980a; Cane 1987), selective culling of relatively stationary resources, such as beaver (Winterhalder 1981; Tanner 1979), or the creation of artificial environments for plants (Steward 1933; 1938; Hitchcock and Ebert 1984), eels (Lourandos 1980; 1988; Williams 1988), or forms of larvae (Hill and Hawkes 1983). However, unlike productive economies such as agriculture and pastoralism, if such management strategies are pursued, they are usually only a small component of a hunting and gathering way of life, though one that may be suggestive of the processes by which domestication initially developed (Flannery 1986a). What is similar, however, between such practices and domestication, is that they represent an attempt to control the natural production of a resource, with the effect of regularising or increasing the predictability (and sometimes the abundance) of its availability in space or time. This recognises one of the fundamental characteristics of the natural environment - that it is tremendously variable, in both space and time. To study human behaviour against the background of this variability, it is essential to identify units of analysis that are both definable and relevant to the behaviour under study. Numerous temporal intervals are commonly recognised against which environmental variations may be measured. In this discussion, we may focus on three scales of temporal resolution which seem particularly relevant to human behaviour and subsistence variability: day to day, seasonal, and inter-annual; while longer-term changes are relevant at the scale of local group survival and the evolutionary ecology of our species, their effect on day to day behaviour is manifest through the more immediate scales of variation. The significance of these three scales is that they represent naturally occurring intervals which affect both human behaviour, and the behaviour of the plant and animal communities upon which humans are dependent. It is often difficult, if not impossible, to separate temporal from spatial variation, since, depending on their mobility, individual resources will have different spatial and temporal ranges. An assessment of stability or variability in the localised abundance of a resource will depend on the congruence between the range of the resource, and the unit of analysis. As a consequence, the definition of the temporal variability of any resource must also be tied to a specific spatial scale of inquiry. Such scales could be defined on the basis of the distribution characteristics of different resources, yet these are likely to be species specific, and may bear little or no relation to each other. However, because we are explicitly

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concerned with human exploitation patterns, the appropriate spatial scales may be defined with respect to human foraging patterns. These will vary with each of the temporal scales already identified. The assessment of day to day variation, for instance, must be tied to the potential daily foraging territory of a human individual or group. Likewise, variation over the course of a season or of the year may be assessed over the spatial scale of the range accessible to the individual or group over that period of time. With the added qualifications of spatial scale, the temporal units identified above have rather different characteristics and implications for hunter-gatherer subsistence strategies: Day to day variation in resource acquisition results not only from temporal changes in the natural availability of a resource within the range of the forager, but also from variation in the success with which that resource is encountered and captured. Therefore, while ultimately conditioned by natural characteristics of the prey, such as mobility, density, and predictability, day to day variability in resource acquisition is also critically determined by the effectiveness with which the forager can monitor and anticipate the spatial availability of the resource within the environment. Since most environments are also characterised by seasonal variation (below), day to day variation is effectively variation around a trend, rather than a stable mean. While the individual forager can anticipate that there will be day to day variation in the acquisition of resources, it is usually not possible to predict the nature of such variation. Seasonal variation refers to the pattern of variation during the course of the year. Seasonal climatic change is essentially continuous, and its effects on local plant and animal communities may result in continuous change in resource characteristics. Seasonal trends may be recognised in the patterns established by repeated years, and in this sense, the general character of change in resources is predictable. Variations away from the expected seasonal trend may be anticipated on the day to day scale (above), and between different years (below). Inter-annual variation, as with day to day variation, refers to comparative variation between natural units of time. Likewise, such variability may be anticipated, though its specific nature may not be predicted: good years are not always followed by bad years, etc. Interannual variation is a continuous process, often demonstrating random fluctuation, but for some resources, it may follow a roughly cyclical pattern. As emphasised, these scales of temporal variation are not independent, but they do point to particular types of variation which can be differentially recognised, anticipated, and reacted to by foraging populations. These conditions relate directly to the types of strategies which hunting and gathering populations develop to cope with variation in subsistence resources at the different temporal scales. From the perspective of social group formation and integration, day to day variation is most likely to affect the size, cohesion, and the nature of interactions within the local residential group. Seasonal variations will affect changes in that group during the course of the year, and may lead to different regimes of day to day variation. Inter-annual variations will affect the extent to which a standard series of seasonal transformations in group size and form may be followed each year - for instance, 'bad' years may require substantial modification of standard seasonal patterns (e.g. Silberbauer 1981a; Lee 1979; Rogers and Black 1976; Cashdan 1984b; Drucker and Heizer 1967; Binford 1978b). In contrast, it is much more difficult to set up a framework for the study of spatial scales of resource variability, as these are likely to be species and locality specific. Rather, we must consider individual characteristics of resource distribution, such as abundance, patchiness, and mobility (Stephens and Krebs 1986; Winterhalder 1980) and how these characteristics for different species in an environment interrelate. However, the behaviour of numerous species within an environment may be comparable, since they are adaptations to common

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characteristics of their environment, which may allow broad characterisation of the entire environment. Ideally, we might hope to examine an environment and to identify the potential subsistence resources available within it, subject to the available extractive and processing techniques and technology, and assess each resource with respect to the costs and benefits associated with its exploitation. Such an approach is assumed by many critics of optimal foraging models, who then ask 'what about taste?', etc. In reality, ethnographic foraging models are built on the basis of the resources actually known to be exploited (e.g. Winterhalder 1981; Hill and Hawkes 1983), or investigate changes in the resources taken, with respect to changes in foraging behaviour, the available technology, and alternative sources of food (O'Connell and Hawkes 1981; Winterhalder 1981; Hill and Hawkes 1983; Hames and Vickers 1982). Why some groups or individuals may fail to recognise or exploit particular resources as food, for instance as the result of a food taboo, becomes a question of interest, but not something which can be addressed through the foraging model itself (e.g. Hames and Vickers 19782; Stephens and Krebs 1986; Martin 1983). In fact, archaeologically, we can often document what resources were exploited, though it is usually much more difficult to realistically suggest the relative importance of different resources in the overall diet17. The approach adopted here does not attempt to deterministically predict which resources were or will be exploited by a foraging population, but rather looks to identify some of the problems with which the foragers would be confronted, given the resources which are available in the environment, and those which they choose or chose to exploit. We can then look at the articulation between the resources, the technology necessary and available for their exploitation, and any social behaviours which would facilitate or inhibit that exploitation, and likewise, the constraints or selection pressures that such exploitation might in turn put on the group's social organisation. Generalising such characteristics from individual species to configurations of species may allow the development of expectations for the social organisation of groups, dependent on the selection of resources which they exploit, which is constrained by the resources available in particular environments or types of environment. We can then develop expectations concerning changes in group organisation and integration with changes in context, whether seasonal or longer-term. This consideration of environmental variability provides us with a framework within which to examine subsistence oriented behaviour in greater detail. The decision-making/problemsolving perspective moves beyond the empirical generalisation of Steward's approach, while also circumventing the simple adaptationism pursued in many palaeoeconomic studies.

5.3: CULTURAL RESPONSES TO RISK AND UNCERTAINTY.

Until very recently, ecological anthropological studies tended to focus on behavioural adaptations to average, or 'normal' environmental conditions. It is only recently that anthropologists have begun to focus on variability around such mean conditions as a feature which structures hunter-gatherer social behaviour (e.g. Suttles 1962; 1968; Yengoyan 1968; Wiessner 1977; Cashdan 1983). With this shift in focus, the implications of such
17Two different problems may be recognised: First, we may have trouble determining which species were exploited as food, which were exploited for other reasons, and which are incidentally present on the site. This has been explicitly recognised as a problem in palaeoethnobotanical reconstruction, and has recently received considerable attention through taphonomic work on faunal assemblages from early palaeolithic sites and in the early hominid hunting/scavenging debate. The second problem involves quantification of the contributions to past diets, since different materials are likely to be subject to different cultural and non-cultural depositional and post-depositional processes, as well as recovery biases, such that the proportions recovered may tell us little directly about their original relative importance in the diet of the site's occupants.

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variability have begun to be explored, particularly through the concept of risk (Vayda and McCay 1978; Colson 1979; Halstead and O'Shea 1989). To view characteristics of the environmental context of foragers as influential on their behaviour, we must deal with the perception of risk, and strategies designed to cope with uncertainty. Given the subsistence orientation of this study, risk may be considered broadly as the probability of subsistence stress, and uncertainty as unpredictability with respect to the acquisition of subsistence resources. A risk perspective has been explored by a number of authors concerned with addressing specific issues or institutions, either among hunter-gatherers generally, or among specific groups. These include: exchange (Wiessner 1977; 1982b; Cashdan 1985; Wilmsen 1982b); territoriality (Cashdan 1983; 1984b); mobility (Cashdan 1984a); information exchange (Wobst 1977; Moore 1981; 1983; Jochim 1983a; Gamble 1982); group size (Smith 1981; 1985); social organisation (Riches 1979; 1982); hunting behaviour (Hill and Hawkes 1983; Winterhalder and Smith 1981; Hames and Vickers 1983; Mithen 1988); storage (Testart 1982); technology (Torrence 1983; 1989; Bleed 1986); and settlement layout (Whitelaw 1983b; 1986a), among others. In these studies, 'risk' has been invoked as one perspective for understanding individual aspects of hunter-gatherer behaviour. What has been missing is a more coherent attempt to examine the general implications of risk for hunting and gathering societies. One study which has attempted to do this is a brief article by Wiessner (1982a), in which she identified four strategies for coping with the risk due to variation in subsistence resources. The importance of this scheme is that the different strategies are conceived as both complementary and comprehensive. Adapting Wiessner's scheme somewhat, the four strategies may be defined as follows (Wiessner 1982a:172-3): Avoidance of loss. Strategies of this type attempt to minimise the probability of failure in any attempt to exploit a resource, or to minimise the effects of variation in the availability (or exploitability) of single resources. These may provide for increased predictability of resource acquisition, through the development of specialised technology, or counter spatial and temporal differences in the availability of individual resources by exploiting a range of resources with complementary distributions. Coupled with such diversification, in the absence of food production, is an almost inevitable reliance on some form of mobility. Self-assumption or accommodation of risk. In this strategy, periods of dearth may be accommodated by decreasing consumption demands, or compensated for by periodic exploitation of resources beyond immediate needs, coupled with some form of storage strategy, so that the bounty of one period may make up for the dearth of another. Storage effectively serves to extend the availability of a resource beyond the period of immediate access. Risk-pooling, or insurance strategies. In these strategies, risk is spread over a number of cooperating individuals, such that regular but small losses to each individual are substituted for the rarer, but larger scale (and more stressful) risks to each individual. This is commonly represented among hunter-gatherers by extensive sharing of subsistence resources, within a strong ethic of generalised reciprocity. Transfer of risk, from one individual or group, to another. Risk-transfers may be either distributive, or appropriative. In either case, transfers may be reciprocal, in that prestige or social obligations may be returned for subsistence resources, or exploitive, when they are directional and may be manipulated to the advantage of one side rather than the other. Risk transfer strategies are of limited relevance to most hunter-gatherers as a regular strategy for coping with subsistence risk, though they may be effective as desperation measures. This scheme has considerable potential for developing insights into many aspects of huntergatherer behaviour (Whitelaw 1986b), and it can provide a coherent backdrop to our consideration of hunter-gatherer social groups. As reviewed at the end of chapter 4, the elements of hunter-gatherer social organisation which are likely to be most directly linked

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with subsistence behaviour and its environmental context, and also be documented through the material/archaeological record of settlement, are those which concern the formation and integration of social groups. In chapter 4, a variety of social groups which have been discussed in the anthropological literature were considered, ranging from the family up to the breeding deme, sometimes aggregated together as a macro-band. Approaching the question of group formation more directly from the perspective of the impact of foraging strategies, Smith usefully identified four different levels of group organisation (Smith 1981:40): 1. Foraging groups: any group of individuals directly engaged in the cooperative procurement of a resource or set of resources. 2. Resource-sharing groups: any group within which a particular resource at a particular time is actually distributed, prior to consumption. 3. Information-sharing groups: any network of individuals through which information about spatiotemporal characteristics of a particular resource is transmitted, within a recent time period prior to the harvesting of this particular resource. 4. Coresident groups: any group of individuals residing together at a particular time and place. This classification provides a useful conceptual framework, though in practice, effective information-sharing groups will usually correspond to one of the other units, or will extend beyond local residential groups, and may be better characterised as a network. What is important for the investigation of the importance of foraging strategies in determining social organisation is specifically the degree to which foraging groups and resource-sharing groups correspond, and the degree to which either or both are coterminous with the local coresident group, and the reasons why. This can be addressed specifically through a consideration of factors which affect the size of foraging, sharing and residential groups, and factors which favour cooperation or competition in their integration. In considering the importance of different elements of foraging behaviour on group formation and integration, it will be worth considering several different elements: Resource characteristics serve to establish a baseline for their exploitation and in aggregate, define the nature of the problems facing the forager in a particular environment. Exploitation technologies permit or constrain patterns of resource exploitation, while the active component of foraging strategies will involve both resource acquisition strategies and resource consumption strategies. The development of efficient technologies and effective strategies for resource acquisition constitute risk-minimising behaviour, and principally determine the formation of foraging groups. Resource consumption behaviours vary, with those stressing the sharing of resources constituting risk-buffering strategies, while those stressing independence and storage may be considered risk-assuming strategies. Together, the balance between these strategies determines the nature and scale of resource-sharing groups. Resource characteristics and the strategies used to exploit them will be considered in the next section, and consumption strategies will be considered in section 5.5.

5.4: RESOURCE ACQUISITION STRATEGIES AS RISK-MINIMISING BEHAVIOUR.

Resource Characteristics: Characteristics of the resources available within a region will be relevant to their exploitation, both with respect to the pattern of exploitation of the individual resource, and the exploitation of the entire region. Since the plant and animal species that foragers exploit

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are themselves dependent on general features of their environment, such as photoperiod, temperature and precipitation cycles, many resources within a region will have developed similar adaptive behaviours. This will mean that many resources within an environment may be in temporal phase due to pronounced seasonality, which may require a subsistence regime involving significant mobility, or the development of storage technologies. Similarly, adaptations to a particular environment may require a significant development of specialised technologies, such as those capable of coping with predominantly arboreal, or predominantly marine resources. Characteristics of a resource which affect its desirability or the ease with which it can be acquired may change throughout the year, either as the resource changes, or its behaviour changes, or as the environment changes. Similarly, as the characteristics of different resources change, they are likely to require different acquisition strategies which may encourage differences in group size and integration throughout the year, usually according to some seasonal cycle. The aggregate characteristics of the resources in a region may also affect foraging strategies in a broad sense through the nature of the resources available, the overall abundance of resources, regardless of how they are distributed among different species, and in terms of species diversity. Latitudinal differences in the amount of solar energy striking the earth create a major cline in the length of the annual vegetation growing season, from year-round growth near the equator to a limited season of several weeks in high arctic regions. Not surprisingly, this has a major influence on the plant and animal species available for exploitation by hunter-gatherer populations, and leads to major differences in subsistence economy in different habitats, broadly by latitude (figure 5.1). This does not create a simple gradient, with an emphasis on gathering near the equator and hunting near the poles; rather, because many of the plants available in the tropics cannot be metabolised directly by humans, and the fruits in tropical forests may be largely inaccessible in the high canopy, gathering generally has dominance in the subtropical and low temperate zones (figure 5.1a). Hunting is often significantly supplemented by fishing in lower and higher latitudes (figures 5.1b-c). Global patterns in species diversity have long been noted by ecologists, and while there is significant debate as to the reasons for this pattern (Pianka 1978), there is usually a trade-off between the diversity of species in an ecosystem, and the number of individuals of any one species. The cline in diversity runs from high diversity in the tropics, probably linked to low seasonality and the stability of the local climate, encouraging niche differentiation, to low diversity in high latitudes. For human foragers, this means that those in low latitudes are likely to encounter a diversity of resources (particularly among fauna) during foraging expeditions, probably encouraging a generalised strategy and tool kit which will allow them to deal with a variety of different opportunities as they are encountered. In converse, high latitude foragers are more likely to face clumped faunal resources, often in very particular environments, allowing more logistical procurement strategies (Binford 1980), and encouraging the development of specialised exploitation technologies and strategies. Mobility is one of the crucial prey characteristics addressed in foraging theory, since prey mobility will directly affect the search and pursuit times of a resource (Wilmsen 1973; Winterhalder 1981; Smith 1983). Obviously, search costs will apply to both mobile and immobile resources, though immobile resources are more likely to be stable from year to year, and knowledge of their distribution can drastically cut search costs. Many other resources, faunal and animal products (e.g. honey) are also basically immobile; like plants, once located, there is no additional pursuit time involved in their exploitation. These may include shellfish, grubs, and animals with fairly limited mobility, such as fish, and small burrowing rodents, reptiles, and amphibians. In these cases, once the resource is located, capture is usually almost guarantied, and such fauna are often taken by women and children while gathering plant resources, and incidentally by men hunting other species. Other animals may be 'tethered' to dens or particular resource points and may allow greater

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planning in their exploitation once the resource point is known. Hunting at fixed points where prey of the same or different species may aggregate (water-holes, fords) may justify the construction of hunting blinds or other facilities, to increase the likelihood of capture. Very mobile resources, unless clumped or predictable in location, are most effectively located through mobile search by individual foragers, increasing the probability of locating fresh tracks. All forms of foraging, whether for mobile or immobile resources, can be facilitated by information sharing between different foragers. There is little advantage in group foraging for immobile resources if these are easily located, however more individuals can provide more systematic searching for signs of less visible isolated resources such as below-ground tubers or reptile tracks. In terms of search and pursuit time, there appears to be little advantage in large numbers of individuals foraging cooperatively after mobile, dispersed prey, though two or three hunters might spot details facilitating tracking which the individual hunter might miss. Larger numbers are likely to be a disadvantage if the animal needs to be stalked to get within the range of short-distance projectile weapons. Multiple hunters become more important at the point of capture, if the prey is very mobile, since several hunters coordinating an attack can increase the probability that the animal will be wounded or subdued. The degree to which resources are clumped or nucleated has also been considered important in foraging models (Winterhalder 1981; Wilmsen 1973). Many plant resources are clumped - either multiple resources available from a single plant, as with a nut tree, or many individuals of the same species growing contiguously - a common pattern given plant seed dispersal mechanisms. Because they are immobile, there is likely to be little advantage in cooperative search, but then there is little disadvantage, particularly if the location is previously known. Clumping of faunal resources will allow relatively efficient exploitation, since each item will have a reduced average search time, provided that more than one item can be harvested. Clumped and immobile resources, like shellfish, will be comparable to clumped plant foods in the opportunities they offer for harvest strategies. Other animals may be relatively mobile, but gather at specific locations during certain times in the year, particularly just before and after the young are born, or during migrations. Both situations may be fairly predictable in time and space, and coordinated stalking or harvesting may increase the capture rate for the search and pursuit time invested. Technologies of Exploitation. The strategies developed or adopted for resource acquisition are crucially constrained by the technology available to the forager, as well as the behavioural options perceived. Because foragers are, ultimately, in competition with conspecifics and other consumers for a limited set of resources, there is selection pressure for the development of efficient technologies and strategies. More efficient technologies are those which yield greater rates of return for the time or energy invested. A more efficient technology is usually also more specialised (Torrence 1983; 1989), which may inhibit its use in the exploitation of a broad range of resources. If few species are likely to be encountered, if the same technology is efficient for the exploitation of most of the species likely to be encountered, or if the prey which will be encountered on any particular foraging expedition can be predicted with accuracy, the use of specialised technologies is likely to increase the probability of success in foraging. The contrast is essentially one between an encounter strategy (Binford 1980), where a variety of resources may be taken as they are encountered, favouring a generalised tool kit, and logistical, special-purpose forays, where a specific type or range of prey is the object, and can be most efficiently taken with a specialised tool kit.

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Generalised and specialised technologies may be employed by the same groups in different contexts, though we might anticipate a general cline with latitude, comparable to the pattern identified by Binford with respect to mobility patterns (1980; Kelly 1983), with greater technological specialisation in more extreme latitudes. This is paralleled by Torrence's argument for the 'time-stressed' character of subsistence activities in higher latitudes (1983). What has not previously been noted is that this corresponds to the global pattern of decreased diversity in resources with increasing latitude, and a tendency in more seasonal environments for niches to be larger, more coarse-grained, and often more differentiated, encouraging the clumping of resources. In this sense, the type of resource likely to be encountered in different ecological patches will become more predictable with increasing latitude, allowing selection of the appropriate specialised technology, depending on where one decides to forage. Predictability of prey behaviour will also affect the use of facilities, such as hunting blinds, snares, weirs, fences and surrounds. While a few types of facilities such as hunting blinds at water-holes may be multi-species but behaviour-specific, most facilities appear to be species-specific, dependent on physical (patterns of movement, body size and shape) and behavioural (locations frequented, pattern of movement, curiosity, cleverness) characteristics of the species for their effectiveness. The global reduction in species diversity with increasing latitude allows greater predictability of which species will be encountered and where, and the increased abundance of each species increases the probability of success, making trap production, setting and checking more efficient. Similarly, tended facilities are often aimed at bulk capture of a resource (fish weirs, caribou surrounds), which will be more successful with species which have adapted to seasonal changes in their environment through migratory behaviour, more prevalent at higher latitudes. While cooperation in construction, maintenance and use of tended facilities may be necessary (depending on their scale), this will usually only be effective if, as a result, the resource can be harvested in bulk, sufficient for all taking part. On the other hand, untended facilities, such as snares and traps, will be consistent with more individualistic foraging. Transport technology is also a significant feature of resource exploitation, and may have different effects on the efficiency of foraging, mobility strategies, and the size and permanence of residential groups. Mechanically assisted transport of any sort, such as boats, sleds, or more recently, mechanised transport such as snowmobiles, outboards, trucks and light aircraft, can significantly expand effective hunting range, allowing foragers access to distant and usually less intensively exploited resource patches. This in turn can allow more extended occupation of a single location, or occupation by a larger population, after the resources within daily foraging range have been exploited. This has become particularly important with the establishment of permanent communities among many hunter-gatherers in the post-contact period. The available transport technology also puts constraints on the potential for the transport of resources. Because of the high bulk to nutritive value of plant resources, gatherers can rarely transport resources for a family sufficient for more than a day or two, unless a dense resource patch is located close to the residential base, permitting multiple trips in single day. Animal resources are generally more efficient to transport, given their lower bulk/higher nutritive value (which may be enhanced by drying). However, there are still severe limits on the amount of a resource which can be transported, which usually necessitates decisions as to which resource units to process for reduced bulk, transport as is, or abandon at the procurement site. Bulk transport, such as by dog sled, boat, or motorised transport, is practically essential for any logistic mobility strategy, given the inefficiencies of human porterage alone (Drennan 1984; Sanders and Santley 1983). Without developed transport technology, it may make more sense to move the consumers to the resource, rather than vice versa, depending on the bulk of the resource and the number of potential consumers. Exploitation Strategies.

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Cooperation in exploitation strategies can be considered under several categories: cooperation in implementing a strategy for resource acquisition, in the organisation of support networks, and in decision-making and leadership functions. Most of the discussion will focus on the role of cooperation in hunting, since more factors usually have to be assessed and balanced when dealing with mobile and intelligent prey. In gathering, there are usually few advantages to cooperation in terms of efficiency, though at the same time, there are few outright disadvantages. Foraging strategies may involve cooperation in the search, pursuit, capture, transport, and processing of resources, issues which have been touched on in discussing resource characteristics. In terms of search time, there would generally appear to be little advantage in the cooperation of more than about two foragers in pursuing a mobile resource, unless the extra individuals contribute to increased reliability in tracking, or unless the pursuit is effectively a game drive, where additional drivers can flank the prey to keep it on course. Capture tactics vary from the solitary, as in much game stalking and trapping, to large-scale participation at gathering and game drives. In stalking game, multiple participants raise the chances that the game will become aware of the hunters before they are within capture range, and will therefore be a liability. On the other hand, multiple hunters within range coordinating their attack should increase the probability that one will be successful, particularly important with mobile prey where the opportunity for repeated attempts may be limited. In balancing these factors, stalking parties of one or two hunters appear to be common. Group hunting can range from passive to active cooperation, depending on whether there is any interaction between individuals exploiting the same resource, and whether cooperation increases the rate of capture for those taking part. When different foragers have clustered at the same resource for its exploitation simply because of the abundance of the resource, but forage independently with no integration of activities, there is likely to be little advantage in terms of efficiency. This is often the case with group gathering. Passive cooperation may be organised to avoid conflicts over access to the resources, and to minimise the risk that one hunter will alert the animals and spoil the harvest for the others (Riches 1982; Binford 1978b). Even if there is no increase in the efficiency of capture, there will still be advantages to limited cooperation in reducing the stress associated with competition for resources. There can also be gains in efficiency, depending on the degree to which coordination, even simply through information sharing, reduces redundant actions by separate parties. Active cooperation involves a number of individuals acting in concert, such that they can harvest resources they would not have access to individually (e.g. large whales), or can harvest more of a resource than they would be able to by investing the same amount of effort but acting on their own (e.g. net hunting, animal drives). This may involve cooperation in constructing facilities, and will often entail a division of labour. In the latter case, one individual may need to act as leader, either to allocate and coordinate duties, or to choreograph the actual activity, such as timing an attack. In fully coordinated activities, minimum group size may be fairly strictly dictated by the number of individuals necessary to perform an integrated task (e.g. net-hunting), or necessary to utilise a standard technology (e.g. a boat crew), or may be more flexible, with the number involved being able to accommodate whoever wishes to take part. At the same time, upper limits on effective cooperative group size are likely to be responsive to the amount of a resource likely to be acquired. Fully cooperative ventures, where prey may not unambiguously be allocatable to individual participants, will also necessitate agreement on the procedure for the division of the catch, about which most hunter-gatherer groups have quite elaborate rules. Cooperation may be necessary in the acquisition and maintenance of any transport technology, whether traditional or introduced, and in transport activities. Assistance in the

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transport of a resource is likely to establish a claim on a share of the resource, and will be a prime incentive, or reinforce any other incentives for cooperation. Resource processing is usually conducted independently by the members of the consuming household or commensal unit. An essential part of foraging strategies is ensuring that they can be performed as effectively as possible. This may provide incentives other than those related directly to the foraging activity, which may encourage or discourage related forms of cooperation and group formation. Among many groups, men will often hunt or trap in pairs, or perhaps trios, even though there may even be decreases in efficiency by doing so. Companionship is one likely reason, but perhaps more importantly is the character of such partnerships as a 'buddysystem'. Search and pursuit will often take hunters far from the residential camp, whether in daily or longer-term foraging expeditions. The chances of illness or accident in the bush are likely to be considerable, and having a partner to aid one's return, or if necessary to go for additional help, is an important risk-minimising component in foraging strategies. In situations where small foraging groups are dispersed for much of the year (as with many high latitude groups), such partnerships will increase the chances of survival of the entire group, if one of the primary adult producers becomes disabled or dies. It is this importance which dictates the care with which such partnerships are formed (Slobodin 1962; Irimoto 1981; Henrikson 1973). More generally, companionship is likely to be an issue, and would appear to account for the prevalence of gathering parties, despite the lack of gains from cooperation. Some gains in efficiency may accrue from sharing in child-minding when women gather together, though the gains are likely to be greater if non-productive children can be left at the residential site with other adults or older siblings (Blurton Jones et al. 1989). Defence of individuals and resources against other foragers, whether strangers or neighbouring groups, is widely documented as an anxiety among hunter-gatherer groups (Heinz 1972; Tindale 1974; Burch 1980), though the anxieties may develop more from the fact that strangers are unknown and unpredictable - one does not know how they will behave (Wiessner 1983) - rather than from any actual threat. Control over rights to the resources of a territory may be a concern, particularly if the resource is crucial in the support of the local population, and if the resources are dense and predictable (Dyson-Hudson and Smith 1978). Such control is often social, with the rights to access to a resource being tied to membership in a particular group, or bestowable by the decision of that group. Whether permission can actually be effectively withheld or not, such conventions keep the members of a group up to date on the state of the various resources within their range, and enable them to manage their exploitation efficiently (Cashdan 1983). Leadership or some focus for decision-making may be necessary, depending on the size of the cooperating group, and the complexity of the task to be undertaken. Within individual families, decision-making may be by consensus, or authority may traditionally reside with one of the adult members of the family. With larger groups, such as extended families, respect and authority will usually go with experience, though this may be modified by the personal charisma or ability of particular individuals. In cooperative foraging enterprises, the leadership for a particular task is often delegated to the person recognised as best able to do the job. Activities which involve the coordination of individuals undertaking specialised tasks, or where timing is crucial, are those most likely to require central decision-making authority. Where the activity in question is of central importance in the society, leadership in one context may spill over and carry weight more widely, as in the case of boat captains in Alaskan Inuit whaling (VanStone 1962; Burch 1975; Spencer 1959; Cassell 1988).

5.5: CONSUMPTION STRATEGIES AS RISK-BUFFERING BEHAVIOUR.

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Distinguishing consumption from acquisition strategies recognises not just the temporal priority of acquisition over consumption, but a significant difference in the strategy decisions which are made. Acquisition strategies will affect when, where and how foraging is done, what resources are pursued, and (to a fair extent) which are secured. To the degree that the forager is operating alone or in cooperation with others, those decisions may be more or less likely to reflect his or her own perceived needs. At that point, after any division of joint returns has taken place, other decisions over the disposal of the resource need to be made by the individual forager - whether the resource should be consumed by the forager alone, exchanged or distributed to others, processed for storage for utilisation at a later date, or prepared and consumed directly by all or some of the consumers in the coresident group. Decisions about resource consumption are made from the perspective of the needs of the consuming group, with particular reference to the nature, amount, and regularity of subsistence resources available. Two issues are particularly worth attention, in terms of their relationship with the formation and integration of social groups - the degree to which the food needs of the consuming group can be met on a day to day basis, and the quantity of resources which are introduced to the consuming unit as the result of any one day's foraging. The probability of acquisition of any resource during any particular foraging event will be subject to varying degrees of uncertainty, depending on the characteristics of the resource and the strategies of acquisition. Different resources will be more or less predictable, though as a general rule, successful foraging is more predictable with plant, as opposed to animal resources. Simply as a strategy for survival, most hunter-gatherer diets are based around predictable resources, with variety introduced by less predictable resources when they can be obtained. Their relative dependability, ease of acquisition, and relative abundance accounts for the prevalence of gathered resources in the diet of most midlatitude foragers, and the relative importance of fish for many higher latitude groups (figure 5.1c). While meat appears to be prized above plants by most foragers (Testart 1985), foragers will take plant resources even when other animal resources are available; where studied in detail, preferences appear to be well-informed by the relative efficiency of acquisition of energy from different resources, regardless of whether they are plant or animal in origin (O'Connell and Hawkes 1981; Hawkes et al. 1982; Hill and Hawkes 1983). Because of the greater predictability of plant resources in most environments, they can usually be collected as needed, and do not necessitate elaborate strategy decisions concerning consumption. On the other hand, two particular strategies have been developed to increase the regularity of access to less predictable resources (often meat). These involve storage of the resource when it is available, to tide over periods when it is not, and sharing, to balance unpredictable acquisition opportunities between different productive units. The second major problem facing foragers in terms of access to unpredictable resources concerns the amount which can be acquired at any one time. This has two elements, the package size of the resource, and the number of packages which can be secured by each productive unit. If individual package size is small, then the number taken can be tailored to what can be consumed by the productive unit within one or two days (unless the resource is taken in greater quantities and processed for storage). This is usually the case with gathered resources (e.g. fruits, nuts, etc.), and with animal resources which are small (e.g. fish, eggs, larvae, small rodents and reptiles etc.). On the other hand, some animal resources come in packages which exceed the amount which can be consumed within a single productive unit before it becomes inedible. In this case, there are again two principal strategies which can extend the effective utilisation of the resource, physical storage for later consumption within the same productive unit, and sharing with other units. The effectiveness of the latter depends on reciprocation at some future date, when the other unit finds itself in the same situation.

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To set the context for an examination of different consumption strategies, it is worth examining the influence of the package-size distribution of prey on both the regularity and quantity of prey acquired. We can use a simple simulation to work out the results of resource acquisition under different conditions. The model starts with a configuration of resources, specified as to the number of each of four different package sizes, and randomly allocates them to a series of foragers, randomly distributed over a sequence of 100 days. In figure 5.2, an equivalent amount of resources (800 kgs) has been differentially allocated into different package sizes, as noted in table 5.1. As the resource is distributed among a larger number of smaller-sized packages, the probability increases that at least some resources will be acquired each day. While the overall quantity of resources (by weight) is roughly the same in each simulation,18 the day to day variation in resource acquisition decreases with smaller, more regular inputs. The difference between resource configurations, however, is exacerbated if we convert our acquisition pattern to one of potential consumption, by imposing a limit of no resource storage. In this case, the daily (family) consumption needs of the producer are set at 8 kgs, and any excess in daily acquisition is simply lost through wastage. The level of daily consumption, day to day variability, and overall cumulative loss is also given in table 5.1 for each resource distribution. Lacking any means to extend the use of a resource which comes in a package larger than the immediate needs of the individual consuming group exacerbates the inefficiency of large package exploitation, as well as dramatically decreasing the mean consumption levels. This presumably will act as a considerable selection pressure in environments characterised by larger package-size resources, toward the development of strategies for extending the utilisation of a resource. Sharing and storage constitute the two principal strategies for coping with consumption decisions, and may be more or less relevant under different circumstances. While they may to some extent be viewed as alternatives, individuals may employ either strategy at different times of the year, or with respect to different resources, or in dealing with different groups within the residential community (e.g. within and between extended family groups or hunting partnerships, etc.). Self-assumption or Accommodation of Risk through Storage. Storage is essentially the asocial, individualistic strategy. It allows or encourages the autonomy of the individual productive unit, removing it from potential stress over the distribution of resources. Once subsistence strategies involve crucial dependence on other productive units for support, their security depends on the stability of the link between those units, which can be disrupted by changes in the social relations of those cooperating, or disrupted from without. Storage as a strategy will support the independence and selfsufficiency of each productive unit. The self-assumption of risk through storage balances the investment of extra labour in subsistence pursuits at one point in time, against the possibility that either the labour or suitable resources will not be available at some future time. Such a strategy presumes that resources are at least sometimes available and harvestable (with the available labour and technology) in quantities that exceed day to day needs, and that the returns from labour investment at one point in time can be enjoyed at some other time. Extending the use-life of a resource will have direct implications for the value of large package-size resources, and will allow foragers to better cope with any temporal differences in the availability of resources in an environment. The effectiveness of storage depends on the time over which the resource must be stored, decay characteristics of the resource, and the available preservation technology. A variety of storage techniques has been used by hunters and gatherers, including cooking, smoking,
18 Represented by the value for mean daily acquisition in table 5.1, varying randomly for each of 100 runs of the simulation, though usually below the theoretical mean of 8.0 kgs/day.

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and sealing in fat or oil, though the most frequently used are drying and freezing. The latter techniques may only be possible under particular environmental conditions, and their effectiveness is likely to depend on the continuation of those conditions. Even with such storage technologies, the effective use-life of most subsistence goods exploited by huntergatherers can rarely be extended for more than a single year. In figure 5.3, a balanced distribution of resources (figure 5.2e) has been subjected to an 8 kgs daily consumption maximum, with different degrees of storage allowed. The effect of storage even for a few days is dramatic in raising overall mean daily consumption, and reducing day to day variation (table 5.2). Except for truly massive animals such as whale, elephant, giraffe, etc., the meat of a single animal can often be consumed by a single family within a matter of days, usually within the period of time when the meat will become inedible (though this varies with cultural perceptions: compare Gould 1967:56 with Meehan 1982:160). This is particularly the case since foragers have been documented to consume prodigious amounts of meat when it becomes available (Lee 1979; Turnbull 1961; Meehan 1982; Rogers 1983; Maybury-Lewis 1967). Differences in the package-size distribution of resources will obviously affect the importance of being able to store a resource for different periods of time; figures 5.4-6 graph the effects of different lengths of storage period on the utilisation of resources, given different package-size distributions. Storage is more essential for the effective day to day utilisation of larger package-size resources within a single productive unit. For some resources, such extended use will not require any special preparation or preservation. On the other hand, depending on the nature of the resource, its package size, the size of the consuming group, and the local environment, the resource may need to be processed to allow more extended storage over a number of days. In these cases, storage techniques may be fairly simple, such as drying or smoking, and may further allow short-term logistical provisioning, such as special-purpose hunting trips (Silberbauer 1981a; Binford 1980). Longer-term storage is a rather different issue, and its importance is related to the degree to which resources are temporally clumped in their availability, as is often the case in regions with pronounced seasonality. If many of the resources follow a similar cycle of availability, the region may not be habitable year-round without some form of long-term storage strategy. In such a case, the storage technology will need to be effective for the duration of the period of scarcity - preservation for 10 or even 30 days is unlikely to be of much assistance if the stores need to over-winter the population. Storage is particularly effective at this temporal scale of variability, since the general characteristics of variability can be anticipated and planned for in advance; stocks can be built up in periods of abundance in anticipation of expected periods of dearth. In addition, the approximate quantity of resources which will need to be stored can also be anticipated, since the period during which subsistence will be limited to stored food can be estimated on the basis of experience in previous years. On the other hand, storage is only an effective option if sufficient resources are available and can be harvested and processed, to support the local population through the bottleneck of a period of dearth. If resources are more generally available throughout the year, there is likely to be little incentive to engage in the extra effort required to process a surplus for storage. There are several further implications of the adoption of a storage strategy. The first is that subsistence pursuits may, by chance or design, occupy differential amounts of time throughout the year. This may allow considerable and extended periods of time during the course of the year when other activities may be pursued, such as trading and ceremonial behaviour. A second implication is that, for the period during which stores are laid in and exploited (unless they can be cached in the field with little risk of loss, and retrieved when needed (Binford 1978b; 1980)), the consumers may need to maintain a fairly sedentary existence, tethered to their stores. Third, stored foodstuffs constitute a dense and predictable resource which may need to be defended against human and other competitors.

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Cooperation for defence may favour larger group size, both within the productive group, and within the community as a whole. Physical storage of foodstuffs appears to be of only limited value to hunter-gatherers as a strategy for coping with inter-annual or longer-term resource variability. This relates to the unpredictability of supply and demand for resources, the constraints of sedentism on foraging strategies, and the limitations of simple hunter-gatherer storage technologies. The primary basis of long-term storage strategies among food producers is usually either the dry storage of vegetal produce, or 'storage on the hoof' of livestock, both of which can allow long-term storage, effective in buffering inter-annual variation. Because of the lesser densities of wild plant resources, the latter can rarely form the basis of hunter-gatherer stores. Rather, hunter-gatherers must rely principally on the storage of meat. Simple storage technologies are less effective for meat and meat products than they are for vegetal matter, and suggest that the self-assumption of risk, through the physical storage of foodstuffs, is a strategy with little potential for hunter-gatherers beyond the scale of seasonal variations in subsistence resource distribution. A final implication of storage strategies, particularly from the perspective of local group integration, concerns competition between different productive groups within the residential group. While completely independent productive groups rarely amalgamate into a single community for any length of time, I am aware of such a pattern as a result of non-aboriginal nucleating settlement policies (Freeman 1984a; Maybury-Lewis 1967; Sinha 1967), and in two types of aboriginal context. In the first, as represented by whaling communities in the northwest North American and Siberian arctic, different productive groups might reside for much of the year at a few locations particularly favourable for spotting and hunting migrating whales. While the nucleation was principally because of the focussed distribution of an abundant resource, there was considerable advantage in aggregation since multiple boats provided multiple chances at successful capture of any one whale. Despite competition for prestige between whaling crews, the prize was sufficiently large to be shared throughout the entire community, and indeed elaborate rules governing the rights to the kill, and for its sharing, served to mitigate stress within the combined community (Burch 1975; 1981; VanStone 1962; Cassell 1988). The second situation is that found along much of the Pacific northwest coast of North America, where different productive groups nucleated into large communities, and defence appears to have been a principal concern (Ferguson 1983; 1984). While the coresidence of completely independent productive units is rare, a degree of independence between coresident productive units is much more common, possibly universal with groups consisting of more than one nuclear family. The importance of storage of resources in this context is two-fold. First, of course, storage and accumulation provides a material basis for competition, carried to its extreme among foraging societies in the potlatches seen on the northwest coast of North America, and diffused into neighbouring areas. On the other hand, storage can actually reduce variation in the consumption of subsistence resources between productive groups; as the amount of resources available for consumption by each group stabilises on the day to day level, the disparities between different groups will reduce, at the same time reducing tensions within the overall group, complaints about stinginess, hoarding, indifference, etc. To summarise, short-term storage would appear to be an effective component of a consumption strategy, particularly as the proportion of the diet which is acquired in large packages increases. In this situation, short-term storage can significantly improve the mean and decrease the day to day variation in daily access to resources, and facilitate full utilisation of large-package resources by reducing loss through wastage. In addition, in regions with considerable aggregate seasonality in the distribution of resources, long-term storage can be a critical component of subsistence strategies, as long as sufficient quantities of a resource can be harvested and stored to tide over the period of scarcity. Finally, while not its chief attribute, storage, in evening out variation in consumption within a productive

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unit, can reduce the potential for tension between different coresidential productive units, in terms of daily consumption, and in terms of security (in having stores). Risk-pooling through Sharing. Sharing, or 'generalised reciprocity' (Sahlins 1972), has been the principal focus of several important recent studies of risk-buffering behaviour among hunter-gatherers (Wiessner 1977; 1982a; 1982b; Cashdan 1985). The relationship of the risk-pooling role of reciprocity to models from classical economic insurance theory has been clearly and concisely laid out by Cashdan (1985). Given the resource characteristics of an area, the aggregate probability of foraging success can be anticipated, but the success of any individual cannot. If the expected probability of success for any one forager each day is low, it will be advantageous for a group of foragers to agree to share any returns. Foragers will lose in the long run if they bring back more than the average amount of resources, though they will still gain from more regular access to resources than if they relied on their own returns alone. The principal effect of sharing is to reduce the variance in any one individual's daily returns. Two points are particularly relevant to the effectiveness of such a strategy for huntergatherers. First, the risks facing each forager must be independent - if two individuals forage together, then they will encounter the same opportunities, and there will be little or no reduction of variance in their returns through sharing. Second, the potential variation in returns must be great enough to justify cooperation, since if there is little variation in the opportunities encountered by different foragers, there will be little gain through sharing. Furthermore, the probability of success on any particular hunt must be unpredictable, as otherwise hunters could invest their labour for other returns when the probability of success at hunting was low. Taking a risk-pooling perspective on day to day sharing behaviour among hunter-gatherers provides useful insights into the differences between hunting and gathering. Gathering of plant foods, and relatively immobile small fauna such as shellfish, fish, lizards and some burrowing animals, may be characterised as a relatively low-risk pursuit: once encountered, capture of the resource is almost certain. While there are demonstrable differences in the proficiency of different gatherers, these differences are usually less marked than those between hunters, who are usually more differentiated in terms of skill at tracking, pursuit, and capture of resources. Characterisation of gathering as a low-risk, regular return pursuit fits well with the commonly observed situation that gathered resources, while shared within families, are not shared widely between the households of a residential group. Such behaviour is anticipated by the low-risk nature of gathering, as well as by the common situation that foragers will gather together, rather than individually; because the encounter risks they face are not independent, there is little gain to sharing most gathered resources. Hunting may be characterised as a far riskier activity, from the perspective of the likelihood of failure. In addition, there is often considerable variability in the success rate of different hunters. Given the more unpredictable, independent, and limited returns from hunting, as opposed to gathering, sharing can be quite effective as a means of evening out unpredictable hunting success, and in reducing the variation in day to day access to meat for each hunter's family. Hunting is often linked with elaborate rules for the sharing of game, which lead to general distribution within the local group (Gould 1967; Yellen 1977b; Graburn 1969; Damas 1972; Altman 1987; VanStone 1962; Binford 1984). Such a perspective also accounts for the generally documented situation that small, ubiquitously available game is often retained within the household of the person acquiring it, whereas other game will be shared more widely, often (eventually, if not directly) with everyone in the residential group (Lee 1979; Silberbauer 1981b ; Yellen 1977b; Damas 1972; Graburn 1969; Gould 1967; Binford 1978b; 1984; Altman 1987; Altman and Peterson 1988).

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Sharing as a strategy for increasing regularity in access to and the amount of subsistence resources available to consumers, is nearly the opposite of a storage strategy in its social effects, in that it encourages and is dependent upon, cooperation between different productive units, breaking down their autonomy. For the purposes of our simulation, two different characteristics of sharing strategies may be recognised, the number of individuals cooperating in pooling resources for consumption, and the degree to which all resources are shared. With respect to the latter, distinctions may be drawn between particular types of resources with reference to the package-size or acquisition frequency of the resources. Working with the same balanced distribution of resource package-sizes used for the storage comparisons (figure 5.2e), subject to the same 8 kgs consumption maximum, we can look at the effect of different numbers of cooperating individuals, presuming in this case complete sharing of all resources (figure 5.7). The effects of increasing the scope of cooperation through sharing can be characterised as dampening the degree of day to day fluctuation through redistributing the resources which are acquired independently, as well as raising overall daily mean consumption, through more complete utilisation of the resources acquired (table 5.3). Obviously, like storage, sharing of a resource, particularly one that comes in large packages, will allow more effective utilisation of the entire package. On the other hand, this presumes that similar packages have not been acquired by the other producers. The relative implications of sharing in the context of different patterns of resource size-distribution can be seen in figures 5.8-10. In this case, since only a limited amount of any large package can be utilised by any additional cooperating consumers (without storage), the efficiency of utilisation of large package resources is least effected by sharing. Likewise, since ubiquitous, small packages are almost regular in availability through their abundance, and can be utilised fairly fully within the individual productive unit, there is relatively little gain through sharing. Thus sharing may be most effective as a strategy when mid-sized packages are relatively infrequent and exceed what can be consumed directly by the individual productive unit, and also for more fully utilising the infrequent large package resource. With different sharing strategies, the package-size distribution of the resources, and the frequency with which they are acquired should affect decisions as to which resources are shared, and which are retained for consumption within the individual productive unit. In figure 5.11, five different strategies ranging from no sharing to complete sharing have been modeled against different resource distributions, for a fixed population of four cooperating producers. Assessed against mean daily consumption, it is not surprising that the greatest gains are where the strategy is most closely tailored to the resource distribution profile. However, a balanced resource distribution shows the greatest slope (improvement in mean value) for a strategy incorporating the sharing of both large and medium-sized packages. A strategy focussed on larger resources alone is limited by the fact that without preservation, little of a large resource can be effectively utilised by a small group of consumers. Lesser marginal gains are made by a strategy which adds small or tiny resources, since these are quite efficiently utilised without sharing. This can also be seen in figure 5.12, where the same relationships are re-expressed, modelling a balanced resource distribution against the four different sharing strategies, and different numbers of cooperating producers. Here, the relative effectiveness of the different strategies can be seen, but also the decreasing marginal value of expanding the number of cooperating producers. The single greatest gain is with the sharing of medium size packages - while there is still improvement with the addition of small and tiny packages, this is relatively smaller, particularly considering that the quantity of resources involved is the same (25%). For medium-sized packages, the rate of improvement declines markedly after a network of three cooperating hunters. Obviously the patterns documented will vary with the underlying resource distribution, but they provide a means of assessing the efficiency of a sharing strategy. Recent moves toward mathematically modelling foraging decisions, particularly incorporating an element of

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uncertainty, have reached similar conclusions, that sharing can be quite effective at reducing variation in resource acquisition, even with small numbers of cooperating foragers (Winterhalder 1986; Smith 1988). As with storage, differences in the timing of acquisition and availability for consumption can be a source of tension within a residential group reliant on unpredictable resources. As with storage, any stabilising of inputs, in terms of frequency or quantity, will reduce the disparity between coresident productive groups. In contrast with storage, sharing does this explicitly, moving in the direction of balanced acquisition of resources for all, depending on the degree of sharing within the entire residential group. On the other hand, such cooperation opens the possibility of (fair or unfair) accusations of stinginess, hoarding, etc. The importance of competition and consequent stress, while minimised in ethnographies which emphasise cooperation, is given by a few more candid remarks, usually about the research procedures and the difficulties of doing detailed subsistence-oriented fieldwork. Several ethnographers have noted that individuals may not bring all of their catch back to camp, but consume at least part in the field, before entering the context where sharing may be required, or that some kills may be purposefully hidden to avoid sharing obligations (Meehan 1982; Altman 1987; Myers 1988b). In addition, data on resource acquisition can sometimes only be recorded when the anthropologists have made it clear that this would not mean that others in the camp would become aware of each family's acquisitions, and come for a share (e.g. Meehan 1982:46). Similarly, tensions associated with food and sharing are well-recorded in the ethnographic literature, and indeed the increasing frequency of squabbles over food, as well as decreasing portions of shared resources are frequently cited as the reasons for the break-up of large aggregations or macro-band camps (Silberbauer 1981a, Woodburn 1968a; Gould 1967). To summarise, like storage, sharing can be suggested to be a strategy for effective resource utilisation which has variable value in different circumstances. Without some sort of storage, at least on the day to day level, sharing alone is not particularly effective for allowing the full utilisation of large package resources, given the normal size of huntergatherer residential groups. Sharing is likely to be most effective when resources are unpredictable, and often come in packages that exceed the daily consumption capacity of individual productive groups. In this situation, sharing with the expectation of returns at another time will most effectively utilise the available resource, as well as increase the predictability of regular access to similar resources. The increased regularity of access will encourage sharing, even if the individual resource could be consumed by a single unit, over a few days. There is likely to be little point to sharing small, predictable, ubiquitously available resources, such as most gathered plants and many species of small fauna. While effective at the level of coping with risk due to day to day variation in the acquisition of subsistence resources, sharing is not particularly effective at longer temporal scales of resource variability. On the day to day scale, the risks met are those of resource acquisition, in addition to those of availability in the environment. The former are unpredictable and independent, the latter are not, since they are the same for every member of the foraging group. On the temporal scales of seasonal and inter-annual variation in resource abundance, the same risks will be faced by each individual, unless they disperse into different regions, and are subject to different local risks. In the latter situation, however, the limitations of long distance transport of foodstuffs (Drennan 1984; Sanders and Santley 1983) in the context of limited transport technology, will generally rule out effective riskbuffering through inter-regional sharing among hunter-gatherers. Without storage strategies to extend the availability of resources throughout the year, risk-pooling strategies are of only limited use to hunter-gatherers in coping with seasonal or longer-term variation in resource availability. A risk-pooling strategy cannot alter the aggregate risk facing the group, it can only distribute it more equally between individuals, ensuring that none suffer disproportionately. In such a situation, seasonal fluctuations in resource acquisition and consumption will affect the entire risk-pooling population.

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Finally, sharing can reduce social tensions resulting from uneven access to resources, while raising the possibilities of others, such as disputes over laziness, stinginess, etc. Integration: Patterns of Cooperation in Consumption Strategies. Storage and sharing have been presented as alternative strategies, since the former emphasises independence, whereas the latter stresses cooperation. This is not, however, to say that they are opposing strategies, since it should also be clear from this consideration that they have different degrees of relevance in different circumstances, dependent on seasonal environmental characteristics, individual resource characteristics, and patterns of resource acquisition. They can be alternative strategies in particular situations, but may also have rather different prerequisites and consequences. Storage, whether short-term or longterm, requires the availability of particular technologies. If long-term and in bulk, storage may require some residential stability for access to, and maintenance of stores. Sharing will require a stable social system, with a reasonable assurance of balanced reciprocity, and the flexibility to react when this is not the case. On the other hand, it will lock one into a series of social relationships which one may not have the freedom to ignore, a potential source of conflict when hunter-gatherers have attempted to diversify into, adopt, or link into elements of the economy of neighbouring peoples (Brooks et al. 1984; Lee 1979; 1984; Tanner 1979; Altman 1987). In actuality, most hunter-gatherer subsistence economies involve both storage and sharing, and the strategies adopted may vary between some resources which are shared, and others which are consumed individually. In most environments, storage of at least a few days is possible, which allows much of the advantage of short-term storage, without any major investment in technology or drastic commitment in processing time or residential stability. On the other side, even those groups most heavily committed to storage and individual assumption of risk, will share food with visitors and close kin, and aid others, particularly members of the same local group, in times of crisis when one productive group's stores are insufficient (e.g. Binford 1984; Elmendorf and Kroeber 1960). However, this mix has tended to blur the distinctions between the social consequences of each type of strategy. In fact, storage is usually discussed by ethnographers simply as a technology, and ignored as a strategy (though see Testart 1982; Ingold 1983; Woodburn 1980), so that its role in many societies is unclear, whereas sharing and exchange as social strategies have long been discussed in anthropology. However, the degree of attention given to sharing and exchange has not been as illuminating as one could wish. Much of this is because of anthropologists' preoccupation with rules rather than behaviour. A considerable amount of attention has been devoted to the ideology of sharing customs among hunter-gatherers, but considerably less to the behavioural effects of such rules. We may be taken through the pattern of distribution of one carcass, but are rarely given information on different types of distributions, how often they occur, and between whom. If we are trying to explain behaviour, we must deal with what people do, rather than simply with what they say. This is not to argue that the latter should be ignored, but the implications of the behavioural working through of such ideologies must be appreciated in any discussion of the material record (Binford 1984). The relative merits of sharing and storage as possible strategies for organising resource consumption have been reviewed in considerable detail, and could be examined further, with modelling such as that attempted for illustrative purposes above. However, given that most consumption strategies are compromises, or mixes, and take place in the context of specific resource distributions, it is not at present possible to make blanket general predictions about consumption strategies. However, even simple modelling does give us some ideas about variation which can assist in the development of more detailed expectations about behavioural options in specific circumstances, where the prey characteristics may be known, the seasonal distribution of resources may be documented,

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and the access to storage technology, as well as other factors, taken into consideration. Such an approach will be developed a little further in the next chapter, when we turn to look at the settlement behaviour of particular hunter-gatherer groups in specific environmental contexts.

5.6: CONCLUSIONS: ALTERNATIVE SUBSISTENCE STRATEGIES AND THEIR IMPLICATIONS FOR SOCIAL AND SETTLEMENT BEHAVIOUR.
At the end of section 5.3, Smith's (1981:40) distinction between foraging groups, resourcesharing groups and coresidential groups was identified as the crucial focus for an ecological consideration of hunter-gatherer social group formation. In section 5.4, a variety of factors concerning resource acquisition, relevant to foraging group formation, was considered, while section 5.5 addressed strategies of consumption, and their influence on the formation of resource-sharing groups. Now it will be appropriate to consider how these different types of group relate to each other, and the degree to which either or both correspond with coresidential groups - the groups that create the material record of settlement which eventually may be recovered archaeologically. Foraging groups are task-specific groups, and their size and composition are likely to be more or less closely tailored to the requirements of the task they are formed to undertake, depending on the degree to which latitude is possible without compromising too much the effectiveness with which they can carry out their objective. The effectiveness of the foraging group may be linked to its size in two ways: Either a specific number of individuals may be required for the task, setting a minimum, or may be permitted, setting a maximum on the number of participants. On the other hand, the effectiveness of the group will be determined by the returns from the cooperative venture, relative to the number of individuals cooperating and expecting a certain level of return for their effort. Foraging groups may be task-specific, but the task may be very general, so that the composition of the group may be constrained to differing degrees. The composition of a foraging group is likely to be tailored both to the specificity of the task, and to the nature of the task; the more special-purpose, defined or predictable the nature of the undertaking, the greater the likelihood that an optimal or efficient foraging group can be defined in advance. While individual foraging groups may be more or less task-specific, a foraging population must engage in a wide variety of different tasks, each of which is likely to have its own requirements in terms of the number and abilities of the individuals taking part. This is likely to necessitate considerable flexibility within the residential group, from whom the members of most foraging groups will be recruited. If many of the labour demands at a particular time are similar, then a fairly stable set of task-specific groups may develop, such as male hunting pairs, and female and adolescent gathering groups. In this case, the foraging groups are complementary, which helps to maintain the cohesiveness of the entire cooperating group, for instance as a resource-sharing group. On the other hand, some more specific tasks may come up, and a subset of the entire group may perform them. If many of the comparable labour demands are in phase, but change during the course of the year, this may lead to a cyclical, seasonal change in optimal foraging group size and composition. In contexts where a variety of resources are exploited, there may be a variety of foraging opportunities, each having different optimal configurations in terms of the size and composition of the foraging group. Either the pool of foragers, represented by the coresident group, needs to be large enough to cope with the maximum demands, certain opportunities will have to be forgone, or separate residential groups would have to unite for specific tasks. Where a minimum number of cooperating individuals is necessary for a particular task of importance for the subsistence of the group, a great deal of effort may be expended in trying to maintain the appropriate size of group. An example of this is Mbuti net-hunting, where

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seven or eight family nets are required for a successful hunt; individual kin-groups will need to attach themselves to another group when their own population is not sufficient (Turnbull 1961; Harako 1981). Similarly, Inuit sea mammal hunters are constantly concerned that they may not be able to maintain a crew sufficient to handle a boat, enabling them to make their own subsistence decisions (Ellanna 1988; Morgan 1979). Even among Northwest Coast groups, where lineage organisation was maintained, an individual might have several residential options, and house leaders faced many of the same difficulties encountered by 'big-men' in establishing and maintaining an effective cooperative subsistence unit (Oberg 1973; Drucker 1951). Similarly, foragers may be well aware of the importance of the number of cooperating producers in maintaining a risk-pooling, resourcesharing group, and work actively to maintain it (Wiessner 1977), or to retain its most active producers (Kaplan and Hill 1985a; 1985b). While separate residential groups may cooperate in joint subsistence activities, such as communal hunts (Steward 1938), this will usually correspond to a period of joint residence, so that the foraging group becomes the new residential group, at least for the duration of the cooperative venture. The labour demands of foraging can exercise considerable influence on overall residential group size. It has often been noted that the modal tendency for local residential groups of about 25 individuals represents a group corresponding to the dependents of four to five active male hunters, and it has been suggested that cooperation on this scale is likely to achieve a fairly regular supply of meat to the group, a view supported by simulations such as those in the previous section (Winterhalder 1986; Smith 1988). However, residential groups often appear to be close to the maximum that can be supported by all of the resources within exploitable range of a camp, not just the meat available in the area. In this case, the ideal sized foraging groups for a resource such as meat, may be just a component within a larger aggregate, whose size is critically limited by the abundance of staple resources in its immediate surroundings. The importance of foraging labour demands in determining resource sharing and residential group size is perhaps most clear among groups which rely upon a restricted range of resources. In North American subarctic and arctic contexts, where most of the diet consists of meat, the optimum foraging group size for acquiring meat may be the principal determinant of residential group size, and will change seasonally, as the resources available and the strategies which can be used in their capture change (Smith 1981; Burch 1981; Balikci 1970; Sharp 1977; Rogers and Black 1976). Resource-sharing groups are usually more encompassing than foraging groups, almost always incorporating complementary foraging groups, when different members of a group will be principally involved in either hunting versus gathering, or food acquisition versus food processing, etc. Usually, however, resource-sharing groups will not extend beyond the residential group. Individual sharing between different residential groups may take place, but given the high costs of portability of foodstuffs, this nearly always involves different residential groups camped nearby, either dependent on the same water-hole, attracted to a mission or trading post, or by the anthropologists. In these situations, the different residential groups usually maintain their own camps, which will be the limit of normal day to day sharing, aside from particular gifts between specific relatives or partners in the different camps. If the two residential groups were more closely integrated as a resourcesharing group, they would generally camp together. Resource-sharing groups may constitute subsets of a residential group, interacting more intensively or cooperating more fully than they do with other comparable groups within the residential group. On the other hand, in traditional contexts there will usually be resource sharing at some level that serves to unite the entire residential group, giving it some solidarity. This distinction may occur in terms of the type of resources shared between different groups of individuals. As has been noted previously, sharing strategies are often defined by the package-size of the resource, and the difficulty, predictability, or regularity of access to it. Small, ubiquitously available resources, such as most plant foods and small

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fauna are rarely shared beyond the family, which can be defined as one level of resourcesharing group. This may be expanded to an extended family, or group of three to five families, for the sharing of larger game. In many cases, it will be this larger unit that provides the pool for foraging group members, and the fruits of cooperative foraging will be shared among the members of this group. In many cases, or for much of the year, that group will correspond to the residential group. If it joins seasonally with several comparable groups, there is likely to be some sharing within the aggregate group as a whole, though there is still likely to be more intense interaction and cooperation between the members of the sub-group, than with members of other such groups. Within a large community, we might anticipate up to three different levels of resourcesharing groups: the nuclear family, a resource-sharing group of several families, and the entire community (when this is not the same as the previous). In particularly large communities, the second-level groups may be almost or even entirely autonomous, and little effective community-wide sharing may take place. In these cases, the existence of the community is likely not to be based primarily on subsistence cooperation, or possibly even social cooperation, but on other considerations. Such communities have been considered in previous sections, such as the semi-sedentary communities of most groups along the northwest coast of North America, where community-wide sharing was ritualised, but far from balanced. A similar situation exists in many present-day hunter-gatherer communities where individuals from a number of formerly separate resource-sharing local bands have settled in one community, either aggregating together of their own volition for increased access to medical care, welfare payments, rations, or Western goods, or having been settled or encouraged to settle by national authorities for control, pacification, ease of administration, provision of social services, etc. While depending on the precise local situation, sharing in these cases is rarely communitywide, both because no resource can be acquired in sufficient quantity to be shared across the entire community, and because such communities are rarely integrated socially in ways which facilitate wide-spread sharing, since they are composed of individuals from a number of formerly independent groups, essentially strangers. What sharing does take place will be on a smaller scale, between individuals linked in the same ways that encouraged sharing in smaller groups - through individual cooperation in task performance, kin obligations, etc. However, within such communities, sharing customs may be further eroded as cash, private ownership, and accumulation are adopted and a traditional subsistence economy disappears. Residential group size is likely to be limited in terms of a minimum, by the number of individuals necessary for any foraging activity which is crucial to the subsistence of the group. Commonly, this may be two or three families foraging alone, with the number determined by the desire for companionship and the need for support in case of accident, supported by subsistence reliability through sharing as risk-buffering. In terms of a maximum size, this is usually determined by the number of individuals who can be supported by the resources available through the technology and foraging strategies utilised, within the local environment. The composition of residential groups will usually be a fair cross-section of the local population as to age and sex distribution, unless the group is only a segment of a normal residential group, engaged in a specific activity such as logistical foraging, non-subsistence resource extraction, trading, visiting, raiding, or engaged in ritual activities. These are almost always short-term, at least as compared with normal residential sites, since those taking part will have to schedule their activities with respect to normal foraging behaviour to provision or be provisioned by the rest of the group. Most of the preceding discussion, concerning foraging (resource acquiring) and resourcesharing (resource consuming) groups, has documented a close link between such groups and their environmental context, through the elements of subsistence-related behaviour

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discussed in the previous sections of this chapter. This linkage may be anticipated as being particularly close in societies utilising extractive subsistence strategies. There is clearly some latitude in group formation in most environments, in terms of which resources are actually selected for exploitation and the method by which they are acquired and eventually consumed; both types of group may be compromises between different tendencies, as different resources are given prominence in subsistence strategies. However there is also a pretty direct link between both types of group and their environmental context, and indeed to each other, which should lead us to expect general patterns in foraging behaviour in specific ecological contexts. Residential groups must also be effective within a set of environmental parameters, but the linkage with environmental conditions may be rather less direct. As with the other types of group, decisions made as to the size and composition of residential groups are likely to be compromises, balancing different factors. However, in this case, some of the factors may bear no relationship with the environment at all, while others undoubtedly will. Certainly, subsistence issues will be a major factor in residential group formation, but not the only factor. Indeed, we might go so far as to suggest that in situations that are particularly marginal for human survival, subsistence decisions may be the most crucial, with little scope for influence from other factors which are not consistent with efficient subsistence activities. On the other hand, foragers in richer or more predictable environments, with lesser levels of subsistence stress, may have greater latitude to make decisions as to residential group size and composition which are less constrained by subsistence behaviour. This relative freedom may only be possible during particular times of the year, during periods of subsistence abundance, or may be more extended. In dealing with situations where subsistence factors, whether linked to resource acquisition or consumption, play a less central role in residential group formation, the subsistence ecology is still likely to be an important factor in the nature of residential groups. From the perspective adopted in this study, even if the residential group as a whole is formed as a compromise between different objectives, with social or other factors outweighing subsistence constraints, it should still be possible to look at the role of subsistence factors in integrating that group, perhaps through sub-organisation within it, preserving more traditional resource-sharing groups, or indeed their transformation within the new cash economy (Sansom 1980; Altman and Peterson 1988; Smith 1970). We should be trying to identify comparatively those situations where we would anticipate that subsistence-related decisions will have a greater or lesser role in the organisation of the residential group, and trying to identify the nature of that role in the formation and integration of residential groups and sub-groups. That is the objective in trying to identify and develop an understanding of variability in hunter-gatherer behaviour, not simply classifying it, or forcing it to fit a particular model. The perspective on hunter-gatherer social organisation adopted in this study was explicitly defined to look at the role of environmental, and particularly subsistence-related factors in social integration. Identifying the limits of such an approach, where such factors have less importance, is crucial, in setting the scene for further investigation. Exploring those other issues, which have particular relevance to hunter-gatherers in a non-traditional context, will need comparable work within a generalising framework. As with the present chapter, a wide range of detailed ethnographic work will be necessary to support such a comparative study, and it is beginning to be done, with the recognition that foragers live in the modern world, and are not palaeolithic survivals (e.g. Turnbull 1983; Lee 1984; Eder 1987; Petersen 1981; Altman 1987). As yet, however, the necessary ethnoarchaeological work is in its infancy (e.g. Kent and Vierich 1989; Hitchcock 1982; 1987; Gelburd 1978; Brooks et al. 1984). These are issues far beyond the scope of the present study. In the present chapter, I have tried to re-organise and integrate existing information about foraging behaviour to identify some of the principal factors which are likely to influence the formation of social groups in hunter-gatherer societies. These factors are particularly important in the ways that they

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permit or constrain the size of residential groups (ultimately what we have evidence for through the archaeological record), and influence the nature of their integration. It is also worth considering differences in residential group formation in terms of their implications for community layout. First, cooperation will depend on communication, which should lead us to expect that individuals and families cooperating closely in subsistence activities should tend to situate themselves fairly close together. This will be relative, with respect to others in the same community, such that we might expect localised clusters of residences, representing cooperating and resource-sharing groups within a larger community. This may also affect absolute spacing, since the degree of separation will affect one's ability to communicate and coordinate activities easily, monitor what others are doing, what resources they have, and what resources they may be willing to share. In this sense, when there is very extensive cooperation within resource-sharing groups, we should anticipate that they will camp very close together, whereas if cooperation and sharing is more limited, as when productive units are also buffered by individual storage strategies, they will be likely to situate themselves farther apart. The degree of interaction between different families or productive units within a camp, then, should be reflected in the overall occupation density of the community, clustering of residences within it, and perhaps the orientation of those residences, clustering around joint facilities, such as hearths. Likewise, the degree of integration within the residential group as a whole should be manifest in its plan, whether the group is an assemblage of largely independent productive groups, as in many modern nucleated communities, or whether it acts together in at least some contexts as a cooperative unit, as in many traditional camps. As with different levels of sharing within a group, decreasing in intensity as the size of the group increases, we should anticipate decreasing occupation densities as overall group size increases. This will probably not be because the spacing between each residence increases, but rather because cooperative sub-groups of the community will be more dispersed individual families are likely to put their residences at greater distances from their neighbours who are in different resource-sharing or cooperative groups, than from their neighbours with whom they interact more intensively. This tendency will essentially create neighbourhoods within a large community, with differences in the degree of social integration between components paralleled by differences in the degree of spatial integration. Such patterns are likely to be broadly comparable within a single culture which shares concepts of sociability and privacy. Such patterns may vary between different communities, as foraging and resource-sharing patterns change with seasonal differences in resource structure, varying with the degree of permanence of the community, and the degree of investment in permanent structures and facilities, limiting short-term flexibility. There is likely to be a greater degree of difference in such patterns of spatial behaviour between cultures, than within cultures, since the perception of distance, and the significance attached to it through concepts of privacy, are more likely to be different (section 2.4). However, such decisions and conventions are ultimately based upon comparable perceptive senses (section 2.3), so that we should still anticipate some broad cross-cultural similarities in behaviour. Perceptions of distance, ease of communication, and concepts of privacy are likely to be fairly drastically modified by the nature of structures, and the degree to which they form effective insulation or barriers to sight and sound. From this perspective, increasing impermeability of structures may take the place of space as an insulator, with implications for differences in occupation densities, both within cultures, if different types of structure are in use, perhaps during different seasons, and between cultures. Similarly, interhousehold spacing will also be affected by the number and nature of extra-residential structures and facilities, such as storage areas, special purpose work areas, and household dumps.

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Other constraints will also affect residential density and community layout, such as limitations on space determined by physically appropriate areas for residences such as limited dry ground (Meehan 1982; Peterson 1973), or enclosing forest (Turnbull 1965a), the availability of suitable materials such as deep snow drifts for snow-house construction (Mathiasen 1928), or the constraints of natural shelters, such as areas of shade, and the limited extent of caves and rock-shelters (Seligman and Seligman 1911; Nicholsen and Cane, in press). Other concerns may dictate settlement layout, such as a desire for direct access to beach areas where marine resources are crucial (Usher 1966), security in settlement location (Hadza camps on rocky ridges to avoid elephants: O'Connell et al. 1987), security in dense layout from fear of predators (Schebesta 1928; Gould and Yellen 1987), or defence from other foragers (de Laguna 1960; MacDonald 1983). Given the importance of foraging considerations among most hunter-gatherers, particularly in pre-contact situations, we should expect some broad trends in settlement density and layout, corresponding to the social organisation and integration of the residential group and varying with the degree of cooperation in resource acquisition and consumption. On the other hand, given a variety of additional factors, we can anticipate considerable variation, both situation specific (e.g. crowding due to availability of residence locations at a particular site, etc.), but also culture-specific. With such a series of expectations, as well as cautions, it will now be appropriate to look at the documented patterns of variation in hunter-gatherer community organisation.

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CHAPTER 6 HUNTER-GATHERER COMMUNITY ORGANISATION: CROSS-CULTURAL ANALYSIS

6.1: INTRODUCTION: OBJECTIVES OF THE ANALYSIS.
Previous chapters have defined a perspective on settlement behaviour and community spatial organisation, and a series of broad expectations concerning the relationship between social and spatial organisation in hunter-gatherer communities. In this chapter, data on spatial organisation will be considered for a sample of 806 forager communities, documented ethnographically and ethnoarchaeologically. The general characteristics of the dataset will be presented, some broad trends identified, and some patterns within the data pursued in more detail, linking them to specific characteristics of their cultural and environmental context. A broader comparative overview will be presented in the next chapter. Differences in the size and nature of social groups within hunter-gatherer residential sites, and their degree of integration, are likely to be manifest in the spatial extent of communities, their habitation density, and the pattern of arrangement of residential structures within them. While a number of ethnoarchaeological studies have been conducted with reference to hunter-gatherer settlements (e.g. Yellen 1977a; Gould 1980; Gould and Yellen 1987; O'Connell 1987; O'Connell et al. 1987; Jones 1980b; Gifford 1977; Binford 1983; 1987; Chang 1988; Hayden 1979; Hahn and Rousselot 1975; Hitchcock 1987; Kent and Vierich 1989; Nicholsen and Cane, in press; Fisher 1987; Fisher and Strickland 1989; Janes 1983), a relatively limited range of cultures has been investigated. In addition, the different orientation and documentation in each study allows little of the ethnoarchaeological detail to be utilised in comparative analyses. On the other hand, there is a great wealth of information, though usually of lesser detail, contained in the ethnographic reports on a much wider range of foraging societies, potentially suitable for addressing broad questions comparatively. It is this data which forms the bulk of the material considered in this chapter, though it requires a clear consideration of the aims of using such data, sampling issues, and problems of data quality control. The objective of the present study is to develop a broad perspective on the social organisation of space in hunter-gatherer communities. To do this, a wide cross-cultural dataset was essential. At the same time, the very general nature of the expectations which could be developed concerning hunter-gatherer spatial behaviour (sections 4.9 and 5.6), held out the promise that the less detailed, but larger sample of ethnographically documented data would be relevant, at least for developing ideas which might be examined in greater detail through current and future ethnoarchaeological studies. In this way, it was possible to broaden out from the ca. 50 settlement plans from about fifteen hunter-gatherer cultures documented in the ethnoarchaeological literature, to about 800 communities, from 112 different cultures. This was possible because a surprisingly large number of ethnographies have an example community plan, a normative settlement sketch, or simply a description of the community where the ethnographer worked, as part of the background documentation of the ethnographic experience. While often not explicitly discussed in the text, such documentation often allows consideration of community layout, habitation density, and in a comparative sense, changes in those patterns with changing community size. In addition, in occasional cases, ethnographers have documented in some detail the social organisation of a particular community, including the patterns of interaction or (more usually) kinship relations between different residents, providing information comparable to that available for the !Kung San, utilised in chapter 3.

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6.2: THE DEFINITION AND SCOPE OF THE DATASET.

The sample of communities, and indeed cultures which will be considered in this chapter, cannot in any sense be considered representative of the behaviour of all, or even of recent hunter-gatherers. Rather, it is a haphazard sample consisting of every community plan I have encountered through a number of years of combing ethnographic and development literature, which I felt had any value for the questions considered. That the sample is not statistically representative is perhaps unfortunate, but no ethnographic sample will be particularly if our aim is to look at variability in human behaviour. On the other hand, I am not using the sample inferentially, to claim that all hunter-gatherers in the past will have behaved in a certain fashion. Rather, I am looking for patterns and trends within the data, and trying to work out how they relate to some propositions about how hunter-gatherers use space to facilitate and communicate social relations. Exceptions to those patterns which may emerge through further ethnographic fieldwork, in overlooked ethnographies, or through archaeological investigation, will serve to broaden that pattern of variation, and will add new variations which may require a reassessment of the present argument - this must remain an open-ended discussion. The data used range from detailed ethnoarchaeological plans of debris on occupation sites, to small scale sketch maps in ethnographies. In several cases, I have supplemented these sources with descriptive material, particularly when I felt that a particular regional group or ecological adaptation was very under-represented in my sample. I have resisted the potential of ethnographic photographs, except when using information from a photograph to give an approximate scale to an otherwise unscaled sketch plan. Photographs were avoided for two principal reasons: First, it would probably be impossible to define a point of diminishing returns for simply collecting such data - their potential has been hinted at by Cribb's work using photographs of nomadic campsites to inform on site structure (1982), and Blackman's more detailed reconstruction of the layout of a Haida village, largely from century-old photographs (1981). Second, since most photographs have been taken from eyelevel, accurate reconstruction of the plan of a community from such a low-level oblique photograph is likely to entail a considerable degree of error. It was felt that these two factors, in combination with the relatively large sample which it was possible to collect using more direct documentation, have justified leaving the photographic record for further investigations. Another potential source for further information were those individuals, both ethnographers and ethnoarchaeologists, who have collected settlement data, though they may not yet have published it in full, or have only published summary figures, rather than plans and information on the cultural context. A few individuals very kindly have supplied me with unpublished data, and are acknowledged in the Preface. On the other hand, a number of other enquiries have been unsuccessful, and in general, I have relied upon published information for the present study. A final source of information deserves note, and this is the occasional use of archaeological rather than ethnographic data. Except for a very few cases where the cultural context of proto-historic sites is quite clear, I have relied upon archaeological data only in the case of California, where most of the dataset derives from the work of Cook and Heizer (1965; 1968). They calculated a series of figures for normative village population size and areal extent, based on explorers' accounts and ethnographic data on population size, and archaeological data on site size, for sites in the same tribal areas. While not ideal, this dataset has been widely accepted, and is broadly consistent with what we know ethnographically of the native cultures of California (Heizer 1978). The inclusion of this data is particularly important since hunter-gatherers within a temperate environment are poorly represented in the ethnographic record, having usually been displaced from such areas quite early in Western colonial expansion.

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The pattern of displacement of a hunter-gatherer way of life since the development of the neolithic is largely responsible for the distribution of surviving foraging populations in areas that are considered marginal for agriculture or pastoralism. Given the late advent of detailed ethnographic documentation, most of our information concerning hunter-gatherers also comes from such relatively marginal areas, and it is no surprise that the sample I have collected has the same biases. These concentrate in central and southern Africa, Australia, and northern North America. On the other hand, small but important samples come from a variety of other regions, covering five of the six continents ever occupied by foraging populations (figure 6.1). In attempting to utilise a sample derived from a wide variety of sources, it is crucial to have some idea of the reliability of the data to be analysed. While it would be useful to be able to quantify the likely sources of error, in practice this has not proved possible, and the major sources of error have been integrated in a qualitative assessment of reliability. It was not considered realistic to attempt any quantified weighting factors, or error terms - rather it has been most straightforward simply to see whether inclusion of data of lesser reliability substantially alters any patterns identified. Generally, this has not been the case, the less reliable data simply acts as noise, with positive and negative deviations roughly balancing out. Community population figure sources were graded from the most to the least accurate: 1. a census made at the date of the plan; 2. the ethnographer's rough estimate, or an official census of about the same date as the plan; 3. an estimate usually based on the number of structures and the average number of occupants per house for that culture; 4. essentially a guess based on likely family size and the number of structures. For segments of a community, if not documented by household, the overall community population would be allocated proportionally by the number of residential structures, considered roughly equivalent to source 2. The first three sources were generally considered fairly reliable, though this would obviously vary with the way the data was used - a relatively unreliable population estimate in combination with an unreliable area estimate would be likely to be pretty much useless. Quantification of the scale of error is impossible, but when assigning ratings, I generally felt that category 2 might be within 10-15% and category 3, 25% of the actual population value. Settlement areas presented rather different problems, dependent on the type of information and the accuracy of observation as well as reporting. Ranked in terms of reliability, sources were: 1. a detailed ethnoarchaeological plan (down to a scale of about 1:200); 2. an ethnographer's rough plan (down to 1:1000 or so); 3. a small-scale plan (rarely down to 1:50,000); 4. an unscaled sketch; 5. verbal descriptions or tabled figures. Obviously, ethnoarchaeological plans were ideal, since they were both detailed and made by a researcher who was interested in accuracy at that level of resolution. Ethnographer's rough plans were often more difficult to deal with, as any scale might be very approximate. Where there seemed reason for doubt, ethnographer's plans and sketches were checked or scaled against other maps, usually geographical maps including natural features marked on the settlement plan, or against photographs or descriptions. This occasionally revealed that a given scale was clearly in error. For some areas, principally in Canada and Alaska, it proved possible to check the scale of many sketches or rough plans against 1:50,000 or 1:63,360 geographical service maps. In doing so, it was found that these were either extremely accurate or completely schematic, and where the former could be assumed, these were used in a number of cases as the sole plan record for communities. For Canada, most settlements in the north were already documented in detail, but Alaska was rather less-well documented in the sample. Consequently, the maps for the entire state were scanned, and about a dozen native settlements were selected, usually in specific locations where the settlement boundaries were fixed by natural landscape features. Other problems of reliability arise with spatial data, most of which have received little attention in ethnoarchaeological investigations, nor in archaeological applications of

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ethnoarchaeological models (however see Cook and Heizer 1965; Yellen 1977a; Gould and Yellen 1987). The most crucial is the definition of site areas. Early on, it was recognised that this was a serious problem, and a more casual attitude adopted in earlier work ( Whitelaw 1983b), was replaced by a standard practice, where possible. Since I am principally concerned with residential densities, I have chosen to work with the residential area of a settlement, which in practice, I have defined as a closed polygon connecting points 0.5 metres beyond the perimeter of any residential structure. These areas were measured for all settlements with plans, by computer from the digitised plan. Nearest neighbour distances would have been appropriate (Gould and Yellen 1987), but there are severe problems dealing with reflexive pairs formed in clumped distributions of structures (which characterise many communities), and some of the plans I was dealing with did not have each individual structure indicated. Distinguishing the boundary on single structure sites presents something of a problem, in that structures may be the focus for family groups, but need not be occupied as such. They form a useful referent for inter-family spacing, but do not individually define the space needs of a single family, which without detailed ethnoarchaeological data would be a fairly arbitrary exercise. On the other hand, since the focus of study is community social organisation, in practice with individual families as components, all of the settlements chosen for study are essentially multiple family communities, all of which are represented by two or more family residential structures, unless all the families of a community live in the same dwelling. The boundary convention chosen will give some variation in area depending on the spatial layout of structures, for instance the same number of structures in a line, regularly packed, or arranged in a circle, even if the inter-structure spacing is the same, will produce rather different areas. However, the convention was widely applicable to the data available, and notionally objective with reference to the issues under study. Problems of replicability do emerge in deciding how to treat large empty areas within a distribution, or curved distributions, or unusable spaces (trees, water) within the bounds of a site. I have tried to treat these consistently with the pattern of inter-structure spacing, so as not to drastically inflate or deflate density figures, though such decisions are always open to debate. In a number of cases, particularly in northern North America, indigenous housing may have grown up on the fringes of a mission or trading post. In these cases, a substantial portion of the community may be taken up with the Western structures in the centre, and it is not clear whether the peripheral indigenous segments would have located closer, if they had the opportunity, or whether in fact the separating structures are an active component of indigenous spacing strategies. In these cases, I have usually treated each spatially discrete indigenous component individually. A concern with replicability also raises problems with the use of descriptive data. Ethnographic reports usually describe a community in terms of its structures, which is relevant to the perspective taken here. On the other hand, a number of ethnoarchaeological studies have reported areas for communities, or segments of them, but have not explained how the areas were calculated. In most cases, we can probably assume that some scatter of debris around the residences, and subsidiary structures and facilities, were included in the area figures, but this is usually not defined. In any case, an area measured according to the convention used here should be smaller than that defined in another fashion. Examples are given in table 6.2 of a few cases where figures have been reported, and the plans were also available to be measured by the convention outlined above. In some cases, where the published area is based on a total cleared area, or debris distribution, the differences are quite substantial. In cases where the plans are not published, this difference is not detectable, though it will exist. Obviously, these differences constitute considerable 'noise', and will serve to confuse any patterns which do occur in the actual relationships we are trying to measure, in this case by lowering occupation densities. Recognition of this is given by the reliability assessment of each area estimate.

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Initially working from ethnoarchaeological data, such as that presented in the study of the !Kung in chapter 3, it was clear that a single settlement contained more information about the social organisation of space than simply its total pattern - it was likely to be composed of a number of sub-groups which themselves had both social and spatial integrity. If there was no difference in spatial behaviour within such smaller groups and within the wider, encompassing community, then their occupation densities would be comparable. On the other hand, if there were differences, this was of interest. Consequently, where it was possible to identify discrete clusters of habitations within a larger community and it was felt likely that they may have had social significance, these have been considered in their own right. In many cases, it is possible to document that the cluster in fact is a separate cluster of close kin, justifying such extraction; in other cases, such behaviour may be otherwise documented in the culture, though in the specific case, detailed documentation of social interaction is not available. Overall, consideration of such segments, expands the sample to a total of 1762 different social situations, which is the sample analysed further in this chapter19. Of these, 453 could be argued to be socially distinct segments of a community, whereas 492 were simply spatially distinct clusters of habitations. Taking the entire sample, the rating for the population figure and the rating for the area estimate are compared in table 6.3 for an assessment of the relative reliability of the dataset. Assessing each case individually in terms of its record for population and area allowed me to rank 121 cases as excellent, 641 as quite good, 541 as acceptable, and 459 of uncertain reliability. An additional obvious concern is the degree to which any analysis relying largely upon recent hunter-gatherer populations can be expected to inform us about the traditional behaviour of those populations, to say nothing of having any relevance for past huntergatherers. The most important part of this issue is whether the social and economic situation of the people studied can be considered to have represented a coherent social and spatial adaptation, whether or not it was still 'traditional'. Since all modern hunter-gatherer populations are living at the fringes of a world economy, this is an important issue, particularly where the foragers are heavily tied into a cash or welfare system, which almost invariably erodes traditional patterns of social relationships. To this end, I have used a fourfold scale to rank settlements, dependent on whether we can consider traditional patterns of social relations as likely to have a role in community spatial organisation. At the traditional end of this scale are essentially pre-contact societies, minimally affected by outside contact, at least during the period documented by the settlement considered, or bush camps of more acculturated groups. Adapted communities have modified their settlement behaviour, usually by aggregating near centres in larger numbers than would have been the case aboriginally, often at least partially supported by rations or welfare payments, but where traditional patterns of social interaction are at least partially maintained. Non-traditional communities are composed of indigenous people who have essentially abandoned traditional subsistence foraging, and may be resident in a community planned or dominated by outside individuals or agencies, though elements of traditional social organisation are likely still to exist. Finally, Westernised groups have essentially become fully integrated, economically and socially into the dominant industrialised society. In the sample, 737 cases may be considered traditional, 492 adapted, 364 non-traditional, and 134 Westernised. Cross-tabulating traditional settlement patterns with reliability (table.6.4) reveals 821 cases which I would consider usefully informative about traditional hunter-gatherer settlement behaviour (reliability 1, 2 or 3 and traditional or adapted). In the

19The incorporation of segments as well as their parent community in the sample will violate the notion of statistical independence within the sample, however, since the analysis is exploratory rather then inferential, this presents no significant problem in the present study.

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rest of this chapter, a distinction will be made between analyses of the entire sample of 1762 cases, and of the 821 traditional and reliable cases.20

6.3: GLOBAL BEHAVIOUR.

PATTERNS

IN

HUNTER-GATHERER

SETTLEMENT

Communities in the sample range in size from 2 to 4867 inhabitants, though 90% of the sample is composed of communities with 250 or fewer residents. The cumulative percentage distribution for the entire sample and for traditional and reliable examples is fairly comparable (table 6.5), though there are fewer 'traditional' communities at the upper end of the scale: 16 settlements overall have populations greater than 1000, whereas only 14 'traditional' communities exceed 500. Nearly all of the 'traditional' communities which exceed populations of 200 are modern nucleated settlements in the North American subarctic and arctic. A plot of settlement population against settlement area for the complete communities of the entire sample (figure 6.2), while supporting the intuitive idea that more people generally take up more residential space, indicates an extremely broad relationship. This alone should encourage caution in the archaeological application of any cross-cultural formulae for estimating population from site areas (Wiessner 1974; Yellen 1977a; Read and LeBlanc 1978; Hassan 1981). Of more direct relevance to this study is the relationship between the population of a community and its residential density, since larger communities will incorporate a larger number of people who will be less familiar with each other, and likely to interact less regularly and less intensively. A graph of density against population for the entire dataset (figure 6.3), displays the pattern we should expect in a very extreme form; the highest residential densities only occur with quite small populations (generally less than 50 individuals), and all large communities have relatively low densities. To enable clearer examination of this distribution, we can re-display the data on logarithmically-transformed axes (figure 6.4). Two points are initially worth noting. First, the distribution is not simply a random in-filling of the lower left corner of the diagram there is a clear threshold to what can be recognised as a coherent community, which varies with the number of people in the community. This makes intuitive sense, in that we might anticipate that a few people scattered over a few hectares would have little social integrity as a group, whereas several clusters of individuals, in an area with the same aggregate density, could recognise relations both within their cluster, and with the other groups of individuals. The second point is that while there is a definite negative trend in the data, such that larger numbers of people do indeed take up more residential space, the actual distribution around the trend is considerable: communities with approximately 100 inhabitants are documented at densities ranging from 1 to 3,000 persons per hectare, or allowing from 3.3 to 10,000 square metres for each individual. There is very little difference between the trend in the entire dataset, and that from a consideration of reliable and traditional cases alone. The trend in the former is defined by the regression equation Density = 2487.8 * Population-4.56 , with a rank-order correlation coefficient rs = -0.5127 (p<0.0001), in the latter by the equation Density = 2090.7 * Population-4.68, rs= -0.4381 (p<0.0001). While the general proposition that occupation density will decrease with increasing community population receives support from data from a wide variety of foraging cultures, it is worth trying to account for the considerable variation around this broad trend. Is it simply due to 'noise' - errors in data observation and recording, due to cultural
20 When the sample is dichotomised into 'traditional' and 'non-traditional' communities, the former are those rated 'traditional' and 'adapted', the latter the remainder.

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idiosyncrasies in the perception and use of space, to the unique circumstances of each case, or are there consistent patterns within this variation which can be accounted for in terms of systematic variations in human behaviour? That will be the topic to be pursued in the remainder of this chapter and the next. First, though, the extreme density documented in some communities, a few with less than one square metre of residential space per person, deserves brief comment, simply to ensure that this is not an error in the data. What is measured in the cases where an actual plan could be measured, is the distribution of residential structures. In some cases, as among the !Kung in the dry season, the shelters are rarely used except for shade from the sun, or for caching possessions; most activities, including eating and sleeping, take place around the hearth in front of the structure, while space-extensive activities may take place away from the structure. In terms of comparable activities, the measured area of such family camps corresponds to the interior of a single-room dwelling in sedentary communities, the standard housing for much of the world's population (United Nations 1987). Such singleroomed family dwellings will often have less than two square metres of floor space per individual, equivalent to an aggregate density of 5,000 people per hectare. Of 19 cases in the sample with densities higher than 5,000 per hectare, two are temporarily occupied cave sites, where the space is naturally constrained, another is a midden site which was occupied because it was drier than the surrounding ground, though its small size forced the inhabitants into a much smaller space than they were accustomed to (Meehan 1982:38), and the remainder are all the measured interior of communal dwellings. In the latter cases, the 0.5 metre buffer around the structure has not been included, since this would lie within the structure walls in most cases. Of the communal dwellings, two are relatively impermanent frond structures just used for sleeping, whereas fourteen are communal semi-subterranean houses of the Ammassalik of Eastern Greenland (Holm 1888; Thalbitzer 1914; Petersen 1974-5). In the Ammassalik longhouses, body warmth was crucial for heating the houses, and much of the interior of the house was taken up with the sleeping platform (figure 6.111). Such high densities, while extreme, are not impossible, though clearly they are not documented as overall figures for large-scale communities. While we can anticipate that any trends in the aggregate dataset will be diffused by intercultural and other differences in behaviour, several patterns come through regardless, essentially cross-cutting any more specific factors. A division of the data in terms of the degree of 'traditional-ness' (figure 6.5), indicates that the densest communities are nearly all traditional in character. This shifts fairly dramatically toward lower densities with adapted and non-traditional communities, and nearly completely to low density in Westernised settlements. A comparable pattern can be seen in terms of economic differences, though of course these correlate quite well with overall changes in settlement pattern (figure 6.6). In this case, communities involved in subsistence, and what I have classed as 'subsistence/market' economies, behave very similarly, and the changes are with mixed economies, and further with a Westernised economy. I have used the category 'subsistence/market' to designate communities which are subsistence oriented, but have a direct tie to outside economies, either acting as specialised hunters or harvesters of forest products for neighbouring agriculturalists, from whom subsistence resources are obtained (groups such as most African tropical forest cultures (e.g. Mbuti, Efe, Aka, Baka), most remaining Indian forest groups (e.g. Birhor), and Philippine foragers (e.g. Batak)), or deriving much of their support from the sale of furs (most North American subarctic and arctic groups, to some extent also applicable to hunting groups in Greenland). In mixed economies, subsistence production may be undertaken along with cash employment, a substantial reliance on national welfare payments, or earlier, partial rations. In these cases, some traditional social and exchange networks usually continue, but they may become truncated, particularly as local residential groups incorporate individuals from formerly separate groups. With Westernised economies, there is unlikely to be much, if any, economic support for social networks.

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To look at the effects of social scale more directly, we can divide the dataset according to the social unit represented by the community (figure 6.7). A much smaller segment of the entire sample could be classed as to social unit with certainty. However, it can be assumed with some confidence that most of the large, adapted communities that have formed in postcontact times represent composite groups, from the remains of a number of formerly separate local bands. These are usually large, permanent and very low-density communities. In figure 6.7, extended family and local band groups account for nearly all of the high-density communities, with the smaller extended family groups tending toward slightly higher densities. Multiple bands represent a situation where two or more local bands have camped at the same location, usually to interact cooperatively or socially. These are generally less dense than the individual band camps because each band will maintain their own residential area, separated from the other(s), though usually in close proximity. Composite groups usually have much less integration, with common residence because of common attractions to a location, such as a trading post, mission, or herding/agricultural establishment where employment, rations, welfare, or goods are available, rather than because of social or subsistence cooperation. Finally, just as we might anticipate lower residential densities in larger communities, we might also expect that communities that are occupied for longer periods will be occupied at lower densities, since residential reshuffling will take place less often, decreasing the opportunities to alleviate any tensions that develop between neighbours. In figure 6.8, density is broken down by occupation duration; nearly all of the densest communities are occupied for short periods of time, shifting to lower densities with longer periods of residence. The partitions of the sample just examined show corroborating trends, though this should not be too surprising, since these variables are themselves correlated (table 6.6). However, they do illustrate the multi-variate character of settlement strategies, and suggest that individual components of settlement behaviour are likely to be more informative than a simple classification, such as between 'traditional' and 'acculturated' communities. What is somewhat surprising is that the anticipated patterns come through as clearly as they do, given that over 100 different cultures from very different contexts are represented in the sample. The patterns traced justify a closer examination of these and similar issues, but to do so, it will be essential to break the sample down into components which can be anticipated to control for some of the variation in settlement strategies. This is undertaken from the perspective of ecological context in the next section.

6.4: THE DEFINITION OF ANALYTICAL GROUPS WITHIN THE DATASET.

Given the ecological orientation of this study, the arguments in the preceding chapter which would lead us to anticipate that different patterns of subsistence behaviour in different environments will have significant effects on social group and residential organisation, and the gross patterns just presented, it is most appropriate for the sample to be organised in terms of environmental context. A wide variety of environmental variables might be selected on which to organise any division of the dataset, but the discussion in the previous chapter put emphasis on patterns of resource characteristics, which can most effectively be organised in terms of different biomes. A fairly broad-based classification is necessary, and I have tried to keep this simple but effective by recognising six major ecological biomes occupied by foragers: desert, savanna, tropical forest, the temperate zone, subarctic forest, and arctic tundra. These are widely-recognised categories, though the precise basis for any definition varies between ecologists and may be based on slightly varying criteria (Whittaker 1975; Furley and Newey 1983; Cloudsley-Thompson 1975). Several, such as temperate and savanna, encompass extremely varied ecological communities, though this is less confusing than might be the case since only a limited range of the sub-types of each are

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actually relevant to the present sample; such distinctions will be pursued further where relevant. One widely-referenced classification is based principally on the temperature and precipitation of a region, since these are two of the major elements of climate which determine the vegetation, and hence also the faunal components of an ecosystem (Whittaker 1975). These variables are graphed in figure 6.9, along with the position of each culture in the sample, as estimated on the basis of the nearest weather station for which I could readily obtain climatological information (Wernstedt 1972). Some anomalies may be identified between my classification of cultures and Whittaker's environmental analysis (though he only defines his boundaries as approximate). Some conflicts arise because the nearest weather station has a somewhat different environmental regime - there are few weather stations in many of the extreme environments presently occupied by hunter-gatherers. The others usually arise because I have tempered a purely climatological interpretation with evidence for similarities in subsistence and social behaviour between related cultural groups. Hence, the Owens Valley Paiute, are here classed with neighbouring desert Paiute groups, though they inhabited an environment which might be better classed as temperate; culturally they were more closely linked with neighbouring desert rather than temperate cultures (Steward 1933; 1938; Thomas 1981). Similarly, while considerable climatic overlap exists between arctic and subarctic groups in North America, the distinction is clearer both spatially on the ground, and culturally between Indian, Inuit and Aleut communities. Finally, a number of cultures in tropical South America live in a mixed forest-grassland region, though in terms of temperature and rainfall, it might be classed as tropical forest. On the other hand, the groups under study principally exploit the savanna part of their environment, which is how they have been classed. These give some idea of the boundary definition ambiguities, but are not viewed as seriously qualifying the classification, since the object of this exercise is to organise the dataset into sub-groups which can be analysed effectively, and which are likely to represent more homogeneous patterns of settlement behaviour than are represented across the sample as a whole. The validity of such groups for further analysis can be established on several grounds, though ultimately the assessment of a classification will rest on whether it is useful. In this case, it is straightforward to document that these represent substantially different environmental contexts for human foraging behaviour. We can then establish that huntergatherers in these environments do behave differently, in terms of both subsistence and social behaviour. Finally, we can document that the different ecologies are characterised by substantially different patterns of settlement behaviour. Table 6.7 summarises a series of relevant variables which will be referred to in the following sections of this chapter. Mean annual temperature is largely determined by latitude, and the major effect of temperature in creating these biomes can be seen in their latitudinal banding across the globe (figure 6.1). The standard deviation, based on monthly values, gives an idea of environmental seasonality due to temperature, which will also give a fairly good indication of seasonality in vegetation. On the other hand, vegetation will be crucially affected by both the amount and the annual distribution of precipitation - in tropical latitudes the difference between lush rain forest and near-desert savannas is largely the result of rainfall patterns, in terms of both abundance and seasonal distribution. The vegetation within a region may be assessed directly through figures for primary biomass, though much of this is usually tied up in standing stocks, such as trees, at any point in time. Therefore a better gauge of the richness of an environment is given by its net primary productivity, a measure of the energy which is consumed in the direct production of vegetal material, over a set period of time. The ratio of net primary productivity to primary biomass is likely to give a fairly good idea of the relative amounts of vegetation that will be available to animal consumers in an environment. This emphasises major differences between the richness of some environments in terms of vegetation, as opposed to potential animal biomass. Most of the vegetation which can be consumed by herbivores

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cannot be directly metabolised by humans, and much that can, will be inaccessible, for instance high in the forest canopy; environments which in terms of vegetal growth might intuitively seem very rich for human exploitation may be quite limited in terms of accessible, usable resources, or limited by the absence of particular essential nutrients (Hart and Hart 1986; Gross 1975; Ross 1978). On the other hand, dry environments may be sparse in terms of surface vegetation, but surprisingly bountiful in terms of plants with underground storage organs, exploitable by human populations (Foley 1982; Vincent 1985; Tanaka 1980; Silberbauer 1981a). Quantified assessments of the resource potential for humans of any environment are notoriously difficult to calculate, and I have been able to locate few relevant comparative figures. The figures for animal biomass in table 6.7 are simply guestimates, based on vegetation patterns and principles of community ecology (Whittaker 1975:227-8; table 5.3). Another set of figures included in table 6.7 is an estimate of ungulate biomass, since ungulates form a major faunal resource for many foraging groups (Hassan 1981:14). In combination with gross assessments of some characteristics of the faunal resources (Kelly 1983), these support an expectation that subsistence behaviour is likely to be rather different in each ecological context. This expectation can be assessed fairly directly through a comparative analysis of hunter-gatherer diets. In figure 6.10, I have graphed data for the percentage of subsistence derived from gathering, hunting and fishing for 42 cultures as documented in the Standard Cross-Cultural Sample, a sample designed to be representative of the ethnographically-documented cultures worldwide (Murdock and White 1969; Murdock and Morrow 1970; Murdock and Wilson 1972). I have previously expressed my scepticism with respect to such samples, when used inferentially (section 1.6), though the sample does provide a straightforward presentation of a variety of data which can provide an overview of hunter-gatherer behaviour (though often of uncertain accuracy). In this case, only a few of the cultures have actually had their subsistence behaviour documented in sufficient detail to justify much confidence in these figures, and indeed these have been challenged in the past, but rarely with reference to more accurate information (e.g. Lee 1968). In the graphs, I have used the recorded data for all of the non-equestrian cultures in the sample who rely on foraging for 80% or more of their subsistence. For the ternary diagrams, figures were necessarily adjusted as if gathering, hunting and fishing comprised the entire diet. In previous comparative discussions of hunter-gatherer subsistence (e.g. Lee 1968; Ember 1978; Plsson 1988), the position of fishing has been considered rather eclectically, as if it was not really important, since we'd managed to leave it out of the designation 'huntergatherer'. Considering the contribution of fishing in its own right recognises its crucial importance in particular environments, and its role as a swing variable: in tropical and subarctic environments, gathering provides a fairly standard contribution to the diet, with variation created through the balance between hunting and fishing. While it is obvious that an environment will constrain potential subsistence strategies through the resources available, it is still comforting to see this supported by data drawn from comparable environmental contexts on different continents. Savanna subsistence strategies, as documented here, are quite variable, relating to the variety of different communities which are lumped under the broad heading of savanna (Harris 1980). In fact, however, there are regional patterns within the graphed sample, with consistent behaviour by foragers in Indian and African dry savannas (quite comparable to behaviour in deserts), distinct from the pattern of Australian wet savanna foragers, and likewise distinct from a sizeable group of South American grassland-forest groups. Some broad distinctions can also be drawn between cultures in the different biomes on the basis of demographic and cultural behaviour. In table 6.8, I have summarised a few variables for the same cultures, in this case drawing on more detailed published data (e.g. Binford 1980; Kelly 1983), supplemented by information for the rest of the cultures in the sample, when available in the original ethnographies. Again, consideration will be given to

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linking the ecological and behavioural variables in the succeeding sections of this chapter the point to be established here is simply that there is considerable variation in the behaviour of hunting-gathering groups, which is more consistent within broad biomes, then between them. Finally, it is worth considering whether an ecological division is likely to encompass a significant amount of the variation documented within the sample of settlements under study. This can be seen quite readily in figure 6.11. Broadly, tropical forest groups maintain very high occupation densities, while savanna groups cover a somewhat broader range of densities. Temperate groups cover the middle densities, while subarctic, arctic and desert groups generally maintain quite low occupation densities. These patterns are important, in that they are essentially independent of the patterns previously noted, in terms of economic independence, social group size, and duration of occupation. In this sense, we can anticipate that environmental differences, mediated through the effects of foraging behaviour on social group formation and integration, have a considerable impact on settlement strategies and residential patterns. Justified by this brief overview, the remainder of this chapter will constitute biome-specific analyses of hunter-gatherer behaviour and its consequences for settlement spatial organisation. A synthetic, comparative overview will be presented in chapter 7.

6.5: DESERT ECOSYSTEM ADAPTATIONS.

Desert regions are primarily located at the borders of the tropics, 20-40 degrees north and south of the equator (figure 6.1). Most are hot deserts, though a few are characterised by cold temperatures, particularly induced by altitude. As one of the most extreme environments in which human societies have existed, desert contexts have the potential for allowing an examination of human subsistence behaviour in a situation where the selective pressures are particularly clear. It was the fairly extreme desert adaptation of the Western Shoshone which led Steward to develop his ideas about cultural ecology (Murphy 1977). Our best data on the forager occupation of deserts come from two regions, the Great Basin of western North America, and the Central and Western Desert regions of arid Australia. The Great Basin data derive principally from salvage ethnography conducted in the 1930s with informants who had largely given up their hunting and gathering patterns (Steward 1933; 1938; Kelly 1932). In the Australian cases, the individuals studied were still engaged in at least some foraging activities, could be observed at traditional pursuits, and quantitative data could be collected (Gould 1967; 1969; 1977; 1980; O'Connell and Hawkes 1981;1984; O'Connell et al. 1983; Cane 1987; Nicholsen and Cane, in press). Environment and Resources. The principal defining feature of deserts is the scarcity of water, whether in terms of annual rainfall, air moisture, or groundwater accessible from the surface. In true deserts, rainfall is usually less than 350 mm per year, and is likely to be extremely variable from year to year. Some desert areas appear to have no significant seasonal pattern of precipitation, often transitional between regions of summer and winter rainfall (Evenari 1985). Even where rainfall is seasonal, it usually is irregular in time and space, as well as in quantity, often manifest in intense showers in very localised areas. Temperature patterns are usually less variable than precipitation, both during the course of the year, and between years. Diurnal variations, however, can be quite extreme, due to the reflectivity of desert surfaces. The scarcity of water constitutes the major feature controlling plant and animal life in desert environments, in terms both of physiological and behavioural adaptations. Vegetation is generally widely spaced to minimise competition for scarce moisture, which also limits the abundance of any species. As well, both floral and faunal species exhibit fairly low diversity. Plants have adapted to the scarcity of moisture through several different strategies designed either to avoid or to resist drought. Most plants are of fairly small size,

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limiting their water requirements. They may avoid drought by having relatively rapid life cycles, surviving periods of drought as seeds or sub-surface roots which germinate or sprout rapidly in response to the availability of water. Other varieties resist drought through limiting evapotranspiration during high daytime temperatures, or by storing moisture in succulent leaves, stems, or underground root systems (Furley and Newey 1983), which can provide crucial sources of moisture for humans and other animals in the absence of available surface water. Desert fauna are present in low densities, being limited by the low density and poor quality of desert vegetation. In addition, they are usually behaviourally solitary, competing for the limited water or vegetation available. Small animals such as rodents and reptiles have adapted to high temperatures and low rainfall through mechanisms for retaining body moisture - whether through impervious skins, or insulating fur. Larger animals with greater food and water needs must be quite mobile to exploit wide areas with low resource densities, spatially distinct resource patches and water sources, and the opportunistic availability of vegetation following rainstorms. Behaviourally, many animals adapt to desert conditions by being nocturnal, exploiting periods of higher relative humidity when they lose less body moisture. Many small animals, such as rodents and reptiles, spend the day in underground burrows, insulated from daytime temperatures. Such animals will be relatively immobile, and can often be taken in their burrows by human foragers with a high degree of reliability. Resource Acquisition. Because of the low density and patchy distribution of resources, hunter-gatherer subsistence in desert environments is fairly unpredictable from day to day. Depending on the degree of regularity in seasonal rainfall regimes, subsistence opportunities can also be unpredictable during the course of the year, and from year to year, which will encourage behavioural flexibility in subsistence strategies. In section 6.4, subsistence patterns were summarised by fairly rough estimates of the proportion of subsistence resources derived from gathering, hunting and fishing. The data available for desert adaptations indicated a characteristic 50-60% reliance on gathered plant resources, balanced principally by hunting. More detailed estimates from Great Basin cultures expand the range for gathered resources, though hunting represents a stable 2040% of the diet (Fowler 1986). Detailed estimates from Australia emphasise the dominance of gathered plant foods, constituting 70-90% of the diet (Meggitt 1957; Gould 1980; 1981), though often subject to extreme seasonal variation (Cane 1987). While a relatively wide variety of plant and animal species may be known and utilised as food resources, most groups focus on a much more limited range of common species as staples (Steward 1938; Gould 1977; 1980; Cane 1987). The seasonal distribution of different resources will also be an important factor in foraging strategies, and also in terms of residential group size and mobility patterns. In the Great Basin, resources are markedly seasonal in character, and largely in phase, such that very few resources are available in the winter months. Populations usually depended on the stores from the autumn pion nut harvest to get through the winter. In this case, the rate at which nuts could be harvested put a ceiling on the amount a family could collect, and so a limit on the period that they could depend on the stored resource (Steward 1938). In deserts with limited seasonal climatic change, different resources may be available throughout the year, and the pattern of exploitation can shift from one or one set of resources to another (O'Connell and Hawkes 1981). In areas with less clear seasonality, resources are likely to be less predictable in distribution, depending more directly on chance occurrences of rainfall (Gould 1977; 1980). The seasonal distribution of water may also have a significant impact on seasonal patterns of resource exploitation, confining foragers to a limited range around dependable water sources (Cane 1987).

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Most desert plants are both low density and dispersed, with the exception of stands of wild grasses, or pion nuts in the Great Basin. Seeds can be particularly important in arid environments since they are designed to withstand desiccation, and, if they can be harvested in sufficient quantity, can be stored. In the Great Basin, the limit on the amount that could be stored was the amount that could be harvested in the limited period during which they ripened (Steward 1938:26). In Australia, grass seeds appear to have been important to a number of desert groups, though here the limitation on their use appears to have been the labour necessary to process them (Allen 1974; Cane 1987; Altman 1984; 1987; O'Connell and Hawkes 1981). In terms of animal resources, most desert fauna are relatively dispersed, but are fairly immobile, usually tied within a limited radius of an underground burrow. While small in body size, and often solitary in habit, they can be acquired in relative abundance, often for fairly unstrenuous effort, if dug out of their burrows. On the other hand, larger prey, while often extremely mobile, will usually be tied to the same water resources as humans. Because of this, they are often hunted from blinds at water-holes. The standard hunting party would be one or two men. While larger desert animals are also usually solitary, limited collective hunting is documented for Great Basin groups, and in some areas of Australia. In the Great Basin, groups of families might aggregate for cooperative antelope, or more frequently, rabbit drives, and the meat collected would be dried for storage. In Australia, macropods might be driven toward hilltops by beaters, or with fire, concentrating otherwise dispersed animals (Gould 1967; 1980). Such cooperative activities, however, appear to have been relatively rare, and were probably undertaken opportunistically. In the case of rabbit and macropod drives, only limited coordination would have been necessary. However, for antelope drives, elaborate facilities might be constructed, and a senior hunter or shaman would be appointed to lead and coordinate the hunt. In addition, members of different local groups would join together for the venture, but usually only if they already had the security of enough resources to supply them for the upcoming winter (Steward 1938). The low density and dispersed nature of both plant and animal resources in a desert environment would seem likely to encourage little cooperation in foraging, except in the case of relatively rare collective hunting. Resource Consumption. We can look at issues of resource consumption through Gould's figures for a group of desert-dwelling Ngadadjara (1980:table 5). In aggregate, the group collected enough plants for a daily per capita consumption of 5.43 kgs, and captured enough meat for 0.57 kgs per person per day (assuming 70% carcass consumption). Of the meat, 0.09 kgs would have been from kangaroos and other large macropods, while 0.47 would have been from smaller game, mostly lizards. On average, 4.3 lizards would have entered the camp each day, to be divided among an average of 10 individuals. On the other hand, given the package size of the macropods captured (mean 41 kgs), one would be introduced into camp on average once a month, yielding a meat share of about 2.9 kgs per person. In this case, if the animal was retained within a single family, that family might just have trouble consuming it before the meat became inedible - but sharing would allow comfortable consumption by everyone in the camp for a few days. Likewise, without sharing, with these capture rates, a family might average four large packages per year, but with guaranteed sharing, would get a sizeable package on average once a month. From this analysis, it might seem reasonable that meat from large animals, such as kangaroos, should be shared extensively within the residential group, though only constituting some 16% of the total meat acquired. On the other hand, it seems much more equivocal whether there would be much point to sharing the more regularly available,

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smaller meat packages, such as lizards. A further issue not considered is prestige capturing large game confers prestige, recognised through generous distribution (cf. Altman and Peterson 1988). On the other hand, reptiles and rodents can and are collected by everyone, including children, and carry no prestige. The potential implications of different resource consumption strategies can be pursued through simulations comparable to those used in the preceding chapter. In this case, the inputs have been computed from Gould's data, but multiple random runs have been generated, and several different potential strategies can be examined. The input data for the Ngadadjara case is presented in table 6.9. Each consuming (family) unit is allowed to consume up to 8 kgs daily, after which the remainder is either held in storage, or lost through wastage, depending on the simulation. Figure 6.12 graphs the average results for 100 runs of the simulation, from the perspective of different lengths of potential storage time. Considering daily mean acquisition, overnight preservation allows more effective utilisation of a resource within the producing unit, and even the largest package-size resources acquired can be fully consumed by a single family within 5 days of capture. In terms of day to day variation in potential consumption levels, this also stabilises quite quickly, though variation actually increases, because of the disparity between average daily consumption, and the 8 kgs limit for infrequently acquired large package resources. In desert environments, green plant resources will dry out very quickly, and there is little scope for preservation. Dry resources such as seeds and nuts will usually last longer, though special preparation may still be necessary for long-term storage. Meat goes off rapidly, though it may remain edible, depending on local climate, how it is stored, and how fastidious the consumers are, for 5-6 days (Gould 1967:56; Silberbauer 1981a:206). The uselife of meat could be extended through cooking or drying, though this does not appear to have been done in Australia. In the Great Basin, the only meat which was acquired in large enough quantities to justify drying for storage was that which resulted from collective hunts. In this case, storage was aimed at supplementing subsistence based on stored pion nuts, through the scarce period of the winter (Steward 1938). Storage on any scale was only possible if sufficient resources could be stored to permit seasonally sedentary communities, a rare situation among desert foragers. The simulation, therefore, suggests that there would be little reason for desert hunter-gatherers to develop effective storage practices as part of day to day subsistence, unless some resources could be acquired in sufficient quantity to act as staples during a period of sedentary settlement. A similar simulation can be undertaken to consider the implications of sharing behaviour. In figures 6.13 and 6.14, two different dimensions of sharing are modeled in terms of how many different productive units cooperate, and the extent to which they cooperate, by sharing the resources acquired in different package sizes. Concerning the sharing of large game, such as macropods, there is little improvement in mean levels of daily consumption with any size of cooperating network, because meat acquired in packages of this size is a very small component of the overall amount available. Likewise little gains are made with smaller game, since these are available fairly regularly to each productive unit. Because large resource packages will be acquired so infrequently, sharing them acts more to perturb, than to decrease variation in day to day consumption levels, though levels stabilise with about five cooperating producers (figure 6.14). This pattern of perturbation is dampened considerably by sharing smaller package resources, though the overall pattern suggests that the greatest gains are made by two cooperating producers, which effectively evens out disparities in the day to day acquisition of small package resources. Comparing storage and sharing as strategies of consumption, the most effective option appears to be extending the use-life of a resource overnight or for a period of several days. This may be pushed to allow the complete utilisation of larger resource packages, which would encourage limited sharing of resources in that category. Sharing of smaller packages

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between two producers might even out access to smaller package resources, though this might as effectively be coped with through overnight storage. Looking beyond subsistence issues alone, sharing of large packages would also serve to reduce any potential tension between different producing units arising from variation in access to scarce resources. Such tension is likely to be particularly serious if a desired resource is only introduced to the camp infrequently, and in sufficient amounts such that sharing would allow a reasonable quantity for all. In summary, we might anticipate the use of simple techniques of meat storage, such as drying, only for large package size prey, captured occasionally, if these are retained for consumption within a single family. In the regular day to day context, sharing of resources is likely to be very limited, probably to within the individual productive unit. When larger packages of meat are introduced into camp, they are likely to be shared, both to ensure full utilisation of the resource, and to reduce the potential tensions which would be likely to arise from such productive differentials. This will have the added benefit of increasing the frequency (through reciprocity) of occasions on which meat can be more than simply a garnish, though nutritionally, this amounts to only a small component of the yearly diet. While the simulations usefully allow consideration of the implications of different behaviour, they do not take into account any systematic variation in the temporal availability of resources. In coping with the seasonal availability of resources, sharing will have no effect, though long-term storage can substantially raise the human carrying capacity of a region. Such behaviour is rare among desert foragers, however, because of the low density of most resources which rarely allows large-scale harvesting and processing for storage. In addition, maintaining access to stores will tie foragers in one location particularly problematic for desert foragers, unless the stores themselves are substantial enough to serve as the staple for the period during which they are consumed, as with pion nuts in parts of the Great Basin. Data on actual sharing patterns for desert foragers appears to be fairly consistent with these expectations. In the Great Basin, the best data comes from Steward's work with the Western Shoshone, where the principal resource-sharing and residential group through most of the year was the independent nuclear family, with, in consequence, little scope for sharing beyond it. Indeed, the low density and unpredictability of most resources rarely allowed close association between different productive units (1938; 1977). Also, since the Shoshone principally relied upon gathered resources and small game, there was little incentive for widespread sharing networks. Families generally coped with their own subsistence, and communal events like rabbit hunts were only undertaken if subsistence was already fairly secure, as directly after the pion harvest. Pion nuts, the staple for winter subsistence in most areas, were collected, processed, stored and consumed by individual families. There might be some cooperation in fishing, to the degree that any facilities were used, but this appears to have been more to make sure that there were no conflicts over access to resources. Cooperative rabbit hunts were welcome social occasions, but relatively rare, and antelope hunts rarer still (Steward 1938). The Australian evidence is slightly more ambiguous, but the general pattern appears comparable. Most discussions indicate that throughout most of Australia, gathered resources and small game are shared within the productive unit, but not formally between families (cf. Altman and Peterson 1988). For the desert cultures, Gould has given considerable attention to patterns of meat acquisition and sharing, but is somewhat contradictory. He notes that the most formal rules governing sharing relate to game over 6 kgs or so, consistent with evidence from elsewhere in Australia (Gould 1981:435). He has also described the division of large game in some detail, where, as with many foragers, game is initially divided between those taking direct part in the capture (1967). It is not clear from his examples that sharing must encompass all of a residential community, though in fact some share is likely to get to most families through connections with the hunters, even at second or third hand. Sharing episodes documented by others also indicate that not

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everyone in a camp will necessarily be given meat through the formal division, though most may end up with at least some, eventually (Rose 1965; Myers 1988b). The sharing pattern for smaller game is less clear, since Gould has also stated that all meat is shared, including lizards and small rodents (Gould 1980:74). This would appear to be inconsistent with the behaviour documented elsewhere in Australia, but detailed data on the sharing of small game are not presented which would clarify this. Given that most families would have fairly regular access to small package resources such as lizards and rodents, sharing resources of that scale would probably have little significant nutritional, nor social effect. In general, actual behaviour among desert foragers would appear to be consistent with the expectations which can be derived from an examination of the effects of storage and sharing as strategies for consumption, given the nature of the subsistence resources available within desert biomes. We can expect that foraging groups will generally be small, one or two individuals for companionship and safety, and involving little essential cooperation in productive tasks. Cooperative foraging is likely to be possible only on rare occasions, which contribute little to the overall pattern of resource use, though the localised abundant resources may permit aggregations of otherwise dispersed groups which are not possible during most of the year. Most of the resources available in the environment are small and dispersed, and usually cannot be acquired in quantity. This provides little encouragement for regular resource sharing, since packages can be consumed effectively within the individual producing unit. Occasionally, larger resources may be taken, and sharing on these occasions will guarantee full use of the resource, minimise tensions between different coresident productive units, as well as encouraging more regular access to such windfalls through reciprocity. Such occasions, however, are likely to be quite rare, given the generally low proportion of the diet provided by meat, and the low proportion of meat obtained from large prey. We might therefore anticipate that subsistence behaviour will provide relatively little cohesion to residential groups in desert environments. Demographic and Social Patterns. The low density of resources in desert biomes allows only a low regional density of human occupation, and such large regions usually must be exploited through a pattern of extensive mobility (Binford 1980; Kelly 1983). Likewise, low resource density will usually require frequent camp movement to gain access to new resources (table 6.8). These patterns, however, may also change during the course of the year, as the abundance, density, and spatial synchronisation of different resources changes. Most desert hunter-gatherers live for most of the year in quite small residential groups, though larger aggregations of population are usually possible for at least short periods of the year, taking advantage of local abundance in resources, whether predictable as part of a seasonal round (Cane 1987), or as an opportunistic response to very localised conditions (Gould 1967; 1980). The ability to cope with day to day, seasonal and inter-annual variations in the availability of water, and hence the abundance and distribution of plant and animal resources requires a high degree of flexibility in residential group behaviour. Minimal patterns of cooperation in resource acquisition or consumption free individual families to pursue their own subsistence strategies, and to leave or join other families without substantially affecting others' subsistence success. This allows residential groups to map onto the available resources within a region, splitting up when resources are only sufficient for part of the group. On the other hand, this residential flexibility acts somewhat against sharing as riskbuffering, since a gift of extra resources may not be able to be repaid at some future time, if individual families are not regularly traveling together. In practice, residential associations are often something of a compromise, with small residential groups, often kin, separating and rejoining during the course of the year.

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Large population aggregations will involve groups of individuals who probably interact with each other fairly infrequently. Given both subsistence constraints and social limitations, such large groups are unlikely to stay together for long. Unlike richer environments, where a stable band may regularly be coresident for a substantial period of the year, aggregate groups in desert environments may be more opportunistic, and hence more variable in size, depending on which families are available to be assembled, the capacity of the resources in the area, and the collective task to be undertaken. Given the relatively low economic support for residential integration, we might expect that the residential sites of desert foragers will be composed of well-separated residences, reducing communication between coresidents, and supporting subsistence independence. On the other hand, they are probably camped together for companionship at least, so that distances should not be too great - enough to insulate each other from constant monitoring and to preserve privacy in conversations, but not enough to make communication too difficult. This should translate into relatively low occupation densities on all sites. In larger, aggregate sites, individual productive units that interact more regularly may be the usual sharing partners for larger game, and may camp together as a sub-group within the wider community of relative strangers, so that clusters of habitations, each comparable to independent camps, will be loosely aggregated within a large area. The clustering and any extra spacing between clusters will lead to substantially lower densities within larger communities. Community Studies. For a very limited number of hunter-gatherer communities, evidence is available on the internal layout of particular communities, with accompanying information on some aspects of social organisation. Information at this level of detail can be examined for two communities from Australian desert cultures, the Alyawara and the Pintupi. In the Alyawara case, the plan is of most of an aggregate community at Bendaijerum, an Aboriginal camp attached to a cattle ranch in the Central Desert. Kinship information is available in an abbreviated kin diagram for most shelters within the camp, which allows an analysis of whether close kin are localised within the overall camp (O'Connell 1979). While the camp was occupied for a substantial period of time, individual shelters were moved fairly regularly, and the whole camp was usually reorganised after a death (O'Connell 1987). In this situation, we might expect, and the ethnographer explicitly states, that the distance between shelters is a fairly direct index of the intensity of the relations between the inhabitants (O'Connell 1979). In this community, while traditional subsistence foraging only accounted for approximately 25% of the inhabitants' diet, large game brought into camp represented nearly 70% of the total meat in the diet (O'Connell and Hawkes 1984). Approximately 430 animals in the size range appropriate for sharing (18-25 kgs) were brought into the camp over the course of a year (O'Connell and Hawkes 1984). While it is not clear how widely these were shared among the (usually) 100-125 residents, some sharing of meat is likely to have been a fairly regular occurrence, and therefore some social and spatial integration should be expected. In figure 6.15, the primary kin links of the principal members of each shelter are indicated for the camp at two different dates, and in figure 6.16, kinship distance is plotted against physical distance for both camps.21 A strong general trend through the data can be seen (Rank-order correlation rs = 0.6374, p<.0000), though distinctions among more distant kin are unlikely to be recognised to so fine a degree - rather they will be amalgamated through classificatory categories. Even so, a relationship between kinship distance and spatial
21In Aboriginal communities, adolescents and unattached adult men and women usually live in separate men's and women's camps. Because the members of each may be drawn from widely within the camp, to some extent they cross-cut residential localisations. In figures 6.16 and 6.18, primary (parent-child, sibling) relationships between family camps are indicated with solid lines, and those linking family with single-sex camps are indicated with broken lines.

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distance is apparent, suggesting a strong degree of spatial organisation within the community, albeit a global pattern emerging from very local (structure to structure) rules. The second example is quite comparable, though is also illustrated because it represents a distinct segment of a larger aggregated community of Pintupi at Papunya in the Western Desert (Hayden pers. comm.). Three spatially distinct camps are located around the settlement, and many Aborigines live in houses within the settlement proper. Kinship and spatial data is available for one of the three camps, and the actual and classificatory kinship information is substantially more complicated for about twice the number of individuals at Bendaijerum, but residential clusters within the mapped camp are fairly clear. In figure 6.17a, the principal kinship links which are documented are shown on a plan of the camp, though more may exist than are documented. The greater number of links within each residential cluster than between them suggests that this community is organised rather comparably to that at Bendaijerum, though single-sex male and female camps constitute a major social dimension cross-cutting the spatial clustering of family groups. In addition to kinship links, the inhabitants of each structure were asked whom they would be likely to follow, if they moved from Papunya (Hayden pers. comm.). While this question prompted some confusion, and the investigator expressed caution concerning it, the links elicited support the general kinship organisation of the clusters, and also put this in a more pragmatic context, in terms of social and economic patterns of dependence (figure 6.17b). The separate camps within the larger community at Papunya essentially document a third level of spatial organisation. The nearest camp begins some 200-250 metres to the east of the easternmost structures in the documented camp. The different camps basically represent groups from different areas who arrived at the settlement at different times over a period of two decades (Hayden pers. comm.). That each camp forms a relatively self-contained social group is suggested by the far greater number of primary kinship links within camp 3, than with any of the other Papunya camps (figure 6.17a). Community Patterns. Turning to the less detailed, but broader sample of desert culture communities, data was assembled from 10 cultures for 59 different communities, yielding information on 115 different social situations. The representation of different cultures in this sample is summarised in table 6.10. Given the strong representation of Australian cultures, and the similarity in social behaviour between the different Australian cultures, these will be given principal attention in the following discussion. Considering first the size of desert forager communities, a distinction should be drawn between traditional communities, and those where abnormally large numbers of individuals have aggregated at a single location, usually some point of contact with the Western world. Within the dataset, traditional communities are generally of quite small size, with the majority of cases having less than 20 inhabitants. A smaller number continue up to populations of 30-40, and only a very few aggregations have more than 40 residents (figure 6.18). This pattern is still detectable in more recent aggregate communities, where the majority of discrete social groups have less than 40 inhabitants. When the sample is divided between entire communities and spatially defined segments of them, a major mode in the size of entire communities can be identified below about 40 residents (figure 6.19). This is also maintained in the spatially defined segments of larger communities. This ceiling on group size at about 30-40 individuals probably indicates that the segments within recent large communities are comparable to what would, in a traditional context, have been individual residential groups. That such groups do segregate themselves in larger communities corresponds with other evidence that patterns of social integration, even within recent aggregate communities, are comparable to those which existed in traditional camps (Altman and Peterson 1988; Sansom 1980). The tendency for

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aggregate communities to divide into smaller clusters may indicate that traditional patterns of social organisation are not particularly effective at integrating larger, non-traditional communities, and that increased spacing is used to insulate different groups from too much interaction (White 1977). A consideration of occupation density, in terms of traditional and less traditional communities (figure 6.20), indicates that while both types of community are found across the entire density range, a larger proportion of the traditional communities are in the densest categories. On the other hand, this also reflects the difference in the size distribution of the two types of community, since a higher proportion of non-traditional communities have fairly large populations. This could be anticipated to some degree by the shift away from traditional forms of subsistence toward individual acquisition of store goods. As opposed to many cultures, however, this is likely to have only limited repercussions for the pattern of integration within a community, since the subsistence resources which have been replaced - plants and small animals - were not those which were principally shared between households, engendering inter-dependence. The overall pattern of occupation density for the desert cultures is graphed in figure 6.21, where the expected inverse relationship between residential group size and density can be seen clearly. Re-expressed on transformed axes, it can be seen that most of the data is rated as fairly reliable, and the few doubtful cases fall well within the overall distribution of points (figure 6.22). There may be a slight suggestion that occupation densities may stabilise in communities above about 60 individuals, representing a standard spacing between residential clusters. On the other hand, one should keep in mind the situation at Papunya, where a larger community was represented by three very discrete camp areas In figure 6.23, the overall distribution is broken down by individual cultures. Two points are worth noting. While the data is dominated by the Australian examples, those from North America fall squarely in the middle of the Australian distribution, supporting the view that we are not simply monitoring an Australian pattern of behaviour, standardised because of cultural diffusion. Second, it may be noted that most of the Alyawara cases are on the low side of the density range. This is likely to be a function of data bias, since most of the Alyawara data is from tabulated figures (O'Connell 1987), and could not be measured directly according to the convention adopted for this study. As suggested in section 6.2, this is likely to lead to lower density figures than those for cases which I have measured directly. Aside from this slight bias, there appears to be no evidence that individual cultures behave in idiosyncratic ways. Rather, they appear to use space in a fairly comparable fashion, supporting the idea that similarity in behaviour relates to comparable factors in the adaptation to desert conditions, influencing settlement strategy decisions. Summary: Community Spatial Behaviour of Desert Foragers. Compared with occupation densities across the entire sample (figure 6.11), it is clear that individual families in the communities of desert cultures spread themselves much farther apart on the ground than hunter-gatherers in many other contexts. This is consistent with the limited need and limited opportunities for cooperation in resource acquisition or consumption, and an emphasis on productive independence. The only residential groups which approach the densities documented more frequently among some other huntergatherer groups are a few of the smallest, two to three family camps, where we would expect interactions to be the most intimate - the contexts in which limited cooperation in consumption can be expected. The same pattern of behaviour appears to characterise more recent communities, created by the aggregation of formerly independent groups in the neighbourhood of points of access for Western goods, cash employment, and welfare support. In these situations, traditional spacing patterns continue, with greater spacing between than among the households of different residential clusters.

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6.6: SAVANNA ECOSYSTEM ADAPTATIONS.

Savanna foragers have tended to dominate anthropological models of hunter-gatherers, since the detailed work of Richard Lee with the !Kung San of Botswana (1968; 1969; 1979; 1984), and because of the close relationship between !Kung behaviour and Lee and DeVore's Man the Hunter model of hunter-gatherer society (1968b). On the other hand, the savanna biome is a very broad category, encompassing considerable environmental variation which presents different opportunities and constraints for human foraging populations. However, there are a number of broad characteristics which unify the environments which I will consider as constituting savannas, which are situated in a broad belt flanking the equatorial regions of tropical forest (figure 6.1). Environment and Resources. In terms of temperature, savannas are broadly comparable with tropical forest regions, and daytime temperatures rarely drop below 20 C. While annual rainfall varies from 750 to 2000 mm, the principal feature of savanna climate is seasonality in the distribution of rainfall, resulting in pronounced wet and dry seasons (Furley and Newey 1983; CloudsleyThompson 1975). The degree of seasonality can have very dramatic effects on the nature and temporal distribution of both vegetation and fauna. In drier savannas, rainfall is generally both lower in quantity, and more variable - both in its temporal distribution in any one year, and between different years. Savannas are usually defined as having a continuous ground-level herbaceous stratum, which may or may not have a shrub and tree component, ranging from broken-canopy forest to open grassland with only scattered shrubs or trees. The seasonal cycle in the availability of rainfall, in combination with high temperatures, fosters the development of drought-resistant plants, including those such as grasses which either suspend growth during the driest time of the year or survive drought as seeds, tubers and roots which store moisture, or trees and other plants with deep roots to tap subsurface water. The pronounced seasonality in vegetation creates potentially vast differentials in the food available for herbivores, which is responsible for the large-scale migration of savanna birds and most of the larger mammal species, as they move with the availability of pasture, particularly characteristic of African savannas. The large savanna areas of Australia and South America are comparatively impoverished in terms of fauna, lacking the great herd ungulates of Africa. In Australia, the grazing niche is occupied by a variety of large macropods, predominantly species of kangaroo, while in South America, the largest herbivores are deer, guanaco, and under forest margins, tapir. Seasonally stable densities of smaller fauna can be maintained, particularly composed of small rodents and reptiles. In some areas of South America and East Africa, primates form a major component of the animal biomass, usually in areas of mixed savanna woodland (Furley and Newey 1983). Resource Acquisition. The subsistence strategies of human foraging populations reflect the degree of variation in savanna environments. Some idea of this diversity is apparent in figure 6.10, though this is brought out more clearly in figure 6.24, where I have added data points for cultures where recent ecologically-oriented work has provided detailed evidence on diet, which helps to distinguish three broad types of savannas which have been occupied by recent huntergatherer populations: dry scrub/steppe savannas in southern and eastern Africa and India, fairly wet parkland savannas in northern Australia, and the mixed grassland/open forest savannas of central South America. Each provides a rather different set of resources for human foragers, and is exploited in somewhat different ways. The most comprehensive published data on dry savanna subsistence foraging comes from !Kung and G/wi San groups of southern Africa, which document that plant resources

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constitute from 70-90% of the diet both by weight and in terms of calories. On average, each individual may consume between 0.11 to 0.30 kgs of meat per day (Lee 1979; Wilmsen 1982a; Silberbauer 1981a; Tanaka 1980).22 Current work among the Hadza of east Africa suggests a much greater importance for meat in the diet than has been reported in the past (Woodburn 1968b), though comprehensive figures have not yet been published (Hawkes et al. 1989; O'Connell et al. 1988; Bunn et al. 1988; Ndagala 1988). Data on the yearly consumption of meat would suggest a daily average of approximately 0.6-0.7 kgs from the meat of large game alone (estimated from O'Connell et al. 1988). Only limited data is available for other dry savanna groups, such as the Bambote of east Africa (Terashima 1980) and the savanna-forest tribes of India (Fox 1969; Morris 1982; Gardner 1972; Williams 1968a; 1974; Sinha 1972; Malhotra et al. 1983; Bird-David 1988; von Frer-Haimendorf 1943). All of these groups are engaged in the specialised exploitation of forest resources for exchange with encapsulating agricultural populations, and meat is probably a relatively small component of the diet for most groups, being obtained primarily for exchange. In southern and eastern Africa, where large game provides a substantial amount of the meat acquired during the course of the year, larger, migratory mammals are usually seasonally restricted in availability (figure 6.25). Most hunting involves small groups of one, two or three hunters; since most hunting is by stalking or from blinds, larger hunting groups are likely to be a liability. Smaller game is taken when encountered, and forms a regular component of the diet in most seasons. Among the Bambote and the Indian dry savannaforest foragers, hunting focuses on smaller game, usually taken through cooperative nethunting. Wet savanna environments differ significantly from dry savannas in terms of the nature of the resources available to human foragers, and in terms of their potential implications for subsistence strategies. The most detailed investigations have been undertaken with Arnhem Land Aboriginal groups, the Gidjingali and the eastern Gunwinggu (Meehan 1977; 1982; Jones 1980a; Altman 1984; 1987). Arnhem Land is markedly seasonal, being within the monsoon belt, however, the dry season is much less extreme than that in dry savanna regions; while many resources are seasonally available, a much wider variety of resources is available, and more are staggered in availability throughout the year. A very large number of plant and animal species have been exploited for food by Arnhem Land groups (Jones 1980a), producing a broader and more seasonally stable diet than that enjoyed by dry savanna groups (figure 6.26). In recent years, Arnhem Land economies have been divided approximately evenly between purchased foods (largely carbohydrates), and meat obtained through hunting, fishing, and gathering shellfish. Among the coastal Gidjingali, fish and shellfish provide most of the meat in the diet, while larger mammals are more common in the diet of the inland Gunnwinggu. The purchased component of the diet has largely usurped the position formerly held by gathered plant resources. Meat, of which the Gidjingali average about 0.60.8 kgs per person per day, was probably comparably important in traditional diets (Jones 1980a; Altman 1987). On the other hand, because of high processing costs, gathering is not likely to have constituted more than 40-50% of traditional diets (Altman 1984; 1987). The third major type of savanna biome distinguished is that occupied by a number of South American cultures in the Mato Grasso of Brazil. All of the Brazilian savanna cultures practiced some horticulture, though its importance varied considerably between cultures and communities. At the present, most if not all of these cultures have given up major reliance on foraging (Werner et al. 1979). The most detailed (though not quantified) discussion of subsistence is given by Maybury-Lewis (1967), concerning Shavante
22 Higher levels of meat consumption are documented in Yellen's study of dispersed rainy season camps, averaging 0.599 kgs per person per day (Yellen 1977a).

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communities he worked with between 1958 and 1964. At that time, some communities were heavily involved in horticulture for only about one month of the year, supporting their consideration as foragers. While the Shavante and neighbouring G cultures maintained substantial village communities, these served as residential bases from which they would depart on long-term foraging treks for weeks or months. What remains unclear is whether the Shavante or related groups would have, or could have, supported a semi-sedentary residential pattern without inputs from agriculture. While foraging appears to have provided most of the subsistence resources while a group was resident at the village, fishing became a major component of the subsistence strategy after communities were established close to missions and government stations, and metal fishhooks, twine and nets became available (Maybury-Lewis 1967:51-2). In the absence of detailed studies of the resources available and their potential for sustained exploitation, it remains unclear whether such communities could have been established and maintained aboriginally by full-time foragers. The Shavante lived in grassland savanna with dense gallery forest along rivers, though resources were preferentially exploited from the grasslands. While meat was important in subsistence, the majority of the diet was obtained from plants, including roots, berries and nuts. Roots appear to have been the staple throughout the year (Maybury-Lewis 1967:43-7). In the absence of large herbivores, the largest game animals were tapir, deer and peccary. Smaller animals were represented by anteaters, armadillos, various primates and rodents. More detailed subsistence data is available for the Shavante from the period 1976-77, when agriculture had become the main subsistence orientation; while foraging was still important, particularly in contributing essentially all of the meat in the diet, subsistence treks were only undertaken for several weeks of the year (Flowers 1983). Dietary studies indicate that hunted game and fish contributed between 0.05 to 0.26 kgs per person per day to the diet, varying seasonally. Wild gathered resources contributed from 0.0 to 0.13 kgs/person/day, while agricultural products contributed 0.23 to 0.46 kgs/person/day. While agricultural products have largely replaced the formerly gathered component of the diet, the contribution of meat is also likely to have been reduced, as foraging must now fit in around the labour demands of a substantial commitment to agriculture. It would probably be reasonable to suggest that the balance between meat and plant foods in the diet, in the period during which the Shavante relied primarily upon hunting and gathering, would have been between the figures documented by the San, and the Arnhem Land groups. Resource acquisition among most southern and eastern African, Arnhem Land, and South American savanna foragers is primarily undertaken by individuals or small parties. Larger game will be hunted by stalking or ambush, where large numbers of hunters are a disadvantage. Cooperative hunting is not practiced by the San, and is practiced relatively rarely by Arnhem Land Aborigines, either in fish drives, or in fire drives for large land game (Altman 1987). Occasional cooperative drives are reported for South American savanna groups, usually to amass meat in preparation for ceremonies, though most hunting is individual (Maybury-Lewis 1967). Therefore resource acquisition strategies are unlikely to act to integrate local residential groups. This is in contrast to a few of the less well documented savanna groups, such as the Bambote (Terashima 1980) or Birhor (Williams 1974), who hunt cooperatively for small game using nets. Net hunting is usually accompanied by fairly complex rules for the distribution of the catch, and where, as in these two cases, such cooperative hunts form a major resource acquisition strategy, we can expect that they tie the cooperating group quite closely together. Resource Consumption. Only the studies of the G/wi San and Gidjingali have provided sufficient detail to allow modelling of resource acquisition, and thereby to explore some of the implications for consumption strategies through simulation. Input data estimated for the G/wi San (Silberbauer 1981a) and the Gidjingali (Jones 1980a; Meehan 1977), are given in table 6.11.

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Looking first at the G/wi, figure 6.27 indicates the potential gains from storage for the individual producing unit. In this case, in contrast with the Ngadadjara (figure 6.12), since game in excess of 20 kgs body weight constitutes approximately 80% of the meat brought into camp during the course of a year, storage of 10 days or more would be essential for efficient consumption of such resources within a single family. It is also worth noting the extremely high variation in daily consumption, also a result of the predominance of large package resources in the prey acquired. In terms of sharing without any effective storage (figure 6.28), the rate at which a resource can be consumed will mean that many large resources cannot be fully utilised unless the sharing group is composed of ten or more families. Sharing of smaller game does relatively little to increase the mean level of daily consumption, since so much meat is acquired in relatively large packages. At the same time, day to day variation in access to meat is very high (figure 6.29), and does not begin to stabilise and be regularly reduced until seven or more producers cooperate, and only if they share all resources from packages larger than about 5 kgs. Both assessments suggest that substantial gains can be obtained for each consumer by cooperating in quite large groups, for risk-pooling through sharing. Given the substantial gains which can be obtained from either storage or sharing, we could anticipate that both strategies would be employed by the G/wi. In fact, storage of meat will present a major problem in their hot environment, particularly in the wet season, when most of the large game is available (figure 6.25). A strategy involving limited storage will be insufficient for the full use of large game resources, and some sharing will be essential. At the same time, sharing has its own incentives, and we can anticipate a strategy whereby large game is shared widely, with any excess dried for short-term storage. There appears to be little gain in sharing resources acquired in packages smaller than about 5 kgs, and in fact plant resources and small fauna are generally consumed within the individual family (Lee 1979; Yellen 1977a; 1977b; Silberbauer 1981a; 1981b). In addition, since very large game are seasonal in their availability, the economic incentives for aggregation will also vary seasonally. The smaller packages, available fairly regularly throughout the year, can be effectively utilised by individual families, in the period during which families are dispersed, and drying for short-term storage can serve to extend the uselife of any resource likely to be encountered. The Gidjingali present a very different pattern of potential consumption strategies. In figure 6.30, it can be seen that beyond overnight storage, there is little scope for increases in the efficient exploitation of resources through storage. This is because nearly all resources are available in extremely small packages, and can be acquired regularly on a day to day basis. For the same reason, there is also only limited benefit to be gained from sharing resources of any size, among any number of families. The limited gains in mean daily consumption can be achieved by two producers sharing large package resources (figure 6.31). Some decreases in day to day variation can be achieved by sharing smaller resources between a small number of producers (figure 6.32). A consideration of individual storage and cooperative sharing as alternative strategies is particularly useful in comparing the two rather different savanna contexts. The large size distribution of many game animals in the African dry savannas, and the limited scope for preservation, clearly provide a major incentive for inter-family cooperation. In this case, it is not at all surprising to find that San groups have a well-developed pattern of sharing of the meat of large game, though this does not extend to small game or gathered resources, which are normally consumed within the family (Marshall 1961; Silberbauer 1981a). Among the Gidjingali, there is likewise little scope for preservation, but also little need, since resources can be obtained as, and in the quantity needed. The neighbouring Gunwinggu, living inland, appear to acquire larger package resources more regularly, though they still probably only comprise a small component of the diet. Comparable with the San, resources smaller than about 5 kgs are not widely shared, unless they are acquired in considerable

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quantity, such as a flock of birds taken with a shotgun (Altman and Peterson 1988). With larger package resources, a hierarchy of obligations is followed in distribution, meeting the needs first of the family, then of the residential cluster, and then of the camp as a whole (Altman 1987). Demographic and Social Patterns. Given the contrasts in the resources available to foragers in the three savanna contexts examined, and the differences in resource acquisition and consumption strategies, we should expect substantial differences in residential group characteristics among the three contexts. Overall, savannas are richer environments than deserts, though seasonal variations may still impose severe limits on the overall density of populations which can be supported, particularly in dry savannas (table 6.8). As with desert groups, most savanna foragers are fairly mobile, exploiting different configurations of resources during different seasons of the year. Likewise, seasonal patterns in resource abundance and distribution may put limits on the size of residential groups which can aggregate during different times of the year. Dry savanna groups are likely to be most closely constrained by environmental characteristics, and most dry savanna groups maintain only small, mobile, residential groups for a considerable period, usually more than one-half of the year. Larger aggregate communities may be maintained for longer periods than is usually the case for desert foragers, establishing more of a social coherence for this scale of social group. Extensive sharing of resources among dry savanna groups will further emphasise the social coherence of such groups. While some residential flexibility on the day to day, seasonal and interannual scales still aids in adjusting people to resources, such patterns may be more predictable, and less opportunistic than in desert contexts. The subsistence patterns of Australian wet savanna foragers appear to be considerably more diversified than those of dry savanna groups. This diversification, in a richer environment, allows considerably reduced mobility (Peterson 1973; Jones 1980a; Meehan 1982; Altman 1987). Likewise, the availability of alternative resources allows switching to alternative strategies without major disruption of established social and seasonal patterns, and considerably more resilience to inter-annual climatic variation than can be sustained by dry savanna populations. While the climate is not conducive to simple forms of preservation, the relative abundance and accessibility of resources, as well as small package size, provides little incentive to develop storage technologies. We might also anticipate that residential groups would be fairly flexible, though no long-term documentation is available. South American savanna groups are more difficult to characterise, since we have relatively little information about their subsistence behaviour, though at least in recent years, meat is often shared between households, particularly neighbouring households (often kin), whereas vegetal (chiefly agricultural) resources are rarely shared beyond the family (Flowers 1983). Socially, Shavante and other G communities are quite complex, with individual families within villages integrated through a series of ceremonial and social/political alliances. The similarity of their form of organisation to that documented among village horticulturalists throughout Mato Grasso and the Amazon basin raises questions about the degree to which such a social system could have been developed by, or is truly compatible with, a primarily or totally foraging way of life (Maybury-Lewis 1979a; 1979b; Turner 1979). Also linking them to neighbouring groups is a high frequency of raiding and warfare, which appears to be one incentive for maintaining large residential groups. Compared to other savanna foragers, the South American savanna groups maintain the largest communities and exhibit the most complex forms of social organisation, seemingly essential for integrating such communities. Community Studies.

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Community patterns for !Kung San rainy season and dry season camps were examined in some detail in chapter 3. Here, it can simply be established that a similar pattern in the mapping of kinship relations in space applies to the communities of other San groups such as the G/wi (figures 6.33-4) and the !Ko (figures 6.35-6), as well as among other dry savanna cultures, such as the Birhor (figures 6.37-8). In most of these cases, the rank-order correlation coefficients are comparable than those for the !Kung camps analysed in chapter 3: G/wi: rs = 0.1053 (p<.297); !Ko: rs = 0.4443 (p< .002); Birhor: rs = 0.4465 (p< .001). The low and insignificant figure for the G/wi camp results from the fact that the camp is composed of a single extended family such that nearly all individuals are very closely related - since all close kin cannot be immediate neighbours, the overall correlation is not very strong. In the other cases, the linear monotonic trend relating kinship and spatial distance is disrupted (and the correlation thus substantially reduced) by near kin camping rather far from each other. On the other hand the minimum distance to distant kin is almost invariably greater than the minimum distance to near kin, so kinship (as a proxy measure for social interaction) tends to define the minimum spacing within a camp, though not as clearly the maximum.23 The spatial integrity of kin groups can be seen by mapping them onto the camp plans (figures 6.35; 6.37). In addition to the circular camp layout emphasising the cohesiveness of the band among San groups, the central open areas of San camps were usually the scene for activities which encourage the integration of the residential group, such as communal dancing (Yellen 1977a; Lee 1984). A broadly comparable pattern of kinship organisation can be seen for the one Australian savanna community for which detailed information is available (figures 6.39-40). Here the trend is less clear than we might expect, because the entire camp is also composed of a single extended family (rs = 0.4246, p < 0.005). The pattern whereby more distant kin are camped further apart is maintained, even though everyone within the camp is quite closely related. It is also worth noting the much greater spacing between individual households, in comparison with the camps of the dry savanna cultures, which we would expect, given the lesser importance of sharing and cooperation in a wet savanna context. Shifting to a much larger scale, kinship affiliation becomes very important as a basis for organising interactions among members of larger communities. At Maningrida, the local government centre which attracted formerly independent groups from different parts of the region (including both Gunwinggu and Gidjingali), the members of different groups maintain residences in different parts of the community (figure 6.41; Hiatt 1965). In this case, much as in the case of Papunya, space appears to be used as a buffer to insulate against unwanted interaction and to reduce the possibility of conflict between different local groups. Comparable, though considerably more formalised spatial organisation is well documented among South American savanna groups, such as the Shavante (figure 6.42) and the Bororo (figure 6.43). In both cases, the community is composed of nuclear families which are united into productive groups who reside together. These in turn, are aligned into political and ceremonial factions or moieties, indicated in figures 6.42 and 6.43. The highly structured circular or ring layout is a general characteristic of the fairly complex social organisation of the G groups (Lvi-Strauss 1936; 1955; Crocker 1971; Simonis 1977), and much more widespread throughout the Amazon region (James 1949; Chagnon 1974; 1975; Smole 1976). Also comparable with neighbouring groups, there may be a special men's hut at the centre of the community, serving as a social and ceremonial focus, as seen in the Bororo community (figure 6.43). Among the Shavante, the arrangement of houses within

23 A similar pattern of disruption of any linear trend will be the case in such diagrams which use the minimum kinship distance between each pair of households, if we are dealing with a fairly endogamous group, since each conjugal household will have two different sets of close kin, and they may only be able to situate themselves adjacent to one or the other.

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the village is duplicated in the organisation of more temporary shelters when the group, or part of it, goes on trek (Maybury-Lewis 1967). Community Patterns. For a broader cross-cultural perspective on community spatial behaviour, data has been assembled for 122 communities from 21 cultures, providing information on 223 different social situations (table 6.11). Because nearly all of the communities can be considered essentially traditional, no distinction is made in the following analysis between traditional and 'adapted' community patterns. Dividing the sample into the three major adaptations (figure 6.44), reveals major differences between each in residential group size, with dry savanna communities tending toward relatively small groups, Australian wet savanna groups falling within the same general range, though with a larger modal tendency. South American savanna communities are in general considerably larger. These distinctions in group size justify further consideration of dry savanna and wet savanna cultures individually - there are too few examples of South American savanna communities to make a more specific examination worthwhile. A comparison of group size for complete communities and sub-segments for dry savanna groups indicates comparable size ranges, though segments tend to be smaller, as we should expect (figure 6.45). However, it is also clear that entire communities may be as small as segments of others, suggesting that we are picking up differences in group size during different periods of the year, when small groups in the range of 10-20 individuals reside on their own, and at other times, when several such groups aggregate to form a larger group. A comparison with a similar breakdown for Australian savanna groups, indicates a slightly higher modal tendency among the Australian communities (figure 6.46). While this may reflect bias in the nature of the sample under examination, it may also indicate that the greater richness of the wet savanna environment allows the regular association of somewhat larger basal residential groups. Major distinctions between the three groups of cultures can also be identified in a graph of occupation densities, with dry savanna cultures maintaining very high densities and Australian cultures markedly less dense (figure 6.47). This is just the distinction which we would expect, based on the differences in subsistence strategies, and the role of sharing in integrating residential communities. It is also worth noting that while the Australian savanna communities parallel the low occupation densities of Australian desert communities, the latter are substantially more extreme (figure 6.20), probably to some degree reflecting the lower frequency of large package inputs in desert camps. The South American communities also tend to be fairly dense, which appears somewhat anomalous in a general hunter-gatherer context, since they also maintain quite large communities. The combination of large populations and dense occupation is likely to be possible because of the existence of quite complex social mechanisms for integrating the members of such communities in productive, ceremonial, and political factions (Turner 1979; Maybury-Lewis 1979b). Such densities are also relevant in the context of high levels of inter-community conflict and raiding (Maybury-Lewis 1967). On the other hand, it is worth keeping in mind the doubts previously raised that such communities developed in the context of full-time foraging, or can be maintained without the productive stability introduced through horticultural production. The general relationship between community size and occupation density (figure 6.48) is consistent with that anticipated, even including the South American examples (though these tend to define the size-density limits of all savanna communities). Distinguishing the group-specific distributions, and assessing them in terms of reliability, the trend toward declining density with community size for dry savanna cultures is considerably clearer if we distinguish those examples considered to have fairly reliable data (figure 6.49). The uncertain examples nearly all represent communities for which only tabled summary

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~a San, see figure 6.52; Hitchcock 1987; Kent and Vierich 1989), figures were available (Ku and probably represent a bias comparable to that noted for the Alyawara. A comparable density trend can be identified in the data for Australian savanna cultures, though displaced slightly downward, indicating the lower occupation density of such communities (figure 6.50). A monotonic trend is also identifiable within the South American sample, despite the small sample size (figure 6.51). The trend in the latter case maintains a quite high density, comparable to that for dry savanna groups. Identifications by culture are made in figures 6.52 to 6.54. Within each ecological group, culturally distinct behaviour is not particularly clear - rather, most cultures that are well represented in the sample tend to cover the range of the distribution. This is particularly true if one takes into account the reliability of each case - for instance the !Kung, !Ko and G/wi San camps tend to be the densest among dry savanna groups, but these are also the groups for which the most detailed plans, permitting closest measurement, are available. One group which does deserve mention are the Hadza, who, while broadly consistent with the behaviour of other dry savanna groups, appear to have some of the densest recorded hunter-gatherer communities. The larger Hadza base camps, occupied during the dry season, are situated in a rocky escarpment, said to provide some protection from elephants (O'Connell et al. 1989; Bunn et al. 1988). In this area, cleared open spaces are severely limited by rock outcrops, and huts are packed quite close together. It would be interesting to determine whether comparable densities are maintained in the dispersed rainy season camps. However, to my knowledge, none of the examples in the sample analysed are from rainy season camps. Summary: Community Spatial Behaviour of Savanna Foragers. While savannas encompass a considerable range of environments, presenting different configurations of resources which can be exploited in rather different ways by foraging groups, a limited number of consistent adaptations appear to be represented. Each of these corresponds to a distinct type of spatial behaviour, comparable among different cultures. In both the Australian and South American context, these cultures are geographically relatively localised, and one could question whether similarities in spatial behaviour are the result of cultural diffusion. The same is true, for instance of the various San groups. On the other hand, communities have been documented from a wider variety of dry savanna cultures in widely separated regions of the world, which document comparable behaviour. Equally important, the behaviour of all savanna cultures varies from the behaviour documented in the last section for desert cultures. This suggests that different foraging groups are reacting to a similar set of environmental constraints and opportunities, in a comparable way, supporting the value of a comparative approach to learning about human spatial behaviour. Dry and wet savanna cultures document similar patterns of spatial behaviour, to the degree that kinship relationships are relatively important in organising the layout of residential structures within a community. Similarly, both document decreasing residential densities with increasing community size, as the social group residing together incorporates more distantly related individuals or even strangers. However, residential groups in the two categories differ considerably in overall occupation densities, with the highly cooperative dry savanna communities maintaining very high residential densities, and the more independent families in wet savanna cultures spacing themselves farther apart, resulting in less dense communities. Interestingly, the patterns of cooperation among the members of dry savanna communities depend on two different principles - groups relying on relatively large meat packages develop coherent communities based on cooperation in resource consumption, whereas net-hunting groups cooperate in resource acquisition, though in both cases the integration of the group is represented by high residential densities. The high densities of South American groups seem to rely less upon cooperation in subsistence behaviour, than upon patterns of cooperation in social, ceremonial, and defensive alliances.

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6.7: TROPICAL FOREST ADAPTATIONS.

Tropical forests have an equatorial distribution, largely falling within 10 degrees north or south of the equator. Outliers extend along coasts, and into savanna areas, particularly in areas along rivers (figure 6.1). Three major tropical forest zones exist in South America, Africa, and south and southeast Asia, extending into the Pacific islands. While each major region is distinctive, there are broad patterns in climate, vegetation, and fauna which justify consideration together as a major biome, particularly as they affect patterns of human exploitation. Environment and Resources. Tropical forests range from true evergreen forest through mixed to deciduous forest, progressively as one moves away from the equator into more seasonal climates, or into higher altitudes. Where seasons are present, they are usually determined by precipitation, and the length and severity of the dry season. Dry seasons rarely last more than a few months, otherwise the continuous forest cover is likely to break up, blending into mixed savanna woodland (Furley and Newey 1983; Cloudsley-Thompson 1975). Rainfall in tropical forests is generally high, usually in excess of 2000 mm per year. Close to the equator, year-round distribution is fairly regular, becoming more seasonal and erratic with increasing latitude. Mean annual temperatures are high, usually comparable to savannas, though more stable both seasonally, and diurnally, than in the more open environment. Vegetation patterns within tropical forests are extremely complex, with considerable temporal, spatial, and vertical heterogeneity. They have the highest diversity of plant species, usually with the consequent low abundance of any one species. Vegetation within such forests is layered, creating a diversity of micro-habitats for different faunal communities (Bourgeron 1983). In forest with little, or only minor seasonal climatic change, individual species may have growth cycles of varying length, which are not in phase with other species, providing a continual availability of different fruits, shoots and leaves for herbivores. In forests with a more pronounced dry season, more of the vegetation is likely to be in phase, creating periods of relative abundance and scarcity for primary consumers. Like the vegetation, tropical forests are characterised by a very high degree of faunal species diversity (Bourlire 1983). As with vegetation, high diversity is usually accompanied by low abundance of any one species within a local area. Because of the low density and scattered distribution of most vegetal resources, relatively few animal species are gregarious, and nearly all terrestrial animals are solitary. Because of the greater quantity of vegetal food resources high in the forest canopy, there are a large number of arboreal species, insects, birds and mammals (primarily bats, rodents and primates), whether flying or climbing. Terrestrial mammals include small deer and antelope, rodents, pigs, birds, and carnivores (Eisenberg 1983). Tropical forests also support a range of reptiles, amphibians, and large numbers of insects. Toward the margins of the tropical forest, many savanna mammal species may be available seasonally, such as larger herbivores like elephants and antelopes. Resource Acquisition. Consulting figure 6.10, it can be seen that most tropical forest hunter-gatherers have been considered to subsist on a diet consisting of 25-50 % plant foods, with the remainder made up of a balance between hunted animals and fish. In the case of both desert and savanna groups, such estimates have been significantly modified through more recent quantified, or semi-quantified studies of hunter-gatherer diets. In the case of tropical forest foragers, more recent studies are consistent with the earlier assessment, particularly stressing the prominent role of meat in the diet. However, a major problem in assessing the subsistence

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patterns of tropical forest foragers has arisen in recent years, with greater attention to the current context of foragers, rather than seeing them as stone age survivals. This has forced the recognition that many of the world's tropical forest foragers are closely linked into the economies of neighbouring agricultural groups, providing forest products, and particularly meat, in exchange for agricultural carbohydrates. At the same time, more detailed ecological interest has questioned whether the plant resources that are available within most tropical forests would be sufficient to replace the exchanged carbohydrates in the diet - in other words, whether most tropical forests could have been occupied by populations living purely by hunting and gathering (Milton 1985). While most forest groups have been reconstructed by their ethnographers as being able to subsist purely on wild resources, this has been questioned for the Mbuti of the central African equatorial forest, based on resource surveys which indicate a shortage of plant staples for approximately five months of the year (Hart and Hart 1986). Given that this is the season that animals are particularly lean, such that plant carbohydrates cannot be replaced by animal fats (Hart and Hart 1986; Speth and Spielmann 1983), this is taken to imply that full-time hunting and gathering populations could not have subsisted in the equatorial African forest under its current climatic and vegetational pattern, without some symbiotic relationship with nearby agriculturalists. On the other hand, while alternative plant resources may not fully replace the carbohydrates currently supplied by agricultural products, it is not clear that foragers in the forest could not have survived the period of low plant availability, through lower levels of energy expenditure, or by utilising resources not currently exploited, such as wild yams. While recognising the potential problem of access to forest carbohydrates, ethnographers of groups in southeast Asia and the Pacific such as the Semang (Endicott 1984), Kubu (Sandbukt 1988), Batek (Eder 1978; 1984; 1987), and Agta (Griffin 1984) feel foragers could have harvested sufficient plants year-round to subsist independent of their agricultural neighbours, though the environmental availability of suitable resources has not yet been documented. The best evidence for full-time tropical forest foragers comes from South America, on the north and south borders of the tropical forest. Full-time foraging has been documented among the Cuiva of Venezuela, who inhabit tropical gallery forests along the rivers in a savanna zone (Arcand 1976; Hurtado and Hill 1987), and reconstructed for the Northern Ache, of Paraguay, who forage in forested regions within a broader zone generally classed as savanna (figure 6.1: South America 2). While settled since the mid 1970s on a mission station and engaging in cultivation, the Ache still undertake numerous foraging expeditions, which have formed the basis for a number of quantified studies of their foraging behaviour (Hawkes et al. 1982; Hill and Hawkes 1983; Hill et al. 1984; Hurtado et al. 1985; Hill et al. 1985; Kaplan and Hill 1985b; Hawkes et al. 1987). The South American cases indicate that full-time foraging in tropical forests cannot be dismissed across the board, but rather each context needs to be examined carefully, looking at the resources available, and how they are, and have been exploited. Accepting that there is uncertainty over the 'traditional' status of the subsistence of many tropical forest foragers, there is a certain consistency in their current subsistence patterns, and from the perspective of this study, their community patterns can be considered to be traditional. It is therefore worth briefly surveying the data on subsistence patterns which is available from the best documented cultures. Data from a variety of studies of equatorial African groups indicates that recent diets may be approximately balanced by weight between meat and exchanged agricultural products, and that daily per capita meat acquisition ranges between 0.4 and 1.0 kgs, of which a substantial amount will be exchanged with villagers or meat traders. Honey is likely to form a substantial, or the principal component of the diet when it is available. Synchrony in the seasonality of many resources may result in a period of scarcity for both foragers and the neighbouring agriculturalists in the dry season (Bailey and DeVore 1989; Tanno 1976; Hart 1978; Hart and Hart 1986; Harako 1976; 1981; Wilke 1989; Demesse 1980). The only other

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Old World tropical forest foragers for which quantified dietary data are available are the Onge of Little Andaman Island, living largely on coastal resources. The subsistence consumption of one band was monitored over a period of one month, and it was found that meat and fish formed 72% of the diet by weight and 83% in terms of calories, with an average of 0.56 kgs meat per person per day. About 0.21 kgs plant foods and 0.01 kgs honey were also consumed per person per day (Bose 1964). In South America, the most detailed data comes from the Ache, though details vary from report to report, depending on a different database, as the research progressed (Hawkes et al. 1982; Hill and Hawkes 1983; Hill et al. 1984; Hurtado et al. 1985; Hill et al. 1985; Kaplan and Hill 1985b; Hawkes et al. 1987). A wide variety of plant and animal species is consumed, but most of the diet, some 60% by weight, is derived from 12 animal and 10 plant species. By weight, vegetal resources form the bulk (ca. 60%) of the diet, but in terms of calories, meat provided 47-77% of the energy acquired each day. Individuals consumed an average of 6.92 kgs of plant foods, 2.80 kgs meat, and 1.24 kgs of honey per day. A comparative analysis of female (Hurtado et al. 1985) and male (Hill et al. 1985) foraging activities indicates the importance of hunting in structuring foraging strategies - many gathering opportunities are not exploited, and much female activity is aimed at supporting the hunters as the group traverses the forest. While there is seasonal variation in the individual plant resources available, different species can be exploited at different seasons, resulting in a fairly constant diet, and palm starch provides a year-round staple. Animals are available fairly constantly through the year, though honey is more seasonal (figure 6.55; Hill et al. 1984). The only other well documented South American foragers are the Cuiva, who exploit an equal diversity of both plants and animals. Meat comprises about 58% of the annual diet by weight, potentially 70% in terms of calories (Hurtado and Hill 1987), and averages 0.53 kgs per person per day (Arcand 1976). The diet is fairly constant through the year, though seasonal changes in vegetation result in a shift between a reliance on fruits in the wet season, and vegetables in the dry season. Despite differences of detail, several general features of tropical forest foraging can be abstracted from the behaviour of these different cultures. In all of the cultures where subsistence behaviour is documented in detail, meat is of major importance in the diet, providing more than one-half of the calories consumed daily. We might expect this in an environment where plant resources are very diverse, and generally dispersed, since animals will form a more concentrated source of energy. Also, while the plant resources which can be exploited directly by humans may be seasonal in availability, the non-migratory animals usually can exploit a wider range of vegetation and can provide a stable year-round resource. This is well documented in the South American examples, where the plant foods available change seasonally, but the animal resources remain fairly constant. A second general feature of tropical forest hunting is the importance of cooperative hunting. While faunal prey may be generally solitary and dispersed, most species avoid detection through remaining hidden in vegetation. They can be most effectively flushed from hiding by cooperative teams of hunters, or hunters and beaters. Cooperative hunting may be undertaken through net-hunting, where solitary but swift prey such as small antelope are driven from cover and caught in nets and dispatched, or through surrounding solitary or clumped prey. Cooperation can also be important in tracking, driving, and capturing arboreal species, such as primates. The size of an effective cooperative group is likely to vary with the hunting technique, and with the behaviour of the specific prey. A third common feature of most tropical forest groups is their fairly high degree of mobility, even if only within a relatively restricted territory (table 6.8). This relates to the high diversity and dispersed distribution of most plant and animal species, necessitating regular movement since the low density resources of any one locality are rapidly exploited.

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Resource Consumption. Using the detailed data available from studies of Ache foraging, it is possible to simulate the effects of different consumption strategies. The input data for the simulations are listed in table 6.9. Different storage strategies are modeled for a single productive unit in figure 6.56. It can be seen that in terms of raising mean daily consumption levels, storage overnight raises mean levels significantly. Expanding storage to five days will essentially allow full utilisation of any resource within the individual family, because of the small to medium package size of all resources encountered. Day to day variation in consumption levels is quite low, owing to the regular acquisition of small package inputs, and while there is a decrease in variation with storage, it is extremely limited. Because storage technologies are relatively undeveloped in warm, humid environments, we might anticipate that alternatives to storage would be employed to allow the fullest utilisation of a resource within one or two days of its acquisition. The potential role of sharing of resources is rather more significant, as can be seen in figures 6.57 and 6.58. Substantial increases in mean daily consumption levels can be obtained by sharing between two or three producers, though consumption levels stabilise with three or more cooperating units; there is little advantage to sharing packages smaller than 5 kgs. On the other hand, decreases in day to day variation are less dramatic, but are most effective with sharing of packages greater than 1 kg. Among the Ache, as with most other tropical forest groups, there is considerably more sharing of meat than there is of vegetal resources (Kaplan and Hill 1985b; Clastres 1972; Endicott 1984; Eder 1988). In the case of the Ache, as well as most African tropical forest groups, extensive sharing is strongly linked to the collective nature of much hunting. Hurtado and Hill found no correspondence between the degree of sharing of specific meat resources which were hunted collectively, as opposed to others (1985b), but this is not surprising, since collective and individual hunts are intermingled throughout the day, and the individuals taking part in any one hunt are likely to change, depending on who is near when the appropriate prey is sighted. Rather than engage in any complicated accounting, the game is essentially pooled within the entire foraging group, at the end of the day. Among groups who place less emphasis on collective hunting, an hierarchy of obligations is recognised, with family needs satisfied first, and any excess being shared progressively more widely, depending on the amount of the resource available (Endicott 1984; Eder 1988). Balancing individualistic storage against sharing, we might anticipate that most tropical forest groups will exhibit behaviour similar to the Ache, and consistent with our simulations. Meat usually forms a major component of the daily diet, and often comes in medium-sized packages, more than sufficient for the daily needs of an individual family. Given the limited scope for storage of plant or animal resources, sharing is the most effective means of ensuring the full use of resources, as well as being most consistent with cooperative acquisition strategies. Demographic and Social Patterns. Demographically, tropical forests can maintain moderate densities of hunter-gatherers, broadly comparable with those of savanna environments (table 6.8). On the other hand, despite relatively low resource densities and dispersed distributions of relatively immobile resources, the more continuous distribution of forest resources allows exploitation of a smaller overall territory. In addition, most recent tropical forest groups are to some extent tethered to neighbouring agricultural villages, restricting their patterns of movement. Given the low density and dispersion of resources, we could expect relatively small residential groups, though in regions where collective hunting is practiced, minimum group size is constrained by the number of families necessary for successful cooperative hunting. While flexibility in residential group membership has been stressed in earlier work (Turnbull 1965a; 1968), recent research suggests greater stability, consistent with the high

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degree of cooperation between members of the residential group (Ichikawa 1979; Harako 1981; Pedersen and Whle 1988). Community Studies. Detailed information on the internal organisation of tropical forest hunter-gatherer communities is largely limited to the work of Turnbull (1965a) with the Mbuti. One Mbuti camp has been selected to illustrate the spatial organisation within camps, a fairly characteristic example (figure 6.59-60). On the plan, clusters of shelters can be identified, each representing groups of close kin; often these will cluster around a communal hearth. The close association between kin agrees with more recent work among Efe groups, which suggests that close male kin preferentially associate with each other for cooperation in subsistence and other activities (Bailey and Aunger 1989). The rank-order correlation between kin distance and spatial distance is rs = 0.5067 (p<.001). Some camps among African equatorial groups may have a specific shelter or shade where men gather, which may or may not be near the centre of a camp, offering something of a social focus for the community. It is not clear whether the presence of such a structure relates to the size or duration of the camp, or the degree of social solidarity among its members. A similar analysis may be performed on a Semang camp for which the kinship relations of most households are documented by Schebesta (1928:56-73; figures 6.61-2). In this case, the rank-order correlation coefficient between kin distance and spatial distance is rs = 0.561 (p<.001). In both examples, the relationship between the spatial location of shelters and the minimum kinship relations between their occupants is fairly broad, as noted in previous analyses, but at the same time, more distant kin are nearly always situated at a greater distance than close kin. This can also be seen when kinship relations are mapped onto the camp plans (figures 6.59; 6.61). Community Patterns. It has been possible to assemble community data for 14 tropical forest cultures, representing 136 communities, and yielding information on 271 different social contexts (table 6.12). Over one-half of the examples of social contexts analysed derive from plans of Mbuti (and Efe) communities, principally from the work of Turnbull (1961; 1965a; 1965b), but with a few examples from publications by Tanno (1976) and Harako (1976). In all cases, the plans are simply sketches without scales, which obviously creates difficulties for their use in any analyses. I have estimated the scale for each, based on the mapped size of the huts, and the distance between huts, and the documented average size of huts and photographs of camps. This obviously leaves considerable room for uncertainty, since none of the authors claim that their sketches are accurate in any relative sense. Furthermore, where Turnbull has drawn the same camp in different illustrations, there are usually some differences, indicating that the sketches are at best fairly rough. Some indication of the general accuracy of the estimated scales can be obtained from a comparison of the areas of the Mbuti and Efe camps for which the scale has been estimated, with the area distribution of camps of other African equatorial forest pygmy groups, the Efe, Baka and Aka, for which scaled plans are available (figure 6.63). The general frequency distribution is very comparable except at the upper and lower ends of the scale. It has been noted by a number of individuals working on Mbuti group organisation that the Epulu band, which Turnbull primarily worked with, was abnormally large, due to the attractions for the Mbuti of Camp Putnam, which served as Turnbull's base (Harako 1981; Pedersen and Whle 1988), accounting for the largest camps in my sample. At the other extreme, Turnbull's kin diagrams allowed the sub-division of many of his camps into socially coherent segments for analysis, which accounts for the relatively large number of very small cases. In conclusion, it appears that the estimated scales for the Mbuti camps are likely to be broadly accurate, and adequate for the present analyses.

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In terms of group size, most complete communities fall in the range of 20-40 inhabitants, though there are a substantial number which continue up to about 70-80 individuals (figure 6.64). Almost all examples with more than 40 occupants are Mbuti communities, with their stress on relatively large group size to provide sufficient family nets for effective nethunting - other groups generally maintain smaller populations. A plot of population against occupation density for the entire sample (figure 6.65) reveals the expected tendency for the smallest camps to have the highest occupation densities, though this relationship is not as extremely polarised as it was for desert foragers (figure 6.21) or even for savanna groups (figure 6.48). This wider size range for high density occupations is represented in figure 6.66 by the gradual slope of the trend through the data, and many of the outliers can be seen to be data considered to have a fairly low reliability. In figures 6.67 and 6.68, data points for individual cultures are identified, the division between African and non-African groups simply being an attempt to simplify each graph so that individual points can be identified. Culture specific behaviour is not particularly noticeable. Aside from the wide distribution of the Mbuti data, expectable given its rough accuracy, one other point merits specific comment. In figure 6.68, a very low density Ache community toward the lower right corner of the graph represents the mission community where the Ache currently live, whereas the other three points represent data from foraging camps. In addition, one point is completely off the diagram, with a population of nine and an occupation density of 12,329 persons per hectare. This camp was a very small rock shelter, occupied by a small group of Semang, probably for only a short period of time (Skeat and Blagden 1906:172-3). Summary: Community Spatial Behaviour of Tropical Forest Foragers. This analysis indicates that tropical forest cultures from the three major tropical forest regions are fairly comparable in their spatial behaviour, generally maintaining very dense communities. While this might indicate the constraints of camping in clearings in a densely forested environment, we could expect a more random relationship between population and occupation density if this was a significant factor. Rather, we can look to comparable characteristics in the social behaviour of tropical forest foragers to account for the similar patterns in spatial behaviour. Among most tropical forest groups, there is a considerable degree of cooperation in resource acquisition, a pattern which appears to focus on the acquisition of medium-sized, solitary faunal resources, which hide in vegetation to avoid predators. Collective hunting is particularly successful at acquiring such animals, and represents a strategy documented widely in tropical forest environments. Cooperation in resource acquisition also leads to cooperation in resource consumption. The high degree of cooperation and integration of the residential group is facilitated by easy communication between individuals, and is represented on the ground in the dense communities.

6.8: TEMPERATE ECOSYSTEM ADAPTATIONS.

Hunter-gatherer populations from temperate biomes are relatively poorly represented in the ethnographic record, owing to the suitability of temperate regions for cereal-based agriculture. In most temperate regions, foraging populations were rapidly displaced by intrusive Western colonists, if they had avoided previous displacement by indigenous agricultural and pastoral populations (figure 6.1). Unlike most of the other biomes considered, it is not possible to currently observe hunter-gatherers in temperate environments, maintaining anything approaching traditional subsistence or settlement patterns. Early accounts are available of hunter-gatherers in a variety of temperate environments such as southern Africa (Parkington 1984), southeast Australia (Lourandos 1988; Williams 1988), and very early accounts prior to the adoption of the horse in Patagonia (Cooper 1963), though they lack the detail necessary for even a semi-quantitative reconstruction of traditional subsistence patterns.

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Two cultural regions are particularly important for providing a more detailed picture of hunter-gatherers in temperate environments, California and the Pacific northwest coast of North America, from northern California to southeastern Alaska. In California, the late date of the displacement and decimation of the indigenous population allowed students of the newly defined field of anthropology to conduct rescue ethnography among many of the Californian cultures in the early decades of this century, continuing up until after the Second World War. Further to the north, the indigenous populations survived later, and have generally been able to retain significant areas of their traditional lands and have maintained more traditional customs, principally because their territory is relatively unsuitable for agriculture. Trading interests led to major transformations within Northwest Coast societies, particularly escalating the existing patterns of personal and inter-group competition. Because the surviving communities have often maintained their independence, many aspects of traditional life have been maintained, and documented by anthropologists since the end of the last century. Temperate biomes have supported the highest regional population densities documented ethnographically and inferred archaeologically for hunter-gatherers, as well as the most complex forms of social organisation. In North America, where continent-wide data has been analysed in some detail, the foraging cultures located in California and along the Northwest Coast maintained population densities which were matched in only a few regions by the indigenous agriculturalists, north of Mesoamerica (Kroeber 1939; Driver 1969). Environment and Resources. The temperate biome is at least as varied as that classed as savanna, encompassing pure grasslands, mixed parkland, deciduous forest, warm-temperate rainforest, and Mediterranean scrub. All regions, however, are characterised by significant seasonality, both in temperature and precipitation patterns. Temperate deciduous forests are defined by a pattern of summer growth and winter dormancy, the latter accompanied by the loss of leaves. It is the annual loss of leaves which permits the growth of an herbaceous under-storey, contributing to the diversity of the habitat for animal life. The vegetation of the temperate forest is far less diverse than that of tropical forests, and dense continuous stands of a small range of tree or shrub species are common. Grassland predominates where overall precipitation levels are low, while Mediterranean scrub characterises west coast regions with summer drought conditions. The major temperate grasslands are found in continental interiors, such as the Eurasian steppe, the North American great plains, the South American pampas, the southern African veld, and substantial areas of grassland in southern Australia and New Zealand. The plant resources which are exploitable directly by humans are considerably more abundant in forest, as opposed to grassland temperate environments. These may consists of nuts, berries, shoots, roots, and seeds; tubers are a more restricted resource than they are in many tropical contexts (Furley and Newey 1983). The animal life of the temperate biomes is quite diverse, largely related to the degree of seasonal variation in temperature and moisture, and the nature of the vegetation cover. Vegetation is markedly seasonal, and as one moves away from the tropics, there may be little vegetation available during the winter for primary consumers. In cooler temperate areas, mobile animals, whether birds or large terrestrial herbivores, will avoid cold winters through migration toward warmer zones, while others, particularly the smaller animals such as reptiles, amphibians and many rodents, hibernate. Other animals, particularly birds and sea mammals, may pass through the temperate zone on longer migrations, providing a rich, though highly seasonal faunal resource.

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Temperate forests support a considerable range of indigenous species of animals, though as with the vegetation, a lesser diversity than is documented in tropical forests. Insects, amphibians and reptiles are all well-represented, though not in the diversity documented in tropical environments, and appear to play a substantially decreased role in hunter-gatherer subsistence patterns outside of the tropics. Birds and mammals are extremely common, and fish are well-represented in lakes, streams and rivers, as well as along the coasts. Temperate grasslands usually support a more restricted range of fauna; terrestrial species are often dichotomised between quite large herbivores, such as deer, antelope, and bison, and small burrowing rodents. The larger grassland species are usually herd animals, and are extremely mobile. The limited availability of plant resources which can be directly consumed by humans, and the seasonal migratory behaviour of much of the animal biomass of temperate grasslands may have made these fairly inhospitable regions for foragers prior to the introduction of the horse. Temperate coastal regions are likely to be the richest in terms of resources which can be exploited by hunter-gatherers. In addition to the terrestrial resources, coastal marine resources such as marine mammals, fish and shellfish can add considerably to the diversity and abundance of resources available, as well as spread resource availability more regularly through the year. In the northern temperate region, many rivers and streams are frequented annually by anadromous fish, providing a highly localised, abundant resource. Coasts often define the flyways of migratory birds, which will constitute a seasonally abundant resource. Along the north Pacific coast of North America, a very distinctive biome is created by the offshore Japanese current, which ameliorates the extreme cold of inland continental winters, and contributes to exceptionally high levels of precipitation on the seaward slopes of the Rocky Mountains. The steep rocky slopes are densely blanketed with evergreen coniferous species, supporting a floral and faunal community comparable to the subarctic boreal forest in the mountains and stretching eastward across North America, a biome considered in detail in the next section of this chapter. This region is considered with the temperate biome for two reasons. The availability of a wide variety of riverine, estuarine and marine resources provides an environment which is comparable in richness to that of temperate coastal regions, and is in stark contrast with the severely restricted resources of the interior forest zone (Schalk 1977; 1981). Second, a common cultural horizon extended along the entire northwest coast of North America, from northern California to southern Alaska, and any division would be purely artificial. Finally, there are major similarities in the subsistence and settlement behaviour of the cultures documented ethnographically in temperate California and along the northward coast which contrast with the behaviour of most other hunter-gatherers, and which can most usefully be considered comparatively. Resource Acquisition. The social ecology of groups ranging from California through the Northwest Coast can be considered along a sliding scale, since the nature of subsistence resources changes gradually as one moves north, with changing implications for the nature and behaviour of foraging populations (figure 6.69). California is characterised by a diversity of micro-environments, though comparable resources were available in most areas - their relative abundance in any particular region led to variations on a common subsistence theme (Baumhoff 1978). Throughout most of the state, acorns were available in abundance, and formed the principal staple in the diet, though a wide variety of roots, bulbs, shoots, nuts, berries and grains were also exploited. Acorns were particularly important since they could be harvested in bulk and easily stored, and their importance has been demonstrated through simple but effective modelling against documented population levels throughout California (Baumhoff 1963). Plant resources were supplemented by fish, particularly in northern California, where rivers were visited annually by anadromous fish. The latter were often dried or smoked and preserved for

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consumption throughout the year. Hunting of large and small game formed an important dietary supplement in most areas, and the excess above immediate requirements could be dried or smoked. Storage of resources, particularly of acorns and fish, was important for consumption during the winter, though subsistence activities could continue year-round. In northern California, among the coastal and riverine groups, acorns were of lesser importance, and anadromous fish were the staple resource. In addition, for coastal groups, shellfish, ocean fish and sea mammals contributed substantially to the diet (Gould 1981). Progressing northward, the landscape is increasingly dominated by evergreen forests, with a consequent reduction in the herbaceous layer, and a reduction in the variety of both plant and animal resources available for exploitation. This results in a decreasing importance for terrestrial resources, and most Northwest Coast cultures were oriented to the sea and its resources (Schalk 1977; 1981). In California, most productive activities required little in the way of cooperative action, and food acquisition was principally a family affair, at most linking two or three cooperating families. Further north, resources become increasingly seasonal in their availability, and often more spatially and temporally clumped, facilitating mass-harvesting and encouraging larger cooperative productive units (Suttles 1962; Schalk 1981; Ames 1985; Drucker 1963; 1983); individual families belonged to larger house-groups, usually a kin-group consisting of from 20 to 60 or more individuals, headed by a family 'chief'. While the kin relations between the elite members of a house might be regulated by custom, commoners could be recruited bilaterally, and chiefs might have to invest considerable effort in recruiting and maintaining a cooperative workforce. Large productive groups could mobilise substantial amounts of labour when it was necessary, as in constructing fish weirs, drying houses, or crewing whaleboats, but also allowed a division of labour between members of the household, such that different resources could be exploited at the same time, and pooled within the house. Rights to specific resource areas, such as shellfish beds, fishing locations, or berrying locations could be held by kin-groups or by individuals, depending on local custom (Suttles 1962; Ames 1985). Such rights were ceremonially sanctioned, and would be defended against trespass or usurpation. Raiding appears to have been endemic throughout most of the Northwest Coast region, and access to resource territories and raiding for stored food and wealth are two of the most frequently cited justifications for warfare in indigenous tales (Ferguson 1983; 1984). Resource Consumption. Detailed quantified data for the subsistence practices of temperate foragers are not available, so that modelling of potential consumption behaviour is not possible. On the other hand, the same issues can be discussed in a somewhat more general way. Most of the resources exploited both in California and along the Northwest Coast came in relatively small packages - deer were hunted, and whales were exploited, usually simply those that washed ashore, but most resources, such as gathered plants, fish, and shellfish, were acquired in small packages. On the other hand, critical resources like fish were often acquired in enormous quantities. However, this was an explicit strategy aimed at stockpiling resources to cope with seasonal variation in access to resources, a scale at which sharing will have little or no effect. Since storage strategies were available and well-developed, they also mitigated the need for extensive sharing in the short-term. The differences in consumption strategies which are documented, particularly by a comparison of California groups with Northwest Coast cultures, concern the size of the foraging and resource-sharing unit. In California, these were generally individual families, ranging from about five to ten individuals. Few tasks required more labour than could be mobilised by such a group, though there was often some association between several families. Farther north, the more spatially and temporally restricted access to resources encouraged the formation of larger cooperative groups, and a greater investment in largescale facilities for resource acquisition, and greater emphasis on large-scale processing and

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storage. Such groups also formed the resource-sharing unit for consumption. In addition, raiding for both stored food and for control of resource zones was much more extensively developed, encouraging the maintenance of larger cooperative groups for mutual defence. Demographic and Social Patterns. In California, most groups maintained a permanent village where individual or multiple kin-groups resided through most of the year. Since many resources were located in different parts of a group's territory, individual families would leave the village, either for short periods, or for much of the warmer season, to exploit specific seasonally-abundant resources. If these resource zones were not too distant from the winter village, collected resources could be acquired logistically and taken back to the village for storage. If resource areas were more distant, families would reside at those locations while sufficient resources were available. Most productive activities required little in the way of cooperative action, and food acquisition and consumption was principally a family affair, at most linking two or three cooperating families. These were usually close kin, such as an extended family, and might reside in the same house, or in adjacent houses within a village. Villagers were usually linked by kinship ties, and one senior man would head each kin group, acting on behalf of the community in organising exchange and ceremonial relations with other communities. Where multiple kin-groups resided together, each had its own 'chief', but one might be viewed as paramount. Status was supported by wealth, and while the storage of foodstuffs was well-developed, individual resources could generally not be harvested in sufficient quantity to generate excessive wealth differentials between families. Wealth distinctions supported a system of social ranking among many groups, though classes were open and individuals could move up or down, depending on their wealth (Bean 1978). Individuals and kin-groups could own rights to specific resource areas, and inter-village feuds and conflicts developed over rights of access to resources. Since most village communities were also kin-groups, inter-family feuds could escalate to the level of inter-village warfare (McCorkle 1978). Increasing seasonality in the north of the state led to a greater restriction on productive activities to the warmer months of the year, and a greater reliance on storage to support families during the winter months. The increased emphasis on storage corresponds to a greatly increased concern with wealth and status (Gould 1981; Elmendorf and Kroeber 1960). Since most productive activities could be undertaken by individual families, or at most two or three families acting together, there was a considerable emphasis on the independence of each family as a resource owning, acquiring and consuming group, with a lesser emphasis on the cohesion of the overall residential community (Elmendorf and Kroeber 1960). Small groups of cooperating families might share social facilities such as sweathouses, and maintain localised residence within larger communities (Pilling 1978). However, since villages were still usually kin-groups, they might act together in the defence of rights to resources or other feuds (Pilling 1978; McCorkle 1978). Among Northwest Coast groups, the individual house-group was the basic subsistence acquiring and consuming unit, as well as the basic residential group. As individual kingroups expanded, cadet lines might found new houses within the same lineage, which led to multiple house communities (Tollefson 1982). Each house would be an independent social and economic unit, though houses of the same family/lineage would often act together in inter-group rivalries and war (Swanton 1909; Ferguson 1983). With spatial disjunctions between the locations of different seasonally available resources, most Northwest Coast groups moved seasonally between at least two residential locations; usually, each house-group would move to its own camps for most of the summer to collect resources and to process stores for the winter months (Mitchell 1983). The individual house-groups would return to the principal winter village at the end of the autumn, and non-subsistence activities, such as trading, ceremonies, and feasting would be the principal

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undertakings, with subsistence relying on the stores laid in during the spring and summer (figure 6.70). Particularly good village locations might attract a number of different families, though this appears to have been for the attraction of the site, the excitement of feasting and inter-family competition, and for potential defence against raids through alliance with other houses, rather than because of inter-house cooperation in subsistence production (Drucker 1983; Mitchell 1983). Within such larger communities, some houses would belong to each of (usually) two moieties, which formed exogamous groups, though lacking any political integration (Swanton 1909). During the eighteenth century, as many groups were severely depopulated by disease, there was a tendency for independent families to aggregate at relatively few, larger, coastal settlements, some apparently exceeding 1000 inhabitants, to facilitate access to trading vessels, as trade with Whites came to dominate the acquisition of wealth (Drucker 1951). Elaborating considerably the interest in wealth seen in California, and the support of social differentiation with accumulated wealth documented in northern California, status was a central component of Northwest Coast social systems, with more formalised social stratification among the more northern groups (Suttles 1962; Drucker 1983; Riches 1979; Ames 1985). With the periodic availability of a superabundance of particular resources, and the technological ability to harvest and store such resources in quantities beyond immediate subsistence needs, the great productive potential of the region could also be used to create significant production differentials, whether through differential investment of effort in resource acquisition, or control of resource acquisition locations of varying potential. Substantial quantities of stored subsistence surplus could be converted through trade into material sumptuary items, and could be used directly through feasts and gift-giving to support social status and enhance prestige. It was in the context of the creation and manipulation of substantial subsistence surpluses that Northwest Coast societies developed the most complex social systems documented among hunter-gatherer populations (Suttles 1962; 1968; Piddocke 1965; Drucker and Heizer 1967; Rosman and Rubel 1971; Riches 1979; Ames 1985). Community Studies. In assembling the data for this study, considerable difficulty was encountered obtaining any detailed settlement data for temperate cultures, and the data do not permit as detailed an analysis as could be undertaken for societies dealt with in the preceding sections. Information on different dimensions of community organisation can be considered for three Californian groups, the Cahuilla, Wappo and Nomlaki. Figure 6.71 is a sketch plan of the layout of the Cahuilla village of Pic _ekiva, dating to about 1880 (Strong 1929:43-49). The village was originally occupied by one clan consisting of seven families, and two other clans later joined it, settling to one side of the existing village, though one cabin was constructed near to some limited irrigated gardens, which were used to supplement collected resources. In the original village, nuclear family houses were distributed around the house of the clan chief, which also served as the dance house and focus for the community. The two clans which later joined the village were related, and the dominant clan of the two constructed its own dance house, the residence of its chief. This clan constructed only two houses, though one housed four nuclear families, while the other housed five. The third clan constructed four nuclear family houses for its members, three clustered near the clan with which they were affiliated, and one adjacent to the small patch of irrigated land. The clan localisation of the community is indicated in figure 6.71. Figure 6.72 is a sketch reconstruction of the Wappo community of ?unu?cawa?hlma.noma, dating to about 1870 (Driver 1936:201-7). Eleven substantial grass houses containing 92 inhabitants were distributed on both sides of a small creek. Each house contained from one to six families, usually closely related. While some kinship relations between the different

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house are documented, it is not presumed that all were recalled by the informant (Driver 1936:204). The primary kin relationships that are recorded are indicated on figure 6.72, though little pattern is apparent. While Wappo villages had notional chiefs (Sawyer 1978), the residence of the chief in this village has not been recorded. Rather, what organisation there is in the layout focuses on the sweathouse, which would have been the social centre for the male members of the community. The third Californian community is a normative sketch of a Nomlaki village, which indicates the major features of a village's spatial layout (figure 6.73). Though it does not illustrate any particular community, it implies that communities had a fairly standard layout (Goldschmidt 1951:318-9). Nomlaki villages were exogamous kin-groups, ranging in size from 20-200 individuals. The chief's house was the focal point of the community, and also served as the sweathouse and as the location for most other communal activities; the dance house was a post-contact introduction, and was located beyond the ring of nuclear family residences (Goldschmidt 1978). While not providing much detail, each of these examples indicates that there was at least some organisation in community layout, focussing on the chief's residence or 'men's house' (sweat house), which created the social integration for the community as a whole. Smallerscale patterns may or may not have existed with regard to localised kin groups within such a community - they are described for some Californian groups, though neither confirmed nor denied for most. In these examples, they are seen in the Cahuilla case, and in a limited sense in the multi-family dwellings of the Pomo. Concern for the cohesion of the village is consistent with its role in most Californian cultures as a social and political unit (Bean 1978). On the other hand, a relatively low level of concern with inter-household spatial relationships is consistent with the productive independence of individual households. Community organisation among Northwest Coast groups appears to have been considerably more formal (Swanton 1909; Oberg 1973; MacDonald 1983), though detailed documentation is again limited. The houses within a village were usually situated in a line behind the beach, so that each had direct access to the water and space for the beaching of canoes. In large villages, a second or even third line of lower status houses might be constructed behind the first row. Houses were very substantial, often exceeding 10 metres in width, and possibly exceeding 20 metres in length. Ideally, the house of the principal chief of the highest ranking lineage should be in the centre of a community, flanked by houses of lesser rank. To some extent this pattern can be seen in some communities, since the senior lineage at a site would have placed their houses in the best location, with later additions filling-in less favoured locations. However, such ideal plans would be considerably complicated as houses shifted in rank, as cadet branches constructed their own houses, and as new houses joined the community from other areas. Few Northwest Coast communities have been documented in sufficient detail to allow an analysis of residential patterns, though a detailed programme of archaeological mapping of traditional Haida sites (MacDonald 1983), in conjunction with informant recollections of the houses and their residents (Swanton 1909), allows some matching of houses sites with their lineage group. One example is illustrated in figure 6.74, the village of Skedans, in about 1878. The spatial localisation of houses belonging to branches of the same family (lineage) can be seen, as can the relative localisation of the two moieties, the Ravens and the Eagles. A defensive fort was located on the rocky headland to the right of the plan. A second example is given in figure 6.75, which is a sketch of the Nootkan village of Actis, in the early 1970s (Kenyor 1980:97-100). Originally a summer site, where the inhabitants of several different Nootkan winter villages aggregated for summer ocean fishing and sea mammal hunting (Drucker 1951:222-3), it eventually became the permanent village for a number of the local groups, as their population declined. The large multi-family houses were replaced by nuclear family houses during the early years of this century, but the

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locations of individual houses have remained fairly stable, and nuclear families within the same lineage were still localised within the community (Kenyor 1980). These two examples from Northwest Coast cultures document considerably more formal community layout than appears to have been the case among Californian groups. On the other hand, given the relatively high populations, and the high degree of economic and social competition between house-groups both within and between villages, more formal social and spatial organisation appears to have been necessary to minimise the potential for conflict between the large independent productive units within such a village. At the same time, high residential densities were encouraged for reasons of defence, and because of the limited number of suitable house sites - the limited length of the beach is indicated on figure 6.74, while Actis extended the entire width of the lee shore of a small island. Such spatial packing would have become more acute throughout the nineteenth century, as formerly separate groups aggregated at fewer coastal sites. Community Patterns. It has been possible to assemble information on 93 communities, representing 119 different social situations, for 24 cultures (table 6.13). Most of the data documented for Californian cultures are normative figures determined by Cook and Heizer, through their ethnographic and archaeological research (1965; 1968), and refer to traditional communities. For the Northwest Coast cultures, the sample is quite mixed, with both traditional and more recent examples, as well as a few fairly recent archaeological examples, where I felt that the average population of a house documented more recently for the same culture could reasonably be extrapolated to estimate site population.24 In figure 6.76, the size of communities is graphed, with those from California, northern California, the Northwest Coast, and the two 'other' communities distinguished. While the overall size distribution for Californian groups is fairly comparable to that of the Northwest coast groups, it is worth noting that the seven largest Californian communities (all with more than 400 inhabitants) belong to a single cultural group, the coastal Chumash. The population of these settlements was estimated by early Spanish explorers, and the areas of the archaeological sites representing each community documented by Cook and Heizer (1965). These were by far the largest communities which appear to have existed in aboriginal California, and were exceptionally large by Chumash standards (Grant 1978). Unfortunately, no insight is given as to whether these communities were otherwise exceptional. They are said to have had several chiefs, possibly each heading a kin-group more comparable with other communities. Houses are said to have been clustered within the larger communities, though it is not clear whether such groups represented social segments of the overall community (Grant 1978). Except for the Chumash communities, the majority of Californian and Northern Californian communities are fairly small, in the range 20-60 inhabitants, on the large end of the range documented for more mobile hunter-gatherer groups. A ceiling on normal community size of 50-60 would be consistent with the limited development of the authority of village chiefs, and their principal status as the head of a village kin-group. Complete Northwest Coast communities are nearly all considerably larger, the smallest having about 50 inhabitants, pointing immediately to significant differences in the social organisation of such communities, and the ability to integrate considerably larger numbers of residents into relatively permanent residential groups.

24The two other examples are somewhat doubtful, the Yavapai being an agricultural group, though the site included is a temporary cave shelter (Gifford 1936), and the Wandandian being a temperate Australian Aboriginal community which appears heavily adapted to a Western way of life (Egloff 1981). The limitations of each of the latter cases simply illustrates the dearth of detailed information which is available on temperate hunter-gatherers.

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Occupation densities for the different groups of communities are broadly comparable (figure 6.77), rarely reaching the densities documented for savanna and tropical forest camps, but considerably denser than the camps maintained by most desert hunter-gatherers (figure 6.11). It is worth noting, however, that the residential density within one of the traditional, large, multi-family Northwest Coast houses would be directly comparable to the occupation densities of a comparably-sized extended family group of savanna or tropical forest foragers, ca. 1500-2500 persons per hectare. Most of the communities in the sample may be considered to represent fairly traditional settlement patterns, though a few less traditional community plans were available and have been included for Northwest Coast groups. Figure 6.78 distinguishes traditional and nontraditional communities, and it can be seen that the traditional Northwest Coast communities tend slightly more toward higher densities than their less traditional counterparts. This represents a trend away from the dense linear settlements of multifamily houses aligned along the beach, toward more dispersed, nuclear family households, closer to Western settlement patterns in the same region. The pattern of occupation density with increasing community size (figure 6.79), is markedly different from the pattern documented in the previous sections of this chapter for a variety of traditionally mobile hunter-gatherer groups. Among those cultures, small communities, usually representing the camp of an extended family, tended to have relatively high occupation densities, while larger communities, above 20-50 individuals, were invariably occupied at quite low densities. The only groups which gave any indication of deviating from this pattern were the savanna groups of South America, where complex patterns of social organisation integrated different factions and kin-groups within each fairly large community, and appeared to allow somewhat higher residential densities. The form of the distribution for temperate groups can be seen more clearly in figure 6.80, where the reliability rating of each example is also indicated. There is no significant slope to the trend through the data, rather communities at all population sizes maintain a mean density of approximately 200 persons per hectare. It is worth noting that the range of occupation densities documented for these communities is directly comparable to the densities of smallscale agricultural communities (Fletcher 1981a). Two points are worth noting in particular about the density pattern documented for these semi-sedentary and sedentary hunter-gatherers. First, the density pattern is constant, even for quite small communities. This is in some ways surprising, given the density of occupation in small groups among other foraging groups. To some extent this may be a function of the analytical units being measured - it has already been noted that the density within a Northwest Coast multi-family dwelling was directly comparable to the small dense campsites of extended families among mobile savanna and tropical forest groups (cf. figure 7.4). The same would be true of multiple family dwellings such as those at the Wappo community of ?unu?cawa?hlma.noma . On the other hand, for the smaller communities, inter-structure distances are greater than we might expect for mobile communities, and the difference may lie precisely in the fact that the spatial arrangements in sedentary and semisedentary communities are fairly permanent; increased spacing acts to buffer interaction between residents who cannot shift residence patterns as readily as those in more mobile communities - 'good fences make good neighbours'. A similar pattern was documented for the !Kung San at Dobe when they became sedentary (section 3.4; figure 3.12). Second, at the other end of the scale, the documented residential densities for larger communities do not decrease with increasing community size, not even at a more gradual slope, at least as far as can be seen with the present sample of communities. This suggests that a general spacing pattern has been achieved in small communities which can be extended without alteration to larger communities, probably in an interaction of material and social behaviour involving three elements: the physical spacing of residential structures, regardless of who inhabits them; the degree of impermeability of those structures - the degree to which the structures themselves can replace spatial distance as a buffer

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against communication; and the existence of a system of social organisation which can be extended to define the relative relationships and specify the form of interactions between a potentially large number of individuals. The limits of such a combination of factors, material and social, is not presently demonstrable with hunter-gatherer communities. However, a better understanding of the integrative potential of such features could emerge through a comparative study of the social systems of hunter-gatherers with large integrated communities, and those of sedentary horticulturalists with high populations but relatively egalitarian social organisation, as documented for Pueblo communities (Dozier 1970; Smith 1983), or for ward organisation within some traditional African cities (Forde 1950; Bradfield 1973). The dataset for temperate hunter-gatherers is not particularly suited to identifying culturespecific patterns of behaviour, since the potentially diverse Californian groups are mostly each represented by a single normative summary. Among the Californian groups (figure 6.81), none need specific comment, except to note that the wide range of values for the Chumash is not too surprising given that the figures are based on very wide population estimates by early Spanish explorers (Cook and Heizer 1965). Of the two 'other' communities, the Australian Wandandian community has been substantially affected by government settlement policies, and must be considered non-traditional, while the very dense Yavapai example is a temporarily occupied cave, with a naturally constrained space. Reviewing the Northwest Coast groups (figure 6.82), the low density communities are all fairly recent, moving away from more traditional community patterns. Population figures for most examples are fairly rough estimates, and there is considerable margin for error, particularly for the Haida and Yurok communities. Even so, the presently accepted estimates produce patterns which are both internally consistent within a culture, and between cultures, lending support to their broad accuracy.25 Summary: Community Spatial Behaviour of Temperate Foragers. The settlement behaviour of temperate hunter-gatherers has served to indicate some of the limits to the type of settlement behaviour documented more broadly among forager groups. At the same time, it has been possible to link the differences in settlement behaviour to differences in both subsistence and social behaviour. While the aboriginal cultures of the Northwest Coast region of North America have been widely recognised as distinctive, in terms of general models of hunter-gatherer behaviour (Netting 1977; Service 1971; Steward 1955; Woodburn 1980), that distinction has been less often recognised with reference to the cultures of California. The present examination illustrates the position taken in chapter 4, that a more problem-oriented comparative approach is likely to be more instructive if our aim is to try to explain variability in hunter-gatherer behaviour. Here, it has proved useful to identify some of the features which distinguish temperate foragers from other huntergatherers, as well as considering differences within the broad class of temperate foragers, which may account for differences in behaviour between different groups from different regions. Both regional groups of temperate foragers illustrate the importance of community social organisation in broad patterns of community behaviour. While community layout
25 Ethnographers of the Haida accept an average of 40 inhabitants per house (e.g. MacDonald 1983). On the other hand, the best available population estimates from before the period of massive depopulation would yield an average of only 17 inhabitants per house (Work's figures, quoted in MacDonald 1983). Reckoning that subadults may have been under-estimated in rough counts, I have adopted a middle estimate of ca. 25 persons per house, which gives fair agreement with population figures for specific communities when they are available. Yurok populations may be significantly over-estimated in this study, since not all of the house-pits which Waterman mapped would have had houses at any single point in time (Waterman 1920). On the other hand, more realistic estimates were also used for the number of structures which Waterman documents as standing at the time of his visit, presumed here to represent the latest full occupation. Density figures for both sets of calculations are broadly comparable, since the last houses occupied are often adjacent. What is more likely to be over-estimated is the size of the community at any one time, not so much the occupation density.

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maintains some relationship to the social relations between individual social components, in the Californian and Northwest Coast examples, we can see more formal layout, with specific locations within the community linked to social status or leadership positions. In these cases documenting a level of community spatial organisation that is not referable simply to the repetition of simple local rules of inter-structure spacing. A similar concern with overall spatial layout was documented among the South American savanna groups, who were anomalous among savanna hunter-gatherers in maintaining relatively high community populations and residential densities. Other similarities with the South American groups extend to patterns of community social integration which are more complex than those documented among most mobile foragers, as well as patterns of inter-group relations which can involve organised raiding or warfare. While it might be tempting to isolate such groups as collectively 'different', the argument that Northwest Coast groups are 'delayed return' foragers, or constitute a different mode of production from mobile groups does not itself account for the similarities in social and spatial behaviour between the different regional groups. Furthermore, while the settlement patterns of Californian groups are not well-documented, there was a considerable degree of variation in both subsistence and social patterns within California and neighbouring regions, which would support a picture of more continuous variation in patterns of behaviour between such semi-sedentary and more typical mobile foragers.

6.9: SUBARCTIC ECOSYSTEM ADAPTATIONS.

The subarctic biome is largely constituted by the boreal forest zone, generally extending from about 45-55 degrees latitude, to above the arctic circle, across North America and Eurasia (figure 6.1). No fully comparable zone is represented in the southern hemisphere, owing to the lack of land at comparable latitudes, though some environmental similarities are found with the western and southern maritime extreme of South America. Toward the lower latitudes, boreal forests blend into temperate deciduous forest, or thin out into grassland plain and steppe. To the North and at higher elevations, the forest thins out in a wide zone of transitional taiga, characterised by less dense woodland, eventually giving way to nearly barren tundra. In the following discussion, most attention will focus on the North American subarctic, both in terms of the natural environment, and the human groups which occupy the subarctic biome, due to the relative abundance and accessibility of information, in comparison with the Eurasian zone, which is, however, broadly comparable. Environment and Resources. The subarctic region is highly seasonal, characterised by long cold winters and short hot summers. In areas of low relief, such as most of subarctic North America, the forest is broken up by innumerable patches of bog, lakes, streams and rivers, creating a mosaic of diverse micro-environments. The dominant vegetation consists of evergreen trees, which largely limit the development of herbaceous undergrowth to clearings and bog areas which will not support trees, and to successional stages of regeneration following tree-falls and forest fires. There are relatively few species of plants which can be directly exploited by humans for food, such as berries, roots and shoots, all of limited abundance during the short summers (Furley and Newey 1983; Winterhalder 1983; Gillespie 1981). The range of animal species in the boreal forest is more limited than in either tropical or deciduous forest, though some migratory species such as caribou, birds and fish, may enter or cross the forest, seasonally expanding the faunal resources available. Large game such as caribou may migrate into the forest from the tundra for the winter, but most other large game species, such as moose and bear, in the south deer and bison, and in the mountains goat and sheep, are more sedentary. Medium-sized fur-bearing animals such as beaver, and smaller rodents are relatively immobile. Birds constitute a major resource, both migratory species such as geese and ducks, and forest-dwelling species such as grouse. Fish may

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similarly be divided between those which are available in the forest zone throughout the year, in lakes and rivers, and those which are seasonally available, such as salmon and related anadromous species in rivers draining to the Pacific (Nelson 1973; 1980; Nelson et al. 1982; Gillespie 1981; Winterhalder 1983). Fairly rapid changes in vegetation through the succession in patches has knock-on effects on animal populations, given the short trophic chains in a relatively simple ecosystem, resulting in considerable variation in resource abundance, in both time and space (Winterhalder 1983; Odum 1971). Resource Acquisition. Traditionally, subarctic hunter-gatherers relied principally on large game, such as caribou and moose, supplemented by smaller game such as beaver, muskrat, grouse and fish. This pattern changed substantially with the establishment of the first trading posts in the region in the seventeenth century. Furs were the principal interest of the traders, encouraging a shift to greater exploitation of the smaller fur-bearing animals. By about 1830, the availability of large game throughout the eastern and central subarctic was much reduced, probably related to the widespread introduction of guns during the previous century, forcing a greater reliance on smaller faunal resources for subsistence, such as hare and fish. This is reflected in the relative composition of the diet of subarctic groups, where gathered resources form only a small component, with the major elements being hunting and fishing. The balance between the latter two may depend on year to year variation in the resources available in any one region, as well as on more specific factors such as the producer/dependent ratio in individual families. When caribou were a major focus of subsistence hunting, the pattern of seasonal migration was ideal for group hunting, involving a number of families and cooperative use of built facilities, such as fences and corrals. Following the fall caribou migration, a group of five or more families, essentially constituting a local band, could maintain a fairly stable community through much of the winter, living off dried caribou meat, supplemented by smaller game available in the winter. After the stores were exhausted, the groups would split into smaller groups of two or three families, and disperse to exploit other resources (Smith 1978). With the shift to smaller but more ubiquitously distributed game as staples, there was little economic incentive for individual families to cooperate in resource procurement, and the standard group size throughout the year became the hunting group of two or three families, often close kin. These provided mutual support in times of hardship, as well as allowing limited cooperation in resource acquisition. Furthermore, the dispersed nature of the smaller resources rarely allowed the aggregation of larger numbers of individuals, except where resources were seasonally available in abundance, as at larger lakes, well-stocked with fish during the summer (Rogers 1963b; 1983; Rogers and Black 1976). With increasing reliance on a cash-based economy, hunting and trapping have become more individualistic activities, and in most areas, the multi-family hunting group has tended to be replaced by male-only task-specific trapping parties, while families remain in aggregated communities with access to purchased supplies, medical facilities, and schools (Irimoto 1981; Sharp 1977; 1979; Smith 1970). Resource Consumption. The principal reliance on small package-size resources among subsistence oriented subarctic foragers is likely to provide a fairly stable level of subsistence throughout the year, though individual species may dominate during different seasons, and the unpredictable availability of large game may create periodic windfalls (figure 6.83). Basing a simulation on the hunting returns for a family of Mistassini Cree for the ten months that they were principally reliant on bush foods (table 6.9; Tanner 1979), we can examine the potential implications of alternative strategies of resource consumption for increasing the effectiveness of subsistence practices.

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First examining storage, figure 6.84 indicates that major gains both in terms of mean daily consumption and in the reduction of variation in daily consumption can be obtained through the use of storage for up to 30 days, because of the substantial component of yearly subsistence which is provided by large package resources (53%). On the other hand, sharing alone is a less effective strategy for the full utilisation of such large packages, though it will permit full utilisation of resources down to about 5 kgs in size, with two or three producers cooperating (figures 6.85-6). A combination of both strategies would be ideal, with limited storage allowing full utilisation of any package within a small cooperating group. In addition to its advantages over the short-term, storage is essential in highly seasonal contexts, where resources may be differentially available during different periods of the year (figure 6.83). In the traditional period, a number of families would aggregate for cooperative hunting of caribou during the migration, establishing a stable community while they lived off the stored caribou meat. Because each family could maintain its own stores, the solidarity of the group was likely to be tied to cooperation in foraging, rather than cooperation in consumption. When such groups broke up, smaller hunting groups of two or three families would forage together, providing support in case of injury, but also acting as a common commensal unit. At this scale, sharing would be quite an effective strategy for both stabilising day to day consumption of smaller resources, and also fully utilising any large resources encountered. More recently, this pattern of cooperation has been maintained in family bush camps, though it has little relevance in the larger, permanent villages, where cash and credit provide a family's security for day to day and longer-term subsistence. Demographic and Social patterns. The relatively low density of exploitable resources in subarctic regions, mostly fauna, will support only small, fairly dispersed human populations. Traditionally, residential groups were quite small, usually composed of two to five families, which would move fairly regularly, exploiting large, but dispersed prey. During the period of their migration, caribou might be taken in quantity by several cooperating hunting groups, and stored, permitting stable residence for up to several months. In riverine areas of Alaska, salmon runs provided a similar storable resource, which might permit sedentary residence for much of the year (Townsend 1980; 1981; Snow 1981). In the first half of the last century, overhunting led to a substantial reduction in the availability of larger game, at the same time as the fur trade encouraged a focus on smaller game. With less large-scale movement to track the caribou, hunting groups remained within smaller areas, exploiting local subsistence and fur resources more intensively, leading to the emergence of family hunting territories during the last century (Rogers 1963a; Leacock 1954; Tanner 1979; Rogers 1983; Rogers and Black 1976). Additionally, hunting groups began to aggregate at trading posts for periods of weeks during the summers, to trade the furs accumulated in the previous winter, and to outfit for the coming winter. This brought into regular contact fairly large numbers of individuals who would not normally have resided at the same location under traditional conditions. Such groups could only be supported with the shift to fish as a major component of the annual diet, facilitated by the availability of western fishhooks and nets. Cash employment was occasionally seasonally available at trading posts, and many Indians have become involved in summer commercial fishing (Rogers 1983). The aggregations of individuals from different hunting groups at the trading posts began to take on a corporate and political character during the present century, with the establishment of treaties, and the institution of licensed trapping territories. With the advent of more effective transportation in the second half of this century, more western goods have become available at trading posts, and government agencies distribute support payments, maintain schools and health care facilities, attracting more permanent occupation (Smith 1970). Today, when trapping beyond the immediate community is still undertaken,

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it is more likely to involve only the men of a family, while the women and children remain in the community where medical facilities and store-bought supplies are readily available. Community Studies. Detailed documentation of the social organisation of individual communities is fairly limited for subarctic communities, despite the relative wealth of community plans which is available. I have selected four cases which document the relationship between social and spatial behaviour in different contexts. Figure 6.87 illustrates three adjacent Chipewyan summer fishing camps. Some data is recorded on the family affiliations of most tents within each camp, but not between the different camps, though the residents of each camp appear to have been more distantly related. Individual fishing partnerships existed between some members of the same camp, and along with kinship considerations, influenced the location of tents within each campsite (Irimoto 1981). The same type of spatial localisation of kin groups can be seen in the layout of the tents of extended families within a large Montagnais winter camp (figure 6.88). The available documentation does not specify the nature of the relationships between the different extended families (Savard 1975). Such a pattern of kin-group localisation has apparently fossilised in some communities as seasonal summer camps became more permanent, and tents were replaced by cabins. An example is provided by the West Cree community of Shamattawa (figure 6.89; Turner and Wertman 1977). It is likely that the individual kin-groups originally comprised independent local groups or bands within the region, which interacted with each other in a broad sense as a breeding deme. If the development of this community paralleled others, it is likely that population growth has led to infilling of originally distinct residential areas, since the aggregated community was founded. A comparable example from a traditionally semi-sedentary community is provided by a sketch of the layout of the Siberian Gilyak community of Puir (figure 6.90; Black 1973). In this case, the only available documentation for the social organisation of the community is the lineage membership of individual households, which indicates a pattern of lineage localisation within the community, comparable to that seen in the North American subarctic (Waldram 1987). While lacking in the documentation which would support more detailed analysis, these four cases do indicate that social relations between families have an effect on the spatial organisation of subarctic communities. We might anticipate that such a pattern was considerably stronger in more traditional communities, where cooperation in subsistence behaviour had a major effect on the formation of residential groups, and in their integration (Smith 1978). While other types of partnership might be the basis for cooperation and residential associations, kinship appears to have been a major underlying mechanism for integration, and hunting groups of two to five families were often composed of close kin (Helm 1965; Sharp 1977; Rogers 1963a; Leacock 1954). Community Patterns. For a broader perspective on subarctic settlement behaviour, a sample of 128 communities has been assembled, representing the behaviour of members of 24 cultures, and providing information on 282 different social situations (table 6.14). All but six of the communities are from the North American subarctic, justifying to some extent the preceding focus on this region. In considering the social composition of North American subarctic communities, a very brief summary of some of the significant changes which have taken place in the past two centuries was given, emphasising particularly the formation of large, sedentary

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communities in the post-war period. Considering community size, the distinction between traditional and non-traditional communities is very clear (figure 6.91). While some communities which maintained a traditional character might include up to 200 inhabitants, most were rather smaller (though much of the sample in the smaller categories consists of community segments). This pattern is maintained in what I have considered 'adapted' communities, though more of these are quite large. Non-traditional communities are almost all quite large, documenting a major transformation in subarctic settlement patterns. Given that most of the non-traditional communities are also permanently occupied, we can anticipate that they will be organised and integrated rather differently from traditional communities. Within the subarctic sample, there is little difference in community size between different regions, suggesting that fairly comparable processes are relevant to the formation of communities across the North American subarctic (figure 6.92). The small sample of communities from other regions does not permit any assessment, though all are traditional communities. The prevalence for the smallest communities to come from the eastern and central subarctic represents a bias toward more detailed data from this area, permitting the definition of meaningful social and spatial sub-divisions within communities. A breakdown of the sample into complete communities and segments (figure 6.93), reveals that while settlements are fairly evenly distributed across the range of sizes, sub-segments which can be defined suggest the existence of coherent groups smaller than most communities (15-50 individuals), about the size of ethnographically-documented hunting groups, and more comparable to the size of groups documented for mobile hunter-gatherer groups in other environmental contexts. Occupation density, as we might expect, also varies with the degree to which a community can be considered traditional or not (figure 6.94). While not all traditional communities have high residential densities, nearly all dense communities are traditional; this pattern shifts substantially with 'adapted' communities, and more so with those classed as nontraditional. To a fair degree, this pattern also corresponds to differences in occupation density which relate to the length of time that a community is occupied, with denser communities being those occupied for shorter periods of time (figure 6.95). Permanent communities, both traditional and non-traditional, in general exhibit fairly low residential densities. The inverse relationship between residential density and community size, as documented widely in the previous sections of this chapter, is also relevant to subarctic hunter-gatherers (figure 6.96). Graphed on transformed axes against data reliability (figure 6.97), the trend is fairly clear, though the relationship is a broad one. A consideration of data reliability tightens the trend somewhat, particularly by casting doubt on some of the denser large communities. Focussing on the more reliable data (figure 6.98), it appears that there may be two overlapping patterns within the dataset. Considering the more traditional communities, which also tend to be the smaller ones, there is a significant monotonic trend for the communities with less than 80 inhabitants, while there is no significant trend among the larger, principally non-traditional communities. This may be comparable to the pattern identified for the temperate sedentary and semi-sedentary settlements in the preceding section of this chapter; at a certain low density, it is possible for communities to expand, while maintaining a fairly constant density. In the temperate context, it was suggested that this was principally possible because of the hierarchical structure of Northwest Coast societies, which could integrate multiple kin-groups within a single community. The large, aggregate, non-traditional subarctic communities exist within the legal system of an encompassing state which does have broader integrating mechanisms for structuring the relations between individuals, and for arbitrating conflicts, which are likely to facilitate the existence of communities which are exceptionally large and dense by traditional standards.

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Individual cultures are identified in figures 6.99 and 6.100. The division between the two graphs is geographical and is simply to facilitate the plotting of all points. The trend through the data is clearer in figure 6.99, because of the much larger sample size. A few culture-specific trends appear within the dataset, particularly in figure 6.99, though I believe these relate principally to differences between traditional and non-traditional communities, and also to the nature of the reported data - for cultures as a whole the data is often comparably reported, and of comparable quality, but this varies between cultures. Summary: Community Spatial Behaviour of Subarctic Foragers. Patterns of settlement behaviour among subarctic hunter-gatherers are recognisably similar to the patterns documented for other foraging groups, though on the whole, occupation densities are generally lower. Figure 6.94 indicates that the large number of very low density subarctic settlements is the result of the substantial component of non-traditional communities in the sample. Taking this into account, traditional subarctic communities appear fairly comparable to temperate communities in terms of average residential density. On the other hand, unlike temperate foragers, traditional subarctic cultures do not appear to have maintained large dense communities - this has been a feature of settlement aggregation in recent decades, once outside agencies began to focus attention on social and health conditions in such communities. At the same time, national governments extended an effective overall social and legal system which supplemented, and indeed is largely replacing, traditional patterns of social integration. In recent years, hybrid community-wide structures for decision-making have begun to emerge, largely in response to the need to deal with government agencies and outside individuals.

6.10: ARCTIC ECOSYSTEM ADAPTATIONS.

The arctic biome is commonly defined by the distribution of arctic tundra, beyond the subarctic treeline. Tundra is almost entirely limited to the northern hemisphere, from about the latitude of the arctic circle in European Russia, Siberia, Greenland, and North America, extending north to the arctic ocean or regions of permanent ice (figure 6.1). Tundra in the southern hemisphere is limited to a few islands near the Antarctic, and the northern peninsula extending toward South America, none of which were inhabited until very recently. Foragers have existed in the tundra environments in both the New and the Old Worlds, though the discussion here will draw on examples from North America and Greenland. There are several reasons for this, principally because of access to the relevant ethnographic accounts, but also because most Eurasian foragers had given up foraging in preference to reindeer pastoralism before the period of adequate anthropological documentation, and because no detailed information on community organisation could be obtained concerning Eurasian groups. What general information is available about the community organisation of Siberian groups (summarised by Chang 1962), is neither detailed nor does it add to the variation which can be identified in better-documented examples from the western hemisphere. Environment and Resources. Tundra environments are characterised by a number of features which severely limit vegetation, in addition to generally low temperatures. These include a very short growing season of 6-10 weeks between frosts, sub-surface permafrost, low levels of precipitation (generally less than 400 mm annually), and high winds which tend to stunt all larger vegetation. Only a limited number of plant species are adapted to such conditions, and the dominant vegetation of the tundra consists of mosses and lichens. In patches of damp and sheltered ground, sedges and grasses may develop, as well as bogs. In southern tundra

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regions, stunted scrub willow and birch may develop, eventually joining into scattered patches of trees toward the transition to the boreal forest (Furley and Newey 1983). As with vegetation, very few animal species are adapted for year-round survival in arctic conditions, and the majority of the animals which are present in the Arctic are seasonal visitors. Among the resident terrestrial species are a few birds such as ptarmigan, small rodents such as lemmings and arctic hare, and in limited areas, musk-ox and the caribou of the arctic islands. Important migratory avian and terrestrial species include waterfowl and barren ground caribou. Particularly important in terms of human exploitation are marine species, including fish, but especially marine mammals, such as varieties of seals, walrus, polar bear, and small and large whales. While there is often some seasonal migration of marine species, some are usually available year-round, and form the principal element in the diet for most coastal foraging populations in the arctic (Freeman 1984b). The trade-off between species diversity and the abundance of individuals of any one species holds to a certain extent in the arctic, and despite overall low animal biomass, individual species may be very clumped in their distribution during particular seasons, especially during migrations, facilitating potential large-scale resource harvests. Also as a consequence of the low species diversity, arctic trophic chains are extremely short, such that inter-annual variation in one species is likely to have immediate implications for several others - cycles of population fluctuations between linked vegetation and prey and predators, and frequent population crashes are well documented in arctic ecosystems (Odum 1971; Remmert 1980; Freeman 1984b). In terms of human exploitation, marine resources are generally more stable than terrestrial ones, though there may often be considerable variation in environmental obstacles to the exploitation of marine resources, such as differences in ice conditions, facilitating or inhibiting access to points where prey can be acquired (Nelson 1969). Resource Acquisition. The division between the boreal forest and the tundra forms the effective boundary between Inuit and Indian populations, except in Labrador and southwest Alaska, where Inuit groups extended into forested environments, and in the Alaskan mountains and Mackenzie River delta, where the boundary between Indian and Inuit groups shifted fairly regularly, and where both groups currently reside. Throughout most of the arctic, from Siberia to Greenland, Inuit groups have been primarily reliant on marine resources, supplemented by more limited, often seasonally available terrestrial resources such as migratory caribou. Significant departures from this pattern are documented among the inland groups of Caribou Inuit, west of Hudson's Bay (Arima 1984), the Interior North Alaskan Inuit (Nunamiut: Hall 1984; Gubser 1965), and the riverine groups of southwest Alaska (VanStone 1984). In all areas, the great majority of the diet was composed of faunal resources, supplemented by small quantities of berries available for limited periods in the summer. For most subsistence activities, there was little advantage in cooperation, and foraging groups usually consisted of individuals or pairs of hunters. In a few situations, all the males of a kin-group might cooperate to construct and utilise fish dams, for caribou drives, and in breathing-hole sealing (Damas 1984b; Balikci 1970; Smith 1981; Gubser 1965). More extensive patterns of cooperation are documented in the western arctic in the context of whaling, involving the coordination of boat crews of eight to ten males, and the support and maintenance of boats and equipment. While there is considerable debate about the degree to which crews were kin-based among all whaling groups (Spencer 1959; Burch 1975; Cassell 1988; Ellanna 1988; Morgan 1979), they appear to have been recruited from bilateral kin among most groups; given the social and economic importance of whaling in such cultures, the leader of a boat frequently was the leader of a coherent social group, usually corresponding to an extended kin-group. This central position could entail considerable control over the labour and production of other members of the group, essentially

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developing a system of ranking among the families belonging to the group, though not developing into the stratified social systems documented on the Northwest Coast (Burch 1975; 1980). A few communities at particularly good locations for whaling had a number of independent boat crews, which were in competition for access to whales, and socially in competition to maintain membership, which could lead to considerable conflict within the communities. On the other hand, there was coordination between the activities of different crews, which facilitated the capture of as many whales as possible, and strict rules governed the widespread distribution of the whale throughout each community (VanStone 1962; Cassell 1988; Burch 1981). In this sense, there was some coherence within even the largest communities, though each kin-group maintained its independence, and there was only limited community-wide integration, depending on the abilities of individual kin-group leaders (Spencer 1959; 1984; Burch 1975). In Greenland, a decline in European markets for Greenlandic products and a northward shift in marine mammal distributions led to the development of a commercial fishing industry in the early decades of this century, essentially replacing traditional patterns of subsistence hunting over most of the region (Kleivan 1984a; 1984b; Peterson 1973; 1984a; 1984b; Gilberg 1984). In Canada and Alaska, trapping supplemented subsistence hunting after trading posts were established, but major economic changes were largely instituted after the Second World War, when the nucleation of population into a relatively small number of communities led to the rapid over-exploitation of local subsistence resources, and increasing reliance on alternative sources of income, including employment, craft production, and welfare payments. With the decline of hunting, and a shift to a largely cash-based economy, traditional patterns of cooperation and community integration have been severely eroded (Chance 1984; Vallee et al. 1984; Saladin d'Anglure 1984; Brantenberg and Brantenberg 1984; Freeman 1984a). Resource Consumption. In inland regions, such as those exploited by the Caribou, and Interior Alaskan Inuit, the seasonal caribou migrations could be intercepted, and a sufficient number of animals taken to allow subsistence from stores to last for a considerable period of time - indeed, among the Nunamiut, the spring and fall caribou migration may have provided more than 60% of the annual subsistence resources (Binford 1978b). Similarly, for whaling villages, subsistence may have been based on the capture of a relatively small number of whales, whose meat and blubber was stored and exploited through much of the year (VanStone 1962; Spencer 1959; Burch 1981). For most other Inuit groups, however, resources could not be taken in such bulk and stored, and subsistence required regular hunting throughout most of the year, and seasonal shifts between different resources, usually necessitating movement between different areas (figure 6.101; Damas 1968; 1984b; Balikci 1970). The implications of different subsistence strategies can be examined through simulations based on hunting returns from three different Inuit groups, the Naujamiut of western Greenland, who rely almost entirely upon various species of seal (Le Moul 1978), the Iglulingmiut, who have a mixed strategy, utilising both terrestrial and marine resources (Kemp et al. 1977), and the Nunamiut, who rely totally upon terrestrial resources (Binford 1978b; Binford and Chasko 1976). Among all three groups, plant foods did not contribute significantly to the traditional diet. The input figures for the simulations are summarised in table 6.9. The principal distinction relevant to the simulations is the relative distribution across different package sizes of the inputs, regardless of their origin. In this sense, we can rank the groups on a scale from the Nunamiut, whose diet is primarily based on large packages, such as caribou, through the Naujamiut, who exploit large and medium-sized seals, to the Iglulingmiut, who exploit very large packages, such as beluga whale, large

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packages such as seal and caribou, and also a substantial component of small packages, represented principally by fish, giving a much more balanced range of package sizes.26 Looking first at the potential role of storage for an individual family, we may compare figures 6.102-4, representing the simulation results for each culture. Among the Iglulingmiut, with a broader range of packages, storage is quite important in the short-term, though preservation for five days would allow nearly complete utilisation of all resources, as well as significantly reduce day to day variation in access to resources. For the other two groups, with little in the way of regular, small-package inputs, significant improvements are made with up to 30 days of preservation, emphasising the importance of storage when inputs are commonly in large packages. In terms of sharing, similar contrasts between the groups may be identified. Among the Iglulingmiut, because of the small package size of most inputs, sharing leads to only small gains in mean daily access to resources, or in reduction in day to day variation in consumption (figures 6.105-6). Among the Naujamiut, the split between large and mediumsized resources can be seen in the modeled pattern, with gains from sharing both size classes (figures 6.107-8). Considerable gains are made by two cooperating hunters, though the pattern of marginal returns might encourage sharing by three to five or more families, in the absence of any effective storage. Finally, without any storage, the gains to sharing for Nunamiut hunters might encourage cooperation between up to six independent hunters, in terms of both daily mean, and day to day variation in access to resources (figures 6.109-10). In actuality, some sort of balance between these strategies can be anticipated, since storage is relatively straightforward, either through drying or freezing. In fact, storage takes on much greater significance if viewed more realistically, in the longer term, since most arctic resources are highly seasonal in their availability (figure 6.101). Among the Nunamiut, most caribou are taken during the spring and fall migrations, and must be stored for utilisation throughout most of the rest of the year when there are relatively few alternative resources available (Gubser 1965; Binford 1978b). Among the Naujamiut, 65% of the seals are obtained in five months between April and September, necessitating storage to meet subsistence needs during the winter months (Le Moul 1978). Similarly, among the Iglulingmiut group studied, 76% of the subsistence resources, largely represented by fish, were acquired during July, August and September, and stored for use during the rest of the year (Kemp et al. 1977). In these contexts, storage is obviously essential, since sharing cannot even out imbalances if everyone in the local group is facing the same environmental constraints on resource availability. With heavy reliance on storage, and the ability of each family to amass its own stores, we should anticipate very individualistic approaches to subsistence, and little emphasis on widespread sharing within the local residential group. Even where resources were acquired in great bulk, and shared widely within the community, as with whaling, each family took charge of its own stores and needed to manage them competently, without being able to depend on extensive later sharing. Among groups where subsistence procurement is more continuous throughout the year, in addition to involving non-clumped resources which cannot be taken in bulk, we could anticipate that sharing might be of more importance; while each family could efficiently store and consume its own acquisitions, sharing, at least of larger game, would guarantee more regular inputs to each family, distributing what was acquired more equitably among the coresidential families. Sharing among central arctic groups, while often differentiated by the package size of the resource, as documented widely among other foragers, was not always universal between all members of a residential group. Rather, forms of preferential sharing partnerships were developed which
26 The Iglulingmiut data used as the basis for the simulation differs from that used in figure 6.101. The latter was chosen to emphasise the variety of resources available in the central arctic, and their seasonal stability. The data chosen for the simulation is a more detailed record for a smaller number of hunters, from a neighbouring community.

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would divide a resource between those cooperating directly in its capture, and between certain specified individuals (Damas 1972). Even with these restrictions, sharing appears to have played a more major role in central arctic societies than in western arctic societies (e.g. Burch 1980; Binford 1984), where resource acquisition was more seasonally imbalanced, and accumulation through storage was more extensive, supporting greater productive independence. Demographic and Social patterns. Traditionally, most Inuit groups could maintain a relatively large community of 50 to 100 or more individuals for at least several weeks, and often for months of the year. The season and length of the period of aggregation varied, depending on the resources available in different areas, but in Greenland, the eastern and central Canadian arctic, and northern Alaska, this was usually during the winter, when travel was difficult and stores could be laid in. In riverine Alaska, this period was during the summer, when river fish formed the subsistence staple. The principal social groups within such aggregations were large, often bilateral, extended families, under the control of a senior male (Gubser 1965; Damas 1968; Burch 1975; 1980; Spencer 1984). Many structures would be occupied by two or three families, either close kin, or the families of partners established through one of several means of extending patterns of social and economic cooperation (Guemple 1971). In east Greenland, this pattern was carried to its extreme, with the entire community normally resident within a single longhouse, which would have an average of about 30 occupants (figure 6.111; Petersen 1974-5; 1984a; Holm 1888; Thalbitzer 1914). Large aggregations might vary from a few weeks in duration among Central Inuit groups (Damas 1968; 1984) to eight to ten months among coastal groups in northern Alaska (Spencer 1959; Burch 1981) and Greenland (Petersen 1984a; Kleivan 1984a). During the remainder of the year, the larger extended families would divide into smaller components of one or a few nuclear families, and disperse to exploit different resources during the remainder of the year (table 6.8). Given the general instability of resources from season to season, and from year to year, considerable flexibility in residential arrangements characterised most Inuit groups. Widespread kin networks, and pseudo-kinship patterns of alliance facilitated the adjustment of local populations to resource availability. In parts of the western arctic, the basic Inuit social pattern was overlaid with two different patterns which led to somewhat more integrated residential communities. In both areas, semi-sedentary communities could be maintained, in northern coastal areas, principally relying on stored whale meat, and in the southwest, on stored fish. In northern coastal regions, the importance of the whale hunt gave considerable economic and ceremonial importance to the leader of a boat crew (umialik), who was usually also the head of a kingroup, enjoying much of the status of a big-man (Burch 1975; 1980; Spencer 1959). While each kin-group was independent, a particularly strong umialik could exert considerable influence over the rest of a community, potentially developing some aspects of communitywide integration. While not nearly as elaborately developed as among their southern Indian neighbours on the Northwest Coast, communities in southwest Alaska had a system of social ranking, based on wealth, and hereditary positions of authority, backed up by wealth (Townsend 1980; VanStone 1984). As on the Northwest Coast, the system of wealth was supported through the extensive storage of food, predominantly fish. On the other hand, resources were not as abundant as they were further south, and the region never saw the development of fully stratified social systems, nor the same degree of social competition between communities. To some extent, these traits may have diffused from further south, though they were certainly compatible with local resource structure, as well as building upon indigenous Inuit social institutions, such as the men's house (qazgi).

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In Greenland, the Inuit population began to aggregate after the middle of the eighteenth century, with extensive missionisation (Gad 1984). Paralleling the economic changes introduced with the development of commercial fishing early in this century, government housing incentives have led to the increasing nucleation of population into larger towns, throughout this century. In Canada and Alaska, most Inuit maintained a subsistence orientation well into this century, though a more 'tethered' pattern of mobility developed as trading posts were established in the arctic, and obtaining furs for trade began to supplement subsistence foraging. Sedentism increased throughout the arctic after the Second World War, first as Inuit aggregated to gain access to Western materials, and later as governments extended and regulated health, education and welfare programmes. This has led to the growth of communities formed from many previously independent groups, the rapid over-exploitation of local subsistence resources, and the development of alternative sources of economic support, including employment, craft production, and reliance on welfare payments. With aggregation into large communities, government-sponsored housing schemes, and a shift to a largely cash-based economy, traditional patterns of social organisation and community integration have largely disappeared, though new forms of indigenously-controlled local government have begun to emerge (Chance 1984; Vallee et al. 1984; Saladin d'Anglure 1984; Brantenberg and Brantenberg 1984). Community Studies. Of the limited number of communities for which any sort of detailed social information is available, I have chosen five examples which illustrate particular variations in arctic community organisation, from the Ammassalik of East Greenland, the Netsilingmiut, the Quebec Inuit, and the North Alaskan Coast and Inland Inuit. The East Greenland longhouse represents an extreme in community integration, since all the members of a local group would usually reside in a single structure for eight to ten months in the winter (Petersen 1974-5; 1984a). Figure 6.111 illustrates such a longhouse, occupied in the 1880s, which housed 38 individuals, in 8 families, belonging to three kin-groups (Holm 1888). Each family had their own partitioned area on the raised bed platform, and members of an extended family were situated in adjacent sections of the house. Such houses might be occupied by different groups of families in different years, and individual families often spent the winter in different areas, hoping to locate more abundant resources. During the early years of this century, the communal Ammassalik longhouse declined in use, as guns gave hunters greater independence, and missionisation and access to trade goods provided greater incentives for individual families to stay at one location and invest in permanent housing using imported materials (Petersen 1984a). Figure 6.112 illustrates a village of ice-houses constructed by a band of Netsilingmiut when they gathered at the Pelly Bay mission at Christmas 1956 for feasting and socialising (van den Steenhoven 1959). The membership of four extended families is identified in the ethnographic account, though the relations between the different extended families are not documented. In figure 6.113, kinship distance is graphed against estimated spatial distance for all families for which kinship information is available, indicating that kinship tends to structure the layout of the community (rs = 0.6791; p<0.000). While relationships between members of different extended families cannot be graphed, it is probably safe to assume that they would in general be relatively distant relationships, which would fit with the spatial separation of each extended family. The third example is based on a series of fishing camps of the Quebec Inuit based at Inukjuak, during the summer of 1958 (Willmott 1961). Plans of nine different camps occupied by seven different groups are illustrated in figure 6.114, with primary kinship links between tent occupants indicated. The degree of spatial dispersion varies enormously in the different camps, as does the degree of relationship between kinship and spatial distance between tents, though the overall relationship between kinship and spatial distance is moderately strong (figure 6.115: overall rs =0.5453; p<0.000; individual camps range from

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rs = 0.11 to 0.69), and within any camp, close kin are usually spatially localised. It is also worth noting that the ethnographer singled out one camp as being especially wellintegrated and productive under the control of a very competent leader, not surprisingly, represented by an abnormally dense camp plan (figure 6.114a). The fourth example is the 1960 summer camp of the Inland North Alaskan Nunamiut, at Anaktuvuk Pass, at about the time that the group had effectively settled at that location year-round. At the time the plan was made, each family was living in a tent adjacent to their sod winter houses (Gubser 1965). The localisation of extended families within the community is indicated in figure 6.116, which also reveals a broad division between the members of the two independent Nunamiut bands which had amalgamated several years previously. Any division along kinship lines is particularly difficult with this community, since many inter-marriages linked different families in the two bands, and many children had been adopted by different families, creating different types of partnerships and relations. These complications are reflected in the analysis of kinship and spatial distance, though a very broad trend is still traceable in the dataset (figure 6.117; rs=0.2145; p<0.001). Finally, a rough sketch is provided in figure 6.118 of the North Coast Alaskan Inuit village . of Utqiagvik, as it has been suggested it looked about 1895 (Spencer 1959). At that time, there were four qazgis, or men's houses, which were the social foci for different whaling crews. While there is considerable debate about the degree to which whaling crews among the North Coast Alaskans were drawn from individual kin groups (Spencer 1959; 1984; Burch 1975; 1980; Cassell 1988), it is clear that they were the principal social groups within the community, and that each crew usually had its own men's house, located in its section of the community. The locations of the qazgi indicated by Spencer (1959:fig. 2) correspond to distinct groups of ruined house mounds, as mapped by Ford in 1932 (Ford 1959), whose map serves as the basis for figure 6.124. The separation of the different residential groups corresponds to accounts of the situation throughout the nineteenth century, when multiple independent kin-groups were resident at several of the larger whaling communities, for eight to ten months of the year (Burch 1975). A visitor to the settlement in the late 1880s indicated that 26 or 27 houses were occupied at that time, with between one and three families per house (Murdoch 1892:79). Based on these figures, each residential group may have had 60-100 residents, comparable to a large kin-group among other Inuit cultures. The spacing between the different clusters of structures would insulate the members of each group from contact with others, particularly important in the context of social and economic competition, and the limited development of community-wide social integration (Burch 1975). Community Patterns. The broader sample of arctic communities includes data from 19 cultures, and 268 communities, representing 752 different social situations (table 6.15). Over one-half of the data comes from Greenland, which has had a substantially different history of outside contact and acculturation from the North American arctic areas considered, and the Greenland data will be considered on its own in the following analysis, so that it does not swamp the patterns from other areas and cultures. In terms of group size, some traditional North American communities had up to and above 150 inhabitants, though all of the larger communities belong to western arctic whaling groups (figure 6.119). More regularly, groups numbered 50 individuals or less. The same can be said for Greenlandic cultures (figure 6.120). In both regions, there is a shift toward larger communities as one moves away from the traditional context, particularly with government policies encouraging nucleation in the latter half of this century. The overall size distribution of communities is comparable throughout the different parts of the North American arctic (figure 6.121). More Greenlandic communities have high populations, though this appears to be a bias introduced by the larger proportion of non-traditional communities among the sample from Greenland (figure 6.120).

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Dividing the samples between complete communities and sub-segments indicates that in both regions, complete communities are fairly broadly distributed in size, but that in both regions spatially discrete sub-segments can be identified within larger communities (figure 6.122-3). These segments correspond to the number of individuals we would expect for extended kin-groups, ethnographically documented in both regions as the largest sociallyintegrated units, traditionally representing a local regional band, though usually only aggregating for part of each year. In both regions, though particularly for North American groups, there is a small peak for communities of about 150 individuals. These communities are mostly 'adapted' settlements, and this number appears to represent a common catchment for a trading post - three or four local kin-groups which would have exploited nearby regions, and have aggregated at the nearest point of access for Western goods - such as the kin-groups at the Pelly Bay mission (figure 6.112), or the different Quebec Inuit groups which aggregated at Inukjuak during 'steamer time' (figure 6.114; Willmott 1961). In terms of occupation density, there is less distinction between traditional and nontraditional communities among the North American Inuit than has been documented in previous sections of this chapter for foraging populations in other contexts, though a trend toward decreasing residential density with increasing acculturation is apparent (figure 6.124). For Greenland the same pattern is visible, though here the extreme density of the traditional communities is largely a result of the Ammassalik longhouses included in the sample, several of which have less than one square metre of floor space per occupant (figure 6.125). Among the different regions of arctic North America, the distribution of communities across the different density categories is broadly comparable (figure 6.126), as it is with the aggregate pattern for the Greenlandic communities. Essentially all of the Greenlandic communities for which data could be assembled were permanent or occupied for most of the year, and repeatedly in different years. While low occupation densities predominate, there is no evidence for the pattern which would have existed with more mobile, shorter-term communities. Certainly the Ammassalik longhouses demonstrate the viability of high-density residence for small kin-groups, whatever the duration of occupation. In the North American sample, there was greater diversity in the length of occupation, and the central tendency of occupation density shifts toward lower densities with an increasing period of occupation (figure 6.127). As with subarctic foragers, the increasing length of occupation also corresponds fairly closely to the degree of acculturation, and the breakdown of indigenous systems of social and economic integration under the impact of a cash and welfare economy is likely to be an intervening process. The relationship between population size and occupation density for both regions is the inverse pattern that we have already seen for most hunter-gatherer groups (figures 6.1289).27 A consideration of data reliability for the North American sample indicates that a fair number of the higher density communities along the trend are less reliable examples (figure 6.130). Most traditional communities lie along a linear monotonic trend, whereas most of the larger examples are non-traditional, and depart considerably from the traditional trend, exhibiting higher residential densities (figure 6.131), the same pattern seen in the contrast between traditional and non-traditional subarctic communities. This is what we should expect, given the poor development of effective social integration or hierarchical authority structures in Inuit communities which were composed of more than one kin-group.

27Worth noting are the dozen or so extremely dense Greenlandic communities, all representing Ammassalik longhouses. Of two North American arctic communities with populations of approximately 600 and 700 individuals and relatively high densities, one is a proto-historic Pacific Inuit community for which the population estimate presumes full occupation of all houses, probably unlikely (Knecht and Jordan 1985), and the other represents an account of the short-term trading fair conducted by western arctic Inuit at Hotham Inlet (Nelson 1899:261), where tents were laid out in a line along the beach, in which case any estimation of camp area is likely to be fairly arbitrary.

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For the Greenlandic sample, most of the data is of fairly high quality, and demonstrates a clear trend of decreasing density with increasing population (figure 6.132). In comparing the two regions, the trend for Greenland parallels, but is displaced higher on the graph than the North American examples, indicating higher occupation densities for communities of comparable size.28 A similar pattern of relatively stable density for larger communities is equally clear for Greenland, and the densities in both regions are comparable, a convergence for administered communities comparable to subarctic counterparts (figure 6.103). In Greenland, more traditional communities are generally denser than non-traditional examples (figure 6.133). In terms of culture-specific behaviour, the Greenland example of the Ammassalik has already been discussed (figure 6.134). In North America, eastern and western arctic groups follow a similar trend (figures 6.135-6). The one culture-specific pattern worth noting is that documented for the Interior North Alaskan Inuit (Nunamiut), whose communities follow the general trend, but at rather lower than average densities. This may relate to the fact that these hunters were extremely reliant on individual family stores from the spring and fall caribou migrations, and much of the season's supply of meat was stored on open drying racks adjacent to each dwelling, in full view of any neighbours - visibility of substantial stores fairly incompatible with individualised consumption strategies, possibly encouraging greater spacing between domestic units.29 Summary: Community Spatial Behaviour of Arctic Foragers. Traditional arctic community patterns have considerable similarity with those documented for the subarctic, both in terms of usual group sizes, patterns of seasonal mobility and aggregation, and in terms of the changes which have occurred under the influence of Western culture. Characteristic elements were the small size and considerable mobility of residential groups, aggregating where and when resource abundances allowed. In all areas, there was considerable emphasis on kinship relations between families, though to facilitate flexibility in the face of highly unpredictable resource distributions, kinship was supplemented by a variety of formal mechanisms for creating partnerships and other relationships of cooperation between individuals. In parts of the western arctic (and Siberia (Chang 1962)), characterised by more sedentary settlement, somewhat more elaborate community patterns developed, with some hierarchical differentiation within kin-groups, and competition between them. Under the impact of Western contact, Inuit in Greenland, Canada, Alaska and Siberia have aggregated at a relatively small number of large settlements, where the members of formerly independent bands are in permanent association. This has created a variety of new social situations which traditional forms of social organisation were not designed to deal with, which has contributed to the breakdown of traditional patterns of social organisation. At the same time, as a cash economy erodes traditional patterns of cooperation, housing schemes have tended to disrupt the indigenous relationship between social and spatial organisation, further disrupting community integration. More recently, having diversified

28 To some degree, this higher density may be the result of the limited area available for house sites in many Greenland harbour communities, noted as a reason for the violation of regulations on minimum house spacing (Bertelsen 1935-43). In addition, community plans from 1948-50 indicate that much valley bottom land was taken up with small kitchen gardens, with houses largely confined to the intervening rock ridges. 29 Lewis Binford has suggested that large spacing may relate to the desire of each family to keep their meat supply away from any flies that might be attracted to human and dog excrement near occupation areas (pers. comm.) Developing this suggestion, we could anticipate that each family would only have control over their own behaviour in this regard, and that to avoid potential conflicts, greater space was left between adjacent tents. Such a problem would be particularly acute in a summer camp, such as that mapped by Gubser (1965). The site areas for most of the other Nunamiut sites are derived from site outlines on small-scale maps (Binford 1978b), which are likely to include larger areas than those which would be determined if the standard measuring conventions could be applied, also contributing to lower occupation densities.

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into non-traditional forms of production, Inuit communities have begun to develop new forms of community social structure, in the context of dealing with the outside world.

6.11: SUMMARY: ECOLOGICALLY-BASED VARIATION IN HUNTERGATHERER COMMUNITY ORGANISATION.

In the preceding six sections of this chapter, I have examined patterns in settlement organisation for a wide sample of hunter-gatherer communities. The intention in assembling the examples for analysis was to encompass the widest possible range of variation in hunter-gatherer behaviour, and to ascertain whether there were systematic variations in behaviour in different contexts. Because culture specific aspects of the context of spatial behaviour would not be particularly relevant in a cross-cultural comparative study, and because of the ultimately archaeological focus of the study, characteristics of the natural environment were selected as the most appropriate context against which to study variation in hunter-gatherer community patterns. The natural environment has particular relevance for the study of socially linked behaviour in forager societies, because of the fairly direct relationship between the resources available in an environment and patterns of hunter-gatherer subsistence behaviour, and the social relations of production. The major biomes which were defined to organise the study of community behaviour were those which were anticipated, from a consideration of hunter-gatherer social ecology, as presenting quite different sets of constraints and opportunities for foraging populations. In considering the characteristics of each biome, it was possible to anticipate variations in hunter-gatherer subsistence, social and settlement strategies, based on differences in the nature and distribution of the resources available for exploitation, and the technological and social organisation necessary for effective exploitation of those resources. These considerations led to the sub-division of some biomes, and comparative treatment of the settlement behaviour of hunter-gatherer groups in the varying contexts. In addition, it could be anticipated that there would be differences in settlement behaviour as one moved from traditional to less traditional situations, as the social and economic context for behaviour changed, though the nature of the changes in traditional patterns could not always be predicted, since acculturation has proceeded very differently in different national, regional, and social contexts. Dealing with traditional, partially adapted, and non-traditional contexts has undoubtedly added much to the complexity of the patterns identified. However, it has been considered essential to deal with more than just traditional patterns of behaviour for several reasons. First, it appears to be the case that no foraging populations survived in a 'pristine' state until they were documented in detail by anthropologists, so that all hunter-gatherer behaviour documented ethnographically is a record of cultural systems in the process of acculturation to other patterns. Second, hunter-gatherer populations have always been in the process of adaptation to interactions with neighbouring groups - initially of other hunter-gatherers, but since the advent of the neolithic, to neighbouring farming and pastoral populations. The issue of contact and acculturation is not simply a product of Western colonialism, so that the context of adaptation itself is of interest for study. Third, many aspects of behaviour, and the relationships between different types of behaviour, may be relevant both to the traditional and non-traditional context, so that investigations can 'take into account' the likely effects of the non-traditional context (Binford 1977b; Hill et al. 1984). Fourth, many non-traditional hunter-gatherer groups have developed patterns of behaviour in which the relationships between community organisation, social organisation, and economic behaviour have a coherence comparable to that of traditional societies, even if the present economy is not purely subsistence-oriented. Finally, it is often in the process of change that patterns in relationships become most apparent to the outside analyst and to participants, as practical knowledge is articulated as discursive knowledge. The transition and contrast between traditional and non-traditional behaviour is a context for learning about both that is too important to ignore.

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In the study of the behaviour of hunter-gatherers within each of the broad biomes, similarities and differences were noted, though comparison between behaviour in the different biomes was kept to a minimum, to avoid needless repetition. It was also the case that while behaviour was usually consistent among the groups studied for each biome, the patterns identified were quite broad, and there was a substantial degree of similarity if one compared, for instance, overall patterns of community population and occupation density between biomes, despite initial indications that there were substantial differences in spatial behaviour between groups in the different biomes (figure 6.11). In concluding this chapter, it is appropriate to take a more explicitly comparative perspective on behaviour in different ecological contexts (table 6.16). Tropical, savanna, desert and temperate foragers occupy environments with very different resource characteristics, which encourage rather different patterns of exploitation, and degrees of cooperation between productive units in resource acquisition and consumption. These contrasts are exemplified in the different implications of cooperative as opposed to individualistic consumption strategies. Foragers in desert biomes rely principally upon plant foods, and what meat is available is usually acquired in very small packages. Opportunities for cooperation in resource acquisition are rare, and cooperation in consumption is likely to be limited to the infrequent occasions on which medium-sized game is acquired, and may be limited to households recognising direct obligations to each other. With only limited cooperation within the residential group, the spacing between households is generally quite large, and camps with a large number of families, for whatever reason, are likely to exhibit clusters of households which interact more regularly and more intensively. Desert foragers maintain the lowest occupational densities in traditional communities of any foragers studied (figure 6.137-8). There is a steep drop in density with increases in community population, determined by the spacing between clusters of households. Savanna groups document wider variation in behaviour, reflecting differences in savanna environments. Dry savanna groups, best known through the ethnography of the !Kung San, also rely primarily on plant resources. They differ from desert foragers principally in their access to meat, which is generally in substantially larger packages than are present in desert environments. This encourages a great deal of sharing within a residential camp whenever meat is available, to ensure full use of the resource before it becomes inedible, but also to build up a network of reciprocal obligations, such that everyone can claim access to meat which is introduced to camp in large packages. This serves to reduce variation in day to day access to meat, but also to eliminate one potential source of conflict within the residential unit, which might arise when some have access to substantial quantities of a resource, whereas others have none. Dry savanna groups maintain very dense camps, and the integration through cooperation in consumption allows them to maintain higher densities at larger populations than is the norm for desert groups (figure 6.137). Some dry savanna cultures in environments with only relatively small prey, such as the Birhor and Bambote, maintain equally dense campsites, but the integration of the group is the result of cooperation in resource acquisition, rather than risk-pooling behaviour. Foragers who occupy wet savannas, such as those of northern Australia, have a richer and more abundant food supply, and meat generally forms a substantial part of the diet. With fairly abundant, generally small package resources, households are generally quite independent in subsistence behaviour. Sharing is limited to medium-sized meat resources, though these are acquired more regularly than in Australian desert environments. The density figures for larger communities drop fairly dramatically, and larger communities are organised as clusters of shelters, reflecting a lower degree of cooperation between, than within each cluster. The degree of integration of such residential groups is likely to lie between dry savanna and desert situations, and their residential density figures fit such an expectation (figure 6.137).

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South American savanna dwellers are not nearly as well documented in terms of subsistence behaviour, though from what information we do have, we might anticipate behaviour lying somewhere between that of the other savanna groups. Interestingly, they maintain very dense communities, which is particularly surprising given the large population which some villages attain. It was noted, however, that such groups are to at least some degree reliant upon agriculture, and their quite complex social organisation links them to neighbouring Amazonian horticultural populations. Endemic warfare is also an important issue, which will encourage nucleation of communities. The smaller, temporary campsites that are occupied on trek are more directly comparable to the camps of other savanna groups. In tropical forest environments, both plant and animal resources are often dispersed, though animals constitute a more concentrated nutritional source, and meat is usually a major component in the diet. Because of the habits and distribution of tropical forest fauna, cooperative hunting either by beating the bush or with the use of nets, is a very common resource acquisition strategy. Such groups typically maintain very high density camps, emphasising the high degree of cooperation and interaction between different households. Because resources are fairly regularly distributed, more members of a camp are likely to encounter proportionately more resources, so that larger groups may be maintained, and there is only a gradual decline in residential density with group size. With temperate biome foragers, a variety of resources is usually available, often within a differentiated locality, permitting greater settlement stability. With some emphasis on the storage of resources, and the ability to harvest them in a quantity sufficient to tide over the winter period of more restricted resource abundance, we have a context where social hierarchies can develop. These in turn provide a more complex system of social organisation for integrating different households, which can facilitate the maintenance of quite large communities. With limited cooperation in resource acquisition, and little cooperation in consumption, temperate communities generally have fairly low residential densities, though these can be maintained at the same level in larger communities (figure 6.137). As with the South American savanna communities, warfare becomes a relevant issue with sedentary and semi-sedentary hunter-gatherers, and cooperation in defence of rights, resources, and life will encourage residential community integration. Subarctic and arctic foragers traditionally relied upon animal resources for nearly all of their subsistence needs, more recently supplemented or even largely replaced by cash earnings from fur harvesting. Because of the constant risk of serious accident, various forms of partnership are supported, particularly in arctic societies, with groups of several families forming the usual hunting unit. Sharing patterns vary with the resources available, the season of the year, and the nature of the acquisition strategy, though straightforward preservation through drying and freezing supports a considerable degree of productive independence within a residential group. A comparison of traditional subarctic and arctic density patterns (figure 6.138) with the residential patterns documented for foragers in other environmental contexts (figure 6.137) indicates that the former are at the lower end of the spectrum, comparable with desert communities, where productive independence is also characteristic. With the large sample of both subarctic and arctic foraging communities, substantial numbers of communities were documented which could be considered traditional, and others which could be considered non-traditional in life style and community organisation, and this distinction merits consideration. In figure 6.138, traditional and less traditional communities have been distinguished.30 In the Greenlandic case, the non-traditional
30Communities rated traditional or adapted are here classed as traditional, and those rated non-traditional and Westernised are considered non-traditional. For Greenland, the anomalously high densities for the Ammassalik longhouses have been dropped from the graphs and regression statistics (table 6.16), because they deviate substantially from the trend through the remainder of the traditional Greenlandic sample (figure 6.140).

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communities include all of the major towns of Greenland, most of which are essentially commercial towns, unlike most of the communities in the North American subarctic and arctic, accounting for their increased density over traditional patterns. To some degree, the non-traditional communities in the western arctic fulfill a similar role, which distinguishes them from their earlier counterparts.31 In the other regions, non-traditional communities have lower occupation densities than traditional communities, emphasising differences from the traditional pattern in the nature of the social group represented, and in its integration. A second distinction between traditional and non-traditional subarctic and arctic communities is in the relationship between occupation density and community population. The trends for the traditional communities have fairly steep downward slopes, whereas the trends for non-traditional communities have shallower slopes, suggesting that nontraditional communities, with non-traditional patterns of integration and an imposed legal system, can maintain higher residential densities than are generally compatible with traditional patterns of kin-based social integration. This is comparable to the distinction noted between temperate groups, and South American savanna societies, and other groups. The exception to this pattern is the trend for traditional communities in the western arctic, where it has already been noted that indigenous patterns of social integration were more strongly developed, with the leaders of kin-groups sometimes taking on centralised leadership roles (Burch 1975; 1980; Townsend 1980). This brief comparison supports three general conclusions about the way that huntergatherers use space actively in patterns of social interaction. First, there are clear differences in behaviour, but these differences can be seen as systematic variations within different social and ecological contexts. Second, despite differences in cultural concepts, and even in the detail of social organisation, the members of different cultures appear to use space as a medium for manipulating social interaction in a comparable way. Third, we can identify similar processes in the relationship between social and spatial behaviour in very different contexts, such as the role of hierarchical patterns of authority in social organisation in integrating large, relatively high density communities - whether that hierarchical organisation be indigenous, or imposed from outside the local group. It is also appropriate to note the limits to an approach such as that adopted in this study. The distinctions which have been drawn concerning the social ecology of different groups are only general, at best. Yet this is currently about the limit of our ecological understanding of hunter-gatherer behaviour - we simply do not have the broad base of detailed case studies to pursue or assess more sophisticated exercises in modelling. Approaching the questions from the other side, the broad distinctions in spatial behaviour identified in this chapter are also probably pushing the resolution of the current database as far as can be justified; a restriction to the more reliable data would limit substantially the cross-cultural coverage of the study, without yet allowing a finer level of investigation. At this point, it would not be realistic to expect that detailed ethnoarchaeological or ethnohistorical work will ever be conducted with more than a fraction of the societies considered in this chapter. On the other hand, we can hope to build on some of the broad issues addressed, in the context of particular cultures, to assess, correct, or add to the patterns identified in this study.

31 The quite high densities for small western arctic non-traditional communities are largely the result of a number of small, well-defined clusters of dwellings at one site (Tuktoyaktuk), overall community figures yield densities fairly comparable to those of traditional communities in the same area, and a shallower slope to the trend indicated in figure 6.144.

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CHAPTER 7 THE SOCIAL ORGANISATION OF SPACE

7.1: INTRODUCTION: APPROACHES TO THE USE OF SPACE IN HUNTERGATHERER COMMUNITIES.
Studies of the use of space in hunter-gatherer communities can be broadly divided into three areas of focus, studies of the functional use of space, the social organisation of space, and the symbolic meaning of space. This study has concentrated on the second area of interest, and it is worth briefly commenting on the other two areas, to put the present work into context. Studies of the functional use of space in hunter-gatherer communities are a recently developed area of interest, principally practiced from the perspective of ethnoarchaeology. These have been pursued within the wider context of studies of the formation of the archaeological record, and indeed, many of the conclusions of such studies are aimed more at general issues in the study of site formation processes, than at understanding huntergatherer behaviour per se. Because traditional ethnography has not taken a particularly active role in the study of material culture within its context of use, there is relatively little solid ethnographic work on which to build. This is not to say that ethnographers have ignored material culture - ethnographies are often very full with descriptions and illustrations of items of material culture, and often include descriptions of their basic use, but little attention has been given to documentation of the behavioural context of use, or of variation in such behaviour (cf. Lemonnier 1986). As an example, many ethnographies discuss residential structures in terms of their structural characteristics, but this is with reference to an idealised model - we are rarely given the details of specific houses, who built them, how, or why they were built the way that they were. Similarly, we may be told that there are several different types of settlement, but we rarely have the detail that would allow us to recognise or distinguish any if we encountered them. This type of work needs to be done by ethnoarchaeologists, with a concern for the material record in both an ideal and actual sense. The most general ethnoarchaeological studies have described the spatial layout of work areas, patterns in the production of refuse, and the spatial organisation of refuse disposal. Studies of the overall organisation of hunter-gatherer sites, such as the nature of the relations between different activity areas, the relation between activity areas and features and facilities, and the importance of the social context within which activities take place in affecting spatial layout, have all been much more directly tied to specific cultural contexts. Much of the ethnoarchaeology which has been conducted is also 'after the fact', in the sense that the material record may not actually be documented during its creation, but rather is recorded and interpreted after abandonment, by the ethnoarchaeologist with the aid of individuals who took part in the occupation. This sort of work needs to be supplemented with more direct observation, and detailed time and motion studies, to document behaviour in detail, rather than reconstruct it (e.g. Fletcher 1975; Grfik 1976). This is not to say that the ethnoarchaeological studies of the past decade have not been extremely useful in beginning to build an understanding of hunter-gatherer material behaviour, and contributed substantively to our understanding of the formation of the archaeological record. However, attempts to build a better understanding of huntergatherer sites need more of a focus on the behaviour which produces the material remains, not just on the production of those remains - while it may be the disposal behaviour which we monitor through the archaeological record (Binford 1981a), that takes place and must be understood within a broader behavioural context, which is after all what we ultimately wish to learn about. At present, the potential of ethnoarchaeological work in this direction is hardly being considered, let alone achieved.

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Perhaps at the other extreme is the study of the symbolic meaning attached to space in hunter-gatherer communities. This is an area of study which lies much closer to the traditional interests of ethnographers, but has only been pursued to a limited extent. Again, many ethnographies contain comments on some aspects of the symbolic importance of particular spatial practices, such as comments on the relative status of different locations within a structure (e.g. Paulson 1952; Drucker 1951; Boas 1909; Marshall 1976), but these are rarely the focus of an integrated discussion, nor are such observations tied into the wider system of cultural beliefs and behaviour. A few studies have addressed issues of spatial symbolism, usually dealing with cultures which build substantial structures, and maintain sedentary or semi-sedentary communities (e.g. Watanabe 1972; Ohnuki-Tierney 1972; MacDonald 1983: Hallowell 1955; Lvi-Strauss 1936; 1955; Crocker 1971: Chang 1962). However another study, of the symbolic organisation of space in a mobile foraging society (Tanner 1979), indicates that we should be aware of the potential symbolic importance of space in any hunter-gatherer context. The symbolic meaning of space is an area of study which so far has attracted relatively little attention from ethnoarchaeologists, particularly in studies of hunter-gatherer societies. However, several recent studies among sedentary populations have emphasised the importance of such work (e.g. Moore 1986; Kent 1984; Hodder 1982c; 1987), though again more attention needs to be given to documenting variation between different examples, and in-depth documentation of actual behaviour, rather than the presentation and analysis of normative models. At present, though, the data available on the symbolic meaning of space in hunter-gatherer communities is so limited that there is little scope for even beginning to consider the issue from a comparative perspective. The third area of study, the social organisation of space, really develops one aspect of the symbolic meaning of space, as it relates to inter-individual communication and interaction. This is an area where I consider that there is much that we can say, building on both the detailed ethnoarchaeological studies which have already been conducted and on the wealth of less detailed ethnographic accounts, and much that we have yet to do. This has been the thrust of this study, to try to work out some basic ideas about the social organisation of space in hunter-gatherer settlements. In the present case, I have approached both issues of social organisation and the relationship between social and spatial organisation, principally from one perspective, emphasising the importance of the ecological context of behaviour. This is not to argue that this is the only perspective which could have been developed on this issue, though I feel it has proved to be a productive line of approach, as well as being most effective for the archaeological orientation of the work. However, pragmatically, just as we are not in a position to develop a general overview of the symbolic meaning of space among hunter-gatherers, the interest in hunter-gatherer ecology which has developed over the past two decades is beginning to provide the database which will allow a broad ecological perspective on hunter-gatherer behaviour. There have been few other unifying themes in hunter-gatherer ethnography which would allow as detailed a comparative baseline. Whatever merits this particular study has, it has attempted to approach the question of hunter-gatherer community organisation in a straightforward and systematic manner. At the same time, it is fully recognised that it only addresses some of the important issues, and that a comprehensive understanding of hunter-gatherer spatial behaviour will need to incorporate and integrate all three dimensions of the use of space. As a contribution to one part of this problem, the next section of this chapter will address thematically a number of issues which have emerged in the course of the detailed studies of hunter-gatherer spatial behaviour documented in the previous chapter.

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7.2: DIMENSIONS OF VARIATION IN THE SOCIAL ORGANISATION OF SPACE.

In the previous chapter, various examples of hunter-gatherer behaviour were analysed which indicate that differences in social organisation and integration both between different foraging cultures and also in different social contexts within the same culture, may be manifest in systematic variation in the spatial organisation of communities. It has been argued that this is because of the importance of inter-individual communication in any form of human social organisation, which is directly affected by spatial distance. Because of this, communication can be enhanced, constrained, manipulated, and regulated through the spacing and the relative layout of residences within communities. It may appear that undue emphasis has been put on residences, since when individuals are in their residences, they often are not directly interacting with individuals outside of their own domestic unit. However, this first presupposes that residences are private, which is often not the case. Even if aural and visual contact between the interior and exterior of the dwelling can be regulated efficiently, there is ample opportunity for outsiders to observe who goes in and out, and what is done in the vicinity of a dwelling. In many contexts, the structures themselves do not provide such insulation. Second, much interaction takes place within the domestic context, through visiting, and the relative location of residences may have an effect on the amount of inter-visiting that occurs between residents. Finally, and most pragmatically, while much social interaction will take place outside of residences or residential areas, these are often the major structural components which regulate such interactions, whereas interactions outside of such materially-bounded spaces may have no relation with recognisable patterns in material culture, and hence with the recoverable archaeological record. The relative layout of residential structures is one important dimension of variability within a community which will affect the nature of interaction between individuals. In the communities studied in the previous chapter, patterning in relative layout was monitored through analyses of the relationship between the spatial distance separating residential structures, and the minimum kinship distance between each structure's adult occupants. In all but one case, a significant relationship was identified between the two measures, though the degree to which kin relations were directly mapped in space varied considerably. Substantial variation is by no means surprising, since in all cases, we are dealing with individuals, who have their own likes and dislikes, and can have a variety of factors in mind when they make locational decisions. This can be documented in the few instances where we do have sufficient detail - in Yellen's !Kung data (1977a), where a number of campsites occupied by the same individuals were documented, there are consistent deviations from a simple kinship-distance relationship, suggesting patterns of more or less frequent interaction, association and cooperation. Similarly, Turnbull's documentation of the changes in shelter orientation and camp layout which followed the development of a dispute in a Mbuti camp is a classic illustration of the exploitation of flexibility in residential arrangements to deal with social tensions and conflicts (Turnbull 1965:100-5). This gives an indication of the level of detail which would be necessary for a full documentation of social interaction within such a community, which would allow more comprehensive documentation and assessment of the importance of spatial distance in regulating interaction in different contexts. To further develop the approach taken in this study, information would be necessary on patterns of cooperation in subsistence acquisition and consumption. Unfortunately, I am aware of even partial data on patterns of cooperation and kinship in only five studies, though these do not present this data in detail or for any specific period of time (Watanabe 1972; Irimoto 1981; Mailhot and Michaud 1965; Altman 1987; Yellen 1977a), and the number of hunter-gatherer communities for which spatial and even basic kinship details are available is extremely limited. Instead, it has been necessary to rely on the fact that kinship, serving as a basis for processes of socialisation, often has a significant effect on patterns of

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cooperation in foraging societies. As examined in chapter 5, we would also expect variation between foraging societies in different contexts in terms of the degree to which kinship relations served as the base, or defined the pool for the selection of partners, for the formation of cooperative groups. However, with the limited number of analyses which can be undertaken, it is not presently possible to document systematic variation in the importance attached to kinship - we can simply note that it is a factor in the spatial layout of all of the communities studied, and that it is likely to vary in importance in different contexts. It is also worth reflecting on the degree to which kinship as an organisational focus could be expected to have comparable relevance in the study of spatial organisation in other types of society. A fundamentally important point here is the small size of the residential groups of most foragers, usually limited in the first instance by the density of harvestable resources within the environment which can be exploited on a day to day basis. In larger-scale societies, there are usually more forms of differentiated group within a local community, representing both horizontal and vertical distinctions, which provide other integrating foci. Any of these different dimensions of social organisation might potentially influence the spatial layout of the community. Indeed, among the Shavante (figure 6.42), Bororo (figure 6.43), Haida (figure 6.74), and North Alaskan Coast Inuit (figure 6.118), lineage organisations were localised within each community. In these cases, the units are directly founded in kinship, though membership in each might be defined bilaterally, and given the competition for members as supporters, kin affiliations became in essence political units (Maybury-Lewis 1967; Crocker 1971; Swanton 1909; Burch 1975). I suggest that the analysis of hunter-gatherer behaviour indicates the importance of social factors in community layout, not necessarily kinship alone. We should anticipate that in societies where other organising principles are laid on top of kinship, these will also be manifest in the spatial layout of settlements. Indeed, these may over-ride the spatial expression of kinship relations, or different organising dimensions, such as status, may determine spatial organisation at one level of resolution, and others such as kinship at another, as for instance in neighbourhood structure within cities in our own culture. Another dimension of variation in spatial behaviour highlighted in the preceding analyses is the importance of the absolute spacing of residential units. Absolute distance should be a major factor influencing interaction since it is this which principally determines the level of communication which can be maintained between any two points. Chapter 6 documented in some detail the considerable degree of variation in spacing between residences (represented by residential density) which can be documented for different hunter-gatherer cultures. This was seen to vary in a number of ways which deserve separate consideration: between cultures in different contexts; between different social contexts within the same culture; with differences in the period of time over which a site is occupied; and with the nature of residential structures. Section 6.11 explicitly compared spacing behaviour among hunter-gatherer cultures in different ecological contexts. The major differences in spatial behaviour can be summarised in terms of situations which encourage or discourage cooperation in subsistence-related behaviour between different productive units or families. There are two principal contexts for cooperation, cooperation in resource acquisition and cooperation in resource consumption. Cooperation in resource acquisition is important if major subsistence tasks require more individuals than can be recruited from an individual productive unit, or if cooperation leads to increased efficiency of resource acquisition. Cooperation in resource consumption through sharing is a strategy of risk-pooling which facilitates full utilisation of a resource, reduces day to day variation in any family's access to the resource, and reduces the variation between the subsistence resources available to different productive units within a community on any day, reducing potential stress within the residential group. In situations encouraging cooperation, the residences of cooperating individuals are likely to be closely spaced, facilitating communication and interaction, as well as allowing

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monitoring of what others do and do not have - it is also important in maintaining close relations to be seen to be cooperating fully. Productive independence appears to be stressed in several other contexts. Where there is little advantage in collective foraging, through dependence on relatively predictable or easily harvested resources, there will be little cooperation in resource acquisition. Similarly, there will usually be little incentive for cooperation in resource consumption if the individual productive unit's access to resources is relatively dependable and comparable to the acquisition of others, or if storage allows the self-assumption of risk by the productive unit. In these cases, we can expect that individual productive units will have less need to communicate constantly, and may even wish to preserve greater privacy, and their independence will be expressed in large spacing between domestic units. It must be kept in mind that these are two polar tendencies, and actual behaviour may be balanced somewhere between them, or shift depending on different patterns of cooperation in exploiting different resources or the resources available at different points in time. Similarly, there is always likely to be some differential cooperation between the residents of a community, whether between close kin or friends, on a day to day basis, but based on affective relations, rather than on formalised custom. We can also expect cooperation among a limited group - often pairs of units - for security. This is particularly welldeveloped in higher latitudes where the likelihood of accident in foraging, and the seriousness of its consequences for the entire productive unit, is highest. At the grossest inter-cultural level, the previous chapter documented major differences in residential spacing behaviour between hunter-gatherer groups in different ecological contexts, since the latter have a considerable effect on the resources available to a foraging population, and the behaviour of those species, relevant to the ways they can be effectively exploited. If we were to pursue inter-cultural comparisons at a more detailed level, we can anticipate that this picture could be considerably refined, though at present, in most cases we lack sufficient detail of either the local ecology or of subsistence behaviour to permit such a detailed comparison. Simply as an example, we might contrast the spatial behaviour of two neighbouring San groups, the !Kung and the G/wi. Among the !Kung, roughly onehalf of the year is spent dispersed in small, extended family camps, when rains permit dispersal for exploiting resources distant from the principal water-holes. Small groups disperse from the main dry season camp for extended foraging trips, though they return to the main settlement from time to time (Yellen 1977a). The community at the principal water-hole is a large circular camp, with the shelters of the members of extended families localised in different segments of the circle (figure 3.9; chapter 3). The main water-hole camp is therefore the principal social unit, and its solidarity is represented by the open plan of the camp, with individual shelters oriented inwards, toward the centre of the camp. Among the neighbouring G/wi, who inhabit an environment with much more restricted water supplies, the wet season is the period of band aggregation, when large camps can be established where there are supplies of standing water. When these supplies are exhausted, individual families, or small groups of two or three families, usually close kin (Tanaka 1980), disperse to exploit water-bearing tubers and melons (Silberbauer 1981a). The aggregated phase of social interaction may last for a few months, or in a bad year, may not even be possible. In this sense, the basic social groups are the individual clusters of families which disperse together, and it has been noted that these 'cliques' will maintain localised clusters of habitations within the larger aggregate camps (Silberbauer 1981a:166-7). What is notable here is that the greater cooperation between the members of a clique is represented, not just by relative localisation, but also by the orientation of individual shelters (figure 7.1). This level of detailed analysis indicates the sort of factors which will modify any general model of hunter-gatherer spatial organisation, though in most cases, the ethnographic and ecological detail available is not sufficient to detect patterning at this scale of resolution. Another dimension of variability in hunter-gatherer spatial behaviour, documented in the absolute spacing between residential units, is the effect of community duration on

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residential density. Yellen has looked at this aspect of variation from one perspective, that of the expansion of the ring of debris around a camp as the length of occupation increases (Yellen 1977a). This is not too surprising, since the amount of debris produced should increase in a general way with the length of occupation, as will displacement activities such as scuffing, displacement by camp dogs (Walters 1984), and movement of debris through children's play. What I mean is rather different, based on the spacing of residential units, which is established by a decision when a shelter is constructed - in general terms, the average spacing between shelters will be greater in a community which is occupied for a longer period of time. This has begun to be explored by ethnoarchaeologists (Gould and Yellen 1987; Kent and Vierich 1989). It has been emphasised by many authors that one of the principal mechanisms for coping with stress and conflict in mobile hunter-gatherer societies is to move away from it whether to the other side of a camp, or to another camp altogether (Turnbull 1968; Savishinski 1971; Lee and DeVore 1968b). A corollary to this is that individuals should be increasingly careful in making decisions about spatial organisation when their mobility options are more limited. In our own society, individuals usually give greater attention to establishing social relations which are intended as being more enduring - witness the difference in importance attached to decisions about who to go for a drink with, go on holiday with, or who to marry. In spatial terms, we are likely to give much more attention, and to be more particular about, the neighbourhood in which we purchase a house than the area in which we take a short-term rental on a flat, the room we occupy in a hotel, or the people we sit next to on the train - all could have equally serious consequences, though the period during which we will be exposed to them varies, the degree of difficulty in reacting to them varies, and so does the importance we attach to the locational decisions. In forager communities, we might expect that an anticipation of longer-term spatial association will encourage reliance on more stable or longer-term social relations as the basis for establishing spatial propinquity. Similarly, where space is available, larger spacing is likely to reduce the likelihood of conflicts, by providing greater insulation, and reducing the number of opportunities for non-intentional encounters - distance can be used to prevent stress, rather than simply to reduce it after the fact. Despite differences in the context of different groups, and different patterns in the relationship between group size and residential density, the expectation that residential spacing will be greater in communities occupied for longer periods of time is supported by the cross-cultural dataset. This trend was illustrated in figure 6.8, but is documented in greater detail in table 7.1, where the relationship is documented for all complete communities in the sample for which information on duration was available. One potential complicating factor is the large number of non-traditional communities in the sample, which are usually both permanent, and occupied at low densities. In table 7.2, only the more traditional communities are considered, and a comparable pattern of decreasing density with increasing length of occupation is apparent. Another dimension of variability in hunter-gatherer settlement which should affect the effectiveness of distance as a buffer to communication and social interaction is the permeability of structures. Some foragers may not construct structures in favourable weather, or only rarely stay within what structures they construct, preferring to work, live and sleep outside the shelter, around a hearth. The shelters of others may simply consist of roofs to deflect rain, or windbreaks. In these cases, the shelters, if they exist, provide little impediment to sight or sound, and afford little privacy to a family. Stands of vegetation, or the placement of huts, even if not occupied, may be used to restrict visual observation though they will do little to insulate sound. More substantial structures such as grass huts or even tents may similarly inhibit observation, but do little to cut down the transmission of sound. In these cases, spatial distance is the principal means for creating privacy.

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Among other hunter-gatherer groups, more investment may be made in constructing more substantial structures, which are effective insulators against both sight and sound. As table 7.3 indicates, substantial structures are only rarely found in communities that are occupied for less than a period of months, presumably because of the labour and time necessary for their construction. Some durable structures could be occupied for shorter periods if they were occupied repeatedly, though each occupation was of short duration. This situation occurs in some subarctic and arctic contexts where hunting groups may move between previously established camps, with cabins that are reoccupied in different years. The expectation that substantial structures can substitute for distance as a buffer to interaction cannot be assessed with the existing dataset. In part, this is because of the greater flexibility which is possible - space may still be used in regulating social interaction, since increased distance will reduce the opportunities for communication and interaction, but this aspect of buffering is supplemented by the impermeability of structures; there may be no incentive for people to camp closer together just because additional insulation is available. This will contribute to less clear patterns in residential behaviour, since alternative forms of residential buffering are possible. The principal difficulty is that either perishable or durable structures dominate in different ecological contexts - rarely are both represented in any quantity (table 7.4), and the differences in residential density between different ecological contexts will therefore bias any comparison across the entire sample. If anything, the relationship across the entire sample between structure durability and residential density tends to the inverse of what we might expect (table 7.5). For subarctic and arctic cultures, where both forms of structure are represented, there is no significant difference in the residential density maintained in communities dominated by the different types of shelter. On the other hand, since substantial structures are limited to longer-duration communities, and the latter typically involve much larger populations, creating a social context which encourages wider spacing, different factors are interacting in a way which does not allow adequate assessment of the expected relationship. The best support for the importance of structure durability in restricting social interaction comes from the situation documented at Dobe, in the changes in community patterning which accompanied the transition to sedentism (figure 3.12). In that case, larger, more permanent structures were constructed as private property became more important, and traditional patterns of sharing broke down (Brooks et al. 1984; Draper 1975). This was supported by the construction of fences around some houses, and private storage areas. At the same time, however, the spacing between residences also increased amplifying the change in interaction patterns (Gould and Yellen 1987). So that while structure permeability and distance may both be used to regulate communication and social interaction, they may be used as independent components in settlement strategies, rather than as alternatives. Finally, it is worth considering differences in spatial behaviour which may occur within any culture, depending on differences in the social context created by a community. This could be documented for any of the cultures in the sample, except for temperate groups, by the decrease in occupation density with the increasing size of communities, in the culture specific patterns identified in various figures in the preceding chapter. Such a pattern could be anticipated, given the increase in average social distance which will occur as more individuals are incorporated into a community (section 4.7). In addition to differences in residential density, there are also differences in community layout with differences in the social composition of residential groups, and some of the different strategies adopted by different groups are worth brief attention. In general, increases in the social scale of a community lead to greater organisation, or patterning in community layout. Among the San, the contrast in layout between fairly amorphous, small, extended family camps and the larger, band camps, with their open circular plan was highlighted in chapter

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3. This formalisation is not the result of a drastic shift at a certain social threshold, but rather becomes increasingly apparent with increasing group size (figure 3.3; 3.11). The open circular plan of the camp emphasises the role of the band as a cohesive, risk-pooling unit. When different bands camps in the same location, they usually maintain separate camps at some distance. While there may be gifts of food, and considerable visiting between kin and friends in the different camps, each camp maintains its separate identity, and is a more cohesive social and subsistence unit than the aggregate. The difference in layout, and residential density is documented in figure 7.2. A directly comparable pattern of spatial organisation is found among the Mbuti, where there is also considerable emphasis on the integration of the residential group. Small, extended family camps may be fairly amorphous, though their shape is to a fair degree constrained by the size and shape of clearings in the forest, band camps approximate to a circular pattern, and multiple band aggregations may maintain camps in separate but nearby clearings (figure 7.3). Among Northwest Coast groups, the individual house corresponds in scale to the local band among most nomadic foragers, and within the house, individual families occupy separate living areas against the walls of the house, surrounding the open, communal area, at an occupation density broadly comparable to that of savanna or tropical forest groups with comparable populations (figure 7.4). The multi-house communities are to some extent comparable to multi-band communities among mobile groups, with the impermeable walls of each house substituting for space in buffering the different productive groups (figure 7.5). Among desert, subarctic and arctic foragers, there is generally less integration within the residential group, lower residential densities, and more amorphous spatial organisation. However, there is greater integration within individual kin-groups than between them, and aggregated communities in all three contexts are characterised by a clumped pattern, with distinct clusters of structures separated from each other by larger intervening distances than occur between structures within such a cluster. Comparable patterns can be documented for desert (figure 7.6), subarctic (figure 7.7) and arctic groups (figure 7.8). While one component of decreasing residential density with increasing population will be an increase in the spacing between adjacent structures, this is likely to be at least partially a consequence of the increased duration of occupation of most of the larger camps studied the social relations between close individuals do not necessarily change with the addition of other individuals to the residential group. For multi-band communities, the decrease in residential density is largely the result of the greater spacing between different band clusters - whether these are separate camp circles, clearings, or clusters of structures. Different forms of layout correspond to different scales of social group, and may be found in different contexts. Table 7.6 indicates the distribution of different layouts for different social groups, across the entire sample of more traditional communities. Amorphous or random distributions of structures are documented principally at smaller social scales - at the level of the extended family or the band, but rarely with more extensive groups. Clustered and circular layouts represent greater spatial organisation, and are documented with more inclusive social groups - clusters of extended families within a band camp, or clusters representing bands within multiple-band communities. Circles emphasise the cohesiveness of the group camping together, and while documented among some extended family groups, are principally represented by band camps, very rarely by any larger groups, since these usually have only limited social cohesion. Finally, linear patterns are mostly found in subarctic and arctic contexts, where structures are aligned along a shore, guaranteeing direct access to the beach and transportation for each productive unit. Because linear arrangements allow only one or two neighbours, they do not emphasise the coherence of a group. We could expect this to be more prevalent in subarctic and arctic contexts, which generally encourage little cooperation and integration of large groups; this pattern is documented particularly at levels above that of the extended family, whereas both random

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and clustered patterns are documented among smaller subarctic and arctic communities (table 7.7). The durability of structures also appears to have an effect on community layout, with greater organisation (clustered and circular layouts) in contexts with more permeable structures (table 7.8). Similarly, spatial organisation appears to be somewhat more important in communities occupied for longer periods of time (table 7.9). In both contexts, greater organisation is found in the contexts where restrictions over interaction are likely to be more important. Finally, spatial organisation relates to residential density in fairly predictable ways (table 7.10). Random layouts occur in communities at all density ranges, and clustered and linear arrangements, emphasising restrictions of interaction, generally correspond to low density communities. In contrast, circular layouts, with their emphasis on coherence and cooperation, generally are accompanied by higher residential densities. The increase in pattern with increase in social scale is paralleled to some degree by the increasingly formal spatial layout of communities among foragers with large basal communities and more complex forms of social organisation, such as the South American G groups and Northwest Coast cultures. From these broad trends in the cross-cultural dataset, it would appear that a variety of different dimensions can be used to organise and regulate patterns of communication and social interaction in hunter-gatherer communities. In real communities, a number of different factors may be used at the same time, or in different contexts, or by different members of a community - a level of detail which it is only possible to get hints of from most ethnographic accounts. However, the complex, but significant relationship between social organisation and spatial organisation in hunter-gatherer communities can perhaps best be illustrated by a brief consideration of the processes of change, when foragers settle down.

7.3: EXEMPLIFICATION: WHEN HUNTER-GATHERERS SETTLE DOWN.

The process of sedentisation among hunter-gatherer groups generally involves changes in a number of the dimensions of variability in community organisation reviewed in the previous section, such as changes in the social group represented by the community, changes in the duration of occupation, and changes in the nature of dwelling structures, as well as changes in the integration of the group as subsistence patterns change. The complex relation between these features can be illustrated by comparing examples of hunter-gatherer sedentisation processes in different contexts of change - when foragers settle themselves, and when they are settled by outside agencies. First, it is worth briefly reviewing some of the characteristics of the communities of sedentary and semi-sedentary hunter-gatherers. The best documented examples of the latter, in terms of settlement behaviour, are the Indian communities of the Northwest Coast of North America. As reviewed in section 6.8, Northwest Coast communities were often of considerable size, but were internally segregated into separate productive house-groups. Socially, the members of each household were ranked, and the relations between different members of the group were regulated by social conventions. The different houses within a community would be inter-linked by alliances, and by kin relations between individual members of the different houses. In addition, each house was ranked relative to the others, and each lineage would have a senior chief, among the chiefs of each house of that lineage. While deference might be given to such a chief, each house could and did act independently, though it might choose to align itself with its allies. In addition, village chiefs might be recognised, though their authority depended very much on the abilities of the individual holding that position. Thus, such communities were held together by an elaborate series of social conventions, and hierarchical differentiation. Among the other hunter-gatherer groups examined in chapter 6, the large, relatively dense communities of

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South American savanna groups, other temperate groups such as those that inhabited California, and the Inuit of some western arctic communities also stood out as being integrated by patterns of social organisation which could encompass more than a single kingroup. While other sedentary or semi-sedentary traditional groups exist, such as some Australian savanna groups, or the Ainu of Hokkaido, these usually maintain relatively small communities, and are only loosely structured socially. While we might anticipate that there will be a relationship between the social organisation of a group and its potential success in maintaining a sedentary community, this really has relevance to fairly large communities, which integrate the members of several different kingroups. Since most of the world's hunter-gatherers presently reside in large, non-traditional communities, there should be plenty of scope for studying community organisation in such contexts. Unfortunately, relatively little attention has been paid to the actual process of sedentisation, since hunter-gatherers have usually been viewed as of anthropological interest primarily in their pristine situation. An increasing interest by anthropologists in analysing the relationship between hunter-gatherers and the encapsulating societies with which they interact (e.g. Lee and Leacock 1982; Schrire 1984a; Ingold, Riches and Woodburn 1988), should encourage more historical investigations into the process of sedentisation. In the absence of detailed studies, some brief observations may be made, particularly contrasting the relative successes and failures in both indigenous and imposed patterns of change. Among the !Kung and other San groups, it has now been established that individual populations have probably been shifting back and forth between hunting and gathering and other forms of economy for a considerable period of time, and that such shifting is a process which continues among agricultural groups today (Schrire 1980; Denbow 1984; Hitchcock and Ebert 1984). The Dobe !Kung had long standing patterns of interaction with local pastoralists, including periods of labour assisting with cattle herding. In such a context, as documented at Dobe, foragers have a model for an alternative economy and lifestyle which they can observe and assess, and emulate depending on how they evaluate its attractions, relative to available alternatives. There may be considerable difficulties in such a process of transition, such as accommodating capital goods and accumulation for the future with a traditional system of generalised reciprocity, but this transition can be made by the indigenous group themselves. This is facilitated by a period of gradual adoption, during which other aspects of behaviour can be adapted to the new conditions. Not surprisingly, the community pattern which developed at Dobe has striking similarities to the model of local sedentary groups, whose economy they also emulated (figure 7.9). A comparable case is documented among the Mbuti, who have long-standing relations with neighbouring agriculturalists, who supply them with domestic plant foods in return for meat. In the traditional context, the Mbuti will maintain camps close to agricultural villages, and may even adjust their camp and shelter form to conform more closely with village models (figure 7.10). Mbuti may also, from time to time, establish their own gardens, or assist in the cultivation of villagers' crops (Turnbull 1983; cf. Demesse 1980; Bahuchet and Guillaume 1982). This appears to have been a very flexible arrangement, whereby Mbuti could switch back and forth from cultivation to foraging in different seasons, or different years, as they assessed the pros and cons of each option, much as San did in the transitional period of the early 1970s.32 In Australia, colonial cattle stations and missions became centres for the aggregation of Aboriginal groups during the last century and the first half of this century. At such centres, Aborigines could get access to Western goods and food, whether these were cast-offs or formal allocations. There were considerable attractions to such handouts, which could be viewed from a traditional perspective as simply a new resource to be exploited. Because of
32 In the last decade, attempts by a government-backed agency to settle the Mbuti in permanent agricultural villages, lacking the same flexibility, have been disastrous (Turnbull 1983).

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the dependability of the new resources, such centres attracted large numbers of individuals from wide territories. Permanent settlement was encouraged, either to supply labour in cattle ranching, or to provide potential converts to Christianity. Large permanent populations rapidly exhausted local wild resources, increasing the dependence of the Aborigines on the non-traditional resources. Most such residential communities have remained outside of formal government or agency control, and the spatial organisation of such communities was broadly comparable to the traditional patterns which might have been used during a large ceremony. However, the latter were always temporary aggregations, and no indigenous patterns of social organisation existed for permanently integrating such large groups, particularly with members drawn from a large number of originally independent groups. Consistent with traditional behaviour, conflicts were minimised by large spacing between clusters of dwellings, and the separation of very large communities into distinct camps, as at Papunya (section 6.5) and other aggregated sites (figure 7.11a-b). Even so, such communities were characterised by high degrees of conflict and stressful behaviour (White 1977; Altman 1987). In this case, the indigenous response has been the outstation movement, which represents a dispersion back to traditional territories. With more effective transport, individuals can still participate in the life of the larger centres, but spend much of their time in their traditional territories, where natural resources are still available, but can be supplemented by imported Western goods (Coombs et al. 1982; Altman 1987). Similarly, more traditional patterns of camp organisation and spacing may be established (figure 7.11c-d). In the North American subarctic, Indians have had a considerable period of time in which to adapt to the (albeit changing) impositions of European colonists. While there has been considerable displacement of indigenous populations and clearing of forest for agricultural land, comparatively few Whites occupy the forest, and indigenous groups have been able to develop their own adaptations to their changing situation, with cash essentially forming another resource which can be incorporated into a diversified economy. Different groups have chosen or been manipulated into different solutions to living on the fringe of the Western world; many of the problems may have been imposed from outside, but the solutions have been largely developed indigenously, and so have some coherence with other aspects of the indigenous cultural system. In the North American arctic, the period of change has been much more recent, and the process of change much more accelerated. Initially, as in Australia, hunter-gatherers began to settle at the fringes of White establishments to exploit the new resource. As in Australia, the concentrations of population put stress on local resources, and from time to time, government authorities actively tried to discourage indigenous sedentism (Willmott 1961). The major contrast with the situation in Australia was that, like the subarctic, the arctic contained resources which the outsiders wanted, and which the indigenous occupants of the area were best equipped to obtain: furs. Unfortunately, fur markets have been extremely unstable, and the shift from subsistence-oriented hunting to fur acquisition was a high-risk venture for Inuit groups, which has often failed, such that few Inuit communities are as selfsufficient as many subarctic Indian communities. The few large, concentrated Inuit communities began to take on a character similar to Aboriginal communities in Australia (Foster 1972). More recently, Inuit have begun to develop alternative economic opportunities through craft production and increased involvement in wage labour. The indigenous solution to problems of community social integration in this case has been to attempt to develop new forms of social integration, effective at a social scale beyond that which could be addressed through traditional patterns (Freeman 1984a; Barger 1980). These examples suggest three indigenous solutions to social problems engendered in the transition to sedentary living. In the case of the San, community size has remained relatively small, and in terms of social integration and organisation, there has been a long-

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standing tradition of appeal to the authority of the local agriculturalists.33 The specific problems to be addressed concern the nature of social relations between individuals, and patterns of reciprocity, which have been effectively addressed through changes in behaviour, emphasised by changes in community spatial organisation. Among the Mbuti, the flexibility of traditional patterns allowed shifting between more and less sedentary communities, facilitated by fairly stable relations with local agriculturalists. In both cases, some stability comes from linking in with and emulating the social patterns of somewhat paternalistic groups which have patterns of social organisation which can cope with the new social problems which are likely to emerge. In the Australian case, the alternative social system, as maintained by Whites, has not been able to effectively cope with the social problems created in the non-traditional communities, and the indigenous solution has been something of a return to traditional patterns. This essentially represents an attempt to avoid the new problems, the same strategy which was attempted by maintaining separate camps in aggregate communities. In this case, return to a more dispersed settlement pattern appears to be more successful in also allowing a return to greater economic independence, and effective restoration of the traditional value system based on foraging ability (Altman 1987). At the same time, dispersion to smaller communities has not required the development of new forms of more complex social organisation. At the broader level, however, mechanisms for social integration have developed within the wider social context of Australia, through successful land-rights organisation, which encourages increased government attention, necessary to maintain the improved transportation, social and medical services which facilitate the success of outstations (Peterson 1982; Vachon 1982). In both the subarctic and arctic contexts, the indigenous responses have varied somewhat, because the problems were different, and arose through differences in the local contexts, and the processes of outside contact and exploitation. In both cases, local groups have adapted to the outside world by trying to integrate indigenous social systems with authority patterns imposed by the outside legal and administrative system, and by defining a niche within the outside economic system. As in Australia, many of the recent significant steps in developing indigenous authority structures have occurred in the context of land-rights legislation, and in bargaining for control of mineral rights (Ash 1982; Feit 1982; Scott 1988; Burch 1984). These examples of indigenous processes of adaptation to changing social and settlement contexts contrast significantly with situations where settlement schemes have been instituted by non-indigenous agencies. There are usually three separate areas of problems created by most resettlement schemes, problems concerning settlement location, housing units, and problems of community organisation. All three sets of problems arise when planners approach the problem of design without an adequate understanding of indigenous user requirements. Problems of location contrast areas which are well-situated for traditional resource exploitation with those suitable for transport access, or for heavy construction (e.g. Kemp et al. 1977; Reser 1979). Problems with housing concern adequate design for environmental conditions, activity patterns, the social organisation of the domestic group, and patterns of inter-individual interaction and privacy. Rather than designing for user requirements, most housing designs are aimed at fast or economical production, installation, or maintenance (Reser 1979; Stoll et al. 1979; Biernoff 1979; Tonkinson and Tonkinson 1979; Sinha 1967; Larochelle 1975; 1976; Esber 1972; Tremblay et al. 1954). Community organisation has generally followed the ideals of the designers as to what a community should look like, apparently uninformed or uninterested in the form and features of the indigenous communities of the people to be re-housed. In many regions,
33 This pattern of indigenous sedentisation can be contrasted with government-sponsored settlement schemes in Namibia (Lee 1984).

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considerations of ease of construction, administration, and the provision of public services override any indigenous design criteria: "The advantages of compactness are obvious in such a cold climate, and a less wasteful use of space could allow many more buildings to be erected without an enlargement of the site. The Eskimos themselves are gregarious and fond of visiting each other's houses, and in general prefer to live close together." (Usher 1965:86). Such a superficial and simplistic view of indigenous attitudes is put forward by planners, rather than focussing attention on what individuals actually do when they have control over their own housing decisions. When detailed, anthropologically-oriented community studies have been conducted, the importance of space as a social buffer has been explicitly recognised (e.g. Usher 1971 (v.3):29). This points to one of the principal failings of many settlement schemes, which is that overall community housing is usually too dense for indigenous patterns of social interaction. This may appear contradictory, in that figure 6.5 indicates that non-traditional and Westernised communities generally have lower residential densities than more traditional settlements, but this ignores the factor of community size. Most non-traditional communities are aggregates of formerly separate social groups, which might rarely or never have interacted in a traditional context. Non-traditional communities are also usually larger than traditional communities, and are permanently occupied, all factors shown in the previous section of this chapter to have a significant effect on community density patterns. If we were to extrapolate the trend in traditional residential density to the population sizes documented for non-traditional communities, we would usually find that the non-traditional residential densities are considerably higher, even ignoring the difficulty in integrating large populations faced by traditional hunter-gatherer social organisation (figure 7.12). These points are well illustrated in figure 7.13, which shows three phases in development of the Netsilingmiut community at Pelly Bay, Canada. The first plan (figure 7.13a) is a roughly scaled sketch plan of the temporary aggregation of the local band at the mission in 1956, when all shelters were snow igloos, and dwellings were clustered by kin-group (figure 6.118). Figure 7.14b represents the first sedentary community, with indigenously constructed shelters spread out at substantial distances, in 1966. The greater spacing between structures appears to be the indigenous response to avoiding potential stress in the permanent community. Figure 7.13c is a plan of the re-developed community in 1968; overall density is not that different from the original community of 1956 (1956: 75 pers/ha; 1966: 44 pers/ha; 1968: 63 pers/ha), but the overall population living permanently at such a density is considerably larger (1956 (temporary camp): 140; 1966: 66; 1968: 155), and there is no latitude for residential flexibility to alleviate any stress which develops. Another major failure of housing projects, particularly in Australia, is an inability to make provisions for mobility within a community, as the membership of a community changes, or as different social relationships are developed (White 1977; Reser 1979; O'Connell 1979; Stoll et al. 1979; Larbalestier 1979; Wallace 1979). This is readily achieved in traditional communities by dismantling and re-erecting windbreaks and sun-shades, but cannot be done with permanent pre-fabricated houses. Residential shifts are also incompatible with Western notions of ownership, and the administrative need to assign responsibility for the use and maintenance of dwellings to specific individuals. Likewise, formally laid-out communities make no provision for differences in spacing between dwellings, and social arrangements must adjust to the existing layout of dwellings (figure 7.14). In most cases, the conflict between design specifications and user requirements appears to be the result of ignorance on the part of administrators, or of a paternalistic arrogance that White values are right, and that the indigenous group will be better off adjusting. In a more limited number of cases, it appears likely that planning which was incompatible with indigenous social

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concepts and behaviour has been explicitly adopted to break down traditional social patterns (e.g. Lvi-Strauss 1955:286; Maybury-Lewis 1967:23). A third major failing of imposed settlement schemes is that they take no account of the importance of social relations in spatial organisation, when the ownership or use of structures is allocated. In the Chipewyan community of Mission (pseudonym), a housing scheme led to the erection of a series of new houses in parallel lines toward the periphery of the existing community (figure 7.15). Originally, the spatial location of residences was a fairly good representation of the affiliation of different households in different cooperative hunting groups. However, when houses became available, they were allocated sequentially to individual families who had the option of moving away from their kin, or giving up for an unknown period of time the opportunity of moving into a new, prestigious, spacious house (Sharp 1979:37-8). In figure 7.15, the surnames of household heads have been used to define kinship groups, and while this will be only a partial approximation to the definition of hunting groups, this is sufficient to show the disruption of the original spatial organisation by residential shifts to the newly planned part of the community. "In practice the housing program separated eight [additional] nuclear families from their co-resident kin each year. Most of these families were central families within hunting units and their relocation served to weaken the role of the hunting units...and this weakening became progressively more noticeable as the housing program continued. By the summer of 1970 the existence of the hunting unit could not be uncovered by an observer that had not spent time in the bush or already knew of its existence. By 1972 it was no longer possible to find any but the faintest traces of the hunting unit in the residential pattern of Mission." (Sharp 1979:38). An Inuit example documents the operation of a number of these factors at the same time. Figure 7.16a maps the location of Caribou Inuit residences at the settlement of Rankin Inlet in 1959 (Dailey and Dailey 1960). At that time, the community was divided into two sections, the old camp, where four local bands of Inuit had aggregated, but maintained separate camps, and the new settlement, which consisted of 14 houses erected by the mining corporation for Inuit whom they employed. The overall residential density of the new community is not too much higher than the highest density component of the old camp, though the families living in the new community were drawn from the four separate social groups, such that they were removed from their own kin-groups, and situated next to relative strangers. Figure 7.16b indicates the pattern of Inuit housing as it existed in 1969. At that time, a mixed population of Caribou Inuit drawn from an even wider region had been resettled in a very large community which maintained a residential density comparable to the highest that existed within any of the original kin-groupings. At the same time, the factory had been closed several years earlier, and the traditional fur-trapping economy had completely collapsed, such that the community had the character of a refugee camp (Foster 1972). A comparable subarctic example illustrating a number of these problems is the transformation of the subarctic Cree community of Rat Lake (pseudonym), where the indigenous community was relocated in advance of a dam project (Waldram 1987). The original community consisted of a large number of residential clusters along both shores of an inlet, with each cluster representing a coherent kin-group (figure 7.17a). When the community was rebuilt, the concept of clusters was adopted, but in a form comparable with the design of suburban housing estates in the south (figure 7.17b). Four residential clusters were established, each with a substantially larger population than any of the original residential groups. In addition, the social integrity of the different residential groups was broken up, and kin were distributed throughout the new community. Not surprisingly, the new residential pattern has led to a substantial breakdown in traditional patterns of interhousehold cooperation, and increased stress (Waldram 1987).

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Each of these examples has illustrated the close relationship between social organisation and spatial organisation within hunter-gatherer communities. The often drastic social consequences of the disruption of the spatial patterns which support indigenous networks of social relations serves to stress the importance of spatial patterns of association in maintaining the social cohesion of traditional communities. In this sense, spatial relations are not simply a reflection of social relations, but constitute an important element in those social relations, to the degree that they facilitate or inhibit communication, and hence social interaction (section 2.4-6). Confronted with permanent communities with larger numbers of individuals than traditional hunter-gatherer social organisation is designed to deal with, and the erosion of the spatial underpinning of such relations, it can hardly be considered surprising that traditional values are easily eroded in the context of Western contact and interference. It has even been suggested that such disruption has been an explicit administrative policy in some countries (e.g. Larochelle 1975; 1976; Duhaine 1983; 1985; Thomas and Thompson 1972). While this cannot be entirely ruled out, the evidence, including the statements of development officers suggests something more akin to cultural chauvinism and paternalistic ignorance (e.g. Dailey and Dailey 1960, Usher 1971, Heppell 1979, Taylor 1979; Stoll et al. 1979; Sinha 1967). Correcting this perspective by establishing the importance of spatial organisation in patterns of social relations can be a double-edged sword. While increasing the awareness of the importance of this relationship may encourage more effective housing projects which actually address indigenous needs, it can also increase awareness of another potential weapon in the arsenal of cultural genocide. However, since many planners seem to stumble down the same road unawares, the potential benefits of an increased awareness of spatial behaviour seem to me to outweigh the risks.

7.4: IMPLICATIONS FOR A BROADER STUDY OF SOCIAL ORGANISATION AND SPATIAL BEHAVIOUR.
At this point, I feel that this study has demonstrated the importance of distance in smallscale patterns of human interaction within some human communities. This is manifest in a series of relationships between social organisation and relative and absolute spatial organisation within settlements. In the case of hunter-gatherer communities, where kinship organisation provides the usual medium for organising social relations, this translates as a mapping of kinship relations on the ground in community layout. This in itself lends some support to the assumption commonly made in archaeological interpretation, that the relative spatial propinquity of dwellings or structures is a reflection of social organisation (e.g. van der Velde 1979; Rohn 1965; Flannery 1976; Ashmore 1981; Stanley-Price 1979). However, the present study has confined itself to one particular type of society, and a particular form of social organisation, strongly based on kinship relations. The combination of flexible settlement patterns and simple patterns of social integration is probably ideal for identifying the relations between each, because they are continually regenerated in the organisational decisions made with the establishment of each new community. However, even within a fairly limited range of societies, it was also clear that there is some variation in this relationship, and deviations away from a broad pattern of variation in hunter-gatherer behaviour were found in situations where relatively large, semi-sedentary communities were maintained by societies with various supplementary means for integrating several kingroups into a single community. This might suggest caution in extrapolating the conclusions of this study to other forms of society. In the remainder of this chapter, I will briefly explore some of the differences which the current work might lead us to anticipate in the nature of social and spatial relations in other forms of small-scale society. The degree to which we can expect patterns comparable to those identified among hunter-gatherer groups depends on several crucial issues, which are foreshadowed in some of the variation documented among hunter-gatherers. We can consider these under the headings of social behaviour, and spatial behaviour.

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Patterns of social integration and organisation within hunter-gatherer groups are relatively straightforward, particularly when compared with the potential complexity of horizontal and vertical differentiation documented among many other societies (Murdock 1949; Service 1971). Such additional groups and divisions appear to be necessary to organise the patterns of interaction between larger numbers of individuals, either within the local residential community, or between members of different communities (Johnson 1982; 1983). Given the greater population densities of most agro-pastoral peoples, a greater number of interactions with more individuals, on a day to day basis, is practically inevitable. In these cases, as among the central Brazilian G and the Northwest Coast groups, social differentiation, essentially social distance, often takes the place of spatial distance in regulating interactions. Dealing with small groups of individuals on a day to day basis, most hunter-gatherer kinship systems are very present-oriented, with little importance attached to kinship connections back beyond one deceased generation. This creates a system of social organisation which is based on fairly directly reckoned relationships between living individuals, which may be modified by classification systems for equating or differentiating different groups of individuals. Within a small group of individuals such as a huntergatherer residential group, which of necessity will generally be exogamous, there are fairly direct and unambiguous links between each individual. However, in a few larger communities, such as among the Nunamiut (figure 6.116), we began to have difficulties in relating kinship and spatial distance, because of the number of different linkages between many pairs of individuals. This was a simple case, where such alternative links were established by patterns of adoption, and intermarriage within the group, between two formerly separate bands, establishing a fairly intense web of connections between individuals. In such a case, a decision about residential location is likely to correspond to the social distance between individuals based on one set of relationships, but may contradict the social relationships based on different criteria. If different dimensions of social organisation and social group membership largely overlap, locational decisions based on competing criteria may simply reinforce each other. But if such groupings cross-cut each other, they provide each individual with a series of different potential relationships which can serve to support different residential decisions. Among hunter-gatherers, where intergroup residential flexibility may be crucial in facilitating the adjustment of consumers to the distribution of resources within a region, such a diversity of social affiliations can be crucial, and a range of inter-individual affiliations and alliances will be actively maintained (Wiessner 1977; Guemple 1971). Another hint of the complexity which can emerge in the face of alternative locational opportunities was given by the community at Papunya, where locational decisions for family camps did respect kinship relations, but all-male and all-female camps tended to cross-cut the spatial patterns established by family camps (figure 6.17). This was because different men and women were linked in the single-sex camps by gender and friendship and only in some cases by kinship, and each individual might have kin connections which would align them with a different group of families. In this case, I expect that documentation of the chronology of the establishment of each camp, and when each member joined and left, would reveal considerably more spatial structure; a consideration of who determined the location of each camp and when, would be likely to provide a clearer understanding of why each single-sex camp was located where it was. One of the important factors in most hunter-gatherer communities is their small social scale. In small-scale communities, social organisation is lived out at the day to day level, rather than being a broader societal model which may be determined within the wider cultural group, and subscribed to at the local community level. I would suggest that in small-scale societies, the aspects of social organisation that are most likely to be manifest in residential spatial relations are those which are important in day to day inter-individual interactions. In our own society, for example, kinship is still viewed as a part of social organisation, but it is fairly unimportant as a residential organising focus, with the decline in kin-based social

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and economic support groups, and the declining importance of distance following the transportation and communication revolutions. Looking at some of the bases for forming spatial support groups, we might focus on economic, jural, and defensive groups. Among hunter-gatherers, economic cooperative groups form in the context of resource acquisition and resource consumption. Among agropastoral groups, cooperation in resource acquisition or production is often a basis for the maintenance of close social and spatial ties, though cooperation in consumption is less extensive, since agro-pastoral production is fundamentally a delayed-return system, relying on individual storage. Considering cooperative productive groups, these may be integrated to varying degrees. Specific tasks may require the cooperative labour of a specific number of individuals, who will cooperate in a limited fashion. Similarly, capital-intensive productive items, such as traction animals or processing facilities may be owned and maintained, or hired in common by a cooperative group, and used cooperatively or sequentially by each cooperating individual. While significant economies of scale are rare among non-mechanised agropastoral groups, even limited cooperation may allow the creation or maintenance of facilities beyond the scope of the individual producer, such as irrigation systems. More integrated cooperative groups may be found where different specialised tasks need to be undertaken concurrently, such as planting and herding in mixed-farming contexts. These scheduling problems may encourage the complete cooperation through amalgamation of what might otherwise be independent productive units, a situation commonly represented by extended family households among both agriculturalists and pastoralists. In some cases, the extended family may form a single productive unit, with common sharing of produce, while in other contexts, each may still maintain their own separate stores. While many of these patterns of interaction do not require social integration, they may work more smoothly if embedded within a wider pattern of social relations. We might expect such patterns of interaction to be represented in spatial organisation, depending on the importance and frequency of such cooperative activities. An example of such spatially defined, kin-based, cooperative groups is found among many nomadic pastoral societies, where kin-groups are integrated hierarchically (Tapper 1979), and are often mapped directly on the ground in encampments (Cribb 1982). By cooperative jural groups, I mean a group of individuals who recognise and support each others' rights to resources, often on the basis of a mutually agreed system of rights, laws, and means of transmission of property. Unlike hunter-gatherers who practice an extractive economy, and who potentially can move away from a problem, most groups pursuing a productive economy are tied to particular resource areas through capital and labour investments in the land, and exercise more or less exclusive rights to those resources. This implies the ability to support those rights, which will, as a last resort, require defence. Internal to the local group, this may be a jural routine, whereby a group of individuals or affiliation of groups maintain and respect each others' rights. Such distinctions are likely to be more important in larger communities, and may potentially represent a constant source of tension within the community. A good example where such political kin-based alliances are mapped directly in space is among the Yanomamo, where individual kin-groups occupy contiguous sections of village communities (Chagnon 1975; Smole 1976). These are essentially integrating processes, and commonly result in spatial localisation of social groups, even if these are simply clusters of kin belonging to the same extended family. Other factors in social organisation may result in the localisation of social groups by a similar process of internal cohesion, but also through external repulsion. An example of such a dual situation is provided by the common caste organisation of many villages in India (Bose and Malhotra 1963; Chauhan 1964). In most cases, such castes are also kingroups, but spatial localisation is reinforced by patterns of mutual avoidance between different castes, or non-use of the same facilities, such as wells, etc. In this case, members of a caste will normally associate and cooperate more regularly with members of their own, or

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comparable castes, and tend to avoid members of at least some others, creating spatial divisions through both attraction and repulsion. Status divorced from kinship can work in the same way. People of comparable wealth categories may be drawn together either through patterns of greater interaction with each other, or lesser interaction with others. Neighbourhood formation in our own society is very much along these lines. Neighbourhoods used to have more internal social coherence, with kin tending to re-locate in nearby areas. However, with increasing social and spatial mobility, most town and city neighbourhoods are losing this character, partly because more people are becoming relatively transient residents, but also because with more effective transport, they often do not work in the area in which they live. Both situations reduce the opportunities for developing social relations between the members of a localised community. However, such areas often have some sort of status coherence, largely because of more permanent (though adaptable) features, such as the size, type, age and status of the structures available, dictating the income bracket of the residents who move in. Among hunter-gatherers, kinship often serves as a medium for the expression of social relations, and some characteristics of kinship as an integrating focus suggest that it will be likely to have a comparable role in other forms of society. Kinship is particularly useful in integrating medium-sized groups of individuals - from a few individuals to several dozen, though the principal feature of such a classificatory system of affiliation is that membership is fairly arbitrary with respect to the characteristics of each individual. This may not be a liability when the group performs relatively undifferentiated or unspecialised tasks, and where quantity may more important than quality. Just this form of cooperative group was encountered among low latitude hunter-gatherers in foraging groups such as net-hunting parties, where the number of nets, and beaters was the important factor, rather than skill in stalking or with bow or spear. Large kin-based groups were also important with low latitude groups which rely on risk-pooling to even out day to day variation in subsistence intake - where encounter rates with prey account for a considerable component of the uncertainty in resource acquisition, a larger number of individuals will mean a greater frequency of occurrence, as long as the local area is not saturated with searchers. In both cases, kin groups formed the potential pool for patterns of cooperation, and while a particularly successful forager might be desirable to keep in any group, there is considerable emphasis on the size of the group. While kinship supplies a means for integrating individuals, its importance is not necessarily in the nature of the connection between individuals, but rather because close kin are more likely to have been socialised together, and be familiar with each other's habits, abilities, and failings - a familiarity which will facilitate the effective cooperation of the group. In situations where more specific or objective-oriented alliances and affiliations are required, special social mechanisms may be developed to encourage cooperation. Among low latitude foragers, exchange partners may be carefully chosen and cultivated, with respect to the resources which they can bring to the partnership. These may be specific types of goods, such as access to non-traditional items (Gould 1969), or access to the subsistence resources of a different region through rights of visiting (Wiessner 1977; 1981; Wilmsen 1982b; Gubser 1965). Similarly, the distribution of marriage partners may serve to spread such connections over a wide region, and such partnerships will be specifically sought (Harpending 1976; Hewlett et al. 1986). In tasks where skill becomes important, other factors may be brought in to support selection, such as other forms of affiliation or alliance. Kinship may still be important in providing a pool of potential partners, since suitable partners may be found among kin, but partners may also be non-kin. For pastoralists and agriculturalists, most individual productive tasks are not too differentiated in terms of skill, so that kinship is likely to be a common medium for the creation and maintenance of cooperative groups. The operation of such a system may be seen in the fairly flexible rules which many small-scale groups have

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for recognising leadership. The right to leadership may be inherited, but if leadership is actually an important position, most societies have means whereby if someone is likely to inherit the role, but is manifestly not competent to perform it, another individual may take effective charge; the kin group defines the pool of candidates, but ability will have a considerable effect on who actually leads. So we may anticipate that when we are dealing with other than a fairly basic, undifferentiated economy, factors other than kinship will become important in terms of cooperation, and potentially in terms of residence. In internally differentiated societies, we often see groups of different occupations or statuses occupying localised quarters within towns and cities. Often the members of such groups are also socially integrated, as in Aztec calpulli and mediaeval European craft guilds. Similar patterns of both integration and mutual repulsion underlie the development of ethnic quarters in communities. In all of these cases, we are dealing with societies with a considerable degree of internal economic and social differentiation. We should therefore expect that kinship will be most significant as a major integrating medium in more traditional, small-scale societies, though we may also find other forms of integration, possibly in conjunction with kinship. While we can expect the situation to be much more complex in larger-scale societies, such as those with towns and cities, the rural component of such societies may maintain much simpler structures at the local level. On the other hand, the larger-scale society may influence or manipulate both social and spatial relations at the smaller scale, such as in landlord or sharecropping situations, where rural producers may not own the dwellings they occupy. In this case, the pattern of day to day local social organisation will be strongly influenced, if not over-ridden, by that of the larger-scale system of which the local community is a part. Another major consideration has to do with the permanence of architecture. In discussing structure permeability among hunter-gatherers, I put stress on structures as buffers against communication, and on permanence in terms of fixed residential patterns. Among mobile foragers, spatial organisation within the community can be adjusted constantly to facilitate patterns of social interaction, and change as these change. With longer-term settlement, I would suggest that locational decisions are likely to be based on stable patterns of social relations. With communities which are composed of structures constructed of durable materials, a structure may outlast the patterns of social relations which existed at the time of its construction. Similarly, with most substantial structures, the structure is likely to be much more difficult or costly to rebuild, and is likely to be inherited as property, potentially locking the domestic group to the same location through several generations. This may present serious problems for individual families over the course of the domestic cycle, as families fit more or less well within the available physical space and the way it is divided and organised. If an extended family is desirable from the point of view of agricultural production, spatial localisation will be an advantage in coordinating activities, and sharing resources and facilities. However, in densely settled nucleated villages, adjacent habitation sites may be restricted, and the establishment of a new household adjacent to the existing residential core may not be possible. This may lead to the dispersion of households, despite a tendency which would encourage spatial localisation if possible (Mindeleff 1900; Kramer 1982). In such cases, we might anticipate spatial localisation of social groups on a theoretical basis, but find that they are not as obvious on the ground (Dozier 1965; Ellis 1951; Parsons 1936; Kroeber 1919). Therefore, in terms of both social and spatial behaviour, we can expect that hunter-gatherer societies will provide the ideal context for identifying a relationship between social and spatial organisation. We might also consider that it is the very simplicity of kin-based social organisation which encourages a fairly direct relationship between social and spatial behaviour. As was documented in the context of hunter-gatherer sedentism, the adoption or imposition of more complex or formal patterns of social integration may not necessitate the same spatial reinforcement.

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The direct character of the relationship between social and spatial organisation was one of the principal reasons for pursuing the present study with hunter-gatherer groups. We might also expect that the archaeological sites of hunter-gatherer groups may be among the most straightforward to interpret in social terms, though here the limits on the variety of material culture found on most archaeological hunter-gatherer sites will limit our ability to independently assess any such interpretation in terms of other patterns in the material record. When we turn our attention to other types of society, we can expect that a wider range of social integrating mechanisms may be represented in spatial organisation, to varying degrees, and we shall have to attempt to develop means for distinguishing such mechanisms. Following the line pursued in chapters 4 and 5, this will also necessitate a clearer conception of what we are actually looking for than most archaeologists appear to have when they refer to the reconstruction or elucidation of social organisation as an objective of archaeological research. This will be the crucial challenge for the future development of a broader, more general theoretical understanding of the relationship between social and spatial organisation in human communities.

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CHAPTER 8 RETROSPECT AND PROSPECTS

8.1: INTRODUCTION: APPROACHES TO THEORY IN ARCHAEOLOGY.
The substantive conclusions of this study, with respect to the social and spatial behaviour of hunter-gatherers, have been considered in the preceding chapter. Here, it will be worthwhile to step back from the detail of that investigation, to return to the more general concerns outlined in chapter 1. I think it fair to say that archaeologists, even in the past 25 years, have been largely theory users, rather than theory developers, when it comes to the study of human behaviour. We have tended to look to related fields for insights or for the basis on which to develop expectations concerning human behaviour, from which we develop fairly simple interpretations of any specific archaeological record. Our interpretations will either be extremely broad, for instance when they are based on a general typological definition such as Service's 'chiefdom', or potentially quite detailed, if based directly on analogy with a specific ethnographically documented society. I would argue that both approaches are of fairly limited use in making inferences about the past. In the first case, the models are so broad that all reconstructions tend to look very similar, despite the manifest differences in the recovered material record. This is because any model which cross-cuts considerable variability in behaviour must, by definition, be both broadly applicable, but also vague. Any such reconstruction is likely to utilise very little of the archaeological evidence actually recovered in the specific case, and therefore, to fit little of the unique context of each situation. Similarly, if we consider only a few broad alternative models, it is hardly surprising that by forcing the data to fit one or the other model, we merely reproduce the existing models. The use of broad generalisations as models for interpretation also arbitrarily (and usually implicitly) adopts the level of generality of the original model as the relevant degree of specificity for the explanation of whatever question or situation is being addressed - not the most effective strategy for gaining insights. This is one of the principal limitations of a classificatory approach to studying human behaviour. While an analogy may incorporate more detail in the reconstruction, and allow a closer match between the details of the ethnographic analogue and the archaeological patterns to be understood, the relevance of those details should be established through relational arguments, rather than assumed. However, a satisfactory relational argument presupposes an understanding of variability which should, in fact, enable us to move beyond analogical inference to modelling variation in the relationship between different aspects of behaviour. As users rather than developers of theories concerned with human behaviour, archaeologists have rarely risen to the challenge of the latter approach, resting content with classification and analogical inferences. Archaeologists have been forced into the role of theory developers when we have recognised that the necessary theory has not been developed in other fields. This has been one important consequence of the recent attention to the formation of the archaeological record, and middle range problems - the explicit recognition that we will have to cope with the characteristics of the archaeological record, as a data base. Similarly, archaeologists have recently recognised, and have begun to address, the need for explicit consideration of material culture within its cultural, social and symbolic context. Since this perspective has received only limited consideration in other fields, archaeologists have found themselves in the role of theory developers. Distinguishing the aspects of any question which relate to the specific characteristics of the archaeological record, from those which concern human behaviour, allows greater clarity in

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problem definition, as well as in defining strategies for the investigation of any particular problem. Looking at the behavioural issues, focussing attention on the general versus context-specific aspects of a problem leads us directly to confront the nature of variation in behaviour, and to attempt to come to an understanding of such variation at the level relevant to the question under investigation, rather than at some level arbitrarily defined by a pre-packaged model. At the same time, explicitly addressing the inter-play between the general and the specific defines a field of investigation where observations at different levels of resolution can be incorporated within a model of variation in behaviour. This is particularly crucial in fields like anthropology, ethnoarchaeology, and archaeology, where we often have a broad but quite general data base, but our more detailed data may be a much more restricted sample, and we need to be able to utilise the broad but superficial, and the narrow but in-depth information for the fullest possible exploration of variation in behaviour.

8.2: THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN SOCIAL AND SPATIAL BEHAVIOUR.

For this study, considerable attention has focused on the definition of the question to be investigated - the common, but unassessed, assumption in archaeological interpretation that the spatial layout of residential structures within a community relates fairly directly to the pattern of social relations between the occupants of the structures. The limited ethnographic support for this assumption is the consequence of the unspecific manner in which the relationship has been considered, with little critical attention to what we mean by 'social organisation', and also little attention to different types and scales of variation in human spatial behaviour. In trying to develop theory linking the two types of behaviour, it is necessary to consider whether we should expect comparable behaviour in different cultural contexts - is this a type of behaviour which can be addressed at the level of cross-cultural generalisation? Moving further in this direction, it is also appropriate to ask under what conditions we should anticipate variation in this relationship - not just variation in behaviour, but differences in the degree to which social and spatial behaviour are directly related. A focus on classification rather than on variation has severely limited the degree to which progress could be made in studying and attempting to understand such relationships. A consideration of different approaches to studying human spatial behaviour identified a number of different levels, ranging from unconscious to conscious, and from physical movement through space to conceptualisation about space, all of which are relevant to understanding the relationship between human social and spatial behaviour. Since spatial behaviour requires movement or communication across space, which depends on common elements of human physiology, it was argued that we should anticipate some common patterns in human behaviour in space. Since the layout of residences within a community is likely to affect, if not determine, the patterns of communication, encounter, and interaction between occupants, we can expect this level of resolution of spatial organisation to relate most directly to social patterns of communication, interaction, and residential group integration. This served to define the dimensions of social organisation which should have the most direct effects on the spatial layout of communities, at a level of inter-cultural comparison which should be amenable to generalisation.

8.3: THE STUDY OF HUMAN SOCIAL ORGANISATION.

Archaeologists rarely explicitly define what they mean by 'social organisation', when it is defined as an objective of archaeological investigation. This has also inhibited the development of any approaches for the identification of different aspects of social behaviour. On the other hand, anthropological approaches have either been classificatory, defining different broad 'types' of society, or generally avoided theoretical abstraction, for

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the detail of specific examples. This vagueness can be countered by introducing a problemorientation, which specifies which aspects of social organisation are of interest. In our case, the elements of social organisation which appear to be most relevant to the spatial behaviour under investigation are those concerned with patterns of inter-individual interaction and cooperation, at the scale of the local residential community. By limiting our field of investigation to small-scale, hunter-gatherer societies, for this exploratory study, we can limit the range of variation in social behaviour which we have to cope with. Because of the ecological emphasis of much recent work with hunter-gatherer societies, as well as the necessity of tying the social behaviour under investigation to a context which can be studied through the archaeological record, an explicitly ecological perspective on huntergatherer group formation and integration has been adopted. Pursued as rigorously as existing data will allow, it is possible to outline a perspective on local group organisation and integration which allows the development of expectations of variation in behaviour, based on different patterns of subsistence exploitation. These correspond closely to differences in behaviour documented among modern and recent hunter-gatherer populations in a variety of different ecological contexts, and indicate the validity of the type of cross-cultural generalisations developed. In turn, it has been possible to demonstrate that members of different hunter-gatherer groups behave in comparable ways in similar ecological contexts, despite different cultural traditions. Likewise, differences in spatial behaviour correspond to the expectations we can develop, based on our understanding of the relationship between inter-individual cooperation in subsistence behaviour and group integration, and dimensions of spatial organisation which facilitate or inhibit patterns of communication and interaction. Such an approach, which emphasises developing an understanding of variation in behaviour, holds out promise for two different types of archaeological investigation. First, we can use our understanding of the relationship between behaviour and its context to reconstruct the patterns of behaviour in the past which we would expect in that context, if past hunter-gatherers behaved in a similar fashion to ethnographically-documented foragers. This allows us to cope with differences in the context between the source and subject of analogies, such that our reconstructions will be context-specific, and not simply a projection of the same simple model onto the past. Second, it also allows us the possibility of learning whether behaviour in the past was comparable to that documented among more recent hunter-gatherers - did they perceive and react to problems in ways that are comparable to the perceptions of, and strategies utilised by, the forager groups whose behaviour has been documented in detail. In this case, the archaeological record allows an assessment of our reconstruction, to the degree that we can infer the behaviour responsible for the patterns recovered in the material record. The latter opportunity is crucial for developing our understanding of human behaviour in two ways. First, it will allow us to identify and study variations in behaviour beyond the limited sample of human behaviour actually documented historically and ethnographically, contributing to our overall understanding of our species. Second, we can address the important issue of the origins of particular patterns of behaviour. As we become prepared to question simple assumptions of progress and unilinear development, and adopt an explicitly evolutionary perspective, most of our cherished assumptions about the development of human behaviour will need critical reassessment (e.g. Foley 1988). By exploiting a wider range of evidence from the archaeological record, adopting a more focussed, problem-oriented, critical perspective, and employing a strategy for learning about the past which is based on models which can be falsified through comparison with the excavated evidence, we have the potential to actually learn what the past was like, rather than simply seeing it as a reflection of our assumptions.34
34 As an illustration, Foley has questioned whether models of group social behaviour derived from studies of modern hunter-gatherers are appropriate for palaeolithic societies (Foley 1988). Studies of primate home-base

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8.4: PROSPECTS FOR THE ARCHAEOLOGICAL INFERENCE OF SOCIAL BEHAVIOUR.

It is all very well to be optimistic when discussing theory, but turning to pragmatics, is it likely that the sorts of questions about human behaviour addressed in this study, and the models developed, will have any effect on archaeological inference and the reconstruction of past behaviour from specific sets of archaeological data? In addressing this very real concern, I would point to three major problem areas which confront us, concerned with the operationalisation of general theories, the middle range concerns, and sample size and the problem of idiosyncratic behaviour. It has been stressed in earlier sections of this study that archaeology is first and foremost the study of behaviour, though this does not mean that only behaviour is of interest. Concepts and meaning will govern behaviour, but it is the consequences of behaviour which are monitored in the material, archaeological record. I would accept that it would be contentious (at the least) to assert that there are any realms of human conception which are likely to have absolutely no effect on material-related behaviour, essentially in agreement with Binford's early claim (1962:218-9). On the other hand, the game is not won so easily we can identify behaviour through the material record only to the extent that it is redundant - creating patterns which can be detected when they correspond with our expectations (what we are looking for), and our methods (the analytical tools we use for pattern recognition). This study has essentially been aimed at developing an approach to formulating such expectations, as well as exemplifying it with respect to one set of problems - expanding the expectations with which we can confront the archaeological record. To some extent, this objective is a reaction to a concern I feel with current orientations in archaeology; I feel that rather more effort has been devoted to expanding the methods we can use to interrogate the archaeological record, without giving sufficient consideration to the questions to which those methods might supply answers. One example is the emphasis in recent palaeolithic archaeology on the precise excavation of 'living floors'. While extremely detailed spatial data can be obtained, we currently lack the detailed models of spatial behaviour or techniques of analysis which would require such detail, or indeed can justify the expense of its acquisition. Most resulting analyses are essentially descriptive (e.g. Simek 1984; 1987; Simek and Larick 1983; Kintigh and Ammerman 1982; Ammerman et al. 1987; Johnson 1984), though a very few (often working with less detailed data), are more promising with respect to addressing interpretive issues (e.g. Flannery 1986b; Whallon 1986; Reynolds 1986; Newell 1987; Blankholm 1987; Bailey et al. 1986; Cribb and Minnegal 1989; Binford 1983; Gamble 1986; Audouze 1987; Julien et al. 1987). A related problem with the operationalisation of general theory concerns the degree to which the variables of interest can be unambiguously monitored through the archaeological record. In the discussion of social organisation in chapter 7, kinship was given considerable attention as a mechanism for social integration. Frustratingly, kinship cannot be measured directly through the material record - we may be able to get some idea of biological kinship relations through current work with osteological remains, but biological and social kinship
and nesting behaviour have indicated that there is a relationship between different patterns of primate social behaviour and its spatial expression (Groves and Sabater Pi 1985) This holds out the promise that on-site patterning will allow us to assess the relevance of dramatically different models of palaeolithic social systems, once we attempt to assess our assumptions. Similarly, the incorporation of a wider range of evidence into our investigations can only contribute to the detail and accuracy of our inferences; if the development of extensive sharing and cooperative behaviour is viewed as one of the crucial transformations in the origins of distinctively human behaviour (Isaac 1978a; 1978b), the implications of sharing for spatial behaviour, as explored in chapters 5, 6 and 7, opens up a more direct avenue to learn about the development of sharing behaviour, than the current preoccupation with hunting and the identification of home-bases in the lower palaeolithic.

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need not correspond directly, and in practice, we rarely have skeletal collections which are large enough and well enough preserved to make such analysis reliable or worthwhile, or from contexts which allow us to use the kinship information interpretively. Therefore, we have to develop proxy measures, or work with observable characteristics of the archaeological record which will allow us to approach the variable of interest. In the case of kin-groups in hunter-gatherer communities, we can use our understanding of the constraints on hunter-gatherer demographic patterns in different contexts, regional population densities, and mobility patterns, to suggest whether groups of individuals identified in the archaeological record correspond in scale to particular types of kin-group, or other social group. Otherwise, we can redefine our question, to deal with units and variables which can be monitored more directly through the archaeological record, such as residential groups, regardless of their actual mechanism of integration, though perhaps with the implicit recognition that in most small-scale societies, kinship is likely to be a central integrating mechanism. Finally, in terms of operationalising general theory, if we are attempting to reconstruct variations in behaviour, with respect to differences in the context of that behaviour, it is axiomatic that the context must also be monitorable through the archaeological record. This was one of the arguments used in this study to argue the relevance of an ecological perspective. Turning more directly to the middle range concerns, though these have also been relevant to the preceding points, we must explicitly deal with the specific characteristics of the archaeological record, when trying to relate any theoretical expectations to that record. Recovery biases have perhaps been given the most attention, through a tendency toward more and more complete recovery and precise documentation, for instance through immaculate piece-plotting of artefacts. On the other hand, since even the most detailed recovery procedure still recovers only a sample of the potential information available, we could profit from a more critical problem-oriented approach - consideration of the information we need, and the level of data recovery necessary to obtain it should dictate our recovery strategy, encouraging an explicit consideration of the potential effects of recovery bias on our objectives. With the recent stress in archaeological research on the processes responsible for the formation of the archaeological record, we are beginning to cope with post-depositional biases. We are certainly getting better at recognising the post-depositional modification of the archaeological record, though this usually simply indicates those areas of a site which we should ignore, or only consider at a lower degree of spatial resolution. We are rarely in the position to attempt to 'correct' for the transformations which have taken place - to reconstruct the depositional state of a site. This is particularly the case, even with shortterm occupations, since the record is continually being modified during the course of deposition, through intentional and unintentional action. To cope with this, we must either expect a lower degree of resolution in the patterns we recover archaeologically, compared with the patterns we can observe ethnoarchaeologically, or model experimentally, or else we will have to model the affects of likely modifying agents. The latter should be an area of research with considerable potential, though it is only beginning to be explored experimentally (e.g. Gifford-Gonzalez 1985). Depositional behaviour has received considerable attention in recent years, particularly through ethnoarchaeological investigations of site structure (section 2.2). While a number of studies have documented depositional behaviour in detail, we have little of the comparative perspective which will allow us to identify and attempt to understand patterns of variability in behaviour (cf. Binford 1978a; 1983; 1987). In addition to the limited number of situations about which any generalisations have been developed, there are also fundamental problems with applications of the few generalised

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depositional models which have been developed, since the ethnographic model is usually compared directly with the archaeological pattern to be explained. In the example of Binford's work with the distribution of bones at Pincevent (Binford 1983:156-7), the drop zone/toss zone model is mapped onto the recovered bone distribution, but as many have noted, the fit really is not very good (though since there are no confidence limits on the modeled distribution, we cannot actually assess the degree of fit). At Pincevent, the meticulousness of the excavation is likely to have kept recovery biases low, at least with respect to material relevant at this level of spatial resolution, provided that we can accept the near-contemporaneity of the material. The principal difficulty in this case is that the effect of post-depositional factors such as displacement through kicking, recycling and disturbance have not been considered. The problem in using the ethnoarchaeological model is linked to the contrast between classification and modelling variability - we are intuitively asking whether the observed distribution fits (or, if we assume an unspecified allowance for depositional and postdepositional disturbance, is likely to have fit) the model of a toss zone or some other, unspecified, model. To progress beyond this sort of approximation, we will have to start to model variation, for example by experimentally studying the effect of uniform trampling and scuffing on a collection of different-sized bones, ranging from splinters to antlers. Are there standard patterns of displacement related to item size, shape, material density, the nature of the displacing force, or not? If there are, then we can begin to build a model of a toss zone as a spatial probability distribution, and assess the degree to which the data is adequately described by models with different parameters, such as degrees of postdepositional modification, or subject to the shifts in orientation which Binford proposes (as an ad hoc accommodative argument) in his interpretation of the Pincevent distributions. If there are not any standard patterns of deformation (which appears unlikely), then this component of the spatial pattern must be considered simply noise (with respect to the resolution of our model and the analytical means we have for assessing it), and we are better off dropping that component from the spatial pattern we are trying to explain. This could then feed back into data collection, by suggesting that we not put the effort into plotting all those fragments in the future, until we can cope with that component of variability, theoretically and methodologically. This example has not been included as a cautionary tale, but rather to point to areas where research is needed to allow us to operationalise our ethnoarchaeological research in archaeological interpretation. Obviously, we will want to use the current models that are available to our best ability, while recognising their limitations. But at the same time, we have to keep probing those limitations, and trying to refine both the models, and the ways that we use them. As we begin to get some idea of the depositional behaviour which took place on a site, we can move to the other past behaviour of interest, whether that concerns patterns of social integration, sharing behaviour, gender relations, or concepts of categorisation, as manifest in the distinctions imposed on the organisation of refuse, etc. The last broad concern relates to the constraints of sample size. Each archaeological site is unique, and any number of idiosyncratic factors may be responsible for elements of the material patterning recovered. Indeed, one of the major challenges is to ascertain which patterns in that material relate to broader patterns of behaviour represented at other sites, or in ethnographic contexts, and which are unique, and beyond our current repertoire of expectations. Considering ethnoarchaeological research, one-off studies present considerable problems for theory building, in that a comparative perspective is required to begin to identify and account for variation - a procedure well-illustrated by the contextspecific differences in carcass treatment by the Nunamiut (Binford 1978b), and between the Nunamiut and other foragers, such as the !Kung (Yellen 1977b), the Hadza (O'Connell et al. 1988; Bunn et al. 1988), and the Alyawara (O'Connell and Marshall 1989). In addition, multiple studies of the same individuals can allow distinctions between general and more

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specific patterns of behaviour; among the !Kung families studied by Yellen (1977a), the analysis in chapter 3 established that there was a general pattern of mapping of kin relations in the spatial organisation of residential camps (figure 3.5). In addition, however, there were general patterns which modified this relationship, such as the anticipated length of stay when a camp was established, as well as consistent deviations away from the general trend by specific pairs of individuals, which could be accounted for by additional information about the personal, unique relationship between those individuals. Lacking such insights archaeologically, these additional patterns simply confuse the general trend, and act as 'noise'. For this reason, the relatively low correlation coefficients between kinship distance and spatial distance for most of the hunter-gatherer communities analysed in chapters 3 and 6 are not particularly alarming - while kinship relations might account for only 20 to 40 % of the variation in spatial separation in most examples, I seriously doubt that we would find any other single factor which would account for as much of the remaining variability, even with much more complete documentation of the communities. Archaeologically, such other patterns, superimposed on each other, will simply act as 'noise', unless redundant enough to be identifiable as patterns in their own right, or identifiable because we learn to look for them by developing additional theoretical expectations. The identification of such additional patterns, both in behaviour and in the formation of the material record, remains the challenge for further cross-cultural and culture-specific analyses. Confronted with considerable obstacles, can we realistically anticipate dealing with the sort of issues addressed in earlier chapters of this study, with reference to the ethnographic record? I once presented some of the ideas from chapter 3 as a seminar, critically examining present attempts to estimate the past populations of palaeolithic sites. I suggested that the identification of individual residential units, comparable to Yellen's nuclear areas, was likely to provide greater insights into the size of residential groups than would site area, given the considerable degree of cross-cultural variation in the relationship between population and settlement area. A colleague challenged the value of such a suggestion, given the difficulty or even impossibility of establishing contemporaneity between different activity areas on most sites. However, this same criticism applies to the assumption that overall site area, potentially a palimpsest, can be taken as an index of site population at any specific point in time. However, recognising the need for this sort of information, implicit but unassessed in older interpretations, but now confronted directly, can lead us to explore new methods of data analysis, explicitly aimed at such middle range problems. A relevant example in this context is re-fitting, both of stone and bone fragments (Cahen et al. 1980; Cahen 1988). To date, many of the applications of this technique appear to have been undertaken for their own sake (much like piece-plotting), though this is not to say that the technique is not potentially very powerful for addressing the problem of contemporaneity of past activities on-site. We are likely to make more progress in expanding our understanding of the past if the development of methodology is pushed by the questions we wish to answer, rather than what is often the current situation, where our questions are dictated (and limited) by the methodologies already at our disposal. I think it would be fair to say that ethnoarchaeological studies will often have their initial impact as 'spoilers' (Yellen 1977a), since the insights from a more detailed understanding of human behaviour are bound to point up limitations, inaccuracies, or misunderstandings in existing models. The challenge, not often taken up, is to build on this more detailed understanding of behaviour through the formulation of more accurate, relevant, or useful models. This has been the approach adopted in this study. It is my belief that we currently have many of the methodological tools which will allow us to address the sorts of issues considered in this study, and to begin to deal with the broader study of variation in past human behaviour. At the same time, consideration of such issues and their pursuit archaeologically will point to problems and areas for further resolution,

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both of the theoretical issues, and of our middle range methodology for gaining access to the relevant information through the archaeological record.

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225

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r;f

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a^ \--

\o
'tk
. ^!!

"

t,

a o vr!-

.!,!"--

-rn,r 0) 'iili r,, -P+' 'o frj * "i ;fi o J ,il \o oi! ,ri .,-, ) .-.-i* dco :&t

Fjsure 1.3: Rainv season lKung camPs a) /tanigaba loo8j b) Hwanasi 1968: o lhrm 1ioa21967', d) Shudl :kau I 1ob8: er N/on/oni ltoa I 19b7; fl N:abesha 1966; 8) lrum jtoa 31968; h) N/on/oni +toa 21968; i) Shum lkau31968; j) ,/,/gakwe ldr? 1 1968, k) +loa 4196q l) / / lakarc +dwa2-1968. Residential huts, hearths and bushes

+tri

indicated (after Yellen 19Za).

Figlre

3.4: Dobe 1968-59

dry season camp Pian (after Brooks

et

d.

1984).

20

.5
o

a a

=t)

I
a a
a a a

a a a

I
a

a a a a

a
a

t I I a

Kinship Distance
Figure 3.5: Relationship between kinship and spatial distance for lKung rainy season
camps.

^50
E40

I x
x
T
I

x
T

n
.E
30

I I
I

+ +

I t I I
I
x

I
!!

x x

i *

I I
I
J.

x
x

tr10

I
t2

+ +

*
+

+ x 3,1
KinshiD Dislance

1968 CAMP 1969 CAMP

67

Figure 3.6: Relationshjp between kirship and estimated spatial distance for lKung 1968 and 1959 drv season .amns it Dohc

Egure 3.7: IKung }inship s)Gtems. a) Idealised system: 1. dose ldn; 2. kin of dose kiry 3. distant kin. b) Kin composition of Dobe rcsidendal Sroup during the 1960s. Three principal segoents indicated (Lee 1979; Howell 1979;\elen 1977a).

Jll
I

oo

,L l' JJ{JJJiJJTTJ

_:11'

luurJI

Figure 3.8: Model kin groups and spatiai arrangements, maprlins kinship relarions directly in space. Leit column-, kin .onroo'.irl,.,i central colunn, Non-Meh.ic r\IDSCAL least-stress solurion, rieht column, Merric MDSCAL solution rfirsr two dimensions)

Fisure 3.9: MDSCAL analvsis ol lt\ung camPs' ar Dobe t9o8; b' Dobe 19bo' UPPer ofine indicates adual cdmP Plan. v ith e\t"nded lamily groupsshaded lower Plane i"a]""t". -oa"t Uvo"t, baieh on kiaship relations, Primary kin linkages indicated and extended Iamiues shaded (dala hom Yellen 1977a)'

15

;10
o s
cn

tl

zs
lta

tT

fr
T

r o
40

HLrl.mR4ATlERlRS
FLLL 0R PART]AL ENPLo\VE'{I

a'CI-L]IfEDDISTREL:IION
60

Camp Popuiation
!\ ith mcreasing amP Fiqrre 3-10: S.rn .dmDs, e\pansion in nearesl neiShbou_r spaclnE ' 'l9Zd: Silberbd uer I95la: oo'oulation. Three conterti drtirqusned idala from Yellen Eiff-iiO".,"fat i.ZZU; laTB:sbrzes;y IqTo: Kent and vicrich l98o; HirchcoJ 1987)

5000

.=

a o
A

IKUNG SAN

GA l SAN
lKO SAN

a
.E
tr
3ooo

a
1=

aa ttaa
aa
a

2ooo

+ S rooo o o

o aao
a

aa tr

a a a

aa

oDt

20

40

Population

60

80

100

t20

Figue 3.11: San camps, relationship between caErP PoPulation and occuPation density (data from Yellm 19Za; Draper 1973; Silberbauer 1981a; Eibl-Eibesfeldr 1972b;1978; Sbrze$y 116).

c.
.!
Ca

co

a^?

.r

c.

'c
<;

co c.

u'O
o

r--------------i 2Om

.l '.r
.,.

:
I

.
c

i--'r""\
r..
,:

.,'1i

Cr'

.)u

.b

Figure 3.12: lKun8 sedentism. at Dobe. a) Ca.1947; br 795344; c) 196849t dr 1970'71t e) 1975-76. Huts, heaths, fenaet corals and storage sFuctues (o) indicated (after Brooks
et aI.1.98l).

g6
A

.+5

iq4
lt
e

tr

i,

Figure 4.1: Changes in social relationshiPs

t'ith

changes in SrotlP size (data

from

nmas

1963:

Marshall 1976)

80

80

80 70 60 50 40 30 ?n
10

70
60

10
60 50
a

':.

40

't

= c

930
20
10 0

30

m
10

l.
020406 0 20 40 60 80 100

o 20406080 100

Percentage Contribution to Diet

0 20406080 100

Firue 5.1: The .elative irport,nce of g"thering, huntirS and fishing ir the diel s ot b) P9ttTES:h;an foraqrs, bv laritud; a) Percenrage contribution of ga'henn& -(datt kom Murdock tv6lj cont budon-of huitins; c) Perentage contdbuhon of fishirg Mudo.k and Whire Ii69; Murdock and Mormw l'0)'

30 oo

-)n
O

>10
0

a
a 30 60

-20
U
>.
10

b
30

^)o
O

>\

10

c
30 ho

=20
U
0

30

a!

-)n
U >r
10

l0

20

30

40

Day

50

60

T0

80

Fi:ue 5.:: Simuldr.ons o. resou.P acqurrion. !"r\1n3 h trh rc.ouRe PJc] ace s-e . :i' I00 I g, pd.Iaees: b' ::-. 20 t8( D,cLse<: cj :ll r Ic, Pa.Ldger: d, -1", I lS p,.(d8e, e j balanced &'mb! tor':l o bv q erlhl in Pach c'(eeon )
oii'riourrons.

d1
=,6 L.t

O6
a 100

cl

t
=6 =,] -'

U6
b
100

{t

^9 bo6

aL a1
c
100

^9 =7 -6
O-/

a1 U6
d
100

^9 t =6 .!s 34 =J 22 -l

oo

10

20

30

40

50

60

'70

80

100

Dav
balanced djstnbufion ol resource package sizes. a) No siorage, b) two day (ovemight) storage, c) f,ve day storage; d) ten day siorage; e) ihjrtv dav storage.

F,gue

3: S,m-lar.on" o, ou,r' ..."'s ,o

*.o*.L

\.,,n dille'en, s,ora;e "rareEies,

G1

tr6 c
a
,!,

o -2

.-----{.-----.-----{t-

75%

IOO

KGS PACKAGES

75% 20 KGS PACKAGES 75% 5 KGS PACKAGES

75% 1 KG PACI'AGES B AT-ANCID PACKAGE DISTRIBUIION

20

25

30

Days of Storage
Figure 5.4: Storage and daily access to resources. Changes in mean level with dijferent paikage size disniburions and diJferent storate Potenrial.

.-----.u-

_a_
6150
c-

7570

1OO

KGS PACKAGES

7570 20 KGS
757C 5

PACK{GES

------.Et_

KGS PACKAGES

-----{t-

75% 1 KG PACKAGES BAI-ANCED RESOI]RCE DISTRIBUTION

r-\ lw

o i',

50

510

15

20

25

30

35

Days of Potential Smrage

Figue 5.5: Storage and dailv access to resources. Changes in coeflicient of variation with differeni package size disidbutions and different siorage Potenhal

------.E-

75%

IOO

KGS PACKAGES

_.-{_
------.E}_

75% 20 KGS PACKAGES 757, 5 KGS PACKAGES

757A 1

.--"lt-

KC PACKAGES

I
3
,..1

+oo

----a---

BAI-ANCED PACKAGE DISTRIBUTION

300

,=

o 3

2tx)

100

t0

20

Days of Potential Storage

30

40

Figure 5.5: Stomge and wastage of resources. Changes in level of loss with diltercnt paclage size distrjbutions and different stora8e potential

9 8 7 6

5, a. 4. 3,
2

U
a

1.
0

100
9

ao 8
'7

6 5 3 2

D. 4

U
b

r00
9
8
'7

5!

a ) o. 4

)
o O
c

2
1

100
9 1 6
5

50 8

4
3

c U

2
1

100
9
8

7 6 5

a 2

0102030

40

D"y

50

60

70

80

100

l-rsurc 5 7. rl,Ll-rionsorC.ilv"c.e..rore'ources\!trl'dJIe,enr,harrg'r],arege,. b.lanced drslrlburon or recour.e pacia80 sues a'Onehsrcraiore b\n^,o.1urFrc cooperaiin& c) three hutcls cooPeratr& d) five huniers cooPerahns, e) ien hunters

G'/ co t6 c
a
7570 1OO KGS PACI'AGES

-.!-----.8i-.E-

?57.20 KGS PACKAGES 759.5 KGS PACKAGES 757, 1 KG PACI(AGES B AT-ANCED PACKAGE DISTRIBUNON
10

Cooperating HunteB
Fiqure 5.8: Sharins and daily access to resources. Changes in mean ievel with diJferent pa."clage size disrri"burions and diJferent numbers o( cooPerarlfB hunlers

------l-

75%

1OO

KGS PACKAGES

------_
.'rrr=r-

757o 20 KGS PACKAGES 757a 5 KGS PACKACES

a u

r50

'.......c-

7570

1KG PACKAGES

BALANCED PACI'.AGE DISTRIBUfi ON

I LrrJ

O)U

Cooperating Hunters

10

in coeflicient of vana on Fizure 5.o: 5harm8 and darl\ iccess to resourcPs Ch3nges of cooPeradng hu'rters' tt,",i ati"*.i p".i"i" trze dlstnburrons and differenl numbers

------l------.8------.El-

757,

1OO

KGS PACKAGES

757.20 KGS PACKAGES 75% 5 KCS PAC(AGES

75%
1

^ co

600

.----{t-

KG PACKAGES

BAIANCED PACKAGE D]STfuBUNON

soo

3 J

4A)

E c
F

:oo
200
100

Cooperating Hunters

',7

10

Figure 5.10: Sharing and wasiage of resources. Changes in level of loss with diiferent package size djstibutions and diflerent storage Potential.

co

o
=

U
.-----l?5tb lU0 KGS PACKAGES
75?" 20 KGS PACK{GES
75SO 5

----.-{.-----{-

------{t----4" --

KGS PACKAGES

7570 1 KG

?ACKACES

BAI -ANCF,D PACKAGE DISTR]B{]TION

12345

Sharing Strategy

Figue 5.i1: Altemaiive shaling silategies for four huniers, lvith dillerent resource paikage distributions. Shategies: 1) no sharing; 2) sharing 100 kgs Pa+gef on\t i] sharin'g 100 and 20 kgs packages; 4) sharilg 10b,20 and 5 kgs Packages; 5) sharing aI
packages.

o!

co o
U

A,

------.I-.----.E}_ -E.----l-

SHARING
SHARING SHARING

lOO

2O-1OO

KGS PACKAGES KGS PACKAGES

5-1OO KGS PACKAGES SHARING ALL PACKAGES

Cooperating Hunters

10

Figure 5.12: Altemative sharing strategies, balallced dishibution of rcsources, by shaing strateSy and number of hunteIs cooperatin8.

==l

,,i = ia
H

E-

6i

n^

E9P
-,:6

*6
r-;

tz

..J- .+
I 9l

(n

.001

Population

100

1000

Figure 6.2i Community population and area for comPlete setdements, logariihmic axes.

6000

a
6000

c
c-

4000

2000

100

200

300 400 s00

Population

600

700 800 900

1000

Figure 6.3: Entire sample communit-v populaiion and occupation densltv, linear axes-

: i'_'.=.1000

1
100

iiiii:: il!:il!
:l:i:l!
'.1

t!.tl

rl'

:{
l,l

i{rnq Ixr-+I#i :if.:':i:l+*+.'j It-

10

Population

loo

000

Figuie 6.4: Entire sample: community PoPulation and occuPatlon density, logarithmic

I
9
U c
zoo

% r:!

fz

TRA.DITIONAL ADAPTED NON-TRADITONAT WESTERNISED

--

100

Occupation Densitl,
Figx-re 6.5: Entire sample: occupation densitv bv traditional character of community.

I
9
U
a
.o
zoo

ru
L-l
VA

SUBSISTENCE SUBS/14ARKET MIXED ECON. WESTERNISED

roo

-.i456
Occ-uPation Densiry
of community' Figwe 6 6: Entire samPle: occuPation densilv b)' econor ic oneniabon

r20

I
%

100

6
m

EXTENDED FAM. LOCAL BANDS ML,'I-TIPLE BANDS COMPOSITE

980
U

c60 ,. -

Occupation Density
Figure 5.7:

Ent

e samplei

oc.upation density bv social nar re oI settlement umt'

I
(_)

tr
:00

(Zl

DAYS WEEKS MONlHS PERMANENT

c
.o
E
200

Occupation Density
Figure 5.8r Entire sample: occupaiion densiiy bv duiation oI ocoPation.

30

^oi

tr tr. .

ol ,'

i
;I'

.r:-r-r_diri-i---f
rto
DESTRT o ^ tr sA\AI\A r o TROPICT TORIST A TEMPERATE

.' '^ A f,^g 6 ,-'-' a. ..

-20

.ranE.. A _-r:--

SLEARCIC ARCIIC
3000
3

500

000

15

00

2000

25 00

500

Total Annual Precipitation (mm)

Figlre 6.9: Environmental classilicaiion of cultures in sample, comPared with climahc contexi defined by tempemtuie and precipitaiion. 1. Deseir;2. savanna;3. seasonal iropical foresi; 4. troPical rain forcst; 5. temperate glassland'parkland; 5. temperate iorest; 7. temperate rain foresu 8. boreal foresti 9- arcti. iundra (climaiic classificahon after Whiiiaker 1975).

I ()00,6

o
IOUYo

GATHERING

100%

GATHER]NG

TROPICS

TEMPERATE

GATHERING

GATIIERING

SUBARCTIC

ARCTIC

,IROPIA{L

DESERT

DRY

TEMPEMTE

Fisure o.lo: Vanahon in forager subsistence strategies, by emlo$cil coniext a) Desert

aitlres;

b) savanna cll ture6;-c ) EoPical forest culh[es; d ) temPera te cultutes; e) (subs'srmce data from subarctrc cultues: 0 arcric culturesi g) comPansved$Play
1969,

Muido& and White

Mwdo& and Morow

1970).

I z E A
U
.o

DESERT

SAVANNA
TROPTCS

TEMPEP.ATE

suBARcflc
ARCTIC GREENLA.ND

E E
50

Occupallon Denslry

-3

FiSrre 5 11: Entire samPle: occuPaiion density b]' ecological coniext of communities'

1.0

180

160
= o

140 06

*o.

; c -

o.

tr
o

.cn i
1oo

5 80=
.-----.---o0.0

MEAN
c_v

.-u
2A 0

0
frgureo.l2:
storage.

10 20 30 40 50 60 70 80 90
DaYS of Potential Storage

100

\1ean and coeirrcient ol v"rirnon in daily dccess lo resour'e<' from . simul"rrons or )'Jgadadiara re5ouJCe Procurement, rLith diJlereni Perroo5 ol Polentlal

t0

=
c
o.

0.8

E
c U

0.6

>.

0.4

,-_--!_ ------E------!0.0

SHARING > 20 KGS

SIIARING>1KGS
SIIARING

AIL

Number of Cooperating Hunters

Figure 6.13: Mean daily access to resources, frcm siErulaiions of Ngadadjara resource prccuement, with diJferent numbers oI cooperating hu]liers. ,

150

r:

l aLl

------{------{-------{I

SHARING > 20 KGS

SHARING>1KGs
SIARING ALL

Number of Cooperating Hunters

10

Figure 5.14: Coefficient ofvariation in dailv access to resources, frcm simulaLions of Ngadadlara resoruce procwement, wiih differcnt numbers oI cooperadng huniers.

Fi8ure 5.15: Alyawara, Bendaijerum camp residential pattems. a) May 1974, b) July 1974. o lamily households, owomens households, Amen's househotds. Primary kinship linkages between family househoids indica ted by sotld iines, between singie-sex and family households by dashed lines. Resideniial clusiels shaded (after O'Connell
7979).

a a a a

a
a a

^
.9
a-

150

t I
o

I
8 8
a

I
a a

o
a

100

",

i0

a a a a

a a

o o a a

r
a

s
o May 1. 1974 July 15, 1974

1)1456
iilustrdtedmfigxre5i5

Kinship Distance

Figue b.16: RelatronshiP beiween krnslxP and sPatial drstance {or the Aiyawam camPs

Fig]lre 6.17: PiniuPi, PaPun]'a camP 3 residenhal Patiems, December 1971 a) KinshiP Iiri<s beween houieholai, pma.v li""ttip ll"ls betrveen iamilv households indicated by solid lines,between single_lex and family households by dashed lines; b) social and economic alliliations bel11'een households, with residenEal clusters shaded. H = housmg in town, 1 = Papunva camP 1, 2 = PaPunya camP 2, E family households, o women s households, amen s households. (Daia ftom Brian Hayden pers. cornm.)

TRADITIONAL COMMI'NITIES

ADAP|ED COMMINII.IES

U
,a

ztu

10 20 30 40 50 60 70 80 90

r001

0i

1 3

1 4

1 5

1 6

1 7

Population

0 1I 0

I0

2 0

Figure 6.18r Desert communities: population size distribuiron by Eadiiional and nontladitional communities.

tr
@

CLUSTERS OF STRLTCTLRES SEGMENTS OF COMMLTI]TIES COMPLETE COMMII.ITTIES

I
9za
O
.o

=10

10 20 30 40 50 60 70 80 90

1 0

1 1

1 3

0 140

1 5

1 6

1 7

0I

I0

2 0

Popuiation
Figure 6.19: Desert conrmunihes: poPutation size distnbuhon bv comPlet" and segments-

.on1*ulUti",

c^^ ,.

c20

.23456

OciuPadon Den"iry

Finue 6.20: Desen commumdes: occuParion

:i#';;'.

;;i

.oi"i

densit-Y by tradrtional and non-traditionai rf"i"onvi,".t"'"1 1) 01100; 2) 100-250; 3) 2s0-s00; 4) 500-

1000; 5) 1000-2500; 6) >2500.

4000

o.
3000

o
o
2000

q C
1000

100

200

.Populafion

100

400

500

Iinear axes' Figrne 6.21: Desert communiiies: poP lailon and occrPation densitv'

10000

r
e.

!
1000

EE
E

qE

E"o E EE ot EhE OE
E E

P
o
o.

100

o_
EH

6E

r*"-""Har-*
" -r"t -" o'T.*-t EE-

u m_E*

tiu

E E(CE[niT E GOOD E ADEQU'ATE o UNCERTAI'{

I '

r0

Populalton

I00

1000

Figrre 6-2: Desert communities: PoPulation and occuPation density by daia retabilii"v, Iogarithmic axes.

10000

f
a.

EE
r

dtr
Eg

a)0n

AI
E

L.,l

r00

tr

AUSTRAILA.
E

310

!
E E

h'"HH.*:I ! t E q'
N'IODOC a TLIBATIILABAL .
10

NAKAKO
NGADADJARA. PINTT]PI

GRE,AT BASIN

E E

P]TJANDJARA

WALMAD]ERI

NORTHERNPAIUIE OWENS VALI-EY PAIUTE

Popuiation

100

I000

Figure 6.23: Desert communiiies: population and ocorpation densitv, identified b]/

SOUTI] AMERICA \
-(,

i%
SAVANNA
lOOo/o

GATHEzuNG

Figuie 5.24r Contributions to the diet in diflerent savanna contexts (data from Murdock and Wlite 196* Murdock and MoEow 1970; Jones1980a; littr\a 7987t Lee 1y79; Wilmsm 1982a; Silberbauer 1981a; Tanaka 1980; O'Connell ef al. 1988; Blurton Jones e, aI.1989).

0.7

> 100 KGS

m
El

20,100 KGS 5.20 KGS

1-5 KGS

5
)=

0.5

0-l KGS

O.:

tr

0.2

0.0

FM

Month

size meat PaclaBes Fisurc o.25: G/wi San. seasonal varialion in acce's ro diJrerent rd;h from Silberbauer 1981a).

3000

tr
El
@

BOUGHI
PI-ANTS

BIRDS

HO\EI
N(A-\I}4,AI.S

B
%

REMILES
FISH

m
a

SHEI]-FISH

c U

1000

FM
Months
from FiIl]re o 20: Gidrin8ali. season'rl van'Iron in suo<istence consumDlion 'dala M;ehan 197; Iones 19E0a)

600

5
o

bo o.s

500

o
= = 300 (J
.E 2oo

o.

400

E
U >.
o

o.e

0.4

a
U

MEAN

100

-.--o-

cv
100

10 20 30 40 50 60 10 80 90
Days of Potential Storage

Fisure b,27: Mean and coefficient of variation in da v access to resouJces, from rifl"f""Jri. .f Cl* ."to*i" Ito.-lrr"*"oC *ith diJf;rent Periods oI potential storage'
0.5

l0

.----r,-----.!------E-------.O_

SHARING >

lOO

KGS

SHARDiG > 20 KGS

SHARING>5 KGS

SHARIIG> 1KGS
S}IARING AI-L

a tr o.3
tr

00

I
Fiflfe

2
da

Number of Cooperating Hunters

9
resource

10

y access lo resourccs from simulalions ol pr-ocuremenr, with drjlerent numbers of cooPeraring hunrers.

o.28: Mean

C/wi

7tj)
600

': c soo
a a

a
U >.

.lu{l

300

o *
U

------r----200

SHARbIG >

1OO

KGS

100

---I------.8----tt-

SIIARING > 20 KGS SIIARING > 5 KGS SIIARING > 1 KGS

SIIA.RING

AIL
Number of Cooperating Hunters

G/wi
10

Figue 5.29: Coefficient of variation in daily access to rcsources, from simulatlons of resource procurement, with dilferent numbers oI cooperatjng hunters,

5
o

0.8

3 150 =
a.

a
=
c U >.

0.6

100
0.4

n.

------{10 20 30 40 50 60 70
Days of Potential Storage
80

ME.AN

50

cv

0.0

90

100

Figure 6.30: Mean and coefficrent of va aiion in daily access to resources,Irom simulations of Cidjingali rcsource procurement, with different pedods of potential

1.0

5
o.

0.8

E
O >.
o

0.6

0.4

------{---i_g0.0

SHARING > 5 KGS SHARING >

KGS

S}IARINGALL

Number of Cooperating

7 I 9 l0 Hunters r,L! N6I1_i

Figue 531: Mean daily access to tesources, from simularions of G/wi resource prccuremmt, with differnt numbeE of cooPerating hunlers.

o a.
E

(.)

A
U

------{------{------!-

SHARING > 5 KGS

SHARING> l KCS
SHARINC

ALL

Number of Cooperating Hunters

Figuie 5.32: Coeffioent oI vaiation in daily access to resources, from simulations of Gidiingali resource Plocurement, with dilferent numbers of coopeDhng hunters-

Fiqure 6.3: G/wi San, N/utscha band camP, 197C. Prinary kinshiP linkages indicated by-so)id tines, grardparenFgrandchjld linlGge dashed (aJter Eibl-Eibesfeldt 1978).

;40
E
v)

Kinship Distance
Figue 6.34: G/wi San, relationshiP between kiishiP and sPatial distance for the camP ilustated in 6gure 533.

Ficure 535: lKo San, Talatswane band camP, late 1960e70s. Pdmarv kinshiP linlages in;icated by l.ines, exiended family 8IouPE shaded (scale estimad; alter Eibl-Eibesfeldt

197).

r00

980

x60 t-J

f *qo E

.E i!

20

t)145678

"

Kinsh.ip Disrance

Figure 6.36: lKo Sa& relationshiP between kinshiP and sPatial distance ior the camP illusEated in 68ure 535.

Fisure b.37: Birhor, Siihua camp. eriended famiv groups "haded.

lg5l

ldmarv kinshiP linlsges indrcared bv Lines

shehers

Oleof

loven'

(aIter Sen and Sen lo55)'

a
.2
'5
u7

150

a a a a

a a
a

roo

t
a

I t
a

t
a

to

I I

I a
a a

I a
a a

I a
a

t a
a

Kinship Distance
Figue 6.3t: B hor, relationshiP between kinshiP and sPatiai disiance for the camP iUusffated i]l fi8rre f,36.

Figure 6.39: Guflvinggu, Momega outstatton, 1980. Pdmarv kinshiP linkages indicated b), dashed iines, residential ciusters shaded. E farnilY households, . kiichens, a men's camp, r anthroPoios:lst {alter Altrnan 1987).

=10 a

Kinship Distance
Figrre 5.40: Guxlvinggu, relationship beiileen kinship and spatial drstance for the camP illusrated in figure 6.39.

tl.,ifri:ii. :,''ln .' -:,,.:.,.;,.i,,.,i, ,.,i'''ilt,l,= ,'i.-':-."'.,r. .: r,i. ii: {tir-iiltrttirfi,fM;:-,s,ffi j,',;.,;.,
iii! t,;,:,;'.i
Nii
i;:,1;':

''i,!):i titiifilii::ll*lr.: i i:i

it; ;.i:i:i :

)"i ;,i;,1'
.

.:1 .:a,.trt::. -- 't :-!' .. :' ' t" l '"' t\:

,, .

':'i: ...,

,',., ir,,': ,..!r.i,l, ;:" ,i.,. ,,.',..i; ,..1,:.-..r, -j.t.,'-,u"':'. tr,,l1,:,-.-1ti,',:i,,rr .-.r:-',,...1r :i:-jr;:i r"a.;,.,"t.r,a.,1.:i,1 -.--:;,;..::."'r' lir.: r"..j,j:.ll;
t','.

:.: ..

-,.

,:,,.;.1.1..,

-,..;'.:i.,',..

::'i,.,
:/rt;

i.

i i:i:1:.:"'j.iii:i.rr;ij.,t!.:lt:ij:ii)i,t:ti:li....t:"tij;:k:.:",i.:)'i,::

:,i'::,',

.-ir.-i,.., i l.:. ., .,

lrr:,..i.q,:...i;i...1;,

,r

Fisue 5.41 Liverpool River groups, distrlbution of ]ocal SrouPs at Maningrida seitlement, 1950. .G naridii, aNagata, t Gidjingali, . Gu11ndba, ^ Dji11ang, aothers, - communit-a buildings (aIier Hiarr 1965J

' Major alliances shaded (after Mat'bury'Le!t is 1967).

Figue 6.42: Shavante, Sa6 Domingos setttement, 1958. .T percya bno lir.ea.e, r I lvrr e Lnea8e. 7 ,,'lr.o lined3e. o voune men - house, o anthropologisi.

Figrre 5.43: Bororo, Kejara village, ca. 1935-35. Cirdes indicate Ism phrairy/ squares fllgale phratryj open symbols aeDese?d moiety,6[ed s],mbols ffb68ewd ll].oiely, a men s house. Lineage groups shaded (after L6vi-Shauss 1936; 1955).

I
9+o
O 6 D
=

DRY SAVANNA CULTURES AUSTRALL{N SAVAN}IA CULIURES SOUTI] AMERICAN SAVANNA CL]LTI]RES

:10

10 20 30 40 50 60 70 B0 90

1 0

1 1

1 2

1 3

1 4

0I

1 6

1 7

1 8

1 9

0200

Popuiation

Figue 6.14: Savanna communities: Populaiion size dishibution bv three ecological

60 SEGMENTS OF COMMI ]NIITES COMPLETE COMMINITIES 50

940
O

3:o
,o

z-'
t0

10 20 s0 40 50 60 70 80 90 r00110120130140150160170180190200
Population
Figue 6.45r Dry savanna communiiies: PoPulation size distdbution bv comPlete
cornmunibes and <egments.

COMPLETE COMMI,'}{ITIES SEGMENTS OF COMMI}.]TTIES

15

?
-a

ro

a
5

10 20 30 40 50 60 70 80 90

1 0

1 1

1 2

1 3

0 140

1 5

1 6

1 7

0 1I 0

1 9 0 2 0

Population
Figure 6-46: Australian savanna communities: poprdalion size distdbufon comm nities and segments,

tv

comp]eie

I
%

DRY SAVANNA CULTURES AUSTRALLAN SAVAi\NA CLILTLTRES SOUTH AMERICAN SAVANNA CLILTT]RES

i0

U
-a

10

Occupation Densily
Fislue o.47: Savanna communiries: oc.uparion densiry disrribution bv ihree ecoloSlcal co"nterts. Densiw codes (oersons/hechrer: 1) 0-100, 2) 100-250; 3) 250-500; 4) 500-1000; 5) 1000-2ooo; 6);2ooo.

6000

5ooo

! o ^

DRY SAVANI{A CL!-TLRES

AUSIRALLAN SAVANNA CLILTLRES SOUTH AMERICA-.- SAVANNA CULTIIRES

3
d
= c '5

+ooo

!rI
a
I
I

3000

2000

A-!

ruw

200

300

400

500

Population
by Fisure o.48: Savanna cofin1uluhes: populationby occuPation densit)', disiinguished .,iloqcal contert. Iinear :res

=
1000

Ef

E
E

Eo HE

EEE

a.

tr

..Et.h I !t_ &. tr.f tr fs rOEI nE E,, odtr EE fl&/ fl& .t& EE

T[r Ift Hffi ,B'

dl EE ]E
E E

tr_

uE El -E

Etr

tro
A
o
10 100

Fh

Etr

E F E o

EXCELLENI
GOOD

ADEQUATE IJIJCERTAIN

t0

Population

100

1000

Figure 6.49: Dry savanna commrnities: PoPulation by occuPation density, disiinguished by data reliabiliiy, loganihmic axes.

ft-E IFE
c.

" o,

E#$

.F
-

s to.o, ffiqul1 E q
trE EE

E
@

EE
E

E E

Otr

o.

E E o

GOOD
ADEQLT-{'IE

UNCERTAIN

t0

Population

1oo

1000

Figure o.50: Ausra[an.dlrnna corununrries: PoPularion bv occuPadon densilv, disringuished by d,rrd reLiabjlirv. lotanliunic a\es.

EE
1000

a-

E
E

E
E

o
o
tr

100

GOOD ADEQUATE

UNL'ERTAIN
10

Population

Figue 6.51: South Afiedcan savanna comhunities: PoPulation by occnpaiion density,

distingurshed bv data reliabilirv. logaritllr]Uc axe.

10000

f
t

looo

'oE'ffiSo* , ," . .-{"EB r EE !{;ry ^$f &a

sooot oo $
E

EEEEH

&"-

^^ ^

A
.9 a.

100

E
ro

E o E E +

SOUTIIERN AFRICA G,^ I SAN

IKO SAJ',I

EAST AI'RICA SOUTH ASIA

KUASAN IKUNGSAN T'talA SAN

BERG DAN,I,A 10

BIRHOR

+ A o ^

BAMBOTE DA.SANATGI
ELMOLO

HADZA

Population

100

1000

Figure 6.52: Dry savanna communities: popuiation and occupation densit_v, identiJied by

culture-

e
1000

r& !_

EA

9i

h** Itq to6r. t

or it^ EIIE
oEA/l
E

o
o
ai a

tm

o E E o ^ A o

ARNHEMISND
GIDJINGALI
GUNWINGGU
JOKUT

LARDIL
NUNGUBBYU YOLNGU

Population
idmri6ed bv olrure.

100

Figure 653: AusEalian savama cofimunities: PoPr arion and occuPation deisity,

e
a
1000

5
A
o
a.
100

EE

E E

EE

o
100

Popu lahon

Figure 6.54i South Amedcan savama cornnunities: ?oPulation and occuPation density, idmbied by cu]tuIE.

7rxr0

tr tr

PLA}iTS
HONEY ME.AT

a
= c
o.
5000

E
(J

looo
JUUU

: 2ooo g looo

(data ftom Figure 6.55: Ache, seasonal variahon in subsjstence consumPtion

1984).

Hi[

e' 4l

'^2
c U
100

'-t
-.---.MEAN CV

------o_

0
=#;i:;";;

10 20 30 10 50 60 70 80 90
Da),s of Potential Stomge

100

irom Firure o,;o: Mean and , oeilclent oI variaLion m dJilv rcccs< to resources' potenrial'toraGe or ;;'^;h;;;o*." p.o*r"-"nt ith durerenr Penods

"

bo

o
E

'El o

_.------g_
........O-

SHARING > 5KGS

SIIARING>1KGS
SI'IARINGALL

Number of Cooperating Hunters

r0

Frsrrle 5.57: Mean daily access to resources, from simulalions of Adle rcsouce pricuremmt, with dilfirent numbe$ of cooPerating hunte$'

.g

o
E

1s0

alm
'a

3,0

.----"9_ ------o----+-

SIIARING > 5 KGS

SHARINC> l KCS
SHARINGALL

Number of Cooperating Hunters

10

Figure 6.58: Coelficient of vadatlon in daily access to resources, from simulations Aihe resource procurement. with different numbers of cooPerating hunters'

of

Fisue o.59: Mburj.bano camp. 195:i8. tri$aru Lrn5tuP lin-kaEes mdicaled by}nes, e;ended famiy group> sh.ded. fhearths (.cale aDProrimate: dller Turnbull l905a).

30

a a
a a

I I
a a a a a

aa

t I a

t t I I I a
a

I t I
a

t a
a

t
a a

Kinship Distance
6.60r \Ibuti. relationship betlveen kinshiP and esiimated spatial distance for the camp illusimied in fiSue 6.59.

Fipre

Figure b.61: Semang, Bersiak camP, 1910s. Pdmary kinshiP linl<ages indicaied by lines, eriended iamily gr6ups shaded, a anthroPoiogist (scale aPProximate; after Sclebesia

a a

t
a

a a a a a

a
a

t
a I
a

I t I

I a I t

Kinship Distance
sPatral dIslance Ior Figxre o.o:: 'emang. rel"LiorsnjP betlveen un'hiP Jrd eslImared ihi cimp illusirrrcd ln freure b 61'

U
-c

20

1oo 200 300 4oo 500 600 700 800 900

Communiry Area
Figure 6.53: Aftican hoPical Jorest groups, assssment of estimated scales'

1000

CLUSTERS OF STRUCTI,BIS

I
U

SEGMENTS OF COItr\'ILINTIIES COMPLETE COMMUNTIIES

-40
-o

10 20 30 40 50 60 70 8o 90

1 0

1 1

1 2

1 3

0 140

1 5

1 6

1 7

0 1I 0

0200

Population
Figue 5.64: Tropical forest communiiies: PoPUlaiion sjze disldbution bi' comPlete coomunities and segments.

5000

<
.:' E

4000

3000

I.

)rYr.r

lEr
! (J
1000

I r{{

Population
Figue 5.55 Tropical forest comntunilies: PoPulation and occuPatron density, Iinear

trq.E Etr
1000

Etr

oEHE

tr

E Eq-

o.

"EH H
r00

Er

c q
10

E o E E

BCEI-B{T
GOOD

ADEQUATE UNCERTAILI

10

Population 1oo

looo

Figure 6.66 TroPical forest co munities: populahon and occupation density by data reLiabiiity. logariihmic axes

10000

.c
lux) ij a

t-.,1

A
o

1oo

3ro
1

AKA BAKA

MBUII

r0

^ ropunnon

r00

1000

Flgxre 6.67: African uoPical forest coaEnmities: PoPulation and occuPation density, idendied by cuttue.

10000

.=

E ao Iooo

ai

o EE EIJ

E.
a

o
a

6rm

a
o.

310 1

E . E o E o A A o .

BATAK ANDAMAN

MMBRAI
O|flGE

SEMANG VEDDA
ACHE HETA

SIRIONo
WARAO

10

Population 1oo

looo

Figure 6.68: Asian and South Amedcan tropical forest cornmtmities: population and occupation density, idmtiEed by culture.

100%

NORTHWEST COAST

o
l
OOo/o

10Oo/o

GATHEzuNG

Figure 6.69. Contnbutions to the diet among Califolrrian and Northwest Coasi cu.lhrres ,ri:r, rom Murdocl and t^Ihite l9oo; Murdock dnd Morow 1970\'

r00

c
at

c ':t "'

u m Z E
E

BERRIES

rGRBS-ROOTS

BARK
SEAWEED

SALMON

E Z &
=)0

sEAFrsH SHEIFrSH
FUR TR,{PPING IrLJ]..m.rG

MONTH
Figure 6.70: Tlingit, seasonai variation in allocation oI iime to subsistence pursuits (data from Oberg 1973).

,:;'i*
"{iii+-J'

..u

g
E

l___-.1

LJ

"r:i,'.!i::'j .:"{i.:iq')

tr

3!i,1
:i!+i:J

E" EE
ir,f+"liii

tJ

Figure 6.71: Cahuilta, PriiEli@ village, ca. 1870s. Symbols distinguish three clans, fiiled s,'mbols indicate chiefs' houses (dance houses) (no scale; aJter Skong 1929).

Ficure o.:2: IAappo,: nx.l:azu:iil1a'nona vilage-<a- l5-0 frimary kjn tuP l:ntses indicated'bv line:, o s edt house, mulu'ramrlv re"idenrrdl houses >haded i sca le" approxrma te: after Dnver 193o)'

|+.2ofr

.fQ -iro

A0
G

e e

eQq QD
O
D
@

Fiq]re o.75: Notr,laki, idealised commurutv Plan. E swear houce. a dance house' o'menstnral hoLrse, familv residences >hdded 'scale apPro\L'nare: after Goldschmidt
7951.;1978).

Fiqure o.:4: Harda. SI'edan5 \alldqP. ca. l8:8 Filled s\,Tnbols:ndjcale Raven c).1n rairilics. open .r-.rnools ta!le.ldn. smrl shaded sirucLures rIe monuary houses i.ller l\.facDonald 1983).

E'd

h11:o

,,'-

,.

(after Kenyor 1980)' Figlre 6.75: Nootka, Actis \illage, 1972-74' Lineage FouPS shaded

NORTT{WEST COAST

NORTH C,qLtrORNl{ CENTRAL CAItrORNL{ OTIIER

I t=
U 5

50

100 1502002503003504004505005506006507007508008509009501000

PoPulrtion

Figue 5.76: TemPeraie communilies: PoPuiation s;e disiribution by regional grouP'

NORTH\\'EST COAST

I
U

NORTH CALtrORNIA

CENTRAL CALFORN'IA OTIIER

;10
.a = z

12345
Figore

OccuPation Densiry

6.n:

Temperate communities: ocoPation densit-v by regional grouP

TR-AD.

NON-TR-AD.
CALIFOR\AA.
CENTR,qL COAST

I
U c
.a %

E
m

NORTTICOAST

oTHR

E A

Occupation Density
fleure o.7E. TcmDorJte.orffnurxries: occupallon oen>rw D! lrJdiriondl and non_ -^ luu; rridrrronal communrries, bv re8ional 8rouP. Densrn' code_ lPersons/heclar'): I' U_
2) 100-250; 3) 250-500, 4) 500-1000; 5) 1000-2000, 6) >2000'

o
a

NORTIIWEST COAST NORTH CALtrORNLA. CENTRAL OTHER

CALtrORNh

I
A
o
a.

3000

2000

.U Eo I

oo

tao
oO

oo

oo r oo o !
400

l^

I
600 800
1000

I200

Population
Figoft 6.791 TemPerate communities: PoPulation and occuPation densit-v by regional groups, linear axes.

,f

1000

o.

o,
= c

q iu.--E *-'*-. i 'u "Ll+ *:. 6s

o
E

E --

.E *,ot fEoooo.#o
EE Etr"
gtr d

l0O

E o- o " oE-"-o E E- .E

El

tr

c.

s E d

GOOD

ADEQUATE LTICERTAD.{

10

Population

1oo

1000

Figure 6.80: Temperate commurities: PoPulation and occupation density bY data

reliabiiiiy, Iogadthmic axes.

10000

f
o.

rann

t-,,1

,q
c

1oo

t d10

. ! E o I s ^ a r + E . o o

CALIFORNIA ACHOMAM
ATIIABASCAN
CHUI4-ASH

a[l EO

+{
E

EI

BE
EEI

MAIDU MIWOK

I tr+

NOMLAI{ PATMN
POMO

SIIASTA
WAPPO

WNTU
WINTUN
YOKUTS

OTHER REGIONS

YLrK

x x

WANDANDIAN YAVAPAI

Population

100

Figure 6.81: Calilomian and oiher tempelate communities: population and ocorpation densiiy, identfied by cultule.

10000

4
a.

nnn

EE
CENTRAL COAST

A t!
o

1oo

o . A
E E r o E E

HUPA WTYOT

\arROK

% "Fsa: tr 11-

oo^.t

'J* ^E&E 48
I "a^ tro
o

#
E

,i F" ""g

""

NORTHERN COAST
HAIDA

HAISIA
KWA]OUTL NOOTKA

TLINGIT
TSIMSHIAN

10

Population

1oo

000

Figure 6.82: Northrvest Coast temPeEte communities: PoPulaiion and occuPation delrsit, identjJied by cultt]Ie.

12

:! l0
c =R

BUSH GAME PACKAGE SIZE >100 KGs

20- 100 KGS

a
%

5-20 KGS
1.5 KGS

E !

0-1 KCS

a6 a

BOUGHTFOOD

MONTH
{meal bv Fisure 6.S3: Mrilassiri Cree, seasonal varialion in subsistence consumPtion m tle h\"rnB months for ten pa"-laBe slze. 1\ eighi of bought food, wild Pl"nrs neBLgible)' bush (data frcm Tanner 1979)-

8o=
-6 c =)

o '5

60;
U
= o

-------o--

NIEAN CV

o ^^u

10 20 30 '10 50 60 ;0

80

90

100

Davs of Potential Storase

frsure o.6,1: Vern .lnd Loelficiont ol \ariation in oril\, Jcces' to resources' I'om iri-riirl,i."r .i-l.ii.t".""i-'"" ."to*." p'o.*emenr; 1\'ith different Pe ods of Potential

-torate.

5!

-6 2
1

------|------.E-----d_ .-----.Et------.o-

SHARING

>1OO

KGS

SHARING >20 KGS SHARING >5 KGS SHARING >2 KGS SIT{RBIG ALL

Number of Cooperating Hunters

Fisure o.85: Mean dailv access lo resources kom simularions of Mbras"rni Cree ,"io*." pro.*"nl"n,, *irh dfferenl numbes ot cooPeraling huniers'

30

c
c.

a
""_lSHARING
>1OO

5+o
U20

KGS

------[.-----...-...+_ -Et-

SHARD.IG >20 KGS

SHARING >5 KGS SHARING >2 KGS

S}TdRING ALL

Number of Cooperadng Hunters

of Fisue o.Bo: Coerlicieni of vanallon m dailv acLess to resource:' lrom srtrlulallons hunLers' rooPeraling of numberi',r?*..i"i ct"" ."."rr.e proc*e-"r,,. t,,,h d'lferent

ficure o.B7: Chipeiqan, \Vollaston LdLe grouP, fisning camps.'1o75' a'I ocaLion of jamilies shaded (aJier thiee camps; b-dt camps of rndividual hunting SrouPs, extended Irimoro 1981).

Figue 6,.88: Montagnais, Si. Augusiin camP, 1971. Svmbols distinguish trvo iniermam'ing moieties, extended family grcups shaded (aiier Savard 1975).

Fiflrre o.89: We.r Cree, Sh"matrawa sehlement l9To' o comrnururv buildinS<' r'Cree housL,rg, Linslup group. shaded (af rer Tume_ and Werman 1977.

rer" appro\rm)lc: "rrer B.acl 1o:1' sr.i:r,bols 'c"le

Fisurc -.o0:

GJydl.lur-umm'rrill.:ge.."

1930.. lour'Lned.'" oisonBUished bv

I
%
EI

TRADMONAL

ADAPTD
NON,TRADITlONAL
WE.STERNISED

a
(Ji0
c
5

25

50

75 100 150 2AA s00 400 500

Population

1000

Figue b.91: Subarciic communiLies: PoPulalion size distribution bv Eaditional and non_ Lraoirionai commurulle'.

I
%
EI

EASTERN

CE\'TRAL MACIGNZIE

t) E
O

CORDILIIRAN
.AI-ASI'A}I
OTHER

czo
.a

tr

10

25 50 75

100 150

200

300 400 500 600 700 800 900 10002000

Population

Figrre 5.92: Subarchc communiiies: populaiion size drsiriburion by regional 8roup.

tr
%
80

CLUSTERS OF STRUCTLIRES

SEGMENIS OF COMN,f LTNTTIES COMPLETE COTI\,IUNITIES

(J c

bU

.a-.lu = Z
20

25

50

75 100 150 200 300 400 500

Population

1000

Figure 5.93: Subar.ric communities: PoPulation size disiribution by comPlete comfirunities and Segmenis,

T
m

TRADMONAL
ADAPTED

NON.TMDMONAL

910
U

WESTERN6ED

..

3:o
=

occuprnon Densrry

^ 3

_ 4.

Figue 6.9.1: Subarciic co munities: occuPanon densiiy bv Eaditional and n-on- --^ r;didonal communities. DensiiY codes (Persons/hectare): 1) 0'50; 2) 50-100, 3) 100250; 4) 250-500; 5) 500-1000, 6) >1000.

120

I
100

DAYS

380
U

% }IEEKS EI MONTHS El PERMANENT

o60
.o

1
6) >1000.

oJuparion

oefsiry s

B"ffi ,':i#ii-#"7ffi

Hf Ti&:t"",H$"fr ,',:#ff tit'i3;ffi tffi :'0,,,

I
.:
tr

zooo

E a.

rooo

500 -

- 1000
PoPuladon

l)ou

density' linear axes' Fig$e 6.95: Subarctic comrnunities: PoPulation and occuPation

r
a-

1000

6
i

q!
too
E

c
a.

3i0 1

q E o tr

EXCFI r FNT

EI

G@D
ADEQUATE

UNCERTAIN

1o

Population

loo

1000

Figure 6.97: Subarctic communiiies: PoPulation and occuPaiion densitv bv data

reliability. logadthmic axes.

i0000
E

r
,

1000

o
E

E E t r{r E h. E

Eqq
{61 +5t

E+

EE
IOO

c
a.

oq 'EE .+E JJ dItIEIs dE

xtu
E

+ 'snr.r'-.-;

tiu"o_. ioF^
tr' -*r o'o ., tr
100

s
tr
E E

q E E tr .

TRADITIONAL
ADAPTED

F*":."ruf .#*::=n oE
E E

NON-IR{DnONAL
WESTER\ISED TNCERT-AINDATA

r0

Population

1000

Figure 6.98: Subarciic comnunities: Population and ocoPation densii]'by hadirional characier- for reliable daia.

oa
EASTERN
1000

EAST CREE

a.

O O

MONTAGNAIS NASIi,API

o
o
e.

100

CENTRAL

EE

O .
E E r E E

OJIBWA
WEST CREE

T4ACKENZIE
CHIPEWY.{N
DOGRIB

ryffi:r+i:uiu.
t lt o-f
'ta'-qg'a

a
a

o"

oBoto
o
tr

IIARE
MOU].ITAN{

SLA\EY

lo

Population

1oo

000

and occ-uPation FiSure b.99: Eastem Norih Amerjcan subarctic communities: PoPUlation d;citv. identjhed bv cLr.lture'

1000

CORDILLERA.N

c-

E E

CARRIER

INLANDTLINGIT
KASKA

A
a

100

E E r O I

KUTCItr\
SARCEE

TAGISH
TL]TCHONE

).
C

+I +l Ero
EI

AA I BE EL A
I

10

AL.A.SI'AN A INGAUK KOItIKON ^ . TANAINA

TANANA

OTHER REGIONS . AINU o GILYAK + YAGIIAN

1
"n-d

10

popuiation

ioo

1000

F:sure o.100: \\'Pslem NorthAmencdn and Asransubdr'Iic communiue': PoPuldhon occupauon oen"iw. identfied bv flrlrure

1.0

tr Z
m

\\lTAI-E

BE{R
WALRUS SEAL

u.0

a
E
=

= o

CAR]BOU

StrI{LL MAM},IAI-S
BIRDS FISH

=
c U

0.6

0.0

JFMAMJJASON
Month
d"ta from Frgure o.101: lElulinBmrut. sea-onal !'d!1ahon m resource consumPlion

Kcn']

ct aL.7977).

100

^9
c.

90 80

5E
c7 =6
O

a
o.

60E

---------o-

=0

....--o-

}{EAN CV

""aou ^^= 20>

(-)
10 0

10 :0

Day's of Potential Storage

30 ,10 50 60 7A 80 90

100

Figure 6.102: l!'lean and coefficrent of variaiion rn dail,v access to resources, irom s:m lJr on. of lElrrLngmrur resour. e ProcureTent. \vrh diilerent Penod. or Polenlral storage.

,7

c
c.
E

6
5

150

.
o. =

,^^ c
3

o
'----44-2
1

MEAN

-------o-

cv

o -

ro 20 30 40 50 60 10 80 90
DaYS

I00

of Potential Storasle

rn dailv dccess to resources from Fisure 6.103: Mean dnd coelficienr of vanarion liflirl"""* nr'lr"tut resouce Procurement with'differcnt Periods oI Potenrjal storaSe.

"i

t6 c

a ^^^ o.

c U
100

o ro r0 30 ro 50 60 7o 80 00
Davs of Polential Storase

100

lrom Fr-!rp h 104: Meanand coetficient ofvanrl:on in dailv dcces' Io resourres' porPnlrrl ol different with p'ot*"*"nt' Penods .'ii,.lli'"i1-"r'^i,
storaBe.

".*,i '"'o,ii"

d6 a

zL
I 4 5 O

----?----Is-----EF_..{_ 7 8
Number of CooPeradng Hunters

SHARD{G >1OO KCS SHANX.*G >20 KGS SHARING >5 KGS SHAxx.*G >2 (GS

SHARNG ALL

lu

simulations of iglulingmiut resource Fieure 6.105: Mean daily access io resources' from hunters cooperaring pr?.*"."n,. *i,-r, alteient numbers of

---.I-..----!-_

SHARING

>1OO

KCS

S}IqR$IG >20 KGS

SIIARN\IG >5 K6S SHARING >2 KGS

r8o

---{-......tF_

S}

RN{G

ALL

=60 = o

=+0

uzo

rlj456
isi'rl ',r;;i'"-"*."

Number oI CooPemting Hunters da v Jccc)5 to re>ources' from'imulJlion'of rvrrn dirierent numberc ot cooPeraring hLrnrers' procuement

Fisure o i0b: Coel:icienl of \,dri.lflon in

-:z ) a

ar
E

U
t

oSHARING
>1OO

KGS

_)B_. ---------{a-'

S}L{RING >20 KGS

SILARING >5 KGS

_-.-8_ ----.-B_

SHARING >2 KGS SHARING ALL

1-

Number of CooPerating Hunters

Ei-,rp 6107: Mean daily

: 50

l0

;l-*[#Iii ;''i;;;"*n'

access to resources'

rcsource ftom simulations of Nauiamiut n"mue's or coope'arins hunlers'

6 150 +
o
.^^

lso

--r---.q---t--

SHARDIG

SHARING >20

(GS _'o-_ SHARD{G >5 KGS -_B-_

>1OO

(GS

SHARING >2 KCS SHARING ALL

tNu-uL
Tisrue o.ro8: coeirrcient of

or Coop"rl,ing

d'n'""

wrtn oul Nlulumrrt teso,,tce ptocruement'

varidtion.I

X*=l,T[:,,il::,fl:,"&:'.:HT*,::J'"

.......I------a-_._Ec ,E 1 I

STIARING >1OO KGS

SHARING >20 KGS SHARING >5 KGS SHARING >2 KGS S}IARING ALL

-il--{--

o-

o1 r ) 1 4 5 6 7 8 o
l0

Number of CooPerating Hunters

of Nunamlut resource Fisure b.109: Mean daily access Io resollrces' ITom simriation5 wlrtt diJfeienr numbers of cooperaLing hu'rters'

""Z."r"-ent.

o
=
(-)

200

X
U

1oo

------{-r-..--E-.-.--{_.-{-

SHARING >1OO KGS SHARING >20 KGS SHARING >5 KGS SHARING >2 KGS
SHARING

ALL

3Nu-ut

ot c'oop".rltlng Hl,nt".,

to resources' ftom 'imr ations o( Figure o.ltO: Coefficient of vdrialion m oailv access ciifferenl numbers ol cooPerarinq hunlers' t :i*^i,l, ,"ro*." p.ocurement wrth

F-is-ure

i,l,lu .o^out*,*tt

6.1ll: Amnassdlil lonshouse

o*iioned ln tle sn*U benches itolm 1888; Thalbitzer 1914).

Tasiasat'ik kanggdlPk ca l8S0s lndiudual on bed-be;ch indrcated. HealinE/cookhg lamPs would be in froni and between each fanily comPanfient (after

mmt'#rulf+U*,*x*".im'miff?.:t'1ri"' 5;;;;;;;'ft* d
den steenhoven lese)'

I tr
a
!

rso

.i
a
q E

too

trl

r:i

't
a
a

a
a

850

El

Iti

*inrt ipsPirtarfe
relalionshiP berween kinshiP and eshmated sPaLiaI FicUIe 6.1t3: Nelsilingmiut, -illusrIated in figure D I 17' diltance for the camp

FiExreo.114: Quebec Inull,InuI iaul grouP. summer flshm8 camPs. I9:8 frimary kri.hip inlages are inaicated by Ines. e (lended famdv grouPs 'haded (after h iumott
1961).

400

? ?
(n

3oo

200

a
100

I
I -

ii:
l!r
I 4 5 o

'aa aa

o lO I

lJ l-+

i5

KinshiP Distance

Figue 6.115: Quebec lnr.ut, relaiionshi, benveen kinshiP and sPatial disiance for camPs illustrated in figue 6.114.

r.iri..:,,.,:,,,.

:I-l.ll:-:r:iir::.,.

l,,,,r,i,iitl!!!irr-li.

lL+li.if

Ei-,m 4116, lnterior North Alaskan lnuit (Nunamiut), Anaktuvuk Pass summer camP' rulusaldiut band' fudinss, ^ Kit*Euut band' (after i;-#' ;;;;;; 'l?,i't-opoi"gi", Cubser 1965)' ilmily groups "haded '

"'r".ded

I I t
I

I
I I I I
I I I

I
.E
,100

l
I a
t I

I
I I

I I I
I

a a

t
a

I I t

I I

^^^

I I

I I

t a
t
I

I
'r456

I :

KinshiP Distance
Fiqure b.l17: tnlerior

iii'""."

io.

tne

.r*p

Nofli.{iaskrn Inuit'

relaEonshiP berween kinshiP and sPatral

lusrated in rigure o'l15'

70

I
%

TRADMONAL
ADAPTED

60

NON-TMDMONAL
WES'IERNISED

50

r)

40

30

20

10

25

50

75 1oO 150 200 300 400 500

Population

1000

Fjgue b.I 19: North Amencan arcric codmunities: poPu.lahon size drsrnburion by h;.iinonrl dnd non-nadllronai communihe,.

TRADMONAL
.JDAPTED

a a
UJU

NON-TRADMONAL
WESTE&NISED

710

25 50 75 1oO 150 200 300 400 500

Population

',l000 2000

Figue 5.120: Creenlandic ardic commumties: PoPulahon s;e distdbution bv traditionai anci non-tradilional commumtles.

I
?40
U

EASTERN

a
E

CNTRAL
NORTHIIESI
SOI]THWFST

a
3:o
.a

z'"
25
regionai

50
Sioupi

75 1oO 150 2AA 300 400 500

PoPulation

1000

Figure 6.121: North Amedcan arciic communities: PoPulation size distdbution by

CLUSTERS OF STRUCTL,RES

= %

I
U

SEG\,IENTS OF CO\'1\,1L,I\]]TIES CO]\'IPLETE CON,IMUNITIES

Loo

-a

)l)

25

50

75 ',1oo 150 20A 300 400 500

PoPulation

1000

Figlre b.122: Nonh Amencan arcric comBruniLies: Populanon size distribJrior br .omDleie corimuniiies and sefments.

90 CLUSTERS OF STRUCTLRES

t0
'70

CONPLETE COMMLNTIIES

60

U c
,o

50
,10

30

z0
10

25 50 75 100 150 200 300 400 500 1000 2000

Population
Figure 6.123: Greenlandic arciic communities: PoPulation size distdbution by comPiete communities and segments.

I
%
E1 30

TRADMON-AL
ADAPTED

NON-TRADITIONAL \IESTER,\ISED

!
(_)

.a a

t0

OccuPation DensitY
Fisure 6.124: Norih American arclic communities: occuPation densiiy by traditional and n;-ffadrrional con-L'nuniries. Densitv (ocies,Persons/ hecrare): 1,0-;0: 2j50_100; l)
100'250; 4) 250-500; 5) 500-1000, 6);1OOO.

T
%

TRA!ITIONAL
ADAPTED

NON.TRADITIONAL \IESTERNISED

450 (,
a
-13

,^

:o

Zzo

123-d56 fi(lue o.l2<: Greenlrndrc

Occupauon Densiry
arcrrc corrmun:lic5:

occufrlion densilv Dv-rra*tio^nal and. \i noin-trrcirtronalcommunrues. Den"lrycodes Persons hecldre': l)u_ru: l))u_luu:
100-250; 't) 250-500, 5) i00-1000; 6) >1000.

I
30

EASTERN

a
= a

CENTRAL NORruWEST

souTll\lEsT

a.^

.a
10

Occupation Densiry
Figu-re 6.126: North Arne can arctic communities: occupation density bv regionai groups. Density codes (persons/heciare): 1)0-50;2)50-100;3)100-250;4)250-500,5)

500-1000; 6) >1000.

I
%

DAYS

WEKS
MONTHS

a50

= a

PERVANENT

U,^
o

420

Occupation Densiry
Figure 5.i27: North Amedcan arctic corrmlunities: occupation densi5/ bv occupation duration. Densiq codes (persons/hectarc): 1) 0-50; 2) 50-100; 3) 100-250; 4) 250-500; 5) 500-1000, 6) >1000.

:
a.

o
0 100 200 300 400 500 600 700 800 900
Population
1000

Figue 6.128: North Amedcan arctic communities: population and occupation density, lineai axes.

15000'l

e
o
a

10000

Pooulation
Fi8ure 6.129: Creenlandic arctic communities: population and occupation densitv, linear

1000

c.

100

c
a.

';"8#'uffi"Tu=*.ffi,F*
E E E E
EXCELLm{I
GOOD

E ac
EI

a "
EI

ADEQUATE LINCERT-AIN

l0

Population

100

1000

Figure 6.130: North American arcLic communiiies: population and ocorpation densityby data reliability, logarithmic axes.

I000

E-XTc
E E

e.

100

,.:ffiffii ''rFfl*ffij ,H"-ffi$""i**"

gq
E't]E

'"

Eq

Et _ u -o _Erli d!oSF-g-

E -E EtrBEEr"tl-,E " %

E E E E

TRADmO\AL
ADAPTED

"l
10
Population

s*to" r*
E

NON-TRADmONAL
WESTERNTSED

loo

r000

Figure 6.131: North Anlencan ardic communities: popr ation and occupaHon densityb),

traditional and non-tladitional commur.ities.

o ETEEo
1000

i) G

*-S*r qdE
a
E

E - EE-EE

a
E
E
EI

FSE dE
a
!.

ds d+ fE Es
E n E tr
EXCELI-nIT
GOOD

-d*

fi*:
1000

ADEQUATE

UNCERTAIN

10

Population

1oo

Figue 6.132: Creerlandic arciic communities: PoPulaiion and occuPation densiiy by data reiiability, iogarithmic axes.

r.E r EEBa o E
1000

o.

100

r5_

= c
10

4
q
B E B

:.trjffi;m;

TRADI11ONAL

ADAPIED NON TRADMONAL

WESTER\'ISED

10

Population

100

1000

Figure 6.133: Greenlandic arctic communihes: PoPulaiion and ocorDation densii]'bv iradiiional and non-tradiiional communities.

e
E
!.
r

d r E
00rn

WESTGREENLAND

AMMASSALIK POI-ARINUfT

. ' -1i'.+
E
E

a
o
a.
100

o
10

gr
#
B

s mE E ntr ot tr
o

lldl

EI

h"*1 * E"]b* "

roputaoon
1000

.'

oEB

100

10000

Figue 6.134: Greenlandic arctic communitles: populatron aIId ocopation density, idenEfied by culture.

A ^
r000

EASTERN ARCTIC LABMDOR INUTI

QL]IBEC

}IUIT

a.

E
100

o
a

t ,Eo Et ffif," frt E %E o E EaEl, fe trE a E A' ^T,, r rGl E&: \ El AB! ,a/ 'U{]-qJ Er EI^^l t ;^F'rrf' I .r*
E

EE

E tE

rq^4 t ol^'iE
E"a
lill-

CENTRAL ARCTIC d BAFFINLANDNUIT

ffi #"t t aa ^d
l

__E

s !t Eo da I qrE eBr E

,tr t

^tt(l

E E E E

CAREOU tr.JUN
COPPER INUTT

IGLLTI-I\'.GMruT

NETSILINGMruT

10

Population 1oo
commu
Lies PoPularion and

looo

Fi8ure b.131: Norlh Americar easlem Jnd cenral crctlc occupation densltv, identified bv culrure

-4-'1000

c.

6 roo
NORTHWEST L-^

E{ goo #"-.Et a a gr E, f Eoo "E

tr
E

E o'-e

Eqtr

+ q j.*"*t*"*'^.h
io oo tr tr
r
EII

"t^'

.t
qE

ALASI'{

E B E E E

biTERIOR,{LA.SIC4 KOTaBLTE SOUND MACi'!r',^z]E DELT-A

-lt tEju
_o
E

EE %
E

SOI ITHWFST AI,ASKX

BERnIG STRAII
NORTH

ALASLIN CO,{ST
10

A ^

INIERIOR SW ALASKA ST LAWRENCE ISLAND

o o

P-ACIFIC

INUTI
1000

ALEUT

Population

100

Fi8ure 6.136: North Amrican r\'estem arctic communities: PoPulation and occuPation denslty, identiJied by culiure.

o-

o
a-

DESMT

---+--

DRY SAV,{NNA
AI ]STRAL]AN SAVANNA

SOUT]I AMERICI"\ SAVANNA

TROPICAL FORFST

CALIFORN],{
I{ORI'I IWEST COAST

10

Population
Figure 6.137: Trends in the relationshiP between coErmunity PoPulation and occuPation densiiv, troPical, subboPical, and temPerate SrouPs

a 1000

TRADITIONAI
SLtsARCI]C GRENLAND

EAST{NiTRAL

,ARCTIC

c
o.
100

WEST ARCNC

NON-TRADMONAL
SLtsARCTIC

CRE\LA\D
EAST{ENTML AX.CTC \IEST ARC- IIC

Population

10

100

Figure 6.138: Trends in the relationshiD beiween communit). population and occupation densitv, subarctic and arctic groups.

'""-'-"" 1om n o

J\
C

or
o

L)

,'+-."

oo
-9i u-,

n
a\.!r.
O

/r&.:,-*" ."!{E -'Frl

-\+r5F .-+.( r

A2;:

O .ro
l9&);
b) G,/wi

Figure 7.1: San camp layout. a) lKung camP Dobe,1958-69 (Brooks et al camp lkade region, ca. 1960 (Sitberbauer 1981a).

(,

oo
oc
C

o o 6k*%# ' {tc 'r^J'

_iYr

hl+

kh i.?f:F. ii "9, :c'.X:jlri

"o a-)
'*

ai 1l,

'$

-rJ , r-L-}-Y.' ,YJf . rll"

L
/1

q*""s
\J

.:jf -:...*

:!lrr4

*i

iI-

(,

(, ',u
4Hi &'*

!1{

'EL tlri

Fisure 7.2: San colnmunjty ldyout. a) :KunB o\tended family camP, Nlabesha, 1958 (Y;Ilen lcza); b) lKung,larBe rainy season camP, lSwi Dum, 1968 (Yellm l9za); c) lKu[s drv season band camp, Dobe, 196849 (Brooks ef al. 1984); d) G /wi mulri-band cu-pi lk'uae regio", cr. 19bb (Silberbauer l98la).

-1om

Figue 7.3r Mbuti and EIe communitv lavout. a) Eie can1p, 1934-85 (Fisher 1984, b-c) Mbuti band camps, 1957-5t, d) Mbuii mutti-band camp, 1957-58. Kin-groups shaded (b, c anci d, scale estimated; Tumbuil1965a).

r--------------- lom

a\ '; 't

\
+

rJ
\,

.a

TJU
Fiqllre 7..1i Group residenhal arangements. a) Krvakiutl famjl), house, PoPulation ca. 30-50 (Boas 1909); b) Neisilingrniui jomt ig1oo. Popularion ca. 30 (van dn Steenhoven 1959); c) Washadimi Cree cabin, populaiion 13 (Cordon 1980); d) Ammassalik longhouse, populaiion 3S (Holm 1888); e) Nftuti banci camP, Population ca. 40 Ouinbull i965a), 0

ixung band camp, population

shaded.

ca. .15 (Brooks el nl. 198'4).

lndividual nuclear familv areas

Figue 7.i: \orrhwest Coast co(unuxries. a) Yaku. ca. 1880 1-\'lacDonald io83); h) Slidetdle.,a. 188I {\4acDonald 1981): ci SLidegaIe. Io12. tr'hen the indiSenous serllemenr panem was being Froded bv turo_cdnadran ideas ,bour housme and settlemeni planning (CamPoni i980)- E communii,v buildings, t Haida houses.

Figure 7.6: Austraiian desert communiiies. a) Piniupi familv camD, Ngarulu ja, 19.10s (Ha]den 1979); b) Ngadadjara band camp, Tikatika, 1965 (Gould 1980)j c) Ngadadjara, multi-band camp,lvanampi Well, 1966 (Gould 197); d) Alyarvara permaneni, aggregaie camp, Benciaiierum, 1974 (OConnell 1979); e) Pintupi, permanent, aSSregate camP, Papunya, 1971 (Havden pe$. comm.).

ca.

Figure 7.7: Subarctic communiiies. a) Chipewyan exiended familv fishing camp, 1975 (Idmoto 1981); b) Slavey band, pemanent communitv/ Willow Lake, 1975 0anes 1963); c) West Cree, multiple family fishing camp, ca. 1975 (Waldram 1987); d) Ojibwa muiiiband, pemanent community, Weagamow Lake, 1958 (Rogers 1962); e) West Cree, multiband, permanent community, Shamattawa, 1976 (Tumer and Wertman 197). E con1j:lu,]1itv buildings, r lndian residences, kin groups and local bands shaded.

I:

Figure 7-8: Arctic Inuii commur1ities. a) Iglulingmiut band camp,Igloolik, 1922 (Maihaissen 1928); b) Netsilingmiut m rr,kin-group camD ar piil; Ba),, 1956 (van den Steenioven 1959); c) Caibou Inuit, multi-band camp, Rankin L'rlei, 1959 (Dailev and D"rlev l9o0i: di Queoec Inlur. multi-b"nd. permanenr conxnurxLv. SallLrit. t9;o shaded.

(Crabum 1954). ocommunitvbuildings,.Inurtresrdences.kingrouFsandlocaitands

c
c ia-t

L
a

"-i'-' .j
tJ
^.r ' o

Oo,

Figure 7.9: lKung sedentism. a) Dobe 1968-69; b) Dobe 1975-75; c) Herero catile station, lxabe, 1975 (Blooks ei rl. 1984)

t ^arg#Yc iirZi+-c

r' i-''lt I
l^, 'a^;!

"ai(:

<1C\ (- o- )

Figurp /.10: Mbutis"denI.sm. d'Nlbutifore:r cdmD. \Pd Lelo. l i8: b) Mabrld \rllJee rr-d ddlacpnr \1Duri (.rmp. Epr u. .9i: .'cale esrlmdred:TurnbuU looia).

trn0
0

Figure 7.11: Aushalian Aboriginal sedentism. a) Al)'awara aggregate camP, Be;daiierum, 1974 (O'Connetl lr9); b) LiverPool River SrouPs, govemment centre, Maningrida, 1960 (Hiatt 1955); c) Gunwinggu, Momega outstation, 1980 (Altman 1987); d) Guror outstation, 1980 (Attrnan 1987).

r000

a
!-.1

-9 o
o.

r00

--...+------I_ ----.O------.8_

TRADITIONAL

ADAPIED NON.TRADIIIONAL
WESTERNISED

10

Population loo

looo

Figure 7.12: Enlire sample, popdation and occuPation density trends, distingurshing

rra.litional and non-Eaditional commuDdes.

:":.!
0

..7-=....
..';:.:=......'

Figue 7-13: Neisilingmiui resettlement, Peliv Bay. a) Temporary camp of igloos, 1955 (van den Steer.hoven 1959); b) pemaneni Inuit commuriiv, 1956 (Kupsch 1965), .) resettlement scheme, 1958 (Villierc 1969). o communiiy buildings, . i81oos, t Inuii
housing.

Figure 7.11: Ausiralian Aboriginai reseitlemeni. Miicheu River grorps, Xowanvama, 1973. Symbols diflerentiate rsidences of diJJereni local groups rvithin the conrnunitv: . Kako Bsa, . Kakoneniefi, a Olkal, KLttien, a Bakanh, a Koka ar,

^Krr*{ar, ' others/unkno*'n

^ (Taylor 1979).

7.15: Chipelvyan reseitlement, lllission, 1970. o communii,v buildings, E old holuses, a tents, r nelv houses, lines connect memberc oI PatrjLineal kin SrouPs (no

Fi$re

scaie; Shary 1979).

FisureT.lo: adnborlnurr reserllemerr. Rdnrinlnlet. a'19:o.'l_1.'ndiq'norscamD)oi ro;. iocal banos. j. mine ourldln:s, o. m:nP . on tru.red housrng rm lnurt empio\ees rDa ev .rnd Drrle\ loo0j: I ' Ioob", fo'rer Io7lr. a commufln buildln;s. I lnuit
housing.

a' Origrnal selllement' ca 1974' ca a*t"t' .l"a ed: b'replanned setllemenl loTj r communrty t'turdn8s' '.iiJ"*i.i o Cree houshg (Waldram 1987)'

F,-'rp

7 17: \Vesr Cree reserllement Rat La(e,

l97l'