Today at KEH-1

What is life, but a collection of memories to be cherished in the dead of night and whispered around campfires to the expanse above? If the stars could speak, what memories could they return to humanity? The past lies fragmented beneath our feet and etched in the stars above.

Written during the 2016 field season

Knysna, South Africa

The stars are already gone, layers of mist hovering over dark ripples, creeping from the rocky curves to the estuary. Grey softened to black, mixing with the amber glow of man made light. Inside, figures stirred, wrapping themselves in layers as they prepare to face the cold. Kettles bubble, coffee ready to ease our transition to awareness. As light sharpens the edges of the ancient cliffs, green-brown fynbos tangled against the sky, we begin the daily task of packing both vehicles. Our breath clouds the air as packs and equipment are removed from the flats, last minute lunches rushed forward as we gather, the trailer hooked up, mental checklists reviewed and heads counted. Quieter now, we circle, newly risen sun bright on heavy jackets. Assignments are handed out : 8 excavators, 3 gunners, 1 recorder, and 3 lab techs.

Five minutes later, we are packed in the vehicles. The first is an 11 seat van, square and white, a rental the size of a small bus. The other, a durable, sexy Toyota Fortuner, owned by the project. In the front seat, our assistant director and another member of senior staff debate briefly among themselves before asking the crewmembers stuffed in the backseats if anyone needs coffee today.

Like they had to ask.

The petrol station, on the edge of the lagoon between the derelict railroad and vibrant waterfront, is an all purpose stop, offering petrol, airtime, ATMs, and an assortment of delectable consumables: namely coffee, coke, and numerous forms of chocolate. In the morning, before school, before work, despite the chill air (or perhaps because of it), the parking lot is a revolving door for the steady stream of vehicles. The explorer parks parallel to the petrol tanks, shadowed by the overhang, its extended trailer longer than the available parking. Nearby, a pickup waits for the refueling to finish, truck bed crowded with silent workers, layers of wraps the only protection against the morning chill. A smartly dressed child skips across the pavement next to a suit clad man, clean, new clothes a sharp contrast to the laborers' coveralls.

Soon the explorer departs, joining the stream of vehicles traversing the city. The traffic grows more dense on the outskirts, an officer directing cars through an intersection marked by lines of traffic cones. Turning through the mass of cars, we fly towards the heads. The lagoon is golden now, glinting in the sunlight. The road begins to climb, ducking under trees as it winds up the steep ground. Filling the arboreal gaps are the glass porches and stone walls of million dollar homes.

The road slopes down, terminating in a parking lot at the base of the cliff. Coffee in hand, we begin unloading, separating equipment into piles, untangling bungees and cursing the wind that screams through the gap in the towering stone, piercing our bundled forms.

 

The trail is a constantly shifting arena of rock and earth. Cobblestone beaches give way to dense fynbos, branches threatening to catch tripod legs. Jagged slabs of red sandstone are thrust at sharp angles from the earth, set against pounding waves. Waves fill the space between with tidal pools, surface like glass. We dance across the uneven surfaces, leaping from one point to the next; or step cautiously, images of an emergency room visit haunting us. The trails climbs steeply, clinging to the side of the cliff, fynbos disguising the true nature of the drop inches away. Green brush overhangs the trail, turning our hike into an  adventure until we break free, crossing rock and squeezing past boulders. The cliff at our right comes forward, terminating in the ocean. Cobbles spill into the hissing waves, daunting cliffs rising ahead.

We stop, lining the packs against the narrow trail, and peel off layers of clothes. One person climbs the ledge, clipping the safety rope to their harness. Below, hikers line up, packs in hand. Another person climbs the slope, hiking the steep curve of the trail, navigating damp sandbags, to the lower ledge of the outer staircase. Pausing, they toss down a second rope for the climbers, packs reacquired, as a precaution against slick mud and sheer cliff.

KEH-1 contains a deposit meters thick, the outer edge of which is framed by a staircase of sandbags, bringing the climbers to the top of the deposit. From the back of the cave, the table and equipment are carried out. Packs are opened, the contents distributed. Gunners rush to set tripods and guns (archaeology slang for the total stations). Excavators claim buckets, sorting through dig kits as they duck shots from the gunner's resection (whereby the gunner measures the distance from the gun to 3 known points, and uses this data to provide a highly accurate location of the gun).

Suddenly the activity stills, like a heavy wind fading to a breeze. Excavators are huddled by their quads, chatting quietly, or listening to music. The recorder sits at the table, making notes on the tablet and organizing paperwork. Gunners wait on the narrow staircase by their guns, ready for shots. Below, a wall of dense fynbos hides the cliff, ending in massive slabs of rock pounded by waves. The Indian ocean fills the horizon, blending with the sky. In one day, a dozen shades of blue and green will cross the waters. The sky, too, will change: clouds forming and dissipating endlessly. In either direction stretch endless cliffs, lined with giant boulders protruding from rough water. Cargo ships move sedately across the horizon, while smaller craft skid across the water, occupants searching for whales. A keen-eyed gunner might spot dolphins, whales, seal, or the elusive form of the endangered sea otter.

The quads sink lower, as sediments are removed and artifacts plotted.

The recorder officially calls tea at 9:45, prompting a stampede to the table. Tea time is an excuse to relax, converse, and apply caffeinated beverages or cookies. As we warm up and enjoy the scenery, blood flows back into cramped limbs. The sugar provides a boost after the strenuous hike.

Lunch at a nearby site is traditionally called at 12:30. At KEH-1, hunger overrules tradition, and lunch is at noon. Lunch in hand, we gather on the edge of the slope, above the excavation. Several people head down the cliff, to eat among the rocks and pounding waves.

As the day continues, the bags of sediment continue to grow. These contain all the non-anthropogenic material removed from a lot, or portion of a stratigraphic layer within a quad (1 meter by 1 meter square). Weighed and rubber banded, they await removal from site and eventual sieving.

The gunners are busy now, constantly cycling through the rote "shooting" "taken" "scan." Notes grow as the shot count rises, gunners competitively comparing their numbers. Traffic increases on the excavators’ ledge and outer staircase. Photographic records are taken and logged, the only visual of the past before it is removed, context preserved in the details of notes and film.

Some days, the day ends in a rush, a hundred tasks piling up, waiting to be accomplished. Others, time passes slowly, the steady beat of waves the archaeological metronome. We begin packing, carrying buckets to the back of the cave, piling tools in boxes, spreading tarp over the quads. The guns are wiped clean, sensitive equipment packed. Recording equipment stowed. The checklist is rapidly completed, items quickly claimed by their carriers as packs are assembled. Soon a line forms on the exterior staircase, archaeologists waiting their turn to make the steep decent.

One last check--and we are gone. The sky is no longer blue, but a mix of vibrant hues, a new glory every evening. The packs are heavier now, weighed down by bags of sediment. The lunchbox is lighter. At the vehicles, we shed the weight with relief, loading the electronics and soft packs in the back of the van, frames and tools in the trailer, and collapse on the grass.

On the ride out, the windows are down and the music is up. As we descend into the basin, we catch a glimpse of the city. The peaks are folded around the estuary, gold in the fading sunlight.

Later, after everything is unpacked and stowed, we gather, cold drinks in hand, inside. The walls shield us from the chill air and now-dark sky. Excited now, revived by food and drink, the topics we discuss are as diverse as our crew. Soon, we will walk back to the flats, to work or sleep or relax. Soon, the night will end and day begin again. Soon, before we realize it, the field season will end, sandbags covering site, artifacts and equipment packed, and each of us on a bus or car or plane to our homes.

Perhaps we'll look back one day, and forget the blisters, the exhaustion, and the headaches, and remember only the fellowship of friends and the beauty of this piece of the world.