Ethnography and Prehistoric Archaeology in Australia

JOBNAME: AA Vol 15#2 PAGE: 1 SESS: 18 OUTPUT: Thu Jun 20 12:20:55 1996/xypage/worksmart/tsp000/71052j/2pu

Ethnography and Prehistoric Archaeology in Australia

HARRY ALLEN*

Department of Anthropology, University of Auckland, Private Bag 92019 Auckland, New Zealand

Received November 29, 1994; revision received May 30, 1995; accepted June 23, 1995

After a review of ethnographic approaches to Australian archaeology, this paper discusses foodexchanges as an example of how Aboriginal society organizes production and social reproductionin gender specific terms. This goes well beyond the orthodoxy that men hunt and women gather.Evidence that food and other exchanges are reflected in the contemporary archaeological record ispresented together with an outline of a debate between Gould and Binford about this issue. Thestructuring of production and exchange along gender lines in Aboriginal society is so pervasivethat some form of patterning along these lines is to be expected. This is the case even in archaeo-logical sites of long occupation where the original layout of household structures may have beendestroyed. Exchanges at the individual and household level should also be preserved in the formof reduction sequences, stone raw materials and small refuse items such as chipping debris andbone fragments. © 1996 Academic Press, Inc.

INTRODUCTION

The joining of ethnography with archae-ology by the use of either direct historicalor general comparative approaches is terri-tory that has been well worked over by ar-chaeologists (Fletcher 1992, Gould andWatson 1982, Murray and Walker 1988,Smith 1992, Wylie 1982). In order to bringethnographic and archaeological observa-tions into some form of convergence, Smith(1992:26), following an argument devel-oped by Binford (1981), suggests that wedifferentiate between ethnographic time, theobservation of contemporary events andepisodes over a short period of time, andarchaeological time, the study of patternsproduced over long intervals (cf., Dunnell’s[1982] “space-like” and “time-like”frames). Fletcher (1992:36) argues that abetter understanding of the archaeologicalpast will only emerge when we accept thatthere was a hierarchy of processes operat-ing at differing scales and rates over differ-ent magnitudes of time. Similarly, struc-tural archaeologists work on the assump-

tion that the repetition of short term eventsresponsible for the building up of the ar-chaeological record are themselves orderedby structures, which like Braudel’s longueduree (Sherratt 1992:139–140), can take onan independent temporal existence that isamenable to archaeological analysis.Fletcher (1989:68–72) has suggested that

archaeology can make a distinctive contri-bution to social theory not by copying theo-ries from sister disciplines such as biology,history, anthropology, or sociology butrather by developing its own theoretical ap-proach to the relationship between the ac-tive and material components of human be-haviour and how these find form in the ar-chaeological record. It was the pursuit ofthis goal that sent archaeologists out tostudy extant societies in order to make sys-tematic observations of archaeologicallyrelevant variables (Gould 1980, Gould andWatson 1982).Archaeologists studying the long time

period of Australian archaeology and thoseinvolved in ethnoarchaeological studies ofsettlements, technology, and subsistencehave seen their respective approaches asbeing either in conflict or competition (His-cock 1983). While Smith (1992) and Fletcher* E-mail: [email protected]

JOURNAL OF ANTHROPOLOGICAL ARCHAEOLOGY 15, 137–159 (1996)ARTICLE NO. 0005

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(1992) suggest that archaeological and eth-noarchaeological studies should be seen ascomplementary parts of an analytic hierar-chy, others argue that the archaeologicalrecord is the product of an infinitely vari-able set of ecological, behavioral, deposi-tional, and erosional processes. Conse-quently, they claim the record is not ame-nable to interpretive theories based onshort term observations of individuals, ortheir interactions with one another andwith the ecological systems of which theyare a part (Murray 1987, Stern 1994:102).Stern (1994:101), following Walker andBambach (1971), suggests that the accumu-lation of sediments and cultural remains atarchaeological sites produces “time aver-aged” assemblages or composites whichspan long periods of time. Neither theoriginal community structure nor shortterm relationships between communitystructure and ecological fluctuations can bediscerned from this record, but only persis-tent, long term trends. While Stern is talk-ing about the interpretations of the MiddlePleistocene archaeological record in Africa,she (1994:96) makes it clear that her com-ments apply to any part of the archaeologi-cal record that involves behavioural or eco-logical processes preserved over periods of1000 to 10,000 years. Her strictures areequally applicable to the Australian pastwhether distant or recent. This is grist tothe mill of Australian archaeologists whoare suspicious of ethnographic explana-tions and rarely use ethnographic informa-tion to create hypotheses against whichtheir data might be interpreted.Murray and Walker (1988:249) argue that

the production of archaeological knowl-edge cannot exist without the use of someform of analogical reasoning. They differfrom many archaeologists in that they be-lieve the interpretation of the archaeologi-cal record cannot be based on so-called“commonsense.” Similarly, Binford (1991:277) stresses that ethnoarchaeological ob-servations must be transformed into mod-

els of behaviour before they can assist ar-chaeological interpretation.This paper examines ethnographic ap-

proaches to Australian prehistoric archae-ology. Observations of Aboriginal food ex-changes are discussed and compared withthe archaeological analysis of contempo-rary Aboriginal camp sites. A degree of cor-relation between gender-based exchangesand the location and contents of householdcamps is demonstrated. While it is gener-ally acknowledged that the archaeologicalrecord will reflect both technological andgender considerations, it is concluded thatthis is also true of exchange relationships.

ETHNOGRAPHIC APPROACHES TOAUSTRALIAN ARCHAEOLOGY

Ethnographic approaches to prehistoricarchaeology in Australia have a long his-tory. In a formal sense they began in the1920s with Norman Tindale’s exemplaryethnographic work (1925), and that of oth-ers sponsored by the AnthropologicalBoard of South Australia. To these can beadded D. F. Thomson’s (1939) work innorthern Australia, some of which tried torelate seasonal movements with changes inmaterial culture. In 1965, Tindale (p. 162)argued that continued excavation in rock-shelters would provide only an incompletepicture of the Aboriginal past.

. . . it is high time that at least a few archaeolo-gists should . . . emerge from their cave holes tostudy at first hand the data provided by livingpeoples.

There was a call for research on the opensites Aborigines used as campsites and forthe incorporation of a sense of ethno-graphic “reality” into archaeological expla-nations (Gould 1982, Peterson 1968, 1971,Thomson 1939). It was not until the period1960–1973 that using ethnohistorical or eth-nographic accounts to flesh out and under-stand the archaeological record becamemore common. In general, the early at-tempts (Allen 1968, 1972, Hiatt 1965, Peter-

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son 1971, 1973, White 1967a, 1967b, Whiteand Peterson 1971) concentrated on re-gional or seasonal differences in diet, camp-site location and material culture and stonetool-use and manufacture. The archaeologi-cal correlates of observed ethnographic be-haviours remained poorly developed inthese works though Allen (1972) developedmodels of optimising gathering strategiesand camp-site location for the DarlingRiver Valley with which the archaeologicaldata from a regional survey was compared.Hayden as part of his ethnoarchaeologicalstudy (1979) included the mapping and ex-cavation of Western Desert camp sites forwhich he had observational and informantdata and thus directly brought ethno-graphic and archaeological analysis to-gether. The emphasis on the ethnographicstudy of diet, seasonal changes in camp sitelocality and collecting behavior, and groupsize as an aid to archaeology has continuedthrough to the present (Cane 1984, Gould1980, Peterson and Long 1986) though fewworks have matched the duration and com-prehensiveness of Meehan’s (1982) study ofGidjingali diet and behaviour. The ethno-graphic team of Betty Meehan and RhysJones had the advantage of being able tostudy both women’s and men’s activitiessimultaneously. While the analysis of thesexual differentiation of social roles and thedivision of labor and equipment has longbeen a focus of Australian anthropology,until recently, few detailed studies of thesocial relations of production have beencarried out (see du Cros and Smith 1993).Peterson’s (1968) emphasis on women’s useof mortars and pestles and their associationwith individual households at semiperma-nent wet season camps in northern Austra-lia, and Hamilton’s (1980–1981) study ofdual social systems, technologies, and ritu-als in the Western Desert are notable excep-tions.Given the large number of stone artifacts

and their durability through the thousandsof years of Australian prehistory, it is per-

haps inevitable that much of the emphasison processes and variability in the Austra-lian archaeological record would concen-trate on the manufacture and use of stonetools, use-wear analysis, and the rationingof raw-materials (Hayden 1979, Hiscock1986, Kamminga 1982).Useful information about Aboriginal ma-

terial culture was assembled by D. S.Davidson between 1929 and 1951 (e.g.,Davidson 1934). Anderson (1988:129–132)notes that studies of Australian Aboriginaleconomy between the 1920s and 1960slargely took an atheoretical attitude andconfined their comments to descriptions ofmaterial culture and food getting tech-niques. After this time, however, with thedemise of museum approaches to materialculture and technology, even such narrowlyfocussed studies were rarely carried out.This has left a marked gap in our knowl-edge of the interaction between social, ma-terial and technical factors, though thesehave begun to be addressed again more re-cently (Cundy 1989, Morwood 1987).There have been a number of ethno-

graphic studies of open campsites andsettlement patterns. This has proved to be amore straightforward task than the ar-chaeological study of open sites thoughthese too are new being regularly studiedin semi-arid and arid Australia and in partsof Northern Australia (H. Allen 1989, 1990,Gould 1982, Smith 1986). There has alsobeen an attempt to define the range ofcamps used by Aboriginal foragers, such asthe “dinnertime” camps defined by Mee-han (1988) as locations close to food sourcewhere foraging parties might consume upto 75% of food collected before they re-turned to the home base with what was left.Meehan (1988:179) sets out the characteris-tics of both home bases and dinnertimecamps. She notes in addition the existenceof overnight camps and processing sites.Her approach is similar to that of Binford(1982) who partially adopted Stanner’s(1965) terminology and isolated annual

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ranges, residential camps and special useareas. In 1986 (p. 37), Peterson suggestedthat the home range of a band could beapproximated by linking the base campsused during a single year together with sat-ellite overnight camps. Anderson and Rob-ins (1988) have mapped clan estates andprovide an analysis of traditional (precon-tact) and contemporary camping places forthe Bloomfield River area of northernQueensland. Apart from Meehan andJones’ studies, there have been few seriousattempts at mapping the location and con-tents of camps used over an entire year.Similarly, archaeological surveys haverarely been informed by ethnographicanalysis, thereby missing a process thatmight broaden the concept of “minimumarchaeological-stratigraphic units” (Stern1994:93) in terms of an expected scale ofinteracting social units.Advances in the study of hunter-gatherer

foraging, diet, and mobility patterns havebeen made through the study of humanevolutionary ecology, particularly in theapplication of optimisation theory (Smithand Winterhalder 1992, Kaplan and Hill1992). An area of increasing interest is therole of sharing in the interaction betweenindividuals and groups, whether workbased, domestic or residential (Hawkes1992, Hill and Kaplan 1993). Exchanges offood and other valuables play a significantrole in the articulation and objectification ofkin, residential, and hierarchical relation-ships in Aboriginal society. Furthermore, itwill be shown below that sharing and ex-change relationships are encapsulatedwithin the archaeological record.

FOOD EXCHANGES INABORIGINAL AUSTRALIA

Farjan (1993:3) makes the point that pro-duction should be understood as the totalprocess of constructing the social personand society itself, including material sub-sistence and technology. Following from

this, she argues that exchange is a part ofthis process, one that is motivated by thedisequilibrium created by the division oflabour. Rather than isolating acts of ex-change and looking only at exchanged ob-jects, it is necessary to widen the context ofanalysis by seeing all exchanges as mo-ments in an overarching concept of socialproduction and reproduction. Exchange iscentral to Aboriginal economic and sociallife and its’ meaning cannot be reduced toindividual transactions. Allen (1996c) hasattempted to provide a unified explanationof trade, exchange, and sharing, one that iscapable of joining domestic, local and longdistance exchanges into a single field ofstudy without losing sight of the social andhistorical specificity of any particular form.Evolutionary studies of sharing and socialstorage complement this approach. Rela-tionships between production and ex-change in Aboriginal Australia are furtherexplored in Allen (1995, 1996a, 1996b).Given our present knowledge of Aborigi-

nal society, it can be predicted that the so-cial relations of production will be drawnalong the lines of sex and age. The sexualdivision of labor is seen not only in terms ofthe equipment used and (to a certain ex-tent) the foods gathered, but also in the dif-ferent manner in which the proceeds ofwomen’s and men’s labor are treated. Thesmall animals, shellfish and vegetablefoods gathered by the women are infor-mally shared while any large game, or anycategory of animal food brought in by theyoung men in quantity, is strictly dividedbetween in-laws and seniors.Strathern (1985:197), following Wood-

burn (1982) and Collier and Rosaldo (1981),sees both women’s sharing of food withrelatives and the men’s provision of food toin-laws as part of an immediate-exchange orbrideservice economy.

The logic of direct-exchange is that only awoman can be exchanged for a woman. Thelogic of brideservice, concomitantly, is that onlylabor can be exchanged for labor. Asymmetries

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come from unequal value being put on the prod-ucts of labor (men’s game and women’s gath-ered food . . .). . . The services and gifts a groomtenders to his in-laws only represent his continu-ing claims in his wife—his labor in performingor obtaining them cannot be detached from theseaffinal relationships. . . . In these band/com-munal/immediate-return/brideservice systems,items do not come to stand for labor and do notcome to stand for persons.

Meggitt (1962:280) documents that a manmust make gifts of food and give supportto his wife’s father (often a classificatorymother’s brother) and also to his wife’smother’s brother, who plays a significantrole in circumcision and subincision cer-emonies. Shapiro (1979:97) adds,

We thus presumably have a conceptual equiva-lence, based on equivalence of exchangeamongst a series of objects: gifts = females = hu-man lives = boy’s foreskin = wilyaru initiation . . .the agents in this exchange scheme are said to bematrilineal groups, not ritual lodges, even forsacred activities such as circumcision.

Peterson (1970, 1986), Shapiro (1973:380)and Goodale 1971:43) document that, in or-der to fulfill these requirements, the youngmen usually take up residence in the campof their parents-in-law. This contributes tothe presence of nonlandowners in most Ab-original camps who freely make use of theproducts of the land. When the time camefor a young man and his wife to leave hisfather-in-law’s camp, he might be given sa-cred boards in appreciation of his long termcontribution. Myers (1988:70) comments,

His possessing the board from the host countrywas a recognition of his prolonged residence andshared identity with the people of the country,converting residence and cooperation throughtime into an identity projected into land owner-ship.

As well as involving brideservice com-mitments, the exchanges between a manand his matriline in the Western Desert join

the ritual and secular worlds together andbegin to take on the appearances ofbridewealth controlled by the seniors (Myers1988:58, see also Peterson 1969:31),

Among the Pintupi, boards are frequently ex-changed as a result of bestowals between a manand his male in-laws. . A young man must con-sequently rely on elder male relatives to supplyhim with sacred objects for marriage so that hemay begin fulfilling his obligations

Strict controls on ritual knowledge andmembership of landowning lodges turnthese into property rights for which pay-ments of food must be made. Tonkinson(1988:157) notes, that in the Mardujarracase, the authority of the older men comesfrom their

. . . monopoly of esoteric knowledge, which willbe transmitted only if young men conform to thedictates of the Law, and are willing to hunt meatin continuing reciprocal payment for the majorsecrets that are progressively being revealed tothem

Altman (1984:183) noted that the menwere eager to hunt and take part in thisprocess because success in hunting was as-sociated with the attainment of secularadulthood through marriage, as well as up-ward mobility to higher grades of ritualknowledge. Exchanges of meat evened outthe food supply, but the process was direc-tional with food going from younger activehouseholds to older less productive ones.In household clusters, junior householdsdid not directly receive game from outsidethe cluster, but received it via the seniorman, who, while he might not have shotany game himself, was both the recipient ofa substantial proportion of meat and a cen-tral figure in its redistribution (Altman1987:142). Sackett (1979:242) similarly hasdocumented the continuing importance ofmale hunting and distribution of meat toelders. He observes that hunting is for menlinked with rituals allowing them to



achieve prominence and establish their po-sition vis-a-vis that of the women, and notesthat hunters ignored or wasted nonpresti-gious food items in the often forlorn hopeof capturing a large kangaroo.Tonkinson (1988) claims that given the

ethos of mutuality and individual au-tonomy there are few inequalities amongthe Western Desert Mardujarra. This egali-tarianism emerges in the treatment of thedead in the Western Desert where peopleare buried in shallow graves with little sub-sequent ceremony. Hamilton (1980–1981)also notes that with marked female au-tonomy in subsistence and rituals, thestructural and ideological dominance ofmen over women found elsewhere in Ab-original Australia had not become a realityin the Western Desert. Given the low ratesof polygyny, and women’s access to ritualproperty such as stories and painted de-signs which they can sell, Western Desertwomen are apparently better off than theirnorthern sisters. Despite this ethos ofequality, women in the Western Desertwere still excluded from many of the ex-changes within the domestic and ritualsphere which are publically acknowledgedas being central to the reproduction ofWestern Desert society.1,† Neither was theburden of food gathering always equablyshared even if, at the end of the day, thecalorific returns from male and female pro-duction approached equal proportions(Altman 1984:185–186). Hawkes andO’Connell (1981:623) note that Alyawarawomen often spent 4 or 5 h a day, and oc-casionally as many as 10 h, collecting andprocessing seed foods. Hamilton (1980–1981:14) records that, in contrast to all othersubsistence tasks, grinding grass-seed wasseen as arduous, and that, when importantceremonies were in progress, the women’sproduct in the form of baked grass-seedcakes was appropriated by the men.2

In Arnhem Land, as men become moresenior, they attain a higher level of ritual

knowledge, have access to more wives andfemale labor, and receive more gifts of food.For the most part senior men act as a focusof redistribution, sharing wives, and ritualknowledge with younger brothers. Keen(1982), however, has documented that theeastern Arnhem Land Yolngu elders areable to manipulate the system to their ownadvantage gaining from 5 to 10 wives andestablishing a rapidly growing clan at theexpense of their younger brothers. Finally,Hamilton (1982:101) notes that in easternArnhem Land, considerable labour is em-ployed in commemorating men of renown,who receive elaborate funeral ceremoniesinvolving double disposal, painted graveposts, and hollow-log coffins. It seems un-likely that the presence of elaborate funeralceremonies in eastern Arnhem Land is en-tirely unrelated to the greater opportunitiesthere for individuals to manipulate theircontrol of ritual knowledge and access tofood gifts.3 It should be noted that Collierand Rosaldo (1981:323) place the geronto-cratic societies of Eastern Arnhem Land atthe inegalitarian extreme of their brideser-vice type.

THE ARCHAEOLOGICAL IMPRINT OFFOOD EXCHANGES AND THEGOULD-BINFORD DIALOGUE

As noted previously, as part of his (1979)examination of Aboriginal tool use and dis-card patterns at campsites in the WesternDesert, Hayden excavated open areas oftwo campsites (10 m2 and 25 m2 respec-tively) for which he had ethnographic evi-dence. He was able to locate hearths, sleep-ing places, activity areas and bone scatters.Gargett and Hayden (1991) was reworkedthe original field data in terms of house-holds, kin relationships and sharing. Theyidentified hearths, roasting pits, refuse con-centrations, artifact clusters and otherstructures as lasting evidence from whichinterhousehold spacing, sleeping/eatingareas, and related activity areas might bereconstructed, concluding (1991:30),† See Note section at end of paper for all footnotes

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Sharing between individuals and families is acommon thread in relationships that display themost predictable spatial patterning. Sharing notonly influences how far apart people choose tolive, but it also determines whom they live near.

A similar study was carried out byO’Connell (1987) amongst Alyawarapeople in central Australia. ContemporaryAlyawara settlements are large (1–10 ha)and contain 20–200 people. Settlements,however, can be broken up into family andsingle sex households. He identified house-hold activity areas consisting of shelters,other structures, hearths, and a refuse dis-posal zone. Surrounding these were specialactivity areas such as roasting pits, auto re-pair stations, and defecation areas. Fromthis pattern of structures, hearths andrefuse, O’Connell (1987:89–90) concludedthat household clusters could be identifiedarchaeologically, at least for sites with ashort and uncomplicated settlement his-tory. Such household clusters provide anindirect reflection of social relationships atthe settlement. In any settlement, especiallythe larger ones, there may be one or twohouseholds located so far away from theirnearest neighbors as to be isolated, that is,to have no close neighbors. There are mostoften senior men’s households, but may oc-casionally be nuclear family or women’shouseholds (O’Connell 1987:101–102).

The position of individual households within asettlement is a function of social relationships.People usually camp nearest those individuals towhom they are most closely related. A tally ofkin ties among 95 nearest neighbour householdsin five settlements shows that primary consan-guinal links are present in 64% of all possiblepairs. Close classificatory equivalents (e.g., par-ent’s siblings or first-generation parallel cousins)account for an additional 19%. In most of theremaining cases, pairs consist of people livingnear their closest relatives in the settlement.

O’Connell further concluded that the vol-ume of interhousehold sharing, particu-larly between adult women, but also sig-nificantly between adult men, was an im-portant determinant of interhousehold

distance. Although O’Connell’s and Hay-den’s data could be used to predict the spa-tial nature of the archaeological record onstratified open sites to date this has notbeen done.Gould (Gould and Watson 1982:366), on

the basis of 70 observations he made in theWestern Desert, noted that Aboriginal mendivided large kangaroos into the same nineportions regardless of how many peopleparticipated in the hunt or who they were,how far they travelled, the number of ani-mals killed, the time of the year, the relativeabundance or scarcity of game, or the num-ber of people waiting back in camp. Heconcluded that while ecoutilitarian expla-nations accounted for most aspects of thebutchering and consumption of meat, thestrict adherence to a fixed pattern of initialdivision was best explained by reference tosocial obligations involving kin-based shar-ing of food. Similarly, O’Connell and Mar-shall (1989) in their study of kangaroo bodypart transport among the Alyawara foundthat once killed, the kangaroos were eithercooked and butchered in the field orbrought back intact to the settlement forprocessing. The body parts that were eithercooked and eaten in the field or left therewere the viscera, skull, tail, feet, and fore-limbs. Instead of taking the opportunity tomaximize their personal nutritional benefitby eating the best parts in the bush, wherecompetion was lowest, the hunters con-sumed only the lowest ranked or most per-ishable items. The highest ranked bodyparts, the rear legs, were always broughtback to the camp (O’Connell and Marshall1989:402) where, as noted above, theywould be given to in-laws or senior adults.Questions regarding the social division

of large game have surfaced in an argu-ment between Richard Gould and LewisBinford (Binford 1984, 1987, 1991, Gouldand Watson 1982, Gould and Yellen 1987,1991) about the effect that organizationallysignificant behaviours might have on thestructure of archaeological sites. The differ-ences between the two positions concerns,



among other things, the role of sharing,butchery practices, camp household spac-ing, and predation. Binford (1984:237) ar-gues that the archaeological record ratherthan idiosyncratic behaviour, is the subjectof his research. He portrays Gould’s eth-noarchaeological approach, which relies onanalogy (Wylie 1982), as only being able toinfer, rather than demonstrate, the effects ofcultural behavior on the archaeological rec-ord. On the other hand, Gould (Gould andWatson 1982:366–70) wishes to discount anecoutilitarian explanation for Ngatatjara(Western Desert) butchery patterns in orderto demonstrate that such behaviour is“anomalous.”Binford, in his analysis of Alyawara resi-

dential structures (1987:474–475), identifiesmale and female activity areas. He explainsthe scatter of bone fragments on Alec’sGurlander “B” site not a result of distinc-tive butchering and sharing practices butrather as the outcome of processing, con-suming, and disposing of carcasses. None-theless, Binford (1987:456–60) accounts forthe presence of kangaroo heads and lowerrear legs in terms of a hunter keeping themarginal parts for himself (Alec as a hunterof kangaroos), and the presence of pelvicparts and lumbar vertebrae of domesticspecies because Alec was the recipient ofgifts of high quality food parts wheneverdomestic animals were slaughtered. Bin-ford (1987:474) noted that the most distinc-tive characteristics of the men’s zone werethe presence of automobile parts, oil cansand grindstones used in making pigmentsfor rituals. There has been a renaissance inmen’s business in Aboriginal Australia in-volving both ceremonies and hunting usingguns and four-wheel drive vehicles (Alt-man 1984:189, 1987:89, Sackett 1979). Bin-ford’s analysis of bone fragments is a dem-onstration of the impact of this renaissanceon the structure of contemporary camps.Binford believes that the division of labor

is biologically and functionally determined.Consequently, he is able to accept that a

sexually division of activities might struc-ture archaeological remains while denyinga similar role to Ngatatjara butchery pat-terns which he identifies as a social behav-ior. Neither Gould nor Binford fully per-ceived that the division of large game isonly one of the many ways in which Ab-original society makes use of gender differ-entiation to organize production and socialreproduction. Merlan (1988:57) providestwo insights into this process. First, shenotes that intrinsic gender differences areascribed to different domains of activityand space, especially in production andritual. Second, she points out (1988:55) thatbiological age has little to do with conceptsof social maturity and that the achievementof adulthood is a dimension of genderidentity that is overtly manipulatedthrough marriage or initiation. Marriageand children mark the achievement ofadult status for women, and the relation-ships between parents, in-laws,4 siblingsand children are encapsulated in the freesharing of the food a woman has gathered.Males participate in a different, paralleleconomy termed a “dual social system” byHamilton (1980–1981). Male adult status isdemonstrated through marriage and (even-tually) full participation in the ritual life ofthe group. The animals hunted by theyoung men are used as payments to theirin-laws as brideprice and also to their se-niors for property in the form of ritualknowledge. Gender is hence a more perva-sive aspect of Aboriginal life and societythan is acknowledged by the conventionalarchaeological acceptance of an economicdivision of labor.While the North American protagonists

in the site structure debate argue about thedetails, all accept that sharing and ex-changes of food in hunting and gatheringsocieties play a prominent role in the pat-terning of the archaeological record (Bin-ford 1984:255). Most of the authors dis-cussed here (Binford 1991:271, Gould andYellen 1991:292–293, Gargett and Hayden

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1991:12, O’Connell 1987:87) treat sharing asa discrete phenomenon, generally as a risk-minimizing strategy (Smith 1988). How-ever, as we have seen food exchanges fulfillother functions as well. They organize hi-erarchical relations between men andwomen, and juniors and seniors, and alsoassist the maintenance of cohesive residen-tial groups.There is mounting evidence that different

societies use age, sex, and residence aftermarriage to organize settlements and ac-tivities and, furthermore, that these varia-tions are reflected in the short-term ar-chaeological record. Archaeologists inter-ested in small-scale processes haveenthusiastically embraced “household ar-chaeology” as a way of studying domesticgroups and families (Smith 1992:30–31,Tringham 1991). O’Connell (1987:104) con-cluded that patterns in site structure willonly be identified in relatively large scaleexposures, at or beyond the largest now un-dertaken on hunter–gatherer sites, and, thatthe data most likely to be informative withrespect to site structures are very smallrefuse items, such as chipping debris, smallbone fragments, and plant macrofossils,which can often be found in primary con-text. Peterson (1971:246) similarly advo-cates that the open sites, distributed overan area larger than that used by a band,should be located and their internal layoutincluding the location of artifacts especiallymortars and pestles should be plotted.In hunter–gatherer archaeology, where

permanent houses are generally absent,single occupation sites are likely to be ar-chaeologically invisible, while multiple oc-cupations might make the isolation ofsingle households impossible. Processualand evolutionary archaeologists are pessi-mistic about the ability to incorporate theinsights gained from ethnography intomore conventional archaeological analyses.O’Connell (1987:96), Smith (1992), and Bin-ford (1984:246) predict that long site occu-pancy, or frequent exchanges of food would

result in a breakdown of any patterns. Inthe Australian context, these problems arediscussed, but not overcome, by Gargettand Hayden (1991:30), O’Connell (1987:90–91) and Peterson (1971:242).Smith discusses the problem of the reuse

of structures and the difficulty of archaeo-logically isolating single household units.Developing a concept similar to Stern’stime averaged assemblages discussed pre-viously, Smith advocates the use of a house-hold series to bridge the gap between eth-nographic observations and the reality ofprocesses involved in the formation of ar-chaeological sites. A household series is de-fined as a sequence of households inhabit-ing a given structure over more than asingle generation (Smith 1992:30). It mightbe possible to set out conceptual units foropen archaeological sites that are similarlyresponsive to the problems of reuse andpostdepositional processes. Interestinglyenough, Myers (1982:192) concluded thatthe structure of Pintupi (Western Desert)society as a regional system would onlymaterialise over time. Hunter–gatherer so-cial groups, above the level of the house-hold, might not have an existence indepen-dent of repeatedly used camping placeswhere connections between households aredemonstrated by multiple instances ofsharing, a reversal of the “Pompeii prem-ise” so elegantly criticized by Binford(1981). Single-period sites, thought to bemore reflective of hunter–gatherer social re-ality, might not provide as true an indica-tion of Aboriginal social organization as doreoccupied sites.

“TIME-LIKE” STUDIES INAUSTRALIAN ARCHAEOLOGY

While some Anthropologists have beenarguing over the meaning of observable,discrete events, the archaeological timecomponent of Australian archaeology hasinvolved the establishment of a reliablechronology of settlement and of broad



changes of artifact technology. These re-main the central preoccupations of the dis-cipline. Excavation strategies consistentwith this programme have necessarily re-lied on the collection of small samples ob-tained by trenching deeply stratified rock-shelter sites which are sometimes hundredsof kilometers apart. Most recently, attentionhas been devoted to the establishment ofthe date of initial human occupation of theAustralian continent, of particular region(such as Tasmania and New Guinea) or ofparticular habitats (highland, cool tempera-ture and arid areas) (J. Allen 1989, Allen etal., 1988, Cosgrove 1989, Roberts et al., 1990,Smith 1987). The major weaknesses of time-like approaches to Australian archaeologyhave been at the conceptual and explana-tory level. The complexity of the conti-nent’s archaeology has been reduced to cul-ture historic sequences of technological orcultural stages. Change, or its absence, hasbeen explained in unidimensional terms in-voking processes such as isolation, inven-tion, adaptation, migration, diffusion, or re-action to environmental circumstances(Allen and Barton 1989:15–20, 131-7).It has been claimed that the earliest stone

tools from Australia and New Guinea be-longed to a single technological complex,the “Australian core tool and scraper tradi-tion” which varied little over 8.5 millionkm2 and 50,000 years (Jones 1979;455–457).There has been only limited exploration ofpossible regional differences within thistradition over time and space (Allen andBarton 1989:108–113, Allen et al., 1989:552–554, Lampert 1981) and less regarding themechanisms by which this uniformity, inthe face of environmental and otherchanges, might have been maintained (seeGodwin 1991 for a discussion of Pleistoceneinformation systems as open but ineffec-tive). Few, if any, consistent, long termtrends have been isolated from this record.Amajor, if controversial, division of Aus-

tralian prehistory is marked by the shift-over, at ca. 5000 B.P., from the “Core tool

and scraper” artifact tradition to the “Smalltool” tradition. Jones (1979:456–457), whosees this change as being a less than radicalone, comments,

Within the assemblages of the Australian CoreTool and Scraper Tradition, seen over a period ofsome 25,000 years and on a continent-wide scale,there was a very slow developmental pattern. Astime proceeded there was a general dimunitionin the total size of tools, though the workededges themselves tended to remain more con-stant. . . . These reflect a process towards greaterefficiency which can be measured in terms of theaverage length of working edge per unit weightof tool, . . . Such a process in mid-Recent timeswas augmented and probably accelerated by theappearance of new suites of what are loosely re-ferred to as “small tools” which were added ontothe old stone technology. These stone tools con-sisted variously of backed microliths, adzeflakes, unifacial and bifacial points etc, whichwere differentially distributed across the conti-nent but which all reflected the same technologi-cal advances—namely a transformation in themethods of hafting of the stone bits to theirwooden handles.

While this view is now somewhat dated,similar ideas of a more recent vintage arecommon. Bowdler and O’Connor (1991:54& 61) argue that a good case can be madethat the mid-Holocene archaeological rec-ord, dating no earlier than 4,500 B.P., showsthe appearance of a loose package of eventsconsisting of the invention and/or intro-duction of new, generally small, stone tooltypes, and the introduction of the dog.Leaving aside the questions as to wheth-

er its archaeological manifestations possessanything beyond a superficial unity, expla-nations for the appearance and spread ofthe Small tool tradition have been limited.Apart from dating, the major explanatoryconcerns have been, first, whether or notthe source of the [idea for these] tools wereinternal or external, and secondly, giventhat the technology [conceived as spearpoints and barbs] cannot be demonstratedto be functionally more efficient than theexisting wooden spears, whether it shouldbest be interpreted as a stylistic phenom-

HARRY ALLEN146


enon (White and O’Connell 1982:121 &124). Recently Hiscock (1994) has suggestedthat the Small tool tradition should be seenas a risk-minimizing strategy, one that as-sisted highly mobile Australian hunter-gatherers to cope with Holocene environ-mental changes and to colonize previouslyunoccupied landscapes.Hamilton (1980–1981:8) argues that ar-

chaeological patterns which are visible overthe long term in Australian prehistory havebeen structured by kinship and gender re-lationships (see also Conkey and Gero1991). Hamilton’s years of field work innorth and central Australia led to an inter-est in an ethnographically informed archae-ology. She makes the point that in the West-ern Desert many of the hafted implementsarchaeologists associate with the Small tooltradition could be used only by the men.The women, in general, used only hand-held stone implements.

This suggests that the technological apparatusand skills used by women for the manufacture oftheir wooden implements is a continuation ofthe older ‘core tool and scraper’ tradition. . . .The spear-thrower, with its associated adze-stone, perhaps represents a more recent innova-tion, one which was not made available to thewomen. It seems likely . . . that technological in-novations in lithic industries adhered solelyamong men. Women continued the older tradi-tions in technology, as . . . they continued theolder ritual traditions, not because they are in-nately ‘conservative’ but because innovations inboth areas are introduced and elaborated withinthe context of exclusively male rituals.

Hamilton’s observations here draw at-tention to the fact that the introduction ofnew stone tools takes place either within anestablished cultural context or the toolsthemselves might indicate the creation of anew cultural context.Explorations of gender issues in Austra-

lian archaeology are most notable becauseof their rarity (Bird, 1993:22, Bowdler 1976is an exception). The assumptions that“man” was the sole marker and user ofstone artifacts has been recently criticised

(Bird 1993, Gero 1991), as has the tendencyto naively extrapolate contemporary ethno-graphic models of gender activities backonto the past. Simple assumptions that onlymen hunt and only women gather arereadily falsified by observations to the con-trary both from Australia and elsewhere(Bird 1993:23, McKell 1993:116). These havealso put paid to the notion that women arebiologically incapable of hunting. The strin-gency of these criticisms has had a furtherimpact on questions of exactly when andwhere ethnographic analogies might use-fully be used in interpreting archaeologicalsituations. Such caveats should not betaken too far, however. As Catherine Berndtnoted nearly 25 years ago, Aboriginal infor-mants are clear about the ideological rolematerial items play in their society.

Up to a point, a digging stick looks rather like aspear. But the differences between them, thoughapparently small, are crucial—both structurally(how they are made, what they look like) andfunctionally (what they are expected to do). Inspite of what they have in common, they are notto be confused. And the Aborigines, while ac-knowledging their common qualities, did notconfuse them, any more than they confused thesex referents that these tools, or weapons, sym-bolized (Berndt 1970:46).

THE NORTH AUSTRALIAN LITHICSEQUENCE AND INTERPRETATIONS

BASED ON HISTORICALLYOBSERVABLE PROCESSES

With the connections between gender,economy and technology in mind, it is timeto turn to an archaeological problem. Alithic sequence from northern Australiansites (in an area from the Kimberelys to theGulf of Carpentaria, north of the 20° Southparallel) is shown on Table 1 below. De-pending on whether one accepts the cur-rently available Thermoluminescence andOptical Dates or not, the north Australianlithic sequence begins either close to 60,000B.P. (Roberts et al., 1994) or 35,000 B.P. (J.Allen, 1989) and ends during the early partof the present century. The generalized se-



quence offered here, however, differs in anumber of significant ways from the con-ventional Core tool/Small tool model.If the Core tool and scraper tradition ex-

isted at all in this part of Australia, it islimited to the earliest part of the sequence,prior to 18,000 B.P. However, archaeologicalsamples for this time period are minusculeand are in sufficient for any certain identi-fication of the assemblages involved be-yond the comment that they include cores,large flakes and polished stone axes.Through the Late Pleistocene to the mid-Holocene (ca. 18,000–5,000 B.P.), rock shel-ters contain large numbers of small flakes,ground pieces of ochre and few if any de-finable core tools or scrapers. After 5,000B.P., small unifacial and bifacial spearpoints and flake adzes dominate much ofthe recent archaeological record (Allen andBarton 1989:119–127). The dating of thischange, and of the technology involved inpoint production, which concerns bothflaking techniques and changes in raw ma-terials, is variable across north Australia.Small projectile points are illustrated in Fig.1, and their archaeological distribution isshown in Fig. 2. 5 In the western ArnhemLand sites, changes in the numbers of smallpoints at different sites suggests shifts incenters of production with large scale pro-duction phasing out after ca. 1500 B.P. Dur-ing the more recent past, large unifacialblades, a few small projectile points anduse polished flakes occur in archaeologicalsituations that are associated with the for-

mation of freshwater wetlands. Further tothe east, in the Kimberleys, pressure flakedbifacially worked “Kimberley points” wereproduced, with Davidson (1935) document-ing their active spread into areas wherelarge blades were also used as spear points.Stone projectile points are closely associ-

ated with light weight, high velocity reedspears propelled by a spearthrower (Smithand Cundy 1985:36, Cundy 1989). A directassociation between the first occurrence ofsmall projectile points and the introductionof a new spear/spearthrower technology isnot entirely robust, however, for while thesmall projectile points require a high veloc-ity spear/spearthrower technology, the re-verse is not necessarily the case. Woodenpoints, which are either unbarbed orbarbed with small simple flakes, can serveequally well and the changeover to aspearthrower-based technology might haveoccurred earlier than the change to stonepoint production.The reeds for these spears and the raw

materials for stone point manufacture donot occur within the same ecological zonesin Arnhem Land. Ethnographic accountssuggest the men spent a considerable timemanufacturing spears and trading them forreeds and other materials in secular, intrar-egional trading networks (Allen 1996a,Berndt 1951:160–171, Love 1936:74–76, Ka-pirigi in Jones 1985:167). Tacon (1991:198–189) draws on an ethnographic analogyfrom eastern Arnhem Land, to argue thatthe small projectile points, being manufac-

TABLE 1Schematic Sequence of Lithic Changes at Northern Australian Sites (from H. Allen 1989, Davidson 1935)

Lithics Time period

Bifacially pressure flaked points spread from Kimberleys eastward, largeblades, flake adzes, quartz flakes, use polished flakes ca. 300 B.P.–A.D. 1935

Large blades, quartz flakes, flake adzes, use polished flakes, fewer smallbifacial and unifacial points ca. 1,500–300 B.P.

Small bifacial and unifacial points, flake adzes ca. 5,000–1,500 B.P.Small quartz and chert flakes, polished stone axes ca. 18,000–5,000 B.P.Quartzite flakes, cores with ?utilisation or retouch, polished stone axes ca. 60,000 or 35,000–18,000 B.P.

HARRY ALLEN148


tured from rocks of an iridescent nature,were charged with spiritual power. There isno direct evidence that these small pointswere curated in any special manner on thearchaeological sites of western ArnhemLand where they occur on everyday livingsites. The presence of small points in rock-shelters mixed with shellfish and othermidden debris suggests that these pointsdid not have the same restricted associa-tions as they do elsewhere in Australia to-day. The evidence remains somewhat am-biguous, however, as there is more than oneway in which male and female activitiesmight be segregated, possibly by using thesame space at different times. At NgarradjWarde Djobkeng, the levels with stonepoints have been mixed by the repetitiveuse of a large earth oven, a practice associ-ated with the cooking of kangaroos, cer-tainly a male task at present.A comparison between the archaeologi-

cal occurrences of large blades and smallunifacial and bifacial points (Allen 1996a)presents a number of interesting differences(Figs. 2 and 4). In western Arnhem Land,large blades occur in both everyday andsecluded, possibly ritual, contents. Furtherto the east, they were manufactured untilthe 1950’s at the Ngilipitji quarry, an areaimbued with high ritual significance (Jonesand White 1988:56). Wrapped in bundlesprotected by paperback, they were tradedfrom Ngilipitji as part of a ceremonialexchange network that reached acrossArnhem Land and into central Australia(Thomson 1949). In Arnhmen Land, largeblades were used as tips for both huntingand duelling spears. Unlike the small uni-facial and bifacial points, however, whichhad a restricted archaeological distribution,these large blades spread far beyond thearea where they were used as spear points(Fig. 4). In both northern and central Aus-

FIG. 1. Small unifacial and bifacial projectile points from Ngarradj Warde Djobkeng, northern Aus-tralia.



tralia, large blades have become part of ex-tensive ceremonial exchange networks.However, in the center, they are not used onspears but rather were exchanged betweenthe men, hidden from the women, and cu-rated in a manner that prevented themfrom being incorporated into domestic ar-chaeological contexts. Blade quarries arerelatively common across northern andcentral Australia (Figs. 3 and 4) and smallerblades had an everyday use as men’s orwomen’s knives and spoons.A number of spear and spearthrower

technological complexes were distributedacross northern Australia. Cundy (1989)documents highly variable spear forms us-ing iron-headed shovel nosed points, stonepoints (either large blades or small points),wooden heads either plain or solidlybarbed or with stone, bone or woodenbarbs attached, sting-ray barbs, or steel orbone prongs. He notes that many of the

complex and multiple barbed spears wereused for rituals or fighting only, while mostof the hunting was carried out with spearswith simple iron, stone or wooden points.Cylindrical spearthrowers have the widestdistribution, but the restriction of more spe-cialised forms to particular localities dem-onstrate that northern Australia was a cen-ter of innovation of new forms of spearsand spearthrowers. The multiple forms ofstone projectile points of northern Australiaand their complex archaeological relation-ships, which includes the evidence of therock art, shows, first, that this area has beena center of innovation in spear technologyover the past 5,000 years, and second, thatthe meaning and circumstances behind thespread and use of these stone points hasvaried in time and place.Tacon and Chippendale (1994:15) link the

change to small point production at ca.5,000 B.P. with the appearance of painted

FIG. 2. The archaeological distribution of small projectile points.

HARRY ALLEN150


scenes of hooked sticks/spearthrowers,barbed spears and battle scenes on thewalls of the Arnhem Land rockshelters.They go on to argue that changes in therock art between 6,000 and 4,000 B.P. sug-gests a shift from small skirmishes to morehighly organized conflicts involving doz-ens of men, the beginning of a centralizedclan social structure and an ideological sys-tem similar to that of present-day Aborigi-nal society. In an similar fashion, Allen(1996a) concluded that the extensive but re-cent distribution of large blades was the in-direct evidence for a marked increase in so-cial interaction and ceremonial exchangenetworks joining northern and central Aus-

tralia.6 These remain interesting hypoth-eses which can be tested against other find-ings.

CONCLUSION

The “time-like” archaeological ap-proaches pursued up until now in northernAustralia demonstrate lithic reduction evi-dence, new varieties of stone projectilepoints, and increasingly complex archaeo-logical relationships shown by the distribu-tion of these points within archaeologicalsites and across wide areas of northern andcentral Australia. These stone projectilepoints simultaneously manifest both tech-nological and ideological factors.

FIG. 3. Large blades, showing the method of hafting onto a wooden shaft.



If it is appropriate to assume that the con-nection drawn between spear technologyand male activities can be projected ontothe archaeological record, then the presenceof stone projectile points marks the timethat it is possible to identify a genderedstructure to that record. The evidence ofdifferent curatorial practices and archaeo-logical distributions concerning small uni-facial and bifacial points and large bladessuggests that these meanings and exchangerelationships have changed over time.It cannot be assumed, however, that gen-

der and exchange relationships are absentfrom the earlier parts of the northern Aus-tralian record. If the small flakes producedbetween 18,000 and 5,000 B.P. were used asspear points and barbs, there is likely to beboth functional and technological continu-ities represented in the later shift to unifa-cial and bifacial points (Cundy 1990). AtIngaladdi, Cundy attributes changes in ar-

tifact reduction patterns, dated to this timeperiod, to on-site and off-site productionstrategies and the opening and closing ofaccess to raw materials, a scenario in whichexchange relationships are implicated.What changed at 5,000 B.P., however, wasthe introduction and spread of more stan-dardised stone production techniques, achange that made these processes archaeo-logically more visible. Goodwin (1991) as-sociates these changes with the need tomark social boundaries where certain indi-viduals controlled access to information.Extracting reliable information from ar-

chaeological materials is so difficult that in-terpretive aids including ethnographyshould only be abandoned when they canbe demonstrated to be of no use. The singlestipulation must be that any interpretationhas to be answerable to the rules of evi-dence and inference (Kosso 1991:625). Onthe other hand, the naive use of ethnogra-

FIG. 4. The archaeological and ethnographic distribution of large blades.

HARRY ALLEN152


phy can no longer be countenanced. An-thropological observations and theorieshave to be reshaped so that they suit theanalysis of human action revealed in thearchaeological record (Murray and Walker1988:254). These findings mirror those Kent(1993:374) has derived from her study ofvariability in Kalahari faunal assemblages

The data on sharing and faunal remain assem-blages appear to be consistent—in different situ-ations, in different time periods, and in differentenvironments, sharing patterns among manyhunter–gatherers impact faunal remain assem-blages in archaeologically visible ways. Giventhis, sharing needs to be taken into considerationwhen interpreting variability between faunal as-semblages from different sites and/or time peri-ods, just as transport costs, bone density, elementfragmentation, scavenger disturbance, and moreecological, taphonomic, and economic factorsare routinely considered in most modern studiesof faunal assemblages.

Her conclusions are similar to those ofO’Connell (1987) and Cundy (1990) thateven where the original layout of house-hold structures has been destroyed evi-dence of exchanges will be preserved in re-duction sequences, the distribution of stoneraw materials and small refuse items suchas chipping debris and bone fragments.Searching for Pompeii situations (the elu-sive “single period” site) or projecting pre-cise ethnographic models of sharing andexchange back onto the archaeological rec-ord are unlikely to be effective strategies.This is not to say that in the Australian caseit is not entirely appropriate to interrogatethe record for patterns which might be re-flective of exchanges or gender relation-ships. There is not necessity, however, todecide in advance the specific form theserelationships might take.For many years Australian archaeologists

have complained about the preoccupationof social anthropologists with the socialrather than the economic life of Aboriginalcommunities. In the meantime, a new gen-eration of ethnographers and ethnoarchae-ologists have been gathering information

about production, settlement organiza-tions, site location, and exchange for con-temporary Aboriginal societies. This infor-mation relates directly to many archaeo-logical concerns. Even if knowledge of theremote past is restricted to stone artifacts, itis hard to envisage an accurate historicalaccount of change over time for Australiathat entirely ignores the multiplicity of pro-cesses visible today. This information ispertinent not only for generating middle-range theory applicable to Australian sitesbut also to challenge generalizations fromoverseas many of which are based on inad-equate data.The development of new approaches to

site surveying and the collection of datafrom larger excavation areas will comple-ment and enrich the current “deep site” ex-cavation strategy. Such studies would seemcapable of articulating and integratingmuch of the information collected by pres-ently disparate branches of our discipline—technological studies, use-wear studies,ecological approaches, art studies, artifactstudies, and, finally, settlement ap-proaches—into a more satisfying finalproduct than we are capable of at present.Neither should the interaction between eth-nography and archaeology be unidirec-tional. As Shott (1992:859 & 862) notes, ar-chaeology has a role to play in the evalua-tion of ethnological theory. This isparticularly true in demonstrating a timedepth for the complex and dynamicchanges that are a part of the prehistory ofmany hunter gatherer societies which have,until recently, been regarded as timelessand unchanging.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I thank Peter Sheppard and Sally Horvath for com-ments on this paper.

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NOTES1 Differences in female status in the Western Desert

versus that in Arnhem Land have emerged in the mar-ket sales of Aboriginal art. Western Desert womenhave access to stories and designs and actively partici-pate in the production of highly priced paintings(Johnson 1990:17). In Arnhem Land, women are re-stricted to producing low priced craft items while themen produce bark paintings and objects which yieldthe highest returns (Kubota 1991:31–46).

2 Hamilton (1982:106–7) argues that Western Desertsocieties are going through an ideological changewhich shifts rights to land and group membershipfrom a place-based to a father-based system, a changethat has implications for the nature of rights held bymen over women. The men continue to claim that

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their ritual manipulations are the sole determinant ofhuman production and social reproduction thus deny-ing the female contribution to both.

3 Gosden (1989) and Arnold (1993) usefully discussthat control of labour and production together withresulting debt relationships are significant factors inthe emergence of ranked societies.

4 Gifts of food to in-laws are socially required. Dus-sart (1992:346) documents that widows at Yuendumupreferred to escape this burden by not remarrying,even though the elder males put pressure on their sis-ters to remarry to strengthen their claims on new,younger spouses.

5 Outside the area of northern Australia, unifacialpoints, and occasionally a few bifacial points, occur insites such as Devon Downs and Fromm’s Landing,

where they are dated between 3,500 and 4,500 B.P. butnot more recently. Large numbers of unifacial pointshave been recovered from undated surface depositsnear Lake Eyre. The archaeological determinants ofthese southern Australian points and their relation-ship with the bifacial and unifacial points of northernAustralia is unknown. Figure 2 shows the area wheresmall bifacial and unifacial points occur together indefined archaeological contexts and apart from mark-ing single archaeological locations ignores the south-ern distribution (see also Smith and Cundy 1985).

6 Smith (1988:332–341) has documented an increasein site usage in central Australia after 1400 B.P. andconcluded that there may have been a recent increasein Central Australian populations associated with theuse of cereal resources and ceremonial sites.


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