Of patois and potsherds

What is it in the human psyche that prompts us, when presented with the opportunity to learn a new language, to learn the cusswords first?

                We have a rather international dig crew, composed of Canadians, at least one American, one Saudi, a Danish textile specialist, and a group of Austrians. One of my fellow Canadians asked his Austrian co-excavator how to curse out the very large rocks in German; this has spread, and now folks on the tell chat in English, give dig directions in mixed English and Arabic, and swear in German.

                The amount of potsherds we find and the number that come home are vastly disparate. We spend our days with our eyes full of sand and our trowels in the earth, collecting fragments of pottery in carefully marked pails. We bring them back, scrub them meticulously with toothbrushes and nailbrushes, scrape them with scalpels and sharpened spoons, and lay them out in baskets to dry. Of the 80 or more that might be in a pail, sometimes a mere handful of them are kept, usually diagnostics (rims, bases, painted pieces, ceramic tech) and pieces that mend with them. The rest are driven back to the site and tossed heartlessly onto the discard pile, reduced once again to trash.

                Today’s photos:

Sunrise from the tell

Fedoriarty at the dig site. The wall behind me is part of what was likely a shrine room, where travellers could make offerings to their deities on the way through. That, then, is holy ground I’m standing on.

                One of the Austrians has a hat almost identical to mine. Much of his dig clothing is very similar as well, down to the red bandana. Before the dig is over, there will be a picture taken of him and I standing together. If he’s okay with it, I’ll share it here.

                This weekend, we’re going out into the deep desert to see the desert castles. There will be pictures. There will also be sweat. Fortunately, one is easier to post than the other.

Handful of doves

"All these moments will be lost in time, like tears in rain." --Roy Batty, Blade Runner

Happy Birthday, love! May this year bring you the best of life, the universe, and everything.

                Human beings have created some truly fantastic things over the ages—pyramids, Roman roads, desert castles, towers whose walls are still recognizable after nearly two thousand years, and the list goes on. All of that somehow pales next to the millions of years it took a river to carve the landscape, its passing marked in the visible strata of rock, the bed all abloom with vivid pink oleander.

                Part of the tower (or what was likely a tower) wall of Rumayl is still visible amongst the heaps of collapsed stone. Other heaps, arranged more or less in rows, mark where other buildings and other rooms once stood. One of the other dig team members found a human skull wedged in amongst the stones.

                At Zafran, whose wall is pictured below, potsherds lay thick upon the ground. It was impossible to walk without treading on history. I found some lovely diagnostics—rims and a handle with rim—and a few nice body sherds.  Leaving them all there was very, very difficult.

                We finally got to our site around mid-to-late morning, startling the great hairy goats who had been grazing on the tell. After a tour, wherein we were followed by Bedouin children eager to have their pictures taken, we collapsed for a bit until the truck arrived with supplies. Once the truck arrived, the hard work began: setting up the tent.

                A hill, by itself, is not generally too much of a challenge. Make it sandy. Add a steep incline, buckets of heat, a dwindling water supply, and sledgehammers, wheelbarrows, iron rebar, ladders, and other supplies, and it gets much harder, especially when repeat trips are required.  Fortunately, we won’t have to do that nonsense again until the end of the dig, when it’s time to take down the tent. We finally finished, and, exhausted, came home for lunch. Next time we go out, most of us will be taking three litres of water, instead of just one. 

                Apart from digging, there are also other jobs to do. I’ve become one of the Assistant Tool Repairpeople, putting years of MacGyvering to good use. Bob, the camp logistics director, initially told me that I was his trainee (not a minion; this was in reference to a wandering conversation). When one of the dig directors brought other volunteers over, Bob turned to me and said, “Congratulations—you’re now an instructor.”

                Hooray, field promotions? As it turned out, I only ended up with one co-volunteer. We work well together, and have come up with some good ideas for repairing gear. 

                Tomorrow, more training. Tonight, sleep. Legs are jello.