Archaeology from Space Page 8

  Finding Roman Sites Is Not as Easy as You Think

  A word on Roman sites: Rome, with its rich empire and monumental construction, leaves obvious, massive stone foundations easy to find at a glance. Just like the Colosseum, right? Wrong.

  With rapid urbanization, reuse of stone, and field tilling over 2,000 years, many sites have been partly or completely covered over. Ancient texts might describe a theater, amphitheater, or hippodrome (a horse-racing stadium), yet they may be invisible to modern archaeologists. Those that remain well preserved survive mostly by luck or accident. If modern towns have absorbed the sites over altogether, this raises significant issues when processing satellite imagery. Differentiating a solid signal from background noise can be the greatest challenge for space archaeologists.41 Knowing what should be at a site or in a landscape may seem like the correct archaeological process, going from the known to unknown, but it can bias our perception.

  And it can even lead us to find shapes where there are none—a psychological phenomenon called pareidolia; put technically, after spending hours processing satellite data, your eyes go funny. You see things where there is nothing, or miss things entirely. That’s why working in a team is crucial, so you can cross-check each other or just tell a weary or overenthusiastic colleague that he or she is smoking crack.

  But this project arose before I really had my team together. I knew enough about ancient Roman structures to get me in trouble, having written half my dissertation on Late Roman Period Egypt, though not enough to feel confident about my imagery processing. But I had to start somewhere. After familiarizing myself with Simon’s findings from his publications, I ordered a GeoEye-1 .5meter resolution satellite image from the summer of 2010, during a particularly dry period. This imagery had visible data as well as an infrared band.

  Since most of the construction at Portus was of stone, and there were old river channels to be found as well, I was happy with summer imagery and hoped for good crop marks. And did it produce! Houses, large rectangular buildings, roads—over a dozen structures appeared. I was quite proud of these discoveries and sent them off to Simon and his team, expecting to be showered with praise. My poor swollen ego was burst the next morning.

  “It’s great the satellite imagery picked these up!” Simon said. “We’ve known about them for years.” Sadly, I must have missed a publication or two before my hours of work.

  After the primal scream, the Ball of Shame under my desk, and lots of chocolate, in that order, I did not know what to do next. Surely the processing I had done had revealed all that could be seen there from space.

  If at First You Don’t Succeed …

  Perhaps a slightly different image from a different time of year might show more. And I got lucky: DigitalGlobe’s WorldView-2 satellite image with a broader spectral range had just become available from the previous September, during the driest fall that part of Italy had seen in years.42 This data had visible bands, called “red edge” bands, covering the light spectrum between the visible red and the infrared, and two infrared bands. With eight bands of data instead of four in the earlier satellite imagery, the WorldView-2 imagery allowed us to do a better job of detecting subtle differences in vegetation health.43

  After I processed the data to emphasize those differences, a curious 40-meter-wide ovoid shape appeared in the fields to the northeast of the hexagonal basin. With eastern and western entrances connected to an east-west road, and rectangular buildings on the shape’s northern face, it was so clear that I dismissed it as likely something modern, probably some type of 19th-century water cistern. But, just to be safe, I sent it to Simon to get his opinion.

  WorldView-2 processed satellite image of amphitheater feature [IMAGE COURTESY DIGITALGLOBE]

  He got very excited. A magnetometry survey there had revealed nothing like what the imagery showed, and they had not yet been able to do ground-penetrating radar. But this looked just like an amphitheater, with possible training barracks attached. Looking at nearly 80-year-old aerial photography taken during a similarly dry period, we realized we could see its faint outlines there, too.44 Now that we knew what to look for, it became obvious. Finally, we had an exciting result!

  Simon, his ground survey specialist, Kristian Strutt, and I wrote a paper about our results, comparing the satellite imagery to ground-based remote sensing tools such as magnetometry and GPR, as well as aerial photography.45 As excited as I get about space imagery, I know it has limitations; used together with ground-based remote-sensing tools as force multipliers, it becomes even more powerful.

  Simon and his team plan to explore the amphitheater in the future. Chasing it down was an essential lesson for me in not giving up and being willing to go back to the drawing board.

  If you apply the right analytical techniques from the right time of year, space archaeology can highlight an astonishing range of sites, no matter where you’re looking or which ancient culture you’re hoping to find. From the very large to the small, using everything from .3-meter to 30-meter data, you can crack the discovery code by understanding the landscape and its geology, and the building materials that environment provided.

  These discoveries are mere hints of the insights now available to archaeologists thanks to new technologies, but it is never just about the discovery, or even new theories. This is about shaking archaeological foundations, testing new ideas that sometimes work well and sometimes leave more questions than answers.

  4

  A Risky Business

  Archaeology tells us who we are, where we come from, and how we got here. The temptation to tilt at the windmills of archaeology is huge, though, even when there is just the tiniest chance of success, and I know this from experience. After years of good fortune in my chosen field of work, I had my own Don Quixote moment of taking aim far outside my area of expertise.

  But let’s start at the beginning. If you are intrigued by those grand questions, it’s important to learn how you take up archaeology in the first place. For some, it’s a family occupation. Others took a class in college that changed everything. Most have known since childhood that the dirt, and the past, called to them. But the reality is far different from any Hollywood fantasies: hard work, sacrifice, and lots of luck are needed in abundant measure to get an archaeological job, and any groundbreaking discoveries come after years of staring at laptops or scrabbling down dusty holes, both often with a good deal of physical discomfort thrown in.

  Who even gets to call themselves an archaeologist is confusing. Sadly, as far as I am aware, no Archaeological Fairy Godmother exists, ready to bless you with your own trowel when you have gained enough experience points. (Though if she were real, I think she would wear a lot of leather.) Most archaeologists in North America start by majoring in anthropology, classics, Near Eastern studies, or art history. In the United Kingdom, archaeology and anthropology are separate, though aligned, fields. In Europe and in many universities around the Mediterranean, you study archaeology as part of your main field focus, for example, Turkey or the Roman Empire. Often, across the world, students study for a tourism degree alongside the archaeology degree, as the field pays so little in comparison to other professions.

  With so many struggles awaiting you, you’d be forgiven for wondering why you’d bother. Kent Flannery, the granddaddy of today’s archaeological generation, wrote a piece satirizing his 1980s colleagues, in which he describes an “Old Timer,” a hero, a true for-the-love-of-it digger, who famously describes archaeology as “the most fun you can have with your pants on.”1 For so many people I know, the intoxicating nature of discovery and the idea of protecting heritage are worth the trade-off against financial stability.

  So You Want to Run a Dig?

  Some people I meet think that becoming a dig director means you have achieved the greatest glory possible. All I can say is, be careful what you wish for, because it is a long and lonesome road. You start as a project volunteer, learning the ropes for a few seasons. You may become an area uni
t supervisor, and after that a field supervisor or a field director, with the responsibility of managing all the excavation work. Depending on your graduate research, you may be the on-site specialist in seeds, animal remains, or epigraphy—drawing and translating ancient inscriptions.

  In time, and if you’re lucky enough to have funding, you formulate original research questions and might strike out on your own, at a smaller part of your supervisor’s site or at another site entirely. In that case, my condolences, er, I mean congratulations!

  Most of us work up that way, step by step. Long before I directed my own dig in Egypt, I learned by watching others. I was lucky to see Greg in charge of projects in Sinai and the Delta, before, during, and after my PhD. At the time, I relished the chance to focus on my dig square. No one bothered me the entire day as I worked with my crew, recorded my notes, drew my site plans, and watched Greg deal with a hundred messes to which I should have paid far more attention.

  I didn’t appreciate how difficult managing a team in Egypt is. When finally leading my first dig, I went from a happy digger straight to a stressed-out, ancient-world CEO, something I don’t think anyone is quite ready for. Fortunately, I had a small team to start and a wonderful husband to help me when I was falling flat on my face.

  Customarily, about six months before every dig season, I spend the better part of a month putting together my application. Every team member needs to submit a CV and a passport page and fill out a security form. Bungled paperwork can and does prevent team members from taking part. Endless correspondence follows—coordinating, planning, sorting plane tickets and airport pickups—all in preparation for one month of work in the field. I’d like to go for longer, like in the old days, pre-job, pre-house, pre-child, but life gets complicated.

  Then there are the innumerable Skype calls with my Egyptian foreman to plan meals, secure a work crew, and manage the transportation of the supplies. Even reviewing the supply inventory involves chains of international emails: trowels, Sharpies, graph paper, clipboards, good compasses … it’s all time-consuming to find in Cairo and must be shipped in. None of this can get started until after my grant transfer has cleared at the bank, which always happens at the last minute. And you have no idea how finicky you have to be, juggling airline weight allowance bag by bag, to transport an excavation.

  Then we have the busy Cairo runaround. I arrive four or five days early and set up meetings with all the appropriate government officials to share season plans, get feedback, and sign my official paperwork. By this time, team members are flying in from all over the world and can help with the massive, pre-dig shopping spree. Our carts fill up with a mix of the mundane and eclectic, from solid wooden desks for our registration team to toilet paper and even cases of tonic water. I mean, this is Egypt, which contains both G and T, and 5 p.m. comes fast every day. We have a tradition to uphold.

  Once the dig begins, I’m a combination hotel manager, menu planner, nurse, and diplomat. I also manage the budget, which, thank goodness, Greg helps with. Every day I do rounds with my senior staff to make sure they have everything they need, and I meet with whichever officials or colleagues have visited that day.

  Our food on-site is always wonderful, as we have a great team of local cooks who take pride in feeding us well. I am a foodie and appreciate how true is the saying that an army marches on its stomach. Accommodations on digs vary, but even a good room one day can turn into free bathroom waterworks the next. And then weather. Ah, weather. Egypt is all sunshine, if you discount the heavy winds, sandstorms, and unexpected winter rains.

  And whatever happens, people need taking care of. I have a core staff of 15, a main Egyptian professional digging staff of 8, and a workforce of more than 70, including day labor, police, and guards. The buck stops with me. Running an excavation is the biggest and most awesome responsibility I have ever had, and getting your own trowel in the ground can sometimes be frustratingly far down on the to-do list.

  But here’s the thing: as director, you do all this to get the best work possible out of your team. Gathering world-class experts, making sure they are healthy and happy and that your work crew is well paid and safe is all in a day’s work, because in the end, that’s what you need to achieve your vision and your dream—lots of help. So you celebrate and honor both your professional staff and your workforce in all your talks and publications, and you never forget that you could not do it without them. It’s the best damn job on the planet.

  With all this at stake, you now have a sense of what drives people in archaeology. We are always struggling on to the next step in the yellow brick road: the PhD, a postdoc position, a job, tenure, a promotion, a grant. Most people work their whole lives to retire and travel; we archaeologists keep working to keep digging, and we would all do it for free. Most of us have worked for free, at some point, though we shouldn’t have to.

  If only all the press of dramatic discoveries translated into real-world funding or university support. Fame is not the driver in archaeology, and it hinders as often as it helps. Instead, we are driven by insatiable curiosity. Our inner child keeps asking the universe, why? We’re always impatient for just one more trowel scrape. You never know. It could happen. The pieces might just fit together, this once.

  To Boldly Go …

  Bold claims require bold testing. When doing high-risk science, you increase your chances of getting funded from impossible to maybe 1 in 1,000 by creating testable hypotheses with a solid research design and building an outstanding research team. Caution is key. Despite the high stakes, you must make it clear to all stakeholders that the chance for success is narrow. The reward comes from the contribution you might make to history. Even if it seems like madness.

  Last chapter, you might have been wondering what the heck I was doing, as an Egyptologist, making a TV show looking for Vikings in cold places, so let me give you the backstory. In 2013, when our son was not quite one year old, I had just completed a documentary with the BBC on the Roman Empire. The History Channel show Vikings had just begun, and a blockbuster Vikings exhibition and conference at the British Museum was opening. Perhaps sensing a trend, the BBC proposed the new program.

  I responded with a polite email asking if, perhaps, they had forgotten my specialization. I did pyramids, not longhouses. With my research on the Late Roman Empire, moving a bit east, west, and north to find Roman sites was reasonable, but searching for Viking sites seemed like a leap too far. I laid it out straight: given that I had a small child, most of my days were already taken up searching for diapers and wipes.

  I thought that had ended the matter and soon forgot I’d ever been asked. Until the next summer. Greg and I were visiting dear friends in London, and somehow the BBC caught wind of it and asked me to have a quick lunch with an executive producer to discuss a potential show. Over fish and chips and a very loud toddler, the executive producer tried to sell me on the idea of looking for potential Norse sites in Canada and elsewhere. Again, I tried to dissuade him. At that time, I taught a module on the Vikings in my introductory archaeology class, but that was it. Then he incanted certain magic words: “We’ll pay for all the research costs.”

  Ah. My weakness. An offer like that does not often come along. Maybe I needed a bit of a change. Maybe it was the hard cider over lunch—I do love a pint of cider. Maybe I was so jet-lagged and toddlered-out that I’d temporarily lost my mind. I do not remember saying yes, but I obviously did, because when we got home, I was greeted by all sorts of budget-related emails about the project.

  I already had a team at home to help with the project. Dave Gathings, a magnetometry specialist conversant with obscure mapping solutions and the entire Beatles output, and Chase Childs, a techno whiz kid fresh from a Cambridge MPhil, were on call to dive in. And I had a very excited husband, who had nearly majored in medieval archaeology at university and could not wait for the chance to visit Viking sites and help with background research. There were countless Norse specialists on whom I could call and w
ith whom I could collaborate. What could go wrong?

  Well, everything.

  Thousands of other explorers, adventurers, and archaeologists have searched for evidence of Viking presence in North America. In Minnesota, people claim to have found Viking runestones.2 In Maine, a legitimate discovery of a Viking coin at a Native American site suggests some form of contact with or perhaps transitory exploration of New England.3 Many people also think there are more Viking sites to be found in eastern Canada and, perhaps, along the northeast coast of the United States.4 They’re not wrong to hope.

  To picture Norse expansion from the fjords of northern Europe and Iceland, imagine how rapidly Iceland filled with farmers and how their sons and daughters carved up more and more of the arable land.5 Naturally, it led to tension and competition.

  Legendary Viking Erik the Red, perhaps named for his hair color as well as his temper, got into a nasty fight, killing two men called Eyjolf the Foul and Hrafn the Dueller.6 This got Erik exiled from Iceland in 982,7 so he took a group of people westward to Greenland and founded its first Norse settlement, the remains of which can be seen today as a crumbling church and stone house foundations.8 More than three thousand people lived in the Eastern and Western Settlements, adapting and surviving for over 400 years in a new land.9 Though the descendants of the first settlers abandoned the place around 1450, losing their livelihoods to climate change as the Little Ice Age swept in, it was still an extraordinary accomplishment.10 But that new land was not enough to quench their thirst for exploration.