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The rugged mountains of Afghanistan |
In short, it was an heroic undertaking, so much so that Lambton's successor, Colonel George Everest, would later have the world's highest mountain named after him in tribute to his efforts. Or sort of named after him, since the pronunciation is always botched. For reasons lost in the mists of Everest family lore, the great man insisted on pronouncing his name in two syllables—EVE-rest—which is a word better suited to some sort of over-the-counter product for women than to the single most daunting object to grace Earth's surface.
In the end, however, Everest's imperial paymasters chose not to extend the survey up into the mountains of Afghanistan. Though this region is theoretically just as susceptible to trigonometry as flat terrain, true precision was elusive at such high altitudes. The gravitational pull of those vast chunks of rock wreaked quiet havoc on the plumb lines used to establish location by observation of the stars. More confoundingly, accurate measurements of height above sea level were required. Certain enterprising souls tried rising to the occasion, hauling expensive British-made barometers up mountains before discovering, time and again, that they'd broken in transit, presumably leaking their toxic mercury into the pages of whatever humongous epistolary novel they'd been reading to each other around the campfire. An alternative method was eventually developed, using the different temperatures at which water boils in a kettle at different altitudes to determine height above sea level. But despite the ancient love affair between the British and their kettles, such measurements were rightly recognized as not rising to the level of rigor deployed in the mapping of India.
As a direct result of this decision, the geography of Afghanistan's mountainous region—the region currently home to bin Laden, unless everyone's intelligence is once again wrong and he's actually shooting craps in Monte Carlo—was condemned to a murky state of folkloric imprecision. Such mapping as was attempted during the second half of the 19th century was conducted largely by British and Russian agents sneaking into the region disguised as holy men and scribbling hasty sketches on pieces of paper hidden in their shoes.
As late as 1897—on September 11, as it happened—a young Winston Churchill described a "topographical reconnaissance" trip near the Khyber Pass, deep in the heart of what is now bin Laden country. "Far below us was a valley, into which perhaps no white man had looked since Alexander [the Great] crossed the mountains," wrote Churchill. "Our guide meanwhile squatted on the ground and pronounced the names of all the villages, as each one was pointed at. To make sure there was no mistake, the series of questions was repeated. This time he gave to each an entirely different name with an appearance of great confidence and pride."
Flash forward a century and it would seem that not much has changed. Recent news stories of bin Laden's possible whereabouts mention "somewhere along the Afghan-Pakistan border," "the Federally Administered Tribal Areas of western Pakistan," and endless poetic variations on phrases like "high, high, among the snowcapped peaks, atop the roof of the world where the eagle's lonesome cry splits the clear, fresh air." The problem isn't so much that we don't know where bin Laden is as that we aren't—and never have been—entirely sure where where he is is. What's needed is for the world's cartographers, heads of state, and perhaps whoever's in charge of Google Earth to sit down around a table and finish the job that Lambton, Everest, and company left undone. Draw a nice bright line around where we know bin Laden is, give the place a nice new name, and then go make Winston Churchill proud.
Previous Blinded by Science columns:
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Blinded by Science: Birding Brains Troubled in Twin Town |
Hawking's Exit Strategy |
