In a development that has sent shivers through the polyester-clad world of Himalayan tourism, a Nepalese guide has survived a near-fatal fall into a crevasse, prompting a British-led investigation into the safety standards of the world’s most dangerous workplace. The guide, known only as Pemba (because all Sherpas are called Pemba, according to the chattering classes of St. John’s Wood), tumbled 200 feet into the icy abyss after his client, a hedge fund manager from Surrey, decided that his selfie stick was more important than the rope tethering them together.
Miraculously, Pemba survived with only a sprained ankle and a profound sense of irony. He was rescued by a team of Swiss climbers who happened to be passing by on their way to summit, having just completed a yoga retreat in Bhutan. The incident has, predictably, sparked a flurry of pencil-thin moustaches in Whitehall, who have declared that ‘something must be done’ about the chaos on the mountain.
The Department for Culture, Media and Sport has announced a ‘Full and Frank Inquiry’ into the safety of Himalayan expeditions, to be chaired by Sir Reginald Bumblethwaite, a retired admiral whose last expedition was to the bottom of a gin bottle in his club in Pall Mall. Sir Reginald, visibly confused by the lack of a butler on Everest, has already proposed a series of ‘common-sense’ measures. These include mandatory carrying of a silver hip flask, a ban on selfie sticks within 1,000 feet of any precipice, and the installation of a Mini-Roundabout at Base Camp to improve traffic flow.
‘This is a national disgrace,’ spluttered Sir Reginald, adjusting his monocle. ‘Our plucky British climbers are being let down by a system that prioritises profit over safety. We need to ensure that every expedition meets the standards of a Wetherspoons on a Sunday afternoon: orderly, predictable, and full of people who have given up on life.’
The inquiry has been met with a mixture of bewildered amusement and outright hostility from the Nepalese tourism board. ‘We welcome British expertise in most things,’ said a spokesman, ‘but when it comes to climbing mountains, we think we might have it covered. The British have not exactly covered themselves in glory on Everest recently. We recall a man who tried to summit in a bowler hat and a suit of armour.’
Meanwhile, the man from Surrey, whose name has been withheld for his own protection (and because his lawyers threatened to sue), has returned to his desk at the investment bank, claiming that the fall was ‘a valuable learning experience’ for his personal development plan. ‘I feel that the Sherpa’s fall was a metaphor for my own journey,’ he told a waiting room of journalists. ‘It taught me that sometimes you have to let go of the rope to achieve your summit.’
The climbing community, for its part, has reacted with its usual mix of schadenfreude and barely suppressed rage. ‘This is typical of the British,’ said a German climber, who had just returned from K2. ‘They cannot climb a mountain themselves, so they try to regulate everyone else. It is like a man who cannot get an erection trying to ban sex.’
Sir Reginald’s inquiry is expected to last six months, after which it will produce a report that will be bound in leather, placed on a shelf, and promptly forgotten. But for now, the great and the good can at least feel like they are doing something. And in the world of Himalayan tourism, that is the first step on a long, slow, and very well-rested journey to absolutely nowhere.
