In a turn of events that has sent tremors of vicarious triumph through the tweed-clad corridors of the British mountaineering establishment, a Sherpa has been hailed for performing a self-rescue at 8,000 metres. The incident, described by one Kensington-based armchair alpinist as 'plucky beyond measure', has been swiftly annexed as a parable of British stiff-upper-lipitude. Never mind that the hero in question, Tenzing Norbu, is a Nepali man whose daily commute involves dangling from ice cliffs so the rest of us can post 'summit selfies'. The narrative machine has already begun to churn: 'The Indomitable Human Spirit'. 'Triumph Over Adversity'. 'A Testament to Resilience'. It is as if the entire saga has been scripted by a committee of retired colonels and gin-soaked editorialists.
But let us not get bogged down in the mire of cultural appropriation. The feat itself is genuinely staggering: Norbu, after a fall that would have reduced lesser mortals to jam, somehow hauled his broken body back to Camp 4. No helicopter. No rescue party. Just a man, a rope, and a will of titanium. This is the sort of thing that makes one believe in the fundamental absurdity of the universe, because what kind of cosmic joker allows a Sherpa to perform a miracle while a FTSE-100 CEO returns from Base Camp with a mild cough and a book deal?
The British climbing fraternity, never one to let a good story go unclaimed, has already released a statement: 'We are all Sherpas now,' said Sir Reginald Puffleworth, president of the Alpine Club (and a man whose personal altitude record is the top deck of a Number 24 bus). 'Tenzing's resilience is a lesson to us all. It reminds us that the human spirit can overcome any obstacle, whether it's a crevasse or a poorly poured G&T.' Never mind that Norbu will likely spend the next decade guiding wealthy dentists up the very slope that nearly killed him. The important thing is that we can all feel good about ourselves.
Meanwhile, the actual logistics of rescue remain befogged in a haze of self-congratulation. Who paid for the helicopter that didn't come? Who will cover Norbu's medical bills? These questions are as unfashionable as a polyester cagoule in St Moritz. Better to focus on the 'inspirational' angle: the tale of a man who, faced with certain death, decided to have a cup of tea and wait for a better metaphor. I imagine Norbu's thought process as he crawled: 'If I die, it'll be a tragedy. If I live, it'll be a miracle. If I write a book, it'll be a bestseller. None of which will change the fact that my granddad carried oxygen for Hillary, my dad carried oxygen for Bonington, and I carry oxygen for a man who thinks crampons are a type of pasta.'
But who am I to rain on the parade? Let us raise a glass of lukewarm chardonnay to Tenzing Norbu, the latest exhibit in the museum of white guilt. Let us applaud his strength while conveniently ignoring the structural inequalities that put him on that mountain in the first place. Let us, in short, do what the British do best: celebrate resilience while perpetuating the conditions that necessitate it.
As I drain my third airport gin, I propose a toast: to Tenzing, to the spirit of Everest, and to the magnificent capacity of the British imagination to turn any narrative into a self-congratulatory allegory. Cheers, you beautiful, ridiculous race of would-be mountaineers. May your next climb be as effortless as your self-regard.
