020 EEJIT English journalism, like any other journalism worldwide, is the result of a genius idea: to combine “page 3” and the obituary section in the same shit of paper, which is exactly what the old farts did with the Everest expedition: to fuel the love for the national hero —if only to double the price of their newspaper upon his death. NOW HERE: LHASA, NEPAL, APRIL 29TH, 1922. I sti l l cherish the day George and I met the 13th Dalai Lama. On that 29th of Apri l , he forecasted our imminent deaths with the deadly gleam in his eyes and forgave us for trespassing his prodigious mountain range, where only the TWO D l ived: Disaster and Dharma. The Dalai had never met British people, let alone mountaineers, and he quietly concealed his bewilderment: only enlightened beings could face the murderous nature of the upper mountains. Stab the flag sounded ludicrous: why on Earth would you do that? Mallory and I met the Dalai only hours before George dropped me off the ridge of an iced canyon in his usual clumsy fashion. It happened only five days before the avalanche, so I should consider myself lucky. I was rescued almost unscathed, but since the Buddha had just announced my death sentence, I was expecting a rather terminal outcome. I took the fall with as much dignity as I could gather, which was not that much. My waist belt was damaged, and my canvas got ripped and scratched, although not beyond repair. It was infuriating that the ineptness of a man had obliterated the painstaking work of my highly crafted artisans. George’s lack of coordination and balance was unnerving: he could knock out tents, food, cameras or knapsacks, and his negligent handling of the most basic props and devices would bring the expedition to the brink of collapse. It was astounding to observe how such a light and flexible carrier, a man who could climb vertical, frozen walls like a Geisha tightrope walker, was so helpless when moving in zero gravity. If he had only listened to what the Dalai Lama had to say in Lhasa, we would be singing a different tune. Beyond all that, he was the most handsome man to ever put his hands on me. EPILOGUE Before uttering his deadly vision, the Dalai showed genuine interest in my existence and mind-blowing interior design. I’m not a plastic handbag. I was George’s life. Apologies to Ruth, his widow, and their babies, but I was a very fine knapsack, and I’m proud to have spent more time with the irresistible George Mallory than he did with Ruth and the kids in his final years. We were never disloyal to them, and my outburst about his clumsiness is just my blue coping mechanism to deal with his absence. I can only be grateful for having no feelings, although I did feel for George. How could you not? I was handmade by the most dexterous artisans of London: tai lors, seamstresses and needle workers took extreme care to sew and embroider my inside pockets and zips and buckles, to match my fibres and leather hues, most of my rivets carefully picked to match the colours of iridescence, the same brilliance that laid at the bottom of George’s utter sadness. My life was handled with care and fineness until George came into the picture with his cold hands and impetuous thumbs. He kept sliding them through my shoulder pads as if they were vulgar rags. The friction was far from erotic, but I was aroused nonetheless, oh my George. THE LATE SENTENCE The Dalai Lama lowered his eyelids to say that we were about to die, and he did it with such kindred and loving words that he set me free: on that 29th of April I was blessed by the closest to a God amongst men I was ever to meet, and I became as fearless as George was, therefore we were ready to die together. It is mind-boggling that I’m still around a hundred years later, isn’t it? I was George’s last belonging to be found after he vanished: a loyal and firm rucksack exclusively designed in Savile Row for the second and third expedition to Mt. Everest. George used to call me Leopold, which not coincidentally is the name on the label attached to my glass-case at the British History Museum: “Rucksack Leopold, one of two, designed and sewn in Savile Row 1922.”
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