Once, there was a mountain in Nepal, and it was a dreadful beast. Far too tall to do anyone any good, the people who lived at its base figured, and so they left it alone. Then, a white man showed up.

“Look at that big fella. I’m gonna climb up there.”

A man who was native to the area answered him,

“You shouldn’t.”

“But I’m gonna.”

“Nothing up there but death.”

“Gonna climb right up and piss on the summit.”

“Don’t do that, man.”

“You got a name for that mountain?”

“Sagarmatha.”

“Isn’t that adorable. What does that mean?”

“Don’t climb me or you’ll die horribly.”

“It sounds better in Nepalese.”

“I’ll give you that.”

And so the man who grew up in the mountain’s shadow wished the white man good luck, and went on his way.

“Tenzing!” came a voice from the monastery. It was the head lama. “C’mere!”

And so Tenzing did.

“Make sure the white guy doesn’t die.”

“What? Why?”

“Because he might have a navy or something.”

“We’re a landlocked people.”

“Air Force, whatever. Dead white guys are more trouble than they’re worth. Keep him alive so we can get him out of here.”

“Oh, I don’t wanna.”

“Fine. We need someone to shave the yak.”

“I’ll climb the mountain.”

And so Tenzing Norgay the Sherpa did make sure that Edmund Hillary did not die going up Sagarmatha, and then did not allow him to die descending the mountain, and Edmund Hillary was so grateful to Tenzing that he named the mountain after another white guy.