Part 1
Read Passage A carefully, and then answer Questions 1 and 2 on the Question Paper.
Passage A
Aron Ralston was hiking alone in the Utah wilderness when he decided to go canyon climbing.
Halfway up a rock face, disaster struck. Ralston recalls the last hours of his ordeal
I watch dawn pushing its way into the canyon. It is Thursday, May 1 - day six of my ordeal. I
cannot believe I'm still alive. I should have died days ago. Without any task or stimulus, I'm no
longer living, no longer surviving. I'm just waiting. I have nothing whatsoever to do. Only in action
does my life approximate anything more than existence. Miserable, I watch another empty hour
pass by.
But I have to do something, despite the in utility of any action. I reach for my hammer rock.
Adrenaline channels into anger, and I raise the hammer, in retribution for what this wretched
piece of rock has done to my hand.
Bonk! I strike the boulder. Thwock! Again. The rage blooms purple in my mind, amid a small
mushroom cloud of pulverised grit. I bring the rock down again. Carrunch! I growl with animalistic
fury in response to the pain pulsing in my left hand.
I've created a mess once again. To brush the dirt off my trapped arm, away from the open
wound, I pick up my knife. Sweeping the grit off my thumb, I accidentally gouge myself and rip
away a thin piece of decayed flesh. It peels back like a skin of boiled milk before I catch what is
going on. I already knew my hand had to be decomposing. Without circulation, it has been dying
since I became entrapped. Whenever I considered amputation, it had always been under the
premise that the hand was dead and would have to be amputated once I was freed. But I hadn't
known how fast the putrefaction had advanced since Saturday afternoon.
Out of curiosity, I poke my thumb with the blade. It punctures the epidermis as if it is dipping into
a stick of room-temperature butter, and releases a tell-tale hiss of escaping gas. Though the
smell is faint to my desensitised nose, it is abjectly unpleasant, the stench of a carcass.
All I want now is to simply rid myself of any connection to this decomposing limb.
I don't want it.
It's not a part of me.
I scream out in pure hate, shrieking as I batter my body to and fro against the canyon walls,
losing every bit of composure that I've struggled so intensely to maintain. Then I feel my arm
bend unnaturally in the unbudging grip of the chockstone.
My first act is to sever, with a downward sawing motion, as much of the skin on the inside
surface of my forearm as I can, without tearing any of the noodle-like veins close to the skin.
Once I've opened a large enough hole in my arm, I stow the knife, holding its handle in my teeth,
and poke first my left forefinger and then my left thumb inside my arm and feel around. Sorting
through the bizarre and unfamiliar textures, I make a mental map of my arm's inner features. I
feel bundles of muscle fibres and, working my fingers behind them, find two pairs of cleanly
fractured but jagged bone ends. Now I know that soon I will be free of the rest of my crushed
dead hand.
Prodding and pinching, I can distinguish between the hard tendons and ligaments, and the soft,
rubbery feel of the more pliable arteries. I should avoid cutting the arteries until the end if I can
help it at all, I decide.
Sort, pinch, rotate, slice.
Ten, 15, or maybe 20 minutes slip past me. I am engrossed in making the surgical work go as
fast as possible. The surgery is slowing down now that I have come to a stubbornly durable
tendon, and I don't want to lose blood unnecessarily while I'm still trapped. I'll need every bit of it
for the hike to my truck.
Setting the knife down on the chockstone, I pick up the neoprene tubing of my water bottle, which
has been sitting there unused for the past two days. I cinch the black insulation tube in a double
loop around my forearm, three inches below my elbow. Next, I quickly attach a climbing hook into
the tourniquet and twist it tight.
"Why did I have to suffer all this extra time?" God, I must be the dumbest guy ever to have had
his hand trapped by a boulder. It took me six days to figure out how I could cut off my arm.
Grip, squeeze, twist, tear.
1.
Write a newspaper article about Aron Ralston ordeal with the title ‘Trapped.’
•
How did Ralston feel on day six of his ordeal?
•
How did he cut his arm off?
•
What are his thoughts and feelings towards his future?
Base your newspaper article on what you have read in Passage A, but be careful to use your own
words. Address each of the three bullets.
Write about 250 to 350 words.
Up to 15 marks are available for the content of your answer, and up to 5 marks for the quality of
your writing.
2. Re-read the descriptions of Ralston’s emotions and actions:
(a) ‘Bonk! I strike the boulder. Thwock! Again…’
(b) ‘My first act is to sever, with a downward sawing motion…’
Select four powerful words or phrases from each paragraph. Your choices should include imagery.
Explain how each word or phrase selected is used effectively in the context.
Write about 200 to 300 words.
Up to 10 marks are available for the content of your answer.
Part 2
Read Passage B.
Then answer Question 3, which is based on this passage.
Passage B
Paintballing – a birthday treat?
Recently, for my birthday, my teenage children ceremoniously handed me an ordinary envelope and
urged, “Open it quick!” A postcard-sized coupon dropped out, and on it was an invitation to ‘Come
Along and Blast Your Cares Away!’, accompanied by a cartoon drawing of a person in combat
uniform, armed with a large rifle. The image unsettled me. Had my offspring signed me up for the
army as a birthday treat? I looked at their laughing faces as the eldest declared, “It’s a morning’s
paintball session, Mum! Don’t worry. Dad will explain everything on the way to the venue this
afternoon.” I was soon to discover what this birthday ‘treat’ was all about, and pretended to play
along enthusiastically with everyone else’s excitement.
“Don’t worry, I’ve already checked this place out,” my husband said, once we were in the car.
“Paintball is good fun, but it’s also a game of action and skill. Families, friends and even work
colleagues are organised into teams. Each team has a different colour paint to fire at their
opponents, and the object of the game is a make-believe battle where everyone tries to ‘hit’ the
other side whilst avoiding getting hit themselves. The winner is the last person standing.”
‘What else could I be doing on my birthday?’ I thought, as we sped on.
Arriving at the paintball site, a sprawling area of woodland with a log cabin used as an office, we
were ushered in and had to fill out medical forms which checked we were fit and healthy. Then we
were given our protective clothing and headgear, which included an eye mask. Our guide told us,
“Every manufactured paintball mask must be made to withstand a paintball travelling at least 300
feet per second – that’s about 205 miles per hour – so you don’t have to worry.” I was already
wondering how much a paintball travelling at that speed would hurt the rest of my body and began
to regret my earlier bravado. Reading my thoughts, my husband started quoting details of the sport
that were pinned to the wall.
“Listen to this, Zena. The paintballs aren’t like bullets, they are gel capsules – made of gelatine and
food colouring – and they are completely edible. There are paintball eating contests all the time at
tournaments and events.”
“Great, if we get hungry we can lunch on a yellow one,” I replied, still unconvinced.
Once we were ready, we were quickly introduced to our instructor, Ravi, who was an enthusiastic
mine of information. “It is my job to guarantee that you have an enjoyable and safe experience,” he
began. “Paintball has regulated itself. We have developed rules and guidelines, and all paintball
facilities in the world adhere to them strictly. You must keep your masks on at all times, including
the introductory session inside. You must make sure that your marker, which is what we call the
rifle, is shooting under the legal speed limit, as we shall demonstrate later. Our company and players
also ensure that the equipment is in good shape and well maintained.” I must have looked worried
because he turned and said, “Some people associate this sport with ‘war games’ but, believe me, it’s
really enjoyable out there and the only danger you might encounter is falling over a tree root! There
are more injuries reported from basketball and baseball than from paintball in any given year. Once
you get out there you will become totally immersed in a ‘friendly fight’. Go on and enjoy yourself –
you’ll be surprised!” With that he led us to the indoor demonstration area.
Two hours later, I emerged smiling, my overalls spattered in bright crimson and my face a healthy
glow. I felt like a child who had been out playing in the countryside and was now, reluctantly, being
called in for supper.
Read carefully Passage B, Paintballing - A birthday treat? and then answer
Question 3(a) and (b) on this Question Paper.
Question 3
Answer the questions in the order set.
(a) Notes
What are the ways in which paintballing is a safe sport, according to Passage B?
Write your answer using short notes.
You do not need to use your own words.
Up to 15 marks are available for the content of your answer.
What are the ways in which paintballing is a safe sport:
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[Total 15 Marks]
(b) Summary
Now use your notes to write a summary of what Passage B tells you about the ways in which
paintballing is a safe sport. You must use continuous writing (not note form) and use your
own words as far as possible.
Your summary should include all 15 of your points in Question 3(a) and must be 200 to 250
words.
Up to 5 marks are available for the quality of your writing