Travel Literature: A Bombing Ground.

Part I 

I find that Old Glory: A Voyage down the Mississippi to be the most effective out of the rest because of the diction that the writer uses was able to engage me throughout the whole extract. 

The diction, was as if he was writing a thriller, and he wasn't really concentrating on his car or mood, what he really was thinking about was the landscape, "the white-painted farms set back behind good fences, each one with its grain silo topped by an aluminum cone like a witch's hat, the long sweep of freshly harvested valleys reduced to hog's bristle". This helps me imagine the environment he was driving through.

The thought of no one but himself was on the road, seemed suspicious. At first, I thought that he was on a somewhat busy road, but when the first line had said, "the road was empty - not a truck or a car in miles," it seemed like he wasn't welcomed into the place he is travelling to.

Part II

On the 15th of April 2013, an ambulance blared its horns in the city of Boston. I had laid inside, staring at the blank ceiling, with my mother and a doctor by my side. The pain in my right arm and my right leg was excruciatingly painful. I couldn't help it, but I cried. My mother was staring at me, with horror and tears in her eyes. I could hear people outside crying like there's no tomorrow. I wished it could all stop.

After 30 minutes, I was rushed straight into a room, which we all call, an ICU. I saw my mother pushing away the nurses and she ran towards me, only to be caught in the doctor's arms. I heard my mother shouting and screaming at the doctor, so she could follow me inside the cream coloured room. She kept screaming and I could still hear her, even when the doors were shut tight.

Mother... I had thought while crying out salty tears, stop... I have heard enough shouting, screaming and crying today, so please, just stop.

The next second later, I saw the world darken, the few hours of surgery was about to commence.

After two weeks, my limbs on the right were still not healed, the doctor had warned me about the third-degree burns, saying that it would take more than a month to heal. I sat on my bed, thinking about that afternoon, and how frightful it was, and I could still remember the bright light, flashing in my bloodshot eyes.

Three people were killed and there were 264 casualties, and that is including me. I was glad to watch the police arresting of the two brothers that planned the 'party', they both deserved it.

"Dear, do you need help? Are you able to walk?" My mother would call me from the kitchen.

"I'm fine!" I would reply, usually.

I still remember that sickening day, especially the horrible sounds that echoed through my ears.

The 15th of April 2013, was the day I nearly lost my life.

Travel Literature: The Korean Threat

Part 1

I found the extract Old Glory: A Voyage Down the Mississippi  to be the most interesting and effective because of its use of diction to set the surrounding, and atmosphere. The diction is used very well to create a suspicious and thriller like genre. The suspicion is what  grabs the readers attention, because he starts talking about dead racoons. Also the thought that they were no people anywhere to be seen. It gives the reader a chill factor into wondering where they must all be? and what is going on?
The tone of the extract is also quite interesting. The way he talks about the death of the racoons so easily, without a trace of scarce or worry in it.


Part 2

The city was clean, not a single speck of dirt in sight. The people don't look scared one bit, but how can they be they've been hearing these threats for years now. I had that feeling in my stomach that this wasn't a good idea, that this threat was the worst of them all.

Yet here I was going up to the mountain that was the closest point to the Enemy just to see the people. My father joked about how they could see us, and just reach for me and take me away. It wasn't funny, frankly it annoyed me how little he cared about the threats. How little any of them cared!

We drove up the mountain round after round, it only hit me then that I hadn't seen a single animal through out the whole trip. It didn't help with the anxiety of going up there. Seconds felt like minutes, and minutes felt like hours. I was getting sick of the drive, I just wanted to get out and let the cold, breezy air consume me and take me away from this place. Yet I knew this dream, no wish wouldn't come true, who could stop a taxi going up the mountain, it's not like he could even understand what I was saying.

Before I could say anything to my mum about my wish, I saw the building. It peeked beautifully through the winter trees. Shiny black, plastered with clear glass windows and binoculars standing up in every possible gap. I heard my brother say something in their language but i was to overwhelmed to listen. But then he said it again in English "The connecting and observing point". "Connecting" the word practically broke every nerve in my body! my thoughts went screaming all over the place, "can they get me!" "why would they build this place!". My mum put her hand on my shoulder, almost as if she could read my thoughts and said "hes just joking, you can only observe their country here, they wont get you I promise"

I felt only anger at that point, towards my brother. I was so mad that the heat I produced could completely warm me, from the killer ice. The place was so technologically impressive, i nearly got over my paranoia. But the best moment was when i got to see the enemy side through my binoculars  they looked so poor and helpless. They were there, there crops looked horrible and this icy weather did them no good. I felt so bad for them, how could their leader put them through all this. At that exact moment I realised why everyone was so calm, South Korea will always have the upper hand, to North Korea. Not matter what it is, even if its the threat of bombing them today. They wont be scared because they've got the US military, they've got the plan, and they've got the leader!

Travel Literature: Malaysian Mount Doom

Part One

I find Old Glory: A Voyage down the Mississippi to be the most effective because of its engaging diction and atmosphere. His road trip is told as if it is a thriller. He focuses on describing the landscape more than his car and his mood, which makes it more about the area he travelled to than himself: “The road sliced through a broken, hilly landscape of forest, corn and cattle.”

The way he turns his road trip into a thriller not only engages the reader in the story, but also draws the reader into the situation he is in: “I twiddled my way through the burble on the radio.” He makes himself sound superior to his surroundings, which is necessary in travel literature, even vice-versa.

Part Two

After what a madman might call “rest”, my father and I woke to prepare for our journey in the darkness. Once we had eaten a mediocre breakfast, we walked into the chilly night.

Endless wooden steps began to mark a pathway through mountainous forest. Crickets spurred on the walkers with their soothing chirps, as did frequent breaks. Each step seemed like an arch-nemesis as we crawled up the beginnings of the peak.

Massive slabs of rock painted the second section like a post-apocalyptic final frontier. Torn ropes were our only support now, with a three thousand kilometre drop either side. But as the steepness died down, we had nut bars to feed our hungry leg and arm muscles.

With only half a kilometre to go, frozen plants were illuminated by the beginnings of a sunrise. The top of this mountain seemed like the end of the universe, like a rocky heaven with clouds far below. “We’re so high,” we joked.

Half a kilometre turned into a third as we dragged our dying legs over the desolate plateau of frosted rock. Little cracks where slabs joined gave me comfort, providing me with something to observe.

The peak was a random arrangement of boulders into a wave shape. Ropes were draped down our destination, although they were of little help.

After fifty thousand photos were taken, we edged back down the peak. Then galumphed over the plateau before I leaped down the steps.

The nut bars had kicked in.

With little rest, I sped down the forest, rocks and ridges I had climbed before. Pitcher plants turned into signposts as rock turned to dirt. The vapour dripped on my shoulders no more, because tropical air was in its place.

It was only when I hopped on the coach that I realized how hard climbing Mount Kinabalu was. 

Travel Literature

Travel Literature

Part 1

To me the extract from Old Glory: A Voyage down the Mississippi was the most effective. To me it is attention grabbing from the start when there was the part where he compared the raccoons to a school boy and a beggar, he says they are good at somethings but not at others. He says this when he said that they were "Supremely talented, in a schoolboy way, at night exercises, at noisy raids on garbage cans, at climbing trees, they had no gift at all for crossing roads. Bright lights mesmerized them, and they died careless hobos' deaths on the wooded edges of tiny unincorporated towns." This added some humor into the text already. To me some of the most important parts of a Travel Log are things like humor, interesting happenings and being able to relate, which I mean like when you say "that could happen to me". But things also have to be close to the truth and not exaggerated to get it right or else you won't believe a word of the text.

Part 2

A Cross Country Tour

I cruised along in my car, the highway was relatively empty with only a few 16 wheelers and travelers like me. Besides the roadkill every once in a while and some big dairy farms once every twenty five kilometers where wasn't much, maybe those diners too. I turned on the radio and skimmed through the stations, there were your news stations, pop stations and so on. I stayed on a  country station and hummed to the tune of the song. I checked my gas meter and saw it was running low but I was fifteen kilometers to the nearest town and my remaining gas would only last eight. Either I had a long walk ahead or I had to be really, really lucky. I decided to get as far as I could then try my luck.

Eight kilometers and an empty gas tank later I pulled over to the side of the road. I got out and I tried to flag down some cars for some help but none would stop, but God help me when I looked and saw what was maybe, ten or twenty bikes riding towards me. The riders looked bad to the bone, part of a biker gang most likely. I hoped they would keep on going but of course, that didn't happen they stopped. Their leader, or at least what looked to be approached me. I was expecting some mean words or something from them but maybe that was my naivety. He flashed me a great big smile. His voice was deep and rich, not unlike that of Morgan Freeman's. He said five words. Five words that were those of an angel's.

"Do you need help son?"

Turned out they were quite nice guys despite everything that's said about them. They even gave me some gas, free of charge. I thanked them and they went on their way, even giving me an extra gasoline can in case I needed it. And so, I started up my car and drove on, towards Juarez.

A Wishful Torture + openings

Part:1

The 7th opening had to be the most intriguing, and mind babbling opening of the texts. I loved how it starts of confusing the reader, this is really effective because it draws in the readers, almost forcing them to continue reading. The reason why its so confusing is because, it starts of with a tragedy like mystery. We are left wondering what happened to that mam? how did he get into this state?

The diction gave a very good picture of what was happening. "colourful mixture of spit, snot, urine, vomit and blood" I could easily tell from this description, he was hurt badly and the situation is devastatingly bad. The reason why I chose this opening is because, with out revelling  to much they gave a perfect picture of what was happening, and made me want to unravel the mystery that was behind the accident.

Part: 2

It's nearly 12am, and im still waiting for that call. I knew it was a foolish thought! a girl like me short, straight plain black hair that consumed most of my face, and that stupid freckle that sits nicely in place and mocks me. Should of listened when they told me I was heading for heart break. 

The silence of the room, doesn't help with the tension. Neither do the millions of faces plastered all over my walls, I have everyones face except for his. The one thats putting me through all this pain! Since his prense i've been through all hell, and torture. All because I believed this one wish, and to my misery he was to be part of it. But tonight, this call will determine everything thing, if all this hell was worth it!

The darkness consumes me and all this thought of hatred and torture surronds me. The only source of light, is the golden turing lamp, with the animal cut outs. Its almost like the shadows are chasing the light, just like im chasing my wish. But how could I forget, this day, this moment all started with the golden lamp........

Task 6: Travel Literature

This week, I am going to ask you to experiment in a genre usually associated with non-fiction (although there have also been plenty of fictional accounts): travel literature.

Just like the others this term, your task will consist of two parts; however, unlike the other tasks, which will predominantly deal with genres with which you have some familiarity, your success with this task will depend massively on how much you are able to learn from Part One - and how much you are able to demonstrate what you have learnt when you write your own piece in Part Two.

Part One

Mrs Gougeon will put on the weebly all FIVE EXCERPTS from famous and successful pieces of travel literature. You need to READ them carefully, CHOOSE which one you thought was the most effective of its genre, and EXPLAIN, in some detail and with examples (i.e. quotations), why you made your choice.

This is your chance to identify some of the most successful ingredients of good travel literature - e.g. witty anecdotes, figurative descriptions etc. - in order that you can try to embed those very same techniques in your own travel writing in Part Two.

Part Two

First of all, you will need to DECIDE on your subject matter. Unless you have spent the last 12-16 years locked 24/7 in a darkened room, you have all travelled considerably, whether it be internationally, nationally or just in the local area. And it is important to realise that good travel literature does not need to be about some exotic location: one of my favourite pieces by American travel writer, Bill Bryson, is simply about a small section of the Central Line on the London Underground.

Then, using some of the techniques you have observed in one/some/all of the excerpts I have sent you to bring your writing to life and engage and sustain the interest of your reader, you should WRITE (approx) 300-400 words in which you describe an episode from one of your own travels. N.B A tip: don't try to write about an entire holiday, as you will, inevitably, end up just skimming the surface; a brief episode, a particular segment of a journey, one chance encounter - these are ample around which to base such a short piece of travel literature.

The DEADLINE for this task is midnight on Saturday 1st June 2013.

Finally, here is my attempt:

When I was 21, I nearly died.

It was only on 31st October 1996, from the tectonic safety of a house I shared with another trainee teacher, the right side of the walls of H.M.P. Wakefield, home to some of the country's most dangerous and violent criminals, that I first realised quite how close I had come to extinction just under a year earlier. A brief item towards the end of the news mentioned that Gunung Merapi, an active (and, evidently, rather angry) volcano in the middle of the Indonesian island of Java, was erupting. Burning ash was raining down on houses on the mountain's flank, after part of the lava dome itself had collapsed earlier that day.

January 1996. In hindsight, certain details should have spoken louder to us, as we unpacked our rucksacks in the Merapi View hostel the night before our ascent: the eery absence of life emanating from almost all the houses we passed as we strolled around the village upon arrival; the still raw, lifeless canyon carved where half the village had been only two years previously; the fact that the puddles by the side of the road were all bubbling! The incessant plume of smoke from the summit should have warned us that someone was definitely at home; and the distinct absence of any vegetation whatsoever around the entire peak should have made it perfectly clear that visitors were definitely not welcome.

Was it the arrogance of youth? Or the naivete of the foreign traveler? Perhaps we were guilty of exactly the same disrespect we had villified in the hoards of tourists who scaled the holy arc of Uluru in Australia the month before? Deaf to common sense and blind to our own mortality, we duly rose in the middle of the night, donned our waterproofs and walking boots, and joined our brave guide as he took us on the three hour hike to the treeline. Had the sound of the rain abated, had our feverish pace slackened just for a moment, I might have called out to him, and asked him if this was really safe.

However, to be honest, the blackened stumps which spiked the grass as far as the eye could see gave me my answer; as did the thunder which shook the mountainside several times during our climb and descent. For it wasn't thunder. At the end of the news item back in Wakefield, the reporter explained, in sober tones, that the recent eruption was, in fact, nothing more than a continuation: Gunung Merapi had actually been erupting constantly since late 1994.

Note to self: if in close proximity to the fiery peak of an active volcano, walk the other way.

An Eternity + Openings

Part I

     I really found the seventh opening really fun to read, it holds a mystery behind the words and it left me thinking, 'what had happened to this man?' It had held a conversation between himself and the flight attendant, so I was given a personal window into the story. The description of his face and torso was really interesting; it gave me a really good estimation on how this would have looked like.

     In the end, when he had said, ‘I look around for anything I might have with me, but there's nothing. No ticket, no bags, no clothes, no wallet. I sit and wait and I try to figure out what happened. Nothing comes,'’ it somewhat makes me feel like he had been moved to another place, like Chicago, for his own good, or for a mission. It also seems like he has faced amnesia, somewhat.

Part II

     Getting into trouble was the only thing I could get an A* for. Usually, I would be tortured for several minutes, but now I could be tortured for days, I had done something really dreadful to get me into this mess, but I shouldn't tell you because you may be targeted after they finish me off.

     It was midnight, and I was busy hiding myself between two buildings, it smelled horrible. Why didn't I pick another stupid alley? I quietly shivered in the coldness, even though I was sweating madly. I had been running for hours. I heard a sudden click towards my right and I quietly mumbled a curse, or two.

Click...

     His shoes dragged shadows and his arms dragged blood. His sneer glistened ever so brightly under the dazzling moon's rays as if  he seemed so thrilled to say, "have a wonderful time being tortured," to my bloodied up face.

     I gulped when I could feel he had stopped and when the air had tensed around me. I shut my eyes and a split second later, I could feel his coldness seeping into my skin. When I slowly opened my eyes, I saw that his clothing was ripped as if he had fallen into a gigantic blender. Everything he wore was black, and the semi-dry blood on his top had made his scent strong. The stench was disgusting.

     He slammed the gun into my ribs and I nearly choked.

"Have a pleasant time being tortured by my men. I can't wait to hear your screams in the shadows."

     Well my wonderful readers, I'm about to be tortured soon, and the only thing I can say to you is: don’t wish you can live for an eternity; it too as a matter of fact, has its downsides.