Badbury Clump, near Faringdon, Oxfordshire. HINGEFINKLE'S LOGBOOK (Eleventh Instalment) The Attack of the Amphisbena It is most lamentable that the class of cold-blooded, crawling creatures whose hearts possess a single ventricle - by which I mean that plethora of species which includes the swamp-inhabiting Eft (known in the vulgar tongue as the “Newt”), the Frog, Toad, Axolotl, and most likely the Hydra, as well as those creatures more (though not exclusively) fond of dry land, such as the legged and legless Lizards and Serpents, and those of hybrid natures such as Cockatrices and Basilisks - should be regarded, even in our enlightened times, with the utmost odium and distrust. Witness, for example, what a certain supposedly distinguished authority says in his Systema about these maligned and unfortunate creatures: Amphibia pleraque horrent, Corpore frigido, Colore livido, Cute Foeda, Facie torva, Obtutu meditabundo, Odore tetro, Sono rauco, Loco squalido, Veneo horrendo; non itaque in horum numerum sese jactavit eorum Auctor. - which, if I may venture a loose translation, means something like: Abhorrent are amphibians: Their bodies corpse-cold; Pale is their pigment; And squalid their skin! Abhorrent are amphibians: Their skeletons gristle, Malign are their eyes, And offensive their stench! Abhorrent are amphibians: Vile is their venom, Horrendous their habitats, Vulgar their voice. Abhorrent are amphibians, Grovelling on the ground. The Demiurge disdained Manufacturing too many. I need hardly say that the author of that diatribe had never visited the Rancid Swamp, or he would have realised that, contrary to his assumption, the Demiurge clearly delights in the amphibians, and indeed, encourages them to multiply and to evolve into an infinite and perplexing variety. He has committed, I fear, the unforgivable error of allowing his revulsion to affect his powers of observation, for he proceeds to classify among the Amphibia the Slow-worms, Lizards, Serpents and other creatures bearing scales and shedding their skins, applying to all and sundry further strings of libellous and mischievous epithets. This author, whose name I intend to withold, is supposedly an expert in his field; yet he has merely achieved the dubious distinction of gathering together a conglomeration of popular misconceptions under the guise of learned discourse. It is all pure fiddlesticks; would that he could have met with an Amphisbena and had his prejudices confirmed! * Once you have visited the Spodleian Library, my dear little Alias, it is well worth exploring its environs. Some five miles to the north, following the River Churnwell, you will find a little village of stone cottages, running up the hillside from the river-valley. Here, the river splits in two, and its tributary, named after a far more distinguished naturalist than the one I have been quoting, splits again and again, forming the fen which, in the times of the Great Goblin Hegemony, came to be known by the disparaging and misleading title of Snot Moor. The town itself did not have a name when I passed through it with Gladys Sparkbright - but it does now: it is called I-slip, for reasons which will soon become evident. It is a picturesque sort of a place, and the inn provides very respectable lodgings. I was keen to explore the “Moor” if Gladys would let me, so I persuaded her, with some difficulty, that we had travelled far enough for one day, and with our packs hung on the ends of our bunks, we sat and listened to the conversation of the locals as they guzzled ale from pewter mugs. “Bloomin’ ‘eck!” said the Tinker, a wizened little man with three teeth, who had long since hammered off all his fingernails. “If all this ‘ere trouble keeps up loike it ‘as been, I think I’ll be saddlin’ up me ‘oss an gettin’ outer ‘ere!” “Aye, yer cud ‘ardly be blamed fer that,” replied the Cobbler, wiping froth from his moustache with the back of his hand. “Not after wot ‘appened last noight!” “Oi can remember whan this ‘ere village used ter be as quoiet as a dead newt,” put in the Landlord, passing around more mugs of ale. “But this ‘ere mystery o’ th’ ‘Orrible ‘Oop ‘as got th’ ‘ole place all aeriated, loike a bottler ale wit’ too much primin’ sugar. Reckon we’re all goin’ ter explode wit’ anxoiety soon!” “Then why are we all sittin’ around witterin’ about it?” grumbled the Landlady, nudging her husband in the ribs, and gathering up the empty pickled-egg jars. “Let’s just get outer ‘ere, afore we end up loike Joe th’ Miller, pushin’ up daisies!” “Hum,” I said, exchanging intrigued glances with Gladys, “Perhaps we could be of some assistance. What precisely is the Horrible Hoop, and what happened to Joe the Miller?” “Ere! Wot ‘appened to Joe th’ Miller, ‘e wants t’know!” the Tinker laughed ruefully. “As if it ain’t all over these parts already!” “Joe th’ Miller dropped dead, just loike that,” explained the Landlady helpfully, “with an ‘orrible look o’ fear on

JARSO, ETHIOPIA. We'd been driving forever (or so it seemed) up & down bumpy goat paths & donkey trails, twisting along the sides of mountains. Surely the community of Jarso must be one of the most remote & isolated place on the planet (definitely the most remote place that I've ever been to - nearly a 10-hour drive from Addis Ababa, the last 2 hours of which had litterally kept me on the edge of my seat. And quite uncomfortably so.) I glanced out the window to see a young child carrying a tin mug & a large yellow jerry-can squatting by the side of a river to drink. This might sound like a lovely scene to stumble upon, except for the fact that the water was murky brown and filled with pollution. "DON'T DRINK IT!" I wanted to stop the car and warn her... but this is the only water available to her - of course she was going to drink it. Not only was she going to drink it, but she would fill up her big yellow jerry-can and carry that water home to her family too. Even I, as a fully grown adult, would struggle to carry such a heavy water container... let alone a little child like this to hoist it up on her tiny frame and carry it home in bare feet. That scene - a young girl drinking polluted water has been seared into my memory. Often when I travel, I'm privileged to visit World Vision communities that are several years into a thriving development process - successful enough so that visible progress can easily be seen, with community members excited & engaged in thriving transformation work. But in November 2010, the community of Jarso painted for me a starkly contrasting "BEFORE" picture. This is what a community looks like BEFORE World Vision gets involved. Jarso is an example of the base line, and the poverty here runs deep. It isn't to say that there's no hope here (there's plenty now that World Vision is getting involved) but it IS to say that there's a lot of work to be done and a lot of challenges to overcome. Fortunately, I've seen enough of World Vision's "AFTER" work that I'm confident the children of Jarso will be making leaps and bounds in the coming years & that lives here will be transformed - but not without the consistent partnership of child sponsors from across Canada stepping up to the plate and saying "I want to partner in this journey of transformation by sponsoring a child in Jarso." Could that be you? Could you be the one to help bring real change to the life of a child, their family and their community? Could you be the one to help provide a hand up (not a hand out) by providing things like access to potable water, health care, food security, access to education and income generating opportunities for families so that they can provide for their own future down the road? It's an amazing transformative process, and it works. Change a Life. Change Your Own. Joanna Robertson, Ethiopia 2010