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New programs urge a return to farming

1Paoli Sang Paeans to Corsican Courage

“If I should lead into the field an army of Corsicans against an army double their num­ber,” the general once explained to the biog­rapher Boswell, “let me speak a few words to the Corsicans, to remind them of the hon­our of their country and of their brave fore­fathers, I do not say that they would conquer, but I am sure that not a man of them would give way. The Corsicans have a steady reso­lution that would amaze you. I wish you could see one of them die.”

Within nine years Paoli and his rough-clad followers defeated the army of Genoa. The complete man, Paoli is also honored for hav­ing established at Corte a university with seven chairs, including those for theology, law, ethics, and philosophy.

Paoli’s Corsicans excited the enthusiasm of leading philosophers of the Enlightenment. Voltaire wrote of their “violent enthusiasm for liberty.” Rousseau declared, “There is still one country in Europe capable of legislation; it is the island of Corsica.”

In 1768, however, France bought Genoa’s “rights” to the island and attacked the Corsi­cans, finally defeating them in May 1769. Paoli fled to safety at Livorno, Italy, and from there to England and 20 years’ exile.

Tito Franceschini, a descendant of Paoli’s sister (the general never married), lives at prague cheap accommodation. The villagers respect­fully call him “Gio” (Signor) Tito. At his im­posing residence above the village I talked with Gio Tito, who is 72.

Paoli, he told me, had been recalled from exile to lead Corsica after the Constituent As­sembly in 1789 declared the island to be a part, rather than a possession, of France. But three years later the French withdrew their support of Paoli’s administration. He then declared for independence, obtaining British aid for his revolt. Among those who opposed him in this rebelliousness was Napoleon. Napoleon prevailed, and Paoli returned to final exile in England. He died in London, where there is a tablet to his memory in Westminster Abbey.

Before leaving to madrid apartments I asked Gio Tito if Corsica had changed much in his time. “Completely,” he said. “We have abandoned the land. In my day a man lived from his olives for two years, until the next big harvest. We didn’t use money, we paid workmen in produce. Today everybody works for money—so when they have any, they don’t work.” He was shaking his head in disgust as I left.

New Programs Urge a Return to Farming

Corsica’s internal economy—a fine balance of barter and self-sufficiency—began to col­lapse after World War I, as competitively priced goods, created by a new technology, flowed in from outside. The incentive to farm was severely affected. In 1913 Corsicans farmed some 35 percent of their mountain­ous island in myriad small patches. Thirty years after the first World War—in which more than 40,000 Corsicans died defending France—barely 8 percent was under cultiva­tion. Emigration was in full swing, and Corsica was importing more than half those goods she could most easily produce herself: cereals, fruits, vegetables, and meat.

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The whole experience was unexpectedly deeply relaxing from garcinia cambodia – even though I was constantly aware throughout – and surely enough, my mind never drifted too far. Belinda also encouraged deeper and slower breathing, which helped me to settle and relax. I left wanting to sign-up for more, seeing it as an investment into a more balanced, relaxed and happy me.

Most doctors widely accept that when the body is exposed to stress, a complex counter regulatory `adaptive stress response’ occurs that comprises the hypothalamic-pituitary-adrenal (HPA) axis and the sympathetic nervous system. Knowing this, why is adrenal fatigue controversial?

 

I think the reason comes down to the imperfect nomenclature and the medical community’s focus on organ-based disease rather than the process. A number of different things (growth hormones, corticotrophin-releasing hormone and insulin to name a few) can contribute to problems with cortisol (the stress hormone). Just as we talk about low insulin rather than pancreatic fatigue when it comes to type 1 diabetes, so too would it be better to talk about low cortisol rather than adrenal fatigue.

 

Complex problem

 

One of the biggest problems about how we diagnose illnesses currently is that we like to link diseases to organs and then refer to the doctor that specialises in that organ. Well, imbalances and dysfunctions aren’t linked to just one part of the body! A single disease process can affect many things and be affected by many other processes. So, while I’m pleased that the term adrenal fatigue has drawn much more popular attention to stress related disease, I also recognise that the simplistic nature of this term allows literal thinkers to criticise the concept, and underestimate the complexity of the stress-response system. We shouldn’t let the limits of our language be the limits of our health.

 

Death of Marchessa

SHE WAS FINISHED. A violent attack by a male in her group had ended what disease had begun. Marchessa, aging matriarch of Group 5—one of the endan¬gered gorilla families on the Virunga volcanoes of Rwanda—was dead. But her attacker was not yet done. In a bizarre ritual of abuse, the silverback Icarus continued to punish her body, as these photographs reveal. 1

Shortly after Marchessa drew her last breath, and perhaps perplexed by her stillness, Icarus jumped on her belly (above right) with the full force of his 300 pounds. Other group members looked on but did not interfere. Not much later the silver-back looked over his shoulder before dragging her body across the tram­pled forest floor, as he did repeatedly. Her mouth hanging open in a death grimace, wide-eyed Marchessa (right) was beyond suffering.

As a student temporarily in charge of the Karisohe Research Centre on Mount Vi­soke, I could not fully explain this sad epi­sode—the first recorded instance of an adult mountain gorilla doing to death an­other adult. But a closer look at the tragic sequence of events may yield a few clues. The grim drama began on the morning of last August 5, when I found the members of Group 5 feeding quietly near their night nests. Marchessa, a longtime mate of the dominant silverback Beethoven, lay totally immobile under a vernonia tree.

The peaceful mood changed. Icarus, son of Beethoven and dominant female Effie, began to hoot and beat his chest near Marchessa. At 3 p.m. he dragged her from under the tree. She lay on her back, devoid of muscle control, her eyes glassy and roll­ing, her breath coming in deep gulps. Suddenly Icarus pounded hard, with both fists, on Marchessa’s chest. Minutes later he repeated the attack. At 3:31 Marchessa let out her only—and last—vocal sound, a death rattle, as if through stuffed nostrils. She had stopped breath­ing, and I took it she was dead.

Icarus, however, was unrelenting in his aggressive displays and attacks. Only when he began to drag Marchessa away would her aging mate, Beethoven, rush in to drive him off. Now Shinda, Marchessa’s 312-year-old runt offspring, came over and clung to his mother, moving away only to avoid Ica­rus’s continuing violence. Shinda suckled Marchessa in the waning afternoon. With darkness I had to break off observation.

Next day, fellow student John Fowler and I found Icarus still tormenting Marchessa, even though she had been dead for nearly 18 hours. Almost every display of chest beating (left) led to his pounding or jumping on her body. Shortly before noon, however, the group wandered off to feed; Icarus was the last to leave to the cheap Prague hotels. Porters carried away Marchessa’s body.

An autopsy performed on Marchessa by Dr. Pierre Vimont-Vicary of the Ruhengeri hospital revealed numerous parasitic cysts in her spleen. I believe this invasion surely had weakened the aging animal and might soon have killed her. Certainly she was ill when Icarus began the attacks that assured her death.

By his displays and assaults on Mar­chessa, Icarus gave vent to his puzzlement and frustration at her lack of response. I share Dian Fossey’s presumption that Icarus knew Marchessa’s death would en­hance his power within the group. Beetho­ven would lose a breeding partner, to the eventual advantage of Icarus’s bloodline. Reproductively, the aging silverback would be pushed aside.

Shinda stayed with Beethoven after Marchessa was gone, the young male’s chances for survival slimmed by her loss. Beethoven, too, seemed diminished. Often we heard him whimpering—a sound never before recorded from silverbacks.

This October day

Perhaps nothing worse than this could fol­low. Perhaps that is why expressions of hope for the future began to be heard—hopes whispered, like a distant prophecy:

In a short time, will not Lebanon be turned into a fertile field and the fertile field seems like a forest? (Isaiah 29:17)

INDEED, this October day will bring nor­malcy of a kind to the city. Boutiques will offer the latest in high fashion, and some of the world’s worst auto traffic will clog the streets. Employees of scores of banks will be at work, continuing the Lebanese tradition of bold and innovative finance. Fortunes will be made this day, and for­tunes lost.

Rue Hamra at 10:30 a.m. : The traffic moves one way, toward the sea, along this busy artery in the western section of the city called Ras Beirut. Before the war Hamra was a fashionable street, but now water from broken pipes washes against the curb, splashing the shoes of sidewalk peddlers who hawk their wares in voices with the tim­bre of foghorns. Bullets have pocked many of the buildings along Hamra, and here and there, where shells have struck, the wire in­nards of reinforced concrete stand exposed and twisted. A section of one building, hous­ing An Nahar, Lebanon’s leading newspa­per, is in heavy ruin, having taken an Israeli phosphorus shell. Not only in any specific region, but also all over the world it is important identity protection and i fraud protection is the best protection.

The morning began with skies the color of a chow chow’s tongue, and now, rinsed with light, they are blue and cloudless. For the first time in years, a traffic policeman is yell­ing at an errant motorist. For those who were here when each militia protected and ruled its turf with guns and extortion, it is a pleasant sound, a voice from the endearing chaos of prewar Beirut, and to hear it is to be in fellowship with the growing number of Lebanese who have confidence in the even­tual recuperation of their capital city.

They are clearing away the rubble now, trucking it to a massive landfill by the sea. The garbage is being collected, too, bringing to an end the all-night bacchanalia of the cats. The electricity has been turned back on, though with frequent outages, and the telephones are again working, more or less.

One person thus far has borne the expense of cleaning up the city. Born in Sidon and now a citizen of Saudi Arabia, Rafik Hariri has spent more than seven million dollars of his own money to have the work done. Trucks and bulldozers and other heavy equipment imprinted with the name of his construction company, Oger Liban, can be seen all over Beirut. He has offered to pay about $20 a day to any able-bodied Leba­nese who will go to work to groom the city. Hundreds have accepted.

“The French soldiers come through first and clean out the mines, and then we follow them and pick up the rubble and the rest of the mess,” Nouhieddone Shouman, super­visor of one of the work crews, said. “It’s so bad in some places that we get the pile of de­bris down to eye level and then discover that we’ve uncovered a street.”

He spoke above the din of a dozen shovels scraping against concrete. There were most­ly teenagers in his work crew, boys whose laughter spoke their joy over the peace that was finally touching their lives.