While Mexico's other lime-producing states were hit hard by bad weather and a fungal outbreak earlier this year, as we've reported, the orchards in Michoacan have been flourishing, netting record profits for the state's farmers.
Michoacan farmers aren't complaining about the precipitous price drop, though; most are still enjoying their record profits. But the biggest boon to them is that for the first time in a decade, many say they are no longer at the mercy of Mexico's ruthless drug cartels.
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For more than 10 years, every part of the lime business was controlled by one drug gang or another. The last few seasons have been controlled by the Knights Templar cartel, says buyer and farm manager Efrain Hernandez Vazquez.
But since a federal police crackdown in the state and the emergence of civilian militias, the cartel has been on the run. Several top leaders have been either killed or arrested, and three mayors and a former governor of Michoacan have been arrested on charges of colluding with organized crime.
Let's say the fields are done and I still have a villager assigned. All my other buildings have workers. Will the farmer get bad mood because he has nothing to do? If so what to do with them? Kick em out and get temporary seasonal workers?
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Di star tsa kasi that influenced many! Loved so much that even his stage name is used by many aspiring artists. This is a man that was there during the Amapiano grassroots. The farmer that ploughed the seeds of music wa kasi.
Today these farmlands have developed to lucrative markets and we hope that the farmers of this world will reap the fruits of their hard work! Ours is to highlight and document the true story of SA urban music and bring the real faces behind this germ that the Youth of SA have pioneered and nourished over the years.
Like many other restaurants in Goa, this one too is situated in a heritage bungalow in central Panjim. While it is known to serve great Goan food, what made this lunch special was the fact that the restaurant was overflowing with local Christmas revelers with hardly a tourist in sight. And Goan bands know how to belt out dance numbers and the diners know how to get into the groove and dance.
How, exactly, does one define Dawn of Midi? Composed of bassist Aakaash Israni, drummer Qasim Naqvi and pianist Amino Belyamani who have roots in Morocco, India, Pakistan and the fertile music program at CalArts, the group that is superficially a piano trio is far from anyone's definition of jazz with this album, which has a single, locked-groove composition that spirals through nine tracks and 47 engrossing minutes.The closest analogue may be the Necks, a category-defying Australian trio who built a following around long-form improvised sets. But where the Necks' sound features an in-the-moment ebb and flow, Dawn of Midi is dedicated to perpetual forward motion, a rigorously composed blend of minimalism and trance music. (Chris Barton) Read more
Richard Lange's third book, "Angel Baby," is a thriller that makes its own terms. Beautifully paced, deftly written, it's a novel of moral compromise, in which we have empathy for everyone (or almost everyone) and no one at once. The story of Luz, who runs away from her husband, a Mexican drug cartel leader, and heads for Los Angeles, "Angel Baby" takes us into uncomfortable territory -- only partly because of its brutality. Rather, Lange effectively upends our sympathies by drawing us close to not just Luz but also Jernimo, the reluctant enforcer sent to find her, as well as Malone, a San Diego County burnout who makes his money ferrying illegals across the border, and Thacker, a corrupt border cop. Read more
We contemplated the most innocent-looking and rudely clad countrybumpkins with keen suspicion. They recognized us at a glance, andhied away, as soon as our backs were turned, to tell our enemies ofthe course we had taken and of our probable resting place for thenight. After asking directions from such persons, which we neverfollowed, we were accustomed to listen for the firing of signal guns, ofwhich we comprehended the import as well as they to whose earsthey were addressed. With the armed bushwhacker we knew how to deal,but were helpless in the presence of those who seemed wholly intentupon the perfection of crops and cultivation of fields and gardens.We soon learned that most innocent-looking farmers underwent suddenand violent transformations of conduct and character. Rustiest,most illiterate and rudely clad plowmen became even demoniacal inblood-thirstiness, and in this were wholly unlike our Northernpublic enemies. From hollow trees, or from beneath ledges of stones onmountain-sides hard-by the farm-house, concealed breech-loaders weredrawn, and assassins' bullets sent many Confederate soldiers to untimelygraves.
The mountain was veneered with sheets of ice. We knew that fewwere abroad on such a morning, that sentinels and pickets stood nearcamp fires, and that scouting parties of the enemy sought shelterwithin cabins of bushwhackers. Avoiding paths and roadways andcabins we began to slide, rather than walk, down the mountain. Ina few hours we reached McLemore's Cove and thence, painfullyfatigued by sliding over the frozen ground sheeted in ice, we ploddedwearily along the ridge, known, I believe, as Taylor's. Night wascoming on. We had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours. Madereckless by suffering, one of our number shot a hog. It was hastilyskinned, washed, sliced and roasted to a crisp, in thin strips,by a roaring fire made to glow with the farmer's rails whose sustenancewe devoured. Without bread or salt, we ate ravenously. I havesince dined at the Fifth Avenue, at Morley's, the best cafes of Paris,Berlin, and Vienna, but never derived such exquisite pleasure fromfood as when we half-frozen soldiers sat about the blazing rails, andate unsalted pork on the heights that look down upon Chattanooga.
We moved leisurely toward Ringgold. We had heard from afarmers's good wife, from whom we bought eggs for breakfast, thatthere was a deserter, as she believed, secreted at a designatedneighbor's house. We were then about nine miles from La Fayette. Shesaid that the mistress of the place had a child not more than ten orfifteen days old, and that half a dozen women were always there toserve up the gossip of the country for the delectation of the poormother, still bed-ridden.
The lieutenant, while we were resting at noon, was telling that hewas sent at one time on special duty and as a bearer of dispatches toNew Madrid in Southeastern Missouri. He said that, returning toNashville, he was accompanied by an old citizen of Spring Hill, avillage thirty miles, perhaps, southwest of Columbia, in Tennessee.My newly made friend was a sensible, sturdy farmer, who, it seems,had been a surgeon in the United States Army. His account of thekilling of the Confederate Major General Van Dorn greatly interestedme. I had been reading of this terrible affair in northern newspapers,one of which stated truthfully that Van Dorn in all physical and socialrespects was a perfect knight, belonging to the middle ages rather thanto modern times. He was quite young when killed, - perhapsthirty-six, - but had been distinguished in the old army, before thewar, as a peerless Indian fighter. Marvelous statements are told of hishorsemanship and how he would ride down upon Commanches, Navajahoes,and other bands, sabering right and left.
Maddened to a degree never known before, Spratling rushed into theyard. While the captain pursued the bushwhacker Spratling hurrieddown the road along which the owner of the horse he borrowed was infull flight. Spratling was fleet as he was incomparably strong. He leapedthe fence. His strides were of incredible length as he went headlongdown the road. The wretched little farmer lookedback. He beheld his doom in the giant's coming. He leaned forward,straining every nerve and muscle and finally fell breathless and helpless.Armed, as he was, he forgot his pistols in his terror. 17dc91bb1f
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