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Ebola has had a brutal impact on the economies of three West African nations at the epicenter of the outbreak. In Liberia, the World Bank has more than halved projected growth for the nation, compared to what they predicted before the epidemic.

Ebola has killed more than 3,000 people in Liberia and, at the height of the outbreak, closed shops, businesses and offices. As the situation eases, many have now reopened — but it's still tough going.

In downtown Monrovia, on Ashmun Street, a large, windowless, derelict building — a bank, locals say, and a relic from the civil war — is still pockmarked with holes from mortar shells or some other artillery. Nearby, above a low building painted in greens, there's a hand-painted board announcing Mrs. Quaye's restaurant, with a map of Africa.

Goats and Soda

Liberian President's Ambitious Goal: No New Ebola Cases By Christmas

Mama Quaye, the restaurant's namesake, welcomes NPR reporters into her almost-empty, low ceilinged restaurant. The dining room is small and dimly lit.

The gracious, elderly widow, wearing a pale green gown, matching elegant headtie and shawl, sits at one of three long wooden tables. There are seats for at least 30 people, but only one couple is lunching.

Mama Quaye throws her arms up in the air in desperation, saying Ebola has as good as wrecked her business.

This restaurant was an institution in Monrovia before Ebola. Before that, it weathered Liberia's 14-year civil war.

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For Ebola Orphans In Liberia, It's A Bittersweet New Beginning

"Before the war ... this was a very famous restaurant," Quaye says. "I had a lot of customers. During lunchtime this place would be crowded. Sometimes I'm so frustrated I want to close the entire business down. How would my family survive?"

Mama Quaye's restaurant is in the heart of Liberia's capital, where it has served potato greens, cassava leaf stew and other Liberian delicacies for decades. The back-to-back civil wars, which began at the tail end of 1989, were bad, says Mama Quaye — but with Ebola the situation is even worse.

"We're not making any business; we're only struggling for our lives," she says. "All I want to do is be alive. Now that Ebola has subsided we reopened, but we hardly get customers. As you see it is now empty, that's how it always is. Sometimes in the daytime we get two customers and that's all."

Mama Quaye says people are afraid of catching Ebola by eating out. She says people prefer eating food they've cooked themselves instead of going out to restaurants. This makes her sad, she says, but admits that is important that everyone is fighting to prevent Ebola.

"Because life is important; as long as we have life there is hope," she says.

Despite the difficulties, Quaye continues to support more than 16 people in her family, which includes children in the family who lost parents in the civil war. She cares for and educates them as well.

"I'm taking care of them. So I have very a huge family," she says.

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Unsold fufu — a Liberian staple food — sits on a tray in Mrs. Quaye's restaurant in Liberia, where customers have been slow to return. John W. Poole/NPR hide caption

itoggle caption John W. Poole/NPR

Unsold fufu — a Liberian staple food — sits on a tray in Mrs. Quaye's restaurant in Liberia, where customers have been slow to return.

John W. Poole/NPR

At the restaurant, Mama Quaye points to an almost full tray of fufu, a Liberian staple food often made with flour made from the cassava plant. This batch has been cooking since the morning, she says, but no one has bought any yet. There's no business.

"I'm thinking now, what I will do?" she says.

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Idris Elba Plays A Soccer Coach Out To Crush Ebola In New Ad Campaign

But Quaye says that at least the meals she prepares don't go to waste if there are no customers, because she serves the leftover cooked food to her family. A full meal costs about $2.50.

And then, as if to add to the troubles, a high-pitched lament floats over from behind the kitchen counter, filling the restaurant. As if it's all just too much for her, Mama Quaye's friend Zinnah Gray tells us she has lost a number of her family members to Ebola and that the virus is not just a sickness, but a war. If it kills one person, she says, it kills the rest of the family. Then she begins wailing, pouring her pain and her loss into the lament.

Mama Quaye looks over at her friend sympathetically. Like many others during this Ebola outbreak, the two elderly women have plenty of problems.

But there's one bright spot: a customer walks in, and another has just finished his meal. Alfred T. Karngar says he works across the road and is a regular at the restaurant at lunchtime.

"She prepares good food here," Karngar says. "I actually have been eating here [since] before the Ebola crisis and I see nothing that would stop me from eating here."

Karngar says he observes all the health directives, including hand-washing with chlorinated water when he enters the restaurant. He says he tries to keep himself safe from Ebola, and will continue to enjoy a good meal at Mama Quaye's.

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More Awesome Than Money

Four Boys and Their Heroic Quest to Save Your Privacy from Facebook

by Jim Dwyer

Hardcover, 374 pages | purchase

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Standing in a Silicon Valley bookstore, Jim Dwyer knows not too many people are going to show up to his reading. There is, after all, a huge San Francisco ballgame tonight. Maybe that's why the Pulitzer Prize-winning columnist for The New York Times seems content waxing long and poetic about the motivation behind More Awesome Than Money: Four Boys and Their Heroic Quest to Save Your Privacy from Facebook. Freedom's new frontier. Moral, democratized communication. The Big Bang moment of the digital age. "Plus, my wife told me about it," says Dwyer.

The book chronicles the life of Diaspora, a feisty, nonprofit social network born during long nights coding in an NYU computer lab. Four undergrads were given "a global commission to rebottle the genie of personal privacy" after scoring $200,000 in a Kickstarter campaign and support and mentorship from Silicon Valley's brightest.

In the end, Diaspora didn't take down Facebook, but its hardcore followers have kept it alive.

This interview has been edited for clarity.

Diaspora wasn't the first pro-privacy social network to take on Facebook's monopoly and it isn't the last (see Ello), so why did you write a book about them?

It was a perfect storm of social dissatisfaction and technical capability. Facebook was making it clear that their definition of connectedness included following you wherever you went on the Web, taking note of your interests and "giving you a better user experience," which is an abuse of language that means "we want to surveil you and sell to you better." People were starting to recognize that, especially when [Facebook CEO Mark] Zuckerberg launched the push for "likes" to be the tariff system of the Internet. Ryan Singel in Wired bluntly explained it to the non-geek world when he said "Facebook has gone rogue," and called for a distributed social network system.

And the technical?

The technical aspect was that people had been developing this very system. It's called the federated social web, which decentralizes power over the network, so there isn't just one puppet master in Palo Alto. Technologists like Tantek elik were creating so-called microformats that allowed simple but vital communications to happen between one social network and another, in the same way that you can pick up an Apple phone and call a Samsung phone.

Another guy, Eben Moglen, a professor of law at Columbia and a technologist, has a project called the FreedomBox. It's an attempt to equip very small servers with stacks of free software in order to make it possible for people to plug this thing into an outlet and to be able to do all the things a server needs to do without having a systems administrator managing it all. Moglen actually was the inspiration for the Diaspora kids.

Digital Life

Who Are You, Really? Activists Fight For Pseudonyms

Diaspora was heralded as a "Facebook killer," but Facebook still reigns supreme. Why does its story matter?

The point of Diaspora wasn't killing Facebook, it was about creating an alternative. The Diaspora group are members of a tribe that we ought to know about and count on. They are not people you can keep score on in the business pages; there is no alpha dog like Steve Jobs barking at the world on behalf of a company. It's all these really smart men and women making small changes to open software that are aimed towards what they consider the public good. All these changes, by the way, are adopted and adapted by the likes of Google and Facebook.

The Diaspora project was done in the spirit of the Mozilla Foundation, which was founded by a group of people that crawled out of the rubble of Silicon Valley's first jackpot, Netscape, and created the first Internet browser everyone could use. They, and Diaspora, are about resisting the surveillance economy that underwrites so much of what goes on online; it's about using the Internet as a vehicle of human communication rather than simply human appropriation.

The story took a tragic turn when Ilya Zhitomirskiy, a co-founder and the soul of Diaspora, committed suicide in November 2011. How did you process it?

It was heartbreaking and I basically dropped the book for four months. I didn't sign on to write a book about a young man killing himself. At Ilya's wake, I had an argument with Dennis Collinson, a collaborator on Diaspora, about who knows what. Ironically, it was his [and programmer Rosanna Yau's, among others] generous and idealistic decision to quit their lucrative jobs and help pick Diaspora up that gave me the inspiration to finish the book. It took a massive amount of bravery, hubris and brass to keep their promise and finish the job.

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online privacy

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More than 1 million people have fled to shelters before the power of Typhoon Hagupit in the Philippines on Sunday.

The raging winds toppled trees, tore away roofs and knocked out power in a region hit by a killer storm just over a year ago.

This storm, which weakened from a category 5 super typhoon to a category 2 overnight, appears to be far less devastating than Typhoon Haiyan from November 2013 — but still terrifying to the island nation's residents.

United Nations experts said it was one of the world's largest peacetime evacuations, the Mirror reports.

Some homes damaged by Hagupit had only been recently rebuilt after Haiyan, which is believed to be the strongest cyclone ever to make landfall.

Sustained winds dropped to 87 mph, with gusts up to 105 mph, NBC News said, down from 130 mph gusts as the storm made landfall on Saturday in Eastern Samar, the region where Haiyan killed thousands last year.

The AP reports:

Rhea Estuna, a 29-year-old mother of one, fled Thursday to an evacuation center in Tacloban — the city hardest-hit by Haiyan last year — and waited in fear as Hagupit's wind and rain lashed the school where she and her family sought refuge. When she peered outside Sunday, she said she saw a starkly different aftermath than the one she witnessed last year after Haiyan struck.

"There were no bodies scattered on the road, no big mounds of debris," Estuna told The Associated Press by cellphone. "Thanks to God this typhoon wasn't as violent."

The massive storm is due to make a third landfall before dawn Monday local time, the Philippine weather service PAGASA told the media.

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Antonio Stradivari, the master violin maker whose instruments sell for millions of dollars today, has been dead for nearly three centuries. Only 650 of his instruments are estimated to survive.

But the forest where the luthier got his lumber is alive and well. And thanks to the surprising teamwork of modern instrument makers and forest rangers, Stradivari's trees are doing better than ever.

These spruce trees have been growing for hundreds of years in the Fiemme Valley, the same corner of the Italian Alps where Renaissance luthiers such as Stradivari, Guarneri and Amati hand-picked the trees that would be turned into some of the world's finest instruments. Thanks to a serendipitous combination of climate and altitude, these have come to be called "Il Bosco Che Suona" — The Musical Woods.

Marcello Mazzucchi, a retired forest ranger with an uncanny knack for spotting timber that's ideal for instruments, walks among the trees, tapping on their trunks.

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Luthier Cecilia Piazzi crafts a violin in her Northern Italian workshop. It takes months to complete a single instrument that can cost more than $10,000. A Stradivarius including wood from the same forest can go for more than $10 million.

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Graziano Panfili for NPR

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Like a sculptor, Piazzi lathes away fine layers of lumber to eventually reveal a finished violin.

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Graziano Panfili for NPR

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The Fiemme Valley is home to spruce trees, some over 300 years old. Due to a serendipitous combination of climate and altitude, it has been called "Il Bosco Che Suona" — The Musical Woods.

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Graziano Panfili for NPR

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Marcello Mazzucchi has an uncanny knack for spotting trees that are ideal for instruments. He goes from tree to tree, crossing flawed candidates off his list in search of the perfect timber, and the perfect violin.

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Graziano Panfili for NPR

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Forest rangers look for saplings before chopping down a tree for instrument lumber. The practice ensures the livelihood of the forest, and the future of musical instruments from the valley. Today, these woods are healthier than in Stradivari's day, according to the forest service.

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Graziano Panfili for NPR

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Marcello Mazzucchi, who's known as "The Tree Whisperer." "I've felled one million trees in my career," he says. "But in their place, 100 million more have grown up."

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Graziano Panfili/Graziano Panfili for NPR

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Sunlight is key to a tree's health. Before chopping one down and turning it into an instrument, forest rangers must make sure there's a sapling nearby. With the old tree gone, the new tree can come out of the dark and thrive.

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Graziano Panfili for NPR

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Once a forest ranger marks a suitable tree, lumberjacks chop it down and cart it to a lumberyard like this one in the Fiemme Valley, where the spruce is milled into sections.

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Graziano Panfili for NPR

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Once the lumber has been milled into sections, experts can tell how a piece will resonate just by flicking it.

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The Fiemme Valley is one of Italy's most prosperous areas, thanks in large part to these Musical Woods.

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Mazzucchi's skill has led some to call him "The Tree Whisperer," but he laughs off that nickname. "I'm really more of a tree listener," he says. "I observe, I touch them, sometimes I even hug them. Look carefully and they'll tell you their life story, their traumas, their joys, everything. Such humble creatures."

He goes from trunk to trunk, crossing flawed candidates off his list.

"This one over here was struck by lightning," he says. "Who knows what kind of sound its violin would make?"

Then he finds a contender: "It shoots up perfectly straight. It's very cylindrical. No branches at the bottom. If you ask me, there's a violin trapped inside."

Mazzucchi takes out a manual drill called a borer, and twists it like a corkscrew through the bark. He listens carefully to the knocking sound the borer makes each time it hits a new tree ring.

Pulling out a core sample shaped like a pencil, he concludes the tree is an excellent specimen. A lumberjack chops down trees like this one and carts them to a lumberyard nearby, where the spruce is milled into sections.

Local instrument maker Cecilia Piazzi examines a piece of that milled wood, and declares it "magnificent."

"We use it for making the table — that's the beautiful part on the front of a violin or cello, with the soundholes on the surface," Piazzi says. "Yes, this piece is the right piece. I can tell just by flicking it."

It takes months to complete a single instrument, which can cost over $10,000 — a bargain, when you consider a Stradivarius that came from the same forest can go for over $10 million.

But it's enough to keep this community humming. The Fiemme Valley is one of Italy's most prosperous areas, thanks in large part to these musical woods. And it's going to stay that way because people like the Tree Whisperer take care of it.

"I've felled one million trees in my career," Mazzucchi says. "But in their place, 100 million more have grown up."

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Stradivari, Amati and Guarneri made the world's most prized violins and cellos with wood from Italy's Fiemme Valley. Graziano Panfili for NPR hide caption

itoggle caption Graziano Panfili for NPR

Stradivari, Amati and Guarneri made the world's most prized violins and cellos with wood from Italy's Fiemme Valley.

Graziano Panfili for NPR

Before a tree hits the chopping block, Mazzucchi looks around to see if there are any tiny saplings struggling to grow nearby. If so, removing an adult tree will let more sun in and actually help the babies mature.

Bruno Cosignani, the head of the local forest service, explains that light is the limiting factor on tree growth.

"As soon as a tree falls down, those who were born and suffering in the shadows can start to grow more quickly," he says.

And centuries from now, those trees, too, might become musical instruments.

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