The man with the knife takes a few steps, approaches without noise or enthusiasm, ready to flay the next one. The thin blade cuts the trunk from which flows a thick white sap. Again, the harvest is far too meager. After the insects, a fungus smothers the thousands of rubber trees planted in rows of onions. Under the humid and crushing heat, the engineers are again worried. Deep in the jungle, they know the boss isn’t going to be happy. In Detroit, Henry Ford is growing impatient.
“In the Amazon, sir, replies the faithful secretary. Where it already grows. » Ford is looking for the best place to grow the rubber tree, an inexhaustible source of a natural latex necessary for the smooth running of what made its fortune and its glory, the Ford T. The millions of tires and small rubber parts cost it too expensive.[…]
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