Juan Coronel was so thin that his
kneecaps jutted out like tent poles in his sweatpants. He was 39 when I met him
a few weeks ago, with reddish-brown hair that clung to his scalp like a baby’s
and deep hollows below his cheekbones. His voice was soft and raspy, and he
seemed dazed at his own fragility. “I need to go and look for medicine,” he
said, “but I’m having trouble getting around.” I had not seen a person who
looked like Mr. Coronel – a person dying of untreated AIDS – since I covered
the pandemic in Africa at its height more than a decade ago. I met him. But in other
countries, they are the exception. Today, in Venezuela, his case is the rule. More…
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