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If HIV/AIDS in Jamaica is a story of biblical suffering, then Figueroa is its Moses, the carrier of the accounts that thread into the Old Testament—the period before antiretroviral drugs, the period of deep sorrow and pain, the period that created heroes but quickly killed them.
He is a slight man with a burst of dark wavy hair and a tidy beard.
This Jamaica, this Kingston, is a rollicking and complicated place, a genuine city with all the pressures of city life.
The industry and business are here, the commercial centers are here, and here people do not define themselves by the presence of tourists. The few white people on the streets are either white Jamaicans going about their daily business or a few adventurous tourists making a hasty pilgrimage to the Bob Marley Museum before getting out of Kingston as fast as they can. This Jamaica is self-assured and brash, this Jamaica is smart, this Jamaica is volatile, this Jamaica is filled with energy and uncertainty.
When they were constantly sick, sex was an absurd memory, a treachery of sorts, but now they looked and felt healthy.
Now that they were not about to die, they had to decide what kind of lives they would live.