A single cough in Rio. A fever in São Paulo. And the entire global health apparatus performs its well-rehearsed pantomime of panic. Yes, my dear readers, we have another Ebola scare, this time in the land of samba, caipirinhas, and now, apparently, haemorrhagic fevers. The World Health Organisation, that august body of clipboard-wielding bureaucrats, has already begun its ritual incantation of protocols, while British labs, bless their pipette-wielding hearts, stand at the ready like nervous bridesmaids at a wedding that may or may not happen. The entire affair is a masterpiece of bureaucratic theatre, a play in three acts where the curtain never quite rises.
Let us examine the facts, insofar as facts have any meaning in this febrile age of misinformation. A man, a woman, a child perhaps, has fallen ill with symptoms vaguely reminiscent of the 2014 West African outbreak. Cue the evacuation of embassies, the grounding of flights, the donning of hazmat suits by news anchors who have never been closer to a virus than a common cold. The Brazilian government, ever eager to demonstrate competence, has deployed its finest epidemiological detectives, who are currently trying to determine whether the patient recently ate bat soup, touched a monkey, or simply sneezed in the wrong direction. The rest of us are left to speculate, a pastime at which humanity excels.
But here is the crux, the fulcrum upon which this whole farce balances: the global health protocols. These protocols, drafted in sleek Geneva conference rooms, are the insurance policies of the modern world. They exist to convince us that chaos is orderly, that disease is manageable, and that someone, somewhere, is in charge. They are a collective delusion, a shared fiction that we all agree to believe until the next pandemic reminds us that microbes do not respect PowerPoint presentations. The UK labs, their freezers stocked with reagents and their staffs lubricated with tea and quiet desperation, stand ready to assist. But assist in what? In running tests that will confirm what we already suspect? In developing vaccines that will arrive too late for the first wave? In providing the comforting illusion of action while the world holds its breath?
Consider the irony: the very nations that once colonised Brazil, that extracted its rubber and its gold, now offer to extract its secrets from blood samples. The old imperial impulse, reborn as humanitarian aid. The British boffin, clad in a lab coat instead of a pith helmet, peers down a microscope at a drop of Brazilian blood, searching for a monster that may or may not be there. It is a grotesque comedy, a dance of power and fear dressed up in the language of science. And we, the audience, are expected to applaud.
I propose a different approach. Instead of this pantomime of preparedness, let us embrace the chaos. Let us acknowledge that the protocols are a sham, a comforting lie we tell ourselves to stave off the existential terror of our own fragility. Let us laugh at the absurdity of it all: the press conferences, the travel bans, the panic-buying of hand sanitiser. For in laughter, there is liberation. The Ebola scare, whether real or imagined, is a mirror held up to our collective neuroses. It shows us a world that is not safe, not predictable, not controllable. And that is terrifying. But it is also, in its own twisted way, a kind of truth.
So raise a glass, my friends. Whether you choose gin or caipirinha matters not. Drink to the British labs and their frozen anxieties. Drink to the Brazilian authorities and their frantic tests. Drink to the panic, the fear, the protocols that keep us sane. And remember: in the end, we all die. But at least we do so in a world that is endlessly, gloriously absurd.
