Peter Bromhead: Hurricanes and Ebola

Illustration / Peter Bromhead

It took less than a week after arriving in Hawaii for me to believe I was going to die from Ebola or be wiped out by a hurricane.

All thanks to a relentless stream of media updates advising me to expect the worst.

In the case of the hurricane, named Ana, the saga began with a series of announcements predicting it would reach Honolulu before the weekend, promising a trail of destruction.

Commentators advised everybody to stock up on water and desalination kits and buy mini generators to keep cellphones charged.

Tourists hastily went home and airlines cancelled flights.

While dire predictions flowed back and forth, the sun continued to shine under a cloudless sky and life calmly went on as usual on the beaches of Waikiki.

When Ana finally made landfall, it had been downgraded to a tropical storm, arriving at about the same time as our departure.

The fear factor had resulted in a mass exodus from the island, so checking through an empty airport was a breeze.

While the initial part of the flight home was slightly turbulent, we came to the conclusion that it wasn't as bad as flying out of windy Wellington.

Apparently, many flights from the US were cancelled not only because of weather predictions, but because many people had been spooked by an Ebola victim who, before diagnosis, might have passed on the virus to countless fellow passengers on a couple of domestic flights.

Ebola has gripped the nation, with an over-reactive media leaving no stone unturned and busily warning that you, too, could become a victim.

Even I was affected while blissfully sipping cocktails at a Waikiki beach bar.

I struck up a conversation with a lady sitting next to me, who enthusiastically wanted to learn all about New Zealand.

Very friendly, she kept gripping my bare arm while talking.

When I asked about her background, she turned out to be a nurse working in the hospital in Dallas in which an Ebola victim infected two nurses.

Pleading another appointment, I retreated swiftly from the bar to my hotel room.

Recalling from navy days that rubbing rum over a wound was a makeshift substitute for antiseptic, I wondered if I should give my arm a quick douse with my duty-free purchases.

Instead, I decided to pour the stuff down my throat, in the belief that calming my apprehensions would do more good than any disinfectant.