Outside the zone, hysteria over Ebola has led to the collective stigmatization of a big chunk of the African continent. Anybody coming from West Africa is suspected of carrying the disease. Inside the zone, life goes on, and people shop in markets — if not quite as normal, then at least as much so as human survival mechanisms will allow. Near the gates of the Ebola treatment center in Guéckédou, Guinea, for instance, where the epidemic started, a licentious-looking bar called the “Deuxième Bureau” — “Second Office,” a local reference to the house of a kept woman or mistress — was still welcoming customers in mid-July, even as dying Ebola patients were being ferried past.

The clash of these two realities is to be expected, given the extreme circumstances. It is like this when one disadvantaged corner of the world is beset by a calamity, and the rest of the world peers in, anxiously and imperfectly, from a vantage point in which no one worries about relative order, a constant supply of electricity and running water, and air-conditioning. But the contrast is particularly striking this time because there is no risk in simply stepping off the few remaining planes flying in to Freetown, Conakry or Monrovia — contrary to what some in the West appear to believe.

Yet here is where the two narratives join up: because there is real fear, inside and outside the zone. Inside the Ebola zone, the fear is based on a potent reality. Ebola kills about half its victims, the epidemic is so far unchecked, and the medical resources on the ground, largely sent in from elsewhere, are not keeping pace. In fact they are losing ground.

That truth is difficult for people in the West to grasp. The misapprehension is comprehensible, because one of the world’s deadliest viruses is afflicting the weakest, least-prepared societies in the world. The consequences of such a confrontation cannot be anything other than fearsome. Nothing now stands in the way of the disease except the overstretched foreign aid agencies.