klipgeit
09-22-2008, 09:52 AM
Calling Emergency Services, South Africa Style
Sept 18 2008 - copied from the rant-blog http://zahell.blogspot.com/ (http://zahell.blogspot.com/)
In the distance you faintly hear the screaming of a child. The wailing gradually becomes louder until its right next to your ear. Confused, you feel tugging and shoving at your shoulder, as you become aware of several sharp pains in your bruised body. Slowly darkness melts away and you spot the alarm clock on the floor next to you. It shows 3:42 AM. With a jolt, your brain snaps into consciousness. “Mommy! Mommy! Wake up! Please mommy!”
Your seven year old daughter is sitting on the floor next to you. Suddenly it dawns on you that its her wailing and crying you heard from so far away. Then you remember. The guns, the knives. Strangers calling you a “f*cking white bitch”. Their black faces, contorted with hatred, yelling abuse, kicking and stomping you in the ribs, ripping your nightie off, forcing your legs open, viciously punching you in the face until you mercifully blacked out from what followed.
Waves of pain now wash over your body as you struggle to sit up. “Please mommy, phone the police, quickly! Daddy needs help!” your daughter pleads. You turn your head, barely making out the still form of your bleeding husband slumped against the wall. Oh God, they shot Paul! Please God no! Your chest heaves, racked with heart-rending sobs interspersed with searing pain as you struggle erect, the memory of the flashing gun snuffing out his life rushing back in your mind’s eye. “Darling, run and fetch mommy's cellphone, quickly!” you order the child, but she stares at you blankly. “Go get mommy’s phone, now!” you angrily yell.
“They took all the phones mommy, daddy’s phone too” the little girl tearfully intones. “Ok, ok darling, it’s ok, don’t cry baby” you soothingly reply. The pain is unbearable and you want to black out again, but resist it with all your might. “ Go get the cordless phone in the lounge angel, run!”
As you listen to her tiny footsteps patter down the passage, it hits you that your life has just changed – massively and forever. Why did they have to shoot Paul, why, why!! He complied with their barked instructions, ignored the racist taunts, the slaps, the punches, even when they spat and urinated on him he offered no resistance…You look around, searching for the remote panic button you always wear around your neck, only to realise how the one black robber smashed it under his heel. Raw sobs well up from deep inside of you. “How could they be so unbelievably cruel?” you wonder quietly – “we cooperated, we avoided eye contact, but still – the shocking, gratuitous violence – why do they hate us so?”
Animals. Brutal, savage f*cking animals, you think to yourself.A soft, rhythmic gurgling sound reaches your ears, and you realise it’s the strained breathing of your critically wounded husband. “Paul! Paul? Can you hear me Paul”? “Oh God please help us!” PAUL! No response from your husband of fifteen years. Slowly you crawl towards him, but the searing pain paralyses you. “My leg, it must be broken” you softly mutter to yourself.
After what seems like an eternity, the little girl reappears next to you and offers you the phone. You reach out to take it, and recoil in shock when the dried blood on her arms comes into focus. “Angel are you OK? Why are you bleeding?” “It’s your and daddy’s blood mommy, I’m OK, they just slapped me” the traumatised child calmly tells you. On hearing this, your jaw tightens and you feel a cold rage bubbling up in you. Reaching out, you put your arms around her and hug her tightly. “It’s going to be all right darling” you hear yourself say, more for your own benefit than for the shaking, shivering child’s.
Holding the blood-smeared phone in your hand, you dial 10111.
The phone rings on the other end. It continues to ring…and ring.
A minute passes. Confusion wells up in you – why is nobody answering? You end the call, and carefully redial. Again, it starts to ring. After a full three minutes, you hear a click, and the line goes dead.
You hit the redial button. Again it rings. Finally, a voice clicks in and gruffly says “hold on”. Leaning back against the bed, you struggle to hold the receiver against your ear, and hear nothing but silence.
Another minute passes, then – click – and the lie goes dead. Another wave of anger bubbles up in you as you grip the phone, and violently punch in 1-0-1-1-1.Again…it rings and rings. After a full three minutes, a voice says “hello”.
“Oh thank God” you gratefully exclaim. “Please, we need help – police, ambulance, my husbands been shot, we were attacked in our home! Hello?” “Yes, I’m here, please hold on” the black woman’s voice says. You hear ‘click’ and listen to canned music which sounds like its been recorded from a Swiss wind-up jewelery box.
Another two full minutes pass, then another sleepy voice says “halo”. “Hello!” You respond. “Please for Christ’s sake help us, we’ve been attacked and my husband is dying!” A few seconds of silence passes, then the bored-sounding voice says “eissh, don't shout lady, what is your address?” “Nine fifty Sloane street, Bryanston extension four” you reply. “Please, we urgently need paramedics!” “Ooo-key” the disinterested voice says slowly, almost mockingly. “Your name is?” “My name is Diane Stanton, my address is nine fifty Sloane street in Bryanston!” “Please send help immediately!”
“Come again?” the black woman drawls. “DIANE STANTON! NINE FIFTY SLOANE STREET BRYANSTON!” you furiously yell. Another long silence.
“Don’t shout, I’m not deaf” the taunting voice says again. ”Hold on”. More canned music. Thirty seconds later, the voice returns. “What is your address?” it repeats. A flash of red appears before your eyes but you bite your tongue, breathe deeply and try to compose yourself. “Hello”? Your address?” the voice demands. “Nine fifty Sloane street, Bryanston, my name is Diane Stanton, please please this is urgent!” “One fifty Slow street?” the retarded voice repeats. At this point, you explode in a rage:
“MY HUSBAND’S BEEN SHOT YOU DUMB F*CKING KAFFIR BITCH! MY F*CKING ADDRESS IS NINE FIFTY S.L.O.A.N.E. STREET!” you howl at the top of your voice.
Silence, then the voice coldly says “who are you talking to?” “Don’t you talk to me like that, white bitch” and click, the line goes dead. The phone slips from your hand as raw sobs from somewhere deep inside your body racks you into uncontrollable sorrow and hopelessness. Why didn't I listen to all that good advice telling me to get my family out of this accursed country while I still could?
Just then, you hear someone shout “Oh my God – Diane, are you OK”!?
As you turn to the source, you realise it’s Bill, your neighbour from across the road, and with that, blackness envelops you…sleep...those little dark slices of death…
Do you swear during emergency calls?
September 16 2008 - Johannesburg emergency management service call operators are being harassed by residents, the service said on Tuesday.
"Our call takers and dispatchers have become victims of racial, emotional and mental harassment," said spokesperson Percy Morokane.He said the EMS's control centre was receiving between five and ten calls a day and over twenty at the end of the month in which vulgar, obscene and gratuitous language was used. Morokane said EMS was appealing to Johannesburg residents to use restraint when phoning about emergency medical distresses or reporting life and death incidents.
He said dropping a call halfway or not providing full details like addresses or the condition of victims was not helpful to anyone.
"Our call centre employees are highly trained in people management, telephone etiquette and have medical backgrounds, to mention but a few."
He said while all residents had a right to voice dissatisfaction about service at EMS or other city entities, "sanity and common sense should prevail".
"At the end of the day, it is lives, not objects, that we are dealing with. One of our uttermost and critical core values is to save lives and property. We will not be swayed by those who have nefarious intentions to do otherwise," he said. - Sapa
http://www.iol.co.za/index.php?set_id=1&click_id=13&art_id=nw20080916113326381C207147 (http://www.iol.co.za/index.php?set_id=1&click_id=13&art_id=nw20080916113326381C207147)
That is an example of an emergency call.
Now one should try to phone the Electricity department or the Telephone department or the Ambulance.
Queries on rates and water bill is even worse.
The quickest reply to a police department is to say: Hey kaffir sh*t I have been robbed and savaged,get off your ass and help me or I will kill you.
I did this once two years ago when my neighbour was attacked.
Lovely results.Four police vans and about 8 police in 10 minutes coming from 10 km away.
Obviously I played the dumbass:"Meine name ist Hase und weiß von nichts."
Sept 18 2008 - copied from the rant-blog http://zahell.blogspot.com/ (http://zahell.blogspot.com/)
In the distance you faintly hear the screaming of a child. The wailing gradually becomes louder until its right next to your ear. Confused, you feel tugging and shoving at your shoulder, as you become aware of several sharp pains in your bruised body. Slowly darkness melts away and you spot the alarm clock on the floor next to you. It shows 3:42 AM. With a jolt, your brain snaps into consciousness. “Mommy! Mommy! Wake up! Please mommy!”
Your seven year old daughter is sitting on the floor next to you. Suddenly it dawns on you that its her wailing and crying you heard from so far away. Then you remember. The guns, the knives. Strangers calling you a “f*cking white bitch”. Their black faces, contorted with hatred, yelling abuse, kicking and stomping you in the ribs, ripping your nightie off, forcing your legs open, viciously punching you in the face until you mercifully blacked out from what followed.
Waves of pain now wash over your body as you struggle to sit up. “Please mommy, phone the police, quickly! Daddy needs help!” your daughter pleads. You turn your head, barely making out the still form of your bleeding husband slumped against the wall. Oh God, they shot Paul! Please God no! Your chest heaves, racked with heart-rending sobs interspersed with searing pain as you struggle erect, the memory of the flashing gun snuffing out his life rushing back in your mind’s eye. “Darling, run and fetch mommy's cellphone, quickly!” you order the child, but she stares at you blankly. “Go get mommy’s phone, now!” you angrily yell.
“They took all the phones mommy, daddy’s phone too” the little girl tearfully intones. “Ok, ok darling, it’s ok, don’t cry baby” you soothingly reply. The pain is unbearable and you want to black out again, but resist it with all your might. “ Go get the cordless phone in the lounge angel, run!”
As you listen to her tiny footsteps patter down the passage, it hits you that your life has just changed – massively and forever. Why did they have to shoot Paul, why, why!! He complied with their barked instructions, ignored the racist taunts, the slaps, the punches, even when they spat and urinated on him he offered no resistance…You look around, searching for the remote panic button you always wear around your neck, only to realise how the one black robber smashed it under his heel. Raw sobs well up from deep inside of you. “How could they be so unbelievably cruel?” you wonder quietly – “we cooperated, we avoided eye contact, but still – the shocking, gratuitous violence – why do they hate us so?”
Animals. Brutal, savage f*cking animals, you think to yourself.A soft, rhythmic gurgling sound reaches your ears, and you realise it’s the strained breathing of your critically wounded husband. “Paul! Paul? Can you hear me Paul”? “Oh God please help us!” PAUL! No response from your husband of fifteen years. Slowly you crawl towards him, but the searing pain paralyses you. “My leg, it must be broken” you softly mutter to yourself.
After what seems like an eternity, the little girl reappears next to you and offers you the phone. You reach out to take it, and recoil in shock when the dried blood on her arms comes into focus. “Angel are you OK? Why are you bleeding?” “It’s your and daddy’s blood mommy, I’m OK, they just slapped me” the traumatised child calmly tells you. On hearing this, your jaw tightens and you feel a cold rage bubbling up in you. Reaching out, you put your arms around her and hug her tightly. “It’s going to be all right darling” you hear yourself say, more for your own benefit than for the shaking, shivering child’s.
Holding the blood-smeared phone in your hand, you dial 10111.
The phone rings on the other end. It continues to ring…and ring.
A minute passes. Confusion wells up in you – why is nobody answering? You end the call, and carefully redial. Again, it starts to ring. After a full three minutes, you hear a click, and the line goes dead.
You hit the redial button. Again it rings. Finally, a voice clicks in and gruffly says “hold on”. Leaning back against the bed, you struggle to hold the receiver against your ear, and hear nothing but silence.
Another minute passes, then – click – and the lie goes dead. Another wave of anger bubbles up in you as you grip the phone, and violently punch in 1-0-1-1-1.Again…it rings and rings. After a full three minutes, a voice says “hello”.
“Oh thank God” you gratefully exclaim. “Please, we need help – police, ambulance, my husbands been shot, we were attacked in our home! Hello?” “Yes, I’m here, please hold on” the black woman’s voice says. You hear ‘click’ and listen to canned music which sounds like its been recorded from a Swiss wind-up jewelery box.
Another two full minutes pass, then another sleepy voice says “halo”. “Hello!” You respond. “Please for Christ’s sake help us, we’ve been attacked and my husband is dying!” A few seconds of silence passes, then the bored-sounding voice says “eissh, don't shout lady, what is your address?” “Nine fifty Sloane street, Bryanston extension four” you reply. “Please, we urgently need paramedics!” “Ooo-key” the disinterested voice says slowly, almost mockingly. “Your name is?” “My name is Diane Stanton, my address is nine fifty Sloane street in Bryanston!” “Please send help immediately!”
“Come again?” the black woman drawls. “DIANE STANTON! NINE FIFTY SLOANE STREET BRYANSTON!” you furiously yell. Another long silence.
“Don’t shout, I’m not deaf” the taunting voice says again. ”Hold on”. More canned music. Thirty seconds later, the voice returns. “What is your address?” it repeats. A flash of red appears before your eyes but you bite your tongue, breathe deeply and try to compose yourself. “Hello”? Your address?” the voice demands. “Nine fifty Sloane street, Bryanston, my name is Diane Stanton, please please this is urgent!” “One fifty Slow street?” the retarded voice repeats. At this point, you explode in a rage:
“MY HUSBAND’S BEEN SHOT YOU DUMB F*CKING KAFFIR BITCH! MY F*CKING ADDRESS IS NINE FIFTY S.L.O.A.N.E. STREET!” you howl at the top of your voice.
Silence, then the voice coldly says “who are you talking to?” “Don’t you talk to me like that, white bitch” and click, the line goes dead. The phone slips from your hand as raw sobs from somewhere deep inside your body racks you into uncontrollable sorrow and hopelessness. Why didn't I listen to all that good advice telling me to get my family out of this accursed country while I still could?
Just then, you hear someone shout “Oh my God – Diane, are you OK”!?
As you turn to the source, you realise it’s Bill, your neighbour from across the road, and with that, blackness envelops you…sleep...those little dark slices of death…
Do you swear during emergency calls?
September 16 2008 - Johannesburg emergency management service call operators are being harassed by residents, the service said on Tuesday.
"Our call takers and dispatchers have become victims of racial, emotional and mental harassment," said spokesperson Percy Morokane.He said the EMS's control centre was receiving between five and ten calls a day and over twenty at the end of the month in which vulgar, obscene and gratuitous language was used. Morokane said EMS was appealing to Johannesburg residents to use restraint when phoning about emergency medical distresses or reporting life and death incidents.
He said dropping a call halfway or not providing full details like addresses or the condition of victims was not helpful to anyone.
"Our call centre employees are highly trained in people management, telephone etiquette and have medical backgrounds, to mention but a few."
He said while all residents had a right to voice dissatisfaction about service at EMS or other city entities, "sanity and common sense should prevail".
"At the end of the day, it is lives, not objects, that we are dealing with. One of our uttermost and critical core values is to save lives and property. We will not be swayed by those who have nefarious intentions to do otherwise," he said. - Sapa
http://www.iol.co.za/index.php?set_id=1&click_id=13&art_id=nw20080916113326381C207147 (http://www.iol.co.za/index.php?set_id=1&click_id=13&art_id=nw20080916113326381C207147)
That is an example of an emergency call.
Now one should try to phone the Electricity department or the Telephone department or the Ambulance.
Queries on rates and water bill is even worse.
The quickest reply to a police department is to say: Hey kaffir sh*t I have been robbed and savaged,get off your ass and help me or I will kill you.
I did this once two years ago when my neighbour was attacked.
Lovely results.Four police vans and about 8 police in 10 minutes coming from 10 km away.
Obviously I played the dumbass:"Meine name ist Hase und weiß von nichts."