Mounties EMS

21/04/2026

🚨 Gentle Followers… The Streets Went Quiet — Not Because the Drama Died, But Because It Got Arrested 😏🚔

Gentle followers… 👀

Much like the ever-observant Lady Whistledown, this author has neither vanished, retired, nor run off to start a new life selling vetkoek on the beachfront. Relax. I’m still here. Watching. Listening. Sipping very lukewarm tea. ☕

But eish… the streets have been *quiet*. Not peaceful-quiet… more like “something is definitely up” quiet. The kind of silence that makes even a hadeda pause mid-scream.

You see, gentle followers, even the local gossip pipelines — the ones that usually deliver drama faster than load shedding schedules — have run dry. So this author did what any responsible storyteller would do… dug deeper than a municipal trench that was never closed properly.

And what did we find?

Yoh. The plot twisted.

The *ton* (yes, all of you) asked questions. Loudly. Softly. In comments. In voice notes. In those side-eyes at the robots. And somewhere between the chaos… answers started creeping out.

Late afternoons… early mornings… while some of you were dreaming about winning the Lotto or finding petrol under R10 — the long arm of the law was *working*. 🚔

The traffic department didn’t just pull in the reins… they tightened them like your skinny jeans after December lunch. One by one, the usual headline-makers — our premium suppliers of chaos — were… how can we say this politely… *relocated to state-sponsored accommodation*. 🏢

And here’s the dark twist, my gentle followers…

In trying to cause mayhem, many of them have unintentionally been saved from themselves.
Yes. The very same free accommodation they probably didn’t book on Booking.com has kept them out of accidents, out of trouble… and quite frankly, out of meeting the Grim Reaper a bit earlier than scheduled. 😬

Because while the gossip has slowed down…

So have the accidents.
Drastically.

Emergency crews, who were once busier than a braai on a Springbok final day, have had time to breathe. To sit. To drink coffee while it’s still hot for a change. To process scenes that used to come one after the other like taxis at a rank.

Less sirens.
Less chaos.
Less of *that* kind of story.

So ja… while this page may have seemed quiet, just know — it’s not from lack of effort. It’s because, for once, the streets chose peace over pandemonium.

And strangely enough… we’ll take that.

But don’t get too comfortable, neh. This is still South Africa. The drama always finds a way back. 😏

Until then — drive safe, behave (or at least try), and remember…

This author is always watching. 👀

Yours in observation,
With just a pinch of dark humour,
The Author ✍🏽

12/02/2026

𝐑𝟑𝟒 𝐅𝐚𝐬𝐭 & 𝐅𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬: 𝐍𝐤𝐰𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐢 𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐟𝐭 🇿🇦🚑

You know it’s going to be that kind of shift when the radio doesn’t even let you finish your first sip of coffee.

Stage 6 vibes from the start. No breaks. No breathing space. Just call after call. The radio chirping like a hadeda that swallowed a referee whistle.

Phone rings.
“Vehicle available? Accident on the R34 at the roadworks.”

Me, with confidence I absolutely did not have, says, “Yes.”

Meanwhile all the crews are already out. Yoh. I basically volunteered myself. No backup. Just faith and flashing lights.

Before I even grab my keys, second call comes in.
“We need more ambulances. My driver was involved. Multiple vehicles.”

Now I’m thinking okay sharp, this is not a bumper bash. This is a full committee meeting on the highway.

Then the group message drops. Confirmed entrapment. Need Fire.

That’s when your stomach just quietly says, here we go.

“Mounties mobile with ALS.”

At Fiveways the robot turns green just as I get there. I’m telling you, that robot respected me. It saw the lights and said go well my boy.

Breakdown vehicle jumps in behind me. They know the drill. We head toward Nkwaleni and for a moment it feels like Fast and Furious, but sponsored by pothole awareness and budget constraints.

And let me tell you something. The road was smooth. Smooth. No potholes. I didn’t know how to act. I almost swerved out of habit.

We arrive. I park at the back so nobody thinks this is a quick squeeze through situation. Not today, chief.

Walk up to the crushed truck. Patient entrapped. We assist the medic already on scene. We try. But the injuries are too severe. And just like that, the jokes pause.

We shift focus. Other occupants assessed. More services arrive. The scene now looks like an emergency services open day.

I ask the truck driver what happened.

He says, “I was about to get out to relieve myself. Then I heard a bump. Then another one. But the second one was softer.”

Then he laughs and says, “I was so shocked, my bladder empty. No need to go anymore.”

Sir. That is trauma powered plumbing. Immediate results. No waiting period.

Ambulance leaves with the injured patient. Traffic stopped. Off they go.

Now it’s CSI Mounties time. Drone edition.

Battery gets swapped for a fresh one. Before sending it up again, we move all the other vehicles out of the shot. All the curious uncles with hazard lights on like they are part of the investigation. Gone. Move.

Drone goes up.

And suddenly the photos look calm. Empty. Quiet.

No chaos.
No flashing lights.
No panic.

Just damaged vehicles standing there politely like they didn’t just cause a whole afternoon of drama.

From above it looks peaceful. If you didn’t know better you’d think it was a truck commercial gone wrong.

Now earlier attempt. Yoh.

I reposition slightly.

Next thing.

Crash.
Boom.
Bang.

Down into the trees like it clocked out before I did. Remote screen goes dark. My heart also goes dark.

Obstacle avoidance was off. Why. Listen. I was tired.

I walk toward the tree and bystanders are already trying to grab it like it’s a Black Friday special.

Everyone shouting, “Leave it. Leave it.”

Luckily only the propellers were damaged. I pull out spare props like I planned this. Quick change. Back in the air. We are not losing to a tree today.

Hardest part though. Extrication happening while family stands nearby watching. That humbles you quickly. You feel that one properly.

Eventually recovery pauses. The road reopens. Traffic flows again like nothing happened.

And of course, phones up. Full documentary mode. People driving past slowly collecting content for their WhatsApp groups.

Another day in emergency services.

Racing robots.
Fear activated bladder miracles.
Drone versus tree.
Turning chaos into calm aerial photos.

Ambulance life is not for the faint hearted. Sometimes you laugh because the alternative is sitting in silence questioning your life choices.

Drive safe, Mzansi.

Slow down at roadworks.

And please. We are not a roadside reality show.

Now I’m officially off duty.

07/02/2026

🚨🚑 BEST OF ZULULAND – LET’S BACK MOUNTIES EMS! 🚑🚨

Day and night. Rain or shine.
When emergencies happen, Mounties EMS answers the call.

Professional. Trusted. Community-driven. 💪

❤️ Show your support for the team that saves lives.
🗳️ Vote daily here:

👉🏼https://www.citizen.co.za/zululand-observer/best-of-zululand-2025-2026-nominees-services/

In a time of need, trust this team to take the lead.

05/02/2026

This is that moment.
The “show us some love” moment.

Vote for us in Best of Zululand 🏆
👉 You can vote every single day, so make it part of your morning ritual — coffee in one hand, phone in the other, vote before life punches you in the face.

Mounties is officially in a long-term race now.
Not a sprint.
Not a jog.
This is the kind of race where your legs feel like cement, you can barely lift a foot, and the sweat’s running down your back like a broken shower you can’t turn off. 💦🥵

Do we have the lungs?
Do we have the heart?
Do we have the madness?

That’s where you come in.

We need those thumbs up 👍
Those votes 🗳️
That backing from our own amazing people who know what we’re about.

Let’s make noise.
Let’s cause problems (the good kind).
Let’s rock this world and start unlocking some surprises like it’s a cheat code. 🔓🔥

Vote daily.
Talk trash to your friends if they forget.
And let’s take this thing to the finish line together.

👉 https://www.citizen.co.za/zululand-observer/best-of-zululand-2025-2026-nominees-services/

16/01/2026

🚨 Plan C Wasn’t in the Manual 🪝🪝

The breakdown cable wasn’t even tensioned yet when a bystander called it:
‘This is going to be a Facebook post.’ Confidently!

He wasn’t wrong.

It started quietly.
Paperwork kind of day.

Then 17:00 hit.

WhatsApp didn’t notify — it panicked.

First message:
👉 “Ambo Unavailable.”

Seconds later, another emergency group lights up with anxiety.

Control update goes out fast:
👉 “Get the vehicle mobile. Vehicle down an embankment.”

Main road. Traffic building.
Everyone keeps right… theoretically.

Decision made — straight past McDonalds.

At the next intersection a pedestrian steps off the curb…
Sees the flashing lights…
Instantly reverses all life choices and retreats back to the island.

Good call.

We crest the hill.

Vehicles everywhere.
People everywhere.
Entrance completely blocked.

Everyone looking at us like we’re the inconvenience.

Eventually cars move. I roll forward.

Before I can even open the door, the updates start flying:

👉 “There are children on this side — not serious!”
👉 “The mother went down the embankment — she’s still down there!”

Right. Adult first.

I step to the edge.

That embankment isn’t steep — it’s hostile.

One slip and I become part of the incident.
Final Destination flashes briefly.

I go down slowly. Carefully.
Somehow still upright. Premonition defeated.

Below me:
Car upside down. On its roof. Wedged between a concrete wall and gravity.
Driver outside. Conscious. Talking. No obvious fractures.

Walking her up the hill is not happening.

Plan A: spinal board carry.
Plan A also shows the ending: someone slips and we all roll.

Cancelled.

Radio check — fire dispatched. Traffic can’t be reached.
Doesn’t matter. We’re in a corner and SAPS is on scene.

Plan B dies quickly.

Plan C arrives on a flatbed.

👉 “China, we need a winch.”

The breakdown cable comes down the embankment like the final boss entering the level.

Patient secured. Hook on.

They start winching her up — fast.

I’m holding the board and suddenly I’m moving uphill whether I planned to or not.
One hand out, stopping the member in front of me from being pulled backward.

Patient loaded. Safe.
Scene finally exhales.
So do we.

I’m still catching my breath when the bystander laughs again:

👉 “I knew this would be a Facebook post the moment that cable came down.”

Fair.

Behind us, the car is rolled back onto its wheels.
Windscreen gone. Panels finished.
Recovery takes longer than the patient.

What caused the accident?

Nobody knows.
The marks don’t make sense.
The driver doesn’t remember.
Physics has declined to comment.
Sometimes scenes don’t give answers — just outcomes.

Kids had minor injuries and went home with dad. That's the part that matters most!
The car took the worst of it.
Everyone did their job — even if Plan C wasn’t in the manual.

And yes — the winch absolutely made the story. 🤣

13/01/2026

Random thoughts.
Who would’ve thought.
I don’t know what I don’t know — and that never really changes.
But experience teaches this:
structured thoughts can tell an amazing story.

Some roads don’t change —
you just carry them differently over time.
Same Road, Different Weight is a new song about work, time, and the things we carry quietly.
Out Friday, 22 January (afternoon).

31/12/2025

As we close the chapter of 2025 and step into a new chapter—2026—we pause for a moment to reflect.
We are grateful for the many blessings of the past year. While 2025 brought its share of challenges, those challenges shaped us, strengthened us, and reminded us why we do what we do.
Sadly, this year also meant saying goodbye to family, friends, and loved ones who will not walk into the next chapter with us. They are deeply missed, and their memories will always remain part of our story.
At Mounties, we hold a long-standing tradition of remembering those who have passed on. We also pay our respects to those we fought for and, despite our best efforts, could not save. This remains the hardest part of our calling.
We would like to thank everyone who trusted us with their emergencies and supported us throughout the year. Your trust means more than words can express.
We wish each and every one of you a blessed 2026—filled with health, hope, and good things. And if the road becomes steep, know that we will be there to help wherever we can.
— Mounties

25/12/2025

To All Followers

We wish you a blessed Christmas.

Keep SAFE and Healthy!

20/12/2025

🚑 𝙁𝙍𝙄𝘿𝘼𝙔 𝘼𝙁𝙏𝙀𝙍𝙉𝙊𝙊𝙉 𝙊𝙉 𝙏𝙃𝙀 𝙉2: 𝙒𝙃𝙀𝙉 “𝙉𝙊𝙏 𝙊𝙐𝙍 𝘾𝘼𝙇𝙇” 𝘽𝙀𝘾𝙊𝙈𝙀𝙎 𝙑𝙀𝙍𝙔 𝙈𝙐𝘾𝙃 𝙊𝙐𝙍 𝘾𝘼𝙇𝙇

👉 “𝘐𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘢𝘴 ‘𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘢𝘭𝘭’… 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘵𝘤𝘩 𝘰𝘧 𝘳𝘰𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘥 𝘧𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘧𝘢𝘮𝘪𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳.”

Friday. Around 13:20. The emergency group lights up for a motorbike and light motor vehicle head-on in Richards Bay. A few seconds later the update comes in
"Ambulance service already on scene"
Lekker. Crisis averted. Feet up.

Just after 14:00 the phone rings again.
“Did you hear about the accident?”
Ja, bru… but then comes the upgrade: N2, four vehicles involved.

Eish. Shoes on. Uniform on. This one’s alive.
Lights on. Sirens singing. We roll. At Fiveways the traffic lights are red for us and suddenly it means “speed up because the ambulance is in your way - blocking the right of way.”
We squeeze through safely, tyres squeal, traction disappears, smoke drifts past the window. Nothing like a little Friday afternoon burnout you didn’t ask for.

At the R34 / N2 intersection, it’s not Friday anymore - it’s Sunday afternoon scenic mode. Sirens wailing, lights flashing, and traffic cruising like they’re off to buy boerewors. Eventually we break free… and once we hit the N2, we take off like a Learjet on a runway.

From there it’s weaving through traffic like a rugby match - no time to blink, picking gaps, dodging defenders, heading straight for the goal posts.

Just before reaching the scene, we spot red emergency lights ahead.
Hold on! that’s not the scene. Let's keep going!
That’s emergency vehicles stuck in traffic, sirens on, lights flashing… and still nobody making way. Eish.

Then the road opens and yoh. Not prepared for this one.
Vehicles folded like tin cans. A bakkie crushed. Another wedged. Rescue tools everywhere. Fire, EMS, traffic, SAPS - controlled chaos. Calm professionals doing hard work on a bad day.
______________________________________________________________________
𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐍𝐄𝐃
Preliminary information indicates that one LDV allegedly overtook another vehicle into oncoming traffic. It collided with an LDV carrying 12 occupants. As control was lost, a third LDV collided head-on with the overtaking vehicle, which was then rear-ended by a fourth LDV.
All of this happened on a straight stretch of road.
_______________________________________________________________________
Patients were spread across the scene. Some already loaded into ambulances.
Others trapped.
Radios buzzing.
Updates flying.
One side of the scene strangely calm… the other heavy. Rescue teams got to work, metal moved, and time stretched.

Hospitals were alerted. Equipment lined up. “No time to waste” became the unspoken rule. We moved fast because sometimes fast is the only thing left to give.
Despite best efforts, protocols followed, and teamwork firing on all cylinders, the scene delivered a hard reminder: not every battle is winnable.

Initially, three fatalities were confirmed on scene. As operations continued, the entrapped driver suffered cardiac arrest just before transport. Despite resuscitation efforts, he could not be saved.

Later, the critically injured passenger did not make it to hospital.

Five lives lost. Not numbers. People.

When the last patient was moved, the weight set in. Counting injuries on fingers because your brain is tired.
Eighteen… no,
nineteen. One missing.
Found. Confirmed.
Final tally aligned across services.

Clean-up followed. Oil covered. Vehicles recovered. The road slowly reopened - the traffic backed up from Kwambo to Canefields and beyond. Only in SA can a 30km jam feel personal.

Hours later, we roll back. Quiet. No jokes now. Just that look between crews that says, “We did everything we could.”

To every service on scene — fire, EMS, traffic, SAPS — respect.

𝑻𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒖𝒃𝒍𝒊𝒄: 𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝒓𝒆𝒎𝒆𝒎𝒃𝒆𝒓, 𝒔𝒄𝒆𝒏𝒆𝒔 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒅𝒐𝒏’𝒕 𝒆𝒏𝒅 𝒘𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎.

Slow down. Make space.

🚨 𝓔𝓶𝓮𝓻𝓰𝓮𝓷𝓬𝔂 𝓿𝓮𝓱𝓲𝓬𝓵𝓮𝓼 𝓬𝓪𝓷’𝓽 𝓼𝓪𝓿𝓮 𝓵𝓲𝓿𝓮𝓼 𝓲𝓯 𝓽𝓱𝓮𝔂 𝓬𝓪𝓷’𝓽 𝓰𝓮𝓽 𝓽𝓱𝓻𝓸𝓾𝓰𝓱.

Stay safe. Stay patient. Look after each other. 🚑💛

16/12/2025

🚑 PUBLIC HOLIDAY: COUNTRY ON CHILL… EMS ON HARD MODE

While most of Mzansi woke up on 16 December dreaming of braais, beach towels and absolutely no alarms, one phone chose violence.
That phone doesn’t ring to say howzit — it rings to say get up, bru, someone’s worst day just clocked in.

First call: declaration. Brain still buffering, coffee still a fantasy.
Second call lands before the kettle even thinks about boiling: “Big accident. Multiple vehicles. Possible entrapments.”
Public holiday or not — red emergency lights on, and the ambulance goes into low-flying mode. When the N2 is empty, you don’t waste the blessing.

Arriving on scene was one of those moments where your eyes understand before your brain catches up.

Vehicles folded like they lost an argument with physics.
Debris scattered across the road like the car exploded its own spare-parts catalogue.
Down the embankment lay a timber truck on its side, the load pulling the trailer over, a Telkom pole taken out clean — yet the lines still hanging. Stronger than most relationships.

Scene update: two entrapments, multiple injured.
Then comes the moment that makes you pause.

And then… a camping chair.
At an accident scene.
Not for spectating — nope, it came with its own patient.

She was seated calmly, processing life choices, and when asked how she was feeling, she looked up and asked:
“Do you have a Panado?”

We explained that ambulances don’t really carry headache tablets. Without missing a beat, she pointed to her vehicle and said there’s a container in the door with Panado inside. Cool, calm, collected.

Small detail: her leg was broken again.

Pain scale? Apparently “Panado will sort it.” She thinks.
She was stabilised, given proper analgesia (sorry Panado), and transported — floating high enough to forget both the camping chair and the DIY pharmacy suggestion.

One vehicle had taken a direct hit from reality. The front end was gone — not damaged, gone. A wheel with suspension components lay meters away, having resigned from the vehicle mid-impact. Sadly, the driver sustained fatal injuries during the collision. A hard reminder that sometimes there are no second chances. Respect always.

Another driver was seriously entrapped, metal wrapped tight, access limited. Advanced care on scene, steady hands, calm voices — this is where training steps up and panic gets told to wait outside.

Down the slope, an LDV had considered joining the chaos, then decided halfway through to just… park on the embankment. Driver shaken, but unharmed. Luck is a strange thing.

Despite the destruction, there was an odd calm. Even the rent-a-crowd — those professional bystanders who usually arrive before the ambulances — had clearly taken the public holiday off. No phones in faces, no roadside experts, no extra delays. Just emergency services, tow trucks, and the rare luxury of space to do the job properly.

Then comes the part that’s not just today’s problem.
Hospitals now want medical aid status confirmed before accepting patients.
Yes.
On scene.
While patients are injured.
While crews are stabilising, extricating and managing chaos — we’re also expected to negotiate co-payments like it’s a mall kiosk special. And once you arrive? More admin. Because paperwork, apparently, saves lives faster.

So what happened on this Tuesday morning?
One risky overtake.
One moment of “I’ll make it.”
And a chain reaction nobody ordered.

Public holiday or not — accidents don’t check calendars.
Drive sharp. Be patient.

🚑 While you’re on chill mode, someone else is always on duty.

08/12/2025

🚑 MONDAY: PARAMEDICS NEED TO START THE VEHICLES!! ☕💔

The coffee wasn’t even lukewarm before disaster struck.

There I was… arriving at the office, holding fresh warm first cup of Monday coffee — the one that decides whether you’ll be productive or a public hazard.

Then WhatsApp sings its cursed little ringtone.
Voice note plays.
“N2 near Kwambo… serious accident… urgently need ambulances… need to help the drivers start the vehicles…”
Start the vehicles?
Eish. For a moment, I thought society had decided EMS is also a mobile mechanic service.
Next call: “Paramedic, please fix my alternator.”

Replay the message…
Replay again…
Brain loads like Windows XP… Then it hits:
The drivers aren’t trying to START anything — they’re STUCK.

That was the moment my coffee accepted defeat.

We launch onto the N2 at emotionally-illegal speeds.
The group chat chirps, “Any service mobile?”
No time. We’re already Schumachering, chasing an ambulance that was ahead of us…

Blink once — and it disappears from the rear-view like it entered witness protection.

🚧 ARRIVING: A SCENE STRAIGHT OUT OF THE PITT

Two bakkies - One head-on.

One bakkie decided to park diagonally across the N2 — as if proudly displaying all its damage like it’s auditioning for a scrapyard calendar…
Meanwhile, the other bakkie clearly thought, ‘Yoh, let me keep my distance,’ and came to a confused halt a short way up the road.

Before I get to the patient, a guy rushes up shouting:
“I need gloves!”
I ask, “And you are…?”
“I’m a traffic officer!”
Perfect. I hand him traffic cones because cars were squeezing through the wreckage like they were auditioning for Fast & Furious: Kwambo Drift.

Inside the bakkie, our patient is properly trapped.
Dashboard on his legs.
Steering column leaning on him like it fell asleep.
Off-duty nurse jumps in. Fire guys jump in.

🧯 THE EXTRICATION THEME SONG BEGINS
We stabilise what we can in a space so tight I could feel the air judging us.
Another fire rescue engine is summoned for rescue equipment.

Other driver? Also trapped, but less seriously injured.
Second ambulance arrives.
We point them up the road like traffic marshals with purpose.

Road is slippery with oil.
One misstep and any one of us could’ve become a YouTube clip titled “Paramedic vs Gravity.”
Closing another lane for safety.

Then rescue begins:
🔧 Cutters scream.
🔧 Jaws pry.
🔧 Ram pushes metal like it owes them money.
The Jaws of Life cried a little.

Dashboard lifts.
Patient breathes easier.
Universe gives us one small victory.
We get him out — another IV up, fractures splinted, wounds dressed — and I’m sweating like a politician during questioning.

📞 THE HOSPITAL SCENE: THE FULL “THE PITT” EXPERIENCE
Call hospital.
Give update in one single breath.
Immediately regret not training as an opera singer.

We load. We go.

Every pothole:
“Please behave… not now… please…”
(Pothole does not behave.)

Arrive at hospital — and THIS is where it gets TV-level dramatic:
The in-charge doctor is already waiting at the door,
while the rest of the team is lined up in resus like it’s a choreographed scene from The Pitt.
You can practically hear the:
“Ready… 1, 2, 3 — MOVE!”
as the patient slides from stretcher to hospital bed with military precision.

My handover is done in four short breaths, sweating like an overworked sprinkler system.

📝 THE PAPERWORK: A TRAGEDY IN SEVERAL ACTS
Let’s just say the list of injuries nearly required a table of contents.

❓ SO HOW DID IT HAPPEN?
No time to ask any bystanders — we were too busy keeping the patient alive.

But from the wreckage, one thing is clear:
A driver crossed a line that was never meant to be crossed —
and the consequences arrived harder than expected.

It’s the kind of decision you regret instantly…
and then wish you could Ctrl+Z in real life.

And no… we still don’t start vehicles. Only hearts and chaos.

🚑 CLOSING THOUGHT
Stay in your lane — literally, figuratively, emotionally.
Slow down at accident scenes — we like our bones unbroken.
And remember:
When Monday steals your coffee, at least dark humour is still free.
Stay safe, stay sharp, stay lekker. 💙🚑🔥






.

25/11/2025

🌟 The Girl Who Took the Shortest Flight to Paris 🌟

Some mornings are quiet… too quiet. Then suddenly:

“RED CODE. High school. 15-year-old. Fallen. ALS required.”

Silence? Gone.
Coffee? Forgotten.
Us? Sprinting like we’re warming up for the Comrades.

We fly past FiveWays, sirens working overtime. Even that one taxi driver — you know the one — actually moved aside. That’s when we knew today was blessed. The school guard saw the red lights and opened the gate faster than a kid hiding contraband snacks.

I walk into the clinic expecting tears, panic, drama…
Nope.
There she is, lying on the bed with a swollen knee and a smile big enough to power Eskom.

So I open with the standard:
“Why you chasing the boyfriends down the stairs?”
She snorts laughing. “I wasn’t chasing ANYONE! I literally just tripped!”
Good — conscious, orientated, and funnier than half my family.

Her knee looks like it borrowed a tennis ball, so while I prep the IV, she asks, “Is the drip going to hurt?”
“No,” I say, “much less painful than falling down stairs.”
She blinks — IV in.
“Wait… that was it?”
Professional flex: completed.

Crew arrives. Advanced Paramedic starts the checklist.
Allergies?
One of us adds, “Doctors, hospitals, needles… stairs.”
She bursts out laughing: “Definitely the stairs!”

Then comes the pain score.
“On a scale of 1 to 10 — what’s your pain?”
She doesn’t even hesitate:
“9.5.”
We all stop.
A point five.
She explains, dead serious, “It’s not 9. It’s not 10. It’s 9.5.”
I swear I nearly needed oxygen.

Then the Advanced medic explains ketamine — side effects, hallucinations, the whole textbook.
“Some people feel like they’re travelling. Think of somewhere you’ve been on holiday.”
She shrugs, “Only been to Cape Town.”
“That’s fine, you can go back.”
She looks him dead in the eye:
“Actually… I want to go to PARIS.”

Ohhhhkay then. We tell her, “Bon voyage — travel safe!”

We start the slow push.
She says, “Nothing’s happening.”
Three seconds later:
“Guys… I think… I’m boarding.”

Perfect.
Splinting team: GO.
We remove the temporary support, align the leg, apply proper splints — not a single flinch.
Our girl is too busy taking croissant selfies with the Eiffel Tower.

Then suddenly she snaps back:
“I didn’t reach Parys!”
I ask, “Shame, was your flight cancelled?”
She giggles: “Yoh… turbulence.”

Pain score now: 4.5.
Attitude score: still 10/10.

We load her into the ambulance. As I turn to leave, she grabs my arm gently and says:

“You’re so funny… please don’t go.”

And honestly?
With a patient like her — brave, chaotic, hilarious — I didn’t want to leave either.

Some calls fix more than injuries.
Some calls fix our day.