Adios, Motherfucker

Adios, Motherfucker

What’s the most quintessential injury an Aussie can get in Bali?

A scooter accident.

Okay, what’s the second most?

Animal Bite.

What’s the third—actually, forget it.

Picture this, it’s 3 o’clock in the afternoon and you’ve just down a beverage called Adios Motherfucker. Sorry, Adios Motherfu*cker. Can’t forget the oddly placed asterisk; it’s honestly charming.

Ingredients:

  • Smirnoff Red
  • Capitan Morgan
  • White Rum
  • Tequila Jose Cuervo
  • Gordon’s Gin
  • Blue Curacao

And, just to dilute the taste, a teaspoon—no, half a teaspoon, less even—of Sprite.

Let me tell you, it is definitely liquid. Bright blue, the colour of drain cleaner or blue Gatorade. Not positive if it can be called a drink, but it sure is liquid.

It’s the kind of day where the backs of your knees are dripping sweat. Liquid rolls down your calves like rain. All you had for lunch was ice cream with strawberry topping, actual strawberries and something that gave a needed hint of salt. There was probably a mint sprig too, ‘cause everything is served with mint sprigs in Bali, and you love it. Chewing it makes you feel like an old cowboy exploring the world after the collapse of the Wild West, and it freshens your breath. Wonderful.

So, every drop of that cocktail goes straight to your head. You keep yourself together as you pay, but giggle like a girl with a crush. There’s a liquor store across the road, and now you’re buying rum and vodka like you’ve got a problem (yeah, the problem is that 700mL of Smirnoff is only $30AUD over here).

You catch a car back to your villa and when you get out, well, that’s when it all comes crashing down. You’ve dropped the goddam drinks, right on your left big toe. The driver apologises like it’s his fault you’re a mess, and your friends are trying to help, but it’s all so awkward. You’re kicking yourself because you drank too much and smashed a bottle of rum, except you’re not kicking because your foot fucking hurts.

But hey, you’ve still got the vodka! Let’s party!! Later, though, because right now you’re bleeding and covered in rum. But all the glass is inside the bag, so at least there’s no mess to clean up. Except yourself. Go change and wash your foot.

You borrow some antiseptic ‘til you can get your own, and clean the wound as best you can, but it’s smacked right on the nail and you know you’re gonna lose it. The nail, not the toe.

You’ve sobered up amazingly quickly and now you feel a fool. Adios was right. Adios toenail!

Bending your toe feels genuinely impossible, so you fear you’ve broken the bone. There’s not much to be done about that, and it doesn’t look out of place, so you don’t go to the doctor. It’s expensive and, yes, you have travel insurance, but the thought of calling up is horrific. You come from a family whose patriarch decided not to go to the hospital after a car-totalling accident and suffered whiplash for weeks, months even, and whose matriarch avoided going to the hospital for almost 24 hours after she broke her arm, so you don’t go to the doctor. It’s what your parents would have wanted.

It keeps bleeding and bleeding. Every time you think it’s stopped, it bleeds some more. You change the dressing twice a day at this point, and it’s prudent to remember you’re allergic to the adhesive from some bandages. Whatever, you’ll take a rash over an infected toe. If you lose your big toe, it’ll ruin your balance. Any dreams of becoming a dancer would be shattered. Well, they shattered when your ballet teacher implied “lose weight or leave” when you were nine years old, but still.

You limp for days. So much so that your right thigh feels like it’s been through a tough workout, strained and sore, but like, in a good way. Great, now you’re gonna have a before and after photoshoot with your legs side by side! Fair enough, split-leg dresses are in.

You’re cleaning it daily, but you’re going snorkelling and you’re not supposed to swim with wounds. It’ll be fine. Probably. Hopefully.

Things seem okay, though it’s leaking clear fluid. More antiseptic. You’re not limping anymore, (your thigh still hurts for a while though) and you only feel pain with certain shoes. This is great. It’ll be like nothing happened in no time.

There’s a line of ~black something~ where the nail meets the skin. It’s just scabbing over, right? Except you take a walk in the ocean and it washes clean away and now it’s leaking sticky fluid again.

By the power of mental persuasion, it will be fine. Which is why at 7:30pm one night, you panic about pain in the underside of your toe. It’s infected. You know it. Why else would the underside just now start hurting? But it’s too late for a doctor and like hell are you going to a hospital. So, online you go. Hey, there’s a pharmacy 600m away open until 10. And you can buy antibiotics over the counter in Bali. Brilliant.

Maybe you should order a bike? I mean, it is your foot that’s hurt. Nah, they’ll judge you for wanting such a short trip and that’s what matters right? People judging you. Besides, it doesn’t hurt that much. You’ll walk. The sun’s setting, that’s so great. There’s limited footpath available, easy done. There’s a group of older gentlemen calling out to you from across the road; you have definitely made the right choice. A 21-year-old girl wandering alone at night in a foreign country.

The walk to the pharmacy is excruciatingly long. You used to walk a kilometre in 45 minutes, why is 600m taking the same amount of time? Yeah, you’re not in great shape, but you weren’t back then either. You’re needlessly scared: about being hit by a car, about being accosted, about your infected toe, about walking all this way and then not being given anything, or worse, that the store will be shut.

Now you’re there, and the pharmacy’s open. You sigh in relief. You tell the ladies your issue and they give you antibiotics. Only five pills, with three to be taken a day. But that’s cool, if you need it longer, you’ll get more.

The way back takes half the time. If anyone hollers at you, you don’t even notice. You’re sure you’re gonna be okay. You get home to the villa and wash the street dust off your legs so you can clean your toe again. Things are going to be fine.

The next day, you notice a blister on the underside of your toe. Right where it was hurting last night. All that for a blister.

Adi-fucking-os.

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