Mexico ... for a sting in the tail

AS THE sun sets over Valle de Bravo, two hours west of Mexico City, I sip on a margarita at luxurious Finca Enyhe, every sense tingling from the surrounding kaleidoscope. Church bells and mariachi music waft up from the village, accompanied by the clip-clop of horse's hooves and the discordant bray of a marauding goose. Mexico, me encanta.

Yet paradise can be a right bitch sometimes. And I am to cop the evil sting in her tail in the most literal sense.

Emerging from the shower the following day, semi-blind in the morning light, I step on what feels like a shard of glass. Cursing, I fumble for the light and my glasses so I can see what has pierced my toe. There's no mistaking the shape: an elongated critter of about three centimetres with a curved tail, quivering in fury that I've interrupted its procession across the tiles.

Having never encountered a scorpion in Australia, I'm ignorant as to whether its sting is benign or if I have just one hour to live. With visions of a nasty, Indiana Jones-style death, I hobble to the kitchen for help. Unfortunately, no one speaks English; eventually, they get my gist – "alacran!" – scorpion! – and I'm handed slices of garlic to rub on my toe while staff contact my host, Lucia.

Fortunately, Lucia is not only brilliantly bilingual but calm under pressure, bundling me off to the local hospital. There we jump the queue of spluttering Indians and sad-looking grandmas: clearly there is no time to waste, a realisation that sends me into mild panic.

My blood pressure proves to be abnormally high; even more so when I'm jabbed with the antivenom. I can't help but ask if the hygiene standards in Mexico are up to scratch.

With blood dripping down my arm, I am hooked up to an IV drip as a precaution should my throat start to constrict. This, Lucia translates, is a sign that the toxicity is spreading: if that happens, they would administer more drugs via the drip.

Officially under observation for an hour, I lie on the bed, which has clearly been designed for a race less lanky than mine. At least half a metre too tall, I'm forced to spread-eagle my legs up the wall, sending both Lucia and me into fits of giggles. All I can think about is how desperately I need a pedicure, the peeling red nail polish even more disturbing than my rapidly numbing foot.

Although my legs tingle, it's clear that the toxins aren't spreading and after an hour of showing no other symptoms I am sent on my way, Lucia kindly taking care of the 114-peso (about $10) account. Another sigh of relief – I'd been expecting a US-style bill and a long battle with my insurance company.