I haven’t regretted solo travel for a single bit until today, when I got a tooth pulled out by a dentist in Africa.
Let me tell you about this tooth. It is the problem child of my otherwise straight, bright teeth. I’m vain about my smile; it is big and radiant and part of my whole happy-California-girl signature look. So I’m very protective of my teeth. This one particular bad boy began acting out last year while I was in Lisbon for my cousin’s wedding at an old seaside fort. It gave me aches in my head and in my jaw and wouldn’t give up until I got back to China and had a root canal done. When the dentist opened up my tooth for the procedure, it was rotten inside. She scooped out the rot, dropped in some medicine and patched up my tooth. All good, right? No. The tooth decided to let another cavity fester two months ago before I left Beijing. My dentist sighed and fixed it up. Then, a few days ago, the pain began again. This time the damage was irreparable. I had rot, bone decay and a painful gum infection. A dentist in Senegal said it had to go.
What went wrong over the last year? All my other teeth are healthy and shiny. Based on my unprofessional opinion, my theory is that my habit of chewing food often on the right side wore out my molar. On top of that, I ground my teeth at night, wearing it down even more. Finally the tooth cracked, and that was the beginning of the end.
There were many moving parts to the tooth extraction. First, I couldn’t get the job done in Senegal because the dentist wanted me on antibiotics before the procedure. So I had to wait a few days until I got to Abidjan, Cote d’Ivoire, to find a reliable dentist, schedule an appointment, get in a taxi, locate the clinic in a country with unclear addresses and tell the dentist the situation — all in French, and all alone. It’s my third language, but I haven’t spoken it in about a decade, since university days. (It also doesn’t help that every time I open my mouth, some Mandarin wants to dribble out.) My French pronunciation is understandable to French speakers, but my grammar is terrible. My mom, who’s fluent, helped translate a lot for me, but then she pushed me out of the nest. What is it they say? The best way to learn a language is through immersion. I didn’t think it’d be while I was about to have a mini surgical operation by myself in a foreign country.
The experience tested the limits of my courage. I’m already scared of dentists and gore. So facing both fears in the Ivory Coast was a nightmare come true. I had a panic attack of sweat, hyperventilation and tears. But I also knew that time can be a savior, and the whole thing would be over in a few hours. At the same time, I was on guard for any impending disasters. The clinic had accepted my appointment, then changed it twice because the receptionist somehow forgot to mention the office would be closed on Tabaski, the annual Islamic celebration where believers slaughter mutton in sacrifice to God. Every part of me wanted to scream, for mom, for a teddy bear, for a friend to come with me. I had never felt so alone and helpless. But when I realized I just didn’t have a choice, that it was my fate, I calmed down, and off I went.
I took a taxi over the bridge of the lagoon to the Cocody district. The clinique dentaire sat at the curve of a residential street of gated compounds behind green tufts of lawn grass. A guard in yellow – they are all in yellow in this city – on a chair outside under an umbrella directed me inside the building. I waited two hours inside a small clinic for my turn. It was already 4:30 p.m. on a Friday afternoon, and there were still 10 people left to see only one dentist on duty. There were no appointments. It was first come, first serve.
Inside the dentist’s room, another patient sat in a chair with her head in her palms. She would be there the entire time. The chair setup was basic and bare but suitable and clean. The dentist slipped on new gloves, took a needle and squeezed anesthesia into my gums. Then came the pliers. I closed my eyes. With a few wiggles and a tug, the tooth was out. I bit down on a piece of gauze. That was fast. Is that what happens to fear? It feels like a trick of the mind. You worry yourself for hours into tears, then the thing happens, and then you survive.
