How Many Teeth Ya Need?

Psychologists say that the most common shared dream, aside from being naked in front of a crowd, is having your teeth fall out.

Herodotus believed that the dream portended death. It’s an easy allegory to make. The passing of time, from baby teeth, to adult teeth, to no teeth and then death. Our teeth, a symbol of our virility and vigor – biting and tearing the flesh of other animals to assert our dominant stance at the top of a befanged pile.

‘Is it just me, or does this cigar look like a tiny penis? Anyone? Anyone?’

Freud, as he was wont to do, made it about dongs. Losing your teeth in a dream meant losing your boner, metaphorical or not. The man had a knack for tying it all back to the wanger.

At the end of the day I think it simply represents change. A life change, a love change, an anxiousness about ageing in a world so preoccupied with it.

As far as life changes go, I guess Cassie and I signed up for the big ones. Save for having a baby; moving house, changing jobs, and traveling to the ass end of the world, rank up there.

Yet I’ve had this dream only once since traveling. It didn’t upset me, just a natural subconscious blowoff. My receding hairline, once a proud pompadour, has been weighing on my mind recently. Just one in a long line of physical tolls the last few years has placed on my body.

The lines on my face, barely recognizable these days, even to myself, seem etched finer. The slow imprint of years squinting through a helmet visor into the harsh tropical sun.

Scars from a thousand scrapes, living daily in the rough, heal, then are scarred over again. My favorites tell stories back to me better than any tattoo.

Ask me what?

These things don’t matter. Character matters. Did these scars develop me any further as a person? Yes, without a doubt. I learned about how angry elephants in musth can be – head first. Do the gray hairs dotting my beard make me look distinguished? (wait, lemme take off my propeller hat)

I dunno.
Ask George ‘distinguished as balls’ Clooney.

I don’t NEED to look good. It helps, but being fat for most of my life (like Orca-fat) has taught me to get by without basking in the unnatural glow of aesthetic adoration. I do however NEED teeth. And so does Cassie.

As I write this, the hum of the air conditioner above my head barely drowns out the terrible whir of the drill probing my companion’s mouth. The thoughts of third world dentistry and the complications that could arise from unsanitary tools, or god forbid – substandard (University of Florida) schooling, flash past.

Cassie, living a waking nightmare, has had one of her wisdom teeth crack in half. The first half fell out at a party. My first thought was that she was just double dipping on some tooth fairy money. Then the other half fell, and I realized this wasn’t the Double-Dip, she was having a full on English-dentistry meltdown.

Whether her fears of change, having landed a new more demanding job, had manifested itself physically I don’t know. But after making the requisite Austin Powers jokes, poking fun at her lauded NHS, and offering to stick a Chiclet in as a temporary replacement, we set off to the dentist.

In Cambodia, dentistry is still more of a hobby than a profession it seems. The answer, as with most of the various ills of this nation is inextricably linked to recent history.

The entire country survived the 1979 civil war with only about 30 dentists left alive – the rest rounded up with the other educated classes. These dentists, most of them students, had to rebuild their profession from the ground up. Trying vainly after the war to get those with nothing to eat to worry about their teeth.

Traditional dentists still ply their trade in provincial villages. Their cost and speed the only factors worth noting. Unregulated, they are often homeschooled – dental skills and tools handed down from father to son. The complications arising from these unsanitary working conditions are often terrible, such as the case of 277 patients accidentally infected with HIV due to unsterilized needles at a single clinic.

Things are changing for the better. Better access to education, western equipment, and tighter health regulations mean standards are improving. Yet graduates still need only meet a 20% on their exams to pass, and can take the same test multiple times. Plus, the rampant corruption in most areas of Cambodian life means that even that 20% is probably negotiable.

That said, the majority of expats have had nothing but good things to say about the dentists in Sihanoukville, and even better things to say about the lavish, western-style, offices in the Capital.

My own experience with third world medicine has thankfully been limited. The elephant scar on the back of my head, received only a week into my trip, was simply washed and covered again by my sweaty motorcycle helmet for another couple weeks ride. I simply couldn’t bear the conversation at the hospital.

Doc: ‘How did this happen?’

Me: ‘The emperor of Vietnam’s personal elephant picked me up and threw me on my head.’

Doc: ‘You go now.’

No, I’d managed to stay out from under the glare of clinical lighting for the most part. Cassie, like many before, and many after, left some pieces of herself buried in the pristine ribbon of the Pai mountain road. Her experiences of having asphalt removed from her chest with a wire brush sounded…unpleasant, especially to a boob-man.

Despite a quickly dwindling bankroll we decided to bet it safe and go to the big city. The fact that I hadn’t left the beach in almost a year barely registered. In fact I was amazed at how little I cared for the things that once drew me excitedly from my tropical seclusion – air conditioning, hot water, movie theaters and restaurants.

The last two times I spent the night in aircon, going in and out of Phnom Penh by bike, I got terribly Ill. As if my body had acclimated fully to the thick soupy air of the coast, and anything above a cool breeze would make me consumptive.

Hot water, so far a distant memory, like toilet paper – long, long, forgotten.

Still, the lure of a good dentist, one that won’t accidentally give you HIV, was enough. So we packed a bag, and split a taxi to the Penh.

Five hours nestled comfortably in the back of a Camry as it hurtled over red dirt roads and we were here – the bright shining offices of Pachem Dental.

The modern-glass and steel building, all open air and colorful light is a marked contrast to the grubby street outside. A large bust of Khmer Empire founder, Javaryman II, dominates the spartan lobby. Tiny, immaculately dressed, Khmer nurses glide about silently, attending devotedly to the many requests of their foreign clientele.

People from all over the world fly in to this little corner of Asia for one reason – cheap veneers. Take in a week at the beach, or a bit of genocidal sightseeing and you can call it dental-tourism.

The drill stops and there’s a ‘whump’ of air as the Indian dentist opens the large glass door to the operating room.

‘You can see her now.’ She says.

I enter the room, probably the most electrically lit I’ve been in years, to find Cassie still reclined in the chair. The scene from Batman flashes through my mind, with the Joker slowly having his bandages unwrapped from his mangled face.

You look…great.

But she’s not mangled, thankfully. Just sore. Her sheepish grin is forced wide by cotton balls and next to her two blood spattered teeth, completely rotted through.

‘You wanna go home kid?’

‘Mmmmhmmpf’