There is a reason why you never hear the words “dentist” and “Africa” in the same sentence. There are few places in the world where you would be better off letting that rotten root fester than actually seeking professional help and pretty much the whole continent (except for South Africa and one hospital in Nairobi) qualifies.

Let me start from the beginning: about a month and a half ago, I was lying on the couch one Sunday night, watching Dr. Phil, drinking a St. Georges and eating popcorn when I broke the back off one of my lower front teeth (which was cracked during a raspberry verenyi incident in 2004) by biting down on a kernel. Since I had been medevaced back to my cute little Tennessean dentist, Dr. Gregory, less than a month before for an abscessed tooth, I had little choice but to suck it up and visit a dentist in town.

During the said abscessed tooth episode, which involved a lot of swelling, pain and visits to the dickhead South Asian dentist Dr. Raina (yeah, that’s right, I used your real name) who withheld information about treatment options, I was advised by an American working for a Christian aid agency about a Chinese dentist on Bole Road who did good work. Crumpled in my chair during the food security workshop from the pain, I decided I had nothing to lose by visiting Dr. Ling. Although she could do nothing to help me with my abscessed tooth except pull it (since a root canal had already been done) or “make a little window” to clean the roots by drilling into my jaw, she decided it was in everyone’s best interest to send me back to Dr. Gregory and promptly filled out my insurance paperwork (which Dr. Dickhead Raina refused to do).

This episode solidified the bond between me and Dr. Ling. Inside I swore that if any other dental problem arose I would go to her.

Back to the broken tooth—in August I went to see Dr. Ling who drilled down my two front teeth to little nubs before I knew what was happening or was able to ask for anesthesia. She then made impressions of my teeth, put in temporary (but nice looking) caps, and informed me that my new ceramic teeth would be back from China in a month. Those teeth came in last week and were installed. They looked good, but were a little too big. Dr. Ling told me to wait a week and see if I still thought they were too big and she would sand them down. That visit took place today.

This morning I got up, threw on some jeans and got in the car to Bole. By 9:00 Dr. Ling had ground down the teeth and I was on my way. Looking in the rearview mirror, I realized a mistake had been made—there was a considerable gap between where my top and bottom teeth met in front. I thought about it for a while, got ready and went into the office. By 11:00 I was distraught. Here I had fucked up the only front teeth I would ever have-- I went back to Dr. Ling. She was reassuring, we would fix it, she told me. The next hour was the worst, and nearly the most painful, of my life.

I have a high pain threshold: I have suffered peptic ulcers, burst ovarian cysts, and dry sockets and taken them all like a Pionerka. Something about this visit today made me squeal like a five year old. It took Dr. Ling about 35 minutes to drill the teeth, crack the ceramic, reassure me, shoot me up with anesthesia, and do some more drilling. I screamed, I cried, I squirmed, I bled. I was ashamed of myself for acting like such a big baby. I was mad because I was having this done in East Africa instead of East Tennessee. After what seemed like an eternity, Dr. Ling took impressions and put in temporary caps. I decided there was no way I could work for the rest of the day and packed it up to come home. Here at my dining room table, four hours later, my jaw and teeth are still aching. The pain and the humiliation of the whole day ranks only behind the riots in 2006 and losing my job three years ago. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Never see a dentist in Africa, NEVER.

Nothing left to do but light up a sheesha and have some wine.