The Dentist, The Dilemma, The Madness: A Jakarta Smile Story

Sailing up the coast of Java, somewhere between chaos and current, I lost a front tooth (a veneer). One minute I was biting into life, the next I was biting into air. Not ideal. I sailed into Jakarta and tied up at Batavia Marina with two goals: fix the generator, fix my smile—in that order.

Easier said than done. After about five failed attempts—yes, five—I finally struck gold. What I’ve learned in Indonesia, and really all across the planet, is that Google Maps is like Tinder for businesses: glossy profiles, misleading photos, and half of them ghost you the minute you show up. Jakarta itself is a fever dream in traffic form—smog thick enough to butter toast, a symphony of horns and mopeds, and the air tastes like someone deep-fried the concept of “too many people.”

Attempt Number Five: Precious Dental, Boringly Brilliant

Precious Dental was everything you’d hope for, state-of-the-art everything. A spotless office that smelled faintly of lavender and disinfectant. The staff were sweet, efficient, and terrifyingly competent—two of them spoke English better than most American dentists I’ve met.

In a couple of hours I had the veneer reattached. Not a forever fix, but enough to keep me from scaring small children at the marina. The price? About 5,000,000 rupiah—roughly $300 USD. Not cheap for Indo, but a fair ransom for dignity.

It was great. Too great. Because this story isn’t about Dentist Number Five. She was smooth jazz—No, this tale belongs to Dentist Number Four—a man so baffling, so gloriously unhinged, that he deserves his own corner in the Museum of Questionable Life Choices.

Attempt Number Four: Enter Dr. Gigi, Mad Scientist of Molars

Picture this: I’m zipping through a Jakarta alley on a scooter that smells like burning dreams. On my left, a row of concrete storage units clinging to life. On my right, the city’s gutter—a ribbon of black-brown sludge burbling like Satan’s cappuccino machine. Halfway down hangs a crooked faded sign, attached with zip ties, that simply reads AHLI GIGI (which roughly translates to “dental artisan” or “tooth craftsman”), dangling like a warning label for reality itself. Think pre-horror film setup with the accompanying music.

Inside? A room roughly the size of a Manhattan studio apartment—maybe six by six feet, maybe less. The “clinic” had all the charm of a forgotten Soviet break room. Missing ceiling tiles, a linoleum floor that looked like it survived the fall of communism and possibly a small fire, and certainly had not seen a broom or mop in some time. The “dentist’s chair” was a folding chair, and the inspection light was a desk lamp bolted to the wall at a heroic but questionable angle—and there wasn’t a single actual dental instrument in sight.

And then he appeared. Barefoot. Three teeth in total—like some kind of reverse tooth fairy who’d kept the spoils for himself. He reclined in his own folding chair behind what appeared to be a card table, cigarette dangling from his mouth, feet up like he was on vacation from reality. His English was minimal, but his confidence was fluent.

I fired up the mobile google machine to translate and began the world’s most chaotic game of dental charades. Ten minutes of interpretive mime, grunts, and enthusiastic pointing later, I flashed him my jack-o’-lantern grin. He nodded sagely—the universal sign of I have no idea what you just said but I’m in too deep to back out now—and reached under the table.

He produced what can only be described as a fisherman’s tackle box of dental treasures. Inside, rows of fake teeth and veneers in every size, color, and level of regret. Possibly used. Possibly not. I tried not to think about it. We found one that matched surprisingly well—which was somehow both comforting and horrifying.

Upon this discovery, he smiled, stood tall, and transferred the cigarette to his off-hand like a man prepping for surgery in a Quentin Tarantino film. With the other hand, he brandished what looked like a tube of super glue from a model airplane kit. No gloves. No mask. Just vibes.

“Open,” I think he said, smiling his three-tooth smile. Then reached for my mouth...

That’s when my survival instincts screamed louder than the Jakarta traffic outside. Look, I pride myself on respecting cultural differences. I really do. But there’s a universal line between “local color” and “DIY dentistry with a side of tetanus.” And brother, we were a country mile across it.

So I did what any rational, hygiene-conscious sailor would do: I faked a phone call, muttered something about an emergency, and bolted—Forrest trying to find himself!

Moral of the story: I went looking for a dentist and found a man with a glue gun, a cigarette, and my next chapter.