Charlie Larga visits the dentist at Feria Libre

Opposite Feria Libre, squeezed between a pharmacy and a scanner joint, I found a dingy doorway that didn’t look like the path to dental salvation, although a small sign that mentioned family dentistry gave away the game. But up two flights of concrete stairs it opened out into a surprisingly busy clinic.

The waiting room décor was a cultural jigsaw: two seminude Greek statues, including that barechested female amputee, the Venus de Milo, presiding with blank marble stares, while a giant television blared children’s cartoons. Somewhere between Athens and SpongeBob, people sat calmly with their numbered slips.

I had booked my appointment the day before by Whatsapp. At the desk I mentioned my name, was handed a flimsy scrap of paper that read “Turno #16,” and had a list of groceries in biro on the reverse side, and sat under the gaze of the statues. It struck me how Ecuador mixes high-tech and low-tech with no sense of contradiction: instant Whatsapps on one side, crumpled paper tickets on the other.

I don’t know if anyone in that office spoke any English, but dental Spanish is the simplest dialect in the world. Three words cover most of the conversation: abre (open wide), duele? (does it hurt?), and escupe (spit). In some of the more pretentious offices you may hear Spanglish phrases like “a reens and a speet”, which means ‘rinse and spit’.

The masked dentist peered at a tooth that was falling to bits, nodded, mentioned caries and got to work.

I chose to endure the drilling without an injection, because at my age, who cares? Half an hour of buzzing, smoke and steam, followed by application of glue, paste, and polish, and the job was done.

No ceremony, no hygienist polishing my molars, no free toothbrush at the end or instructions on flossing, though actually he did suggest that an occasional brushing (cepillando) might be useful. Just a nod and a finger pointing me toward the payment window conveniently located next to the exit.

There, another slip of paper appeared, this one reading simply: “$20.” No change from a twenty, no extra charges for “chair time,” no insurance paperwork. I folded the slip, slid a veinte across the counter, and was soon clattering back down the stairs. Outside, an empty taxi was just nosing into traffic. I raised a hand, the driver pulled over, and as we headed home the first drops of rain splattered on the windshield.

In other countries, dentistry can feel like a slow-motion financial catastrophe. Here in Cuenca, it’s a quick appointment, a Greek statue, a Peppa Pig rerun, and a perfectly repaired tooth for the price of an executive almuerzo for two.

Dentistry without the drama as long as you don’t expect any change from a Jackson.