Between Garlic and Bat Wings : Chinese Dentist Pulls Teeth on the Sidewalk

In the midst of Jinghong market, between a pile of garlic and a stall selling bat wings and dried snakes, is the office of casually dressed Wan Benzhong, sidewalk dentist.

One day recently, Wan, dental pliers in hand, could be seen peering intently into a patient’s gaping mouth while 20 or 30 curious passers-by crowded around to watch a bit of street-side oral surgery.

As the banner stretched across Wan’s tiny patch of pavement advertises, he can also treat earaches, itchy eyes, nasal problems and a host of other infirmities, all at bargain basement prices.

Low Overhead

Wan, one of China’s thousands of sidewalk health practitioners, is a firm believer in low overhead. His equipment consists of a foot-powered drill, some stainless steel picks and tweezers, a couple of pairs of pliers, a wooden stool, and assorted elixirs in dusty brown bottles--all out on a dirty plastic mat on the ground.

To his left is a big pile of garlic, grown in the fertile fields surrounding this southern Yunnan province town a few miles from the Burmese border.

On the right is a table piled high with coiled-up dried snakes, pickled reptiles in jars, bird claws, furry black bat wings, bottles of chopped-up centipedes and a variety of pungent herbs in brown paper bags. It’s a pharmacy, one of several in the market.

“I pay 20 fen (7 cents)a month to the city for a stall space and can make 30 to 40 yuan ($10.50 to $14)a day,” the 31-year-old Wan boasted. “I’m not really rich, but I’m doing well.”

He also believes in the power of advertising.

Spread out proudly in front of his plastic mat is a large pile of yellowing teeth, including several huge molars, successfully extracted from former patients. Wan says he charges up to 4 yuan ($1.40)to pull a tooth.

He also dabbles in orthodontics.

On one recent afternoon, he used a filling compound and a bit of wire to correct a large, unsightly gap between a patient’s two front teeth. The patient, a nervous young man of about 25, sat with his mouth wide open and his eyes tightly shut as Wan worked.

When Wan signaled he was finished, the young man picked up a small hand mirror and admired his new mouth. About 20 passers-by who took a short break from shopping to watch the operation nodded approvingly.

“He’s a young intellectual and was embarrassed by the gap in his teeth,” Wan said as he prepared for his next patient. “He had a speech impediment. I fixed it for four yuan.”

Like hundreds of thousands of other practitioners of his generation, Wan got his start in medicine during the 1966-76 Cultural Revolution as a “barefoot doctor.”

Following a decree of the late Chairman Mao Tse-tung--”in medical and health work, put the stress on rural areas”--Wan decided in 1973 to study under a doctor in neighboring Guizhou province and then head for the countryside to help the peasants.

“I was moved when I read an article on the shortage of medical personnel and the length of time it took for people to get treatment,” Wan recalled. “I studied with a doctor in Zunyi.”

With patients waiting, Wan did not have time to go into detail about his 12 years of practice.

Barefoot Doctors

However, if he was like most of Mao’s 1.5 million barefoot doctors, he spent time on a rural commune treating the minor ailments of hard-working peasants and joining them in the rice paddies when he wasn’t busy doctoring.

Now married with two young children, Wan has taken advantage of the government’s new, free-market policies and has started his own practice on the streets of Jinghong.

Last year, Health Minister Cui Yueli announced that doctors and health workers, particularly those without jobs, were free to set up on their own.

And early this year, the ministry announced that the Cultural Revolution term barefoot doctor was out, rural doctor was in.

Former barefoot doctors now take an examination that, depending on their score, qualifies them for practice as rural doctors, health workers or medical aides.

Wan said he likes private practice and sometimes sets up on a sidewalk in a different part of town to attract new patients.

He knows his limitations and when someone with a serious complaint comes calling, Wan refers him to a local doctor.

“I can fix watery, bloodshot eyes,” Wan proffered, staring intently at one visitor. “But I can’t do anything if you’re nearsighted.”