Paul Kearney Cambodia

A Cambodian Adventure: From Prisons to Primary Schools

Everything about Cambodia is an adventure—from crazy food to tropical rainstorms, from Lara Croft temples to swimming under 80-foot waterfalls. Then came the dentistry. First week? In a prison.

Inmates lined up outside our makeshift clinic at Siem Reap prison—some anxious, most stoic, all waiting for something they hadn’t experienced in two years: a dentist.

Our team of ten—five dentists, two therapists, Becky the only nurse, plus Gail and Jude—set up in an open-plan clinic. Considering the circumstances, open-plan felt reassuring, but that’s not exactly routine for dentistry. Every chair in a row, every conversation within earshot. I’ve worked in plenty of austere environments, but this felt different. Back home in the UK, we dentists operate behind closed doors, working in isolation. Here, isolation wasn’t an option.

The first complex extraction happened mid-morning. A lower six, fractured at the gum line, roots fixed and stubborn. I was just beginning to reconsider my life choices when I became aware of someone behind me. A colleague appeared with a set of Eagle Beaks. “Try this angle,” she suggested. Another pair of hands supported the patient’s head. Within seconds, we’d shifted from struggle to solution. No awkward requests for help. No bruised ego. Just seamless support.

This became the rhythm of the week. Mini-huddles formed spontaneously when cases demanded fresh thinking. A Cambodian dentist from the One2One charity would triage the remarkably calm and respectful inmates as we worked through the waiting list. W ithin our team, roles flexed constantly—whoever was free stepped in, and we constantly rotated, supporting or being supported in equal measure. Over five days we saw 303 patients, extracted 338 teeth, and completed 140 fillings. The clinical workload was intense, but the atmosphere was collegiate.

By week two, we’d traded prison walls for primary schools. The Kampong Region schools brought a complete shift in pace and energy. Children poured in despite being on half-term—over 1,000 of them, giggling, curious, and (mostly) delighted to see us. The volume was staggering, the decay rates more so. .

With no radiography, little time for permanent restorations, and children who probably wouldn’t see another dentist until Dentaid returned, we needed to adapt fast. Pain relief first, prevention second—fluoride applications, Silver Diamine Fluoride, SMART restorations done at speed. Decisions that would take careful deliberation back home needed to be made in seconds. Should we extract this heavily decayed tooth now or risk it causing pain in three months when there’s no help available?

This is where the team truly came alive. Sadly, the rates of decay—due to the local crop of sugar cane—were sometimes overwhelming. Almost every other child could have been an ‘Elective Case,’ but treatment decisions were shared across chairs: “What do you think about this one?” Expertise flowed freely. The tempo was relentless, but nobody faltered because nobody worked alone.

I remember one afternoon particularly clearly. I was taking a drink when I looked across at our two brilliant therapists, Ellie and Emily. Ellie was treating a young girl, maybe seven years old, who needed multiple extractions. She was terrified. While Ellie worked, Becky provided nursing support whilst also supporting Emily who was doing a filling on a different child next door. Meanwhile, Sally, one of the dentists, was loitered with intent—she knew a secondary molar also needed extracting and was ready  to step in. Cambodian children are remarkably resilient. As soon as Ellie and Sally were finished, the girl smiled—a proper, happy smile—and ran back to her friends. That moment wasn’t about individual clinical skill nor boundaries, It was about the team working as one.

The contrast with UK dentistry couldn’t be sharper. Back home, we spend our days working alone, agonising over complex treatment options but rarely truly collaborating with our peers. It’s good, often excellent work, but it’s piecemeal. You never get the buzz of achieving something as a team.

Flying home, I kept thinking about those prison queues that never seemed to shorten, the complex mixed dentition cases solved with a colleague’s fresh perspective, the sheer pace we maintained because we trusted each other completely. I thought about my colleagues who’ve never experienced this—who don’t know what they’re missing because isolation is routine.

Dentistry doesn’t have to be lonely. Go where you can help people who desperately need your expertise, work alongside colleagues who instinctively have your back, and experience what it means to be part of something bigger than your surgery.

I promise you’ll come back a different kind of dentist. I’ll see you there.