Mission Rabies Tanzania 2025 - A Most Successful Campaign Comes to a Close

The final day. The end of the trip. We’d already surpassed last year’s total, so today was just gravy. But important gravy. This was our mop-up day: revisiting missed pockets, returning to high-yield areas to catch the stragglers, and tying up every loose end we reasonably could.

Breakfast was its usual feast. Every morning these past two weeks has featured the world’s best jam — the kind that could make you rethink what fruit is capable of. We found out we could buy some to take home; although it would have weighed down my bag, I regret not doing it. Once again, Elsa and I lingered afterward, quietly assembling and absconding with egg sandwiches for our local teammates, who rarely stop to eat.

Out in the parking lot, we climbed into our newly beloved, spacious van. Our assignment was to set up a small static clinic (I forget the village) before heading to our assigned area, Kiranyi. Jens told us to stay no more than an hour. We parked in a dirt field, set up, and the dogs started coming. One hour soon became two.

Monet givin' some lovin' to a sweet stray in the parking lot before we start our day

Leaving, of course, was easier said than done. Every road out seemed to come with another cluster of dogs. One woman had four, all unleashed. We managed the first three, however, the fourth, who both curious and cautious, refused to come near. Finally, the woman grabbed one back leg and lifted him off the ground while he yelped. I quickly ran over and grabbed the other. While he dangled between us like a marionette, I jabbed his thigh and Elsa marked him. Success. The only casualty: the woman’s sweater sleeve, a tad shredded.

I'm still impressed at how many kids actually read our brochure about rabies prevention

We tried to drive off again. No chance. More dogs. You can’t say, “Sorry, we’re late for our next stop.” You have to stop and vaccinate. When we opened the back of the van to restock, we noticed our van’s water jug was nearly empty. Not good. It’s hot out there, and staying hydrated is key.  I ducked into a roadside bodega to buy bottled water and spotted a dog snoozing on the concrete outside, no green mark on its head. We can fix that. We asked the owner if we could vaccinate, she said yes, so Elsa and I pulled our now well-practiced move: I jabbed, she marked, the dog blinked once and went right back to sleep. You’d need more than a quick thigh poke to disturb that guy. Off we went, six bottles heavier and one dog healthier.

In Kiranyi, Henry grabbed the megaphone and began the familiar “Tangazo, Tangazo” announcements. A few owners came to us, others waved us toward nearby homes.

By lunchtime, we’d tallied thirty vaccinations. Time for a well-earned lunch. And then came the bad news: Elsa had left our lunchboxes back in her hotel room! No lunches, no smuggled egg sandwiches for Henry and Mary. Tragic. Fortunately, we were parked next to a shop selling two mystery pastries. One was round and sweet, like a zeppole (New Yorkers get the reference; the rest of you might have to Google), minus the powdered sugar (a horrible thought). The other was a dense, square brick of something — more bread than cake, more weapon than snack. Minimal flavor.  Maximal texture.  You could build a house out of these things. But it was filling, and that’s all I needed.

The dangerously dense mystery cake

At another stop, while Henry filled out a vaccination card, I noticed a half-open shed with a dark brown brick wall and a bright blue plastic bag hanging on it, and my photographer’s eye kicked in. I took a few quick shots. Only afterward did Henry inform me that the homeowner wasn’t thrilled. She’d told him, in essence, “If he wants to take pictures, he should pay.” I usually ask permission when I take a person’s photo (Unakubali picha?), but I didn’t think I needed to ask if I could photograph a wall. Lesson learned. (After some editing, it turned out to be one of my better photos.  Just sayin’.)

My "Two Bags on a Wall" photo

Further down the road, we passed a house guarded by five dogs lounging near a half-open gate. Perfect setup. We crept closer, hoping they’d all wander inside so we could close the gate and vaccinate them in one go. Just as we moved in, a man came out with another dog on a leash — and all five dogs bolted! Sigh. We vaccinated the leashed dog, and then, mercifully, the others began trickling back. One by one, curiosity — and romance — got the better of them. The lone female in the group was in heat, and her suitors kept approaching for, well, X-rated reasons. One would mount, Elsa and I would swoop in: jab, mark, done. Even the shyest one eventually succumbed to the siren’s call. All seven vaccinated, no casualties, a few broken hearts.

As we packed up, a group of kids called out, “Mzungu!”, the word for “white person.” I’d heard it before and once wondered if it was derogatory. I did a little asking. It’s not. Mzungu comes from the Swahili verb kuzunguka, “to wander,” so a mzungu is literally “one who wanders.” Fitting enough, since that’s exactly what we were doing — wandering the neighborhoods in search of dogs. Kids shout it with curiosity, not malice, like “Look, a fire truck!” It’s basically the Swahili version of gringo — descriptive, sometimes teasing, rarely unkind.

By late afternoon, as the number of dogs dwindled and the clock approached five, we called it a day. Seventy-two dogs vaccinated — the second-highest total of the day. Back at base, I showered, packed for my next day’s flight to Zanzibar, and headed to the farewell dinner.

Elsa and I as we get ready for dinner. I'm wearing a clean shirt, at least. (Pants are disgusting, I know).

These dinners are always a highlight — certificates, thank-yous, heartfelt speeches, and a buoyant atmosphere. Jens gave us the final tally: 5,500 dogs vaccinated. That’s 1,200 more than last year. Technically, it was 5,499, until someone reminded him of the stray we vaccinated that morning in the parking lot. No card, no paperwork, but hey — it counts. He became our unofficial 5,500th dog, such a nice round number. The post-vaccination survey yielded very impressive numbers: the overall vaccination coverage in the main project area (north of Arusha City Council) reached 73%, a significant increase from the 60% recorded in 2024. Mission accomplished.

After dinner, we said our goodbyes to those with evening flights — Linda, Peggy, Doug, Pam, and Monet. All wonderful teammates. Monet stood out — just twenty years old but calm, kind, and wise beyond her years. She’ll be a terrific vet someday. Before she left, I pulled her aside and gave her my Mission Rabies wristband — the same one I got during my first campaign in Goa back in 2018. They don’t make them anymore, and I told her to wear it on her next mission and someday pass it on to another new volunteer. She got misty-eyed; so did I (though I played it cool). Passing the torch — or in this case, the wristband — felt like the perfect ending.

Tomorrow, Zanzibar awaits. Let’s see what stories find me there.