Mission Rabies Tanzania 2025 - Celebrating World Rabies Day in the Village of Kivalulu
- Arnold Plotnick
- Nov 22
- 3 min read
Our second day of vaccination is in the books, and what a day it was.
It started, as usual, with the standard great breakfast: yogurt and granola, an egg frittata, excellent bread rolls, juice, coffee, and tea. The juice threw me, though. It was a deep red color, and I figured strawberry or raspberry. Turns out it was some kind of berry… laced with beet juice. “You can’t really taste it,” Kristen said. I beg to differ. To me, it was raspberry with a teaspoon of soil mixed in. Not too bad, actually, and after two dusty days here, I’ve probably ingested my fair share of dirt already.
Our static clinic today was in a village called Kuvalulu. Getting there was no small feat. The main road was impassable, so we were rerouted. And here in Arusha, “take another road” doesn’t mean a quick detour around the block; it means a bumpy, whiplash-inducing ride over tree limbs and boulders that made me think we would snap an axle. Eventually, we arrived.
We set up outside a building with a broad patio and were immediately swarmed — not by dogs, but by kids. Seven dogs and thirty-one children, to be exact. That ratio pretty much held all day. Each dog seemed to come with its own cheering section.
Vaccinations began in earnest. Unlike yesterday, cats were a big part of the mix. I lost count, but I think we gave yesterday’s feline record-holders a run for their money.
The day went smoothly overall, with a few minor hiccups. Some dogs wanted nothing to do with our needles. That’s when my old cat-hospital reflexes came out. For especially uncooperative patients, the trick is a lightning-fast jab into the thigh muscle, a technique I’ve mastered. Not elegant, but effective. Today I used it three times, and it worked like a charm.
By afternoon, the rush slowed, but the kids stayed. To keep them entertained, I asked Elsa if she had that app that puts funny ears and noses on people’s faces. “Snapchat?” Of course she did. (Oh, to be young and hip.) She pulled it up, chose an animal filter, and showed the kids. Pandemonium. Shrieks of laughter, kids swarming her like paparazzi. They couldn’t get enough, and I got some fantastic photos of the whole scene.
Eventually, the stream of animals dwindled, and our coordinators called it a day. While waiting for Noel to pick us up, Elsa and I wandered the village. We strolled down the dusty road, past homes of wood, cinderblock, and corrugated tin. We drew our share of curious stares in our matching yellow polos. A man waved us over to his tiny shop (more bodega than store) and proudly showed us his (very small) inventory. After chatting, he invited us to his home.
We followed him up a narrow path to a cluster of dwellings. First, he pointed out his grandmother’s shack, then another relative’s. Finally, we reached the main house. Out front sat the entire extended family, four generations strong. He introduced us all around, beginning with his grandmother, a woman in her late 80s who clasped Elsa’s hand and wouldn’t let go. They laughed, we laughed, photos were snapped on both sides. The welcome was genuine, warm, and really touching — one of those encounters that reminds you why you travel in the first place.
Back at Tanz Hands, we freshened up, sat down to the communal dinner, and swapped stories. Everyone seems to be having the same kind of day I did — exhausting, rewarding, unforgettable. Tomorrow we head out again: another village, another crowd of kids and dogs waiting, I’m sure.
P.S. Last year’s campaign vaccinated about 4,400 dogs. This year the coordinators set an “unreachable” goal of 8,000 — more aspirational than realistic, they said. Well, after just two days, the tally is 1,570. That’s a pace of 7,850. Unreachable? Probably. But we’d love nothing more than to make them eat those words.
P.P.S. We vaccinated 24 cats today — more than all the other teams combined. I know it’s the dogs that really matter in this fight, but what can I say? I’ll always be a cat guy.
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