Mission Rabies Tanzania 2025 - Our First Day "Roaming"

Slept really well last night. I was wary of these thin mattresses, but honestly? They’re more comfortable than my bed at home. Speaking of wary, I’m now officially cautious every time I pee. Last night, after a long shift, I staggered back to my room, lifted the lid, and mid-stream noticed a tiny lizard in the bowl, frantically trying to scale the porcelain walls. At my age, it’s hard enough to get the flow going, let alone stop it, so… let’s just say the poor guy got an unintended shower.

Flushing him felt cruel — I am a veterinarian, after all — so I improvised. I dipped the toilet brush into the water, he scrambled onto it, and I carried him outside to freedom. This morning, he was nowhere in sight, which I’m taking as a good sign. Still, from now on, I’m checking the bowl before every pitstop.

Today was very different from the first two days. Today we were roaming. Let me explain. Mission Rabies fieldwork comes in three flavors:

•    Static clinics — you set up shop, and the people bring their dogs to you.

•    D2D (door to door) — exactly what it sounds like: trudging up and down dusty roads, asking at each house if there’s a dog to vaccinate.

•    Roaming — the hybrid. You load into the van, blast an announcement on the megaphone, and wait to see who shows up with a dog. When the stream slows to a trickle, you move to another spot. Eventually you’ve covered every road on your grid, and that’s your day.

Roaming is more physically grueling than static clinics — hence my preemptive two Advils. These knees of mine appreciated the head start. The numbers are never as high as a static clinic, but roaming matters. Not everyone has the means to bring their dog to us, whether because of distance, no transport, or simply no time. If they can’t come to the clinic, we bring the clinic to them.

Static clinics are easier, but roaming is more interesting. The scenery changes. You see the houses, the flora, the rhythms of everyday life. You get a real taste of Tanzania.

Of course, every day brings its stories. One woman asked if we could come to her house to vaccinate her dog — a common request. She led us through her gate into a courtyard where a small wooden enclosure sat in the corner. Inside was a little white dog, curled in a rubber tire like it was a custom bed.

The vicious beast

“Bring him out,” we said. She refused — she was scared of her own dog. We asked a few men nearby. They declined too. Fine, I thought, I’ll do it. Time to show off my quick-jab technique. I strolled toward the enclosure, expecting an easy win. But the dog’s eyes said otherwise: Come closer and I’ll shred you. I retreated, earning a chorus of laughter from the spectators. That dog remains proudly vaccine-free.

At another stop, we vaccinated four dogs outside a bodega, then lingered to see if others would come. On the porch sat a few adults and kids. Soon, an older man staggered over, clearly drunk, and launched into a rambling Swahili monologue. Our teammates translated: he wanted to marry Elsa. I’m fairly sure that was the PG version. We were glad when it was time to move along.

The unwanted suitor

Lunch was a box meal eaten on the marble steps of an unfinished church — not a bad picnic spot. Afterward, the roaming resumed. The roads were brutal, more sideways than forward, and I ended up wearing more water than I drank.

In our van, Noel drove while Mary manned the megaphone. These things have a record-and-repeat function, which quickly reminded me of a Mr. Softee truck blaring the same jingle on endless loop. Noel’s booming voice kicked off each broadcast with Tangazo tangazo (“Attention, attention”) followed by a static jumble of Swahili. By the end of the day, it was etched into my brain, and not in a good way.

We finished our grid and called it a day: fifty-five dogs vaccinated, which is a solid total for a roaming team.

Dinner tonight — vegetable soup, carrot salad, cheesy rigatoni — was fabulous. I’m typing this now, eyelids drooping. Tomorrow, we roam again.