Mission Rabies Tanzania 2025 - Our First Day Vaccinating

I woke to the call to prayer again, but this time it didn’t feel like an ambush. Better to think of it as my personal alarm clock — and truthfully, it was about the time I needed to get up anyway. I was smart to shower last night, when the water was tolerable. Not hot, but not freezing. Tepid, I can deal with. This morning, though, one splash of that ice-water would have had me leaping out of my skin.

What I hadn’t anticipated was the cold weather. My previous missions here were in February, when the heat was relentless. Late September is different. The mornings dip into the high fifties (about 14°C, for you centigrade folks.) When we hit the road, it’s still chilly enough for a sweatshirt, though by midday I suspect it’ll be pretty darn hot. That little USB-powered fan I lugged in my suitcase to keep me cool at night? A wasted use of precious luggage space.

I pulled on my new collared Mission Rabies polo. Best to savor the moment: it’s the cleanest that shirt will ever be. Then I packed my day bag and headed to breakfast.

Breakfast, as usual, didn’t disappoint: yogurt and granola, eggs over easy, thick slices of bread, that fabulous jam, and the traditional juice, coffee, and tea. Everyone was buzzing with first-day energy. We ate quickly and headed to the room where our supplies were stacked in neat piles labeled with each team’s name. Elsa and I are “Team Katavi,” named for one of Tanzania’s national parks. Our pile held vaccine coolers, syringes and needles, vaccination cards,

brochures, our team banner, a megaphone, and a marker. Elsa grabbed the most important item: our lunch boxes.

We carried everything out to the waiting vans. Previous times, it was one van for each team.  This year, there’s a bit of a van shortage, so each van has to shuttle two teams — drop one group off, then continue on with the other — so eight of us were squeezed in together. If this were January, we’d be roasting. But in the morning chill, the body heat was welcome.

Meeting some of the local team members. (Lucy, on the far left, was on my team four years ago)

The volunteers in our van: me and Elsa (Team Katavi) and Nan and Greg (Team Gombe)

The 40-minute drive to our village site, Madawe, took us down dusty roads lined with fields, the occasional cow grazing, dogs darting across the road, small shops selling anything and everything, hair salons, pharmacies, and women walking gracefully with baskets balanced on their heads. This is authentic, unvarnished Tanzania, and to me, it never gets old.

When we pulled up, there were already kids waiting, some with dogs in tow. We hung our banner on the front of what looked like a grain storage building and set up shop. Syringes were filled, brochures stacked, our crayon ready to mark foreheads. Then the line began.

Owners — usually kids between eight and fourteen — brought their dogs forward. We showed them how to hold their animals properly: straddle like a horse, grip the head or neck from behind. One new piece of equipment in our supply box this year was a laminated photo of a kid holding a dog exactly the way we recommend. That little photo turned out to be one of our most-used tools. I was itching to try out my new Swahili words — mshike vizuri, roughly “hold your dog properly” — but the photo got the point across far better than my shaky Swahili. Vaccines went in quickly, a colored crayon slash on the head marking each dog as done. It was a smooth assembly line, and before long we’d done thirty.

We broke for lunch once the rush subsided. From past experience, I know Mission Rabies lunches can be hit or miss, but today’s was a hit: a rolled crepe with jam, a grilled veggie sandwich, carrot sticks, a hard-boiled egg, an apple, a box of mango juice, and a muffin. One sweet boy lingered nearby, watching me eat. I offered him my egg. He shook his head. Carrot stick? No. An apple? Still no. Then I pulled out the muffin. He tried to look casual, but his eyes gave him away. I broke off a piece for myself and offered him the rest. His face lit up. He snatched it, ran to his friend, and immediately shared it. That kind of generosity among Tanzanian kids is striking. They’re affectionate too — always holding hands, arms slung over each other’s shoulders. It’s quietly beautiful to watch.

The afternoon pace slowed, though we vaccinated another twenty or so. Elsa pulled out her phone and cued up music. Bob Marley’s Could You Be Loved had us humming along, and when Bobby McFerrin’s Don’t Worry, Be Happy came on, we were all singing.

By the end of the day, we’d vaccinated seventy dogs. Not a huge number — some teams topped 150. I’d love to say it’s about quality, not quantity, but let’s be honest: in rabies work, size does matter. Our consolation is that the tally depends entirely on the area. Remote villages mean fewer animals, and today, that was our fate, so we just shrugged it off. Besides, when we picked up Team Gombe, they’d done a similar number (83 dogs). But, they also vaccinated six cats. Six! I was jealous. Cats aren’t major rabies transmitters here, but if someone brings one, we vaccinate it. I was resigned to a catless day until, just as we were loading up, a man arrived with his kitty. Nan gave it the vaccine, I gave it a pat, and I got a photo of the man holding his cat with quiet pride.

As if that wasn’t enough, the day gave me another reunion. Two and a half years ago, on my last mission, I’d wandered through the local farmer’s market. A woman selling vegetables caught my eye with her sass and humor. She gave me grief about taking her photo, but the shots turned out wonderfully — so much so that I printed them before this trip, hoping to find her again.

The photo I took almost three years prior

This evening, I walked the market with Greg, scanning faces. Could that be her? I wasn’t sure. Then she spotted me staring and called out, “Hey mister, are you flirting with me?” That sealed it. Same sass, same smile. She didn’t remember me, but when I pulled out the photos and handed them to her, she gasped, then broke into a grin so big it stopped people around her. She showed her friends, they laughed and admired, and for a moment we were both glowing. I had Greg snap a photo of us together, her holding the glossy prints. Another connection rekindled, another story for the memory bank.

There she is, holding the print. A really nice moment.

Dinner back at base was the usual mix of good food and lively storytelling, each team trading tales from the day. Tomorrow, we head out again — another day, another village, another round of dogs waiting. Stay tuned.