Mission Rabies Tanzania 2025 - Total Mayhem: 172 Dogs Vaccinated in One Day!

Sunday, October 5th

This is my third Mission Rabies Tanzania vaccination campaign. Each campaign lasts two weeks — so, six weeks total. Each week includes two static clinics, which makes today my twelfth static-clinic shift. Never, in any of them, have I experienced such an absolute bombardment of dogs as I did today.

The day started as usual. It’s funny how group breakfasts evolve over time. During the first week, everyone’s bright-eyed and gung-ho, all of us in the dining room at 6:30 sharp, buzzing with anticipation. By week two, the non–morning people have outed themselves — the ones who trade friendly group chatter for twenty extra minutes of sleep, popping in just long enough to slurp down some yogurt or inhale a makeshift egg sandwich before bolting for the vans.

Out in the parking lot, Jens greeted us with good news: we’re on pace to vaccinate more dogs than last year. Even better, the percentage of dogs we’re seeing that were previously vaccinated has jumped from 12% to 36%. And the big one — we’re not just hitting the 70% target; we’re surpassing it. Some areas are hitting around 72%, others as high as 79%. This campaign is working.

We were slow to get on the road today — it’s our second day of the workweek, which makes it feel like a Tuesday. But in Tanzania, it’s Sunday, and everyone seemed to be moving at Sunday speed. There’s also been a shortage of vans, so two teams are sharing one vehicle. The plan: drop off Team Gombe (Nan and Greg) at their static clinic in Olmotonyi, then continue to Sambasha for ours. You know the saying: Man plans, and God laughs.

The “roads” out here are really just packed dirt and rocks. Today, the dirt was as fine as beach sand, and before long, our back wheels were hopelessly spinning in it. You can’t hit the gas pedal and power out of that kind of mess — the wheels just dig in deeper. Several push attempts later, a villager arrived with a shovel. After some determined digging and a full-on group shove, the van lurched forward onto solid ground. Victory!

Some people get stuck in the mud. We got stuck in the dirt.

Heave ho, and away we go.

When we dropped off Team Gombe, their site was already buzzing: kids, dogs, and the beginnings of cheerful chaos.

Not thrilled with the idea of getting vaccinated. Note the lovely jacaranda petals on the ground.

Their consolation prize was a lovely setting — a static clinic under a blooming jacaranda tree, purple petals scattered across the ground. Nailed to the trunk was a sign that read, “Muache mtoto asome atimize ndoto yake.” Let the child study so they can fulfill their dream. Can’t argue with that.

"Let the child study, so they can fulfill their dream"

Twenty more minutes in the van and we were in Sambasha — and my fears were justified. A swarm awaited us: I’d guess fifty dogs, and triple that in children. Elsa and I had both mentioned we needed to pee, but that plan evaporated instantly. No way were we disappearing into the bushes with that kind of crowd.

The onslaught begins!

We hung our banner, grabbed the cooler, frantically loaded syringes, and dove in. It was wall-to-wall kids and dogs — a sea of humanity and caninity (is that a word?). Then I noticed a boy holding a burlap bag. Around here, that usually means a cat inside. We decided to take the feline first — no need to traumatize further in the midst of all these dogs. We opened the bag to find one furious, wide-eyed cat, all hisses and claws. Experience has taught me that these cats mean business, and the last thing we needed was a volunteer bite before 10 a.m. We told the kid to come back later.

I love when the kids actually read the banner.

Then the flood began. We had no choice but to improvise: pre-lunch, I’d vaccinate, Elsa would mark. After lunch, we’d switch. Soon we had a rhythm: call the kid forward, restrain the dog, poke it, mark it, and done. “Walete – mshike – tayari.”  Rinse, lather, repeat.

Sixty dogs later, we’d really found our groove. The only interruptions were syringe reloads — and the occasional “uncooperative” dog. Not aggressive, just wary. With all the noise and yelps, they could tell something was up. I had to deploy my “sneak-up-and-jab-the-thigh” technique. It was mayhem, but a manageable kind.

Still, the numbers of people kept swelling. Once a kid’s dog was done, they stuck around to watch, and before I knew it, I was staring out at a crowd resembling Woodstock. Our local livestock officer intervened at my request. I don’t know what he said to them, but he did it authoritatively enough to send many of the spectators scattering. Unfortunately, new kids and dogs soon filled the void.

A subset of curious onlookers became mesmerized by our syringe-refilling routine. They leaned in close — too close — to watch us draw vaccine from the vials into the syringes. Before long, I could literally feel them breathing on my neck. Personal space isn’t really a thing here (large families, one roof), but still — it was a bit much. Thankfully, our livestock officer came to the rescue again, pushing them back to a safer distance.

Vaccination was quick. The line to get their vaccination cards was a bit slower.

Patiently waiting in line for the vaccination card.

By lunchtime, we’d vaccinated 120 dogs. It was one of my best tallies ever, and the day was only half over. I’d been battling a cold and sinus infection for a day and a half, but by then, I felt great. Adrenaline and endorphins, apparently, are more effective than DayQuil.

The afternoon brought a more civilized pace. Still steady, but not overwhelming. We ran out of vaccination cards, and Team Gombe had to send us half of theirs, delivered by a local guy on a motorcycle. Running out of vaccination cards is usually a sign that you’re really hitting high numbers.

The afternoon. Mellower, but still busy.

Waiting in line for the vaccination card. One minute after this photo, this puppy was sound alseep.

By day’s end, we’d vaccinated 172 animals — the highest total of any team that day, and the one-day record for the entire campaign so far. A personal best for me. Jens sent the daily group tally just before dinner: 1,027 animals vaccinated in a single day. Incredible.

Tomorrow it’s back to the physically tougher stuff: roaming static clinics and door-to-door work. Fewer numbers, more sweat, but equally important. I’ll let you know how that turns out.