A Bloody Good Orange: What I Learned About Helping in Tanzania

Context is probably necessary here. How exactly did I end up in Tanzania holding a spanner?

I've been working with a plumbing company for the past couple of years as they grow their business, supporting the founder and his new team. They were invited to Tanzania to do some incredible volunteering work — helping to build and plumb an accommodation block in a place with no running water, sewage, shops… anything.

I, being me, said: “I can help too.” Enthusiasm first, practicalities second. Always.

So, when we arrived in Tanzania, I was ready and very willing to be useful. There was just one small problem. Despite my gallons of experience, see what I did there, absolutely none of it was relevant to plumbing: heating-system lingo, water filtration malarkey, pipes and fittings, and tools I couldn't name. Half the time I wasn't even sure what everyone was talking about.

My offer of help was extremely well intentioned, but I quickly realised it had the potential to become a hindrance. And being a hindrance on a building site is rather different from being a hindrance on a group email chain! Get in someone's way in an office and you might annoy them. Get in someone's way on a building site and somebody could get hurt.

So what was I going to do? Refusing to not be helpful, I found myself behaving a bit like Goldilocks, trying out each trade's equivalent of the three bears' beds.

Sanding woodwork? Nope. Too tedious.

Being the person who made the tea? Nope. Too easy.

Helping someone else do what they were already very good at? Hang on. This one felt just right.

Finding My Square Hole

As I wandered around site trying out my metaphorical beds, I started to notice something.

Everyone else was doing it too.

These were people used to being very, very good at what they do. Literal bosses. Installer-of-the-Year-level tradespeople. Ex-Special Forces badasses. But none of them were in their normal environment.

Their teams weren't there. Their usual systems weren't there. Half the tools and materials they'd normally rely on weren't there. And suddenly, expertise had to look a little different.

The big boss was figuring out how to lead a group of equally capable volunteers. The award-winning plumber was building systems with materials he'd never choose at home. Everyone was adapting.

People stepped forward, stepped back, borrowed expertise, improvised, got frustrated, laughed, and gradually found their groove.

Somewhere in amongst all that, I started finding mine too.

It turned out to be alongside the ex-Special Forces chap who'd come to fit the kitchens.

That's where I found my fit for the week.

Working on the Surface of the Moon

Imagine the scene. We're there for a relatively short time, and the building schedule isn't quite where everyone had hoped it would be.

For the plumbers? No floors? Great. Nothing to lift up. No walls? Awesome. No chasing or channelling.

For the man who's come to fit the kitchen? Ummm. Less ideal.

Now, imagine the man. Ex-Special Forces. Precision and perfection practically baked into his being. The kitchens he fits at home are things of beauty. Soft-close everything. Perfect edges. Meticulous finishes. And now we'd dropped him into what he rather brilliantly described as: “Working on the surface of the moon in a circus of dust and delinquency.”

 He wasn't wrong. Dust everywhere. People everywhere. Tools developing an uncanny ability to disappear the moment you put them down. Different trades working around, over and occasionally through one another. And somewhere in the middle of all this, he was trying to build a kitchen. A beautiful kitchen. To his standards.

Except his normal environment — the one that helped make those standards possible — had completely disappeared.

And this was where I started to realise I might actually be useful.

Help has to fit the person

It was interesting watching what was happening. There were lots of well-intentioned — and not necessarily wrong — attempts to reassure him. “Don't worry mate, it looks alright for Tanzania.” And “It'll be grand. Don't stress.” Except he was stressed. He knew what he was capable of. He knew how well he could do this job and he wanted to do it well. Telling him not to care quite so much wasn't going to help.

So I asked a different question. “What's one thing that would help?”

His answer was immediate. “A bloody plan!”

Nice. A plan I can do.

There was a wall nearby that would eventually be painted, so we drew the whole thing directly onto it. “There. Now nobody can wander off with it.” A small laugh. And we were off.

We shifted a table into place to make something resembling a workbench. I held the tape measure so it stopped flinging itself off at crucial moments. I fetched extra pairs of hands when something heavy needed shifting. And I became a polite but surprisingly fierce security detail for any tools he was foolish enough to put down.

Gradually, the chaos became a little less chaotic. And then came my moment. He asked “Can you cut me a few brace pieces? You know the sizes. They're on the plan.” Actual tasks. I had been entrusted with actual tasks. The pride I felt rivalled graduating.

Over the next three days, we developed a rhythm. I watched and waited. Anticipated and listened. I learned when to step in and when to get out of the way. He knew his craft. He knew his standards. He knew what he was trying to achieve. He didn't need me to make him better at his job. He needed enough of the right conditions around him to be able to do the job he already knew how to do.

I didn't build that kitchen. Although I remain extremely proud of my brace pieces. But I did help. And perhaps that's the bit I've thought about most since coming home.

Sometimes helping someone isn't about giving them what we think they need. It's about understanding what allows them to access the capability they already have.

Three days earlier, he'd been trying to create precision on the surface of the moon in a circus of dust and delinquency. Now we could stand back and look at what we'd made.

It wasn't the kitchen he'd have built at home.

But comparing the two would have been comparing apples and oranges.

And this?

This was a bloody good orange.