Taylor Clark had always been a builder. Born and bred in Owaka, now living in Taieri Mouth, he’d spent the last decade running his own business, working alongside a tight-knit team who took pride in doing a job properly. He enjoyed the craft, the teamwork, and the satisfaction of creating something that would last.
But in 2019, something a little different came his way.
It started with a conversation with his dad—an invitation to travel to Papua New Guinea. Forty years earlier, his parents and a group of friends had gone to a remote part of PNG and built a hospital where none had existed within 700 kilometres—an area roughly the size of everything south of Christchurch. That hospital had just been rebuilt, and there was now an opportunity to contribute again.
Taylor didn’t hesitate for long. Until presenting to our club on what his team achieved, he didn’t know much about the work Rotary does in communities like this—but the idea of giving back using his team’s everyday skills just made sense.
But he wanted to do more than just visit.
He understood that when patients came to the hospital, they didn’t come alone. Entire families travelled with them, often staying for days or weeks. Children came too—and while they waited, they missed out on school. The problem wasn’t just the lack of a classroom; it was the lack of a teacher willing to live in such a remote and basic environment.
So Taylor came up with a plan: build a home for a teacher.
Back in New Zealand, he took the idea to his team of ten. Eight of them put their hands up without hesitation. What followed was a year of planning and fundraising—organising materials, securing tools, and working out how to keep a business afloat while shutting it down for two weeks. It wasn’t without its challenges, but as Taylor would later say, it was worth every bit of effort.
The journey itself was an adventure. They flew into Port Moresby, then travelled eight hours by four-wheel drive to the coast. From there, it was three hours by barge along the shoreline, followed by another three hours over rough terrain to reach the village. Three full days of travel—each way—just to get to the build site.
Once there, the real work began.
For eight days straight, they worked 12-hour shifts in 35-degree heat. The kwila timber they used was dense, heavy, and often wet—tough on both tools and bodies. A generator powered their equipment, and every cut, lift, and fix required effort and care. There were no quick trips to Mitre 10 or Bunnings if something was missing—everything had to be planned and shipped in by barge weeks earlier.
Local men joined them on the build, and what followed was a genuine exchange of knowledge. Skills were shared both ways, and despite the differences in language and environment, there was a strong sense of working together toward a common goal.
The house itself was designed as a two-storey building—practical for the climate, allowing better airflow and creating a more comfortable living space. It wasn’t just a structure; it was a solution to a long-standing problem.
And when it was finished, it meant something very real: a teacher could now live in the village. Education for those children would no longer be interrupted simply because their families needed medical care.
For Taylor and his team, the experience left a lasting impression. The contrast between building in Papua New Guinea and in Dunedin was stark—not just in terms of regulations or resources, but in perspective. It reinforced just how fortunate we are in New Zealand.
More than that, it brought the team closer together and gave them a sense of purpose beyond their day-to-day work.
They came home tired, proud, and changed.
And they all agreed on one thing—they’d do it again.
