 ADVENTURES IN KINDNESS Onhari! Onhari! the cry rises across the village, and gains momentum as one by one each person takes up the call as they hear it. There is a charge of excitement in the air; a returning hunting party has been unusually successful and it is time to celebrate. Quickly, the focus of the community turns to the umama yana, the large conical thatched building that is the communal meeting place and the heart of the village; steadily the people of Masekenari assemble in it over the next few hours as a feed up for all is prepared. Onhari! or ‘come to eat!’ is central to Wai Wai culture and I have come to spend a month in the most remote village in Guyana to understand this idea more deeply. The population of Maskenari is 310 and these are the only people living in the 650,000 hectares of primary rainforest that represents the Konashen Protected Area. It took one week to reach the village which lies in the south eastern extent of the Amazon. The journey encompassed a light plane flight, 180 kilometres by 4x4 vehicle and then 170 kilometre on the Kuyuwini and Essequibo rivers, during which, me and Shushu, my Wai Wai guide, lived in the forest, hunting and fishing on the way. For Wai Wai, sharing is essential to the success of the community. So, when a family kill a large animal such as a tapir, or more peccaries than they need, they do not hoard the meat but call onhari and prepare a feast to share with rest of the village. The toshao’s (chief’s) wife, Pinia explained to me, “it is hard to see deep into people’s hearts but when we share and eat together, we are better able to show what’s in our hearts and see what’s in the hearts of others.” For Wai Wai, sharing is as much a ritual of connection as it is a practical way to ensure resources are evenly distributed. To this end, the toshao, Paul Chekema, operates a one plate policy during meal times when he is away from Masekenari. To set an example, he asks everyone to eat from his plate in order to remind them that everything he has is there to be shared. Ideas of sharing and collaboration are threads of the idea of kindness that are woven into every part of Wai Wai life. Charakura expanded while sitting next to the fire in his hut, “kindness is most important as if you show it, there will be more good living for everyone. It is also most important to listen and when you do so, do so as if you know that it is a true story [as] the person will feel supported if they know that others believe them and are listening well.” The importance of making time to attend to others purposefully was reiterated by Maripa. “if you are kind, others will respect you. Being kind means many things, showing respect to others, having good manners and acting decently; it means finding the time to stop and talk and check in on each other.” It would be easy to dismiss such values of kindness, connection and sharing as being less relevant outside of this remote social group but that would be to ignore the Wai Wai’s lived experience. The achievements of the toshao and people of Masekenari are impressive. They were the first Amerindians in Guyana to successfully be awarded the rights to their lands and they were also the first Amerindians in the country to manage a legally recognised conservation area, which is the largest protected area in the country. To achieve this, the Wai Wai had to negotiate with the federal and state governments and the toshao still regularly meets with ministers and even the president on occasion. In short, offering kindness and building felt and empathic connections has led to incredible strategic success, which in turn has secured an autonomous sustainable future for this distinct ethnic group. To quote John Amaechi, “Accountability does not die with warmth.” I have made it a personal mission to reclaim the word kindness, as like the Wai Wai, I believe it is central to the success of any group. Kindness leads to the environment of safety we need to connect with truth and that promotes trust, which is the all-important glue that binds people meaningfully together. As I write this, I find myself reflecting on working with the horses of Suddene Park farm, who create the opportunity to explore felt connection, compassion and attendance across our relationships, including our relationship with ourselves. I can’t think of a more powerful example of onhari than the sharing of the experiences and lessons we find in our interactions with these wonderful horses. I like to think the Wai Wai would recognise the eh-tuashoté (Wai Wai for kindness) in these relationships and feel the graceful joy at the heart of our two and four-legged herd. Justin Featherstone MC FRGS FRAI Photos left to right:
Kaiway is 91 and the last man in Masekenari to undergo the traditional rituals from boy to manhood Giant river otters Three toed sloth Top of page: Shushu, Kwang and Stephen sharing a peacock bass on the banks of the Essequibo.
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 Recently I was invited to do a talk for a psychotherapists’ group entitled ‘How horses help us to heal from loss, separation and endings’. In introducing the session I recalled how it was in the midst of grief (when losing my mother in 2004), that I caught the first glimpse of my horse, Winston, as my healer.
The healing from him and my wider herd hasn’t always come in the form I might have expected, sometimes the lessons have been hard to take. Yet they have always come when I am ready to receive them, bringing me closer to knowing myself and loving who I am. When we are separated from someone dear, often we lose a part of ourselves for a while. Perhaps a part of us which was brought to life by them, which they saw and others didn’t. Or the part of us which cared for them, invested in them, nurtured them. Or the part which shared the dreams which can no longer be. Amongst the herd a safe place exists to find these lost elements of our soul and reintegrate them gently into our wholeness. We can give full snot-dribbling, chest heaving, angry expression to the terror, the sadness, the utter awfulness of how we feel, when we are ready. We don’t have to be polite with horses or shield their feelings. Horses are most comfortable with the truth, that is what they seek, and they offer us a place to explore ours. They also don’t need words, we don’t have to explain – anything. And they don’t judge the more difficult emotions which might be wrapped into our grief – like guilt, relief, rage, resentfulness. We don’t need to pretend we are OK, in fact things go much better with horses when we don’t. They are not holding a timer over our bereavement either – ‘hey, it’s been years now, shouldn’t you have got over it?’ They are alongside us, in the moment, however we are. At the end of the talk one of the psychotherapists attending asked me how horses had helped me through my own times of bereavement. It was difficult to answer that in five minutes, having written two books about it. Suffice to say that I expressed my gratitude to my horses for the healing they have given me over the years. Grief has been a guest at my table more often than I would like. Often I have turned to the herd for comfort and companionship on the road to recovery. The greatest lesson of all during these most challenging of times is that in experiencing great pain, I am capable also of experiencing great joy. That feeling sadness doesn’t have to mean being unhappy. That when the heart cracks open it makes more space for love and compassion and kindness. So, instead of reading sorrow here, see in my message love and hope, gratitude and grace, strength and courage as we await the new Spring, new life, new colour, new ways of being in this year 2022. My work and the life I now live, were borne of the pain of losing my mother. Somehow as I fell apart my horse stepped in and lifted a veil, revealing little by little a path of which I never could have dreamed. Perhaps a better title for the talk I gave would have been ‘Loss, separation and beginnings’. So if you are hurting right now, feeling bruised, I wish you comfort and that somehow, sometime, what might feel like an ending right now, will transform into something new, and something beautiful.  In my second summer living in France a pair of opportunistic swallows moved into my woodshed one day when the door had been left open. Within a matter of a month or so one nest had become three and I was delightfully entertained by, I estimate, three clutches fledging, feeding and singing their hearts out in my courtyard. By the end of the summer I counted 36 birds one sunny morning, preening their feathers and holding company in the trees and on the telephone wire in front of my home. I could see their comings and goings through my kitchen window and spent rather longer than I should have done taking it all in. As the autumn days became cooler, I was moved how the whole colony pulled together, every bird bringing food to quickly strengthen the last chicks before their great flight back south.
One sunny Monday morning, as I wrote out on the patio, I watched other colonies join mine on the wire looping across my small valley. 20, 30, 50 and then I couldn’t keep count anymore as they gathered for their mass departure. The birds seemed to take it in turns to loop off the wire, fly around the valley and settle again. I wondered what was going on and which bird, or birds, would decide when to leave. Were they waiting for others to arrive? And if not what else were they delaying for? The noise from them was almost unbelievable and the activity electric. And then they were gone and there was silence. You can imagine my delight when one morning two weeks ago a solitary swallow perched in my courtyard. ‘Welcome back!’ I called, a little bemused that it was on its own. Sure enough the next day it was joined by its mate and nest building began again in the woodshed. I had a small window cut into the top of the door, to let the birds in and keep the Siamese cat which had joined my household over the winter, out. I woefully underestimated her prowess in scaling sheer wooden surfaces… The swallow who survived the feline visit, I think a female, suspended nest building and took up vigil on the wire outside. Other than short feeding forays she became a constant, noisy presence, calling for her mate, looking one way and the other. It was sad to witness and I marvelled at her patience and persistence. The strength of her call didn’t fade, she didn’t give up and fly away. Day after day she waited and I hoped that she would not be left alone. Sure enough on day 5 there were two heartwarming, chattering silhouettes against the blue sky when I returned from some errands. And on the following morning another couple of pairs also joined them. With cat security measures enhanced the level of activity in and out of the shed is now quite intense and I have certainly given up any hope of retrieving any logs in the near future. And whilst all this was going on France, as well as some other European countries, shifted into its third national ‘confinement’ as lockdown is called here. And although the UK is easing restrictions, many people are still separated from loved ones during times of illness, passing and hardship. The circumstances in which we find ourselves are truly painful. Being unable to say goodbye to elderly parents in their final weeks and days, grandparents being unable to hold a new grandchild, businesses built over a life-time failing and the social freedoms we depend on taken away. I don’t think I know anyone who isn’t touched in some way. It is tough, still. I take heart from the determination, the hope and the trust of the single swallow. Like her I will keep my song strong, I will sit with patience and trust that reunion will come. And while I wait I will find joy as I observe creation in its most natural form, whilst keeping a very close eye on my small Siamese cat. By Justin Featherstone mc, |
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