IVAN Forrester (Farro) and I had so much in common that I do not know where to begin to tell this story.  We were both artists and creative writers, with poetry being our medium of choice. And his famous anthology, ‘A Voice from Cuffy’s Grave’, always held me in thrall, especially his ‘Mazaruni’, which was his epic tribute to that majestic river. And that was another shared love: Mother Nature and the wilds.

Farro had a love-affair with Guyana’s hinterland, and almost all of his paintings were masterpieces chronicling various facets of life in the hinterland. His body of work was massive, but they were filched from the national collection and most likely adorn the homes of many private citizens today.
I was forced to stop painting when someone crushed the fingers of my right hand; and Farro was forced to stop painting when a bandit crushed the fingers of his right hand also. But we both continued to write, because life would have been untenable otherwise.
Farro was the friend of my former husband, who was much older than I, as were all of his friends. Our home was an artist and writer’s hub, and all my ex-husband’s friends became mine, and mine his. His friends treated me like a beloved younger sister, and were very protective of me. Shana Yardan taught me to cook special dishes and became, with Martin Carter, my son’s godparents; Cleveland Hamilton, Joel Benjamin, Winston Strick, Laxhmie Kallicharran, Kampta Karran, Rooplall Monar, Dennis Williams et al, the crème de la crème of Guyana’s literati and artistic community.
And many of the latter-day success stories in the art world emerged from the Burrowes School of Art under my former husband’s tenure as head of that institution. He took that art school from a one-room infancy at Sophia and moulded it into the success it is today.
But of them all, Farro and I were the closest. He loved me unconditionally, and always tried to make life easier for me — in his inimitable style. Anyone who saw him walking down the road would never think that he was one of Guyana’s most brilliant and talented sons, and would – and did — mistake him for a disreputable bum.
Once he tried to see me at my bookstore after we had closed, and the guard would not let him in because he could not conceive that I would have a friend looking as Farro did that day (and almost every day).  His one pant leg was folded up to his knee; the other was encased in mud; and he was holding a pair of raggedy slippers in one hand, while in the other he held a bunch of plantains he had fetched for me from some farm miles away.
I was alerted to his presence when I heard his voice, or else he would have gone quietly away, because I had never known him to be aggressive. If he had such a character trait, I had never been exposed to it.
Another day, it was raining heavily, and I was making my way home from the La Penitence market when, in the vicinity of the Guyana Pharmaceutical Corporation (GPC), just under the high bridge, I saw a build-up of traffic.  I curiously looked to see what was causing the commotion, and was highly amused to see Farro and Martin in a highly-intoxicated state, standing in a muddy pool in the roadway, reciting poetry.  When Farro spotted me, he attempted to bow and promptly fell flat on his face in the puddle.
During those years, I was writing for Stabroek News, and then Editor-in-Chief, David de Caries, had asked me for a feature on pork-knockers. This was an alien world to me, so I asked Farro to arrange for me to meet some pork-knockers.  When the bandits had hit Farro on his head, he had started losing track of certain things, with his memory not quite the same as before; so when he collected me to meet with the men who had returned from the hinterland, I willingly went with him. He was so pleased that he could do something to help me, that he was radiating pleasure with a smile stretching wide.
The men were waiting for me at a brothel; or rather, a guest house where they normally stayed, but which was located in a ‘red light’ area, and was more famous for illicit activities. Even as dumb as I was, I could recognize the type of place that Farro had taken me; but he was unaware of my discomfiture. All he was focused on was helping me to get my interview, and there was no way I was going to hurt my dear friend by letting him become aware that he had committed a faux pas by taking me to a brothel; so I entered the building, arm entwined with Farro’s, disregarding all the stares sent my way from loiterers and passers-by.
The next few hours were some of the most pleasurable that I had ever spent in my life – a single female with five of the most amazing raconteurs who related anecdotal stories that awed me, that scared me, that amazed me, that had me near splitting my sides with laughter, but never bored me.
All the while they swallowed liquor like it was going out of fashion, while I drank their chaser; but they never once, even when a couple of them got inebriated, showed me an iota of disrespect.  I was shown so much courtesy by these men whom society would have shunned that I had no regrets whatever.  Of course, the tongues of the decent society wagged endlessly.
It is a family joke that I cannot clean fish to save my life.  One day, Farro turned up, beaming with pleasure, with a rice bag holding something large wriggling inside. He was in a hurry, so he told me to take it and he left.
The children had been after their Uncle Farro for a pet for a long time, and he always promised them a monkey when he returned from the interior; so I thought that was what was in the bag.  I opened it with trepidation, and was horrified to see a huge fish.  The neighbours had a feast that night.
And when my home was burnt down after three attempts in two weeks, Farro walked the length and breadth of Georgetown to find accommodation for my family.
He became ill in his latter years, and I tried to raise funds to help him.  Nigel and Cathy Hughes allowed me to use the Sidewalk Café for free. Mrs Janet Jagan, whom I think was Prime Minister at that time, was patron of the event; former Prime Minister and Farro’s friend, Dr. Ptolemy Reid, and Toni Williams, wife of Denis Williams during his years of struggle and who had contributed to his book on African art — ‘Icon and Image’, and who loved Farro as I did, were guest speakers.
However, try as I might, no-one was interested in helping Farro, as they had not been in helping Mahadai Das, and his family subsequently took him to live on the East Coast of Demerara.
Someone who said they knew where to locate Farro kept promising to take me to see him, but never found the time; and now, it is too late.
I did not attend Farro’s funeral, because I am not given to keeping quiet in the face of hypocrisy, and the false praises and platitudes that were sure to have been heaped on Farro may have made make me lose my famous temper and tell some persons what I really thought of them.
Farro was more than an exceptionally gifted artist and writer. Many of the artifacts on display in the anthropological museum were discovered by Farro; but the credit was stolen by someone else. And that is another trait I share with Farro: We let others rob us of the credit for our achievements without complaining. So Farro has died in anonymity, as I will one day; but as long as someone can find joy in reading ‘A Voice from Cuffy’s Grave’, or enjoy the amazing hinterland experience as depicted on his many canvases, he will remain alive. And his voice will forever thunder to the cadences of the birdsong in flight in Guyana’s rainforests, the real home of his heart.