When I was little (younger not shorter) my dad said he was going to take me to the burial grounds of the Native American Princess Pocahontas. Even at the tender age of 9 or 10 I knew this sounded distant and exotic. Everyone knew Pocahontas was not just any old Native American Indian; she was a Red Indian just like the horseback warriors with feathers, bows, arrows and hatchets we had seen on Bonanza and the Lone Ranger.

The fact that my parents at that time had never been abroad, not even to France (which to be honest you could almost see from Gravesend, the town where I was born and grew up) was a mere detail and didn’t curb my enthusiasm for the adventure we were about to undertake.

We piled into the car, a 1969 ford escort I think it was. Flasks, sandwiches and some fruit cake packed in the boot. There was always fruit cake then. I think it was before I realised that there really was only one fruit cake and that people just passed it between each other.

We headed out. This was way before rear seat belts and I liked to sit in the gap between the two front seats, just where the hand brake was on cars in England at that time. It was the closest I could get to actually being in the front. Really I should have been sat in the back with my head out of the window; I was such a bad traveller. There was no journey too short for me to be sick. Sadly I passed this on to my daughter Nika who would christen all of my cars almost as soon as they were delivered. Later she blamed it on that special smell you get from new cars, quickly replacing the leather and newness smell with her own special milky vomit odour. Well I can’t really blame her as I started it.

Unlike Nika who would vomit over herself and the baby seat strapped in the back, my offering was straight up the middle of the car. Sometimes it could reach the dashboard. On one particular occasion while attempting the short journey from our suburb of Singlewell to the centre of Gravesend for the Saturday shopping, I managed a record breaking 3 pukes, one of which nearly caused an accident by actually hitting my dad with the projectile and covering the back of his head. After the 3rd attempt to get the shopping done they left me at home. I remember standing at the window watching them leave and crying in complete disbelief.   

Back to the Pocahontas trip. We pulled out and I started feeling queasy.  I don’t want to dwell on it as I can’t remember if I followed through or just moaned a lot. I do remember being surprised that I hadn’t even had time to ask that obligatory kid question “are we nearly there yet” when Dad parked by the river and lead us to the graveyard of St Georges church, Gravesend.

The trip may not have lived up to my expectations but the bronze statue of a very young looking American Princess in full regalia; feathers, beads and buck skin was still something special. We had our picnic by the river at Bawley Bay; a sandy oasis nestled amongst the vast mud flats of the Thames estuary and named after the historic Bawley fishermen who fished for small brown shrimps for a living from boats on the river. My great grandfather was one and as a consequence my Nan could peel a pint of shrimps at an olympic speed.

The fact that this person so famous and to many people a Disney creation was buried in a church in our hometown seemed kind of exciting. Later in my life I would often tell people about the grave and the bronze. It’s a kind of local secret.

In 1617 on their way back up the Thames, Pocahontas (then known as Rebecca Rolf) her husband John Rolf and their baby Thomas were travelling from Rolf’s family seat in another London suburb of Brentford bound once again for the Americas and Virginia, where Pocahontas was born the daughter of the chief of the Powhatan tribe and Mr Rolf had his tobacco plantation.

Sadly only 25 miles into the journey and not yet even out to sea, the 21 year old Princess was struck down with a mystery illness. It could have been travel sickness but unfortunately for the young woman it was more likely to be small pox or tuberculosis or one of the other killers prevalent in Europe but nonexistent in the new world. They brought her ashore at the estuary town of Gravesend for some kind of treatment but all attempts were futile and she died almost immediately.

During her trip to England, Pocahontas had been presented to King James and Queen Anne. Who, by all accounts showed her the respect that would have been the reserve of other heads of state or noblemen and women of the time. This would have been an extraordinary occurrence as the native peoples of the new world were on the whole considered savages and heathens who stood in the way of the Europe’s expansion plans in the lands of opportunity.

Pocahontas was the exception having voluntarily converted to Christianity and was considered a PR coup useful for encouraging more settlers to come to the territory “Come to America, where the land is yours for the taking and the locals are not only friendly but beautiful.”

My father took my eldest daughter to see the bronze of Pocahontas years ago. They took a picnic. I have promised to take my youngest soon, she is excited.  We have made a pact to do our best not to be sick over each other on the way.

SW