Roger Thiedeman tells of his ...

Fleeting brushes with the famous

On Sunday September 10, I boarded an Ansett flight to go from Melbourne to Sydney - something I have done dozens of times over the past 28 years. But within minutes, it turned out to be easily my most memorable trip between those two Australian cities. 

Ensconced in a business class seat, sipping my pre-take-off orange juice and reading the morning newspaper, I noticed a flurry of activity at the front of the cabin. Several important-looking security-type men, Anglo-Saxons and Africans, entered the aircraft. They were escorting an elderly man with wizened features and a close crop of wiry, grey hair. 

Before he took his seat in the very front row, I instantly recognised the older man. He was none other than Nelson Mandela, the freedom fighter and first black President of the Republic of South Africa. Just a few days earlier, Mr. Mandela had visited Sydney and Melbourne, where he addressed several packed-to-capacity public meetings on the vexed Australian issue of reconciliation between aborigines and the rest of Australia.

Now, I am not usually a celebrity 'junkie'. I tend not to, or try not to, get too excited or fazed about being in the presence of famous people. 

But this was different. Here I was, travelling on the same aircraft, seated only three rows behind one of the world's truly great leaders. The modern-day equivalent of Mahatma Gandhi. As our Ansett 767 cruised at 35,000 feet en route to Sydney, my elated spirits soared higher still. I soaked up one of the most uplifting moments of my life thus far.

But there was more in store. Upon reaching Sydney, Nelson Mandela and his minders disembarked first. When I finally walked off the aerobridge, I thought they would have been long gone, whisked away by airport security. Not so. There they all were, assisting Mr. Mandela into one of those little electric courtesy buggies. I stopped to watch. Then the buggy began moving away, slowly. As it drew level with me, I looked at Mr. Mandela and gave him a tentative wave. My heart skipped a beat as he waved back, somewhat automatically I thought at first. 

But then he made direct eye contact with me, and did a double take. I don't know why it happened - perhaps my brown face stood out in a contrasting sea of white visages. But Mr. Mandela clearly swivelled his head around to look at me again. With a wide grin creasing his already deeply etched face, he gave me the warmest and friendliest of nods as he passed by. Words cannot describe how happy and important that little gesture made me feel.

It transported me back to another day nearly 40 years ago. The day Russian cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin, the first man in space, visited Ceylon (as Sri Lanka then was). I was one of a multitude who flocked to see him drive past on his way from Ratmalana airport to Colombo. Forsaking the dense crowds lining Galle Road, I persuaded the staff of the Chinese restaurant above Aleric's Piccadilly ice cream parlour in Wellawatte to let me out onto their balcony.

As the motorcade approached, the hitherto noisy and vocal crowds suddenly fell silent, as though struck dumb. Perhaps they were overawed by the sight of this man who had ventured into the black reaches of space where no man had gone before.

But Gagarin appeared unconcerned by the silent but rapturous reception. He continued smiling and waving at the mute onlookers lining the streets. From my first floor perch, I soon noticed, however, that Gagarin's attention was focused only at ground level. His open convertible had just about drawn level with Fredrica Road when I decided to correct this state of affairs.

Summoning all of my not inconsiderable lung capacity, I yelled out: "Hey! Up here!" But I need not have shouted. My loud cry was almost deafening above the near silence of the sightseers. And it worked.

Yuri Gagarin's head jerked upwards to locate the source of this racket. Seeing me gesticulating wildly from the balcony, his smile widened into a broad grin. We made immediate and distinct eye contact. He gave me - and me alone - an extra jaunty wave as the car cruised by. Which is why a certain 12-year-old boy went home that afternoon walking on air, like a man in space.

My close encounters with cosmonauts didn't end there. A few years later, I was further privileged to meet and shake the hand of the world's first woman in space, Valentina Tereshkova, also from the U.S.S.R.

That was at a glittering reception held at the Russian embassy in Colombo, where Ms. Tereshkova was accompanied by her husband and fellow-cosmonaut, Andrian Nikolayev, and Valery Bykovsky, yet another Russian spaceman.

Along with the other guests, we were lined up in a row headed by Prime Minister Sirimavo Bandaranaike. When Ms. Tereshkova entered the room, to the accompaniment of the Russian national anthem, and shook hands with Mrs. Bandaranaike, the irony of the occasion didn't escape me. Here was the world's first woman in space meeting the world's first woman Prime Minister.

As she worked her way down the line, I had eyes only for Valentina Tereshkova. Craning my neck around, I impatiently watched her inching ever closer. Suddenly, here she was, right in front of me. With a charming smile - I will never forget - Tereshkova stretched out her hand and shook my own. We briefly exchanged greetings, mine in mumbled, fumbled English, and her incomprehensible Russian salutation, sweet music to my ears. 

For days thereafter, my adolescent heart remained swollen with pride at having met and actually touched a famous space traveller - and a beautiful one at that!

Now, who said that I am not a celebrity 'junkie'?

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