Carol’s Column

So who did what to whom in Plet?

I LOST my diamond and found a long-lost relative from Dvinsk — both at Plet.

So what better place to lose a diamond — or find a relative for that matter?

“I have a surprise for you,” said my husband a few weeks ago.

My heart dropped to my kneecaps. Eighteen years of surprises causes this kind of reaction, you understand.

“I’ve booked a flat at Plet.”

“Plet?”

I choked on my Keep-You-Regularly-Running with roughage and vitamins allbran.

“Yes,” continued my spouse, “I’m tired of slumming it in a tent, battling in the bush, struggling in the desert. I want to razzle, to live it up. I want a people holiday.”

My mind boggled.

Could this be the man who unshaven, in battered denims, slurped peaches from a can and once punched a man who refused to switch off his radio for disturbing the peace at 8pm in the remote Okavango Swamps?

I immediately rushed out to buy a new bikini. The faded-pink patched job might be fine for deserted Hlukeka, but for Plet, it wouldn’t do.

“If you’re going to Plet,” said the saleswoman with the crimson highlights and green fingernails, “I’ve got just the thing for you.”

She pulled out a leopard skin bikini. “It’s the real thing, feel the fur, it’s ever so exotic,” she purred.

“No, I don’t wear fur,” I muttered.

“Oh, one of those beauty without cruelty freaks, kinky hey?” She paused. “Pity, I have a lovely wolf skin bikini — and wolf fur repels water and sand.

“How about this one. It’s divine for Plet, and such a snip.”

“Personally I find Krugerrands a little heavy to wear on the beach,” I remarked casually.

“They’ll never tarnish though — and think how you’ll glitter.”

Indeed, it was a stunning costume — but on reflection, to mortgage a house, husband and mother-in-law to look great for two weeks is overdoing it.

Packing for Plettenberg Bay was different to other holidays.

This wasn’t the place for my little Woolworths creations.

I resurrected my only Dior original (inherited from my maternal grandmother) and sprinkled Chanel over the mothballs. Only the best for Plet.

Plet was breathtaking. Nestling among the foothills of the mountains, the bay was turquoise and the village sparkled in the sun as did my newly-capped teeth from smiling at the rest of Johannesburg who’d all popped down to spend a quiet week or two at the sea.

We strolled along Robberg, past the little R500 000 holiday shacks and the body-beautiful joggers. “There’s something to be said for a tent,” observed my husband, “it’s portable. I’d hate to own one of these mansions, wouldn’t you?”

Try me.

Lookout beach over the Easter weekend was jam-packed.

We jostled our way through the tanned and seething masses to the water’s edge where my spouse proceeded to erect our umbrella.

“Whaddya doing,” I muttered as he cleared a space and prepared to spear the sand. “Have you checked the terrain? We can’t just sit anywhere.”

He looked blank — an inherited expression.

“You’ve got to find a millionaire or two, position’s important.”

“Listen, I’ve just dug up three women and replaced them two metres away. It’s taken me an hour to clear us this patch and you’re not happy? Forget it!”

He jabbed the umbrella spoke fiercely into the sand, missing a pot-belly by centimetres but spearing its Derber’s sunhat instead.

“This is nothing,” said my friend Penny, “you should see Plet at Christmas. Then you have to send your umbrella bearers down early to book your spot.”

Her husband nodded in agreement. “It gets so crowded, you can’t even have a decent game of scrabble on the beach.”

All around, people were having fun.

Backgammon boards glittered, dice flashed and near the hot dog stand a game of poker took place.

Suddenly disaster struck.

“Don’t look now, but that man’s wearing the same costume as you,” I hissed to my husband, “how embarrassing. You see, I told you to wear your designer shorts.”

I tripped down to the water to swim. The surfing was superb, each wave crest a society hostess’s dream as the cream of Johannesburg’s beautiful people shot past catching wave after wave.

Gently, I bobbed around.

It was only when I emerged that I realised one of my diamond studs had parted company with my ear.

“Stop wailing, beating your breast and tearing your hair, you’re making an exhibition of yourself,” growled my husband.

Have you ever looked for a quarter-carat diamond on a seabed of sand? It’s not easy.

I spent the rest of the holiday searching with flippers and snorkel in vain.

“So, don’t worry,” said my good friend Betty, “you can borrow my pearls for the beach.”

Such is the fabric of true friendship.

And then, my youngest unmarried daughter came rushing over in great excitement, her cherry cheeks flushed, her sea urchin eyes flashing.

“Mom, Mom, I’ve found a friend! And her name’s Nicci Shulman! We must be related!”

In case you didn’t know, my maiden name was Shulman.

“No, Nicky, (1970 was a good year for Nickys), we don’t look for family, we have more than we can use.”

I was categoric. Until I caught sight of Nicci Shulman and her daddy.

What a delicious man.

I nudged my husband, causing him to fall off his deck-chair on to a strange woman. Which did not distress him at all.

“Look, look, Nicky’s made a new friend — she’s a Shulman — we must be related!”

“No, he can’t belong to your family. He’s got long legs, they’re straight, his ears don’t stick out at right angles and his shoulders are broad. That’s not your family.”

Introduced by our daughters, we swopped ancestral backgrounds. “Where is your family from?” he asked smiling.

“You see, he’s definitely not related, he’s got straight teeth,” whispered my husband.

“My grandfather came from Dvinsk.”

“So did mine.” I almost flung my arms around him with joy — or something. But, it wouldn’t have been dignified.

How extraordinary — there couldn’t have been two Shulman families in that tiny Russian shtetl of Dvinsk. And now we’d met, almost a century later. This made Dallas look stupid.

“So how was your holiday in Plet?” asked a friend on our return.

“Wonderful, super, great! I lost a diamond but found a relative.”

“And that makes you happy? There’s no accounting for some people’s taste.”

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