I'd met Adair three days ago when he and his team were having breakfast in the clubhouse at Royal Thimphu. He had been reticent after I suggested that he play in the Bhutan Open, claiming that he hadn't played much golf recently and that his handicap was 13. "That wouldn't qualify for my village championship in Ireland," he said. But after I explained that most of the Bhutan Open participants would also be double-digit handicappers, Adair capitulated and paid the 500-ngultrum ($11) entry fee. Perhaps I should have kept my mouth shut. Adair's tee shot on the first hole, a 115-yard downhill par 3, was a low screamer that zoomed left of the green into waist-high gorse. His caddie found the ball, but that was a mixed blessing. "This stuff is worse than what we have back home!" Adair yelled. Adair took a few mad lashes to extricate his ball onto the green, and several putts later his ball, mercifully, plopped in the hole. I don't recall his score on the hole, but I don't think it was less than 10.
Things went downhill from there. Adair embarked on a series of hooks, slices, worm burners, and whiffs that left Dema, Pema, and me in shock. Adair, amazingly, remained positively jolly. Yet after four holes he had lost several balls and taken a few dozen strokes, so it wasn't surprising when he announced, "I'm going to stop keeping score and play a friendly round with you all." Nobody argued.
Adair continued playing horribly, but at least he was giving me something to be happy about. I, too, was playing horribly, but not that horribly, so I knew I'd beat at least one person. Still, Adair could take only so much suffering. After dribbling his drive into the marshy pond in front of the seventh tee, he was done. "I think I'll stop playing and walk the rest of the way," he said.
Again, nobody argued.
Adair wasn't the only player withering in the weeds. While walking along the second fairway, I gazed to the right at the rough that served as a buffer between the second and third fairways. An Indian Army officer whom I'd taught and recognized by face but not name was playing the third hole and looking for his ball with his caddie in the rough. Suddenly I saw the caddie kick something again and again. After several kicks, I saw a golf ball trickle into the third fairway. Then the Indian Army officer hit that ball up the third fairway. I looked at Dema, who was a few yards from me, to gauge his reaction. He was unfazed, even though it was the most flagrant cheating I'd ever seen in a tournament.
"Did you see that?" I asked.
Dema shrugged his shoulders. "Those Indian Army guys, they always cheat," said Dema. "You have to look out for them."
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