The result was a heated debate among tournament officials about what to do. In the end, the accusers refused to testify to the tournament committee, so the cheating charges were dropped. "It was a very embarrassing situation, and we still don't know what really happened," a tournament official told me. Now I could see another ugly mess gathering right in front of me. Should I tell somebody about the cheating, or keep quiet and let the Bhutanese take care of their own tournament? If I didn't say anything and Lotey won, would I have a guilty conscience?
Now Randy stepped up to a 15-foot birdie putt that had taken on a sudden urgency. Missing the putt would give Lotey a three-shot lead going to the final hole. Randy studied the putt from all angles and crouched down behind the ball to gauge the break. Alas, the putt rolled past the cup, and after making the short comebacker Randy's title hopes were all but gone.
Next, Randy and Lotey walked side by side and in silence up the long, steep slope to the eighteenth tee. I watched them and wondered what was going through their heads. Was Lotey feeling guilty about having possibly cheated his way to the championship?
Was Randy wondering what he should do about the cheating incident? Had Randy even noticed? I pondered these things as the spectators and I walked through fescue grass toward the eighteenth fairway. My heart was thumping, and I couldn't decide what to do. Finally I decided that I had to say something to somebody, so I approached Ugyen Dorji, aka Yougs, who was the tournament chairman.
"I saw it, Yougs," I said.
"So did I," he replied.
We were walking along the edge of the eighteenth fairway, almost parallel to where Lotey's and Randy's drives had landed. "What are you going to do about it?" I asked.
"I'm not the marshal. I'll tell Tolly," said Yougs. He was referring to the golfer who had finished playing and was now working as a marshal for the final group. I liked Yougs's idea because Tolly, who was the chief of staff for His Majesty, was as fair and straightforward as anybody I'd met in Bhutan.
"Good," I said. "And don't let Lotey sign his scorecard until it's resolved."
If Lotey signed his card and was then determined to have cheated, he'd be disqualified. But if he didn't sign and was deemed to have cheated, he could add two strokes to his score, sign the card, and not be disqualified. While Yougs and I talked, several spectators eavesdropped, and the subject of our discussion spread in a flash. Soon everybody was whispering about whether Lotey had cheated. I was relieved. The guilt was no longer on my shoulders, and the Bhutanese would determine the ruling.
After the players hit their approaches, they and the spectators began walking toward the green. Benji's brother Tobgye was now walking beside me. I asked him if he'd seen the cheating.
"Sure," Tobgye said. "Everybody was doing that today."
"Don't you guys play by the rules?" I said.
"We're getting much better at the rules," Tobgye said. "But it's not only the good players who do things. People can't seem to understand the concept of the ball in play." As Tobgye spoke, we were approaching the green, and the spectators encircled the putting surface. Suddenly Lotey rushed toward me. Somebody had told him about my accusation, and he wasn't happy.
Lotey got to within 3 feet of me before Tobgye and a few other men wrapped their arms around him and held him back. As they held Lotey, his face red with anger, he yelled, "If you accuse me, do it to my face!"
