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It wasn’t golf in the kingdom. How could it have been with aerated fairways, top dressed greens and no flags, but at 9,254 feet it was adventure of the highest sort.
“Do you and Alex want to play any golf when you’re down here?” asked my sister-in-law Mary Ellen. Here was Ecuador, on the Equator, in the clouds. The eighteen of choice, one of eight in the entire country, was Los Cerros Club de Golf near Quito, an enchanting private layout with a captivating view of 19,460-foot snowcapped Cotopaxi, the world’s highest active volcano.
The year was 1998. My last overseas round had been in 1966, 32 years earlier, on a course in Wales that featured gorse and wandering kine. Since then I’d played mostly at sea level and certainly never on any of the three 18-hole U.S. courses higher than 9,300 feet much less South America’s lofty Tuctu Golf Club in Morococha, Peru perched at 14,345 feet.
On the day I visited Los Cerros the back nine was technically closed and teeming with workers. No matter, I told pro Jorge Bertelotti, I wanted what the brochurepromised, “a memorable game with holes of extraordinary beauty.” Jorge, in his broken English, equipped Alex (my eight-year-old) and I with the necessary balls, clubs and caddies.
Every golf outing has a reckoning. Ours had two. Initially I reckoned we’d pay an all-inclusive $76, but still to come were the hidden expenses for caddy lunches, soft drinks and the propina. In a gesture of international goodwill Jorge told us to “pay later.” Did we ever.
The front nine had a canyon punctuated with ponds, a sneaky ravine and two resodded fairways. Life from mid-fairway was universally flat, but errant shots earned treacherous sidehill lies. The inward half was nothing but grand vistas and challenging geography. The tenth hole, a 356-yard test, unfolded down a chute that cried for a straight shot and a 35mm camera. We produced neither. The 146-yard par 3 11th required a full carry over an expansive gorge and a raging rivulet. Instead we made like Tom Weiskopf at Rae’s Creek before taking a drop and wedging to a green without a cup or stick.
Our excellent adventure continued on Twelve, an uphill par 4. Here Angel and Santiago, our caddies, ran to reaim the spouting sprinklers so we could slash and slosh our way toward another top dressed green. As bagmen they were very good sports, clubbing us and reading greens without hesitation. However, no manner of sign language and encouragement could overcome abysmal execution. For the day my gross was 117 big ones, by far my worst round in 40 years.
Scorecard in hand we trudged toward the clubhouse. Little did I know the end game was just beginning. The dead reckoning was a convoluted process. The assistant manager wanted a full accounting and the caddies insisted on being paid after the official transactions were completed.
In the dining room I experienced my final shortness of breath, induced not by dragging around at 9,200 feet, but at the four separate bills for:
green fees 238,000 sucres
club rental (wretched beyond words) 50,000 sucres
lunches / Coca-Colas 21,000 sucres
balls (9) 208,000 sucres
Total 517,000 sucres
Quickly the $76 outing ballooned to $105, not a big deal as golf tabs go, but a thorny issue given that I only had 530,000 sucres. Quick addition showed that if the caddies were to get anything I was going to be short. I conveyed my concern.
“No problema. Have you American Express?”
“No American Express,” I replied.
“VISA?”
Ah yes, everywhere I want to be. I produced the plastic, dumbfounded at the $40 tab for nine Titleists, which in Ecuador are considered a luxury item and get taxed an extra 37 percent. A premium product, a privately run pro shop and an unsuspecting tourist no doubt drove the fee even higher. I didn’t go without a fight. I had “no problema” with anything but the balls. The staff was sympathetic, but. . . . My choices were clear. I could refuse to pay and be just one more ugly American on foreign soil or be magnanimous and grateful for the opportunity to play. When my credit card cleared, I signed the bill. After smiles and handshakes all around we went out to face the hired help, who were hovering around our vehicle like . . . hungry caddies.
Going in I’d been told that caddy fees would be $8 apiece, including tip, a fact that I had confirmed with Jorge. Eight dollars each in this third world country would be generous he noted. In the parking lot I produced the gracious plenty.
“Gracias,” they said.
“De nada,” I replied.
Without a breath Santiago asked about the propina — the tip.
Was I wrong or being played for the fool? I made a judgment knowing that my lack of vocabulary was going to be inadequate in either circumstance. Alex and I clasped the caddies’ hands, thanked them again, proffered nothing more and left.
Back in Quito we recounted the round. Alex was proud he’d lost fewer balls than I and had holed the day’s longest putt. We spoke of “mucho agua” and regaled our hosts with the accounting procedure. I had hoped to get a logoed ball or shirt, but after the protracted settlement I let the scorecard and memories suffice.
The caddy incident stayed with me. The one thing I hadn’t wanted out of our round in the rarefied was to stiff the loopers. Again I confessed my fears to Mary Ellen.
Back in Virginia I got an e-mail from her. She’d checked with club president. Not to worry. The caddies were amply rewarded she reported, especially since they took the leftover Titleists.
A footnote: I carded an 86 in my first round upon my return from Ecuador.