You Can Yell 'Fore,' But the

Chicken Will Never Duck
By Shahid Khan

"Play it as it lies," was never quite like this, as Shahid Khan encounters chickens, cows, and more, golfing in the Dominican Republic. (Herald / Bob Eddy)

Having been in the Dominican Republic for the last two weeks I have had the opportunity to play a couple of really great courses for tourists. Today, however, I lingered over lunch at the beach in Cabarete and was loathe to drive one hour to Playa Dorada. Driving in the DR is a life-threatening activity, and on top of that I had spied a swathe of ominous gray clouds peeking over the mountains, which usually means drenching thundershowers in the afternoon. My only alternative was a local nine-hole course just a few kilometers down the road.

As I drove through the gate of the Costa Azul Golf Resort I began to suspect that my golfing experience would be somehow different. The small houses in the development looked uninhabited and the vegetation untended. Driving up to a small, abandoned looking clubhouse, there were no other cars, no carts and no sign of any other golfers. As I surveyed the area, a young man stepped out of the clubhouse. "Golf?" I asked in my limited Spanish. "Si, 600 pesos," replied Manuel. "No, 400 pesos" I bargained. "OK, 200 pesos caddie fee," he responded. Done! Eighteen dollars for a round of nine including caddie. Didn’t sound too bad.

I changed from my sandals to my golfing shoes and we marched towards the first tee box, startling a small bantam rooster pecking away at the grass. "Chicken, Ha Ha!" I laughed as I surveyed the first hole and glanced questioningly at Manuel. All business, he said "Par 3, 185 yards, Señor." Five iron in my hands, I hit a perfect drive onto the green where I spied a white flag tied to a short grey-metal tube leaning drunkenly out of the hole. We squished our way up the fairway which obviously had not dried out from the previous night’s rainstorm.

Did I say fairway? There was grass, but it hadn’t been cut in so long that it was going to seed. And then there was the green. Forget bare spots, this green could not have qualified for rough status. "All greens only two-putt" announced Manuel. "D__ right" I thought to myself as my putt careened off worm piles and through what looked like divots to a spot further than where I had started.

I thought briefly of calling it a day, but Manuel congratulated me on my par and I couldn’t bring myself to tell him just what to do with his golf course. He looked like a sensitive guy and I told myself to tough out a few more holes before I made a final decision. I looked around for the next tee box as Manuel strode towards a small raised area twenty yards to the right bearing a cow tethered to a wooden stake munching away quite happily. So that’s how they mowed the grass around here. Obviously, one skinny bovine wasn’t up to the job, especially given the great fertilizing job she was doing.

Gleaning that I wouldn’t want to share the tee box with Daisy, Manuel swiftly loosened her rope and shooed her off. She ambled into the rough where the pickings looked better. Unfazed by the disbelieving look on my face, Manuel piped up "Par 4, 325 yards Señor." Taking a deep breath, looking down the 30-yard wide "fairway" I swung my 3-wood and looked up to see a white orb sail into thick swamp on the right, never to be seen again. "Que pasa, Señor?" He had to be kidding. I pulled another ball out of the bag and hit it to the left and pulled my approach shot too. The green was the same as the first one so I chipped on to it, counted two extra strokes and picked up my ball.

We were already two holes from the parking lot and the third hole was beckoning, so I teed up again. "Par 4, 425 yards, dog leg right, Señor." My drive was decent, although a mother hen and her seven chicks didn’t think so as they noisily flapped away when my ball rolled through them. Walking up to the ball, Manuel pointed to a raised green to the right with a small pond on its right. A young boy stood at its edge, swinging a fishing line and plopped it into the pond. Ahhh…… I was beginning to understand. There was a theme to the course. Chicken Hole, Cow Hole and now Fishing Hole!

With Manuel yelling instructions in Spanish and me with my hand signals, we convinced the kid to duck low while I took my shot. Needless to say my eyes were not on the ball at impact, so I avoided hitting the ball anywhere near the green and thankfully far enough away from fishing boy.

The next hole was a 500-yard par 5, wide enough to be a soccer field, which it also happened to be at the moment. Six or seven barefoot kids were kicking a ball around 250 yards from the tee. More yelling, more hand signals and they moved to one side, craning their necks and gazing back expectantly towards me. I pulled out driver and stuck one in the middle of the fairway right where they had been scrimmaging.

"Bueno Señor!" Manuel puffed his chest and showed me off to the kids as I walked with him to my ball. Now I had a gallery—a very small one, but a gallery nonetheless. Failing to humiliate myself with what I usually call my compensating shot after a perfect drive, I hit my second shot to within a few yards of the so-called green (couldn’t have been a 500-yard hole) and walked briskly ahead, followed by my fans.

I decided to quit while I was ahead. Rain drops kept falling on my head (apologies to whoever wrote that tune) and I felt like Tiger Woods coming up to the 18^th green at The Blue Monster. Manuel, disappointed, trudged back to the clubhouse with me where he gave my clubs a thorough cleaning. He lifted my bag into the trunk and held out his hand —"Teep for the caddie?" I handed him a 50 peso note which he looked at sadly. Another 50 peso note brought a smile.

Driving home, the heavens opened up and as I flipped on my wipers, I thought "I guess I’m lucky to have an opportunity to play golf in March…and I promise to never complain about conditions at my home course again."

See you at Montague, friends!