It was Sunday.
Richard, Betsy (the bike) and I were surrounded by a sea of red. Thousands of Maoists and their supporters had taken to the streets, shouting slogans, waving flags and pumping their fists into the air. The streets were blocked by a mass wave of angry protesters and we were in the thick of it.
Our options were slim. To the left was a drop, a path impassable with our 350cc Enfield. To the right and infront hordes of protesters blocked our path.
A man once said, "choose your battles wisely."
We had tried to plow through, using our horn as a warning. The mob was slightly more aggitated and slightly less than amused. A middle aged man yanked the keys from our bike. Richard started a tug-of-war.
Who were the Maoists to take away our transport?
I got angry. We were undersiege. A man started to beat my bike with a large wooden stick. I started to push. I yelled obscenities. Richard got the keys, started the bike, I jumped on, we pushed through the crowd and left the Maoists in a cloud of dust.
It was Sunday. Usually reserved as a day of rest, or more importantly, Sunday Roast Dinner. Not in Nepal, definitely not in Kathmandu.
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