“Throw it here mate” called our resident action man Kiwi Craig. Canadian Mike took aim and threw the Frisbee. A week of camping on Indian beaches had honed our collective skills nicely, but a rare misjudgement saw the yellow disc land in our raft, narrowly missing the head of the gunman guarding it. A steely stare from our guide Deepak sent the message loud and clear: this was not the time nor place for beach antics. We were after all in a hostage situation.

The festering heat of Delhi in late April was a distant memory as we crossed into the Nepalese frontier. An overnight train to Gorakhpur and a short bus ride had taken us to the border. Another box of bolts on wheels then transported us on to the mid-Himalayan city of Pokhara. The idyllic backpacker haven, 100 kilometres west of the fertile Kathmandu Valley, was our placid departure point from which we headed west, destined for an adrenaline-filled rafting adventure down the renowned Karnali River.

However we could never have guessed that the adrenaline rush was to be delivered by the muzzles of pointed rifles rather than pounding rapids.

The decision to head north into Nepal had not been straight-forward. Despite tales of stunning snow-capped mountains, lush green valleys and clear blue lakes from fellow travellers, the political situation was sensitive. Maoist separatists were at war with the government demanding the replacement of the monarchical political system with a Marxist-Leninist state.

Several hundred lives had been lost on both sides in the preceding months, and a number of Bandh (general strikes) had been called by the impoverished people of the country in support of the guerrillas. The rafting expedition would be heading into the rural Maoist heartland in ultra-remote west Nepal, but we were mildly reassured by the FCO’s assertion that “…foreigners have not in the past been deliberately targeted.”

So go we did and seventeen heart-stopping hours from the border we set down in Pokhara. The combination of a huge Tata bus and winding, half constructed mountain roads led to several tyre-scrambling moments of panic. Plunging doom seemed inevitable and the mood wasn’t helped by the fact that I was going to die looking into the eyes of a vociferous goat, next to which I had been sat for the entire journey.

Maoists were briefly mentioned during the meeting on the eve of departure, but guide Deepak reassured us there was “no problem.”

Another nerve-wracking bus journey followed, regularly interrupted every few hours by army roadblocks. Reaching our seemingly random destination we were met by a young group of porters who set about work immediately, carrying barely liftable items down the craggy side of the river valley. The ease with which they did reminded me how vulnerable our flabby western bodies were in this unforgiving part of the world.

Such concerns were quickly forgotten as life became a happy rotation of camping, rafting, eating and drinking. The frothing rapids of the Karnali did not disappoint and generous amounts of vile rice wine were the catalyst for entertaining evenings around the fire. After six days, aggressive white water had transformed to meandering blue, and the formerly steep valley sides were now more akin a broad, green half-pipe. Waving to local children became the main pastime as human habitation became more commonplace.

It was with some surprise, therefore, when rifle-wielding men emerged from the undergrowth. Orders were barked in the local dialect and we were beckoned to come ashore on a small beach, the likes of which had provided our camps thus far. Deepak and his deputy were called over to the leaders of the group and one gunman was dispatched to guard over each of the four rafts.

The atmosphere remained surprisingly calm. Our assailants numbered over a dozen though our guides were informed that there were several hundred more in the immediate area. They hardly had the look of hardened terrorists, dressed in exactly the same manner as the local farmers we had seen in the previous days. Flip-flops and woven waistcoats took the place of jackboots and camouflage jackets, and, upon closer inspection, their weapons were more closely related to the blunderbuss than the AK.

Maoists have a reputation of being a rag-tag peasant army and, if this was indeed them, it was easy to see why. They were a collection of subsistence farmers who had been easily mobilised by the promise of a slightly better quality of life in one of the poorest nations on Earth. Even as the victim of a blatant crime, I found it hard to condemn them too severely.

The gunman in charge of the raft looked particularly young and was certainly still in his teens. After a while his girlfriend came to join him. After a while he stared into her eyes and sang a high-pitched love song. The scene had become somewhat surreal and boredom rather than fear was the predominant emotion as the impasse stretched into its second hour.

And so the art Frisbee was introduced to the Maoists by their captives.

Craig picked up the disk and pretended to throw it. Our guard smiled and motioned us to get out of the raft. It appeared that we were free to play as long as we didn’t run off. A bizarre, but enjoyable time ensued as we played gamely while Deepak negotiated our release. The fun was brought to a sudden halt by the near decapitation of a gunman and the boredom once again set in.

Three hours on and Deepak came to inform us of their demands. They were indeed Maoists and were demanding US$50 for each of the fourteen tourists. This was a problem. We had all been told not to take any money on the trip. Being such a remote area, there was simply nothing to spend money on, so all money had been left in Pokhara. Deepak understood but looked shaken nevertheless. Perhaps our ‘hosts’ were not so genial after all.

Another heated hour of discussions and luggage opening followed, until the leader of the group was finally convinced that we were telling the truth about our ‘poverty’. It was agreed that the Maoists would instead take a raft, some life jackets, a few knives and some cameras (the zoom lenses of which they use to scout for enemy forces).

As quickly as they had emerged, the Maoists disappeared into the bushes, deflated raft in tow. The meander downriver continued, before we finally landed and made camp at dusk.

That evening we were again worried as a group of gunmen crossed the river heading towards us in a hollowed out tree trunk. Deepak was dispatched to negotiate once more and conversation centred on a small scrap of paper. The gunmen were soon on their way without threat. It transpired that the scrap of paper was a receipt given to us by our earlier assailants which would ensure that we were not bothered by other Maoists downstream. They may have been rebels notorious for their fighting tenacity, but as taxmen they were fair, happy to only tax us once (something a few governments could learn from).

Late that night, anaesthetised by rice wine, we were able to joke about the day’s events. “Struth, what a day” said Aussie Ben, knowing that deep down we were all quite pleased it had happened. What a story to tell.

Deepak still looked quite shaken: “They were about to start shooting you, you know,” he said.

Struth indeed.