I don’t know if you’ve ever been sucker punched? You know: you set out on a lovely morning, a-brim with vim and ready to smile upon all and sundry, when you step on a hibernating bear and wonder how fast you can do nought to sixty up a tree?

Well, dear reader, I have. Only yesterday in fact.

Not literally stepped on a bear of course (not sure they have bears in Central Africa), but metaphorically my life has recently become wall to wall angry ursines, all equipped with running shoes. Don’t misunderstand me, I don’t want to complain or appear ungrateful, but things seem to have taken a slight turn for the worse here in Zabarindi since my last sitrep.

And to be totally honest with you I’m not entirely, one hundred percent convinced this is what I signed up for.

Let me explain.

My life before all the recent events was completely fine, ticketyboo and tinketytonk, the seas were calm, the going was steady. But I must admit it also had all the zing and joy of the last gluten-free tofu sandwich in a British Rail food cart. I baulked at the thought that reaching the dizzying heights of winning the Latin Poetry Recital prize at Oxford was to be my only achievement, impressive though it undoubtedly was. Makes an enterprising young gentleman feel like a bit of a lemon.

So in an uncharacteristic fit of impetuosity, I threw caution to the wind, carpe’d that diem and signed up for a stint with GAWD: General Aid Without Divisions.

Imagine Oxfam in combat boots and a flak jacket.

My goal: to See and Change the World, Do Good, Make A Difference, Help the Less Fortunate. (The capitalisation helps.) Preferably in a warm climate.

Except it’s now starting to dawn on me that – and this may surprise you – my efforts are not earning me the kudos I assumed would be heaped upon me like golden shekels upon Gideon.

I arrived in North Zabarindi a month ago (of course it’s not North Zabarindi anymore since the border was overrun, but that’s a story for another time) and ever since then things have been a little… well, fraught.

Again, not complaining, wouldn’t dream of it.

But I mean to say: detaining me under the Zabarindi Terrorism Act just for popping out after curfew for a quick snifter at the local watering hole is a bit thick.

The first inkling I had that something was wrong was when I arrived back at the Bazimbi guest house, having taken a taxi from the bar.

I had just finished haggling with the cabbie (only $60! I drive a hard bargain), when all of a sudden two enormous policemen with unnecessarily lapelled shoulders and aviator sunglasses appeared out of nowhere and started yelling at me in the local lingo. (Quick sidenote: did you know they don’t speak English in Central Africa? French! Who knew!)

When it became clear from my slack-jawed expression that their incomprehensible diatribe wasn’t having the desired effect, they gestured me into the police van with their Kalashnikovs. Bit brusque, I thought, but a gentleman always complies with the long and chiselled arm of the Law. So into the van I popped.

Now, I’m just a press officer ok? My job is basically making sure people back home (donors) know what we do in the field (think we’re heroic), speaking to journos to promote what we do (get them to warzones and back safely in return for positive press) and staying on message no matter what (navigate the minefield of internal GAWD politics which is just stupidly harder than it needs to be).

My point is I am a stranger to the rough-and-tumble world of skirting the law: the only time I had ever crossed paths with the local constabulary was when I tripped and spilled wine all over Chief Constable Mwanga at the embassy May Day reception. (I remember because it was a particularly agreeable Château Pétrus.)

Back to the gentlemen with the guns. After much yelling, arm-waving and pointing at the clock on the wall, they were able to apprise me of the fact that I was under arrest for straying into the Green Zone during a military curfew and the only thing still up for debate was whether I was suicidal or just criminally stupid. There’s a slight chance I may also have been a little trollied at the time. (Apparently leaning out of a taxi as it speeds past the local copshop and loudly singing “Mobutu’s Dumplings are Round and Sweet” while brandishing a bottle of Glenfiddich is frowned upon in the tropics.)

So here I am, in Bazimbi’s main police station, trying to remember why I came out here in the first place. The capitalisation helps… GAWD help us.

Next week: Otto accidentally goes on safari.