On the sandy earth beneath the northwestern night skies of Botswana, the witch doctor’s body shakes violently, his beaded hair and limbs jerking in the campfire smoke while drums and singing echo in the darkness. Around him, fellow Basarwa Bushmen, decked out in leather loincloths, ostrich-egg necklaces and bracelets of plaited hair, cry out, pound their feet and beat flat pieces of wood together until the witch doctor is exhausted. With a cry, he throws his body into the air and collapses in a heap on the sand.

It seems a little out of place to clap politely at the end of such an explosive performance, but, from my little carved wooden stool beside the fire, I’m not sure what I am supposed to do. I am the first tourist to visit Gudigwa, which in turn is the first Bushman-owned, Bushman-run tourist camp, so there are no precedents.

Still, the thumbs-up sign, handshakes and a big smile seem to convey my appreciation, and soon all 20 of them are packing up their drums, reed mats, bows and arrows, waving goodbye and walking back to their village, leaving me by the fire to admire the great streak of Milky Way glowing above my head.

GUDIGWA IS like no other camp in Botswana — or anywhere else in Africa. Opened in April, the community project is the result of an initiative by the Botswana government, aid organisations such as Conservation International and donors such as the European Union. Their aim of helping Bushmen to run their own camp for tourists is not just to preserve San traditions, but to provide training, employment and money for Basarwa clans forcibly moved from their homes in the Kalahari in 1995.

The concept of a commercial Bushman camp is not entirely appealing — particularly when the Bushmen aren’t from the area in the first place, but from the central Kalahari — but it’s hard not to be swept away by the enthusiasm shown by the new owners. They are clearly relishing their new roles as camp managers, guides and cultural ambassadors.

If the project goes well, the Bushmen hope their village, made up of 26 people from relocated clans, will be able to give up government hand-outs of maize and beef, and buy its own fresh produce, as well school books and clothing.

The camp itself is beautifully set beneath tall jackalberry and gwarri trees, and overlooks lush grasslands. As well as eight traditional Bukakhwe thatched huts, it has a central meeting and cooking area scattered with stools and barbecues, and an adjoining entertainment area where the villagers display their traditions and skills.

Because visitors can stay only one night (this is a cultural experience, rather than a full holiday), there is a set itinerary. After a 20-minute flight from a camp in the Okavango Delta, I was met by Zero, a smiling San guide, driving a Land Rover. He shattered my preconceptions of Bushmen as wiry little hunters: he was 6ft 3in and dark — descended from the River Bushman tribe of the Okavango.

There was no time for loitering. After a sip of fruit punch from an ostrich eggshell, Zero took me to meet the villagers. They sat on reed mats doing craftwork and chatting. While a man strung bits of ostrich egg onto thin twine, women wove baskets, men whittled spears and a wizened elder watched me warily as he smoked his steenbok-horn pipe.

In the following hours, the villagers taught me about their life. I was shown how to find grubs to make poison for arrows, how to smooth the edges of ostrich-egg beads with a pebble, how to brew Bushman beer and even how to make a hunting thong. I was also given a root to rub on my genitals in the event of an STD. I tried not to take it personally.

The camp is all about sharing Bushman culture, so first thing the next morning, two medicine women, Madi and Kesentseng, with Zero as a guide, led me through the dewy vegetation to show off what Bushmen are famed for: their tracking and survival skills.

We stopped for bush snacks: sweet sandpaper raisins, the chewy sap of blade-thorn acacia and plum-like marula. For the medicine cabinet, I was shown leadwood roots for coughs, the shell of a millipede for eye tincture, silver terminalia tree roots to heal wounds, and its leaves to stop diarrhoea. We found devil’s thorn creeper for soap, redstar apple roots for toothbrushes and the root of the wild cucumber to rub on lactating mothers’ breasts (toddlers hate the taste). Not bad going for a morning.

LESS THAN 24 hours after I’d arrived, I was leaving. Back on the plane, I had a short time to assess everything I’d learnt before arriving at Jack’s Camp, in the Makgadikgadi Pans, to put it all to practice.

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