Review: Jack’s Private Camp, Botswana

Jack’s Camp is one of those safari names everyone knows, thanks almost entirely to its meerkats. You’ve seen the photos: orange-skinned influencers squatting in the desert while a meerkat perches on their head, all smiles and hashtags. Eurgh. The absolute worst. And then you arrive, meet the little bastards yourself, and suddenly you’re grinning like a lunatic while one uses your face as a watchtower. Screw you all. Long live the meerkats.

Oh yeah, and there’s a camp there too and some other stuff.

Getting there

This was my first stop on this tour of Botswana, and after the usual circus that is immigration, everything suddenly became impressively efficient. On the other side of arrivals, Natural Selection were waiting with a welcome bag (hat, “sexy socks,” some promo fluff) before handing me off to Botswana’s one and only helicopter company. Barely a minute later I was in the car, then onto the heli — an R44 that took about 80 minutes to reach camp. You could shave time off by booking one of their higher-spec machines, or just fly on one of those boring things called planes.

On arrival, I was greeted by four staff who handed me a lemonade and gave me the grand tour. Nice enough, but after 24 hours of travel, a few snacks would have been life-saving. Afternoon tea was scheduled an hour later, but by that point, I’d have gladly eaten the hat from the welcome bag, or the socks, or both.

Setting

Jack’s Camp sits out in the Makgadikgadi Pans, which is basically what’s left when a super-lake the size of Belgium dries up and decides to call it a day.  The result is a landscape so flat and vast, Matt Damon could once again get lost on a planet here.  It’s an odd mix: endless salt crusts and horizons, broken up by the occasional palm grove or acacia, where they’ve dropped in the tents like a desert mirage.

In the dry season, when I was there, it looks like Death had recently swept through on a sightseeing tour.  It’s very dry, stark, and feels amongst the most remote places on earth.  The plains stretch on forever, flat and open, with long, straight tracks that go nowhere fast and wind that never seems to quit.  It’s so dry that let me say this with all the respect in the world: you are gonna need to lube up your lips like your life depends on it.

There are three camps here, all under the same owner (which is most confusing, as Natural Selection are not the owner’s, even if you book it via them), with so much land to roam that seeing another vehicle is a novelty.

The environment is unforgiving.  Dust gets everywhere — in your hair, your lenses, probably your soul — but at least it makes for dramatic photos.  By day it hits 35°C and you’re melting, yet by 6:30 pm you’re suddenly reaching for a jumper.  The dryness is relentless; usually I forget to drink water when travelling, but here my body was screaming at me like a built-in survival alarm.

What is Jack’s Private?

Jack’s Camp itself is the main property — the better-known, eccentric lodge with nine large tents — seven king, two double — all the same size, all massive.  They were rebuilt in 2021 with plunge pools, big decks, dark interiors, and that “museum” decor.  Here’s like any other lodge: a main lounge, dining area, tea tent, pool, and all the communal facilities.

Jack’s Private is a separate, villa-style setup attached to the camp.  You get a two-bedroom pavilion with its own living and dining spaces, a private pool, and dedicated staff.  You can eat privately, avoid the communal dining table, and essentially have your own mini-camp within the camp.

There is never any need to head to the main camp, as everything is available to you here, but it’s not in the same vein as the tier-above exclusive use properties, where it is only you, like Wild Hill, Kubili House, and Tswalu Tarkuni.

Facilities

The camp doubles down on the eccentric explorer look: 1940s Moroccan-style canvas tents, brass baths, Persian rugs, and enough taxidermy to make you question the owner’s hobbies.  Part luxury safari, part natural history museum, part magic mushrooms.

Approaching Jack’s Camp from the air it looks rather bland and quite hideous, and then getting closer it looks…quite bland and rather hideous.  But once inside it suddenly feels like some Zanzibar/ Arabian / Aladdin / Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe acid trip.  It’s so vast and different to what you expect.

The main area is this large, tented area, with curtains separating each room.  It’s about a 200 metre walk away from Jack’s Private, and at this point the Wi-Fi vanishes — perhaps to encourage conversation, or perhaps to make you take note of the museum of skulls and other weird shit.  The kinda thing a serial killer would put out as their trophies they want to show off.

Inside, you’ll find a massive lounge with a bar, games room, and swinging daybeds, surrounded by what can only be described as an unnervingly obsessive museum of taxidermy and bones.  Dining is by default one giant communal table, though they can set up elsewhere if you’d rather not share soup with strangers.

There’s an indoor pool that looks classy, with loungers gazing outwards, except of course it isn’t heated — because why would comfort be part of the plan.  The boutique doubles down on the museum aesthetic, while an observation deck sits allows you to stare out.

Spa and gym?  Not really.  There’s no spa, just two masseurs charging around $120 an hour, and the “gym” is whatever basic gear they can drag to your room.  Think dumbbells, skipping rope, yoga mat, and a ball — the same sad list every safari lodge trots out when they couldn’t be bothered to build a real gym.  Apparently that’s all anyone ever needs to stay fit in 35°C heat.

Room

Over at Jack’s Private Camp, things are another level up.  They handed me the top villa: two bedrooms, sprawling space, and the ability to roll out of bed straight into a game drive without ever setting foot in the main area.  And best of all: never seeing another guest.

Jack’s Private greets you with six deck chairs and a pool (unheated, naturally), all looking vibrant and grand enough to fool you for five minutes.  Step inside and it’s dark.  Very dark.  It’s made to feel like you’re in a museum.  Cabinets everywhere, stuffed with creepy shit.  Not really my style.  Like da fuck is some of this stuff?  If the owner turns out to be a serial killer, then no one can say they weren’t warned.

The living room is gigantic.  To the left, a living area.  To the right, another living area.  Straight ahead, a dining table with six chairs.  There’s also a kitchen area that doubles as a back entrance for staff to appear from like ghosts in the night.

Once you get past the creep factor, the real uniqueness of the place comes through.  It’s absurdly large, absurdly decorated, and completely incongruous to Botswana — yet somehow it works.  There’s nowhere else like it, and in this setting, that kind of madness feels perfectly at home.

The bedrooms are massive: mosquito-netted beds, sofas pointing out to the plains, desks in corners destined never to be used, and terraces with furniture that barely qualifies as seating.  There’s even a fireplace, presumably for the day hell decides to freeze over.  The bathrooms are enormous, and so far from the bedroom, I had to seriously consider pissing in the corner rather than making the trek.  Each comes with two showers (still no idea why), a golden copper tub, and toilets designed like thrones.  Outside, they’ve thrown in additional toilets and showers, a proper hike away, presumably for fellow sickos or people who hate themselves.  The throne toilet itself is fun in theory, but unless your aim is sniper level, you’re forced to sit down — and I’m not at the age yet where I’m ready to admit defeat.

The showers come with a bucket system to catch “waste” water.  Technically eco-friendly, but mostly just weird — why not hide it under the floorboards?  It’s one of those odd touches sprinkled around here.  And with the serial killer vibes already in play, the mind wanders: are they collecting my dirty water to drink it?  To bathe their victims in it and collect their skin?  We shall never know.

Practicality is a mess.  It’s stifling hot in parts of the room.  And by parts, I mean those that are room-based.  No one ever walked through one of these tents in the middle of the day and said “bit nippy in here”, so I dunno why they keep subjecting us to this.  June, July, even August – supposedly the coldest points of the year – and it’s fooking boiling.  It’d be like building a house in England that isn’t rainproof.  Or in Manchester without crackhead-proofing.  Or, frankly, building anything at all in Bognor Regis.

There’s no master switch for the endless lights, so you either spend half the night turning them off or just sleep like the sun is blasting your face.  At night they had hot water bottles in the bed and it was so hot I had to remove a duvet, a hot water bottle and turn on their air flow system (same one at Great Plains + Miavana).  Then, by morning I had to put it all back on as it was freezing.

The sinks are designed so you can’t actually fit your hands underneath, and the taps wobble the whole wall when you try.  Towels are “authentic,” which here means tiny and scratchy.  Authentic is good, but when I go to Greece, I don’t ask someone to stick their penis in my bum.  Outside seating is either too exposed at 35°C or too absurdly shaped to actually sit in. Thank god there’s some wind at times, it’s the only mercy.

There are some good bits: the views, the pool, sunrise across the deck — all fantastic.  But the quirks pile up.  My phone refused to charge from the heat.  Moths came in like a plague if you left the tent unzipped.  And the whole place hums and creaks like a haunted house, complete with water noises no one can explain.  Character?  Absolutely. Comfort?  Only if you like rubbing the lotion on its skin.

Service

They noted my food preferences on arrival, which was promising, but that’s about where the precision ended.

There’s no dedicated host that only looks after Jack’s, so they rotate the villa manager no one ever really owns your stay.  At Singita you don’t get a dedicated manager either, but at least they materialise now and again.  You feel like someone is in charge.

Strangely, there’s no easy way to contact anyone — no WhatsApp, no “ping us if you need us.” Returning from a game drive, no one was there to greet me.  I mentioned how I had to evict a hot water bottle the night before?  Next night, another one lurking in the bed like déjà vu.  Minibar?  Never restocked.  Even the cordial I asked for kept playing hide and seek, either stashed away or simply not appearing at meals.  Laundry?  Plenty of camps quietly do underwear despite the rulebook saying otherwise, but not here — apparently my boxers are where they draw the line.

I gave them many attempts to be able to personalise the stay, but they kept clutching defeat from the jaws of victory. It’s very Botswana: charging 50% more than South Africa while delivering 50% worse service.  We even had to pick up one of the meerkat trackers on a game drive because the camp forgot him.

Everyone is very kind, but “kind” isn’t the same as great.  It never felt personal — more like being looked after by a group of well-meaning volunteers.

Food

Dinner was fine, but unremarkable.  No choice for starters or dessert, three options for mains.  The lamb shank fought back but tasted fine once defeated.  Portions for soup and dessert were tiny, which honestly suited me.  Lunch was worse — a binary choice where I went tuna salad and immediately regretted it.  They saw I didn’t eat it, so came over with another portion, as apparently this one had olives on it by mistake, but that was definitely not the real issue.  And I hate olives.

Pre-game drive is just a hot drink brought to the room, and it’s in a pot that, against all logic, is fooking boiling to hold.  Breakfast on the vehicle was cereal, fruit, a hard-boiled egg, muffin, and cookie — serviceable, but nowhere near the offering that Great Plains manage.  Back at camp, you could get eggs, bacon, and sausage, alongside yoghurt and fruit — good enough, to be fair.

Afternoon tea was the undisputed star — a parade of plates delivered to the tent: scones, sandwiches, cookies, cupcakes, sausage rolls, and a vegetable thing that ended up being the best of the lot.  The delivery method was less refined: they plonked down two trays outside, wandered off, and left me wondering if meerkats had stolen the other four.  Still, it was the best afternoon tea I’ve ever had, and the next day they repeated the trick with a slightly different lineup.

The “special” Botswana dinner on the last night was certainly interesting.  They kept bringing out garnishes and new dishes even when I was already halfway through the meal, giving it that same amateur feeling that nothing had really been thought through.

Ultimately, there’s just a lot of food served that I have no choice over and would never pick.  The quality of the stuff is actually ok when I like it.  But even Gordon Ramsay couldn’t salvage the stuff I don’t.

Activities

Let’s cut the shit: you’re here for the meerkats.  Three habituated colonies, ready to let you trail along as they dig for food, then use your head like you’re a lookout tower.  You return to camp with a thousand pictures, acting like you’re the new Doctor Dolittle.  It’s the most touristy, Instagram-thirsty thing imaginable.  And you know what?  I don’t care.  I.  DO.  NOT.  CARE.  It was glorious.  I wish even my worst enemies could experience the snuggles with these delightful bastards.

Beyond that, the activities list is stacked.  Quad biking across the pans, where they even offer a “special” version where you sleep out under the silence of the desert and stars afterwards, which I declined because after 24 hours of travel that felt like a punishment.  Game drives and night drives have no time limits; the vehicles are comfortable six-seaters with zip-open roofs that you can open up for photography, or even lie on them as you drive along.  I went along for a cultural visit, which was great, even if it is somewhat manufactured by the “locals” rotating every few months.  And there’s also horse riding and heli flips if you want to spend more.

Wildlife here is fantastic.  It’s home to aardvarks, honey badgers, brown hyaena, and aardwolf — all the oddballs you rarely see elsewhere.  But no wild dogs.  Da fuck.  The jackals outnumber the impala, and lions pull off unusual kills like porcupines.  Thousands upon thousands of wildebeest roam the pans — the most I’ve seen outside the migration.  Drives can get wonderfully unique too: heading out to the salt lands at sunrise to watch the emptiness glow pink and orange.  The only downside?  My guide could talk the ears off a bat-eared fox.

The experience and activities at Jack’s Camp are absolutely brilliant.  And for that, it saves the day.  It means when I do actually recommend this property, I can sleep at night.

Kids Friendly

Children of any age are welcome, and the room attendants can even help with childminding.  Activities like quad biking and Bushmen walks, are good for older kids.  Anyone of any age with a pulse will love the meerkats.  It’s still the Makgadikgadi Pans — very hot by day, cold at night, lots of dust — so it’s not exactly Disneyland.  Families who go tend to be the adventurous sort, not those looking for kids’ clubs and water parks.  Which I think rules mine out.

The Good

• Vast accommodation

The Bad

• Food
• Not polished service
• Absolutely-feckin’-boiling in the tents

The Luxurious

• Unique design
• Habituated meerkats
• Incredible location
• Brilliant activities
• Superb animal sightings

Conclusion

Jack’s Camp is both amazing and frustrating.  It feels old in places, downright strange in others — an optional outdoor toilet, which “holy shit” doesn’t quite — and it’s unreasonably dark and gives off a whiff of Jeffrey Dahmer’s basement.  But at least it has character.  Never boring, never bland, and the tents are vast.  Ridiculously vast.  Noah didn’t need an ark, he could have stuck all the animals in one of these tents.

I’d put Jack’s Camp on roughly the same level as Great Plains, maybe even edging it out in some respects.  The big difference is dining: here it defaults to one long communal table, with far fewer options for private setups, and the food choice is poor.

It’s very confusing how this is Natural Selection, but also… not really.  At least with Jao it’s Wilderness-branded, even if managed separately.  Here it’s more like Natural Selection is that relative you pretend you don’t know because they’ve just been jailed for doing unspeakable things to an aubergine.  It’s like dating a swamp goblin and being too embarrassed to tell your mates after you found out he’s got three toes and a tattoo of his mum on his titties.

What needs fixing is simple: food first, both quality and choice, but quality first, thank you.  And then improve the service.  And install air conditioning.  Otherwise, it’s unforgettable in all the right and wrong ways: a John Wayne Gacy vibe to the rooms, vast desert, amazing wildlife, unique activities, and a total absence of mosquitos.  Which is the nicest surprise of all.