The leopard appeared without warning, draped across the branch of a leadwood tree like liquid gold poured over dark bark. In the fading light of South Luangwa, her spots seemed to pulse with the rhythm of the African bush, each rosette a universe of shadow and sun. Below her, impala grazed, oblivious to the predator above, while a fish eagle's cry split the copper sky. This was not a scene from a documentary or a photograph in a magazine. This was Zambia, raw and immediate, a place where the boundary between observer and participant dissolves in the amber dust and the scent of wild sage. The moment seared itself into memory, not as a single image, but as a symphony of sensation that would forever alter the way I understood wilderness.
Zambia offers no gentle introduction to Africa. It announces itself with thunder and mist, with the sudden appearance of elephants at your campfire's edge, with sunsets that turn the entire sky into molten bronze. This is a country where nature still dictates the terms of engagement, where rivers flood and recede according to ancient patterns, where predators hunt with the efficiency honed over millennia. For those seeking authentic wilderness experiences, Zambia stands apart from the well-trodden safari circuits, offering instead an immersion into landscapes and wildlife encounters that feel genuinely untamed. But what many travelers discover, often unexpectedly, is that the challenge of leaving becomes not the logistics of departure, but the question of how to carry something so visceral, so alive, back into ordinary life.
Victoria Falls announces itself long before you see it. The sound builds gradually as you approach through the teak forests, a low rumble that you feel in your sternum before your ears fully register it. Then comes the mist, rising hundreds of feet into the air, visible from miles away, earning the falls their Kololo name, Mosi-oa-Tunya—the smoke that thunders. But no name, however poetic, prepares you for the moment you stand at the edge of the gorge and face the full fury of the Zambezi River in freefall.
The statistics are impressive but inadequate. Over 500 million liters of water per minute at peak flow, plummeting 108 meters into the churning gorge below, creating a curtain of water more than 1,700 meters wide. But statistics cannot convey the physical sensation of standing on the Knife-Edge Bridge, drenched by the spray, feeling the ancient basalt bedrock vibrate beneath your feet. They cannot capture the moment when sunlight catches the perpetual mist and summons rainbows from the void, or the way your voice disappears entirely when you try to speak, swallowed by the roar.
Each viewing point offers a different revelation. From the Zambian side, you face the falls head-on, the full width of the cascade filling your vision. Rainforest thrives in the constant spray, draped in ferns and orchids that exist nowhere else in this part of Africa. The path leads from one viewpoint to the next, each perspective revealing new dimensions of the falls' architecture—the Eastern Cataract, the Main Falls, the Horseshoe Falls. At Danger Point, aptly named, you lean out over the gorge with nothing between you and the churning white water below but a slippery railing and your own better judgment.
But perhaps the most extraordinary perspective comes during the dry season, roughly from September to December, when water levels drop enough to reveal Devil's Pool. Here, at the very lip of Victoria Falls, you can swim to the edge where the Zambezi begins its violent descent. A natural rock barrier creates a shallow pool, allowing you to peer over the precipice with only inches of water between you and oblivion. It is terrifying and transcendent in equal measure, a literal edge-of-the-world experience that redefines your relationship with gravity and mortality.
Away from the falls themselves, the Zambezi River reveals its other moods. Upstream, in the broad channels above the gorge, the water flows dark and muscular, its surface punctuated by hippo snouts and occasional crocodile eyes. Here, canoe safaris offer a different kind of intimacy with the river ecosystem. Paddling in silence through morning mist, you drift past elephants drinking at the banks, their reflections perfect in the still water. Fish eagles perch in the mahogany trees, while carmine bee-eaters nest in the sandy banks, their crimson plumage shocking against the buff-colored earth. The river in this mood is contemplative, powerful but not violent, nurturing the wildlife that depends on its seasonal rhythms.
The energy of Victoria Falls, its explosive meeting of water and stone, its creation of perpetual rainbows from chaos, mirrors something essential about African artistic expression. Tingatinga paintings capture this same quality of barely contained vitality. The style emerged from a need to express the intensity of the East African landscape, and its bold, densely layered compositions channel the same overwhelming abundance that characterizes the falls. When you stand before a Tingatinga canvas, you encounter not a passive representation but an active force, colors so vibrant they seem to generate their own light, forms so dynamic they pulse with movement. The paintings, like the falls, refuse to be merely looked at—they demand to be experienced. That spray you felt on your skin at Victoria Falls, that rainbow you glimpsed in the gorge, that thunderous presence that made your chest cavity resonate—Tingatinga art offers a visual language for those sensations, a way to hold the smoke that thunders in your hands.
South Luangwa National Park pioneered something revolutionary in African safari experiences. In the 1950s, Norman Carr began taking guests out on foot, abandoning the safety and distance of vehicles to track wildlife on human terms. This might seem like a minor shift in perspective, but it transformed everything. On foot, you are no longer merely an observer but a participant in the ecosystem, subject to the same rules and risks as every other creature. Your senses sharpen. The crunch of dry grass under your boots sounds impossibly loud. The scent of elephant, musky and complex, reaches you on the wind seconds before you see the grey bulk materialize through the mopane scrub. A buffalo's alarm snort sends adrenaline cascading through your system in a way no photograph ever could.
The Luangwa Valley runs north to south, bounded by the Muchinga Escarpment to the west, a natural fortress that has preserved this ecosystem from human encroachment. The Luangwa River meanders through it, creating oxbow lagoons and shifting channels that dictate the movements of one of Africa's greatest concentrations of wildlife. But it is the particular character of this wildlife, and the way you encounter it, that makes South Luangwa exceptional.
Leopards are the park's superstars, occurring here in densities found almost nowhere else in Africa. Walking through the woodland in the late afternoon, your guide might freeze, pointing to fresh pugmarks in the sand. You follow them, reading the story they tell—the slight drag of the tail, the precise placement indicating a hunting stalk. Then, in a sausage tree heavy with pendulous fruit, there she is, the same animal whose tracks you've been following, completely relaxed, tail twitching as she watches a puku herd below. On foot, these encounters are earned, not given. You've tracked, you've listened, you've paid attention to every subtle sign, and the reward is profound.
The Thornicroft's giraffe, found nowhere on Earth except this valley, browsing on acacia with their distinctively colored patches, have a delicate elegance that seems almost sculptural. Buffalo congregate in herds that can number in the thousands, their synchronized movements across the floodplains creating dark rivers of animals. Hippos emerge at dusk from their daytime pools, following established pathways to grazing areas, and your evening walk might require negotiating these highways with a respectful detour.
But it is perhaps the smaller details that define the walking safari experience. Your guide stops to show you a spider that has woven a perfect golden orb. He explains the medicinal properties of a bitter-barked tree. He points out the territorial scrape marks a hyena has left, the way a hornbill's call changes when a predator is near. You learn to read the bush the way you might read a book, each sign a sentence, each pattern a paragraph. The experience becomes less about ticking off species on a list and more about understanding the intricate web of relationships that sustains this ecosystem.
The seasons transform South Luangwa dramatically. During the rains, from November to March, the valley becomes an emerald tapestry. The Luangwa floods, creating channels and lagoons accessible only by boat. This is the Emerald Season, when the park explodes with new life. Migratory birds arrive in spectacular numbers, transforming every tree into an aviary. Young animals stumble on new legs while predators, faced with an abundance of prey, become visibly selective. The grass grows tall and thick, making some wildlife harder to spot, but the trade-off is a landscape of such lush beauty it seems almost impossibly fertile.
The artistic connection to this experience runs deeper than simple representation. Tingatinga paintings are known for their detailed attention to the character of individual animals. Each elephant has a distinct personality in its eyes, each bird carries a particular energy in the way it's painted. This mirrors exactly what happens on a walking safari, where instead of viewing wildlife as generic representatives of their species, you begin to see individuals. That bull elephant with the broken tusk becomes a specific character. That fish eagle that fishes the same pool every morning becomes familiar. The art form and the experience share a fundamental philosophy—that true understanding comes from intimacy, from slowing down, from paying attention to the small details that reveal the larger truths. When you examine a Tingatinga painting after walking South Luangwa, you recognize that the artist is seeing animals the same way your guide taught you to see them—not as categories but as beings, each with their own presence and story.
Kafue National Park defies easy categorization. At 22,400 square kilometers, it is one of the largest national parks in Africa, roughly the size of Wales, and within its boundaries exists a staggering diversity of ecosystems. To visit Kafue is not to visit a single park but to experience a microcosm of the continent itself, with woodland, wetland, and grassland each supporting their own distinct communities of wildlife.
The Busanga Plains, in the northern sector, flood during the rainy season and then emerge gradually as the waters recede, transforming into a vast golden grassland that stretches to the horizon in every direction. During the dry season, from June to October, this is one of Africa's great wildlife spectacles. Puku antelope gather in the thousands, their reddish coats gleaming in the sun. Lechwe, specialized for life in wetlands, bound through shallow water with their characteristically high-stepping gait. Wildebeest and zebra create mixed herds that move across the plains like shadows.
But Kafue's most celebrated residents are the tree-climbing lions of Busanga. Lions climb trees elsewhere in Africa, but here it has become a reliable behavior, particularly during the heat of the day. To see a pride sprawled across the branches of a fig tree, tails dangling, completely relaxed, is to witness behavior that seems to defy everything you thought you knew about these apex predators. The sight is both comical and magnificent, challenging your preconceptions about what lions should do while simultaneously revealing their adaptability.
Cheetahs, rarer and more elusive than lions, also patrol the Busanga Plains. Unlike in East Africa's Serengeti, where cheetahs have become habituated to vehicles, Kafue's cheetahs remain genuinely wild, their encounters fleeting and precious. Watching one hunt across the open grassland, accelerating to impossible speeds in pursuit of a puku, is to witness evolution's perfection in motion. The smaller predators—caracal, serval, side-striped jackal—emerge at dawn and dusk, their presence a reminder that the plains support a complete predator guild.
The birdlife in Kafue rivals that of any park in Africa. Wattled cranes, tall and stately, stalk through the shallows. African fish eagles claim territories along every waterway, their distinctive call—a sound that has come to symbolize African wilderness in the popular imagination—echoing across the floodplains. Bataleur eagles soar on broad wings, bee-eaters flash like jewels through the air, and the endemic black-cheeked lovebird chatters in the mopane woodlands.
Beyond Busanga, Kafue's diversity continues. The miombo woodlands that dominate much of the park are often dismissed as monotonous, but they support their own specialized wildlife community. Sable antelope, with their scimitar horns and glossy black coats, are quintessential miombo species. Roan antelope, equally impressive, browse in small herds. The Kafue River itself, flowing through the eastern sector, creates ribbons of riverine forest where elephants and buffalo concentrate during the dry season.
What makes Kafue extraordinary is not any single spectacular element but rather its completeness, its sense of being a functioning ecosystem of continental scale. You might spend a morning watching lions on the Busanga Plains, an afternoon exploring the miombo woodlands in search of sable, and an evening on the Kafue River watching hippos and crocodiles, and each experience feels like a journey to a different country.
This quality of abundance, of multiple ecosystems coexisting and overlapping, finds its parallel in the compositional approach of Tingatinga painting. Traditional Tingatinga works are rarely minimal. They embrace density, filling the canvas with multiple animals, trees, birds, and sometimes human figures, all coexisting in a space that defies conventional perspective. The eye moves across the painting the way one might traverse Kafue itself, discovering new elements, new relationships, new moments of interest in every corner. A single Tingatinga canvas can contain an entire ecosystem—elephants and giraffes, monkeys and birds, predator and prey sharing the same space in harmonious, vibrant complexity. The art form understands intuitively what Kafue teaches explicitly—that true wildness is not about single spectacular moments but about the dense, interconnected web of life in all its chaotic beauty. When you frame a Tingatinga painting on your wall, you are not simply hanging an image of Africa; you are creating a window into this philosophy of abundance, a daily reminder that life, at its most authentic, is gloriously, almost overwhelmingly, rich.
Lower Zambezi National Park offers yet another dimension to Zambia's safari experience, one defined entirely by water. While other parks feature rivers, here the Zambezi River is the park, the central organizing principle around which all life revolves. The experience of Lower Zambezi is fundamentally aquatic, whether you're drifting in a canoe past elephants, casting for tigerfish, or watching the sun set over the river from your camp's deck.
The park lies along the northern bank of the Zambezi, directly opposite Zimbabwe's Mana Pools National Park, with the great river forming an international boundary. Behind the floodplain, the Zambezi Escarpment rises dramatically, a wall of rock and vegetation that creates a stunning backdrop for every wildlife sighting. This combination of water, floodplain, and escarpment creates a compressed ecosystem of extraordinary richness.
Canoeing the Zambezi offers an entirely different perspective on African wildlife. From the low vantage point of a canoe, you are nearly at water level, vulnerable and quiet, able to drift close to animals that would flee from a vehicle or a person on foot. Elephants crossing the river become even more magnificent when viewed from the water, their trunks raised like snorkels, their massive bodies surprisingly buoyant. They emerge on the banks, water streaming from their flanks, and continue feeding as you paddle silently past, sometimes within meters.
Hippos present both the greatest challenge and the greatest thrill of river navigation. Your guide reads their behavior constantly, giving them wide berth when they're agitated, drawing closer when they're calm. You learn to distinguish the territorial bulls, who must be avoided, from the more relaxed pods. The grunts and bellows of hippos become the soundtrack to every river journey, a constant reminder that this is their domain and you are merely passing through on their sufferance.
The birdlife along the Zambezi is phenomenal. Fish eagles are ubiquitous, but you also encounter African skimmers, with their bizarre scissor-like bills, white-fronted bee-eaters nesting in sandy banks, and yellow-billed storks wading in the shallows. Giant kingfishers perch on overhanging branches, diving suddenly to snatch fish from the current. Goliath herons, massive and prehistoric-looking, stand motionless in the reeds, spearing tilapia with lightning strikes.
Game drives in Lower Zambezi focus on the floodplain, where lion prides patrol and buffalo herds concentrate. The flat, open terrain allows for excellent visibility, and the wildlife, accustomed to vehicles, can be approached closely. But it is at the river's edge where the most magical moments occur—a leopard drinking at sunset, its reflection perfect in the still water; a crocodile sliding from the bank with barely a ripple; a mongoose family emerging from the undergrowth to hunt along the shoreline.
Fishing for tigerfish adds another dimension to the Lower Zambezi experience. These freshwater predators, with their savage teeth and explosive strikes, offer world-class sport fishing. But even if you're not an angler, watching the sun rise over the river while drifting downstream, listening to the sounds of the waking bush, provides a meditative quality rare in safari experiences.
The sunset experience on the Zambezi has become almost ritualistic. Anchored in a channel as the day ends, you watch the sky cycle through impossible colors—pink, orange, crimson, purple—while elephants move along the opposite bank like shadows. The escarpment turns black against the burning sky. A hippo surfaces nearby, exhaling a plume of spray. The temperature drops, mosquitoes emerge, and stars begin to prick through the darkening dome of sky. Time seems to suspend in these moments, and the river, ancient and powerful, flows on as it has for millennia.
The fluidity of Lower Zambezi, its emphasis on flow and movement and reflection, connects beautifully to the aesthetic principles of Tingatinga art. Despite the bold outlines and clear definition of forms, there is nothing rigid about Tingatinga painting. The compositions flow, animals overlap and interact, perspectives shift and merge. Colors bleed into each other with the confidence of watercolors, even though the medium is enamel. The art captures rhythm rather than realism, suggesting movement rather than freezing it. When you study a Tingatinga painting of elephants or hippos, you notice how the artist has captured not just their form but their quality of movement—the slow, swaying walk of an elephant, the ponderous grace of a hippo in water. This is exactly what you experience on the Zambezi—wildlife defined not by static poses but by their characteristic patterns of movement, their particular way of inhabiting space. The paintings understand what the river teaches: that life is not a series of fixed moments but a continuous flow, and that beauty lies in capturing the essence of that flow rather than trying to freeze it in unnatural stillness.
To understand Zambia only through its wildlife and landscapes is to miss an essential dimension of what makes the country remarkable. The warmth and cultural richness of Zambia's people are not decorative additions to the safari experience but integral to it. Zambia is home to more than 70 ethnic groups, each with distinct languages, traditions, and worldviews, yet bound together by a national identity that values peace and hospitality.
The Bemba, primarily in the northern and central regions, are known for their matrilineal traditions and complex systems of chieftainship. The Tonga people of the south have a rich heritage tied to the Zambezi Valley, with deep knowledge of the river's rhythms and the wildlife that depends on it. The Lozi people of the western province maintain one of Africa's most spectacular cultural ceremonies, the Kuomboka, which celebrates the movement of the Litunga, the Lozi king, from his dry season palace to higher ground as the Zambezi floodplains inundate. This ceremony, with its elaborate royal barge and traditional music, is a living connection to pre-colonial African kingdoms.
Visiting a local village offers insights that complement the wildlife experience. You might watch women preparing nshima, the maize-based staple that accompanies every meal, or observe the intricate basket-weaving techniques passed down through generations. Children approach with shy curiosity, giggling at your attempts to speak their language. Elders share stories of encounters with wildlife, of living alongside elephants that raid crops, of traditions that regulate resource use to maintain ecological balance.
These interactions reveal something crucial—that the landscapes you're exploring as a visitor are not pristine wildernesses preserved in isolation but living cultural landscapes. The reason Zambia's wildlife has survived is partly because of traditional practices and beliefs that have regulated hunting and protected certain areas long before the establishment of formal national parks. The philosophy of respect for nature is not imported but indigenous.
This cultural dimension provides the final, essential connection to Tingatinga art. While the art form originated in Tanzania in the 1960s, created by Edward Said Tingatinga, its style and spirit are not limited to a single origin point. Tingatinga painting is fundamentally a celebration of African life in all its vibrancy. The art is narrative, often telling stories or depicting scenes from everyday life alongside the more common wildlife subjects. It is joyful, even when depicting predation, reflecting a worldview that accepts the full cycle of life without squeamishness. The bold colors and dynamic compositions speak to a culture that is not subdued or minimalist but expressive, communal, and unafraid of intensity.
When you purchase a Tingatinga painting, you are not simply buying an image of an elephant or a giraffe. You are investing in an art form that emerged from African creativity, that expresses African perspectives, and that continues to support African artists and their communities. The paintings are products of a living artistic tradition, one that evolves and adapts while maintaining its essential character—much like the cultures of Zambia itself.
The last evening in the bush always comes too soon. You sit by the campfire, listening to the sounds that have become familiar over days or weeks—the distant roar of a lion, the closer whooping of hyenas, the constant background hum of cicadas. The stars are impossibly numerous, the Milky Way a luminous river across the sky. The fire crackles, sending sparks upward. Someone tells a story about the day's sightings, embellishing slightly, and everyone laughs. You realize that something fundamental has shifted in how you perceive the world.
Zambia does this to people. It recalibrates your sense of scale, of time, of what matters. The modern world, with its artificial urgency and synthetic experiences, fades into irrelevance when you're tracking leopards on foot or drifting past elephants on the Zambezi. You remember what it feels like to be fully present, to have your senses engaged, to experience wonder without irony. The landscapes imprint themselves on your consciousness—the thundering falls, the golden plains, the dark river at sunset. But more than the visual memories, you carry away something harder to define, a sense of having touched something authentic, something that existed long before you and will continue long after you're gone.
The inevitable question becomes: how do you take this with you? Photography captures moments, certainly, and you'll return home with thousands of images. But photographs, for all their technical precision, often fail to convey the emotional resonance of the experience. They freeze moments that were defined by movement, by sound, by smell, by the way the light felt on your skin. They are reminders rather than embodiments.
This is where Tingatinga art offers something unique and valuable. A Tingatinga painting is not attempting documentary accuracy. It is not competing with photography or trying to replicate what a camera can do. Instead, it operates in a different register entirely. It captures essence rather than appearance, spirit rather than form, energy rather than stillness. When you look at a Tingatinga elephant, you don't see a photorealistic rendering but rather the elephant-ness, the essential quality that makes elephants magnificent—their power, their grace, their commanding presence.
The art form emerged from exactly this impulse, a desire to express the intensity and vitality of African wildlife and landscapes in a way that mere representation could not achieve. Edward Said Tingatinga, working in Dar es Salaam in the 1960s, developed a style that combined traditional African artistic principles with a modern sensibility. He painted on recycled materials, using enamel paints to create works of startling vibrancy. The style he pioneered emphasized bold outlines, saturated colors, and compositions that filled every inch of the canvas with life and movement.
That the art originated in Tanzania rather than Zambia is ultimately irrelevant. The wildlife depicted in Tingatinga paintings—the elephants, leopards, giraffes, zebras, birds, and countless other species—move across borders that are human constructs. An elephant in South Luangwa is fundamentally the same as an elephant in Ruaha, just as a fish eagle's cry sounds the same whether you hear it on the Zambezi or the Rufiji. The art celebrates the shared heritage of the African continent, the common visual language of its wildlife and landscapes.
When you visit the gallery at tingatingaart.com, you're not shopping for generic souvenirs. You're choosing a piece of African artistic heritage that resonates with your specific experiences in Zambia. Perhaps you're drawn to a painting of elephants because you remember that moment in Lower Zambezi when a herd crossed the river at sunset, water streaming from their flanks, the air filled with their rumbling communication. Perhaps a leopard painting speaks to you because you'll never forget that afternoon in South Luangwa when you tracked fresh prints through the woodland and found her draped across a leadwood branch, completely relaxed, embodying feline perfection.
The paintings are more than decorative objects. They are catalysts for memory, portals back to experiences that might otherwise fade into the general category of "that time I went to Africa." Hanging on your wall, a Tingatinga painting becomes a daily touchstone, a reminder of who you were in those moments of complete presence in the Zambian bush. It bridges the distance between the life you returned to and the life you glimpsed, however briefly, where human concerns felt appropriately small and the natural world revealed its staggering complexity and beauty.
There is also something deeply appropriate about supporting this art form. By purchasing a Tingatinga painting, you participate in a living artistic tradition that continues to support communities of artists, many of whom learned the techniques from Edward Said Tingatinga's original disciples. The art form has spread and evolved, with each artist bringing their own perspective while maintaining the essential aesthetic principles. Your purchase has meaning beyond personal satisfaction—it helps sustain an artistic community and ensures that this unique African art form continues to thrive and evolve.
The paintings work in any environment. They are bold enough to command attention in a minimalist space, yet complex enough to hold their own in a richly decorated room. The quality of light in your home will reveal different aspects of the work—the way certain colors emerge in morning light, the way the enamel surface catches and reflects afternoon sun. Over time, you'll notice details you missed on first viewing, small elements in the composition that reward sustained attention.
More importantly, the painting will function as a permanent window into the experiences you had in Zambia. On difficult days, when the weight of ordinary life feels heavy, you can look at your painting and remember the thundering falls, the walking trails of South Luangwa, the vast golden plains of Kafue, the liquid highway of the Zambezi. You can remember what it felt like to be small in a landscape that dwarfed you, to be one creature among many, to witness lions and leopards and elephants living lives entirely unconnected to human drama. You can remember, and in remembering, carry forward some portion of that experience into your daily existence.
The soul of Africa is not an abstraction or a marketing phrase. It is a real quality, something you feel viscerally when you're in places like Zambia's great parks, when you're close enough to wild elephants to smell them, when you're standing at Victoria Falls feeling the spray and roar in your bones. It is a quality of aliveness, of intensity, of being part of something vast and ancient and indifferent to human concerns. Tingatinga art, at its best, captures this quality and makes it tangible, portable, keepable.
Zambia changes you. The experiences you gather there—whether tracking leopards through South Luangwa's woodland, watching tree-climbing lions in Kafue's golden grasslands, or drifting silently past elephants on the Lower Zambezi—become part of your personal narrative. They reshape how you understand wilderness, beauty, and your own place in the larger web of life. But without something to anchor these experiences, they risk fading into pleasant but increasingly vague memories.
This is where art transcends mere decoration and becomes a genuine link to transformation. A Tingatinga painting is not simply a reminder of where you've been; it is an embodiment of what you felt and learned. It captures the vitality that pulses through African landscapes, the personality visible in each animal's eyes, the dense interconnectedness of ecosystems where every creature plays its role. The vibrant colors reflect the intensity of African light. The flowing compositions mirror the rhythm of rivers and the movement of herds. The joyful energy in each brushstroke echoes the feeling of being fully alive in the presence of true wilderness.
Visit the gallery at tingatingaart.com to find the piece that speaks to your Zambian adventure. Let a Tingatinga painting be your permanent window to the thundering falls, the walking trails, and the untamed wilderness, a daily reminder of the soul of Africa you carried home. Not as a substitute for the experience, but as its truest artistic expression, a way to honor what you felt and learned and became in those days among the wild places. The painting you choose will be as unique as your own journey, and it will serve, for years to come, as proof that you went there, that you saw, that you were changed, and that you brought something essential back with you into the world.
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Centimeters (CM) |
Inches (IN) |
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50CM x 40CM |
19 11/16 in XÂ 15 3/4 in |
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50CM x 50CM |
19 11/16 in XÂ 19 11/16 in |
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60CM x 60CM |
23 5/8 in XÂ 23 5/8 in |
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70CM x 50CM |
27 9/16 in XÂ 19 11/16 in |
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80CM x 60CM |
31 1/2 in XÂ 23 5/8 in |
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100CM x 80CM |
39 3/8 in XÂ 31 1/2 in |
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140CM x 110CM |
55 1/8 in X 43 5/16 in |
