Winter in Sicily

Volcanoes, like fezzes, are cool. I have never met anyone who didn't think they weren't amazing and beautiful landmasses, yet capable of heartless mass destruction. And here we were in Sicily, driving up the side of a volcano in search of our final AirBnb, a house that was once an old winery. Google Maps mostly got us there through narrow, winding roads that fit 1.5 cars, and an old fashioned phone call that led us to the front door. Squeezing into the galley kitchen with our duffel bags, and into the dining area, I could tell Mark was smitten immediately. He saw the wood stove and fireplace, the lofted bedrooms, and the vestiges wine making equipment laying around, making it by far one of the most eclectic places we had ever booked. 

I, however, could feel the cold seeping through my Converse shoes and the cold seeping through the walls. A cold front had moved in, abolishing any thought of maintaining the cute winter look. Not a few hours after our host left, the snow started. Huddled by the fire, on went the hat, scarf, jacket, and any blanket I could get my hands on. The snow continued, but dinnertime was near, so Mark and I headed out on foot in search of an open grocery store and butcher. With luck, we managed to pick up a few items, including five liters of "butcher wine" to make dinner for the rest of the family. It snowed into the night. Now, technically in my book, 10 inches of freshly fallen snow in the early sun should have been a magical moment. But after shivering through the night in full-on winter gear and finding the courage to sit on a cold toilet seat, only to find the water pipes had frozen, I was nearly in panic mode. I would rather pee outside in a snowstorm than be "the one" who broke the toilet. Oh, and the 1.5 lane roads were impassible even with chains (which we were required by law to rent). Cabin fever came on quickly and no amount of butcher wine would take the edge off.

Luckily, the kids went ape-shit crazy for the snow and played in it for hours. They were joyful helpers when we had to melt the snow for drinking water and watching dishes, and  I practically had to drag them inside when the sun went down. On day three, the sun and plows did their job and we made a break for it, first attempting to drive up Mount Etna from the east side, but quickly ordered to turn around by the street plowers. Too much ice, they said, so instead, we drove to the southern end of the island: Agrigento for Greek ruins, Valley of the Temple, and a side trip to Scala dei Turchi (Turkish Stairs) a weird looking, sedimentary sea side rock face that I saw on Instagram once. 

The following day brought blue skies and a road trip to Syracuse where we visited a Greek theater that once held 15,000 spectators and the Ear of Dionysius, a crazy limestone cave once used for keeping prisoners. The acoustics in the cave allowed guards to eavesdrop on them without much effort. Hungry tummies brought us to the adorable and hip island of Ortygia. We ate at Fretelli Burgio, next to lively street market that would be a fishy sneak preview of Catania later in the week. David was mesmerized by the piles of octopus and squid, inky black staining the hands of the vendors. After eating buckets of gelato and suffering heartburn, our next plan of attack was to drive back north, towards Etna in search of an alternate route to the top. 

The evening began with slight frustrations over finding dinner. In Italy, no one eats earlier than 7:30pm, and many restaurants are closed on Mondays. It was 6pm and people were hungry.  Trying to be helpful, I found a place that opened at 7pm (they didn't really) with seemingly decent reviews (well, decent enough to be ranked #6 in an industrial, grayer part of town, so... not really) and with a Trip Advisor discount of 20% if we booked through them (nope). We went anyway. The kids and Mark ordered normal things like pizza margarita. I ordered what I thought was bean soup. It was chickpea fish soup. 

Now, I am no fish, nor soup hater. This combination however, was both funny and horrible. The soup looked like Dan Aykroyd's Bass-O-Matic slurry and tasted just as bad. To make matters worse, my mom followed my lead and was silently choking it down, afraid to be the complainer. For fear of going into hysteria, I couldn't look at my mom. I kept my head bowed, face buried in my scarf, when I dropped part of it in my soup. My laughter was silent and dripping with tears. Until it wasn't. The kids were worried I was upset but then I broke, exploding volumes of cackling laughter across the vacant, cold restaurant. Pretty soon we all were laughing too, including the staff who had no idea what was going on.

Mount Etna behind our AirBnb

Mount Etna and churches

Mount Etna and citrus

Ear of Dionysius, Agrigento

Photo credit : Margo

Scala dei Turchi. I was disappointed that I couldn't get any closer- it was fenced off.
Either the people of IG lied to me, or people trespass here all the time.
Map link here. Park on the SP68 or the "Terrazza sulla scala parking lot"next to the Beach Lounge.
 

Huddling by the fire

Purchasing our meat and butcher wine, and trying
mystery meat formed into congealed lard.

Standing on the ledge of our yard at sun set.

The first merry merry night in the converted winery.

Boris Takes A Photo

Mark and I never did get that dream wedding at Lake Bled back in 2010. But as 2018 came to a close, we did get a chance to hire a photographer and recite our vows in front of friends and family. Only problem was, I had totally forgotten to pack the sheets of Homewood Suites stationary that Mark and I used. I WhatsApp'd my friend in Windhoek with a request to help me out. She needed to go into the house and into the living room, where on the top shelf on the right hand side of the TV, sat a small tin box with the label "Box-O-Crap" (my sister-in-law gave it to me several years ago. I think she was on a road trip with her then boyfriend, my brother, in the Rocky Mountains.) Would my friend be so kind to take a photo of the vows and send them to me? 

She quickly agreed to this favor and followed through brilliantly (thank you Christina!). While in Slovenia, I first downloaded Mark's, which I easily got onto one page. Apparently I had quite a bit to say while standing at the altar eight years ago because when it came mine, mine took up six sheets paper. My hand cramped, so I cut to the chase and settled on the highlights of why Mark is a better person than I am and ever will be. 

The kids were great sports about the photography session, as were my Austrian friends who I convinced needed to be in the photos too. Our photographer was a man named Boris. He used to play professional hockey, which meant of course he had played Sport Club Ciuc, much to Mark's delight! Ciuc (pronounced Chook) is a small city in Romania known for two things: winter sports and the kind of cold weather that goes beyond a three-dog night. You need the whole damn dog pound to handle Ciuc's winters. 

Boris and Mark got on famously, talking about photography, ice skating, and how Boris hitchhiked around Ghana and Botswana when he was a kid. I think once Boris realized we weren't a bunch of nut jobs who wanted three hundred perfect photos, he ended up liking us all tremendously. In fact, after two hours of smiling-not-smiling at the camera, Boris was game to take more pictures for as long as we wanted. Once the sun dropped behind the mountains, however, it was instead time for lots of HOT mulled wine and/or gin. Plus, a snuggle by the fire with my favorite piece of perfection.

Sharing a piece of our historic promises with the kids.

The High Five, reenacted

Christina and Roland and Mark and Emily

Lil' Red

Huddling by the carp filled lake.

The fire I didn't want to leave.

Should anyone find themselves in Bled, Slovenia, and want to have dealings with photographers or wedding related events, I recommend using Primavera Bled. 

Sweetness of Slovenia

Sometime in the last 15 years I have known Mark, I learned that one of his favorite romantic place on Earth was Bled, Slovenia. He hoped one day he would get married in a church that sits upon an island in the middle of Lake Bled. Life threw an unexpected, unplanned curve ball (David's birth) and the dream didn't come to fruition, and never will, if I have anything to do with it. Everything worked out for the best and here we are, now traveling and living internationally with two kids. Anyway, the Slovenia leg of our trip was an easy one to plan since he'd always wanted to come back, and I wanted see the place that gets him a wee bit misty eyed. So we rented a car and drove out of the tight city of Venice, and into the high, wide mountains of Slovenia. 

For the week, we planned to see castles, ski, hike, breathe in the fresh air, and play in the snow. The only thing that didn't go according to plan was that it didn't snow, so we had to settle on the lingering frost that coated everything overnight and the sparse, man-made snow at the ski resorts. 

The church on the island was gorgeous. Ninety-nine steps lead visitors from the shore to the base of the church doors and tradition requires the groom to carry the bride up the steps. It's paramount to a happy marriage. Beyond the church, on the hill is Bled Castle, built in the year 1011 and is easily the most visited castle in Slovenia. Initially, I was not super gung-ho about visiting, but after some mulled wine and a hefty hike up the steps, my attitude changed. 

First off: the view is of course magical, overlooking the lake, which at the time was smoother than glass. Second, the interior rooms were filled with things that kept the kids' attention, from jewels to weapons, toilets to clothes, to interactive videos. What took the cake though, were the castle staff who reenacted time-old professions. Margo and David learned how to bottle wine by a monk, and we met a blacksmith who was not only knowledgeable and hilarious, but a legitimately trained blacksmith. His lineage had been employed by the castle for hundreds of years. At least, that was how the story went. 

The blacksmith told us how Slovenia was responsible for outfitting the majority of Venice with wood and ironworks to build their bridges and houses. Both are still major exports for the country today. He showed us his craftsmanship, which I totally would have bought, were it my taste. Another lucky customer would get to buy his exquisitely detailed, soul-piercing Jesus on a cross. Telling us a bit of  Eastern Europe history, he described slavery as equal opportunity, and how children and women were not at all discriminated for agism or gender.  Fishing around in his apron for a coin to mint for another customer, I asked him if he had future lineage ready to take over his profession so he could enjoy early retirement. He tossed his chestnut brown ponytail, bound by a leather thong over his shoulder and said that first, he needed to find a woman dumb enough to marry him.

Outside of the towns were countless kilometers of hiking and exploring. Slovenes love being outside and take no heed to inclement weather. They simply gear up and go. On the trails, handfuls of hikers blew past us with hiking poles and miniature crampons, backpacks stuffed with backup gear. For good reason too: not even 3km up the mountain the sun disappeared and the trail went from brown to white. Snow covered or not, the trails are well marked with red and white bull's eyes, the official trail marker for their national park system. The trailheads also have signage boasting the power of surrounding oneself in negative ions. They are abundant in the forests, waterfalls, and beaches, and are believed to produce biochemical reactions that increase levels of serotonin, helping to alleviate depression, relieve stress, and boost energy. Margo and David enjoyed tracing a finger labyrinth. It was posted along the trail and aims to induce relaxation. Pro tip: always start from the outside in.  

I am certain the kids felt self-actualized when we took the kids skiing for the first time. They took a few lessons, skied with Grandma and Grandpa, rode the poma and chairlifts, and were left begging for more. The kids closed out the mountain, something I don't remember ever doing. After a fifteen year absence, I was nervous. Would I remember how to turn if something got in my way? Would I remember how to "ride Fat Bob?"  In both cases, yes- thank God.  I didn't remember however, was how fast and technically sound Mark's muscle memory was. He gave me a run for my money, and now he's making all sorts of plans to go heli-skiing when we move to Uzbekistan (August 2020).

On the way back to Venice, another dream of Mark's came true. We detoured to the Dolomite Mountains in northeastern Italy. Nearly 3 million years old, the peaks are jagged and intimidating, reaching as high as 10,967 feet (3343 meters). Huge chunks of WWII ran through these mountains with the 10th Mountain Division skiing and fighting between the peaks and ruts. James Bond's For Your Eyes Alone was filmed here as well as Cliffhanger, and thousands of skiers visit the multiple resorts every season. Early January meant frigid temperatures of 5F as the sun ducked behind the mountains. We had the pleasure of reaching these mountains at just about the same time. Subsequently, we drove nearly the entire route in 1st gear and descended into bumper to bumper traffic on the way to Venice. Next up: balmy Sicily, where I could finally wear cute sweaters and not freeze. Or so I thought.

Lake Bled with Bled Church, backed by Bled Castle.

Bull's Eye

Typical Schlink family death march.

Hibernating bees.

A little bit of Slovene went a long way.
Everyone loved our kids for their stabs at politeness.

Eating with my favorite people on earth.

So happy.

At the top of one of 37 Dolomite Passes

Photo credit: Mark

Christmassy Venice

When we arrived to Venice by way of Rome, Johannesburg, and Windhoek, I anticipated cooler weather, cute sweaters, and languorous walks through the city famous for its canals, history, and culture. What I got was bone-chilling humidity, snow pants, and speed walking in order to keep warm in the city also famous for its prices, mean seagulls, and crowds. 

I only half jest. I got all of the above, because when you are married to a man who studies European history with fervent enthusiasm, you get to space out when the walking gets boring and listen to fascinating stories of Venetian battle, diplomacy, and religion as told to a 6 and 8 year old. One of my biggest complaints about the Rough Guide to Venice was that it was hard for me to read. It just didn't have a narrative that I like. Mark's was better.

As we walked through St. Mark's Basilica, he spoke of the  gorgeous relics. "Many of the the pontiff jewels, gold chalices, thousand year old pottery, tools and paintings were the spoils of the Crusaders sneaking into Constantinople, ancient Turkey. Thieves, they were!" 

When gazing down at the Rialto Bridge, Mark talked about Venice being a European powerhouse since it had a strong navy and thriving economy, manufacturing and shipping out textiles, weapons, armor, and other goods. The bridge, built to connect two neighborhoods facing each other on the Grand Canal, also served to increase sales and trade. The current opulent facade of the bridge shows off Venice's historic wealth. Before that, the bridge was rebuilt time and time again. One time it collapsed under the weight of too many people during a revolt (that backfired). Another time it caught on literal fire. Architects built the final bridge out of marble and it is "single span", anchored at each end with no support in the middle.

I had opportunity to show off a bit too, talking about infections and plague doctors, prompting David's desire to buy a mask, which he wore throughout the duration of the trip. 

Cool stories and COLD weather. Mark was horrified to see me in public wearing snow pants, a neck gator, and hiking boots, but I had to sacrifice fashion for feeling even moderately warm. Most mornings were thick with fog and temperatures rarely got above 45F. We were lucky if the sun came out, but even then it felt miles away. So when none of us could take the chill (or walking) anymore, we would duck into a cafe for espresso, wine, or both. The meals, though crazy expensive (meals for four people plus drinks, usually wine cost about 100-120 Euro). It was also the trip where I learned that my kids eat adult portions. 

Schlinks love to walk, hike, wander, and explore. So do the Ripleys (Grandma and Grandpa) but even after 10km, we all got tired. The only thing that might distract Mark from walking an additional 15km would be a soccer match. So it was a pleasant discovery to find that Venice FC was playing Cosenza, an Italian city nearly 10 hour's drive south, at the stadium right down the block from our Air Bnb. I was willing to sacrifice being a cold in exchange for a break from walking. 

When attending matches in Italy, and likely throughout Europe, ticket purchases require passport identification. Mark got our tickets which were hilariously in the old-white-guy stands. No one moved a muscle except for their screaming mouths, until halftime when the stands emptied for cigarette breaks. The cheering section adjacent to us was steadfast throughout the game, singing non-stop for 90+ minutes. Venice didn't win, but the experience was just as awesome as the last match we attended.

Four cold days and one Christmas holiday later, Venice was finished with us. Onto: Slovenia.

Sinking tower in Castello neighborhood

Some of the nicer looking graffiti.

Warm-up break. There's an extra fee if you sit versus stand.

Photo credit: Margo. When you visit the Fondaco dei Tdeschi and climb to the top,
you get a free rooftop view of the Rialto Bridge,  and a panoramic view of the city.
Make a reservation on the iPad stand if there are crowds. Otherwise, just walk right up.

Top of Fondaco dei Tedeschi

The details

View of Church of San Giorgio Maggiroe
A view we didn't intend to get when we took a wrong turn
and ended up walking an extra 4km. FUN.

Gramps, or Grampie as Margo calls him.

St. Mark's Basilica: erosion from too much touch.

Wandering the neighborhoods.

Venice FC

If you walk between the pillars of Saint Marco and Saint Theodore, you are guaranteed bad luck.
It used to be the site of execution for all to see in Venice.

Plague Doctor, Jr.  

Veldskoen: Super Cool Shoes

Nothing represents American shoe culture quite like the classic sneaker. A 2017 report done by Polyvore show that Nike and Vans were the most searched-for brands in not only the fifty states but the District of Columbia, and Puerto Rico too. That is hardly a surprise considering they are the ultimate shoes in comfort, versatility, and style. I mean, many of us grew up coveting a pair of Nike Air Jordans or looking cool in timeless Vans Slip-Ons. Simply put, America is sneaker obsessed, according to Smithsonian Magazine and it is certain that sneakers will be permanently embedded in our culture.

Unsurprisingly, Namibia has its own niche shoe culture that has enjoyed a recent surge in popularity. Monochrome Magazine, known for its online fashion content, puts on pop-up shop events around Windhoek, providing small business owners an opportunity to sell their items. As animal hides are found in abundance, unsurprisingly leather shoes are among the more popular items sold. Enter the chosen shoe for sale: the veldskoen.

The southern African veldskoen, aka vellies, is a type of shoe that has withstood test of time in the region. In Afrikaans, “veld” means field, and” skoen” means shoe. These field shoes are tough and seen frequently among safari guides and farmers, especially those who wear button down short sleeved shirts, short shorts, safari hat, and an absolute must: calf length socks. One of our local friends who is part farmer, part 4x4 driving expert, and part shooting range owner, has had veldskoen on his feet before he could even crawl. He says these shoes are not only comfortable, but durable.

They are also perfect for the Namibian geography, having evolved from Khoisan culture to Dutch culture in the 1600s. The Dutch adapted and adopted the Khoisan design when they arrived to southern Africa and began migrating north. It was a period of time nicknamed “The Great Trek.” Even though popularity and utility of the shoes spread through southern Africa, it was the British Company, Clark’s, which brought the design to the forefront of fashion in the United Kingdom and assorted British colonies on the African continent.

Typically, veldskoen are made of thick animal leather with rubber soling, sometimes utilizing tires for the sole. The shoes are hand sewn, eliminating the need for tacks or nails, and modern l styles use riveted shoelace holes to increase durability. Veldskoen are lightweight, with a round and flat toe bed, and rise just to the ankle where they are tall enough to hide under long pants but short enough to look decent enough with a pair of shorts.

Popular or not, the cool thing about vellies is that local shoe makers still make them by hand, using thick needles and thread. They rely on only a few tools such as an awl, hammer, and scissors to create the patterns, and iron shoe molds to give them their shape and size. Take Thomas “The Shoe Guy” Mbuaandjo. He started making shoes about 15 years ago after working with Air Namibia. Now, instead of commuting every day to the airport, Thomas gets to work from home, making and selling veldskoen. It takes him about three hours to make a shoe, five for a pair. He particularly enjoys the extra free time spent with his family. Thomas says everything he needed to know he learned from his aunt, plus You Tube. His resourcing skills are pretty impressive, as is the quality of shoe he produces. I compared his shoes with store competitors and found his to be as good as, if not better. Plus he charges about 20% less. 

I bought a pair a few months ago and it's been a pleasure to parade his shoes around work, town, and home because everywhere I go, people ask where I bought them and how they can get a pair themselves. The radiology staff at a local hospital bought vellies for themselves, as did a handful of teachers at the kids' school.

I chose a burnt orange, brown red combo, and I have managed somehow, to pull them off wearing a little black dress or in work pants. I convinced Mark to buy a pair too, so we look like shoe-twins 3 days out of 5. My next plan is to convince Thomas to make vellies with hot pink springbok fur or in zebra print for an extra kick in style. It's all part of the perks and normal progression of living in Namibia, a privilege that I am just not ready to give up yet. 

Thomas with my new pair of shoes.

Vellies by the ocean, compliments of Thomas. 

Puros Conservancy and the Tail End of Camping

Namibia's constitution has an actual section dedicated to habitat and natural resource conservation. Few other countries have this integrated, protective backbone. In fact, in 1993, USAID (in addition to several other international organizations) assisted the newly formed Namibian government to support their priorities of guarding the land and its people on it. It was a long slog with complicated legislation and policy making. There were countless meetings with local chiefs and their communities, complicated logistics that took years to untangle, and layers of red tape to navigate even in the Namibian government's infancy. Finally, 1996 was the year of policy enactment and the launch of demarcated conservancies throughout the country, of which there are currently 82. 

A conservancy is a community that has registered with the Ministry of Environment and Tourism, dedicated to protecting the wildlife and habitats in exchange for rights over tourist operations in the area. In other words, they have a say in whether tours can pass through and some of the fees paid through these tours go back to the community. I had noticed conservancy signs posted along most roads in Namibia, but I didn't give it much thought until we exited east out of the Skeleton Coast Park, and started driving south into the Puros Conservancy. 

There are no fences dividing wildlife from livestock. The people live among them both, balancing their livelihood against hungry animals, drought, and poachers, to name a few dangers. Most conservancies derive income from either trophy hunting, a huge payoff for locals as they often reap the benefits of fresh meat (it cannot be transported outside animal disease checkpoints, let alone exported outside the country) and earn far more money from permit fees. They also derive income from tourist related activities such as game drives, local village visits, and selling of handmade crafts. 

The village of Puros is no exception. Located on the banks of the Hoarusib River, the village is a mixed Himba and Herero settlement. The river banks are thick with tall green trees and bushes that peter out to flat terrain for about one kilometer before the mountains begin again. Just before the western mountains is the Okahirongo Luxury Elephant Lodge, where if you have to ask the price, you probably shouldn't book there. I asked. Rates start at 350 USD/night per person.

Tucked on the other side of the valley to in the eastern mountains is a Himba village the relies heavily on visitors. The women demonstrate how they make their famous ochre skin protectant. Hematite, a reddish mineral is ground to a powder with a stone, and mixed with animal fat, and scented with the oils of a commiphora plant, which smells like minty camphor. The emollient is applied to their skin and hair, providing sufficient sun protection and warmth during the cool nights. Showers are not a thing, the women proudly do not bathe but use the protectant as a natural deodorant too.

No one sleeps in sheets or blankets. Instead, they use tanned hides as their bedding inside the rounded, low huts that require crawling to enter. They are made of whatever material that can be found and adhered to the existing frame: cloth, dung, tall grass, wood, plastic, sheet metal, etc.

Himba women wore tall ankle bracelets with leather straps weaved into them to indicate the number of children they produced, and head pieces if they were married. Shirtless and in skirts and jewelry, the women wore nothing else. Children wore necklaces and a tiny flap of leather to cover their front side. The sole husband of the seven women at the village wore a button down shirt with khakis. 

When my father in law asked about what they eat, the interpreter flatly said "what you eat" and proceeded to their potjie pot (poi-key,  a cast iron pot that has three legs and a lid) and showed us simmering meat but declined to tell us what kind. That meat had seen better days. The interpreter then showed off their crafts of hand carved animals, woven bowls, and dolls, quoting prices that demanded a massive amount of bargaining. When prices couldn't be agreed upon, the entrance fee was paid and we walked away empty handed. 

 "In town" Puros has one store sparsely surrounded by corrugated metal houses. Sometimes there is gas and beer available for purchase. They have a primary school, but older children go to hostel in Sesfontein, about two to three hours of untamed and very rough driving further south. Heck, the road coming from the north is wince-worthy as well. On the days we were in town, there was a meeting held outside under a giant camel-thorn tree next to the store. Government vehicles were there, and Herero women were dressed in their finest, with cow horn shaped hats and long sleeved Victorian dresses that swept the ground. I asked a man at the store who was visiting, and he said the leader of their region and a couple of government officials to check up on the conservancy.

In this area, the road is the river bed. It is a favorite spot for elephants, cattle, and goats, whereas ostrich and springbok prefer the vast expanses. The campsites along the river require 4x4 access due to the deep, soft sand. The community camps are well maintained with under large camel-thorn trees, each with private ablution facilities and flush toilets.  The privacy walls are made of makalani wood, a type of palm tree found readily in northern Namibia. Hot water is provided through ‘donkey’ wood-burners and fresh water from a borehole is available. The sites have large trees and are equipped with a kitchen sink and counter. Everywhere, signs are posted to put away all food. Elephants love sweet scents and won't hesitate to make themselves at home. 

Camps are part of the conservancy too, but since they are in such remote locations and typically without phone or Internet access, advertising and accepting reservations can be very tricky. Little did I know that when we "checked in" to the Puros Community Camp, we didn't have reservations at all. It was great there were campsites available, but if there weren't, we would have continued a few meters down the road to another site. The whole place had signs of elephant life marching through the camp. We got our safety 101 talk: if there is something looks like a tent and is moving in the middle of the night, just go back to sleep. 

Leaving this place was hard, especially since it had just what we needed: hot showers, elephants, and cold beer. But it was time to pack up again and head to Sesfontein, another place with its own conservancy. It was much bigger and much dustier. Here we would fill up our tanks at a normal gas station and head further south to Damaraland, a place that I love returning to again and again. This time, we would attempt to stay at another community camp without reservations made and fail miserably. The day turned into a much longer one when we tacked on another two hours to end up a the Brandberg While Lady Campsite for a final night of roughing it. For dinner, we went big with kudu steaks and red wine after taking yet another luxurious hot shower under the stars.

A functioning fridge in the middle of nowhere, outside Puros Conservancy.
 The idea is to take something cold, leave something warm.

Puros lanscape

Puros kids

Puros store

Puros fairy dust

Puros camping

Puros donkey, owned by the Himba tribe.

Puros elephants

Sesfontein

Sesfontein citizens