Sitting at the bar wearing a traditional Russian fur hat, I’d just ordered a beer from a Keith Richards lookalike in a large stetson. To my right a girl was trying to decide between a tiara and a trilby, while on my left the American Indian, the biker and the soldier from the Village People looked worryingly close to breaking into a chorus of YMCA.
As dress codes go, it was certainly one of the more unusual: to get served at the bar, you had to be wearing a hat. Fortunately, there was a large range to choose from hanging up on the wall, but it wasn’t exactly the sort of thing I’d expected to encounter on a small island in the middle of the Zambezi River.
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Rob McFarland 