And it is in Zimbabwe. This account in The Times of London today by the son of the owners of the resort where the bar can be found is hilarious. Imagine coming home for a visit to run into this at the other end of the property:

...from my left, a tall, beautiful girl, graceful as a gazelle in skin-tight jeans and high heels, slinked over to me. “Buy me beer,” she said sulkily. I bought her a beer. She pressed her legs against the bar. Then, in one slick move, she took a swig from the beer in her left hand and slid the long-fingered nails of her other hand between my legs and started stroking my crotch. I choked and spat out the sip, the liquid dribbling down my chin. “Sixty thousand,” she said, staring straight ahead. “Let’s go.” “Sorry,” I said. “I’m about to be married. But I’ll buy you another beer.”

Not only had Mom and Dad leased out the place to prostitutes, there was opposition politicians dressed up as priests and a high level of spliffery to be found. Welcome home, son.