But where do you actually sleep, I asked Souffian. He walked over to a huge old tractor tyre, lying among weeds.
“Here,” he said. “Like this.”
He climbed in it, curling round inside where the inner tube would have been, put his head on two clasped hands, closed his eyes and pretended to sleep.
“I do whatever I can to eat. I work on the dump all day and at night I come here to rest,” he said.
