A haze hangs low over the kasbah, thick with the scent of/and/from burning rubbish. It clings to your clothes, your hair/the walls/your throat, a gritty reminder of Tangier's underbelly/soul/heart. Here, in this https://susanenkv223537.mpeblog.com/68127399/tangier-s-treasures-spams-hazy-smokes