#moroccomushkils

Hi, everyone!

Today marks the exact 3-week countdown until I return chez moi – or, at least, to somewhere in the U.S. I don’t really have any summer plans at all yet. I’m laboring under the delusion that if I delay for long enough making plans for my summer, plans will magically materialize and I’ll have something awesome to do with my life for the next three months. Any suggestions? Here’s what I’m kicking around:

1. Travel around U.S. as cheaply as possible, possibly via buses and staying with friends/couchsurfing. Perhaps center these travels around a theme, like read great American literature and go to the places they were written, or something like that. Thoughts? (Actually, I just had an idea. I could go around to as many of the JVC houses as I can in the U.S. they’re in 39 cities, that would be pretty cool! Hmmm…) Also, how would I go? By car? Train? Bus?
2. Get a job. Any job. In Seattle. Oh, and an apartment. Live there. Feel free to offer me a job or free rent.
3. Wander aimlessly.

I’m sitting in bert’s café contemporain in Agdal, which is this super pricey yet rather awesome café that plays Frank Sinatra and smells of coffee, cigarette smoke, and irony.  Bert’s also has internet, which is wonderful. Maroc Telecom has suffered some sort of damage lately, and it’s been periodically wiping out internet across whole areas of Rabat. This:

I HATE THIS.

Every time the internet returns (even if only for a moment), it’s a house-wide phenomenon. Jalal, my host brother, will come bounding into the room yelling “IL Y A L’CONNEXION! KATIE!!” And we’ll all sprint to our respective PCs or laptops and frantically reload our internet browsers and feverishly push the “GET MAIL!!!!” button on our respective Outlook or Mail applications. At least, that’s what I do.

Then, the internet dies again and the stupid FAST3304-V2 page that I hoped never to see again returns to haunt us.

Then, I decide to have a dance party instead. Tina Turner, usually.

INSTRUCTIONS:

1. Turn the following song all the way up.
2. Get up from whatever couch or bed or chair you’re sitting on.
3. DANCE!!!!!!!! DO THE TWIST! SHAKE IT SHAKE IT DANCE DANCE DANCE!

VERY GOOD! Well done. There’s nothing better than a good dose of Tina Turner when the Internet dies, wherever in the world you happen to be. Anyway, today we’re going to talk about leben! EW!

I believe this is an experience that every single study abroad student has on the first Friday that they spend in Morocco:

 

Leben. This link will tell you everything you need to know about leben, which is a traditional milk product made differently throughout North Africa and the Middle East. In Morocco, it is made – I quote the above link – THUSLY:

“Raw whole milk is not subjected to any heat treatment. Milk is poured in an earthenware pot or in a goat skin called “chetkoua” and is allowed to ferment for 24 to 48 hours. Acidification develops from natural flora of milk. If the outside temperature is too low, the vessel is previously heated before pouring milk and is kept at warm temperature until coagulation is reached. Subsequently, the acidified milk is churned for 30 to 40 minutes. Once the butter is removed, about 10% of water is added to the buttermilk. Then, leben is ready for consumption. It is kept at room temperature for up to 3 days in plastic bags or in traditional vessels.”

Basically, it’s fermented milk. They drink it with couscous. It tastes like spoiled, liquefied sour cream. It is gross.

Of course, we didn’t know this as we sat down for Friday couscous with the family that first time. “Oh,” we thought, “Cool! I like milk. Yaaaay!” and took a GIANT GULP after a few bites of delicious couscous.

OH GOD.

Still, I’ve valiantly sipped Leben at other Moroccans’ houses and on trips, but I have yet to actually enjoy it. In fact, I shiver a little bit at the mention of its name.  Leben is the Voldemort of liquids.

…Leben is the Sauron of dairy products.

Leben is the chosen drink of the Dark Side.

Leben is the Master.

Leben is Evil.

“Leben is an acquired taste for many foreigners,” my host moms say kindly, as Widad drops a block of sugar the size of the Washington Monument into my tiny glass.

“It’s better with sugar!” She says, stirring. My host family looks at me expectantly.

Spoken like a true Moroccan, I think, as I take another sip of Culture.

(GET IT?!??!?! GET IT?!?!?!? IT’S A CULTURAL EXPERIENCE BAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHA!)