The mogs of Mogador

Essaouira Medina (Mogador), Morocco

They rule this Essaouira courtyard, the mogs of Mogador. This is their domain and we, simple humans, are just their subjects. We exist to feed them and, if they deem us worthy, love them.

They have a system, a hierarchical system, these mogs of Mogador. Restaurants line the edges of the courtyard and at each table we sit and eat our meals. But for this privilege we must each pay our taxes to the mogs.

Our taxes, on this occasion, come in the form of some tasty morsels. Perhaps a bit of chicken, a chip, some other scrap that might otherwise end up on a fork and in our mouth.

The mogs have a system. For each table, one of them is assigned. It’s never two… or more. One is enough to collect the taxes and any more than that would start the split the revenue too widely.

And so one mog sits at the side of each table, neck bent upwards, watching its subjects. It waits patiently – making sure its presence is felt without being imposing to the point of annoyance. Eventually, as it always is, a tax is paid.

They have roles within this system, the mogs of Mogador. While some are tax collectors and wait by the tables, others oversee the whole operation.

On a raised platform with the full warmth of the sun at their disposal, three cats stretch out and watch. Eyes half open, half closed, they are making sure there are no double-ups and no opportunities missed. They make sure the mogs are always working.

If one should try to approach the platform, a hiss of warning sends them back to the tables. There is no need for paws to be raised and claws unsheathed – the hiss says it all.

This small council of ruling mogs have done their time collecting. They are now served directly from the kitchen but ensure their domain maintains its natural balance.

On the walls of the courtyard, some of the mogs stand guard. There is a threat to their order that poses a catastrophe – the birds. The winged intruders see the fruits of the courtyard and would like it to be theirs. But the mogs have claimed this space and want to keep it.

The guards prowl the tops of the walls, one eye on their domain beneath them and one eye on the skies. They chase away the birds with a jump, a meow and, when necessary, a swipe of a paw. The birds keep their threat constant but are unable to break through the defences.

They rule this courtyard, the mogs of Mogador. They have a system and their system works.