| Tomas Morato, Quezon City |
Clark is obsessive-compulsive. It is neither tolerant of people lacking willpower nor people with a loose grasp of discipline. It is not for the deviants because it commands standards, demands conformance, and puts everyone under its spell.
I am one of those who have fallen for its enchantment, which grew on me after several brief business trips to our satellite office in the neighborhood of Clark. Each time, these sojourns prompted me to picture myself lazing around like Tom Sawyer on the cover of the books, under the stooping tree perched on by itinerant birds. They piqued my curiosity about how it would be to wake up again to the clear blue sky that spews gentle breeze, rather than the gray, sinister haze that greets and threatens the metro every morning. These images lingered in my mind. One Sunday afternoon, while everyone was having a siesta, I just found myself entering the South Gate of Clark with nothing but a new job, a few clothes, and a pair of smitten eyes.
Not a single blade of grass jutted out from the tuft inside Clark. The manicured lawn ushered me as I passed through the bump-less MA Roxas Highway split into two by flowers that were organized like a well-thought-of centerpiece. These flowers were never unkempt, even when swaying to the wild wind generated by the speeding cars on the left side of the road. Like them, I noticed vehicles followed a certain order, an unspoken or invisible rule; drivers practiced give-and-take relationship and along the bike lanes on side roads, cyclists pedaled rhythmically with no one stepping out of line.
As I turned left to the Friendship Gate exit, I observed the same level of tidiness. Outside, toward where I was about to settle, was a totally different story.
I have been living on the outskirts of Clark for over two years now. My place is just a seven-minute tricycle ride from the gate that separates two disparate worlds: the world where orderliness is the order and the world worn and torn by the actors just abiding the disorganized orders. Every time I cross that borderline, or poverty line to my friends, there is this whisper that reminds me I need to behave.
To live in Clark entails discipline, tons of it. The expectation for anyone who enters any of its gates is to surrender oneself to its rules and regulations. To be obedient and to be respectful. To follow the commands already in effect since the GI Joes kicked the natives out of their lands. Because it is in the belief that following the set rules is just a matter of black and white – one either obeys or not. Whatever one chooses has a proportionate consequence – either one is welcomed with arms wide open or one pays the price. I have always opted to cooperate.
Obedience is what would allow one to enjoy Clark in all its glory. From frequent visits, I have gathered that to be able to laze around under the stooping tree, one needs to seek approval from the guard. To pass through the gates with no hassle, a truck driver has to present the required proof of delivery or purchase or complete documentation of business. To spare oneself from the attention-grabbing, humiliating whistles from a stern guard, one should only saunter down the designated path. A driver should limit the car’s speed to 60 mph on a fast lane to avoid the exorbitant P2,800 fine, and a cyclist, to be allowed to pedal along the accident-proof bike lane, has to have a complete set of safety gears. No one may pick a single flower or just lay down on the vast manicured lawn. The list goes on, and I have found out that not a single person is spared. For each instance of insubordination from the long list, there is a corresponding disciplinary action: a three-hour seminar to instill the importance of recognizing Clark’s rules and regulations, a whopping fine to teach the violator a lesson, or a lifetime ban from entering the vicinity. Clark, in all its glory, enjoys its full autonomy.
It appears to me that Clark is a disciplinarian obsessed with putting everything in order. It is a control freak, in a way. What it does not control, though, is the flowering of the food businesses now in a sort of luxurious sprawl in what used to be a dense thicket.
Clark is a huge smorgasbord that caters to people conscious of budget. It is a fine treat to eatsplorers in constant search of the best food experience, a watering hole for workers in dire need of a quick mental break, and a safe haven for anyone wanting a sweet escape from the daily torments of living. It is an affordable luxury and so far, I haven’t heard of someone getting a heart attack upon seeing the bill or someone feeling held up after the meal. A steakhouse near Friendship Gate offers a tenderloin steak for P350, same slab and succulence with, but half the price of the steak being offered in a famed restaurant in Tomas Morato. It also serves scrummy homemade apple pie and apple walnut cake that unfailingly slake one’s sweet tooth for less than P160. Not far is the Chinese bistro with a table d’hôte lunch for P80 right beside the burger joint offering a protein burger for less than P150. All of these are just an appetizer because Clark’s main course is hiding in its alleyways.
There seem to have been some magical concoctions happening in the kitchens of the makeshift eateries along the backstreets of the business center. I have always suspected that a drop of potion and a murmur of conjuration serve as toppings on food being dished out in a garage transformed into what can be qualified as a bistro, or in a house that has replaced couches with serried rows of wooden tables and benches, or in a garden with rusty chairs in full view of Clark Parade Grounds. What these hash houses lack visually, they compensate gastronomically. For less than the price of a tall cup of Café Americano in Starbucks, a diner can already have unlimited rice with a bowl of vegetable stew half-filled with crunchy pork, or a plate full of mixed vegetables steamed in shrimp sauce, or the combination of different dishes, or any typical dish that becomes zestier at the meticulous hands of the Kapampangans. These cooks only serve a plate of nirvana and transcendence is the only standard they conform to.
In Clark, there’s no such thing as too much food. There are neither rules for consumption nor disciplinary actions. It is unkind to the people on a diet.
I have been living on the outskirts of Clark for over two years now and I have always been smitten. Its obsessive-compulsive personality has helped me become tolerant of life decisions built from the lack of willpower and discipline.
Images from:
https://www.facebook.com/MeatPlusCafe/photos/1114090926050743