[Time Trowel] Gabi fed our ancestors long before rice did
A trowel (/ˈtraʊ.əl/), in the hands of an archaeologist, is like a trusty sidekick – a tiny, yet mighty, instrument that uncovers ancient secrets, one well-placed scoop at a time. It’s the Sherlock Holmes of the excavation site, revealing clues about the past with every delicate swipe.
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Walk into any café today and you will find taro everywhere. Taro chips, taro boba, taro lattes, and taro soft serve now sit beside their more famous yam cousin, ube, as if they have always belonged in the pastry case. Taro feels new in this global, café-friendly form, yet the plant has a long history in Island Southeast Asia and in the Philippines that predates its current trendiness.
I am writing this while looking out over the lo‘i fields of Hawai‘i, where taro has been cultivated for centuries on irrigated fields and terraces. Seeing these terraces makes it easy to forget how familiar taro is back home.
Long before taro drinks appeared in cafés, taro anchored everyday meals across our region. For many Filipinos, this history is not distant at all. It is in our kitchens, most clearly in a cuisine that shows up on Bicolano merienda tables. When I think about taro’s long story, I do not begin with archaeological findings. I begin with gina’tan.
In my childhood, gina’tan appeared without much fanfare. It was thick and warm, something between a snack and dessert. Sometimes we added bananas, most of the time jackfruit. Sometimes sweet potatoes or sago. Households varied in their preferences, but gabi was always present. It was never highlighted or photographed, yet it was the steady heart of the dish. Only later, through archaeology, did I understand what this familiar gabi represented.
Growing up, I heard many terms for gabi, each tied to its look, taste, or the part of the plant we used. Bungkukan referred to the white-and-purple variety, possibly the same as linsa. Katnga, natong, or apay were used when we ate only the leaves and stalks. We even have a term to describe the quality of gabi corm, masa’pog, smooth but firm. These names carried the plant into different kitchens and different ways of cooking, but they all pointed to the same steady presence that shaped our meals and memories.
We often assume rice has always been the centerpiece of Filipino food. It feels permanent and obligatory, but archaeological evidence tells another story. Long before wet-rice agriculture took shape, taro anchored many early food systems.
Across Southeast Asia and the Pacific, taro appears in starch grain studies, soil and charred residues, and irrigation features linked to root-crop cultivation. In the Philippines, taro rarely preserves well, but ethnographic and botanical data point to a long, continuous history of use.
Meanwhile, there is no solid archaeological evidence for paddy rice earlier than about 300 to 400 years ago. There are older rice grains, but not enough to indicate the presence of irrigation or terrace systems before the early modern period (1300 to 1830 CE).
This difference matters. It means rice is not ancient in the way it is often imagined. It also means that root crops such as taro and yam supported communities long before rice became dominant.
Taro fits the Philippine landscape. It grows in both wet and dry patches, survives storms, and can be harvested in stages. Older communities also developed techniques to process certain varieties that require soaking or drying before consumption. These methods reflect knowledge passed through household practice more than written documentation.
Taro did not remain in one place. Archaeological and genetic studies show that different varieties reached multiple island chains in the Pacific. In Hawai‘I (where I wrote this), this resulted in the development of lo‘i, irrigated terrace fields built along streams. These engineered landscapes, built with stone-lined plots and controlled water flow, required coordinated labor and long-term management. Lo‘i in Hawaii predate the well-known wet-rice terraces in the Cordillera and demonstrate how taro could form the basis of intensive agriculture under the right conditions.
The Philippines followed a different path. Rather than creating large irrigated taro terraces, communities relied on mixed systems of cultivation. Taro grew in small patches, home gardens, swiddens, and wet corners of fields. This flexible strategy suited the varied environments of the archipelago and did not rely on large-scale water control.
Ifugao evidence
Our work in Ifugao adds another layer to this story. Ritual myth tells of how the Skyworld gods gave the first Ifugaos pig, rice, taro, grasses, ember for fire-making, and other essentials so they could flourish in the Earthworld. In these narratives, taro came first. Another story explains the shift from taro to rice: taro could no longer feed the large crowd that would attend the prestige feast of the protagonists, so rice took its place.
Long-standing oral narratives also describe taro as the first cultivated plant, a crop included in the contents of the ritual box, the punamhan. These accounts present taro as the foundation of early subsistence long before rice became important.
The science supports this view, but it is the persistence of these stories that shows how taro shaped Ifugao life. The shift to wet-rice agriculture around 1600 CE came much later, shaped by tribute demands, Spanish pressure, and new social obligations. The rice terraces are recent compared to the older memory systems that placed taro at the center.
This history places taro not only as a regional crop but also as a central component of Philippine agricultural development. It anchors both highland and lowland food systems. It appears in Bicol dishes, in Cordillera contexts, and in island traditions across the archipelago. In many places, taro remains part of daily cooking, not as a celebrated heritage plant but as a steady ingredient in dishes like laing, pinangat, and gina’tan. Food keeps older systems alive even when communities lose sight of their deeper roots.
Why this matters
Knowing taro’s long history reshapes how we understand Philippine heritage. Food acts as an archive. Dishes such as gina’tan and laing preserve techniques for processing, cultivating, and preparing plants long before colonial records begin. When we recognize these dishes as heritage, we expand the narrative beyond rice terraces and grand structures. Everyday cooking becomes a source of historical insight, showing us how communities adapted to land, water, and climate.
There is also a practical dimension. Root crops like taro match the conditions of island environments. They grow with far less water than irrigated rice and continue to produce after heavy rain and strong winds. They provide steady calories without depending on controlled irrigation systems. By broadening what households can eat, they reduce the risk that comes with relying on a single staple. These qualities are important in a time of unpredictable weather and shifting seasons. Taro is not a novelty crop. It is a stable option that fits the ecological realities of the archipelago.
Gina’tan may not be ancient, but its core ingredient reflects a deeper agricultural system that remains relevant. Food history becomes a tool for thinking about current choices. When I see taro milk tea in a café or taro chips in a gourmet aisle, I think about the plant’s longer story. And when I cook gina’tan, I see a record of cultivation and household knowledge.
Taro was here long before rice took center stage. It is still here, in our kitchens and in our snacks, carrying its history in ways we often overlook. – Rappler.com
Stephen B. Acabado is professor of anthropology at the University of California-Los Angeles. He directs the Ifugao and Bicol Archaeological Projects, research programs that engage community stakeholders. He grew up in Tinambac, Camarines Sur.
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