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.

Standing above the cliff dwellings at Mesa Verde National Park, my son Leka asked, “What do you think the people who lived here did every day, Dad?” The question pulled me back to my own childhood, when I first encountered these places through grainy photos in a children’s encyclopedia in the Philippines. Back then, the stone rooms carved into cliffs felt distant and unfamiliar, more like curiosities than places where real people once lived ordinary lives.

I told Leka what archaeology has taught me over the years. People here lived much as we do. They worried about food. They cared for family. They watched the weather, dealt with drought and danger, and made choices under uncertainty. The cliffs offered protection, but daily life unfolded far beyond the stone walls, across fields, water sources, trails, and neighboring communities. These were not static or vanished societies. They were indigenous communities making decisions, adapting to change, and shaping their futures in ways that still matter today.

Archaeological work shows that Ancestral Pueblo communities began settling the Mesa Verde region around AD 600, building deep knowledge of farming, architecture, and movement across the landscape. The cliff dwellings themselves appeared much later, mainly in the 12th and early 13th centuries. When prolonged droughts placed pressure on crops and water, people chose to move. This was not collapse or failure. It was reorganization. Descendant Pueblo communities remain connected to these places, reminding us that Mesa Verde is not just a ruin but part of a living indigenous history.

Our family has made a habit of these road trips, piling into the car to visit national parks and historic sites. They are moments we share together, but they are also how our children learn about the world. Walking through these places allows history and environment to come alive, not as stories sealed in textbooks or documentaries, but as landscapes shaped by human decisions over time.

Photo-taking rather than learning

Growing up in the Philippines, I encountered places like Mesa Verde only through books or films. The country has extraordinary cultural landscapes and ecological diversity, yet many of these places remain difficult to experience in ways that help young people connect history, culture, environment, and everyday life. 

This gap appears in small but telling ways. Some recently promoted “heritage” attractions illustrate how easily good intentions can slide into display without context. Many such places attract attention and visitors, reflecting a desire to connect with history. At the same time, heritage can drift away from historical understanding when interpretation and sustained educational engagement are limited or non-existent. When this happens, complex histories risk being reduced to visual appeal rather than understood as lived experiences shaped over time.

When interpretation remains shallow, visits often center on photo-taking rather than learning. Sites become backdrops for images rather than places for asking questions. This does not reflect a lack of curiosity, but a lack of guidance. Without accessible narratives and educational framing, visitors are left with images instead of understanding, and the deeper histories of decision-making and social life remain out of view.

This contrast becomes more apparent when set alongside how heritage has been supported institutionally elsewhere. In the United States, the national park system was built through legislation and an explicit commitment to public education. Even as that foundation is increasingly contested today, it shows how heritage can be treated as a public good rather than a discretionary expense. Interpretation, research, and access are understood as part of stewardship.

The Philippines already has important foundations that could support a similar approach. These include the National Integrated Protected Areas System and laws protecting cultural heritage, and participation in the UNESCO World Heritage. These can provide a framework for treating natural and cultural landscapes as shared national responsibilities, guided by research and public engagement. The challenge lies in turning these frameworks into sustained, meaningful practice on the ground.

The Philippines has many places that could be approached in this way. The Agusan Marsh holds long histories of river-based life and seasonal movement. The Tabon Caves and their surrounding landscapes connect archaeology, ecology, and maritime worlds. In Bicol, the terrain shaped by Mayon Volcano tells stories of settlement, farming, eruption, and recovery across centuries. These places document how people have lived with uncertainty and change, not simply as scenic backdrops.

For places like these to connect meaningfully with the present, archaeology also has to change how it speaks. Too often, the past is framed as a story of loss or collapse. That framing creates distance and makes history feel finished. When we shift attention to how people managed resources and made collective decisions under pressure, the past becomes easier to relate to. It becomes a record of problem-solving rather than disappearance.

When Leka asked what people did every day at Mesa Verde, he was really asking how people lived with uncertainty and how they made choices in changing environments. That is exactly the kind of question archaeology can help us ask. The Philippines has the landscapes and the lived experience to create places where young people can ask those same questions of their own pasts.

Heritage is often treated as secondary when daily survival feels more urgent, when the pressure to put food on the table makes conservation seem like a luxury. Yet landscapes and histories carry knowledge about how people have endured scarcity and managed risk. When heritage is approached as education rather than as a decoration, and as a shared responsibility rather than a constraint, it can help guide how tourism and development are shaped. Creating spaces that connect history, land, ecology, and lived experience provides the next generation more than information. It gives them perspective, and a way to think about how their own choices will shape the future. – 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.