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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.
On a recent trip to Banaue to show visiting friends around, we paused for lunch at the Banaue Grand View Hotel. The view from there is one I know well. I did my dissertation work in Banaue almost 20 years ago, and for three months I walked the Viewpoint terraces nearly every day. Back then, they were a patchwork of green and gold, filled with tinawon, the slow-growing rice harvested only once a year.
This time, though, what caught my eye was not the sweeping landscape, but the sharp, noticeable changes on the ground. Just below the road and across from the familiar NFA Viewdeck, the paddies were now planted with tomatoes. On the way up, I had already noticed other terraces brimming with tomatoes and vegetables, their neat rows breaking the rhythm of the usual rice plots. These were still terraces, yes, but not quite the ones I remembered.
Some now call them “vegetable terraces,” a tongue-in-cheek nickname that hints at a deeper concern. Conservationists have begun to sound the alarm, arguing that these are no longer “real” rice terraces and no longer reflect the heritage landscape recognized as a National Cultural Treasure. (To be clear, the Banaue terraces are not part of the UNESCO listing.) But this raises a more urgent question: conservation for whom?
In my two decades of working in Ifugao, I have seen this tension play out again and again, between the ideal of conservation and the lived realities of the people who are expected to uphold it. Growing traditional rice in the highlands, particularly the heirloom tinawon varieties, has never been economically viable. It takes months of labor, requires access to water and ritual knowledge, and yields rice that sells for far less than commercial lowland varieties. Most farmers do not even eat tinawon themselves. It is mostly reserved for rituals, feasts, or special occasions. Traditionally, rice cultivation was based on prestige rather than profit, tied to social status, community feasting, and ancestral rites rather than market logic.
This is where people like Warren Dulawan, owner of the Banaue Grand View Hotel, are trying to change the story. Knowing that the terraces draw tourists, he started a small but meaningful program to bring back tinawon at the Viewpoint. By offering subsidies to local farmers who choose rice over cash crops, he has encouraged several to return to planting — not only for income, but also for pride, for culture, and, yes, for the visitors who come to see rice, not tomatoes.
In the late 1990s, after UNESCO recognition, tourism in Ifugao rapidly grew into a major industry. Prior to the COVID-19 pandemic, the province welcomed an average of 71,000 tourists annually, nearly half of them foreigners. According to Karlston Lapniten, in 2019 alone, visitors brought in almost US$18 million to the local economy, a substantial sum in a largely rural area. This income came through hotels, guides, restaurants, souvenir vendors, and transport services.
In theory, tourism could be a powerful force to support terrace conservation and improve the lives of farmers. But while tourism brings opportunity, it also places pressure on the landscape and on the traditions that define it. To understand what makes the terraces worth preserving, we must remember what earned them global recognition in the first place.
The Ifugao Rice Terraces were the first sites in the Philippines to be recognized by UNESCO under the Cultural Landscape category. Not because they are 2,000 years old — they are not — but because they embody a long-standing relationship between people and place. Their global significance lies in how generations of Ifugao communities have shaped, maintained, and adapted this mountain environment.
These terraces are living evidence of indigenous knowledge: intricate irrigation carved into steep hillsides, a labor exchange system called ubbu, rituals linked to every stage of the rice cycle, and farming decisions traditionally led by women. These women read the land and the weather like a seasonal calendar, selecting varieties based on rainfall, elevation, and pest cycles. That knowledge is now in danger of being lost. And, as traditional crops vanish, so too do the practices, songs, and social bonds that surround them.
Our research documented 21 distinct tinawon varieties in the 1970s. Today, only seven remain. Greater genetic variation in a crop population improves its ability to withstand pests, diseases, and climate stresses. This principle applies to rice as much as it does to people. Preserving tinawon diversity is essential for food security and climate adaptation. Each variety has unique traits: some are drought-resistant, others are suited to higher elevations or can tolerate specific pests. As this diversity declines, the entire farming system becomes more fragile and more vulnerable to shocks from both nature and the market.
But let us be honest. Culture and biodiversity do not pay the bills. That is why farmers are planting tomatoes. A single vegetable harvest can earn more in a few weeks than tinawon does in several months. Yet, even as we rely on farmers to preserve a world-renowned cultural landscape, we offer them little support, recognition, or reward. Meanwhile, tourism revenues continue to rise.
This is a matter of heritage and policy. If these terraces are considered part of Philippine and global heritage, then farmers should be treated not as relics of the past, but as key partners in conservation. That means providing heritage rice subsidies, ensuring fair prices for tinawon, improving water management tools, and most importantly, creating a system that reinvests tourism revenues into the very communities that maintain the landscape.
It also means recognizing how these terraces contribute to climate resilience. Traditional Ifugao farming systems have developed over centuries to maximize ecological efficiency. They offer critical lessons in water conservation, soil management, and sustainable agriculture. Losing them would not only erase a cultural heritage. It would diminish our global archive of how to live sustainably with the land. But understanding their ecological value is only part of the picture; we also need to see the cultural and political meanings that have shaped these landscapes over time.
The terraces were never only about rice or economics. They are about relationships — between people and their ancestors, between humans and their environment, and between communities and the future. They are also landscapes of resistance. Through generations, maintaining the terraces has been a way for the Ifugao to assert autonomy, preserve identity, and respond creatively to political and ecological shifts. According to the Preserving Legacies initiative, economic value ranks second to what many communities see as most important: ancestral legacy.
In Ifugao, maintaining the terraces is a livelihood embedded in memory, identity, and enduring stewardship. The work of preservation is about sustaining meaning, not just sustaining walls.
If we want the terraces to remain rice terraces, the responsibility cannot fall on Ifugao alone.
So here is a challenge. If you have taken a selfie at the Viewpoint or Batad, or used the terraces as a backdrop in your publications or promotions, consider adopting a terrace. Conservation should not be an abstract ideal. It should be a shared commitment.
Contact Mr. Warren Dulawan (banauegrandviewhotel@gmail.com) or Mr. Marlon Martin (marlon.martin12@yahoo.com) of the Save the Ifugao Terraces Movement. They are building bridges between heritage and livelihood, between past and future. With your help, we might still keep the rice in the rice terraces. – 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. Follow him on bluesky @stephenacabado.bsky.social.
