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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.
There is a quiet joy I experience every time I watch someone taste ube ice cream or cheesecake for the first time. The surprise, then curiosity, then the inevitable question — What is this? — always follow. For those of us who grew up with ube in halo-halo, puto, or as halaya, ube carries layers of meaning: kitchens bustling with activity, family gatherings, the rhythm of life marked by food.
As an archaeologist, though, I see ube as something more. It is a window through which we can understand the deep past of the Philippines and Southeast Asia. Ube (Dioscorea alata) is a true yam, native to this region, cultivated and carried by seafaring peoples for millennia. Yet, for too long, archaeologists and historians have had a fixation on wet rice agriculture, often framing it as the singular marker of complexity and civilization. This narrative persists despite the lack of solid evidence that paddy rice was cultivated in the Philippines earlier than about 700 years ago.
Dr. Victor Paz (1967–2024) urged us to shift our attention to other cultivars — plants like yam, taro, pili (Canarium indicum), and millet — that sustained communities long before irrigated rice.
Archaeological records show that Dioscorea alata was domesticated in Island Southeast Asia as early as 11,000 years ago and was central to the foodways of those who crossed seas with it. This deep history challenges familiar narratives. Crops like ube bring to light histories of adaptation, innovation, and knowledge sharing, stories that challenge the narrow rice-centered view of our agricultural past. Each bite of ube reflects how the plants we value and the histories we study shape our understanding of identity and place.
Over time, it became one of the key crops transported by sea-faring communities. Beginning more than 4,000 years ago, these voyagers spread plants, technologies, and cultural practices across the Pacific and Indian Oceans. In the Philippines, ube appears in archaeological records in the Batanes Islands by about 3,500 years ago, associated with some of the earliest farming communities in the region.
Yet, to appreciate ube’s significance, it helps to understand what it is — and what it is not. Ube, often confused with sweet potato (camote), has a distinct story. Sweet potato, from the Americas, arrived only after the 16th century. Taro (gabi), likely native to Island Southeast Asia, features in dishes such as laing. Ube adapted widely due to its tolerance of different climates and soils.
Together, ube, taro, and sweet potato form part of a broader food security strategy across the tropics. Taro thrives in wet conditions. Camote grows quickly and is vitamin-rich. Ube is hardy, tolerates poor soils, stores well, and grows vertically — ideal for intercropping and small plots.
The presence of ube in Hawaii (uhi) and Madagascar (ovy) reflects how people carried resilient plants across oceans. Ube does not require flat, irrigated fields like wet rice. It thrives in sloping or rocky soils and can be harvested according to local needs. Once harvested, it stores well without refrigeration.
In Batanes, the northernmost province of the Philippines, ube (known as uvi) remains part of daily life. Ivatan communities cultivate uvi in plots adapted to limestone soils. Tubers are stored in cool caves or pits to ensure a steady food supply. Uvi is eaten boiled or mashed, often as a staple in place of rice. In this context, uvi reflects adaptation to local environments and deep agricultural knowledge.
Although global audiences now associate ube with its vivid violet hue, not all varieties are purple; some are white or pale lavender. These continue to be cultivated across the Philippines, often for home use or local markets. The global rise of deep purple ube is linked to its visual appeal and role in desserts, thanks to anthocyanins.
Ube’s recent international fame stems from multiple factors. Filipino food has gained visibility abroad, thanks to migration and the creativity of chefs. Desserts like halo-halo, with its layers of sweet beans, jellies, fruits, shaved ice, and evaporated milk, often feature a scoop of ube ice cream. As more non-Filipinos tried halo-halo, interest in ube grew. Ube soon appeared in cafés and bakeries as doughnuts, cheesecakes, cookies, and lattés.
Its visual appeal helped. The striking purple photographs well on social media. But flavor and versatility sustain its popularity. Ube pairs well with dairy-based desserts and fits easily into modern fusion cuisine. At the same time, the tuber is rich in complex carbohydrates and antioxidants, making it marketable as both indulgent and health-conscious.
What sets ube apart is its ability to bridge old and new, rural and urban, traditional and trendy. For many Filipinos, it remains tied to family gatherings and heritage recipes. Ube halaya is still made at home, with long hours of stirring and careful preparation. At the same time, ube has become the base of bold culinary experiments. Through all this, it maintains its connection to identity and place.
Unlike rice, ube was never the focus of nationalist agricultural programs. It was not industrialized or subjected to colonial taxation. It remained in home gardens, seasonal plots, and family recipes. Perhaps this helped preserve its diversity. Without the pressures of large-scale monocropping, farmers maintained a wide range of varieties suited to local needs.
Today, amid climate change and food insecurity, crops like ube deserve renewed attention. They require fewer resources to grow, support local economies, and offer alternatives to industrial food systems. Ube represents a different agricultural history – rooted in mobility, knowledge sharing, and adaptation.
There is a certain irony in ube becoming globally famous before gaining full appreciation at home. But perhaps this global success can bring more recognition to the landscapes and communities that have nurtured it for centuries. Whether in the Batanes Islands, on kitchen tables during holidays, or behind bakery counters in New York or Tokyo, ube connects the past and present. It tells a story of movement, memory, and care.
For me, this story is also personal. Victor Paz helped lay the foundation for this way of seeing Philippine deep history. He was among the first to urge us to look beyond rice, to value crops like yam, taro, and pili, and to tell more honest stories about the complexity of our agricultural past. Victor also helped develop an aspect of my dissertation research — a gift I carry to this day. As I write about ube, I cannot help but think of him. His work continues to guide those of us committed to uncovering histories rooted in the land, in plants, and in the hands of those who have cultivated them for millennia. – 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.
