When you sit down to a plate of natong, remember that you’re not just eating a dish. You’re participating in a tradition that spans centuries, shaped by global trade, agricultural innovation, and cultural exchange.
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.
Growing up in Bicol, I used to marvel at how my dad could turn even the simplest meals into something exciting, with just a fresh chili pepper or a bottle of spiced vinegar. Whether it was a modest bowl of rice or an entire spread of Bicolano favorites, he’d casually toss in a fiery chili or pour spicy vinegar over his food like it was the most natural thing in the world. While most of us would break into a sweat or scramble for water, my dad reveled in the heat. This “spicy tongue” became normal to me, but what I didn’t realize then was that this love for all things spicy wasn’t just a family quirk — it was a culinary tradition that stretches back centuries, rooted in global trade and history.
You see, chili peppers aren’t even native to the Philippines. It’s hard to believe, especially when you consider how integral they are to Bicolano cuisine. But they only arrived in our kitchens after the Columbian Exchange, that period of massive global exchange that followed European exploration in the 15th and 16th centuries. It was during the Spanish colonial period that chili peppers were introduced to the Philippines, traveling across oceans to become a core part of our food culture. Eventually, they made their way into our beloved dishes — and, of course, into my dad’s endless supply of spicy condiments.
When I became an archaeologist, fascinated by past agricultural practices and maritime contacts, it didn’t take long for me to realize that so much of what we consider “traditional” Filipino cuisine is really the product of centuries of maritime interaction. Our ancestors didn’t just grow crops; they traded, shared, and borrowed foodways from their neighbors across the seas. A few years ago, I wrote an article about “Bahay Kubo” — that simple folk song we all know — and how the quintessential Filipino garden it describes is, in fact, a demonstration of global interconnectedness. The plants we celebrate in that song, from tomatoes to eggplants, came to our shores through centuries of trade, shaped by human movement across the oceans.
As Bicolanos celebrate the Peñafrancia Fiesta, it seems like the perfect time to dissect another culinary icon, one that embodies this deep history of exchange: gulay na natong (or laing). What we’re eating isn’t just a dish; it’s a flavorful representation of history, geography, and, let’s face it, a deep love for spice that has been passed down through generations.
Gabi, the pre-rice staple
Long before rice became the staple of the Filipino diet, the starchy root crop taro, or gabi, was the main source of carbohydrates across much of the archipelago. Archaeologists and historians argue that taro could have been domesticated right here in Island Southeast Asia, with the Philippines potentially playing a central role in its early cultivation. Taro has been a dietary staple in the region for millennia, long predating the widespread cultivation of rice.
Rice, as we know it today, only began to dominate the Filipino diet around 400 to 500 years ago. In fact, there’s no solid scientific evidence of paddy rice cultivation earlier than that. Before rice fields blanketed our landscapes, taro was the reliable crop that sustained communities from Bicol to beyond. It was versatile and could be grown in both irrigated and dry fields, making it a dependable food source in a variety of environments.
But taro isn’t as straightforward as it might seem. Wild varieties of taro, which were likely the first types available to early communities, often contain toxins. Eating them raw or improperly processed could lead to unpleasant, if not dangerous, outcomes. However, our ancestors, particularly in Bicol, were resourceful. They mastered the art of processing wild taro, using drying, cooking, and other techniques to remove these toxins and make it safe to eat. This practical knowledge became a crucial part of our culinary heritage, passed down through generations and woven into iconic dishes like natong (laing).
Coconut and chili: Global ingredients, local identity
While taro is the star of natong, other ingredients play crucial roles in giving the dish its distinctive flavor. Coconut milk, for example, adds richness to the stew, softening the bitterness of the taro leaves and creating that creamy texture Bicolanos love. Historical records indicate that coconuts were already integrated into the subsistence economies of the Philippines by the time of Spanish contact, with references to their cultivation noted by early explorers such as Pigafetta in the early 1500s.
Alamang (shrimp anchovies, or bagoong) adds yet another layer to the understanding of laing’s historical and archaeological significance. Fermented fish or shrimp products have been found in archaeological sites across Southeast Asia, indicating that the tradition of fermentation is deeply rooted in the region’s history. The widespread use of shrimp paste across Southeast Asian countries points to shared culinary practices that likely emerged from early cultural and trade interactions between coastal communities.
And then, of course, there’s the chili. As I mentioned earlier, chili peppers only arrived in the Philippines after Spanish colonization, but once they took root (literally and figuratively), they became an indispensable part of Bicolano cooking. Bicolanos, known for their love of spice, embraced the chili with open arms, making it a defining feature of dishes like natong. The chili’s presence in natong symbolizes Bicol’s cosmopolitan nature — taking a foreign ingredient and making it integral to local tastes.
The legacy of laing
So, when you sit down to a plate of natong during the Peñafrancia Fiesta or at any family gathering, remember that you’re not just eating a dish. You’re participating in a tradition that spans centuries, shaped by global trade, agricultural innovation, and cultural exchange. The natong on your plate is a product of maritime contacts, a reflection of our ancestors’ resourcefulness, and a testament to Bicol’s identity as a hub of cultural fusion. Each spoonful is a connection to the past, a reminder that what we eat today carries with it the legacies of those who came before us.
And let’s not forget the spice. As much as I marvel at my dad’s ability to handle heat, I now know that this fiery love for chili peppers is more than just a personal preference. It’s a taste that has been shaped by 500 years of history; a spicy story intricately threaded through the essence of Bicolano identity. So, whether you’re eating it mild or with an extra kick, savor that natong. It’s history on a plate.
Note: Today’s column is dedicated to the memory of Victor J. Paz, the Philippines’ first archaeobotanist. VJP dedicated his life to the establishment of a strong Philippine archaeology program. Vale, VJP! – Rappler.com
Stephen 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 IG @s.b.acabado.
