The Roots run Deeper: The Role of Palauan Taro Patches in the 21st Century
Palauan taro patches serve not only to feed us but as a source of nostalgia, community, and a symbol of food sovereignty.
Saturday afternoons for my 14 year old self usually meant time to relax, chat online with the friends I made at the high school I just entered a few months earlier, or to catch up with the new academic standards. However, in between the homework and the new environment, Saturday afternoons occasionally meant a trip to the mesei.
My family’s mesei, or taro patch, was located in Ngemelachel, a quiet island that houses the port, one of the island’s power plants, and is often thought of as Koror’s “industrial area.” It was up a hill far away from the rush and bustle of downtown Koror. Other than the occasional crows of chickens or hum of the bugs, there was a spectacular sunset at the top of this hill.
After weaving through the long grass and the patches that belonged to other families, my cousins and I often played in these fields or helped the adults pull diokang, or tapioca, out of the dirt. Their roots grow deep in the ground, and I often fall on my back in the dirt if I let go too early.
There were also activities by my own high school where all girls had to learn to cook the taro and tapioca from start to finish.
A full day of cooking really meant a whole day to sit in a circle with my friends and to tell stories and even gossip over peeling taro, washing the dirt off, and to sit in front of a fire and throw wood in so it does not die out.
If my parents did not have the time to harvest or cook the taro, which can often take a full day, we would all go to the local markets, or makit to get ready-to-peel taro and to catch up with the old ladies, who were often related to us anyway.
With all these experiences, I have come to realize not only the practical knowledge of harvesting and preparation but the power that food has itself. Food represents much more than a means of survival, but a way to connect with others through a tradition as old as time.
Food has always served as a foundation of society, and the activity of hunting and foraging not only ensured a meal to be sustained with but an opportunity to foster a deeper connection with others and ultimately define our own culture.
Cultivating taro is physically labor intensive, and preparing taro to be edible is a time-consuming and delicate process that is based on several factors such as the size of the plant harvested as well as knowledge of how long that plant has sat underground.
The discipline, attention to detail, and concern for others is not just a characteristic that defines the women who maintain these farms, but also values of the Palauan culture.
Even with these traditions once being passed down orally and are now able to be documented with modern technology, these precious traditions face the threat of extinction.
One of the biggest issues that taro patches face is the threat of climate change.
As global temperatures rise, plants become more stressed and water becomes more difficult to gather, the result is a higher chance of crop failure. Moving away from where water to come by may not be of so much help, as unusual weather patterns can erode coastal areas deeming them unfit to plant taro.
In addition to taro harvesting becoming difficult due to global warming, the automation of food production sparks a larger conversation of the role of these traditions if there are “better” or more convenient options available.
In a world where food can be mass produced in metric tons in the blink of an eye and sold for cheap at the nearest grocery store, the most convenient option seems like the most enticing.
The introduction of Western food has brought over American ideals to our islands. Canned dishes, instant food that can be served right after a few minutes in the microwave, and food that prioritizes flavor and marketing appeal over nutritional value exemplified the convenience and flashiness that conflicts with the island’s simplicity and modesty.
With American influence even seeping into something as crucial as our diets, the usage of traditional methods in spite of industrialized food production can be seen as a resistance to Western values and a testament to our right to food sovereignty.
Food sovereignty refers to our right to access healthy and culturally appropriate food produced sustainably.
The ability to establish our own food systems, even with something as simple as taro, grants incredible power to us Micronesians and allows us to not only to reclaim parts of our culture we may have lost to colonization but to practically practice our culture in a sustainable way.
For example, traditional food production in Palau is not selfish, Palauans harvest what is needed and even with a surplus, is often shared with extended family or sold. A major tenet of the Palauan culture is respect, not only for other people but for the land that sustains us.
In the age of automation and efficiency, food can be mass produced by machines in excess, not only generating massive amounts of waste, but severing a tie between humans and food.
Food holds the power to bring people together, pass along not only skills needed to curate a good harvest but to unite people, whether in survival or to bond as friends and family but now for the sake of resistance and sovereignty.
Food is not only a form of sustenance, but a reflection of cultural experiences, fond memories, and one of the most important social experiences one could encounter. Uniting in the labor of harvesting, of preparing, cooking, and the joy of eating together is arguably one of life’s most crucial experiences.