Why pasalubong should be an industry
When I was little, Baguio was the ultimate summer destination. The souvenirs were delightfully predictable: strawberries, woven baskets, walis, peanut brittle, and wooden barrel men. Baguio meant respite from Manila’s stifling heat—complete with family bonding, horseback riding with cousins, and a mandatory market run before heading home.
My first trip abroad at seven was to Hong Kong. My father was then one of the youngest directors at a petroleum company, and his dividends came in the form of travel perks.
We flew Philippine Airlines back when Terminal 1 was uncrowded, and air travel still felt leisurely. I remember coloring books, stewardesses—yes, they were still called that back then—pinching my chubby cheeks, and being encouraged to ask for second helpings of snacks. We returned laden with toys, clothes, Peking duck, cherries, and chestnuts.
Bringing something back for everyone was simply what you did. That was pasalubong: equal parts gesture, obligation, and a way of extending the journey to those left behind.
Pasalubong culture
Relatives in North America had their own version. Through the ’80s and ’90s, balikbayan boxes arrived packed with Hanes shirts, chocolates, magazine back issues, and department store catalogues. The contents were precious because they were difficult to find locally. The box served as a bridge of affection across distance, carrying an aspirational standard of living.
But by the 2000s, travel changed. Low-cost airlines, BPO-fueled disposable income, and shifting generational perspectives meant Filipinos were no longer just waiting for boxes. We were all getting on planes.
On a barkada trip to Hong Kong, spending my own money, I bought almond cookies and trinkets from Disneyland instead of gifts for every relative. My mother was quite upset. Her generation asked, “What did you bring for everyone?” My generation began asking, “What do I actually want to bring home?”
As flying became routine and imported goods filled Manila malls, the original pasalubong lost its novelty. Social media and e-commerce further transformed how we consume travel. Today, if you can order foreign products online, the physical souvenir must do more than prove you went somewhere—it has to be worth carrying.
Buying into aspirational consumer culture
Japan provides a compelling answer to this shift. For Filipino travelers, Japan is an aspirational consumer culture where even ordinary spaces—convenience stores, stationery shops, and local supermarkets—become destinations.
We return with items never intended as traditional souvenirs: butter, milk, seasonings, instant noodles, and detergent. We bring home the everyday life of the place.
This is not accidental. Deeply rooted in omiyage (the cultural practice of gift-giving), Japan excels at connecting regional identity, local production, and tourism. Through its Cool Japan framework and agricultural export strategies, the government explicitly links regional food culture with inbound tourism.
Cute mascots, regional branding, and thoughtful packaging are not just decoration; they build soft power and commercial value. A Hokkaido supermarket shelf becomes an edible map: prefecture identity transformed into butter, cheese, and sweets that fit inside a suitcase.
Adding value to what’s valuable
There is a vital lesson here for the Philippines. We already possess the raw materials: heritage cacao, Liberica coffee, pili nuts, heirloom fruits, artisanal salts, Indigenous textiles, and traditional crafts. Products like asin tibuok carry both exceptional quality and rich cultural provenance. Yet, as you walk through local trade fairs, you realize how many of these products struggle to move beyond inexpensive souvenirs.
But why do we so often treat exceptional agricultural assets as basic commodities, Indigenous crafts as mere livelihood projects, and regional specialties as items only sold at weekend tourism markets?
The issue is not the raw material; it is the value added after harvest. Processing, food technology, shelf-life management, quality control, packaging, design, distribution, and branding matter. A kilo of cacao beans is just a crop. A beautifully processed Philippine chocolate with traceable origin, elegant design, and a narrative of place is a premium product. Liberica is a bean until roasting, provenance, and retail placement turn it into an international luxury.
Moving up the value chain requires making things tourists buy beautiful, delicious, or useful—and patriotism should be the bonus, not the sole selling point.
What the Philippines can build for the world to take home
Government programs like DTI’s One Town, One Product (OTOP) already support product development and market access. But the broader challenge remains: When do individual programs coalesce into a coherent national strategy? When do we stop reacting to regional trends and start deciding what Philippine products should represent on the global stage?
Tourism accounted for 8.1 percent of Philippine GDP in 2025, with outbound tourism expenditure reaching P357.93 billion. The travelers, products, and market demand already exist. What is missing is the deliberate strategy connecting agriculture, manufacturing, design, and retail into a unified tourism economy.
Pasalubong has always adapted to how Filipinos live: from Baguio strawberries to balikbayan boxes, and now to insanely expensive Hokkaido butter packed into luggage. We do not need to invent a gift-giving culture. We already have one. We simply need to re-establish it around products distinct and well-crafted enough that people (locals and visitors) want to take them home.
It is time to stop asking what Filipinos should bring home, and start asking what the Philippines can build for the world to take home.
