Money does grow out of native trees

Ephraim Cercado, a general surgeon by profession and a farmer by choice, walks slowly around a friend’s flowering yakal tree on a sunny Saturday morning while he tells of the toils of a native tree farmer.

“Tree farming for lumber can be profitable, a farmer can make millions in one harvest, but that comes after waiting 10, 25, 50 years or so depending on species, for a return on investment. And it’s so hard to find planting material, especially for native species, because no one is focused on propagating them,” he says while squinting at fallen leaves and twigs to find those winged seeds of the dipterocarp [from Greek, meaning two-winged fruit] yakal.

Cercado’s own farm in Romblon has toog (Philippine rosewood), ipil, almaciga, narra, kamagong (locally known as mabolo), dau (or dao, the Pacific walnut). He shares seed material with other native tree enthusiasts, and sells seedlings of various species to stimulate cash inflow.  Mostly, he simply finds it relaxing to spend weekend mornings looking for little seeds that will grow into giant trees.

Some like the yakal may only need a few decades to be fully grown, but others such as the ironwood species could keep growing for 100 years, says Cercado. And, after years and years of growing and protecting one’s tree plantation, there is little assurance of harvest.

“Supposedly, based on our laws, if you plant a tree, you can grow it for lumber. But in practice, with the current log ban, it is so hard to get a permit for tree cutting even for tree farms and plantations,” he says. “Currently the only species allowed to be cut and sold are mahogany, falcata, paper tree, ipil ipil and acacia.”

There are some registered native tree plantations but it seems nobody has recently tried applying for a tree-cutting permit, Cercado says. Interpretation of the law seems subjective and it is hard to secure permits, he says.

Besides these factors that discourage the propagation of native trees, confusing implementing rules and their interpretation could also hamper development. Presently, bulk of  the wood supply in the Philippines is imported but as developments are driving up demand, prices could be prohibitive.

“The intent of the current log ban is good but it may be more sustainable to allow plantations to cut trees for lumber as long as they are readily replaced,” Cercado says. “We must implement clear cut laws related to the cutting of trees without permits and outside of plantations.”

The total log ban was introduced in 2011, and the Department of Environment and Natural Resources has declared it a success because the number of illegal logging hotspots in the country went down to 23 by the end of 2015 from 197 in early 2010.

The DENR says the anti-illegal logging campaign led to the confiscation of almost 31 million board feet of illegally cut logs, lumber, and other forest products. The seized products were used to manufacture a total of 146,471 school armchairs and furniture, and to repair 388 school buildings.

Confiscated forest products donated to other government agencies were converted to 1,820 chairs, 105 double-deck beds, 110 hospital beds, and partly used for repairs of 102 core shelters and 18 buildings. The anti-illegal logging campaign also resulted in the filing of a total of 1,549 cases against violators with 202 persons convicted, according to the DENR.

There are questions, however, on whether the campaign would be more sustainable if government supported native tree planting for lumber, with former illegal loggers employed as seed gatherers and plantation stewards.

In his plantation, Cercado muses that while tree farming for lumber can be profitable, it takes 10 to 25 years to start harvesting decent-sized logs.

“Many of the trees that has just been planted, I will likely not live to harvest. They would be for my children,” he says.