Gardening for Ex-pats (or, Korean Landscaping)

When Nick and I lived in Grand Rapids (before the Berlin wall came down, for those wanting historical context) during our first fragile years of our marriage, we had a few houseplants (thanks, Beth!).  At our first Chicago apartment we eventually took over the courtyard mud-pit with a flourish of impatiens and some sun-deprived veggies and herbs. Our next Chicago landlord let us help pass many happy evenings hauling Tennessee river rock around to frame the raised beds.  Both our homes in Iowa saw shrinking yards and increasing perennial gardens; beyond enjoying the flowers, pulling weeds and pruning were wonderful stress-relievers. (Some might call it a control issue.  But not in my hearing.)

And now we're in Korea, where even life-bent ajummas have at least balcony gardens if not little growing spaces in the abandoned lots and alleys of mountains and town.  I, too, yearned for a spot to dig and put down roots and encourage life.

Ajummas garden in empty lots, on the roof, even at the beach.

So this is the story of the land around our building and the unspoken battles of ownership and sharing. It's my perspective; if others have more info, they can let me know where I'm wrong or they can write their own blog. (Either way is fine with me.)

Let's see.  Once (well, ok, maybe 30 years ago; who knows what mega-beavers roamed this land back in the day?), this was a pine-covered mountain. And by mountain, I mean something akin to the Appalachians or the Porcupines of northern Michigan rather than the Rockies. And on this piney-mountain lays (lies? I never did learn that grammatical rule) a thin layer of topsoil created by slow-rotting pine needles, pine trees, and little else.  Beneath that lays (lies?) a seriously nasty combo of clay and crumble. Not a speck of self-respecting soil to be found.  In my 10.5 months of hiking and digging and poking around Korea, I have never seen a centipede, grub, pillbug, or even a worm in the earth (sometimes worms sneak onto rainy roads, but even that's rare).  Just a couple of weird-looking stink-bugs (of intimidating sizes), some dumb flies (unlike the busy poo-flies of Iowa or the voracious black flies of mid-summer Porcupines), a couple of spiders, some dragonflies, praying mantises, and grasshoppers at the height of summer.  Nearly no mammals, either (my total Korean squirrel count = six; 1 blurry micro-deer; 2 chipmunks; 4 dumpster rats). (Note to newer readers: see earlier blogs on Korean Wildlife.)  This is a pretty barren land, and I don't know how much to attribute to imperialist invaders and war-related factors (e.g., wholesale forest removal), to abject poverty (50 years ago, this was the poorest country in the world, so folks eating dogs or squirrels or bugs makes some sense), or to construction (a local mountain was removed recently to create a flat space where new factories and warehouses sprout up every few weeks).

Back to our campus, in case you thought I had lost my thread and was going down the path of Asian ecology or economics or similar academic horrors. Handong Global University was founded only 20 years ago and has grown extremely fast.  In its first year, HGU received 4000 student applications for only 400 (government-capped) spots.  And despite some nasty financial struggles along the way, Handong's campus now has dozens of buildings and about 3500 students (Dordt College fans: HGU has about the same-sized campus but far fewer parking lots).  Rapid growth at a university means temporary buildings that need mold abatement faster than your average bear. (Bear, building. Whatever.) Happily, we live in a brand-new, permanent building atop the campus mountain, overlooking miles of land and even a bit of ocean. (You Iowa folks should definitely be envying my visual domain.)

But the surrounding dirt suggests the temporary building that once stood here was broken into bits, then the larger chunks were hauled away and the smaller bits were smooshed into the sad clay by subsequent construction equipment.

Just in case you've lost the plot so far, we have a garden-starved American woman in a new Korean campus building that's surrounded by glass/wire/tile-filled, compacted clay that can't even host a lowly worm.

For those of us with ears to hear, rumors of areas to be allowed for ex-pat gardening were briefly whispered, but died away with no formal announcement or action.  Not one to have much fear of authority (especially when they and I can't speak the same language and I REALLY want a garden), I asked Nick and Sam to build me a tiny garden space from three dead pallets; they kindly did so and put it on the sun-drenched hillside below our balcony.  I bought a strong shovel from our beloved little hardware store, turned the "soil" (really, we must use air quotes here), and added some dried horse poo that I'd found along trails in the woods.  Over the weeks I slowly gathered some cosmos and black-eyed susans from along wild roadsides and transplanted them into my cozy space.  I had no idea if they would grow, or if my garden would be arrested for trespassing, but it calmed my dirt-loving soul.

Standard "soil" plus old poo.

My actions did not go unseen, and they begat some excitement among other garden-eager ex-pats. Some had the distinct advantage of speaking (and looking) Korean and were thereby able to do some digging (ha! a pun!) into campus permissions regarding communal gardening.

Alas. Where we had planted pallets was certainly NOT permitted garden space.  Instead, the ex-pats would be allowed to garden in small plots on the building's shadier (and dirtier) north side.  Elisabeth and I spent hours digging out rocks and picking construction debris out of the ground; friend Grace measured the space, publicized the garden opportunity, and assigned spots by lottery.  We spray- painted lines to mark pathways; some of us began turning the dirt, optimistically imagining life among the greasy clay clods.

More whispers spread.  Oh, wait, what was that?  Ex-pats can't use the north side as garden space after all?  They're going to plant trees there instead?  Oh... Maybe we can have the dark-as-death armpit of the building's driveway turn-around for a little space?  Maybe? No?  ... And thus my dreams of spring drained away as my pallets and lumpy plot of land-clay lapsed into winter silence.  Some women, of more realistic bent, staged ceramic and plastic pots along the edges of the parking lot, waiting for the day when some small seeds and store-bought soil would spring forth life.  I resisted the pots, petulantly refusing to give up the land battle, and one day last week I had had enough moping. I got my shovel and went down to inspect Pallet Garden more closely. One plant had come back, returning to me through the long fall drought and winter snows.  I gently fluffed the soil around it, surrounded this mighty plant with protective sticks, and stood my shovel in the dirt to guard this tiny harbinger and re-stake my claim on gardens to come.

Within two days, a pair of ajummas moved across the hillside, ripping out the thorns and weeds and rolling them into piles.  I watched carefully from my balcony as they gently brushed away some stray leaves from my petite pallet garden, and my heart glowed with gratitude.  Perhaps these were sympathetic hearts; perhaps my small claim would be a permitted lapse in the university's hazy plans.

Ajummas removing winter-dead weeds just downhill from my pallet garden.  And, yes, that is a strap-on butt cushion.

Then Thursday came with a rumble of a Doosan diesel engine and sounds of loud hammering.  A front-loader was dumping piles of blond dirt (sand?) onto the (my!) gentle hillside; two men were breaking apart my pallet; ajummas were removing the pieces. Over the day, a small group of workers raked the ground, spread the sandy "soil," then marked out five spaces which they packed tight with full-sized azaleas (did you know azaleas, rhododendrons, blueberries, cranberries, and heather are cousins?).  I was a little sad, but chose to see this as a victory; my rebellion had perhaps sparked some much-needed, big-picture landscaping.  I even smiled gently when my shovel got included in the work, happy to contribute a bit to the beautifying of the space. (I was less smiley when the day ended without my shovel being returned, search for it though I did).

Front loader + shovels (last sighting of my own shovel) + twig broom = hillside land sculpting.

This morning (Sunday), two ajummas were plunking down... what?  tiny hay bales encircled with white plastic twine?  Not quite. These were packets of what I can only call "sod patties."  About 10" square, these sad flat patties were arranged like a tile floor and then...buried in the sandy topsoil. Which means, dear reader, that long day of sodding ending up with the hillside looking pretty much as it did 12 hours earlier.  I have no idea how this stuff will grow, but perhaps Korean grass is as hardy as the people who live here, the folks who so recently ate dogs and tulip bulbs and dandelions just to survive.

Azalea planting and sod-patty burying. 

So what's become of my own garden dreams?  I don't know yet. My rebellious spirit has been tempered, and perhaps I, too, will have to resort to store-bought soil and seedlings ordered on-line to plant in pots that vie for my driveway space. Then again, a walk in the woods yesterday showed a lovely sunny spot just off the trail where some coneflowers and cosmos and basil could quietly pass the time with me as we again turn the soil and look for life.