’Koncrete’ Korea

It is an odd fact that the traditional gardens of the late Joseon Kingdom (1392-1910) were notable for their essential wilderness. While their English, Italian and Japanese counterparts showcase carefully planned layouts, the uncultivated design of Joseon gardens with their light human touch reflected Korean appreciation of nature in its purest form.

By Andrew Salmon

It is an odd fact that the traditional gardens of the late Joseon Kingdom (1392-1910) were notable for their essential wilderness. While their English, Italian and Japanese counterparts showcase carefully planned layouts, the uncultivated design of Joseon gardens with their light human touch reflected Korean appreciation of nature in its purest form.

Why is this odd?

Because even a cursory glance at Korea a century later makes clear that respect for wilderness has been burned out of the national psyche. Today, nature is to be tamed and mastered — not appreciated — hence a national love affair with concrete that has grown so passionate that it is encroaching even upon supposedly green spaces.

For years, I visited Seoul’s Hyochang Park. This used to be a wooded hillside, dotted with the tombs of independence fighters. No longer. Every time I visit, new “improvements” have pushed nature ever further back; more paths, more fences, more play areas, more gardens.

Still, at least Hyochang has some greenery. There are alleged “parks” in Seoul that are fenced-in concrete plazas, with an ornamental pond or pavilion here and a few trees there, but nary a blade of grass.

Let us extend our gaze to the city limits. It is fortunate that Korean builders do not, unlike their Hong Kong counterparts, deface mountains by building apartments on slopes, but even mountainsides are now being drenched in the concrete torrent. It is common to find trails asphalted over, steps hacked into slopes and concrete platforms laid around natural springs.

And while silence may be golden, it is not popular. Monks and shamans hoping to retreat into a meditative state on Mt. Inwang — Seoul’s spiritual heart and the location of the national shaman shrine — had better hone their concentration skills, for loudspeakers now blare Muzak across the mountainside.

What is behind this assault on nature? I assume an economic imperative.

Since the 1960s, everything has been sacrificed on the altar of growth. Korea’s economy is lopsided, being heavily tilted toward manufactured exports. With local consumption never equaling export sales, the nation lies at the mercy of international economic fluctuations.

To hedge against this, a significant segment of local spending has always been construction: One doesn’t have to look far in Korea to see a cluster of cranes or a forest of apartments. Many public projects are, I am sure, necessary infrastructure. But with apartment demand dropping as the population ages, pork-barreling spins out of control. The national “Four Rivers” plan stands out, but projects proliferate nationwide.

It is no secret that construction is one of the dirtiest sectors in the land, besmirched by bribery, health and safety shortcuts, destruction of heritage and gangster slum clearances. Given this, one has to wonder how often the following scenario plays out.

A local government office at 2:15 p.m.: In a glassed-in booth at the head of the room, the mayor is snoozing after an extended “business lunch” when his door bangs open and his younger brother swaggers in. The door is closed. Conversation begins.

Brother: “Older bro! I’ve finished the new municipal car park, so my construction firm is short of work again. When is the next public contract coming up?”

Official, sleepily: “Hmmm. Times are tight, the economy is slow and I’ve got an environmental NGO breathing down my neck — a bunch of self-important tree huggers whining, ‘Our gu ain’t green!’ So no new projects for now, alas.”

Brother: “In that case I’ll have to let some staff go and (sucking teeth), I may not be able to support your ‘electoral fund’ next year ...”

Official, jerking awake: “Aigu! Well, if you put it that way, I suppose we could lay another network of hiking paths up the local mountain?

Now that I think of it, no mountain has enough exercise zones or lookout points! And a sound system! We need loudspeakers up there!”

Brother, impressed: “Bro! You’re a man of vision! I’ll fire up the concrete mixers! But what about the NGO?”

Official: “Pah! Don’t worry about those hippies. We’ll brand the project ‘green growth.’ Anyway, in this district, the economy comes first — I can’t have builders laid off! Of course, it’ll have to be a public bid, but (lowering his voice) you can be confident of winning. (Rubbing fingers together) Can I expect the usual?”

Brother: “Why, of course — 10 percent. Used notes, in a plain envelope?”

Official, slapping the table: “That’s what I’m talking about! Glass of soju?”

Last week’s tragedy at Mt. Umyeon will, I hope, cast light on the thinking that permits constant abuse of nature in the name of “development.”

The tsunami-like flash floods that thundered down the mountainside were reportedly accelerated by tree clearance carried out to broaden streams and pathways — express waterways — and an ornamental pond at the top — a tank without an overflow.

I don’t know who was responsible for district feasibility studies and planning permissions, and (The Korea Times legal team, please note) I am not suggesting corruption was involved.

Whoever the persons or departments are, they are far from being the only guilty parties — countless other districts nationwide have done similar things.

Korea has good laws; it is enforcement that is the problem.

With an investigation pending, perhaps officials will pause before stamping papers that permit the uprooting of ever more trees and the pouring of yet another concrete overcoat over dwindling green spaces. The probe itself, I fervently hope, will not seek a scapegoat, but will, instead, focus on the broader picture of unviable practices and systems.

If that happens, we may see real change, and — who knows? — even a return to Joseon’s respect for wilderness.

Andrew Salmon is a Seoul-based reporter and author. His latest book, “Scorched Earth, Black Snow: Britain and Australia in the Korean War, 1950” was published in June.

He can be reached at andrewcsalmon@yahoo.co.uk.