FEATURES/ORIGINFeatures/Origin

Is this the most common succulent around? You wouldn’t be exaggerating to say so—just take a walk around your neighborhood and you’ll spot it more often than any other succulent (well, maybe Crassula ovata beats it...). Its frosty, pale purple rosettes, dusted with a delicate white powder, can shift their look throughout the seasons or with sunlight—sometimes glowing orange, green, or silver-gray. As the stems grow longer, the rosettes will cascade down, creating a living curtain. If you plant it a little higher up, it can steal the spotlight in your succulent garden. It’s so robust it doesn’t flinch at frost or even light snow. In regions west of the Kanto area, you can safely leave it outdoors year-round. Even if just a single leaf falls off, it’ll almost always root and grow—this “spreads so much it’s almost a problem” resilience makes the next mystery really stand out.

Succulent World’s Seven Wonders? The Ongoing Mystery of Its Origin

Its scientific name, “paraguayense,” means “from Paraguay.” But actually, this name is a complete misunderstanding!

Its story starts in 1904, when a seed—said to have accidentally gotten mixed in with a shipment of cacti from Mexico—spontaneously sprouted in the New York greenhouse of dealer Frank Weinberg. In 1907, botanist Dr. Rose received five plants from Weinberg and discovered a note on one plant that claimed it was “from Paraguay.” That note was attached to one of the " O. elata " but the true origin remained unclear. Though Dr. Rose had his doubts, in 1912 when he sent a specimen to the Kew research facility, he wrote “Paraguay, F. Weinberg, n. 575.” That “575” refers to a specimen of oborozuki before it was officially named. The botanist Brown, who named it at Kew, used this information and gave it the name “paraguayense.”

※ The “seed mixed in with Mexican cacti” explanation comes from Weinberg himself, shared about 30 years later in a memoir, so it’s considered fairly reliable.

So, where did this plant actually come from? If the seeds genuinely snuck in by accident, you’d think it wouldn’t be so tough to trace their origin by checking the shipper or sender details. Yet, no one could track it down.

After 75 years, the industry was abuzz when a wild specimen was finally discovered on Mount Bernal in Tamaulipas, Mexico (the discoverer, incidentally, is the famed Alfred Lau—hence the name 'lauii,' and the specimen was field number "Alfred Lau 089"). However, after much careful examination, it was determined to be the wrong plant. This was a smaller-leaved, yellow-green subspecies (subsp. bernalense). No wild plants matching oborozuki exactly were found anywhere in the area.

Ever since, no wild population has ever been found—the true native home of the plant remains unknown (current theories speculate it may be hidden atop one of the isolated mountains dotting the nearby desert).

Isn’t it curious that, even though it’s absolutely everywhere and can multiply endlessly from just one leaf, its true homeland can’t be pinned on a map? After more than a century, we’re still left with this grand mystery: “How can something be everywhere, but we have no clue where it started?”

If you ever make it to Mexico, maybe you should embark on a “Wild Oborozuki Search Tour.” Discovering its home would write you into botanical history!

This story is described in more detail in KIMNACH & MORAN’s bernalense description paper.

And for those thinking, “If it grew from seed, isn’t it just a natural hybrid? (So, no true wild form exists?)”—you’re sharp! But, actually, that’s been ruled out. Hybrids usually don’t have consistent genetics, while a true species does—and this is confirmed through self-pollination studies and genetic analysis.

Even if someone does find a "wild" population, couldn’t it just be naturalized plants that humans originally spread around? Another sharp idea! But these, too, can be distinguished by genetic analysis.

Given how tough and fast-multiplying oborozuki is, it seems impossible that it could be extinct in the wild (maybe it’s spread wildly and filled the hills and valleys?). Still, when you hear that the home of bernalense is so limited, you can’t help but wonder—did oborozuki maybe choose the wrong place to live? (Just kidding!)

Edible, too!

Sold at grocery stores and even served in restaurants under the name “Grapara Leaf®,” this vegetable is actually from Graptopetalum paraguayense. To be precise, it’s a specially bred variety, officially registered as “Harin-go.” In Taiwan, it’s known as “Shilianhua,” where it’s been cherished for generations as a health food and a folk remedy—another sign of just how resilient and adaptable this plant is, as its culinary uses have developed independently in Japan and Taiwan.

® Grapara Leaf is a registered trademark of Agriassist Japan.