Gajah Munkur is a large body of water in Central Java, Indonesia. It is a lake or reservoir or dam found 3km to the south of Wonogiri, a town where one may climb steep karsts that, on a clear day, offer clear views of Solo, the closest city of note.
The belief exists that the name ‘gajah mungkur’ comes from a nearby range of mountains and suggests – rightly or wrongly – that this title shows the land’s likeness to an elephant at rest.
Such thoughts merit further discussion. At least, they would at another time. For now, to the passing visitor, the lake and its surroundings exhibit nothing explicitly elephantine, and its name may well hold some former importance. It is thought that no outsider will ever, on first glimpse, completely grasp the intricacies that make a place what it is. Gajah Mungkur is no exception. Suffice it to say that nobody could deny the lake’s impressive size. The bordering hills, forests, and mountain ranges afford a sense of rare privacy and isolation.
Above the main road hugging the lake, Jl Raya Wonogiri, hovered two figures. Their names remain unclear, but an outsider would note by their body language that each had a main trait. There stood one who speaks, as shown by the animated gait of an individual used to making a point, and another who listens. The latter betrayed no such affirmative movements, but nodded in recognition of the other’s actions and words. Beside them, a small market selling fried fish murmured with the rhythm of regular trade. Its owners, a couple from Java and Sumatra who settled next to the lake many years ago, bade the outsiders to take the weight off their feet.
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This the pair did – never asking whether those things that hover need such rest. From there, fortified by kopi susu, that they took to mean the milky coffee that overflowed the mugs before them, and ikan goreng, that context dictated was the same fish fried in oil as proclaimed by the board atop the marketplace, they stole themselves for the task at hand. The sun had begun its collapse. By way of a leaving gift, the orb had burnished the land with residual heat and offered tones of sepia and orange, which the landscape gladly used to coat itself.
The first thing the pair would do is pass ‘neath the arch where the road forks. They would then ascend to the nearest peak, which some may call Puncak Joglo. From there, they assumed, they may see the whole of Gajah Mungkur and learn more of its story. And so, the two set off. They elected to walk to better understand the landscape.
Steep pass
As is the way with such things, they soon learned that the road to the peak winds and coils like a snake. Although not overly steep, it saps energy and forces the walker to take regular breaks.
Even the one who speaks, who lived to deliver a near-constant analysis of all things, was forced into silence, save for deep gulps for air. The one who listens, by way of a respectful, contented hush, enjoyed this rare lapse into quiet.
Climbing this road, one may soon catch a glimpse, through breaks in the treescape, of the lake’s true size. But of more pressing note is the steady stream of two-wheeled transports.
Their regularity, compounded by the fact that many of these machines came laden with bundles of greenery (rice, the pair thought, perhaps wrongly), suggested that they headed on their way to the markets of Wonogiri and that there were places to mine resources close at hand. In the vehicles’ wake, courtesy of the riders and passengers (most pillion, others perched on the side), trailed smiles, nods, and other unspoken welcomes that suggest an outsider in Wonogiri may feel that they are not intruding.
Soon enough, the pair encountered a village. In truth, this place was not so far from the foot of the hill. But Sendang resides at the top of a steep climb, and tiredness can have a distorting effect that stretches time to its limits.
When, finally, the road flattened out and the pair, thirstily gasping and clearly short of breath, stumbled upon an enclave of perhaps a hundred buildings. They calculated wanly how many hours their walk had taken. Heads in hands, they soon worked out that no more than 20 minutes had passed.
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Humbled by their dishevelled state, the one who spoke and the one who listened groped for a suitable resting spot. They wished to cultivate an air of relaxed and detached observation, to achieve the alchemical state of invisibility from which they may watch the ebb and flow of a new place. But realistically, they sought only to avoid a state of near-total collapse in a public place.
Everybody who saw these two newcomers knew the truth of the matter. And everyone also understood that not all people are boundless explorers and founts of knowledge to whom strangers may defer.
And this did not stop the villagers, stepping out of their homes to investigate the newcomers, from smiling and waving and plying the pair with cool drinks to ward off the radiance of the dying sun. The spirited warmth betrayed neither cynicism nor malice and placed the duo at ease so that they may catch the bearings of Sendang.
First stop
Tethered to such peaceful moorings, the pair walked past the recurrent blue and white tile motifs and saw that many buildings boasted no more than a single storey. A common pattern infected the brick walls and made it seem as though the stonework itself bubbled. One may also may see stables with rotting wooden slats that speak of disrepair, but still give enough cover to hide the snorting beasts within.
From Sendang’s entrance, one may also see more of the body of Gajah Mungkur. But for the pair, this was a receding view. In its stead, they strode, replenished, further inward through the village. They passed the school where people learn to ride two-wheeled transports. And they saw the road signs painted on the wall that remind how to act when in control of a careening vehicle.
Soon enough, all visitors will find have to make a choice. Do they go right to a hitherto unseen site or continue forward and ascend further up the hill? The duo followed the latter route.
A dim feeling of awe charged their systems as they sized up the climb and the open space awaiting them. It seemed that any walker may come to the same realisation. The top of the peak is not so far, the road is steep in places but not intimidating, and any burden comes more from the lack of cover from the sun than physical hardship.
Thus, breath and composure regained, the two set off once more. Sendang’s residents waved the pair on their way. As they strode forth, the one who spoke seemed content to wallow in the ambience and not comment upon it. The one who listened, as prescribed, said nothing. The latter nodded in understanding, pleased that their companion felt not the need to fill the silence with white noise.
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Instead, their focus lay upon the increased abundance and ever-brighter greenery of the encroaching forests. The leaves’ verdant shades spoke of land in rude health thanks to the attention of the ongoing rainy season. This the pair learned went by the name of ‘musim hujan’.
Within the treeline, it is easy to see the triangular roofs common to many homes in the area. Upon these roofs, red and brown bricks merge with the woods about them to create a weathered, pastoral scene.
The walk continued splendidly. It took not a long time to gauge the unseen frequency of Gajah Mungkur. The corkscrew road blunted the venom of an otherwise sharp climb. The grateful pair shared snatched greetings with voices whose faces lay hidden by fences or obscured by distance.
But the walkers could sense that a wave attended each hail. The one who speaks responded for both of them. This sound created an echoing harmony that would suggest, to a passing acquaintance, two people speaking at once. Such a knack for throwing the voice always impressed the one who listens. They could only allude to skills of a vocal nature and, when called on, deferred to those who had such talents.
Not long after, another landmark they did see. This time, of a more definite shape. A bowl of terraced rice fields, marked with raised paths and watched by gazebos with the same triangle tops seen elsewhere, lay before them in a convex shape. It seemed like an amphitheatre, for the treeline opened up and showed that down below. The true extent of the lake had become even more apparent.
From this viewpoint, the viewer may see that the water reaches far further than first thought. And, the pair felt, the great hills surrounding the bowl had a ringing effect that bred the feeling of meditative stillness but on a grand scale. The one who speaks pondered what kind of performances one might see in such a place and, more pressingly, who or what the viewers may be. But either way, the pair noted that they had reached Selopukang, the next village up.
Ordered life
And they did infer that Selopukang, less clustered than Sendang, is a place of imperatives. A series of boards placed at every turn provide rules and guidance for living and reinforce that someone, or something, somewhere always watches and takes note. The one who speaks suggested verbally that, in some places, a higher voice prescribes one’s mores and wants.
But unversed in such matters, the pair wondered whether remarks such as ‘Say no to early marriage’, ‘METODE KONTRASEPSI’, ‘saatnya yang MUDA yang BEREN’ and ‘8 fungsi keluarga’ are orders or hints to mould personal growth. Perhaps the answer overlooks the village’s resident volleyball court. There, one will find Masjid Al Amin, the mosque that stands ornate and dignified on the main road and emanates learning from between its white pillars.
The two quickly moved on, for the closeness of Puncak Joglo energised their stepping and they wanted to reach the peak before night fell completely. Soon enough, the two saw a view that merged all of Gajah Mungkur’s strands into a single vision. As the road flattened out, the pair made way for a two-wheeled transport.
The vehicle droned past them, weighed down with green branches of a type neither of the pair had seen before, and they watched, through giant palm fronds that swayed gently in the breeze, the transport shrink as it moved further down the hill.
Through this gap, they too did see the lake, now even larger, encroach, by way of channels and tributaries, upon the land. Towards the horizon, this ground became hills and peaks which, as the cloud cover dictated, brooded in shades of dark grey or basked in more natural green tones that highlighted the treescape’s contours and heights.
As often happens with such things, an ascent must reach its pinnacle. Such a feeling the walking duo soon met as they passed through the village of Soko Gunung – or at least they surmised as such; as outsiders, the correct names of places sometimes eluded them.
This settlement nestles within the grasp of an attendant forest and near the apex of Soko mountain, where woodsfolk emerge from nowhere and giant footprints, that suggest the movement of giant cats, appear when one’s back is turned.
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But the main attraction is Puncak Joglo. To reach this place, one must follow a road that rises with only a gentle incline past yet more triangle-topped gazebos. There awaiting them are three flights of stairs and a trio of sentinels who welcome visitors and ply them with food and drink after their journeys. The pair stayed here awhile, talking with the greeters. The two groups broke ice with their clumsy efforts to speak the other’s language. So grew a sense of mutual goodwill and more proof that in Gajah Mungkur, the respectful visitor may receive a warm welcome.
And at last, as they moved up the final flight of stairs, the pair reached Puncak Joglo. From this a flattened peak a brave soul may launch themself, with the aid of a paraglide, over the whole of Gajah Mungkur. Only the lack of currents may impede one’s movements. Theoretically, no corner of the lake or the forests or the surrounding villages lies out of the glider’s reach. The one who speaks had yet to regain their breath after the climb, and their unending dialogue remained unspoken.
But both walkers could still bask in the sense of serene remoteness that this peak gave them. With only the sky above them and no walls to close them in, they felt no claustrophobia. The calming gusts of rarified air lulled them into hypnosis.
To the south, their eyes could follow the road until, they thought, they could see Wurjantoro. To the east, neither Jembatan Gedong nor the coastline of Kepek could escape their gaze. Behind them, an endless hutan of trees stretched forth until the hills and karsts asserted dominance and claimed the viewers’ attention. The clouds had all but faded. In the gloaming, the pair did become used to the dark. They watched as the fisherfolk, marked by the lamps on their boats that brought to mind the glow of fireflies, scythed across the water.
‘Perhaps the time has come for us to float, too,’ said the one who speaks. The one who listens gave a slight jump at the suddenness of the statement. They had spent many hours atop Puncak Joglo allowing their thoughts to drift upon the currents’ ever-shifting ebbs and flows. Thus, their focus had become somewhat diluted. They wondered whether their partner had spoken the entire time. The vacuum surrounding the outburst certainly suggested the culmination of a long and intricate speech. Wary that they had failed in their prescribed role, the one who listens turned their focus to the other of the pair.
Moving on
Now the two existed on the same frequency. One gave the nod to the other. The speaker did continue: ‘We should float around Gajah Mungkur because neither of us is in shape’ – the one who listens nodded in assent – ‘and another long walk holds no interest for now. Let us glide, for we have no need of aid. If we wish to fall from a great height without the aid of synthetic limbs, that is our lookout. But since we are unbound by the laws of gravity, we can flit in and out as we see fit. Let us, then, venture o’er the lake, unaided.’ And unbidden, the one who listens failed to say aloud.
Now, the one who speaks could revel, for as a natural speaker, they had access to all words and all information – although they could not always vocalise such details,. They may broadly tune in to a topic and broadly make sense of it. Thus, as the pair glided over Gajah Mungkur, they saw that its outline bore a somewhat cephalopodic shape, as of a squid rendered with jagged edges in place of flowing limbs. And the speaker shared all that they had learned.
First came some facts; the listener could not voice their lack of care for such things. Thus did the one who speaks expound with great verve, as all speakers should, unaware that the audience’s focus lay elsewhere. One may find Gajah Mungkur 3km from Wonogiri. The lake covers an area of 8,800ha and can irrigate – the listener stifled a yawn – 23,600ha of rice fields in Karanganyar, Klaten, Sukoharjo and Sragen. So, too, does the lake fuel a turbine that powers Baturetno, Eromoko, Giriwoyo, Ngadirojo, Nguntoronadi and Wuryantoro.
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More details did the speaker share. Gajah Mungkur is a water reservoir that bears all the hallmarks of a lake. One may find it at Pokoh Kidu. The lake’s formation resulted from the redirection and controlled flooding downstream of water from the Bengawan Solo River. This river is the longest in Java. The reservoir, the largest in Central Java, has many uses: irrigation, hydroelectricity, drinking water, aquaculture, fisheries and so on.
But changes in the name of progress can take strange shapes. Perhaps those who first mooted the lake in 1964 had displacement in mind. As work on the lake began in 1976, it became clear that 51 villages in six districts would be flooded to ease the birth of this new body. Perhaps a cloud had befuddled their vision. When the reservoir became operational in 1982, its creators envisioned it would last for 100 years. Not so. Severe watershed damage caused excess sedimentation, meaning the body will falter and fail before its set lifespan expires.
A theme developed in the speaker’s words: the paradox of progress. And therein lies the bafflement. Someone or something must suffer to drive things forward. In Gajah Mungkur’s case, many thousands of families suffered eviction because the reservoirs flooded their land and rice fields. And many thousands more transmigrated to Sumatra when construction work destroyed their homes. Not that the residents’ sacrifice went unseen. On the lake’s edge can be seen the Bedol Village Monument, which marks the selflessness of such villagers.
But not everything leaves. Come the dry season, the water level recedes and exposes the base of Gajah Mungkur. Then, the traces of sunken villages become visible: foundations, pillars, the carcasses of homes. The detail is muddied, but the shape is clear. Features such as wells, roads and railway bridges stayed put when the villagers left. The place was simply flooded, never flattened or bulldozed.
And one feature remains immutable, for in some villages, so said the one who speaks, the receding water uncovers tombs. Thus, it becomes clear that the resting dead may never move. Although physically, the villagers may have gone elsewhere, they stay bonded to a place that no longer exists. It is their forebears, buried in the ground, that enable such bonds. A closer look may reveal the name of the tomb’s occupant. Neither of the pair wished to disrespect a person’s slumber by disturbing their resting place to find such information.
Floating is a tiresome business, however, and the novelty soon wore off for the pair. They had spent more time than expected on this excursion and saw, thanks to the lightening of the bruised sky, that a new sun had started its climb to breach the horizon. Thus, they alighted to Sendang, which may have been resting in fitful slumber. However, the bellows of cock cries signified, whether they liked it or not, that the villagers’ rest had come to an end, and that morning had come.
New view
In search of quiet, the one who speaks and the one who listens moved, via another gentle climb, to the village’s outskirts. There, they found an extension of the transport school with courses marked out on the tarmac for drivers to practise their precision and manoeuvres.
But of greater interest was Watu Cenik, a viewpoint overlooking Gajah Mungkur. This site offers clear views of the whole expanse. No place better, they concurred, to watch the sunrise over the far hills. For the viewers, the lake seemed as large as the ocean. No clouds encumbered the sky, and a vague excitement fell over the landscape in readiness for the sun’s arrival.
This the pair watched from Watu Cenik, which, the one who speaks gleaned, comes from bahasa Jawa, the language of Java: ‘watu’ meaning ‘stone’ and ‘cenik’, ‘small’. An arrangement of small stones, in other words. But not quite so small, the speaker said. Neither party standing at the site’s base could see over the top of it. Looking to the side, though, they did see that the fishing cages in the lake looked small. Seating themselves at a nearby gazebo, they marvelled at the surrealness of scale.
Upon the road, hundreds of metres below, thundered transport that the pair knew would dwarf them in terms of true size. But from the two’s elevated position, these same vehicles became less imposing than gnats. The drivers’ confidence also became more apparent. The watching pair discerned that those in control of the vehicles bore all the hallmarks of people of blind faith. The drivers’ suicidal overtaking nevertheless proceeded smoothly, as though the perpetrator knew no harm would befall them.
And from high above, these vehicles, illumed by multi-hued lights, floated with ease and poise like the mayfly. The pair, who had become bored of the subject, inferred within the flying cocoons the existence of transient microcosms.. Such brief worlds of order and hierarchy and passing acquaintances that fade when the transport reaches its terminus. The passengers disembark, the drivers go on their way, and the story repeats itself in different forms until time comes to an end.
And with that, this tale in Central Java came to a close. The one who speaks and the one who listens sat silently. The sun spread its infinite light across the water of Gajah Mungkur. No more did they say on the matter.
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