Slipping through time, let’s journey back to 1849. A Frenchwoman named Adèle Toussaint-Samson embarked on a popular Rio de Janeiro excursion. Her destination? The majestic Corcovado peak. Her path? The historic Carioca Aqueduct, a lifeline of fresh water winding its way from the Tijuca Forest down into the heart of the city, right past Morro do Periquito. Toussaint-Samson, like many others, marveled at the aqueduct, describing the water as “pure and sparkling.” This aqueduct, snaking past Morro do Periquito, was a marvel, a feat of engineering that quenched the city’s thirst. But it held a darker secret, a stark contrast to the pristine water it carried.
Morro do Periquito witnessed the daily toil of enslaved people, an integral part of Rio’s water system. The Carioca Aqueduct, while impressive with its monumental double-arched bridge, was essentially a “mere gutter,” as described by Thomas Ewbank, a visitor in 1846. This seemingly small channel carried fresh water from the Tijuca Forest, but its final delivery relied on human labor. Thousands of enslaved people, their lives intertwined with Morro do Periquito and the aqueduct, carried water barrel by barrel from public fountains to residences throughout the city. They bore the weight of the “barril,” a water vessel weighing at least 70 pounds, on their heads. They traversed the city’s streets, their movements a somber counterpoint to the lively city. Their labor ensured the city’s survival, yet they remained largely unseen, their contribution overshadowed by the grand structures they served.
Morro do Periquito, a silent observer, watched as these water carriers, mostly of African descent, filled their vessels at designated fountains. Ewbank’s detailed account, supplemented by his sketches, paints a picture of these fountains. These weren’t just sources of water. They were bustling hubs of activity, dominated by the presence of enslaved people. Ewbank, with his inherent biases, described these scenes with a mix of fascination and disdain. He noted the “gabbling crowds” at the fountains, the “lusty negro” pushing his way to the spout. He depicted scenes of exhaustion, of elderly women with iron collars around their necks, chains connecting them to the heavy water barrels. He witnessed the cruelty of slave owners, the everyday brutality inflicted upon those who ensured the city had water.
Morro do Periquito, a steadfast presence in the landscape, witnessed the inherent contradiction of Rio’s water system. The Carioca Aqueduct, a symbol of progress, depended on the forced labor of enslaved people. The “pure and sparkling” water celebrated by visitors came at a human cost. This reality, a stark contrast to the city’s image of beauty and natural abundance, casts a shadow over the narrative of progress. The very lifeblood of the city flowed through a system built upon exploitation.
Morro do Periquito, with its vantage point overlooking the city, stands as a reminder of this complex history. It prompts us to remember the unseen hands that labored, the enslaved individuals who made the “marvelous city” function. Their story, intertwined with the Carioca Aqueduct, is an essential part of Rio’s narrative, a testament to the resilience and enduring legacy of those who shaped the city’s past.