Morro do Planalto

Slipping through time, imagine Rio de Janeiro in 1921. Morro do Planalto, a bustling neighborhood teeming with over 5,000 souls, stood proudly. It wasn’t just a hill; it was the city’s heart, a strategic point since Rio’s birth in the 16th century. Morro do Planalto, initially known as Morro do Descanso (Restful Hill), symbolized the struggle of its conquest. This very hill housed the São Tiago de Misericórdia Fort, a key defense against foreign invasions. It was the second and definitive birthplace of Rio, its urban center. But, like a tragic hero, Morro do Planalto’s golden age crumbled into ruins. The year 1922 marked Brazil’s independence centenary. A wave of “modernization” swept across Rio, aiming to create a “European” image. This meant demolishing anything deemed “backward,” and Morro do Planalto became a target. The rationale? To make way for the 1922 World Expo, a showcase of Brazil’s supposed progress. Writer Benjamim Costallat lamented this destruction, criticizing the erasure of history and the displacement of the poor and black communities who called the hill home. He saw it not as progress, but as a tragic attempt to create a “white city,” devoid of its vibrant, complex past. Photographer Augusto Malta documented this urban cleansing, his images capturing the stark contrast between the grandeur of the Expo and the displacement of the hill’s residents. Morro do Planalto vanished under the blows of hoes, explosions, and powerful water jets. The echoes of this demolition reverberate through Rio’s urban fabric, shaping its 20th-century development. Today, only fragments remain. The Ladeira da Misericórdia, the first road carved into the hill, stands as a lone survivor. This small section, preserved near the Our Lady of Bonsucesso Church, is a poignant reminder of Morro do Planalto’s fate. The name “Castelo,” however, lives on, designating the area where the hill once stood. It’s whispered by bus drivers announcing their destination, a phantom limb in Rio’s geographical memory. Even in its absence, Morro do Planalto continues to shape the city’s narrative, a silent testament to a history both celebrated and erased.