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In Mexico’s Michoacán state, Día de Muertos (The Day of the Dead) transforms the remembrance of the departed into a vivid celebration of life, finds travel writer and photographer Luke Abrahams. Following trails of marigolds through candlelit cemeteries, colonial streets and exuberant parades, Luke discovers a centuries-old tradition in which music, flowers and lovingly prepared offerings welcome the souls of the dead home once more and offer a fascinating glimpse into Mexican culture.
BY LUKE ABRAHAMS | CABANA TRAVEL | 10 NOVEMBER 2026
It was a clammy night on October 31, 2026, in the small town of Ihuatzio in Mexico’s Michoacán state. Except for the faint flicker of candlelight, I stood eclipsed in a cloud of darkness. The swirling mist of copal, a woody, almost citrus-like smelling, resinous incense cloaked the night sky for as far as my eyes could see. In the distance, I could hear singing and chanting erupting from a circle of shadows, screaming in jovial tantric unison.
This was no ordinary night for the lowly journalist, Luke Abrahams. It was Halloween, and instead of trick or treating in some ungodly costume, I found myself traipsing over the graves of dead children in the thick mysterious gloom of twilight’s endless abyss.
Walking around the cemetery I eventually stumbled on a woman sitting with her husband, wrapped and covered in blankets. They remained motionless and stared at a picture of their daughter who looked no more than 12. Her gravestone was a visual banquet of commemoration, decorated in golden marigold petals, hearts and candles.
In whispers the couple shared memories of their daughter, often breaking out into laughter and song. “They will sit there all-night waiting for her to come back to them,” Manuel, my guide, whispered in my ear. “How will they know?” I asked. With a glimmer in his eye, Manuel simply replied, “follow the marigolds.”
The red and golden flowers, indigenous to the Americas – known in Nahuatl as cempasúchil or the "flower of twenty petals" – have been important in the rituals of the Day of The Dead since the time of the Aztecs. Their pungent earthy fragrance and vibrant orange and yellow hues are believed to act as a kind of calling card for the spirits. Symbolically, the flower represents the light of the sun, while its earthy aroma is said to help the spirits of the underworld navigate the obstacles of the physical world on their return.
While I felt a great sadness for the families around me, I was swiftly reminded that here in the dead calm of the night, one’s demise is not a sombre event. On the contrary, it marks a time of celebration and reflection for Mexicans and people across Latin America. Día de Muertos (The Day of The Dead), or rather as the locals call it, Noche des Animas (Night of the Souls), has been honoring the memory of the departed for over 3000 years. Its origins can be traced all the way back to ancient Mesoamerica. Blending indigenous pre-Columbian rituals with colonial Spanish Catholic traditions, many indigenous groups, including the mighty Aztecs, Maya and Toltec tribes dedicated specific times of the year to remembering and observing the deceased.
The Aztecs spent days offering rituals to the goddess Mictēcacihuātl (the Lady of the Dead) who ruled the underworld (Mictlān). Rather than fearing death’s kiss, they viewed the eternal night as a natural continuation of life as opposed to a deafening finite end. Since then, the festival’s traditions have continued every November 1 (All Saints Day), dedicated to remembering deceased children, affectionately referred to as angelitos ("little angels"); and November 2 (All Soul’s Day), devoted to remembering deceased adults.
For 48 hours I watched this deathly spectacle of celebration come to life. My first stop was in Morelia, an historic 16th century Unesco-listed Spanish-colonial city famous for its signature pink-hued cantera stone buildings, rich traditions and rich cuisine and after-hours mescal culture. The streets were vibrant and glowing, with all corners decorated with altars, art and sculptures commemorating the Day of The Dead.
The oferendas were especially touching. A scattering of favorite drinks from coke to tequila were spread on them, alongside pan de muerto (bread of the dead), calaveras (sugar skulls), fruit and sweets. While it all remains undisturbed, the thought is that the spirits absorb the essence and aroma of the offerings – something local Diego told me “makes them feel they are home.”
Nearby, in the small town of Patzcuaro, I got my first glimpse of families laying altars and marigold trails in the town’s cemetery. There were hundreds of flower petals laid on tombs and mausoleums, with some surrounded by happy locals singing and playing traditional Mexican folk music. As the crashes of drums and the hoots of saxophones got louder, plumes of copal filled every corner of the cemetery. Used to cleanse and purify, its smoky trails act as a kind of spiritual nourishment for returning ancestors.
But it was in San Miguel de Allende where the true spectacle of Día de Muertos came alive. My home here was Belmond’s Casa de Sierra Nevada. Decorated in every shade of orange imaginable, the luxury hotel is spread across six 17th and 18th century Casonas linked by beautiful European-style decorative gardens, courtyards and cobblestone streets. Its colonial style – a patchwork of dark wood, Talavera tiles and moody fireplaces – were eerily fitting. In my suite, my own oferenda awaited complete with marigold leaves, pan de muerto and a frame ready to insert a picture of my loved one. Beyond the thoughtfulness, the perk of staying here is its location in the centre of the Old Town, where the main parade takes place.
As the clock struck 6pm the city’s technicolor streets erupted in celebration. Men and women flocked in traditional dress and historical figures, alongside tourists who danced in the streets. Costume gatherings in the central Jardín, face painting in the main square, and evening cemetery visits to the Panteón de Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe made death look far from chilling. It is, as a local told me, “the happiest night on earth for the dead.” And then there was the main attraction: the Catrinas, the iconic, elegantly dressed female skeleton that serves as the most famous symbol of the Day of the Dead festivities.
As for their significance, their satirical vision of a dead wealthy woman created by artist José Guadalupe Posada symbolises that no matter how rich or wealthy we are, everyone is equal even come the grave. Watching them prance, pose and glide across the streets, death, I thought, is not something to be feared. It’s something truly beautiful and infinite. And with that thought I watched the parade dissolve into the night under the mystical pink glow of the city’s stunning cathedral.
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