Visiting Romerillo Cemetery on Día de Muertos is probably our single best travel experience to date.
We visited two other cemeteries for Day of the Dead celebrations in San Cristóbal de las Casas, Zinacantán and San Cristóbal’s Municipal Pantheon, but our visit to Romerillo Cemetery remains one of the most incredible things we've been privileged to witness.





We try to be careful with superlatives in travel writing. Usually, they're shorthand for something visually striking or emotionally intense, and those qualities don’t always translate into the correct meaning. But Romerillo did something different. It didn’t just mesmerize us—it unsettled and expanded our understanding of what remembrance can look like.


We visited on November 1st, and it felt like the cemetery had temporarily become its own universe. Dense, loud, crowded, and alive.





Families gathering, music and movement filling the hillside
The following day, November 2nd, we returned and found it almost empty. The contrast was stark and clarifying. Whatever happens at Romerillo happens in a narrow window, and when it passes, the place exhales and returns to stillness.



Pine, marigolds, and time settling back into the ground
If you’re in San Cristóbal de las Casas during Día de Muertos and you’re able to visit one cemetery outside the city, this is the one we would urge you not to miss.
The hill and the crosses
Romerillo Cemetery sits on a hill, and that elevation matters.

The climb up immediately changes the way you arrive. At the top, the cemetery opens into a wide, uneven space crowned by tall crosses that rise above the burial grounds. They’re visible from a distance and hard to ignore once you’re there. On Día de Muertos, they’re dressed with pine branches and flowers, tended and refreshed as the day goes on.




The hill thick with pine, marigolds, and people
Pine is everywhere. Underfoot, across graves, tied to wood, layered in thick carpets that soften the ground. Walking through the cemetery feels different from walking through soil or grass—you’re constantly aware of texture, scent, and sound. Pine needles shift as people move. They cushion footsteps. They slow you down.

And then there’s the contrast that still feels surreal to write about: right at the base of the hill, beside the cemetery, is an amusement park. Bright rides. Fair-like structures. Movement and noise.

The coexistence isn’t staged or symbolic—it’s simply how the place is arranged. Life and death sharing the same slope, without needing to be separated into different emotional categories.
A maze of graves
Romerillo doesn’t feel designed in the way many other cemeteries, such as the Municipal Pantheon, do.
There are no neat rows, no clear paths, no architectural order guiding you through. Instead, the cemetery feels packed—dense with graves, markers, offerings, and people. You move carefully, adjusting your steps, reading the space as you go. At times it feels like a maze, not because it’s confusing, but because it requires attention to ensure you don't step in the wrong spot.




Most of the graves are shallow and raised, marked simply and closely packed together. There aren’t the house-like mausoleums or painted façades you see elsewhere. The focus here isn’t on permanent structures. It’s on what’s placed, replaced, and tended year after year.
Because of this density, you’re never far from someone else’s ritual. You might pause to look at one grave and realize you’re standing just inches from another family’s space. That closeness shapes the experience.
Clothing, texture, and unmistakable local presence
One of the strongest impressions we carried from Romerillo was how clearly local it felt.




Food stalls and gathering shaping the day beyond the graves
Many people were dressed in traditional Indigenous clothing—thick wool garments, often black or white, with a shaggy texture that stood out immediately.




Moving between graves and gathering spaces on the hillside
The presence of these garments gave the cemetery a visual coherence that went beyond flowers or decorations. It reinforced the sense that this was not a space temporarily animated for visitors, but a place where community traditions continue in full view.
Music that moves through the cemetery
Romerillo was loud, but not chaotic.
Music moved through the cemetery in waves. Groups of musicians traveled from grave to grave, playing for families who gathered around them. Brass instruments, drums, accordion, guitar—sometimes layered, sometimes solitary. The soundscape was constantly shifting.



Music and movement weaving through the graves
What stood out was how integrated the music felt. There was no stage. No designated performance area. The musicians weren’t separate from the cemetery—they were part of it. Families approached them. Drinks were offered. Songs were played close to the ground, close to the graves.

At times, multiple groups played at once in different parts of the cemetery. The result wasn’t noise, but overlap. A sense of movement and flow, as if sound itself was circulating among the dead.

The effect was powerful. It reframed the cemetery not as a place of silence, but as a place where sound is allowed—where memory can be audible.
Flowers and offerings
Visually, Romerillo is dominated by pine and marigolds.



Marigolds adorn the graves
Pine needles cover graves in thick layers. Marigolds appear everywhere—woven into arrangements, tied to crosses, scattered across the ground. Other flowers appear too, but marigolds and pine form the backbone of the cemetery’s visual language.


Bright petals rest against the pine
Offerings varied from grave to grave. Food placed directly on tombs. Bottles of soda. Candles. Personal objects. Nothing felt standardized or curated. Each grave reflected a family’s choices, habits, and relationships.


Offerings of fruit and flowers
What struck us most wasn’t the offerings themselves, but the time spent around them. Families didn’t arrive, arrange, and leave. They settled in. They talked. They ate. Children moved freely through the space. People adjusted flowers, stepped back, adjusted again.

There was care here, but not the kind that demands solemnity. It was attentive, repetitive, and unhurried.
Not sad, not careless
It’s tempting to describe Romerillo as joyful or celebratory, but those words don’t quite fit.
People were laughing and talking, yes. Music was playing. Food was shared. But the atmosphere wasn’t frivolous. There was an underlying steadiness to it—a sense that this was serious work being done, even if it didn’t look like mourning in the way many of us have been taught to recognize.



A shared rhythm moving across the hill
Romerillo showed us that grief doesn’t have to be heavy to be real, and that honoring the dead doesn’t require sadness to be the dominant emotion. What we witnessed was something more balanced: remembrance that makes room for connection, for presence, for being together.





A colorful celebration
For those of us raised in cultures where cemeteries are quiet, brief, and emotionally constrained spaces, this can be genuinely disorienting. It was for us. But it was also grounding.
Returning the next day
When we returned on November 2nd, the cemetery felt entirely different.



The quiet day after
Most of the people were gone. The music had stopped. The density had thinned. Pine and flowers remained, but the human layer that had animated the space the day before had moved on.



That return visit mattered. It made clear that what we experienced wasn’t a constant condition of the place. It was a moment—one day, one rhythm, one collective act.
Challenging our assumptions about death
Romerillo offered a vision of death that wasn’t isolated from life, and of remembrance that wasn’t reduced to silence or sorrow. It showed us that tending to the dead can be a social act, a physical one, and even a sensory one—rooted in sound, texture, movement, and time.






We don’t pretend to understand Romerillo after a single visit. But we do know that being there shifted something in us. It challenged assumptions we didn’t realize we were carrying. It expanded the range of what we thought was possible in a place meant for the dead.
And if travel has any real value beyond novelty, maybe it’s moments like this—when you encounter a way of being that quietly but firmly unsettles your defaults, and you leave changed, without needing to explain exactly how.