Is Your Holiday Destination Haunted? A Guide to Dark Tourism

There’s a peculiar thing about humans: we have this insatiable appetite for the dark and dreadful. Tell us not to look at something grim, and what do we do? We rubberneck. We crane our necks at car crashes. We binge-watch documentaries about serial killers and plane crashes. And then, because we’re gluttons for punishment, we hop on a flight and pay good money to visit the very spots where humanity has been at its absolute worst. Welcome to dark tourism.

Now, you might think dark tourism is some edgy, modern phenomenon. You’d be wrong. We’ve been doing it since cavemen stood around pointing at where Ugg tripped over a rock and died. Humans are wired to stare death in the face and whisper, “Glad it wasn’t me.” It’s the same reason people love haunted houses or parachuting out of planes. There’s a morbid thrill to dancing around death without actually stepping on its toes. It’s risky business, minus the actual risk.

Take Auschwitz, for example. The most chilling, harrowing, godawful place on Earth, where you can stand on the very ground that saw the absolute worst of humanity. And yet, it is one of the most visited dark tourism sites in the world. Why? Because being there matters. You stand in those eerie gas chambers, you see the hair and shoes left behind, and for a fleeting moment, the horrors of history punch you square in the face. It’s uncomfortable. It’s terrifying. And yet, it’s important.

But it’s not all about the lessons of history. Dark tourism can be as quirky as it is grim. Cemeteries are prime examples. Some people pop down to Buenos Aires to drink wine and tango; others go straight to La Recoleta Cemetery to gawp at Evita Perón’s tomb. And why not? A good cemetery is basically a museum of eccentric architecture and eternal one-upmanship. Mausoleums that look like Greek temples. Marble statues staring mournfully into the distance. And somewhere in the back, a bloke buried in a shoebox because he was rubbish at saving.

In Mexico, cemeteries get even more lively—quite literally—during the Day of the Dead. Families gather to celebrate their dearly departed with candles, marigolds, and tequila. Tourists flock in droves, snapping photos and trying to make sense of a culture that treats death as a party rather than a funeral. It’s death with a side of tacos, and it’s glorious.

Of course, there’s a spectrum to dark tourism, ranging from the slightly unsettling to the downright bonkers. On one end, you’ve got your paragliding crowd. “Ooh, look at me,” they say as they leap off cliffs, “I’m defying death!” Except they’re not really, because there’s a bloke with a certificate making sure the ropes are tied correctly.

On the other end, you’ve got Chernobyl. A place so radioactive that even your Geiger counter is terrified. And yet, people line up for guided tours of this post-apocalyptic wasteland, snapping selfies in front of Ferris wheels that haven’t turned since 1986. Why? Because we’re addicted to the extreme. Chernobyl isn’t just a disaster site; it’s an Instagram backdrop for the apocalypse-curious.

Then there’s Mexico’s Jardines del Humaya cemetery, where drug lords are buried in tombs so opulent they’d make Buckingham Palace blush. These aren’t your run-of-the-mill headstones. We’re talking air-conditioned mausoleums, marble floors, and LED lighting. Some even have Wi-Fi. Because apparently, you can take it with you—and stream Netflix while you’re at it.

Why Do We Do It?

But what happens when dark tourism takes a detour from the macabre and veers into poverty? Slum tourism is where things get murky. It’s one thing to visit a battlefield where history happened; it’s another to gawk at people who are alive and struggling. Take the favelas in Brazil or the townships in South Africa. Tourists are bussed in, cameras in hand, to witness poverty firsthand. “Isn’t it dreadful?” they say, while clutching their $1,000 iPhones. It’s dark tourism without the excuse of historical reflection—just poverty porn for the privileged.

Of course, some academics argue that slum tourism is about understanding inequality. Others say it’s about feeling grateful for what you have. Personally, I think it’s a bit like peering into someone’s fridge and judging them for their expired yogurt.

And then there’s the ultimate form of dark tourism: traveling to die. Switzerland offers something that no other country does—a one-way ticket to euthanasia. It’s called the “trip of no return,” and while it’s legal there, most nations would rather you stayed alive. Imagine that conversation at passport control:

“Purpose of your visit?”
“To die, actually.”
“Enjoy your stay!”

It’s extreme, yes, but it’s also a stark reminder that for some people, travel is about finding peace rather than postcards. A final journey with dignity, even if it’s controversial.

So, why are we so obsessed with dark tourism? Academics like Philip Stone and Dorina Buda suggest it’s because we live in sanitized societies where death feels distant. We’re surrounded by seatbelts, safety nets, and handrails. Real danger is hard to come by. So we seek it out in controlled doses—memorials, cemeteries, disaster zones—places where death feels tangible but not imminent.

Others, like Maximiliano Korstanje, argue that dark tourism reinforces our privilege. We look at pain, suffering, and death, and we think, “Thank God it’s not me.” It’s grim, but it’s human nature. We like to flirt with darkness, as long as we can return to our comfortable hotel rooms at the end of the day.

Dark tourism isn’t for everyone. Some people would rather lie on a beach and drink piña coladas. Fair enough. But for those of us with a slightly twisted curiosity, it’s a way to confront the uncomfortable truths of life and death. It’s about history, reflection, and occasionally, a touch of the macabre. And if nothing else, it’s a hell of a lot more interesting than a selfie in front of the Eiffel Tower.

So go on. Book that trip. Visit the cemeteries, the memorials, the disaster zones. Just don’t forget to pack your sense of perspective. And maybe a Geiger counter if you’re headed to Chernobyl.