He continued on by saying that when I die, I would go to Heaven and that I could stay there if I chose, and could have everything that I wanted and so, I am very lucky. “You are very influential,” he said. He also looked in my ears, at my nose, mouth and cheeks, and back and knees. Not done yet, he told me I would be very pretty all my life and that I would have no car accidents. He also mentioned that I have a perfumed lotus flower on my back, meaning I can receive energy well.

I wanted to believe him, but I was already sick. I did not want to get married and I did not want kids (add to that, Yeva’s — and even Gilbert’s — reading was almost identical). I gave him 200,000 Rupiah, the equivalent of about $20, signed his book, and bid him adieu. He thanked me, and told me his son (or maybe grandson?) is going to medical school, so his bank account is “very empty.” I left feeling disappointed, partly believing he had lost his gift, and hoping for Bali he had not. Then, I was angry with myself for intruding, and with Gilbert for giving Ketut’s real name in her book, the Western book that is now synonymous with Bali.

On my walk home, I thought about the way I traveled, the way most people travel; how we spend our time, and the types of people we try to meet, but mostly, I thought about the positive and negative effects of two things I loved: travel and sharing travel stories and tips. I weighed economic gain against globalization, the creation of jobs versus dissolution of culture. I countered how tourism can preserve culture, but also commercialize tradition — like with the kecak, or spoil a pristine environment as well as slow the extinction of animals. I recalled all the high-end stores and organic cafes beginning to pepper Ubud, and realized this tiny town was changing to accommodate wealthy tourists because the average Balinese local could never afford to shop or dine at these places (a Starbucks has since been opened thus cementing the town’s descent into pure, soulless commercialism). I thought of Vang Vieng, a small Laotian town wrapped in jaw-dropping limestone cliffs, now considered a party-hard backpacker right-of-passage. It seemed only to exist for the debaucherous tourists sucking up “magic” smoothies under reed-topped TV bars playing Friends reruns, or for the oversexed belligerent drunk tubing down the river; almost all of which blatantly disrespect the signs requesting mild behavior and modest dress. The locals put up with it because it lines their pockets, feeds their families, and gives them jobs.

Tourism can be a Trojan horse. Hiding inside the growth of local economies and the dissemination of culture lays a slow killer that turns quiet, culturally rich destinations (mostly in the third-world) into vapid theme parks of their former selves. It’s a catch-22: you want to share your most personal and memorable experiences so that others, too, may experience such wonderful places and revelations, but the mere act of doing so begins or adds to the cultural crumbling of the very place you hold so sacred in your heart. Before you know it, there’s a Starbucks pulling espresso shots in the middle of a jungle. I decided to retreat to where it all made sense.

I crawled into bed that night, tucked my mosquito net around the edge of my mattress, and accepted a new responsibility. Therein lay the biggest lessons, the biggest change that my journey through Bali imparted upon me, and that I have carried with me everywhere I have been lucky enough to travel to since: This world does not exist for me to devour. No matter where I go, I will leave footprints behind me, no matter how lightly I tread. We are one. We are responsible for everything we do and any ripple effect this causes — not only within ourselves, but also within every person we meet, and every path we walk down, whether in our backyard or beyond.

And this has made all the difference.

Editor’s note: To view some additional photography from Katherine Alex’s journey you can visit her photography Web site at http://tiny.cc/KatherineAlexBali.

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