Traveling in Bali Indonesia was one of the best experiences of my life. I strapped my excessive amount of luggage to a small motorbike and spent a few weeks exploring the tiny island full of steamy beach towns and volcanoes shrouded in clouds. I loved all the prevalent signs of their religion and watching the locals leave carefully crafted offerings, made of flowers and other trinkets, to the gods on their doorsteps. Ancient statues and carvings adorn every facade in every town and artists of all varieties create the most beautiful souvenirs out of limited resources. I made a few quick, painful photos of a mother in anguish at her daughters funeral, buried with a box of crayons, a pink tee shirt and her favorite teddy bear and joined in dancing and laughing at a performance thrown in my honor by a man named Pina Colada. Hearing the gamelan of their traditional music is hypnotic. As well as watching dancers, with heavily painted faces and frozen half smile expressions, look like windup toys as they pitter-patter around the stage. I explored a monkey sanctuary hidden beneath trees dripping with vines, as early morning rays of light pierced through the thick jungle and stalked women in wide brimmed hats as they tended to rice paddies that stretched to the horizon. 
Me, before I learned how to pack “light.”
