By DENNY LEE

STUMBLING down Legian Street on Bali on a humid Tuesday night, Tim Picken had a buddy on one arm and a beer on the other. He poked his head into a T-shirt shop, shared a joke about the cheap prices and flirted with the passers-by. Then, before he ducked into another bar along this neon-and-booze strip in Kuta, Mr. Picken stopped laughing for a few moments, just long enough to pay his respects.

No wider than a tennis court and no longer than a bowling alley, the site, at the headwaters of the bustling street, was littered with weeds and easy to miss.

There were no flowers, no official tributes. There was just a wooden sign, in Bahasa Bali, warning visitors not to trespass. As if anyone would dance on a grave.

The Rebirth of Bali, continued