SOUTH STACK005

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It wasn’t raining, it wasn’t dripping, and yet it was the Frog’s day. There is always a
festival to celebrate, an animal to honor, which in turn will honor its faithful devotees
with some token of grace. The Frog was everywhere, atop scaffolds borne on men’s arms
like the Virgins of Andalusian processions, on all the floors of the temple where the
procession would end after gleaning its rich provision of envelopes stuffed with yen,
offered at each stop. I plunged into the rhythm of the parade, I tired myself out with the
porters, I prayed with the devotees, I took up the adoration of the Frog. And when at the
end I looked at the bag in which I packed my cameras, I was not the least astonished
at what I saw there on the temple’s gravel: