The W.W.F.

Where in the World you Find globalization?
The World Wrestling Federation. Super-sized, extra greasy, chearing, thronging stadium packed to the brim to see over-muscled, over-tanned, over-bleached men wearing over-tight spandex one pieces wrestle and to consume with hungry eyes the over-busty, over-blonde women sexily circle the ring in their overly-small sequined bikinis. The W.W.F. The name seems synonymous with ridiculous American consumerism. Why millions of people vie to watch this falseto wrestling? A dose of masculinity? A fix of violence? Maybe Hulk Hogan is your hero? Whatever it is, this sweating, spandexy, patent leather, iron-belt, fake-blood, folding chair smashing "sport" seems American to the core. Now go order yourself up a supersize processed nacho covered in blinding orange sauce, pull on your "The Rock" t-shirt, park your car outside the stadium, and have a hootin', howlin', knee-slappin', chair smashin', lung screamin' good time! Aren't you proud to be an American?
The W.W.F. stands for the World Wrestling Federation. I wonder if the CEO, or ownder, the wrestlers, the screaming audience really know how far and wide the World Wrestling Federation actually goes. Do they know that the WWF, really does span the world over?
Personally, I never would have guessed it. Despite it's name, its American to the core, I thought. This delusion of mine was righted on an exploration walk I took recently.
I was done teaching at the monastery for the day. The monks and I were piling out of the dining hall after tea time, a delicious afternoon snack of sweet milk tea and buscuits. The youngest monks, as usual after tea, bustled over to a 4 foot ledge near by where they enjoy doing all sorts of acrobatic stunts off of.
I packed my backpack and headed down the mossy, crumbling hill to Sankhu, the village nestled below. The monsoon rains had finally stopped for a brief period, so I was ready to do some exploring. I headed out of the village into the lush green country side. A blanket of terraced rice paddies covered the expanse in every direction. Here and there, out of the green was a tiny mud hut with a thatched straw roof. Naked babies with silver bangles around their ankles ran about, amusing themselves with different sized rocks. In front of most huts a few goats were tied to a tree with fraying pieces of twine. Probably waiting slaughter. Wallowing in the blissful ignorance, unknowing that they may become stew for dinner tonight. At one hut a woman bent over in the traditional Nepalese crouch, scrubbed the dal pot with a mixture of ashes and mud, the dishwashing detergent of choice around here. Deeper and deeper into the rice fields I went, walking on the narrow, rocky footpaths that snake through the oceans of green. Speckled throughout the rice fields were tiny spots of red: the hardened behinds of the sari-clad women, bent over in the grasses, harvesting the rice. Only the red bumps dotted in the green sea betray their presence. Old women walked by me, maybe not that old, but with wrinkles on their face that looked like road maps of Kathmandu's crazy congested streets. Woven baskets on their backs, held by a strap over their forehead, filled with rice, cucumbers, potatoes, and other miscellaneous vegetables. A group of old women with baskets pass me. All have the Hindu trident tattooed on their chins, a red tikka on their forehead, and a decorative golden nosering through the center of their nose hanging down as it does on a bull. They eyed my hiking boots curiously. I eyed their bare, cracked, brown feet curiously as well. We passed, exchanging "namaste"s. Now this is Nepal, I thought to myself. After a few hours of exploring the luxurious, velvety looking fields I headed back to the village.
Sankhu is a wonderful village to explore. Endless mossy alley ways, crumbling buildings, tiny Hindu shrines tucked in all corners of the place. Morbidly obese and comic goats lazed about at the rest-platforms alongside old bent over men wearing the traditional stark white linen kurta. They sipped tiny cups of milk tea and smoked cigarettes. Bands of roveing dogs roamed about sniffing at the chickens bobbing about. A saried woman sat on an old tarp behind her piles of brighly colored vegetables. She looked bored, and was stacking the tomatoes into tiny pyramids of red. A line of ducks came quacking along, altering everyone of their presence. Two young girls in punjabs walked by with a plate of rice and marigolds: and offering to be placed at one of the many Hindu temples. I spotted some sort of strange animal walking through the mossy brick street. It looked part yak, part goat, part donkey. It was most hilarious looking and was jerking around on it's knobby knees like it had had one too many whiskeys that day. I sat at one of the old carved rest platforms to watch it. Subsequently the group of old men across the way were observing me with the same idea that I was most hilarious looking. After a while I got a tad incensed by their strained curiosity and left. Then I felt bad for having a laugh at that poor yak-donkey-goat. So off I went, jumping the monsoon mud puddles, dodging flappy roosters, and hopping over napping dogs. What a wonderful village! Yes, this is really Nepal!, I thought to myself. Up ahead I saw a sizeable crowd gathered around a tiny hole-in-the-wall shop. I crossed the brick road, and hopped over and especially deep looking puddle to see what was going on. I peered through the congregation of men to see the attraction. They were huddled around the one electronics "shop", and by shop I mean more like stall, in the village of Sankhu. I had passed this shop before. It's inventory consisted of about 8 TVs, maybe less. A few radios. Maybe a discman. One of the TVs was blarring at full volume. Before I weedled my way through the crowd, I knew what they were watching. Two husky, macho voices. One proclaiming he was so and so, and he was going to pumel the other's face until it was unrecognizeable. Oh no... The W.W.F. I finally got a glimpse of the TV. And there they were. One guy... some body Kennedy, wearing a shiny black spandex one piece, so tight you could see things you really didn't want to see. This guy, poking another steroided beef chunk with his polish sausage finger. The other guy, a snarl on his face, a tan the color of orange-nacho cheese, a mullety hair cut bleached the color of margarine. The first proceeded to pick up a folding chair and smash it over nacho-cheese-tan-man's head inciting a riotous effect on the crowd. "Kill him!" "Yeah! Yeah!!" "Get him!" could be heard through the tube... The W.W.F. The crowd of Nepali men looked at me with faces of awe, as if to say, "Don't you feel right at home in America! You are so lucky, you can watch this all the time, maybe even meet the wrestlers! Ah, America!" I eeked out a grimacy smile. Yes, I'm so lucky... This is America... The W.W.F. The men went back to watch the choreographed fight, quite proud that an American was watching this right along side them. I tried to slip away without notice. I wanted to tell them, that isn't really America. Or is it? Choreographed, steroided men, wrestling? As I slipped away, I hoped that wasn't America. I hoped that those big lycra bound muscles with sausage fingers arn't what these villagers think America is all about. But who knows, maybe they do. All I know is that the last place I ever thought I would see a W.W.F. fight was on a tiny TV in a rural Nepali village called Sankhu. But I suppose, this really does prove that this is a new, connected world. The WWF, with all it's American glory, really does span the world, every little corner of it. Now people all over the world can see what sorts of silly, sparkling things Americans do for entertainment. Does this make you proud to be an American?
In this new era of connectedness, you can only guess Where in the World you will Find globalization next...