Hilo, the center of hula hoopla
Mention hula and most folks imagine grass skirts, coconut bras and swaying hips. Like the flower lei and aloha shirt, this native Hawaiian dance has entered the realm of pop kitsch. But if you've seen only Hollywood hula or the watered-down versions offered at some hotels, you ain't seen the real thing yet. That's where the Big Island comes in.
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Almost a language
Among true practitioners, hula is a deep cultural endeavor. Serious students join a halau (school), where they undergo rigorous training and adopt hula as a life practice. Ancient Hawaiians had no written language, so chanting and hula were important means of communication. The dancers' rhythmic movements, facial expressions and hand gestures convey Hawaiian genealogy, history and mythology, as well as reverence to Hawaiian deities, such as the volcano goddess, Pele.
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Let the games begin
To see authentic hula, an unbeatable venue is the annual Merrie Monarch Festival in Hilo on the island of Hawaii. Dubbed the Olympics of hula, it was established in 1964, lasts a week and includes craft fairs, a parade and three days of vigorous hula competition. Top hula troupes from Hawaii, the U.S. mainland and Japan compete in kahiko (ancient) and auana (modern) categories. Kahiko performances are raw and primordial, accompanied only by chanting, and they use a bent-knee stance to allow dancers to absorb Earth's energy. Accompanied by harmonious singing and string instruments, auana seems more like mainstream hula, with Western-influenced muumuus and pants, sinuous arm movements and smiling faces.
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A very hip king
The festival is named after King David Kalakaua, nicknamed the "Merrie Monarch," who became Hawaii's seventh and last king in 1874 at age 37. Before his reign, Christian missionaries, who arrived in Hawaii in 1820, had deemed hula dancing too licentious and suppressed it. If Kalakaua had not revived hula during his reign, it might have been lost forever.
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Middle America? Here?
Hilo itself is well worth visiting. It's the Big Island's capital but feels like a relaxed, middle-American town (albeit one set alongside a picturesque bay and the endless Pacific). The tourist glitz found across the island in Kona and Kohala is nonexistent here. Perhaps that's because of the 100-plus inches of annual rainfall. But the showers are balmy -- and who cares when the result is lush foliage, pristine air and waterfalls all year round?
