"One of the sources of the mana, or power, of hula comes from the land," says Sig Zane, an internationally recognized Hilo-based clothing designer who is married to one of hula's most famous kumus, the queenly Nalani Kanaka'ole. (Kanaka'ole, who will serve as one of Merrie Monarch's judges, is the granddaughter of Edith Kanaka'ole, a former kumu hula and the impassioned protector of Hawaiian culture for whom the stadium is named.) "When people are removed from the land," Zane continues, "they don't have that connection." Robert Cazimero echoes Zane's sentiment, adding that for dancers to truly embody the spirit of hula, they must not only strive for technical perfection but also nurture a sense of discipline, humility, patience, and compassion. It occurs to me Cazimero and Zane are really saying that the actual ranking of halaus at Merrie Monarch is secondary to the opportunity the festival gives the dancers to discover and nurture the uniquely Hawaiian heart that beats within them.

"Hula isn't really about competition," Cazimero explains. "That's more something that was started to get people interested in the festival. It's not important whether this or that halau wins or loses. What's important is that they do the dance the way it's supposed to be done." Cazimero's own halau is not participating this year; it usually competes only once a decade, and in 2005, his men swept the competition, taking first place in both the kahiko and auana categories. This year, he's here to support the kumus he trained and to accompany the women of his protégée Manu Boyd's halau in their performances. That's not to say he doesn't care about the end result, though: "But I have to tell you," he says with a grin, "I think Kumu Boyd will do very well."

It's Friday afternoon, and I'm just outside Hilo, in the house of one of Boyd's dancers. It's day two of the competition, which unfolds in three parts: The first night is the Miss Aloha Hula competition, in which solo female dancers perform one kahiko and one auana hula each. The second night is for the halaus' kahiko dances, with the kane, or male, troupes, going first, followed by the wahine, or female, troupes. (There are eight kane groups and 20 wahine ones competing.) The third night is for auana dances and the awards ceremony. (Prizes are awarded in the kahiko and auana categories for both the kane and the wahine groups, as well as prizes for the best overall halau.) As the judges tally the halaus' scores, usually at some point after midnight on Saturday, the kumus representing all of the competing halaus take the stage to dance as one in front of their students and the audience, who cheer them on from the bleachers.

The dancers of Boyd's troupe, Halau O Ke Aalii Ku Makani, are tired—they were up and rehearsing at 8 a.m. and won't go onstage tonight until close to 11 p.m.—but they're buzzing with an electricity fueled by pride and anticipation. If someone wandered back here from off the street, he'd likely think this was preparation for a blowout party. A pit is being dug for a pig roast, and the women talk loudly about their plans, their boyfriends, their children. The only clue that something out of the ordinary is afoot is the labor the women are engaged in: They're making long ropes of pikake buds for the leis they'll wear onstage. Pikake, or Arabian jasmine, are small, delicate white cup-shaped flowers that grow on tendriled vines; it takes hundreds of satiny blossoms to make just one lei, and the halau has gathered so many bagfuls that the yard is fragrant with the flower's sweet scent.