A FIRST-HAND REPORT FROM THE MIT LUAU

W rapped in about five layers of clothing I trudged through the Arctic chill blowing along the Charles River, looking for the site of MIT's third annual luau. I knew I was getting close when I saw a car parked on the curb with a large bumper sticker that said, "Aloha spirit. Don't leave home without it." I quickly made my way toward the warm glow emanating from Walker Memorial Hall where I was greeted with the brimming smiles of friends from back home, tropical flowers, and beautiful Hawaiian music.

In early Hawaii, it was custom to celebrate auspicious occasions with a feast. Whether the birth of a child or the completion of a new home or canoe, Hawaiians traditionally took time to honor their many Gods and to share their bounty with friends and family. So, in the spirit of luaus past, the Hawaiian community on the east coast converged, donning their best aloha attire (mo'u mo'u's, floral shirts, surf shorts) to leave behind mid-term studies and celebrate Hawaii's unique culture. Most of the students came from MIT, but the luau also lured students from Dartmouth, Princeton, Harvard, and Wellesley. "To us this luau is not just a dinner or a show, but rather a piece of our homeland, a slice of what makes us who we are," said Steve Wong, a junior at MIT and one of the event coordinators. According to a coordinator, the goal was "not to make money," but "to share the Aloha Spirit."

We were welcomed into Walker Hall by the sound of slack key music strumming in the background. Tropical flowers adorned the walls, people in bright aloha shirts darted around excitedly, and the familiar smell of kalua pig wafted through the room. Kalua pig, the centerpiece of every luau, is fire-roasted on red-hot stones in an underground oven called an imu. I assume that the organizers couldn't pull off the red-hot stones in the frozen MIT ground, but the pig tasted delicious nonetheless. Soon after my arrival there was the inevitable rush to the serving table, replete with the typical luau spread: somen salad, lomi lomi salmon, sushi, kalua pig and cabbage, teriyaki beef, chicken long rice, dimsum, rice, haupia, coconut cake, and chi chi dango. Kama'aina (island locals) were disappointed to find that pudding-like poi was not shipped in, but otherwise the food was a success. People not familiar with the delicacies of Hawaii were encouraged to "just try everything." Even the police officers who were hired to oversee the event were seen going back for second helpings.

After eating more than my share (I surreptitiously undid the top button of my jeans) I was ready for the show to start. Conversation quieted as MIT sophomore Rosie Alegado came to the stage to perform a traditional opening chant called Oli Aloha. Her rich, deep voice gave shape to the complex and poetic chant, capturing everyone's attention and setting the tone for the hula dances to follow. It was clear, that this would not be one of those oft encountered theme party caricatures of Hawaiian culture where ti leaf skirts are traded for cellophane ones, where canned pineapple wedges thrown on pizza qualify as a tropical Hawaiian feast. This was pretty close to the real thing. Authenticity of Hawaiian culture is hard to come by, especially on the main-land and when found, it is a rare treat for mainlanders and kama'aina alike.

In the popular imagination, Hawaii has no more potent a symbol than the hula dancer, usually a youthful beauty with a dreamy smile undulating to the rhythmic strums of a ukulele. Far different from the showbiz representations however, is the hula in Hawaii. In all of its sacred and ceremonial forms, the hula is an integrated system of poetry, movement and rhythm. The MIT performances displaced any Hollywoodish notions that the audience might have had, impressing upon them the beauty, power, and aloha imbued in the hula. When asked about his impressions after his first encounter with Hawaiian culture, MIT sophomore Mike Jacuba said, "This is all so much fun, so impressive. It makes you feel all warm during the winter. You can't help but leave with a good feeling."

"Bad ass. Choke beautiful, CHOKE beautiful" were Steve Wong's description of one of the ballad's performed. I couldn't have said it better myself. ("choke beautiful" meaning "totally beautiful.") During the dance, I glanced around the packed room and there was literally a glow on the faces of the audience as they watched the slow ballad. The audience was mesmerized by the graceful, lyrical movements of the hula dancers hands, the rhythmic sways, their radiant smiles, set to the beautiful and haunting lyrics of Keali'i Reichel and a sole acoustic guitar. Later, the tempo picked up with the resounding beat of Tahitian music and frenetically wonderful hip movements of inspired dancers.

The night was brought to a climax with the presentation of the Samoan slap dance. Scantily clad MIT engineering students with oiled up bodies slapped themselves in an impressive performance. Samoan slap dancing creates the syncopated rhythm of tap dancing but with the use of one's hands and body instead of one's feet and the floor. It also has the energy and power of stepping. When asked if it was painful to do, Eric Beven, one of the Samoan slap dancers, replied, "Well, I got some bruises. You get so energized doing it. It feels great when you're done."

The hula, O'opu Nui Tewetewe, is a song and dance layered with sexual meaning. While anyone from Hawaii would know this, the emcees committed themselves to a full explanation of the lyrics for the benefit of haole mainlanders. On the surface, they tell us, it is the story of a fisherman's struggle with a large, slippery fish The fisherman extends the net, enticing the fish to enter. The emcees further explains, to the audiences amusement, that in most interpretations, the women are the fishermen, and the men are the slippery fish--not so subtle imagery. At one point the lyrics ask if the fisherman has caught her fish. She clasps the fish in her hands tight as he squirms and wiggles. But not every thing is worth struggling for. The fisherwoman, weary from battling the stubborn fish, tosses him back into the sea. If things weren't clear enough the emcees go on to tell us to watch the erotic dance closely. The crowd loved the dance and it's hard to tell if it was due to the dancer's merit or Ivy League sexual repression.

The dancing was interspliced with various raffles and contests to win prizes such as chocolate covered macadamia nuts and li hing mui dried mango (local treats that are indescribably good). Non-kama'aina were asked questions such as the name of the state fish (humuhumunukunukuapu'a'a), how many islands there are in Hawaii (eight), and why "Hawaii Five-O" was given its name (Hawaii is the 50th state). Reluctant mainlanders were also occasionally asked to come to the stage to do impromptu hula for the audience, all in the name of winning prizes and good old humiliation. Another side-show which was particularly entertaining was a pidgin demonstration.

"Eh brah, so lemme show dese haoles how fo' speak pidgin," Jeff Hayashida (one of the emcees) begins. "If you don't know what pidgin is, it's kinda like everything I saying dat you don't understand."

Hayashida said that though it was a challenge getting such a large production off the ground with such a small college club, "It was totally worth it." "We put this on to spread Hawaiian culture," he said. Talking to him, I saw the importance of the luau, not just to spread Hawaiian culture but also to keep it alive in our lives here in Boston while we're so far from home. Zoe Kwok, a Wellesley sophomore, related that she felt that the luau "was an accurate representation of Hawaiian culture and a great place for people from Hawaii to get together and celebrate their own distinctive identity and traditions and see old friends and eat great food and have a great time." At this point she takes a deep breath and continues, "Only thing is, there was no poi."

Suddenly, the fire alarm began its high caterwauling screech. An instant later, we, the Luau crew, protected from the elements only by aloha shirts, shorts, slippers, and a few layers of delicate flower leis, were asked to leave the building and brave the 20 degree weather. We trembled outside for about a half an hour, waiting for the fire department. The conversation drifted quickly from the initial euphoria of the success of the luau to how much we missed home and why the heck we were in Boston in the first place. "Why'd you come to Harvard?" someone asked. The response was an unconvincing one: "For the character building experience." Finally the fire department showed up and to our consternation took a suspiciously long amount of time to shut off the alarm.

When we finally re-entered the building, Bob Marley was still playing in the background and the food was still looking good. By the end of the night I had concluded happily that the success of the luau was a testament to Hawaiian culture itself and I found myself holding onto warm ties I had made that evening, only regretting the frosty March climate outside.