On the Merrie Monarch stage during rehearsals this Wednesday morning, the contrasts could not have been more sharp, or more indicative of hula's vitality.

Members of the Hula Halau Kahula O Hawaii perform at 43rd annual Merrie Monarch Festival at the Edith Kanaka'ole Tennis Stadium in Hilo on the Big Island on Wednesday evening. REBECCA BREYER | The Honolulu Advertiser

Kubokawa, who 17 years ago began studying with Merrie Monarch co-founder Uncle George Na'ope, and later with Leina'ala Kalama Heine, made the most of her troupe, dividing them into sub-groups that flow on and off the stage. They are performing a medley of familiar songs praising the mountain peaks of Maui, O'ahu, Kaua'i and the Big Island. And they come fully equipped with 'uli'uli (feathered rattle), pu'ili (split bamboo) and ipu (gourd drum), and each wearing at least an entire plant's worth of fresh, green ti leaves.

Kubokawa moved quietly around the perimeter of the stage, watching her students, occasionally correcting or explaining. The dancers knew their moves and rarely came up wrong-footed. But there is a certain formality, almost a stiffness, in their performance, something that, at least to my eye, had an essential Japane-ness to it, particularly in the way they held their hands and heads. Yet you had only to see them smiling, hugging each other, wiping away tears and documenting every moment off-stage with their cameras to recognize how much the experience meant to them.

Later, Kubokawa attempts in her limited English to answer the question, "Why did you fall in love with hula?" She tilts her head back, smiles broadly and then frowns with the impossibility of putting it into English words. "Life!," she says.

"You mean hula is life?"

"Yes!," she says.

Members of the Hula Halau Kahula O Hawaii perform at 43rd annual Merrie Monarch Festival at the Edith Kanaka'ole Tennis Stadium in Hilo on the Big Island on Wednesday evening. REBECCA BREYER | The Honolulu Advertiser

At first, he appears to be a taskmaster. He strides onto the stage in a black shirt and sweat pants, a yellow lawalawa wrapped around his waist and sunglasses shielding his eyes, clapping and counting as his men's and women's group move into their kahiko numbers.

They work without direction, dividing up the stage, their backs to each other, practicing the dances without benefit of accompaniment, counting out the rhythm to find their places. Like actors, each dancer locates a landmark or two that will indicate the correct position at key points in the dance.

Ho'omalu watches and says little. Eventually, he leaves the stage to begin working with the musicians. He sings or chants on every number and two of the four pieces are his own compositions, meaning alaka'i, senior dancers, do much of the work of teaching and fine-tuning.

The men's old-style dance is performed with canoe paddles, which alternately sweep the imaginary water, pound the stage with a thundering sound, and strike the air like weapons. The women perform a hula noho, a seated hula, with the puniu, a tiny drum strapped to the thigh.

These dances are hell on the stomach and back muscles, requiring great flexibility and strength. Also, because there is no foot movement, the eyes are riveted to the arms, making it all the more vital that the movements be in unison — some would say a risky choice, but one that could pay off in points.

As the groups move into the auana numbers, the mood lightens. The men praise the rains of Hilo in the familiar "Hilo Hula," performed at a lively pace. The women sway to "Piano Ahiahi," an old mele inspired by the songwriter's first experience of a piano.

Ho'omalu, ever the iconocolast, has them work facing the rear of the stage. "So you can see the expression my face when you make a mistake," he jokes.

He spends a lot of time on posture; it's important in hula to stand erect, open up the shoulders and chest and not hunch. "Stick your chestickles out!," he calls. "Try your bestessess."

At one point, the women are off-stage when he wants them on. "Hurry up!," he calls, "By the time you guys get it right we gotta get ready for dakine — Christmas."

Afterward, Ho'omalu squats on the ground, puffs a menthol and talks about hula and tradition, insisting that what he does is traditional, though his chanting style is best described as some kind of fusion, his choreography routinely stretches the rules and he more often uses his own work than established compositions.

"I have limits, boundaries, things I will not do," he says, though he has difficulty defining these. "I think Hawai'i has room to grow. I think they need to understanding some things."

He tells his students that hula has three purposes: to entertain, to inspire and to teach. If you entertain well, some people will be inspired to learn. "I try to do what we have long done very well — to entertain. Some people have gone the other route, which is to learn and learn and learn."

Asked why he decided to return to Merrie Monarch after an absence of six years, he thinks for a while. "I came here to show my hula," he says. And then, hinting broadly that he understands that his style is unlikely to score high with conservative judges, he adds, "Sometimes it's not the points you have to get to win, it's the point you're trying to make."

Chinky Mahoe drops by to say "aloha" and confides that he can't wait until it's Monday. "I can't wait until it's my turn," Ho'omalu counters. "I like go twice."

Ho'omalu says he finds no difficulty in pursuing a life in Hawaiian culture even though he lives away from the Islands, in Oakland, Calif.

In fact, he swears he doesn't even miss home.

"Whatever I need, I make it. I grow it," he said. "Cliches can be useful. If Hawai'i is a state of mind, like the cliche, then my mind is always in Hawai'i. Wherever I put my feet, that's Hawai'i."