Late in 1968 I went to Western Samoa to spend a year there photographing the people and their culture and doing anthropological research. My main residence was with a Samoan family I had met several years before. When I say "family," I use the term to mean something more than a nuclear family and something considerably less than an aiga or extended family. In fact, there were usually about 25 people in this living unit. They stayed primarily in one house in Leone, a rural, village-like setting on the outskirts of Apia, Western Samoa's capital.

During that year, I ventured out and stayed in a number of other areas as well, including the island of Manono and Fa'a'la Village in Paulauli (Savai'i) and both Fasito'otai and Falealili on Upolu.

After that year, I returned on other occasions to spend three months in the same areas, as well as six or seven times more to spend anywhere from a few days to a week or two.

Whenever I stayed in Samoa, I usually kept my camera with me. I never knew what I might see and what photographic opportunities might appear, so I tried to remain ready. The photographs in this collection are a few of several thousand that I took.

These photographs and explanations represent Samoan culture as it was then, when I experienced it. Although I believe that many aspects of culture have not significantly changed since those times, this information dates from 1968 through 1984. I have not been back since then.

At the easternmost tip of Upolu as one flies toward American Samoa, one sees shallow lagoons stretching out between land and reef. Within these lagoons, Samoans do most of their fishing. At night, they venture out toward the reefs with lanterns, diving down to search for crabs and lobsters, which are most plentiful during hours of darkness. Villages are usually located within sight of the sea, which makes harvesting the potential marine food supply much easier than it would be if villagers had to walk miles to reach water. In addition, breezes blowing off the ocean keep their homes considerably cooler than they would be inland.

The major Samoan islands are volcanic. From the air, Upolu can be seen to have the long, gentle volcanic slopes of fluid lava flows. Savai'i is somewhat more rugged. Several extensive areas of this larger island are covered with relatively new lava and even show some signs of live volcanic activity, though none have recently suggested that volcanic eruption is imminent.

American Samoa, on the other hand, is much more precipitous. One wag has suggested that American Samoa's chief export is Samoans, and there may be some truth to this. There are more American Samoans in California than there are in the entire American Territory, and there are many more, too, in Hawaii and elsewhere in the United States.

Here is what I consider the most beautiful Samoan fale I have ever seen. Set on a raised stone platform several feet high, it caught the breezes that nearly always blew inland from the ocean. The thatched roof was ideal for keeping the interior cool, and the only time it became really uncomfortable was once for about 24 hours when I and some 30 or 40 other people endured a hurricane with winds of around 120 miles per hour.

About 27 people lived in this living unit. Most slept in this fale, stretched out on mats on the floor, covered with sheets as protection against mosquitoes. The precise roster of individuals living here shifted over time. An aunt or an uncle from a distant village might come and stay for three months, while another might move permanently to Savai'i. An adopted daughter would go off to a different village on the same island and spend six months with the family of her biological father, then return later. I always think of this fale with fond memories, and, when I think I'm romanticising its beauty, I have only to look at my photographs to realize that it was indeed as beautiful as I remember.

In 1968, as now, Western Samoa was the least westernized of the two Samoas. With approximately 1,100 square miles compared to American Samoa's 27, Western Samoa had a population five to six times greater than the American territory's.

Apia, the capital, was the main center of western economic impact. It was here in Apia that the mixed Samoan-European families started their major trading businesses and now have small department stores as part of their legacy. It is to Apia that many rural Samoans now flee to escape traditional Samoan village life and to find greater autonomy and freedom. It is in Apia, too, that many villagers flock to sell their produce in the market, perhaps the easiest way to enter the money economy. And it is here in Apia that the major offices of the government of independent Western Samoa are now located.

This village scene conjures up the classical stereotype of a tropical paradise. Notice, however, that the houses don't really have walls—just blinds woven of coconut leaves. A series of eight or 10 panels are fastened together on a string of sennit, and at night or in rainy weather these are let down to keep out cold air or rain. Sometimes they're let down, too, to block the sunlight. The direct rays of the sun are uncomfortably hot in this latitude, only about five degrees from the equator.

If you think this is paradise, ponder the idea that almost all the time in a Samoan village everyone sees what everyone else is doing. Neighbors keep a perpetual eye on each other. The lack of privacy makes others witness to arguments, fights, disagreements, and any number of other matters Europeans keep hidden from public view in their many-roomed domiciles. Bear in mind, also, that in a traditional Samoan fale, 20 or more people may be sleeping on the floor next to each other.

Human beings are incredibly malleable, a fact that Margaret Mead long ago pointed out. If you're used to living in close quarters with many other people, and have almost never been alone, then being alone makes you uncomfortable. If, on the other hand, you are used to being alone, as most Americans or Europeans are, then the constant presence of others can be very unpleasant.

One result of living in a culture affording little or no privacy is that control over behavior is exercised to an enormous degree by public exposure and public shaming rather than by internalized norms. This is not to say that Samoans don't have a conscience and don't know right from wrong—but, in Samoan life, the knowledge that your neighbors are nearly always watching (and talking) keeps people in line.

The interior of a Samoan home is conceived and constructed according to an age-old traditional design, under the supervision of an experienced tufuga, or carpenter. The timbers are generally pou muli, a light, firm wood. The thatching (consisting of woven sugarcane sections tied together with sennit, a rope made from braiding together the fibers taken from coconut husks) is placed in overlapping rows and effectively prevents rain from dripping in. Not only does the traditional Samoan fale have the greatest beauty of any traditional South Pacific home, but it is also ideal for the climate. A westernized "fale" with a roof of corrugated iron radiates heat down into the structure and can be most uncomfortable. The walls of western-style wooden houses prevent breezes from cooling the interior. For sheer comfort in the hot Pacific climate, nothing surpasses the traditional Samoan fale.

Here you see two of the three main protein staples of the Samoan diet—chickens and pigs. Most households have a few chickens running around outside. At night, the roosters crow at least four times during the hours of darkness. Sometimes you'll hear one rooster crow, and then, further away, dozens of other roosters crow like a wave of sound passing over the landscape and moving out into the distance.

Most families keep a few pigs somewhere in a little pigsty away from the family's main dwelling. Sometimes piglets are given to children as pets. For instance, an eight-year-old may be given a pet pig intended for dinner when the child graduates from high school. The pig will follow people around, collapse in a happy heap, puppy-like, when scratched, and generally maintain a presence outside the family's dwelling for years. When the celebration finally arrives, the pig will be killed, cooked in an umu (rock oven), and served for dinner.