Early one morning, when the sun hadn't even burned the mist off the landscape, I went walking near Apia Harbor and saw the group of men above net fishing from outrigger canoes.

The harbor wasn't as rich a fishing ground as some of the reefs, and, when I later saw the same men after they'd finished, they hadn't caught much. Even in 1968, people were commenting that it was becoming more and more difficult to get a good catch. Back in the old days, they said, you could go out in your outrigger canoe and come home with plenty of fish. The population is increasing, and I imagine the fishing has become even worse since then.

In 1968, most Western Samoans were still primarily on a subsistence economy. They planted and grew their own foodstuffs—taro, bananas, breadfruit, and other staples. They searched the forests for other food and for raw materials they used in may different ways, including for construction of their traditional houses.

For protein, they relied primarily on the sea. The men went net fishing or by swimming out among the reefs to spear small, bony reef-dwelling fish. Sometimes at night they also gathered crabs and lobsters. Unlike the people of Manihiki, Rakahanga, and other islands in the Northern Cooks, individual Western Samoans did very little deepwater fishing for tuna. The Samoan diet also included family-raised chicken and pork and occasional beef. The pork and beef were normally cooked, presented, and redistributed primarily at funerals and other ceremonial affairs.

Here are the same men I'd seen earlier, now gathered by their outrigger canoes at the end of their fishing expedition.

Back in 1968, the majority of Western Samoans outside Apia lived in traditional Samoan fale like the one at the top of the predecing page, which I photographed in Palauli District on the "big island," Savai'i. The thatched roofing is made of sugarcane leaves, while the blinds hanging down inside are woven of coconut leaves. The posts supporting the roof were made from a particularly straight species of tree called pou muli that was sometimes planted in small groves in the forest and allowed to grow for five or ten years before harvesting.

On Manono, a small island not far from the main island, Upolu, there seemed to exist a pocket of the past. Here are several of the more elegant traditional houses of the sort the people of Manono were still living in back then. Manono lies off the western tip of Upolu, within the larger island's fringing reef.

In ancient days, Manono held rather more political power than this small island's size would suggest. In part this was because the island served as a fortress to which in troubled times its inhabitants and their relatives could retire to comparative safety.

Here's a lucky shot. I was walking along the path with friends, going from one village to another. A young girl had been climbing coconut trees to gather niu, or drinking nuts. My telephoto lens on, I simply raised the camera and hit the shutter release.

Thirty years ago, life in the villages was difficult, and it probably still is now. Everyone worked hard. As soon as children could walk, they were given the task of fetching things for their elders. Young girls took care of younger children and also helped by doing the laundry under a freshwater pipe or in the river. Young boys accompanied their fathers and uncles to the plantations, where they helped plant and harvest taro. Sometimes they also went fishing. Often they were sent to catch freshwater shrimp in a nearby river. Even old men, no longer able to work strenuously, sat around in the fale, drinking coffee or cocoa Samoa, and talking with companions of their own age as they rolled sennit fibers into twine or rope. Older women kept busy weaving house mats or ie toga.

Life for the young untitled men—the taule'ale'a—was full of work from dawn until well after dusk. The young man in this photo, for instance, probably awoke at dawn, started the cooking fire for breakfast, served food to his chief and elders, then walked five miles to his family's garden plot and spent the rest of the morning and early afternoon planting taro or bananas. Around mid-afternoon, he would return to the village laden with 60 pounds or more of produce, take his family's outrigger canoe (above), and go fishing across the lagoon near the reef, where he would spend an hour or more spearing the small reef fish that form the normal protein staple of the rural Samoan's diet.

His fishing finished, he'd return home, wash the salt water off himself with fresh water, and do more cooking. Again he'd serve a meal to his chief and elders, sitting obediently at the back of the room where he could watch and anticipate their needs. He'd eat his own dinner only after they were finished. Then he'd wait until his chief and elders dismissed him. Only then could he fully relax.

An extended family's untitled men taule'le'a) comprise its work force and muscle and its chief's power base. Immensely proud of their aiga (extended family) and loyal to it, they stand as a potential army should another aiga infringe on their land rights or disturb the peace of the village. While the village Council of Chiefs makes rules and regulations, and fines or otherwise punishes individuals who break the rules, the untitled men sometimes enforce the chiefs' dictates. For important ceremonies, the untitled men must kill and cook the pigs, build the rock ovens, cook the meat, gather and cook the taro, ta'amu, and coconuts, go fishing for the fish, and do most of the actual labor involved in preparing for the usual distribution of food and goods. It is the taule'ale'a's place to work hard and follow orders.

To be an untitled man in Samoa isn't easy. The daily work is often heavy, demanding, and onerous. Under a reasonable chief, an untitled man's role is bearable—and it certainly has its moments of fun, amusement, and pleasure, evenings spent sitting inthe darkness on the village road, strumming guitars and singing, or hunting under cover of darkness for a girlfriend, or even gathering with other untitled men to make and drink a batch of home brew. Under the authority of a demanding and unreasonable matai, however, an untitled man's role may be only a step or two removed from being in a chain gang.

The Samoan social system contains checks and balances that tend to restrain any unreasonably demanding matai. Since Samoans can lay claim to membership in any aiga they can trace their genealogical relationship to, and, since most Samoans, if they really do their research among their relatives, can trace relationships to half a dozen or more extended families, they have many escape hatches. In an unbearable living situation, they have the option of moving in with relatives across the village, district, or island, or even to an altogether different island, to stay with other relatives in a different aiga. To lay claim to membership in the new family, they must be able to trace their genealogies and show that they are indeed related. This happens often. In this way, an unreasonable chief soon finds himself deserted in his home, with only his immediate nuclear family, but without a core of other untitled supporters to do his work and bidding.

Four or five miles from the center of Fa'ala Village in Palauli District, Savai'i, a guardhouse had been constructed adjacent to the only path leading to most of the village's family plantations. Plantation theft has been a great problem, and this was how Fa'ala prevented it. The untitled man in at lower right is bringing hom the taro and other crops he's harvested. He's carrying them in baskets slung on a strong stick (amo) across his back. The watchman notes each basket's contents so that later, if fields or trees have been stripped by thieves, the culprit can be identified.

Incidentally, if you think life in Samoa is one of easy sloth, try carrying 60 or 70 pounds this way for five miles. Several times weekly, most untitled men in this village did this.

While perhaps one in 20 Samoans receives a title from his aiga and becomes a "chief," the majority don't attain this status. Here an untitled man, Kolio, smokes a cigarette after a long, hard day of work. As an untitled man, Kolio's job was to do the bidding of his chief or the household head, who in this case was his older brother, Nikolao, also an untitled man.

When I knew Kolio in 19678-69, he worked very hard. He spent his time planting taro, going out into the forest in search of firewood to carry home (sometimes huge logs), chopping wood, fishing at the reef, planting bananas, taro, and breadfruit, gathering materials for mending the family's old house or for new construction, and doing a host of other chores that kept him busy from dawn until dusk.

I don't know if Kolio is still alive, but I know that his life for years was one of hard toil, which he performed patiently and with great devotion. If he is still alive, I hope that, like many other older Samoans, he now spends his time relaxing in the fale, chatting with other men of his own age, rolling sennit from coconut husk fibers across his thighs, and being served by younger people, as is certainly his due.