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.

Manono Island, Fale Samoa & Men's Work in Samoa

During that 1968, Richard A. Goodman ventured out and stayed on the island of Manono and in Fa'a'la Village in Paulauli (Savai'i) and both Fasito'otai and Falealili on Upolu.

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 fibres 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.

Back in 1968, the majority of Western Samoans outside Apia lived in traditional Samoan fale, which I photographed in Paulauli 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.

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 fibres into twine or rope. Older women kept busy weaving house mats or ie toga.

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.

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When I knew Kolio in 1967-69, 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.

We tend to forget what life was like 50 or 60 years ago, when almost no one had television and when people actually sat around after dinner and talked to each other. In the late 1960s, in Western Samoa, villagers still lived this way. They sat around a Coleman lantern, drinking Samoan cocoa (in the metal pot, above), comparing notes about what each person had done that day, speculating about which villager was up to what, exchanging rumor and gossip, and wondering what the coming day would bring. The houses in a village were almost all within sight of each other, which made both visiting and prying into other people's business easy.

These photographs and explanations represent Samoan culture and Samoa village life as it was from 1968 through 1984.  We gratefully acknowledge Richard A. Goodman's work and his kind approval to use his photos and commentary.

More from Richard A. Goodman on Traditional Samoa Village Life & Customs; Women's Work in Samoa and Samoan Traditions and Church life; Samoan Tattoo.

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.

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 in the 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.

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