He sways with an open heart. His flat feet dancing on red soil. Muscular thighs covered to it’s knees in tribal tattoos, flexing as he is moving. Wide chest, strong arms. Under warm brown eyes a white smile cracks open in his face, ear to ear. "–Dance", he shouts!

He pulls his black curly hair from his face, and starts swaying his hips like an Elvis, to the Macarena song pumping out from the back of his trunk. A lady with silver grey curly hair, in a sarong and a red short sleeved shirt, picks up on his command and starts laughingly sway her arms and hips too.

Around them children laugh.

Chicken look up and then quickly return to their picking. It’s Sunday afternoon on a Samoan island far out in the Pacific.