It's not for nothing that the Samoans are sometimes known as the Irish of the South Pacific. Many of them have migrated to other countries, such as New Zealand and the US, but the majority who remain share a love of life and words.

In fact, among the many categories of chiefs in a hierarchy of village life which has fascinated anthropologists for years, are the orators and talking chiefs.

I've just returned from a traditional ceremony where we sat cross-legged under an open-sided fale, or house, for 90 minutes in the steamy summer heat while the talking chiefs fully lived up to their name.

The object of their colourful rhetoric, in Samoan, was to thank us for delivering some Aussie Rules football jerseys from a club near Canberra to their new village team known as the Tigers.

Because of an initiative by some rules-starved Aussie expats the game is being introduced to a proud nation where rugby union is deemed the second religion after the numerous Christian denominations brought in by missionaries.

Fortunately the locals, who are born athletes (if not always highly disciplined ones), are taking up the game with gusto, but at the moment they sadly remain largely ignorant of its Celtic roots.

Reciprocity is a key feature of island life and in return for the overpoweringly warm wool jerseys there is an embarrassingly generous array of gifts, including a roast pig, which will never fit in the hotel bar fridge.

I was also presented, after much bowing and singing, with hand-woven palm mats complete with chicken feathers and the intoxicating peppery brew called kava which is derived from a potent root and is subject to an elaborate ceremony in itself.

In fact the whole nation of just 160,000 people is bound up with tribal rituals which make Samoa, which dropped the Western from its name in 1997 to perhaps increase confusion with nearby American Samoa, the most culturally-intact destination in the Pacific.

Sometimes the cultures old and new clash. Police might tell drivers to obey only the rules of the road but people still insist on giving way to chiefs in cars out of respect for the old ways.

I've been invited to the so-called cradle of Polynesia for a very special assignment requiring a handpicked candidate with reliable expertise and professionalism in a single field.

I am to be a special judge at the Miss South Pacific Beauty Pageant tonight. At first I did not believe the request either but after weeks of chasing the likes of One Nation MP Pauline Hanson around outback Australia it sounded like a good idea. And who could say No to an invitation like that?

Samoa lies just to the east of the international dateline and claims to be the last place to see the end of every day. It's about 2,500 miles from Sydney and the time zone and day changes inflict debilitating jet lag. We left Sydney at 6 p.m. last Tuesday and arrived in the capital Apia at 6 a.m. the same Tuesday. On the return leg the seven hour flight via New Zealand is even more confusing leaving here at 7.00 a.m. on Monday and arriving back at 3.00 p.m. Tuesday.

But back to the pageant, which has attracted 12 girls from Oceania from dream islands like Hawaii, Tonga, Fiji, Papua New Guinea and even tiny Nuie. They represent the cream of Polynesian and Melanesian beauty and brains and a great deal of national pride is invested in the annual contest.

So much so that some of the judges, such as myself, are shipped in from supposedly neutral countries like Australia to help avoid any charges of match-fixing and bribery.

Believe it or not it has happened in the past and there was a riot, so we have been warned to be scrupulously fair and avoid any temptations.

I'VE yet to set eyes on the girls, who are under the close guard of chaperones including Samoa's fascinating fa'afafine. These are the last-born boys who according to some traditions are brought up as girls in the villages and many remain there happily married with children.

Others become transvestites and transsexuals and form their own clique in Apia where some like Cindy are famous for their own floorshows and the annual Miss Tutti Frutti contest.

My first job is to judge the floats in the colourful Miss South Pacific street parade which winds its way along the sleepy equatorial waterfront to the massive millennium clock counting down the minutes to the year 2000 which they hope will be a big deal here.

Later comes the crucial awarding of points for the best island costume, which can include some rather risque coconut outfits, the best sash and the all-important best sarong which must be one piece of fabric wrapped around the contestant in a way which leaves her free to swim.

There is also a special prize for the best coconut in which the girl must decorate the ubiquitous emblem of the region in the most imaginative way.

While the Miss World contest has only just come back to life feminism never really affected the running of this more modest Pacific version. Despite the generally bulky dimensions of many men and women here the contestants conform more to European notions of body mass index because that is obviously the way the locals and the judges like it.

A few female chiefs have complained but the majority of chiefs seem to prefer their beauty queens, if not necessarily their wives or daughters, to be on the slim side.

The other concession to imported tastes, thanks to the missionaries of the last century, is the ban on the baring of breasts.

In Papua New Guinea a half-naked female offends few Melanesian sensibilities but in more regulated Samoa the bras, even if they are made of coconuts, must stay firmly on.

I can hardly wait.