Revolution Postponed – Dili

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Tell friends you are off to Timor-Leste, and you'll be met with uncomprehending stares. Timor what? Timor where? Why? The answer is simple: because it's there, because no one I know has even been there, and because most people I talk to, even around southeast Asia, have never heard of it. Yet there it undeniably is, waiting to be discovered.

For a few short years after it gained independence from Indonesia in 2002, Timor-Leste had the honor of being the world's newest country. Sixteen years later, the best that can be said about Dili, the country's capital, is that it remains work in progress. In many ways, work has barely started.

Each day, the sultry serenity of Dili's airport, the country's only international gateway, is shattered by a half-a-dozen flights, mostly from Bali or Darwin and occasionally Singapore. Immigration procedures are prompt, and a $30 visa on arrival a formality.

Once outside, a yellow taxi in an advanced state of decomposition ferries me the short distance to the town ("city" seems too grand a term for such an unassuming place). My first challenge consists of convincing my driver that his take on monetary policy is faulty: coins marked "50 centavos" are not worth $1, I argue, and 10 of these do not amount to the $10 change I'm entitled to receive from the $20 note I foolishly handed over (the US dollar is the country's official currency).

Timor-Leste, or Eastern East in Indo-Portuguese, has had an unfortunate history. Colonized by Portugal from the early 16th century but largely left to its own devices thereafter, the country consists of half a cigar-shaped island just north of Darwin, the western half having been conceded by the Portuguese to the Dutch. Occupied by Japan during WW2 before reverting to Portuguese rule, revolution in the mother country in 1975 saw the Portuguese abandon their colonies overnight, wretchedly poor, severely misgoverned, and utterly unprepared for independence. After a few years of self-proclaimed "revolutionary" government in Timor, Jakarta sent its army over the border and occupied the country for almost a quarter of a century.

As Timorese official history represents it, those years were marked by brutal repression on one side and unimaginable suffering on the other. References to political high-mindedness are everywhere. One of the town's main sights is the Museu da Resistência Timorense. To get there, you'll probably walk along Avenida dos Direitos Humanos or Rua dos Mártires da Pátria. Among the few countries with diplomatic representation in Dili, Cuba is one, and tiny, impoverished Timor-Leste even maintains an embassy in Havana.

Public rhetoric is abundant in Dili, as are funds for maintaining impressive government buildings, often next door to shattered concrete shells that are home to migrant families, the children playing in the dust and the family laundry drying on what remains of the roof. But what rhetoric and slogans cannot provide is tangible development. Compared to the frenetic pace of most Asian cities, the town seems somnolent, even morose. On street corners, groups of young men sit, doing nothing in particular other than smoking and gazing at passing visitors.

Dili may be big on spiffy ministries, but little else appears to be changing. A reliable proxy for a forward-looking capital city is the bustle of construction, with a cityscape dominated by cranes and cement trucks trundling back and forth. During my entire stay in Dili, I spotted just two cranes, neither of which showing any signs of activity, and not a single cement truck.

For better or worse, mobile phones are coming. Locals can be heard braying into tiny instruments and broadcasting their private life for all to hear. But phones are strictly for talking, not staring at. Getting a wifi connection involves visiting the Timor Telecom shop behind the splendid Timor Hotel, purchasing a local SIM card, and getting a condescending teenager to set it all up for you.

By Asian standards, Dili is strangely lacking in commercial activity. Isolated shops are dotted along a few streets instead of forming continuous chains as in the pulsating hearts of less lethargic cities. On the stroke of six o'clock, the squeak of metal shutters being lowered is heard, and minutes later, all commercial activity ceases. In the heat of the day, men standing on street corners hawk cigarettes and especially oranges, each one hanging on a string at the end of a stick. Putting together this display must be a labour of love, especially considering the likely profit. With Russia's World Cup about to get under way, national flags are on offer, with Portugal's the runaway best-seller. Could this be an omen?

A lone Burger King and the obligatory Thai restaurant are open for business, but street food vendors sell only corn, and local restaurants hide behind half-open heavy metal doors. But they are worth hunting down as the food is delicious: to the uninitiated at least, similar to Indonesian food, with plenty of vegetarian options, including potato patties known as perkedel, fresh salads, and lots of soy in various combinations. The Portuguese presence lingers on in a few shops where excellent wine is available for around $7. For another dollar and rather more kick, try the local uísque escosês. This is a staunchly Catholic country: Indonesia's creeping Islamic restrictions on imbibing don't apply.

The town is squeezed between the coast and the foothills, with the central mountain range as a backdrop. The central portion of the town consists of four parallel avenues intersected by tree-lined cross-streets. During the day, the town invites wandering: I walked from the beach to the foothills in under half-an-hour, enough to witness the advanced state of deforestation there. It wouldn't take much of a rainstorm to send what's left of the soil sliding down, taking with it the shacks that dot the slopes and their human content with them.

Traffic is light, unhurried, and orderly. Virtually all motorbike riders wear helmets and often wave to let you cross the road safely. Yellow taxis beep, looking for customers. In a quiet side street, two small boys relax by lying on their back across the gutter, the paved street for a pillow and their feet up on the raised curb. A few doors down, a boy drags a broken toy truck on a string from one side of the street to the other, while his less fortunate friend makes do with the lower half of an old food mixer he tugs by its electric cord. Dili is not exactly awash with disposable income: children improvise their own entertainment., and their frank smiles and shrill greetings are from the heart: "Hello, mister!" "Salamat!"

All day long, mini-buses known as microlet ply the streets. Would-be passengers stand patiently on shady street corners. Waits are short: another one will be along soon. At sunset, homebound locals cram inside while two or three young males hang on perilously as they stand where the door should be. As dusks descends, the streets empty: the long dark stretches between the rare lamp posts do not suggest sauntering.

Beside all those ministries and their sumptuous headquarters (the Ministry of Social Solidarity, whatever that is, is especially magnificent), another prosperous institution is the Catholic Church. The Cathedral of the Immaculate Conception is splendid, probably the largest structure in town and far more imposing than the tiny airport terminal, the local hospital, even the most resplendent ministry. In one of the most desirable locations on the seafront stands the smaller but impeccably maintained Church of St Anthony. As it happens, today is the saint's feast day. Mass is being said from an altar built into one side of the church. A vast crowd fills the church grounds to capacity and spills out into the streets, which police motorbikes bar to traffic. The Catholic faith is alive in Dili, and visitors are encouraged to visit the statue of Pope John Paul, erected to commemorate his visit in 1989.

Although this will involve another parley with a taxi driver with a questionable grasp of economic theory, another must-see destination in Dili is the statue of Christ the King. Surprisingly, this is not another sign of Timorese devotion but a leftover from an attempt by Indonesia to indulge occupied Timor-Leste and tempt it to forget about independence and live with its lot as a province of Indonesia. The calculation failed, but the view from the top of the statue is splendid, best enjoyed in the early morning as the rising sun lights up the majestic sweep of the bay, summoning the town to life and revealing in the distance the misty outline of Ataúro Island, the Isle of Goats in Tetum, the main local language.

On my last night in Dili, over a shared dinner and a couple of bottles of Portuguese Shiraz at my guesthouse, I learn that two of my fellow travelers fell for the 50 centavos for a dollar scam. I'll be vigilant as I get to the airport tomorrow: I have been warned, twice over.

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