DILI - COFFEE trees loom over a village in the hills above Dili, the capital of Timor-Leste. Though their fruit has provided income for decades, Alarico Soares De Cruz, the local headman, says the pickings are gradually growing slimmer. Some of the trees are 40 years old, he explains, and ought to be pruned or completely replanted. But doing so would mean sacrificing the next couple of harvests, and no one is eager for that.
This month marks 15 years since Timor-Leste gained its independence after a quarter-century of oppressive Indonesian rule. In that time its leaders have stitched together a relatively stable democracy and brought electricity to its remote hamlets.

But they have struggled to reduce widespread poverty among the 1million odd Timorese, or to revive ailing farms. With reserves of oil and gas dwindling, the government is ploughing the country’s savings into grand development schemes. But some fear they could lead to ruin. A general election in July provides a chance to change direction, but voters seem unlikely to seize it.

 Timor-Leste has pocketed more than $18bn from Bayu-Undan, its biggest oil and gas field, since its first wells were sunk in 2004. But this income looks set to vanish entirely by 2023, as the field runs dry (see chart). Although a sovereign-wealth fund worth around $16bn will provide a cushion, the government has been dipping deep into this capital lately to fund investments. Last year La’o Hamutuk, a dogged local think-tank, warned that at present spending rates the cash pile could evaporate within ten years.

A handful of industries could sustain Timor in the lean years ahead. The most obvious is agriculture.

The coffee business provides some income to about a third of all households; coffee is the country’s only significant export apart from oil. Yet the government reckons that around a third of the country’s coffee trees are unproductive, withered by age and neglect; others yield only a fraction of what should be achievable. Coffee farmers are producing only about a quarter of the quantities that were shipped during the industry’s colonial heyday.

Another opportunity is to draw in more tourists. A survey published in 2014 by the Asia Foundation, a charity, found that foreigners­ mostly diplomats, development workers and their guests­ were spending about as much on leisure as the country was earning from exporting its coffee.

 Timor has pristine reefs, unspoilt hillsides and a compelling national story. Peeling away even a tiny fraction of the 4m holidaymakers who visit nearby Bali each year could make a big difference to the country’s fortunes.

The government is trying to foster both industries. After some missteps Timor’s tourism ministry has cooked up a natty logo and a flashy website. International outfits such as the Asian Development Bank are working to help boost coffee production; some Timorese beans are sold in Starbucks. Fernando Santana of the agriculture ministry says it plans to use a mixture of education and incentives to help farmers rejuvenate some 500 hectares of coffee plants this year.
The problem is that the government is devoting more time and money to a few risky mega-projects than to these worthy but dull schemes. A new port, the country’s first public-private partnership, is being built west of Dili.

It may gradually cheapen imports but will not immediately boost Timor’s home-grown industries.

Perth, Australia – An exhibition has been set up in the Western Australian Museum to honour and tell the tale of the extraordinary contribution of Timorese boys who risked their lives to help Australian soldiers during World War II.

The exhibition is put together by James Dexter, director of creative and regional development at the museum, whose father Lieutenant David Dexter, was one of those soldiers in the 2/2nd Squadron stationed in Timor-Leste.

"In 1941 the Australians, under pressure from the British, decided to create some commandos; it had never been done by the Army before," Mr Dexter told ABC Radio Perth. "The 2/2nd was sent to East Timor.”

 "In fact, Australia invaded a neutral country because it was then part of Portugal.

 "When the Japanese came they swept all before them.

"Every Australian, British, Dutch unit in the region surrendered — with the exception of the 2/2nd.

Lieutenant Dexter and the rest of the squadron hid in the hills and became guerrilla fighters while the Japanese occupied Dili.

"They were totally dependent on the goodwill and active support of the Timorese people and in particular the criado (Timorese boys)," Dexter said.

“They would not have survived otherwise.”

The criado were Timorese boys aged around 13 who attached themselves to Australian commandos and carried their packs and weapons during their months hiding in the hills.

Although the word criado means servant in the Tetun language, Dexter said this relationship was closer to that of brothers.

The commandos and the criado waged guerilla warfare on the Japanese for months; a few hundred men against a force of thousands.

"The criado were totally important in going to a village first to suss out if it was friendly and find out if a Japanese patrol was coming," Dexter said.

"They were the eyes and ears and the food gatherers.”

 "For the first two months the Australians had no supplies."

Back in Australia, the commandos were believed to have all been killed.

"It was only when they managed to scavenge together a radio from parts they raided from Dili that they were able to get a message back to Darwin that they were still fighting and the Australian High Command understood that they hadn't been lost," Mr Dexter said.

"When they first made contact with Darwin they asked for ammunition for their Tommy guns, new boots, quinine and two schilling pieces, solid silver florins to repay the East Timorese.

"They paid them scrupulously."

In December 1941, heavily outnumbered by the Japanese who were employing scorched-earth tactics, the 2/2nd were told they would be evacuated.

One object in the museum's collection is a particularly poignant reminder of what happened during that evacuation.

It is a small dagger with a scabbard inscribed with the word Ray — a parting gift for commando Ray Aitken from his criado on Batono Beach.

"This is a moment in history that is seared into the minds of the men of the 2/2nd," Mr Dexter said.

"When they were being taken off in December 1941, they had all assumed that their criados would be taken back to Australia with them.

"They knew that it would be a death sentence if the Japanese captured any Timorese that had been known to be collaborating with the Australians.

"They waited for the boats to come in, swam out to them and were brutally told: 'No niggers'."

 The criado were ultimately left behind.

But the commandos made a vow never to forget the people who had helped them.

Since 1946, continuing still today, the 2/2nd Association has provided aid and political support to the people Timor Leste.

They are also remembered on Anzac Day.

"With all the families of people who served there, I wouldn't say we felt guilt, but there is that sense of a sorrow which isn't just about mates who were killed, but of the tragedy that happened to the Timorese, really because we went in there," Dexter said.