Imagine a gleaming airport, built for jumbo jets, sitting eerily silent, its runways untouched by the buzz of arriving passengers. Picture a four-lane highway, stretching for miles, devoid of traffic, its asphalt cracked and marred by gaping sinkholes. This isn't a scene from a dystopian film, but the stark reality in Timor-Leste, where ambitious infrastructure projects fueled by dreams of oil and gas riches now stand as haunting symbols of unfulfilled promises. But here's where it gets controversial: are these 'ghost' projects a necessary gamble for a nation's future, or a costly misstep driven by political ambition? And this is the part most people miss: the human stories behind these grand schemes, the communities displaced, and the hopes dashed.
In 2017, the Xanana Gusmão International Airport opened in Suai, a remote city on Timor-Leste's border with Indonesia, with promises of bustling activity and economic opportunity. Joao Gusmao, a local leader, recalls the optimism: 'We were told planes would fill the skies, bringing jobs and a brighter future, especially for our youth.' Yet, years later, the airport remains a ghostly shell. On the day of our visit, a lone medical evacuation flight on a tiny six-seater plane was the only scheduled activity. A small crew of cleaners diligently mops floors untouched by passengers, a stark contrast to the airport's intended purpose. The security desks are unmanned, arrival boards blank, and the X-ray machine has never functioned. Outside, the car park is a desolate expanse, a silent testament to unmet expectations.
Just a kilometer away, a $550 million 'super highway' built by a Chinese consortium lies equally underutilized. During our hour-long observation, only two trucks, a handful of cars, and a few scooters—some driving on the wrong side—passed by, cautiously navigating the massive sinkholes that have formed. Marta Da Silva, head of the local NGO La'o Hamutuk, laments, 'These projects were meant to transform our region, but they remain unused, with no return on investment. The government dreamed big but overlooked the practicalities of implementation.'
At the heart of this saga is the Greater Sunrise oil and gas field, located 150km southeast of Timor-Leste, estimated to hold resources worth up to $50 billion. For over two decades, it has been hailed as the nation's economic savior. The airport and highway, part of the Tasi Mane project, were constructed in anticipation of processing Greater Sunrise's resources onshore. However, this vision has yet to materialize. 'It’s starting to look like a white elephant,' notes oil and gas analyst Saul Kavonic. The Timorese government, owning over half the project, has insisted on processing the gas in Timor, resisting calls to use existing infrastructure in Darwin. Kavonic attributes this stance to 'resource nationalism' and the influence of powerful political figures, rather than purely economic considerations.
But here's the controversial twist: while the government sees this as a matter of national pride and long-term development, critics argue it’s an economically unviable gamble. Woodside, the project's operator and one-third owner, has not prioritized Greater Sunrise, and no major oil and gas company views it as a priority. When approached for comment, Woodside pointed to a 2025 statement committing to a 'cooperation agreement' with Timor-Leste, with potential LNG production by 2032-2035—a timeline many find overly optimistic.
The project's history is fraught with challenges, including a protracted maritime border dispute with Australia, resolved only in 2018. During a recent visit, Australian Prime Minister Anthony Albanese pledged to return at least a third of Australia's future revenues from Greater Sunrise to Timor-Leste but remained non-committal on where the gas should be processed. 'We recognize the commercial complexities,' he stated, leaving the door open for further negotiation.
Here’s where it gets even more contentious: Timor-Leste’s government has limited options. They could 'give in' and allow gas to be piped to Australia, play the 'China card' to pressure Australia into subsidizing the project, or buy out Woodside and go it alone—a move Kavonic calls 'exceptionally risky.' In Suai, the impact of these decisions is deeply personal. Hundreds were relocated for the projects, promised jobs, a mini-market, a chapel, and a kindergarten—none of which materialized. Yet, Joao Gusmao remains hopeful: 'Development is slow, but we must prepare for the next generation. These projects are our future.'
As the debate rages on, one question lingers: Is Timor-Leste’s gamble on Greater Sunrise a bold vision for the future, or a costly mistake? What do you think? Share your thoughts in the comments below.
