The world's peace-keepers arrive to find Timor a smouldering ruin

JUST BEYOND the perimeter of Dili airport, where the Hercules transport planes were rumbling in, and the Australian soldiers were bedding down for the night under their mosquito nets, new fires were burning last night. The closest one was no more than 200 yards away, and from the edge of the runway, you could smell the smoke and see the flames.

It was a house, somebody said, and it began to burn just as the sun was going down. A planeful of weary infantrymen were loading their packs on to army trucks as the flames rose; few of them gave it more than a glance. Yesterday, after three weeks of violence and destruction, the world's peacekeepers finally arrived in East Timor, after 24 years of Indonesian misrule. But, under their noses, in this little pocket of the territory at least, the destruction continued.

It was a sombre and bizarre day in Dili. Beginning at dawn, up to 2,000 armed soldiers from six countries thundered in, with 6,000 more due to follow. They bear the sleek acronym Interfet - the International Force East Timor. They include infantrymen, marines, Gurkhas and members of the British and Australian Special Forces.

Without question, their arrival is the best hope that East Timor has for peace and normality. But any relief yesterday was overcome by dismay at how uselessly late they are.

East Timor is in smithereens. Last night, at least, Interfet resembled a sticking plaster painstakingly applied to an already amputated limb.

All week, there had been growing anxiety in Australia about what the force would meet on its arrival, but the landing itself was almost eerily smooth. Shooting had been heard in the town from early in the morning, and Australian SAS men in helmets and goggles scuttled from the first plane. But the few soldiers of the Indonesian armed forces (TNI) on the ground displayed only friendly indifference.

"So far we've been benignly and cordially accepted by the TNI," said Interfet's Australian commander, Major-General Peter Cosgrove, sounding almost grateful. The impression of goodwill didn't last beyond the airport runway.

No one knows who exactly caused the havoc here. The airport offices have been comprehensively looted, of furniture, computers, even light- bulbs. The departure lounge smells like a sewer, with a coating of human filth spread evenly over its white tile floor.

The road into town is worse. In the suburb of Comoro, barely one house in three remains unburnt. We passed gutted shops, gutted offices, and the burned out shell of arestaurant. The handset of an office phone lies in the middle of the road, a few yards on from the crushed carcass of a dog.

For two miles there is almost no one - until the very centre of town. In the harbour are two large ships. Lining the railings, clambering aboard, and huddling on the quayside are Dili's remaining refugees.

I soon stopped trying to estimate numbers, but there are thousands here, calmly and solemnly sitting among mattresses, blankets, wardrobes, bicycles and sacks of rice. Long convoys of six or eight trucks rumble by, loaded up with these people, as Interfet and UN vehicles drive busily by in the other direction bound for West Timor. It is strange for refugees to be leaving now, just as the international community promises peace. "They are not leaving because they want to," said Father Francisco, sitting among more refugees in the ruins of the home of the Bishop of Dili, Carlos Belo. "They are being made to leave, by the army and by the militias."

Where are the militias? Diminished in numbers, certainly, and keeping a low profile, but visibly active among the refugees. Interfet officers reported seeing them carrying home-made guns and, all afternoon, you could catch glimpses of young men in the black T-shirts of the Aitarak militia, huddled in groups of two or three or zipping by on motorbikes.