In May 2015, I was driving with a friend through Timor-Leste's capital, Dili. It was around lunchtime and the streets were buzzing with traffic, with cars entering the road from all sides and in all directions, incessantly honking and often squeezing into a fourth or fifth lane on the threelane road. We got stuck right in front of Timor Plaza-a relatively new multi-storey shopping mall that, despite high prices, attracts many visitors every day. A mikrolet (minibus) stopped in front of us that carried almost double the passengers it was built for, with quite a few young men hanging on outside. Loud Indonesian pop music was blasting from the speakers. It looked like most other mikrolets in Dili. However, three words stood 1 This article is based on research carried out in collaboration with, and with the support of, Monis Filipe, Flaviano Freitas and Evya do Carmo; they do not necessarily share the views expressed in this article. This research is based on seven months of fieldwork in Timor-Leste carried out in 2015 and 2016, which involved interviews with government officials, members of the oil industry, civil society and the 'affected community' of the Tasi Mane project in Suai and Betano. All interviews are anonymised. I would also like to thank all the participants of the University of Kent workshop 'Visions of the Future in Timor-Leste' for their helpful feedback, as well as Bernardo Almeida for his comments on this chapter.