When the army of Indonesia, the world's fourth most populous nation, launched a full-scale invasion of tiny East Timor on December 7, 1975, it must have seemed like a fairly straightforward proposition. The tiny territory took up half of the island of Timor; Indonesia controlled the other half.

The international community's reaction would not be a problem. The day before the invasion, Indonesian dictator Soeharto had hosted a banquet for US president Gerald Ford and Secretary of State Henry Kissinger. The region's only other major power, Australia, could also be counted on to look the other way. Jakarta and Canberra were later to carve up the oil-rich Timor Gap between them.

Then there was the small matter of the East Timorese - the poor, backward East Timorese. Just released from over 400 years of Portuguese colonial maladministration, and weakened by civil war and Indonesian infiltration, they were not expected to offer much resistance.

Some twenty-four years on, the man who did probably more than any other to thwart Indonesia's designs is sitting in a suite in Seoul's Grand Hyatt Hotel. With his bright eyes, carefully-groomed beard and easy-going manner, he seems more like a slightly eccentric professor than the guerrilla commander idolised by his people.

Xanana Gusmao is on a whistle-stop tour of Asia to secure support for the rebuilding of the 21st century's first new country. It may not sound easy, but the man known as 'East Timor's Mandela' has made a habit of defying the odds.

From a Korean point of view, there is a certain identification with, and poignancy to, the way East Timor was offered hope with the end of colonial rule, only to be quickly plunged into chaos and misery.

"It was almost one event after another," Xanana says of Portugal's decision to withdraw and the Indonesian invasion. "There was the civil war between (the two main political parties) UDT and Fretilin. The Portuguese governers fled. The official invasion was on December 7, 1975, but from September, the Indonesians had been infiltrating from West Timor.

"We were mobilising people to the border and our population mobilised to help our forces with food and other needs. It was not a very happy moment, but the struggle started at that time."

As the Portuguese had fled without completing the formalities of decolonisation, Fretilin, who had prevailed in the brief civil war, took steps to ensure East Timor's survival.

"We proclaimed unilaterally our republic," Xanana says. "We sent (Jose) Ramos-Horta and others to mobilise international support."

These efforts led quickly to a UN Security Council resolution condemning the invasion, but as Ramos-Horta points out, "some countries that voted for that resolution also continued to sell weapons to Indonesia."

Dili, the East Timorese capital, fell immediately. As Xanana took to the mountains to join Falintil, Fretilin's military wing, the occupiers began a campaign of brutal repression. Massacres, concentration camps and enforced sterilisations were employed in an attempt to bring the nation to its knees.

Falintil, however, continued to harass the Indonesian army. The small, poorly equipped guerrilla group showed remarkable resilience. In the late 70s and early 80s, Indonesia, using sophisticated weaponry supplied by western liberal democracies, launched a massive "encirclement and annihilation" campaign. In 1981, the Indonesian army carried out the infamous "fence of legs" operation, in which thousands of civilians were driven across the island ahead of the soldiers to flush out the resistance fighters. In these years, over 200,000 East Timorese are believed to have been killed. The resistance suffered huge losses. A number of their leaders, including inspirational commander Nicolau Lobato, were killed, and Xanana found himself charged with picking up the pieces. He succeeded.

"The reason was our ideal of independence," he says. "The determination of our people could give us strength, inspiration and motivation to continue."

The world was finally forced to take notice in November 1991. In full view of foreign journalists and TV cameras, the army opened fire on a peaceful demonstration at Dili's Santa Cruz cemetery. Reports followed of survivors being systematically slaughtered by the soldiers. Casualties numbered 271 dead and 382 injured. A further 250 were never accounted for.

"I have to say that I didn't expect such behaviour," Xanana says, his expression betraying the pain the memory still brings. "I guess we expected some reaction, but not of that dimension.

"I was very sad," he continues, "but in our war we had to believe that he who fell accomplished his mission, his duty."

Almost exactly a year after the massacre, Xanana's 17 years of guerrilla activities ended with his capture by the Indonesian military. Following a trial described by international observers as a farce, he was sentenced to life in prison, later commuted to 20 years.

With international awareness of the plight of East Timor growing, calls for Xanana's release mounted, and as Indonesia's society and economy began to unravel, Ramos-Horta and others stepped up the pressure. South African president Nelson Mandela's insistence on meeting Xanana during his 1997 State visit to Indonesia sent a powerful message to Jakarta, and following the resignation of President Soeharto in May 1998, East Timor began to edge toward independence.

In February 1999, Xanana left Cipinang prison, and a month later, Jakarta announced that East Timor would be allowed to vote on its future. Despite widespread intimidation, the population voted overwhelmingly at the end of August to split from Indonesia. The Indonesian army and the militias they sponsored responded with a vindictive scorched-earth policy, destroying as much as they could before UN peacekeepers moved in.

The UN is currently overseeing the transition to self-rule. East Timor is in ruins. Xanana, however is "optimistic."

"The tradition of the East Timorese people is of faith, and determination to win," he explains. "I am part of a generation that witnessed the destruction of Japanese occupation. The second destruction was in '75 and '76. Our people lost everything, but they could still build their lives in these 24 years of repression.

"Now everything was destroyed again. But in difficult times, with the international community's indifference, we fought alone. We inside and our colleagues on the outside were very, very alone," he says, pausing, maybe to reflect on the darkest days of the struggle.

"But we could change our destiny. Obviously in the final stage," he concedes, "with the international community's help.

"I believe that without repression, our future will be very bright. Our people are ready to build and to renew."

Building an independent self-sufficient republic will not be easy. The East Timorese will be hoping the international community gives every possible assistance, if only to assuage its conscience for having ignored, or assisted in, the attempted destruction of a people whose only crime was their wish to decide their own affairs.

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Even to the uninitiated, the idea that an exponent of a game as rich in history and as widely played as cricket can be readily identified by his initials suggests he is no average player. Certainly one of the finest batsmen and possibly the greatest leader the game has seen, Border spent 16 years at the top, breaking numerous records and leading Australian cricket out of the doldrums to become the world's strongest cricketing nation. His contribution to the sport was recognised last year in his home country with the creation of the Allan Border Medal, to be presented annually to Australia's outstanding player.

As well as pulling the national team up by its bootstraps, earning the eternal gratitude of Aussie cricket fans, the left-hander enjoyed many moments of immense personal satisfaction.

``The whole time was pretty good,'' he says, prompting one to wonder what he would regard as outstanding. ``It beats sitting at a desk from nine to five. I had a wonderful time personally. I couldn't have asked for a more fulfilling career.''

The high point, he says, was what he regards as the turning point for the team, the 1989 Ashes series, when Australia travelled to England to take part in one of sport's greatest rivalries.

``We were given absolutely no chance when we arrived. The media gave us a fair hammering as possibly the worst side Australia had ever sent.'' he recalls. ``I didn't have to do much motivation as a captain.''

If things had not gone favorably, it may have brought a premature curtain down on Border's stint at the helm.

``It was a bit of a crossroads in my own career,'' he says. ``The team had been performing okay but not outstandingly under my captaincy. If they hadn't responded at that point, there might have been a move to change direction, which I could understand.''

As it turned out, he need not have worried. Border scratches his chin and gives a slight shake of the head as if still coming to terms with what ensued.

``It turned out to be the most phenomenal four or five months. We won the series 4-0, and had a wonderful time doing it. We had a good time after the matches, had a few beers, generally enjoyed ourselves.''

This signalled the arrival of the team in test cricket. Two years previously, Border had led them to glory in the one-day arena with a World Cup triumph over the same opposition in Calcutta.

``Again we were rank underdogs, and all of a sudden, we'd won this World Cup,'' he says. ``It was a defining point. We were a very young side.''

Difficult situations have often brought the best out in Border, who once famously scored 123 not out despite playing with a broken finger. It is this resilience, competitiveness and willingness to lead by example that has, more than anything else, won him the respect and admiration of both team-mates and opponents.

``I'm fairly competitive,'' he says, competing for understatement of the year. ``I always have been. You get to different levels, meet different challenges, and as you meet each, you look for the next one.''

This aspect of Border has at times led to run-ins with the media, who have described him as ``ruthless'' or ``uncompromising.''

``I suppose that's fair. With the media, particularly in my early days, I would sometimes get a bit volatile,'' he says, failing to suppress a mischievous grin. ``When you go into a press conference, and you've lost badly, some questioning can be a bit heated or derogatory. You're trying to defend a teammate or yourself, and you get a bit hot under the collar. Generally I'm pretty easy-going. I've had a good relationship with the media. But in the early days, I got the `Captain Grumpy' tag. Later it became like a term of endearment. I quite like it in some ways. It sort of sums up my competitive side.''

Opponents often bore the brunt of this, the Australian skipper never being one to show much mercy.

``When you're playing over five days, there are things like physical and mental disintegration,'' he points out. ``And if you can ram home an advantage, and then just turn the screw a little bit more, you take that opportunity.''

In Seoul as part of a tour of the Asia-Pacific region aimed at promoting the game, Border was the Guest of Honour at the Korea Cricket Association's Gala Dinner in the Grand Hyatt. With a wealth of memories, and clearly reveling in sharing anecdotes with a rapt audience, he is clearly an ideal ambassador.

The man who holds numerous scoring and appearance records admits there is one mark of which he stands in awe, set by team-mate David Boon on a 1989 Sydney-London flight.

``We always had a beer-drinking contest,'' he recalls. ``On that flight, I'd fallen off the perch at Perth after about 15 cans. By the time we got to London, Boonie had downed 52. I can't see that being beaten for a while.''

Lest such stories prompt horrified Korean mothers to vow they will never let their children have anything to do with the game he came here to promote, Border is keen to stress cricket's virtues.

``If you're a parent, and you're wondering what your eight-year-old can get out of the game, well, it's a great character builder,'' he stresses. ``It teaches you to cope with the emotional highs of winning, accepting losing, controlling your temper. It takes a lot of hard work to become good at, but I don't think Asians mind hard work. It's also a brilliant social scene. Teams get together. When it's all said and done everyone shakes hands. Obviously the kids don't have a beer, but they get to know people from all walks of life.''

It may be too much to expect cricket to make serious inroads in Korea, where baseball, along with most things American, is worshipped, but if there is one lesson to be taken from AB's remarkable career, it is that with cricket, if you dig your heels in and refuse to give in, you can achieve more than you thought possible.
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At 25, Lee Hyung-taik is officially the best male tennis player Korea has ever produced.

Not that the pride of Hoingsung village, Kangwon-do, is about to sit back and bask in his achievements.

''My hope is a place in the world's top fifty,'' he says matter-of-factly.

''As time goes by, I think such a thing is possible, although in the beginning, I never expected to do as well as this.''

Lee is referring to a run of form that caught the attention of the world's media and had Koreans huddled around their television sets in the wee hours of the morning to watch their countryman take on the great Pete Sampras in the fourth round of the U.S. Open.

No Korean man had ever won a match at a grand slam event. Lee, whose career prize money over seven years amounted to less than ,000, went out and won three, guaranteeing himself a ,000 payday.

Not content to play the role of gallant loser, the Korean, who entered the competition ranked 182nd in the world, went toe-to-toe with possibly the game's greatest ever exponent, forcing a tie-break in the first set before being overwhelmed by Sampras' power.

The American paid tribute to his opponent's cool-headed approach, but Lee admits the occasion almost got to him.

''The day before playing Sampras, I was very nervous,'' he says. ''I couldn't sleep well and woke up at dawn. I worried a lot about playing the best player in the world, and being in front of so many people on the Arthur Ashe court. But I think I played well, better than I expected.''

While Lee acknowledges his run in the U.S. Open was the stuff of dreams, he is determined to use it to his advantage.

''I'll never forget the last year,'' he says, ''but through those achievements I gained a lot of confidence.''

Lee is also conscious of being in the vanguard of Korean tennis, with his efforts giving the game more publicity here than it has ever had before.

The golf boom that followed the success of Pak Se-ri is ample testimony to how visions of glory can bring young people flocking to hitherto ignored sports.

''It would be good if I could do something similar for tennis,'' Lee enthuses, ''and I think it is possible. I've heard many people are becoming interested in tennis these days, but we need more facilities. If we have those, I think we could do what the golfers have done.''

Having broke into the world's top 100, Lee has set his sights on bigger things this year.

''At first, I thought I would like to get into the top 150,'' he reveals, ''but having got this far, I've become more confident, and I start thinking about trying to make the top fifty. I'd also like to make at least the round of 16 in the U.S. Open.

For now, though, New Zealand provides the opposition, and Korea's number one is cautiously confident.

''I'm a little bit worried because Yoon Yong-il is injured, and that will make it difficult for us,'' he says, ''but I think if we do our best, we have a good chance of winning.''

Quite apart from the nation's tennis fans, there are probably a number of hassled parents around Korea who would quite like to see more success from Lee and his teammates. A good run in the Davis Cup, and some more ATP heroics from Lee Hyung-taik, could mean some of the little dears demanding sets of golf clubs for their birthdays might just settle for tennis rackets.
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