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The chinese covet nike's Swoosh. America loves the iPod. Australians are hooked on a TV show called Idol. And Solomon Islanders have the cult of ramsi. An intervention force may seem an unlikely thing to swoon over, but the Regional Assistance Mission to Solomon Islands has pop-star appeal across the 992-island archipelago. The freshly minted brand has gained the status of savior and sorcerer with a long-suffering people, who utter the acronym in respectful whispers or with toothy smiles. From the streets of the ragtag capital, Honiara, to remote villages that the modern world has barely touched, a white stranger is instinctively welcomed as a friend rather than a carpetbagger because of ramsi's good works. High on a ridge above Honiara, at a memorial for Allied troops who died fighting the Japanese in the Battle of Guadalcanal six decades ago, Reuben Buarobo, 25, feels he is at last setting sail on his future: "As long as ramsi is here things will change," says the unemployed Malaita islander. "There will eventually be stable government and everything will be O.K."

Since its arrival in July 2003, bearing the Operation Helpem Fren motif, ramsi has restored hope to a country that was ruled by the gun and on the verge of collapse. Led by Australia and staffed by nine South Pacific nations, the intervention force came with a big stick and plenty of boots on the ground: more than 2,000 men and women were deployed in that first wave to restore peace. Around 3,800 people have been arrested, including militia leaders, suspected murderers and extortionists. Dozens of allegedly crooked politicians, police and public servants are about to face judges and juries in criminal trials. A gun amnesty and a crackdown by authorities have resulted in the seizure of almost 4,000 firearms and more than 300,000 rounds of ammunition. In Leosa West, on the main island of Guadalcanal, a newly erected National Peace Council sign - one of hundreds all over the country - proclaims the community weapons free and cautions any would-be transgressor to please respect our wishes. Says council chairman Paul Tovua: "For rural people especially, the ramsi intervention gives us an environment of best hope. Women are tending their gardens, men are not worried about others with guns, and children are going to school."

That rapid improvement in security - which has not been achieved without risk or heroism - is looking like the easy part. The next step is into uncharted territory. Now, with the military component reduced to a mere 78 personnel, and a reborn police force under the close watch of foreign advisers, the mission's youthful bureaucrats are taking charge of battered economic and development institutions. The economy has gone steadily backward: per-capita income has fallen 50% since independence in 1978. The ethnic tensions and brutality of 1998-2003 masked a chronic illness in Solomon Islands, for which there is no off-the-shelf cure. "Our leaders have not lived up to the expectations of the people that have put them into power," says Central Bank governor Rick Hou, one of the country's most respected officials. "It's a pity the Solomon Islands Parliament is filled with con men."

The country's lackluster political class still oversees a system of corrupt and malign decision-making that has failed to meet the most basic needs of its 500,000 citizens. Trust in the public sphere is virtually nonexistent, and by almost every measure of well-being, Solomon Islanders are the region's poor relations, their natural resources sold cheaply or stolen. "It's like Solomon Islands fell down a well," says Johnson Honimae, until recently general manager of the Solomon Islands Broadcasting Corporation and now head of the government's information unit. "We are hurt, the water is up to our nose, and we need someone to throw us a rope to help us out. ramsi came, took us to hospital, and now we're recovering. But what will ramsi do next? Will they take us home when we're discharged but our leg is still in a cast? Will they help us to start a garden? Or will they just leave us to find our own way home?" In partnership with ramsi, the country's many brave, honest and able citizens have their best - perhaps last - chance to step up. Yet it's far from clear how long the mission will last, how much it will cost - or whether it is even possible to repair damage on this scale. Britain did not equip the solomons for independence. Government from Honiara soon became erratic, the provinces withered, basic needs were not met, instability frightened off foreign investors, and cultural diversity led to conflicts and tribal disputes. "Democracy and good governance did not take root," says a foreign diplomat. "The ethnic tensions were over land, but they got out of control because the state had lost its legitimacy." From the end of World War II, large numbers of people from the neighboring island of Malaita began moving to Guadalcanal for work; industrious and ambitious, Malaitans eventually acquired significant landholdings around Honiara and came to dominate the public service, especially the Royal Solomon Islands Police (RSIP).

In 1998, Guadalcanalese men, after failing to persuade the government to compensate them for lost land or take action against the resented Malaitans, resorted to violence. Forming militias, the Guadalcanalese began driving the settlers back to Malaita. In response, a rival Malaitan Eagle Force was formed. Drawing many members from the police, the MEF came to control Honiara. Lawlessness prevailed, the main export industries (gold, palm oil, tourism) collapsed and public services ceased to function. In June 2000, MEF sympathizers seized the police armory and deposed Prime Minister Bart Ulufa'alu at gunpoint. Four months later, an Australian-brokered peace agreement was signed in Townsville; by the time it expired in 2002, a fragile peace still held, but the country's institutions were in ruins. Public servants were forced to release funds to gun-carrying gang members, the RSIP was decimated, and reprisal violence was endemic in the villages. In April 2003, Prime Minister Sir Allan Kemakeza called on his Australian counterpart John Howard for assistance; over the next few months, in partnership with the Pacific Islands Forum, the rescue mission took shape. Placed under the command of Australian diplomat Nick Warner, ramsi was born.

Sixteen months after ramsi's arrival, the experiment in nation building is squarely in the hands of scores of junior Canberra public servants and consultants on a steep learning curve; those accustomed to computer spreadsheets, steering committee meetings and the rule of law find themselves in a unique situation that is being monitored not only by the region's political masters but by development and administrative mavens around the world. Some of these accountants, economists and lawyers have assumed "in line" positions in the Solomons' public service. Unlike the soldiers or police engaged in the high-profile task of security, these baby-crats are charged with overseeing the so-called boring bits: public finances, administrative rules and procedures. "Whether the Solomons can become like a Samoa or, implausibly, a Singapore, in a generation rests on fixing the economy and the machinery of government," says a ramsi official. "Everything else - health, education, security - depends on it."

James Batley, 45, a career diplomat, is ramsi's new special coordinator. Most observers say the personable and well-connected Batley, a veteran of Australia's forays in Bougainville and East Timor and a previous High Commissioner in Honiara, was an ideal choice to lead the current phase of the mission. Careful not to draw too many lessons from those other successful ventures, the "SC," as Batley's 4-WD number plate is marked, is used to difficult briefs. Fluent in Solomons pidgin, Batley can work a crowd in jungle communities. He's equally at ease sipping kava after work on Friday, shopping for produce at the central market or chatting on a mobile phone to P.M. Kemakeza, with whom he has a friendly rapport. Compared with his predecessor Warner, whom ramsi staff recall as extremely effective yet aloof and magisterial, Batley is a grassroots operator who takes a direct interest in most issues. "The big risk for us here is complacency," says Batley, who arrived for a two-year tour in August. "People may look around and say Solomon Islands looks and feels like it was 10 years ago, so the job is done. But it would be a big mistake to say that, because of the deep damage that's been done." So far, the changes have not led to open revolt by vested interests, although it appears politicians have been persuaded to abandon a useful forestry reform bill. Batley has not yet run into the sort of stalemate that would force ramsi to attach more stringent conditions to its program - or require heavy prodding from Canberra. While ramsi officials labor the point that the intervention is a regional response, there's little doubt in anyone's mind that this is Australia's show. Invited in or not, Canberra could not have a failed state on its doorstep: humanitarian concerns aside, lawlessness and anarchy are the perfect conditions for terrorists, drug smugglers, gun runners and money launderers.

"Intervention no longer has the stain of neocolonialism," says an Australian diplomat. The Howard government estimates it will spend $A200-300 million a year for perhaps a decade on Solomon Islands - providing basic services, security, funding aid projects and ramsi's salaries and equipment. "It's a major commitment by Australia," says a ramsi figure. "Not only in dollar terms - the Howard government has placed an enormous investment in Kemakeza personally, and his government. It's working. But if Kemakeza falls, where does that leave the reform process?" Prime Minister Kemakeza declined requests for an interview with Time.

Like much else in Honiara, democracy is a haphazard work in progress. Bankrolled by the U.S. but not quite complete, the Parliament building is occupied only sporadically for sittings. The chamber is strikingly decorated with fish, birds and symbols representing the four directions of the wind. But a background of pastoral serenity has inspired few who've sat here to live by the motto on the coat of arms: to lead is to serve. Instead of grounding a diverse nation, Parliament and executive governments have been the epicenter of corruption. Criminal behavior, dressed up as traditional kastom, has become entrenched. Logging licenses have been sold for a song, government figures have taken bribes to waive export duties. "These deals are not sophisticated at all. They're sealed with a cash payment," says a ramsi official. As well, there's the Rural Community Development Fund. In exchange for diplomatic recognition by the Solomons government, Taipei provides each of the country's 50 M.P.s with a slush fund to spend on local projects, their constituents - or, more often, themselves. Audits, financial oversight and the monitoring of logging and fisheries have never been properly resourced, or have repeatedly been placed under the control of political lackeys. Governments come and go, M.P.s switch sides to become ministers, representatives buy votes under a debased wantok system, and M.P. turnover is high. It's widely believed that almost every long-serving Solomon Islands politician has participated in corruption. Father Charles Brown, an Anglican theologian at Bishop Patterson College in Kohimarama, in northwestern Guadalcanal, says politicians have failed to lead. "The underlying question about our political system is this: Does it serve the people? If it doesn't, let's do away with it." Says Central Bank governor Hou: "The politicians are there to line their own pockets. It's the way Solomon Islands is structured. In Melanesian culture we have the idea of the Big Man. Whether they behave or misbehave, you don't criticize them." Some of those major players are finally being called to account. In September, Agriculture Minister Alex Bartlett was arrested on charges of demanding money with menace, assault and arson after an incident in 2000. Other big fish are being investigated, and more charges are expected soon. The paper trail of bribes and corrupt decisions is surprisingly well preserved, says a law enforcement official.

"Bring us the evidence" is the public message on corruption from Sandi Peisley, commander of ramsi's Participating Police Force. "No one is above the law." The earthy and lean Peisley, an assistant commissioner in the Australian Federal Police who doubles as deputy commissioner of the RSIP, has just returned from the historic swearing-in of the first new-era police recruits, more than half of them women. Frontline officers speak about the 400-plus purge from the RSIP without regret; they are now working alongside 260 police from around the Pacific who are mentoring both old and new officers. There are fresh uniforms, absenteeism is down, and citizens are beginning to respect the force again. "The only way we are going to build trust and make Solomon Islands safe and secure," says Peisley, "is through working closely with the community, taking time out and talking with them, living and working within the code of ethics." Although she's upbeat about RSIP reform and the wider PPF work in ridding the country of guns, Peisley admits there are criminals still at large and much work to be done in identifying, investigating and apprehending the culprits. Some outlaws resent the vigilance: in October, two Honiara police officers were shot at. "Is it a real peace?" asks Father Brown. "Or is the fire just smoldering beneath the surface?"

For the rescue squad, it's slowly sinking in that the size of the rebuilding task is much greater than was planned for. And the to-do list keeps growing. To the current development-speak goals of "capacity building," "improved governance" and "budget stabilization" must be added infrastructure, communications, shipping, electoral reform, media and resource monitoring. In what order should they be tackled? On signal issues like land ownership and use - key to the country's economic security - the visitors won't be stepping in. "Land will remain the core political issue in our lifetimes," says Batley. "It requires attention and resources and a lot of work to manage. It's one area where foreigners can help, but we don't have the answers." Home-grown solutions will also have to be found to the custom of seeking compensation, which is now about cash, instead of redress; and the age-old wantok system of patronage and social security. Successful ministers and public servants "are riding a wave of change," Batley says. "We don't want to become an overt political player. Across the board all politicians understand that it's still a matter of national recovery, and that is beyond politics."

Catherine Walker is ramsi's development coordinator. It's her job to oversee repair of the "machinery of government," get the economy going, make sure the courts and prisons are functioning, and liaise with ngos and aid donors. "The scale of the work to be done is enormous, and it keeps growing - which is simply a function of learning more about the way things are done and what isn't being done," she says. For instance, an expert study into the workings of provincial governments has uncovered a system in crisis: poor financial management, a lack of administrative skills and inability to deliver services. With 85% of the population living outside of Honiara, repairing this situation is crucial - and delicate. "The rural people have not felt the real ramsi program," says John Stephenson, the 31-year-old premier of southeastern Makira province. "Most initiatives are centralized," he says. "Sometimes the line of responsibility between the national government and provinces is not clear. Managing resources and exercising authority in my own community is difficult." As the helicopter flies, the Weather Coast, on Guadalcanal's south, is a mere 50 km from Honiara. But the region is not accessible by road. Forget radio communications - life is as isolated as it comes in these parts, known for climatic anarchy and wild-eyed lunatic Harold Keke, who is now in custody, accused of several atrocities during the tensions. At Vunusa, a treacherous jungle walk or short river wade (your choice) from the Isuna police post, community chief Philip Limaihado is briskly leading visitors through vegetable gardens, past a thatched shed that is a church, and into a small settlement that has changed little in centuries. For the 400 people who live in this group of five villages, getting beyond subsistence is a struggle. It's all but impossible to sell produce; they can't even get it to market. Rain often brings floods, washing away houses and gardens. Emergency assistance - whether money or food - is unreliable. A more immediate issue for the community is a Peace Council–sponsored reconciliation with a nearby village. "The guns are still out there," says council head Tovua. "We continue to receive threats. The followers of Keke, for instance, think he's going to be home by Christmas. I would hope to see the military come back for an exercise to give a clear message to those with weapons that ramsi means business."

Even in the capital, many are waiting to experience better times. The town's few cars crawl crab-like around potholes the size of plunge pools on the main drag. Honiara has electricity and telephones, but both systems are prone to mid-afternoon heart attacks. The ramsi economy - blow-in consultants, home security, cafés, hotels, vehicles and the like - does have some trickle-down effect. But for father of five Peter Loea, 36, a fisherman, "the jobs aren't there" and finding money to school his children - the government has promised to make primary education free from 2006 - is proving to be difficult. Much of the fish he and his brothers take to market near their home in east Honiara's Vaivila remains unsold or fetches a poor price; plans to replace their wooden boats with fiberglass ones or expand the business into wholesaling are on ice. Loea used to work as a supervisor at the Gold Ridge gold mine, which closed down in 2000. One of ramsi's economic priorities is to revive the lucrative mine; another dormant project, a palm oil plantation, is closer to reality after a deal with a Papua New Guinean company. So tiny are the country's export industries that even these two mid-sized ventures will make a huge difference.

Although business confidence has improved because of ramsi's presence, "the underlying economic situation is fragile," says bank governor Hou. "We had a narrow-based economy to start with, and the ethnic tensions only made things worse." Also of concern, he adds, is that "many items of expenditure have been taken over by foreign governments - Australia has taken over rural health, New Zealand is paying for education. There's also police, speed boats and vehicles, which cost a lot of money. What happens when this is withdrawn?" Down the track, Hou worries about output matching the population growth rate. At around 3% a year, it's one of the most rapid in the world, and has resulted in a youth bulge, with half the population aged under 20. Tied to this is the lack of job opportunities for those leaving school at grade 6, which means 70% of the population. "We're creating a large number of energetic people that have nothing to do," Hou says. "It's dangerous not to have them engaged." In Honiara, and in the provinces, bored youths are turning to marijuana and a nasty moonshine called kwaso. "Young people are coming to the lights of Honiara for work," says police commander Peisley. "And the jobs aren't there. So we're seeing youths gather with nothing to do, and that can lead to street crime and drug and alcohol abuse. Kwaso is becoming a huge issue in the provinces, and it's leading to domestic violence and major and minor assaults." Makira's youthful premier Stephenson bemoans that loss of potential. "Our greatest need is education," he says. "We don't have enough teachers. Most of those we do have are untrained, and facilities are at a low level. It means the quality of the students we produce is poor." Reuben Buarobo, who comes to Honiara's U.S. war memorial for the great view and to listen to reggae on his radio, hopes to be part of the solution. The past six years have been wasted because of the conflict, but next year he intends to start training as a primary school teacher. After searching in vain for a sponsor to pay for his tuition - he was knocked back by aid organizations - Buarobo says his fees will be paid by an "honorable man," his Malaitan M.P., Fred Fono. And why would he do that? "Because I voted for him," the earnest, clean-living Buarobo replies.

Batley understands that Solomon Islanders want basic services, but feels even those expectations are unrealistic. "A lot of Solomon Islanders don't make the connection between good policy and what that means for the delivery of government services and for a growing economy," he says. "The work required to return the social infrastructure and administration not only to functionality but to really being effective and efficient is an enormous challenge, and it will take years." It's a hard message to sell to a public that's been let down for so long. Batley and other ramsi officers are wary of the mission being blamed down the track for not delivering what it has never promised. "ramsi is not the answer to every problem in the country," he says. "We are very anxious that the government steps up and is seen to be running its own agenda."

After a gleeful hymn to "Jeee-susss," the Church of Melanesia's 60 Sunday schoolers bolt like whippets out of the starting box; it's playtime for the children of trainee Anglican priests and their wives. A smiling but intense Father Brown speaks about the scarcity experienced in rural areas during the tensions and the role of the Anglican Melanesian Brothers in making peace. "ramsi has started the process to get to a solution," he says. Across the country, people are amazingly resilient. They may still identify as Malaitans or Guadalcanalese, rather than as Solomon Islanders, but they're united by their miserable circumstances. They have not come to rely on, or even expect much from, government. People did not go hungry during the strife. Traditional communities remain strong, and the civil-society movement is gaining influence. In the Solomons today, a little good goes a long way. Perhaps the fools, drunks and thieves of Parliament will end up in Rove prison and young leaders will take charge. "If there is a struggle anywhere in the world, the cause - and answer - is leadership," says Father Brown. "I actually believe in problems. They should be seen as a way to guide ourselves into the future, not to dwell in the past." By that measure, Solomon Islands has no shortage of signposts.

• Tom Dusevic HONIARA
• An Australian-led rescue mission has stopped the bloodshed - but the job of rebuilding Solomon Islands has only just begun