Post by Okwes on Mar 22, 2007 14:46:15 GMT -5
California's biggest tribe draws losing hand on Indian gaming
AP Photo/Rich Pedroncelli -- Ralph Lemon, Yurok, placed a hose in a drum of
diesel fuel to be pumped into a newly installed fuel tank at his home
near Weitchpec, Calif., Dec. 14, 2006. The tank, installed by David
Frick, right, who works for the tribe's housing department, will provide
diesel for Lemon's generator, his home's only source of power. For
years, the Yurok, California's largest but poorest tribe, have asked
lawmakers for permission to operate slot machines at Mart to bring in
funds to improve the roads and provide other basic services. By Aaron C.
Davis -- Associated Press
WEITCHPEC, Calif. (AP) - Along California's rugged northwest coast, a
freshly paved highway exit marked ''Bald Hills Road'' is, for most,
nothing more than the entrance to Lady Bird Johnson Grove and Redwood
National Park.
For the Yurok, the state's largest and perhaps poorest American Indian
tribe, it's where the road home, and the Yuroks' struggles, begin.
Past the park, Bald Hills quickly narrows to a deadly, one-lane logging
path and snakes high into the Pacific coastal range. Around blind
corners and frequent cliffs, charred remains of Jeeps and rusted cars
litter the ditches of a 40-mile-long washboard welcome mat.
It is a clan the state, if not time itself, has left behind.
For years, the Yurok have asked California lawmakers for permission to
operate slot machines to begin making the money they say could help pull
the poorest of their 5,000 out of grinding poverty. Their casino would
be so remote it would seem few might visit, but the tribe estimates it
could bring in more than $1 million a year, as much as doubling its
discretionary budget in bad years and allowing the tribe to begin saving
money to pave, or at least regularly grade, roads such as Bald Hills.
Here, surrounded by steep hills and stripped redwood forests, hundreds
of Yuroks survive dug into the remote, muddy banks of the Klamath River.
Most live without electricity or clean running water in clusters of
dilapidated trailers supplied after a flood when Lyndon B. Johnson was
president.
Children still learn in one-room schools. Wood fires warm homes. And a
tribe that once thrived off salmon grapples with a river with few fish.
The tribe's only jobs come from federal grants, or in helping timber
companies take the very trees Yuroks believe to be their own.
The way the Yuroks' gaming efforts have been thwarted for years, both
through bureaucratic slip-ups and in the crossfire of larger political
feuds in the state Capitol, is the story of a tribe beset by misfortunes
as confounding as any in the state.
Whether the Yurok can begin to escape their troubled past remains
entirely unclear, but the issue is likely to come up again when the
Legislature reconvenes.
In the short decade since voters approved gaming on Indian land, the
Yurok Tribe has morphed from a poster child for needy tribes to an
anomaly.
Many tribes have become so rich from megacasinos erected from Palm
Springs to the Sacramento suburbs that the disparity between them and
those such as the Yurok is now staggering. Nearly 50 tribes raked in a
combined $13 billion from gaming in 2004, according to the California
Attorney General's office, and their casino profits continue to rise.
By comparison, counting every cent of its federal grants, timber sales
and $1.1 million from a state fund that shares casino revenues between
rich tribes and poor ones, the Yurok spent $12 million last year. That's
less than what one of the richest, the Agua Caliente Band of Mission
Indians near Palm Springs, is spending to appoint rooms in its new
resort hotel with granite counter tops, whirlpool baths, plasma-screen
TVs and other luxuries.
Widening the economic gap between the tribes, rich ones also spend tens
of millions on political contributions in the state capital supporting
laws limiting competition and increasing their profits. Sometimes that
means big-game tribes work to subvert small tribes' efforts to get into
the business.
At the same time, antigaming forces and labor unions have stepped up
efforts in Sacramento to block expansion of Indian casinos they say have
already far outstripped - even perverted - what voters intended, and
left thousands of workers in the state without protections commonly
afforded in casinos from Las Vegas to Atlantic City.
Caught in the middle are tribes such as the Yurok.
''Gaming can do a lot of good for tribes, and for the Yurok it could be
a small part of a larger solution needed to help them,'' said former
state Sen. Wesley Chesbro, D-Arcata, who unsuccessfully lobbied for
years for the Yurok compact until he was termed out in the fall.
''Compounding their trouble, however, has been the increased efforts of
big-game tribes to squash those who are not yet gaming. Yurok stands out
as the most disturbing example of that.''
The Yuroks' most recent attempt to win rights to a modest 99 slot
machines was cut short in the fall when a compact they signed with Gov.
Arnold Schwarzenegger was held hostage in a political showdown between
labor and large gaming tribes over 20,000 new slot machines and bigger
casinos, mostly to be built in Southern California.
In the delicate words of the Yuroks' deputy executive director, Reweti
Wiki, the tribe's journey is analogous to the childhood misadventure
story of 'Lemony Snicket.' ''It's been a series of unfortunate events,''
he said, forcing a smile through clenched teeth.
Others have a harder time hiding their disgust.
After four hours trekking through a remote swath of the reservation,
Frankie Myers, the tribe's planning director and budding cultural
leader, blurted out his true feelings.
''We got screwed, and we continue getting screwed. I think that's the
underlying issue in everyone's psyche,'' said Myers.
Other problems facing the tribe, such as a diabetes epidemic, rampant
methamphetamine abuse and a lack of higher education, also are rooted in
years of poverty and neglect and won't be easily solved, even if the
tribe is allowed to offer gaming.
To hear tribal members tell it, their name sums up their plight. In the
Yurok language, the tribe's name means ''downriver.'' And there's
perhaps no better word for the way the Yurok have been pushed down by
the currents of power and politics over hundreds of years.
Yuroks grow up reciting dates such as 1855, 1891 and 1988 as the mile
markers of a past perceived as filled with injustice. The years coincide
with executive orders lumping the Yurok on a reservation with the
neighboring Hoopas, letting Hoopas reap a majority of timber profits;
and a failed legal battle that has kept $90 million in tribal money
still locked away in a federal trust.
Still, the Yurok are not totally without amenities in nearby Klamath -
an hour's drive back over Bald Hills along U.S. Highway 101, and closer
to where four out of five tribal members eke out livings in Eureka and
Crescent City.
There, the tribe boasts a new, neatly landscaped $3 million headquarters
complete with leather-seated council chambers, a community recreation
room, a kitchen and a computer lab that was funded with a federal grant.
Across the street is Pem-Mey Fuel Mart, the tribe's commercial
enterprise. The Yurok took out a $3 million loan two years ago to open
it, the only gas station within 30 miles. It's outfitted with a Subway
sandwich shop and espresso bar, yet Wiki and others hint that the
business isn't doing well. They say slot machines may be needed to help
pay off the loan and keep it profitable.
If the tribes' gaming compact were approved, the Yurok could build a
back room in the gas station for 20 slot machines.
Some tribal leaders dream that would only be the beginning. They
envision a three-story hotel and casino with the 99 slots and card games
the tribe would be allowed under its most recent stalled compact.
Years of waiting, however, has left Yurok Councilman Richard Myers
skeptical.
''It will never bring much money. We will not be handing out checks; not
like other tribes,'' he said. ''What it will do is put food on someone's
table. That is a truth.''
Myers said the compact remains a sore spot. ''Look at us: it's 2006, and
we are one of the last places to be electrified.''
To move forward, the Yurok will have to catch a break in Sacramento.
In 1998, when the state began handing out compacts, the Yuroks'
paperwork for a casino was lost in the shuffle when it was faxed to the
wrong Capitol office. The tribe then struck a deal with Gov. Gray Davis
for 350 slots, but he was recalled before it could be signed.
Last August, a coalition of labor, horse racing and antigambling
interests upended all nine compacts pending in the Legislature, even as
those opposed to the cumulative casino expansion said they had no
problem with the smaller Yurok deal, which is unlikely to raise labor or
other issues.
Whether the tribe can now muster enough support, or pity, for a vote
separate from the controversy of the big-game tribes is unclear.
''We all feel really sorry for Yurok. The feeling among so many is that
Yurok should happen; it's so different than the others,'' said Elsa
Ortiz, legislative liaison for Indian Affairs in Senate President Pro
Tem Don Perata's office. ''Honestly, I don't know how things will work
out for Yurok.''
AP Photo/Rich Pedroncelli -- Ralph Lemon, Yurok, placed a hose in a drum of
diesel fuel to be pumped into a newly installed fuel tank at his home
near Weitchpec, Calif., Dec. 14, 2006. The tank, installed by David
Frick, right, who works for the tribe's housing department, will provide
diesel for Lemon's generator, his home's only source of power. For
years, the Yurok, California's largest but poorest tribe, have asked
lawmakers for permission to operate slot machines at Mart to bring in
funds to improve the roads and provide other basic services. By Aaron C.
Davis -- Associated Press
WEITCHPEC, Calif. (AP) - Along California's rugged northwest coast, a
freshly paved highway exit marked ''Bald Hills Road'' is, for most,
nothing more than the entrance to Lady Bird Johnson Grove and Redwood
National Park.
For the Yurok, the state's largest and perhaps poorest American Indian
tribe, it's where the road home, and the Yuroks' struggles, begin.
Past the park, Bald Hills quickly narrows to a deadly, one-lane logging
path and snakes high into the Pacific coastal range. Around blind
corners and frequent cliffs, charred remains of Jeeps and rusted cars
litter the ditches of a 40-mile-long washboard welcome mat.
It is a clan the state, if not time itself, has left behind.
For years, the Yurok have asked California lawmakers for permission to
operate slot machines to begin making the money they say could help pull
the poorest of their 5,000 out of grinding poverty. Their casino would
be so remote it would seem few might visit, but the tribe estimates it
could bring in more than $1 million a year, as much as doubling its
discretionary budget in bad years and allowing the tribe to begin saving
money to pave, or at least regularly grade, roads such as Bald Hills.
Here, surrounded by steep hills and stripped redwood forests, hundreds
of Yuroks survive dug into the remote, muddy banks of the Klamath River.
Most live without electricity or clean running water in clusters of
dilapidated trailers supplied after a flood when Lyndon B. Johnson was
president.
Children still learn in one-room schools. Wood fires warm homes. And a
tribe that once thrived off salmon grapples with a river with few fish.
The tribe's only jobs come from federal grants, or in helping timber
companies take the very trees Yuroks believe to be their own.
The way the Yuroks' gaming efforts have been thwarted for years, both
through bureaucratic slip-ups and in the crossfire of larger political
feuds in the state Capitol, is the story of a tribe beset by misfortunes
as confounding as any in the state.
Whether the Yurok can begin to escape their troubled past remains
entirely unclear, but the issue is likely to come up again when the
Legislature reconvenes.
In the short decade since voters approved gaming on Indian land, the
Yurok Tribe has morphed from a poster child for needy tribes to an
anomaly.
Many tribes have become so rich from megacasinos erected from Palm
Springs to the Sacramento suburbs that the disparity between them and
those such as the Yurok is now staggering. Nearly 50 tribes raked in a
combined $13 billion from gaming in 2004, according to the California
Attorney General's office, and their casino profits continue to rise.
By comparison, counting every cent of its federal grants, timber sales
and $1.1 million from a state fund that shares casino revenues between
rich tribes and poor ones, the Yurok spent $12 million last year. That's
less than what one of the richest, the Agua Caliente Band of Mission
Indians near Palm Springs, is spending to appoint rooms in its new
resort hotel with granite counter tops, whirlpool baths, plasma-screen
TVs and other luxuries.
Widening the economic gap between the tribes, rich ones also spend tens
of millions on political contributions in the state capital supporting
laws limiting competition and increasing their profits. Sometimes that
means big-game tribes work to subvert small tribes' efforts to get into
the business.
At the same time, antigaming forces and labor unions have stepped up
efforts in Sacramento to block expansion of Indian casinos they say have
already far outstripped - even perverted - what voters intended, and
left thousands of workers in the state without protections commonly
afforded in casinos from Las Vegas to Atlantic City.
Caught in the middle are tribes such as the Yurok.
''Gaming can do a lot of good for tribes, and for the Yurok it could be
a small part of a larger solution needed to help them,'' said former
state Sen. Wesley Chesbro, D-Arcata, who unsuccessfully lobbied for
years for the Yurok compact until he was termed out in the fall.
''Compounding their trouble, however, has been the increased efforts of
big-game tribes to squash those who are not yet gaming. Yurok stands out
as the most disturbing example of that.''
The Yuroks' most recent attempt to win rights to a modest 99 slot
machines was cut short in the fall when a compact they signed with Gov.
Arnold Schwarzenegger was held hostage in a political showdown between
labor and large gaming tribes over 20,000 new slot machines and bigger
casinos, mostly to be built in Southern California.
In the delicate words of the Yuroks' deputy executive director, Reweti
Wiki, the tribe's journey is analogous to the childhood misadventure
story of 'Lemony Snicket.' ''It's been a series of unfortunate events,''
he said, forcing a smile through clenched teeth.
Others have a harder time hiding their disgust.
After four hours trekking through a remote swath of the reservation,
Frankie Myers, the tribe's planning director and budding cultural
leader, blurted out his true feelings.
''We got screwed, and we continue getting screwed. I think that's the
underlying issue in everyone's psyche,'' said Myers.
Other problems facing the tribe, such as a diabetes epidemic, rampant
methamphetamine abuse and a lack of higher education, also are rooted in
years of poverty and neglect and won't be easily solved, even if the
tribe is allowed to offer gaming.
To hear tribal members tell it, their name sums up their plight. In the
Yurok language, the tribe's name means ''downriver.'' And there's
perhaps no better word for the way the Yurok have been pushed down by
the currents of power and politics over hundreds of years.
Yuroks grow up reciting dates such as 1855, 1891 and 1988 as the mile
markers of a past perceived as filled with injustice. The years coincide
with executive orders lumping the Yurok on a reservation with the
neighboring Hoopas, letting Hoopas reap a majority of timber profits;
and a failed legal battle that has kept $90 million in tribal money
still locked away in a federal trust.
Still, the Yurok are not totally without amenities in nearby Klamath -
an hour's drive back over Bald Hills along U.S. Highway 101, and closer
to where four out of five tribal members eke out livings in Eureka and
Crescent City.
There, the tribe boasts a new, neatly landscaped $3 million headquarters
complete with leather-seated council chambers, a community recreation
room, a kitchen and a computer lab that was funded with a federal grant.
Across the street is Pem-Mey Fuel Mart, the tribe's commercial
enterprise. The Yurok took out a $3 million loan two years ago to open
it, the only gas station within 30 miles. It's outfitted with a Subway
sandwich shop and espresso bar, yet Wiki and others hint that the
business isn't doing well. They say slot machines may be needed to help
pay off the loan and keep it profitable.
If the tribes' gaming compact were approved, the Yurok could build a
back room in the gas station for 20 slot machines.
Some tribal leaders dream that would only be the beginning. They
envision a three-story hotel and casino with the 99 slots and card games
the tribe would be allowed under its most recent stalled compact.
Years of waiting, however, has left Yurok Councilman Richard Myers
skeptical.
''It will never bring much money. We will not be handing out checks; not
like other tribes,'' he said. ''What it will do is put food on someone's
table. That is a truth.''
Myers said the compact remains a sore spot. ''Look at us: it's 2006, and
we are one of the last places to be electrified.''
To move forward, the Yurok will have to catch a break in Sacramento.
In 1998, when the state began handing out compacts, the Yuroks'
paperwork for a casino was lost in the shuffle when it was faxed to the
wrong Capitol office. The tribe then struck a deal with Gov. Gray Davis
for 350 slots, but he was recalled before it could be signed.
Last August, a coalition of labor, horse racing and antigambling
interests upended all nine compacts pending in the Legislature, even as
those opposed to the cumulative casino expansion said they had no
problem with the smaller Yurok deal, which is unlikely to raise labor or
other issues.
Whether the tribe can now muster enough support, or pity, for a vote
separate from the controversy of the big-game tribes is unclear.
''We all feel really sorry for Yurok. The feeling among so many is that
Yurok should happen; it's so different than the others,'' said Elsa
Ortiz, legislative liaison for Indian Affairs in Senate President Pro
Tem Don Perata's office. ''Honestly, I don't know how things will work
out for Yurok.''