When things go bad, they go really bad

Page 16

MEDIUM RARE

Have you ever seen that show called Monster Garage, where a group of mechanics take a perfectly good vehicle, like a Corvette, and turn it into something weird, like a monster "mud racer," or a freaky lawn-mower?

I have a sneaking suspicion the folks running the Assembly of First Nations are avid fans of the show.

The host is some biker dude, a distant descendant of the outlaw Jesse James. Each week, he gathers a bunch of other dudes-mechanics, engineers, and just plain cranks-as some kind of dream team. They have two days behind closed doors, and in great secrecy accomplish their task. They might take a Rolls Royce one week and a vintage mustang the next. But the point is they completely dismantle these expensive, beautiful vehicles. They then put it all back together into the automobile world's version of a Frankenstein's monster.

The climax comes when they test drive their hellish creation at a real auto event.

Sometimes the results are hilarious. Sometimes they're awe-inspiring. Sometimes, nothing works and the result is a pile of useless junk. That's what can happen when you try to make a car do what no mechanic in his or her right mind would contemplate.

Now, let's change channels to watch our very own, real-life version of Monster Garage, and what we saw unveiled at the AFN's recent special assembly at the Squamish Nation in B.C.

Your host is Phil Fontaine. He and his dream team of mechanics-Fontaine's back-room boys- have been slaving behind closed doors during the three months since he became national chief for the second time. They rolled out their "monster" and gave it a test drive at that B.C. meeting.

Who's on this dream team? Some players you know-Herb "Satsan" George, Manny Jules, and some long-time Fontaine stalwarts like Jack London and Ken Young. Others are less known, mechanics brought in from the federal departments of Justice and Indian Affairs, precisely because of their close ties with those departments. They pulled into the AFN, hardly a fair comparison with a Rolls Royce or a vintage Mustang; more like a broken down, rickety wagon with a broken axle, a missing tire, hitched to a half-dead horse. They must have shook their heads at the task Fontaine had given them.

Still, they set to work, hammering, sawing and welding. Dumping a squeaky wheel here that might have alerted the chiefs to what was going on. Hauling in replacement parts that, even if they didn't fit, could be trusted to stay quiet. Mustn't spill the beans too early, you know. The show must go on.

Now, with all this racket, you'd think someone-like a nosy reporter-would notice. Most didn't. Some could care less. It was summertime. Time to take a vacation and drift down the lazy river. Time to let Fontaine have his post-election honeymoon period when reporters are willing to give a new administration the benefit of doubt. The few reporters who tried to find out what was going on at the AFN were stiffed at the door. And just what were Fontaine and his dream team trying to do? Well, they were attempting the political equivalent of converting that rickety old wagon with the broken axle hitched to the half-dead horse. How? By slapping on a spanking new 350 cubic-inch, eight-cylinder engine with four-barrel carburetors and mag wheels. Unfortunately, it was still hitched to that half-dead horse, now unstrategically relocated behind the cart.

When Fontaine and crew finally rolled out their creation to the assembled multitude for the big test drive, they weren't met by adoring fans or an appreciative audience. 'Hop in. Let's take a spin. You'll love the ride. It runs on high octane and costs $1.7 billion to fill 'er up.' Nope. Nothing going. Instead of jumping on board, folks walked around, kicked the tires a few times. Some reeled in horror and consternation. Others went behind to kick that poor horse a few times. Few noticed or appreciated the artistry that went into the effort.

Then the questions startd. 'Where do we sit? In the back? There's no chairs back there. What about that big, plush pilot seat up front? Reserved for the national chief, huh. Where will it go? Only where the national chief wants it to go? We don't get to say where it's going? Only one steering wheel, huh?'

All right. Enough with the Monster Garage analogy. Let's get to the point. Everyone recognizes that the Assembly of First Nations is an unwieldy organization in dire need of reform. Fontaine and his dream team think they have the answer. They examined the obvious problems and formulated plans to overhaul the AFN. They complied an impressive-looking proposal for complicated "framework" agreements that would see the transfer of whole programs from the federal government to the AFN, its member provincial and territorial organizations, and the 633 bands in Canada. Total cost: $1.7 billion. Was his proposal the product of broad consultations with the chiefs? No. Did most of the chiefs know it was coming? No. Did it all hinge on the creation of an all-powerful executive council, hand-picked by Fontaine to circumvent the chiefs? Was it to be sprung upon an assembly almost without warning? Apparently, it was. Even worker bees at the AFN weren't consulted.

Did Fontaine expect it to fly? You bet. He kept saying that since 60 per cent of the chiefs voted for him and his platform, this meant they had given him this mandate.

What mandate? Fontaine, as the chiefs told him in no uncertain terms, follows their direction-their mandate-and not the other way around.

The AFN is not some fictitious national Indian government, and the national chief isn't the Big Boss Man. He's an elected front man, a national mouthpiece, not a president with executive powers. The chiefs let Fontaine know that nobody gave him that kind of mandate. This is why Fontaine got "smoked," as some observers put it, at his first special assembly.

Back to the garage, boys.