NTI wants bailout to fix years of underfunding

An old shack passes for the office of Iqaluit's Amarok Hunters and Trappers Organization at Four Corners, where the roar of passing pick-up trucks and cars penetrates the thin walls.

Inside, lit by fluorescent light, financial papers are stored in cardboard boxes heaped on the floor. A table is covered with to-do notes that belong to an overwhelmed secretary. The toilet hasn't worked for five years, since the water pipes froze.

It's strange to find Joshua Kango, the HTO's chair, sitting here. After all, his organization has a brand-new building, beside the museum, with big windows that offer a wonderful view of the water. It was finished this summer, and a tenant, the Baffin Fisheries Coalition, have moved into the second floor.

But the first floor is unfinished, and its windows remain boarded up. Kango says this is because, until recently, the HTO didn't have enough money to finish the building. That's why he still sits in an old shack.

At least he has an office. Cape Dorset's Aiviq HTO closed this August. It laid off its secretary-manager and closed its office to help pay off debts owed to the Canada Customs and Revenue Agency.

Last year, 20 of Nunavut's 27 HTOs owed Revenue Canada money. Some had owed money for many years. Each year the debt grew because of late penalties, to a point where the tax agency threatened legal action.

The sick state of many HTOs has been well-known for years. But until recently, they haven't had much help. They were supposed to receive support with money and administrative matters from groups called Regional Wildlife Organizations, but the RWOs proved just as dysfunctional.

A review of Nunavut's land claim implementation, done by Pricewaterhouse-Coopers in May 2006, found that RWOs "technically" existed, but suffered from "major management failures."

As a solution, Nunavut Tunngavik set up a new group, called the Nunavut Inuit Wildlife Secretariat, which took over the responsibilities of RWOs, and has a three-person office in Rankin Inlet.

Richard Connelly, the secretariat's executive director, said he's spent the past year helping HTOs settle their debts. Now, only six HTOs owe Revenue Canada money, and by March 2008, he hopes to have all debts cleared.

The Cape Dorset HTO should re-open by January, Connelly said.

Connelly would not disclose how much money HTOs owed, explaining they are "private organizations." Nor would not say which HTOs owe Revenue Canada, other than "five are in the Qikiqtani."

Yet some HTO members complain their organizations don't operate in an open, transparent fashion, and that it's hard to find out how HTO money is spent.

Some HTOs have financial records several years out of date. To fix this, the secretariat has dispatched a bookkeeper to visit each HTO.

Poor bookkeeping should be no surprise, given how each HTO is only given enough money to hire a single, part-time employee. Given the demand for qualified office staff in Nunavut, competent secretary-treasurers usually leave for better-paying jobs after several months.

The underfunding of HTOs is one reason why NTI is suing the federal government for failing to implement the land claim.

More money for HTOs is supposed to flow soon, but it's unclear when. Connelly said he's heard this promise for as long as he's been with the secretariat, for two and a half years.

HTOs do more than set local hunting regulations, give out hunting tags and buy snowmobiles, aluminum boats, and other hunting equipment with money from the Harvester Support Program. They also provide a voice for hunters on wildlife issues.

Given the neglected state of HTOs, it's no wonder many hunters feel left out of Nunavut‘s wildlife management regime. This is a shame, because the Inuit right to self-manage hunting is one of the big reasons why Nunavut was created.

Yet an atmosphere of mistrust hangs over some Nunavut Wildlife Management Board meetings. Hunters express disbelief at scientific data. Scientists politely listen to hunters, but often dismiss their objections.

In fact, hunters sometimes rarely speak at these meetings, which are often dominated by egghead biologists or bickering lawyers, who are difficult enough to understand in English, and likely unintelligible once translated into Inuktitut.

The recommendations made by the board are often equally inaccessible. Recommendations are decided in secret, as called for by the land claim.

Even after decisions are approved by the appropriate minister, they are often "buried in the volumes of meeting minutes or in correspondence," notes the report by Pricewaterhouse-Coopers.

Madeleine Redfern, a graduate of the Akitsiraq law class, says she has observed Nunavut‘s wildlife regime deteriorate over the past several years, with one wildlife organization pitted against another, rather than working together.

"It's really become an us versus them mentality," she says. "It just seems to be more and more polarized."

Meanwhile, HTOs face growing expectations. Some run business arms, such as the upstart fishery begun by Qikiqtarjuaq's hunters, who broke away from the Baffin Fisheries Coalition to become a rare success story.

Other HTOs are expected to self-manage the number of beluga and narwhal shot by hunters, such as Arctic Bay's HTO, which was the subject of a critical National Geographic article this summer that describes the indiscriminate slaughter of ­narwhal by hunters at the floe edge, with many whales sunk and lost.

As for Iqaluit's HTO, Kango insists his organization has no problems, although the unfinished building, which is worth more than $1 million, suggests otherwise.

The building was built with dividends from the Baffin Fisheries Coalition, which trades the rights of Baffin hunters to fish offshore for a piece of the proceeds. Kango said the HTO has settled its money problems, and he expects to move in by Christmas.