JAMUL, Calif. - They may have just 56 members and six acres of land, but the small band of Jamul Indians has dreams for the future that only money can bring.
A new community center to replace the one lost to fire, new homes and a health clinic for their elders, restoration of a turn-of-the-century church, maybe even a museum to show off Indian artifacts: all could be had with casino revenue, says Carlene Chamberlain, vice chairwoman of one of California's smallest tribes.
Chamberlain, 45, recalls life on the reservation, 20 miles east of San Diego, with her four young children, relying on welfare and sharing a dirt-floor home with no indoor plumbing. Now she thinks of what could be done with the $5 million to $7 million the tribe's planned casino could bring in every month.
''If I could find a business that could make as much money as a casino, then I would do it,'' she said.
Yet many of her non-Indian neighbors are demanding that the Jamuls (pronounced ha-MULS') find some other enterprise.
A main concern is the matter of size: Two of the Jamuls' six acres are taken up by a cemetery. That leaves only a parcel the size of three football fields for a gambling hall that is to be four to 10 stories high.
Residents of the bedroom community of 10,000 say the tribe's ungraded lot between the town's main highway and a wildlife preserve is simply the wrong location.
''This is a unique situation because other tribes have hundreds of acres to deal with,'' resident Rick Hennen said. ''Jamul has six acres in a residential area with a creek running through the property and a school bus stop in front.''
A local opposition group, Jamulians Against Casino, argues the project will ruin the rural character of their town of sloping, brush-covered hills.
Many residents enjoy leaving their jobs in San Diego each day to drive winding roads to their homes on Jamul's spacious ranches - many of which rival the reservation in size.
The town's two-lane highway, they argue, simply won't be able to handle more traffic. As it is, an accident can cause the road to back up for miles.
And, many note, San Diego County already has three other casinos on the Barona, Viejas and Sycuan reservations which have 7,000, 1,600 and 640 acres, respectively. Barona, the largest, has devoted about 200 acres to its casino and resort.
Residents and those gaming tribes are still learning to live together.
The two sides must share roads, water and property. But unlike typical businesses, residents complain, tribes are not required to listen to the concerns of their neighbors.
Near the Barona Indian Reservation, residents of Lakeside fear water being used to irrigate a new golf course will deplete the town's supply.
''The whole problem is that they're doing everything they want but if we're impacted, there's nothing we can do,'' said Robert Coffin, whose citrus ranch borders the Barona reservation.
Though the Jamuls have taken steps to win the community to their side, by hosting a public barbecue in June, for example, townsfolk nevertheless have collected more than 1,500 signatures protesting the project and some vow to take the issue to court.
San Diego County Supervisor Dianne Jacob, a leading casino opponent, says the tribe should instead use a ''revenue-sharing'' clause in the state's gaming contract to generate income. ''There is an alternative,'' she said.
The tribe did receive about $7,500 a month from neighboring casinos before announcing their own project, Chamberlain said. But that was barely enough to supplement the elders' needs, she said, not enough to run the reservation.
About 30 tribal members live on the reservation, most of them young working families in 13 mobile homes.
Since striking the gaming compact earlier this year, developers have given the tribe a monthly stipend of $100,000. Once the casino begins operating, project backers Kean Argovitz Resorts of Texas and Minnesota's Lakes Gaming stand to share one-third of its profits for five years.
The casino will ensure the tribe's self-reliance, leaders say.
''We will proceed. This is for our children and a better way of life,'' tribal chairman Kenneth Meza said.
At the recent community barbecue, the tribe spoke of a state-of-the-art casino housing 2,000 Las Vegas-style slots along with games, restaurants and parking.
The crowd of 400 cheered one tribal council member's announcement of plans to give back to the community, offering $2 million to build Jamul a new fire station, a sheriff's substation and maybe more for a community park.
''We're doing so much more than we were able to before,'' Chamberlain said. ''The opponents say we're squatters, that we don't belong. That really hurts because my family - my grandmother, my great-grandmother - are buried on the reservation.''
The Jamuls, who won federal recognition in 1981, trace their ancestry to the Kumeyaay Indians who have inhabited San Diego County for more than 10,000 years.
Of California's 100 recognized tribes, Jamul is among the 60 to sign gaming contracts.
Already a University of Nevada report predicts that California Indian gaming could surpass Nevada's market in 10 years.
The Jamuls hope to annex an adjacent piece of property, but such expansion could take several years and would still only increase the reservation's size to just over 100 acres. With or without the extra land, the tribe intends to build.
Politicians who back the opposition voiced by Jacob, the county supervisor who lives in Jamul, acknowledge that they can do little. It's a matter for the tribe and the federal government - one sovereign nation to another, said state Sen. David Kelley, R-Idyllwild.
''We can scream and yell all we want,'' he said, ''but it would be like a voice in the wilderness.''
