(For children in the streets of Cap-Haitien, everyday life is perilous) By Michael P Mayko, STAFF WRITER Published: 11:42 a.m., Tuesday, February 9, 2010 Gallery   View More Items   This story originally appeared in the Sunday, January 31 print edition of the Connecticut Post. Click here to subscribe.   CAP-HAÏTIEN, Haiti -- Their voices crack and the tears flow as vivid, humiliating memories return.   For Jackson, now 22, begging for food, clothing and medical care was a demeaning experience.   For Wilno, now 24, relief from that shame was found in daily whiffs of paint thinner. For teenagers Gisman, Rodlin and Jimmy, cleaning windshields, being beaten by police and sleeping on rooftops with an eye open for assailants are not just memories. They are part of daily life.   Here in Haiti's second largest city, there are more than 5,000 homeless children whose everyday lives depend on the good will of merchants, missionaries and United Nations employees. Unemployment here was at least 85 percent in December, even before the earthquake that toppled the capital city of Port-au-Prince and shattered this already-impoverished country.   "You find these kids in front of every single business, restaurant, bar ... begging, selling phone cards, washing car windows. It's not a funny a picture seeing a bunch of dirty kids living on the street when they should be in school," said Bell Angelot, a politician, professor and administrator of his own school. "It's not a picture Haiti can sell."   These are the boys who looked for hope in Douglas Perlitz's Project Pierre Toussaint. Daytime is a little easier for these kids. The streets are jammed with people, many trying to make a day's wage by selling used clothing, homemade charcoal, even fresh popcorn, in front of their apartments. Missionaries and charity workers are easy targets for those seeking help.   "I came from a very poor family," Jackson said. "My father would beg on the street. My mother used me to beg on the street so we could pay our rent. The situation back then made it very difficult to survive. Now the situation is worse."   Once dusk arrives, the streets become scary. Gangs replace the merchants. Turf wars erupt, often with bloody endings.   "If there were problems, we'd get the blame, and the police would beat the hell out of us," said Jackson.   Gisman tries to make money cleaning car windows. He works on "tap-taps" -- pickup trucks fitted with benches that serve as taxis. Gisman's job from early in the morning to late at night is to hang onto the back of the vehicle and tap twice on the roof so the driver knows when to stop and either let off or pick up passengers. The pay is about 60 cents a day.   At night, like others, he tries to avoid the gangs of bigger, stronger kids who want what little he has.   At one time, Cap-Haïtien had at least four agencies helping street kids, according to Louis Petit-Frère, an inspector with the Institut du Bien Etre Social et de Recherches. Now he's only aware of his.   Petit-Frère's job is similar to that of a social worker at the Connecticut's Department of Children and Families. Except he has at least 2,500 clients and no equipment to do his work.   He'd like to photograph his clients for case files, but he doesn't have a camera. He'd like to print out photos, but he has neither a computer nor a printer. He'd like a motor scooter so he could make more visits, but not only is there no money for it, he has no budget.   What he has is a stack of papers and a desk in a second-floor office that looks down upon a major thoroughfare. Open the window, and the room is filled with ear-splitting music, the honking of horns and screeching of tires. Close the window, and the room quickly becomes stifling hot. There's no air conditioning.   "My job takes me to jails, orphanages and on the streets," said Petit-Frère, a tall, lanky man in a white T-shirt, with close-cropped hair and a neatly trimmed mustache. "I work day and night."   All of that bothers Georgemain Prophète. "It's a concern to me that he has no money," said Prophète, who many believe to be the city's most powerful politician. "The minister of social affairs has to intervene. Kids need to be protected. But the political situation in Haiti hasn't improved as fast as I want it to."   Prophète, who once worked as an assistant manager at a Sears Auto Center in Massapequa, N.Y., and then as a customs officer in Haiti, was appointed by President Rene Garcia Preval to a four-year term as delegate of the northern region of Haiti. He reports directly to the minister of the interior.   "It's most fascinating to be in charge of an area and not be able to do anything," Prophète said. "My job is to fix problems. It's very frustrating when you can't fix any problems."   Angelot, the professor, feels the frustration. He once had Prophète's job.   "It's not just a question of a lack of money," Angelot said." We live in a society with a lack of economy and political instability. This country is disorganized."   So why isn't the United Nations, which has a big presence in Haiti, taking more of a role, particularly with regard to children?   "I'm not in a position to respond," said Nuzhat Ahmad, a Pakistani who heads the U.N.'s regional office in Cap-Haïtien. "Every country has a problem with street children. It's up to Haitian authorities to address that issue."   That tosses it back to Petit-Frère's agency which has no budget. Or to the nearly non-existent public school system, which Angelot said doesn't have the money to educate 500,000 kids.   In the meantime, children fend for themselves on the street.   Like the little boy, dressed in a blue shirt and cut-off shorts, who every day sits cross-legged on a plastic tablecloth, leaning against a wall, hoping to hear money clanking on his metal plate. He seems to stare aimlessly as hundreds of people pass him on their way to the Justinien Hospital. He looks to be about 6 years old, but a nearby woman claims he is 11.   The boy is blind.   The plate in front of him is empty.