Not recolouring my underpants whilst climbing the chain ladders at the top of Half Dome in Yosemite a fortnight ago might have convinced me that I had finally conquered my lifelong pathological fear of heights, but in the end, all it took was an antiquated Ferris wheel at San Pedro Feria to confirm that in fact, I haven't.
The rain had cleared on Tuesday evening and I was wandering amongst the stalls at the Feria watching locals eat candy floss and lose their money trying to throw coins into miniscule metal rings in the hope their dinero would land without touching the sides, when Augustin, the oldest of the brothers at my homestay was suddenly standing next to me in the street. - Quieres invitarme en la Ferris? he raised an eyebrow. As I pulled out my wallet, his younger brother Beto magically appeared beside us.
It was only after I had bought our tickets and the three of us had been locked into our seats by the flimsiest of metal bars and we had started moving skywards that I first noticed the rust on the Ferris wheel structure. And the circular holes on some of the spokes of the wheel where large screws or bolts would have seemed much more appropriate.
An anxious thought immediately crossed my mind: Was there likely to be strict fairground safety guidelines in Guatemala that the owners of a 35-pence a ride Ferris Wheel had to adhere to? The colour started to drain from my face. My legs began to turn to jelly. As I started to recall all the times I had heard on the news about fairground rides in the UK collapsing and people plummeting to their deaths, my stomach also began to revisit the queasy sensation of last Friday at 4AM.
Not wanting to alarm the two young boys I was currently dangling 40 feet in the air with, I decided to keep my concerns to myself. Not that there would have been much point in sharing them anyway, as Augustin was too busy showing me he could do the entire ride no handed (the Ferris wheel owner had just given me into trouble for gripping tightly onto one of the main Ferris wheel spokes), whilst his brother Beto was trying to show me how easy it was for him to get his legs out from beneath the safety bar.
As the ride progressed, and the Ferris wheel rotated forwards and backwards at a sickeningly high speed:rust ratio, I almost developed a casual ambivalence to falling from a great height to my death that Tuesday evening. Until the wheel stopped with the three of us at its very highest point and it started pouring with rain again and I just wanted off the sodding thing. I don't think I will ever cure my fear of heights, and I don't think I will ever go on a Guatemalan Ferris wheel again.
Footnote: When I went for breakfast this morning, my homestay host Rosa cheerfully told me that her sons had informed her when they got back from the Feria that the extranjero was scared on the Ferris Wheel.
