My God, It's Raining

The Windup Girl by Paolo Bagicalupi is a 2009 novel of dystopian future, a world where an advanced level of genetic crop manipulation has produced two almost-cataclysmic results – the development of advanced and destructive disease strains (it’s left to the reader to decide whether these strains have formed through evolution, or have been synthesised) and a global monopoly on the gene patents of disease-resistant fruit and crops.

The story itself takes place in Thailand, one of the few strongholds of meaningful resistance against the monopolisation of the “calorie” companies – the only reason they have held out successfully is through the aid of defected geneticist and the possession of a massive seed bank, thousands of genetic samples of pre-manipulation and disease-free plant material that can be used as genetic stock for the generation of “fresh” produce lines.

That’s not to say Thailand is without problems, though.  Corrupt to the core, two government factions struggle for power over the other, primarily concerned with the largely insular Kingdom’s strict trade and customs systems, while various underworld and street factions take their share and hold de facto sway over the industrial sector and the streets themselves.

Stuck in the middle of it is a cast of disparate characters: Anderson Lake, operative of a calorie company on the hunt for the elusive seed bank location; Hock Seng, survivor of an Islamist purge of Malaysia and foreman in Lake’s cover operation, an experimental spring factory; Jaidee, Tiger of Bangkok, incorruptible Captain of the White Shirts – the enforcement arm of the Environment Ministry; Kanya, Jaidee’s second-in-command; and Emiko, the titular Windup Girl, a genetically-modified, vat-grown, built for pleasure but ingrained with specific, controlling flaws – the irresistible urge to obey, the staccato motion of her muscles – dumped as an economic sacrifice by her owners and found at the start of our story being debased on-stage in a Thai sex show.

I should start with what’s good about the novel.  I enjoyed it, for a start, and read through the entire thing in almost a single sitting during a day’s relaxation after the start of my Christmas holiday.  It’s not a difficult read for anyone willing to familiarise themselves rapidly with the jargon of a world based on biotech and genetic tinkering – in fact, I found the Thai words slipped into things more jarring than the tech-speak – and the characters are readily sympathetic if not exactly angelic in their respective agendas.

The writing, too, is excellent.  Stirring, evocative imagery: just the right amount of research in there to give the world shape, colour, tone, and not so much that you feel like you’re getting a lecture.  The author skips lightly over action sequences and fights, and rightly so – the few times that more detail is required, things take a treacle-slow turn for the worse and you find your eyes skipping description just to find out what’s actually going on.

For all that, though, the plot builds nicely, both in the macroscopic scene-by-scene flow of things and the overarcing build of pressure as the government factions kick off a battle of escalating wills.  If anything it peaks a little too early on, and the final lifts feel shallow compared to the city’s implosion at the two-thirds mark.

On the downside, it’s hard not to make obvious comparisons to superior work.  I am, if anything, a child of my influences, and it would be disingenuous of an author to present such a postmodern work without expecting readers to sit and pick parts apart.

The biggest problem I had with the entire thing was the Windup Girl herself.  She’s a mish-mash of imagery, a sex doll inconceivably gifted with the ability to move at superhuman speeds, to break all genetic and social codes programmed into her and self-emancipate.  Granted, she’s pushed hard on that journey, but it still feels convenient, a little too inspired towards producing an image instead of something that fits into the plot.  One second she’s an alien machine-person, loathed, reviled, desired, punished for her existence, next thing she’s punching people in the throat and moving with a fluidity and grace that Pris couldn’t quite manage even with a male stunt double.  Near the end she pulls the joint of an elbow apart catching herself on a balcony and in that long, drawn-out moment dangling above the dark alley you can’t help but recall Major Kusanagi’s cyborg body just plain giving up the battle between her irresistible will and the immovable lid of a spider tank.

Taking the wider view, the entire book is good, but more than anything else it makes me want to read The Quiet American again.  Greene’s prose is more clipped, less vibrant, but nevertheless the simmer of his plot is more subtle, more controlled.  Very little happens that the reader doesn’t experience first-hand in Windup Girl, and given the controlled, corrupt nature of the various factions at work it might have been more fun to have more reaction, more subtlety to events.  I realise that’s not a fashionable publishing view – the here and now is very much in vogue – but it’s the immediate difference that sets The Quiet American apart as a classic and denies the Windup Girl similar status.

Because Lisa’s family lives in Sweden, and my family in Scotland, we came up with the obivous solution regarding Christmas holidays: we alternate.

So back in the summer, Lisa petitioned her work for time off over Christmas, and we organised long stay parking for the car, and then checked with our neighbours that they would be okay to look after our chickens for us. Then we booked some nice, reasonably-priced flights with SAS.

Flying from Heathrow.

So over the past week, our chances of actually getting out of the country were getting slimmer, and slimmer. I had planned to go up to Scotland to see my parents over a weekend, but they phoned on the Friday to say “the roads are really bad, don’t risk the travel”. By Sunday, Heathrow was a mess and the slimmest glimmer of hope hinged upon the statement that they would be operating a “normal” service by Wednesday – the day of our flight.

And thus, we got ready to go. As Dantes says, the two greatest words are “wait” and “hope” – although he had fourteen years in a dungeon so maybe that’s not quite the standard I should be trying to parallel. Lisa went off on Tuesday to her work for a half day while I phoned the airline to check and the hotel and the parking and everything else that needed to be in place and all the time I was told, “yes, it’s going to be fine.”

By one in the afternoon, the flight was cancelled.

I passed on the bad news when I picked up Lisa. On the way over I had been mentally listing in my head our options for a UK Christmas. Brave the drive north to my parents. Drop in and see my brother. Stay in with the chickens. What food to buy.

I slightly underestimated Lisa’s indomitability. In the car, she was checking alternate flight options on her phone. I got on the phone to SAS (10 mins on hold, no answer) while she checked flights from other carriers. Other airports. Eventually, we struck gold – a flight from Manchester to Stockholm that night, with a return date on the 29th. The only issue was the price. Because of the time of year, because of the conditions, it was never going to be a cheap flight.

The only question was – could we afford it?

It took tipping the contents of one old mattress stuffed with cash into the middle of the floor and smashing a piggy bank full of 2p coins over the top of it, but somehow we managed to come up with the money.

Then there was another question – were we going to make the flight?

With a following wind and some really, really good traffic, Hull to Manchester airport is a 2 hour drive. With online check in, we needed to be through baggage check 40 mins in advance of the flight time. It would take 20-30 mins to get the car parked at a long stay place (which we hadn’t organised yet).

The flight was in 3 and a half hour’s time.

What followed was perhaps the most stressful, tight-lipped drive of my life to date. Of course, I stayed well under the speed limit, did not swear once*, and the roads were clear all the way.

If you believe that, of course, I have some real estate you might be interested in.

So we got parked with maybe ten minutes to spare before the time we needed to be at the gate.

“Oh you can’t park there,” friendly parking attendant pointed out.
“What? It’s a parking space.”
“No, that’s *staff* parking. You’ll have to move it to one of the lanes.”
“What lanes?”
“Those ones.” He points to some markings, nigh indistinguishable from the markings on the ground I’ve just parked between except for the fact that they are nine feet to the left of where I’ve parked.
“Seriously? You want me to move my car nine feet to the left.”
“Yep.”

So I move the car, and we go sign our keys in, and then get on the bus.

And nothing happens. The driver gets off the bus and goes inside. I can see him through the window, having a little chat. Eventually another car arrives and the driver goes through the same parking space rigmarole that I went through, before slowly making his way onto the bus. The driver comes with him. Finally, we are on our way.

“Eh, just going to pop to the toilet before we go,” says the driver, before disappearing back into the building.

Couldn’t he have pissed while he was waiting before? Or just on the side of the bus? I wouldn’t have looked! I promise!

I call the airport and doggedly hang on to a ringing line until someone answers it and puts me through to the SAS desk. I give them my flight number, name and tell them I an on my way.  The gguy on the desk tells me that I *need* to be there by five past.

*Need*

With two minutes to spare, the bus pulls off the roundabout towards terminal one…and then ploughs past terminal 1 to drop the other two passengers off at terminal 3.  The driver hobbles out of his seat to help them with their bags, then stops at the door for a chat and to swap Christmas wishes.  By this point I am pacing the floor of the bus and Lisa is, ironically considering the circumstances of our afternoon, to calm down.

We then belt it to the terminal, up to the baggage check and get checked in and then belt it to security where the guard assures us that although our flight leaves in 20 minutes we aren’t allowed to use the fast track.  Instead, we spend 20 minutes queueing to get checked through normal security.  Common sense wins the day at this juncture, and I stay very, very calm, because being menaced by airport security for being stressed out and grumpy is not high on my wish list.

We get through and really belt it to the gate, my ears straining to hear the tannoys for a passenger call…and then have to wait a half hour before we can board because our flight is delayed.

Figures.

*several thousand times is not “once”.