thinking about zone culture again. the coming-of-age traditions in each crew, the handing down of ray guns and cars and old scrap technology being passed down. family is tied together by blood, but the blood spilled to protect one another, not the stuff running through their veins. every adult in the crew takes care of the young ones, the young ones take care of the younger ones. the child birthed into the crew is as much a part of it as the baby found abandoned in the sand, both wrapped in cloth and protected from the harsh elements of the desert.
the rise and fall of crews, fame and fortune being swapped for tragedy and extinction as the years pass by, the myths and legends of old zone-runners and crash-queens being passed down by the only rebels left who remember them. information is traded between zones through zines and radio and signals painted on the side of neutral village buildings, stories are told around campfires and curled up in cars and vans and campers. the fabulous killjoys just being the latest protagonists of the tale told to every motor-baby in the desert.
secret radio stations to tune into that give away locations of one-time gigs and markets and parties, entire campsites being built and torn down in a day to ensure crews can meet up and leave without being caught. rebels trade fuel and water and alcohol and medicine, motorbabies trade shiny pieces of jewellery and drawings and comic books scavenged from abandoned buildings. friendships formed and loves found and lost in a day, the chance of reunion slim in the ever-changing nature of the desert. kisses on cheeks and half-hearted promises and secret handshakes which will never be forgotten, even as years pass by.
