ANZAC Day and the Bowser of Broken Systems

It’s ANZAC Day 2025. We’re rolling into some forgotten dustbowl “town”in the Pilbara region of remote WA, with barely half a whiff of diesel and a car clinging to life out of sheer stubbornness. We coast into the servo on momentum alone—no power, no protest—just a mechanical sigh as it dies beside the diesel bowser like it’s emotionally done with the trip too.

My wife, having squared off with a nuclear-level vindaloo the night before, launches from the car with the urgency of someone negotiating a personal plumbing emergency. Not a word. Just pure instinct and clenched focus as she disappears toward the toilet block.

Now, before I even make it inside, I catch the sign: “Toilets for customers only.” And knowing exactly what my wife’s going through—or more accurately, what she’s pushing out—I have a quiet, internal chuckle. Technically, we’re not customers yet, but based on her condition, she’s about to pay the ultimate price.

I stay behind, eyeballing a fully-kitted Pajero-Millard rig parked at the pump in front. One of those “we’re-ready-for-the-apocalypse” setups that’s clearly never seen a grain of red dirt. Its owner? Nowhere in sight. Probably inside agonising over which overpriced Biltong / Beef Jerky suits his Spotify playlist.

I roll our car just close enough to reach the diesel hose. Out comes the phone. Tap to pay. Let’s go. Because it’s 2025, right? Every bakery, bottle-o and dog-washing trailer in the country takes tap-and-go.

But not here.

What greets me at the pump is laminated chaos: an A4 sheet in bold font, aggressively highlighted in pink and yellow. It’s shouting rules at me like a substitute teacher on their last nerve. I’m dyslexic, I’ve left my glasses in the car, and the whole thing reads like an escape room designed by Centrelink.

So, I trudge toward the shop. Except the entrance is blocked by a rogue Ice Machine, forcing everyone around the back… right past the very toilets my wife’s still probably waging war in.

Inside? Classic servo bedlam. Sticky tiles, energy drinks stacked like bricks, the haunting glow of pasties that have seen things. I reach the counter, and a chipper backpacker greets me like I’ve walked into a boutique hotel.

“I’d like some diesel please,” I say.

“No problem! Just need your driver’s licence or passport first before we can turn the pump on.”

I blink. “Sorry? My licence is 1000km away, back in Fremantle. And I’m not carrying a passport—I’m camping in Australia, not re-entering it.”

She shrugs. “Owner’s policy.”

I hold up my phone. “My wallet’s in here. My licence, my bank cards, my face—everything. I can buy a house with this thing.”

She smiles. “Sorry, no phones.”

Behind me, five cars are now banked up. Idling. Heatwaves rising. The look on one bloke’s face suggests he’s mentally drafting my obituary. So she suggests I use my wife’s licence instead.

Perfect. I bolt back to the car, grab it, race back inside—only to be told, “She needs to hand it over herself.”

I glance toward the toilets, still echoing with gastrointestinal despair. I exhale. We are officially in a hostage situation.

Neither of us is backing down. The iced coffees in the cupholders are sweating. I’m sweating. The diesel is right there and yet so far. That’s when I crack—not loud, not rude—just very, very clear.

“This whole system is broken. You’ve turned buying fuel into a bureaucratic obstacle course. One tap-and-go terminal and all of this disappears. No laminated threats. No hostage-style ID swap. Just a little common sense—and maybe, I don’t know, a sliver of trust in the people literally fuelling your business.”

She shrugs again. “Sorry, it’s the owner’s policy.”

And then, like an angel rising from the ashes—or more accurately, the thunder of digestive vengeance—my wife emerges. I hand her the licence. She walks it in herself. And just as I’m thinking we’ve made it, the attendant looks me dead in the eye and says:

“I can’t serve him. He was rude. He said offensive things.”

I hadn’t yelled. I hadn’t sworn. I’d simply pointed out the absurdity of needing international-level documentation to get fuel in a town that doesn’t even have a streetlight.

Thankfully, my wife—cooler head, better poker face—talks her down. Smooths it over. Somehow gets us over the line. We fuel up.

But let’s be honest.

This wasn’t about safety. Or policy. It was about control. About a servo owner so paranoid about losing a tank of diesel they’d rather build a human obstacle course than install a $200 contactless terminal.

It’s 2025. No one carries wallets. No one packs a passport for a camping trip. And no one wants to barter personal documents for fuel like it’s a Cold War back alley exchange.

So here’s the takeaway: if you run a servo and still don’t have tap-and-go?

You’re not protecting your business. You’re punishing your customers. And that’s not policy—that’s pathology.

Install it. Trust people. Or at the very least, stop turning pump 10 into a hostage negotiation.