Abstract: John and Pam run a genuine 'Mom and Pop diner annex gas station.' The small wooden building and its porch have undergone virtually no change since it was built in 1950. Outside, two ageless gas pumps bear witness to what still functioned, for better or for worse, four years ago. The rehabilitation laws put an end to the independent running of this kind of small gas station. No sooner do you enter the restaurant then you find yourself in a convivial atmosphere. There's not much room, the tables are small, the bar is low and the stools too, the walls are covered in knick-knacks and trinkets. But what matters here are many regulars who feel at home here and who come to chew the fat. John is a big talker and an uncompromising, hard-line Republican. Pam is the eccentric owner, who keeps in the background with her parrot. But she obviously wears the pants around here. People constantly come and go. Local customers seem to be rather uncouth and harsh-voiced, but they like the contact and enjoy talking. They have fixed opinions and don't shy away from any expression, as strong as it might be. In the middle of the room is the liars' table. Every morning, a few locals (not always the same) gather here to discuss daily concerns: the collapse of social security system, politics, the situation in their home town, the illegal aliens ... Opinions vary. Nelson, a real cowboy, doesn't conceal his bitterness. He takes his anger out on the immigrants who, by coming here, are the cause of everything that goes wrong and will be the cause of everything that will get even worse. John, the owner, is more tolerant. He has an impressive array of guns but he would never think of using them on any Mexicans; 'They're humans, too.' Another local, Mac, likes to show off his guns, which he carries on him. With his two SS marks on the back of his tee shirt and tattooed on his hand, he doesn't go unnoticed. This rugged, greying sexagenarian has his secret reserves of tenderness. Greg is a fireman. He's virtually the only Democrat in town. He's nicknamed 'the fool.' He prudently points out that the region they live in was originally Mexican soil and that it's the Americans who are the illegal immigrants here. Dave is the local sheriff's deputy. He looks like someone out of a James Dean movie. His speciality consists of capturing rattlesnakes that enter homes. He is more at ease in their company than with his fellow humans. Most of the 'liars' fully understand the reasons that drive Mexicans to the United States. It's not just a matter of finding a newer and better life here, but it also involves finding a social security system that provides immigrants with a safety net. For instance, they aren't arrested, and don't get prison terms or fines: if need be, they are simply escorted to the border. If they are sick, they are accepted by hospitals where they receive free treatment. There is, in fact, 'no risk' involved in their perilous adventure. Americans are even convinced that many of the dead found in the desert didn't perish of thirst or exhaustion but because they were ill and chose to run the risk in the hope of getting free medical care in the United States. The Mexicans obviously seek to get as far as possible and keep a low profile. So the disturbance is minimal and the annoyances are limited to some night time noises and the unchecked dumping of garbage. It is clear too that there has been no increase in crime. Still, every citizen has several guns at home and in every fenced-in ranch there are guard dogs. In the wake of the illegal refugees hovers the shadow of drug dealers. We will hear many stories, several opinions, and much sighing. But the dominant feeling is that the situation seems without a resolution and without prospects. The social system is out of joint and falling apart. The Mexicans are bringing down labor costs in comparison to normal pay for US workers. At the liars' table, we also meet Chris Simcox, the outraged, rabid journalist who has created a private militia. He is neither understanding nor tolerant. Chris dreams out loud about erecting a large wall along the U.S.-Mexican border. He has no respect for all those politicians who make the local population bear the brunt of expenses created by these migrations. Simcox thinks that this money could have been better used for building the wall. For such problems, prevention rather than cure. Simcox also thinks that the bad faith shown by the federal government to solve these problems has to do with the fact that the State is merely the puppet of the industrial lobby, which is mostly interested in having cheap labor and is in favor of liberalizing trade exchanges through the NAFTA agreements with the Mexican government. Migration means business and sources of income. The Palominas Trading Post is where Chris's men meet up before a hunt.

Abstract: Australia, the Northern Territory. The Outback State. The Stuart Highway runs from Darwin in the North to Adelaide in the South, dividing the island into two. A lonely road without end. No change on the horizon for hundreds of miles. A merciless sun. Dust. Flies. And solitude. Everybody who feels lost and abandoned in the outback, recognizes the importance of the remote roadhouses that provide a specific variety of services to the weary traveler: fuel, repairs, food, accommodation and means of communication. They play an important central role in traffic safety and are an essential part of the tourist infrastructure. There are about 60 roadhouses in Australia. Most of them are remote with no community close by. No social life, no amusement, no distractions. Their own bar and restaurant are in fact the place to be! The rare tourist that stops is not only the main source of income, he is also a welcome diversion to the tedious life in the outback. They see a daily average of 150 cars pass by, but not all of them stop. So most of the time the staff is just waiting. Patiently. To attract travelers and encouraging them to stop, some roadhouses try to offer something different, something slightly out of the ordinary. From an UFO theme park to an all female staff in a place called Heartbreak Hotel. And yes, even Elvis was spotted somewhere. The Northern Territory is also Aboriginal country. Many communities are found off track. But most of them are restricted and inaccessible without permit. A lot of Roadhouses have art galleries which sell Aboriginal art. But that is as far as the flirting with the indigenous people goes. Most roadhouses don't even allow Aboriginals to hang around the premises. There is still a lot of prejudice and discrimination. And with the roadhouses being so remote in desolate areas far from 'civilization', these sentiments are often enlarged to extremes. To the point of being racist. But it must be said that this was also induced by the reprehensible and sometimes violent conduct of some Aboriginals who wander outside the communities. Most of them fell victim to substance abuse; they are staggering drunks or petrol-sniffers. The latter is such a huge problem that you will hardly find a gas station with standard fuel on Aboriginal territory. In most communities it has been replaced by Avgas or aviation fuel because its smell is not attractive to sniffers, or by Opal, a new mix of petrol created by the fuel company BP, which has no effect on sniffers. Almost all communities are also 'dry', meaning alcohol is prohibited. So some Aboriginals left their home communities in search of something to get high on, and end up at the roadhouses ... Who is to blame? Both the Australian and the Aboriginal communities point the finger at each other. The fact is, when you enter a roadhouse, you might encounter three entirely different groups of people without any interaction or mutual understanding: Aussies on one side, the Abo's on the other and in between them ... 'them tourists'. 'Gas Station' will confront them. With each other, with themselves, with the road with no end. The sun keeps on shining. And the flies will always be there ... But so will the roadhouses. No worries, mate, we will always be here.

Abstract: We are not the ones who brought this upon us. We want to live and work as brothers. We need each other!' Thus say the Palestinians and the Israeli colonists in the West bank. 'The conflict is set up by politicians who gain from it. And the wall is no exception to this.' Gas Station passes the checkpoint and drives along the 9m high separation wall towards a genuine Garden of Eden between the Palestinian village Luban and the Israeli settlement Shilo. With the arrival of the colonists, the Palestinian owner of the filling station was requested to abandon his property, or to sell it. Hamad did neither. To boycott him a new Israeli filling station was built at only 1km distance. The road got reconstructed, cutting off access to Hamad's station. But he didn't give up. He built an approach, invested in advertisements, and improved his customer service in an attempt to lure customers off the main road and make them come to his station. His success incited conservative Jews to set fire to his office twice. Nevertheless Hamad has many Israeli customers, and they sit brotherly together under the fig tree in his Garden of Eden. Hamad is proud that he gets along with everybody: 'In business there is no place for politics or religion', he says.

Abstract: Gas Station takes us to cold and snowy Iceland, more particularly to the North-West coast of the island to a village called Flateyri. Flateyri lies next to a fjord and is surrounded by mountains. These mountains have the main role in our episode. Five years ago the village was hit by an avalanche killing 20 people. It was an enormous blow for a small community like Flateyri, and as a result a lot of people deserted the village, while others became depressed. Today the village has been largely rebuilt and the remaining villagers are trying to survive as best as they can in this remote spot. The petrol station - and its owner, Gogo - is crucial for this survival; it's about the only place people can go to for a cup of coffee, a quick bite or a decent conversation. It is the meeting point of the local community. Gogo tries to bring people together and motives her clients to make Flateyri a cosy place: she pours free coffee, gives free predictions on Sundays, and replaces the local teacher when he is sick. All things that make life more agreeable. This is the story of a village fighting the rough climate and rugged nature of Iceland.

Abstract: Aba's store. Aba hails from a wealthy family. In the 50s, his father opened the first gas station in Amritsar. Until three years ago, the sale of gasoline was the preserve of a privileged few: you had to belong to prominent family if you could hope to obtain a business permit. In those days, there were no more than a dozen gas stations in Amritsar. Today, since the government liberalized the market, there are now more than 100 and their number keeps growing. Aba is an imposing person. He is still fairly young and is overweight. This giant of a man is very outgoing; he has the gift of gab and likes to laugh. The old gas station is a sight for sore eyes. A small building, no bigger than a pocket handkerchief, it is located at the corner of a major intersection. There are two gas pumps and when there are three clients or more, they must wait in line, which makes for an unceasing coming and going. At any given moment, five, six, seven or more vehicles wait bumper to bumper. Aba's office looks like a small hallway; it is so small he can hardly enter it. Next to the pumps is a basin in which a man in shorts washes himself. A customer need only hold out his arm to touch him. He bothers no one and no one bothers him. As in most service stations in Punjab, the attendants are immigrants. They come from the neighboring Hill States, from Himalchar Pradesh in particular. They not only represent cheap labor but they're also very reliable. Far from home, they have virtually no social life and so are always at work. Most of them room together in cramped lodgings and their main concern is to save as much of their wages as possible. When they've put away enough money they go home to visit their families, then come back to this job to which they are entirely devoted. Their children are their future. Aba's second office is no less impressive then his service station. Actually it's just a rather filthy store, decorated with a striking mural painting. This is a warehouse where large barrels of oil are loaded onto horse-drawn carts. It's the National Geographic imagery in all its glory. Aba has no intention of modernizing his old store. Most of all, he doesn't want to give the tax inspectors the impression that business is good. His computers are at his home and every day he carries his wireless phone exchange on him. Seated behind his huge desk, he successfully manages his many operations. Actually, he is the exclusive motor oil dealer for the HP gas stations in his district. So he knows all the gas pump attendants in his region, all of whom show him great respect. One of his close friends is Gurmeet, a young man who, in a few months, will have finished his second year at college after which he would like to go abroad and see the world as quickly as possible. He has a friend who is a hotel manager in Australia whom he would like to go see in order to enjoy the good life. Finding a job isn't an burning necessity for the moment. Rajiv Gupta runs a rival gas station. He is well-to-do man with many contacts. He commands respects and everyone treats him with deference. He reminds one of Don Corleone both physically and in the way he has of expressing himself. When Rajib speaks, everyone listens. His daughter Ritsja is the apple of his eye. He only wants the best for her: a future abroad, but only through marriage. Bindu is a friend of Aba's. She also dreams of a better future abroad ... She has also pinned her hopes on a marriage with an Indian expatriate. Be that as it may, like most other women, she will not be allowed to pick her future husband and will remain totally dependent on the wishes of her family and the intervention of a matchmaker. As far as she is concerned, love is an abstract concept and it would be unthinkable to build her life on it. It all strikes her as being too fickle and inconsistent. Still, deep down, she would like to be swept away by a great wave of romance. Mr. Ramoowalia is the only Indian politician to act on behalf of abandoned young brides. The others turn a blind eye to the problem, either out of laxness or lack of interest, but also because it would bring them no extra votes during elections. Ramoowalia regularly organizes protest marches in Aritsar in which 500 persons take part each time. We will follow daily life at this service station, the meetings and discussions about these arranged or forced marriages.

Abstract: Gas Station - Czech republic shows little hope for a Roma, ghetto-like, neighbourhood where alcohol and cigarettes are more popular than petrol.