Ten airport horror stories that will make you never want to fly again

On a trip to Morocco my girlfriend and I were characteristically late for the return flight. We had traveled by bus from Chefchauen, a well known cannabis producing region, to the capital, Rabat, and it had been a rather long uncomfortable journey. It was made a lot worse by the fact that for the last couple of days i had had a rather “loose” stomach.

We got to the airport with about forty minuted until our flight took off, so we rushed through check in, changed what little money we had left, pushed to the front of the passport queue and then tried to get through security. At that point, we were rather flushed from all the rushing, and I, more than I previously thought was possible, needed the toilet.

Inevitably, the guy in security pulled us to one side to take a closer look at our bags. And after emptying everything decided he should get another security guard to take a further look. I then made the mistake of telling him that I very much would like to go to the toilet while we waited because i had quite a bad stomach. He asked if i had taken any thing to which i replied, i have — some Imodium — but it hadn’t helped. He then asked if i needed to have a doctor to check out my stomach, I said that i was OK, I just really needed to toilet.

I then realised that we had very different understandings of what was wrong. Telling me that he knew that I came to the airport from Chefchauen – he must have checked my exit visa or guessed – he suggested that my bad stomach might be something to do with all the drugs I had taken or was smuggling in my stomach. I was looked nervous he told me. I tried to explain that I needed the loo. At that point, out came two armed police officers with sniffer dogs, and we were dragged to the corner of security and we waited, confident if a little nervous, for them to check out our bags.

I then got taken to an interview room, where a police officer poked at my stomach while quizzing me about my drug consumption habits. I told him that “of course there is cannabis in Chefcauen” — you get offered it all the time — but “of course i didn’t take any.” He then said, after a little conferring, that I I would have to wait while they found a doctor to “examine me.” I tried to explain, once more, that this was a big misunderstanding and I just needed to go to the toilet but the more I remonstrated the more it seemed inevitable that i would end up with a latex gloved hand exploring my most intimate parts.

We waited, my girlfriend in tears; the police now were giggling and taking what seemed to be a remarkable amount of joy from our misery. Eventually somebody arrived to examine me: the original security officers. I asked about their medical credentials but i was told i didn’t have a choice.

Round the corner I went with him. We stopped outside a disabled toilet and he pointed to the door. Finally! I thought. And then it became obvious that the disabled toilets were in fact the examining room and he was coming in with me. He then told me that he was going to check if i was lying or not and told me that if i needed to go i should go now in a rather threatening tone, although he might have just been pissed off that he had drawn the short-straw of watching me defecate.

I was just about to ask if he could leave me alone while i went, but i no longer cared. Down came my trousers, and while I enjoyed an explosive, thundering poo, my bottom turning temporarily into an aerosol of faeces, i looked up at him and with a smug smile that said “well i did tell you.” After a minute or so, he left me to it. And by the time i returned my girlfriend was packing our bags once more, still a little shaken and uncertain as to where they had taken me.

The plane ended up being delayed, so we even got our flight. But it’s taught me a lot. There are always bastard cops where ever you are; learning your rights is up there with remembering your passport; and make sure you carry money in case you need to bribe somebody in a disabled toilet in an airport in order to get home.

Bilbao Airport (the new one) about 8-9 years ago. Going through the security scanner I was called back by one of the police security hovering around at the end who handed me a pair of magnifying glasses that were sitting at the end of the conveyor belt where I’d just picked my handbag up. I said thank you and wandered off with my family and a friend to the cafe.

About 15 minutes later my brother said “I think those three annoyed looking policemen are pointing at you”!

It seems I’d mistakenly taken the glasses that belonged to someone else by mistake (I did honestly have a pair with me, I thought they’d fallen out my bag) and he was standing there with the policemen who came over to our table and started pointing and gesticulating at me and the glasses.

I don’t speak Spanish, neither did anyone else with me, the whole cafe was silent and staring at us but fortunately, the chap whose glasses I’d accidentally taken was German and did speak Spanish, he also spoke excellent English. He was very nice and accepted my massively red-faced apology that I truly had taken them by accident and left with the three policemen who glared at me as they departed.

A rather uncomfortable experience at the time, not sure it warranted three police officers, but we laugh about it now……….!

Berlin in the height of summer. Connecting flight cancelled on the runway, so I missed the international departure from Frankfurt to Tokyo.
The big problem was the large selection of European cheeses I had placed in the suitcase, which was sent to who knows where. When we were finally reunited the hard cheeses were soft and the soft cheeses were liquid. And the stench accomplished the almost impossible task of completely overwhelming my week’s collection of used socks.

My best friend and I were on the final stage of our world trip and in Cusco we visited a LAN Peru office to change our final flight home by a day or so. The next day we noticed that my friend’s connecting flight in London to Newcastle was wrong – they had booked her connection a YEAR after she landed at LHR.

The LAN office in Cusco was closed for Easter, so we tried to alter the ticket online (it was a BA, One World alliance ticket) but no joy. Unfazed we flew from Cusco to Lima to catch our flight to the UK thinking we could sort this out with LAN at Lima. Hahahahaa…

Three hours – and one shift change – later, we were still arguing with LAN about the error. They were adamant they would not change it, despite seeing that the original connection was the same day and that their colleague had made the mistake!

Frustrated at the complete ineptitude of LAN, and with a very angry, shouty best mate losing her rag (‘I HATE THIS COUNTRY’) I decided to do what all good PAs do: sort it out. I hopped online and booked my friend a BMi flight to Newcastle, I then called British Airways. It was not cheap, however, I got a very nice lady in the UK who took note of my issue, that we had spent more money on a flight, and that we were displeased. Ah, Britain.

It took 4 months of letters to get the flight connection refunded and an apology from LAN, however…..she got home!!

Just another one –

On our flight out to Thailand for our honeymoon, Mr E got stopped at Heathrow security as he was deemed to be causing offence to other passengers. His crime? Wearing at t-shirt with a picture of a Lego Han Solo and the words “Don’t get Cocky!”

We never found out what element caused offence; the Lego, the Stars Wars theme, but whatever it was he had to wear his t-shirt inside out while were in the terminal.

The staff on the our Thai Air flight must have though we were absolute freaks when we asked them if they had any issues with him wearing his t-shit the right way round when we got on the flight

A friend was flying in from Canada to meet us in Lisbon. “We” were a football team flying from Switzerland and planned to meet said friend in the airport on arrival. He never turned up – his connecting plane from Heathrow was diverted to Porto when one of the other passengers had a cardiac arrest. He eventually met us at the hotel but had no luggage, which had been lost in transit at Heathrow. He waited the requisite 3 days without luggage before hitting the fashion shops to buy underwear etc. His plight gave us much amusement.

On the way back the friend was travelling to Hong Kong as he’d been moved to that office. We waited for the EasyJet flight back to Basel as he boarded his HK flight in business class. Constant delayed messages alerted to us an issue with our flight and when we eventually took our seats we were 5 hours late. Basel won’t allow landings after midnight. Easyjet decided to send us to Lyon instead (which the tannoy insisted “is near Basel” – it isn’t). We got shunted on to a rickety bus at 2 a.m. and trundled to Basel, arriving exhausted at 07:50 a.m. (10 minutes before the deadline at which EasyJet would have owed us compensation).

At this point I received a text from the friend who had headed off to Hong Kong. He had landed on time and had been seated next to Alice Cooper, a fascinating companion who was happy (over a large quantity of Jack Daniels & coke) to share stories of classic albums and touring shenanigans.

Never laugh at somebody’s travelling misfortune, instant karma’s gonna’ get you.

Back in the late 1980s, when I was in my early 20s, I had to change planes at Kinshasa, capital of the then Zaire, now DR Congo. It was a brief stopover of two or three hours, which I should have spent in the heat and grime of what the airport staff referred to, with a straight face, as the transit lounge.

Within a few minutes of arriving in said lounge, a man came up to me, flashed his police ID, and demanded to see my passport and ticket. After inspecting them, he put them in his pocket, and told me to follow him.

We went downstairs, out through customs and immigration without pausing, and into the airport police station. I was taken into an interrogation room, where we were joined by two of my new friend’s colleagues.

They kindly offered to assist me, for a small fee, in boarding my flight, an offer I politely declined on the grounds my ticket was in order. They then offered, in exchange for a similar consideration, to ensure that my checked baggage was loaded onto the plane, and again I thanked them very much, but said I was sure everything would be fine. At one point, I said I had little cash, but they told me they accepted travellers cheques.

This dance went on for hours, with all of us pretending the officers weren’t demanding bribes to let me go, and my stubbornly refusing to take advantage of their offers of assistance. Eventually, my plane landed, and they gave up.

I found myself at the bottom of the 747’s steps, arguing with cabin crew, who, understandably, weren’t keen to let me board without a passport or ticket. Eventually, a police officer shambled across the tarmac and returned my documents.

It was only when I settled into my seat that I realised what a fool I’d been. What felt at the time like a game — which I’d won! — could have caused me real problems. For the sake of £20 (though that really was a lot to me back then), I’d risked missing my plane, and possibly spending time in a Zairian jail. How long would it have taken the British consul to discover I was missing — and then find me? What might have happened to me in my cell during that time?

But I was young, naive and it was my first time out of Europe. Thank God the on-board booze in cattle class was free back then. Otherwise, I’d have blown £20 on getting drunk.

Flying home to San Francisco, my Rome-Frankfurt flight was delayed due to bad weather at Frankfurt airport. When we finally landed there was no gate available, so the plane was parked on the tarmac – coincidentally right next to the Frankfurt-San Francisco plane I was supposed to transfer to – and a bus came to shuttle us to an airport entrance. The bus naturally drove us as far away as it could, from where I sprinted the length of the airport, arriving at the gate just as the last passengers were boarding. The following conversation ensued:

Agent: Which flight are you coming from?
Self: Rome.
Agent: I’m sorry sir, that flight has been delayed and you won’t make the connection.
Self: But I have made the connection – I’m here. I don’t even have any baggage – just me, here, now.
Agent: But you cannot be.
Self: But I am.
Agent: But you cannot be.
Self: But I am – look!
Agent: But you cannot be.
Self: But …

No amount of argument could persuade the agent that I was indeed there; the doors closed, and the half-empty flight left without me.

Around 20 years ago my grandma was making the trip from China to join us in the UK.

She was in her 70s, couldn’t speak a word of English, spoke Mandarin with a strong accent and was illiterate. So we booked her into a direct flight and my parents and I (I was 7 then) waited dutifully at Heathrow for her to arrive.

Except her flight didn’t arrive. At first it was labelled ‘delayed’. This continued for hours. Then it just disappeared from the boards. My parents, with their broken English, were panicked. We slept on the floor in Heathrow airport that night as they struggled to locate the plane. The first of many nights I have since spent in airports and definitely the most scary.

Around 36 hours later we found out the plane had been held up somewhere and we, as Chinese people did in those days, sought the help of the Chinese Embassy. The Embassy actually provided us with accommodation for 2 further nights until my grandma arrived at Heathrow, 3 days late, but happy, healthy and completely unruffled and unconcerned.

She said she’d had a nice time with some ladies from another province in China who’d looked after her and we had nothing to worry about. She wasn’t sure what had happened but they’d landed somewhere and she’d been given a place to stay and good food. She’s even made good enough friends to give a few of the ladies our address, which my mum had written down for her. A few months later, we received a letter from one of these ladies with a photo of my grandma standing in front of St Basil’s Cathedral in Moscow.

My grandma passed away in 2009. This is the main picture of her my parents still display on their mantelpiece.

Oh all these stories of baggage, the prospect of men with rubber gloves…you obviously have never travelled! Try being in a wheelchair.

I have a story for every time I have flown with my power wheelchair, from the very helpful checkin lady in Vegas demanding that I try and walk (really? I’d never thought of that? Let me give it a go just for you), to the Paratransit bus that had a lift that failed with me inside the bus, as we’re parked outside the airport and the departure time getting ever closer.

However, there is one that will remain with us for all time. Flying from Vancouver Airport to Orlando for a massive family holiday. We are on the plane and the cabin crew ask my husband if he can step off the plane to talk to the ground staff. Nothing new here, we’ve been asked before to show them how to make sure the battery is off. My husband is gone for a little longer than I would have thought…and the cabin crew come back and ask for our address in Florida. Hmmmm. Not normal.

My ashen faced husband gets back on the plane to tell me that they have dropped my $25k custom built power wheelchair from 20ft onto concrete and it is destroyed. And we’re on our way to our holiday…

To cut a very long story short, the holiday was painful – you can’t just rent a replacement chair – so I mean literally painful with the chair that I had. It took 5 months before everything was finished.

It was the airline’s responsibility, but not their fault – Vancouver ground crew put it in a freight elevator without putting brakes on and leaving the back door of the elevator open. 350lb of chair flying through the air…could have killed someone.

The airline, WestJet, were wonderful and did everything they could and I ended up with a lifelong friend from their mobility specialist in customer service. And they replaced the chair, without us ever having a crossed word anywhere in the proceedings.

Has it put me off flying? Nah, flying again this year with WestJet. My mobility specialist friend already has the flights marked on her calendar…I’ve said I expect the chair to be wrapped in industrial strength bubble wrap!

Your baggage is late? No worries!!!!!

So this would have been around 1990. It was Christmas Eve and I’d gone to Washington Dulles Airport to pick up my wife, who was flying in from LA (where she worked at the time). I don’t know if you remember that winter, but it was a cold one, and the airport was virtually snowbound. Delays were expected.

To amuse myself, I had a couple of drinks at the airport bar. While I was there I spotted what I thought was a dodgy looking character. Intrigued, I followed him into the baggage claim hall, where I was appalled to see that the man was both carrying a gun, and seemed to interfering with some baggage due to be loaded up onto one of the plans. I was armed myself, and — as is common in these situations — a shootout ensured, in which I killed one of the men. On reporting to airport security, I was appalled to discover that the man (whose ID I took) was a mercenary, supposedly killed in action a few years back. As you can imagine, I was even more suspicious than ever.

Well, my suspicions were proved correct. Not long after that, a terrorist cell seized control of air traffic control and threatened to crash planes into the ground unless the dictator of their South American homeland — then in jail in the US on drug charges — was released from custody. To their credit, airport security called in SWAT to try and take the terrorists out, but it was a disaster. The SWAT team were massacred, and the terrorists went ahead and crashed a plane into the runway. There was over 200 people on board!

Really, it was a bit of a downer.

Anyway, realising my wife was in danger and that the authorities weren’t going to solve the situation, I took matters into my own hands. To cut a long story short, I found the terrorists, killed them all and blew up their plane. Then I ran out onto the runway in the snow, and hailed down the remaining planes, saving thousands.

The irony is that just the previous year I’d had to deal with a similar terrorist threat at my wife’s workplace in LA. I mean, honestly, how can the same thing happen to the same guy twice?