The dark art of clawback

But then – and this is a less attractive aspect of human nature – someone thought up the concept of “clawback,” an ugly term for an ugly practice which involves giving the customer what looks like a bargain and then fleecing him for the things he hasn’t been charged for because they’re not provided.

My personal experience of this hit new heights–or make that depths–when I entered into a contract with a budget airline operating out of Panama.

The cost of the flight was remarkable. My wife is the bargain- hound: she likes nothing better than to spend an hour on the internet, finding the best deal, and she duly came up with, as they say in advertising, this low, low price.

You know it’s too good to be true. You know there’s a catch.

But you don’t find out the real situation until you get to the airport. In addition to the luggage restrictions in which anything over the weight of a wallet is charged extra, this company’s brainwave involves check-in arrangements.

How many times have you turned up at the check-in desk with a sheet of A4 on which you have printed out the details of your booking, only for the attendant to ignore it because they’ve got all the details on the computer screen and all that’s needed is a passport to prove yours is that name there on the list? This airline has decided to take advantage of the fact that we’ve all had our A4 sheets ignored so often that we don’t bother anymore. We can show them the confirmation email on our phone anyway. But this outfit insists on seeing and ignoring the piece of paper. If you don’t produce it they will charge US$17 per person. You can wave your Samsung screen at them as much as you like: no paper, no dice – and this in the era of the paperless office, when you’re usually urged not to print anything if you can avoid it, because it uses precious trees and oil reserves.

With our lack of printed documents, plus the luggage scam, we were clobbered for almost a hundred US dollars.

That, however, is only the latest turn of events in the wonderful world of the airport, where normal rules do not apply.

Before joining the queue to be fleeced I had decided to get a cup of coffee.

This was at a small airport in Panama City called Panama Pacifico. It is a Latin American country, remember, where they speak Spanish, which I don’t, really. I have a pretty good accent but that only confuses things because I can sound competent, like a parrot reciting the alphabet. I swanned into the little coffee shop, a hive of activity which I couldn’t quite work out because there were no other customers.

“Un café con leche, por favor,” I requested. Leche is milk – a coffee with milk, please.

The young assistant decided to quiz me in Spanish as to exactly what I meant by that. There was a time when coffee was either black or white but the world is not that simple anymore.

I made a hand gesture showing three vertical inches between my thumb and index finger.

“Café,” I explained. “Leche,” miming the pouring of a drop of milk into the cup. I also pointed to a cheese and ham patty but decided not to attempt to put it into words. She understood and typed the order into the till, then asked me my name.

My name? For a cup of coffee? You expect that sort of thing for Duty Free, but breakfast? Was this going to go into some government database, resulting in my detention and imprisonment at a later date for consumpcion excesivo de café con leche? I handed over my passport, a responsible citizen keen to be in full compliance.

The place was still empty, and the staff were still scurrying around, but my order took ten minutes to arrive.

Half an hour later we boarded the plane and I half expected the captain to address us over the PA. “Good morning ladies and gentlemen and welcome aboard this Air Mickey Mouse flight to whatever airport gives me the best rate for landing, once the first officer has phoned around for last-minute deals.

“At these prices we obviously can’t afford conventional jet engines but beneath your seat you will find a flexible tube. Pull it out and when I say ‘blow’, pump as much breath as you can down it and the turbines should start to turn.”