Bureaucracy distilled: Meet your local ward office

One of the many little things that you will be expected to do as a long-term resident (that is, someone on a visa that is valid for more than 90 days) is to register your residency. You may recall from an earlier post that I mentioned that upon arrival, you’re given a resident card (zairyū 在留) that is reminiscent of a driver’s license–this, along with your passport, must be taken to your local ward office (kuyakusho 区役所) to complete the registration process.

If you are accustomed to American bureaucracy, particularly the variety that thrives in places like the DMV or the Post Office, prepare yourself, because you’re going to experience something totally unexpected.

The system is unabashedly bureaucratic from the moment you walk in the door. There are stacks of forms, rows of chairs, ample signage (including plenty of house-made printouts taped here and there), and, of course, one of those “take a number, wait your turn” board things. There are even numbered windows that are assigned to handle specific requests–for this particular license, you need window 5, but for that sort of declaration, go to window 2.

Visually and procedurally, visiting such an office is exactly the same as any other bureaucratic encounter you’ve had before. But the psychological and experientially, it couldn’t be more different.

For one thing, the people are diligent and fastidious, but they are also pleasant. There is no eye-rolling, loud sighing, or outwardly hostile body language, nor is there any kind of lingering air of resentment or bitterness–you know, all of the things that make bureaucratic offices the butts of oh-so-many jokes back in the USA.

Okay, back to the whole reason you will need to come here–if you’re issued a visa that lasts longer than 90 days, the Japanese government considers you a “resident,” so you’ll need to bring the zairyū you were given at the airport, along with your passport, to your local ward office to register your home location.

The form to complete is available in English (mostly), but there are a few things to be aware of that might save some time, as my colleague Sheri and I discovered:

Print your name exactly as it appears on your zairyū–typically Last Name, First Name then Middle Name. Don’t leave anything out.
Complete the form as thoroughly as possible–don’t skip any spaces unless you are specifically told that you don’t need to worry about them.
Have you converted your name into katakana? Make sure to do this in advance (and practice writing it, too), because there will be several spaces where you’ll be expected to write your name in this fashion on the form.
It appears that the clerks are not allowed to correct mistakes–everything has to be in your original handwriting–so you may be asked to write (or re-write) responses if there are problems. In the event that a clerk does modify something on your paperwork, they will mark it in such a way that it is evident that they have done so.
English language interpreters are available at most larger kuyakusho. A clerk will summon one if they don’t feel that they speak enough English to be able to help you.

All told, Sheri and I spent maybe an hour and a half at the kuyakusho, but we were remarking to each other as we left that the experience was not at all unpleasant. Yes, the procedures were rather exacting, but it wasn’t difficult, nor did we feel like we were being treated poorly–if anything, the clerks that assisted both of us seemed to be delighted to practice their English!

I suppose this all goes to show that when you’re in a new place, your expectations should be checked at the door–even if that door is to a government-operated office.