It is said in Hakagure, the classic guide of the samurai, that” the road of a samurai is always straight”. To anyone who’s struggled in the hands of Japanese bureaucracy it’s clear as day that the times of the samurais are undeniably over.
After I arrived in Kyoto I first visited the International Office of my new university. There it was emphasized that I should immediately get myself an Alien Registration Card. I would become an official “alien”. So after I had made myself at home in my dormitory I took a map in hand and started my search for the Sakyo-ku Ward Office where the registration takes place.
It’s not an easy thing to use a map in Japan. They don’t exactly mention any names or numbers of the streets in Japanese maps. God only knows how they deliver the mail here. I didn’t even know my own address. All I knew was that I was living next to a rice field on a street close to the A-Coop-shop. Because the addresses were so hard to figure out the university gave me a paper with the address of the International Office and an advice to use it as my address.
At the Ward Office I was served by an old, grumpy woman – known to the transfer students as “Rude Lady” – the only curt person I met in Japan. When she asked for my address I showed her the paper I had received from the university. “No, this is the address of your school. What is your address?” she said angrily. I had no idea. Still pissed off she started asking me who else live in the same dormitory. I had no idea. Next she started digging up black and white prints with the city plans of Kyoto. “Do you live here?” she asked while pointing at a black square with a pen. I looked at the map and thought about it. “Yes, I think so.” “How do you know?” she asked. “Is there a nursery here? Is there a library here?”
After somehow getting past Rude Lady I got a temporary certificate about my existence as an alien and dates a month away, during when I should come and pick up my official card.
Right after that was the next counter, the National Health Insurance. In Japan everyone must have a health insurance. They had a friendly officer on this counter. With the previous address mess in my mind I carefully asked if I could use the school’s address. I was told it’d be alright. With relief I left with my insurance card in my pocket.
Two days later I woke up very drowsy to the sound of the phone ringing. A raspy male voice told me that they do need my home address in my insurance papers after all. They will send me a new insurance card through mail and I’m supposed to return my old card.
So back to the Ward Office I went. “No, it’s all taken care of. We fixed your address and sent a new card to you. Just mail the old card back in a return envelope.” Since I had my old card with me I offered it to them right away. That was a mistake. Behind the counter were three officers who were completely confused. “No, return it through mail”, they said with distress. I stubbornly tried to offer them my card, but as a compromise they gave me the return envelope in which I should mail the card. I knew when to give up and took the card, thanked them for their effort and left.
After I got home there was a small, official Japanese note in my mail box that I didn’t understand as much as a kanji’s worth. I took it to the International Office to be translated and I found out that the mailman had tried to bring me a delivery but I hadn’t been available at the time. So the woman from the Office called the post office and set an appointed time when the mailman could come again.
And finally, at 8 PM, the mailman arrived at the dormitory on a moped with an official envelope that I got after signing a receipt. Inside was my new insurance card with a return envelope for returning the old card. Exactly like the one I had been given at the Ward Office earlier that day. The times of the samurais are undeniably over.
