Two years ago, I wrote a story called “the Cynical Traveller goes to… the Dentist”. Rather naively, I thought this would be my most painful experience in Japan. Well, leave it to the immigration service to prove me wrong.

Now, ordinarily the stories I write are anywhere from a few weeks old, up to a year in some cases. However, this happened to me yesterday and I want to write the story while the ignominy is still fresh in my mind. Apologies if it comes across as a rant, but the odd rant can be cathartic.

So, immigration…

Japan is a country not overly famous for opening its doors and rolling out the red carpet to immigrants. Indeed, foreign residents are about as welcome as bubonic plague victim at a naked pool party. There deep spring of mistrust for foreigners is personified in the often vitriolic rants of Tokyo Mayor, Shintaro Ishihara.

Therefore, immigration, an unpleasant place at the best of times, just seems that bit more dour and soulless.

Returning to Japan, I had entered on a tourist Visa and now had to arrange a work visa. This meant having to first negotiate the labyrinthine halls of the Immigration departments website to find the right application form.

Immigration site

This is a link to the immigration department’s website, obviously designed by the same kind of people who make the instructions for flat pack furniture. I challenge any of my readers to try and work out which form I need. The forms themselves are full of instructions like, “If the teacher is in the part of A, insert scrotchet figgle and go to question 21, except in the case of humanity buggle, whereupon fill out question h(i)32(mpv).”

Ok, so that’s not a real line, but this is:
“Place have been dispatched (in case the answer to question 20-(2) is dispatch of personnel)”

Or perhaps I’m being a bit harsh. I mean this pamphlet from the ministry seems fairly strightforward…

Anyway, three weeks ago I filled these forms out and took them and all my documentation into the immigration department. Unfortunately, seeing as I was going to be an English teacher, I had foolishly filled in the form titled “teachers”, rather than the more obvious “researcher / engineer / specialist in humanities” form. This meant that I had to return to the centre with two different pages to complete my application.

Luckily, there is an immigration bureau in the next town from me, a mere 15 minutes by train. Unfortunately it’s for a completely different prefecture, meaning that I have to go to the one in Tachikawa, about 1 ½ hours away.

In a rather ominous start to the day, I took the one train a day designated limited express, which completely bypassed the station I needed to go to and didn’t stop until it was nearly in central Tokyo.

However, I eventually arrived and sat down to wait, watching a video explaining Japan’s new draconian entry procedures.
My number was 68 and I was very keen to be attended before 12 o’clock, when the counters would close for lunch. At 11.45 my number finally came up, just in time for three people numbered 66 to come rushing back in, after smoking cigarettes outside.

Otherwise known as “Hell on Earth”

In a triumph of segregation the people on the counter summon the applicants by country and then name. For example, they will say Chogokku Lee San (Chinese Mr Lee).

I was supposed to meet Ms Watanabe, who we had spoken to on the phone and just hand her the two different pieces of paper. However, after a 45 minute wait, I made it to the counter and was informed that Ms Watanabe wasn’t working there today. Further questioning discovered that Ms Watanabe had never in fact worked there. Further questioning discovered that Ms Watanabe had never existed and that all knowledge of her activities would be denied.

Obviously I was’t invited by the head of an administrative organ

I asked the man if I could give him the papers. He replied that I couldn’t unless I had my passport, which I hadn’t brought. I told him I didn’t bring it because I had already brought it, along with all my other documents, three weeks ago. He said he couldn’t take the paper unless I had my passport. I asked him if I could show my driver’s license. . He said he couldn’t take the paper unless I had my passport. I asked him if I could tell him my passport number which I have memorized. . He said he couldn’t take the paper unless I had my passport. I called my boss to speak to him in more fluent Japanese. He said he couldn’t take the paper unless I had my passport. I cracked the shits and went home.

And the great thing is, I’ve got to do it all again tomorrow! Ah, the joys of living overseas!

This entry was posted on Monday, December 10th, 2007 at 8:54 pm and is filed under Tokyo. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.