You have to go East if you want your builder to treat you with reverence. Japanese builders offer earthquake assurances with a bow, green tea - and biscuits, writes Niall Murtagh.

We had a choice when I quit my company job in Japan last year. We could move back to Dublin and start looking for a house, or we could forgo Western luxuries such as a driveway and a back garden, and build a home in the tightly packed hills of Yokohama. With the huge drop in Japanese property prices over the last 15 years and mortgage rates half that of Irish banks, we opted for the East.

The prospect of owning a property for the first time changes one's outlook in different ways. Although Japan is a disaster-prone country, up to now I had always considered the annual typhoons, avalanches, floods and the occasional earthquake or tsunami as someone else's calamity. From now on they might be ours too. When my Japanese wife located an empty site in the neighbourhood where she used to live, I immediately checked that it was not on a steep slope, in the flood plain of a river, nor near the sea: at least we would not get washed away. The only danger would be the fault lines that criss-cross the Tokyo-Yokohama area. The seismic experts say the next "big one" is overdue although they don't know when it will strike.

But with new high-rise apartments going up every month it seems that most of the 34 million residents of the metropolitan area think the "big one" might not come for quite some time. We decided the majority must be right and went to talk to the building companies.

In the West, commercial wisdom has it that the customer is king, but Japan goes one better. Here, the customer is god, or kamisama. Estate agents dispatched chauffeur-driven cars to bring us to their show houses; one developer organised a bus tour to view his prize exhibits; another told us about a chance to win a trip to Hawaii if we engaged his services.

We chose a company that would provide a 10-year guarantee on its workmanship. Its website confidently declares the houses it builds can last 100 years - an impressive claim in a country where the average life of a building is no more than 30 years. The house itself would be of virgin timber, no composites, with inside walls having a health-conscious humidity-absorbing finish that would give the residents a chance of lasting as long as the house. Our builders surveyed the site, drilled 10 metres underground, produced a thick geological report - and gave us the bad news: we had a soft layer five metres down which might liquify if a quake struck. For a moment I wished I were back in Dublin where even if the prices are high, at least the ground won't liquify.

But there was a solution, our developers told us. Their foundation experts could put the house on reinforced concrete piles anchored to deeper solid layers. And if our budget would allow, they could also recommend placing the house on rubber bearings that would absorb any jolts if the big one strikes. Our budget told us that the big one might never come, and if it does, we could hold tight and ride out those jolts. The piles would suffice.

Within a week, a preliminary design was sent to us with sketches, plans and graphs, on paper and CD. Meetings were arranged, with much bowing, constant refills of green tea, and explanations as to how energy efficient and quake-resistant a modern Japanese house can be.

We decided to forgo the Shinto ceremony to bless the site, for financial rather than theological reasons, but we duly attended the builder's commencement ceremony in the local community centre. The audience consisted of about 25 people who would work on the project: architects, carpenters, plasterers, insulation specialists, under-floor heating experts, all of them wearing the company jacket, looking eager and serious. My wife and I, with two other couples who were also having houses built, sat as guests of honour, facing the audience. The vice-president of the company stood at a microphone and welcomed his new catch of clients. On cue, each member of the audience stood up and gave a little speech.

"I am Kenji Sato, foundations supervisor. I hereby promise to make the honoured client's house foundation the best I have ever done."

"I am Jiro Suzuki, carpenter's first assistant. I hereby promise to provide the most excellent woodwork in all Japan."

"I am Seichiro Yamada. I am a roofing specialist. I hereby promise to give you a roof that will last three generations."

The speeches continued, each person connected with the project assuring us that this house would be the best house that ever was. We knew, of course, that they say these things to all their clients.

Before building began, the developers visited all the neighbouring houses to apologise in advance for any disturbance, offering the obligatory present of green tea and rice biscuits to make sure we would be friends when the project was completed.

Each week we were sent a progress report by e-mail. A password-protected website had the latest photos and graphs showing how much was done and how much left to do. Any questions we had were answered by telephone or e-mail within an hour, even late at night or during the weekend: the building companies in Japan arrange their working schedule to always be there when the customer calls.

Four months after the starting ceremony, the house was ready - a little earlier than scheduled, but we didn't complain. The telephone and a fast optic fibre internet connection (100 Mbps) were online within a day. Specialists arrived to explain how to operate the remote control system for filling and heating the bath, run the energy-saving heat pump and operate the switch panel for the high-tech toilets that are now standard in Japan.

A few days later we had our first tremor. The ground shook and the plates rattled but the house felt solid. The only problem occurred when I switched on one of the air-conditioners. It made a strange sizzling noise, then went off with a dramatic pop.

Our developers were soon on hand to investigate. One of their workmen had had an off day, it seems, and had set the voltage supply at 200 instead of 100 volts. The air-conditioner was replaced within a few days, with apologies and much bowing. The customer may be god in Japan, but the house builders are still human.

• Niall Murtagh is the author of The Blue-Eyed Salaryman, published by Profile Books at £16.99.