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wo invitations arrived for me on my 22nd birthday on Jan. 20 1962, at my Kebayoran hostel, asking me to join two families for Ramadhan the next month. So, I sent a telegram in reply to the Bandung family in West Java saying I would arrive on Feb. 1 on the daily “Soober Ban” (Suburban) bus.

We stopped for coffee at Puncak Pass, then on the other side near Cianjur the driver suggested we be careful and keep our heads down because we were crossing a one-way bridge and the Darul Islam snipers in the hills might shoot at us.

We spent a nervous hour lined up, waiting for traffic from Bandung to get through. Kartosuwiryo’s rebels were in the hills, often taking pot shots that kept passengers and bridge guards on their toes.

Our driver pulled a pistol from under his seat to show he was not afraid, but that made us more nervous because a handgun was useless against snipers with rifles. Two mothers, bent over between seats, sheltered their children. Armed soldiers ordered passengers to stay inside the vehicle. Several prayed.

I arrived at my family’s small house where I slept in what was to be my usual place between two brothers on a wide wooden platform.

During breakfast the following morning my telegram arrived saying I would be arriving three days earlier, the family had shown no surprise at my unexpected arrival. It was the first telegram they had ever received, so they pinned the bright yellow telegram form to the kitchen wall, for guests to see.

Our other Ramadhan hosts in Tasikmalaya were related; their boys knew our boys, the two fathers were old friends and they were overjoyed to have me, their first foreign guest. No one in the neighbourhood had ever spoken to a foreigner.

The two fathers were very formal about fasting procedures, so we all obeyed them. On the night before fasting began a pickup truck circled the town with the driver announcing on a crackling loudspeaker, when Ramadhan fasting would begin.

We were called out before sunrise and the head of the Tasik family took us all out onto an east-facing balcony where he held up a black cotton thread and the other father held a white one for everyone to see. “When we can tell which is white and which is black, fasting begins!” they said.

The days were hot, the town traffic slowed to just an occasional vehicle. Inside the house, the mothers and daughters gathered in the kitchen, murmuring quietly, preparing the breaking-of-the-fast meals. The men lazed about and read.

There were a few religious ceremonies at the local mosques, which they occasionally attended. But as the days wore on, the heat and humidity set in. There was a Quran in the main room, but the language was too old-fashioned for us, so I read comics.

We broke our fasts with dates from Egypt, which I liked at first, but after the first 10 days I tired of them. In the 55 years since I have never eaten another date.

When hungry, one quickly feels faint, and the senses are heightened. The heat and humidity drained our energies and I was happy to move around in a comfortable sarong.

There were three handsome young Indonesian boys and four attractive Indonesian daughters, so they flirted, and secretly held hands, but even they got bored, especially in the heat of the day, so just slept or lazed around.

Late in the fast the ladies brought out sewing baskets and scissors, to make school uniforms. Material was expensive in these years so boys’ uniforms all looked too tight, and the girls’ skirts were cut short, like the mini-skirts soon to appear, and their bloomers were made from coarse fabric, which the girls said was itchy. None of the girls wore headscarves; they were only for grandmothers, and then rarely used.

During thunderstorms and heavy rains even the flirting teenagers were quiet. We were listless and exhausted, despite the evening meals, so we spent day after day without meaning. The household of 14 fell into a somnambulant mood, meandering, murmuring politely.

Midway through the month, two cars collided with a thunderous crash at our intersection. The street emptied out to look, the driver, who was bleeding as he lay on the road, puffed on a cigarette. One of the boys, craving a smoke, looked on enviously.

The accident was an entertainment break, it became the focal point for hours of discussion. I learned the word for collision, tabrakan, and joined the gossip: Was the driver’s injury an excuse to smoke during Ramadhan? Were kretek (clove cigarettes) acceptable? Would anyone be let into heaven with a packet of cigarettes?

“He probably came from a Chinese restaurant!” someone said, “They keep the front windows closed, so we can’t see inside”. We doubted it because the streets around us were completely empty and silent.

I emerged from the experience with a lot more insider knowledge of family life, but unconvinced that this archaic tradition had any meaning in a modern world.

The young ones felt the same and told me so, but they obeyed their parents, and went along, pretending they were using the time for self-improvement, thoughts of charity and enriching their spiritual life. They looked forward to Idul Fitri, for good reason!

The merriment of the Idul Fitri celebrations included visits to neighbors and feasting. My Idul Fitri pleasure was genuine, and my manners proper, but by late afternoon, I started to falter, I returned home and slept until morning.

The Yayasan Fellowship directors gave me an Idul Fitri present, a bicycle, a Chinese copy of a Raleigh, stamped Raleigh: Made in English. I tried a Ramadhan story or two on them, but they showed only polite interest: “We wish we could have had time to fast, but we were too busy.”