I’m still here in this hot, dusty place of long dead volcanic craters, of sandstorms that hurt your eyes and sting your face, of buzzing flies and shoeless children, of seeming poverty and entirely different social mores, and yet everything had changed. I had met Badria.  She was sixteen. We fast became friends and I would visit her after school.  Badria would make me hot sweet tea while quizzing me about life in England, about schools, about girls, about home life, about relationships, about society.  I gave what limited information I, as a twelve year old had to offer.  And she was always hungry for more.  She had British magazines that she would pour over, pointing out the things that seemed wonderful to her, especially, I think, the freedom of women. Badria’s Dad was a relatively enlightened man and was determined that she learned to speak English.  She was the only…