I had a hint of this feeling when I crossed a stand selling makeup. I saw a sea of browns that if I had the time, could easily find a match. Getting my hair done? Damn right everyone would know how to do my hair. Then, tonight, as my host mother, myself, and another American who lives in the house went to a local market for henna,it hit me: I am not the minority here. My other American friend realized, while getting her hands and feet designed,that she was the only white person there.I, however, could at least pass as African enough to be spoken in wolof by street peddlers. Our experiences, I noticed, have been different.