“And the next item is… (drum roll, please)… air-fresheners!...air-fresheners? Really?” I held up the plastic bag of little, pine tree-shaped mirror danglers, somewhat taken aback. “Oh good!” Renee chortled, “I’d been wanting some of those.”

We were on lunch break, and Renee had good naturedly invited Paul and me to be part of the ceremonious opening of her most recent package from home. We took turns reaching into the box, eyes closed, and removing the contents one by one. Even though the package wasn’t for us, Paul and I were delighted with most of the contents, knowing Renee’s personal maxim to be “sharing is caring.”

But, air-fresheners? Had she really wasted all that room in the package for a bag of sweet smelling cardboard? Why hadn’t she used the extra weight for more peanut butter or some raisins, or even a couple National Geographics? “If you guys ever need any of these, just come and ask!” Renee offered, waving a pina colada scented cut-out in front of me. “Uhhhh… thanks.” I smiled, trying to mask my lack of enthusiasm.

Why had Renee asked for air-fresheners? Well, the request wasn’t entirely unfounded, I’ll admit. The water on the compound doesn’t always work, and the toilet frequently has trouble flushing, and yes, the bathroom usually wreaks. But on the whole, Ethiopia is a land of pleasant olfactory experiences. Every morning I am reminded of this fact as I jog down the mud road behind the compound. A mosaic of poignant scents wafts through my nostrils. Fragrant, purple Jacaranda petals fall from the branches bending above me. Gray smoke drifts from a nearby hut, where the inhabitants are cooking lentils and berberi spice over a eucalyptus wood fire. The smell of freshly cut teff grain wisps on the morning breeze. A herd of damp goats scatters at my approach, pricking my nostrils with a sharp, though cozily familiar, contrast. Apart from dodging the occasional cow pie or heap of trash, my nose is usually refreshed after a morning ramble through Gimbie.

It wasn’t until a couple days later that I was forced to acknowledge Renee’s genius. I was making my rounds through the wards, pausing to chat and pray with patients, when I came upon a man with severe burns. He had been carefully dressed and bandaged, but the odor of his decaying flesh still emanated strongly from under the sheets. I gazed with pity on his pained expression, trying discreetly to breathe through my mouth instead of my nose. His family had abandoned all attempts at discretion and had stuffed wads of toilet paper up their nostrils to fend off the smell (a typical Ethiopian response to either stench or dripping sinuses). Neighboring patients and families had strategically wrapped their traditional head scarves over their noses. Wow, poor guy, I thought. Too bad I didn’t have any blooming roses I could stick by his bed.… Hey, wait! I dashed up the stairs to Renee’s office. “Hi!” I greeted her abruptly, poking my head through the doorway. “Do you remember those air-fresheners you got…?”

Twenty minutes later, the scene had entirely changed. Toilet paper had been removed from nostrils, head scarves had been readjusted, and the burned patient was bravely smiling at passers by. A yellow, pine tree-shaped cardboard cut-out dangled from his IV hook. Pina colada wafted through the room. Another fragrance to add to my mosaic of Ethiopian scents.