Across the Empty Vast: Madaba to Wadi Musa via Highway 15

We left Madaba a little after noon, the car humming gently beneath us. The mosaic workshop was still fresh in my mind, but ahead lay a very different kind of canvas: the open stretch of Highway 15, Jordan’s Desert Highway, and the long road towards Wadi Musa.

The Desert Highway looked exactly as I had imagined: long, open, and seemingly endless. I’d never driven through a landscape like this before, and something about its sheer openness made me sit up and take it all in.

No trees or fences lined the sides of the highway. Not even a patch of welcoming green in the distance. In parts, the land stretched flat and bare; in others, low hills rose in waves, rocky, dry, and pale.

Back home in Dhemaji, Assam, highways are always bordered by life: bamboo groves swaying in the breeze, banana plants leaning lazily over fences, and fields of yellow mustard stretching across swathes of land. Small tributaries of the mighty Brahmaputra snake alongside, their waters shimmering in the sun. And trees. So many trees. Indian jujube, ironwood, silk cotton, neem, and more kinds than I could ever name.

That abundance is fed by Dhemaji’s humid subtropical climate and heavy monsoon rains. The region receives rain in great volumes, feeding wetlands, forests, farmland and the wider biodiversity of the northeastern Himalayan region.

Highway 15 had none of that.

The colour palette was spare: ochre earth, dusty beige, and pale blues overhead. Above it all, the sun seemed harsh and unblinking.

What if the car broke down on this stretch?

There was not a single tree nearby to take shelter under. In some parts, Imad pointed out olive trees far off in the distance, but along the roadside, it was just the heat, the road, and the vast open land.

And yet, it was not dull.

Even with the AC on, windows shut and soft Arabic music playing, I found myself watching the landscape on either side. Everything seemed to repeat, yet nothing looked quite the same. There was something about the scale of this dry, vast, stripped-down stretch that held my attention.

We had been steadily overtaking cars along the way, many of them older models, with more Toyotas than anything else. One in particular caught my eye: a greenish Toyota pickup, its body dented and sun-faded, the rear bumper secured with ropes. The windows were rolled down, the driver’s arm rested casually on the sill, and a family of five sat packed inside.

Ahead of it was another weathered Toyota loaded with white sacks.

It was not just one vehicle. We kept passing more of them: faded paint, open windows, families sitting close together, goods tied down with rope. They moved through the heat like it was nothing unusual.

For me, this highway was part of a journey. For many of the people we passed, it was simply part of everyday life.

At some point, I must’ve drifted off.
When I woke up, my mouth was dry, and my stomach had started staging a protest. The clock on the dashboard read just past three in the afternoon.
We had been driving for nearly two hours.
I glanced at Imad and sleepily asked, “Didn’t you say we’d stop for lunch in an hour?”
He laughed and replied in his familiar accent. “A few more minutes, my friend.”

His “few more minutes” became another hour.

Around four, he finally pulled over. A low signboard stood to our right outside a building that seemed to rise directly from the desert. The signboard read ‘Mazayen — Restaurant & Bazaar’.

From the outside, Mazayen looked like a typical roadside diner you’d pass without a second glance. But once you stepped in, you will feel like walking into a cultural surprise.

Sunlight filtered through a stained-glass skylight into a large, cool hall. Beneath it stood a cluster of green plants, an unexpected splash of life after the bare landscape outside.

Soon, a young, well-dressed man came from behind the counter and greeted Imad warmly. He then turned to me with a polite smile and welcomed me. His distinctly British accent caught me by surprise. To the left, shelves and stands were lined with souvenirs many of which were similar to what I had seen in the Madaba workshop, including antiques and handicrafts. But there was something new here.

Dead Sea cosmetics.

Neatly arranged on both tables and shelves were tubes, jars, and boxes labelled in both Arabic and English. The man explained that these were skincare products made using minerals and mud from the Dead Sea.

His accent made sense a little later when he told me that he was from the area but had studied in London. He had since returned and was helping run the family business. He was back now, helping run the family business.

After lunch, he gave me such a persuasive and informative sales pitch that I ended up buying quite a few of those products. Whatever he studied in London seemed to have worked on me.

I hadn’t thought Dead Sea mud had a commercial afterlife. Yet there it was, repackaged as scrubs, creams, salts, and serums, sitting confidently among mosaic tabletops, animal figurines, tiny lamps, and decorative teapots.

But the merchandise wasn’t what stayed with me most.

The seating itself had a kind of elegance that was surprisingly familiar.
Thick wooden benches were lined with cushions in deep reds, blue, green, white, and ochre, their fabric patterned with intricate geometric designs.
It reminded me instantly of home. Not the physical space, but the textures and patterns.
Assam in northeast India, where I come from, is home to many indigenous ethnic groups such as Mising, Boro, Assamese and so many others. Their traditional textiles have similar bold, handwoven motifs.
One red-and-white pattern in particular reminded me of the Naga shawl we have back home, from Nagaland in northeastern India.

We have one in our home, given to my father nearly 30 years ago. Still strong, still intact. Years later, when I left home to study engineering in Tamil Nadu, that same shawl came with me, keeping me warm through nights in my hostel room. A reminder that fabric can carry more than warmth. It can carry memories, too.

I chose a table that gave me a full view of the hall.

The buffet had many of the dishes I had already come to associate with Jordan—chicken, fish, fragrant rice, salad with fresh olives and herbs, hummus so creamy it needed no bread.
But what caught my attention were the soups.

Two large pots sat side by side. I asked the young man what they were.

Shorbet Adas and Mulukhiya.

Shorbet Adas felt familiar. It was red lentil soup, made from the same kind of red lentils we cook as daal at home, though the texture and combination of spices were different.

But it was the Mulukhiya that truly puzzled me. A deep green broth, thick and slightly slimy in texture. Curious, I asked the young man what it was, He tried to explain the main ingredient, but none of the English names meant anything to me. I wrote down mulukhiyah as he pronounced it and looked it up later. It turned out to be made from jute mallow leaves. This soup was new to me, but comforting.
Later, I would ask my dad if jute leaves were ever used in Assamese cooking. And to my surprise, without missing a beat, he said yes.

‘Morapat,’ he said. And just like that, I realised: of course. Back home, jute leaves had been part of local cooking all along.

Sitting against cushions whose patterns had reminded me of a shawl from home, eating a soup made from a plant linked to something equally familiar, I could not help smiling at how suddenly the distance between Jordan and northeastern India seemed to shrink.

After a heavy lunch, we continued for another hour and a half before finally entering Wadi Musa. The vast openness of the highway gradually gave way to buildings, shops, lights, people and the unmistakable sense that Petra was close.

I had expected that day to be mostly about the drive. Instead, the road had kept finding unexpected ways to lead me back home.

Somewhere between the ochre hills of Jordan and the wet green of Assam, a bowl of jute-leaf soup had made the distance between them feel unexpectedly small.