Maqluba and Moonlight: Flavours of Wadi Musa
Fresh from the Turkish bath and still feeling its soothing afterglow, I sank into a long, well-earned nap back at the hotel. When I woke, the room was bathed in muted gold light filtering through the curtains. I felt rested—and ravenous.
I told Imad to call it a day. “Go catch up with your relatives, meet those friends you mentioned,” I said with a wave outside my hotel. It felt good to give him space to be with his people in a familiar town.
I set out on foot toward the town centre, passing shops spilling soft yellow light onto the cobbled street—souvenir stalls, perfume counters, shawls woven in every imaginable pattern. I picked up a handwoven shawl for my mother and a small set of frankincense and myrrh incense—aromatics treasured since biblical times, once worth their weight in gold, known for their spiritual and healing powers.
Then came the bargaining. Or rather, my hopeless attempt at it. Despite growing up in India, where haggling is practically a national sport, I couldn’t seem to get the hang of it here. The shopkeeper smiled knowingly as I flailed through my offers, each one more off the mark than the last. In the end, I paid nearly full price, my pride bruised but my wallet only slightly lighter. Trying to salvage some dignity, I asked him where I could find the best place to eat nearby. He chuckled warmly and pointed me toward ‘Al Wadi Restaurant’ just around the corner—his way of saying, “You might not win the bargains, but at least you’ll eat well.
I found a seat outside. The streets were alive—shops glowing warmly, groups laughing over steaming cups of tea, the occasional car roaring by with speakers blaring Arabic pop and exhausts growling like distant thunder. Oddly, the chaos felt soothing, as if the city had its own heartbeat.
Scanning the menu, I searched for something unfamiliar. Maqluba caught my eye at first, but as I flipped to the next page, it slipped down to second place—overtaken by camel kebabs, which now claimed the top spot on my list of curiosities.
Maklouba—or Maqluba, depending on how you spell it—is a traditional Levantine dish that literally translates to “upside down” in Arabic. True to its name, it’s prepared by layering meat, rice, and vegetables in a pot and flipping it before serving. Its origins trace back to Palestine, with deep cultural ties to Jerusalem. There’s a popular story that says the dish was originally called something else, but after Saladin, the Sultan of Egypt, retook Jerusalem in 1187 from the Crusaders, it was served to him and flipped onto the plate in front of him. Delighted by the presentation, he supposedly exclaimed “Maqluba!”—and the name stuck.
On the other hand, unsure, I hesitated to order the camel kebab. “Camel kebab?” I asked quietly to the gentle, soft-spoken Pakistani waiter. He smiled. “Yes, sir. Don’t worry, it is good. Try it along with Maklouba—you’ll enjoy.” I nodded with reserved curiosity.
When the food arrived, I was amazed once again by the generous portions. Alongside the Maqlouba and kebabs came a stack of khubz—round flatbreads, similar to Tandoori bread or Naan from India. I had been puzzled by such large portions throughout my stay in Jordan. The earliest example of this encounter was in Amman at ‘Mawwal Restaurant’, where Mansaf—considered Jordan’s traditional dish—arrived in family-sized portions, accompanied by an endless stream of khubz. I could hardly finish the Mansaf then, let alone the flatbreads. But this time, I told to myself, “I will take as much time as needed but I am going to finish everything on my plate.”
And I did.
The Maklouba was warm and textured — chicken nestled under rice laced with soft aubergine and toasted pine nuts. It was a bit like Biriyani’s distant cousin, if it were raised in a quieter home.
The camel kebab was firmer than lamb, earthier in flavor, with hints of cumin, garlic, and sumac. Camel meat isn’t everyday fare in Jordan. Historically, camel meat was reserved for special occasions, reflecting the deep respect and reliance Bedouins — Arab tribes inhibiting the harsh desert regions — have for these “ships of the desert,” which provide transport, milk, and sustenance in equal measure.
I ate slowly, savoring every bite. Sitting there under a sky humming with desert life. I realised travel surprises you most in the things you didn’t know you needed—a bath, a meal, a story you hadn’t expected to live.
Tomorrow would be Petra.
Tonight, I was full—in every sense.
For months, Petra had lived inside my imagination — a city of rose-colored cliffs and impossible beauty, carved patiently by countless hands across centuries. Now, finally, it was time to meet her. But Petra doesn’t reveal itself all at once.
You have to walk into it — step by step, turn by turn...
