They say there’s a “Stone Town” in India. A Stone Town? Even in a country as vast as India, could such a place, seemingly straight out of an RPG, truly exist? Would I need to find special items or meet wise sages just to reach it?
A bit of research revealed the place: Hampi, located inland in South India. A town famed for its giant boulders and ancient ruins. Some seasoned travelers even described it as “the most memorable place from months spent in India…” Intrigued, I decided not to overthink it. I flew to India, ready to embrace my inner “hero” and seek out this fabled Stone Town.
Hampi, the aforementioned “Stone Town,” is a small village in the state of Karnataka. Situated slightly below the center of the diamond-shaped Indian subcontinent, it lies in the northern part of the vast region known as South India. It’s remote – 750 kilometers (466 miles) from Mumbai, 370 km (230 miles) from Hyderabad, and 350 km (217 miles) from Bengaluru. In essence, it’s a small, inland town, isolated from India’s modern metropolises.
Getting there is part of the challenge. While India’s transportation infrastructure is rapidly developing, both air and rail access to Hampi are inconvenient. I opted for the long-haul overnight bus from Bengaluru, a 7.5-hour journey each way. Surprisingly, the local bus company’s website not only allowed advance booking but also let me select a specific seat number on an air-conditioned sleeper bus. Paying the fare, just over $20 USD round trip, online was remarkably smooth. Uncertain whether the travel infrastructure was lagging or leaping ahead, I made minimal preparations and set off for India.
Mumbai to Bengaluru
From Mumbai’s Chhatrapati Shivaji Maharaj International Airport to Bengaluru’s Kempegowda International Airport, I flew Vistara. Launched in 2015, it’s a dynamic joint venture between India’s Tata Group and Singapore Airlines. Often dubbed the “Singapore Airlines of India” for its quality, Vistara has carved out a unique niche in an industry long dominated by Air India and a multitude of low-cost carriers vying for dominance.
The flight, on a B737-800, took 1 hour and 50 minutes. It departed and arrived on time, with absolutely no hint of trouble. Let me emphasize that “on time departure and arrival with no hint of trouble” constitutes an “extremely comfortable” experience for domestic flights in India. The commendable attitude of the ground staff and crew perhaps reflects the upward energy of this thriving company.
Bengaluru’s Kempegowda International Airport
Arriving at Kempegowda International Airport in Bengaluru, I was struck by its sheer size and unique design. The terminal building features extensive use of glass. The multi-story departure lobby ceiling, reminiscent of giant natural trees, is supported by gleaming white pillars utilizing organic curves and surfaces. Countless check-in counters bustled with diverse passengers. Outside the main terminal (accessible only to passengers departing that day), families seeing off loved ones and drivers thronged the area. Yet, even the general public zone leading to the parking lot boasted a vast, green, open-air terrace packed with shops and amenities – a testament to providing excellent public spaces even for those not entering the terminal proper.
Majestic Bus Terminal
From the airport, I took a local bus to the Majestic Bus Terminal, the departure point for my overnight bus to Hampi. After navigating traffic for over an hour, I arrived at the terminal in the early evening just as rain began to fall. I had about six hours until my bus departed. Wandering through the semi-open-air terminal and observing the people around me, I found it surprisingly well-organized and relatively calm compared to other Indian city bus terminals I’d visited.
The area surrounding the terminal had a typically chaotic yet charming Indian provincial town vibe. Seeking dinner, I entered a restaurant on the ground floor of a hotel. The place was packed, and apart from me, everyone appeared (at least outwardly) to be Indian. Judging by their luggage and attire, perhaps a third were travelers like myself, the rest locals. The elderly man who seemed to be the manager spotted me with my large bags and gestured towards a spacious table in a corner. As I cautiously sampled some biryani (South Indian style) and curry, the manager occasionally came over, flashing a broad grin as if to ask, “Good, right?” I interpreted his unspoken message as permission to linger for hours while waiting for my bus, and so I passed the time idly at the table.
Returning to the bus terminal, the rain had intensified. Though the open-air waiting area had a roof, considerable wind and rain were blowing in. With several hours still to go, I was eager to board the bus early. Inquiring with bus company staff about the platform and vehicle, they checked something on their smartphones and replied, “Still a long way off. Wait here. Don’t worry.”
Finally, about 30 minutes before departure, I was allowed to board. As booked, it was a large, air-conditioned sleeper bus. The interior, however, felt reminiscent of Japanese sleeper express trains from about 30 years ago. The individual “beds” were fully flat, though. Since there were no seats, it felt like a communal sleeping floor partitioned into single (and some double) berths. Surprisingly, there was ample space, making it more comfortable than it looked.
The bus departed on time and barreled down the suburban highway. Perhaps due to its size, the bumps and vibrations weren’t too bothersome. What was constant was the side-to-side motion from frequent lane changes and the incessant honking. I later learned this was partly to avoid wildlife crossing the road ahead.
Midnight ‘Rest Stop’
The bus stopped. It seemed to be a driver change, but we weren’t at a service area – just pulled over beside a rudimentary shack selling water on the highway shoulder. A few passengers got off. Glancing at the drivers who were smoking, these passengers walked past the roadside and disappeared several dozen meters into the pitch-black thicket beyond. It appeared they were heading into the field to relieve themselves. After a moment’s hesitation, necessity compelled me to follow. Thankfully, the rain had stopped.
Total darkness surrounded me. Standing alone in the scrub, barely able to see my feet, various thoughts raced through my mind. Here I was, in the middle of an Indian plain or field, with no phone signal, well past 2 AM. The only sign of civilization was the occasional headlight of a car speeding down the distant highway behind me. What if the bus just left now? Would I be stranded here with the water vendor until dawn? What about my luggage still on the bus? My head started spinning. Had I even told the drivers I was stepping off? Did they nod in acknowledgment, or not?
Finishing my business quickly, I scrambled back up the embankment to the bus, breathing a sigh of relief. The new driver sat calmly in his seat, glanced at me, and gave a look that clearly meant, “Get back to your bunk, quick.” Whether he had waited for me or if my timing was just lucky, I’ll never know. It was, without a doubt, the most hardcore “rest stop” experience of my life thus far.
Dawn began to break. It looked like a fine day ahead. The bus stopped in Hospet, a town just before Hampi, and many passengers disembarked. It seemed to be a relatively large town for the region. Luggage was loaded and unloaded – perhaps the bus also served as a regular cargo transport for the area. About 30 minutes from Hospet, we finally arrived in the center of Hampi town. As I stepped off the bus, I was amazed at how simple the driver’s console and equipment were. Despite being such a large vehicle, it seemed to rely very little on advanced technology, running primarily on engine power and human effort.
Hampi, The ‘Town of Stone’
Stepping out of the bus door, even though it was only just past 6 AM, I was immediately swarmed by five or six men. “Auto-rickshaw? Taxi?” “Got a place to stay? I can find you one!” “Hampi one-day tour?” “I’ll be your guide!” “Have you eaten?” “Anything you need, just ask!” “Chai?” “Where you from?” The sales pitches came fast and furious. Considering only a few passengers had gotten off here, their energy was intense. Yet, their pushiness wasn’t overwhelming. After politely declining all offers, they backed off surprisingly easily, almost anticlimactically. With hours to go before I could check into my accommodation, I decided to just relax at the bus stand for a while.
A chai stall was already open, so I ordered a cup and looked around. The ground was dry, red earth. The village felt nestled within a plateau landscape dominated by colossal boulders and rock formations. Giant rocks were strewn about near the bus stand, and the surrounding hills were ridged with massive stone outcrops. It truly was a “Stone Town.” Staring at it felt surreal, like stepping into a CG-rendered image. As if sensing my mood, the self-proclaimed guides who were loitering nearby would occasionally wander over and ask half-heartedly, “Guide… you don’t need one, right?” Other chai stalls were slowly setting up, anticipating more bus arrivals as the morning progressed.
Hampi was the capital of the Vijayanagara Empire, which flourished from around the 14th century but fell into ruin by the 16th century due to regional conflicts and the shifting of the capital. Today, around 40 structures dating from the 10th century onwards – including temples, fortifications, watchtowers, aqueducts, colonnades, and royal baths from its era of glory – remain as urban remnants and ruins.
The area was designated a UNESCO World Heritage cultural site in 1986. However, it had a tumultuous history on the list: added to the “List of World Heritage in Danger” in 1999 due to concerns about preservation, then removed in 2006. Looking around, tourist infrastructure seemed minimal; it didn’t quite feel like a typical World Heritage site. Perhaps because people still actually live here, combined with the difficulty of access and the underdevelopment of amenities, Hampi avoids being overrun by tourists visiting in droves.
As the sun climbed higher, I decided to walk to a nearby temple. The Virupaksha Temple on Hemakuta Hill, close to the bus stand, is not a ruin but an active Hindu temple, a landmark of Hampi. It was impressive to see numerous worshippers passing through the 50-meter-high white gateway tower (gopuram) to offer prayers to the Hindu deities within.
Next, I headed towards the Vittala Temple complex. Considered the pinnacle of 16th-century Vijayanagara architecture, its main hall (mandapa) boasts 56 intricately carved stone pillars – definitely worth examining closely. The temple’s iconic Stone Chariot (Ratha), shaped like a ceremonial chariot with wheels, is also a must-see.
In both locations, and indeed throughout Hampi, the ruins and the living town merge seamlessly; there are no clear boundaries marking where the “ruins” begin. This allows visitors to enjoy the entire “Stone Town” without interruption, which was a pleasant surprise. Tourists increased slightly around noon, but the foreigners I encountered were limited to a group of women from Israel, a Chinese tour group, and American students on a “study trip.” Many visitors were from within India, seemingly combining temple pilgrimage with sightseeing. Everyone seemed calm and quiet. Hampi doesn’t offer flashy tourist attractions that generate overt excitement; instead, people seemed to be slowly savoring the unique, slightly surreal atmosphere.
A Hotel in the Next Village and an Encounter with the ‘SNS Rickshaw Driver’
I had booked a room at a hotel in Kamalapuram, the village neighboring Hampi, situated south of the vast main ruins complex. It was about a 100-rupee auto-rickshaw ride away, or an 8-rupee, 15-minute local bus journey. The single road to Kamalapuram runs solely alongside ruins, making even the commute feel like part of the exploration.
The next morning, after exploring the life-filled backstreets of Kamalapuram around my hotel, I decided, “Alright, time to explore more ruins.” As I stepped onto the main road, an auto-rickshaw approached as if lying in wait. The driver launched into his pitch: “I’ll take you anywhere! I’m not a guide, but I can give guide-like explanations!” I didn’t need a guide, ‘guide-like’ or otherwise, but he seemed honest enough, so I hired his rickshaw for half a day to visit several far-flung ruins.
He took me to the Royal Enclosure ruins and other sites, and at each stop, unprompted, he’d launch into explanations of the history, significance, and points of interest. Though I hadn’t asked, his explanations were clear and his English relatively easy to understand, so I found myself listening intently. Then, the driver subtly started mentioning how he was gaining some renown on social media as a “nice Hampi rickshaw driver,” appearing on travelers’ Facebook timelines worldwide. He wasn’t asking for money or trying to scam me, so it wasn’t a problem, but as the end of our charter neared, the mentions of Instagram and Facebook grew more frequent, which became tiresome. I thanked him and ended the charter, mulling over the fact that even in the travel market of rural India, Facebook seems paramount in this age of pervasive social media. Is this the modern way of travel? While pondering this, I also thought, “But I’m not traveling for social media…” The answer remained elusive.
Discovering a New Way to Enjoy Hampi Across the River
Over several days, I wandered this “Stone Town.” Knowing Indian history would undoubtedly further stimulate the imagination and intellectual curiosity when exploring the ruins. But even without that knowledge, simply staying in a town enveloped by hills of giant boulders, with massive stones scattered throughout the streets, is a unique experience. Be warned, however: many ruins are unrestored or under maintenance, and you’ll end up walking long distances over rough stones and rocks, so prepare for tired legs. Furthermore – and this may be subjective – staring constantly at a dry world of only rocks and stones can become visually fatiguing (I found myself subconsciously craving greenery, curves, and softer textures).
The Tungabhadra River flows along the northern edge of the town, and the serene atmosphere along its banks is highly recommended. The river (anciently named Pampa River, the root of Hampi’s name) was the lifeline for the capital established here centuries ago. The river’s surface, likely unchanged for ages, and the sight of couples fishing from small boats evoke a deep sense of the continuous interplay between human life and nature throughout history. It’s a scene that reminds you how tangibly space and time intertwine in India.
Taking a coracle boat across the Tungabhadra revealed land that, while still rocky, featured fields instead of ruins, along with a small settlement of guesthouses and restaurants. There, I randomly struck up a conversation with a young male traveler from Singapore. He had come to Hampi specifically for rock climbing. He explained that this land of countless boulders and rock faces is a dream destination for climbers. He’d been staying for weeks, slowly tackling various climbs. For me, who had only viewed the rocks and boulders as part of the historical landscape alongside the ruins, this was an eye-opening perspective on travel motivation. I had assumed Hampi’s tourist resources were limited, but truly, every place offers myriad ways to be enjoyed.
My time in this “Stone Town,” Hampi, was unique. From the cool rocks, stones, and ruins, I felt a tangible connection to India’s history and the potent energy of the land. It left me with a simple, satisfying feeling: “I’m glad I came here.” Tonight, I’m scheduled to take that sleeper bus back to Bengaluru. My itinerary beyond that is undecided, but I think I’ll continue exploring South India for a while longer. Following the road ahead, imagining the next town, the sights it holds, the people I might meet – that speculation is itself part of the art and joy of travel.
(An additional note) Official City Name: Bengaluru
The current name “Bengaluru” officially replaced the long-used “Bangalore” in 2014. India often reverts city names to pre-British colonial era monikers (like Bombay to Mumbai, Madras to Chennai). However, the subtle difference between Bangalore and Bengaluru can be surprisingly tricky for foreigners to grasp accurately. It’s not just the old versus new name; the “Bengal” in Bengaluru sounds similar to the Bengal region in northeastern India. To add to the potential confusion, there’s also a town in southeastern India reportedly called Vengalur. Furthermore, some liberal Indian intellectuals argue that name changes are often politically motivated by the government and that citizens aren’t obliged to follow suit, allowing continued use of the traditional name. This can compound the confusion. As travelers in India, it’s always wise to pay attention to avoid inadvertently heading in the wrong direction.
∎