"Goans don't want development. We want our heritage to continue," says Sadiq Sheikh, a fourth-generation Goan. Sheikh lives high on a hill in tony Dona Paula, with stunning, sweeping views of the Mandovi River. "I own everything you see," he says matter-of-factly. Behind us is a development of bland two-bedroom apartments, built by a businessman to whom Sheikh sold the land. If I didn't know better, I'd think I was in New Jersey.

Sheikh rues the pace of construction but is not sure how to stop it. "We don't want spoiled brats from other states to come in and polarize Goa," he says. "But how can I censor whom I sell my land to? How can I control what they do with it once they buy it?"

The Save Goa folks would argue that Sheikh shouldn't sell his land at all. Armando Gonsalves is a jazz musician and real-estate agent who owns several waterfront acres right beside Sheikh's. Gonsalves has dreams of converting it into an eco-village or a jazz community—he's not sure which. He knows it doesn't make business sense, but he believes that green development is the only thing that will preserve his Goa. "For me, Goa is life itself," he says without a trace of theatrical exaggeration.

Gonsalves runs a nonprofit called Heritage Jazz that holds concerts in historic buildings, including his own home, which occupies an entire city block in Central Panjim. Walking into the Gonsalves mansion is like visiting Portugal circa 1940: a faintly sepulchral silence pervades the cool, dimly lit rooms furnished with ornately carved antiques.

We sip tea from delicate pink china and nibble on bibinca, a coconut layer cake that is a Goan specialty. Gonsalves introduces me to Reboni Saha, an attractive architect who is also a Save Goa activist. Saha, whose mother is German, bounced around Europe for years before settling in Goa. "In Goa, there is no prejudice," she says. "As a single woman, I felt safe. I wasn't pigeonholed. Maybe it's because of the hippies."

Of course, it was the hippies from America and England who helped put Goa on the map in the 1960s, drawn by the pristine beaches and laid-back lifestyle. A decade later, Goa was still the only place in India where otherwise carefully chaperoned Indian kids like me could escape for a weekend of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. Accessible from any major metropolis by bus, train, or air, it was party central. Beach shacks could be rented for a hundred rupees (about three dollars) a night for days or months at a time.

Like the rest of us, Goa has grown up in the intervening years. Some of the best things remain: Women can still sunbathe topless on Candolim Beach (or watch others do it). The beach shacks still serve up some of the country's freshest seafood (and coldest beer). And the Goanese spirit—equal parts Portuguese joie de vivre and cloistered Catholicism—has given rise to some of the most interesting artists and designers in India.

"Portugal did Goa a great favor," says architect Gerard da Cunha. "We were cut off from the shackles of Indian tradition. We were forced to look outside." Da Cunha is my last stop. He tells me about Goan music and the state's distinctive mix of spices, and he takes me on a tour of Calizz, the museum he has fashioned from seven traditional Goan homes, which juxtapose Indian-style courtyards and verandas with the Portuguese penchant for high-ceilinged rooms and terra-cotta roofs. "Architecturally, it may be one of the richest hybrids there is," he says.