I first went to Goa in the mid-'60s, to report for The Times of India on Goa's first free election, an opinion poll to decide whether its one million or so inhabitants, almost half of whom were Catholic, wanted to integrate with Maharashtra or be a Union territory. To everybody's surprise, except the Goans, Goa decided against integration. My companion on that trip was celebrated adman (he was just starting his career then) and now well-known writer, Frank Simoes. Despite being blue-blood Goan, Frank was making his first trip to Goa, meeting relatives he had never seen before.
It was a personally moving and emotional experience for him. For me, Goa was love at first sight. The warmth of the people and the breathtaking scenery overwhelmed me. The only hotel approaching five-star comforts in the entire territory was the Mandovi hotel in the capital, Panjim, but since we were on a tight budget, we stayed at a no-frills Rs 20 a day, government-run tourist hostel. The magnificent beaches were deserted. I swam—and almost drowned—at Calangute beach. Fort Aguada, where the Taj hotel now is, was then a barren, rocky promontory, with a few stunted coconut trees and the ruins of the Portuguese fort. Baga and Anjuna were sleepy seaside villages, yet to be discovered by the hippies.
