The people of Mararikulam, a sleepy fishing village between the Backwaters and the Arabian Sea, live in mud-walled huts with steep roofs of palm thatch secured by coir rope. Most of the men are fishermen and can be seen dragging their boats up the beach and hauling in the catch on most days. The village has a long, wide beach with a shady hinterland of grass and palms.
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There are no strangers, only friends you have not met yet.William Butler Yeats