Let me tell you a tale

Once upon a time, a young boy named Oukuakhan Ahmahdal lived in a remote Veddo-Australoid villiage in East Timor. Every morning Oukuakhan (refered to as mandagāmī by his friends and family) would travel up a great hill which protected his village from the harsh storms that blew just on the other side. Mandagāmī would have to climb up to the top with a small bamboo bucket to pick herbs and roots for the village Vyāja Jarāva (tea makers). The Vyāja Jarāva would use these herbs and roots to stew magnificent soups and teas for the whole village. One morning, while Mandagāmī was searching for fresh roots to stew, he saw a bunch of red berries, dancing quite eloquently in the light. Mandagāmī, being a curious boy, went over to inspect the berries, for he had never seen such attractive things in his life. As Mandagāmī continued to stare at berries, enchanted by its beauty and deep colour, he began to think of his Itā Ma (Grandmother) who was fading away back in the village. Mandagāmī decided that bringing such a beatuiful gift to his Itā Ma would be a wonderful idea, who knows, maybe if she drank some tea, distilled with the berries, it might rejuvenate her and bring back some life. So Mandagāmī reached out and plucked a handful of berries from the reeds in which it resided. He then rushed down the mountain, excited to share the gift with everyone. When Mandagāmī arrived at the village, he felt strangly overcome with euphoric waves of joy. Mandagāmī began parading the berries around the village for everyone to see, before then heading to the Vyāja Jarāva hut to see what they though of it. Aśvayādik, the head tea maker was excited to see that such a plant had been brought to his hut, he had never seen such a wonderful plant in his life. Without hesitation, Aśvayādik threw the leaves and berries into a boiling pot and began seasoning it with other wonderous spices and flavours. When the tea was finally finished, everyone in the whole village was eager to have a taste, but Mandagāmī said that he had saved the plant for his Itā Ma, and that she should have the first taste. As the whole village followed the bubbling cauldren of tea over to Itā Ma's hut, Mandagāmī began to feel quite ill, as though the whole world speeding up and that he couldn't keep up. He stumbled around, trying to get his bearings but fell over, and passed out, just off the side of the walking track. When Mandagāmī awoke, he didn't know where he was. Scared, he called out at the top of his lungs for anyone to come save him, but all he could see were brightly coloured flowers and plants growing and snaking at rapid speed and what sounded like a slow drum. Meanwhile, back in the village, the tea arrived at Itā Ma's hut and everyone began to enjoy it. everyone except Mandagāmī. Itā Ma declared that this berry was the most delicious berry she had ever tasted, and so, it was agreed that, starting from now, all of the tea would be made out of this red berry. Every day from then on, more than thirty men and women would race up the hill to scavange as many berries as they could, with each of them coming back each afternoon with buckets and buckets of them. Noone even questioned where Mandagāmī was. A very long time had passed before Mandagāmī woke up, realising that those blinding colours and shapes were just in his imagination. Mandagāmī realised that he had fallen over and had continued to crawl for hours, scratching up the dirt like an animal. As he retraced his steps back to the track, he realised that the track had become overgrown with weeds and vines, and that noone had completed the weekly task of scraping out the track. When Mandagāmī found his way back to the village, he was surprised that there were no fish hanging out to dry and there was no smoke coming from the top of the Vyāja Jarāva hut. He also noticed that there were those beautiful red berries littered everywhere, in buckets of more than he could count. He decided to venture to the town hall for answers, but stopped, when he heard the call of a strange animal. He went to investigate. The call was coming from the other Vyāja Jarāva hut, out in the fields. As Mandagāmī walked over, he began to notice even more of those funny red berries, and what smelt like old meat. When he arrived at the entrance, he was scared to enter, as he thought there was a jungle cat hiding inside. When he finally mustered the courage to enter, he threw back the thin curtain and jumped inside.
Mandagāmī couldn't believe what he saw.
Bodies were everywhere, human bodies, scratched up and bleeding from every part concievable.
Itā Ma was there, the Vyāja Jarāva were there, his mother, his father, the whole village scratched up and bleeding on the dirt floor.
But what had done this to them. Mandagāmī wandered to the nearest body. It was his youngest sister, eyes bleeding and fingernails completely ripped off. She too had the scratches all up and down her body. Mandagāmī threw up all over her. She screamed. She was still alive. The acid from his stomach was burning up into her cuts and scratches. Mandagāmī realised that the animal sounds from before were the sounds of humans with their throats ripped out. There still was no expanation. In shock, Mandagāmī reached for the nearest object for some sort of explanation why. it was a cold cup of red berry tea. He began to drink it. It was delicious. he went over to the cauldren to get another serve. And another. And another until the whole cauldren was empty. Mandagāmī reclined in a corner, relaxed by the tea. The bodies all around him didn't disturb him anymore. He was calm. Peaceful. His skin felt very irritated and ants started to crawl under his skin, but he didn't scratch them. He didn't mind. All he heard was a dull drum, beating slowly and faintly in the background. Mandagāmī decided to close his eyes for a bit and listen to the drums. They became slower and slower, beating erratically in a pattern Mandagāmī couldn't follow. Mandagāmī tried to follow them for as long as they could but they were getting further and further away. Eventually, they stopped, and everything was still.
Mandagāmī was dead.
The berries were Coca berries, Erythroxylum novogranatense of the Erythroxylaceae family.
The active ingredient in Erythroxylum novogranatense is cocaine.

Let me tell you a tale Once upon a time, a young boy named Oukuakhan Ahmahdal lived in a remote Veddo-Australoid villiage in East Timor. Every morning Oukuakhan (refered to as mandagāmī by his friends and family) would travel up a great hill which protected his village from the harsh storms that blew just on the other side. Mandagāmī would have to climb up to the top with a small bamboo bucket to pick herbs and roots for the village Vyāja Jarāva (tea makers). The Vyāja Jarāva would use these herbs and roots to stew magnificent soups and teas for the whole village. One morning, while Mandagāmī was searching for fresh roots to stew, he saw a bunch of red berries, dancing quite eloquently in the light. Mandagāmī, being a curious boy, went over to inspect the berries, for he had never seen such attractive things in his life. As Mandagāmī continued to stare at berries, enchanted by its beauty and deep colour, he began to think of his Itā Ma (Grandmother) who was fading away back in the village. Mandagāmī decided that bringing such a beatuiful gift to his Itā Ma would be a wonderful idea, who knows, maybe if she drank some tea, distilled with the berries, it might rejuvenate her and bring back some life. So Mandagāmī reached out and plucked a handful of berries from the reeds in which it resided. He then rushed down the mountain, excited to share the gift with everyone. When Mandagāmī arrived at the village, he felt strangly overcome with euphoric waves of joy. Mandagāmī began parading the berries around the village for everyone to see, before then heading to the Vyāja Jarāva hut to see what they though of it. Aśvayādik, the head tea maker was excited to see that such a plant had been brought to his hut, he had never seen such a wonderful plant in his life. Without hesitation, Aśvayādik threw the leaves and berries into a boiling pot and began seasoning it with other wonderous spices and flavours. When the tea was finally finished, everyone in the whole village was eager to have a taste, but Mandagāmī said that he had saved the plant for his Itā Ma, and that she should have the first taste. As the whole village followed the bubbling cauldren of tea over to Itā Ma's hut, Mandagāmī began to feel quite ill, as though the whole world speeding up and that he couldn't keep up. He stumbled around, trying to get his bearings but fell over, and passed out, just off the side of the walking track. When Mandagāmī awoke, he didn't know where he was. Scared, he called out at the top of his lungs for anyone to come save him, but all he could see were brightly coloured flowers and plants growing and snaking at rapid speed and what sounded like a slow drum. Meanwhile, back in the village, the tea arrived at Itā Ma's hut and everyone began to enjoy it. everyone except Mandagāmī. Itā Ma declared that this berry was the most delicious berry she had ever tasted, and so, it was agreed that, starting from now, all of the tea would be made out of this red berry. Every day from then on, more than thirty men and women would race up the hill to scavange as many berries as they could, with each of them coming back each afternoon with buckets and buckets of them. Noone even questioned where Mandagāmī was. A very long time had passed before Mandagāmī woke up, realising that those blinding colours and shapes were just in his imagination. Mandagāmī realised that he had fallen over and had continued to crawl for hours, scratching up the dirt like an animal. As he retraced his steps back to the track, he realised that the track had become overgrown with weeds and vines, and that noone had completed the weekly task of scraping out the track. When Mandagāmī found his way back to the village, he was surprised that there were no fish hanging out to dry and there was no smoke coming from the top of the Vyāja Jarāva hut. He also noticed that there were those beautiful red berries littered everywhere, in buckets of more than he could count. He decided to venture to the town hall for answers, but stopped, when he heard the call of a strange animal. He went to investigate. The call was coming from the other Vyāja Jarāva hut, out in the fields. As Mandagāmī walked over, he began to notice even more of those funny red berries, and what smelt like old meat. When he arrived at the entrance, he was scared to enter, as he thought there was a jungle cat hiding inside. When he finally mustered the courage to enter, he threw back the thin curtain and jumped inside. Mandagāmī couldn't believe what he saw. Bodies were everywhere, human bodies, scratched up and bleeding from every part concievable. Itā Ma was there, the Vyāja Jarāva were there, his mother, his father, the whole village scratched up and bleeding on the dirt floor. But what had done this to them. Mandagāmī wandered to the nearest body. It was his youngest sister, eyes bleeding and fingernails completely ripped off. She too had the scratches all up and down her body. Mandagāmī threw up all over her. She screamed. She was still alive. The acid from his stomach was burning up into her cuts and scratches. Mandagāmī realised that the animal sounds from before were the sounds of humans with their throats ripped out. There still was no expanation. In shock, Mandagāmī reached for the nearest object for some sort of explanation why. it was a cold cup of red berry tea. He began to drink it. It was delicious. he went over to the cauldren to get another serve. And another. And another until the whole cauldren was empty. Mandagāmī reclined in a corner, relaxed by the tea. The bodies all around him didn't disturb him anymore. He was calm. Peaceful. His skin felt very irritated and ants started to crawl under his skin, but he didn't scratch them. He didn't mind. All he heard was a dull drum, beating slowly and faintly in the background. Mandagāmī decided to close his eyes for a bit and listen to the drums. They became slower and slower, beating erratically in a pattern Mandagāmī couldn't follow. Mandagāmī tried to follow them for as long as they could but they were getting further and further away. Eventually, they stopped, and everything was still. Mandagāmī was dead. The berries were Coca berries, Erythroxylum novogranatense of the Erythroxylaceae family. The active ingredient in Erythroxylum novogranatense is cocaine.