Along the track, the vegetation is stunted, yellowed, parched. The tall grasses look dejected, and only the acacia trees still wear a crown of green. Drought has returned. After 15 years of respite, here it is again with its harsh character. Mauritanians are resigned and fatalistic, scanning the sky for any sign that might promise rain. No one commands the weather; we must submit to God's will; Ya Moulanah.

Strangely, on the well-maintained track, we encountered no vehicles—almost no one was traveling, despite this being a crucial period for Moorish society. This is the season of gatherings, grand assemblies, reunions. It is when the very essence of social life manifests itself fully. But the shortage stems from another essence: petroleum. The paradox is striking—since Mauritania began exploiting—or having others exploit—its oil reserves, the population no longer has access to fuel, which has become unaffordable.

The date harvest festival, the guetna, has just begun in the Mauritanian Adrar at the end of June. The harvest looks promising, and the people of Wadâne seem relieved. My friend Mahmoud is with the camel herds, driving them south toward the dunes of the Warane erg, where dry tufts of sbot [Stipagrostis pungens] still persist. The herds can no longer remain on the Azilal plateau where they usually spend the hottest season. The pastures are too lean, and the flocks sheltering there are too numerous.

In recent years, with the development of Saharan tourism in the Adrar, nomads would buy fodder to supplement their animals' food. This year, Mohamed Salem tells me, when they buy wheat, it's to feed their families. Food prices have risen sharply in recent months, as they have everywhere on the planet. I can see very clearly in Mohamed Salem's eyes that his worry is substantial. Despite the laughter and stories, he is deeply concerned. We sit beneath a makhmeul of straw, and it's 47°C in the shade. Mahmoud, Sidi, Mohamed Salem, and the entire Oulad Sleimane clan harbor grave fears about the future of their herds, the survival of their families and loved ones. In the Adrar, hunger is returning to haunt people's minds.

Then the question comes: "Do you think tourists will return to Mauritania this autumn?" I am naturally optimistic—there is no reason not to be—but I remain somewhat evasive, not wanting to kindle false hopes. Some things we control, others we endure. The Moors are still bewildered; they don't understand what happened at the end of December 2007. They call that moment "the catastrophe," speaking of the abrupt halt to tourism on the Adrar plateau. After the torpor of the first months, with the heat bearing down, harsh reality sets in. Every family is affected; nothing happens anymore, money is desperately scarce, and no one has any cash reserves.

The buying and selling of livestock has stopped, construction companies have no projects, and small female merchants have gone into debt to stock goods to sell to passing travelers. Money no longer circulates—nor do cars. This micro-economy has collapsed, victim to a convergence of factors.

Some categories suffer even more than others. The camel herders, our travel companions, those who transform a journey to Mauritania into an extraordinary adventure, are hit by all economic pressures simultaneously—drought, soaring food prices, no income from animal sales or camel rentals for tourist caravans. So, very pragmatically, we talk about the future. They must hold on, survive these three dreaded months; wait for rain to finally fall on the region, on Mauritania. A new shadow looms at the start of September: Ramadan, and daily fasting will compound the shortage, the heat, and the lengthening days. Of course, we all share the same concern—we hope these converging factors won't destabilize the country's successful democratization or trigger the political instability happening elsewhere in the world right now (Editor's note: since this article was written, a coup deposed the country's first democratically elected president).

We all hope that tourism will resume in October—these are factors we can control. That travelers will once again meet with this desert people who, today as in the past, show us their selflessness, their humility, and also their fragility. Then the tragic events of December 2007 will be merely an accident that should allow us to lay even clearer foundations for two complementary concepts: tourism and responsibility.

In the Mauritanian Adrar, tourism activity had brought about a marked reduction in poverty. Saharan tourism runs deep through traditional societies, preserving values developed over time while enabling access to a certain comfort adapted to the needs of an exceptional yet unforgiving natural environment. The poverty rate in the Adrar region had improved significantly until then; the winter crisis of 2007 categorically demonstrated the catastrophic consequences of poor crisis management. While the end of winter passed without specific problems, it would be good to remind those who fueled, relayed, and focused on events without understanding that they bear responsibility for the distress of this land that is both so strong and so fragile. May responsibility, being responsible, not become the curse, the scourge of tourism.