It was my first time witnessing a moon-rising. On the eve of the full moon I sat among the hundred others fixated on this ethereal beauty emerging from the horizon. We were unified in a silence peculiar for such a large group of strangers—perhaps an effect of the darkness settling in quickly around us.
It’s a strange thing to see spectator stands perched at the very edge of the sea shore facing the ocean, as though straddling the sand that always just misses the crashing waves. Strange, in retrospect, for the kind of performance that is traditionally predicated by the spectator stand. Or perhaps for the nature of the relationship between performer and spectator that is ‘normally’ sanctioned by the spectator stand. Regardless, atop this stand was apparently the best view in the house to gaze at ‘the magic of little penguins returning home at sunset to one of the largest penguin colonies in Australia’ [1]. I am referring here to the ‘world famous’ Penguin Parade at Phillip Island, located on the southern coast of Victoria.
Before the ‘show’ could commence, we were subjected to a briefing by the Park Rangers about the required etiquette for the evening: encouraged to remain in our stillness, cautioned vehemently against taking any photos with or without flash, and informed that the penguins were protected by law—useful information in the event that any one of us got ‘bitten’. The Rangers then explained that penguins lived eighty per cent of their lives in the water, and for this reason the journey to land was always fraught and risky—and not, supposedly, because of the hundreds of human onlookers.
We were then told that without our being there that evening—without the $25.70 we had each paid for our seat in the stand, not including the extra dollars we had spent on purchasing drinks and popcorn at the Visitor Centre for the ‘show’—this penguin colony would simply not exist.
It was too obvious not to notice the welling sense of pride in the crowd for the great rescue that had been achieved. The buy-in to the familiar trope of salvation deployed to lend legitimacy to this act of recreational watching, looking, reminiscent of the colonial encounter. At what cost and to what end had we convinced ourselves that our pleasure was necessary for their survival or existence?
Now, I won’t pretend that I didn’t enjoy the experience; that I didn’t revel and gush at the ‘cuteness’ of their waddle, or that I wasn’t amused by the inherent sociality of the way that they moved and travelled. Of course I was. Penguins have for so long been an object of amusement and fascination for us humans—inspiring our formal wear and films and publishing houses.
But I also think it’s worth sitting a moment with the unease and disquietude of trying to reconcile how our recreational pursuits immediately connect us, our bodies, to larger social questions: about how we haven’t come as far enough from the menagerie as we’ve perhaps convinced ourselves; about how these pursuits are implicated in histories of domination, exploitation and colonisation that have constructed nature as both against and beneath us; about the kinds of stories we construct about ourselves in these spaces of a variably constructed and opposed nature.
In 2016, the Victorian Labour government pledged to provide $48.2 million, with Nature Parks pledging to contribute a further $10 million—not to ecological conservation and restoration projects, but to the ‘Visitor Centre Project’ that would allow for an ‘enhanced visitor experience’ of the Penguin Parade. Of course, this was on the condition that the project would still contribute to some environmental outcomes by ‘reducing’ impacts on penguins apparently [2]. As I’ve understood it, more money for more spectator stands for a greater spectacle?
Why are we so unwilling to instead imagine a different relationship with our thinking, intentional, sentient co-inhabitants of this earth that does not require their objectification? That does not implicate us in a hierarchy that constructs them as background to—and instrument of—our ‘human’ purposes? That does not require yet another spectacle of salvation?
After the ‘show’, as we pulled out of the carpark (which was only a few hundred metres from the shore) and drove up to the roundabout from which we would exit on to the main road, we noticed a Ranger in a reflector jacket hovering to the side, nonchalantly trying to prevent a penguin from walking onto the road. I can only assume that the penguin had somehow gotten lost from its group… but also that somehow this wasn’t the first such occurrence.
We didn’t stay long enough to find out if the penguin made it back to safety. And to be honest, I’m not sure that we wanted to. Who, again, are we saving these penguins from?
[1] https://www.penguins.org.au/attractions/penguin-parade/
[2] All of this information is proudly flouted on the Phillip Island webpage, with poster boards detailing the project displayed around the current visitor centre.
Cover image via Wikmedia Commons / Image 1 © Sumaiya Muyeen
About the author
Sumaiya Muyeen lives and works in Narrm, and is currently studying Gender and Cultural Studies at the University of Melbourne.