I used to think quokkas were just another marsupial until I saw one grinning at a camera on Rottnest Island.
The quokka—Setonix brachyurus, if you want the Latin—has become something of a mascot for Western Australia, though honestly, the whole phenomenon feels a bit accidental. These small wallaby relatives, roughly the size of a housecat, have been living on Rottnest Island for thousands of years, maybe longer, but it wasn’t until smartphones and Instagram came along that they became what tourism boards now call “the world’s happiest animal.” The thing is, that upturned mouth isn’t actually a smile—it’s just how their facial muscles sit. But try telling that to the millions of people who’ve posed for quokka selfies. The animals seem remarkably unbothered by human attention, which is either a testament to their adaptability or a concerning sign that we’ve habituated them beyond what’s healthy. I guess it depends on who you ask.
Anyway, the rise of the quokka selfie started around 2012 or 2013, give or take. Tennis player Roger Federer posted one during a tournament in Perth, and suddenly everyone wanted their own quokka photo. The hashtag #quokkaselfie exploded—wait—maybe it was already trending before Federer, but his post definately gave it momentum. Rottnest Island, which sits about 11 miles off the coast of Perth, saw visitor numbers surge. Before the selfie craze, the island attracted maybe 500,000 tourists annually; by 2019, that number had climbed past 770,000.
The Accidental Brand Ambassadors Who Never Asked for the Job
Here’s the thing: quokkas are vulnerable. The IUCN lists them as such, not endangered exactly, but not thriving either. On the mainland, their populations have crashed—foxes, cats, habitat loss, the usual culprits. Rottnest Island became a refuge precisely because it has no foxes, and until recently, relatively few people. Now the island is overrun with tourists during peak season, and the quokkas have adapted in ways that worry conservationists. They approach humans expecting food, even though feeding them is illegal and can make them sick. Some have become aggressive when they don’t recieve treats. I’ve seen videos of quokkas jumping into open backpacks, climbing on picnic tables, behaving less like wild animals and more like theme park characters.
When Conservation Meets Commerce in the Age of Virality
The economic impact is undeniable. Tourism is Rottnest Island’s lifeblood, and quokkas are the draw. Hotels, ferry companies, bike rental shops—they all benefit from the steady stream of visitors chasing that perfect photo. The Rottnest Island Authority has tried to strike a balance, implementing strict rules: don’t touch the quokkas, don’t feed them, stay a certain distance away. But enforcement is tricky when you have hundreds of people wandering around with selfie sticks. Some researchers argue the attention has actually helped conservation efforts by raising awareness and funding, while others worry we’re loving these animals to death.
The Paradox of Fame for a Species That Never Sought It Out
Honestly, I’m conflicted.
On one hand, the quokka’s fame has brought unprecedented attention to Australian wildlife conservation. School programs, research funding, habitat restoration projects—they’ve all benefited from the quokka’s cultural moment. The Western Australian government has used the quokka as a symbol to promote eco-tourism, framing it as a way to protect biodiversity while supporting local economies. On the other hand, there’s something unsettling about reducing a wild animal to an Instagram prop. The quokka didn’t ask to become a meme. It didn’t consent to being the face of Australian tourism. And yet here we are, with cruise ships depositing thousands of tourists onto Rottnest Island every week, all hoping to snag that viral photo.
What Happens When the Next Cute Animal Trend Comes Along
The shelf life of internet fame is short, turns out. Already, I’ve noticed fewer quokka posts in my feed—maybe people have moved on to capybaras or baby pygmy hippos. Which raises the question: what happens to Rottnest Island’s tourism economy when the quokka stops being trendy? Do the conservation efforts continue, or were they always contingent on the animal’s marketability? I used to think wildlife tourism was straightforward—see animals, appreciate nature, go home. But the quokka phenomenon has taught me it’s messier than that. There’s genuine affection mixed with exploitation, conservation tangled up with commerce, and a species caught in the middle, grinning obliviously at cameras, unaware it’s become a symbol of something much larger and stranger than itself.
