From Rotterdam, Netherlands, to Bogotá, Colombia: a T-shirt, two festivals, and the right to culture

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I own a Baroeg Open Air T-shirt.

It’s from 2023.

I still have it.

I could say it’s just a music festival T-shirt. But for me, it isn’t. It’s a T-shirt I literally earned through sweat.

That year, I was one of the 280 volunteers who took part in Baroeg Open Air. I worked at the public entrance, handing out information and also helping colleagues backstage.

That’s why, when I return to Baroeg Open Air, I no longer view it solely as an attendee. I know that behind the scenes, there are so many people making it all work.

And perhaps that is why, being here in Rotterdam, I find myself thinking about Bogotá.

Because Baroeg Open Air and Rock al Parque share something in common, even though they are very different festivals: both were born out of music scenes that needed a place to be heard.

One takes place in Rotterdam. The other, in Bogotá.

One charges an admission fee. The other established a tradition of free admission.

And that raises a question that, for me, goes far beyond music:

Who has access to culture, and who pays for that culture to exist?

A question that spans the ocean

Whenever I mention outside Colombia that I am going to talk about Rock al Parque, some people immediately think of Rock in Rio.

It is understandable.

Rock in Rio began in 1985 and became one of Latin America’s major music festivals.

But a different story was unfolding in Bogotá.

Rock al Parque was born in 1995, at a time when Colombian rock had few venues and limited opportunities for exposure. What began as a bold initiative by cultural organizers, musicians, and promoters eventually became one of Latin America’s most important free festivals.

And in 2026, Bogotá officially celebrates its 30th anniversary.

Thirty years.

Three decades during which a genre of music—often viewed as marginal—came to occupy parks and public spaces.

To me, this also speaks to politics—though not partisan politics. I am referring to politics in its simplest sense: what a society chooses to fund, what it deems important, and who gets to occupy its spaces.

For Rock al Parque was born in a Colombia gripped by extreme violence.

The 1990s were incredibly harsh years. Drug trafficking, guerrilla warfare, paramilitarism, and militarization. Yet, at the same time, there was another need—perhaps less visible, but very real: a need for places where people could gather, listen to music, express themselves, and simply exist.

And an armed Colombia.

Because when we speak of that Colombia, there is something else we must remember.

In the late 1990s and early 2000s, vast resources poured in to bolster security and the military forces.

Through Plan Colombia, the United States allocated billions of dollars to the country. Between 2000 and 2005, around $4.5 billion went toward assistance programs focused on security, counter-narcotics efforts, and military support.

A significant portion of those resources went into weapons, helicopters, equipment, and training.

Colombia also purchased weaponry from other countries, including Israel.

Rifles, aircraft, military gear.

While billions were being invested in a decades-long war, there was also a generation of young people looking for venues, music, words, and spaces where they could come together.

That is why one phrase still resonates powerfully with me:

If there is money for war, there must also be money for culture.

I am not saying that phrase explains the origins of Rock al Parque. It doesn’t.

It is something else entirely.

It is a question about a society’s priorities.

Because we also need places where we can meet, express dissent, and build new ways of living together.

"Free" doesn't mean there is no cost.

Rock al Parque is now marking its thirtieth anniversary.

Three decades of free music.

But "free" doesn't mean there is no cost.

A festival of this scale requires artists, stages, sound systems, lighting, security, restrooms, sanitation services, transportation, production, and a vast number of people working behind the scenes.

The difference is that the audience doesn't pay for a ticket.

And that matters.

But something else must be said: free access has its limits.

If someone travels from Cali, Medellín, Quito, Caracas, or Buenos Aires, they still have to pay for transportation, food, and accommodation.

Admission is free.

The journey is not necessarily so.

And that touches on one of the things that interests me most when we talk about access to culture: the price of a ticket doesn't tell the whole story.

And we go back to Rotterdam.

Baroeg has a history that began in 1981 and is deeply rooted in alternative music.

For many years, Baroeg Open Air was free to attend. In 2019, they began charging admission—a move driven by rising production costs and band fees, while revenue from subsidies and sponsorships remained stagnant.

But the story here isn't simply a matter of paying the price of admission.

The festival operates on a mix of revenue streams and support.

And it has something that, to me, is fundamental: the people.

In 2023, there were 280 of us volunteering.

I was there.

Beb and Toos.

The restroom ladies.

For those who don’t know them, Beb and Toos are two women from Rotterdam who—with humor and plenty of personality—revive the role of the *toiletjuffrouw*: the woman in charge of looking after and maintaining the restrooms.

But they don’t work alone, nor are they an isolated initiative. They are part of a broader project by the "Van Crossfit Crossfight" family—a group made up of many women who work at every event they are hired for.

At Baroeg Open Air, they appear in their dresses, headscarves, and hairstyles, alongside this family and team of women.

Their job is to keep the restrooms clean, yes.

But they also chat with people, crack jokes, and welcome the crowd.

The festival itself introduces them with a phrase I love:

“Beb en Toos houden uw toiletjes smetteloos.”

Beb and Toos keep your restrooms spotless.

Amidst a festival of metal, punk, hardcore, and rock, they seem to come from another universe.

And that is precisely why I love them.

Because they aren't on stage, yet they are an integral part of the festival. And they make me think of all those people who rarely appear when we talk about culture: the ones who clean, set up, welcome, cook, produce, care for, and sustain things.

These are jobs that often go unnoticed.

Until they stop being done.

Beb and Toos remind me of something very simple:

you don’t have to step onto a stage to be part of a festival.

Sometimes, culture is created from a restroom aswell.

And now, Bogotá.

Perhaps that is why we want to return to Rock al Parque.

At Latin Alternative Radio, we are beginning the press accreditation process, and we hope to be there, traveling from the Netherlands.

And if we do make it to Bogotá, we want to execute a "Plan B."

To tell the story of these 30 years from many perspectives.

The bands.

The stories.

The scene.

Those who were there from the start.

The new generations.

And also, to ask questions about the future of a free, public festival.

Because I’ve been there before.

Many years ago, I covered Rock al Parque with press credentials.

I have a history with that festival.

And now, I am building a new one.

This time, from Rotterdam.

From the Netherlands.

From Latin Alternative Radio.

Because LAR is evolving from just a radio program into a full-fledged station.

A station that aims to connect Latin American alternative talent with artists and projects from the Netherlands and across Europe.

We want to find those bands, those voices, and those artistic visions that often exist far from the mainstream circuits but have something important to say.

So that a band from Cali can be heard in Rotterdam.

So that an artist from Bogotá can connect with the scene in Amsterdam.

So that someone in Europe can discover a project born on the other side of the ocean.

And so that, from here, we can continue telling the story of Latin America while also listening to what is happening in Europe.

Because perhaps that is what this new chapter is all about.

Building bridges.

Opening up the microphone.

Facilitating a dialogue between scenes separated by thousands of kilometers, yet united by something fundamental: the need to create, to make music, and to be heard.

And perhaps that is why this story began in Rotterdam, traveled to Bogotá, and now returns here.

Not as a final stop.

But rather as a point of departure.

A new station. New voices.

And an entire ocean to connect.

Sandra Piedrahita

Latin Alternative Radio | Rotterdam.

The Netherlands