A chaotic street‑artist’s journal from Dhaka: heat, traffic, and a splash of neon

i'm fresh off the rickshaw, arms full of spray cans, trying to decide if the graffiti on the outer wall of a battered tea stall counts as art or just a stubborn protest. the smell of frying dosas and exhaust fumes cling to my shirt like a second skin. i swear the heat is a living thing, it wraps around my neck and whispers hey, slow down, but i’m already fighting the urge to slam the can onto the wall before the next traffic jam erupts.

i just checked the phone and the forecast says the temperature is stuck in the mid‑20s with humidity that makes every stray cat look like a boiled noodle. it feels like the city has turned on a low‑key steam sauna and forgot to give you a towel. the air holds a thin film of sweat that never quite evaporates, which is why my paint tubes are constantly trying to dry out faster than i can open them. the locals keep saying it's the same heat that made the British quit their tea plantations back in the 1940s, but that’s a story i’ll let you hear later over a cup of chai.

if you get bored, the prawn‑laden markets of Chittagong or the sunrise over the tea plantations in Sylhet are just a short train ride away. the idea of skipping a city feels absurd when you’ve got a canvas that could use a new angle. i once heard a rickshaw driver whisper that a little trip to the river city of Jessore could give you a whole new perspective on water‑color splatter, but that’s probably just another rumor that fuels the street artist’s imagination.

someone told me that the owner of the hidden coffee stall behind the old post office uses beans that were smuggled from a secret 1980s stash. the rumor says he keeps a notebook full of weird sketches - the kind that make the local kids stare wide‑eyed. i tried it, the coffee was so strong my pen lifted off the paper and started drawing tiny ships on the steam of my cup. the locals swear the blend is a family secret passed down by a grandmother who never left the tea gardens. the only problem? the cafe closes after the sun dips, and i usually arrive when the lights are already flickering.

Pro tip: always grab a bottle of mango water from *Mohakhali before hitting the street corners; it keeps your paint from drying out faster than a monsoon‑season promise. the water is cheap, sweet, and the locals swear it helps you stay hydrated without turning your skin into a pastry. i also learned that a small tin of Karimganj pickles can double as a palette cleaner - the vinegar cuts through the gluey residues left by leftover spray. if you’re in a pinch, a splash of Bangla Bazaar soda can temporarily revive a dried brush tip.

you can check the latest TripAdvisor chatter on the Old City’s hidden courtyard on TripAdvisor and the Yelp crew’s scoop on the night market at Yelp. if you’re looking for more local gossip, hit up the Dhaka Expats board on Reddit, where someone posted a warning about a “ghost traffic jam” that supposedly appears at midnight near the riverbank. i haven’t seen it, but i keep an eye on the side streets after dark just in case. a quick glance at the Google Maps thread shows a cluster of hidden alleyways flagged as “must‑see” by the locals, which is exactly why i’m still stuck on this canvas.

i’m still not sure if the city’s heat is trying to melt my soul or just my cheap earplugs. either way, the neon street art makes it worth staying for another round of Bangla Bazaar chaos. the map below shows where i’ve been testing the spray‑to‑wind ratio, from the bustling Nawabganj crossing to the quieter lanes of Satmasjid*. hope the next rickshaw doesn’t turn into a spaceship and whisk me away to an unknown suburb.