In my previous life, I was a newspaper photographer.  I remember my first full-time job in Springfield, Illinois.  We would have to constantly troll the city to make random photographs to fill the holes in the paper.  This of course was during a time where space wasn’t as limited as it is in today’s hurting market.

I used to drive my car around and around waiting until I saw some one outside doing something.  Anything.  It was like pulling teeth.  I would try not to go down the same familiar paths but they were comfortable and I always found myself back there.  Because this was a job to me and that was my downfall.

Last month I was assigned by the New York Times to travel to Southern Vietnam, Thailand, Laos and Burma all in four days.  Laos and Burma were only day trips as I had to be escorted by government officials in Laos.  And we landed on a beach illegally in Burma actually.  The majority of the assignment however was spent on a motorbike both in Vietnam and Thailand searching for photos that fit the story theme.

As I was driving through northern Thailand along the Mekong River I kept thinking about my time in Springfield, Illinois.  There was nothing different from what I was doing now.  Obviously, my current assignment was much more interesting to me, but if I traded places with that of a Thai photojournalist, I’m sure his interests would be equally as peaked.

The main difference of course is that I care more.  I care about what I am photographing but also I care about what i experience in my life now.  That car I drove around was a comfort bubble that separated myself and the life within the city.  And to that affect, I actually did not know the place I called home for two years of my life.  I regret that.

But that was then and this is now.  No time for regrets … too many adventures to be had.  And on a motorbike to boot.  This particular adventure (assignment) took me to a small town on the Cambodian border in Vietnam called Chau Doc.  It’s pretty much the point in which the Mekong River splits into two and empties into the Mouths of the Delta and the South China Sea.

River life is amazing and quite appealing at the same time.  People’s entire lives are spent on this river.  Their homes float in make-shift neighborhoods.  “Orchards” of vegetables float in roped off areas waiting to be harvested.  Men sew intricate fishing nets together on the porches of their homes.  River taxis that range in size from a two-person canoe to larger boats that carry dozens of motorbikes from one side to the other.  Groups of students carrying books load a ferry to go to school.  One straggling student stands out of breath from running watches her classmates wave good bye after missing her boat.

In the mornings the larger boats gather into the middle of the river in a market setting.  Villagers in smaller boats shop from boat to boat.  One boat only sells watermelons. Another has only lettuce.  And another carries what was translated to me as water coconuts.  This is a slower life.  And perhaps more meaningful?  I don’t know but it seems peaceful.

Cross two country borders and I am now sitting in a small fishing shack on the northern Thailand side of the Mekong River with two Thai fishermen illuminated by a single candle.  We are all drinking Lao whiskey.  I’m not the biggest drinker any more and this stuff knocked me to the ground.  All four of us (my translator counts as four) gaze across the river at this giant sore on the edge of the Lao jungle.  A casino that was built by the Chinese obnoxiously lights up the beach.  The fishermen ask me if it is like Las Vegas as they have only seen it on television. I say imagine one thousand of those casinos and then it’d be close.  They laugh and pour another shot.

The next morning I’m driving up a hillside to catch the sunrise.  The early morning breeze feels good in my face.  I am at the Golden Triangle – the point in which Thailand, Burma and Laos all meet.  And only divided by this famous river.  The fog is strong this morning and sun can not break through.  I can barely see 10 feet in front of me.  But the glow of the casino still shines through.  No pictures this morning so I just sit on my motorbike and stare into the abyss letting my mind wander.

The reality is that technology and development is catching up to each of these countries that the river runs through.  The changes are more than apparent and the way of life as they know it will soon be changed forever. I am just happy to be able to witness and record what is left.

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Kevin German is a photographer who lives and works from Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam.  His column, “The Motorbike Diaries” appears every other Wednesday.  He is a founding member of Luceo.