It all begins with an idea.

When I first arrivedSapaSapa in 1998, I was a young environmental scientist with a rucksack full of essentials and a head full of ideas. I was working on a biodiversity conservation project, gathering data to support environmental protections in northern Vietnam. My shared tent sat on the fringe of a mist-covered hillside just outside town. It was remote, damp, and utterly unforgettable.

Each morning, a small group of Hmong girls would appear at our makeshift camp. They came barefoot, bright-eyed, and brimming with curiosity. They wanted to practise English; to exchange a few words with the interesting travellers. They had learned some English by listening to tourists and mimicking phrases. They were sharp, thoughtful, and hungry for more than what the village paths seemed to offer them.

We laughed together, swapped stories, and shared what we knew. They guided us through their world, and I learned from them in turn. I listened to accounts of hardship and poverty, but also of hope, humour, and ambition. Most of the girls dreamt of going to school. Their determination inspired me to collaborate with another British couple to found a UK-based charity. Together, we launched an initiative focused on vocational training for ethnic minority youth in Sa Pa, born from a shared concern about the exploitation of young girls.

Our vision was to open a dedicated training centre. At first, it seemed possible. But over time, local complexities, cultural sensitivities, and political tensions began to surface. Eventually, the project was shut down, dismissed as “too good for local ethnic minorities”. Still, the girls persisted. Undeterred by the setbacks, they continued learning in other ways. Their spirit planted a seed in me. I began to wonder if tourism, when done differently, could offer more than just income. Could it become a source of pride, a way to safeguard culture, and a genuine opportunity for learning and dignity?

That question never left me. It followed me through forests and mountain trails. It took shape in the quiet reflections between expeditions. And it grew louder after I met Hoa. Hoa and I met in Mai Chau, during one of her field trips from university in Hanoi. She stood out from the crowd of students, not only for her curiosity but for her courage. While the others asked predictable questions, Hoa turned to me and asked if I had a dental plan. That combination of practicality and boldness caught me off guard. We’ve been walking together ever since. We spent time in England where I studied a post graduate degree in teaching, but our commitment to Sapa never wavSapa. Over time, our partnership deepened into a shared commitment to the Sapa region and its people. We didn’t want to build another tour company or a feel-good charity. We wanted to create something rooted, regenerative, and real.

In 2012, Hoa and I moved permanently back to Sapa. We managed a small, local hotel and began the process of reshaping what had once been a small grassroots charity. The new entity needed to be self-sustaining, locally embedded, and values-led. That was the beginning of ETHOS: Spirit of the Community. Not a rebrand, but a rebirth. We started small: three guides, two trek options, a borrowed laptop, and a desk we shared in shifts. Every experience was private and tailored. No mass groups, no pre-written scripts. We championed slow travel, deep connection, and mutual respect. People responded. Word spread through blogs and vlogs. Travellers told their friends. We rose to the top of TripAdvisor for Sapa, became highly recommended in every major guidebook to Vietnam, and featured in press pieces across Europe and Asia. But recognition was never the goal. What mattered more was what began to change in the community. Many of the same Hmong girls who had once waited outside my tent became ETHOS guides. They learned not just languages but leadership. They led treks, facilitated workshops, and welcomed strangers into their homes with confidence and grace. Their growth was both visible and contagious.

And then, we met Cha.

In 2007, while trekking through a remote village, Hoa and I met a family living in a wooden hut perched on a steep, windswept slope. The parents were little more than children themselves when they married. They had no electricity, no running water, and only seven steep terraces for farming rice. Their youngest, Cha, had been born during a storm. Floodwaters had ripped through the house and swept her from her mother’s arms. Her father pulled her from the current, wrapped in a wet blanket, barely breathing.

Cha’s early years were shaped by hunger and instability. Her father was addicted to opium and later heroin. The family endured violence, loss, and isolation. Two of the children died in infancy. My, the eldest, left school at eleven to raise her sisters. When we met them, they were surviving on frogs, snakes, and mushrooms. We helped where we could. A new roof, a chimney, a water tank. Hoa taught them to welcome guests for home-cooked Hmong meals. We gave each of the girls a piglet. It was a modest start; enough to ease hunger and shift possibility into their lives. But what looked like progress was only part of the picture.

Domestic violence worsened. Cha’s mother was hospitalised. Eventually, she fled the country in an act of unimaginable sacrifice. She arranged her own trafficking into China to escape abuse and secure her daughters’ future. She left behind a photograph and a small note of money.
Afterwards, the girls suffered alone. Their father pulled them from school. Cha became seriously ill and wandered back to ETHOS, thin, coughing, barefoot. We fed her, cleaned her wounds, and gave her a bed. She never returned to her father’s home. That moment changed everything.

Cha became like a daughter to us. Not in name alone, but in every real sense. We enrolled her in school and walked alongside her through every stage of her healing. She learned embroidery, discovered photography, and grew into a skilled communicator and advocate. Her command of English and her deep cultural grounding made her a bridge between worlds. She now works full time with ETHOS and leads our human trafficking prevention programme. She runs workshops in Hmong, creates content, shares her story, and lights a path for others to follow. Her strength has become part of our foundation.

But her story cannot be told without So.

So was Cha’s sister in every way that mattered. She was clever, fiery, endlessly curious. We taught her to ride a bicycle. She taught us how to cook sticky rice in bamboo. Her life was fractured by poverty and trauma, but her spirit refused to dim. She entered our care as a teenager, joined boarding school, and stayed with us on weekends. For a time, she thrived. Then the school failed her. With too little structure and too much exposure, she drifted. She left school, took an illegal job, and vanished.

We searched everywhere. Then one night, months later, the phone rang. It was So. She had escaped a trafficking ring in China. She had been sold, imprisoned, and groomed for forced marriage. But she ran. She crossed back into Vietnam. We drove through the night to bring her home. We found her at a border town, thinner and older than we remembered. She ran into her sister’s arms. That moment will never leave me. So’s story shook us. It exposed the fragility of our community’s safety net. And it demanded more of us. We could not simply rescue. We had to prevent.

With Cha’s leadership and So’s experience, we built an anti-trafficking programme rooted in the Hmong language and culture. We used storytelling, role play, theatre, and games. We listened to the girls. We taught them how to spot manipulation, how to stay safe, and where to turn. Thousands of girls have now passed through our workshops. In some areas, trafficking rates have dropped by 75 percent. This is the legacy of two girls whose lives were written in hardship, but whose courage reshaped our mission.

Through all this, I’ve had to grow, too. Not just in a business sense, but also as a father, a mentor, a man navigating the uncomfortable truths of what we do and do not see. There have been days of doubt, grief, and frustration; days when bureaucracy, violence, or silence felt overwhelming. But I have never questioned the why. I really don’t think there is an answer other than “because it is the right thing to do”.

ETHOS has become more than a social enterprise. It is a living community; an evolving promise. We continue to offer tailored treks, immersive homestays, workshops with traditional artisans, and journeys into the heart of Vietnam’s highlands. But beneath those offerings is something deeper: a bond built on trust, respect, and justice. When you travel with us, you are not just crossing landscapes. You are stepping into stories. You are honouring the hands that grow your food, the elders who pass down ancient knowledge, and the girls who fight for a future their mothers were denied.

This is not a brochure. It is a commitment. We walk for Cha. We walk for So. And we walk for every girl who deserves to choose her own path.

This is my ETHOS and I invite you to walk with us.