Just before we begin speaking officially, Jose "Pele" Landy warns me that his English isn't great. So when asked why he is a mixed martial arts fighter, why he has been fighting for 20 years, having broken both his arms, his wrists and his legs, he says: "I fight for my life."
It is not clear whether he means he likes fighting, literally for his life, or because that is his life.
He is a third-generation fighter from Cuba, not Brazil (the nickname comes from the way he fights, he says, a little abstractedly). It probably doesn't matter, humans fighting being a question we long ago stopped bothering to answer.
At admittedly a first and cursory glance, the world of the MMA is a curious one. In terms of legally, organised violence, this is about as legal (not everywhere) and organised (more or less) violence gets. It has been called human cockfighting. It goes without saying this is not strictly how people inside see it.
Will Vanders, a grandee of the MMA circuit, a long-time commentator and himself a Kyokushin black belt, calls it the Budo ethic of the sport. Budo means the way of the warrior, but that is at its shallowest level.
"The embodiment, the ethic behind true martial art is not violence at all," Vanders says. "It's hard to conceive that when you watch competitive fight sport because it looks like its aggression. It's not, it's physical competition, its physical chess and what Abu Dhabi Warriors has upheld here is that true traditional ethic of personal development, of respect and honour. This gives a truly spiritual, mental as well as physical aspect to it."
If you can't quite spot the spirituality among a roomful of shaved-head hulks, then you can at least feel a close-knit energy among the group. The spirit falls somewhere between that of an independent promotion and a touring rock band, an unwieldiness with a clear sense that affairs are perched on the edge of minor calamities but that they will be resolved; where people do not just do what their business card says they do but pretty much whatever is needed.
Today it emerged that two US fighters had not been able to make it because of Superstorm Sandy. A couple more had not, until late in the day, met the weight requirement. Zlatko Mahic, a blonde-haired, snowboarder type, was walking around the weigh-in, confident that it would all come through.
In the entire operation, outside of the fighters and the referee, Mahic is the kingpin (although you wonder – and shudder – when Vanders says the referee "literally holds lives in balance"). Mahic is the president of WFC (World Fighting Championships), the leading promotion throughout Europe. He is the booker, the matchmaker, the man with whom rests the ultimate responsibility of putting on a good show.
With so many different fight styles in play – wrestling, judo, boxing, Muay Thai and more – matching the right fighters becomes an art form.
"I have a feeling first about fighters, then I check their records, how they win, who they fought," Mahic says, adding production to matchmaking as a job role.
"Then I put together the same weights and check that they have a similar base style. The fight is more interesting that way. If I put too many different styles, it can become boring so most of all I look for well-rounded fighters."
This afternoon, on the volleyball courts upstairs in the hotel where the fighters are staying, Travis Wiuff did a little training on his own. As a headliner in the main bout, he is one of the fighters this card's success will depend on.
He comes from a college wrestling background and wanted to join the police force after graduating, but got into fighting. In that session he stalked around heavily throwing punches at his training partner like a boxer. He has slick judo skills as well.
Over two days, at a press conference and the weigh in and now this little session, his bearing remains unchanged: civil, polite but impassive and unconcerned, waiting. Here's a fighter for life it says and it's difficult to add to it.
Follow us
