A sport is born in South Africa as stunt drivers put new spin on an old crime

Jonathan Clayton:

THE BMW screeched to a halt a few inches from the wall. As its rear wheels kicked up clouds of dust it spun around in near-perfect circles. Hundreds of delirious spectators, high on a mixture of burning rubber, beer and the thumping bass of township music, whooped in approval.

Suddenly Siphiwe Mdula, the driver, eased himself from the driving seat. Having somehow jammed the accelerator, he stood matador-like in the middle of the arena as the car spun round him.

South Africa’s undisputed king of “spinning” then dived back into his vehicle and roared from the walled enclosure to wild applause.

“Yeah, man . . . cool, cool, cool,” shouted young black teenagers. “This is such a cool sport. You have to be so skilful to do that,” said one. “This guy is so sharp.”

Later, in the car park, a girl grabbed Siphiwe’s mobile phone and punched in her number. “Call me . . . soooooon,” she pouted before waltzing back to the arena to watch an even more powerful BMW put through its paces.

Each Saturday Siphiwe — known as “bhubesi”, or lion — and a clutch of other drivers delight the crowds who flock to the outskirts of Soweto to watch powerful cars skidding and sliding around. The best have assumed rock star status.

Spinning originated in the apartheid era when gangs hijacked cars in upmarket white areas and drove them back to the sprawling townships outside Johannesburg.

They would show off their booty by screeching around narrow streets. Crowds cheered them on as they raced up and down and spun the vehicles around in tight circles – skills originally honed to shake off chasing police.

“You know what BMW 325 IS stands for, don’t you? – 3 minutes 25 seconds in Soweto. That’s how long they had to spin before the cops got there,” one fan laughed as he explained the slang name given to the BMW 3 series 2.5 litre Injection Sport model.

“Carjacking was big in those days. They would go into town and take a car, but in the apartheid days it was seen as taking back something which was ours anyway so these guys were almost like role models,” said Floyd Malevu, 43, a Sowetan businessmen who began organising the weekly shows about three years ago when police cracked down on street spinning sessions. “In the 80s I watched those guys and it just entered my blood, man.”

Mr Malevu’s own BMW M3 boasts the personalised number plate “POWER 1”, but he admits he cannot match “bhubesi’s” skills. “How he does that trick of getting out is his own closely guarded secret, he does not tell anyone,” said Mr Malevu. Siphiwe, a 31-year-old tow truck driver, smiles when asked. “For me it is the car that is the lion, it is so powerful,” he told The Times. “When the BMW gets really hot, it is possible to do many things.”

Organisers of the weekly sessions charge a 20 rand (£1.80) entrance fee, but often fail to cover costs. “We love it so much we just all chip in, it is better than paying fines and avoiding the police,” said one. The sessions enjoy a party atmosphere with beer and spirits, hot-dogs, DJs and dancing. They last until the early hours.

Devotees want spinning recognised as a real sport and taken elsewhere in the country — even abroad. But given its roots most of its young fans are black, or coloured and Asian. Barely a handful of white South Africans have ever turned up to watch.

More than 11 years after the end of apartheid racial divisions are still marked, particularly among sport fans. Most whites – overwhelmingly still mad cricket and rugby fans – would not even know how to find a spinning event.

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